Mike Perry

LAW Of The Land

The United States emerged from World War II with the Bazooka as its primary anti-armor and anti-structure weapon. Proven as a true war winner, the series, requiring a firer and a loader, started with the M1, upgraded through the M9 and ended with the M20B1 ‘Super’ during Korea.

The Bazooka’s basic design never changed, and consisted of nothing more than a hollow steel tube of varying diameters into which an electrically fired rocket was inserted at the back. Using a shaped charge, and depending upon the model, this rocket averaged 3 to 4 inches penetration of steel (11 inches with the ‘Super’), and in its day proved easily capable of taking out light and medium tanks, and even a heavy with the right shot placement. Roundly praised by users, the Bazooka provided the necessary punch when confronting hardened targets.

Good as it was though, the Bazooka had its drawbacks, the main ones being that it required a crew to operate and, as new armor designs came down the pike after 1945, its shell design proved less and less effective. Furthermore, by the 1950s ever more emphasis was being placed on mobile warfare, and to continue using a crew operated anti-armor weapon with declining ability was considered a grave drawback.

The Bazooka found itself being phased out in favor of the new recoilless rifle designs that proved more adept at dealing with evolving armor threats. But, like the Bazooka, it also faced the same problems in requiring two men to employ, and was similarly assigned to support weapon platoons, meaning they still had to be called on when faced by armor.

Something else was desired. A weapon that could give the effectiveness of a bazooka or recoilless rifle, but without an unwieldy length and most important, a crew. In other words, a lightweight one-man device capable of being carried fired and disposed of when it discharged its round. Something, ironically, which the Germans had already done 20 years before during wartime with their Panzerfaust.

Solicitations began in the mid 1950s, and in early 1961 the U.S. company Hesse Eastern presented their design combining the best attributes of the bazooka and Panzerfaust. In 1963 after successful trials, it received the designation M72 LAW, or Light Anti-armor Weapon. It was a stubby hollow pair of tubes that carried a round sealed inside, and was meant to be fired once, then destroyed by the user. Its utter simplicity meant that it ushered in another new family of disposable tank killing weapons that ended up being copied by allies and enemies alike in the latter half of the 20th century.

The M72 was 66mm in diameter, and the twin tubes telescoped, meaning one collapsed into the other. Closed, it was 24.8 inches long and provided a watertight seal until it was snapped out to a maximum length of 34.6 inches. Once this was done, the weapon was armed and the watertight seal was broken for good even if the soldier collapsed it again.

For aiming, two sights were provided, one in front raised by the user and one in back that automatically flipped up when the tube extended. The round was a rocket with a High Explosive Antitank warhead (HEAT) that was fired by squeezing a rectangular trigger atop the tube. The rocket motor burned out before it left the launcher, and the round popped fins and sped away at 475 fps. Effective range was 200 meters, with up to 8 inches of penetration against steel targets, 2 feet of concrete or 6 feet of soil was obtained. All this came in a package that weighed a remarkable 5.5 pounds.

Production commenced just before the Vietnam War heated up and it was here that it received its baptism by fire. Needless to say, in the early years of combat, the results varied from excellent to downright ineffective. Excellent when deployed against earthen or reinforced bunkers, and ineffective when first used against enemy armor. Hearing this, the manufacturer made changes to the weapon, increasing its reliability, safety and effectiveness of the round. Designated the M72A2, it proved the upgrades were successful when South Vietnamese troops destroyed several North Vietnamese T-55 tanks during the battle to save the city of An Loc, during the famous Easter Offensive in 1972.

More upgrades followed, mostly incremental, but enough to warrant keeping thousands stocked in the arms rooms of western European allies sharing borders with Warsaw pact nations. Everyone knew that if the Cold War ever turned hot, the primary weapon these countries would face would be the tank, thousands of them in fact, parked no more than a day’s drive or closer. In this regard, the thousands of LAWs assured that every soldier had available access to a tank-killer, one the Russian’s themselves admired enough to copy and churn out numbers for their soldiers, starting with the RPG-18.

The M72 LAW managed to hold the line until production ceased in 1983. By this time, it was clear it no longer could threaten modern battle tanks unless it made a lucky hit. As tens of thousands remained in stockpiles, replacements were sought. In the case of the U.S., they found one in the Swedish AT-4 (M136). Entering service in 1987, it was bigger and heavier, but met the requirements for a next generation disposable anti-armor weapon. With that, the LAW’s end seemed inevitable.

Reality had other plans. Years after the War on Terror began, 2006 to be exact, LAWs reentered service with the U.S. and Canada, not for anti-armor work but as a bunker buster. Cheaper than the AT-4 and at almost 1/3rd the weight, a soldier could also carry two in place of one AT4 with pounds left to spare. And, with a better HEAT round, this latest iteration of the LAW, the M72A7, continues to provide welcome destruction against caves and buildings often used for ambush. So good has it performed in fact that the U.S. Marine Corps placed an order for 7,750 from the company NAMMO-Talley a few years ago and continue carrying them into battle even as this is written.

So, it appears that for the time being, the LAW is destined for a few more years of service.

Old 666: Fantastic Voyage of the Cursed Bomber – Part Two

(Editor’s Note: Continued from from Old 666: Fantastic Voyage of the Cursed Bomber – Part One)

The Japanese started reducing their attack runs, preferring short bursts due to the B-17’s incredible defense. They had never faced so much resistance from one plane. With three comrades gone in flames and several more nursing damaged aircraft, most of them ended up staying behind just out of machine gun range, watching to see if the bomber would plunge toward the sea.

Instead, Zeamer, shrugging off first aid, and going in and out of consciousness, somehow got the bomber back on course for home and continued to keep it steady.

Behind him, the Japanese continued chasing almost as if in formation, licking their chops waiting for the final attack order, until the strangest thing happened. One by one they began to peel off, fuel gauge needles starting to hover over the vital safe return mark, but each felt confident Old 666 would begin its death dive long before it made it back to dry land.

With its hydraulics and oxygen gone, Zeamer knew they might not make it as well. The B-17 was barely flyable and losing altitude. When nearing the New Guinea coast, he realized they would never make it over the formidable Owen Stanley mountain range before reaching Port Moresby. He asked Britton to take over and land at the closer fighter airstrip at Dobodura before he lost consciousness a final time. Britton shook Zeamer trying to wake him.

He appeared dead.

Britton took the controls and veered the plane toward Dobodura, notifying them of the emergency situation. When he was given clearance to land he knew they still might not make it. Old 666 stuttered and creaked as if it were about to fall apart. With the runway coming into view, Britton aimed for it as best he could, narrowly keeping above the trees and landing the plane, not knowing if the landing gear or brakes worked.

The moment the plane hit, he realized the gear was down but the brakes were gone. Therefore, his only option was to groundloop it. He turned the control wheel until a wingtip dug into the dirt, causing the plane to spin around and suddenly stop, disappearing in a cloud of dust. He killed the engines just as dozens of personnel and vehicles converged from all directions.

Old 666 wept and steamed with sizzling fuel and oil as the hatches were pulled open. Peering inside, rescuers eyes gaped, shocked at what they saw. Five of the nine men were wounded, blood splattered all around their positions. Those looking into the shattered nose saw Sarnoski slumped face down, lifeless as streams of blood formed in spidery like lines from his body.

Then they reached Zeamer.

His uniform was stained dark and blood dripped from his seat to pool around his boots. His head hung over, limp, eyes closed, his face punctured in several places and bleeding. Britton urged the medics to try and revive him. He heard one of them say “Forget it, he’s dead.” They unstrapped him and loaded him up and drove away as Britton and the rest of those who could walk were helped away from their wrecked bird.

Others who witnessed the crew being removed on stretchers could hardly believe the carnage they must have endured. The base commander asked for and received names of the dead to notify Port Moresby. Jay Zeamer was among them. Glum faces wrote and mailed two death notices off to families. By now, after witnessing their past acts of courage, Zeamer’s commander held enormous respect for Old 666’s crew, more so, as he continued to hear of their heroism over Bougainville.

He knew there would be no more whispering about the crew behind their backs, about how they were screwups given the worst plane to make do. Nobody could top what they had just done. After June 16, they were the epitome of heroism, especially the two dead. What he could not know, however, was that there was a bright spot in the ordeal. With his death notice on its way across the Pacific, one Jay Zeamer lay on an operating table very much alive, though barely.

He came-to while being carried away and the surprised personnel whisked him to the hospital. There, he underwent hours of surgery to remove 120 pieces of shrapnel from his body, which had caused the loss of more than 50% of his blood. A call went out for donors, and a long line of volunteers eagerly offered their portion. It was touch and go for the next seventy two hours, the most critical time, but Jay Zeamer stabilized in critical condition.

Port Moresby received notification, but it was too late to stop the telegram heading for the states. After reaching his parents weeks later, they breathed a sigh of relief when they were told it was a mistake. Sadly, Sarnoski’s wasn’t and long before Zeamer’s parents relief, Old 666 crew members who were able to attend watched the burial of Lieutenant Sarnoski on a small hill in New Guinea. Zeamer was not among them, having just begun an agonizing, slow recovery that would take him through fifteen months of rehabilitation. Lying immobile in his bed, he hoped the photographs they risked everything for were worth something.

The camera carrying the vital film was flown to Port Moresby, then driven to a darkroom and poured over for their information. What emerged proved invaluable in mapping the coast. Topography teams revised Bougainville’s contours and figured new ways to get through a coral reef, further defined this time. These updates enabled untold numbers of lives to be saved when forces moved ashore November 1st to begin wresting the island from the Japanese.

To all, Old 666’s crew did a job beyond well done.

Their exploits reached the highest levels of command, namely General George Kenney, commander of the 5th Air Force, to which Zeamer’s group belonged, and General Henry ‘Hap’ Arnold, commander of the Army Air Forces. Without hesitation, these men decided the heroism and effectiveness Old 666’s crew needed to be rewarded.

Sarnoski and Zeamer received recommendations for the Medal of Honor which were quickly approved, while the rest of the crew received the second highest award, the Distinguished Service Cross. On January 16th, a still recuperating Zeamer, now a Major, watched General Arnold place the medal around his neck. Humbled, he still thought of his crew, in particular Sarnoski. In April, he was promoted again to Lieutenant Colonel, and he knew the days with his crew and Old 666 were now but a memory as they were scattered across the globe still flying missions, something he could no longer do. Never able to fully recover from his wounds, he medically retired from the service in January 1945, commander of the most decorated air mission in U.S. history

So what became of Old 666? Towed off the flightline, it was patched up again and eventually made airworthy. It continued flying missions with different crews until replaced by the more powerful F and G series B-17s and B-24 Liberators. Old 666 returned to the U.S. in February, 1944 at Albuquerque, New Mexico and stayed in reserve until it was turned over to a scrapyard in August 1945. Numerous patches covered its many wounds, but like before, it’s a safe bet it was no less willing to go in harm’s way one more time.

Old 666: Fantastic Voyage Of The Cursed Bomber- Part One

Yes, it was true what they said about it. The faded green B-17 Flying Fortress was shot up and being cannibalized for parts. Hell, it was just a few days from the scrap heap. Yet, Captain Jay Zeamer knew there was no other option but to try and restore it to airworthiness.

He and his crew, known for their rowdiness and dislike of military discipline, were marked men. They were at the bottom of the list for assignment to a new aircraft and had to make do with whatever they could find. And here it was, a plane believed to be jinxed because every time it flew a mission it got shot to pieces and crews were reluctant to fly it. But Zeamer shrugged off the concerns and towed it from the bone yard to a vacant spot near the flight line of their squadron, the 43rd USAAF bomb group based in Port Moresby, New Guinea.

Capt. Jay Zeamer (U.S. Air Force photo) — Captain Jay Zeamer

It was spring 1943. The U.S Pacific campaign was less than a year old and in full swing. The first offensive actions had begun in the Solomon Islands and resulted in Guadalcanal and Tulagi falling, and sea and air battles raging all over the surrounding area up to Bougainville, the largest island which remained firmly in Japanese hands. Already though, there were plans to complete a full conquest of the chain and provide staging areas for the drive toward the next island groups and draw closer to the Japanese mainland.

Everything and everybody in the American arsenal as well as Allies focused themselves on the costly task of bringing as much death and destruction as possible to an enemy determined to fight to the end. And of great importance in this effort were four-engined bombers like the B-17 and B-24 Liberator. From the first days of combat in the South Pacific, these squadrons proved the only ones capable of carrying heavy enough bombloads to hit targets the enemy thought out of reach.

Zeamer’s bird at first could hardly meet that requirement. An earlier E model of the Flying Fortress, it still carried some of the smaller .30 caliber machine guns in a time when it was clear that only the more powerful . 50 calibers would suffice. So, one of the initial orders were enough .50s to replace the .30s – not just on a one-for-one basis, but expanded to an almost unbelievable ratio.

Normally, a Flying Fortress could carry up to 13 guns, but Zeamer instructed the maintenance crews to modify mounts and create new ones where none were supposed to be. After much improvising and welding, the aircraft ended up sporting 19 .50 caliber machine guns, including twin .50s on either side of the waist gunner positions, where normally there was just one. They added two in the nose where none were previously and, most impressive, one on top of the nose that could be fired by Zeamer himself from a button on the control column. They even mounted a .50 behind the twin .50s ball turret position on the bottom of the fuselage. They also stowed several .50s inside the plane in case of emergency.

Performing these modifications took the word Flying Fortress to the extreme, so much so that, when done, the B-17 truly bristled like a porcupine, impressing onlookers counting the new protrusions from every opening. And as the days passed, the rest of the Fortress was rebuilt to the point to where it looked as ready to take off as the ones Zeamer watched with envy day after day. Declaring it finished, he inspected his new ride inside out and pronounced the plane ready for combat to his commanding officer.

Given its history though, one that many felt was a one way ticket to doom, others decided to take it upon themselves to name it for them…Old 666. Unlike most of the bombers surrounding it, Zeamer’s B-17 lacked any artwork or nicknames on its nose or anywhere else. All it had was a tail number, 41-2666. During all the sweat put into the restoration, Zeamer didn’t seem to care about naming his aircraft, nor the ominous meaning of the last three digits or anything else people thought up. He had been too busy to wonder about such frivolous things and kept his focus solely on getting his crew back into action.

Once on the flight line and the first mission assigned, the crew, fully aware that many of the onlookers thought their bird was cursed, filed out of the operations room and boarded the bomber in the dead silence typical of so many who prepared for events that could be their last. Some said prayers while Zeamer read off the checklist and after a few minutes the groan of the Pratt & Whitney Cyclone engines began to spool up the propellers.

Idling steady, soon Old 666 crept forward to join a line of bombers moving at walking pace to the takeoff point, until it too throttled forward down the runway like so many others. Except, due to Zeamer’s modifications, it rose into the sky as the most heavily armed aircraft in the Pacific Theater, yet still able to keep up with the formations as they started the bombing campaign against Japanese installations all over the South Pacific. And just like he had been told, from the first mission on out, that plane came back full of holes and pieces shot off, giving credence to others feelings that those poor souls rode a cursed ship.

Zeamer refused to believe it. He attributed it to the risks he took. He flew the plane like a daredevil, in one instance trying to skip bomb at a Japanese aircraft carrier and passing just 50 feet over its decks. In another over Rabaul, he flew so low that he knocked off tree branches and brushed the rooftops of houses, before yanking back on the column aiming the bird skyward. On a night mission just a few days later over Wewak, after seeing several bombers get caught in the glare of searchlights, he immediately dove the plane earthward with machine guns blazing and managed to knock out two lights and damage three others. Yes, Old 666 came back hurt, but it still came back.

Then, May 5th brought Zeamer and Old 666 closer to the end than ever before, when it seemed like it got picked out of the formation by every Japanese anti-aircraft gunner in the Pacific, who battered and buffeted it with flak, exploding its oxygen tanks and destroying a stabilizer. Some crafty flying ensued to bring the bomber down on its return, where more than sixty holes of varying sizes were counted. The maintenance crews went to work as they always did when the plane lumbered up to its space, and quickly got it patched up and aloft a short time later to be riddled some more.

It all would be forgotten after June 16th.

The day prior, an important mission request came down the pipe. After he read it, Zeamer volunteered for the job, and in the early morning, at 0400 hours with most of the base asleep, the only engines being gunned were Old 666 as it lumbered into the air, absent of bombs, and climbed for the dark clouds.

Onboard was a cameraman to photograph Bougainville’s lush coastline, still in enemy hands and infested with Japanese fighter aircraft. A crappy assignment, but necessary, as intelligence wanted better photos for mapping potential invasion beaches. Zeamer realized that taking this mission and disregarding the danger as he had so many times before tempted fate. Today might really turn out different as he knew he would be all alone with no fighter escort, nor mutual gunfire support from other bombers. If trouble came, he knew only flying skills and his gunners marksmanship mixed with luck could bring them home one more time.

The flight to Bougainville stayed peaceful, but the coast remained too dark for mapping in the early morning. With time on his hands, he turned for nearby Buka to get some photos of the aircraft revetments and its massive airfield. Once they were overhead, what the cameraman saw horrified him. Over 400 aircraft were parked all over and not just in revetments. On the runway were Japanese fighters warming up for takeoff. The cameraman sent word to Zeamer to put the plane back on course for Bougainville, with orders for all to watch the sky. Just as quick, the tail gunner reported the planes lifting off as they sped away.

It was 0700 hours

Arriving back over Bougainville, the camera clicked as the coast was much more visible. Zeamer knew that, if he broke and ran from the impending trouble, a substantial portion of Bougainville, with its unpredictable reefs, would remain uncharted and might prove to be the landing beach were everything went wrong, all because they didn’t map it… So despite the anxiety rising in him, he stayed level and true, skirting the dark green edges of the island waiting for the cameramen to say he had enough photos.

Then it happened. In an instant, five Japanese fighters rushed out from a cloud directly in front and spread out, their wings alight sending streams of tracer toward him.

Zeamer pressed the fire button, his fixed gun lit up. A Japanese plane spurted flame and twirled away just as rounds from others began hitting the nose.

Plexiglas shattered around 2nd Lieutenant Joseph Sarnoski, the bombardier, who fired back furiously until rounds and fragments ripped into him and hurled him backwards. Bleeding into a puddle on the cold aluminum floor, Sarnoski somehow mustered the strength to crawl back to his guns and resume firing, as more fighters began swarming, around the plane trying to coordinate their attacks.

Zeamer heard the cameraman’s confirmation and shoved the throttles to the wall, banking the plane left and right trying to spoil the attackers aim. Old 666 came alive, blinking with machine gun fire that reached out at the multitude of fighters, some 16 in all, racing in often upside down with guns blazing. The bomber shook under the hits before the planes dived away, outrunning the pieces and chunks raining from the plane. At times, Zeamer rolled the plane through what seemed like a vortex of head on attacks. “I don’t know how he did it, but he did,” Co-Pilot, 1st Lieutenant J.T Britton said afterward.

More continued coming in from both sides and cries bellowed from different compartments as bullets and shells hit crewmen. Those who could stared down their sights through determined eyes and continued firing, sending another fighter down in flames, then another. Through it all, Zeamer continued his desperate maneuvering until the windscreen before him atomized under gunfire and fragments slammed into his torso and shattered his left leg.

The oxygen supply oxygen supply was destroyed and air to their masks ceased. With the air too thin to breath, he said, “I rolled the airplane over and stuck the nose straight down, and figured we better get the hell out of here.” He dove the plane in an almost vertical descent down to 10,000 feet pulling back to level off as more fighters followed only to be driven back by the .50 calibers continuing to belch and throb from the now smoking plane…

(Continued in Part 2, coming soon)

Stoner 63: Trumpet Of The SEALs

Once Eugene Stoner, designer of the AR-15/M-16 series of combat rifles, left Armalite Corporation in the early 1960s, he decided to design a unique weapons platform that used a common receiver around which a family of small arms could interchange. Such a commonality would enable it to transform into a rifle, carbine or light machine gun without using special tools, and would be inexpensive and simple enough for mass production.

To see the project through, Stoner convinced Cadillac Gage, a U.S. military contractor, to provide financial aid to establish a new small arms development branch of the company. Afterward, he enlisted the aid of his two assistants at Armalite, James Sullivan and Robert Fremont, to help sort out the fine details of the idea beginning to be traced by his drafting pencil.

Throughout the months, the three discussed and disagreed, and drew diagrams to form a new weapon system that would use the standard 7.62×51 mm round used by the M-14. Designated the Stoner Model 69W, the three saw the first handful of prototypes come off the assembly line in 1962. After the first batch of testing started, Stoner’s busy mind suggested that the next version for production should forgo the .30 caliber round in favor of the increasingly popular 5.56x45mm .223 cartridge of his M-16 rifle. The next group incorporated the change and was designated the Stoner 63 with the first ones produced in early 1963. Like the M-16 series, the Stoner used plastics instead of wood when necessary, but unlike the M-16, it used a gas piston instead of the direct impingement method for operation.

An interested party at The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA, as it is better known, quickly purchased 25 units in their various configurations for testing. Later that year, the Marine Corps Landing Force Development Center in Quantico, Virginia started their tests, which reflected positively on the design by users who complemented its light weight and ammunition capacity. Still using the M-14 as their primary rifle, the Marines focused on the Stoner 63 in its light machine gun role, and continued testing, which saw the glowing reports dissipate as problems arose.

Chief among these were requirements, some say unrealistic, for the weapon to function with a wide variety of ammunition types with extreme differences in port pressures. These differences in port pressures caused cartridges to jam often. The Stoner 63 wasn’t alone either, because the still-new M-16 was having problems as well, and could not meet the requirements.

After several more months of the trials it was decided that the Stoner 63 was too unreliable for general issue and recommendations were made for improvements. These included ejection port dust covers, modifications to the feed mechanism, a stainless steel gas cylinder, a different fire selector and improved safety. Stoner met these changes and the new weapons produced were given the designation Stoner 63A, which didn’t reach production until 1966. Even so, they were hurriedly deployed to South Vietnam in small numbers, and in some of the most appalling conditions imaginable, the Stoner began to forge a reputation for itself not with the average G.I. or Marine, but with the Navy SEALs who used the preferred version, the LMG, to deadly efficiency.

Using box or drum magazines, carrying 100 to 150 linked rounds respectively, the Stoner 63 rattled along at a 700 rpm cyclic rate, providing valuable fire support to the small teams plying the swamps and jungles of the Mekong Delta when engaging enemy forces at close range. Excellent at fighting through ambushes or breaking contact, the gun was an immediate hit and desirable alternative to the other U.S. weapon used for such roles, the M-60. The Stoner 63A weighed much less than the M60, which required belts of ammunition to be slung over shoulders because it did not have a magazine. The M-60 was larger than the Stoner 63A and unwieldy for the types of operations SEALs performed. More impressive was its reliability, the question mark that always dogged the Stoner 63 series. Reliability remained good due to constant maintenance by the scrupulous SEALs, who made the Stoner as much a staple of their outfits as the green greasepaint they covered their faces with.

Sadly though, for its designer, this remained the Stoner 63’s only success, because, as good as reports were for the weapon in Vietnam, Eugene Stoner could not find anyone to produce the weapon. Cadillac Gage had shelved further plans beyond producing a few thousand, and the rights to make the weapon were shopped worldwide falling on deaf ears. Eventually, NWM, a weapons company in the Netherlands, agreed to acquire all licensing rights, but the deal collapsed when they were unable to secure export customers.

One last attempt to get widespread adoption in the U.S. came in 1970, when the U.S. Army issued the different variants to its Special Forces units for trials. The results were hardly encouraging, as the Green Berets found the weapons complex and fraught with pesky reliability problems. This ended Stoner’s dream of a common weapons system and, the M63 all but disappeared, except with the SEALs, whose affinity with the LMG version continued on when they used it in the 1983 Grenada invasion, and up until the late 1980s, when the Mk23 Mod 0, as it was designated, was finally withdrawn. Much though they loved it, the SEALs knew it was bastard child that found its only home and legacy among the ‘Green Faces’ who carried it with pride against the enemies of freedom.

Operation Jubilee

Spring 1942, was a particularly stressful time for the Allied forces in World War II. Germany was firmly entrenched in Russia and ready to undertake offensives again, the United States was reeling from the loss of most of its island possessions in the Pacific, and the British were still enduring nightly visits by German bombers, and trying to fight Rommel in the deserts of Africa. Still standing on its own in the West, it needed to plant boots again on the sands of Europe to show the world it was serious about coming back to stay. And one needed to look no further than Prime Minister Winston Churchill to find the chief proponent for wanting to land somewhere on the continent and convince the newest and fragile ally, Joseph Stalin that Britain was serious.

All in Parliament knew though, that at least at that moment, there was no possible way for Britain or any of its growing arrivals of Canadian and American forces to open up a second front in 1942, and probably not in 1943 either. Demands beckoned them elsewhere, and there simply were not enough forces on land, sea or air to see such an expedition through to success. Therefore, something much smaller was wanted. Not an offensive, but more of a raid to surprise the Germans by taking and holding certain objectives for a short time, while simultaneously learning the amphibious techniques needed for when the allies would land again for good.

In April, Lord Louis Mountbatten stepped forward with a plan called Operation Rutter. With a target landing date between July 4 through 8, the proposal involved landing 12 divisions, including paratroopers and tanks, to assault and hold the harbor and beaches around the French port of Dieppe. They would be expected to overcome German defenses, destroy any strategic targets and seize any intelligence they could, before evacuating back across the channel under an umbrella of hundreds of Royal Air Force fighter aircraft. If all went well, they would learn invaluable things about future invasion sites in France and any modifications or weapons needed for victory.

The plan was roundly accepted, and tables of organization started to form with the necessary units to see the operation out. Strange, but true, most of the forces involved would not be British.

Churchill had been getting an earful from the Canadian government about getting their forces in action, and, after a few discussions, Rutter was given to them as a gift. Yet, as the forces gathered to train, they had no idea that behind their backs, the plan to use so many divisions slowly began to unravel, and that they would still assault Dieppe, but with a much smaller force.

Operation Rutter saw its end arrive at the last moment when the well trained force boarded transport ships and prepared to cross the channel. The order to sail was delayed, however, due to inclement weather over the beaches. During this time, German aircraft attacked a group of ships as they sat idle, and after much discussion, the determination was made that to launch the attack now involved too much risk and a possible compromise on secrecy. Operation Rutter was canceled even as the men walked down the gang ways and boarded trucks to take them back to their bases.

Churchill still wanted to go, and the idea seemed too bold to just waste away. Mountbatten modified his plan downward in size to offer it as a way to salvage all the preparation for Rutter. With agreements to go ahead, the operation was renamed “Jubilee,” and set for August 19. Operation Jubilee would involve the just the Canadian 2nd infantry division, four British Army Commando groups, No’s 3, 4 10, and a Royal Marine group, as well as a detachment of the U.S. 2nd Ranger Battalion.

The force, totaling just over 6,000 men, would operate under command of Major General John Hamilton Roberts. They would hit six color-coded beaches (Yellow, Orange, Blue and Green), destroy coastal batteries, seize the town of Dieppe as well as the port, and hold it for a period of two tides before evacuating. To help this along would be 58 Churchill tanks to provide support and counter any attempts by German panzers to sweep the force back into the sea. Moreover, other defensive installations pinpointed were expected to be seized and destroyed before this time by predawn commando assaults.

After even more exercises to prepare them, the land forces boarded their transports once again, and sailed from the south coast of England on the night of August 18 for a morning landing, and hopefully, a great success. But unbeknownst to them, due to constant information from intelligence agents, the Germans were already expecting the arrival and had alerted their defenses at Dieppe for the impending attack.

At 0415 hours on August 19, the first landing craft carrying a group of Commandos set sail for the beaches to take out coastal batteries. They met with varying degrees of success, with one group exchanging fire with a German sea convoy, landing only 18 in their assigned area, while other groups hit their assigned areas but came under withering fire which pinned them down. The only bright spot came when a commando group, assisted by Rangers, scaled the cliffs on one beach and took out six artillery guns. All of these units remained on the beaches exchanging fire with the German forces, which, despite the commandos giving just as much as they took, kept inflicting casualties and only increased in strength as the hours passed by.

Offshore, under dawn twilight, the main landing efforts of the 2nd Division began after destroyers laid smokescreens and RAF fighter squadrons arrived overhead. Their first boots hit sand at around 0520 hours, and saw scores of men and units fall from crisscrossing machine gun fire and artillery shells as survivors dived into the pebble strewn sand looking for an escape from the slaughter.

Worse, the expected support from the armor was late. 30 minutes late, to be exact, and once they lumbered from the surf they started exploding as antitank guns zeroed on them. The flaming pyres signified what a costly morass the operation was plunging into, as thousands of men struggled to survive by finding whatever cover they could, and looking back to see scores of comrades lining the beach, their lifeless bodies being hit again and again without let up.

Only a small number of warriors got off the beaches, with none achieving their objectives.

In trying to take the town of Dieppe, the group that penetrated quickly came under automatic weapons fire, killing most. The port itself was left untouched as pillars of thick black smoke rose in the distance, and the air popped and rumbled with violence.

Realizing that what they had encountered was essentially a steel wall of resistance with almost no hope of overcoming, after five hours of the madness Roberts issued the order to evacuate immediately. So, beginning at 1100 hours, small remnants of units once containing hundreds of men rushed and even hobbled aboard praying for the ramps to rise and the craft to turn to and head back out to sea, starting a slow process that took five hours to rescue all those that could be reached.

Throughout that time, nearly 2000 others who were pinned down witnessed their only hope of freedom for the rest of the war disappear with each trek of those bobbing little boats. After all attempts to reach the water were thwarted and ammunition ran dry, they found no other alternative than to lay down their arms and wait to be taken into custody by their captors.

To their disgust, as quiet returned, Dieppe looked just like the pictures they’d seen of Dunkirk, only on a smaller scale. Around 900 dead, their equipment strewn everywhere, wounded cried out and 1,874 glum faced prisoners marched away with their hands over their head toward an unknown fate. While some may have questioned what was learned at least once, most had to have asked themselves the eternal question spoken by soldiers in all wars after a costly battle… Was it worth it?

As the last flotilla of ships disappeared over the horizon, such questions were already being raised in Parliament. Lord Mountbatten heard more and more reports about the fiasco, and spoke little about it until after the war, when he said, “I have no doubt that the Battle of Normandy was won on the beaches of Dieppe. For every man who died in Dieppe, at least 10 more must have been spared in Normandy in 1944.”

Churchill was blunter. “My impression of ‘Jubilee’ is that the results fully justified the heavy cost and it was a Canadian contribution of the greatest significance to final victory.”

Looking over the results for history it must be said that Dieppe was a disaster. Were lessons learned? Probably. Was it worth it? Maybe. Regardless of these answers, one thing always follows the operation whenever it is discussed, even to this day. Controversy. And controversy may forever be the word used when analyzing this battle.

‘Swedish K’: The Unsung Friend Of American Special Forces In Vietnam

The 9mm Carl Gustav M/45 submachine gun occupies a unique place in United States Special Forces history for, during the Vietnam War, it was often chosen over the then troublesome M-16 series by members looking for a reliable, controllable and reasonably accurate weapon at short ranges. Once they fired it, the new owners found the ‘Swedish K,’ as it was to become known, a perfect weapon for close quarters combat. More specifically, Navy SEALs preferred it for its ability to keep functioning in sandy conditions when conducting over-the-beach operations. And as the war surged on, the gun became an almost required piece of gear for those long hikes in the jungle or traipsing through muddy swamps in journeys that tested every piece of gear’s reliability.

Before it met its fame in Vietnam however, the ‘Swedish K’ found itself on a drawing board in a country neutral from World War II’s devastating effects, but not its weapons. Here is when arms designer Gunnar Johnsson studied the most popular submachine guns of the conflict and tried incorporate the best qualities of each. For example, he found the salient feature of all these weapons were in the methods used to produce them. Stamped sheet metal had turned out millions of German MP 40s, British STENs, and Soviet PPsh 41s. It was a method that allowed cheap and rapid manufacture, but maintained the reliability, accuracy and effectiveness once considered possible only with exquisitely made prewar designs such as the U.S Thompson, or early German models.

Johnsson toiled through 1944 to produce a working prototype while under employment at the Carl Gustav arms factory. In 1945, his design won a competition that featured only one other competitor. It received the official designation Carl Gustav M/45 and was quickly put in production for the Swedish Armed Forces, and offered for sale on the international arms market.

Weighing 7.3 pounds and over 9 pounds loaded, the gun was a bit on the heavy side, but typical of weapons from that era. It featured a folding stock, which shortened the length of the weapon from 31 to 21 inches. It operated by simple blowback principle, which allowed it to chug at a controllable cyclic rate of 600 rpm. Its most important feature may have been its ammunition capacity. The Swedish K featured a 36-round detachable magazine, more than most available at the time, that was double-stacked and proved far more reliable than the wartime single-stack types.

As it began to be sold and licensed abroad throughout the 50s and 60s, the Swedish K found its destiny not in the hands of its mother country, but in the hands of a country that never adopted it…the United States. This came about because the U.S. Army and U.S. Navy special operation communities, as well as the CIA, quickly warmed to its ruggedness and effectiveness. Several ended up being taken overseas to Vietnam as the preferred weapon because it simply kept working in a combat environment where reliability was proving more important than accuracy. They needed it, for the issue M-16 was proving disastrous and, apart from the Russian AK-47, reliable weapons for Special or clandestine units would be in short supply until the M-16’s problems were resolved.

These units put the little subgun on the way to stardom when they began engaging Viet Cong guerrillas and North Vietnamese soldiers along the nameless trails and backwaters where the guns slow bark sang in response to the throaty crack of the more powerful AK. More often than not, the Swedish K emerged victorious, not because it was better, but because the men using it were. Despite this, it may have gotten its best advertising not in the jungle but in the city of all places, by a future Medal of Honor recipient who found it invaluable when assaulting buildings.

During the opening of the Tet offensive on January 31, 1968, two Viet Cong battalions successfully seized the provincial capital of Chau Phu, shattering defenses and cutting off several small South Vietnamese Army units at different locations. At the time, a U.S. Army Green Beret, Staff Sergeant Drew Dix, was serving as an advisor nearby and learned of individuals, including an American nurse, trapped in house near the city center. Unslinging his ‘Swedish K’ and stuffing pouches full of magazines, Sgt. Dix organized a relief force and set off for the house. He rescued the nurse and several others, then went to a different location known to hold prisoners, which was under small arms and mortar fire. Approaching the building, he was subjected to heavy automatic weapons fire and personally assaulted it, killing six Viet Cong with his SMG and rescuing two Filipinos in the process.

On the following day, he assembled and led another relief force which attacked a hotel, theater and other adjacent buildings where he not only killed several more, but captured 20 prisoners. Not done, he moved on to the Deputy Province Chief’s residence where he rescued the official’s wife and children, plus captured 20 more enemy. In all, he was responsible for killing 14 Vietcong and possibly 25 more, capturing 40 prisoners and rescuing 24 civilians. In the end, every bit of it was done with his trusty SMG roaring.

The pale blue ribbon was placed around Dix in a White House ceremony on January 19,1969 by President Lyndon Johnson as one of his last official acts as Commander in Chief.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in the bitter sands of the Middle East, the gun marched into battle alongside the AK-47 under the designation Port Said and a simpler version called the Akaba, both of which were being produced under license by Egypt. Despite the dry climate and just like in Vietnam, the Swedish K chorused with the AK, proving itself worthy of more than a passing mention.

But it was not to be. The late 60s and early 70s were a time of legends, and from the two great superpowers came the M-16 and AK-47. Both assault rifles, it was a type which sounded the death knell for the SMG except for use in increasingly small numbers by Special Forces.

So it was that, in a few years, Gunnar Johnsson’s creation faded from the scene as better weapons replaced it, only to be fondly recalled by those few privileged to have carried it into battle and witness it save the day.

Last Stand At Lang Vei (Part Two)

(In Part One of the Last Stand At Lang Vei, the story ended just as the NVA began their secondary assault against the camp. This week the story is carried to its conclusion from that point using a narrative interweaved with after action reports written by Lieutenant Colonel Shungel and Captain Willoughby.)

The tanks roared through the wire and continued depressing their guns at the maximum setting firing point-blank into the trenches. Defenders not killed tried in vain to retreat the other positions, only to be cut down by barking AK-47s. And though many NVA also fell, they continued advancing taking up position in fallen positions and shrinking the defensive perimeter ever smaller as remaining anti-tank teams raised more LAW’s and have them fail to fire, or when they did, fail to penetrate.

Perhaps the only bright spot in the entire battle came when a special forces Sergeant lined up on a close cluster of tanks and fired his 106 mm recoilless rifle in rapid succession sending three of the vehicles up in flames. The 106 proved to be the only effective answer to the armor, but there were only two of them, and they were eventually abandoned. The defenses cascaded away as wherever a small portion of the camp was holding another part of it was being penetrated. Confusion reigned in the darkness as men on both sides continued battle at arms length.

A forward air controller ( FAC), and an AC 119 gunship arrived overhead. Flares spouted out the belly of the gunship illuminating the camp in an eerie orange glow where gun fire flashed streams of green and red tracer. Willoughby requested airstrikes on the road and in a ravine outside the wire where he suspected more NVA would come and in a few minutes splashes of napalm added to the artificial night spreading over the ravine and high explosive bombs slammed into the road sending a great swath of concussive waves through the operations center.

In one sector of the camp in another bunker called the team room, 4 Green Berets and 50 Vietnamese emerged after making a hasty decision to escape towards the relatively vacant looking northern perimeter. They rushed for the wire but NVA to their east quickly spotted and engaged them with automatic weapons, killing all but two Americans and 10 Vietnamese who miraculously picked their way through the barbed wire, and fled into the jungle, finally finding refuge in a river bed.

Schungel who had since left the operations center and had been outside trying to coordinate the anti-tank fire suddenly found himself cut off. With his M-16 he managed to cut down a group of five enemy, three with AK-47s and two satchel charges as he watched them creep up on the team house. Another satchel charge found its mark and the structure exploded, wounding him in the leg. He and another officer named Wilkins decided to set off for the medical bunker which already been demolished.

More enemy approach, they covered themselves under a pile of sandbags just before the NVA arrived where they could hear them conversing for several minutes. ‘We hid there during a period that the NVA, a platoon I would estimate, were stomping around in the dispensary, knocking over bottles and raising hell in general. I overheard snatches of conversation, one between a runner from battalion and a company commander (Dai Uy, Dai Doi Truong). Before daylight we ceased to hear anything from them and the people left the dispensary. ‘ Schungel who was wounded again at daybreak, and Wilkins miraculously found a lull in the battle and a vacant part of wire and escaped to find friendlies, where as he described it, he was ‘practically carried’ to the Laotian command post to receive treatment.

He had no idea that during that period, that he was hiding, a few hundred meters away, Willoughby and several others had found themselves the last bastion of resistance and prepared to endure a lengthy and particular brand of Hell.

Willoughby continued working the radio making another request for relief from Khe Sanh only to be denied again. It was approximately 0330 hrs, and he hollered to start demolishing the center’s openings. Men worked to dislodge sandbags to cover the spaces and then an entire wall of sandbags collapsed as a tank started to climb over the position. Once it reached the top of the pile it stayed there and continued blasting at any remaining resistance from other areas for about 20 minutes, then it moved off as the first satchel charges were tossed in.

By this time Willoughby, seven other Green Berets, three South Vietnamese special forces and 26 CIDG had retreated down a stairwell into a deep, dark room before the massive blasts erupted. With the exception of Khe Sanh, their link to the outside world was gone as the antenna was destroyed in the explosions. The NVA also added to the din by depositing hand grenades through the center’s concrete observation slits, and spraying blindly with their rifles. But the group held on and throughout the blasts Willoughby stayed on the radio keeping Khe Sanh appraised of the situation. He didn’t know if help would ever arrive and if it did, it might be too late. He mustered all the resolve he had left, for he realized there was no choice but to absorb whatever the enemy could throw at him, which for the next two hours involved bone- jarring satchel charges, an occasional hand grenade and shouts to surrender along with a new sound. Digging.

At 0600 hours the effort to dislodge them increased when a thermite grenade was deposited through one of the slits causing a fire in the demolished center but failing to creep down the stairwell. The same could not be said for the teargas grenades as several of them begin spewing their choking clouds down upon the group huddling and silent in the black. This was followed by more satchel charges being exploded not in the demolished part of the center but to either side and above where the final room was. The NVA were trying to speed up the holes dug by blasting their way down to them. “We are going to blow up the bunker, so give up,” the NVA shouted.

Willoughby and a few others who had gas masks passed them around, but before being reached men were starting to cough and heave violently as if on the verge of suffocation. Eyes stung and became blurry with water and all at once, for the South Vietnamese suffering with him, it became too much.

One of the South Vietnamese officers called up the stairwell announcing that he and his force would surrender. The group quickly began making its way up and started stripping themselves of weapons and equipment. A shot rang out, for some reason killing one of the CIDG. A South Vietnamese Lieutenant had second thoughts just before he exited the stairwell and came back down.

Willoughby wrote: ‘The indigenous prisoners were marched to the top of the TOC and we could hear much talking in Vietnamese. It lasted for ten or fifteen minutes. We then heard much automatic weapons fire, and assumed the prisoners had been killed. However, the next morning I saw no bodies.’

With first light filtering through windows back in MACV-Headquarters, Saigon, General William Westmoreland, overall commander of US forces in Vietnam was aghast that since learning of Lang Vei’s situation no helicopters had left their pads with a relief force. He personally ordered Khe Sanh to immediately provide units and attempts to rescue those trapped at the base began accelerating along with more coordinated airstrikes to sweep the enemy away. But not before the NVA made one final effort to dislodge Willoughby’s men and this time, almost find success.

Darkness shattered into bright light as a satchel charge successfully breached one of the walls in the room wounding several and leaving a hole 6 feet across and 4 feet high. A fragmentation grenade rolled in and exploded near Willoughby wounding him. He struggled to stay conscious as long as possible hearing good news in the form of airstrikes coming in on the camp and a radio message saying a relief force was trying to get to them. After that, sometime after 0800 hours, his body could take no more and he passed out.

Aircraft rolled in, being coordinated from the ground finding ideal targets as there were still several tanks visible and these were quickly taken out by swooping propeller driven A-1Sky Raiders. They rocketed, bombed and napalmed the fleeing NVA for hours until a sporadic calm draped itself over the base.

A relief force closest to Lang Vei consisting of approximately 100 Laotians led by Green Berets, split in two and fought its way towards the camp. One group ended up observing the quiet base while another managed to get through the wire. They linked up and engaged remaining NVA near a supply bunker and the American’s in charge fought to keep their skittish force intact as the Laotian’s kept running away.

Still on the floor of the room, Willoughby came to at around 1100 hrs and learned that the relief force was inside the camp. There was still more fire around the operations center, so he went back to work using the FAC to direct strikes to within 100 feet of his position. He also had several strafing runs take care of any remaining stragglers who might be lying in wait to engage them when they came out.

With more time drawing out, they decided to venture up the stairwell and claw their way through the rubble to assess the situation and get back into action by escaping. There was still gunfire, though not nearly as intense, being heard in the distance. What he didn’t realize was that the relief force was actually attempting its fourth penetration toward them and was still having problems keeping unity and was starting again at Lang Vei’s perimeter.

Willoughby requested bombs be placed over the entire camp except around the operations center. The air was filled with aircraft coming in at low level with guns blazing and walking bombs over different sectors until the base seemed to vanish in a huge cloud of brown smoke. When it cleared Willoughby and the rest of the men set off in one’s and two’s toward the supply bunker where they hoped the relief force would be near. They stepped over countless bodies, both friendly and NVA, inches apart as they heard the sound of jets and helicopters arriving on station awaiting orders to attack again. Willoughby who was helping carry a wounded comrade also learned Schungel was alive and had been trying to get Medevac choppers on the way.

A few minutes later the group saw their rescuers. It was Laotians with AK-47s, which caused a moment of concern and rifles start to rise before they identified themselves. A Massive Marine CH- 53 helicopter immediately descended and landed a command-and-control element while smaller UH-1 Huey’s began evacuating Willoughby and his men plus the relief force by 1630 hours.

Behind them, smoldering Lang Vei shrunk in the distance, becoming but a small part in the Tet offensive that ultimately ended in military disaster for the Communists and psychological defeat for the United States. Aboard the choppers, no one entertained such thoughts. They were alive, and that alone was the greatest victory of all.

The battle of Lang Vei saw the following losses incurred by both sides:

NVA

90 Killed
220 Wounded
7 tanks destroyed

U.S/Indigenous Forces

316 Killed (7 Americans)
75 Wounded (11 Americans)
253 Captured (3 Americans)