Delta veteran stories: A soldier’s memories never fade

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Like the vast majority of Vietnam veterans, serving his country was a privilege for Robert Henry “Butch” Jones.

He would serve his country again.

But his aging body will not let him.

Jones does not throw any punches when it comes to his patriotic beliefs. He believes young people should serve at least two years in the U.S. Armed Forces. When he sees protesters, many times hiding their faces with masks, he says it upsets him.

“People don’t have a clue of what they are protesting,” Jones said.

It takes him back to a time in California when he and a group of young soldiers, barely old enough to vote, had risked their lives for their country. They survived the jungles of Vietnam, returned home and were processed back into society.

Then came the eggs.

As their bus passed, protesters shouted curses and threw eggs at the young soldiers. An officer on the bus on which Jones was riding told the sergeant who was driving to open the door and let the soldiers handle the protesters. The sergeant, whose first instinct was to open the door, refused, stating he had orders to get the soldiers processed.

“Personally, I think everybody ought to serve,” Jones said. “They ought to have to serve two years. They would understand what this country is and what it stands for. They need to have their butts sent somewhere and realize just how well they have it.”

When Jones sees world events on the national news, events that are so far away from his home in Pioneer, he still worries.

“I know some will get killed. It don’t matter if it is a 100 body count or one, an American boy died. I don’t think some people know how fortunate we are to be American citizens.”

Jones knows all too well about the tragedies of war.

He flips through his Army yearbook. Near the end is a list of more than 755 soldiers killed in action from his unit. Many of them were young, 18 or 19 years old.

“I go through those names, and I remember some of them,” Jones said.

The old adage says, “Time heals all wounds.”

For Jones, and thousands of other Vietnam veterans, the wounds are still there.

And time keeps ticking on.

Pioneer, Louisiana, 1968

Jones and his sweetheart, Martha Ann, were newlyweds in December 1968 when a draft notice came in the mail. The two, who had known each other since the third grade, had just married in August.

“It wasn’t a very good time to get a draft notice,” he said. “It wasn’t a good situation.”

His basic training was held at Fort Polk. He had a jump on his fellow soldiers by taking two years of ROTC at Northeast Louisiana University, now the University of Louisiana at Monroe. Because of his former training, he went in with an E-2 rank.

“They made us squad leaders because we had already went through the drills,” he said.

His Army battalion at Fort Polk had B-11, and 90 percent of the soldiers who graduated went to Vietnam.

“And 90 percent of that 90 percent were infantry,” Jones explained.

The Army then sent him to Tiger Land for Advanced Infantry Training (AIT) for eight weeks. He never got to go home during the four months of training.

“It was pretty rigorous,” he said. “They wanted us to really pay attention because anything they told us it would eventually save our lives.”

When he graduated from AIT, Jones went through numerous tests. Several soldiers from the company, including Jones, were sent to Fort Benning, Ga.

“They didn’t tell us why,” he said. “The rest of them got sent directly to Vietnam.”

The training was Infantry Operations and Intelligence School. He was assigned to another company and went through more rigorous training on military operations. A lot of what he learned was, at the time, “top secret,” and he had to pass many background checks.

“They already knew who we were,” he said.

He was now an 11-F, an Infantry Operations and Intelligence specialist.

“They said when you graduate from here you will be a sergeant,” Jones said. “Basically, in 11 months I went from E-1 to sergeant.”

Most of his company shot expert on their tests, except for those who had grown up in the city.

“Our senior drill sergeant asked us what the hell was going on here,” he remembered. “This whole company is made up of Louisiana and Mississippi boys.”

The Louisiana and Mississippi soldiers “practiced” their marksmanship during their many hunting trips. Jones was in the top three out of 325 soldiers.

After shooting at the expert level, Sgt. Jones was sent to Fort Carson, Co., where he trained in numerous maneuvers, including tank and mountain training.

After mountain training, Jones finally got to go home to his sweetheart for Christmas. But as soon as Christmas was over, he went to Vietnam.

The major hates Grambling

When he got to Vietnam, Jones was assigned to a holding company until he was assigned to a base. He was in holding with 40 other soldiers. Jones watched as the number of soldiers lessened until he and another soldier were the last ones remaining. He was 24 years old, one of the oldest guys in the group.

“I was older than my 1st lieutenant,” he said.

When he was finally picked, Jones was instructed to hop into a waiting jeep. The driver took him to the headquarters of an infantry support unit to be interviewed. He was assigned to the 7th Support Battalion of the 199th Light Infantry Brigade.

The 199th Light Infantry Brigade was a unit of the United States Army that was active during the Vietnam War. The brigade specialized in conducting search-and-destroy missions to disrupt enemy operations in the dense jungle terrain of Southeast Asia. The 199th was known for its aggressive tactics and high casualty rates, earning a reputation as one of the most effective combat units in the conflict. The brigade was deactivated in 1970 after serving four years in Vietnam.

“I was told to report to Captain Sinclair,” he said. “A big ole tall freckled-faced redhead guy. He told me to have a seat, and I handed him my folder. He said, ‘The major will be with you shortly.’”

In a few minutes, a big African American man walked out of the office. Jones was instructed to enter his office and have a seat. After several opening questions, the major asked Jones what part of Louisiana he was from. Jones answered, Pioneer.

“He said, ‘Do you know where Grambling is?’ I told him, Yes Sir. I went to Tech for a year.”

The 6-foot-2-inch major told Jones he hated Grambling University because, according to Jones, “I played football for Morgan State. We played Grambling in Yankee Stadium every year and they beat us so bad it was a shame to go home.”

Jones, laughing, responded, “Sir, I hope you don’t hold that against me.”

From that moment on, Jones’ basic job was to serve as the major’s security. The entire security group was 11-B or 11-F, which meant they were “qualified in everything. In other words, we would take care of things if something arises.”

“We hit if off pretty quick,” he said.

Driving the major

Jones was the major’s security. He went where the major went and assisted in checking the inventory at 11 fire bases and making sure the bases had what they needed.

“You didn’t know where the VC was going to be in Vietnam,” Jones said. “That was their guerrilla tactics and they were good at it. We were in their yard.”

Most of the fire bases were named after women, according to Jones.

“I like to got in trouble a couple of times when I first got home because I talked in my sleep. On the radio, we would use the call sign of a fire base and it would be woman’s name like Nancy. My wife would wake me up and ask who was Nancy?”

The worst part of Jones’ new job was body bags.

“It was going to happen, and everybody knew it,” Jones said. “Somebody was going to get killed, and we had to make sure they had ample supplies of bodybags. One of the hardest parts is some the guys you knew were killed in action and had to be brought back.”

One time, the major and Jones had to fly back to base in a helicopter with a body bag. The body bag was partially open, and sticking out of it was the hand of a young Black soldier. Jones said the major cried and watched the hand during the trip back to the base.

Another time, Jones and his fellow soldiers were at Fire Base Nancy when the Vietcong tried to get through razor wire during the night. The fire base had three or four rows of the dangerous wire. Most of the time, according to Jones, the Vietcong soldiers would get stuck.

One of the drivers was on watch that night when three Vietcong soldiers tried to get through the wire. When they got close enough, he opened fire and killed all three.

“He told me, ‘You know Butch, one of them wasn’t dead. He kept looking at me the whole time. He knew I did it. They were just kids.”

Jones pauses in his story as emotional memories overtake him.

One of the young men who was shot was Jones’ barber, who had been cutting his hair for six months. Jones said he was probably attempting to obtain intelligence when he cut hair.

“They didn’t have any choice,” Jones said of the young Vietnamese soldiers. “They were told if they didn’t cooperate with the Vietcong they would kill their families. I’m sure that was hard on them. They didn’t really want to do that, but they were forced to it. But, we didn’t know that. All we knew was they had orders to kill us. And, we had orders to kill them. That is just war.”

Due to the “nerve wracking” atmosphere of the Vietnam War, Jones went from 220 pounds to 160 pounds.

“But, I got over it as soon as I got home,” Jones said, smiling. “At one time, I weighed about 270. All from home cooking.”

“It don’t matter if you pull a trigger and shot somebody or call artillery on them, or call a gunship on them. You are still participating in a killing.” Jones said. “It always affects you. You have a hand in all of that. We did what we had to do to come home.”

One hell of a decent guy

On April 1, 1970, Brigadier General William Ross Bond was shot and killed by a sniper.

“He was one of those kind of leaders that when somebody was in trouble, he was going to try to help them,” Jones said.

He was shot in the head. He lived for eight hours and died in a hospital.

“He was one of those kind of guys that you would run through a brick wall for,” Jones said.

In a Redcatchers yearbook, it reads:

“He was one hell of a decent guy! He made you feel like you were somebody and let you know that you weren’t alone there.”

That was the way one “grunt” remembers Gen. Bond. Probably the way a lot of “grunts” remember him.

Gen. Bond was a man of action, who fought for what he believed in and wasn’t afraid to die for it. There can be no doubt that his death has taken some fraction of life from each of us in the 199th Brigade.

Thus, we “Redcatchers” dedicate this publication to Brigadier General William Ross Bond, who on 1 April 1970 died as he lived — an infantryman!

An unwelcome homecoming

When Jones and his fellow soldiers finally got to come home, they flew out of Vietnam to Japan and were supposed to fly into Fort Lewis, Wash. But first, they had to make a stop in Anchorage, Alaska, because there were so many GIs coming in.

“They were overloading the processing,” Jones said. “We had to spend 24 hours in Anchorage airport.”

The soldiers were loaded back onto the plane in Anchorage, but instead of flying to Fort Lewis, they flew straight to Oakland.

“When we came home we weren’t welcome, especially in California,” he said.

The protesters greeted them at the gate. The angry group was unleashing slurs, but the soldiers did respond to them.

“Of course, we were giving them the bird, too. But, it hurts your feelings.”

The soldiers still had their fatigues on. When those who were going home were processed out, they were given a choice of civilian clothes or dress greens.

An officer told them, according to Jones, “Guys, I want to tell you the honest truth, I’m going to recommend you don’t wear a uniform. You are not going to be treated right. If you do decide you want to wear a uniform, please go in groups of five or six. Don’t go by yourself.”

Before they left, they had to go through a “complete medical exam.” After that, they got to go to the cafeteria and order anything they wanted.

“I got a cheeseburger,” he said.

While at the California airport, people would stare at them and whisper as they headed home.

“We just wanted to kick their asses,” Jones said. “But, we chalked it off. When we got to Dallas everything changed. We were home.”

When he came back home, his ag teacher asked him how he made sergeant so fast. He laughed and answered, “Well, I guess I was just a good soldier.”

His ag teacher, according to Jones, answered, “You must have been.”

The government used his ag teacher and pastor as references. His ag teacher wrote on his reference letter, “I told them you were a good boy.”

Back home

When he was back home, Jones returned to college on the GI Bill. He eventually received an agricultural business degree from NLU. After college, he worked for chemical companies in sales and marketing.

He still watches and pays attention to his surroundings.

“It is just habit,” he said.

Habits such as making the bed every morning. He checks all the doors and windows at night to make sure they are secure. He never sits with his back to a door.

“I got to see what is coming in.”

“You notice everything, little stuff.”

He has PTSD.

“There is not a day that passes that you think what is going on. I worry about these kids in the Army and the service. I worry about all of them.”