Nam Sense (4 page)
No one in the squad said a word. In fact, the guys were obviously relieved, not just because we were avoiding booby traps, but also because it was too hot to be humping around. I knew it was no way to fight a war, but because of the extreme heat and no enemy activity, I felt it was the safest way to operate. Besides, there was always a chance that a stupid Gook might stumble onto us, instead of us onto him.
Occasionally we sat watching a squad from one of the other platoons pass in the distance while conducting their RIF. One of those times, a squad from the 3rd Platoon discovered us tucked away. Their leader was Sergeant James Burke who, like myself, was an Instant NCO, but that was all we had in common. Burke had been in Vietnam only two weeks longer than me, but had quickly given in to the Lifer mentality. To him, being a squad leader meant total control over subordinates. As his men approached, they were tired, sweaty, and hot.
“Hi guys,” I cheerfully called to them, “come over and sit in the shade for a while.”
“You people stay put!” ordered Burke, not allowing his men to get out of the sun.
“Come on Burke,” I said sympathetically. “It’s too fuckin’ hot to be pushing your guys like that.”
“Don’t worry about my men; at least we’re doing our job, not like you hiding in the bushes. I heard you on the radio, this isn’t the position you called in, unless you can’t read a map.”
“We’re conserving our energy,” I retorted. “You never know when a boom-boom girl will come around and we want to be well rested.”
Everybody laughed, even his men. But they abruptly stopped when Burke glared at them.
“You’re a real comedian Wiknik. You would be of more use in a USO (United Services Organization) show because it’s obvious you’re not doing any good out here.”
“I’d rather be in a USO show than out here!” I shot back.
“You’re setting a poor example for your men. If I were you, I would get back to the job you are being paid for and keep this area clear of VC.”
“That is so stupid. The VC knows we’ve got patrols out and they won’t approach the village in broad daylight. The only time they move is after dark.”
“Yes,” he said with a sly grin, “and their strategy can be rewarding. After all, you did kill a VC girl the other night.”
So, he had heard about it. “Yeah, but we don’t get off on killing women. Maybe you do, as long as the kill can be used for the body count. We’re just here to put our time in and then go home. Man, we don’t even get much support from the people back in the World. They’re either protesting or running off to Canada. Do you want to die for something like that?”
“You have a bad attitude, Wiknik. You won’t be an NCO much longer with all that negativism.”
“Look, if we come across the Gooks, we’ll fight, but I’m not going to look for trouble unless we have the advantage.”
“A Grunt’s job is to search out and destroy the enemy, not hide in the bushes from them. You are not doing your job.”
I was raised to be tolerant of narrow-minded people, but Burke was so aggravating that I finally lost my cool.
“Burke,” I began in a snotty tone, “you are nothing but a gung-ho asshole who’s going to get someone killed. I don’t know what these poor bastards ever did to deserve someone like you. The Army must have been pretty desperate to make you a NCO. You better lighten up on the Lifer bullshit before you find that the VC isn’t your only enemy.”
Everyone silently watched as Burke began leading his squad away.
“This doesn’t end here Wiknik!” he barked over his shoulder. “There’s an unwritten law that forbids NCOs to argue with each other in front of their men. You just violated that law.”
“Tell someone who cares!” I yelled back.
I didn’t know if Burke would make trouble for me, but I didn’t care. The silly smirks on my men’s faces told me of their support. I was finally accepted.
Our next RIF found us at the Camp Evans dump located in a large natural depression just outside the bunker line. We were responding to a call that the villagers had been raiding the dump and a few of them were bitten by rats while picking through the garbage. To the destitute peasants, the dump was a goldmine, but that didn’t matter to the Army. Our job was to kick them out and keep them out.
This was my first official dealing with the locals, and it was a fiasco. There were about fifteen of them, mostly old women, a couple of young mothers, and the rest kids. After we arrived, it was easy to round them up, probably because we had the guns. But when we told them they had to leave, the only English they seemed to know was “Fuck you, GI.”
Talking wasn’t going to do it, so we herded the villagers together and chased them away. After a few minutes, they appeared at the far side of the dump. We went after them again but they disappeared over a small hill. By the time we walked across the dump, they were back at the entrance, pointing and laughing at us. The villagers were obviously hard core scroungers with no plans to leave until their picking was done. When we rousted them for the third time, they taunted us more by yelling, “Fuck you!” and making obscene gestures. That’s when we decided enough was enough and that our only remaining option was to shoot tear gas at them. We fired three M-79 gas canisters, which were surprisingly effective. They screamed like banshees and scattered. Our action sure wouldn’t win us any friends, but it was still funny to watch.
We hung around for a while, hoping that the villagers had had enough and gone home. But they regrouped and appeared several hundred feet behind us yelling again, so we shot more tear gas at them. Only this time, they didn’t run. The gas cloud was suspended in front of them for a moment, and then it drifted back in our direction. We were downwind and had gassed ourselves! The villagers set us up and we fell for it. Luckily, by the time the gas traveled to our position it had weakened enough to be only a minor irritant, but it was pretty embarrassing. We finally consented to let them take what they wanted, but we spot-checked each one as they came out to be sure that they didn’t find any live ammunition or something their VC friends could use against us.
As we searched their pickings, I noticed a woman who appeared to have something concealed under her blouse near her chest. We questioned her but she didn’t understand us until one of my men pulled his shirt over his head, mimicking what we wanted her to do. She finally got the message.
The woman started to jabber then lifted her blouse exposing her breasts. We almost shit. She had one normal small breast but the other was swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Our jaws dropped and we stood motionless, afraid that the affliction might be contagious. Not wanting to find out, we waved at her to quickly pick up her stuff and go away.
The woman noticed our repulsion and laughed. Then she held the swollen breast with both hands, pointing it at us like a weapon. As we slowly backed off, she squeezed hard and let loose a stream of pus. I ducked from the spray so she took aim at Howard Siner, hitting him in the arm. We ran around like a bunch of kids while she chased us trying to squirt anyone in her range. Even the villagers were laughing at us. When the woman finally ran out of ammunition she calmly collected her pickings and waved good-bye. We saw no reason to check anyone else. How could we? An American patrol had just gassed itself and been defeated by an infected tit. After that, the Army sent a bulldozer out every afternoon to crush and bury the garbage.
Our AO extended only two or three miles from the edge of the village. Although it wasn’t far out, I noticed something eerily quiet about the region. There were no songbirds. It was as if they knew there was a war on and the only safe place for them was close to the village. Their absence created a sad environment, increasing my feeling of remoteness from the outside world. Vietnam was far away from America and we were even farther. Grunts were so detached from everything that it felt as if we were on a planet in outer space while everyone forgot where we were. Our common bond was that we endured the same frustrating, unforgiving conditions that had control of us. We saw the infantry as more than just an experience; it was a culture of depending on each other for sanity and survival.
The misery of being in the field didn’t start new with each day; it just never ended from the day before. To cope, GIs conceived a favorite saying, “Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin.’” No matter how bad things got—the weather, the enemy, or the morale, we focused on a hardened “Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin.’” Our only consolation was that the passage of time brought each man closer to his ticket home.
The misery also came at us from the upper ranks of the Army. Colonel Ajax was being replaced by a Lieutenant Colonel who called himself Condor (they must sit up all night thinking of those code names). Ajax wanted to turn over a clean AO, so his last directive was for us to go back to all of our daytime positions to bag any discarded litter and carry the trash to a point where a truck could pick it up. I suggested burying it in a deep hole, but Bruckner said we wouldn’t be following orders if we did that. So we carried the garbage, sometimes as far as a half-mile. There is nothing like having a tidy war.
In keeping with Army tradition, it seemed that no matter what we did, someone else didn’t like the way it was done or that it was done at all. Such was the case with the cleanup operation. Colonel Condor couldn’t care less how spotless the AO was because his philosophy wasn’t to have a clean war. He wanted destruction. He ordered us to burn anything that would ignite, except of course, the village. We set fire to bamboo thickets, hedgerows, grassy areas, everything. The burning turned out to be a good idea because after the flames subsided we found booby-trapped artillery rounds that were previously hidden. We burned for several weeks with some of the fires continuing through the night. We loved it.
About every third day we returned to the same bamboo thicket to set up our DDP because it could easily be re-supplied by truck and we would receive a hot meal at the same time. This particular thicket was about one hundred feet in diameter, plenty of room to conceal thirty men. But our available resting area became increasingly smaller at each visit. In basic training, soldiers were taught the field rule of digging a cat hole in which to bury their human waste. Some of the guys must have slept through that class because they would shit almost anywhere, leaving it uncovered for some poor slob to step in. There were few things more disgusting than cleaning someone’s turd from the cleats of a jungle boot.
I could put up with the poor toilet training, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to come back to the same thicket so often. It was like inviting the Gooks to set up booby traps. I felt there was no other option but to speak with Bruckner about it.
“Lieutenant,” I began, hoping he would accept my opinions in the spirit intended, “I think we’re taking a chance at returning to this location just to get hot food and mail. The Gooks must know our routine by now, so what’s to stop them from booby trapping the area?”
“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” he asked, sounding irritated. “Why do you find it necessary to continue questioning my judgment?”
“Well Sir, in practically every infantry class I attended, the instructors harped on how the VC takes advantage of our bad habits to set up their ambushes and booby traps. I’m just trying to keep the men from getting killed or wounded.”
“This is not fuckin’ NCO school!” he shouted angrily. “This platoon will be run as I see fit, not by some chalkboard pipe dream! If the time ever comes when the men need to know the textbook explanation of a troop deployment, I’ll be sure to call on you! Now get back to your position and leave the thinking to me!”
I didn’t realize Bruckner was so touchy, or that I was that aggravating. Whatever the case, his attitude convinced me that I should direct my energy toward keeping the men safe. If I ever need my backside protected, they’d be the ones more apt to do it, not Bruckner or Krol.”
The next day, our company commander came out to visit the platoon. Captain Hartwell was a distinguished looking individual, about thirty years old. He spoke as if he had a strong educational background. He was a Lifer, but didn’t display the typical Lifer mentality I have been experiencing. While reviewing our defenses, he talked briefly with some of the men and seemed genuinely concerned that our basic needs were being met. Hartwell also spent several minutes speaking privately with Bruckner and Krol. When they finished, I was summoned to the CP.
“Sergeant Wiknik,” Hartwell began in an accusing tone, “it’s been brought to our attention that you were given an assignment and failed to carry it out. Three days ago, Sergeant Burke observed your squad tucked in the bushes when you were supposed to be on a RIF. What have you got to say for yourself?”
His knowing about my encounter with Burke caught me off guard. “It was a very hot day, Sir,” I answered, trying to stay as close to the truth without actually telling him the truth, “so we found a shady place to rest. One of my men, Specialist Harrison, felt we were being followed. So I radioed in a distant location so we could watch to see if anyone showed up, but instead, Burke found our lookout spot. He accused me of hiding from the enemy and not being able to read a map. That’s when we started to argue.”