Volume 99, Number 4 November 8, 1994
. __ .
. -*- N A M V E T -*- ____/ \_ .
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. Managing Editor \ Quangtri .
. ---------------- \_/\ \_ Hue .
. G. Joseph Peck \_Ashau Phu Bai .
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. Jerry Hindle \|/ ( \_*Chu Lai .
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. / ! \ .
. Guest Author ! !___ \ .
. --------------- ! \/\____! .
. Michael McCombs, Sr. ! ! .
. Seattle, Washington / Dak To ! .
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. "In the jungles of 'Nam, some of us ( -------- ! .
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. one another along and were able / -------- \ .
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. never changed. Today, free of the ! * / .
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. many veterans have endured, _/ / .
. NAM VET is a shining beacon, __/ ! .
. a ray of hope, and a _ __/ \ ! .
. reminder that the _____( )/ ! Camranh Bay .
. lessons learned / !__ ! .
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. price shall not \ Bien Hoa \ / .
. be forgotten - ! Chu Chi * \ __/ .
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. repeated!!!" ____ \ III Corps \ _/ .
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. / ____/ Managing Editor .
. / Mekong/ .
. ! Delta/ This newsletter is a "special edition" .
. ! ____/ from the writings of Michael McCombs, Sr. .
. ! / .
. ! / NamVet is humbled to have such an honor .
. ! __/ .
. \_/ gjp .
. .
Fading Photographs
From My
Mind's Own Album
Michael D. McCombs
September 7, 1993
Copyright 1993 Michael D. McCombs, Sr.
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,
without the written permission of the author, except where and as
permitted by law.
By definition, this is a work of fiction. The names of all
Americans and some other details have been changed. The rest is as
portrayed by an aging memory. I make no pretense that this is a
work of history. It is more a work of remembered feelings of long
ago.
=====================================================================
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
1. Fading Photographs From My Mind's Own Album
Dedication .................................................. 1
Thanks ...................................................... 2
NamVet/EVAC Copyright Notice ................................ 3
Fading Photographs .......................................... 4
A Comment or Two ............................................ 6
Jargon ...................................................... 7
Prologue .................................................... 10
2. Background
Special Forces .............................................. 11
What's in a name? ........................................... 13
Jungle ...................................................... 14
Witness ..................................................... 16
The Electronic Chapel ....................................... 19
Locker, Utility ............................................. 20
Elephant .................................................... 22
3. Middle Distance
Nha Trang ................................................... 23
Kontum ...................................................... 25
Special Project ............................................. 29
Montagnard .................................................. 32
Hootch ...................................................... 35
Saigon ...................................................... 37
CIB ......................................................... 39
Rocket Sunrise .............................................. 43
Hootch Raisin' .............................................. 45
Hootch of Hootches! ......................................... 48
Flashlights ................................................. 49
Midwife ..................................................... 52
Rehearsal ................................................... 54
Just a refresher ............................................ 58
Champion .................................................... 59
Maggie ...................................................... 60
Tri-Borders ................................................. 63
Morning After ............................................... 66
The Fourth .................................................. 67
Cooky ....................................................... 69
The Road From Pleiku ........................................ 71
Rosie's ..................................................... 73
Dressed For Success ......................................... 75
Good For The Back ........................................... 77
Dining Out .................................................. 79
Covey ....................................................... 80
Sundays ..................................................... 82
Party Night! ................................................ 84
Ashau ....................................................... 86
Letter From Home ............................................ 92
Idle Moments ................................................ 94
Prairie Fire ................................................ 96
Washington .................................................. 99
One Zero .................................................... 101
Up Close and Personal ....................................... 104
Blood Brother ............................................... 106
Scream ...................................................... 109
Widow Call .................................................. 110
Heavy Rain .................................................. 112
Village ..................................................... 113
Bear ........................................................ 116
First Time .................................................. 117
Black-eyed Peas ............................................. 120
Bomblets .................................................... 121
Redleg ...................................................... 124
The Way It Was .............................................. 125
Weather ..................................................... 127
RON ......................................................... 129
I Don't Remember the Birds .................................. 130
Fog ......................................................... 132
Buddha ...................................................... 134
Highland Sunset ............................................. 135
Home Again .................................................. 136
4. Foreground
Freedom Bird ................................................ 139
Survivor's Guilt ............................................ 141
Healing ..................................................... 142
Just Lucky, I Guess ......................................... 144
5. Patina of Age
An Old Picture .............................................. 146
Hendrix ..................................................... 147
Words ....................................................... 149
After Twenty Years .......................................... 151
Some Gave All... ............................................ 155
=====================================================================
Fading Photographs From My Mind's Own Album
=====================================================================
Dedication:
For The VWAR-L Lounge
and those that inhabit it.
For the incentive and sanity to write.
And for:
Greg Orman
&
Mike McCombs, Jr.
so that they might understand.
Thanks
Special thanks: To Lydia Fish, the list owner of VWAR-L, and to all
the denizens of that special place in cyberspace we call THE LIST.
They accepted me as I am and tolerated this gloom being placed in
front of them, time and time again. Without them, it would never
have happened.
There are so many of them who have helped in the recalling and the
writing that it is impossible to recount them all here, or anywhere
else for that matter. Most did it by simply being and sharing their
own pieces with me. In no particular order, I wish to thank Monte
Olsen (Scissor butt), Tim Driscoll (T-bomb), Tom Sykes (Dog
Handler), Jim Lynch (FNG), Tom Edmonds (Terminator), Toby Hughes
(Sharkbait), Pats Givens (Rosie), Richard Rohde (Roadie), Marc Aden
(voodoo chile), Dan Okada (DanO), Jack Carpenter (JackC), Jack
Mallory (Cap'n Jack), Michelle (REMF librarian) and Mike (V-man)
Viehman, Nancy Kendall (Motor Oil), Dennis Koho (Mayor), Lisa
Harmon (Buffalo Gal), John Creech (creecherman), and a lot of
others whose names will not come. Thank you all very much.
And a final thanks to a friend who will not read this. His story is
here, too. Thank you for having been my friend, my little Jarai
brother....
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Fading Photographs
The crackle of ancient paper
rustles through my mind,
like parchment
overhandled, frayed,
breaking of age.
Tired and worn
from the passage of years.
They were fresh once,
in another place,
in another time.
They carried the images
of loved ones, of places
I once knew, caught forever;
or so I dreamed.
The colors were bright
and the focus just so.
Sharp for the things
and soft for persons
I had chosen to cast
into the forever world
in the cloister of my skull.
Little things mostly;
like a leaf in the spring
or a flower in the snow.
They held the peal
of the laughter
and the thunder alike,
safe for tomorrow's thinking.
There were some big things too,
that counted for more
to me than all the springs
that had passed behind me.
Soft eyed children,
a grandmother's smile,
the final passing of a friend.
The ones that seem most faded
are of yet a third kind.
The ones that tell the story
of a younger man,
in an alien land,
fighting a war without end
and not knowing why he does.
The sharpness is gone from
the friends by the wire
or on the berm;
the mountains beyond
and the stars that shone
in that foreign land
beyond a graying ocean.
Good friends, too.
Friends to die for and with,
or to die for you.
Nametags faded beyond recall.
The sound of their voices
covered by monsoon rains
or incoming rounds.
Even the places are going:
Kontum, Nha Trang, Pleiku,
are simple blurs on the paper
that used to hold so much more.
Even the tank has no corners
and the napalm burns only gray;
tracers leaving lines without color.
And what of Weet, and Sarge,
and all those who gave
this strange place
a reason, however cryptic,
for being at all?
Pain and love and hate
and fear are all but gone.
Only the strongest
have survived the years
intact, or I think they are.
The rawest hate and fear,
unmitigated by the lesser,
the gentler things
that made even these less horrible.
So I reach out,
with my feeble hands
and softly grab,
trying to save all of these
that I want to keep so badly.
The fading photographs
from my mind's own album.
A Comment or Two
These are some of my stories and musings on what happened nearly a
quarter century ago. I have written them down in the hope that, by
puttin' them on another medium, I can gain some kinda control over
'em. I don't think it worked. But it's done now, anyway. Maybe they
will help you. That would be fine by me. I wouldn't wish what
they've done for me on a dog.
They are in no special order. Oh, some that go together are placed
that way, but it's not strictly chronological. It's more like how I
remembered it. Don't sweat it, you'll figure it out. There just
isn't that much to get lost in.
I've tried to write these as I felt 'em at the time they occurred
more than for historical accuracy; and as I would tell 'em if
properly bribed with appropriate beverages at a local den of shady
repute. It is mostly disjointed stories of an unusual fourteen
months - my tour in Southeast Asia. There's some other stuff, too.
Things that tell a little about the guy who wrote these things,
both before and after. Some of it may pass for poetry. Soldiers and
poets are not far removed. Some of it is vulgar, profane and
obscene. All of it is irreverent. It was, after all, a vulgar,
profane, obscene, and irreverent war.
You know any other kinds?
Note: I'm a couple decades older as I write these than when I lived
them. It is not always easy to recall feelings. I have tried. Gook,
dink, slope, and a lot of the profanity are no longer a regular
part of my vocabulary. They are offensive, and I despise the words.
But they are part of what I was in the there-and-then. Leaving them
out would be the greatest of hypocrisies. I would rather be obscene
than a hypocrite.
Jargon
A soldier's world is filled with equipment and concepts peculiar to
his occupation and life style. There is no way to express the
thoughts and actions of the soldier I was then without that jargon.
Here is what I think you'll need:
'16, M-16 - standard military rifle
122 - enemy weapon, 122 mm rocket
123, C-123 - two engine cargo aircraft
130, C-130 - four engine cargo aircraft
20, 20 mm - mini-canon used on aircraft
.22 - 22 caliber weapon - light pistol
203, M-203 - 40 mm grenade launcher mounted under a rifle barrel
.45 - 45 caliber pistol
4.2 - "four deuce", 4.2 inch mortar
.50 - 50 caliber machine gun
.51 - enemy weapon, 51 caliber machine gun
'60, M-60 - 7.62 mm machine gun
7.62 mini - 7.62 mm mini-gun
80 - 80 mm mortar
AA - anti-aircraft
AK, AK-47 - enemy weapon, standard Warsaw Pact rifle
AO - acronym, Area of Operations
Arclight - B-52 strike
ARVN - acronym, Army of the Republic of Viet Nam
BDA - acronym, Bomb Damage Assessment
Berm - a defensive wall of earth
Bird - an aircraft, usually a helicopter
Black Bird - USAF aircraft for special operations, named for
black paint job
Bouncing betty - type of mine blown into the air before
detonation to increase casualties
Browning - a 9 mm pistol
Bru - a tribe of Montagnards, q.v.
Bunker - a protective shelter
C & C - Command and Control, see "Special Project"
CAR, CAR-15 - rifle, carbine version of the M-16
CCC, CCN, CCS - acronyms for military units, see "Special
Project"
Civvies - civilian attire
Claymore - a directional mine
Cobra - a military helicopter used as a gun platform
Conex - metal military container, large.
Cork - a drug to prevent defecation, used in the field with small
teams
Cover one's six - watch the rear
Covey - the name of the USAF detachment that flew our radio
coverage
Crud, the - various fungi and rashes common to soldiers in warm
climates
DEROS - acronym, Date of Expected Return from Overseas
Didi - Vietnamese, flee or leave rapidly
E & E - acronym, Escape and Evasion
Exfil - exfiltration, point of exit from AO
FAC - acronym, Forward Air Controller
Fast mover - a jet, usually an F-4
Firebase - a remote artillery position, usually quite isolated
Fire fan - the field of fire of a larger gun or mortar
First shirt - military slang for First Sergeant, usually the
highest enlisted grade in a company
FNG - acronym, F*cking New Guy
Grease - slang, to kill
Hillsboro - an air force command and control aircraft
Hootch - see "Hootch"
HQ - acronym, HeadQuarters
IA - acronym, Immediate Action
IG - acronym, Inspector General
Insert - insertion, point of entrance into AO
Intel - intelligence information
Jarai - a tribe of Montagnards, q.v.
K, klick - a kilometer, the U.S. military uses the metric system
Khaki - a sandish color, used in uniforms
KIA - acronym, Killed In Action
LTC - rank, Lieutenant Colonel
LZ - acronym, Landing Zone, a site for a helicopter to land
LZ watcher - an enemy soldier assigned to guard and report on
activities on an LZ
Medivac - medical evacuation, of injured personnel
Mess, messhall - a military dining facility
MIA - acronym, Missing In Action
Mike Force - an allied reaction team, usually larger than a
company
Mini-pounder - small radar transmitter user to mark locations on
the ground for radar-carrying aircraft
Montagnard - one of the indigenous hill people of Southeast Asia
Moonbeam - nighttime name of Hillsboro, q.v.
MOS - acronym, Military Occupational Specialty - one's job title
MPC - acronym, Military Payment Certificate, used in lieu of cash
MSG - rank, Master Sergeant
NCO - acronym, Non-Commissioned Officer
NVA - acronym, North Vietnamese Army
O-2 - a light observation aircraft
O2 and benedryl - oxygen and a strong antihistamine, for
hangovers
OAS - acronym, Organization of American States
OFM(cap) - Catholic religious order, Order of Friars Minor
(Capuchin)
OP - acronym, Observation Post
Otter - light observation aircraft, an O-1
P, piaster - monetary units of RVN
PH - acronym, Purple Heart, awarded for wounds received in action
Phantom - air force fighter aircraft, the F-4
Point, point man - the soldier who walks first in formation and
scouts the area ahead
POW - acronym, Prisoner Of War
Reckless - slang, a recoilless rifle, small artillery piece
RON - acronym, Remain OverNight, a nighttime position
RPD - enemy weapon, light squad machine gun
RT - acronym, Recon Team
RTO - acronym, Radio-Telephone Operator, the soldier who carries
the radio
RVN - acronym, Republic of Viet Nam
SEA - acronym, SouthEast Asia
SF - acronym, Special Forces
SFC - rank, Sergeant First Class
SFTG - acronym, Special Forces Training Group
SKS - enemy weapon, bolt action rifle
Slick - troop transport helicopter, UH-1
Slow mover - propeller driven air force fighter aircraft
Snake - slang, a Cobra helicopter
SOG - acronym, Special Operations Group, see "Special Project"
SOP - acronym, Standing Operating Procedures
SSG - rank, Staff Sergeant
Stabo rig - special web gear allowing the wearer to be picked up
by the harness
Straphang - operate with a team other than one's own
Tail - the soldier who walks last in formation and covers the
rear
TOC - acronym, Tactical Operations Center
TO&E, TOE - acronym, Table of Organization and Equipment, the way
a military unit is organized
Tracer - military round that leaves a visible trail as it travels
Tri-border - that area of SEA around the point where Viet Nam,
Cambodia and Laos meet
V Corps - "Five Corps", see "Special Project"
Ville - slang, village, particularly a Montagnard village
Watcher - see LZ watcher
White mouse - derogatory term for the national police of RVN
WP, willie pete - a white phosphorus round or grenade
'Yard - slang, Montagnard, q.v.
Zero week - an unassigned first week before the commencement of a
school, frequently spent on details
Prologue
At the ripe and wisdom-filled age of seventeen, I chose to join the
U.S. Army. Any number of reasons, I suppose. The two strongest ones
on my mind at the time were parental pressure and anger. Let's face
it, if you are seein' a young lady again, even younger than
yourself, who has already borne you a son, parents are not happy
campers or particularly easy to live with. And it is mid-February
1968 - THE Tet Offensive, and friends are dead or dyin'. Those two
factors complemented each other; and on Valentine's Day, 1968, I did
the deed. I somehow didn't picture that I would not arrive in
Southeast Asia until mid-year, 1971.
I did the usual routine. Basic training at Ft. Ord, CA. Advanced
Infantry Training at Camp Crockett, Ft. Gordon, GA. I'd already
decided to be Airborne Infantry (needed that extra $55 a month when
base pay for an E-1 was $89 a month), so next stop was Ft. Benning,
GA. And here, the short story of my advanced years got the surprise
insert.
To get out of work one day during "zero week," I took a test for
Special Forces (SF, Green Berets, Green Weenies, whatever). I wasn't
interested in any such thing, but it was better than another eight
hours at the riggers' shed. I promptly forgot about it during the
three grueling weeks under the Georgia summer sun in Jump School.
The day after I finished "jump week," I got orders for Ft. Bragg,
NC, and Special Forces Training Group (SFTG). Whaddahell! They
were nifty hats, so I went. Like I had a choice, of course.
I was on Smoke Bomb Hill, the home of Special Forces, for nine
months: Phase I training, MOS training (Morse code and radios, 05B),
and Phase III trainin'. Then they decided I was good for Phase IV
training - another month of seeing how far they could push you
before you broke. They pissed me off, and I didn't break. This was
an error to haunt me for many years. Like volunteering; it's one of
those things you don't do. I was young.
Anyway, somewhere in there I got married to the same woman as
mentioned above and had number-two son. I also listened to a lot of
old SF types and developed a hankerin' to wander and do some of that
off-the-wall stuff. So I took a short and reupped for six to get
assigned to Panama. More school! Three months in D.C. to learn
Spanish. A great tour, as I already spoke it fluently.
In November of 1969, I arrived at Ft. Gulick, Panama Canal Zone. Had
a blast, though that's not the point here. In '71, it was time; and
I volunteered for Viet Nam when the word came around some folk were
needed for the special projects. Back to another school for three
weeks at Bragg, again. By now I'm a young buck sergeant, have
everything a little more under control; and things flow better.
Tour the west coast kin, kiss the wife and son good-bye at LAX,
spend a couple days at Ft. Lewis, WA, and board a plane for some
damned place called "Cam Ranh Bay."
Y'know, we make a LOT of errors when we're young....
=====================================================================
Background
=====================================================================
Special Forces
Special Forces is one of the most misunderstood outfits the Army
ever had. Misunderstood by the public, the press, and even those who
wore the Green Beret. Not even the Army knew what they were for or
what to do with 'em. That didn't stop 'em, however, from doin' all
sorts of things to us.
Special Forces was created in 1952 as an option to problems like the
Czech uprisin' of that year. The concept was a series of small,
highly trained teams available to infiltrate into similar situations
in foreign countries to train, equip, advise, and, if necessary,
lead indigenous populations in the conduct of guerilla warfare.
While primarily envisioned as operatin' in wartime, as part of a
theater of operations includin' regular armed forces, the unspoken
option of use in non-wartime situations existed from the beginnin'.
Nearly all of the first batch of soldiers inducted into Special
Forces were Americans of recent Eastern European extraction, many of
'em born there before the Iron Curtain came down.
But that ideal survived only a couple of months. That same year,
somebody in the Pentagon figured that this mission made SF prime
candidates for counterinsurgency operations. And they sent the first
SF personnel to the far ends of the earth, to a place few Americans
knew, called Viet Nam. In less than a decade, the original mission
had slipped into second place, and the counterinsurgency role had
become primary. With the additional duties, SF expanded rapidly.
There are, after all, a lot of guerillas in the world. From the
first group in 1952, later designated the 10th SFG, they added the
1st in Okinawa, the 3rd, 4th, 6th and 7th at Ft. Bragg, and the 8th
in Panama. The 5th, of course, went to Viet Nam. The 10th, in
Europe, the 8th in Panama, and the 1st in Okinawa saw extensive use
in counter-guerilla warfare throughout the world. The others, and
the old-time members of the 10th, continued to train for the
original mission, never to be used.
The old TO&E consisted of a company with three "B" teams, each with
five "A" teams. The "A" team was (and is) the primary operational
level of SF. Each team is commanded by a Captain, XO a 1Lt, and ten
sergeants in five specialty groups - a backup in each slot;
operations and intelligence, weapons, communications, medicine, and
engineering, primarily demolitions. The organization and high levels
of trainin' and motivation made the A-Team very flexible, and it
assumed a wide variety of missions, far removed from the ideas of
the first organizers. And so it remains today.
One got into SF in my time by fulfillin' three requirements: passin'
a rigorous test, passin' through jump school to earn your
parachutist rating, and makin' it through the intense session with
SFTG on Smoke Bomb Hill at Ft. Bragg, N.C. I did these things,
though the nine months at Ft. Bragg was more than a little tough.
Still and all, I and a lot of others made it, and cast our fate with
this hodgepodge of duties and assignments. Not so sure if that's
good or bad. 'Course, this whole thin' wouldn't be here if it didn't
require a particular off-center set of mind to walk into this with
your eyes wide open.
We'd all "go anywhere, do anything, as long as we have our hats."
It was a secondary credo. And guerilla warfare sounds so romantic.
'Course, I've yet to meet a real guerilla....
But we also did lots of other things. In Latin America we did
trainin' and medical assistance missions. In Europe we worked with
NATO, and prepared to fight the red hordes. In Viet Nam we built the
region's third largest army out of Montagnards, Hmong, and the other
hill people of SEA. Out on the A-camps they fought a more or less
conventional war against Charlie and big brother Chuck. They were
good with the isolated nature of the long border. Let's face it, a
guy whose whole life is based on bein' allowed to jump into Hungary
and overthrow the government is not all with us, mentally. It is a
very special kind of madness. I know, I was mad too.
And because we were crazy enough to do it, and had some tentative
contact with the spooks from that "first mission", they found us
available to accept special operations no one else wanted. It was a
bad move. The trainin' wasn't really applicable.
But it made me what and who I am.
What's in a name?
September 1969 and I'm in D.C. finishin' language school for a
language I already speak. The wife and Mike Jr. have already taken
off for California, and I'm bachin' it in the barracks. Hey, a Spec.
4 doesn't have a lot of money, and D.C. is an expensive place, even
in '69. You do what you gotta do.
It's the last couple weeks of class, and everyone is pretty much on
cruise control. It's a twelve person class, and ten of us are bound
for 8th SFG in Panama. We hang out a lot after class, usually at
Louie's, about two blocks from the school. Little place with a
couple of pool tables run by a WWII Marine vet who buys nigh on to
every other round. Name was Louie, of course. Never knew the last
name. It didn't matter. Anyway, we hung there most evenings, playin'
pool and generally chillin' out.
One night we walk in and this group of construction dudes has the
tables and just about owns the place. We look at Louie, and he just
shrugs. He's gotta make some money, so we just pull up a booth and
get a round. They gotta leave sometime, y'know.
Only they don't. An hour later, it's beginnin' to look like they're
here for an evenin' of trouble. They've already started hasslin'
Louie. But they're still payin', so Louie puts up with it. We're in
uniform, and know what will happen if we try to intervene and send
'em on their way. None of us want delays in orders to Panama, so we
start to plan. This, of course, requires another round.
I've had too much, and I really wanna play some eight ball. Bill's
also had to much, so he's my volunteer. I grab Bill by the hand, and
we walk over to the nearest pool table and jump on it, kissin' and
rubbin' and really carryin' on. The construction guys can't believe
their eyes and start yellin'. Behind the bar, Louie just smiles.
This goes on for a couple minutes and the construction dudes stomp
out screamin' about fags and sh*t. Bill and I get up, I rack. The
place is ours again.
"Wild Bill" Wiegart, an old E-8 who was in school with us, looks up
at Louie with a big grin and says, "I'll buy the next one for the
Sweet Thing there, with the rack." Louie just loses it, and we fear
we're gonna hafta take him to the hospital.
You never know when a name'll stick. I was the "Sweet Thing" until I
left the Army in '75.
Jungle
Jungles are funny places. At least the ones in Panama are. The ones
in SEA might deserve another adjective. But I didn't see any serious
ones there. The Central Highlands is NOT jungle. And the ones out
west are not even in the same league.
But I spent some time in the woods in Panama, too. And elsewhere in
South America. The Amazon is an amazin' place, huge beyond belief.
The jungles in Panama were worse. Worst I ever saw. The Darien. That
part of Panama that stretches from the Canal to Columbia. Godawful
jungle. No trails, no people, few ground dwellin' animals of decent
size. Couldn't move. Terrain is too steep. I mean, you come
virtually straight up from a stream, there's a strin' of trees, and
you drop straight back down to another stream. You gotta like water.
You spend a lot of time in it.
You don't sleep on the ground there. Oh, it's not 'cause of the
critters, though that could certainly do it. Lots and lots of snakes
and creepy crawly monstrosities with claws and stingers and teeth.
But the main reason is the terrain - nothin' to lay flat on. You
carry a hammock. The Army called 'em "jungle hammocks" 'cause they
built in the 'squito netting. At least you can get horizontal. What
you do is get a couple three-foot sticks of around three-quarter
inch in diameter, run 'em through the spreaders in the ends, hang it
up, tie up the net and use your poncho to make a roof - kinda like
an A-frame with palm branches poked across from grommet to grommet.
You get so you can put the whole shebang up in under five minutes,
raw materials permittin'. And you always use your poncho liner. The
jungle gets cold at night - all the moisture still in the air.
Didn't think it would get cold like that....
But then there's the thorns. Lots of thorns. In the Darien,
everythin' has thorns. Everything. The grass has thorns - saw grass
is NOT nice. Palm fronds have thorns. Flowers have thorns. Many
trees have long needle-like thorns hangin' down all over the "bark."
Black palms. Berries have thorns. Not the little pathetic things
that wild black berries do, but the real "ah, sh*t!" kind. You
can't reach out and grab ANYTHING, 'cause you'll regret it. Too hot
durin' the day to wear any kind of gloves that would do any good.
Some guys wore 'em, anyway. Not me, I just tried not to touch
anything.
The biggest eye-opener was a stand of two-foot-plus diameter trees.
The ground was only about a forty-five degree slope, so we stopped
for a break and leaned against these big old hardwoods. For about
two seconds. They were covered with Hershey Kiss sized and shaped
thorns. Everythin' had thorns!
Well, of course, not everythin'. Just the vegetation. The animals
were all toxic, instead. Except for the local porcupine cousins.
They were both. Insects, snakes, lizards, frogs, rodents. Their
bites were all bad. Anythin' bit you, and you just swelled right on
up. If you lived. Which most of us did, whether we wanted to or not.
The Darien is not a good place to find out you are allergic to anti-
venom. Take my word for that, I know.
Sometimes the thorns and the toxins joined forces. Acacias. Base of
every thorn had an ant hole. Every ant was a devout human hater.
Worse when the tree died, too. Lean against it and it would crumble,
rainin' fire ants. Hated the damn things.
And noisy. Jungles are NOT quiet places. Monkeys scream, howl, bark.
Lizards whistle. Birds make every noise imaginable. Little rodents
can scream, too. Just like a wounded rabbit. Nasty. Big cats cough.
Everythin' rustles and scurries. The insects drone in unbelievable
numbers - unless you've been to the North Slope, then you believe.
Finally, there's the rain. You gotta love dry season, where it only
rains two or three times a week instead of the two or three times a
day. That's noisy too, but not toxic. But it does make movin' a real
bitch. Not a lot of thunder and lightnin'. The rain on your poncho
can be even louder, though. Forget about dry socks, or drawers, or
anythin'. Guns rust overnight. Radios short out without absolute
protection. Everythin' gets wet, especially you. Sometimes you
don't even bother with the ponchos. They don't work all that well,
anyway, in the heat.
Actually, I kinda liked the Central Highlands. There were flat spots
where nothin' had thorns or tried to eat you.
Coulda been worse....
Witness
The year is 1970. I'm stationed at Ft. Gulick in the Panama Canal
Zone. Nice place to be, all in all. Old Spanish forts still in ruins
from when the pirates got ticked off, outstandin' divin' waters, the
jungle, the canal - just tons of things to do, places to go, people
to meet. I spoke Latin American Spanish like a Cuban (the teacher
was, so what do you expect?), and the natives were friendly. It's an
accompanied tour, so my wife and my number two son are with me. (The
wife who "Dear John-ed" me in SEA.)
Spent less than half my tour actually in-country. Group was forever
and a day sendin' us off to exotic places to train, or do medical
aid, or just to get to know the terrain. This was a ball, and one of
the reasons I didn't make some of the classic "ugly-American" errors
in Viet Nam later. Made 'em in Latin America and got "larned purty
good." Anyway, one of those trip was to Honduras with the OAS.
You may recall the '68 "soccer war" between Salvador and Honduras.
Didn't last long, mostly 'cause neither side had a lot of money to
spend on it. The cause was basically surplus population in each
country kinda ignorin' the border when they built their new abodes.
That is a rough border to cover - jungle, hills, banditos.... So in
comes the OAS. (Locally, the OEA - Organizacion de los Estados
Americanos.) Modeled on border watches from the U.N. The U.S.
provided very few "observers," as we gringos are NOT tremendously
loved in Central America for some obscure reason. But only the U.S.
had the resources to provide helicopters and a radio network. These
came out of Panama. With 'em came pilots and flight crews for the
whirly birds and operators for the radios. Oh, officially I was a
"United States Counterpart," but it didn't fool anyone. I was there
to make commo - which I do pretty good.
The place I got sent was Nuevo Ocotepeque - called simply "Ocote" by
the citizens. It's in Honduras, just across the border from Metapan
in Salvador. Metapan was a military site, so the OAS station on the
other side was Chalatenango - "Chalate." None of these are what
could be called big cities. The air strip at Ocote was so small that
I had to go in by chopper - an Otter couldn't land there - and
that's small!
I was to live in a Capuchin friary. (OFM Cap.) The radio (AN/PRC 74
- a multi-banded larger siblin' to the PRC 25's and 77's used in
SEA) was in a converted counselin' room, and I had a bunk in an
unoccupied friar's room on the back side. Like most such, throughout
Latin America, the church sat on one side, the hacienda makin' the
other three sides for the patio. The patio was roughly square -
maybe fifty meters to a side. It was fully planted with jungle
flowers except for a small kitchen garden on the south side near the
back gate. In the center was a fair sized stone fountain. Straight
out of "Mission". It was splendid!
Outside of the friary, the town was a classic, dirt-poor Central
American town. There was a Viejo Ocotopeque, down by the river, but
it was just a few shacks and the old mission. A flood had gone
through around 1960, and only the church, on a very slight rise, had
survived. They'd rebuilt uphill about a kilometer. Hard to describe
if you've never been to such a place. Very few places in our country
know such poverty.
There had been grand plans once, and large boulevards had been
laid out. The curbs were even laid. But the city
manager had decamped with the money for paving, and there it still
sat. I made the rounds with the padres - the medical ones. No
doctors for a hundred miles, and the folk medicine men couldn't
carry the load. So, we Green Beanie types smuggled in drugs and
equipment, and the padres played doctor without a license. Wasn't
good, but better than nothin'.
Makin' the rounds there was like steppin' back in time. I won't go
into details of the poverty or the disease - they were at least as
bad as you imagine. What struck me as a soldier were other things.
The town's people were invisible when I wore a uniform - no one
anywhere. I started wearin' civvies, and bingo; there was a
population after all. Then I started noticin' other things. Long
rows of pocks in the walls at about four feet above ground level.
Many houses lookin' like they were hastily constructed in a crater.
Everyone flinched at loud noises. The place had, indeed, known
soldiers. I let my hair and beard grow.
The mission, of course, was on the town plaza. Well, it was supposed
to be a plaza, anyway. That money had gone with the town manager,
too. It was simply a raised area with some thirsty lookin' trees and
some scraggly lookin' native shrubs. Did have a couple benches in
the middle, and a flock of unhealthy lookin' pigeons, though. In
this "plaza," I met the Lord and was converted. Not what I'd
pictured for such a momentous occasion in my life. But what's one to
do? The time and choosin' are selected by other standards than mine,
I guess.
The mission, like many in Central America, was staffed by Norte
Americanos. The Capuchins were all from upstate New York. A bunch of
good joes, and that is the understatement of the year. They were
workin' missionaries, as likely to be found in a field with a plow
and jeans as in a cloister. Habit was for church - otherwise they
looked like an enlarged version of a local farmer. When I arrived,
there were four in residence. I was told that another, Fr. Mary
Francis (he had a "real" name, too, but I never knew it) was out on
"rounds" - visitin' on mule back the little hamlets and homesteads
scattered in the surroundin' hills. He came in three weeks later.
He wasn't a big man, maybe 5'9", 130 lbs or so. He was in his
sixties, had arthritis and was in generally poor health. But he'd
been ridin' the circuit, on a mule. And when the mule couldn't climb
any more, he got off and lead it through the nasty stuff. I watched
him real closely - had to be insane, don't you know?
The day after he got back and mornin' prayers were said and
breakfast eaten, he went to the plaza. The window of the radio room
looked out that way, and it all looked wrong. Must have taken me
half and hour of starin' to figure it out. He was feedin' the
pigeons. Nothin' earth-shakin' about that, but you have to remember
where and when we are. These pigeons were survivors. They did NOT go
near people - EVER! First, no one spent food on 'em. Second, anytime
some one tried, it was a trap and they were destined for the
stewpot. They avoided people like the plague - livin' off food from
the wild. But Fr. Mary was feedin' the pigeons. And they were
swarmin' all over him, sittin' on his head, his shoulders, his arms.
I was starin' for half an hour before I realized I was starin' at an
animated picture of St. Francis. Scared the hell out of me.
And then the children came. I don't know where they came from; I'd
never seen so many in town before. The pigeons stayed. And he fed
the children too. From somewhere in his brown robe came bread and
cheese. They laughed and shouted and romped and hugged him. All of
'em together - priest and children and birds. I didn't know what to
think. Look, I'm a pragmatist, okay? I only believe that which I can
touch, see, feel, taste, weigh and measure. But I see it.
He is a magnet, and I am a piece of iron. I sign off the net and
walk across the dirt swath that passes for a street. I know that
I'll spoil everything, but I HAVE to go. Iron has no choice. I have
no choice. They do not go. I am in uniform with a gun on my belt,
and the children, the birds and the padre all welcome me like I'd
been with 'em just yesterday. We share bread and cheese - and a can
of fruit cocktail I had grabbed and put in a pocket. The plaza is
beautiful today. The trees are lush and heavy with leaves, the
shrubs are in bloom. They aren't really, of course - but somehow
they are. I know the symptoms now, in retrospect, though I didn't
know 'em then. I had fallen hopelessly in love with the man. We all
had - the children, the pigeons and me. He shone with the light that
such of women and men chosen of God alone can carry. I am in love.
It does not last forever. Duties call to all of us - children and
pigeons and Father Mary and me. We meet again many times, and it is
never like this again. Oh, the birds still mob him, and the children
romp, but it changes. I see the poverty, the squalor, the patches
sewn in his robe, the sores on the children's faces. But the love
remained. Maybe, even, it grew. I spoke with the friar superior. We
started lessons the next Saturday, and I was baptized in the chapel
at Ft. Davis in Panama two months later. Fr. Mary was back out on
the circuit when my relief arrived. I never saw him again. Or
rather, perhaps, I have yet to stop seein' him. He died while I was
in SEA. There was a little mission across the creek on the north
side of the CCC camp in Kontum. Van Kaufman and I would go to mass
there every Sunday we were in-camp. Only Americans in the crowd. We
would go to confession to a priest who spoke no English, and we
received reconciliation in Vietnamese, which we did not speak.
Translator not necessary. The priest, a Vietnamese missionary to the
'yards, knew everythin' he needed, I expect.
I did not cry for Fr. Mary when Fr. Rod (the friar superior) wrote
me. But it wasn't because I couldn't. I figure he just started one
more circuit ride. I keep hopin' his mule can make it up the hill
I'm on. Be nice to sit in the plaza again with the pigeons, the
padre, and maybe my sons and you and all the others.
Did I tell you it had roses in it once?
_________________________________________________________________
I'm not that much of a story teller, really - this one always seems
to tell itself. I'm not much of a bible thumper either; my faith is
kinda a private one. This, however, is different. Here I bear
witness that God's glory is still upon the earth, in the most
obscure of places; and the saints are alive and well. My only
proselytizin'.
(Really.... Roses! I can still smell 'em.)
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who also experienced loss II IIXXXXXXXXX XXX
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rejection and betrayal, I IXXXXXXXXX
alienation and estrangement, I IXXXX XX
isolation and withdrawal. II IIXXXX
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lied about and imprisoned; I
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"And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age"
Matthew 28:20
Locker, Utility
His name doesn't really matter. It was twenty-four years ago, and I
guess bygones should be left as bygones. He was a young Signal Corps
second looie fresh outta Special Warfare School at Bragg, and that
should be ID enough. Oh yeah, he was also VMI. With the big ring.
The kind a matchin' ego buys....
They assigned him to our A-team in Panama. We were fresh outta
officers, and that couldn't be let ride. Now, all young second
looies are hell-bent-for-leather to set the Army on fire with their
hard work and innovative ideas, but he was worse than the usual lot.
He flat sneaked up on us. He spent the first week bein' pretty quiet
and bendin' the manuals, contingency plans, and operation profiles.
We were kinda gettin' our hopes up that we'd gotten a good one who
was there to learn the way we did things. No such luck.
After that week, see, he knew it all. Indeed, he knew better.
Especially about communications to and from 'denied areas.' Which
meant that I caught it worse than the others, bein' senior commo man
and all. Special Forces tactical doctrine obviously was out-dated
and worthless. And there wasn't no tellin' him any different. I mean
what did Marion, Mao, and Che know that he didn't? A boy genius in
our midst, and he was gonna save Special Forces from itself. And he
was startin' with us.
So we run a few ops his way, that bein' the normal method of gettin'
their attention. We got creamed, of course. ASA had us nailed the
first night in, and we got captured by stumblers twice. But to him,
we had just executed poorly, the plans bein' perfect. Well, this can
be a little hard on an A-team's pride, bein' captured by straight-
leg infantry so new they didn't know the jungle from a fruit stand.
And we started to get a little disenchanted with the young man. Ah
hell, we were damned pissed!
So now we get a real serious trainin' op. We're gonna run as the
aggressors against a company of Fleet Marine in Jungle Warfare
School. It's not bad duty, a day job mostly. But the looie wants to
do things his way again. This is pretty straight forward infantry
stuff, but we're gonna do it with a signal twist ala inexperience.
Uh huh, right.
He plans his little operations, and even the new Spec. 4 medic just
outta Training Group can see we're gonna get cremated again. We try
very hard to explain this to him in words of two syllables and less,
but he just decides he gives the orders around here, and this is the
way it's gonna be.
Bill looks at Dutch. Dutch looks at Frank. Frank looks at me. I look
at Neal. Neal looks back at Bill. That's the senior guys in each of
the MOSs. It's agreed without so much as a word. Frank, the senior
medic, saunters over to the vacant team leader's locker and opens
the door. The rest of us walk over, grab the 2Lt. and stuff him in.
Bill, as the senior, the team sergeant, does the honor and puts the
D-ring snaplink through the hasp. There's only wire mesh separatin'
us from the team next door, and Bill signals the team sergeant over
there in case there's a fire or somethin' to let him out. We grab
our gear, and go kick some serious tail on a Marine Platoon. Our
turf, it would've been hard to lose. Unless that lieutenant had been
there...again.
We come back about eight hours later and let the poor fooker outta
the locker. He's so flustered that we put him in and that no one let
him out, he just turns beet red and can't say a damn thin'. Also, he
smells a little ripe, so we don't push him to stay and chat, anyway.
Shouldn't oughta drink so much coffee and eat so much chili, I
suppose.
Anyway, he goes stompin' down the hall to B-team and corners the
Major. This doesn't please the Major none too much, as he has a
sensitive nose. But he's only a field grade, and he's gotta listen
to the man. We can hear it clear down in the team room, the whinin'
and yellin' is so loud. Bill is lookin' a little sheepish, but
ready to take the heat. Hell, I guess we all are. And happy to do
so. Whaddahell....
Then it comes, the ell tee has run down in tears and gasps. We feel
little twinges - but only little ones. The Major's thickly accented,
hispanic voice bites through, "You meen to tell mee loo-tin-ant that
you have so leettle control over yourself that you've been sittin'
in your own sheet all day and have the nerve to come complain to ME!
Geet out of my offeece! And go take a shower, forgodsake!"
The Signal Corps second looie was never seen again. Some signal
outfit in CONUS gained, I heard.
A week later we get Dai uy Simmons as new team leader, and he's
happy to be saved from a staff job at Group HQ. He wasn't quite so
happy with the still lingerin' odor of his locker. Well...no plan is
perfect. A month later we get a new, young 2Lt named Olsen. They
both bought it on the strip at Kontum a couple years later. Two of
the finest officers I ever knew. Two of the finest men, period!
That's three to one for good officers over bad. As any old NCO will
tell you, we done okay on that tour. The Major got a new, teak chess
set and matchin' board for Christmas. Could lick any of us with one
leaf tied behind his back, anyway. Dai uy and Olsen got the respect
they earned, and a place of honor on The Wall. I don't like to think
on the career of the other.
They don't call 'em "Locker, Utility" for nothin'.
Elephant
Americans went to Viet Nam for any number of reasons. Not the
country, America. Nobody knows for sure why America went to war in
that place, so far from her own shores. Oh, I know the reasons given
as well as you do, maybe even better. But I don't believe a single
one of 'em. It's not easy to believe any combination of 'em, though
the truth is probably in there, somewhere, under the rhetoric and
the flippancy. But this isn't about a nation, it's about people. Men
and women went to Viet Nam, not any damned nation. Just us folk.
The draftees went because they had to. They weren't given a choice,
other than Canada or some third world nation. Not real alternatives,
those. Not for someone used to the American lifestyle, American
freedom. So they went to SEA. Most of 'em came back. Not all.
The volunteers were another matter. Some went for patriotism, our
country was at war. Some went because, whether the war was right or
not, goin' was "the right thin' to do." Some went from parental
pressure, some to get out of jail, some to get away from an
impossible situation at home, some for adventure, some because of
boredom. Some went simply to die, and suicide seemed too hard. Some
went to help their fellow Americans who were already there or who
wouldn't be comin' home. Revenge and racial hatred figure in the
reasons, too. Name a reason, and somebody probably went because of
it.
I'm not positive now, all these years later, why I went to Viet Nam.
Oh, I joined the Army because homelife was godawful; and I wanted
revenge for friends and classmates lost in Tet of 1968. But, before
I went, I had been in for three years; and this wasn't good enough
for me, anymore. My home life was kinda rocky, since I'd found out
the wife had been sleepin' with a teammate while I was in Nicaragua,
but it looked salvageable. I was makin' rank and goin' someplace,
though I'd yet to figure out exactly where. Then I just up and
decided to go to Nam.
I tend to think it was the old Civil War quote; from whom, I don't
remember now. "They have seen the elephant, and they will never be
the same." Or words to that effect, anyway. Every soldier knows it.
I knew it. It meant somethin' to all the men with whom I'd served
who had been there. It meant somethin' to those who hadn't been. It
meant somethin' to me.
I wanted to test my nerve, to discover if those things between my
legs were real and meant anythin'. I found out about nerves. And I
found that the things between my legs just represent an increase in
target area. I wanted to see the elephant. Well, I saw it. It is
big, ugly, gray, mean, and a killer. But I went and saw it. My
nerves turned to mush and the things between my legs almost got
blown off. Not exactly what I expected.
Oh, I'm glad I went to see the elephant.
But now I can't forget.
Ever.
=====================================================================
Middle Distance
=====================================================================
Nhe Trang
It's a long flight from McChord AFB in Washington State to Cam Ranh
Bay. We make a stop in Alaska to top off the fuel tanks, and another
somewhere else, don't remember now - just remember a second stop.
Good old DC-10. Meals in a box. The steward staff tries, but no one
really seems all that happy to be on this flight. I got a window,
but the young E-3 next to me keeps tryin' to look out, so I swap
with him. The Pacific Ocean is kinda big and boring, anyway. I'm in
jungle fatigues with a duffle in the hold. I am not comfortable
flyin'. Can't sleep too well while movin'. Never could, still hardly
ever do. It's a long flight....
Land in Cam Ranh okay. Nobody shoots at us, and that's fine by me.
Haven't got a gun, y'see. Haven't got sh*t. This is unpleasant. Been
in thirty foreign countries already. Got shot at in a couple of 'em.
Don't like bein' unarmed. Expect 'em to rectify it.
Gettin' off the plane is interestin'. Mosta the guys melt upon
steppin' on the roll-up staircase. Musta been what I looked like
when I arrived in Panama a few years back. It doesn't hit me too
hard, I was only stateside for a couple months. One Colonel in
greens is exposed to the error of his ways. He's soaked to the skin
before they take him away with the rest of the officers.
Run us over to some barracks for some prelim paperwork. Then they
tell us we gonna be there for a couple days. A couple DAYS? Sh*t! I
ask about firearms. Young buck sergeant (like me) says no sweat, you
don't need it. Okay, but what kinda rock did this dude crawl out
from underneath of?
Get together with some old SF types and we begin to wrangle for a
ride to anywhere. Crusty old MSG wanders off to an office and comes
back, smilin'. Nha Trang's gonna send us a truck. It's not all that
far, he says. Country's mostly safe. Sh*t. Thanks, Top! Ride a truck
for fifty, sixty miles in a hostile country unarmed. Sure, it's
okay. Didn't wanna go home, anyway. Sh*t. Guess it's better than
stayin' here, though.
A couple jeeps with M-60s and a deuce and a half roll up a few hours
later. We haul out before they notice we're leavin'. They brought
some heavy metal! I get to hold my first CAR-15, only seen 'em,
before. Lock and load, and roll north. Two jeeps and the truck.
Fifteen dudes in the truck. Top's down and it's rainin' like all
hell. Don't care. Hey, I'm from Panama. Weather's okay, country
looks like I can handle it. Maybe not a cakewalk, but I'm gonna be
okay.
Lotsa check points, mostly ARVN. They don't look like really sharp
troops, but it's hard to look sharp drenched and lookin' for cover.
Don't see anyone in black PJ's, nobody shoots at us, and it's a
pretty uneventful trip. This is good. By now, I'm one pooped pup.
We get to Nha Trang in one piece. Check in, and get assigned to two-
man rooms. Everybody heads for chow. 'Cept me. I stumble to my
assigned room and manage to low crawl into the rack. Don't remember
anythin' from the time we signed the roster till the next mornin'.
Not sure I got to the rack on my own. Was there in the mornin'
though, and that's all that mattered.
Go to mess and get greasy eggs, somethin' that was once ham, and
some not too bad orange juice. Nothin' to do today, leave for Kontum
in the mornin'.
"Why don't we go swimmin'?"
I think about the offer. "You got a secured area on the river?"
"Nope, the pool."
"The pool? The POOL!?? You gots to be sh*ttin' me."
"Nope, here's some trunks."
Go out back. They got a fookin' swimmin' pool! Concrete and tile.
Life guard. I walk around the compound. Curtains in the windows.
Grass is mowed. Mowed! The parkin' lot (yeah!) has gravel and
stripes - names on some of the slots. The berm has poured concrete
bunkers and is painted white. Painted white? The doors in the
buildin' have signs on 'em. They look like real oak. Go to my room
to change. Yep, curtains there, too. And my locker is custom made in
some kinda wood. Skirts on the bed. Maid service. Sheee***t....
I muse as I go swimmin' my laps. I'm havin' a severe case of culture
shock. That's funny, I thought this was a war zone. This ain't gonna
be a bad tour. Bound to be better at my final station....
Okay, I was young and impressionable....
Kontum
Been at Nha Trang a whole day. Not a bad place. But, as a buck
sergeant, I seemed to be the lowest rankin' critter in the universe.
This is NOT good, and I'm interested in gettin' to Kontum. Hell,
this place has a swimmin' pool. Kontum can't be all that bad....
Next mornin', we get driven to the strip. Big place. Fulla all sorts
of aircraft. We drive off in some godforsaken corner and find the
Black Birds. Six of us goin' to Kontum. One old geezer, musta been
thirty, tells us it's a nice place. He's goin' to the Mike Force
compound on the other side of town from our compound. I ask about
swimmin' pools. He laughs and laughs and laughs. I begin to re-
evaluate my previous position. And they take our guns back. No
sweat, they'll give us new ones upon arrival. Okay, got no gun ports
on a 123, anyway.
Load up. I been on C-130 Black Birds in Panama. I know enough not to
go liftin' the curtains up front. Tell the other newbies that.
Don't wanna loose new friends too fast. Long wait in jump seats, and
we finally get to take off. Windows are kinda small, but we glue
ourselves to 'em and rotate turns. 'Cept for the old geezer, he
grabs some shut-eye. Wish I could. We fly.
Ten minutes out, the loadmaster tells us they ain't gonna be down
for long, and we're gonna hafta jump off the tailgate real smart-
like unless we wanna stay on the plane.
"Why?"
"'Cause otherwise we gonna get hit by rockets. Rocket City, ain't
you heard?"
Sh*t! I do not take this as a good sign. Okay, though. He has
inspired us to be prepared to un*ss this bird with rapidity. Single
guy ain't nothin' to waste a rocket on, so it's better than stayin'
aboard. Five minutes out, and I start to realize this IS a war zone.
Too late to un-volunteer? Yep. Damn!
We hit the strip hard and fast. Rough landin'. Seem to be movin'
kinda fast. Never did really get used to C-123's. The tail drops as
we begin to turn. We head for the gate. I'm gonna be first one off
and movin' away from this thin' as fast as I can. I'm not, though.
Now wheredahell did that old geezer come from? Don't care. Follow
that dude! I see he's headin' for a bunker. I also begin to realize
I see no one on the strip. Sh*t! Pick up the pace and dive for the
bunker. The 123 is just barely airborne when the first rocket hits.
I hear my first 122.
Phwip phwip phwip *)BOOM(*.
Two more before they stop. Don't hit nothin'. 'Cept my nerves.
Welcome to Kontum, RVN. I only learn later that there's a lot of
Rocket Cities in Viet Nam. If I'd known then, I'd've been lookin'
for a ride home.
We stick our heads back outta the bunker. Strip repair crew is out
and movin' already. A black painted jeep and a three-quarter-ton
wait about fifty meters away. A bored lookin' guy waves us over. The
other driver is a little sawed-off runt, with a flat nose and dark
brown skin. I met my first Montagnard.
He says, "CCC?" We say yeah. He got out and threw each of us a CAR-
15. Then he threw us a couple magazines. We locked and loaded
without askin'. The bored lookin' dude took the old geezer and left
in the jeep.
The 'yard, in perfect English, says, "Get on up, *ssholes, we gotta
get home for dinner."
Sh*t! I'd met my first wise-*ssed 'yard. But, since he was startin'
the truck and puttin' it in gear, we got on without arguin' a whole
bunch.
No top on this one either. I begin to suspect nobody puts tops on
vehicles in SEA. I'm wrong, but it is fairly common. Troops are
gonna get wet, what's the use in coverin' em? Equipment gets cover.
We drive through downtown Kontum. I meet my first White Mice, see my
first Vietnamese city, see too many ARVN screwin' off. Okay, it's
not all that different than I'd been told. We keep on goin'. Roll
on out the south side on the road to Pleiku. I look at the 'yard
driver and ask how far. He points at the low ridge line ahead. I see
a camp nestled along the top, huggin' it real tight. Okay, not far.
Maybe a klick. Tanks along the road, a check point at which we don't
stop, and nobody looks askance. Hhhhhmmm... I'd heard that CCC was
a privileged group. Never did have to stop at any check point when
in one of our own vehicles.
Get up the hill after crossin' the river and find this route runs
right through the middle of the fookin' compound! A major highway
through a defensive perimeter? Who designed this thing, anyway? And
it ain't Nha Trang. Raw sandbags and wood, everywhere. Mud and
puddles, everywhere. Somebody had obviously had a sale on concertina
and claymores, too. Damn! Really wasn't a swimmin, pool, was there?
We pull in on the west side in front of a captured .51 cal. rigged
for anti-aircraft. On the base is a crude plaque dedicatin' it to
Montagnard KIA. Yep, this was the right place. I think we found the
war. The 'yard, who turns out to be the Recon Company translator,
tells us to get out. While we do so, he calls out in some 'yard
dialect. A dude in a beret with a CAR-15 strung over his shoulder,
carryin' an umbrella like an English gentleman, saunters over. This
guy is outta a cartoon, and that's for sure. He's got no rank
insignia, so we just wait. Me and three other buck sergeants and a
Spec. 4.
He says "Hi, I'm Joe, which one's the Sweet Thing?"
Oh sh*t! My name got here first. I hesitantly own up. He looks at me
like an auctioneer sizin' up his sale and points the others at a
buildin' up north and says Security Company's thata way. Not wantin'
any part of this loon, they take off.
He says come on, and I do. We go inside the building, which turns
out to be Recon Company HQ. Two rooms. The outer looks like a day
room, pictures and a pool table. The pool table has apparently taken
a couple direct hits, and I don't see a lot of hope in playin' on
it. Shame, I'm not too bad with a cue. We go into the other room and
it's a small, efficient office.
He sticks out a hand and says, "Joe Stevens."
I take it slowly and say, "Mike McCombs."
Joe Stevens. MISTER RECON! THE Joe Stevens! Sh*t! And I thought he
was some kinda jerk. Sh*t! He knew my handle from elsewhere. Sh*t!
Might prove to be a long tour! Sh*t! He brings out the paper work
and I sign in. He says to have a sit and hang loose, Doc Thomas will
be right over. I'd heard of Doc, too. Real *sshole, I'd been told.
Went sour in his second tour. On his third, now. They said no one
stateside wanted him back. Ever. Okaaaaaay. Joe leaves. I wait.
About five minutes and Doc walks in. About my height, but skinny as
a rake handle. Face that could kill at twenty-five meters. I've met
the kind before. Can't show any weakness or he'll eat you. Okay, I'm
pretty good at bluffing, we'll see. He smiles. Oh f*ckinsh*t! Man,
I just got here! Sh*t!
He says, "Welcome, I'm Doc."
I say, "Thanks, I'm Mike, Top."
"Good to have you, got a job for you already."
Oh sh*t! "Sure, whatcha got in mind, Top?"
"RT Michigan needs a leader, you ready to run a team?"
F*ck, I just got here, man! Run a team of 'yards in the woods? You
gotta be sh*ttin' me. Fake it. "Okay, what first?"
He calls in a 'yard who takes me to the RT Michigan team house. Says
any old bunk'll do, it's vacant at the time. I figure they musta
DEROSed, three empty bunks. Okay, I choose one and throw my duffle
in a locker. Follow the 'yard to the supply shack. Get my basic
load, plus a CAR-15 that's not a loaner. Takes two trips to get it
all to the room. Sit down and contemplate the vagaries of military
assignments. Momma said there'd be days like this. Damn know-it-all.
Ten minutes of relaxation and there's a knock at the door. Two
'yards. The first one gives his name and introduces the other one. I
don't remember either one. The first one says the other one needs
leave 'cause his mother died. Okay, we're gonna play games right up
front. Not even this FNG was gonna buy this one. And besides, how
the hell they know someone's here already, ferchr*stsake? Let's go
to your bunks, I say. And they lead off. Short walk to the 'yard
barracks. I figure there's gotta be a team sergeant or some such,
and I can ask. We walk in and there's only two occupied bunks.
Their's. I begin to smell a rat. I ask. Yep, team didn't come back
last week. They didn't go 'cause it was only an eight man mission,
and they were junior. I'm startin' to get pissed. Doc's f*ckin' with
me already. Man, I just got here! Sh*t! F*ck! F*CK! Dead man's
team....
Back down to Recon HQ. Find the company clerk. Find the forms. Put
'em both on leave for two weeks. Don't care if anybody died or not.
I need time to regroup. F*ckit! Rustle up the guy with the money,
get 'em paid and out the gate. They figured they fooled me. Troops
are all the same, nationality irrelevant. Had found that out in
Brazil. F*ck that, too! Doc's gone for the day. Okay, *sshole, we'll
get it straight tomorrow. I go back out. There's Joe. Okay, I'll
deal with him first.
He's headin' for the mess. "He give you a team? Which one?"
"RT Michigan."
Joe frowns. Big frown. Okay, he didn't know.
"Come have a bite with me."
Okay, we go eat, and I tell him what I've done and why.
He smiles. "Okay, you don't sweat it. Come with me, I'll introduce
you around."
I begin to suspect Doc might be alone, here.
Had a damn good evenin'. Meet a bunch of crazy SOBs who will become
my family and my unit in short order. This place was gonna be all
right. Damn straight!
Still lookin' to get Doc.
Special Project
The program was, in general, referred to as "Command & Control,"
which was a total misnomer. It didn't command or control anything,
except under some very unusual conditions, which I'll mention later.
But C & C was the name. Actually, there was almost never cause to
refer to the whole program, at least not at my level. There was CCN,
CCC, and CCS, and that was enough; north, central and south - Da
Nang, Kontum, and Ban Me Thuot.
The program was launched in the early '60s by MACV SOG to provide
"strategic intelligence," the kind that went in front of the
president's briefer every mornin'. We worked in what we
euphemistically called "V Corps." These are the areas outside of the
four "corps areas" of the then-RVN. CCN ran north and west - North
Viet Nam and northern and central Laos. CCC ran southern Laos and
parts of Cambodia. CCS ran the rest of Cambodia. We also ran "risky"
areas in-country - the Tri-borders, the Cobrahead, and the Ashau
("Ah sh*t!" or "THE") Valley. Basically, we ran anythin' on, near,
or beyond the borders. That's why it was "strategic recon." It was
the sort of information that campaigns were based on, rather than
battles. The intelligence that guided the "Cambodian Incursion" was
largely gathered by CCS and CCC. The original intel came from the
USAF photo recons and "spook" sources - but it was the guys in funky
green that went and got the details for what unit was to go where
and what they were to do upon arrival. Air doesn't give you that
kind of data. And the Army brass, in general, has grave doubts about
"spook" data. Who can blame 'em? "Magic" has a bad reputation....
The Cambodian incursion was before my time, but I saw the photos.
Took some just like 'em later. Lot of guys died for very damn little
noticeable change in that campaign. But, I digress....
We also did other things that required our particular structure and
skills. BDAs on the ground. Again, photos and pilot perceptions
don't tell the whole story. Also did downed-pilot operations,
prisoner snatches, special types of interdictions, and preparation
for never-executed POW rescue operations. (Spent three weeks gettin'
ready for one once, only to have CCN bring back word they'd moved -
DAMN!) That lot was our venue - though the last was a mismatch of
unit and operation. They did know we could keep ourselves secretive,
and I think that's why we got the call. Everyone in camp wanted in
on those. But they never flew for real while I was in-country.
Odd list of duties, I admit. But, with the exception of the POW
rescue operations, they fit us. In order to do what we were supposed
to do in intel-gathering, we ran in VERY small units. I saw two-man
ops and eighteen-man ops. The average was six: two Americans and
four Montagnards. Very well paid 'yards, I might add. These were the
cream of an excellent crop. There is no way I can put into words how
good they were, how much we owed 'em, and how little we left 'em.
(Sorry, digressin' again. What we left behind gets to me sometimes.)
At any rate, I "know" of one-man ops, too. Losses were too high, we
gave 'em up.
The teams went lightly armed, heavily supplied. The basic idea was
that anythin' too large called attention to itself. A small team
could, hopefully, get in and out unobserved, bringin' back high
quality, timely intelligence. It worked. Got photos to prove it.
Hangin' on the Recon Company wall at CCC was a picture of an NVA
regiment on parade; dress right dress, eyes front, passin' in
review. Didn't take that one, just saw it there. Taken in THE
Valley, Tet 1968. Scare the hell out of you if you are sane. We
weren't; one-upmanship was the name of the game. That size team also
fulfilled the requirements of BDAs and the other things I mentioned
before. Worked okay, though we didn't save many pilots, and BDAs
were NOT popular assignments. It's amazin' how much activity there
can be in an area only fifteen minutes after a B-52 strike. It is
NOT an anti-personnel weapon, and that's a fact.
The heart of any of the three units was Recon Company - the guys
with the sleepy look who don't smell so good. Support forces were
there as well, of course. Security companies, mess, supply, brass,
and so on, existed on each compound. The compounds of all three were
classified in and of themselves. Nobody got in, unless we were in
the mood or orders came down from way up the line. It is nice to
tell the IG where to go. On the flip side, no stateside
entertainment on-site. We had to go elsewhere. In our case, to the
air base at Pleiku. Only performer we had on the compound while I
was there was Maggie, Martha Raye. LTC Martha Raye, USA Nurses
Corps, in case you didn't know. She earned her leaves in WWII and
Korea. She could go anywhere any guy with a green buffer rag was, no
questions asked. She had one, too. Wasn't official, but she had the
whole war suit: patch, jump boots, the whole ball of wax. Went
through jump school in Thailand to make it official. She was one of
us, and we all loved her....
So far, so good. Nothin' one didn't know had to have taken place,
even if one didn't know the details. It gets worse from here....
First, military rank meant nothin' within Recon Company. Position
mattered. The Recon Team leader ("one zero") ran the team. It was
not uncommon to have a SSG as one zero, SFC as one one and a 1LT as
the one two. Nobody complained. The "company commander" was an old
MSG/E-8 while I was there. I'm not sure an officer ever occupied the
position. C & C always was an NCO's domain.
Second, in the field we didn't wear uniforms - at least, not
American ones, sometimes NVA ones. Weapons were a mixed lot -
Soviet, French, British, American, you name it. I carried an RPD - a
Chinese made, Warsaw Pact, squad light machine gun. Better than an
M-60 in my opinion, certainly a LOT lighter, a critical criteria.
American was okay, as there was so much combat loss in Viet Nam that
it wasn't all that unusual to see NVA with American weapons.
Clothing was modified foreign jungle fatigues, or local if the
American was small enough. Mine were French, customized to my
satisfaction. My pack was local, web gear was British (except for
the stabo-rig, which was NATO standard, and American), food local,
made to our specs. The idea was to be unobtrusive, mess with their
minds, and provide "plausible deniability." We knew that there were
teams of "unknowns" in Southeast Asia, and we never figured out who
they were. The NVA must have known it too. (To some other units, we
were probably the "unknowns," which gives food for thought.) Also,
it could have been embarrassin' for the U.S. to admit it had ground
troops in "V Corps." Anyway, that's the way we did it. Others did
carry American equipment, it bein' acceptable because of the combat
losses. Our cameras were Pentax half-frames. Not the best, but we
had a good darkroom. They were rugged enough for what we were doin',
and that was the ticket. Don't think a big fancy Nikon would have
cut it. We got pretty good at drawin' maps, too. The ones the U.S.
had were NOT good once you got away from the coast. Fortunately,
pilots seem to always know where they are, so we could always back
track from the exfil point.
In addition to gatherin' pretty pictures, we always had somethin' or
the other else to do while in a "hole." (A "hole" is either an LZ or
an AO, usually 6K by 6K, dependin' upon context.) A popular pastime
was puttin' out NVA ammo boxes (they come in peel-open galvanized
tin boxes, real strange to an American) that had one in every thirty
rounds packed with petin instead of gunpowder. You will hear some
Nam Vets mention that they had instructions NOT to use captured
ammunition. This is one of the reasons why. Low casualty production
rate, but if you're in the area anyway.... Also, we placed space-
age bugs and some other things far less pleasant. That's the sleazy
side of the job - the price you pay for 'em lettin' you do the fun
stuff.
The fun stuff was gettin' as much as you could without gettin'
caught. The later bein' the "prime directive." I guess I don't have
to tell you that if we ran into anyone, they outnumbered us. We
tried not to get found. We would walk an extra twenty klicks rather
than set down too close to final objective. Doesn't always work, of
course. Sometimes you get caught. Some teams never came back. The
Lord alone knows what became of 'em. Just one day, no more radio
checks. Recon Team Michigan failed to come back just before I got to
Kontum. Not a distress call, not a peep was heard. Not unlike a
submarine, just disappeared from the face of the earth. We were very
careful. We also had a high rate of turnover. Lost most after the
first mission. "They" say that if you lasted through five, odds were
in your favor. "They," however, were not to be trusted....
That's a touch of what C & C was about. I know some of it is pretty
hard to believe, it was not the "Nam Norm". But it is true. It is
one of the reasons there are SF-specific vet groups. They know, and
accept it as a matter of course. I did too, until I talked to a
group of vets in Massachusetts in 1974. Got labeled the local
equivalent of a "damned liar" in thirty seconds flat. Wasn't quite
that polite a phrase, either. Fortunately, I was the more sober, and
got out in one piece. I went back and talked to some of my friends
in SF. The same had happened to 'em, too. Classification, it seems,
has its downside. Like I said to start with, low PR budget. I don't
talk about it much these days.
Oh, yeah, the time we really got to "command & control." When we had
GOOD intel, and knew it, we'd radio that fact in via "Covey."
(Usually an O-2 that could be mistaken for flyin' recon, that was
our radio relay.) If we got into trouble on the way out with that
intel, we got MASSIVE support. Team leader became "AGC", Allied
Ground Commander, for the AO in question. This allowed diversion of
aircraft, ground troops or virtually ANYTHING else to get the stuff
out, up to and includin' diversion of B-52 strikes. We did NOT get
this support unless we had declared in advance we were "loaded." It
is not pleasant for a lowly E-5 to assume this position. But someone
"upstairs" always wanted the intel real bad. Some got a high on it,
too. It takes all kinds, they say....
Montagnard
"Montagnard." The word sounds funny to me. It always has. From the
first mention of the word, back in SFTG at Ft. Bragg, it was
"'yard," and it always will be in my mind. I'm not gonna try to give
an ethnography here, that was done by Gerald Hickey in Free in the
Forest, many years ago. Just wanna say a few things about some of
'em I've met. None of the "noble savage" bullsh*t. Some friends of
mine, is all. Just some friends.
The first 'yard I ever met was the Recon Company translator, at the
strip upon arrival in Kontum. He was a shock, even though I'd seen
pictures and had plenty of descriptions over the years. All of
4'10", maybe 100 lbs, dark and animated, and a regular wise ass. I
learned later he was an okay dude, and came by his attitude
honestly. He'd been translator for RT California once upon a time.
The limp didn't show much, but the right leg didn't work too good.
An American would get a Purple Heart and a trip home. He did get the
trip home. Which was about 500 meters. Now he didn't work on a team.
But they kept him employed. Call it "keepin' the faith...."
My next two 'yards were the ones who tried to con me out of a trip
home. Come to think of it, they succeeded. Anyway, they don't
count. I didn't even catch their names.
Then came Mr. Weet. Weet was Jarai, the large tribe/people that
inhabit the Central Highlands of Viet Nam and spill over into
adjacent areas of Cambodia and Laos. He spoke seven 'yard
dialects/languages, French, English and a couple Vietnamese
dialects. Didn't read in any of 'em, though. Which is okay, as there
isn't much to read in a 'yard ville, anyway. Helluva mind, anyway.
Blows the hell out of the word "primitive."
Mr. Weet was the current translator for RT California. Joe assigned
him to show me around and familiarize me with the 'yards my second
day there. First thing he did was take me down to the 'yard barracks
and introduce me to Sarge. Sarge really had a name, of course. But
I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. He was just "Sarge" to
me, RT California, and every 'yard in camp. He was the "elder" or
"headman" in camp. He looked it. He couldn't have been over thirty-
five, but he had an agelessness about him that really struck home. A
wispy beard, a fair sized, erect stature, and a perpetual pipe, set
him aside from all our troops. When he spoke, everyone stopped and
listened. Some folks just have TheWay about 'em; natural leaders,
wise before their years, knowledgeable in what is important. Sarge
was that way. When we had the shaman come to the camp for the
EyeCrud, even he deferred to Sarge. A leader among men, and would
have been anywhere, anytime.
Weet also introduced me to the rest of the team. They were an odd
lot, held together by the will power of Joe and Sarge. Four
different tribes were represented: Jarai, Rahde, Sedang and Bru. And
their looks were as diverse as their tribes. Punch was the smallest
at about 4'6", Drog the tallest at about 5'4". The age variance was
from around twenty (Punch) to mid-forties (another one of those
whose name eludes me.) With the exception of Weet, none of 'em spoke
more than a few words of English, and those mostly tactical or
profane or both. They all knew "fuginamboose", for example. I always
thought it meant "f*ckin' ambush," but I could have been wrong.
Weet then toured the camp and showed me what it looked like to the
'yards. Quite different from what Joe had shown me the previous
night. Which is what I think Joe intended. The 'yards were fightin'
a different war than we were, we simply happened to overlap on
missions. If you didn't understand that right up front, you never
got far with the 'yards. Weet made sure I knew it. I didn't fully
realize what he was doin' then. I don't think I really understood
the real situation for many years afterwards. Joe had asked him to
size me up, and he had decided I passed muster. Those who didn't get
the 'yards approval never made it to command a team. This wasn't in
the rules, "we" were in charge. Except that without the 'yards
unstintin' cooperation, you never could look good enough to go
anywhere. They might like you a lot, like they did Mortar Peter, but
they wouldn't do those extra things to make you look good. They
always made me look good. Weet did that for me. One more thing I owe
the man.
We did this sort of thing for three days. Weet knew everybody and
everything goin' on. I'd eat meals with the Americans, then spend
the day wanderin' the compound and environs with Weet. Hell, he even
took me home to meet his wife and kids in the ville. And showed me
my first jug. Took me about a day to realize that this guy was a
friend for life. Funny life we stumble through. But I loved the guy
from then on. Till a mine got him. Never mind that for now, it's
another story.
Each team had from eight to sixteen 'yards. Then the security
company and the Mike Force, when it moved into our compound about
four months after I got there, added another 250 or so. The ARVN
company in the compound had another twenty as scouts and point men.
Call it 420 'yards or so employed as soldiers in our camp. We had
another fifty or so, mostly older men and women, employed as labor.
Nearly all the skilled positions were filled by ethnic Vietnamese,
by political necessity. The 'yards are to Vietnamese what the Native
Americans were to the white settlers in the 1870's; savages to be
put down and herded onto reservations. They had euphemisms, of
course. But the most common term was "moi." I don't recall now what
the literal meanin' was. Think of it as "nigger," and you'll be
close to the intent.
The laborers and many of the families of the soldiers lived in a
ville just off the north side of the camp. It housed about 1000
folk, kids and all. Unlike a "natural" ville, it was a hodgepodge of
tribes and sub-cultures. The rulin' body was a group of "elders,"
rather than the normal "headman/woman." Conflictin' habits and norms
were sorted out by this group of men and women, and it kept 'em
hoppin'. It was also bigger than the usual tribal ville, with over
200 longhouses up on poles. And it wasn't surrounded by rice paddies
or huntin' grounds. The wages of the workers in camp provided food
and clothin' from the Vietnamese stores just outside the north gate
of camp. Not like anythin' I saw elsewhere in the highlands. But it
worked.
'Yards are much like any people in any time and place. The variety
of appearance, temperament, spirituality, work ethic, skill,
intelligence, and so on, was as great as it was among the Americans.
And, by and large, like the Americans and the Vietnamese, they were
good people. Many of 'em became fast friends, like Weet. None became
enemies. Wish I could say the same for the Americans and the
Vietnamese about that. I can't summarize them briefly. You can't do
that for any People. But I can say that there are no other People on
earth, other than my own, with whom I would care to spend a lifetime
but them.
People of the earth and forest. People of another place and time.
Glad I could share some time with 'em. It wasn't long enough. It
couldn't possibly be.
Hootch
Funny word, hootch. As I grew up it meant booze. Specifically,
illicit booze. Spelled it without the "t", too. It didn't mean that
in Nam, though. There, a hootch was a structure in which you lived
and slept. Specifically, a "field expedient abode." Air bases and
other semi-permanent installations had barracks. These are not
hootches. A hootch has to look..., well..., ramshackle. Tents could
be hootches. A couple pieces of cardboard with some tin on the roof
could be a hootch. Ours were considerably better than that. But they
were still just hootches.
Another thing about hootches. They sorta just happen. Somebody
always starts with a plan of what the area should look like and how
it should be laid out. It doesn't last through the construction
phase, however. Too much personality involved. Too little real
construction material involved. But in the older camps, like mine,
you can see that at least somebody, once upon a time, had thought
about it.
I lived in several different hootches while in Kontum. The first was
RT Michigan. Inside it was pretty much like the others. But time and
the vagaries of material and personal opinions had changed it from a
single, simple structure into a "complex." Over the years, roofs
(well..., tin) had been added over walkways, outlyin' conexes had
been annexed, extrusions and additions had happened, and it had
evolved. Sorta like an old shoppin' center that first covered its
walkways and then later roofed over the whole place. Four or five
buildings of four teams each had grown together into such a
hodgepodge that it was difficult to impossible to tell where one
ended and the next began. Mostly, we didn't bother. It was a maze of
passages and dead ends. I was glad to move out when I got
transferred to RT California. Was gettin' real tired of gettin'
lost.
RT California held sway in one quarter of a buildin'. Three other
teams shared the same basic structure, each with two exterior doors
and a couple screen windows with drop-down, tin covered awnings.
They dropped to keep the wind out when it blew. They sorta worked
for that. Inside was about ten foot by thirty foot. Outside, the
first four feet from the ground were cinder block. Above that it was
clapboard. Small attic under the gabled tin roof that was covered
with sandbags. The sandbags did two things; it kept the wind from
removin' our roof, and it covered the holes we blew in the tin
shootin' rats with the silenced .22. RT California's section of the
roof had over twice the number of sandbags as any other section of
roof in Recon country. I won't mention any names....
A single bunk sat in each corner of the hootch, with lockers in
between the bunks. This kept farts at a more or less safe distance.
At least in our hootch. Others stacked 'em or made diverse
arrangements. The bunks, that is. At the foot of each of our bunks
was a homemade foot locker for gear. They also were the only
furniture besides the beds for sittin' on, or playin' chess, or
pinochle, or whatever. Well, we did have one small table - for the
hot plate and the black-eyed peas. As that implies, we also had
electricity. At least, most of the time.
We had one unoccupied bunk while I was with the team. At the foot of
that one sat a five cubic foot refrigerator. That was always full of
cold stuff to drink. Beer, coke, tea, lemonade or whatever took the
mood. There was never any room for anythin' solid. One has to
maintain priorities, y'know. We also had shelves here and there
around the walls for this and that. Radios, a phonograph, lamps, and
odds and ends accumulated there. And nails everywhere in the walls
for hangin' things - web gear, guns, gas masks, coats, hats,
umbrellas, pictures, you name it. Experience proves that virtually
anythin' can be hung on a nail. Includin' me - but that's another
story altogether.
Two of our bunks were home made with thin Army mattresses. Two were
cheap grey metal with thin Army mattresses. Still, much better than
no mattress at all. Pillows were of all shapes, sizes and varieties.
Same thing with the linen. The only thing common to all was the
poncho liners for blankets. Camouflaged. In case the enemy came in,
he wouldn't be able to find the bunks. At least, that was as
reasonable a theory as any. Real blankets would have been a better
idea. Still, one whole hell of a lot better than many in Nam ever
saw.
Not really glamorous for decor. But what the hell, it was only a
hootch. It's not like any of us thought of it as home or anythin'.
Except when we weren't there, of course.
Saigon
Off to Long Binh for school. They call it "One Zero School." Teach
you how to run recon. Nice theory. What they really do is teach you
what a jungle looks like and how to live in it. Just outta Panama,
this is a cruise for me. SEA has jungles, but not the same as Latin
America. I worry about gettin' shot at on the final test op, but
that's all. The jungle's a snap. I end up doin' more teachin' that
learnin'. Except about dodgin' bullets, of course.
New class comin' in, and we gotta un*ss the hootches a day early. So
somebody asks if we wanna go to Saigon. Sure, I never been there,
let's go. Jump on a short hop and head for town. Saigon is
unimpressive. Ain't never been here before, but I've been to Mexico
City, and this place is about the same. I have a hard time gettin'
excited over crowded streets and exotic smells. Seen too many, and
know what goes on in the back streets. I'm badly disappointed. We
drive around long enough for me to get seriously turned around, and
pull up at this shabby lookin' buildin' with a 'yard on the gate.
Safehouse. The projects keep it here for guys passin' through to
hang out in when they're in town for one thing or the other. Nothin'
visible from the outside, but it's a fookin' fortress with limited
fields of fire. The doors, even the internal ones, are huge, heavy,
steel-sheathed monsters with code locks and heavily armed guards.
Not 'cause anybody's ever tried to get in. 'Cause it makes guys
from the field feel better in Saigon. Damn sure did me. And maybe
it had other purposes. Those did not make me feel better.
We get four-man rooms, and it's impossible to tell how many there
are. The halls go every whichway, and they're all locked off from
each other. I suspect other things go on here too. That's okay, got
plenty to occupy my mind without worryin' about extraneous stuff.
Suffice it to say that the place is big, and tight....
Our dinin' room is public, though. About twenty guys share the meal.
Besides us newbies, there's guys in from CCN, CCS and some of the
projects still runnin' out there on the borders. Afterwards,
there's a chance to go out on the town. The guy at the door issues
'Get Out of Jail Free' cards to those that go. I note that none of
the guys who been here a while go out. So I stay, too. Usually means
nothin' goin' on worth seein'. Matches my first impressions. Time
for a little intel gatherin'.
We adjourn to a lounge somewhere on the second floor. Maybe fifteen
of us left. There's a no-host bar in the corner, big overstuffed
chairs and everythin' but windows. Nice place. Coulda been in any
first class hotel in the world. But the clothes on the guys in the
room tells you it's Saigon. OD is "in" this season. Okay, we sit
down to serious dialog. I get to know about the guys up north, the
guys down south, and the guys out west. An education. Not a war I
fought, for the most part. The A-Camps are bad news, now. As if they
were ever good. The "rural pacification program" has gone
Vietnamese, and everybody's glad to see it go. That sorta thing.
Basic intel to make you feel like part of the family. Though I have
to admit to wonderin' about the nature of the family.
Here, I first get the stories about ops gone bad in the woods. The
disappearin' teams, the long walk-outs without radios, the
flashlights and the bad guys called NVA. Not a lot of VC left, I'm
told. All NVA now. I'll find out they're right, later.
I also hear from CCN about the Ashau. I shudder about that, and hope
my number never comes up. Other places, too. Bad places, with evil
names; Cobrahead, Parrot's Beak. Black Virgin Mountain.... I hear
about ops I can't and don't believe. It can be tough sortin' the
truth out from the fiction. And I've been tryin' for years. Shrug.
Whaddahell, it's just jaw-jackin'.
We musta talked damn near all night. Without windows, time is hard
to track, even lookin' at your watch. There are ghosts down the
halls that flit from door to door. Ya don't ask. You play some cards
and shoot the sh*t. I get to tell about Panama and the ops we ran
into Latin America. Most of 'em ain't been there, and it sounds
kinda romantic to the uninitiated. It ain't. I try to remember that
when they're talkin'. Don't work, of course. I'll figure that out
later.
Finally we filter off to bed. In the morning, we head for the strip
and plane rides back to the war. It wasn't anythin' special or all
that worth rememberin'. Except the house. I always wondered what
really went on there. Shrug. Probably blown to sh*t a long time ago.
My only trip to Saigon. My last night before the war. Kinda dull
stuff. 'Less you're a spook.
But I'm just a soldier. Thank God! Spooks do crazy stuff....
CIB
A "CIB" is the Combat Infantryman's Badge. Blue rectangle with a
musket and a big wreath. You get it for bein' shot at - well,
technically, for bein' an infantryman in combat. Boils down to the
same thing, though. Easy enough to get. The EIB, Expert
Infantryman's Badge, is much harder. Schools, tests, a major work
out. But you can guess which is more valued. It means you've "seen
the elephant." Means a lot to 'em what's got one. Or wants one.
Now, Nam is not the first place I got shot at. But if it's not a
"combat zone," it don't count. So, unless you were in WWII or Korea,
Nam was the only game in town if you wanted one. Not the reason I
went, but I damn sure wanted one when I got there. Stupid. Gettin'
shot at is not cool. I get it anyway.
I've been in-country for a couple months. I've straphung a few
times, but managed to sneak and peek effectively enough that I ain't
been shot at. Neither were dry holes. No CIB. Not smart enough to
let it ride. The team I'm on simply isn't. It was wasted just before
I arrived. I got some 'yards, and that's it. So I straphang as often
as I can.
I cozy up to RT Washington, it bein' ready to go into a suspected
"very wet" hole in the next couple days. They say, "Sure, you ever
carry an RPD?"
"No, I be CAR-15 man. Seen 'em, fired 'em, but never carried one."
"Well, you be one now, Mat's sick."
"Okay, let's run out to the range."
Fifteen minute drive out the other side of OP Alpha. Hand me an RPD.
I never fired one that had been "modified." Barrel's cut back to
just in front of the gas cylinder, and that's cranked wide open.
Bipod is gone. It gets real hot, and the forward wood grip is
wrapped with asbestos and green tape. Butt's been recut for a bigger
shoulder. Don't matter, never get it to your shoulder, anyway.
Unlike an American machine gun, it uses a drum. Not a wind-up, just
a box to hold the belt. Non-disintegratin' links. Drum holds 100 to
125 rounds, dependin' on how tight you crank the roll. Hang another
twenty-five outside, and you max at 150. With a 150 rounder, it
weighs in just slightly less than an M-60 without any rounds. Good
for small teams.
Range is just an open field with a beat-to-sh*t treeline as a
backstop.
"Okay, hose off some rounds to get a feel."
Drop some six-seven round bursts. They go pretty much where I want
'em. Kicks a little, and I'll have to rock up on the pistol grip in
a big burst. Fire's good, though.
"Now, do a sweep."
This is not a regulation range, and I know what he means. I put the
muzzle down, and drop rounds in longer bursts from five feet to
twenty-five feet out, swingin' slowly. He shows me how to recover
the non-disintegratin' links as they break off in twenty-five round
lengths. Stuff 'em in your shirt front. Hard to replace, so you do
it. Okay. Got 100 rounds left, now what. He goes out and plants some
cardboard in the woods beyond the treeline. I stand at twenty-five
meters. He says to hose 'em with the remainder. Okay. I grease some
cardboard from the hip. Was always pretty good with a '60. He
brings back the cardboard. I'm on the team. Some pretty dead lookin'
cardboard.
That night I learn to strip and clean it. I learn to love it. Sweet
piece of 'chinery. Hand load the belts. Every fifth round a tracer.
Green. That'll take some gettin' used to.
Next few days we go out and practice IA (Immediate Action) drills.
Point man or team leader does this, you do that. Fire from over
here, you go over there. Basic sh*t. Teams are different, so I try
to do it real good. F*ckups get ya dead. I be bright lad, and it
goes well. I'll walk behind point with the firepower. Okay. Can you
tell I ain't got a clue, yet? Back in camp, we pack our bags. I find
out how many rounds you carry. Sh*t! Gonna be heavy. Big sigh.
Sweet gun, though. I'll make it. We go over the insert and mission
in general. Gonna see if a regimental HQ is where they think it is.
I don't get the camera this trip, even though I be good sneaky
peter. One zero on this team likes to do it hisveryownself. Okay,
his team. We plan and rehearse. Looks like a lot of folk in there.
One zero says we'll do some huntin' when we're done so I can get my
CIB. Hot damn! I'm in!
Zero-too-damned-dark-thirty and we eat a light breakfast and climb
on the renta-slicks. Drivers know where to go, and we're off. Stop
and refuel once. Drop off that god forsaken hilltop and into
Cambodia. Thirty minutes later we peel into an LZ and move out.
Covey says it looks quiet, but there's some activity to the south.
Okay, we're goin' west. Spend a night before we get to where we're
goin. Next day, around noon, we set up on a slope above where the
bad guys are supposed to be. One zero and one 'yard go for a looksee
with the camera. Come back just before sundown with big, sh*t-eatin'
grins. We're in fat city. Move off a couple klicks and set up for
the night. Tom (the one zero) tells me it's right where it was
supposed to be, and the place is crawlin' with guys in khaki. Fills
us all in, 'case we lose him on the way out. SOP.
"Now," he says, "we gonna go huntin'."
Damn straight!
We swin' back east and then south. Two days on the trail, but we're
goin' slow, so it's not a problem. Don't see nobody worth pickin'
on. Couple papa-sans in their paddies, nothin' else. Around mid-
afternoon on the second day we find a trail, highspeed variety.
Heavy usage. Good sh*t. We drop back and watch. Every hour or so we
see troops goin' east. Mostly ten men and less. Carryin' heavy
supplies. Perfectomundo! In the mornin' we'll set ambush less than a
klick from a good LZ we'd passed earlier. Tom makes the call to
Covey and arranges exfil and some air in the neighborhood, just in
case. Straight outta the text book. CIB time, folks. Don't get any
easier than this.
Next morning, between first light and sunrise, we head out. Form a
single line on a little game trail the 'yards found and go back
toward the trail. Whoops! Point freezes and does a hand signal. I
think it's the "jump right and freeze" one. So I do. Land in a pile
of bushes and start lookin'. What I see is a khaki covered leg and a
bata boot. F*ck! I start to come up to get my .45 into play; the RPD
has swung outta my hands. This little f*cker has an RPD, too. He's
got it up. He tries to bring it down. SMACK! Right onto my head. I'm
too fookin' close. He looks to readjust. The .45 is good, though. He
gets everythin' it's got, point blank. It runs outta bullets way too
soon. Sh*t! It's gettin' noisy, real fast now. I look around for the
team, and they ain't there. Oh sh*t! F*ckf*ckf*ck! I remember the
signal. It was really "jump left and run like hell!" Sh*t! Better
late than never. I do that thing. I am missin' peer group support.
Soldiers do NOT like that. There's shootin' behind me, but I don't
stop and repay the compliment..
Thirty meters the other side of the trail, I find the team. They
heard me comin' and figured it had to be an American 'cause of the
noise. One zero looks at me and gets real white-like. I feel my
face, and it's just covered with blood. Damned scalp wounds! I give
him a thumbs up to show I'm okay. He don't believe it, but decides
it don't really matter, it's time to go now, anyway. We hear more
rustlin' behind me. We drop a basic load in that direction, along
with some grenades. Then we dash for the LZ, Tom yellin' into the
radio. The sun's barely up, and Covey says Wilco. We stop and leave
some presents on our back trail. Only gotta slow 'em for a little
while. We move out again. We're gonna beat the birds to the LZ, so
we wander a little bit, Tryin' not to let 'em know for sure where
we're goin'.
We get to the LZ about five minutes before the first snake shows. We
hear the booms behind us. Chuck's coming, but it looks like he's too
slow gettin' organized. Musta been as surprised as I was. Tom sends
the snakes to slow 'em down some more. Jumi, his translator, takes a
look at my scalp and slaps a dressin' on. He smiles. Thank God! We
hear the slicks. Spread out and get ready to go. Off in the distance
we hear the snakes havin' fun. Sleepin' on the job can be fatal for
'em as well as us. We pile on the slick and head back for the
firebase. Door gunner looks at me like I'm gonna die right there in
front of him. I give him a thumbs up, too.
Back on the firebase, Jumi cleans the wound and changes the dressin'
while Tom reams me a new *sshole. I coulda got 'em all killed. I
hang my head, he's right. I am maximally embarrassed and not too
convinced I should be doin' this for a livin'. Maybe I should just
go infantry or somethin'....
Just before we get on the slick again, he reaches into his pocket
and pulls out a CIB and pins it on me. Wherethef*ck that come from?
He laughs and says I buy tonight. It won't be official for a few
weeks, but I pay up front. Helluva deal. Jumi produces a "Vietnam
Hunting Club" patch and pins it on, too. Damn straight! The guys on
the firebase look at us and the 'yards like we just got off a space
ship. Okay, they look funny to me, too. We pass through here a lot,
and some old-timer will fill the FNGs in. We wave as we fly off.
Some of 'em even wave back. Don't matter, got my CIB! Hot damn!
Don't want no stars for the sonuvabitch, though.
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\\(O)___(O)___(O)___(O)___(O)___(O)//
_____________
/ / / \ \ \
/ / / \ \
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
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\ | /
\ | /
\ | /
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\o/
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| | " === |_______________| |-----:::
|._ - " ) |_|___|
/ / |___|
/_/
Rocket Sunrise
Last night was party night on the compound. All the clubs were open
late, the booze flowed freely, and nearly everyone is sleepin' VERY
late. The security company is at post, and peace is upon the
kingdom.
phwip phwip phwip *)BOOOM(*
Adrenalin dump! Camp is awake. NOW!
phwip phwip phwip *)BOOM(* phwip phwip *)BOOOM(*
Hangovers and all, bodies with web gear and guns head for the
bunkers and berm. The 4.2 pit comes alive, hatches unlocked. The 80s
receive the same treatment. Teams begin to straggle into the
reckless positions. The yellin' that inevitably accompanies incomin'
has begun. I'm half way between the hootch and the bunker....
phwip phwip PHWIP *)BOOM(* boom, BoOm, bOOm KABOOM!
Sh*t! Secondaries! I was runnin' before. Now, I'm sober and flyin'.
I dive through the door to the bunker, landin' like a sack of sh*t
on a pile of 'yards and Americans already aboard. Willy's at the
slit, searchin' the wire. Mortar Peter is on the company net. No HQ
yet. Just teams in the bunkers. Tryin' to find out what's been hit.
PHWIP PHwip phwip *)BOOM(* phwip phwip phwip *blank* phwip *)BOOM(*
The siren finally begins to wail. Incoming! No sh*t! Give the guy in
the TOC a medal!
booobooom, boom, pop, pop, popppppp
Sh*t! Small explosions! Less than fifty meters!
Ohsh*tohsh*tohsh*tohsh*t!!!! We check weapons, check loads, check
each other, check our pucker factors. We say "ohsh*t!" a LOT. I
learn what it sounds like in four different 'yard dialects.
Unmistakable, it's "ohsh*t!" in any language.
Roar! ROAR! BOOOOOOOOOOM!
Claymores and the reckless at the north gate! The radio starts to
sound like a chinese fire drill. Suns barely up, but the command net
is howlin'. Nearest American birds are in Pleiku! More "ohsh*ts!" We
hear the ARVN slicks on the lower pad in panic starts, tryin' to get
into the air where a lower probability of gettin' hit exists.
Somewhere near the 'yard barracks a big diesel roars to life. The
team assigned to our blackmarket fire engine has an objective.
OHSH*Tohsh*tohsh*t! Willy reviews with us the E&E plan,
"justincase." Willy makes it a single word. Willy's a slow talkin'
southerner. BIG "oh sh*t!"
phwip phwip phwip *)BOOM(* phwip phwip *blank*
The fire engine is heard approachin' again from the other direction.
They stop three bunkers down and everyone piles into their bunker,
the rig deserted. I stick my head out the door, big black billows of
smoke from the north gate and the vicinity of the tower across I-2.
I finally realize I'm NOT hearin' any small arms fire.
boom, boom, boom.....boom, boom
Willie pete's by the tower. Curiosity now. "WellI'llbedamned!"
replace the "Oh sh*ts!" No more reckless. No more mines. Still no
small arms. The 4.2 gets off one round toward the local "rocket
ridge" before the ARVN ships are up and into the fire fan. The
pilots are apparently pissed and not thinking, they're flyin'
straight from the camp toward the ridge. So much for returnin' fire.
Big regular "sh*t!"
Word's out on the net. The Covey Club below the tower was hit. The
booze cooked off. Somebody had left a case of willie pete's in the
back room. We're short on willin' volunteers to fight the fire, and
we all LOVE the Covey Club. Another rocket hit the ARVN recoilless
west of the north gate, settin' off one round and activatin' a
strin' of claymores. That turns out to be the first blank, it buried
itself and went off late. The second blank is buried to the fins in
the mine field just west of the gate itself. We blow it later that
day.
One minor injury from shrapnel at the ARVN site hit; the delay
allowed everyone to get out. Big John in the Covey hootch next to
the club is a little charred around the edges and gets evacuated to
Pleiku. Everyone else is okay, though there will be a major laundry
day tomorrow.
The siren finally stops. There is a run on O2 and benedryl at the
dispensary. In two days we'll have a new hootch raisin'.
Another beautiful mornin' in Viet Nam.
Rocket sunrise....
Hootch Raisin'
Ever been to a barn raisin'? All the men get together and put up the
barn while the women fix the meal and do whatever else is the local
custom - quiltin' bee, sit and gossip, watch over the children,
whatever. Well, a hootch raisin' is somethin' like that. Without
the women. At least at our place, 'cause we didn't have any except
the maids. No kids or quilts, either. Whaddahell! Hootch has gotta
go up, anyoldway. We have this deal with the NVA, see. They blow 'em
down and we put 'em up. Then they come along and blow 'em down
again. We figger whoever's ahead when the war ends will be the
winner. We want it to be us. So, day before yesterday they blew the
Covey rider's hootch all to hell, and today we're gonna put it back
up. The ARVN think we're crazy. Well..., they're probably right.
At first light, Paul's out checkin' the site to be sure there's no
more hot spots from the fire. We did our best to put it all out once
the willie petes quit cookin' off, but ya never know for sure till
someone climbs into the wreckage and starts pokin' and proddin'. At
chow he puts out the word that the Covey riders would be greatly
obliged if'n we saw fit to drop by and help pound a nail or two. We
allow as we might find some time if the beverages are cold, free,
and available. Everybody knows the outcome, but it's formula and
ritual now. Gotta do it right or it'll just burn down again.
Superstition is powerful stuff. Paul says he reckons that can be
arranged, and the deal is done. In half an hour we'll all sorta
saunter over and see what we can do.
It takes that half hour to sort out the details. The materials will
be there before we start. But the rockets also got officer's row and
did a lot of damage to the mess hall. Sort out who's gonna do what,
since all the teams have been tasked with providin' labor for the
other jobs. Everybody wants to go to the hootch raisin'. Hell of a
lot more fun than a simple construction job.
To the sound of saws and hammers by the mess hall, twenty of us show
up at the site with tools, shovels and assorted equipment.
Washington brings an old fridge, California a spare bunk, somebody
else a couple lockers, and all the accoutrements of a hootch. And we
set to work....
Takes a good hour to clear the site of debris. It's a cool morning,
but we're sweatin' hard and heavy real soon. A little grab-ass, but
everybody's puttin' their heart into it. Might be 'cause we see some
of the cooks startin' a pig roastin' on a spit over by the tower.
Nah! Couldn't be that. We're just good people....
The concrete pad looks intact once the rubble's gone. Makes it easy.
Paul pries the remains of the old six-by-sixes outta their holes and
we put some new ones in. Four guys to a wall, and the framin' goes
real fast. Paul moves around, changin' a window here, a door there.
As they start to raise 'em, Ferris and I run around drillin' holes
and runnin' wire for outlets, switches and lights. No inspectors
around, but we do it right, anyway. The guys who gonna live here are
friends.
Half the guys start slappin' up plywood while the other half go
inside and put up the internal walls. Don't take all that long, we
ain't buildin' for posterity. More plywood inside, once the wire's
run. A party of five breaks off and starts on the roof frame, while
we finish the interior with the ends of the wires and a couple doors
scavenged from the old officer's row. How they gonna know what's
missin' anyhow? Good doors, too.
Put up the last of the frame, hang a couple exterior doors, put some
drop-down shutters on the windows, and break for lunch. Six hours
and all that's left is the roof and some odds and ends. Wouldn't
cut it stateside, but this here is the Nam, man. It's dry and it's
sound. What more you want in a hootch, anyway? The mess hall is
comin' along just fine when we get there. Everybody is hot and
stinky, but we don't give a damn. Dai uy Simmons is soaked to the
bone in his own sweat and grinnin' from ear to ear. He confides to
me he tapped the water lines and ran a tap into his new room. Sh*t,
you ain't supposed to do that. But a tap in your own room...? I
decide I can't fault him, I'da done it too. Tell him I'm proud of
him, and if he's in the neighborhood of my hootch sometime later....
We both get a good laugh. I don't tell him about the doors, of
course. One of 'em had his name on it. Recon Club springs for a few
cases of beer, and the newly "remodeled" mess hall gets a good
breakin' in.
Back to Covey country. A couple of the Covey pilots have shown up
from the air strip, and they brought house warmin' presents for the
riders. Hell, they even scrounged up some AC. Good group of guys,
for zoomies. They roll up their sleeves and join right on in. The
beer at lunch started it, and now it starts to move a little more
freely. The roast pig is startin' to stink real purrty, and we be
highly motivated.
We hang the tin and fill the sandbags to hold it in place. Put some
vents in the gables and screen 'em and the windows over. Don't take
long, and there's a regulation hootch just a sittin' there. Time to
get serious about completin' it. Been a lot of beer and the pig is
smellin' pretty close to done. Paint. Paul had decided on battleship
gray, probably 'cause it was all there was to be had. Half of us
set to paintin' with everythin' vaguely resemblin' a paint brush we
can lay our hands on. Paul, the Covey pilots, and the other riders
start settin' up lockers and bunks and sh*t inside. Ferris and I do
the suicide connection to the camp power grid; can't turn the power
off and there's essentially no zonin'. The rest of the gang fills
sandbags and starts stackin' 'em up around the wall to about four
feet. More of us join 'em as we run outta room for so many painters
and the power comes on.
By four o'clock we all stand back and admire the new hootch. Paul
hangs a freshly painted "Covey Country" sign over the main entrance,
and it's in business again. They'll rebuild the club next door
themselves now that they got a hootch again. Now to pop its
cherry....
Willy is senior recon man present, so he shouts warnin' and goes
inside with his .22. We all get under somethin' or the other. Pop,
poppity pop, pop pop pop. Little holes show up in the tin, and we
lug some more sand bags to the roof. We move the drinkin' inside and
the place get's its first party. Try not to tear it up too bad,
after all, it's new. But it gets that lived-in look pretty fast.
One of the pilots gets to be the first man to throw up on the floor.
He's proud of that, and gets applause for the artfulness of it all.
The pig is done, and we move back outside. Pull up some spare
lumber, tin or sandbags and commence to chow it down. We talk about
the good job we've done and how it'll last forever. We grab-ass and
carry on, with that nice healthy glow a good, hard day's work and
some well deserved beer gives you.
It was a good hootch raisin'. The others won't be finished until
around noon tomorrow, but the Covey riders will have their own house
tonight. A good way to spend a day in Nam. We'll be a little sore
from usin' muscles in funny ways by the morning, but whaddahell!
It lasts six months before it gets blown to hell, again.
Hey! Another hootch raisin'!
|
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|__ ,| / \ / `\ / \ | ===|
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|//\.......... ...........\........ \\\
/ /
/ /
Covey Country
/ /
/ /
((_______________))
___|_ ___
/ | | (( _|_ ))
__/___| |____/ *|
[________________|
\_______||_____
Flashlights
It's night. We're out a fair piece. I'm not sure what language the
locals spoke, but since we weren't with 'em, it doesn't matter a
bunch. Probably one of the 'yard dialects, which were all outta my
league, anyway. It's been a long, hot, miserable day. We're comin'
out again. We've been in about five days, sneakin' and peekin',
makin' with the low profile. Mostly 'cause this place is straight
outta In Country, 3rd cut, 1st side of the tape - Six Clicks - and
this is "Charlie's Land." Actually, it was big brother Chuck's, but
you get the picture.
We'd been down in a valley with a goodly sized body of troops - not
ours. They felt real comfortable there, not a lot of real tight
security. We have some counts, some pics, a mail pouch some guy
walkin' alone on a trail had been convinced he really didn't need
anymore. We'd do that sometimes when it was time to go home. I'm
told some people had use for this stuff. Don't know, don't read it
any better than I speak it. We'd moved a long way since then. We're
about two klicks from our exfil point, where we're scheduled to be
in the mornin'. Did a nice little fishhook, doublin' back to where
we could overlook our own trail in case somebody is interested in
recoverin' his mail. We move again one more time between sunset and
last light, just to be sure. I have first watch. I always have first
watch. I snore real bad and everybody wants to get to sleep before
me. Whoever's got the watch will sit next to me for the same reason.
Snorin' has its advantages - I'm always first to know.
I stand for two hours. It's dead out there. A few crickets,
somethin' small movin' in the brush, some night birds about their
business. We have mini-claymores out, and I make a last walk of the
line before wakin' my relief. He's a "Bru," one of the northernmost
tribe of 'yards; taller, heavier and darker than their southern kin.
Still all of 5'4". He smiles, musta been dreamin' a good one. He
takes the watch and I settle in for six or so hours of snooze. He
too makes the rounds before sittin' down next to me. I'm still only
in-country for six months, and they're still checkin' me out. Okay,
they have been doin' it for a lifetime, I'll take the crosscheck.
Hell, they're better at it than I am, anyway. I drift.
Someone's shakin' my shoulder. Eyes fly open and I get ready to
apologize - musta done it again. Isn't my Bru, it's Mr. Weet, the
translator. His expression is not "anger-at-snoring." The rest of
the senses come on line as he moves on to wake up the others. It's
quiet now. Nary a cricket, bird or anythin' else. This is NOT good.
Adrenalin begins to pump as the other rustle softly into
wakefulness. It's been maybe two minutes since the first shake, and
I'm in my web gear and recoverin' my pack. Weet comes back and
points up slope in the general direction of our back trail. I don't,
but I wanna scream. I also am glad for the cork, otherwise the place
would be an advertisement with neon lights real fast.
A few meters below the crest of the ridge is a row of flashlights.
They're movin' down slope, real slow, about five to ten meters
apart, online, as dress-right-dress as the terrain allows. I've
heard of this in war stories back at Kontum. Didn't believe 'em.
Sh*t, flashlights, ridiculous! I'll figure out who I owe apologies
to later. The one zero is up and looking, too. He looks distressed.
Not at the flashlights, I think he's seen my face. I pick my jaw up,
and my RPD. I'm straphangin', not a regular member of the team, and
I don't want to look too bad. The 'yards are up and ready to go. One
of 'em hands Chief his CAR, and he starts makin' decisions. We get
real close together and he speaks real soft. We're gonna cut and
run. Don't look like we've been seen yet, though they damn sure know
we are here. Don, our point (another Bru, couldn't pronounce his
name, so settled on Don) starts puttin' timin' fuses on the mines.
Chief makes sure everybody has grenades at hand. Directionless
weapons - they go boom, and the other guys still don't know where
you are. Real desirable tactic right now.
Its now about ten minutes after the first shake. Don's got
everythin' rigged and we start movin' perpendicular to the
approachin' line. Real slow-like. Think the phrase "excruciatingly
slow" was made for this. We gotta try to be absolutely quiet in
serious darkness and still make enough time to get past any
flankers. There's only a few of us, and a good-sized squad could
take us out. We're still too close to use the radio, too. Only got
so much volume control on the damn things. We've got ten more
minutes until the claymores go. That's supposed to draw attention,
and when that happens we gonna run like all hell about forty-five
degrees off course for the LZ. We'll hook in later when it quiets
down again. We got an earlier than planned start, so we have the
time. It's a good plan, the 'yards like it - so I like it.
We manage to get past the flank before time runs out. The mines go
before the line gets to 'em. Seven of 'em, spaced by the time Don
took to set it up. We hear startled grunts just about seven or eight
meters straight uphill, where there are no flashlights. Lots of
shootin' goin' on behind us, so it's "show time." The 'yards chunk
grenades high thata way. I got green tracers, so I unload some of my
ammo. This is prearranged, not like I'm thinkin' fast. Adrenalin
dump is startin' to wear off. I'm gonna get another real soon now.
One scream, maybe a grenade, maybe me. Lots of yellin'. Weet says we
can cut a choggy now, they think we're confused "friendlies". We
need no second invitation. There's a high speed trail about half a
klick off in the direction we're goin'. No time to observe rules.
Must have left a trail a blind guy could have followed. Ran the
trail, too. Like I said, not a time for strict adherence the rules.
About a half hour later, it's still dark. We set up in a bunch of
rocks on a slope. We've put a ridgeline between us and the
flashlights, and it's time for a little talkin'. The FAC won't be up
yet, so Chief sets the radio for Moonbeam. Takes two calls, but
they're home. He announces "deepsh*t!" and asks for a sunrise time
at the LZ. Maybe some friendly air assets are in order? Damn
straight! It's only two hours till dawn. So we get to humpin'. Hit
the LZ early. Don and Weet leave us long enough to check it out.
They come back with smiles. Good news, 'drenalin only carry you so
far.
Sun begins to poke up about the time we hear a distant thunder that
sounds like Phantom. Low down to the south we see the first snake
comin' over a ridge line. Don sees movement on the far side of the
LZ, bushes movin'. None of the rest of us see it. But we're tired.
Chief has the fast movers and snakes tear up the real estate just to
be on the safe side. A million bucks for a movin' bush. Whathef*ck!
They can dock my pay.
We get on the slicks and make good time back to a friendly site
where we use our bus transfers for the final leg home. Firebase
somethin' or the other. Medic comes out on the firebase and paints
the lacerations we got from the underbrush. Nobody's got any new
holes, so we're in good shape. The guys at the firebase look at us
funny. 'Sokay, we probably look a little harried. We sleep from
there to Kontum. Door gunner has to wake us up. Didn't kiss the
tarmac. Kissed the local equivalent of the porcelain god instead.
Good enough, glad to be home.
We sleep for a day or so. Too much adrenalin is not good for you,
y'know. We go to debriefin'. Doc (Recon Co. first shirt) is bent
outta shape for the ordinance expenditure at the LZ. To a man, we
tell him he can go do it his way next time. We go meet at the Recon
Club and get knee-walkin', commode-huggin', snot-slingin' drunk. I
apologize to the old timers. They can't figure out for what. One of
'em (Joe, I think) pulls out a flashlight and shines it in my eyes.
They laugh their asses off when I sh*t gold bricks. Friends are
priceless things. Have to be, who'd spend good money on 'em?
I still don't much like flashlights, even though they're handy when
it gets dark.
Midwife
Babies are basically ugly people. Little, ugly, very young people.
Their faces are all squinched up, they are messy, and they cry a
lot. But, somehow, they remain very popular with parents. So I keep
meetin' 'em wherever I go. In Viet Nam this always seemed kinda
outta place. But I met more there than anywhere else.
It was the Ville, y'see. Between the troops and the labor force,
most of the women were always pregnant. Sex, too, remains popular
with parents. Parents-to-be, to be more accurate. The infant
mortality rate is high, and it's the local brand of Social Security.
Lot of investments are always bein' made. This is not a new
phenomena; it's actually rather ancient. But we've added a new
twist: clinical birth.
On base we maintain a dispensary for the local 'yards and the
inhabitants of Rosie's. The girls from Rosie's mostly get pelvics
and penicillin. Sometimes they have other things, and we treat
those, too. The local 'yards mostly have advanced pregnancy. This is
a self-correctin' problem, and we handle that, as well. Usually it's
to the tune of about five babies a day. Because of limited pre-natal
care, about 15% are stillborn or never leave the dispensary alive.
Not the women's fault. They just do what they've been doin' since
the dawn of time. We aren't goin' to change that in less than a
decade. We preach, but it goes unheard. Still, we birth a lot of
baby 'yards. This increases the survival rate all by itself. Far
lower infection rate for both mother and child at birth.
The birthing clinic is nothin' fancy. It stands by the main gate on
the west side, another cinderblock-and-sidin' hootch. Inside we have
three beds separated by wood partitions and curtains across the
front. At the end is a closed exam room for the non-pregnant and the
pregnant-to-be. No room for visitors; the dads either don't come or
don't stay. Cultural norms are served. Occasionally there is a
midwife in attendance from the Ville, but usually we are on our own.
The women come in an hour or so from delivery, and barrin'
complications, they leave within a few hours of the birth, a wee
'yard wrapped in surplused linen held to their breasts. There is no
body shyness in this context, though the 'yard and Vietnamese women
are almost prudish in normal affairs. It is fast, and usually a
painless process. At least for us. But it's a big undertaking, so we
have re-instituted the draft. Unlike the government, ours is 100%
mandatory service. Only the colonel escapes.
Every American spends two or three days a month as a midwife. We
even offer our own trainin' seminars with Docs from Pleiku. Mostly,
this is real easy - the woman does all the work. All's we gotta do
is be there to watch for complications, cut the cord and tie a neat
knot or two. The medic on duty supervises and provides emergency
services. It's sad, but this is another reason we lose so many. The
medics are good. They are very, very good. But they are not
obstetricians and we lack the equipment to do everythin'. We have no
incubators, no infant-sized instruments that we didn't make
ourselves, and no trainin' worthy of the name for caesarean's and
other fancy procedures. Like I said, though, it's better than
nothin'.
I guess I delivered well over a hundred babies while in-country. I
even had one set of twins, which was a surprise to all concerned,
especially the mother. Lost my share to stillbirth, low birth
weight, VD, and the myriad of other things that claim small lives.
All in all, however, it was a positive experience. For all that they
are ugly little people, they call up the best in a bein'. Especially
soldiers. Even Doc Thomas smiles with each successful live birth. So
do I, I guess. It acts as a counterpoise to the takin' of life we do
on other days. It makes the balance positive for most of us; on a
scale of life to death, we are nearly all deep into the life end of
the scale.
And that's pretty damn nice when you think on it.
Which we did a lot.
Rehearsal
Fortunately, it's a short flight from Kontum to Ban Me Thuot. 'Cause
I gotta pee. How come these things don't let ya know well in advance
insteada waitin' till you're gettin' on the fookin' plane? We got
all our gear and nobody's sayin' why. Got the word, up and packed
and out in less than thirty minutes this mornin'. Barely had time to
grab a quick cup o'java before we jumped on the trucks and headed
'cross town. Up early, rushed like sin, carryin' way too heavy, and
now I'm pacin' real frantic-like at 2000 feet. This is not the way
to encourage soldiers, dudes....
We touch down just slightly after noon, and after a mad dash to the
side of the strip, we climb up onto another set of trucks and drive
off to a compound I've never seen before. It's CCS, our bros in the
south. Still haven't a clue as to why we're here. Four teams,
complete with 'yards and full field sh*t, jumpin' off trucks in
someone else's home. At least it's bros.
Okay, some old friends I recognize are in the group that meets us.
We get parceled out to empty team hootches and some tents near the
north wall. I draw a team hootch with an empty berth - and a one
zero who I'd served with in Panama. He says he's almost as much in
the dark as we are. Word's come down from SOG to get ready to go on
no notice into deepsh*t. Damn! I didn't need that. But at least I
can get some coffee and chow now. RT Iowa's hootch is even better
than mine, has runnin' water and a shorter dash to the bunker. At
least I'll get a good night's sleep tonight. Somewhere along the
line I've come to the conclusions that happiness consists
exclusively of gettin' enough sleep. Okay, I guess I'll be happy.
Just before dinner the word comes around to form up without gear on
the inner pad. Takes a little while to get the whole team together,
but it finally happens. We note that it's just the Americans out
here, the 'yards weren't invited. SGM "Deacon Rob," CCS's Recon
Company commander, another guy I recognize from Panama, tells us to
listen up and turns the gavel over to a guy with no rank insignia,
no patches, no nothin'. Uh oh! Who invited the spooks, man? This is
not a good sign. Never is. We all know who runs SOG, but we do try
to forget, mosta the time.
"Men, CCN has found a POW camp near Muang Xepon, about eighty
klicks east of Khe Sahn in south-central Laos. We don't think we
have the time to organize something like we did for Son Tai. We have
a week to practice, and then we're going in - fast and dirty. Does
anyone want out?"
Hot damn! The mood is electric. The question is stupid. Hands are
convulsively grippin' on weapons not present, eyes seekin' targets
not there. We live for this, man. Anybody who'd backed out woulda
been laughed outta the outfit - and SF at the same time. There was
no way on earth they could keep any of us outta it, now.
Finally, some voice in the back (sounded like Sprague to me) pipes
up, "So whaddaf*ck we sittin' here jaw-jackin' for, ferchrisake?"
Universal applause.
The spook smiles. "Right. First thing in the morning we start
rehearsals. Team leaders meet us in the TOC."
Fookin'-A, man! Willie goes off with the rest of the one zeroes and
the rest of us go to chow. At CCS, this is not a joint American-
Vietnamese mess hall, and we get to jabberin' pretty damn fast.
There is only one subject of conversation. The locals tell us
they've known somethin' was up for days. Wall and gate security has
been beefed up beyond belief, and a couple CCN teams have been
hidin' out in Security Country since last Friday. Like they could
fool the locals.... Hot damn, man! We're gonna get to do somethin'
really worthwhile. Somethin' for all the lost bros. Somethin'
that'll perk up morale on both sides of the water. Somethin' we've
dreamed about. Speculation of who's in there runs rampant. We've all
lost buddies, but we know it's more likely to be mostly pilots and
air crews. Which is just fine, and worth the trip. But you gotta
hope. And they never did account for the A-camp personnel outside of
Khe Sahn in '68. Or Mad Dog, or RT Michigan, or.... It runs on and
on.
After dinner the team leaders hunt us down and bring us up to speed.
Like at Son Tai, we're gonna go balls to the walls right into the
compound. Oh, sh*t! Well...okay - you do what you gotta. We will
ferdamsure do whatever it takes. Half the teams will infiltrate a
day early and set up for takin' out all roads, watch towers, radios
they can see, and close-in reaction forces. RT California will be
one of the two teams that drop into the compound HOT. With the RPD,
I'll be the third man to touch earth. The first two will be a couple
guys from RT Iowa with LAWs to pop into the guard barracks. "More in
the mornin'. Start psychin' yourselves up."
No sh*t. Fookit, man. We're goin' for the bros, and that's that.
'Most anyone in-country would give his gonads to be goin'. But it's
gonna be us! The problem won't be gettin' psyched up, it'll be
gettin' calmed down. So much for the "good night's sleep" theory.
We're gonna be talkin' all night....
Which, of course, we did. But we have no problem gettin' up early,
anyway. We board a whole fleet of choppers and head SE to some place
they consider a safe area to rehearse. Here we break down to task
forces and begin practicin'. A couple of the bros from CCN come with
us and hand around photos blown up too damn far. The details are
gone, but we can make out the buildin's and the stuff we'll have to
work with and on. No time to build a mock up, so we lay out outlines
and each team does its own rehearsals for the full day. Takes a full
half the day to get us all down to earth enough to do even the
simple things right. We are some seriously excited lads. But we work
our asses off, anyway. By the time we go back that night, there's no
question but that there's gonna be sleep tonight.
The next day's pretty much the same. But, toward sundown, we run
through it once all together. It's all screwed up, of course. But we
all know it's just the first time, so it doesn't get us down. We
note the problems, and that night we work 'em out verbally. The
third day we're gonna spend doin' nothin' but workin' out the kinks
and modifyin' the plan to fit the reality of team coordination in
circumstances we won't know for sure until we hit the ground. Most
of our missions are like that, anyway, so it's nothin' new for us.
It goes pretty well, all in all. Still some rough edges, but we
ain't shootin' each other, anymore. The crossfire patterns have been
resolved, and the things we thought might be hidden behind actual
walls turn out not to be a problem after all. The guys at SOG who
drew up the plans had apparently learned from Son Tai, and a lot of
the early errors simply aren't there. The fourth day we're gonna get
some Super Jolly Greens from Spec Ops and do it full speed.
And it goes down like clockwork. The first two guys pop out with the
LAWs with Drog and me hot on their heels - exitin' the tailgate just
after they've split right and left and shot their piece of the
action. Willie and MP are right behind us with commo, followed by
the other sixteen members of RT California. The rest of Iowa and
portions of Indiana are in another bird right next to us, snakes in
short orbit, holdin' high and dry. Phantoms are orbitin' five
minutes out - a real dangerous thing for 'em in that region of SEA.
One of CCN's FACs will be up there too. Plus, of course, Hillsboro
or a counterpart won't be too far away. It'll be a sunrise strike,
and tomorrow we'll do it by the numbers - live fire. We've had live
ammo all along, of course, but we haven't been shootin' 'cause we
didn't wanna take each other out. Looks like we're ready, though.
The early-in elements stay overnight on the scene, while the attack
element goes back to camp. It'll be the first time the Jolly Greens
are seen in Ban Me Thout, and we hope the guys we know damn well are
watchin' will be too slow gettin' the word back that we're up to
somethin' funny. We spend the night on restin' and goin' over the
withdrawal plans - both with and without POWs recovered. That's the
easy part, really. We're gonna have unlimited air support for that
phase, and several more Super Jolly Greens, complete with a full
medical team, in far orbit. It's just a matter of gettin' onto the
birds and flyin' away.
Just before first light we're up, loaded and onto the birds. We're
all aware we gotta get it right this time, 'cause tomorrow we're
gonna stage north, rest the next day, and go in the followin'
mornin'.
It's a short flight and we get the ten minute warnin' as we leave
the pad. We're low and fast, the Jolly Green makin' a full 180 just
as we hit the ground. The first two guys are out before the gate's
all the way down, and I see the flames from the LAWs burst toward
the front of the ship as Drog and I run off, RPDs blazin' a full
sweep aft. We each loose a drum this way, and load new ones as the
rest of the team is off and providin' coverin' fire. Meanwhile, the
other team enters the area occupied by the POW hootches. In under
five minutes we've run the drill and are loadin' out. F-4s and
snakes are tearin' up the terrain all around us as the point
elements that took out the outer enemy defenses join us inside the
compound for the evac. Ten minutes for the full op. We plan for up
to thirty with the live, pop-up, shoot-back-type targets, and
casualties and POWs to help. We think we can do it. We wish we had
time to rehearse the contingency plans. But time's awastin'. Forty-
five minutes after launch from Ban Me Thout we're back. The actual
flight up north will be closer to forty-five minutes each way, but
that's the small stuff.
That night over dinner, we're a much more subdued group. We all know
what can go wrong. We also know we're as ready as we can be with
only a week from first notification to actual operation. Tomorrow,
we'll stage north to an LZ not too far from Khe Sahn and make like
bushes for twenty-four hours. That may damn well be the hardest part
of the operation. Waitin' frequently is. Ah, hell! It always is.
We spend the evenin' doin' what guys always do before a big op -
cleanin' weapons and gear, recheckin' everythin' and everybody. We
crosscheck the 'yards, they crosscheck us. The teams crosscheck each
other. No room for errors. And we worry about it, big time. We don't
sleep too good, either. Butterflies like you wouldn't believe.
Well..., maybe you would.
We get up with the sun and get some breakfast. We're quiet and
determined to get it right. Still both tickled and scared it's gonna
be us goin' in on somethin' this big.
In walks the spook from the first day. "Attention everyone. The
mission's scrubbed. CCN just got word in that the camp has been
moved. Thank you all for your time and hard work, the planes will
take you all home, today. Maybe next time...."
Sh*t, man. No bros to save....
There will be no "next time."
Ever.
. =DMZ= Camp Carroll__Con Thien =DMZ= .
. |___/ \_ Quang Tri .
. Khe (| * * \ .
. Sanh-/\* * Dong \Camp Evans .
. (Hawk \_/\ Ha *\_ Hue .
. LZ) / \_ \Phu Bai .
. Cam Lo \_Bastogne\_ .
. \ An. )Da Nang .
. / Hoa \ (Marble .
. ( ------- \_Mountain) .
. \ I CORPS \__ .
. \------ Hoi \ Chu Lai .
. \ An ! .
. /\_____ ! .
. / ! Duc \ .
. ! Ben !___ Pho\ .
. ! Het \/\____! .
. ! !English LZ.
. / Pleiku ! Bong .
. / Camp / Son .
. V I E T N A M ! Holloway Happy \_Hammond .
. ! Camp Valley \ LZ .
. \ Enarl An Khe ) .
. \ Qui) .
. \ \ Nhon\ .
. / Oasis / .
. ( ! .
. _\ -------- ! .
. / II CORPS Tuy\ .
. \ -------- Hoa \ .
. ! / .
. _/Ban Me / .
. --------- _/ Thuot Nha / .
. III CORPS Song Be_/ Trang! .
. --------\Quan Loi __/ \ ! .
. Katum\_____( )/An Loc! Dong Ba ! .
. /Dau Loc Ninh!__ Thin ! Cam .
. Tay /Tieng \ / Ranh .
. Ninh\ Phu Phuoc Yinh\ Dalat / Bay .
. ! Loi \ __/ .
. Lai Khe\--* Di An \ ___/ Phan .
. Cu Chi\ Bien Hoa \ _/ Rang .
. / \_____) )_(_Tan San Long Binh !__/ .
. ! ( Nhut Bearcat ___/ .
. _____! An Long \__Long Thanh_/ .
. ! | . \/ Long Giao .
. \___ My /| \/ \ (Black Horse) .
. \ Tho Dong / | \ Vung Tau .
. )Vinh Long Tam / | Saigon .
. / \\ ! Tan An .
. /Can Tho Phu ___\\| .
. /-------- Vinh .
. !IV CORPS\ \ / .
. !-------- \ \__/ (Due to rectangular restrictions of character .
. ! Soc / placements/positions, locations approximate) .
. ! Trang / .
. ! __/ .
. \_/ gjp .
Champion
This is not an easy one to tell. But I guess it's only right I do
it. It's tellin' on myself, is what it is. About what I was, and
how it wasn't always pretty. But maybe it says somethin' about what
war does to a guy. About what it does to values and common sense.
Try not to think any the less of me. Those were other days in
another place. I like to think I buried that guy a long time ago. I
like to hope....
We're just back from Flashlights a few days, and I'm still feelin' a
little rocky, I guess. About twenty of us gathered in the Recon
Club, gettin' drunk. We did it too often. But who really cared?
Crazylegs yells out, "Gross-out contest!"
And it's on. Ancient Army tradition. Well, maybe just SF. But I've
been in 'em before, elsewhere and elsewhen. But this time, I got a
serious attitude. And I'm gonna win. Whatever it takes. To be Gross-
out Champion of Kontum.
It starts small. Guys throwin' up on the floor. Other guys lickin'
it up. Somebody stirs your drink with his dick, and you drink it.
The little stuff, the warm-up. Then we get serious. I won't describe
it, but it's pretty bad. We eliminate the faint of heart pretty
quick, and there's just two of us left.
He decides his best move is to just run me out fast, as I'm
relatively new and he doesn't know my endurance. This is okay by me,
as I don't know it either. The jerkin' off in the drink and downin'
it almost got me. Whatever it takes.... So he grabs his drink with
the scum on top and we follow him outta the door over to the "O"
Club. Over in the corner, Dai uy is have a pizza with some other
officers. Okay, it's all fair game.
He casually saunters over to the table, climbs up and takes a very
loose, very large sh*t into the pizza. Too much booze, and it looks
more like chunky brown sauce. Dai uy and the others just sorta fall
back and start clawin' at their waists where their pistols should
be. Sheeeiiit! Literally. This is a new maneuver in the "O" club,
and it ain't gonna be easy. Doesn't appear to be very popular,
either. Okay, I gotta top it if I'm gonna stay in.
So I eat the pizza.
The contest is over. New champion. Whatever it takes....
Wars are good for that....
Maggie
LTC Martha Raye. Helluva lady. Hell of a woman, period. Only
stateside entertainer to ever come to our compound in Kontum. No
troupe, no lights, no microphones, no nothin' fancy. Just Maggie.
And that's the way it's best.
None of the others even tried. Not that we would've have let 'em in,
of course. The compound was sealed from pryin' civilians, and most
military, for that matter. Which was good, 'cause we never had to
look over our shoulders to see if Dan Rather was writin' it all down
to be corrupted on the six o'clock news. But it did have the
downside of never seein' a round-eyed woman without makin' the trek.
Well, I guess nothin's perfect.
But Maggie came. She had a standin' invite. Didn't even have to mail
it to her. We were there, the guys in the funny green hats. That
meant she was welcome. Don't know how old that was, but it had been
a fact of bein' SF since Training Group. Maggie was one of us. You
learned it along with the club handshake upon receipt of the magic
decoder ring. And it was just about as fundamental as which end of
your rifle pointed down range. I found out why in Kontum.
The excitement amongst the older generation (over twenty-five) was
dynamic that mornin'. Everybody was runnin' around gettin' haircuts,
clean uniforms, brushin' their teeth, and checkin' their booze
supply. I asked, and they would just grunt, "Maggie." Like maybe it
was some kinda magic formula or somethin'. Oh, I knew the name, but
damn man, this was bizarre behavior. So I did it too. Sarge didn't
raise no dummies, and I can sense a gale blowin' as well as the next
guy. Hell, I even helped clean the Recon Club - an awesome task,
flatly turned down by the maids. Whaddahell, might as well get in on
this. Never met any celebrities before, anyhow. She'd been in a lot
of those old movies I'd watched as a kid.
She arrived on a chopper from Pleiku around mid-afternoon. A couple
of the E-8's went out and got her in a jeep and brought her back
through the gates. Little woman, not too much bigger than the
'yards. Hair permed to death, wrinkles everywhere, and a smile that
could stop an incomin' 122 and make it purr. God, the smile went
from ear to ear and back again, and it dropped twenty years off her
like a shot. And she wasn't tidy with it, she spread it all over the
place. Had one for everyone of us, with plenty left for the 'yards,
ARVN, everybody. Sheeeeiiit! This was okay, man.
She got outta the jeep in front of Recon company HQ, threw off her
baseball cap, and out came the beret.
She put it on, smiled even wider, and said, "I need a f*ckin'
drink!"
Damn straight. It didn't strike me as incongruous, then. I mean we
all talked like that, too. I wouldn't catch on to that until I got
home and had a series of folk explain to me it wasn't proper
English. Whadahell! Somebody got her a drink.
Then it was off for a tour of the compound. She'd been here before,
that was obvious. What was amazin' was that she remembered the
place. She wanted to see this and that, and she knew all the old
names, all the teams and who'd been on 'em. She also remembered
every name given to her. First time, every time.
"Maggie, this is Mike McCombs from RT California."
"Glad to meet ya, Mike, didya know Joe?"
"Damn straight, met me off the plane."
"Good man, Joe, saw him in Hollywood a couple weeks back. You the
one he called Sweet Thing?"
Sheeeiiit! What kinda memory banks this lady got, anyhoo?
She stops and talks to everybody. The 'yards haven't seen any
American women in a while, and are dazzled by this one with the
silver leafs and the big mouth. She gets more bracelets than the
rest of us put together. Later, Weet will smile at me and say that
he now understands why alla men come to Nam. I only smacked him a
little. And at every stop she drinks. And she stays sober. Now, I've
got good capacity, but this is awe inspirin'. And it's still before
dinner.
Dinner she eats one night with us and one night in the O-club. She
admits she does have to do it cause of the rank. But she doesn't
spend a lot of time with 'em, she wants to be with the guys who hump
the boonies. Good taste. She don't mind the officers that do that
humpin', it's the staffies she don't like. After dinner, she bar
hops.
Its odd about this camp. We have maybe 100 Americans, and five
clubs. We all bar hop to an extent, spread the wealth around. But we
all have our favorites, too. Mostly it's the regular clientele.
Recon or Covey or old NCO or Officer or Mike. Maggie hits 'em all.
She concentrates on Recon and Mike. Again, 'cause we hump the
boonies. Lord only knows what she does when she goes to non-SF
joints. But that ain't my problem. The first night she holds forth
mostly in Mike. The second night, she's mostly in my AO. There ain't
no third night. She's got a schedule, and she has to get back to her
troupe and still make stops elsewhere. But that second night....
The war wasn't put on hold. Teams still came and went, the guard
changed, life went on. But Maggie managed to lace her way into the
fabric of it. She'd stop in with a team and help pack chow. She
filled sandbags, she helped a team off the pad with their rucks,
bringin' cool ones, she watched us go to the range, played pool,
walked the berm, visited Rosie's. Sh*t, she was everywhere. Ate with
the guys, and always had a kind word, a good story, and news of the
other sites the few remainin' green weenies were hangin' at. She
never said a monologue or stood on a stage. but she did her
entertainin' job to the max. Sh*t, she didn't bring a piece of home,
she brought herself, and gave remorselessly.
That second night I spent three hours drinkin' and talkin' with her
in the Recon Club. Nothin' special 'bout me, just I was from
Southern Cal., too, and we had lots to talk about. Others came and
went, but we stayed. I don't remember Viet Nam that night. don't
think I was there. I think we were down on the Sunset Strip, and the
band was playin', and the folks were dancin', and it was a good
date. She left, that third morning, the way she came. We stood on
the berm and waved as she flew away. Then we did a collective sigh
and went back to war.
I saw her again in '72, after I came home for the divorce. She kept
a safehouse in Hollywood for us. I was at loose ends, no home
anymore, and she took me in. She couldn't stay; off to Thailand, I
think. But I was welcome to stay. I did for a week, and then I went
off to Ft. Devens and 10th Group.
One last time, I saw her. At Arlington, in D.C. A funeral for an old
SGM who dived into a pea patch in Thailand. She was there, in dress
greens, Corcorans, beret and all. For a friend. She pulled me aside
and asked if it was true that his 'chute was fine, and he just hadn't
pulled. I just pointed at the man's wife and kids, and she nodded.
She went over to 'em, afterwards, and said TheWords. Helluva lady.
I think she knew she'd heard right.
After the funeral, she and I once more held forth at a local club,
the NCO club on North Post, just outside the cemetery. The others
came by, and I somehow ended up delegated escort. Don't know how.
Maybe it was the way she said "Sweet Thing," maybe not. A young
Spec. 4 came over and begged her to come to the Acey-Deucy club,
'cause they never got celebrities. And we went. I got her back to
her hotel around 2:30, and I don't remember how the hell I got back
home. I'll bet she didn't even have a hangover....
That's about it. That's the Maggie I knew. I guess she recently got
married to some young dude in Hollywood. She's no sprin' chicken
anymore. Hope it works out.
Just a quick word for ya, dude. You'd better treat Maggie right. You
don't and your ass is grass. And I know a couple thousand lawn
mowers, all of 'em ugly as me....
.-~~-.--.
: )
.~ ~ -.\ /.- ~~ .
> `. .' <
( .- -. )
`- -.-~ `- -' ~-.- -'
( : ) _ _ .-:
~--. : .--~ .-~ .-~
~-.-^-.-~ \_ .~ .-~ .~
\ \' \ '_ _ -~
`.`. //
. - ~ ~-.__`.`-.//
.-~ . - ~ ~ ~ ~-.~-.
.' .-~ .-~ :/~-.~-./:
/_~_ _ . - ~ ~-.~-._
~-.
Tri-Borders
It's February 1972. Tet. Simple word. Chinese New Year. But not to a
Nam Vet. Mostly, to us it means the Tet Offensive of 1968. There
were individual times and places when the war was worse. Some of 'em
I've written here. But that was THE worst. I lost a lot of friends
from high school in Tet of '68. So did a lot of folk in the country.
Tet of '72 was bad too. Not the same way. It was the beginnin' of
the end. From then on, the U.S. was pullin' out. And the North
Vietnamese knew it....
For months, since around Christmas, we'd been diggin' in. The camp
had become a maze of sandbag walls and bunkers. We'd wired the whole
place for sound - deep basso-profundo. Against a determined attack,
we could not hold. But they were gonna pay dearly for what they got.
And once they got it, it wasn't gonna last for long. This was
serious stuff. An army deals in death - its major product. We were
plannin' on beatin' our quota.
Mid-month, February 1972. We're all just lazin' around. Only one
team's out, and we're all real tired of fillin' sandbags. Guys on
the berm, burnin' the crud off. Maids makin' the rounds, cleanin'
the rooms and heads. I'm sittin' in front of my hootch, with a
lemonade, just catchin' rays and listenin' to a record of the Mama's
and Papa's. Doin' like the song says: California Dreamin'. Don't get
a lot of days like this. Gonna enjoy it while I can. Weather out
west is bad, and it'll get to us soon enough. Today is nice. It's
enough.
Hurryin' feet. Reach for my CAR - acquired reflex by now. It's Doc,
Recon Company first shirt.
"Where's Willy?"
I point at the berm. Willy's up there, naked as a jay bird, just a
sunnin' himself. Mortar Peter is next to him, dressed the same. You
can always spot that. The 'yards come by and just suck air. Ain't
nobody like Mortar Peter to catch your eye stark naked. Even if you
are male. Doc yells up to 'em. Willy looks down and waves. He puts
on his shorts, grabs his '16 and comes down.
"We need to get all the one zeroes together, and fast."
Willy nods, he knows where they hang. He points at the berm and says
get 'em. I sigh, set down my lemonade and climb on up. Fetch
Sprague, Tom and Chief from a few bunkers down. Willy goes down to
the hootches and rounds up the others. They mutter and head for the
TOC with Doc. Everyone looks at me in hope. I shrug. I get the next
opening, and they all know it. But I ain't got it yet. I don't know.
But I can guess. Last time somebody mentioned a POW camp sightin'
this happened. Break's over, we head for the hootches. Weapons to
check, bags to pack. Ain't sure yet. But somethin' is damn sure
comin' down. Ferris goes down to the 'yard barracks and lets RT
California's Sarge know something's in the air. He'll spread the
word. In a ville, he'd be an elder with his beard and pipe.
'Yards'll be ready. In the distance, I see our Mike Force standin'
to. Gonna be a busy afternoon.
I'm ready. No problem, I'm always ready. People like me to strap-
hang with 'em. You take me, and you don't make contact. Besides
bein' a good sneaky peter, I'm lucky. Just superstition. Counts for
a lot around here, though. Nevertheless, all I gotta do is get
dressed. Others got more to do. MP is always puttin' off to the last
second what shoulda been done yesterday. Damn good man in the field,
but a lazy fart in camp. He's gruntin' as he tries to find his spare
ammo.
Sarge wanders in for the key to the ammo bunker. I toss it to him.
'Yards only get to keep a couple hundred rounds each in the
barracks. I tell him to double the basic load. He shakes his head
and goes to the conex. This is bein' repeated all over Recon
Country. The compound is breathin' to life.
An hour latter, Willy comes back. He looks around and nods. Calls
me, MP and Sarge over.
"An SF-advised ARVN Mike Force battalion is gettin' its butt kicked
in the tri-borders."
"Why not the 4th?"
"They got enough problems of their own."
Tet '72 has begun. Leavin' the security company, the ARVN, OP Alpha
and some others behind, we're about a battalion, ourselves. Don't
operate that way, but it's in the TO&E, and we have practiced it a
couple times. Okay. They've come for us. We'll go for 'em. RT
California, in three birds, will go in point for Recon Company.
Willy will be in command, Doc is tied to the TOC 'cause of shortages
there. Okay, Willy's only an E-6, but the best we have since Joe
left. MP will go with him as company commo. For all his faults, he's
the best we got for that - no quibble. I get the team. Sh*t! Am I
ready? I say yes, but I'm not sure. I got the best damned 'yard
Sarge in Viet Nam, and we'll make it work.
"Okay, here's what we're gonna do...."
Weather out there sucks. We won't get in until mornin'. We spend the
night with the radio tuned for Mike. Mostly static, but an
occasional burst of traffic makes it in. Got good commo from here,
nice antenna field. We can hear Covey, playin' FAC. They are busy,
and runnin' constantly. It's gonna be hot goin' in. Spend the night
talkin' to the other one zeroes and Sarge. Gotta be done right. I
get Lt. Olson, fresh into country, as my RTO. Okay, he was my XO in
Panama, we work well together. Shoes reversed, but he's been here
long enough not to sweat it. Good man, as I'd known in Panama, too.
0500, wake up call. Like we'd been asleep! Okay, chow real fast. Eat
light, gonna fly hard and fast. 0545, the birds begin to come in.
The pad's not big enough for all of 'em. RT California and RT
Washington mount up and head out as point. Got plenty of snakes and
I can hear there are Phantoms nearby, though I don't see 'em. Fair
length flight. Long enough to get nervous about my new role. No
sweat, it'll go away on the ground. It always does.
Ten minutes out, the gunner taps me and gives the signal. LZ is NOT
hot, but we get ready for it anyway. Everythin' is wet, we're gonna
get muddy. I lean out and see the snakes and fast movers shakin' the
area out. I don't see any returned fire. Okay! Point it out to Sarge
and Olson. Nods. Sarge has seen already. We lock and load. We'll be
about a klick from where Mike Force is thought to be, though we've
been told all commo is gone. I'll take point, not a place for the
team leader. Better not to have a 'yard be the first one they see,
though. They're gonna be tired men. We'll have to fake it. Sarge
will walk where I should be. Olson's not ready to be in the chain of
command, yet.
We hit the LZ fast and dirty, over the trees and in, without a
looksee first. Unass the birds and hit the tree line. It's a three
ship LZ and the whole team is together fast. Washington lands about
sixty seconds later and follows our rear. Within fifteen minutes
Recon Company is on the ground and movin'. Never been in an
operation this size before. It's a little spooky not bein' able to
shoot at anythin' that's movin'. Drill. Practice. Hope it pays.
Move out.
We get to where Mike Force is supposed to be, but they're not. A lot
of bodies are. Most are American or ARVN, some are NVA. Spread out,
move real slow. Sarge hits me in the back with a rock, points to the
tree line to the east. An American wavin'. Notify Willy, and take a
part of the team in, leavin' the rest to cover rear. It's a sarge I
know from Bragg, Craig somethin' or the other. He's shot all to
sh*t. Olson goes to work on the worst of it, while I ask
TheQuestion. They're gone! He figures there's maybe a platoon left,
holed up behind him about a hundred meters in some big rocks. The
NVA moved out a couple hours ago. I call Willy, and he comes in. He
calls for the air to look and see what they can find. Should be able
to find somethin'. Battalions are not wiped out by small units.
We move in. Craig goes out for a dust off with our own Mike Force.
He'll go home early. We go lookin' for the rocks. We find 'em. I
shout and wave, and take my hat off to show the old baldin' pate. I
get a wave back. We move into their lines.
Its a fookin' mess. If you've never seen the remains of a battalion
destroyed..., well..., I can't tell you what it's like. You cry,
you curse, you want desperately to kill someone, anyone, anything.
Battalion commander is an E-5. He's what's left. A platoon advisor
now has a battalion. Well, it used to be a battalion. F*ck! Sh*t!
We're too muthaf*ckin' late! I'll have nightmares for weeks about
this clusterf*ck. Too muthaf*ckin' late!
Maybe the poem says it better....
Morning After
The sun, it always rises.
Tho' I ain't so sure just why.
The blood soaked rags, the body bags,
are stacked to the fookin' sky.
Las' few grunts still standin'
be lookin' like dogs from Hell.
Heads are cracked, faces black'ed,
and, gods!, that fetid smell!
The field is pitted an' slimy.
God only knows with what.
Don't wanna know, it could be a bro
won't be seen tonite at his hut.
Too many bros have fallen;
ain't goin' HOME "upright".
Lovers and kin, sorrier'n sin,
lost all they had las' night.
War, it sucks, and battle be worse;
farewell sweet ring o'laughter.
But bad as it be, ain't nuttin' I see
as bad as the mornin' after....
May 20, 1993
The Fourth
Security call! Sh*t! Somebody else is havin' to use our inner pad,
usually reserved for our own ARVN slicks and Kingbees. It doesn't
happen very often, but sometimes the big LZ's are outta action when
somebody really needs to land. The main pad is no sweat, it's
sandwiched between the main camp and OP Alpha and doesn't open onto
camp at all. The inner pad, though, is just inside the berm and
gives access to the whole west side of the compound. Somebody uses
it, and we gotta go stand guard. Like maybe they're gonna steal the
place or read an op plan or somethin'.
Okay, it happens. Roust the team, don our gay apparel and hit the
strip. California is gonna take the main road out from the pad to
the gate. We form up by the bunkers built to cover the pilots comin'
off the pad in a hurry and we hunker down. The net starts jabberin'.
It part of the 4th, comin' in low on fuel 'cause of a diversion from
up north a piece. They've been in heavy action, though the seriously
wounded are on other ships headin' for Pleiku. Sh*t! They ain't us,
but we hate to see bros shot up.
Top, for once, is feelin' like a human, and has a couple full water
tanks wheeled over, they'll probably be thirsty. We send off to the
Recon Club and the NCO Club for some cases of beer. Won't go far
with a whole lotta company comin' in, but the guys in the worst
shape will get somethin'. It's the deal, man. Even if they ain't
ours.
The call, of course, was premature. We're on the pad for nearly a
half hour before we hear the first slicks. The first wave goes
overhead and goes into the main pad. The second wave, maybe ten
birds, drops into ours. The pilots are obviously in a helluva hurry
to hit the mud, and some of the landings would get 'em recycled
through flight school. But it don't hold our attention long. The
grunts command it.
They get off the birds like creatures barely redeemed from the brink
of hell. It reminds me of the Mike Force from Tri-borders, they look
so bad. They got too much gear to carry, and they ain't got the
strength to carry half of it. Their faces are grimy and strained,
creases of fatigue runnin' from forehead to chin, ear to ear. They
slouch, some just barely able to stand. Many just collapse, sittin'
down in the mud, not movin' from the side of the choppers. Some are
wounded, and we see a stretcher or two still on the birds. Top looks
it over and shakes his head. He looks at us and gives a grim nod.
All we need. F*ck a bunch of security bullsh*t, time to do
something!
Top heads for the TOC, to get the trucks here faster. And to get
some more help. Willy sends four 'yards in different directions, for
the docs, some more beer and some more Americans. The rest of us and
the other teams chuck our weapons and head for the grunts on the
ground. We pass the beer, we refill canteens, we check the wounded,
set two aside who have already died. We mix with the grunts, helpin'
with what we can. So maybe they're ours after all.
The trucks come eventually, for the men, for the equipment, for the
dead. The fuel trucks come in from Kontum proper and set to fillin'
the birds. We count up to fifty holes in some of 'em. Musta been
one bad muthaf*cka. The grunts ain't talkin' about it. They're still
catchin' their collective breath and countin' buddies. It sucks, big
time.
I find a young buck sergeant with a dressin' around his left arm,
suckin' on an empty can of Bud. He looks at me through tired eyes,
me bein' clean and fresh as a daisy, and says thanks.
I say, "Mike," he says "Bill." He looks around at the pad and asks
wherethef*ck are we.
"Just south of Kontum, the trucks'll take you home."
"Sh*t, we just went out this mornin'."
"Looks like they hit ya pretty bad."
He gazes out at this mates, "Yeah, pretty bad. The sh*t is we gotta
go back tomorrow and get the guys we left behind."
"You're sh*ttin' me."
"Nope, the word's out already."
"F*ck, man."
"Yeah...."
They pack up and roll out, and I slip Bill another beer and a piece
of jerky saved from our last trip out. He smiles some, and passes
the beer to a buddy.
"Keep your head down, bro."
"You do the same. Kill some gooks for me tomorrow."
"Damn straight."
They limp outta camp, and the choppers fly away to nest. We pick up
our gear and put it away. It's over in under two hours.
Happy as sh*t I'm no f*ckin' grunt.
Cooky
An army lives on its stomach. And that ain't always easy. Certainly
ain't easy in a war zone. I don't think they teach battle field mess
to Cordon Bleu chefs. And they don't teach Cordon Bleu cookin' to
battle field chefs. But sometimes you do okay.
We weren't authorized an Army cook. We didn't have a real mess hall,
y'see. What we had was a "Mess Association." Meanin' that we all
drew separate rats and paid into the association for meals. Local
cooks didn't know what to do with ground round, so we had some
serious scroungin' to do. 'Sokay, we had 100+ highly qualified
scrounges in camp. And we did it right.
First, you get somethin' worth tradin'. Somethin' real good. Since
we spent our time wanderin' in the back country, this was pretty
easy. What we used was a pallet-load of SKSs, still in the
preservative. They're pretty easy to take home, so the guys with
whom we were gonna barter would know they were gonna turn a profit.
Hadn't cost us nothin', we just found 'em, anyway. Just layin'
around, y'know.
Then you find somebody to trade with. What we found was the 4th
Division's senior enlisted S-4, a crusty old E-8. The game began,
and ended. It took a remarkably short time, and the guys came back
with SFC Holcomb. Officially an 11B, he was a cook. Specifically, he
was Cooky, the guy who made it work.
Cooky made things happen with minimal fuss and budget. He'd tie in
here, tie in there, and steak and lobster would materialize on
Friday night. He'd tie a few more knots, and on Sunday we'd have ice
cream. The man was good with knots. He was the only American in the
kitchen, but he knew how to run it. The rest of the staff was
Vietnamese, it bein' a joint mess facility. But they could cook
anythin' by the time Cooky was done with 'em. Pizza, hamburgers, hot
dogs, omelettes, and even a decent spaghetti, were all in the
repertoire. It was better than any mess I ate in stateside. Or
anywhere.
All's Cooky wanted was to be left to bake. The man had made a career
in the infantry only to find out he was a baker at heart. And, Lord,
could that man bake. Cakes, pies, torts, pastry, bread, you name it,
and he baked it. The Covey pilots and some of the others privileged
to eat on site would almost literally kill to be there for Friday
night dinner. 'Course, so would we.
I frequently wondered how many teams had ended operations early just
to come home for dinner on Friday night while Cooky was there. I
know I did. Twice. I mean, an army lives on its stomach, and I
really wanted to live real bad. I think I would have done so if we'd
had to fight off a fookin' regiment to do it.
Cooky was the best investment I ever saw us make. When he finally
DEROSed, we held a wake. The Vietnamese head cook he left behind was
good. But he couldn't bake like that. Not even my grandmother could.
Helluva thing to spend your time contemplatin' with a war on. We
were supposed to go out get our intel and get our asses back. But if
Cooky casually mentioned he wanted a new NVA pith helmet.... Well,
it just seemed to show up in the captured equipment real soon. And,
as an old grunt, he had plenty of stories about his first tour with
the Big Red One. Only cook I ever saw with a CIB on his hat.
Made a fellow happy just to be. Life can be good, y'know.
And his butterhorns were worth dyin' for!
The Road from Pleiku
I'm stuck in Pleiku. This is not good. I don't belong on no air
base. They don't like guns here. They don't like Army here. They
don't like anythin' I know or am here. Though they do seem to
tolerate my money. Spent last night in the BEQ. Curtains in the
windows, wax on the floor, not a hootch. My CAR-15 is disassembled
and in my briefcase. They won't get it away from me. I know there's
a war on, no matter what the guys at the gate say. The bunker is too
far away, there are no sandbags on the roof or around the walls, and
I only have the four magazines I brought. Sheeeeeeiiit! I gotta get
home, man. No PX run is worth this.
The next mornin' I walk out the gate. The fookin' guards didn't
wanna let me go. Nobody leaves the compound without orders. Yeah,
right! I produce my 'Walk-on-Water Pass,' and fook 'em if they can't
handle it. It's a mile down to Route 2 that heads north to Kontum. I
walk it. The place is crawlin' with folk that don't seem to know
there's a war on. Signs everywhere, speed limits, MPs, and not a
soldier in sight. Oh, lots of guys in uniform, but no one with a gun
except the MPs. So I guess there are some soldiers, after all. The
MP units in Nam did some serious butt kickin' on Charlie. Maybe some
of these are 'em. Don't matter, 'cause all they are right now is a
pain in the ass. Gotta keep the gun in the case. Might as well be
missin' my eyes or somethin'.
Well, I do get to I-2. And I stick out my thumb pointin' north. Now,
I gotta tell you this feels real weird. I'm standin' at an
intersection in the middle of a fookin' war, hitchhikin'. Crazy
place, man.
An ARVN deuce and a half with a couple of three-quarter tons and a
couple jeeps with M-60s actually stops for me. Okay, I know the
drill. I offer some P to the driver, but he shakes his head and
points at the back. Okay, there's still a lotta good soldiers in
this joint, and this one's just gonna help another GI. I mount up.
Only a couple guys in the rear, ARVN tankers from the road defense
force, if I read the uniforms right. Look back, and the three-
quarter tons have supplies. Okay! Caught a resupply run - it'll go
all the way to Kontum with minimal stops. I smile at the driver, and
point at the CCC logo on my jacket. He grunts okay, and we're off.
A mile down the road, and we've left the American area of influence
behind. The tanks along the road are ARVN. Open the case and
reassemble the CAR, lock and load. Much better. Even with only four
mags, I can at least shoot back. The tankers watch the whole
process, and start to bargain for the CAR - guess they like it. No
dice though. Three M-16s and a case of grenades just isn't enough. I
don't speak Vietnamese, they don't speak English, but soldiers can
always barter. They are disappointed that I won't part with it, but
recognize they are short on tradin' goods. No hard feelings, and we
watch the Central Highlands roll by.
I'd flown down to Pleiku with Covey in cloudy skies. This is my
first trip of any distance by ground since my arrival in Nha Trang.
I'd forgotten how nice it is to see country from a truck. You see
different things than you do from the air or afoot, my normal modes
of transportation. The ARVN are good company. They're real soldiers,
not parade ground troops. The scars and the eyes tell it. To them
I'm just a weekend warrior come to visit. Okay, they're right. When
I go home, they'll still be here.
We pass tanks every half mile or so, with infantry in between.
They're arrayed to protect the road, but the line is too thin. I can
tell when we are in problem areas, 'cause the tankers with me get
more alert. It's only sixty or so miles to Kontum, but it'll take
better than half the day with road blocks and service stops. Okay by
me, it's gettin' there.
I have my camera and I grab a few shots. The tankers catch what I'm
up to and warn me when somethin' good is comin'. I catch a small
Catholic cemetery with a large statue of Mary still intact. I catch
some shots of an army on dull duty, and a tanker pissin' off the
back of a tank, at which we all laugh. The lens isn't very big, but
I try a couple shots of the western horizon, too. Cambodia and Laos
are out there, somewhere. They tense as we approach fortified
positions, and I put the camera away. It was the right thing, they
are happy with the decision.
We swap the two tankers for an Lt., drop some supplies and pick up
some papers. I have to go through the barter routine with the Lt.,
and he ups the ante with an SKS. I think about it, but decide to
stick with the CAR. He too, is disappointed, but doesn't get upset.
The road goes on forever. It's a nice day, and I catch a short nap.
Finally, we pass the range. There's a team out there, RT Minnesota,
I think. Another mile and we pass OP Alpha, and enter the passage
through camp. The driver stops at the main gate and lets me climb
down. Much to the disgust of the 'yards at the gate, I give the
driver two of my thirty round mags, knowin' they are in short supply
for ARVN. I can see the driver wants to turn 'em down, but he wants
'em real bad, too. I pick up two of his twenty rounders, and the
deal is sealed. They disappear down the road into the city, and I
never see any of 'em again.
Hitchhikin' in Viet Nam. Make new friends, see the country. Don't
try it in Southern California, though. You could get dead.
Rosie's
Rosie's is a bordello; a brothel. Oh hell, it's not really either.
That implies too much class. Rosie's is a whorehouse, plain and
simple. It's just outside the north gate, toward town. It exists for
this camp and its American and ARVN occupants. And it does a
thrivin' business. Why "Rosie's?" I don't know. All whorehouses are
"Rosie's," aren't they? I suppose we coulda called it somethin'
else, but tradition is tradition, y'know. It's gotta be served. And
so do the soldier's, for that matter.
Its a big, two story, wood frame structure. Upstairs is the
residence, and no one goes up there but the girls. Downstairs, in
front, is the parlor. It's a bar, really. With overpriced drinks and
girls waitin' for a trick. The madam has figured out that Americans
want to have some verbal play before-hand, to give a "love
interest." She thinks that's funny. She's probably right. But money
is money, and the Americans pay well. So the parlor is okay, even
good. In the long, single story trailin' back are TheRooms. Small
and unromantic, but private for "romantic" activities. Must be
twenty of 'em. It's a busy place.
No guards here. Well..., the bartender has an AK under the counter,
but that's it. The patrons do their own policin'. Has to be that
way, really. What kinda guards you gonna mount against a bunch of
horny soldiers with rifles...? No, the guys will straighten out
anyone who gets outta line. It's worked for years. Probably will
till hell freezes over, too.
Some things you can't guard against, even with twenty or so
Americans with rifles and a like number of ARVN, though. One of 'em
is Mortar Peter. Ask the girls. There is NO defense against that. He
doesn't come here much. Don't do no good, he can't get laid here.
Once a month we pack him onto a Black Bird and send him to Bangkok
to the specialists. You do that for a friend. You fergodsake don't
let him go to Rosie's. Not again!
First time MP went there, it started off well enough. He bought some
drinks and got the attention of the girls. He wasn't the best
lookin' of men, but he wasn't any slouch, either. And then they went
to the back.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMM! Stomping! Rumbling! The
girls come flyin' outta the windows and the doors, less than half
dressed, or not dressed at all. And not carin'. Some of the guys go
too, not havin' the foggiest notion whaddahell is goin' down, just
reactin'. Naked Americans and ARVN, weapons in hand, lookin'
everywhere for a bunker. In the bar, tables are kicked over and a
hasty defensive position is assumed, joint command by somebody or
the other. Safeties are off, and it's startin' to look pretty ugly.
The madam goes flyin' down the hall to see what's up. Her girls will
be off their pace for days, and she is NOT happy. The crowd in the
parlor grimaces and hunkers down. Screamin' and yellin' down the
hall, and mama-san is back movin' faster than the girls. The look on
her face is horror beyond horror. Ohsh*tohsh*tohsh*t! Must be a
fookin' regiment back there! The guys in the parlor start plannin'
E&E routes.
The floor creaks, and foot steps approach. Rifles up, itchy fingers.
Out steps Mortar Peter, with his pants in his hand and that foot-
plus long magic wand of his standin' at attention. All you hear is
the suckin' of air, as twenty guys try to keep their inferiority
complexes from goin' riot. One by one, safeties are put back on, and
a smatterin' of appreciative applause goes around the room,
punctuated by continuin' gasps. Some guy from one of the teams yells
for him to put on his fookin' pants, ferchristsake. He does, and
goes back to base, more than a little embarrassed. We sent him to
Thailand the next day.
Madam was pissed. Also scared. She threatened to give the place over
to the NVA if she ever saw that "elephant" in her place again. She
didn't mean it, of course; she'd lost too many kin to the
northerners. But she was one shook lady. I guess if I'd been a woman
when lookin' at that instrument of destruction, I'da been scared
sh*tless, too.
Well, it passed, lesson learned. But the guys kept goin' to Rosie's.
Not all of 'em used TheRooms, of course. Some just wanted to talk to
someone besides the same, old, ugly guys they spent all their other
days and nights with. Which was okay; it brought in the Piaster.
I only went there a few times. One time was to find the teams. We
had a hot one come up, and we needed to get briefin' in and start
back to work. So they sent me down to round up all the guys that
were ours in the joint. Okay, not a problem, it's less than two
minutes out the gate.
Madam, however, is not interested in my problems. She ain't gonna
disturb all those rooms to find a couple guys just 'cause I need
'em. I get pissed, she gets pissed, and we yell at each other for a
good five minutes. Finally, my brain kicks into gear and I tell her
if she won't get 'em out, I'll have to go get my friends. She looks
at the crowd in the parlor, and laughs in my face.
"One of 'em's named Mortar Peter, Rosie." And I smile. Really big
toothy smile.
I get my troops, and never have another problem of any kind at
Rosie's.
Secret weapons are where you find 'em. Even at Rosie's.
Dressed for Success
Let's face it, what soldiers do for a livin' is just like any
other business. Well, maybe plus a little. You do planning,
projections, contingency adjustments, budget your resources, and
all those things any other businessman does. You also have to
dress right. 'Power ties' are not really "in," but clothing is
still very important. This is especially true for the field
troops. The wrong clothes don't lose you a contract, they can get
you dead. Which closes a deal real fast.
Back in the states we were issued uniforms and they were expected
to be maintained as received. 'Tweren't the case in Nam, though.
Here, we got to improvise and customize to our heart's content.
And we damn sure did. My drill sergeant would not have been
pleased.
My regular field uniform was originally French. Much like U.S.
jungle fatigues, it had lots of pockets and was an off shade of
olive drab. I'd learned some of its deficiencies in Panama. And I
got to apply those "lessons learned" in SEA.
First, in jungles or even dense woods, extra cloth flappin' around
is NOT an asset. It's forever and a day gettin' caught in this or
that and makin' your life miserable. Or worse yet, it could make
noise at an inopportune moment, or hang up your weapon. So extra
cloth had to go. That meant, foremost of all, that the tail of the
jacket had to be tucked in. Remove two pockets you really wanted,
but couldn't get into wearin' web gear anyway, and cut a couple
slits on the sides for easy tuckin'. Leave it full length, though,
so it'll stay tucked even when crawlin' around in slime, mud or
other uncomfortable things. Soldiers have to do that a lot,
y'know.
The legs were also a problem. All that extra cloth above the boot
got hung up, too. This causes one to fall down. Murphy dictates
that this only happen in the presence of the enemy, so it is best
avoided. Someone had given thought to this prior to my arrival,
and the solution was stored away in old Army-surplus warehouses.
World War I canvas leggings. Crazy world, huh? They worked like a
champ, though. Put those suckers on, lace 'em up tight, and you
not only got rid of the extra cloth, you got canvas protection for
your lower legs. With all those fookin' leeches around, this was a
nice addition. Parachute cord makes good lacing, and lasts a long
time, even when immersed in fetid water. Used a parachute strap
for the belt, too, for the same reasons. Don't know what happened
to all the parachutes we got this stuff from. Damn sure wasn't
gonna carry the whole damn thing.
Second, you now have two extra pockets detached from your uniform.
I always liked pockets on my shoulders 'cause they're easy to get
to with web gear on, in just about any state of horizontal-or-
verticalness. Great for maps or a candy bar. Can't put 'em on the
outside up there, cause the extra cloth problem will get ya. So
you put 'em on the inside and add a zipper. Make the zipper nylon,
so it's quiet. Noise is also undesirable.
Now, we didn't have cammies. So we did the next best thing. We
pulled out cans of black spray paint and did random doodles on the
OD surface. Had to be flat black, of course. Between the paint and
sweat, you got as good as or better than cammy coverin'. And it
came pretty darn close to the color of the vegetation around you.
Which, of course, is the whole idea. You did the same to the
leggings, naturally. Add some green paint for 'em, as sand colored
canvas doesn't blend too well with verdant green. You still won't
pass for a bush upon close inspection, but who wants to be that
close to the NVA, anyway?
Now for the headgear. Boonie hats are cool. But the brim is just
too damned wide. It blocks your upward vision. Since Chuck likes
to hide in trees a lot, this is not somethin' one usually wished
to sacrifice. So cut it down to about and inch and rebind. Go back
to the paint cans and do it again. The brim is large enough to
keep the rain outta your face mosta the time, but not to block
sight. Mine was black, and had to get some green paint, too. Some
of the guys sewed a piece of a marker panel into the crown as
emergency backup. I never felt the need, but it's not too bad an
idea as such things go. I was always afraid my hat would come off
at some inappropriate moment.
Third, your feet. Can't emphasize these enough. Man, a ground
pounder lives on his feet. If you're runnin' in small teams, you
won't take your boots off for several days, more likely than not.
So they gotta be good. They gotta fit right, and they gotta drain
right. Don't sweat it about water leakin' in, it's gonna get in no
matter what you do. You do hafta worry about it gettin' back out.
In swamp land, leather doesn't really cut it, and some of the new
synthetics wear better. They also don't turn white when the polish
is gone. White is not a good color in a green place, either.
Some of the guys liked gloves, too. You paint 'em just like
everythin' else. Me, I didn't care much for 'em. Too much trouble
when you're in a place where it rains a lot. I suppose if it
didn't rain all that bad, they'd be okay for the protection they
offer your trigger finger. That needs protectin' a lot.
Successful business requires the proper attire. In an army at war,
it couples with your instincts to survive. It also happens to fit
that old adage about fashionable clothing:
"Dressed to kill."
Fashion has its place....
Good for the Back
Your web gear carries your life. Maybe you think of it as
equipment, but it's not simply that. It's the tools of your trade
and the things that will keep you from gettin' killed too easily.
As such, it should get a lot of thought. Preferably your's.
Mine was a standard web belt with a stabo rig replacin' the load
bearin' harness. The stabo acted as a harness for liftin' on ropes
from a helicopter. The only thing that had to be done was tape up
the crotch straps and tape down the rings at the shoulders. This
took a strong cloth tape that wouldn't rip easily, but would rip
when needed. Replaced it after each mission to insure it didn't
wear excessively from abrasion and wetness. Medical tape worked
okay, though it, too, had to be painted. Nothin' dangled, but it
all was within reach for use in a hurry. If you're to a point
where you need your stabo rig, you are probably in that hurry.
On the belt I carried two canteens without cups - they made too
much noise. I also carried three drums of RPD ammo in custom made
carriers, as no one made the damn things. Also carried a canteen
case for grenades. Two field dressin' packets filled up the
remainder of the belt. On the stabo straps I carried a strobe
light with a "neck" to avoid light goin' anywhere but up. Had a
blue filter on it, as I'm told this made it more visible at night.
Like you'd be usin' it any other time....
We carried indigenous rucksacks that came in an off shade of gray.
These got painted like the uniforms, black and green. They were
just one big sack with no external pockets, so organization was
not all that easy or even really possible. In here went at least
one pair of socks for each day in the woods, though they seldom
all got used. Also in here went rations, another drum for the RPD,
a mini-claymore, spare paper and pencil wrapped in plastic, timin'
fuse and cap, parachute cord, and a poncho liner or lightweight
sleepin' bag, as appropriate. As the guy with the machine gun,
that was about it for me. The others carried more grenades and
extra rations for everyone. They also carried extra ammo for the
M-203's that nearly all the teams carried.
In a nylon shoulder holster I carried a Browning Highpower, 9mm
pistol and spare clips. I started with a .45, but decided after
its first usage that it didn't have enough bullets. Stuffed into
the top of my right leggin' was a K-bar. Never could understand
how people could go to the woods without a good knife. Probably
the single most useful tool one can carry any time, anywhere. The
K-bar is not good for any particular task, but it is fair for any
number of jobs. It stayed on the person, for reasons to become
apparent. One of the things you always try to do is plan for
contingencies. So we worked in layers. The ruck sack carried a
lot of good stuff, but you might have to leave it behind at some
point. So you carried the really important stuff on your web gear.
Well, you might have to leave that behind, too - like if you got
overrun without warnin' while sleepin'. So survival stuff went on
your person. Besides the knife, I always had one meal in my left
leg pocket, along with fifty feet of parachute cord, some safety
pins, and stray stuff. In the right leg pocket went an URC radio
for emergency contact with aircraft if it went truly to hell in a
hand basket. My shoulder holster and Browning never came off,
either. In my pockets I carried maps, morphine, lomotil,
amphetamines, more dressings, and more paper and pencils.
Put it all on, add a weapon, and it comes out to a lot more than
you wanted to carry. But where we went there would be no evenin'
resupply, no one to give us food and ammo, and no Safeway. So we
carried it with us. Like the good, environmentally-conscious types
we were, what we packed in, we packed out. No sense in leavin'
intel for the bad guys.
Hell, we were supposed to get, not give, that stuff. Though
sometimes we left little presents. The kind that ticked....
Which someone had to carry, of course.
Dining Out
In a war zone, you can leave home without it. Visa, Mastercharge,
American Express and Diner's Club didn't work the field in Viet
Nam. Which is okay, as it eliminates one more way to die.
So you take your food with you. Not bacon and eggs, not steak and
potatoes, but things that are easier to prepare and eat. Because
eatin' is somethin' you do between steps. Because preparation
consists of addin' water. Probably tainted water. Purification
tablets don't do much for flavor in most meals.
We were lucky in a way. We got to pick and choose our meals. We got
issued standard indigenous LRRP rations, our own LRRP rations, and
good old Korean surplus 'C' rations. Given a few cases of each, you
could put together somethin' acceptable. We couldn't take the mess
hall with us. But we did okay.
The indigenous rations were basically cup sized bags of rice with
some meat and veggies added. The shrimp combo was the best. When
you added the water, you tossed in some tabasco or pepper sauce,
tied the bag into a sock and hung it on the back of your ruck to
hydrate. This stirred it up, too. Tasted pretty darn good after six
to eight hours without anythin'. Didn't need utensils, either. You
just choke the bag and squeeze out bite-sized portions as you
walked or sat. Generally, we preferred not to eat in a fixed
position. Too easy then to get too casual. It was not a casual war.
We also brought along the better parts of the other meals. Cans of
fruit, if you didn't mind carryin' the weight, were real popular.
Candy bars were good, too. Surplus was given to the elders in the
Ville to distribute, so nothin' went to waste. If you ate out in
the Ville, you had to be prepared for ham and muthas. Helluva deal.
It wasn't hot and prepared in a kitchen, but it sufficed to keep
strength up and spirits goin'.
And the price was A-Number-One even if the menu was kinda
primitive.
Covey
The Air Force had more than jet jockeys. Not to belittle the guys
in the Phantoms. They were great! They'd come to the end of their
fuel range and hang around longer than they should to give your ass
some cover when you really needed it. They brought death with 'em,
and left it with Chuck whenever possible. Good group of folk, all
in all. But they weren't all the fly boys in the Nam.
Slow movers, old prop jobs brought out of retirement just for
ground support, were good too. Slow to get there, they had long TOT
- time on target. They would and did get down and dirty long after
the fast movers had to go home or refuel. Never met one of these
guys. But they were real, and I personally owe 'em my ass as much
as I owe the jet jocks.
Then there were the cargo guys and all the ground crews and support
types that kept 'em in the air. Met few of 'em, but they did their
thing to get me back. And the Jolly Greens did, too. Spent some
time with 'em both before and after my SEA excursion, as well.
Another group that knew about "up close and personal," and brought
the air war to the ground.
But for us, operatin' recon out of CCC, there was Covey. Covey flew
our recons, our FAC, our radio relay, and sometimes our beer.
Little ol' O-2s for the most part. Single door on the right side,
the pilot bein' on the left. Hadda be uncomfortable knowin' you had
to climb over whatever might be in the right seat before you could
get out. But they flew in all weather, at low altitudes, under
enemy fire, and kept us alive when no one else would or could come.
They did more, too. They had the finger. They were the guys who
knew where we were.
Now, that may not sound like a lot. But when you are somewhere in
Cambodia or Laos, the maps are what they were, and you've been
runnin' for a couple days so as not to have the vaguest notion of
where in the holy hell you are, it counts for a fook of a lot. I
don't know about you, but with the maps we had, most of the time I
didn't know but within a couple klicks of where I was. And I'm a
whiz with land navigation. I've maxed ever course I've ever run.
Even in Norway, ferchristsake! But the maps we had of V Corps were
godawful. Sometimes they weren't even worth carryin', they were so
inaccurate. Like most soldiers, I didn't like bein' lost. I get to
missin' peer group support real easy.
Pilots, on the other hand, especially Covey, always know where they
are. Even if they have the wrong map. Even if we ended up in the
wrong fookin' country. I don't know how they teach that. They tell
me it's because they have the same view as the map. I don't think
so. I've been on aerial recons, and nothin' on the map looked like
what I saw down there. But Covey, he just leaned over, thumped a
finger onto the map and said there. While flyin'. I mean, isn't he
supposed to watch the road or something? But they always knew.
Thank God! 'Cause a lot of the time I ferdamnsure didn't.
They did this a lot for us. On recons, on inserts, on radio
contacts, on exfils, they were ready with that know-it-all finger.
I don't know how many times I'd get back from a recon and be
briefin' the slick pilots and say I wanna go in here, and the
finger would appear and say no, there. Or I'd go to a debriefin'
and I'd have to say, Covey, where'd we come from, and backtrack
from that all-knowin' finger to show where we'd been and where the
bad guys were. Maybe they have special fingers with inertial
guidance systems or somethin'. Issued in flight school. Or maybe
their own special shaman. Issued with their cast iron stomachs and
brass balls.
Beside bein' the guys who told us where we were, they also told us
where the bad guys were. Which was good. 'Cause when we found out
on our own, it was usually kinda late. Don't get me wrong. The
'yards could smell Chuck at a klick. But Covey could see him at
ten. And they could explain it in terms we understood. Like, look
*sshole, just the other side of the fookin' ridge you're stupid
enough to be standin' on when you're supposed to be over fookin'
there. You could feel the finger stabbin' the map from 2000 feet.
They got communication skills from a somewhat less exalted spot
than they got the finger. But we got the drift.
And when the sh*t hit the fan, they could get fast movers, slow
movers, slicks, snakes and all sorts of good stuff near us in a
hurry. Which is good. 'Cause we always needed it. Six guys
wanderin' around lost in Cambodia need everythin' they can get.
Covey would roll in, pop a willie pete rocket into the bad guys,
and all hell would break loose. They'd sit up there and direct
traffic with that magic finger, and the Phantoms and snakes and
things would just sing. Good songs, too. War songs. Death songs.
But mostly, we loved 'em 'cause they talked to us. It gets pretty
lonely when you, your one one, and four 'yards are the only
friendlies within 100 miles. Bone crunchin' lonely. And desolate.
Twice a day, a lonely little O-2 would fly somewhere near and talk
to us. He'd have a Covey rider aboard, then, to man the radio. And
the rider was good. He could even read the map and match it to the
terrain most of the time. Rider would tell us we're okay and we'd
tell him what was what, and be a little less lonely. Riders are
good people. But they don't have the finger.
Covey had the finger. Covey was a demigod. And he was always givin'
us the finger.
But we couldn't have done it without him, anyway.
Sundays
Sundays are odd days. In the here and now, they are days off work.
Stores are closed. Days to do the things we didn't get done durin'
the week. It wasn't always so. In Nam, Sunday, or any other day of
the week, didn't matter a whole helluva lot. You're in the field,
and it might not even cross your mind what day it was. Sometimes for
weeks at a time, you have no idea. It just doesn't come up.
When in camp, it was different. Oh, the camp functioned just like
every other day. But around 0900 the bell at the church outside the
wire, halfway to the 'yard ville would ring. It was an odd sound.
Not one you ever felt comfortable with. I mean, it didn't fit. We
came over here to fight a war, and we walk in jungles and rice
paddies, terrain that we would have avoided if we were elsewhere.
But we're not elsewhere. People shoot at us, and we shoot at 'em.
Jets raise an infernal racket, choppers a background hum, explosions
everywhere. It's about noise and death and dyin'. A bell just
doesn't fit in with it at all. That's supposed to be back "Home."
But at 0900 the bell rings anyway. We've been expectin' it, Van and
I. We wait for it every Sunday we're in camp, if we know what day it
is. And, with only Brownings, we follow the sound to its source.
Only times we ever left the compound so lightly armed. But RPD's and
churches don't seem to fit together, even in this place and time of
war. To preserve our faith and fulfill our obligation, to say a
rosary and participate in the Mass, we follow the bell. We walk down
a dirt road along the north side of camp, wade the river at its
shallowest, and wind up the trail to a small rise. Nothin' we see is
legible, nothin' we hear is in a language we understand. But we go
anyway. Even here, or maybe especially here, the bell summons like
no other sound can - or, perhaps, even could. Or ever should.
The Mass is said in Jarai by a Vietnamese missionary (who attended
seminary in France before the war) to the 'yards who come. Not all
of it. For Van and I, he does the Kyrie and the Agnus Dei in Latin,
so we can join in somethin'. The crowd is used to us, and we have
regular seats in the back, where our failures to sing and respond
are less noticeable. At the passin' of the baskets, we will provide
a full half of the church's weekly income, $20 each - in P. They
have repainted and patched the roof since we arrived. We are both
happy and sad at this, but we continue to come. The ritual is the
same. The words have changed, but remain immutable. There are
advantages to a church with fixed rites. We know when to stand, when
to sit, when to kneel.
Actually, the mass is sung for over 60% of its length. Only the
homily is spoken. With a great deal of labor, the padre has
translated the Mass from Vietnamese and French to Jarai, and set it
to music the people will know. It is lost on Van and I - I'm from
So. Cal. and Van from inner-city Baltimore. It isn't even
particularly beautiful to us. But it is Mass. We'll go to confession
every other Friday, as well, if we're in camp. We say TheWords in
English, the priest grants absolution in Vietnamese. Penance is
self-imposed, and we do it in Latin. Neither of us can sing worth a
tinkers damn. Still, Stabat Mater is heard in the Central Highlands,
RVN, in an American accented version of a language long dead on yet
a third continent. The rosary is said, the 'yards frequently join
us. It is English, Latin and Jarai. We think the Pope would like it.
We pray God does. It is the "Church Universal" in its rawest form.
Mass will end, and the people will be dismissed. This much we can
catch, always. After the procession, we exit and shake hands with
the priest - a custom he knows from France. We play with the kids
and hug the parents, some of whom we know - a custom far more
fundamental to the human condition. This is the good part. The
community of the faith. Like any people new to the Church, they will
travel five days into the hills to the shaman for serious spiritual
needs, but they are with us today. Another European custom
superimposed on an alien culture. This one, well..., maybe not so
bad.
Van and I go back to camp. There, we will once again be foreign
soldiers. For a little while, though, we've just been strangers in a
strange land. It felt pretty damn good. I think it's why we continue
to go. The war is a little less present for an hour. It is not Home,
but it is as close as we'll get in Viet Nam. It was as close as Van
ever got again.
Sundays are odd days. So what...? It don't matter.
We still pray for you, padre. Do you still pray for us...?
Party Night!
Party night! Yes!
The 'yards are celebratin' somethin' or the other. Somebody
important who I never heard of. Don't matter. We're goin' down to
the 'yard barracks and get crocked. Set out the O2 and benedryl so I
won't have to look for it in the mornin'. Put on some really old and
disgustin' fatigues. YES! War's on hold tonight, dudes. Chuck'll
just have to wait till we're done.
Saw the wine come in earlier. Big ol' jug, earth still fallin' off
the sides. Fresh dug up, the best kind. 'Yards have been grillin'
somethin' all day. I think it's probably an animal of some kind.
You don't ask, you feel better. All tastes the same by the time the
straw's been around a half dozen times, anyhoo. This is a formal
occasion. Even the mold's been scraped off the bread. Well, looks
like bread. Sorta. Same as the meat, don't matter.
'Yard barracks is basically a larger version of our own with more
bunks. RT California has sixteen 'yards. They're the team I borrowed
for my first op. Kinda crowded. It's rainin' like it really means
it, and we're soaked by the time we get there. A whole twenty-five
meters. Dry out inside in about fifteen minutes - it's kinda warm
with all those bodies and the steamin' meat. The floor is concrete
slab, so we brought some pillows. I can only squat so long, gotta
sit. Been to 'yard parties before - in the ville. First time we do
one in camp, mission prep and all. Feels right good.
First things first. Team sergeant, name now forgotten, does the
"welcome to our humble abode" bit. Like we never been there before!
Willy responds in kind and presents a magnum of Champagne. The
'yards are tickled pink. Don't get western booze too often, and a
lot of 'em got a taste for good wine. Lots of hugs. Someone gives me
another bracelet durin' a hug. Didn't even notice, but I'd been
outta uniform. Okay now. Champagne disappears into the sergeant's
locker. He'll save it for a special time. That'll be six months
later when he takes the first all 'yard team into V Corps. Joe had
trained him well. They came out okay, full team, full rolls of film.
But that's yet another story.
We all find a place around the center of the room, and the jug. It
partially buried in a pile of dirt in the floor to keep it from
tippin' over. About two feet high, with a BIG straw out the top.
Willy, team leader, gets the first sip. Then the sarge. Then it just
goes around - clockwise most of the time. The first sip is NOT good,
but it numbs the taste buds just fine. Deceptive, like gin. It goes
around the nineteen of us twice before someone brings in the dinner.
Mystery meat is okay. Drog says it's dog, and snickers. Others say
other things. Tastes like somebody crossed a cow with a coatamundi
to me. But the seasoning's good. Takes the first two coats of skin
off my tongue. "Pass the fookin' straw!" Damn straight! Eat it all,
some bread, some rice, the mystery meat. Good aperitif! Excellent
vintage. The straw continues to travel. I'm at the north end of the
circle, and they start callin' me the "communist." I look at Drog on
the south side, and call him "ARVN." Everybody laughs their ass off.
I score two points and they pour in fresh water and pass me the
straw. A couple more times around, and I won't be scorin' any more
points.
Food goes around again. Eat it all and don't even notice the third
degree burns this time. The straw goes by again. Now it's smooth and
silky on my tongue. We sing, the 'yards sing. Someone turns on the
radio and we listen to Jimi. We dance. Now, I don't dance. But "the
straw talks." We all dance. Things start to glow. Especially the
jug. Nectar of the gods. Somewhere, deep in my mind, I know that
tomorrow it will be a vengeful god, but whathef*ck, over? Pass the
straw. We laugh, we cry, we are happy, we are sad. We remember those
not here, and hope for those who will be some day. Even the 'yards
are startin' to glow. By any definition. We are havin' a good time.
I wake up in the mornin'. Well, I ceased bein' asleep, anyway.
Willy's there, and he forces the benedryl down my throat and straps
on the O2. Musta had his already. In about five years I get up and
head to the john. That stuff ain't gonna burn. I'm burnin' though,
so it balances. Today we're gonna pack our bags for the woods,
nothin' too strenuous. That's good. Might be another couple years
before I'm ready. Mortar Peter looks even worse. But, then, he
always does... And I'm no winner.
Party night! Yes!
Don't party much any more. Not the same, somehow. Play hell findin'
a jug.
A slab of bread, a jug of wine, a hunk of mystery meat, and thou.
Crazy place.
Ashau
The Ashau Valley is for us ground pounders what Tally Ho was for an
F-4 pilot. You go 'cause somebody tells you you gotta. It is not
recommended. It's not ours. Except for a brief time that the Marine
Corps went through, it never was. It never will be. The place sucks.
Its supposedly in CCN's turf. But we change things from time to
time. Fresh perspective. Maybe not enough turnover up north, and
everybody told 'em to f*ck off. Don't know. But the marchin' orders
are emphatic. The Ashau. Sh*t! We're gonna go try to get some pics.
Gonna try to count heads. Gonna get our asses shot off. The last
wasn't in the mission briefin'. It's in our minds, though. The Ah
Sh*t Valley. I've known about this place since SFTG at Bragg in
1968. The bogey man for us. The place they send you when you say
"whatcha gonna do, send me to Nam?" I'd rather go to Hell. At least
once you're there, you're already dead. Somethin' like 25% to 30% of
all the teams that ever went in there didn't come back. Sh*t!
Okay, we plan it. We read every report that's ever come out of the
fookin' place. There'll be no aerial recon. Every hole big enough
for an insert is already known. To all parties concerned. Okay, we
ain't gonna sneak in. We're just gonna hafta hope we can get lost
real fast once we're in. Major air support. Arclight will be enroute
from Guam. Not a fast response time, but you can't keep somethin'
like that in short orbit. Sh*t! Ah Sh*t! They say Mike Force will be
thirty minutes out and rarin' to go. We believe the thirty minutes,
the rest probably ain't right. They went to the same SFTG I did. I
was scared in Nam a lot of times. That night ranks right up there
with Flashlights.
What we're gonna do is get inserted just over the southeast corner
ridge while the USAF is tearin' the hell outta some other areas of
the valley. We gonna try to kill anythin' in the way of watchers,
and then disappear into the brush, relatively thick in that area.
Then the AF is gonna tear the hell outta the LZ we came in on. We
figure we'll get around twenty-four hours on the ground. We also
figure 50% casualties, if we're lucky. Sh*t! Yeah. Ah Sh*t Valley.
We pack heavy. Light on food, lots and lots of things that go boom.
I don't know about the others, but I got a willie pete with my very
own name on it. Low return rate on lost teams. I ain't gonna be MIA
if'n I can help it. I figure I can. RPD has been cleaned to death.
I've got 150 rounds in the drum that's mounted, two more 100
rounders on my belt, and another 150 rounder in my ruck. Also my
Browning with a couple extra mags. Not likely to help, but
whathef*ck, over? Another three drums scattered around the team.
Grenades up the kazoo. Claymores, too. Full sized ones, which we
hardly ever carry. We are both psyched up and out. Sh*t! Ashau! Why
the can't we get somethin' easy, like huntin' Satan or somethin'...?
D-Day. We go out. Nobody smiles. We're runnin' heavy, ten dudes,
four of which are Americans. Not a strap hanger - another one zero
from another team. Sam's a big boy. He's got an M-60 fed by an
aircraft feed tray to a 100 lb ruck of nothin' but ammo. Ace in the
hole, we hope. Bulky, but puts out a lot of bullets without havin'
to change drums or boxes or nothin'. Too bulky for sneakin' and
peekin'. 'Sokay, we ain't gonna do a lot of that. We've staged
north, and it's only a thirty minute flight in. In the distance, the
F-4s are doin' their thing. Snakes too, closer to us. Looks more
like a war on than anythin' I'd ever seen in Nam before. Sh*t!
Check my mini-pounder again. Friendly fire is a higher probability
than any other mission I've gone on. Sh*tsh*tsh*tsh*tsh*t! Ah Sh*t!
Here we come.
We go in hot. The door gunners see the watcher and go after him
hard. Got the little mutha, too. Good, maybe we get our twenty-four
hours, after all. If there wasn't another one. Little LZ, takes two
trips. We form up and get the f*ck out, fast! I'm runnin' next to
tail this time out. Extra firepower in the rear. We get a 100
meters out, and the Phantoms go in on the LZ - HARD! Nape, bombs,
20s, everythin'. We left anybody back there, they ain't gonna tell
nobody. The slicks move on, droppin' firefight simulators in other
holes all over the area, for maybe four klicks around. Confuse 'em.
Make 'em split up. Give us a chance to sneak a little, anyway. The
fear is gone now. No time for it. Attention to what you're doin'.
Fear'll be back if it's needed. Always is....
Another 100 meters, been on the ground maybe fifteen minutes. The
'60 up fronts lets go, as do some AKs. Sh*t! Ohsh*tohsh*tohsh*t!
Show time! Hop to the left, make room for the others comin' back,
ready to drop a drum in the general area up front. And here they
come. It's called the Banana. Everybody hops left and right and
drops a basic load as the guy in front of 'em peels back past him.
Group stays organized that way. First one through is point. Then the
'60. He stops opposite me and kneels down. We'll provide a big burst
to give the others a chance to set or run. Noisy now, full fledged
firefight in front. Hear a couple grenades. Hear a mortar. A
mortar?! Oh big muthaf*ckin' Sh*t!
Sam looks over at me and says over the noise, "company."
I don't think he means friends droppin' in to visit. He means it's a
least a company sized unit. F*CK! Concentrate, drill. Only way.
Hope they launched the arclight. The fear is back....
After a few seconds/hours, the 'yard in front of me peels back and
books. Sam and I walk it out. Lots of movement up there, muzzle
flashes. We can't see 'em, yet, so they ain't aimin' at us either.
He drops a steady stream, walkin' it back and forth while I do
bursts at individual targets. Finally, he turns and books. Just me
and the tail gunner now. He's got a 203, too, and they start
chunkin' out. I'm excited by this time, and I drop the remainin' 100
rounds in my drum in a single burst. God only knows where the last
fifty rounds went. Tail drops more brass while I hook on a new drum
and lock and load. Time to go. I lead out, tail follows. We run into
someone we know real soon, they've decided to fight. We don't, they
decided to run. And I don't see nobody. Sh*t! Good decision, though.
We find ourselves back at the LZ before we catch up. It's still
smoldering, fires still goin' on two sides. They've settled into an
ambush position, and Willy waves us through. We're bait now. We're
supposed to run out the other side and draw the guys in khaki into
the kill zone. Sh*t! Okay, we run as fast as we can out the only
other side not burnin'. Ten meters into the brush, we find a spot
and move off to the right where we can help in the firin'. Hittin'
the dirt, I burn myself a little on the barrel. Sh*t! The ambush
opens up! They were that close! Sh*t! I can see Willy hollerin' into
the radio. The explosions down the valley stop. Good news, the AF is
still around! Tear 'em a new asshole, Willy! Go Phantom! Kill!
Snakes in first. 20s and 7.62 minis. Too F*ckin' close for rockets.
Then the Phantoms. The area beyond the LZ is a mess. Willy drops the
team back to our side, and I wave him in. He moves me to the left
for more firepower on the flank they're most likely to come into.
Sam's right up front, watchin' the LZ. Willy and Mortar Peter take
the six with the radio and are jabberin' as fast as they can. I
don't gotta be told. Turn on the 'pounder. Drop my ruck and pull out
the spare drum, set it next to me. Gonna take as many of the little
cocksuckers with me as I can. More drums handed over by others
carryin' my spares. First time I ever pulled out the bipod. Look,
I've had my CIB for months now; but it ain't never been like this.
We ain't gonna make it. I pat the willie pete. Not afraid, now. Just
pissed like a sonuvabitch. Gonna kill some gooks first, that's for
muthaf*ckin' sure!
Drog, the tail, sees 'em first. The CAR makes its sound in short
bursts, he's a disciplined dude. Keeps me calm, and the RPD growls
out streams of hot lead. I scorched the barrel back there, it's only
an area weapon now. Grenades go flyin'. Willy yells. Snake rolls
over and the woods in front of us explode. Phantoms scream! God how
they scream! They got the 'pounders marked, and Willy musta told 'em
to smoke everythin' outside the perimeter. They do. We don't gotta
shoot except at some really confused f*ckers that come our way
thinkin' it's "out." They go "out", anyway. Three of 'em made it to
within five meters of the RPD. F*ckin' gooks! They ain't gonna shoot
up anybody, EVER again. F*ck 'em! F*ck 'em all!
The noise is felt. Concussions. They're usin' rockets and 40mm now.
We ain't gonna make it, and they're gonna help us take as many out
as can be. It's comin' in close, but it don't matter. I change drums
again. No bayonet to fix, or I'd do that too. Never thought I'd feel
that way. I was wrong. I was gonna die. Those muthaf*ckers were,
too! You never been there, you don't know the noise. Can't hear
Sh*t, everythin' is visual. And olfactory. It stinks as bad as it
sounds. We gonna make it stink like death! Die, you F*ckin' gooks,
DIE!
New noise. Slick! Someone is comin' in! I pull another 'yard into my
spot and shift to the LZ. We just shoot into the sides, the brush.
Can't loose the bird, man. That's our one hope! Hope? Now
wheredaf*ck did that come from? Don't matter, I got people to find
and kill. It comes in fast and low. Right through the smoke and
Sh*t. Tracers comin' outta the far treeline reach for it. It blocks
our shots. Snakes roll in outta somewhere. The tracers stop. Sam
grabs a pile of 'yards and runs like a stallion for the bird.
They're hardly in and it lifts. We can shoot again, and do. It's
gotta make it! Man, those are our 'yards. Ain't no F*ckin' slope
gonna get our 'yards!
We bunch up close. Asshole to asshole. I got the LZ now. Willy,
Motor Peter, Drog, Punch and me. Call him Punch 'cause he's little
and mean. I'm still firin' at trees. Willy stops me. Okay. I put on
a new drum. Only a couple left. More snakes and Phantoms. Someone up
there should get a conductor's baton, he's callin' it good. The
noise is back. How many snakes and F-4s they got up there? Sh*t!
I'll take it! Nobody in sight.
Slick noise again. I open into the far side of the LZ again. The
others are shootin' too. They ain't aimin' my way, and I can only
guess what they're shootin' at. One thing at a time. Willy jabbers
some more, but I can't make it out, even at less than five feet.
The noise is incredible! Slick hits the earth as the woods behind me
ignite. Willy hits me, hard. We head for the slick, pile on. It
starts to lift. The engine sounds funny, and we run straight forward
into the trees in a burnt out area. The rotors hit, in slow motion.
We crash. Sh*t.
We settle to the ground. No explosion. Jesus Christ! Bail out. Now
we got company. Door gunners grab their '60s, the 'yards grab the
ammo boxes. Willy and I grab the pilots. Left seater is bleedin'
from the stomach. The right seater is okay, and has his pistol out.
Any port in a storm. I help Willy with the lefty. We go around the
LZ from the crash, 'case it decides to go. The noise has not abated.
MP has told the FAC, and everybody who didn't see it now knows they
got a bird down. They also know the crew's alive. If I'd thought
about it, I'd be happy. We're gonna get unlimited air now. The
arclight is on its way inbound now. Didn't think about it, though.
Busy tryin' to help the pilot. Shrapnel in the gut. Ain't supposed
to give him morphine. Do anyway. Don't look like he's gonna make
it. I'm startin' to get yet another adrenalin dump. And I'm still
pissed.
Willy sets the '60s and the others, I'm busy. Shootin' is sporadic.
At this point we know it's a f*ckuvalotmore than a company. This is
the intel we came for. I forget to take pictures. Just as well.
Camera took some metal, I found out later. Wasn't at the top of my
mind at the time, anyway. From outta godonlyknowswhere we got slow
movers. They're busy workin' over everythin' within a couple hundred
meters of the burnt out spot that used to be the LZ. They're takin'
incomin' small arms and some bigger Sh*t - .51 cal. maybe. Outta
our range, anyway. The snakes continue to work on that. Somethin'
makes me look at my watch. Thirty-five minutes on the ground in the
Ashau. Muthaf*ckinshit!
Another slick comes in through the fookin' Sh*t. Willy and I take
the lefty, the door gunners and the right seater carry themselves,
leavin' the '60s. We put 'em on, and then move out, a medic already
workin' on the pilot. I'd left the syrette in the collar, he'd know.
Back into the trees. Hose down the LZ again, with a '60 this time.
Damn thing's heavy! But I'm gettin' low, and if we run I don't want
to take one of those big muthas. The next slick in puts down in a
minute. We make the run again. Don't even make it there before it
starts to slip toward the one already down. The gunners jump. The
pilots fight for control. They don't make it. It smashes into the
other and both ignite. Fourth of F*ckin' July! We don't go look. We
won't be sayin' "hi" to 'em. One of the gunners ain't movin'. We
grab 'em both and run back to the '60s. It's beginnin' to feel like
a John Wayne movie, one in which he dies! Sh*t! This place sucks.
Gunner's leg is busted. He's out like a light. The other guy looks
scared, but mans the '60, anyway. Good dude. I give him the ammo can
I got left from my last jammin' on the LZ. He don't 'xactly smile,
but he sets it up and starts lookin' out into the woods. I think he
knows we ain't gonna make it, either. F*ckit. Kill gooks!
No more slicks. The smoke is too thick. Everythin' is burning, has
burned or is about to burn. The stink outweighs the noise. We can
barely breath. Makes it easy. Anythin' coughs, shoot it. Make 'em
cough harder. F*ckin' A! We put on gas masks. It's that bad. But we
get to kill gooks!
Calm. Funny thing. Any battle lasts long enough, there's a moment of
it. It hits me like a palpable force. Bad Sh*t, lets me think. I
ain't done none of that since first contact. We take inventory.
Drog's got a scratch, the gunner with the broken leg is still out.
Willy and I are covered with blood. We think (hope) it's the
pilot's. Count bullets, grenades, body parts. We ain't good for
much longer. We're just about out of it, already. Fatigue.
Emotional exhaustion.
But it only lasts a minute. More Phantoms scream. More nape. Must be
new birds. Look at my watch, forty-five minutes, thirty since first
contact. New birds are about on time. Arclight be along soon. Willy
knows it, too.
Sh*t! Another slick. Didn't even hear it, it's just there, droppin'
into the hole. Grab the unconscious one and run like hell. Throw him
on. Climb on. The other door gunner is still out there with the '60,
he's emptyin' it into the tree line we came from. The door gunner on
our bird is doin' the same and screamin' into his mic. The last man
turns, drops the '60 and runs and jumps as the bird lifts. We drag
his *ss in. Snakes roll in on the treelines and light 'em up. We
look at the dude. He's got holes all over him. Willy and MP go to
work on him and I dump the last of my ammo into the tree line. Die
you gook mutahf*ckas, DIE! I toss the last willie pete, the one with
my name on it, out after I run out of ammo. We're high enough now
that if we go down, it's just too F*ckin' bad. Maybe I'll get one of
the cocksuckers. The birds in orbit see it as a markin' round. That
area of Viet Nam will never grow anythin' again.
We go about ten klicks and land in a big LZ with snakes in short
orbit. The wounded bro is transferred to a slick with a red cross.
We carry him there ourselves. He's one of us now. We'll put him in
for a medal. Door gunner with brass balls. We notice our bird has
holes, too. They'll count 'em later - twenty-three. We lift off
again and get some altitude. Back in the valley, the ground is
beginnin' to shake. Every air asset is out. 'Cept for two pilots we
left on the ground. They won't feel anything, anyhoo. Nobody gonna
parade their bodies for baby Jane!
Less than sixty minutes in the Ashau. Two pilots dead, two slicks
gone, three wounded, the team is whole. Lotsa gooks dead. Ugly
muthaf*ckers! Go B-52's! Kill 'em all! F*ckit! Dust 'em all! Every
last muthaf*ckin' one of 'em! God, I hate gooks! Every muthaf*ckin'
one of 'em!
We go home. No pics. So who muthaf*ckin' cares!
_________________________________________________________________
When we do get back and clean up, the only casualty is Drog. A round
creased him on the left shoulder. He gets two weeks leave, and then
back to work.
The two pilots' families will get a letter, a visit from a chaplain
and a bronze star each. Maybe they deserve more. The gunner will get
a bronze star with "V" device and an early out. The guy with the
broken leg will also get an early ticket home. The gut-shot pilot
gets a star and a disability. He gets his PH, too. They all got
that. With seventy-five cents, it'll get 'em a cup of coffee.
Unless one of us is there. Then he won't have to buy anyf*ckinthing.
Sohelpmegod!
The Ashau is still there. Most of Viet Nam I'd like to see again.
In peace time. Not the Ashau. Little piece of Hell on earth! Place
sucks! Big time.
And I hope I never hate like that again....
Letter from Home
We've been out for seven days. Seven very bad days. Nope, no
contact. Just huggin' the earth and prayin' a LOT. Too many of them.
They were onto us from the start. How they managed to not find us,
I'll never know. No pics, no nothing, except that there are a LOT of
those guys in these areas. Better than nothin', but only a little.
Tired of runnin'. Tired of hidin'. Sh*t! One of those....
We're out, though. Goin' back to camp. We've passed the firebase and
rollin' down the valleys back in the Central Highlands. Everyone's
just layin' back and waitin' to get in. The 'yards will get three
days in the ville. We won't. Comes with the turf. Comes with bein'
from the other side of the Pacific.
We try to think positive. Beer. Showers. Crappers. Mail. Mail! Yeah,
there's a good one. Might get a letter from the wife. Hot damn!
Letters from Mom and Dad are okay, but Chris is like me, more...,
um..., graphic. Yeah. Wet dreams! Sometimes even pictures! Yeah,
glad I met that woman! Knows how to treat a soldier gone to war.
Ooooolala! Also news about Mike Jr. Ain't seen him in nigh on a
year, and I bet he's grown a bunch. Little red-head with the biggest
smile you ever saw. Come back from up-country in Panama and he'd
just run up, throw himself around my calves and said "Daddy, daddy,
daddy...." Didn't know a lotta words then. Didn't need to, I caught
the drift. The old heart gooshes out. Yeah, mail!
Soon, too. They meet you on the pad with mail unless you comin' in
hurtin'. We're not, and they know it. The guy in the mailroom is
okay. Never misses a flight. He'll have only the personal sh*t. The
rest will be picked up later. Good dude! A saint! I laugh! A saint
deliverin' porn. Crazy country! Big laugh!
Also on the pad will be friendly faces from other teams to help
carry the bags in. Someone always comes to help. No one assigns 'em.
They just hear the choppers and come. They'll have somethin' cold
with 'em, too. Always. There's so damn few of us that we do that
sorta thing. Yeah, we also squabble like kids, but that's okay.
Means they care.
We talk about it, Bill and I. Start to smile some more. Hope it's
Big John on the pad. He brings Coors. Don't know where they come
from. Don't even ask. He gets 'em from somewhere, and he shares.
Good sh*t! Good Covey rider, too. Pulled our asses out that time in
the Ashau. If he could figure out how to get that O-2 onto an LZ,
he'd probably talk the pilot into it. Big John!
Yeah, mail and Coors. Okay! things are lookin' up. The 'yards catch
the perk-up in mood on our side of the slick, and they start talkin'
and laughin' among themselves. Good sound. Don't understand a single
word. Don't gotta. Troops are happy. All that counts at this point
in time. Maybe not such a bad trip, after all.
Camp below! Drop in and climb off. Stiff and sore, shake it a little
to get the blood goin'. Not Big John today. Willy. But he's got Bud,
and it's COLD! All right, Willy! He helps Bill with his ruck, he's
limpin' from a sprain on the way out. Others come along and grab
mine and the 'yards. Nice to be back, bro!
And here comes the mail! Yes! Letter from Chris? Yes! All right!
Home! Chris! Michael! Better'n Playboy! Rip the envelope and read
the top. Hey, only a week old! Not bad! A picture enclosed, too!
Mike Jr. at third birthday party! God, that's a handsome kid! Takes
after his mom. Reminded all over again of why I gotta live to get
home! Family man! Wife and kid at home. Happy dude, today! Man, I
ever lose those two, and.... Shrug. Don't matter now. Love 'em both
to tears. Even get a little misty eyed holdin' the letter and
lookin' at the pic. Nobody even cracks a smile. They feel the same.
I read the letter....
"Dear John."
F*ck.
___________
\Dear John,\
_____) )_____
_________(____(__________(_____(@)
) ) gjp
/ O O O O O O O O O/_/|
/<> O O O O O O O O O/ |
/MM O O O O O O O MM/ |
/ ___________ / .
/O (___________) O O/.
(====================(
Idle Moments
Some things to do in camp on a slow day:
Chuck dummy grenades for practice
Lay on the berm and burn off the Crud
Listen to music
Play cards
Chase the maids
Clean your weapons
Gossip
Talk about almost any place else
Lay in the sun with an ice cold lemonade
Play volley ball
Pretend you know how to throw a knife
Pretend you know how to use that 'yard crossbow you got
Listen to tape delays of big games
Count the rats you've been killin' the last couple nights
Lift weights
Run around the berm
Read a good book
Read a bad book
Read any book you can get your hands on
Read the newspaper uncle Bob sent you
Read your mail
Reread your mail
Reread that "special letter"
Write your Mom and Dad
Write your kids
Write your wife
Write your girlfriend
Worry whether you got the right letter in the right envelope
Have a beer
Go to Rosie's
Cadge a meal from the cooks
Walk in the fog
Put out a perimeter and swim in the river
Get chased by the maid you chased earlier - she now has a knife
Put more sandbags over new .22 holes in the roof
Clean out your locker
Eat some black-eyed peas
See the Doc about that "drip"
Day dream of home
Day dream of the car you'll buy when you get home
Day dream of the girl you'll meet when you get home
Look around guiltily when you remember you're married
Get Mortar Peter drunk enough to "flash" the maid
Cadge a meal from the 'yards
Mope or sulk
Run from the maid MP flashed
Dodge the FNG who wants stories
Seek out the FNG who wants stories
Look in the refrigerator for something interesting
Look in your bunker for something interesting
Be bored
Walk in the rain
Run in the rain
Low crawl in the rain
Drown
Play pool on a table so bad it has "ground rules"
Play darts
Chew the fat
Chew the lean
Chew your cud
Hide from the first shirt
Hide with the first shirt
Hide the first shirt's shirt
Throw rocks at the dog
Dodge rocks thrown at you by the dog handler
Stand in the road and yell "MINE!" as a convoy rolls by
Run from the guy in jeep with the M-60
Go back to hidin' from the first shirt
Not there!
Go to the ammo bunker and ask for one round of .50 cal.
"Read" that magazine you got in Saigon
Stare at a picture of your wife or girlfriend
Be homesick
Shine your boots
Clean your web gear
Reclean your weapons
Fill some more sandbags
Take a shower
Make your hootchmate take a shower
Make your first shirt take a shower
Wish like all get-out the general would take a shower
Wish Charlie would take a shower
And drown
Smoke
Drink
Play horseshoes
Wash your hair
Get a haircut
Shave, sorta
Get really bored and show up for work
Bug the guy in the commo shack
Reinventory body parts
Pretend you understand the "fading" in craps
Cadge a ride in a cobra
Cadge a ride in a slick
Cadge a ride with Covey
Cadge a ride in an F-4
Damn, here comes the first shirt again
Hang around your hootch
Sleep
Prairie Fire
Two very ugly words.
Sunset is gone, and camp is settlin' in for another night. The wall
watch is up, and I'm over with Tom in Minnesota playin' double-deck,
partnership pinochle. This is a dangerous game with Tom. He takes it
like it was blood insteada MPC. But a man's gotta do somethin' with
those spare moments.
Clatter, clatter, stomp, stomp. The door bursts open and the company
translator's head pops in. He says two words. Prairie Fire. We have
six teams out at the moment, I ask, "Who."
"Washington."
Sh*t! Chief was gettin' short, too. F*ck! Game's over.
Recon Company Americans converge like a plague of locusts on the
TOC. Doc comes out and says it. Washington is out in Sierra Lima 3,
they just called a Prairie Fire. Sh*tsh*tsh*t. Sierra Lima 3 is as
far into southern Laos as you can get without bein' in Thailand.
The far side of the Mekong. Not a good place to have a Prairie Fire.
Not that there is a good place.
A Prairie Fire is an announcement that a team is about to die. And
that it is loaded with good intel. On the banks of the Mekong, it
probably means troops and supplies. Very good stuff. The stuff the
B-52's need, the stuff the planners need. In this case, it's stuff
even the Thais need. I've never been to Sierra Lima 3, but I know
it's way the fook out there. The rescue effort will not come out of
Viet Nam, it'll come out of Thailand. It's a hell of a lot closer.
One zero is Chief. He's gettin' short, like I said before. This was
gonna be his last trip to the woods. Supposed to be cut and dried.
Mosta the bad guys out that far are movin', not sittin', and it's so
far out they don't take a lot of security measures. 'Course, it's
also confusin' out there. Besides the NVA, you have the Khmer Rouge,
some Cambodian bandits, and some good old fashioned Mekong river
pirates. Any of 'em could take a serious dislikin' to an unknown
presence.
We recover less than 50% of the teams that declare a Prairie Fire.
This is the first one in months. And, 'cause we can't go, it's the
worst one in years.
Tom gets called into the TOC. We know what that is. Minnesota will
go in if we fail to get the team out. They'll try to find out why
and how. This never works, but we never stop tryin'. We'd all walk
if they did. Tracy, his one one, heads back to the hootch to get the
'yards workin' and to start the ball rollin'. We're useless here,
and we head for our own hootches.
In a lotta places across Viet Nam and Thailand, Phantoms are
scramblin' from their strips. Another C & C ship will launch out of
Udorn. So will the refuelin' ships. Jolly Greens will pierce the
newborn dark as their engines scream to life. Somewhere over the
Pacific Ocean, a flight of B-52s will start gettin' fresh marchin'
orders. Somewhere in Thailand, some brothers of the beret will be
bustin' balls to get ready for the Jolly Greens. It's why they're
there. They'll do what they can. We keep the faith, there just ain't
that many of us. All across SEA two words have aggressively stirred
the already boilin' stew. It only works half the time, but the try
is always sincere. Prairie Fire makes it happen.
We can do nothin' but wait. The company net is brought up for
passin' the word. But it's silent as a tomb. It takes time. Time, of
course, is somethin' Washington can ill afford. We don't try to do
much of anything, our heart just isn't in it. Sarge comes in with
Weet and joins us. He'll represent the 'yards on the ground.
Weet'll translate. Pass him the wine bottle. And we wait. Thirty
minutes. A half an hour. Infinity to a team on the ground.
Crackle.... FAC has contact with the team on the ground! They're
alive. Someone's alive! Sh*t! Hot damn! Maybe they gonna make it.
Phantoms are on the scene, the rescue team is less than fifteen
minutes out. Fifteen minutes? How close to the border do those guys
hang, anyway? Never mind, I don't wanna know. It'll be too high a
level for us. Hope, man! We got fookin' hope!
We wait on the edge.
Crackle.... On-goin' airstrikes, the Jolly Greens have a hole less
than a klick from last contact. Our boys are on the ground and
movin'. A 'yard comes in and Sarge tells him. He goes back out.
Next door, we can hear Minnesota cheerin'. Like a football game, and
the home team just took the field. Someone close by is yellin' too.
I finally notice it's me.
We're talkin' now. Speculation. We've all stood in their shoes, and
we make educated guesses as to what's goin' down.
Crackle.... Ground contact with the team! They've got 'em. Now, they
just gotta get the fook out. Time collapses. Causality fails.
Everythin' starts to blur together. And we're safe in our hootch in
Kontum. Empathy is powerful stuff.
Crackle.... They're out! Not all of 'em, but they're out! We have no
idea who, yet. Won't know before first light, more'n likely. The
important stuff is done. Beer is passed. A whole compound does a
toast to the brothers in the air and on the ground who saved
Washington's ass. At least, some of its ass. It just as easily
coulda been us. Might yet be.
Over Thailand and Laos, hungry birds slurp fuel from a boom and
start the long trip home. Udorn will take its planes in, as will
Pleiku and other bases. Also somewhere over Thailand, some Jolly
Greens will head for a base far out of sight. SF medics, better even
than navy corpsmen, will be workin' on our brothers who may have
made some lesser real estate deals. And somewhere over the coast of
Viet Nam, an arclight will be redirected to its original target. The
crew will never know what was up. A thousand men and women will go
to bed wonderin' what the hell happened.
So do we....
At first light, RT Minnesota is on the pad, loadin' to go get the
team and its equipment. They lift, and disappear SSW. Breakfast is a
subdued affair. Quiet conversations. We've all had time to absorb
the fact that some of the brothers won't be comin' home. Life will
go on. The routine will be maintained. But a lot of eyes will watch
the pad all day.
Just before noon, I get called into the TOC. Uh oh. Dai uy Simmons
and Doc are there. So is Willy. Dai uy speaks. "We're gonna announce
to the camp in about five that RT Washington made it out with solid
information that may indicate a new offensive build-up. Chief is
alive, but so badly wounded he's gonna stay in Thailand and then go
straight back to the states. They think they can save one of the
legs. Bob didn't make it out. Two of the 'yards were also shot up
pretty good, and won't be comin' home soon. The rest are with Bob.
Willy'll tell their families.
"As of now, you have RT Washington. Keep 'em busy. Don't let 'em
think about it. We'll give you a local patrol two days after
tomorrow. I'm gonna pull Olson off Covey and give him to you."
Okay. It's done. So it has to be. But who's supposed to keep me from
thinkin' about it? I don't ask.
Minnesota comes in empty handed two hours later. Even the intel is
bein' rerouted, not comin' our way. Nothin' normal about a Prairie
Fire. Shoulda known.
Two very ugly words.
Washington
The hootch is pretty stark with all the personal belongings gone.
They came and took it all this afternoon. Chief's stuff is bound for
Thailand. Bob's stuff will be sterilized and sent home to Bragg.
Eventually, the truly personal stuff'll find its way to his mother.
He wasn't married. Always suspected he was gay. Don't matter, he was
a good soldier and always carried his end of the deal. And he wasn't
the only one here.
About the only thing left on the walls is the Washington state flag
and the trainin' status board. Olson will be in later, and I want to
get the hootch situated first. It's my first team. Considerin' how
late in the war it is, it'll probably be my only team. I wanna do it
right.
I go down to the 'yard barracks to talk to the team. They already
have the news, and Sarge and Weet, from RT California, are with 'em.
They have four empty bunks, too. Sarge has seen to the packin' of
boxes, and will see they get where they have to go. Okay, it'll
work. I pull Sarge aside and ask him if he thinks any of the team
are ready to be team sergeant or if I'm gonna have to go outside.
He puffs on his pipe and calls Puck over. Not his real name, that.
No American could say his real name. Sarge does the formal
introduction via Weet. Sarge says he's ready, even done it a couple
times when the old team sergeant was on leave. I shake his hand, and
say you got it. I'll do the paperwork tonight. It'll be a big pay
raise for him, and he'll be happy about it later. Right now, it just
means work and fillin' the boots of a dead man. I know exactly how
he feels.
I ask Weet about a translator. He shakes his head. I ain't got one.
He talks to Sarge in Jarai, and they wander off. I can't talk to
'em, but they're my men, now. I make the round, touch 'em all, and
say good things they don't understand. They get the drift. I'm the
new headman. And it looks like it'll be okay. Washington was a big
team, and I still have eight 'yards. Once I can nail down a
translator, I'll get Puck to tell me their status.
I'm turnin' to go when Weet walks back in with Sarge. They're
carryin' Weet's beddin' and gear, and plop it down on a vacant bunk.
Weet says that Willy says I got a translator now.
"Sh***t! You're spoofin' me."
"Nope, you gonna need a hand."
Okay. OKAY! I got Weet! Fat city.
Times awastin', and I'll get back to the 'yards. I tell Puck via
Weet to think about how he wants his team, and to come see me after
dinner at my hootch. Dash out the door and go back to my old rack in
California to get my gear. Tell Willy thanks, and give him the Bud
left in Washington's hootch. He says it's okay, got another one
comin' along just fine, anyway. Washington is literally next door,
so I make it in several short trips. I choose a bunk on the west end
near the reefer, which suits my late-night raidin' tactics. Fill
the locker, pound a couple new nails for my gear and get set in just
as Olson arrives. He opts for the far end 'cause it's got the
biggest locker. He's been livin' on officer's row and workin' as a
Covey rider. He's ready for the field, and I'm glad to have him. He
was also my XO in Panama, and we already know each other pretty
well. It'll work.
Neither of us are happy to be gettin' a team like this. But at least
it's a team. Olson has a good head on his shoulders, and a real
flare for trainin'. I tell him Puck will be up later with a report,
and he gets interested. We'll do this right, ferdamnsure. This RT
Washington will be harder to take out.
We set ourselves in and fill the reefer. He drinks a lot of
lemonade, too. Big smiles, we each have independent sources. Not
gonna run out in the immediate future. With just the two of us, it
leaves lotsa room to set up the hootch any old which way we want.
We set the whole inside wall with lockers and such for a big work
area. We're gonna be trainin' hard for a while, and that takes skull
sweat and paper. Olson agrees to take most of it, leavin' me to
work on personnel and seein' to the needs of supplies and equipment.
A lot of that was lost in Laos with the team. We sober up again, and
work hard.
Dinner comes and goes, Puck reports in with Weet, and we start
figurin' who's good for what. Got a big Bru who likes RPD, so I'll
be givin' mine to him when we run seven and over. It feels weird to
think about goin' back to a CAR in the woods. But you can't move as
fast and see as much if you're tied to a machine gun. Olson takes
notes. We're goin' to the woods on a local out toward rocket ridge
in two days, so we have a tight deadline.
If you've ever walked into a new job with new subordinates and a
short deadline, you can figure what the next couple days are like.
Fortunately, Washington had trained a lot with California, and a lot
of the drills were identical. Olson had to do more learnin' than the
'yards. But he learned well. He had to. He got the radio.
On the third day, we took the whole team and headed for Rocket
Ridge. We didn't get that far, but we went due west. We sneaked and
peeked and practiced and tried to find out who knew what they were
doing, and who didn't. In other words, the 'yards wore Olson and I
out. We practiced fishhooks and RONs, too. Everythin' we would do on
the real thing. We also had to be careful. While ARVN was pretty
good in this area, one never knows who one will meet in Viet Nam.
We even managed to sneak up on an ARVN encampment and get some pics.
It looked like a good team. It acted like a good team. I was a happy
camper.
After three days and two nights we came back to camp. We had
functioned as a team, and I was very tickled with the way it went.
There are always things to improve, of course, but it was obviously
a well experienced team, ready for duty. I put everybody on two days
stand down and went to the TOC and asked for a mission. No sweat,
there were always plenty of those. I draw an easy one.
I have a team, if not in the best way. I have a mission I know and
enjoy. What more can a soldier want?
Besides the authority to give himself two days off, that is....
One Zero
Back from break. It's time to go back to work. I keep hearin' rumors
there's a war on.
Stand down was spent takin' it easy and talkin' with Tom and Willy
and the other one zeros. I had the title, but I really wasn't one. I
hadn't run my own team in the woods, yet. So I went and sought
advice and ideas. Not "what do you do?", 'cause I already knew that,
or at least, thought I did. I asked "how's it feel to?" a lot. And I
got as many answers as the number of guys I asked. Which is what I
expected. But it was comfortin' to know that almost everythin' was
"normal."
Everybody comes home, and I do mission briefin'. Nothin' heavy duty
for a first time one zero. Just a little hop over the border to look
for a suspected phone cable. It went into this area here, and it
came out there. Where did it go in between, and who was monitorin'
it? Sounds simple anyway. We'd find out for sure in a few days.
Just two days for mission prep, but since we just walked a light
one, this is mostly packin'. We do practice on rope ladders for
insert, as the best lookin' LZ is a bamboo thicket. That's what the
tower is for. We also stand a good chance of bein' split by the
bamboo on insert. So we go outta camp to a clump of it and rehearse
linkin' back up without shootin' each other. Little things like that
get folk dead. I've gotten kinda used to livin'.
First light on the third day and we hit the pad. Willy is there with
Sarge as a good luck send off. Thanks, bro. I'm nervous, but I
always am until we get off the choppers on infil. It bothers me, but
I read about it in Starship Troopers, and I guess it's okay. I goes
away on the ground, anyway.
Its a short one, so there's no interim stop. We fly out in a dog
leg, and the LZ we get out on is the second one we drop into. The
bamboo is deeper than it looked on the aerial recon, and it takes a
little longer than anticipated to climb down. We don't get split up
by comin' down both sides, though, so it works out. The slicks move
on to three more dummy drops in other LZs, and the six of us are all
alone.
We get the heck outta the bamboo and go NW to find the cable. We
figure it has to run down this one valley and over a ridge there.
Tomorrow we'll try to find it. For now, it's just hide and seek,
makin' sure nobody knows we're here. Not a hard game, but pretty
exactin'. Three hours of wanderin' at seemin' random, always able to
overlook your backtrail, is harder in steep terrain than it sounds.
But it goes well, and we lay up for dinner. Nothin' shows by the
time we quit eating, so we move again before sunset. We do it once
more before last light. There are times when bein' lonely is
desirable. First nights always fit that category.
We sleep a good sleep. And we go find our cable. Follow it, find
some places they can drop a bug down and listen in. Find a couple
watchers before they find us. And we make no contact. The last part
is important for team that recently got shot up. Even if the ones
who got it aren't here. Especially if they're not here.
We got what we came for, and I decide to take us home early. I tell
Covey as he passes at twilight, and we spend one more night on the
ground. No couriers to hit up at the last minute, and we just walk
out to the birds and fly away. In the classic sense it is the
perfect mission. They don't even know we've been there. No reason to
change anythin' we found. That's frequently a concern if you get
caught leavin'. Not this time though. ASA will get their tap, and at
least a little intel will be had before it's found. Not like the hot
ones.
That's okay. I'm not sure I'm ready for a hot one. "Content" is a
good word. I can live with it. The team can too. The relief is
palpable. The first mission is always tense, they tell me. The team
doesn't know if it's really a team until they do it. Now we know.
And it feels good.
We hit the pad, grab a beer, and get the mail. Sh*t, shower, and
shave. Then I tell the team to take it easy, they'll get two days
off in the ville startin' tomorrow. Weet goes and talks to his old
teammates, and Olson and I head for the TOC and debriefin'. This
one's a "no brainer," and debriefin' is swift. Dai uy gets excited
over the map and takes Olson off to talk about it over dinner, with
a phone at hand. I'm pooped and head for the hootch. Not thinkin',
of course. It ain't gonna be that easy.
I get halfway to the hootch, and Willy grabs me as I round the
latrine. "Where you goin'?"
"To bed, Willy, I'm bushed."
"My ass, you're comin' with me."
Sh****t! I'd forgotten. There won't be a lot of sleep tonight.
Recon Club is decked out proper. Only the one zeros are here, which
is the way it's done. I've never seen it, but I've heard the
routine. I'm a one zero myveryownself now. And it's gotta be done
right. First, a board of senior-types grills the holy sh*t outta
you. Has nothin' to do with operations. Just the grill. You sit
there and answer. The trick is to slip in a joke or two. And I
manage. Then I gotta buy the house a round of whatever they're
drinkin'. And these guys know what to order when someone else is
buyin'. Shee********t! There goes my last month's poker winnin's.
Tradition says the last one zero of the team gives you your jacket.
Chief won't be makin' it tonight, and Tom has the honors. He was
Chief's best friend. Black silk jacket with the RT Washington patch
embroidered a foot high on the back. On the right breast is the CCC
patch. Over the left breast is my handle, a CIB and wings. On the
right shoulder is an SF Patch, the left shoulder is bare. It is for
me to fill that slot, as well as the sleeves and other holes and
spaces. What goes there is important, and it's for one zeros to know
"why." Even though it gets seen, and lots of others will know
"what." I put a unit patch of the 'yards there about a month later.
I'll let you worry about why.
Tom gives it to me. No, he puts it on me. I'm a member of the club
now. Probably no more than 150 of us in the world, ever. Back in the
states, it and twenty-five cents will get me a cup of coffee. But
in the here and now of Kontum, it means I am what I set out to be. I
may not live to ever wear it again, but for now it's the peak of my
career. And I guess I'm pretty damn proud.
We party hard. And, fortunately, the rockets do not come.
Epilogue:
The jacket lasted many years. But, like all things of silk, it
finally just wore out. I burned it in rural King County, Washington,
in 1983 or so. It seemed right that it came to its end here, in the
state for which the team was named. I burned it 'cause it was mine,
and so that no one else would ever wear it. Selfish, I suppose.
Some street person could have used it, even as raggedy and worn as
it was. But I couldn't let that happen.
And it was time for the Sweet Thing to retire. Life has moved on. I
guess I'll be goin' with it....
Up Close and Personal
It's kinda makeshift, like most hootches. Out in front, there's a
flagpole with a flag hangin' in the still air. Windows have flaps
made from local materials, and they're open in an attempt to keep
cool on a very hot day. Door is open, too. A lot of people are
hustlin' in and out with paper and things on their minds. Over the
door is a sign big enough to read at fifty feet. Which is about how
far away I am. Hidin'. Makin' like a bush. 'Cause the guys goin' in
and out are wearin' khaki and pith helmets. And they're all armed.
[Camera] Click.... I make sure I can get the whole sign and some
faces. Click.... I get the truck next to the hootch and a machine
gun position just the other side of it. Shift just far enough to add
'em to the diagram I've made of the HQ and the surroundin'
positions. No more than a hundred guys in the immediate vicinity,
but they keep comin' and goin' from the ridgeline the other side of
the hootch. Must be plenty more up there. I don't think I'll go
look.
Tap.... Weet points to the left. Patrol walkin' the perimeter. We
should be good where we are, but we ease back another few meters to
be sure. They go by, not lookin' too closely. We're a long way into
Cambodia, and they're not expectin' any visitors. This is good.
'Cause we're a long way from home, ourselves.
Crawl back up, more to the north this time. Behind the hootch we
find the guys arguin' we had only heard before. A couple of 'em wear
fresh bandages. Click.... Either we have a unit on the mend after
its last excursion into Viet Nam, or they've been takin' in
casualties from another unit. The sign over the door should tell
someone who understands such things. I just write it down with the
other notes. Click.... The tunnel entrance I've just seen in the
hillside just beyond 'em. Big one. Almost like a mine entrance in an
old western. Machine gun on the slope above it. That goes on the
diagram, too. Tomorrow we'll come back and try to figure out what
that's for. Tunnels like that are none too common.
Whoops. Somethin' happenin' back at the entrance to the hootch. Too
late to move back. Click...click...click.... Got some faces, anyway.
The old one had a lot of sh*t on his collar, maybe someone will
recognize him in the blowups. They get in the truck and drive west
down a marginal road. Note the time and place.
The hootch appears to be deserted for the moment. Do I dare sneak
over and get some paper? No, I don't dare. Not worth it, I think.
"Dead men tell no tales." Sounds like good advice to me. Always
wondered why they stressed it so much. Guess I know now. Very
temptin'.
Tap.... Weet points at his wrist, where a watch would be if he was
wearin' one. Yep, been layin' here for two hours. 'Bout time to move
on. Don't wanna strain our luck too far. I start inchin' back.
Voices...! Real fookin' close! F*ck! Two of the guys from behind the
hootch have walked almost up to us 'cause I was concentratin' on the
truck leavin'. Freeze. I barely hear Weet's safety click off as we
wait. They stop just inside the treeline, less than three meters
away. They don't have any weapons visible. Easier to kill 'em that
way. A small mental victory over the fear.
The one with more bandages drops his pants first, and pisses into
the bushes. It's loud at this range. I look at Weet, and he looks
back. A quick sparkle of humor passes across his eyes, and I know I
just saw a wish the SOB would hit me with the spray. I'll get you
later, Weet! He catches that, too. We been together a while. We go
back to watchin'. The guys in khaki finish their business and head
back to the small group by the hootch. I can smell their piss.
Second time this month, damnit! It's time to go.
We crawl back five meters or so before we stand up, bent over, and
start back to where we left the rest of the team. We swin' north
first, and plot a place to set up tomorrow where we can watch the
tunnel. We're fifty meters out before we stand up all the way. I
give Weet a light smack in the middle of his back. He replies with a
quiet chuckle.
We'll try to do this again in the mornin'. And I guess we'll have to
climb the ridge. The tunnel is somethin' worth knowin' about.
Probably a fookin' regiment up there, too. Sheeeee**t.
Helluva way to make a livin'.
Blood Brother
Good mission. We dropped in three days ago to look for tanks. We
found 'em, right where they were supposed to be. From the looks of
things, they'll be movin' east soon, so we're gonna go home early.
Gotta tell somebody. The Easter '72 date they've been talkin' about
in Saigon looks right. Got T-54s on film to prove it. Thirty-six
tanks, lots of petrol, lots of soldiers, not many of 'em watchin'
their backs very good. Good combination for us. They don't even know
we've been here. Perfectomundo! Third one in a row for me and the
team. Weet's in front of me, and we keep smilin' at each other.
Team did great!
We're a good ten klicks NNE of our objective, maybe five klicks from
our exfil LZ. Sh*t's pretty thick, and we're takin' our time, not
goin' anywhere till tomorrow morning, anyway. Mid-afternoon now. A
little more casual than we should be, but still quiet and respectful
of procedure. No time to slack up. We fishhook about a klick from
the LZ and set up in a thicket. I take the watch after chow, and we
get a good nights sleep. Olson and I talk a little at twilight, when
the woods are noisiest, and we're most free to do such things. We're
pretty happy dudes. They're gonna love us for this one. Tanks, man!
We got pictures of fookin' tanks! First time for either of us. Weet
covered my six when we did the close ups, and he's in this too.
We're all pretty happy dudes.
Up early, pack it up and head for the LZ. Pong on point, Weet at
shotgun, me as three, Olson with the radio behind me, Drog on tail
with Puck just in front of him. I sign, and we head out for the LZ.
Nice morning, sunny and not too warm, yet. Be a scorcher before too
long, though. Lookin' forward to the bird and the ride.
POP! KABOOOOOM! F*ck! Weet drops like a stone, pieces of him fly in
all directions. Hit the dirt! Pong's gone, man! Paste spread on the
ground. OhSh*t! F*ckin' mine! Don't bother with first aid. There
ain't enough of either of 'em to put dressings on. F*ck! Weet's my
main man. Good little f*cker who got me started straight with the
'yards. Man, his ass is grass! Sh*********t.
Circle the other three, and I take a look. Bouncin' Betty. F*ckin'
mine. Pong was our new point, pretty damn good, too. Musta stepped
on it and it got both of 'em. No trail, just out in the middle of
the woods. Mine field? Oh sh*t! What we into now? I turn to tell the
others to watch what they're doin', but they're way ahead of me.
They got Weet! My Weet. F*ck! F*CK! F*****CK!!
No help for it. Strip their gear, their maps, their everythin'.
Can't leave nothin' for the NVA. The hurt is startin' down deep
inside. They got Weet! An ache in the gut that ain't gonna go away,
maybe never. I got pieces of him on my shirt. F*ck, man. They got
Weet.
Send Drog to scout a safe path the few remainin' hundred meters to
the LZ. Tell Olson to tell the choppers the LZ may be mined and to
hover low, not land. Tell the f*ckin' world to GO TO HELL! Weet's
gone! F*ck! No one to shoot. No one to curse. Nothin' but pain
comin' from the gut so bad I feel like I'm gonna split. Not Weet.
Oh, sweet God, not Weet! F*ck!
Uniforms are too clearly uniforms and not northern ones. No way to
take 'em off the remains. Haven't got the stomach for it, anyway.
They were friends. Especially Weet. I just about seize up. Heart
feels like it's gonna burst. "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeetttt!!!"
Olson tells me to shutdaf*ck up. Sh*t! I really said it, not just
thinkin'! F*ck! Okay, gotta think. Pull out two willie petes, one
for each of the brothers on the ground. Drog's comin' back and I
sign Puck over and hand him one, point at Pong. He knows. We can't
stay. The noise will call somebody real soon now. And we can't
leave 'em as they are. They use bodies. We won't leave enough for
them to use. Weet would've done it for me. F*****ck! They got Weet!
Plant the willie petes. Book out after Drog for the LZ. Choppers are
inbound, gotta hurry. MP's on the radio when the grenades go. I stop
and look back and start to cry. F*ckin' war zone with Chuck comin',
and I start to cry. They got Weet, man. There ain't nothin' right no
more. It all sucks. Weet!
Puck pushs me and I get it together and get to the LZ. Bird comes in
and we run out prayin' we don't find a mine. Tell the snakes to
demolish the fire the willie petes have started. Maybe some of the
bastards have shown up and we'll get 'em. Maybe we won't. Don't
care. Don't know if I'll ever care. Weet's down there. My brother,
man. Damndamndamn!
We get some altitude and the door gunner puts his '60 down. He
checks the sides of the bird and then looks down at me sittin' next
to him in the door. And he goes sheet white. Uh oh! I know I got
pieces of Weet still on me, but he's starin' at my crotch. Big
fookin' UH OH! I look down, and my groin is bright red, fresh stuff.
Mine. Fear! I didn't feel nothin' but the hole Weet left. I been
hit! In the fookin' balls! Ohsh*tohsh*tohsh*t!
The pain starts. Weet musta hid it! Serious pain! I almost slump
outta the door. Olson grabs me and pulls me all the way in. He cuts
the crotch outta my pants and gets as white as the gunner. The
gunner and he and Drog start stuffin' dressings in. I see the gunner
yellin' into his mic. And I don't remember any more.
I wake up on the ground in Pleiku. Some hospital. My gear is gone,
my pockets empty. Two guys pick me up on a stretcher and we move
into a buildin'. I look down and the bloods comin' out of the
dressings. Ohsh*tohsh*tohsh*t! First Weet and then me. I'll
probably make it, but I'm gonna be without dick and balls.
F*ckf*ckf*ck! I wanted more kids! A f*ckin' eunuch at twenty-two!
It ain't fair, man, it ain't fookin' fair!
A doc comes over and takes his turn at gettin' pale. He yells to get
a table ready and takes the dressings off to take a look. He doesn't
look good, and I can't look. He starts irrigatin', and the blood
slowly comes back to his face. He looks me in the eye and says I'm
one lucky muthaf*cka. I just pass out again.
The next day I'm back in Kontum with twenty stitches from minor
shrapnel wounds in the groin. It's not pretty down there. But, then,
I guess it never was. Turns out groin wounds bleed like scalp
wounds. I'm in a diaper. And Weet's gone. I'll never see him again.
Nobody's ever gonna see him again.
Weet was by brother, man. My little Jarai brother. We lived, slept,
laughed, cried, got scared, got pissed, got drunk, got everythin'
together. He even followed me from RT California to RT Washington
when I got my own team. And I smeared him all over a half an acre of
Cambodia. F*ckin' war, man. Stupid f*ckin' war!
The shrapnel that got me came through him. His flesh and blood and
my flesh and blood are forever mingled. Our spirits already had.
Brothers of the flesh, brothers of the spirit. Blood brothers in
every sense of the word.
I'll cry for you again tonight, Weet. I think I always will.
Scream
It came at night,
after lights out
and everyone was asleep.
It pierced every hootch,
woke every man
within a hundred meters.
The guards on the wall shuddered;
that voice spoke to them.
It was rage, and anger,
and hurt, and pain, and fear.
It was disembodied, an ageless
knowing of all things evil
and so deathly worn from them.
Every night it wended
over the camp and the wire,
disappearing into the darkness.
The bunkers seemed to echo it back,
only louder and more shrill.
No one knew who cried out so.
It was all of us, and none.
It comes at night,
after lights out
and everyone's asleep.
It pierces every apartment,
wakes every man
within a city block.
The drunks on the corner shudder,
that voice speaks to them.
It is rage, and anger,
and hurt, and pain, and fear.
It is disembodied, an ageless
knowing of all things evil
and so deathly worn from them.
Every night it wends
over the city and the bay,
disappearing into the darkness.
The buildings seem to echo it back,
only louder and more shrill.
No one knows who cries out so.
But now, I think it is me.
Widow Call
I have one picture amongst all the others that I've saved over
twenty plus years since I came home that I value more than all the
others. Simple picture really. Just me and Mr. Weet by the entrance
to his wife's home in the 'yard ville just outside the compound in
Kontum. His wife is just outside the door, sweepin'. What makes it
special isn't in the photo. It's what it means; the whys, the hows,
the days after.
Three days after it was taken, Mr. Weet stood between me and a
bouncin' betty tripped by the point man. Not a whole bunch of him
left, unrecognizable lump of bleedin' meat - nor of the point
either, for that matter. He wasn't bein' a hero, just the
circumstances of time and place. A little shrapnel made it through
him and into me, but most of it stayed in him. We were in kinda a
hurry at the time, and we stripped him, left his remains under a
willie pete and moved out. Not somethin' you like to do to a friend,
but he woulda understood. We didn't have time or manpower to carry
two dead with us - and we didn't want to leave anythin' for the guys
who planted the mine.
Five days after the pic was taken, I went back to the ville. Widow
Call. Usually we leave it for one of the staff officers. Not this
time. I can't bring myself to let that happen. They tell me it's
hard. No sh*t. I do it anyway. I'm still in a diaper from the
shrapnel in the groin, but I'm not plannin' on sittin' a lot, so
that's okay. I borrow another team's translator, Weet havin' been
ours. Grab a jeep and head out the north gate. I take TheBox,
contents of his locker and a years salary in greenbacks. Greenbacks
are a NoNo, but piaster and MPC fluctuate so damn much on the open
market, we always bend that rule.
The 'yards in the ville know what's up the moment we drive outta
camp. It's just a question of where in the village we are goin' to
stop. Too many trips like this are made, way too fookin' many. At
the entrance to the ville, we are met by one of the elders. No
questions asked, he gets into the jeep with us, and we drive the
rest of the short way to the hootch. The wife comes out and greets
us, stonefaced. He hasn't checked in and we've been back two days.
Musta suspected. By now, she knows.
We greet. We talk about the weather, the kids. Protocol, culture,
the way it is. Finally, I present TheBox, say TheWords. She accepts,
gracefully. Well, as gracefully as the circumstances permit. These
are still people of the earth. Death is a part of life. It still
doesn't feel good, though. The tears hang in the background, barely.
I break down and tell everythin'. I hug the kids, the dogs, the
elder, everyone but the wife. That is not in the cards, and even I
know it.
From out of nowhere, the elder's wife appears. She is instantly in
charge, and no one, least of all the elder, questions that. She
shoos us out of there. This is just as well, as I am out of words
and just about out of stamina. I've lost a fair piece of blood.
Knowin' that salves my conscience a little. I know now I'd have been
exhausted if I had been whole....
On the way back to camp, the borrowed translator said I had done it
right, that it was okay, maybe even good. I dunno. To me, doin' it
right means bringin' 'em back, preferably alive. It can't be good.
TheWords, TheBox, Widow Call. Try to do it right. Too f*ckin' late
to do it the right right way.
Heavy Rain
Ferris and I are walkin' across camp headin' for the chow hall.
We're just passin' the old NVA .51 AA when he just drops with a
scream to the mud. He's clutchin' his foot, and blood is spreadin'
through the nylon weave of the upper portion of his jungle boot. No
sounds, nothin' on the ground. Whathef*ck, over?
I give a shout for a medical kit and kneel down to look. He's sayin'
"I've been shot! In the f*ckin' foot! Sh*******t!"
I tell him to lay down and I take the boot off. He groans a lot, and
it's loud. We're startin' to draw a crowd, now. Tom Madison comes
runnin' up with a kit and we cut the sock off. Bigger than sh*t,
he's got a bullet wound in the arch of his foot. F*ck! Where the
hell did that come from, man?
Slap a dressin' on it and put him on the freshly arrived litter.
It's only 100 meters to the aid station, and we practically run it.
Old Bob, senior medic, is on today, and we fill him in, pronto-like.
He takes the dressin' off and hoses it down so he can see what he's
got. He clicks his tongue, pulls out a syringe and hits the foot
with novocain. Shortly, Ferris quiets down and says thanks. Bac si
continues to look. Out come the probes and he works it over a
little. We start gettin' a little queasy. Hey, this is one of ours,
it ain't the same.
Bac Si says, "Jeezusf*ckinchrist," and pulls out the forceps. He
reaches into the hole and pulls out a slug. .45, no question. He
tells one of the others to go to the TOC and get a medivac. Two or
three of the metatarsals are broken, and this is gonna take surgery.
He packs the wound, splints the foot and wraps it all in dressings.
Ferris can't believe it. He was just goin' to chow.
Some f*ckin' Cowboy or White Mouse downtown musta fired a shot into
the air. It came down. We think about this while waitin' on the pad
for the slick. Lemme see, round comes down vertical and hits foot.
Seen from above that foot ain't very fookin' far from the head.
Sheeeeee***t! It sinks in on Ferris. Sheeeeeeeee***t!
Helluva way to go home. It's April '72, and he won't be comin' back.
Crazy fookin' war, man. No Purple Heart for that .45....
Village
Unusual mission, though hardly unheard of. We're gonna go and
contact a village and ask about what's goin' on in the neighborhood.
Usually, we just figure this out for ourselves. But this time we
have a friendly village that has supplied a fair number of troops to
the teams. Not my team, but that's why they chose us. No
commitments. And the area has been very active, says the Air Force.
Everythin' else is normal: mission prep, recon, insert. At least on
paper, it is no more dangerous than any other mission. Except for
the villagers, of course. Their lives are on the line. The mission
brief says other teams have been there before. Okay, that's the way
it will be. I always say that. Like we had a choice.
Its a long flight in, and we set twenty klicks from the village into
a small, abandoned swidden. This will make for a very long walk in
this terrain, but it's better than sendin' an engraved invitation to
the guys with the pith helmets. In this stuff it'll take as much as
three days in and out. Long walk in the heat. But you do it 'cause
it's right, 'cause they tell you to, and 'cause it'll give us a
chance to check out at least some of what's goin' on around here
before we get there. Independent information to verify what we're
told. It's a cold world....
And we walked it. It was very, very hard. The terrain was largely
vertical, and very dense. The trails were moderately traveled by the
guys on the other side, which left us only the woods. Got some good
counts and some idea of how heavily used the area was, but mostly we
just humped. Seven or so back-breakin' klicks a day. Not what is
known as a record pace. But we couldn't go any faster. The third
night we set up less than 500 meters from the village. This area was
less dense, and it wouldn't take long to go the rest of the way. We
slept an exhausted sleep.
Up with first light, form up and hit the trail. We get about 100
meters out, and I send the point and tail to take a looksee. It's
really rude to visit a ville that already has visitors, so we're
gonna knock first. The rest of us hunker down and listen for the
sounds of a village comin' to life with the dawn. We don't hear a
damn thing.
The guys come back, and they ain't even vaguely happy. Point comes
over and tells me via my translator that everybody's dead, wiped
out, gone to wherever spirits go. F*ck! Sh*t! Lotsa words to that
effect. Tail has told the rest of the team, and the strain is
visible. Okay, don't make any diff, I hafta go look, anyway. Maybe
some clues, maybe someone alive, maybe all sorts of things. But,
I'll be damned if I wanna go.
We walk in. Tail and point had already made sure there were no
watchers. I put two out as guards, anyway. Shoulda just left then.
But after three days of humpin', you gotta do something, get
something, or it just ain't right.
The ville is just plain gone, man. All the longhouses are ashes.
Bodies are everywhere. It's been a little less than a week, and the
meat is very high. The stench woulda alerted us if we'd come in from
the other side, downwind. They're scattered around, not lined up in
nice, neat rows. Some of 'em are just charred piles of bones and
flesh still in the hootches. Some of 'em have the scorched remains
of crossbows next to outflung arms. They didn't go easy. They went
like they'd lived, tough little muthaf*ckers with a will and a
means. As we walk, we choke on far more than the smell. They were
our brothers and sisters. It hurts a lot. They've been shot,
bayoneted, beaten, and, in some cases, apparently raped and
mutilated. I ain't a pathologist, and I don't know if they were
alive then or not. I'm just as happy not to know. It isn't nice.
Even the fookin' dogs and chickens have been killed. The livestock
musta been taken away.
The 'yards start puttin' kerchieves over their faces, and I do the
same. It don't help much. We start pokin' around, but it's already
obvious there ain't gonna be nobody alive. With everythin' burnt, we
ain't gonna find sh*t. But we look. We try to honor the dead. We
also cry....
The aftermath of a massacre is kinda hard to describe. The biggest
challenge is not to throw up all over the remains. We wanted to do
something; bury the dead, stack 'em up and burn 'em, somethin'. But
there simply weren't enough of us. Our hearts have sagged down to
our knees, and there's nothin' we can do about it. Nobody on this
team is from here, but everybody knows someone who is. And we're
gonna hafta go back and tell 'em. Sh*t!
We walk among the bodies for maybe an hour. It don't do no good. I
take a few pictures - "proof" for when we get outta here. None of us
like that, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Then we just pull
back upwind to talk about it. And to throw up where it won't get on
the bodies. The trip is a bust, and we ain't got the juices left to
go gather the intel for ourselves. Another team can come do it,
'cause we for damn sure ain't!
Okay, we gotta do somethin'. We talk for a while. Nape strike on the
ville? At least the remains would get a little respect from the
cleansin' fire. Maybe an arclight? Get some of the c*cksuckers that
did it, too. Just go away, not let the bastards know we've even been
here? That's the logical one. We reject it. We'll do both of the
first two. F*ck the money, this is family business.
We go back out a klick and I call for exfil. We're gonna lift from
the village square. Gonna let the pilots and crew see what we're
fightin' for, and why we're gonna plow it under. I tell Covey to get
the fastmovers and an arclight. The rider says no, and I tell him
why. F*ck. I can hear him chokin' from clear down here. He says
he'll try, and asks if I wanna call a Prairie Fire. I think on it
and say no. Just do what you can. He agrees, and we'll see the birds
an hour after dawn in the mornin'. We don't sleep much that night.
We're all wired. There are always survivors, and they're out in the
jungle somewhere. We won't find 'em, but we worry about it.
At first light, we make a sweep. No one home but us, the dead and
the flies. The sun comes up, and we make ready. The birds come a
little early, and we exit without a shot fired. The pilots see, and
the gunners too. The gunner on my side pukes out over the gun. I
don't know about the others. We are a few klicks out when I see
Covey roll in and squirt a willie pete into the square. The napalm
rains. This time, it's a good rain, a clean rain, a way to say thank
you. And good-bye.
There is no arclight. They are, after all, kinda expensive. We just
do what we can for our brothers and sisters. I look back and say
some words. Wish I was a shaman, they woulda had the right words.
We go back to camp. It is very quiet that night in the 'yard
barracks. And I guess I started to think about home. I didn't wanna
play war, anymore.
I wish I hadn't taken the pictures. I still see that place through a
viewfinder. And I still try to brush the flies from the lens....
Bear
Bear was a dog. Canis domesticus. Breed: unknowable. Age: not
apparent. Disposition: a bear. Which, of course, explains the name.
She is a camp mutt. And a bitch in at least two ways.
She lives on the largesse of the homesick gringos that people this
place and time. We all have dogs back home, and she gets the
attention they would have received had the U.S. Army and Viet Nam
not interceded. She is spoiled, and semi-feral. She has no regular
place of abode, sleepin' when and where she will. Usually, this is
at one of the night-watch stations on the wall. Sometimes,
especially when it rains, it's one of the bunkers or in some kind-
hearted team's hootch.
She is not house broken, and you figure this out pretty quickly.
She'll just do her business wherever she may be, even once or twice
in the mess hall. I had a dog at home, too. But It didn't cloud my
judgement, much. I didn't like her.
And, frankly, she didn't like me much, either. She growled at me,
barked at me, and once, tried to bite me. She didn't try that again.
I was real good with dummy grenades, which we were tossin' at the
time. But she liked the 'yards, which was odd. 'Cause they looked at
her like a reserve meal, still on the hoof. She didn't seem to know
it, though, and I have a picture of her and Drog on top of a bunker,
all cuddled up together. She was stupid, too....
She took to howlin' late at night, on top of the RT Washington
bunker, which was closest to our hootch. My bunk was closest, to be
absolutely precise. Aggravatingly, absolutely precise. We tried
everythin' to get her to stop; food, threats, thrown rocks and the
like, chasin' her around camp in our birthday suits at all hours of
the night and early morning; much to the amusement of the 'yards on
the wall. Nothin' seemed to work.
And I guess I just plain lost my sense of humor. One night, after a
stretch of nearly a week of this bullsh*t, I threaded the muffler
onto my CAR-15 and went up to the wall and greased her. Nary a
twinge of conscience. Not many complaints from the peanut gallery,
either. Startled the nearest guards, but when they saw what I'd
done, they just shrugged. The next morning, her carcass was gone.
The 'yards probably ate her rather than let perfectly good meat go
to waste. Hell, I may have had a bite, myself, I ate with 'em often
enough.
Sorry, Bear. But y'see, there was this war on. And I bet you
wouldn't appreciate "To Serve Man" jokes worth a sh*t.
First Time
May of 1972, and we are all but outta here. They stopped the Easter
Offensive up north and are gonna push 'em back outta Quang Tri, back
across the Cua Viet. The U.S. strength is droppin' daily, and this
camp will be handed over late this summer to some ARVN SF. Not sure
we like it, but that's the way it is.
So we do it right. We've been runnin' these teams into V Corps and
along the border for years now. Time to let 'em do it without
Americans.
The one zeroes talk about it for days. Who should be first? Lotsa
the teams are ready. Hell, given good commo, most of 'em have been
ready for a long time. I want it to be my team, but so does nearly
everyone else. But it'll be none of 'em, it'll be California. Has to
be, really. Joe built that team. Sarge is the best damn 'yard team
sergeant in the whole fookin' world. I know it better than most. So
that's the way it is.
Sarge is gonna take the team into some nasty turf north of the Se
San River, about 100 klicks into Cambodia. We know there's still a
lot of strength in the Sanctuary, and trackin' disposition is a full
time job for two teams. We call in Sarge and give the briefin'. He
takes it like he expected it. His only question is "Talk to Joe?" We
try, but can't get the call through stateside. Okay, he does it
anyway.
He picks out a six man team, so as to use just one insert bird. He
figures the rations, the ammo, the supplies, the aerial recon like
he's done it a million times. He ain't never done it once. Flies the
recon hisveryownself with nothin' but a gringo Covey pilot. Hand
signals work okay, God alone knows where he learned 'em.
We sit back and watch. He doesn't even need advice. He asks to
borrow my RPD, the newest one in camp. Sh*t, I'da given him my arm
if'n he asked for it. Tuesday they set to packin'. Wednesday he does
a local patrol to shake out the kinks. Thursday they finish packin'
and we give the translator lessons on the radio. Friday, they're
gonna go in. The fookin' first time, man. 'Yards have never gone
alone. They're ready and treat it like any other trip. We're scared
sh*tless. I mean, Sarge is one of the most squared away dudes what
ever hefted a ruck. But he's a 'yard. We finally figure out we've
been carryin' a load of prejudices and treatin' 'em like our own
kids. Sheeeeee**t! We know this, now. Don't make no diff, we're
still worried nigh on to death.
Friday mornin' they head out onto the pad. None of us go with 'em
but Willy, and that's right. We'll meet 'em when and if. And that's
right, too. They take off and head SW with the entire recon company
American contingent on the berm watchin'. Can't work up a wave.
Like your oldest when askin' for the car the first time. You worry.
Did you teach 'em right? Too fookin' late now.
Its amazin' how many can crowd into a commo bunker. First couple
checks, everybody's there. Then we settle for Willy actin' as middle
man. Everythin' is goin' great: insert, movement, approach. First
light on the fourth day they're gonna get up close and personal. We
run a hard wire from the commo bunker to RT California, one of the
bigger hootches. We sit on it all day. No beer, no nuthin' but food
we fetch in shifts and the black-eyed peas from the pot by the wall.
This is where it goes to sh*t most often. You gotta get close to
count and get pics and draw maps. Sarge knows. He's covered my six
a dozen times while I done it. Many more with Joe and Willy and
others. Ain't ashamed to say Van and I prayed a lot, either.
Commo check that night runs smooth. Objective accomplished, and
they're gonna go for exfil. We all wanna ride out on the slicks and
get 'em, but it wouldn't be right. Also, we'd be in the way. So we
wait. Sorta like bein' in the dentist chair waitin' for him to come
back after lookin' at the x-rays.
Sixth day, mornin' check and they hit up a courier. Had to do some
shootin' and they're comin' out hot. We begin to sweat. A whole
fookin' lot, man. By noon we know they're in the air, and no
casualties. Hot damn! Sh*t yes!! They did it! We did it! It got
did!! By mid-afternoon they'll be on the pad. First time, man! If
the pics are good, it'll be as good as any of us could do. Makes a
fellow proud.
Like I had anythin' to do with it....
They hit the pad and we're there with the beer and to help 'em carry
their rucks. They're cool, but the hugs are warm. Sarge is real
together, and ready for debriefin'. And we head for the TOC. Here,
he turns over the camera, the drawings, and gets grilled with a
translator. He's only got Willy now. We ain't invited. Okay, used to
that. 'Sides, got a party to get together! First time, and we're
gonna celebrate it right. Damn straight. Proud daddies ain't got
nothin' on us, man!
Debriefin' drags into the evenin'. The team goes back to the 'yard
barracks and cleans up. Around 2000, Sarge is finally sprung and
saunters down with his pipe lit and an air of "f*ck those TOC
bastards!" Yep, we taught him right! We let him sh*t and shower, and
it's 2100. Plenty dark. Don't care. The one ones and the one twos
materialize a jug and some stew, and the party begins. Except for
Sarge. We one zeroes take him with us to the Recon Club.
Look, we got the prejudices. We've been patronizin' the 'yards for
decades and not knowin' it. Time for a change. Sarge gets all the
drinks he can take. He takes only wine. He has good taste. We're all
dressed up in our best camp cloths. One zero jackets. Black silk
things with the CCC logo and the team patch embroidered on. Lotsa
other stuff sewed on to. Willy takes his off and puts in on Sarge.
Says, "Its yours now, bro. Your team, you gotta drive her."
First time again. First 'yard one zero.
Sarge don't speak English worth a damn. But he can't miss this one.
All the gringos are misty-eyed. He smiles that slow, all-knowin'
smile of his and asks, "Where's the smokes....? And the babes?"
Ice broken, we party hard.
First time, man! First time.
Miss ya, Sarge....
_____________
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\ | / ___|_ ___
\ | / / | | (( _|_ ))
\ | / __/___| |____/ *|
\ | / [________________|
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\ /
\o/
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/ \
Black-eyed Peas
It's funny about memories. Many are weak, or only come across in your
worst nightmares. Many of the stronger ones are not the sort of
thing that were a big deal at the time. Just life. Little vignettes
of livin' with a bunch of other guys a long way from home. One of my
clearest is about black-eyed peas.
My bunk was at the east end of the room in the hootch. Next to my
bunk on the north side is a little table. And on that table is a hot
plate and a never-endin' pot of black-eyed peas. Smells good! Smells
like home. Not my home, mind you. We never had black-eyed peas.
Willy's home, maybe. Home, regardless.
It was always there. When it got low on water, anybody around went
and got more. A twenty-pound bag of the beans set on a shelf under
the table, and they also got added at need. Fatback or just plain
mystery meat would get sliced in from time to time. Nobody talked
about it, nobody planned it. It was just there, like the sandbags or
the weather. Omnipresent, never-ending, the pot at the end of the
hootch.
And we'd eat 'em. Sometimes with relish, sometimes with gusto,
sometimes with resignation, or even, sometimes, unconsciously. But
we ate 'em. Oh, we had a great mess hall, before Rocket Sunrise, and
we ate there two, three meals a day. But late at night, comin' in
from the wall, or from a late night pinochle game with Tom over in
Minnesota's hootch, you'd sneak in and grab a bowl. Or maybe it was
a stand-down day, and we'd all lay out on the berm porkin' it down
and talkin' about whatever, whoever, whenever.
And it wasn't just us. All of Recon Company would come around for a
bowl from time to time. Like mail, it was a link with home. You
didn't eat it 'cause you were hungry, but because it helped make the
place a little more tolerable. I think Willy's folks used to send
'em. Don't know that for sure. They came in small packets, and ended
up in the bag. I know I had a few pounds sent over, too.
Strong memory; sight, and smell, and sound. Funny how the memory
works. Funny the things that stick.
I never said "Thank-you, Mr. and Mrs. Krakovich." Shoulda done so a
long, long time ago.
Bomblets
Sucking Chest
Blossom of red on soiled green.
It froths.
Layer of plastic, layer of cotton;
maybe they'll save the lung.
_______________________
Sniper
Crack!
from a tree
or maybe the rocks.
Roll and take cover.
If you can, you're okay.
_______________________
LZ
Opening in triple canopy,
bordered by raging death.
Will you let me go?
_______________________
Rice
Funny grass in a puddle.
If you eat too much,
your eyes will slant.
Or maybe it'll be your stomach.
_______________________
Bayonet
Good for cans and such.
Back in basic they told us
it had another use.
But I have forgotten.
_______________________
Monsoon
Rain without end,
pours into my bunk,
wetting my blankets
and ruining what looked to be
the best dream of my career.
_______________________
Phantom
Roar and scream and boom;
without end, without beginning.
I hope he knows
who wears the white hat down here.
_______________________
Papa San
In the paddy, bent almost double
he is making a harvest
fed by his sons and daughters.
You can't see the tears through his sweat.
_______________________
Weet
We laughed and cried
and held each others' hand,
like they do in that place.
And now I can't hold it.
I want to very much.
_______________________
Mud
Its what is left
when the earth and the sky
have finished fighting.
_______________________
Concertina
Circles within circles,
passing endlessly around your camp,
that carries thorns to pierce you.
Unless you're a child....
Then you can just walk through.
_______________________
Tank
It sits by the side of the road,
waiting for someone with stars
to tell it where to go and die.
The men on top will go with it, too;
but maybe someone will survive
to do it all over again.
Foxhole portability is not an asset.
_______________________
BDA
The ground shook here,
bare minutes ago.
The earth was moved
and shaken by a giant fist.
Trees fell down, and men.
And some damn fool wants to know how many.
So we count them....
_______________________
Heat
Water's gone, armpits dry
and another klick to go.
You won't melt, they always say,
but maybe they just don't know.
_______________________
Night Contact
Red and green tracers
probing in the darkness.
Sabers dueling, seeking
a sheath in warm flesh.
It damn sure isn't Cristmas.
_______________________
Redleg
We're at a firebase. Somewhere west of the Central Highlands, along
the Cambode border. We're makin' a fuel stop on the way home. Been
in ten days on a dry hole. Nobody home, camera's empty, no new notes
except that nobody's there. We look a little tired and dirty, the
way you do after a week and a half in the woods. We're just sittin'
quiet-like on a plank in the mud, waitin' for 'em to tell us it's
time to go.
Fire mission! Guys half naked, appropriate for the heat, bail out
of their hootches and whatever the hell they were doin' and head for
the guns. The air is charged with action, and the battery gets
cranked around to the north. The noise starts. Big noise. Like an
arclight, but closer. They give up tryin' to water the birds till it
stops.
It goes on for maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes. Ain't nothin' to
see. Guys humpin' ammo, shove it into the breach, pullin' the
trigger. Can't see the enemy, can't know what's goin' on. We stand
up and watch. This isn't our war, it's somebody else's. Surreal.
And I just can't figure it out. I mean, whaddahell is all the
shootin' about, anyway?
Its over, and a tired, hot, filthy dude walks over to the water
buffalo, sticks his head under the faucet and lets some run on his
head. Not too much, it's hard to come by up here. He stands up and
we lock eyeballs. I don't know him, he don't know me. But we're
bros, and we know it. We are also aliens - incomprehensible to each
other. We stare until the bird's full and it's time to go. We each
break and walk off. We each know we got the better part of the war
and pity the other poor bastard. I mean, what can it be like for
that dude? Head shakin', shoulder shruggin' time.
Crazy fookin' war, man.
The Way It Was
War, at least the war I knew, is a study in contradictions. For all
the hours like that one in Ashau, there were many hours of boredom
and nothin'. For every mission with fear and action like CIB and
Flashlights, there were three with little or nothin' of excitement.
Not to say there was no fear. There was always fear. And this is
good. Fear makes you cautious. Caution makes you more likely to
live. I'll keep the fear, thank you very much.
But the majority of trips I made to the woods were uneventful.
Maybe they were uneventful because there was no one there but us.
Or maybe they were uneventful because we were very good at what we
did. Or maybe we were just plain lucky. I don't know for sure on
some of 'em. But the uneventful ones were always in the majority
for me. That was fine by me. I wanted to go home upright, not
horizontal. Always.
Dry holes account for some of the uneventful ones. You do your
mission prep. You read all the info. You make your aerial recon. You
train and pack and practice. You go in full of trepidation and hope.
And you find nothin'. No one home. Not a damn LZ watcher, no
couriers, no nothin'. You spend five to ten days wanderin' around
lookin' for what you were sent to take a peek at. And you don't find
it. Some are close; they were here not all that long ago. You find
the slit trenches, the booby traps, the signs that somethin' was
here. Some are just plain empty; it doesn't look like anyone's been
here since some primate got the bright idea to come down outta the
trees. We call 'em dry holes in the same sense a well digger does.
All that work for nothin'. Though that too, of course, is intel of a
type.
Wet holes can be uneventful, too. Actually, you try to make 'em that
way. You go through the same mission prep. Only you find what you
came for. Or maybe somethin' else. You do what you can to document
it. Pictures are good. Notations on maps, drawings, notes on
numbers, equipment, disposition, and so on, are all good. It depends
on what you got. You spend a lot of time bein' very quiet and makin'
like a clump of bushes. You crawl up close, sneakin' past guards,
watchin' for mines and traps, and get everythin' you can. This final
few meters is a one or two man trip when it boils right down to it.
Less to be noticed, and that's the name of the game. Then you sneak
out. Maybe you leave a present, maybe you don't. Depends on the
mission, depends on what you find, depends on your nerves.
Anyway you look at it, wet holes are more interestin'. The fear is a
lot higher, and you are a lot more cautious. At the same time, you
feel challenged to get everythin' you can. This is the conflict that
separates the heros from the guys who do the work. I was a workman.
Maybe a coward, too. That's an okay thing to be in my book.
Especially in a war zone. As long as you do your job, that fear will
be okay. It's the kind that doesn't disable; it's the kind that
makes you think. My kind of cowardice. It got me home.
In addition to the uneventful wet holes and the dry holes, there's
all the time between missions. Average mission is a week. My average
was five days. For every day in an AO, there's at least one day of
downtime and a half of one in mission prep. So in the sixty weeks
I'm in-country I ran about thirty missions. (Some were real short,
like Tri-borders or Ashau.) Not a whole heck of a lot in the big
picture. You feel like you're not doin' enough. You have to multiply
it by fifteen teams to start gettin' real numbers. 450 missions in
that time. And that's just CCC. The other two ran about the same.
Now we're lookin' at over 1300 missions in my fourteen months. Not
all mine, obviously. Just to give a perspective on how hard we all
worked at gettin' intel for the real soldiers - the grunts who win
or loose a war.
But you still spend 50+% of your time NOT runnin' missions. That's
partially covered in some of the other stories. But also in there we
played cards, wrote letters home, paid income tax, ate, slept,
watched movies, listened to music, and all those things we Americans
do. And we did some things Americans don't usually do, too. Like get
blessed by a shaman of a faith that has no name, try to plink rats
off rafters with a silenced .22, or raise a new hootch where one got
blown up by a rocket.
We bitched about the weather, the mud, the food, the lack of women,
the surplus of barbed wire, and anythin' else that came to mind. We
laughed and cried, praised and cursed, worked and rested. We just
tried to live like real folk in a crazy fookin' place.
Nothin' fancy, much at all.
Just the way it was.
Weather
Can't do anythin' about the weather. Well, mostly you can't. You can
sometimes find or make some kinda shelter. Usually, though, it does
to you instead. Ask a soldier. Any soldier. He knows. Few folk ever
get to know weather like a soldier. Especially pilots and grunts.
Pilots gotta fly in it, whatever it may be. And some of it is
distinctly life-shortenin'. But then, they get to go home. Not
grunts. Grunts just keep on livin' in it. You wanna know about
weather, ask a grunt. Soldiers in general, yeah, but grunts in
particular. They think about it, dream about it, curse it, love it,
hate it, worship it. But they damn sure know it.
Now, Viet Nam had weather. It wasn't the deathly cold of Korea or
the Apennines or Bastogne. It was more like the Marines found on
Guadalcanal and elsewhere in the South Pacific. But it wasn't really
like those, either. It was hot, it was muggy, it was wet and it was
miserable. The last should not come as a surprise. They never fight
wars where the weather is good. It's in the Bible or the
Constitution or somethin'. Wars can only be fought in inhospitable
climates. Ask any soldier, ever....
Kontum wasn't too bad, really. The monsoons sorta slid by the place,
and the heat was alleviated by bein' inland and up some in
elevation. But other places.... The delta, ugh. DMZ, worse.
Anywhere on the coast was the pits. And the Mekong Valley in
Cambodia was just plain godawful. I have no idea how or why anybody
ever settled there. Terrain wasn't as bad, but the sky was worse
than the Darien. First arrivals probably had seal skin. Heaven only
knows how it got bred out.
I can remember ops where we went in between storms, 'cause it
provided good cover. But the price was horrible. Monsoon is such a
simple word, but what it means on the ground is ungodly. If it
wasn't underwater, it was almost impassibly muddy. Not just any old
mud, either. Deep, sticky, get-in-everything, red clay mud. Streams
would swell in less than an hour to uncrossable floods. Visibility
could drop to zero in as little time as it took to aim and focus a
camera. In places like that, the rain becomes lethal. The mud could
eat you faster than quicksand. Not a pleasant combination.
And it didn't get better real soon. When it stopped and the sun came
out, all that moisture would rise back into the air. It could get so
humid you had to stop movin' because breath got too damn hard to
come by. The warmer the air, the more water it can absorb. So when
it's hot, the air gets thick. You are plastered wet whether it's
rainin' or not. Matter of fact, you start to missin' the rain.
Everythin' gets soaked in time, no matter how you wrap it or protect
it. Your clothes, of course, your web gear, your weapon, your food,
your dry socks, your batteries, your electronic gear, it all gets
soppin'. Makes for a lot of interestin' problems. Personally, I
could have lived without the interest. Or the problems.
Weather may have been a grand invention for God, but it's not quite
so grand for the guy on the ground. Go ask that soldier. Especially
a grunt who walked in it. I just bet he'll say:
Amen!
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RON
We sleep at night. We do this because we gotta sleep sometime, and
you can't see as well at night. Seein' is why we're out here where
we have to sleep on the ground, anyway. Where you sleep, that's a
RON. With so few guys, you don't make an NDP, a Night Defensive
Position. You make a RON, Remain Over Night.
It relies more on bein' hidden than on defensible terrain, though we
always try for both. We don't carry the big Claymores, they just
weigh too much. Instead, we make these little mini-claymores outta
soapdishes, C-4, and nails. Put a hole in the top for a blastin'
cap, and you're all set. Well, you should also set it up on the far
side of a big tree or rock, too. We never measured the back blast
zone, but C-4 is volatile stuff. We always carried timin' fuse and
detonators, too. This allowed us to cut and run or leave 'em behind
for optimal results when necessary. Didn't have to do that very
often, fortunately. I like sleepin' at night.
You look for a couple things in a good RON site. First is a view of
your backtrail - about a klick back. This gives you time to didi if
someone comes along. Strangers comin' to call by followin' you are
seldom good visitors, and it is generally best to just avoid 'em.
Second, you look to disappear into the terrain. Since most of us
didn't look a whole lot like bushes, this usually meant a thicket or
a large group of boulders. I personally look more like a boulder
than a bush, so I preferred the later. It didn't work when I put the
team to bed on a patch of glow-in-the-dark moss one night, as an
example of what not to do. We woke up feelin' really uncomfortable.
I suppose it woulda been okay if we glowed too, but as it was, we
moved.
That said and done, you try to stay away from trails and LZs as
RONs. They are popular meetin' places, and I already told you about
late night visitors. A good steep slope is nice, as it discourages
drop-ins. Hilltops and river beds are not cool either. I didn't have
to worry about the obvious ones, the 'yards just wouldn't stop.
After a little while, I wouldn't either. This is called experience.
Fortunately, it didn't kill me.
In the Central Highlands, we carried light weight sleepin' bags. It
gets kinda chilly at night. Other times, we'd just carry poncho
liners. You don't worry about stayin' dry, as you won't. You just
worry about gettin' some sleep. Humpin' twenty klicks in nasty
terrain can make you kinda tired. Especially with the extra weight
of the mini-claymores and the sleepin' bags. And we did that a lot.
Comes from bein' scared a lot.
And I was almost always scared to death. Which didn't help with the
sleep, either, by the way. Comes with a RON.
Or maybe it just came with Viet Nam.
I Don't Remember the Birds
One of the hardest things to capture is what you don't recall. By
definition, you don't remember it. How in the hell you supposed to
write that kinda stuff down? Gonna try, though. Might say as much as
what I do remember....
The first thing I don't remember is the birds. Birds? Yeah, them. I
remember layin' in night positions and listenin' to the night birds
call to each other. But I have no memory of ever seein' any kind of
bird but chickens in the ville. I'm a birder, too. I love birds. I
mean, even with a war on, there shoulda been hordes of birds all
over the place, just like almost any other place on earth. I shoulda
seen 'em, enjoyed 'em. But I don't remember a single fookin' one.
And I don't remember a lot of the big things from home. No oil
derricks, no fields of wheat, no soarin' purple mountains, no
skyscrapers, no tall steepled churches. I don't remember those
things 'cause they weren't there, I suspect. These don't bother me
much in retrospect. But they bothered me then, with their
omnipresent absence. Not up front. In the back of my head, like a
missin' tooth - just a gap in what should be, not a real pain.
And the things of youth weren't there either. Little girls with
pigtails and little boys with frogs in their pockets. Both of those
swingin' on a rope over a crick filled with brackish water. Plenty
of boys and girls and brackish water, but none of the expected
behavior. Yeah, I know. Cultural differences. But not even one
little heart carved into a tree with two sets of initials? Not one
lousy little league game? Some kids playin' tag on roller skates?
Just more of the things I missed even while I was there....
I remember the sky and the sun. The sky got cloudy a lot, and the
sun was very hot when it was out. But I don't remember stars or the
moon. Always had a telescope as a kid. Watched the moon, the
planets, and the stars a lot. Dreamed of 'em. Dreamed that someday
maybe I'd go out and greet 'em. Not in Nam, though. They had to be
there. But I have no memory of 'em. Hell, I can even remember
moonlight filterin' through the trees, and the look of it on the
perimeter mine field. But no moon. Others remember them well, but
not me.
Little animals are missing, too. Except rats and snakes. No
squirrels, no possums, no chipmunks, no voles or mice, no nothin'
small and interestin' to watch. Plenty of dogs, of course. But no
cats, either. Don't miss 'em. Don't like cats. But we coulda used
'em to keep down the rats. Didn't have any, though. That's really
odd. I mean, cats are everywhere people are, aren't they? How come I
can't remember 'em, either?
The grass was wrong, too. At Nha Trang they had a lawn that they
mowed. Kentucky Blue Grass, I think. Had to import the seed, I'm
sure. The lawnmower, too, no doubt. Nobody real had a lawn. The
grass that grew was all misshapen or warped beyond recognition, like
bamboo and millet. No clover, either. Let's face it, grass is pretty
much universal stuff. Musta been plenty of varieties I would
recognize, even if it only grew in clumps. But I don't remember any.
Or flowers either. The only times I saw flowers was in a store in
the city or in a longhouse in the ville, already picked. Flowerin'
plants have been with us since the dinosaurs. There had to be
flowers. Absolutely had to be. I don't remember any at all.
Pretty little streams just right for a trout fisherman. Saw lots of
streams. Crossed too many of 'em. But the rocky ones with occasional
cascades and small areas of sandy bottom? Nope. None of those,
either. And those are geological necessities. Even saw some of
those in the deepest jungles of Latin America. But not in Southeast
Asia.
One shouldn't be bothered by what one doesn't remember. Unless it
represents things that had to be there. That bothers me a lot. And
there's so many of those. Too many. What does it mean? Did I not see
'em because they represented normalcy, and I would have had to
accept that I was the misplaced item? Was I afraid to recognize that
I was on the same planet I had been born to? Was my mind too
stressed out to note the commonplace? It all had to be there. Kinda
frustratin'.
Why can't I remember the birds?
Fog
Fog belongs to Kontum like it belongs to San Francisco. It doesn't
creep in on little cat's feet. It doesn't come in at all. It's just
there or it isn't. I don't remember it either risin' from the ground
or rollin' in down the valley. I don't remember it blowin' out or
burnin' off. You simply got up one mornin' and it was there.
Another morning, and it wouldn't be. It was the same even when you
had the watch on the wall. Sit on the wall until 5:00 a.m. and it's
clear all night. Go grab a couple hours of shuteye, get up, and it's
foggy. I don't know how. I just know it was.
I liked the fog when in-camp. The long east wall was a nice walk in
the thick coolness of it. I'd get up early, take my camp gun, trot
across the road and walk the berm from northeast to southeast. It
wasn't the fog that came in terrible, thick, chokin' billows. It was
the soft spreadin' tendrils that caress the spirit. It would be
early, and only those on the watch would be out: some 'yards from
the security company, some ARVN, seldom Americans. I'd stop at each
station and we'd share a few brief words that we might have in
common. Mostly it was to let 'em know I was there and a friendly.
It was also to maintain contact with reality. I have a few pictures
of the mornin' in the fog along that wall. It was very easy, on such
a walk, to forget the reality of war.
It comes from my youth, I think, in Ventura, California. I used to
walk in the fog along the beaches as the sun first lit the eastern
sky. Only a few would be out, beachcombin' or walkin' hand in hand
with a loved one. Everyone was invariably friendly, but in no rush
to be with anyone but themselves. The gulls flew on their mornin'
rounds, mewin' rather than their screechin' with their usual raucous
squallin'. A time for absorbin'. A time for bein' absorbed. A time
just for bein'. A time for contemplatin' one's place as a little
piece of the whole. The fog cut you off from the immensity of it
all. It simply and cleanly reduced everythin' to the immediate and
the present. Easy to forget you had to go to school, or weed the
flower bed, or much of anythin' else. The thickness of the air made
every breath so much more tactile and so much more important. Even
the swingin' of arms, the motion of legs and head in the rhythm of
simple walkin' was simply more alive. I would do it every day that I
could. I think it helped with the emotional savagin' of bein' a
teenager in the '60s.
So it was along the east wall. It was furthest from buildings and
everyone and everythin' except itself. The wire and the watchers
disappeared into the distance unless you looked very, very hard. I
tried not to look very hard on those mornings. It was a lot like the
beach rollin' down to the ocean. I enjoyed those walks along the
east wall with only the fog for company.
From the wall, the terrain tumbled down through the wire and the
mine field into a ravine with a small, sluggish stream that emptied
into the river a klick or so north of camp. The ground was burned
off every year to keep the fields of fire open, but it grew back
rapidly enough to look decent most of the time. Green remained the
dominant color, even with the dusky, brick red of the soil. Even the
wire and the big concrete .50 cal bunkers took on a romantic look in
that mist-shrouded light. Like steppin' back in time and place to
another era without so many cares, without so many burdens of life
and death. Unlike so much of the war, characterized by noise and
violence, it was so silent and peaceful. A walk along a sleepin'
line of other-worldliness.
Each step was adrift in texture and Presence. I could imagine I felt
the spirits that the shaman spoke of. They drifted in the tendrils
of overburdened clouds, come down to earth. They spoke of the
simpler times; of the hunt, of the harvest of rice, of the
immortality of a land and its people. They knew of war, but it
mattered little. It was but a small and transitory thing in the life
of the earth and its denizens. I didn't try to be mystical. But the
fog was still a mystical thing. And the fog knew those that it had
known for so many millennium. It knew the valleys and the hills, the
streams and the fields, the rise and fall of villages and kingdoms.
The wire and the wall and the watchers were not unknown to it. The
fog had seen 'em all before.
The fog also knew me. Maybe it was the same fog that I knew back
stateside, on the sand of that distant shore I knew as Home. I guess
I don't know about all that. I just know that the fog and I seemed
very good friends. It comforted me when I lost Weet. It comforted me
whenever it all got to be too much. It shared its silence and cool
patience without question. I loved to walk the wall in the fog. They
all thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. It certainly wasn't Southern
California.
But, if you listened very, very carefully as you walked, you could
hear the combers rollin' in, and the mewin' of gulls....
Buddha
Another little, but strong memory of Viet Nam came very early on.
Unlike Black-eyed Peas, it wasn't long-term; it happened and was
gone in less than five minutes. Maybe what I saw wasn't even there.
I can't recall positively the time or place. It is a simple picture
in the mind's eye.
I think it was that first day, on the road from Cam Ranh Bay to Nha
Trang. It rained and visibility was only a klick or so. I know it
was from the back of an open truck, with others around me, not
watchin' for the same things I was. What was I lookin' for? I don't
even remember that, now. Only what I saw. I know I wasn't lookin'
for that.
A couple hundred feet above the valley floor, on a mountain side
cloaked in verdant green, sat the Buddha. Huge and white, his eyes
stared out into infinity, focusin' on everythin' and seein' nothin'
of that which was around him. He was serene in the sublime. Not my
faith, not my beliefs, but he was there as he was, anyway. I
remember thinkin' it odd that with all the war that had passed this
way, he was still there, unstained, unsullied by it all. A trick of
the light illumed him amidst the mist-shrouded hills, contrastin'
him with the emerald green. Or maybe it was just a trick of the
mind.
How do such things escape when all around them is torn and ravaged
by war? Who stood up there to keep it safe from both north and
south, and even the random foreigner like myself? It fully occupies
my mind, and I don't watch for ambushes, for movement at the side of
the road, for anythin' at all. He doesn't call for me to leave all
and follow him, like a Christian or Jew or Moslem would. He simply
sits there and, without a word, says there is a better way. And for
the few minutes before a turn in the road hides him away forever, I
have to agree.
Why am I here? What have any of these people done to me that I
should cross a world to visit them with death? Who in the hell do I
think I am?
Are you still there, Buddha? Do you still feel the same? Can you
teach me that way of thought, too? Or maybe you know the Lady with
the sad eyes, or her Son, whom I worship? You look like you do.
Personally.
Why do you stay in my mind when so much else has faded?
Highland Sunset
Crimson fingers stretch out to darkness,
across crumpled hills and sundering plains;
spells cast by shamen ancient, yet steeped
in the wisdom of winds and rains.
It starts, the blush of a palid virgin,
a hint of the woman yet to be.
And flushes deeper to the blood of warriors,
splattered upon an azure sea.
Vivid orange and gentle amber,
join the poem of darkening sky.
Like a rose from Chartres descending,
shattering splender for dazzled eye.
For like that stained glass, wrapped in solder,
this great song has the gift of blood,
of the artisan and his helpers;
a sacrificial, timeless flood.
For in the glory of descending nighttide,
rise the prayers of a thousand crying,
and bombs dropped and humans breaking,
of lands destroyed, and forests sighing.
Napalm and arclight have crowded heaven
with ash and soil, in air suspended,
piled high unto the uttermost star;
refracting light with earth upended.
Like that rose lit by daylight,
men have been suffered and have died
to raise these glorious scarlet emblems
across horizons, beyond time and tide.
And yet, for all of that, it is not all evil.
For ancient goodness dwells upon Ngoc Linh
and in these sacred vales lined with paddies;
this glory shines for all breeds of men.
Highland sunsets are like no others
felt or witnessed, in life or dream.
Their bursts of glory, liquid silence,
promising hope in a red-hued stream.
When, at last, sun descended,
lost and gone beyond Rocket Ridge,
a scent of serenity and of promise,
build a better and a dreamed of bridge.
Tomorrow day, or yet another,
I'll descend again that Highland bowl
I'll watch those crimson fingers stretch out
and take at last this weary soul.
Home Again
It's time. Fourteen months is enough. The teams are startin' to run
their own missions. In a month or so the whole program is goin' to
shut down, anyway. I've got a divorce to attend to. It's time to go
home.
Fly to Nha Trang for a final debriefin'. An LTC there feels the need
to tell me one more time that this stuff is all classified and I'm
not to talk about it. Yeah, right. I won't. For over twenty years, I
won't. The price is too high, and I'll never make a promise like
that one again. The pool is drained and closed for repairs, so I
won't be swimmin' this time, either. That's okay. The mood isn't
there, really, anyway.
Next morning, I fly to Cam Ranh Bay. I left my gun in Kontum, and I
strangely don't care. The fire is gone, and it just doesn't matter
anymore. I'm goin' home with mixed feelings. The war is still goin'
on, but I'm emotionally detached. Weet and so many others are gone.
I guess I figure it's not my war now, and they can't get me. I
dunno. Just know it doesn't really matter.
We dress up in Khakis freshly issued from some back room in some
warehouse. I pull out the beret that's been in a bag for months, pin
on my "I-been-there" ribbons, wings and CIB. My Corcorans look a
little the worse for wear, but a Vietnamese civilian by the PX fixes
that for me. I tip him well and wish him the best for his country.
He doesn't understand a word. It figures....
The flight is just as long goin' back as it was comin' over. I still
can't sleep, so I and a couple of other NCOs spend the flight just
shootin' the sh*t and talkin' about Viet Nam and what we're gonna do
when we get stateside. We're all gonna be stayin' in, so we talk
about our next assignments, too. This is supposed to be a happy
flight, and I guess a lot of the younger guys are real happy. But
we're just off to another assignment, and the mixed emotions pour
out into every other word. One of 'em is goin' home to court, too.
Ft. Lewis takes us in when we get to Washington State. Most of us
are not locals, and we eye the guys bein' met by families with a
great deal of jealousy. Instead, we check through the proper desk,
and arrange for transportation to SeaTac International, and a ride
home. We get an OD bus loaded with every grade and service
imaginable. We are warned it may not be pleasant in the airport; the
press has turned the country against its soldiers. I was home on
R&R, and this is not news to me, though I have doubts that it was
the media. It was more likely the letters home. It doesn't matter.
We will partner up as they suggest, with others goin' our way. For
me, this turns out to be an E-5 SeaBee headin' from Da Nang to Pt.
Mugu, not far from where I live. We don't talk much, but we cover
each other's six as we wait for the flight to LAX. A lot of very
rude stares, but few words are directed our way. At me. The funny
hat probably isn't helpin'. He's a sailor, and he doesn't get it as
bad. The civilians obviously don't know SeaBees and can't read his
ribbons.
LAX is worse, and some heated words are exchanged. The really good
responses don't come for two weeks, of course. But one guy with
broken buttons will probably be more careful in the future. Airport
security does what it can, but there are just too many of us, and
we're mostly on our own. My SeaBee has a wife and baby daughter
waiting, and I decline a ride. I mean, he didn't come home on R&R or
nothing, they don't need a stranger in the car. I hail a cab and
head for Greyhound. It's only a couple hours ride back up the coast.
The bus terminal is better. Not so many folks with strong feelings
one way or the other. Tired people without much money are less
politically oriented. The driver for the trip is a Korean War vet,
and he gives me my first feelings that it will be okay. Sad thing
that it takes all those hours and miles for someone to shake your
hand and smile at you like he meant it. The ride up the coast is
quiet and uneventful. The sun is out and the trip up US 1 is
beautiful. I feel a little bit better about bein' home. So. Cal.
looks pretty much as I left it. That's very comfortin' to any
soldier in any time. I think the driver took a couple detours just
for me. I didn't complain.
I spend the time thinkin' about what I'm gonna do. With the
impendin' divorce, I have no home, no one to turn to. So I guess
I'll go motel it while I figure things out. My folks and I are
marginally gettin' along, and maybe they will take me in when the
money starts runnin' low. And maybe I'll make a play to get my wife
back. She probably isn't worth it, but my son certainly is.
Basically, I conclude I don't know what I'm goin' to do for the next
month of leave before gettin' to Ft. Devens in Massachusetts. The
bus arrives in downtown Ventura.
The bus driver shakes my hand again and also shakes his head. I
think he knows what I'm goin' through. He probably went through it
himself. I simply say thanks. Ventura isn't a big town, and I'm
hardly stared at as I get a cab to a little motel down off US 101.
Though the haircut will give me away, I go to Sears and get some
civvies and try to pretend I'm just another guy passin' through. I
look around real hard to avoid possible folks I may know. For some
reason, I'm not in the mood for company.
That evening, I make my way up to Chris' (the wife's) parent's house
to see her. This is a total bust; and Mike Jr. isn't there, anyway.
We do make arrangements to see a lawyer in a couple days, and I go
back to my motel. I don't eat much. Climate change has got to the
appetite. Well, maybe the climate contributed.
The next day I go to a local gun store and buy a little .380, I am
missin' havin' a piece at hand. At least, I try to justify it in my
mind that way. I almost convince myself, too. I also call Mom and
tell her I'm home. She offers a room, and lookin' into my wallet, I
accept. It turns out okay; her anger at me has faded a lot in the
last three years. She is welcoming; and though it is awkward, it's
obvious she remembers the long wait for Dad when he went off to
Africa and Europe in WWII. She has nothin' good to say about Chris.
This is a mixed blessin' for me, as I've yet to figure out where I
stand on the subject, myself.
Dad comes home from work later, and it's good to see him. We are not
emotional with each other, and the pattern continues from all those
years ago. Just after dinner, I mention the Viet Nam war and the
verbal slap will last me all my life. "That wasn't any war, boy, it
was just a little brush fire." I remember the pictures of Dad in the
death camps of southern Germany, and I see Mr. Weet sprawled in with
the emaciated bodies of the victims. I don't deck him. I retire
early. And I spend the evenin' learnin' the taste of blued steel. I
learned it real well before I got back out of Ventura.
We go on. We see the lawyer, and two weeks later we receive an
interim divorce - to be finalized in six months. I see a few friends
from high school, and those don't work. They haven't seen the
elephant; and we just don't understand each other, anymore. Or maybe
it's just that the muthaf*cker is still standin' on my chest,
blockin' communications.
I run out of money at the local bars, and I make the trip to Pt.
Mugu Navy Base to take an advance. I've decided to take the trip to
Devens and check in early. Blue steel has turned out to have an
unpleasant flavor. Mr. Weet wouldn't have approved. Thanks, bro.
I make the drive to LA. Spend a week gettin' my head back together.
Then I drive for Massachusetts, sharin' time behind the steerin'
wheel with a couple of hitchhikers I picked up in Needles who were
goin' to Cleveland. We drive straight through, takin' turns sleepin'
in the back seat of my Pinto; not really a good sleep. I drop 'em in
front of their house in Ohio and finish the last few hundred miles
alone. I pull into Devens late and finally find 10th SFG HQ around
midnight. Fortunately, the barracks aren't far; and I've seen the
CQ and am in a room by 0100. It was a long trip, and I sleep for
eighteen hours.
I get up, and I have to report for duty to Co. A, 2nd Bn in the
mornin'. But I take a couple hours to drive into Ayer, the local
town, and look around a little bit. And maybe to have a drink. At
one of the bars, not too far off base, I'm approached by a hooker
lookin' to make a little more that evenin'. She looks me over and
guesses right. "Welcome home, soldier. Lookin' for a good time?"
Welcome home. I give her a twenty. Gratis.
And I go back to base alone.
=====================================================================
Foreground
=====================================================================
Freedom Bird
I've never been to The Wall. I'm afraid of The Wall. I'm not sure I
fully understand why. I think it's because I fear that the brothers
whose names are inscribed there are waitin' there for me. Not that
I did anythin' wrong to any of 'em, just that I'm afraid I might
want to join 'em. And I know too many of 'em.
I left Viet Nam in July 1972. I had extended for six months because,
despite all, I was enjoyin' myself. Let's face it, I had been a
soldier for over four years, and wars are what soldiers do for a
livin'. But then I got TheLetter from the wife. I had to go home
early. With the cutbacks already in full swing, this was easy enough
to arrange. And I packed my bags, flew down to Cam Ranh Bay and
caught Flying Tiger for the U.S.
By August I had been to court and was with the 10th SFG at Ft.
Devens, Massachusetts. Ran into some old friends there, both from
Panama and Nam. Tom Madison was there, and Bill from What's in a
Name? Ferris showed up the next year. I knew some of the others from
Kontum where scheduled for Devens, too. It was goin' to be an okay
tour.
Then, one day, Tom came over to my team room. Jim Bighorn and I were
the only ones there, playin' darts. Tom came in and asked me if I'd
heard.
"Heard what?"
"The last plane out, man, you haven't heard?"
I'm not happy now, and I fold on the game. Pour a cup of coffee for
Tom and I and sit down. Jim watches from the side; he hasn't heard
either. No hidin' from teammates.
"So tell me."
"It didn't make it. It loaded up with equipment and troops, taxied
to the end of the runway and was hit by a 122. No one got out, it
burnt to the ground, man. They're all back and buried now. We just
heard from Dai uy Simmons family today, lookin' for anyone who knew
him. You knew him from Panama, didn't you?"
F*ck. Dai uy, Olson, Willy, MP, Sprague, Chief, Van, all of 'em.
Live through CCC and recon to buy it on the fookin' strip? Sh*t,
man. Just sh*t. And f*ck.
I never did call John Simmons' family. I couldn't talk for days.
Jim sent me home, and the team came over that night to the barracks
and got me very drunk. It kept me whole. We talked about 'em and
their goods and their bads; Tom and I and our teams. Teammates are
for that. And they kept the faith. Enough for normalcy to return,
sorta. My career was ending, though. I knew already there was no way
I was gonna reenlist again. You can only afford to push your luck so
far. I'd already pushed it well beyond that.
Many years later, after settlin' in Seattle and marryin' for the
third time, I met a guy named Dirk Porter. Dirk flew Covey in the
Central Highlands in '72. Sometimes it's a damned small world. He'd
been the FAC that day, and saw it all happen from the air. He
thought the rocket hit the fuel tanks in the right win'. It was gone
in a flash. He figured they all bought it virtually
instantaneously. That helped a little.
Easier than Weet, but still pretty bad. I was supposed to be on that
plane. Instead I was playin' darts in New England. It ain't right,
somehow. Soldiers shouldn't die like that. I shouldn't be here to
talk about 'em. Academically I know better. But the gut speaks its
own language. And it knows I should be long dead and buried. Maybe
that's why I can't go to The Wall. Maybe I'll just stay there, where
I belong. I cheated 'em, somehow. I feel it in my gut. I broke faith
with teammates. They never broke faith with me. My head says
otherwise. What's it know...?
It was the last plane out.
Freedom bird, my ass.
Survivor's Guilt
Got there too late
and he died in the field.
Hugging the ground,
losing the warmth,
that should have been shared with his kids.
Add another child of guilt.
Weet is dead and gone,
crimson shreds upon the earth.
I took him there, and left him,
holding his silence alone,
without friend, or hope, or pride.
Add another shard of guilt.
Chief was there,
when I should have been.
Leg shattered and bloodied
beyond all repair;
a ragged stub on which to walk home.
Add another limb of guilt.
A battalion wiped out
to the final man.
Tanks that were there,
that I failed to call in.
They didn't stand a chance in hell.
Add another sin of guilt
John and Sprague,
Willy and Van,
blasted and burned to hell,
for simply boarding a plane.
Orange flames on a black tarmac strip.
Add another fire of guilt.
I made it home
and they all died.
While I played darts,
and walked in the sun,
their widows and mothers mourned.
Add another cry of guilt.
Its insane I know,
I didn't really fail;
nothing can change what is.
But the gut doesn't know,
or even care, about my savaged mind.
In sightless spite it simply screams
Add another layer of guilt.
Healing
One thing about the Army, it does keep you busy most of the time.
Fresh back from Viet Nam, learn about the last plane out, and they
put me to serious work. A special project with civilians. Lasted all
summer. And then they decide I need to learn Norwegian. Norwegian?
Now there's a language heavily used in world affairs. Okay, I'll do
it. Like I got a choice.
Nine months in Washington, D.C. Same building I'd taken Spanish in
back in '69. Only now it's late 1972, and the country has changed.
When I was here last time, the uniform was still honorable attire,
and good for free drinks and a nice evenin'. Now it was a subject of
derision and only good for unwarranted slurs and fights. Hell, even
Louie's is gone. A 7-eleven stood there when I went to say "hi." We
learned to carry our uniforms to school in hanger-bags and go
straight home afterwards. Go spend a tour fighting your country's
war, and alla sudden your country doesn't want you any more. My
brain knows it's not that simple. It knows that there has been major
cultural upheaval and change. The gut just knows that guy over there
called me something I never even called the guys shootin' at me.
Strong confirmation, I ain't gonna reup again.
School is enjoyable enough. Norwegian is surprisingly easy to learn
after more than a year exposed to a tonal, stressed language. In
nine months you get a lot of the culture, too. One of our teachers,
a little old lady from Bergen, ran messages for the underground
during WWII. She literally couldn't say "Vidkun", Quisling's first
name. Had to write it for us. Had the spirit of a twenty-five year
old in a seventy year old body. Musta been a hellion when she was
young. They teach us about the composers, poets, soldiers and
statesman we never got in school. I end up admiring the hell outta
the place, and am anxious to get there and see it and its people.
I get to, shortly after returning to Ft. Devens. Send a team of us
off to cross-country ski school with the Norwegian Heimevarne, the
National Guard. It's actually winter warfare school, and they work
our butts off. You carry fifty pounds on your skis, as well as
weapons and ammo, and you take turns pulling another 500 lbs in a
toboggan. They call it a pulk. Taking it up hill is a job for four
guys. "Puke" is what we call it. They teach you how much snow it
takes to stop an AK round. It takes a lot. Importing the stuff into
Nam wouldn't help a whole bunch. How does one survive a blizzard on
a barren mountainside with a whole team? Not sure it was in the
lesson plan, but the weather did come up, and we found out. And it
was always very, very cold.
But I liked the soldiers teaching us. They got guts and class. In
the middle of the blizzard, we're all hunkered down in a tent we
bastardized together from bits and pieces, and one of the sergeants
produces a bottle of hjembrent - the local white lightnin'. We mix
it with coffee to make something we can drink. Not sure who blew out
first, us or the blizzard. Don't matter, 'cause it was a long way
back down in fresh, deep snow. Another time, Lt. Oien pulls out a
radio telephone while we're stopped on top of a mountain, gettin'
ready to set up for the night. The Norwegian Army pays for us all to
call home. Hello, dear? Well, I'm on top of this mountain in Norway,
see.... Good course, good people. They send us home, but I'm in a
hurry to get back to my new friends.
Next time, it's summer. We're going over to teach 'em demolitions
and our part in the defense of Norway. Look, it's a long, harsh
country without a significant population, it isn't really
defensible. The whole defense plans consists of holding along the
fjord lines long enough for the Heimevarne to get into the hills and
the underground to get ready. That's where we come in. We bring the
weapons and the plans for getting back at the bad guys. We also
bring the necessary commo to make it all work on a theater-wide
basis. We even get to practice it along with the NATO exercises that
year. We have a ball. The whole country remembers the Germans. And
every citizen is willing to bust his/her butt to give us a hand.
Things go smoother here than any place I've ever been before. One
could easily fall in love with this place and stay.
Only I don't, of course. The Army has other plans, and that's just
the way it is. I bounce in and out several times, and make some good
friends in their army. The guys have never been to Nam, but they've
been to Gaza and before that, Korea. Their eyes tell; they too have
seen the elephant. They are allies we can be proud of. And friends I
can share with. And I did.
The big things, of course, doesn't work up front like this. It
doesn't make me forget. But it gives me something else to remember.
For each of the minutes in Nam I was scared and angry, I get a new
minute of fun and camaraderie. For the loss of Weet, I get Lt.
Oien. It's good, and the war fades a little, buried in a deep snow
drift of time. It doesn't go away. But life has other meanings, too.
And some of these are just fine by me.
Norway is a healing place. Strong medicine not even imagined by the
shaman who visited us in Kontum. About as opposite from Viet Nam as
one can get. The train ride from Lillehammar to Dombas is a place of
divinity to match the Buddha.
I really needed it. And when nothing else will work anymore, I know
a trip there will do it again..., and again..., and again.
Its kinda nice to know.
Just Lucky, I Guess
Viet Nam is forever burnt into my psyche. It won't ever go away. It
does fade, though, in the sense that it represents a smaller and
smaller percentage of my life as the years pass. Much of what was
there is no longer a factor in my day-to-day affairs. Other things,
especially Weet, are as strong now as they were the day they
happened. I don't know if this is good or bad. It simply is.
One pays for such memories, and for living through what made 'em.
The current vogue term is PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. In
other places and times, it has had other names. It don't matter what
you call it, a lot of the bros and sis's have it. They don't
function right. The Terminator calls it "werewolves." I like that,
it describes what I see to a tee. Of course, it isn't just vets.
It's all kinda trauma related events; rape, accidents, disasters,
and such like. But it may be higher amongst vets than many other
like-sized segments of the population. And more important to me,
personally.
Somehow or the other, I don't have werewolves. Which is good, 'cause
those things scare me to death just watching it in fellow vets. I'm
more fortunate. I just have gremlins.
I learned about gremlins from Dad. Long before I ever heard of Viet
Nam. He had this cartoon book about the Army Air Corps in World War
II. He used it to illustrate what he meant. It was a pretty good
book. Pilots always had gremlins, y'see. They fulfilled Murphy's law
for that generation - damaging parts, throwing things overboard,
jamming guns, generally making life, not unlivable, but very
unpleasant. Dad told me he had those. I didn't believe him, of
course. He was always sane. Well, most of the time; he was, after
all, my Dad. I believe him now, though. I have 'em too. Not bad
enough to ruin life, just enough to make it a little rough. They
have to be run off alla time. They aren't easy to herd. And the
little muthas bite! Sometimes they even gang up on you, and then it
can be real bad. Then I start seeing Weet spread all over Cambodia,
not even enough left to hug.
Dad had terrible eyes, y'know. For WWII, they assigned him to the
Quartermaster Corps in the 5th Army HQ. He came off without a
scratch. But when the 5th got to France, the war was still on. They
didn't just send him home. After all, we're talking Army, here.
Instead, he got transferred to what was then called a "colored"
unit. An all-Black graves registration company. All across southern
France and into southern Germany he went, from battlefield to
battlefield. Ugly job, but someone had to do it. He figured it was
his fair share, and he did it as acting first shirt of that outfit.
Liked the troops. They swapped letters and Christmas cards till he
died. Said it was a helluva lot better than working for "Hollywood"
Mark Clark. He never swapped Christmas cards with any of that batch.
Then, one day, they got the call to pack the whole company and come
to this place. He went, he worked, he hated it, he took pictures,
and he musta been sick a lot. There, he also inherited gremlins. He
said he personally took the body counts in the kilns. Dad says he
never hated a man in his life, until then. I don't know about that.
I do know how he felt about the swastika. I never knew the name of
that death camp; Dad wouldn't ever tell any of us. Not even Mom.
When I was fifteen he burnt the pictures. Pictures of trenches, and
kilns, and bodies little more than skin and bones. Too late, of
course, for curious little boys to not see 'em. He tried to exorcise
those memories. He couldn't burn his gremlins, though. The damn
things don't burn worth a sh*t.... I've tried, too.
Dad, of course, was right about gremlins. I don't much like it. But
It's better than werewolves.
They call it "lucky."
=====================================================================
Patina of Age
=====================================================================
An Old Picture
I was young, once,
though I don't recall it very well.
I see it in old pictures,
if not in my mirror,
or in the silvered glass
of the buildings by the road.
Don't get me wrong,
I wouldn't go back, even if I could,
which, of course I can't.
The other side of middle age has no appeal for me;
that mind still seeks a life's experience,
and I have found another pace.
But as I look, slowly,
into the eyes of that man,
while I wouldn't trade places,
I wonder, in the back of my mind,
if he wouldn't object too strongly
if I just borrowed that younger body for a while....
Hendrix
It's always Jimi I think. His music is pulsing in my head. The
headphones vibrate like an arclight and the guitar screams like the
Phantoms used to. PurpleHaze, Voodoo Child, The Wind Cries Mary....
They beat on my mind. They twist in corridors long empty of the
companionship of the brothers who always knew. The brothers who
shared it with me.
And the past lives again. MP gyrates to All Along The Watchtower.
Willie's foot taps to Gypsy Eyes. Weet sits and downs shum, body
moving to Foxy Lady. It's like Jimi invented this kinda friendship,
this kinda thing for all of us. It's the key to remembrance. The key
to old friendships, somehow not quite dead. Though they all are.
'Cept when Jimi plays.
We were all musical conservatives, really. Well..., mostly. But Jimi
picked up a guitar and strummed our souls with sounds like we'd
never heard. The heart and the mind throbbed with the bass, the
nerves trying to keep up with the rip. The music was not our style,
but we lived by it; we loved it. Highway Chile, Long Hot Summer
Night. Life blood. You were more likely to hear Bach there than Rock
'n Roll. But Jimi was there - in every hootch, in every meal, in
every breath we took, in every waking hour. In many of the sleeping
one.
Maybe it was 'cause he was dead, like so many we knew. Maybe it was
'cause he was different, like we thought we were. Or maybe he just
found what really counted to all of us. Crazy fookin' music for a
crazy fookin' war. Dunno. Just was. Just is. The spokesman of an
age, the poet laureate of the Viet Nam War.
Now, I sit alone in this hollow shell, all these years later. Weet
and Willie and MP and Sprague and Van are all dead. All gone.
Others lived, but are equally gone from this life. Dead for me.
Dead to everyone. Bodies moving, but minds gone to another place.
One hopes it's a better place. Seems like there's no one left who
knows, man. Really and for truly knows. No one left to bring the
cold ones to the pad. To bring the mail to bone-tired troops comin'
back to a place desperately called "home." No Covey left to get
drunk for savin' your ass. No more passing of the straw in the
ville. The fog isn't the same. The Buddha no longer touches me. No
more sandbags to fill. And they're all empty, man. Everything is.
Especially me.
Can't believe I actually miss any portion of this crap, man. It's
all gone. And I'm still here. Sh*t! God, Jimi. Why can't I let you
just be dead? With all of 'em. Why can't you let me be dead? Or at
least just plain forget?
Maybe 'cause somewhere 'tween Fire and that unbelievable version of
Wild Thing, I'm not quite so alone. Lord only knows why. Or, I
s'pose, cares.
F*ckit. "Lord, in that Red House over yonder, Lord, that's where my
baby stays.... I ain't been home to see my baby in 99 and one half
days...."
Looks like self-pity is ageless, don't it?
Whaddahell! Do it Jimi!
_ ______ _______ __ _ _______
/\\ H M H H\\ H HHHHHHH
/ \\ H H H \\ H H
/====\\ H HHH HHH H \\ H H
/ \\ H_____H H______ H \\H H
______ ______ _ __ _ ______ _______
H H H /) /\\ H\\ H H M H
H H H____// / \\ H \\ H H H
H H H \\ /====\\ H \\ H H HHH HHH
H_____H H \\ / \\ H \\H H_____M H______
. _ . _ . .
-.- . - . - . -. - .
- - - - . - - - - .-
- . . . - - -.
- . . . . . . . -.
-. . . . U S . - -.
- . . . . - . . - -.
- . . . - - . . -.
- . .. V I E T N A M V E T E R A N . _ -
- . . . _ _ _ . _-_ . - -
- . - - -_- -_-xxx _ -. . - .-.
- . . . . - XXXXXxxXXXXXXXXXXXx -. - .- .
- . . XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-. .--.
- .- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX -.- -
-.- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX -. -.
-. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx .g -.
-. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX .- j.
.- XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX . p
.-. XXXXXXXX ]XXXXXXXXX ]XXXXXXXX .- -
-. XXXXXX XXXXX XXXXXX -.- -
-- XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXX --
- XXXXXXXXX X'`XXX XXXXXXX Y
Y XXXXXXXXX XXXXX XXX
XXXXXXX X X XXXXXXXX
XXXXXXX XXX XXXXXX
XXX XX X XXX XX XX
XXXX XX
XXX XX XX XX XXXX
XXX]XXXXXXXXXXXX
XXX[ XX XX XXX
XXXXXXXXXX
" I t ' s o n l y t e e n a g e a c n e ! "
-Robert Nimmo-
Words
Words force themselves
from within locked spaces
through my fingers, onto paper,
bleeding my soul as ink
upon linen for all to see.
And I am but a witness.
They are not summoned
by aught I know or feel.
Rising from a darkness
I do not know, cannot sense,
they flow upon an ocean
beyond mere human knowledge.
I don't control it.
It comes from within, pulsing,
like an artery severed,
like life leaking out
and into a being of its own.
Beyond recall, or even wishing.
They scream back at me
from the crimson parchment
on which they gather strength
to assault my senses
with the long forgotten,
and deeply buried tragedies.
They bludgeon me with guilt
and with regrets for the lost
and never to be recovered
shards of my diseased soul;
bleeding me further of thought
and of hope and of faith.
More is demanded of me,
and of my shattered consciousness
than I knew possible,
or ever dreamed could be
drained from any being
made only of mortal flesh.
And still it pours upon the page
of stained and torn mortality
which it created for itself
from the leeched remains
of the shell that used to be
my only solace and defense.
So I give it more and more,
and my heart beats in empty chambers
to empty muscles, shorn of power
to move the body,
much less the soul,
of even its tired occupant.
Oh words, why do you drain me so?
Why must I bleed to place word to page,
to satisfy what strange longing
must my mind be sacrificed
upon the blood-stained altar
of your merciless shrine?
Is there no resting place for me?
For any of us?
_____________
\ Not "once \
_____)upon a time")_____
_______(____(__________(______(@)
) ) gjp
/ O O O O O O O O O/_/|
/<> O O O O O O O O O/ |
/MM O O O O O O O MM/ |
/ ___________ / .
/O (___________) O O/.
(====================(
... EVER !!!
After Twenty Years
As I write this, it has been over twenty-one years since I came home
from Viet Nam. It's been eighteen since I left the Army and entered
into the civilian world. Those last three years in the Army were
very full years. They were healing years. They gave me the chance to
put up walls to lock in the stench of decaying bodies, napalm
burning, and the fetid smell of a firefight. And I took that
opportunity. I sorta just stopped, and stayed in place, mentally.
Life, however, in its inimitable way, carried on. I came home
without friends. Those I left behind in Vietnam didn't come home
after me. Those I'd left behind in the 'world' didn't want me. Not
as I was. They wanted some poor young sap who hadn't been away in a
changing place. It didn't stay that way, though. I made new friends.
Hell, you live with 'em day in and day out, fly across the world
with 'em, share your life, your hopes, your dreams and nightmares
with 'em, and you get kinda close. Not like SEA, maybe. But close
anyway. I even found a woman to take me in. She didn't understand
me, but she was willing to accept me as I was. I thought I healed.
By '75, when I got out of the Army, Vietnam was just a series of
disjointed memories with no application to the workaday world. No
sweat, I was in grand shape. Not like those poor bastards I saw on
the streets or in the bars. Something bad musta happened to them.
Damn lucky it didn't happen to me....
Of course, it couldn't be that simple. The choices I was making
weren't really mine. Inner wheels were turning where I didn't even
know I had wheels. I knew I got depressed from time to time, but I
figured it was just the change to Seattle, new job, and a new
environment. I became irascible. All I wanted was to drink and get
laid. I threw the woman who took me in, out on her ear, 3000 miles
from anything she had ever known. It broke her heart. I hated myself
and yet frolicked in my new-found 'freedom'. I also slid so far into
debt, I'm surprised I ever found my way back out. Good times.
A few months after the divorce, I had a 16 year old move in with me.
Hell, it was exciting for her; and she could do pretty much as she
damned well pleased without mommy hovering. Had about as much future
as the lion bedding the lamb, of course. I knew that. But
whaddahell! It was my life, and I was gonna live it my way. I
honestly thought it was my way. F*cked that one up, too.
Things didn't get a whole helluva lot better. Like I gotta tell you
that.... Oh, we partied on, and things felt great. But the walls I'd
erected were beginning to develop leaks. Little pieces begin to
spill out on the floor. The nightmares started. Nothing I could
identify. By and large I don't remember my dreams, good or bad.
Haven't since Vietnam. Self-defense probably. I just knew things
weren't 'A-okay' upstairs. I woke up one morning with this lovely
little lady next to me and literally went through the "whaddaf*ck
you doin' here?" routine. And I didn't mean with a minor, I meant
with my life. I'd lost control. I had no idea how to get it back. I
was really f*cked up. It scared me to death.
So I asked her to leave. Bought her into a new job and a new place.
And I moved myself. I made myself a promise, no more women/sex for
five years. I had to try something. In the wisdom of my years, I
figured it was sex. I liked it too much and didn't much care from
whence it came. Well.... It was a plan, anyway. I moved into this
little hole-in-the-wall flop house and set up for the duration.
Murphy bed, no kitchen, just a room and a bath. Self-loathing was
rearing its head. I didn't know that, either. I was as clueless as a
kid hittin' puberty. Maybe even knew less.
I started to go through jobs. Performance couldn't justify the
payroll, and the employers let me go. Finally ended up as a minimum
wage security guard at Harborview Hospital, on assignment for Burns.
It was a nothing job, with nowhere to go. Felt mighty damned
comfortable, and I stayed. No one messed with me, and I didn't have
to make any decisions that amounted to squat. Good times.
I also started to have run-ins with the law. My child support was
chronically late and chronically short. Kept talking myself outta
jail time, but the debt kept getting deeper. Whaddahell, I was a
free man, in charge of my own life! I could hack it. I'm a helluva
man, ain't nothin' they can do to me!
The nightmares got worse. Still couldn't pin 'em down, but I knew
things were still all screwed up. So, a couple years into my self-
imposed exile, I grasped a straw, decided to use my GI bill and go
back to school. I had a good transcript from HS, and enrolled myself
into a local community college in the Criminal Justice department.
It helped some. Kept the brain busy. I also met some fellow VVets
doing the same thing. One of 'em was Bud. Bud had been a snake
jockey in the Highlands in '70 and '71. Gave us something to yack
about during class breaks. I only knew I felt better after those
talks. We always skirted the nasty stuff. I don't think either of
us were ready to face it, yet. Hope he found someone like I did.
Haven't seen him hardly at all since I left school. Good man.
Worked down at the county jail when last heard from.
School gave me a bit of an ego boost. I started to rise the ladder
at the hospital, ending up in charge of the account at Harborview.
Ultimately, Burns pulled me into the Seattle office; and I took over
personnel for the division. Turned out to be another "no-brainer."
The applicants were all the same, the training was rote, the job
headin' nowhere. I was able to meet my child support payments, but
still couldn't pay all the bills I had accumulated. Same old hole-
in-the-wall. Still went home after work and school and vegetated.
'Twas okay, though. Man, I was on my way. Good times.
School got rougher, of course. Finally, I just couldn't hack the
office job and school anymore. I quit, and went back to a minimum
wage job as a guard for another company. The manager there was an
ex-regional manager for Burns, and I knew I wouldn't stay a guard
for long. I finished my first two years about the time I was kicked
upstairs to operations manager. By the time the next two years had
passed, I found myself regional manager. The bucks were enough,
finally, to make some headway into the debts. I'd quit drinkin',
even the slow can learn. And I'd started goin' back to church. I'd
been a good Catholic, once upon a time. Had good cause to be. Maybe
it wasn't His fault totally. Maybe there was some help there still.
"Somewhere in here, I started seeing my third wife to be. She had
worked at Harborview when I had been there, and she was a little
cutie. I ran into her again at church. Gave her a couple rides over
to her father's place in Kirkland. It hadn't been five years yet, so
I behaved myself. We were just friends. Can't say I didn't want
more, but I somehow managed to keep that particular promise. The
calendar continued to move on, and it was March of '82 now. Her
father died suddenly of a heart attack; I gave her a ride over in a
hurry when the phone call came, and we've pretty much been together
since then. It was tough times, but something told me it would be
worth the wait. Going back to church really paid off for me. Fr. Mary
would be happy, I suspect."
Too bad it didn't last, either. She, being no fool, could see something
was chewing me up. With two brothers who'd served in Vietnam with the
USMC and one who'd done so with the USAF, she caught on pretty fast.
She'd ask me about it, but, "Naw, everything was fine. No problems for me."
I'm a tough ol' geezer, dontchaknow. Little sh*t like that can't get to
me. The nightmares and the screamin' heebee-jeebees got worse.
I think the cancer brought it back in full force. I got scared. Not
a deathly fear, but a milder form that prodded rather than disabled.
That fear looked around for support in my mind, and found it hidden
behind the walls I had erected. It found it in the Ashau, and in
Cambodia. It broke down the walls to discover its own kind, and all
sorts of things spilled out.
Or so I imagine. I'm not really sure, of course, about the sequence
of events. I know that SEA was not a factor in my life until 1990,
when little things begin to creep out; when gremlins were to be seen
in the stairwells and the dark corners of unoccupied rooms. Ashau
came first. Then Mr. Weet. And to get 'em off my mind I explored the
others. I sought and found veteran activities that I could practice
from a distance, afraid to go any closer. The memories, however,
came closer with each page of the NamVet Newsletter, with stories on
the TV or in the newspaper. It was slow and inobvious. I wasn't even
really aware of it at a conscious level, myself. I think the wife
knew, but I denied it when she asked. No it doesn't bother me, it
has no effect on what I am today. I believed it.
Early in 1993 I posted an article to a usenet newsgroup in defense
of gays in the military. No response up there, but a letter appeared
a couple days later from a woman named Lydia Fish. She invited me
to subscribe to a list, VWAR-L. I subscribed, and this just sorta
happened. I had no intention of it happening, no thoughts of what
the war meant or did to me for all those years; much less any
thought of recording what I remembered of that time. But it came
out anyway.
And now you have it, too.
When I first signed onto the VWAR-L mailing list, I had, by and
large, avoided the war in memory since Aug 25, 1975, when I left the
Army. Well, I tried to avoid the memory. It didn't always work. The
vets know what I mean. The sleepless nights, the screamin' heebee-
jeebees, the thoughts wandering off on strange tangents, the
visions. Not all that bad when compared to so many out there. But
enough to bother those around me from time to time. Particularly the
wives.
When I got to the List, there were Terminator and Sharkbait, telling
it like it was. I was fascinated and appalled. I didn't want to read
it, and I couldn't stop from reading it. I tried to walk away, but I
couldn't. It hurts to go through those memories, even when they're
not your own. I read and read. It entranced me. It also scared the
livin' bejeezus out of me.
Then, one night after a long day and a lot of messages, I sat down
to write up a little one about flashlights. It just came out in a
rush - like, maybe I wasn't writing it, or already had. I didn't
know the sensation, I just knew it happened. And I read more from T-
bomb, FNG, Dog Handler, Term, Sharkbait, Monte, and all the others.
Each new one elicited sympathetic vibrations in my aging grey
matter. And I wrote some more. I wrote for my sons to understand,
and for the List to see a part of the war they might not have seen
before.
But it evolved. I quit writing for my sons and for the List. It has
become a personal battle for my soul. The pain is worse than it has
been in twenty-one years. And the memories are right up front,
nothing to cushion them, at all. I found myself crying while I
wrote, while I ate, while at work, while at the movies, just about
all the time. I knew where it was going, but I kept writing other
things so as not to face it; Redleg, Rocket Sunrise, CIB, Hootch,
Black-eyed Peas, Heavy Rain, What's in a Name?, Sunday, Jungle, and
a lot more. I wrote them because I had to write them. The pain was
still there, but it became a little less demanding, a little less
omnipresent.
And then I couldn't stall anymore. Widow Call had mentioned it, but
I skirted the edges of the reality of my one truly disabling
nightmare. I'd tried to write it before, and I'd failed. But this
time I came closer. Blood Brother is my Alamo. It's the end of the
fight. I've been crying for days for Mr. Weet, and I'm soaking the
keyboard as I write this. I will write again. I have to, there is so
much left to say. Weet was the push that made it all work, even the
unrelated stories. That push will never go away. Weet is with me
eternally now. He'll never go back behind a wall or into a closet.
He's my bro. Hell, I love the man more in death than almost anyone
in life.
Life, of course, had not stood still during the intervening decades.
A lot has happened. Since then I have been remarried twice, and
divorced once, skied in Norway, assaulted the North Face of the
Eiger, swum in New England lakes and walked heaven knows how many
miles of trails. I've been to college, held many jobs, and faced
down cancer and fought my gremlins. Basically, I've done the same as
every other American my age; I moved on and tried to hang tough.
Not much choice in that. But some of that may be worth writing about
someday, too.
Some Gave ALL ... Some Still Give!!!
O O
O SOME GAVE ALL ...
________O__________________________________O______________
! O O !
! pow mia pow mia - BRING THEM HOME NOW! - pow mia pow mia !
! O O !
! ~~~~~ ~ ~ O~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~ O ~~ ~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~ !
! ~~~~ ~ ~~ O ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~O~~~ ~~~ ~ ~~~~ ~~ !
! ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ O~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ O ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~ !
! ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~ O ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~ O ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~ ~ !
! ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ O ~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ O ~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~ !
! ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ O ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~ O ~ ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ !
! ~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~ O ~_~_~_~_~_ ~ O ~ ~~~~ ~ ~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ !
! ~~~ ~ ~ ~~~ ~~ ~ O ) O ~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~ !
! ~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ /(O) / O \ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~ ~ !
! ~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~ / / O \~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ !
! ~~ ~ ~ ~~ ~~ / PRISONER / \~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~ ~~~~~~ !
! ~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~ / / MISSING \~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~ ~~ !
! ~~~ ~ ~~ ~~ / OF /\ \~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~ !
! ~ ~~~~ ~~ ~ / / \ IN \~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ !
! ~~~ ~~~ ~ / WAR / ~~ \ \ ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ !
! ~ ~~ ~~ ~ / / ~ ~~ \ ACTION / ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ !
! ~~ ~~ ~~~(__________/ ~~ ~~~ \ / ~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ !
! ~~~~~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~~ \ / ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ !
! ~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~ \ / ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~~~~ !
! ~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~~ \ /~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ ~ !
! ~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~ ~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
! ~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ ~~~ ~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~ SOME STILL GIVE
! ~ ~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~
! ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ ~~~~ ~~~ ~~~~ !
! mia pow mia pow - BRING THEM HOME NOW! - mia pow mia pow !
!__________________________________________________________!