The Snake Platoon members didn’t spend all of their time playing with the snakes and beautifying the platoon area. Each month, the teams went out on missions, monitoring a unit’s communications for security issues and reporting on their findings. They traveled all over II Corps, either driving or flying, as road conditions and security would permit. Sometimes they stayed with the supported unit, and sometimes they stayed in a hotel, subsisting on the local economy.
To say that we monitored friendly communications for security issues doesn’t really tell anyone what our workday (or night) was like. At that time, what we did and how we did it was classified. We listened in on radio networks and telephone lines, trying to figure out things we weren’t supposed to know, sort of like spies.
When we worked telephones, which was usually only at major headquarters areas, we were generally set up at a central switchboard facility. We brought our own switchboard, which had a capacity of twenty lines, and we had the switchboard personnel hook it up to specific numbers. We sat there and waited for one of the lights on our switchboard to come on, plugged into that line and recorded the conversation on tape as we made notes about who it was, the time, and the gist of the call. If there was some glaring disclosure presenting an immediate danger, we would alert someone then. Otherwise, we would take the tape and call log to the analysts at the end of the shift. The analysts would then review it for issues and compromises and file their reports, recommending corrective action.
More often, we were monitoring tactical radio networks. Since radio traffic is supposed to be only as needed, if a unit was not in contact with the enemy, this could be dull. When they made contact, however, the traffic increased substantially. We wore headphones, listened to what was being said by whom, and typed it as it happened, making sure we put in time checks along the way. Keep in mind that people using these radios typically talk at about 90 words per minute, so our fingers were flying. We used a special typewriter called a mill which had only capital letters. We used a lot of standard abbreviations like K for over, DE for this is, IMI for say again, AR for out, and many others. Some of the faster operators could monitor two nets at the same time, one on an earphone and one on a speaker, and mark them so the analyst could tell at a glance which transmission was a part of which conversation.
COMSEC at Direct Support Units had semi-permanent setups, antenna in place, and no need to lug equipment around with them. The 101st RRC, though, was a mobile operation. Sometimes we worked in a van on the back of a truck (or sitting on the ground so we could use the truck for transportation). Other times, we set up in a hooch, the hotel room, a spare office, or any vacant space that was offered. Often, we had only a radio, a handful of pencils, and a pad of paper on which to record what was said. As with telephone traffic, urgent issues were referred immediately. Otherwise, the analysts would go over the traffic at the end of the operator’s shift so they could write their report.
Generally speaking, nobody truly appreciates a group of strangers coming in to see if they are doing their job correctly. The units the Snake Platoon supported were no different. COMSEC teams were often considered an unnecessary intrusion on “business as usual.” Dick Henson recalls that the Sergeant Major of a Special Forces Detachment in Kontum proclaimed, “Nobody wears a MAC V patch in my compound.” He made the guys take off their MACV patches and wear 5th Special Forces Group patches while they were there. I guess we know who was in charge there.
A couple of the guys tell that their team was sitting on the beach at Cam Ranh Bay drinking beer when a Marine Corps Division began an amphibious landing. Some photographers told the team they were in the way and would have to move. Their response? “We were here first.” (in more ways than one)
While on a mission in Nha Trang, the team pulled their truck up in front of a beach side restaurant and bar, probably the Nautique, which served great lobster, by the way. Some guys looked at the stenciling on their truck and asked them, “What is the 101 RRC?” Bob Rose never missed a step and explained that their mission was to travel the country searching out good places for the men of the 101st Airborne to take an in-country R&R. They took the bait – they wanted in and were told they would have to extend their tours in Vietnam to be a part of it. They wanted to sign up then and there. Over the years, RR soldiers would claim to be a lot of things like Ranger Recon and Refrigerator Repair. That last one helped them get two free refrigerators once.
On another mission in Nha Trang, some Air Force major wouldn’t let the team set up their equipment in the telephone exchange. Bob Rose went up to him and said, “I have this letter. It is signed by General McChristian [J2, MACV] and it says I can set up my people anywhere I want to. There is a telephone number at the bottom. It rings on the General’s desk. If you want to, call him. I’ll be setting up the equipment.” The letter was signed by the General, but the phone number was in the 101st RRC’s orderly room. The major did not make the call and gave the team no more problems.
One day, Dick Henson caught a ride on a UH-1 (Huey) out of Qui Nhon, heading back to Pleiku, flying roughly along Highway 19. Since there was weather in the area, the pilot was flying low and, consequently, got a little too close to the ground. The helicopter took groundfire near the Mang Yang Pass south of An Khe. The crew chief was concerned that the ‘Jesus nut,’ which basically keeps the rotor attached and, thus, the helicopter in the air, might have been hit, so they landed in An Khe for a safety check. There were several new holes in the cowling, but no mechanical damage. Fortunately, whoever did the shooting was using a 7.62 millimeter A K rather than the Chicom 12.7 millimeter (.50 caliber). The Huey was cleared to proceed, and they flew on to Pleiku. Dick at one point considered hitching a ride with a convoy but remembered he had been shot at in a convoy on that road a couple of months before.
Ken Wilks recalls that on a mission in Pleiku, they stayed at a very nice hotel downtown rather than on Engineer Hill. Next door to the hotel, there was a bar that they frequented. Three or four of the guys were standing at the bar one night and another was sitting on a couch talking with a young lady. Just before curfew a Vietnamese soldier burst through the door with a .45 in his hand. He fired 6 or 7 times at the guy on the sofa, from six feet away, before someone grabbed him and threw him to the floor. Fortunately, he had been drinking a bit and didn’t hit anything but the sofa and the wall. As it turns out, he thought the lady was his girlfriend and did not know that she was working.
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