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A Bad Morning on the Da Nang Bridge

By Richard Fleming

It was the fall of '68, and Force Recon was running missions out of Camp Reasoner, on the outskirts of Da Nang. We usually had at least a few days off after we got back from the bush, and my friend Bo talked me into going with him to the city.

We hopped a truck and headed into Da Nang. As usual, the main road through the city was filled with military vehicles, motorcycles, and people on foot. Our progress slowed to a crawl as everyone was squeezed into the two-lane bridge spanning the Da Nang River, but then we stopped completely. There seemed to be some sort of commotion ahead of us, and after a few minutes, Bo and I decided to leave the truck and walk down to see what was holding things up.

As we got closer, we could see the problem. The wheel had fallen off a large hand cart that a farmer was using to bring his load of melons into the city. The cart was now stuck in the middle of the road, and the farmer's melons were rolling around on the road. The old man was trying his best to gather them together before they were smashed.

A Korean convoy approached from the opposite direction. Half a dozen soldiers jumped out of the lead truck and approached the cart. At first, I thought they would help the farmer pick up the fruit, but instead, they began throwing the melons up to their friends in the trucks. The old man pleaded with them to stop, but they just jeered at him. In a cruel game they threw the melons from one to another as he desperately ran between them. When they had taken the last one, they pushed his cart over the side of the bridge and into the river, laughing at the splash it made. Finally, the Koreans got back in their trucks. They left the old farmer sitting on the side of the road, his face in his hands, his body trembling. He had lost everything.

Someone in the truck behind me was blasting their horn over and over. I turned and saw a beefy Special Forces sergeant leaning out the window and yelling impatiently at the people in front of him, "Move it!... Move it!... Move it, I said!"

"What an idiot," I thought to myself. There was nowhere anyone could go, but the sergeant continued to pound on his horn.

A group of school kids were trying to cross the road ahead. The boys wore white shirts and black trousers. The girls were dressed in simple blue smocks. Their teacher tried to keep them in line as the traffic swirled around them.

Behind me, the truck horn blasted again and again. The truck's door opened, and a burly Special Forces sergeant got out of the cab and stepped onto the road. A mangy-looking dog followed him out the door, running to the front of the truck and lifting his leg on one of the wheels.

"Get over here," the sergeant ordered. The dog ran over to him, crouched by his feet, and looked up at him expectantly.

The sergeant looked around angrily, pointed to the group of students ahead of him, and shouted: "Sic-em"! The dog took off like a shot.

The teacher saw the animal running toward him and moved forward with his arms outstretched in a desperate attempt to protect his students. The dog immediately attacked him, burying his teeth in the teacher's leg and tearing his pants to shreds. The young man tried to push the animal away, only to be viciously bitten on his hands and arms.

The sergeant leaned lazily against the truck and watched, a satisfied look on his face. Finally, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. The dog immediately ran back to crouch at his master's feet.

"Good boy", the sergeant told him, patting him on the head "Good boy."

The school girls were holding their hands to their faces and crying; the boys glared back at us with hate-filled eyes. The teacher (incredibly to me) bowed subserviently to the sergeant and tried to smile. Urging his students across the bridge, he limped off.

The sergeant turned to me, slapped his leg, and laughingly asked, "Did you see that yellow bastard run?"

He obviously expected my approval.

"You asshole," I responded hotly.

I was half-hoping that he'd try to sic his dog on me so that I could shoot it, but he just smirked. He walked back to the truck and hoisted his bulk into the cab. His dog jumped up and sat beside him, wagging his tail happily. "Good boy."

Ordering a dog to attack a group of children was a shocking act in itself, but the sick pleasure that the sergeant took in inflicting pain was an even greater sin. It is only a small step from the adrenaline-fueled exhilaration of combat and the feeling of joy one experiences after surviving a firefight to the sadistic pleasure that that sergeant obviously took in causing suffering. It was a step the Koreans took, but, Thank God, never by me.

It has been over half a century since that day on the Da Nang Bridge. I still remember the old farmer sitting by the side of the road, shaking his head from side to side in misery as the Koreans laughed at him. I remember the heroism of the young teacher who bravely stepped forward to protect his children, and I remember the naked hatred toward us on the faces of his students. I remember realizing that such actions would eventually cost us the war—and they did.

Richard Fleming served as a recon scout with 1st Force Recon Co. from 1968-1969. He wrote about his experiences in "Chasing Charlie-A Force Recon Marine in Vietnam."