Mr. President. I rise today to honor the memory of U.S. Army SSG Harold ``George'' Bennett. In the jungles of Vietnam, this young Arkansan displayed courage and honor while serving his Nation in uniform. Tragically, almost 40 years to the…
Mr. President. I rise today to honor the memory of U.S. Army SSG Harold ``George'' Bennett. In the jungles of Vietnam, this young Arkansan displayed courage and honor while serving his Nation in uniform. Tragically, almost 40 years to the day, on or about June 26, 1965, he became the first American prisoner of war executed by the Viet Cong.
George Bennett was born on October 16, 1940, in Perryville, AR, a small town that rests just northwest of Little Rock in the foothills of the Ozarks. His father, Gordon, was a veteran of World War I, and he instilled in his sons the values and rewards of service to country. All 4 would follow his footsteps into the U.S. Army.
SGT George Bennett was trained in the Army as an airborne infantryman and served with the famed 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions, made up of some of the finest soldiers in the world. He earned his Master Parachute Wings and Expert Infantry Badge before volunteering in 1964 for service in what was a relatively unknown area of southeast Asia called Vietnam. While deployed, Sergeant Bennett served as an infantry advisor to the 33rd Ranger Battalion, one of South Vietnam's best trained and toughest units. On December 29, 1964, they were airlifted to the village of Binh Gia after it had been overrun by a division of Viet Cong. Immediately upon landing, Sergeant Bennett's unit was confronted by a well-dug-in regiment of enemy forces and despite fighting furiously and courageously throughout the afternoon, their unit was decimated and overrun. Sergeant Bennett and his radio operator, PFC Charles Crafts, fell into the hands of the Viet Cong.
Before being captured, Sergeant Bennett twice called off American helicopter pilots who were attempting to navigate through the combat zone to rescue him and his radioman. Displaying a remarkably calm demeanor, his focus seemed to be on their safety and not his own. His last words to his would-be rescuers were, ``Well, they are here now. My little people,'' his term for the South Vietnamese soldiers under his command, ``are laying down their weapons and they want me to turn off my radio. Thanks a lot for your help and God Bless you.''
As a prisoner of war, the only thing more remarkable than the courageous resistance he displayed throughout his captivity was his steadfast devotion to duty, honor, and country. His faith in God and the trust of his fellow prisoners was unshakable. Sadly, the only way his captors could break his spirit of resistance was to execute him and today Sergeant Bennett lies in an unmarked grave known only to God, somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam.
Recent efforts by a group of Vietnam veterans will ensure that Sergeant Bennett's valiant service will not be forgotten. Over the years, they have worked tirelessly on behalf of the Bennett family to secure the valor awards that should have been presented to Sergeant Bennett's mother, Pauline, in 1965. I am proud of all they have accomplished and have pledged my support to this effort. Most recently, their work helped lead to Sergeant Bennett's posthumous induction into the U.S. Army Ranger Hall of Fame at Fort Benning, GA, on July 8, 2004. Sergeant Bennett's brother Dicky, and his sisters, Eloise Wallace, Laura Sue Vaught, and Peggy Williams were in attendance. I hope this long overdue moment of recognition provided some sense of solace for his family. Although he may no longer be with us, the example and selflessness of this brave young Arkansan will forever live on in our hearts.
The 40th anniversary of Sergeant Bennett's execution offers us an opportunity, not to remember the events of his death, but to reflect upon the life he led and the kind of person he was. He was a selfless young man who answered his Nation's call to service and placed duty and honor above all else. While a grateful nation could never adequately express their debt to men such as George Bennett, it should take every opportunity to honor them and their families for the sacrifice they have paid on our behalf.
I would also like to ask for unanimous consent to include in the record the citation from Sergeant Bennett's posthumous induction into the Ranger Hall of Fame and an article titled ``Bad Day at Binh Gia,'' by retired Army COL Douglas E. Moore, that provides us additional insight into the heroic service of SGT George Bennett.
Bad Day at Binh Gia
(By Col. Douglas E. Moore)
When friends or family visit for the first time, we usually
take them to Washington to see the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
Although I have been there many times, I am still impressed
with the large crowds. Most are tourists with cameras at the
ready; others appear to be more somber, perhaps because they
served in Vietnam themselves or lost friends or family in the
war. It troubles me to see fellow veterans there wearing all
sorts of military attire from that era. Many of them have
pain written across their faces, which makes me wonder what
terrible burdens they carry after all these years.
For me, Vietnam is now a collection of mostly good
memories. As a young medevac helicopter pilot, I had the
opportunity to sharpen my flying skills to a level that was
never matched again. I was blessed to be able to work with
some of the finest people I have ever known, and my job was
satisfying. During my tours in Vietnam and Japan, I evacuated
more than 11,000 casualties in one of the best flying
machines ever built, the Huey helicopter. It is gratifying to
know that some patients lived because we were able to help.
The bad memories have mostly faded with time. In fact,
there is only one event that I still think about, and it
occurred more than 34 years ago. In late December 1964, we
were rushing to join the crews of two helicopter gunships in
an attempt to save an American advisor. Unfortunately, we
failed.
Vietnam in 1964 was as different as night and day from the
later years. Back then, it was still a Vietnamese war, and
there were only about 20,000 Americans assigned to the
various headquarters, advisory teams and a handful of
aviation units scattered around the countryside.
Ours was strictly an advisory and support role and not one
of direct combat. In fact, some of the senior officers still
had their families in Saigon, and many Americans lived in
hotels and other civilian buildings. The old-timers may
recall a memo published by one headquarters stating its
concern that some living areas were taking on the appearance
of armed camps.
We operated on a shoestring. We did not have U.S. Air Force
aircraft or U.S. Army artillery to prestrike the landing
zones in support of our operations. The only firepower
available was a few lightly armed helicopter gunships flown
by a group of extraordinarily brave pilots. Needless to say,
we left several of the landing zones littered with downed
helicopters.
The communication systems were terrible. Since most medevac
requests came by telephone and passed through several
Vietnamese headquarters before reaching us, delays were
common. On occasion, we would rush to a tiny village located
a hundred miles away only to discover the casualties had been
picked up a day or so earlier by a resupply aircraft making
its weekly rounds.
All new pilots found it disconcerting that they could
easily lose radio contact with other Americans during the
longer flights. Weather permitting, the only alternative was
to gain enough altitude to talk to our old standbys, Paris
Control and Paddy Control, operated by the Air Force out of
Saigon and Can Tho, respectively. Otherwise, we were
completely on our own at times.
The character of the war was different, too. While there
were a few major battles between the Viet Cong and South
Vietnamese, most of the contact was on a small scale and
ended quickly. It does not seem possible now, but the number
of Americans killed in the war had not reached 200 until July
1964.
In late October, I was flying past Bien Hoa Air Base when
several B-57 Canberra bombers suddenly broke through the
clouds ahead of me. Several days later, I learned they had
come from Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines to attack
Viet Cong strongholds in the jungles north of Saigon.
The crews of the newly arrived Canberras had barely settled
in when the Viet Cong struck. I was dozing in our alert shack
at Tan Son Nhut Air Base when the radio operator began
yelling, ``Bien Hoa's been hit!'' As we ran to our helicopter
for the short flight to Bien Hoa, we could see flashes of
rockets and mortars on the horizon.
Burning aircraft and ammunition were exploding everywhere
as we landed to evacuate the wounded. To our horror, we
watched a Vietnamese A-IE Skyraider crash as the pilot tried
to take off during the melee. The plane's huge engine and
other burning parts rolled to a stop a few yards behind us.
Four Americans were killed, several others were wounded, and
13 U.S. aircraft were destroyed that night in one of the
first major attacks that seemed to be specifically targeted
against the Americans.
Not long afterwards Bob Hope arrived for his first
Christmas tour. While his group was traveling from the
airport to downtown Saigon, two Viet Cong saboteurs drove an
explosive-laden truck into the parking lot of the Brinks
Hotel. Two Americans died in the blast and more than 50 were
wounded. I missed Bob's show the next day because I was
flying, but I understand that he quipped, ``A funny thing
happened on the way in last night--a hotel passed us!''
As 1964 was ending, the North Vietnamese apparently
concluded that they could not win the war with the hit-and-
run tactics they had been using. Instead, a major shift in
their strategy occurred when they sent two veteran Viet Cong
regiments to an assembly area about 50 miles southeast of
Saigon. Coastal freighters brought new rifles, mortars and
rocket-propelled grenade launchers. In the jungles of Phuoc
Tuy province, the dreaded 9th Viet Cong Division was born,
and Binh Gia was chosen to be its first test by fire.
Binh Gia was a peaceful village surrounded by jungle and
populated mostly by Catholics who had fled to the South
following an earlier partition of their country. In late
December, one regiment of the 9th Division attacked the
village and quickly overran its lightly armed defenders.
Another regiment slipped into ambush positions around a
nearby clearing. They knew the American helicopters would be
coming soon, loaded with Vietnamese soldiers and their
American advisors.
The casualty toll mounted quickly. About midafternoon, I
took a load of wounded Vietnamese to Cong Hoa
General Military Hospital in Saigon and was diverted from
there to pick up an American who had been hit in an ambush
about 40 miles to the west, near the Cambodian border.
Because there was no tactical operations center or any of
the ubiquitous command and control helicopters hovering
over the battlefield, as was the case in later years, we
had to refuel at Saigon and return to Binh Gia to see if
we were still needed.
About 25 miles away from Binh Gia I began trying to contact
other aircraft in the area. I switched through several
frequencies that we had used earlier in the day before
hearing a gunship pilot talking with an American advisor on
the ground. It quickly became evident that the advisor was in
trouble because the gunship pilot kept telling him he could
not identify the disposition of his troops and was concerned
about firing on ``friendlies.''
The advisor said he was sorry but that he had used up all
of his smoke grenades and had nothing to mark his positions.
At that point, the advisor began identifying objects on the
ground in an attempt to guide the gunships. Finally, I heard
him say something to the effect of, ``Listen, I'm standing on
a small mound near a large clump of bushes and waving a white
handkerchief. You have clearance to fire anywhere more than a
hundred meters from my position.''
Shortly thereafter, the gunship pilot reported that he and
his wingman had fired all of their rockets and had little
machine-gun ammunition remaining. At this point, the gunship
pilot told the advisor to begin moving toward the Southwest
because he planned to land and pick him up. The advisor's
response was quick. ``Don't try it! They're all around me
down here, and all you'll do is get shot down.''
The gunship pilot encouraged him to move, but the advisor
was adamant that it was too dangerous for any rescue attempt.
After hearing this, I called the gunship pilot and told him
we were about 10 or 12 miles out and would pick up the
advisor if he could guide us into the area. The advisor
answered first: ``Negative; Dustoff. You can't make it, so
don't even try it!''
I thought we had a chance because I remain convinced to
this day that some of the earlier Viet Cong commanders would
not have allowed their troops to fire at our medevac
helicopters--whether out of respect for the red crosses or
because they knew we went to the aid of anyone who needed
help, I do not know. Many of the civilian casualties and
pregnant women whom we had evacuated from the villages had
husbands or relatives serving in the Viet Cong. As a result,
I honestly believe they took it easy on us during the early
part of the war. When U.S. combat units were introduced the
following spring, we became fair game like everyone else.
In any case, my crew and I planned to approach at treetop
level and touch down just long enough to haul the advisor
aboard. We had already begun descending when we heard him
say, ``Well, they are here now. My little people [slang for
South Vietnamese soldiers] are laying their weapons down, and
they want me to turn off my radio. Thanks a lot for your
help, and God bless you.''
With those words, he was gone. The gunship pilot reported
movement around the advisor's position, so we pulled up and
began orbiting the area. The gunship pilot then told me that
he and his wingman had to depart to refuel and rearm. I
called an approaching Army L-19 spotter plane to ask if more
gunships were on the way. The Bird Dog pilot said no.
The late afternoon sun began casting long shadows across
the jungle clearing below us, and it looked so peaceful from
our vantage point. At the same time, it was heartbreaking to
know that an American soldier had been captured and we were
helpless to do anything except orbit outside of small-arms
range.
Several minutes passed before our radio crackled to life
again, ``Have no fear, blue-eyed VNAF is here!'' The call
came from a flight of Vietnamese air force AI-E Skyraiders,
piloted by U.S. Air Force advisors. They were rushing to help
but were simply too late.
I left Vietnam the following summer and spent two years in
Japan before I returned to Vietnam. While in Japan, I was in
another medevac unit whose mission was to ferry casualties
from the air bases at Yokota and Tachikawa to several Army,
Navy and Air Force hospitals scattered around Tokyo. After
the more seriously wounded were sufficiently stabilized, we
returned them to the airheads for the long flight home.
One afternoon, I was reading a copy of The Stars and
Stripes while waiting for an inbound flight at Yokota. My
attention was drawn to an announcement by the North
Vietnamese government that an American POW had been shot in
retaliation for the slaying of a Viet Cong terrorist by South
Vietnamese forces. The article identified the POW as Army
Sgt. Harold G. Bennett, who had been captured at Binh Gia.
It suddenly dawned on me that I had never learned the name
of the soldier we were trying to save that afternoon, and
I began wondering whether it was Sgt. Bennett.
I am still troubled because our rescue attempt was
unsuccessful and I never learned the name of the soldier we
were trying to save. I have often wondered whether it would
have made a difference if the gunships had had more
ammunition or if we had arrived a few minutes earlier. After
many years of curiosity, I began trying to reconstruct the
events of that fateful day.
First, I contacted the Pentagon's MIA/POW office and was
referred to the Library of Congress. After obtaining several
microfiche from the library, I discovered that three
Americans had been captured at Binh Gia. Two of them were
Army enlisted men and the third was a U.S. Marine Corps
captain. While I cannot be certain, it appears the person
whom we were trying to save was Sgt. Bennett.
The data I have gathered contains little information about
Sgt. Bennett's actual capture, but there are several stirring
accounts about his later actions as told by other POWs who
were held with him in various camps. Their reports indicate
that Sgt. Bennett stubbornly resisted his captors at every
opportunity and that he participated in frequent hunger
strikes. These disruptions may have led to his being shot.
Like most of my compatriots, I have witnessed many heroic
acts over the years, but the person we were trying to save
that day ranks with the most courageous. I cannot imagine
what his thoughts were when things began to collapse around
him, and there is no way to fathom the despair he must have
felt while he was being led from the battlefield with
American helicopters circling a few hundred feet overhead.
I am still amazed that he could remain so calm during his
radio transmissions. To the end, his focus seemed to be on
our safety and not his. The willingness to sacrifice himself
instead of risking others was a remarkable demonstration of
valor. If I ever have to face a life-or-death situation
again, I hope I can find some of his courage.