It's coming up on two years now since the Colonel passed
away. I know, you don't have to say it, he was a four star
General when he retired, but I've always thought of him as "The
Colonel". It's the same with Lieutenant Nishimuri, and
Captain Coomer. Sometimes I even refer to them as Two-zero or
Alpha Six when some of us are outside puffing away on cigars or
cigarettes. I'm most comfortable thinking of them as they
were and not what they later came to be, both full Colonels before
they retired.
This all started at that hotel in
Nashville. It was the second or third day of the reunion and
a guy from Charlie Troop had the Colonel cornered. The guy
was pouring out his heart, thanking the Colonel for being who he
was and what a difference that the Colonel had made to the man
throughout his life. The afternoon sun was streaming into the
lobby behind the Colonel, silhouetting the bandage beneath his
shirt that was wrapped completely around his body. I thought
that the guy was laying it on a little thick but now wish that I
had his courage. It's one more regret in a long list of
things that I wished I'd done. So after thinking it over, I
want to thank each of my officers. I don't think that anyone
ever had any better.
With the Colonel it wasn't the hot meals
almost every day when we were out beating the bush, but they
helped. It wasn't that fight at Ton Son Nhut the first
morning of Tet, but it was probably the most famous. It was
all the little things. The care he took where his boys were
concerned, the leadership he provided time and again for the
officers under him, and all the smaller fights where he seemed to
be everywhere at once. If there's just one example of all the
things Colonel Otis meant to me, it was the fight in the Ho Bo
Woods that May in '68.
Centaur was detached that day, we had to
use Little Bear out of Cu Chi. We were using the dismounts
radio to listen in as the Colonel was giving Little Bear directions
for a gun run on a bunker in front of us and they just weren't
getting it. The Gunships were making firing runs using a
single rocket to mark the spot at the bunker. They kept
missing and you could almost hear the Colonel's voice grating as he
tried to readjust their fire. Finally, he lost it. That
little Loach came in not more than fifteen feet off the ground, an
arm came out and flipped a smoke grenade right into the damn bunker
and the Colonel told Little Bear just where he could put his
ordinance. We got a kick out of that. He also pulled
our left flank back after he spotted the enemy starting to get
behind us. That was a close call, maybe the closest time I
ever came to getting seriously hurt or killed.
Captain Coomer will always be the voice
blasting out of the radio telling the Lieutenants to "mount up,
we're going to hit them again". That was Valentine's Day in
'68. There were many more times I heard him during many other
fights, but he sounded like the voice of God Almighty that
day. He could also be just like the rest of us, some of the
guys told me he was dancing on the top of his track waving his
pants in the air the first time the rains came back. I keep
looking at the Photo Album pages for '68 hoping somebody got a shot
of that. I'd pay good money for a picture! During my
last week in Vietnam, Captain Coomer spotted me in the motor pool
and draped his arm over my shoulder and advised me to get a haircut
before reporting to my next duty station. His voice was
friendly, fatherly, almost soothing; but his choice of words
weren't. He said he wouldn't want to see me lose those 'purty
new stripes'. There were certain adjectives that won't make
it into this story. His command of those words was vast,
colorful, and artfully delivered.
Finally there's the Lieutenant, Rod
Nishimuri. For about five months I was in his platoon and
I'll always be grateful for that experience. Every night all
of the TCs would meet at his track going over what we would
be doing the next day. He'd often walk around spending a
little time with each track or tank, asking the guys if everything
was okay. He had a slight hesitation in his voice that I
can't explain, it's still there today, but barely
recognizable. He shared everything with us, always was the
last man to eat when we had a hot meal, always pretended that he
couldn't see us when someone was spending a little time with the
girls when we posted the MSR, and was completely fearless during a
fight. Once during the fight in the alley on May ninth in
'68, he had bullets snapping inches past his head. He never
noticed them, he was that cool under fire. Another time a
brand new Major in starched fatigues was giving me hell one
afternoon in a Special Forces B camp at Duc Hoa. I was
playing dumb and that Major knew it. He was chewing me out
about not saluting him when Lt. Nishimuri walked up and starting
giving him the hell he was trying to give me. I slunk away
while they went at it. I know the Lieutenant knew I was
having some fun with that Major, but he still jumped in and
rewarded me with the sight of a lowly First Lieutenant chewing out
a base camp commando.
The rest of you guys probably have similar
stories hiding in your memories. Stories about the officers
that you lived with and fought for. Maybe you feel the same
way as I do, but I'll tell you this. Every boss I've ever had
ended up being compared to my three officers. Quite a few of
those bosses were friends. Some even close friends. But
I never had any that could measure in full when compared with my
memories of the officers in my chain of command.
Many memories come back as snap shots,
they're never complete. These fragments are probably burned
in by fear. Complete pictures are rare, but some are expanded
by a conversation at one of the reunions. Someone will recall
a fight or a part of one and it refreshes something half
forgotten. What I've never forgotten is the respect that the
officers instilled in me long ago. The only burden I carry is
never expressing my gratitude to the three of them. I missed
that boat with Colonel Otis, I won't miss it with Captain Coomer or
Lieutenant Nishimuri. They deserve better from me.
John G. Jerdon
Earleville, Maryland.
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