- Joined
- May 31, 2004
- Messages
- 344
- Points
- 53
My aircraft was given the job of taking some lower ranking brigade staff to Pleiku, then another group of people to Kontum. Typical boring milk run stuff, really. At Kontum we were told we would have about a three hour wait and would we mind taking some people to Ban Me Thout and then pick up some Donut Dollies and bring them back. This was the type of mission that was often decided by fist fight, so we glaringly laid claim and held on until our passengers arrived.
The pilots and Lucero, my gunner, wandered off to see the sights while I stayed with the ship. The first to arrive was a tall thin guy dressed in Vietnamese style fatigues with an OD bandana around his head. Walking beside him was a German Shepard dog that hopped up into the aircraft at his command, then the guy climbed in and sat down. He chose the middle of the bench seat so the dog would be away from both doors in the middle of the aircraft. I asked the guy how his dog did flying in choppers. At first he took it as an insult toward his dog and hit me with the coldest pair of blue eyes I had ever seen. Most people, when you look into their eyes, you see something, but not this guy. Hurriedly I went on to tell him of a bad experience I had gone through with a scout dog while working with the 101st, the story brought a smile to his face and he assured me that “Klaus” would do just fine. For the next half hour we made small talk about the weather, scenery, helicopters, etc, all the while him scratching the dog’s ears which seemed to relax both him and the dog. I even ventured forth a hand that was given a friendly lick by the dog. Discreetly I looked the guy over, he was obviously not your normal GI. The bandana he wore around his head looked to me like an arm sling from a first aid kit. He had a .38 stuck in his belt and had another pistol, a semi automatic, not military issue, slung on his right side, low, at arms length, like an old west gunfighter. On the same holster right behind the pistol was a knife, the handle at the same height as the pistol grip. Soon our other passenger came hustling up, a chubby SSG with his arms full of papers and his glasses fogged over from sweating. He took one look at the guy already on board and looked like he suddenly developed a fear of flying, but with our pilots on his heels worried about losing the Donut Dolly run, he took heed of their ill-natured growls and clambered into the aircraft.
The flight to Ban Me Thout was uneventful and when we landed the chubby sergeant disappeared in a cloud of dust. The Dollies were waiting for us and the guy with the dog stopped long enough to let them pet Klaus before he walked off the hill and they got on board. A PIO toady was following the girls, hustling around trying to help them with their stuff and only succeeding in making a fool of himself.
He strapped in right in front of me, and turning, said, “You know that was Mad Dog, don’t you?”
The hair stood up on the back of my neck, “The guy told me the dog was OK!”
“Not the dog, the guy. That was Mad Dog.” He acted almost indignant, like I had just had lunch with Clint Eastwood or something and not known it.
“Yeh, Mad Dog. The NVA have a huge price on his head. They named him Mad Dog cause he took out a machine gun, just charged with a pistol in each hand. The NVA left the gun and ran. When he’s not in the field he wears a blue velvet smoking jacket, almost neon, and a derby hat sometimes.” Blue velvet smoking jacket and derby hat, now that was weird. Anything else the guy said was lost as the rotor wash began playing with the hem of the girl’s skirts and my imagination took over.
I never heard anything more about Mad Dog, in fact I never even thought about him, those eyes were best forgotten, until I was at the Tra Bong SF camp and someone mentioned that Mad Dog had been put in for another silver star. I listened carefully (no distractions in skirts this time) and learned that he was an E-7 named Jerry Shriver, had been in SF for a while and was on his third consecutive tour with SOG CCS. Shriver led a Hatchet Force of mercenary Vietnamese that he was very devoted to, spending all of his money on his men and their families. As could be expected, his exploits at the NCO club were legendary, he was not their favorite customer. Typically, he would walk in wearing his smoking jacket and sometimes his derby, buy a case of beer, take it to a table in the corner and open every can. Then he would put a pistol on the table and drink it all. He had no tolerance for wannabes and more then once had shot up a club because someone had tried to impress him with their exploits. He preferred living with his men and was reputed to wear the same set of clothes for long periods of time. He carried a sawed off shotgun or a silenced M-3 .45 caliber “grease-gun” that weighed over ten pounds, in addition to 5 or 6 .38 caliber pistols. He had personally killed over a hundred NVA.
I occasionally thought of Shriver, but heard nothing more about him until I had transferred to SF in the mid ‘70’s. I was sitting in a bar outside of Fort Bragg when some older NCO’s at the next table started talking about him. I joined the conversation and after interjecting my brief experience just sat and listened. He became an MIA in April of 1969 while on a fouled up mission in Laos. He had only ten days left on his third tour. Radio Hanoi had first broadcast that they had him and then a while later broadcast that he was dead. Most of the NCO’s at the table were reluctant to believe that he was dead, they figured he would come walking out of the boonies someday, just like he always had, but his family had just allowed his status to be changed from MIA to KIA. The stories these guys told were fascinating. During one of his leaves he had purchased a Marlin 444 lever action, probably the only lever action in Viet Nam, and had it shipped through SF channels. He called it his “bunker buster.“ Before going to Viet Nam he had served with SF in Germany and in the middle of an op had occasionally traded his GI clothes to the local Germans for their duds so he could travel the hills unnoticed. Klaus, the dog, was his only close companion, and once another recon team had gotten the dog drunk and it had crapped on the floor of the club. The team members rubbed the dog’s nose in it then threw the poor dog out the door. Shriver walked in to the club while the same team was there, bought his usual case of beer, proceeded to drop his pants and crap on the floor. He then placed his pistol on the table and asked if anybody wanted to rub his nose in it and throw him out. Nobody took up his offer.
Ultimately he received 26 decorations including 2 Silver Stars, the Soldiers Medal, 7 Bronze Stars, Purple Heart, Air Medal, and 3 Army Commendation Medals for Valor. While listed as MIA he was promoted to E-8.
Discussion at the table differed concerning his last weeks. One guy who had talked to him after he returned from his last leave said that Shriver had said he was very uncomfortable in civilian life and was afraid how he would adjust. Others said that he had a death wish. One said that when he departed on that last mission he knew he would not return. All agreed that he knew he would not return from Viet Nam alive. He left behind very little, his smoking jacket, less then a dollar worth of MPC, and of course, Klaus.
His last mission is well documented on the internet, so I will not be redundant, but most of the NCO’s in SF prefer to remember him as the leader, who, with NVA on all sides, refused extraction, saying, “No, No, I’ve got em right where I want em, surrounded from the inside.“
The pilots and Lucero, my gunner, wandered off to see the sights while I stayed with the ship. The first to arrive was a tall thin guy dressed in Vietnamese style fatigues with an OD bandana around his head. Walking beside him was a German Shepard dog that hopped up into the aircraft at his command, then the guy climbed in and sat down. He chose the middle of the bench seat so the dog would be away from both doors in the middle of the aircraft. I asked the guy how his dog did flying in choppers. At first he took it as an insult toward his dog and hit me with the coldest pair of blue eyes I had ever seen. Most people, when you look into their eyes, you see something, but not this guy. Hurriedly I went on to tell him of a bad experience I had gone through with a scout dog while working with the 101st, the story brought a smile to his face and he assured me that “Klaus” would do just fine. For the next half hour we made small talk about the weather, scenery, helicopters, etc, all the while him scratching the dog’s ears which seemed to relax both him and the dog. I even ventured forth a hand that was given a friendly lick by the dog. Discreetly I looked the guy over, he was obviously not your normal GI. The bandana he wore around his head looked to me like an arm sling from a first aid kit. He had a .38 stuck in his belt and had another pistol, a semi automatic, not military issue, slung on his right side, low, at arms length, like an old west gunfighter. On the same holster right behind the pistol was a knife, the handle at the same height as the pistol grip. Soon our other passenger came hustling up, a chubby SSG with his arms full of papers and his glasses fogged over from sweating. He took one look at the guy already on board and looked like he suddenly developed a fear of flying, but with our pilots on his heels worried about losing the Donut Dolly run, he took heed of their ill-natured growls and clambered into the aircraft.
The flight to Ban Me Thout was uneventful and when we landed the chubby sergeant disappeared in a cloud of dust. The Dollies were waiting for us and the guy with the dog stopped long enough to let them pet Klaus before he walked off the hill and they got on board. A PIO toady was following the girls, hustling around trying to help them with their stuff and only succeeding in making a fool of himself.
He strapped in right in front of me, and turning, said, “You know that was Mad Dog, don’t you?”
The hair stood up on the back of my neck, “The guy told me the dog was OK!”
“Not the dog, the guy. That was Mad Dog.” He acted almost indignant, like I had just had lunch with Clint Eastwood or something and not known it.
“Yeh, Mad Dog. The NVA have a huge price on his head. They named him Mad Dog cause he took out a machine gun, just charged with a pistol in each hand. The NVA left the gun and ran. When he’s not in the field he wears a blue velvet smoking jacket, almost neon, and a derby hat sometimes.” Blue velvet smoking jacket and derby hat, now that was weird. Anything else the guy said was lost as the rotor wash began playing with the hem of the girl’s skirts and my imagination took over.
I never heard anything more about Mad Dog, in fact I never even thought about him, those eyes were best forgotten, until I was at the Tra Bong SF camp and someone mentioned that Mad Dog had been put in for another silver star. I listened carefully (no distractions in skirts this time) and learned that he was an E-7 named Jerry Shriver, had been in SF for a while and was on his third consecutive tour with SOG CCS. Shriver led a Hatchet Force of mercenary Vietnamese that he was very devoted to, spending all of his money on his men and their families. As could be expected, his exploits at the NCO club were legendary, he was not their favorite customer. Typically, he would walk in wearing his smoking jacket and sometimes his derby, buy a case of beer, take it to a table in the corner and open every can. Then he would put a pistol on the table and drink it all. He had no tolerance for wannabes and more then once had shot up a club because someone had tried to impress him with their exploits. He preferred living with his men and was reputed to wear the same set of clothes for long periods of time. He carried a sawed off shotgun or a silenced M-3 .45 caliber “grease-gun” that weighed over ten pounds, in addition to 5 or 6 .38 caliber pistols. He had personally killed over a hundred NVA.
I occasionally thought of Shriver, but heard nothing more about him until I had transferred to SF in the mid ‘70’s. I was sitting in a bar outside of Fort Bragg when some older NCO’s at the next table started talking about him. I joined the conversation and after interjecting my brief experience just sat and listened. He became an MIA in April of 1969 while on a fouled up mission in Laos. He had only ten days left on his third tour. Radio Hanoi had first broadcast that they had him and then a while later broadcast that he was dead. Most of the NCO’s at the table were reluctant to believe that he was dead, they figured he would come walking out of the boonies someday, just like he always had, but his family had just allowed his status to be changed from MIA to KIA. The stories these guys told were fascinating. During one of his leaves he had purchased a Marlin 444 lever action, probably the only lever action in Viet Nam, and had it shipped through SF channels. He called it his “bunker buster.“ Before going to Viet Nam he had served with SF in Germany and in the middle of an op had occasionally traded his GI clothes to the local Germans for their duds so he could travel the hills unnoticed. Klaus, the dog, was his only close companion, and once another recon team had gotten the dog drunk and it had crapped on the floor of the club. The team members rubbed the dog’s nose in it then threw the poor dog out the door. Shriver walked in to the club while the same team was there, bought his usual case of beer, proceeded to drop his pants and crap on the floor. He then placed his pistol on the table and asked if anybody wanted to rub his nose in it and throw him out. Nobody took up his offer.
Ultimately he received 26 decorations including 2 Silver Stars, the Soldiers Medal, 7 Bronze Stars, Purple Heart, Air Medal, and 3 Army Commendation Medals for Valor. While listed as MIA he was promoted to E-8.
Discussion at the table differed concerning his last weeks. One guy who had talked to him after he returned from his last leave said that Shriver had said he was very uncomfortable in civilian life and was afraid how he would adjust. Others said that he had a death wish. One said that when he departed on that last mission he knew he would not return. All agreed that he knew he would not return from Viet Nam alive. He left behind very little, his smoking jacket, less then a dollar worth of MPC, and of course, Klaus.
His last mission is well documented on the internet, so I will not be redundant, but most of the NCO’s in SF prefer to remember him as the leader, who, with NVA on all sides, refused extraction, saying, “No, No, I’ve got em right where I want em, surrounded from the inside.“
