FSB Ripcord Association

The following articles were written by Jeff Lester and published in The Coalfield Progress in Norton, VA; The Post in Big Stone Gap, VA; and The Dickenson Star in Clintwood, VA. Reprinted here with permission of The Norton Press Inc.

Seek out, honor American patriots before it's too late

By JEFF LESTER

THE COALFIELD PROGRESS

THIS IS AN OPINION COLUMN PUBLISHED IN MID-APRIL, 2002,

Last week, America lost another patriot who took up arms for love of his country.

The most disturbing part is that he wasn’t battling the Taliban or al-Qaeda terrorists in Afghanistan. He wasn’t guarding the border between North and South Korea. He wasn’t flying a security patrol over northern Iraq or helping train government troops in the Philippines.

I fear that Chip Collins was killed by a battle he fought almost 32 years ago.

I flipped through a newspaper Thursday morning and stopped cold on the obituary page. A familiar name was there. A life, summed up across a few lines of black ink.

It began: “CLINCHCO, Va. — Rodger D. "Chip" Collins, 51, died Tuesday (April 9, 2002) at his residence in Clinchco."

The obituary went on to say he was a social worker, a patient rights advocate and a legal aid volunteer. And a Vietnam veteran who served at a place called Fire Support Base Ripcord.

He was the oldest of eight children, the obituary noted. He is survived by two daughters and a best friend. His passing was marked by a visitation and a funeral all in the same day.

I fear that this callous, hurried world will forget him all too quickly.

After all, the world ignored the black nightmare of his personal Vietnam war while he was fighting it. We scorned young men like him at the exact moment when they realized they had actually made it home alive.

Chip would have scoffed, even become angry, if somebody called him a war hero. He would have said the same thing I have heard veterans of several wars tell me again and again: “I was just doing my job.”

That’s what heroes do in battle. When gunpowder smoke takes away their sight, when the roar of explosions and the screams of the dying fill their ears, they swallow their fear. They stand up and do their jobs.

Many of you went to the movies recently to see Mel Gibson’s latest epic, “We Were Soldiers.”

It’s a well-made true story about the first American soldiers who rode into battle on helicopters, in the Vietnam of 1965. These kids were proud, idealistic and hopeful that they would push back the North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong within months, maybe a year, then come home triumphant.

Five long years later, Chip Collins fought a different war. One of his buddies explained it well, in an e-mail just a few days ago: “We were PKS — post-Kent State.”

In other words, Chip and his comrades-in-arms were still trying to win on the battlefield, just a couple of months after National Guard troops shot four Kent State University students during a May 1970 antiwar protest that turned into a riot.

The students were demonstrating against the surprise invasion of Cambodia. That military action, and the massive show of outrage against it back home, dominated the international news for weeks and helped Richard Nixon decide to speed up his gradual pullout of American troops.

Almost two years ago, a book landed on my desk at the Coalfield Progress titled “Ripcord: Screaming Eagles Under Siege, Vietnam 1970.”

I've studied the war enough that I immediately realized this book filled a giant gap in history. It detailed a battle far more devastating than the Cambodia invasion, but forgotten by history because it took place at the same time.

The 101st Airborne Division — the same legendary outfit that’s now rooting out al-Qaeda stragglers in the Afghan mountains — was trying to wipe out a North Vietnamese stronghold hidden among bunkers and mountainsides near South Vietnam’s borders with the north and with Laos.

The Screaming Eagles began their fight to retake an old Marine firebase, and Chip began his personal Vietnam war, on April Fool’s Day, 1970. American forces ended up in a four-month death struggle to hang onto the bald plateau named Ripcord against the onslaught of a much larger enemy force. They finally had to abandon it, at a cost of 114 dead and nearly 700 wounded.

I spent 17 years waiting for somebody to tell this story. A respected Vietnam scholar, Keith William Nolan, finally filled the blank. One of his chief sources was that 19-year-old Wise County boy who first committed his experiences to paper in an essay titled “The April Fools.”

In 1983 Chip helped found the Fire Support Base Ripcord Association and edited its newsletter, The Ripcord Report. By the time I met him in September 2000, he was preparing to attend a 30th anniversary reunion that could attract 200 veterans.

I talked with him for about three hours while Preston Gannaway captured him in photos. It was the kind of conversation that compels me to do this job — between someone with an extraordinary story to tell, and someone uniquely prepared to hear it.

Chip was honest. He had come back to the World, tried to get back into the groove, failed as often as he succeeded. He had hurt people he loved. Thirty years later, he couldn’t stand in an open field, exposed, without remembering the sensation of being watched by snipers.

He reached out to other Ripcord survivors who he rightly figured might be haunted like him. He wanted to get local publicity for Nolan’s book in hopes of finding other Southwest Virginia guys nearby who wanted to talk through their experiences.

“I always knew that getting the facts out, talking about it, is the key to getting better,” he told us.

Chip and I communicated by e-mail for a few more weeks, then we lost track.

The next time I heard from him was April Fool’s Day, 2002.

Chip copied me on a series of e-mails among Ripcord survivors about the film industry’s sudden interest in a movie version of Nolan’s book. I meant to e-mail him back and thank him for getting me into the mix.

I didn’t do it in time.

I started writing for newspapers about 12 years ago, and that’s when I started reading the obituaries faithfully.

What jumped out at me, week after week, year after year, was the number of men ranging from their early 40s to mid-50s, dying too young in our neighborhoods. As I read down into the notices, sure enough, I saw it again and again — Vietnam.

A few of them make the choice to depart from us. Many fight a losing battle with ailments born from a walk through a jungle leveled by Agent Orange. Many are betrayed by the failure of battle-scarred bodies and memory-scarred hearts.

All too often, we failed them. By the time we finally listened, they almost couldn’t bear to tell anymore.

If you know a Vietnam veteran, go thank him or her. Make sure they know how you feel. Don’t wait.

THIS STORY WAS PUBLISHED IN SEPTEMBER 2000 IN THE COALFIELD PROGRESS, A TWICE-WEEKLY NEWSPAPER IN NORTON, VA., AND IN ITS WEEKLY SISTER PAPERS, THE POST IN BIG STONE GAP, VA. AND THE DICKENSON STAR IN CLINTWOOD, VA.

REPRINTED BY PERMISSION OF NORTON PRESS INC.

Veteran of little-known battle looks for fellow survivors

By JEFF LESTER

THE COALFIELD PROGRESS

Chip Collins stood atop a wooded ridgeline near Birchleaf, staring across the gap where two other peaks meet and rise halfway up the sky.

The steep green hills near his home look much like the lush jungled mountains of Vietnam he hiked for nearly a year three decades ago.

Collins has been quietly searching these hills for others who survived a decisive but largely unknown 1970 battle at a remote artillery support base called Ripcord. He also wants to find men who fought other bitter struggles in the same northwest corner of South Vietnam at a time when most Americans were split between ignoring or protesting the war.

The 49-year-old Wise native is a founder of the Fire Support Base Ripcord Association and the first editor of its newsletter, the Ripcord Report.

The group’s 30th anniversary reunion is expected to attract as many as 150 Ripcord survivors and others to Louisiana this October.

Collins is convinced more guys are out there in the Southwest Virginia hills, wrestling alone with their memories, not knowing the association exists. Others may not have fought at Ripcord but fought close by. So many mountain boys were valued for their skill in the bush, odds are more than a few live not far from him, Collins figures.

Some might have known only that they were on or near a big bald hill pounded by the North Vietnamese Army for nearly three weeks, without ever knowing its name.

Collins is reaching out to them now, offering the same brotherhood that has helped him get through hard times since he began his search 17 years ago.

scars

With a Clinch Valley College degree in social work, Collins is a pro at reaching out.

He’s also a rare veteran who’s willing and able to discuss his experiences freely. Some of them are stones on a rough path — lingering psychological battle scars, divorce, trouble keeping a job.

Collins welcomed visitors to the small mobile home he rents south of Haysi, where he settled a few years ago. He likes Dickenson County, he said, “because the people over here are such survivors,” fighting to keep a cash-poor, job-starved community alive.

He brought out photos and printed stories from the battle for Ripcord, along with carefully preserved copies of the Ripcord Report and pictures from past reunions.

Collins was 19 and green when he trudged into the heart of an enemy stronghold and began to draw all sorts of fire, from rifle bullets to massive artillery shells that rained on the firebase for weeks.

Fortunately, he learned from tough, experienced troopers how to survive — stay off trails, keep your head down and hidden, make the bush your shelter, become silent and invisible.

“You can’t imagine going a whole year without making a sound, except in the rear,” he said.

Three decades later, the habits of a single year in combat still tug at him. Collins suffers from a particular form of post-traumatic stress disorder — fear of open spaces, of not having a hiding place.

After college, Collins worked in child welfare for 10 years at the Norton social services office, then spent nine years as a patient rights advocate at Marion’s Southwestern State mental hospital. He left in 1996, needing a change.

But the economy and his need to wander made Collins bounce from job to job. He worked at factories in Tennessee and Kentucky, mined coal, finally ended up back in social work at an independent living center, but parted company with it, too.

Now Collins works for a Lebanon agency that helps the disabled find and train for jobs, especially in Dickenson, Buchanan and Tazewell counties.

The PTSD brings on episodes that have interfered with his ability to work at times, he acknowledged, adding that he’s gotten counseling that helps — sometimes.

Family isn’t necessarily a source of support. Collins’ daughters, who don’t live with him, also don’t want to hear about the war. One, 21, is against war and guns, and the other, 15, hasn’t shown any interest.

Collins is able to talk to one other Dickenson County veteran of special forces, who fought in the same areas seven years earlier.

He found a veteran from the same time and place in the war as him, living in Vansant, and hoped for a frequent local contact to share stories. But a visit to Vansant ended that. The man’s mental state is too far gone, Collins said sadly.

the association

Around 1983, Collins began seeking out survivors of the terrible battle for Ripcord. By 1986, he and others had located hundreds of troopers and he was editing the Report.

Collins geared the Report for brotherhood, for forging emotional bonds. Comrade Chuck Hawkins took over editing it later and has leaned more toward the military details, but has done a good job of leading the group, he said.

The first reunion in 1986 drew maybe 16 or 19 guys, Collins said. The last one, in 1999, may have attracted 50.

This year’s event is special, he said. Along with being the 30th anniversary, this is the year when major Vietnam military writer Keith Nolan produced the first book to describe the Ripcord incident in detail.

The Ripcord Report, and retold stories from Collins and other survivors, form the heart of Nolan’s book. Collins sees it simply as a beginning to putting this largely ignored piece of history in its rightful position of importance. The association should take the lead, he believes.

“I always knew that getting the facts out, talking about it, is the key to getting better,” he said.

THIS STORY ALSO PUBLISHED IN SEPTEMBER 2000, AS A COMPANION PIECE TO THE STORY ABOUT THE RIPCORD ASSOCIATION.

New book describes significant, little-known action in Vietnam

By JEFF LESTER

THE COALFIELD PROGRESS

Rodger “Chip” Collins is a witness to hidden history.

As a 19-year-old Army private first class, Collins fought at the heart of America’s last major battle in Vietnam.

His unit — 2nd Battalion, 506th Infantry of the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile), gave up 40 of the 77 soldiers killed during the siege of Fire Support Base Ripcord, a mountaintop artillery position deep in North Vietnamese Army territory, from July 2-23, 1970.

When you add the battles required to take the hill and establish the firebase, beginning in mid-March, the cost of controlling and eventually giving up Ripcord becomes 114 dead and nearly 700 wounded.

But almost no one knows about what happened at Ripcord — except for the survivors, a few others who fought nearby and a handful of military historians.

By the time the battle began, American troops could see the end of their Vietnam war in sight, and most American civilians were more than ready to forget Vietnam even existed.

For 30 years, almost no literature existed about the 101st’s significant role in 1970, as America’s war petered out.

Now this gaping hole is about to get filled. With the help of veterans like Collins — who founded the Ripcord Association to maintain links between survivors — author Keith William Nolan has completed a book detailing the battle and its previously ignored importance.

“Ripcord: Screaming Eagles Under Siege, Vietnam 1970” was published in July by Presidio Press Inc. Among the most important sources influencing Nolan’s decision to write, and filling in the story’s details, was the “Ripcord Report,” the association newsletter founded by Collins and continued by former 101st company commander Chuck Hawkins.

the war nobody knew

Firebase Ripcord was a bald lump of dirt on a mountain jutting up in the middle of Thua Thien Province, near South Vietnam’s extreme northwest corner.

I Corps, the military region including Thua Thien, was best known to the American public for three events. One was the vicious battle for the provincial capital, the city of Hue, during the enemy’s 1968 Tet Offensive. Another, only a few weeks later, was the bitter months-long siege of a Marine base at Khe Sanh.

The third took place 10 miles south of Ripcord in May 1969 and made international headlines. It was a bloody battle for a mountain in the A Shau Valley called Dong Ap Bia, not far from the Laotian border. For nine days, the 101st, nicknamed the Screaming Eagles, tried to root North Vietnamese Army forces out of mountaintop strongholds before finally taking control, at the cost of 56 killed and more than 400 wounded.

Dong Ap Bia became known to the troopers and the American public as Hamburger Hill. The fact that it was abandoned almost immediately after being taken at such a terrible price came to symbolize the war’s seeming futility.

Two months later, President Richard Nixon ordered the start of “Vietnamization,” his policy of gradually pulling out U.S. forces and turning the war over to their South Vietnamese allies.

Only two events from the war in 1970 stick in the minds of most Americans — the April-May invasion of Cambodia, and the fatal shooting of four Kent State University students when an anti-invasion protest became a riot.

At the same time, the 101st was working its way back toward the A Shau to pound the NVA one last time before handing responsibility to the South Vietnamese.

But the division faced one key difference from a year before. Hamburger Hill had sapped the commanders’ willingness to suffer terrible casualties and to do whatever it took to master the valley, which the NVA now owned completely.

Trying to fight the enemy in his back yard but avoid casualties was contradictory. It backfired.

the battle

Chip Collins had barely arrived in Vietnam in March 1970 when the 2/506th was sent to help prepare Ripcord.

They walked into the fire right away, getting nailed to the hillside under mortar attack on April Fool’s Day, as Collins chronicled in a 1986 Ripcord Report.

The 2/506th and related battalions were nicknamed Currahee, a Cherokee word for “stand alone.”

The Currahees and other 101st units eventually carved out bunkers, artillery positions and communications complexes on the mountain. Ripcord would provide the big guns to support a push south into the A Shau as part of Operation Texas Star, the last mostly American offensive of the war.

Or would it? Collins notes there’s evidence in the Texas Star operational plan that the brass may have never intended to go back to the A Shau’s death trap. Instead, they would set up an exposed firebase to draw the NVA like honey on an anthill.

Collins was among roughly 300 troopers who would alternate between providing security on Ripcord and venturing to look for the enemy among neighboring hills and valleys.

Meanwhile, the push to the A Shau never happened. Beginning July 2, the Screaming Eagles were too busy trying to stop a nearly constant rain of NVA mortars and artillery shells smashing Ripcord.

The hilltop bristled with firepower and was ringed with an elaborate wall of wire — razor wire, concertina wire, barbed wire.

Commanders were certain this intricate maze would hold off full-scale NVA infantry assaults and infiltration attacks, Collins said.

But as a squad leader, he explained, “I was the guy who had to fill the (perimeter defense) positions each night.”

After days and days of relentless bombing, the troops were exhausted. “I know the NVA could come through the wire if they wanted to,” he said.

The 101st also needed to secure two prominent nearby peaks the enemy controlled, Hill 805 and Hill 1000.

But Collins had to help haul dead and wounded off 1000 after several failed attempts. And commanders put some troops atop 805, but not enough to hold it. Collins witnessed from Ripcord as the NVA mauled an undermanned unit on 805 for days because Brig. Gen. Sidney Berry was unwilling to risk more deaths and woundings to send reinforcements.

“I watched every night as a company got reduced to a platoon,” he said.

Collins also was among those who witnessed on the 18th day of the siege as the NVA shot down a giant Chinook supply helicopter. It crashed into an ammunition dump that blew up with such force it tore the top off much of the hill.

Ultimately, Ripcord was surrounded by NVA anti-aircraft artillery and mortar positions that could fire on it virtually at will, Collins said. Down below were hillsides and valleys that hid endless enemy bunkers, which Collins only recently learned were all interconnected.

On July 21, one of Hawkins’ riflemen shot a young NVA courier and found on him a map outlining plans for a massive ground attack on Ripcord.

Two days later, the commanders decided holding the hill wasn’t worth the cost. A seemingly endless relay of helicopters lifted the Eagles to safety a half-dozen at a time. When everyone was gone, fighter jets and bombers smashed the abandoned firebase back to an anonymous pile of dust.

Collins later fought with a reconnaisance squad, unwilling to waste away the last months of his tour with undisciplined troops in the safer rear areas.

He left in February 1971, but not before watching the buildup of South Vietnamese troops assisted by 101st helicopters, preparing for the ill-fated Lam Son 719 assault on NVA hideouts in Laos. The South Vietnamese got their tails kicked badly, hinting at the failures that would let North Vietnamese tanks roll into Saigon four years later.

As Nolan wrote, “Vietnamization had failed.”

About Jeff Lister

A word about myself:
I am not a veteran, but I very much consider myself a child of Vietnam. I was 7 when the first Marines hit the beach at Danang, and I was 17 by the time Saigon fell.
My first personal encounter with the war came when my first cousin, who became a minor league pitcher straight out of high school, was drafted. He served on a helicopter crew that would go in and retrieve whatever could be removed from crash sites of other helicopters. I've tried to get him to talk about his memories, but he won't.
I developed a lifelong, amateur historian's interest in war, the reasons for wars and their lingering effects on the people who fought.
I became a journalist in 1990. Four years later, I put together a package of stories to commemorate the anniversaries of D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge (interviews with surviving vets). I realized that I was deeply motivated to tell the untold stories of the silent heroes who walk down our streets here in Southwest Virginia every day, carrying their memories with grace and dignity.
Since then, I've put together a package of veterans' stories in time for Veteran's Day and Memorial Day each year. One of the great highlights of this work was being invited to attend and cover a reunion of Vietnam vets from Pound, Va. in 2000, including interviews with a medic who served along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, a helicopter pilot and an infantryman who won the Silver Star for stopping an ambush while patrolling one of the Michelin rubber plantations.
Another highlight was being invited to cover the funeral at Arlington of another man from Pound, a fighter pilot who went MIA over Laos and whose remains were finally recovered in 2002 in a Laotian village just a few miles northwest of the Ashau Valley.
Over the years, I've become known as the de facto military reporter among our three papers. Needless to say, it's been a busy three years as I've interviewed guys from the 101st who served in Afghanistan, a guy from the 3rd Infantry Division who rolled into Baghdad last year, numerous local National Guard troops who deployed in support of the Iraq war, and more.
In short, I do this to remind people that their seemingly ordinary neighbors and acquaintances are on the other side of the world, facing grave danger every day so they don't have to. And that when those neighbors and acquaintances finally finish their tours of duty, they will be carrying a terrible burden of combat memories back into civilian life. They need to be embraced, thanked, and welcomed home. No one understands the importance of that better than a Vietnam vet.
Thanks,
Jeff

Jeff Lester
Senior Writer
The Post
P.O. Box 250
Big Stone Gap, VA 24219-0250

Phone: 276/523-1141
Fax: 276/523-1175
Alternate phone: 276/679-1101
Web: www.coalfield.com

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Layne Hammons C 2/506

ANOTHER CHARLIE COMPANY WARRIOR CROSSES OVER

Our dear friend Layne Hammons passed away at his home early on Sunday morning August 27, 2006 at the age of 57 years. Layne was many different things to many different people. He was a loving husband to his beloved wife Sandra, devoted father to his three children, Paula, Travis and Justin, and a doting grandfather to his two grandchildren, Alex and Brianna. He was a great and wonderful friend to countless people who lived in the rural clay hills and piney woods of North Louisiana just south of Lake D’Arbonne . He was a magnificent warrior with the kindest of hearts who was devoted to those gallant soldiers that served with him in the mountains of Northern I Corps in the Republic of South Vietnam. He was the greatest of companions and a source of great joy to this writer. He enriched the lives of all who knew him.

To understand Layne and what kind of man he was, one need look no further than his roots, where he was raised and lived most of his life. Layne lived in a house nestled back off Highway # 151 on a rolling hill surrounded by a stand of mixed hardwood and pine timber, overlooking a pasture on several acres of land located about three miles west of rural Downsville, La, which is a small village about 20 miles north of Ruston, La. Except for his tour in the Army and a couple of years working as a lineman for Western Union after his return from Vietnam, Layne lived all of his life in this special part of the world with his extended family, neighbors and friends. The people who live in this area are the kind of people whose lives revolve around their families, their faith in God, their hunting dogs, their hunting vehicles, and their jobs. In this part of the world, a man’s character is defined (a) by his integrity and by his commitment to honor that which he says he will do, (b) by his willingness to help others in time of need, and (c) by his work ethic and devotion to his family and friends. No man who ever came from this part of the world more truly represented his roots and these values than our dear friend Layne Hammons.

Layne the family man: First and foremost Layne was a family man. Layne was a “one woman” man. The great love of his live was Sandra, whom he met in high school and married soon after graduation at the age of 18. His devotion to her was absolute as she was his soulmate. I have heard him say at least 50 times in my life, “L.T., I got a hell of a good woman”. He did. He also knew that there is nothing in this part of the world that is more treasured by a man in his life than “a good woman.” Second, Layne loved and was devoted to his three children, all of whom were the pride of his life and who brought him great joy. He and Sandra raised their children with the same values that had been instilled in them by their forebearers. Layne was particularly proud that all of his children received college educations, which had never been an option for him, as work beckoned him early in life when he took his first job changing flats on 18 wheelers at a truck stop on I-20 at the ripe age of 13. The apple of Layne’s eye in his later years were his two grandchildren, whom he loved to dote over and cherished greatly.

Layne the neighbor and friend: Layne amassed a horde of great friends in his life who inevitably enjoyed his non-confrontational and warm personality. I could tell numerous stories about Layne and his neighbors and friends, but I think that the funeral service for Layne reflects the high esteem he enjoyed from the people he had lived with all his life more than any story. The funeral visitation was held in Ruston the night before his burial in Downsville. It commenced at 5:00 PM and lasted well past 9:00 PM.. Country folk from all over Lincoln and Union parishes and from all walks of life poured into Ruston to pay their respects to this most remarkable of men. Mary and I arrived at the visitation at 6:15 PM, and the line standing outside in the 95 degree heat required an hour and a half wait to get to the front door of the funeral home and an additional 30 minute wait from the door to the chapel inside. When I left the funeral home at 8:30 PM, the line was longer than when I got there. The funeral service the next morning was much the same as most of the overflow crowd attending was unable to get a seat in the chapel. The elderly pastor preaching the service told the crowd he could not recall a funeral in his life with more people attending and with more floral wreaths. Layne had helped these people all his life. That so many people would come to celebrate the life of this incredible man of simple means who had helped so many people in his life came as no surprise to me, as I had been among Layne, his family, and his neighbors and friends on several occasions during visits to his house and hunting camp and was well aware that Layne Hammons was a man who enjoyed the love, respect, admiration and high esteem of all who knew him.

Layne the soldier: Layne was a consummate soldier who never shirked a duty or complained when given a mission or task. He brought the same values that had been instilled in him growing up to the Army and to his comrades that were fortunate enough to serve with him in Charlie Company. Layne was born to tote an M-60 machine gun. He loved humping the “big gun” and damn well knew that when the “shit hit the fan” he was “de man.” He knew that his buddies counted on him throwing out a lot of lead in these situations and it was not in his makeup to let them down. Layne was incapable of boasting of his accomplishments as a soldier and making himself out to be something he wasn’t. The only time in my life I ever heard him say anything about himself as a soldier was late one evening while sitting around the campfire at a deer camp after a lot of beers. Layne looked over at me and said, “L.T., you ain’t never had to call me to bring up the gun in a firefight when I was with ya.” He was dead right about that. No soldier ever manned the “big gun” with more fervor in a fight than Layne. My most vivid memory of Layne as a soldier is the memory I have of him and his loyal and trusty Assistant Gunner Chuck Damron going “head to head, mano a mano” with the NVA machine gunners up on Hill 1000 on the late morning and early afternoon of July 8, 1970. The memory of these two magnificent soldiers giving all that was asked of them and then some is etched in my mind forever as they burned up a machine gun barrel and fired up every round of M-60 ammo they had with them that day until they were both ordered off the hill by their commander.

Layne loved his fellow soldiers as brothers and they loved him the same way. He revered Cpt. Vazquez for what he was, the toughest man he ever knew and the greatest “combat leader” in the Army. Layne brought a different view of the Ripcord battle to the table than most. He kept things simple and in perspective. If you humped a ruck and had smelled a little cordite in your life in the mountains of Northern I Corps, you were admired and respected by Layne. He wasn’t interested in the controversies that evolved out of the Ripcord battle. The kind of man and soldier he was is best illustrated by the following story. Late one night after a lot of beers, a group of Ripcord veterans were sitting around a table in the hospitality suite at the Harrisburg Reunion pissing and moaning about the Ripcord book not saying this or that, and someone asked Layne about some passage in the book. Layne responded “I ain’t never read the book,” which elicited the following response from one of the guys: “Layne, you are the only man in the Ripcord Association that has not read the Ripcord book. How in the hell is that possible?” Layne’s simple but eloquent response was “Why do I need to read some book about Ripcord. I don’t need nobody to tell me what happened. Hell, I was there. I know what happened.” A period of silence followed and everyone simply nodded their heads, knowing that the man who had just spoken these simple words was the purest of warriors with the noblest of hearts. Layne then pulled a drag on a Camel and swallowed down a good bit of a Miller Lite and looked over at me and said, “Ain’t that right, LT.” I said “Layne, you be de man.” The man was beautiful. He liked to keep things simple, so I will put it simply. Layne Hammons was “ a soldier’s soldier” and “a man’s man” who was loved and admired by his fellow soldiers as a ferocious fighting man when the situation required him to be. There is no enlisted soldier who fought in the Ripcord battle that I know that is held in higher esteem by his buddies than Layne Hammons. There is no man that I know or served with in Vietnam that was more loyal, caring, and devoted to his comrades in arms than Layne Hammons.

Layne my dear friend and hunting companion: Layne and I shared a very special relationship together as we only lived 90 miles from each other and shared many of the same interests. We are both North Louisiana boys and shared a great passion all our lives for (a) the great outdoors, (b) cigarettes, (c) beer and hard liquor (more often than not in great quantities), (d) true country music, and (e) spending time around campfires in hunting camps. We have gone together to a lot of different places in North Louisiana and East Texas pursuing our passions in life. We have spent untold hours together from daylight to dark in the burning heat with a chain saw and limber in our hands working on deer stands and clearing lanes and burning brush piles till we both were exhausted. We have shared together the joy of watching a white-tail buck during the “rut” running a herd of does through a white oak creek bottom and of a pair of mallards “cupping in” at dawn through the trees with their feet down to light in a “mallard hole” in some flooded timber. We have enjoyed the thrill of many a “Southern barbeque” followed by a “barnburner” North Louisiana dove hunt. We have both reveled in the joy that comes from owning the greatest of hunting dogs, but have at the same time shared the unbelievable pain and sorrow that comes from losing a loyal dog. We have spent countless hours talking of great men we were privileged and honored to know as soldiers in our youth at a special time in our lives when a man’s character was measured by the size of his heart and his devotion to his fellow soldiers and not by how much money or how many material things he possessed or could acquire. We have gazed at the stars while listening to Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and George Jones on the radio on many a cool, clear evening after a long day of hunting, and we have both together and probably much too often “howled at the moon” late in the evening after downing one too many beers or belts of some good John Barley corn whiskey. These were the best of times for us both, and Layne would invariably always end every evening we ever spent together with a simple statement, “L.T., it don’t get no better than this, does it.”

Layne the man: Layne was a man of few words most of the time and was bound at the hip to his identical twin brother Wayne. He loved God, his family, his friends and his country. He was a man who liked life to be simple and non-confrontational. He liked to tinker with things and could fix anything. He worked hard all his life. He loved to hunt deer and squirrels and hear his beagles howl when they jumped a deer. He loved his little rat terrier squirrel hunting dogs Tucker and Katie, who he trained to respond almost like humans. He was honest to a fault. He had no personal agenda. He was the most unassuming and unpretentious man I have ever known in my life. He was the easiest person I have ever known to be around. He was one of those rare men you meet in life that realizes its not what you are doing that matters much, but who you are doing it with that enriches your life. He was what he was. I have never spent time in my life with anyone that I enjoyed being with more than Layne. He made me feel better every time I was ever with him. He made me a better man.

Layne’s funeral service: Layne’s funeral service at the funeral home in Ruston was simple but inspiring. A few words spoken by the preacher and the playing of three country gospel songs that he would have liked to an overflow crowd of his family and friends was most fitting. After the service at the funeral home, the procession moved up the road 20 miles from Ruston to the small Downsville cemetery a couple of miles down the road from Layne’s house in the country. A full honor guard of infantrymen was sent for the burial from Ft. Polk . I arrived a little before the funeral procession and recount the following:

(1) Layne’s gravesite is located on the backside of the cemetery near the burial plots of other generations of the Hammons family.

(2) Approximately fifty yards south of the gravesite towards the highway in the undeveloped part of the cemetery stood the bugler at parade rest just behind:

(i) the spit shined boots (signifying the “boots on the ground” worn by countless American infantryman in venues all over the globe in our nation’s wars to preserve our way of life),

(ii) the assault rifle (signifying the chosen weapon of the infantryman to defend freedom and slay the enemies of our country), with the affixed steel bayonet in the ground, (signifying the iron will and core values of our great Army and the close-in fighting of the American infantryman on the battlefield for over 230 years),

(iii) the steel pot covering the butt of the assault rifle (signifying the traditional protective device for the infantryman in battle whose sworn oath is to protect the nation from those who would attack our freedoms).

(3) Approximately 20 yards south of the bugler were the stacked assault rifles of the Honor Guard (signifying the teamwork required of a rifle squad in combat)

(4) Approximately 50 yards due west of the stacked rifles on the road accessing the cemetery from the highway standing at parade rest was the Infantry Honor Guard comprised of (a) PFC’s and Spec 4's from the 10^th Mountain Division who are training at Ft. Polk prior to their deployment once again to Iraq in the next few months, and (b) an E-7 platoon sergeant and an E-6 Staff Sergeant (who coincidentally had served a tour with the 101^st in Iraq as a machine gunner)

It was a sight that would warm any infantryman’s heart, and what followed was even more inspirational. The funeral procession arrived and the hearse pulled up on the cemetery road next to the Platoon Sergeant. He called the detachment to attention and they marched up the road to the hearse, removed the flag draped coffin from the hearse, and carried it approximately 50 yards to the gravesite, where the coffin was placed under the tent. The Staff Sergeant then marched with the remainder of the detachment across the field past the bugler to the stacked rifles and assumed the position of parade rest till the services were completed by the preacher. After completion of the preacher’s remarks, the Staff Sergeant called the Honor Guard to attention and gave the order to retrieve the stacked assault rifles. The Honor Guard then fired off the requisite three volleys, at which time the Honor Guard came to present arms. Wayne Spruill and myself, the Ripcord veterans present that day, came to present arms with two salutes that would tingle the spine of a Drill Instructor. The Bugler crisply raised his bugle to his lips, and the resonant and familiar sound of Taps echoed through the woods of North Louisiana. The silence of the crowd of attendees was deafening as all present were spellbound. It was one of those rare and remarkable moments frozen in time. I even observed out of the corner of my eye a fox squirrel up on a limb in a loblolly pine tree just behind Layne’s gravesite sitting upright at attention. Upon the completion of Taps, the bugler assumed the position of parade rest and the Honor Guard marched across the field to the coffin to retrieve the flag, which was meticulously folded by the Honor Guard and presented by the Staff Sergeant to the Platoon Sergeant in an exchange of salutes, after which the Platoon Sergeant presented the flag to Sandra on behalf of a grateful nation. It was a fitting end to a glorious celebration of a great man’s life.

Layne was a humble man who would have been uncomfortable with people making a big deal over his passing. He would much rather his friends remember him for what he was, a man of simple means who loved God, his family, his friends, his fellow soldiers, and his country. We are all grateful for his loyalty, devotion, and fidelity to us and to the nation. We have all been blessed by our friendship with this great warrior who now rests peaceably in the heavenly kingdom. I don’t know what the good Lord has in mind for Layne up there, but I suspect that he and his dear friend, the legendary pointman T.C. Manbeck, are probably both puffing on a cigarette and maybe sipping on a cold Miller Lite while helping the good Lord go about his daily tasks. What I do know is this. It don’t get no better than my pal, Layne Hammons.

Currahee,

L. T.

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Tom (T.C.) Manbeck C Co. 2/506

A CHARLIE COMPANY LEGEND REMEMBERED

by Jim Campbell

The term “Point Man” conjures up thoughts of many great men who served in this role during the Ripcord battle. If you served in the second platoon of Charlie Company, 2/506th Infantry during the Ripcord battle, inevitably visions of two most remarkable men, Spec. 4 “T.C.” Manbeck and Spec. 4 Sam “Cisco” Garcia, immediately pop into one’s mind whenever the term Point Man is used. T.C. and Cisco had been joined at the hip sometime shortly after their arrival in Vietnam near the end of 1969 while serving under Charlie Lieb in the second platoon and remained that way until their DEROS a year later. They were inseparable and the closest of friends and I have never in my life thought of one of them without thinking of the other. I cannot eulogize one without talking about the other for these two great soldiers formed a “point/slack team” that had no equal during my tour in Vietnam. Whenever hereafter I express my feelings about T.C. the same feelings would also apply to Cisco.

The two of them had as many similarities as they did dissimilarities. They were both about 5' 7" in height, around 19 or 20 years in age, and I believe both of them were draftees. T.C weighed about 140 pounds soaking wet and Cisco was just a few pounds heavier. T.C. was a free spirit, impulsive, full of energy and wit, and moved around under a “Cotton Top” mop of the blondest hair I believe I have ever seen. Cisco was much more introverted and methodical and had jet black hair that contrasted with T’C.’s Cotton Top. T.C. was from Pennsylvania and Cisco was from Colorodo.

Many great men walked point for the second platoon during my tour in Vietnam. It is not the intention of this article to slight any man who did so, as I am indebted and grateful to every single one of them. However, there will always be a special place in my heart for “T.C.” and “Cisco” as they were the most incredible “point/slack team” I was privileged to follow in Vietnam. There is something mystical about this job of point man as not every soldier can do it comfortably or with confidence. It requires more than just courage. I have often wondered over the years what made some men more adept at it than others. I believe that the great ones were all possessed of the following attributes:

(a) an undaunted courage in the face of the enemy together with lightening quick reflexes,

(b) a supreme confidence in their ability to perform the job,

(d) a vision equal to a wild turkey moving through the woods,

(e) a keen ear that can clearly distinguish the different sounds of the jungle,

(g) a deep conviction from within that the platoon was most comfortable and best served when they were“On Point”, and

(h) most importantly a sixth sense that is unique to only some individuals and includes an almost supernatural personal instinct to feel the situation in front of them.

It is these qualities that stood out so in T.C and Cisco and despite the passage of years it is still very easy for me to visualize these two magnificent soldiers cautiously and courageously working the trail for the rest of us to follow.

The designation each day of the point team in the platoon is not always that easy a decision for the platoon leader. Generally I tried to follow a rotation system between the squads, with each squad taking turns in furnishing the point element for the day. I concluded that this was the “fair” way of doing things. However, it was not long before I found that I could not always follow the normal rotation. I found myself ignoring the normal rotation when things got difficult and that it became increasingly easy for me to call for T.C. and Cisco and turn em loose. The whole platoon felt better when we were moving and the two of them were “On Point”. It was unfair of me to do so and I felt for many years that the two of them most probably resented me for it, although neither of them ever once whined or lodged the first complaint to me about it. When I first got back with T.C at the Mobile reunion after some 27 years, and after we had all consumed a whole lot of beers one late evening, I expressed my regrets to T.C. for having used him and Cisco out of the normal rotation too much of the time and in the worst of times. He threw his head back and laughed and said to me “You damn right you did, L.T., but it don’t mean nothing. It damn sure ain’t nothing to lose no sleep over.” I could say nothing at that point to him other than “You be the man”.

T.C., Layne Hammons, Paul Burkey, Frankie Marshall and I spent the remainder of the weekend in Mobile drinking all day and into the wee hours of the morning. Ben Harrison and Carolyn Harrison will remember this weekend vividly for they both stayed up talking to T.C. and Layne in the hospitality suite til 1:30 in the morning. It was T.C’s first reunion and he was a ball of fire. He gave an inspiring speech to the group after the banquet about how we all had to keep this great thing going. He passed around an empty water pitcher that came back with around $700.00 in it for the Association, which was remarkable in that there were only about 30 people at the reunion..

T.C. passed away on May 25, 2004, from a massive coronary attack. T.C., like many of us, had a lot of ups and downs in his life after Vietnam. He loved his two sons and his daughter very much. He loved his fiancé and her daughter. He found the Lord late in his life and became a good Christian. I believe that this enabled him to find the peace that had eluded him earlier in his life. He gave up drinking soon after the Mobile Reunion and successfully battled a bout with cancer. He particularly enjoyed attending the Ripcord reunions. He would become terribly embarrassed when his old L.T. would introduce him or refer to him as “The Legendary Point Man, T.C. Manbeck.” and would say “Cut me some slack, L.T.” He never gave a damn about accolades, praise, medals or glory. He knew that the respect and admiration of those comrades who had fought along side him was all that mattered. He also knew that he had given to the platoon all that was asked of him and much more. A young lieutenant could not be more grateful or blessed than to have served with such a remarkable soldier. The nation has lost a great warrior. We all mourn his passing. I am quite sure that today “The Legendary Point Man T.C. Manbeck” is walking with angels in the heavenly kingdom. He may have had to adapt from the jungle to the clouds but there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that he is leading the way down the trail “On Point”.

Currahee,

L.T

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Michael Lee Boles

Michael Lee Boles, 56, of Rockwood, died Sunday, March 6, in Roane Medical Center.

Before his retirement, he worked in the maintenance department at the K-25 Site and served as a union steward at Y-12 Plant. He was of the Baptist faith and a U.S. Army Vietnam veteran, 101st Airborne Screaming Eagles, Pointman and Long Range Recon. He was a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, American Legion Post 50 and Roane County Military Memorial Honor Guard.

He was preceded in death by father, Arlie Boles; and sister, Janet Boles.

Survivors include his wife, Dianna Boles of Rockwood; daughters, Shana Lea' Ann Boles of Oliver Springs and Lauren Gail Boles of Rockwood; mother, Evelyn C. Boles of Rockwood; sister and brother-in-law, Sarah and Dwight Thomas of Anderson, S.C.; aunt, Betty Carroll of Rockwood; brothers- and sisters-in-law, Bobby and Alanna Tweed of Rockwood, David and Vicki Tweed of Knoxville and Dennis and Annette Tweed of Charleston, Tenn.; and nieces and nephews, Travis Tweed, Stefanie Tweed, Traci Tweed, Alex Tweed and Alayna Tweed.

Funeral service was at 8 p.m. Tuesday, March 8, in Evans Mortuary chapel, Rockwood, with the Rev. Charles Kelley officiating. Graveside service and burial will be at 3 p.m. Wednesday, March 9 at Oak Grove Cemetery, Rockwood, with full honors by the Roane County Military Memorial Honor Guard.

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