I had. It was the killing of superiors by their own men, usually by a hand grenade.
“Yeah, what’s that got to do with me?”
“Are you kidding?” he laughed. “You better have your GI insurance paid up because you are going to die. Instant NCOs never make it home. You guys come over here, don’t know shit about Nam, and then try to take charge of grunts who have survived for months without you. That’s why there is such a high casualty rate for squad leaders. They get shot by their own men. So I’m warning you, when the shit hits the fan, you’d better look around to see where the bullets are coming from.”
I stared at him for a few seconds in utter disbelief. My easy-going nature always had me looking at the humorous side of things, but his attitude was nothing to laugh about. I didn’t know how to respond to such an encounter. Luckily, a first sergeant who overheard the conversation from inside the classroom walked out to lead Doyen away. The sergeant gave him hell for trying to scare the new guys and destroy their confidence. He also threatened to bring charges against Doyen for insubordination to a NCO. Doyen never bothered me again, but he certainly got me thinking about how my future subordinates might receive me when I get to the field.
Upon completion of SERTS training, I was sent to Camp Evans, a permanent duty station 400 miles north of Bien Hoa. There was little comfort in going to a war zone post known as a camp. Especially since this camp was located so close to the enemy’s homeland in one of the northernmost regions of South Vietnam.
Transportation to Camp Evans was on another C-130 Hercules that proved to be just as nerve-wracking as the first one, except this flight was much longer. I ignored the plane’s unpleasant surroundings and instead fantasized that I was back home with my family. I used to think that my parents were too hard on me, but now I would gladly trade any of their chores or discipline to be free of this situation.
Suddenly, a desperate feeling came over me as I realized just how good I had it at home and how much I missed everyone. Since the Army had taken away nearly everything that was important to me, I wondered how other GIs were able to deal with it. I wanted to cry, but pulled myself together knowing that my extra military training and strong family ties would help guide me.
The C-130 landed safely at Camp Evans, a circular tent city nearly one-half mile across, built on gentle rolling hills and surrounded by open grasslands. The camp is defended by perimeter bunker guards and fenced in with dozens of rows of concertina wire. A dirt road splits the camp down the middle. Trucks and jeeps comprised most of the camp’s activity as they traveled back and forth with their tires kicking up red clouds of dust. Countless GIs inhabited the camp but very few carried any weapons.
Camp Evans was named after Lance Corporal Paul Evans, a Marine hero killed in action on December 22, 1966, near the present site of the camp. In 1967, the Navy Seabees built a major portion of the camp for the occupation of the US 1st Marine Division and the Army’s 1st Cavalry Division. In October of 1968, the camp became the permanent home of 101st Airborne Division’s 3rd Brigade.
Camp Evans was primarily self-sufficient. Besides the airstrip, it had its own fuel depot, motor pool, PX (Post Exchange), post office, ammunition dump, outdoor movie theater and bandstand, a seventy-bed hospital, and a system of gasoline-powered generators to provide electricity. The camp is re-supplied by both truck and air. However, no aircraft were housed there because the remote location made them too inviting of a target for the enemy.
The closest civilians to Camp Evans were from the village of Phong Dien, located about one mile from the main gate. Primitive by American standards, the village had no electricity or running water. The villagers lived in thatch huts clustered on tiny plots surrounded by hundreds of acres of fertile farmland. The farmer’s most valuable possession was the domesticated water buffalo, which served as both tractor and transportation. Although the villagers were friendly toward us, the only civilians allowed inside Camp Evans were barbers and tailors.
I was assigned to Company A, 2nd Battalion, 506th Infantry Regiment. But before reporting to my unit, I was officially welcomed into the 101st Airborne Division by the 506th battalion commander. Lieutenant Colonel Brookes was a tall, imposing figure who demanded to be addressed by his radio call-name—Ajax. From inside his huge operations bunker, Ajax stood at a podium reading from notes to me, his audience of one. He gave the customary pep talk I’d heard a dozen times already since I’d been drafted.
“We have accepted the challenge of a very important mission in South Vietnam. Freedom will come at a high cost, sometimes at the supreme sacrifice, but we are willing to fight for justice and humanity. We will win this war. The tide is turning. There is light at the end of the tunnel. The US Army is the most powerful army on earth and we are making this country safe for democracy by squeezing the enemy from his position and destroying him with swift blows.”
The colonel rambled on, waving his arms but never making eye contact. I felt as if he was talking to the wall. I started to daydream. Perhaps Ajax fancied himself to be like the Greek warrior of the same name or like the popular laundry detergent so he could clean up Vietnam. Either way, when he finally finished speaking, Ajax shook my hand and directed me to the site that would be my home base for the next year, provided I lived that long.
The 506th battalion area consisted of ten identical buildings referred to as “hooches.” Lining both sides of a dirt roadway, the hooches resembled the rudimentary huts of a Boy Scout summer camp with walls that were half wood and half screens. Each hooch was elevated about a foot off the ground and surrounded by a four-foot high wall of sandbags. The corrugated aluminum roofs were weighted down with several dozen sandbags to prevent strong winds from blowing the aluminum sheets off.
The main hooch was the battalion orderly room and field personnel headquarters. A first sergeant and a company clerk manned it. Two adjacent hooches were used as supply sheds, while three others housed rear echelon staff. The five companies of our battalion alternately used the remaining buildings whenever they came in from the field for rest periods.
Alongside the hooches were two water towers for showers. For toilet facilities, there was an officer’s latrine and an enlisted men’s latrine. Piss-tubes were also strategically placed for optimum use. Beyond that, nothing was done to make the area appealing. There was no grass or plants. The grounds consisted of oil-soaked red clay. The air was permeated with the odor of diesel, dirt, and urine. It was a dreary site.
I signed in with the company clerk, an unfriendly fellow who wasn’t much for small talk.
“You’ll be going to the field today sergeant,” he said in a monotone rhythm, as if he were reading the words. “The supply room is the second hooch on the left. Someone there will outfit you with the necessary gear. After that, wait for the truck to take you out.”
The supply sergeant must have known I was coming. When I walked in, he handed me a rucksack already filled with a three-day supply of C-rations, four canteens of water, four hand grenades, four smoke grenades, 100 rounds of M-60 machine gun ammunition, 24 magazines of M-16 rifle ammunition, a claymore mine, helmet, poncho, and entrenching tool. Then he handed me a brand-new M-16 rifle, serial number 127346. I’d remember the number as well as my name because that weapon would become a part of me. I would eat, sleep, fight and even shit with it, never leaving it more than an arm’s length away.
The M-16 is a magnificent lightweight infantry rifle. It has a twenty-round magazine that can be emptied in the semi-automatic mode by firing one round for each pull of the trigger. On full automatic, a burst of twenty rounds could be fired in three seconds. We called that “rock n’ roll.”
I had an hour to kill before a pickup truck would take me out to my unit. It was too hot to sit in the sun so I waited quietly inside an empty hooch. Camp Evans was nothing like Cam Ranh Bay. Out the door I could see an almost deserted battalion area, where an occasional GI wandered past. On the horizon, the heavily vegetated Annamite Mountain range rose up from the plains before topping out at about 2,000 feet. The dark peaks looked sinister. The rugged territory was where the crafty NVA (North Vietnamese Army) and the persistent VC (Viet Cong) staged their raids. GIs called it “Injun Country.”
Sitting alone like that gave me too much time to think. I felt numb. I stared blankly into space, wishing this was all a hideous joke. My trance was broken when a weary Grunt walked in. Unshaven and desperately in need of a bath, he must have just come in from the field. I watched as he carefully placed his gear on a cot. He never looked directly at me. As he headed back out the door, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of my sergeant’s stripes. Then he stared at me oddly. Nervously, I stood up and put my hand out to say hello. He exhaled loudly out of the corner of his mouth before spitting on the floor near my feet. I quickly jerked my hand back. He shook his head, mumbled something about a cherry NCO, and walked outside.
“What the hell was that all about?” I wondered. These guys don’t know anything about me and already I’m hated. Maybe that screwball Specialist Doyen at SERTS was right. Maybe being an Instant NCO could be a death wish.
Shortly afterward, the truck pulled up and I was on my way. It felt strange to be driven out to the combat zone in the back of a pickup truck because I thought we made an easy target. We drove out the rear gate of Camp Evans past well-tended rice paddies and tea tree gardens. The nearby village gave off a sour odor from the burning of incense and sandalwood. Away from the farmed area, the region abruptly changed to a desolate no-man’s land. Known as the flat lands, the rolling grassy hills were similar to the prairies of Nebraska. However, thickets with giant ferns, elephant grass, bamboo hedgerows and other exotic plants made me think it was a prehistoric land.
In less than ten minutes we pulled up to the 2nd platoon’s DDP (Daytime Defensive Position). The men were set in a one-acre bamboo thicket only a half-mile from Camp Evans and a half-mile from one of the sparsely populated hamlets that made up Phong Dien. I jumped off the truck as the driver waved to someone and yelled, “Fresh meat!”
The 2nd platoon consisted of more or less thirty soldiers, as GIs came and went to the rear for one reason or another. There were three squads of nine men each. Each squad had an NCO leader and two four-man fire teams. There was also one medic and one RTO (Radio Telephone Operator). A 1st Lieutenant platoon leader was in charge of the platoon with a senior NCO platoon sergeant as his second in command.
No one paid much attention as I made my way into the thicket. It looked like the platoon had been in there for quite a while, because the underbrush was matted down and litter was strewn about. Several guys had their shirts off and no one was wearing a helmet.
“Lieutenant Bruckner,” I called out, not sure who he is. “Sergeant Wiknik reporting for duty.”
A smiling face greeted me.
“Welcome to the platoon,” Bruckner said, firmly shaking my hand. “Toss your gear down so we can get acquainted.”
Bruckner looked to be about thirty years old. He spoke in an authoritative but friendly tone. My initial impression was that he’s an all right guy, but he had an intense stare that made me feel uneasy.
“This is Sergeant First Class Krol,” he said, motioning to the platoon sergeant, “my right hand man.”
Krol was much older, probably forty. He was sitting on the ground and made no effort to greet me. I walked over and shook his hand. He didn’t get up. When we made eye contact, Krol looked me over as if I carried a curse. I got the feeling he wasn’t the friendly type.
“We’ve been expecting you,” Bruckner said, deliberately speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve had an open slot for an NCO for several weeks, but there is no one in the platoon who could step up to the task.”
I glanced around to see that the men were all looking at me. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking. But I wondered if they were as bad as Bruckner said, or whether he was purposely trying to start me off at a disadvantage.
“Are there any other NCO graduates in the platoon?” I asked.
“We’ve got one, Sergeant Wakefield. He’s fallen into line quite well. Life out here for Instant NCOs can be simple, if you know your place. Just observe what’s going on, then do what you’re told, when you’re told.”
I didn’t dare ask what he meant. I could only guess that he expected me to be a yes-man, but I was always taught that respect should be earned, not demanded.
“So Wiknik,” Bruckner began again, “did you enlist or were you drafted?”
“Drafted, sir.”
“Ah, that’s too bad. The Army’s always looking for people who want to be here, not who have to be here. But, you never know, you might find a home in the Army. Take me for instance. I used to be a NCO, but I realized there are more money and more glory in being an officer. Remember General Custer, the Indian fighter? He didn’t care about money; he only wanted the glory that came from being a hero. Me, I want both. If you’ve got the same desire, you’re going to have to make a bold career move at re-enlistment time.”
“Thanks, I’ll be sure to think about it.”
What a nut. I plan on having a long career all right—but as a civilian, not a soldier. Bruckner had the makings of a good leader because he experienced the Army from two perspectives, but his ambition seemed to be getting in the way.
I soon found out that Sergeant Krol was no better. To his credit, Krol was a veteran of the Korean War, but to everyone’s discontent, he was also a fitness buff. Krol loved the Army and the infantry—sort of a Lifer’s lifer. His favorite pastime was to show us “kids” how tough he was by taking different squads out and forcing them to hump until someone collapsed. He was a real charmer.
With Bruckner and Krol running the show, this was going to be a tough year. They had their own agenda and it didn’t sound like they were going to be flexible. Initially, my encounters with Doyen and the spitting Grunt had me thinking that any personality problems would come from my squad members. But now, I was more concerned about my superiors. For my survival, and that of the platoon’s, I’d have to find a way to convince the Grunts that I was on their side.