The Nicaraguan Crisis - Part 1

Non Fiction

Timothy G Davis

I had been to Panama before, for jungle warfare training, when I was with the 2nd Battalion (Rangers), 75th Infantry, from Ft.  Lewis, Washington.  Now I was assigned there.  I had given up a tour in Europe because part of me knew that although I had gone through a few weeks of jungle training, I was still an amateur.  I needed far more than three weeks.  I wanted to be as good as the locals, and as long as I wore a Ranger Tab on my shoulder, I had better be much better in the bush than just the average troop.

Life in Central America was explosive.  One minute you’d be standing in the chow line, and the next, you’d be running toward a gunship to fly over the city and intervene in a destructive riot.  Life was hard and fast.  Payment for a minor mistake was your life, as many newbies found out the hard way.  The jungle does strange things to a soldier’s mind.  I hopelessly witnessed more than one person lose his sense of reality and go completely crazy.  It was no coincidence we dubbed Panama, The Green Hell.

Even off duty time, running the bars, was potentially dangerous.  Getting mugged, or mistakenly shot by the policia was not at all uncommon.  And if you weren’t shot, you were arrested for no reason, at least once.  After my first experience, I kept a spare twenty in my shoe.  Coiba, an island prison surrounded by 2,000 sharks per square mile, was no place for a Gringo, believe me.

We used to sing a little song that went something like:

"Panama was once my home.  From that place I had to roam.  Lovin’ women and drinkin’ rum, never too far from my gun.  Up and down the Madingo-in, we sure killed a lot of men.  Would have killed so many more. Then they stopped our little war.”

By the time July, 1979 rolled around, I had proven myself as a small unit leader during numerous patrols.  The situation in Managua was critical.  We all knew something violent was going to happen.  In Panama you could always find a traveler that had just passed through Nicaragua, El Salvador, or Honduras.  They were great for information.  And the death of an American journalist at a road block, filmed and shown on TV all around the world didn’t help matters.

With our first alert, we prepared for an airborne assault into Managua.  All leaders received the warning order.  That night and part of the next day, we prepared for the mission.  The following night we rested.  Waiting.  Time was moving so slow.  All of us were on edge, anxiously waiting for the word to go.  None of us could sleep.  Late the next afternoon, we assembled in the dayroom and were told the situation had eased, but, we were still on standby alert.  Business would continue as usual.

Friday, the company picked up its monthly guard duty obligation.  I was named as commander-of relief of a remote outpost described as Empire Range.  I was in charge of a guard station located on a bluff overlooking the Canal that was the CG’s TOC during emergencies, another on a hilltop used as a radio relay site, and yet another near the buildings of Empire Range.

That evening went without incident.  Saturday morning at 0800 hours, the driver of the quarter ton returned with morning chow; the infamous scrambled eggs, soggy bacon, and rubber pancakes with no syrup.  I sat down by the radio and drank some black coffee.  Abruptly, the radio squawked.  It was the guard at the relay site.

   “Empire Range, Empire Range, this is Cerro Gordo. Over!”

   “Cerro Gordo, this is Empire Range,” I replied.

   “I just received a message from the Charlie Alfa.  Return to there as soon as possible.  Over.”

   “Just me, or all of us?  Over.”

   “Just you, and hurry.  Over.”

   “Tell Charlie Alpha I will comply.  Out.”  I sat the handset down.

   “Driver.”

   “Yes sergeant.”“Start the Jeep.” I walked over to another NCO, sound asleep in his cot, and pushed his shoulder.

   “Hey sarge, I’m out of here.  You’re in charge.”

   “What's going on?” he asked suspiciously.

   “I don’t know yet.  Take care of the men.  See ya when I get back.” I grabbed my M-16 and climbed into the vehicle.

   “Back to the company, driver, and don’t worry about the speed limit.  I’ll take full responsibility.  This is an emergency.”

A route that normally took at least thirty minutes was traveled in fifteen.  Along the way, I thought about the radio call.  There was only one thing that could have brought me back to the company area.  Nicaragua.  When I finally reached the barracks, an NCO approached me at the main entrance.

   “Get your gear, and report to the day room,” he said breathlessly.

A 2 1/2 ton truck was parked out front.  Troopers were off-loading live, ball ammunition and explosives.  I sprinted up to my room two steps at a time and snatched my packed rucksack, face shield, and flak vest, and then returned to the dayroom.

   “Where’s the ammo?” I asked another sergeant, pointing at an empty crate.

   “There’s none left.  Get another box off the truck.” The sergeant turned toward a specialist fourth class.

   “You, hurry up and get these grenades snapped in,” he barked.

I took a step toward the door, but I didn’t make it.

   “GRENADE,” the NCO behind me screamed.

I dived through the door to my right, into the TV room, and landed on the floor.  I had my hands over my ears, and my mouth stretched open.  I counted silently, anticipating the explosion. One thousand one … one thousand five, one thousand six.  Nothing happened.  I pushed myself up and. peered through the doorway.  Men and equipment were scattered everywhere.  Open boxes of 7.62-mm M-60 machine gun ammo, LAW’s (light anti-tank weapon), fragmentation grenades, and CS (tear gas) grenades were thrown about.  Two soldiers, frozen stiff with fear, were still standing in place.

   “Grenade!  Grenade!  Grenade!” someone yelled hysterically.

This time I dived through a window and landed on a bench outside.  I counted to myself, and again, no explosion.

I didn’t know it then but I found out later, en-route to Nicaragua, the events that happened in the dayroom.  The specialist who was told to snap his grenades to his ammo pouches, cracked under the pressure of a live combat mission.  He pulled the pin to a grenade and purposely dropped it. One thing he thankfully forgot to do was to remove the tiny, wire safety clip from around the spoon of the deadly explosive.  A sergeant from the second platoon, who later died from a gunshot wound on a beach in Panama, was the first one to secure the frag.  The acting First Sergeant, the same ranger who led the group to Guyana, had an M-14 locked, loaded, and aimed at the SP4.  He hustled him away with the CO (Captain Kenneally, years later killed in a helicopter crash as a Colonel in the Ranger Regiment) to the orderly room.  We learned that the SP4 underwent psychiatric treatment and was sent to the states.

I still didn’t have any ammo and time was running out.  I jumped up into the truck.  The only crates left were training blanks, loaded by mistake, except one, and that was tracers.  I didn’t want the tracers.  They heated up a rifle too fast and caused it to malfunction.  But, I had no choice, unless I went to Managua empty-handed.

Nineteen of us, all enlisted men, were hand-picked for the mission.  One field grade officer, a major, and an airborne ranger, was our leader.  I observed some of the group roaming about, trying to find someone who wasn’t going on the mission, to trade them their weapon, or magazines.  For some reason, this always happened.  The men had a false belief that in time of war, they would be issued brand new equipment, and therefore, didn’t take care of what they had.

At short notice, the word was passed—choppers, five minutes out.  Without delay, we moved to the cleared landing zone behind us.  I could hear the huey engines as soon as I stepped out the door.  The helicopters, four of them, landed in a staggered formation.  The crew chiefs exited, and put water wings on us.  That meant we’d be flying over water.  The new CG, General Leuer former 1^st Ranger Battalion Commander, showed up at the LZ in his civvies.  He made a beeline to our chopper, and gave us a thumb’s up sign as we began to load.  He tried to say something but I couldn’t’ hear over the roar the huey rotors.

I was given a headset to hear the communications between choppers.  A short time later, we were airborne, flying in formation toward the Atlantic side, and Ft. Sherman, sixty kilometers away.

On the ground at Ft. Sherman we moved into an empty barracks away from the unit that was going through JOTC.  A few soldiers eyeballed us and we could hear them commenting on all of our gear.  They could tell something was up.  Once we settled into the barracks and posted guards, the major gave us a situation report.  We were going to fly out to a Navy ship several kilometers up the coast.  The helicopters would be guided by a C-130.  We were forbidden to mingle with or say anything to anyone.

We locked up our equipment.  Every bullet was removed from the magazines, counted, and redistributed.  This way, I was able to spread out my tracer rounds to the other men.  The light faded at six, and torrential rains came.  It was eerily quiet in the large room where we were sprawled out.  Each one of us was alone in thought—wondering. Wondering what was going on in Managua, wondering if tomorrow would bring death, and especially, wondering why one of our own, who was an outstanding trooper, suddenly cracked and tried to kill us all.  The tension was so strong you could see it.  I thought for sure someone else was going to break.

We had no idea that US news reports actually reported us in downtown Managua fighting Sandinistas.   It was a restless night, tossing and turning.  I wished we had just gone in.  Waiting gave me too much time to think.  The next morning, we flew out to the U.S.S. Saipan. 

Our mission to evacuate the US Embassy had begun...

To be continued.