Skirmish at Loc Ninh
The character of a person is invoked in times of trouble and in times afterward
The year was 1966, the location, Lộc Ninh, a rural district 70 miles north of Saigon, the site of a strategic American military outpost and airstrip.
It was a mere 10 months after the first official battle of the American War in Vietnam and the modus operandi of the occupation was still sincere but unclear.
The heavy sound of a chopper thrummed through the humid summer heat circling the airfield before landing in a plume of dust.
A solitary soldier, thirty-two-year-old Major James L. Rabdau, stepped from the craft holding a handful of briefing papers and a cursory understanding of how he was going to live up to the burden of command.
“I was ordered to Loc Ninh the morning of June 2,” he wrote later. “There were a lot of implied tasks in my mission, as I tried to sort out enroute and upon landing.”
"I was dropped off in the middle of the runway,” he said. “There I was by myself in a strange place."
It wasn’t long before the camp captains found him, both of them “damn glad to see" him. And for good reason, he was a commanding presence, both in stature (at 6'4") and in determination.
He did not waste much time. As author Richard G. Kurtz wrote of my uncle (for yes, he was my mother’s brother), “He was not a man to be trifled with.”
He quickly set about to get a lay of the land and formulate an airfield defense plan. What he probably didn’t say aloud to his fellow leaders was that he’d seen something disturbing on the way there.
“It was the first time they'd sent—in addition to food and supplies,” said his wife of 57 years, my aunt Marge (Volmmer Rabdau). “They sent tons of body bags. That was unsettling to him.”
As it turned out, some of those heavy duty nylon bags were going to be needed. June 11, 1966 was “one hell of a long day” for the soldiers and “the medical company and graves registration also had a workout.”
As the tactical officer, my uncle was responsible for the way the platoons were set up to go into battle.
“He always said you couldn't lead from behind,” Aunt Marge said. “He put his commanders in the front. He was criticized for that. I know it weighed on him because that was the story he told the boys [their sons] when he was dying. That's the one instance that he talked about a lot.”
“Rabdau rated the companies and their commanders: the best upfront, closest to the expected danger point, and the lesser commanders to the rear, where it would presumably be less dangerous.”
Richard G.Kurtz, Then a Soldier
"But criticism is always after the fact," said Marge. "If they'd had a big win, he would have been a hero."
The constriction of that no-win situation, it seems to me, is one of the hallmarks of the Vietnam War: Good people put into near impossible situations in which making the best of a bad situation is all but a pipe dream.
Such challenges sometimes crush the spirit of a person, but Uncle Jim did persevere through. After 24 years in the service he retired in 1978 at the rank of Lieutenant Colonel.
He had served in the Rangers, Airborne and Special Forces in many capacities and theaters, including his three tours in Vietnam.
When he returned to Idaho, he took a job with Ore-Ida Foods where he took on a new battle: fighting in the male-dominated sports world to created world-renown Women's Challenge Cycling Race.
Anytime I read about my uncle, I wish dearly that I’d gotten the chance to know him better but we always lived so far apart. My older brother (by five years), knew my uncle well enough to offer him this July 2013 reflection shortly before his death:
Jim, I have always seen you as the icon of the Rabdau family . . . You are the most straight-talking and plain-spoken individual I have ever met. One thing I have learned from you is that there are priorities in life - the greatest of which is to take care of those that follow in our footsteps.
I want to say thanks for keeping the path bright on this journey. Sometimes it is not at all easy to see the good in a world with so many conflicting messages. However, there is great good . . . We send a prayer of peace and easy rest.
We may be embattled by our life experiences but they don’t have to define us forever, as much as they may hurt. In a presentation at an elementary school in 2010, Uncle Jim left the the students with this robust message, which I will leave you with now:
Stories of Vietnam will return later this week with “Five reasons why I care about Vietnam and why I think you should too.”
Just another epic that was lost to me, until you took the time to unearth it. Thanks for the great history. The known wonders of our collective past make me muse about what other gems are over the horizon. Keep up your life's work Kat, as you have found a vocation that no one else could fill. Much aloha, Chris