Sgt Hank Picariello, U.S. Marine (1969-1970)

I served as a Scout/Sniper with 2/26 and 1/7. Aside from our combat exploits, this patrol stands out as one of the most memorable and cherished.

The Big Heist

There were several other significant intelligence patrols we conducted with 2/26 that resulted in enemy kills and captured equipment and food stores. However, not every patrol was meaningful because of combat action. One special moment occurred while heading out for a patrol that still required stealth, speed, athletic ability, cunning, and the ability to stay undetected.

We had set out from Hai Van Mountain. There were five or six of us riding in a small military vehicle with all of our gear and supplies. The vehicle had a canvas top with rolled-up canvas sides so we could see and enjoy the scenery. Riding up or down Hai Van was, in itself, a harrowing experience. There were no guardrails, and one false move by a driver could easily end in tragedy. Because of its height and terrain, the roadway had many sharp twists and turns. It was not uncommon for vehicles to capsize as they navigated the narrow, two-lane, rut-filled roadway. Even more common were the lines of civilian and military vehicles that would have to creep along to traverse a sharp curve.

Many times, the line of traffic came to a standstill as well. There was also a Marine-controlled checkpoint at the northern and southern entrances to Hai Van Mountain. It was at one such checkpoint, where the line of vehicles was creeping along, that an incredible feat of speed, silence, and undaunted nerve took place before our eyes and to our shock and amazement.

There was a roll-up rear door similar to a pickup truck’s rear gate on our vehicle. It was up and secured. Without any warning, one member of our patrol, Travis, climbed over the rear gate and hit the ground running toward another vehicle that was directly in front of ours. It was also creeping along with all the other vehicles behind it. It was a U.S. Army vehicle laden with supplies and, most importantly, booze that was probably headed for some Doggie officer’s club up north. It was apparent that there was an Army soldier sleeping among the boxes of supplies. So much for security. None of us had any idea what was about to take place or what the hell Travis had on his mind. It didn’t take long to figure out, though.

Without breaking stride, Travis ran the 20 feet or so that separated us from the Army truck in front of us. In a leap, a bound, and a vertical climb, Travis jumped onto the back of the Army truck.

Before we knew it, another member of our patrol, Bingo, Travis’ best friend, was right behind Travis and luckily so. Without waking the sleeping Army sentry, Travis handed off a large box of supplies to Bingo, who was now at the back of the Army vehicle. With that hand-off, Travis was able to jump off the back of the Army truck, and they both raced back to our vehicle.
No one, except the two or three civilian trucks directly behind us, had seen what had just happened. In one motion, Bingo threw the box inside our truck and himself with it. Travis was right behind him. To our amazement, the box was filled with bottles of Jim Beam, vodka, gin, and other spirits. We couldn’t believe our eyes. We immediately buried the booze-filled box under our gear and acted like nothing had happened.

Slowly, one at a time, the vehicles made their way down the mountain until we hit ground level. Within a few more miles, we hopped out at our designated drop-off location before humping into the bush toward the Hook. About a quarter of a mile in from Highway 1, we dug a hole and buried our cache of stolen booze. We marked on our map where it was buried so as to make it easier to retrieve our plundered booze when our patrol ended.

Three days later, at the end of the patrol, we returned to the spot where the booze was buried. Each of us put a bottle in our pack to conceal our cache and then made our way to Highway 1 to commandeer a vehicle back to Hai Van. We got back at dusk and provided a briefing to our lieutenant before settling in for the night in our hooch. Our sleeping quarters were nothing more than a windowless wooden box that we called home. It was dry and free of mosquitos. Our only other occupants were the rats. They were everywhere.

That night, we broke out our plundered booze and partied into the night. Jim had a broken-down guitar he bought from another Marine a few months earlier. He was a pretty good guitar player and could hold a note and a tune. The more we drank, the more raucous we got. One song that Jim played that defined our gala festival was the song “Gloria.” The more we drank, the louder and louder we spelled out her name to the letters of the song. We broke open a case of C-Rations and feasted on what tasted like gourmet meals, and we ate like kings. Fights broke out between some of us when liquor overtook our common senses. We attached our K-Bars, or Marine survival knives, to wooden poles and tried to kill rats that were scurrying in the rafters above our heads. We sang on and on into the night.

Our lieutenant must have heard us singing and dropped by our hooch. At first, we figured we were now in lots of trouble. Yet, our skipper knew that the S-2 Scout/Snipers under his command were doing things in the field that got the attention of higher-ups. We could tell by his demeanor that he knew we were just blowing off steam. We offered him a drink of our stolen booze, and he took a couple of swigs to show us he appreciated all that we were doing. Eventually, one by one, we all succumbed to the overindulgence of our ill-gotten liquid treasure and crashed. We paid the price for it the next morning.

Read the Military Memories of our Runner-Ups.