Moore School of Business - The Eleventh of August

Ted Moore in Vietnam Professor William T. “Ted” Moore wasn’t remotely thinking about having his story published during a tense confrontation in August 1969 in Vietnam. Staying alive was uppermost in his mind—that, and deciphering the puzzle of a lone woman standing in harm’s way.

Moore’s account of an episode during the Vietnam War is included in a collection of inspirational stories from around the world, If Life Is a Game…These Are the Stories, edited by Chérie Carter-Scott. The collection includes the writings of Maya Angelou and Desmond Tutu. Themes of courage, selflessness, survival, and perseverance are featured in the book.

“The Eleventh of August”

By William T. “Ted” Moore

Though this story recounts events that took place in the middle of a war, it is not a war story. It is instead a testimonial of extraordinary courage, the courage of an anonymous lady who listened to her heart and made a difference.

In 1969, I was a U.S. Army lieutenant serving as an advisor with one of the infantry battalions of the South Vietnamese Army. On the afternoon of August 11th, I was aboard a helicopter flying above the Mekong Delta, accompanied by Captain Tung, the commander of the battalion, and my assistant, a brave and very capable young sergeant named Ken. We were surveying the terrain in preparation for an aerial insertion of our battalion, some four hundred men in all.

Suddenly, one of the small observation helicopters on the mission with us came under automatic weapons fire. Following the tracers, we easily pinpointed where the fire had come from—a hut on the edge of a clearing almost directly below us.

“Permission to bust the hooch,” the pilot of an accompanying Cobra gunship requested of one of our pilots, the aircraft commander (AC). That was routine language for opening fire on the sniper and his hut. The AC at once passed on the request to the command group—Captain Tung, Ken and me—but it was mere formality. They expected that we would, of course, want the Cobra to fire back.

Yet something made us pause before approving the strike. A few yards in front of the hut below, we could see what appeared to be a woman standing stock still. Surely she knew an automatic weapon had just been fired at a U.S. helicopter from her hut, and she must have known that the helicopter gunships accompanying us were then preparing to bring their awesome firepower to bear on the hut, quite likely killing her—yet still she didn’t move. Something wasn’t right.

“Negative, permission denied,” we responded. It would be an understatement to say that our response didn’t go over well with the AC or the rest of the helicopter crew. After some heated words expressed in frustration and disbelief, he asked angrily, What are your intentions?

I’m not sure we honestly knew our intentions at that instant, but faking conviction, I ordered the AC to land the chopper so we could get out and investigate. Another heated discussion followed, this time including a lecture about aircraft safety and pilot responsibilities. I’ll skip the details and the profanity and simply say that the pilot did land, close to the hut, and the three of us jumped out.

We advanced cautiously to say the least. Even at that late moment I don’t think it was clear to any of us exactly what we should do next. But we kept moving and fired a few rounds over the hut as we maneuvered closer. When we approached the woman, it was obvious she was petrified, her knuckles white as she grasped her rake. She didn’t move or acknowledge us, but we could see tears streaming down her cheeks. We brushed by her and took positions outside the front entrance.

Inside the hut we could see the familiar sight of an earthen bunker, common in Vietnamese farmhouses during the war. We knew it might have contained at least one enemy soldier—armed with an automatic weapon. Standard routine would be to throw in a grenade and let him run out or die in the blast. But nothing about this was routine. I’m not sure we could have explained it at the time, but killing the enemy just wasn’t our aim in this instance. Though we didn’t speak, our next move became apparent when we realized that none of us was going to pull a grenade. This encounter was meant to end differently.

The time had come for us to do something decisive. Glancing back once more at the immobile woman in the clearing, Ken stooped to provide covering fire if needed as I hunched down to crawl inside the bunker with my .45 drawn. Even before I got completely inside, I collided with someone.

Scared out of my wits, I shouted loud enough to wake the dead. The young man with whom I had collided must have been as frightened as I was. We held our weapons on him as I backed out of the bunker entrance with him in tow. As he emerged into the sunlight, we saw he was only about 18 years old. He was our Viet Cong sniper, as his weapon and ammunition testified, yet he offered no resistance as Ken quickly gathered these things up and steered him toward our waiting chopper.

On our way, we passed the woman again. She had not moved, but the tears no longer flowed, and her face showed relief. The relief on the boy’s face eerily mirrored hers, not only in expression but in feature and line. I think by then we had all realized the very special nature of this event.

Tension dissipated like the lifting fog with the understanding of what her courageous stand had led us to do. And for a few fleeting moments, we celebrated, right there in the middle of a combat zone—warriors who had been moved to commit an act of kindness by the supremely heroic act of a desperate lady. As the chopper crew helped us load up the prisoner, these same men who had so sharply opposed our maneuver smiled and shook our hands. Even the AC reached out his door to shake our hands as Captain Tung playfully messed up the boy’s hair.

As we lifted away from the clearing, I gazed back down at the woman. She still hadn’t moved, but her gentle eyes and subdued smile said more clearly than words ever could.

Thank you for sparing my son.

Dr. William T. “Ted” Moore is Associate Provost at the University of South Carolina and Berlinberg Professor of Finance at the Moore School of Business. “The Eleventh of August” story is taken from the book If Life Is A Game, These Are The Stories, copyright 2004, Chérie Carter-Scott. Used by permission of Andrews McMeel Publishing. All rights reserved.

Faculty Essay

Professor's Vietnam Experience Among Inspirational Stories