Nam Sense (10 page)

A medevac was called for the wounded men, but a thick and low bank of clouds prevented the chopper from locating our position. By the time the helicopter found us, an hour had passed and the point man was dead. As the chopper hovered above, we fired into the jungle to suppress any NVA close enough to take pot shots at it. At the same time, the dead point man and the wounded GI were winched up in a basket. I was so disgusted I took my frustrations out by shooting into a small tree until it fell over.

After the medevac flew away, our company continued up the trail. Our platoon was at the end of the line, so we quietly watched everyone file by. Lieutenant Pizzuto wandered over with a stupid grin on his face. “This is the same type of resistance the 3/187th encountered as they worked toward Hamburger Hill.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, unbelieving.

“I read the after-action report before coming out to the field.”

“Is that right?” I said in disgust. “Listen, most of us were on that hill, and we’re not ready to go through that again. Hell, you weren’t even there. You don’t know what it was like.”

“That doesn’t matter. Our job is to find and kill the enemy. If it takes another Hamburger Hill, we’ll just do it again.” There was no sense reasoning with Pizzuto. He’s just as narrow-minded as the rest of the Lifers.

Late that afternoon we set up for the night on a hilltop where three minor footpaths converged onto the main trail. The area was ideal for a defensive position with gentle slopes, sparse brush, and easy foxhole digging. About an hour before dark a soaking rain fell and a thick fog rolled in behind it. Visibility was nearly zero and the heavy rain falling on the leaves made it impossible to detect any movement outside our positions. The weather forced us to stay on 50% alert throughout the night.

The rain and fog continued in the morning. Each man had a poncho, but after a night of steady rain nearly everyone was cold, wet, and miserable. A few men set up poncho tents during the night, but Captain Hartwell made us take them down because the water reflecting on wet rubber could be spotted by the NVA. He also believed we were not on our best guard if we worried too much about keeping dry. However, the anti-tent rules only applied to the perimeter positions. Our superiors erected their own poncho tents, saying they were necessary to keep maps and radios dry. That was probably true, but the obvious double standard was frustrating—especially when Lieutenant Pizzuto and his RTO only ventured into the rain when they absolutely had too. The real clincher was when Krol set up a hammock under his tent so he wouldn’t have to lay on the damp ground like the rest of us.

The wet weather also increased the local wildlife activity. Two-inch long blood-sucking leeches were everywhere. The ugly little nocturnal worms are masters at attaching themselves to exposed flesh without being noticed until morning. The only way to get a leech to release its grip was to burn it with a cigarette or douse it with bug juice. Hidden leeches gorged with blood swelled to twice their size before eventually dropping off. The only evidence of their attack was a harmless pea-sized hickey that disappeared in a few days. For protection, shirt and pants legs were tucked in and sleeves were rolled down and buttoned. The funniest leech encounter occurred when one attached itself under Lennie Person’s lower lip while he was sleeping. When Lennie found it, he panicked and jumped around trying to pull off the slimy creature. Whenever Lennie yanked on the leech, his lower lip stretched out as far as it would go. It was hysterical to watch, but Lennie was petrified by what he called a “vampire leech.” A well-placed squirt of bug juice finally ended the episode.

As wet as it was, we continued to send out patrols two or three times a day. One platoon ambushed three enemy soldiers, killing two and wounding the third. The wounded NVA was shot in the back and could not move his legs. To administer first aid, the medic cut his pants off. When the medic finished, there wasn’t enough left of the pants to put back on, so the NVA was left naked from the waist down. The enemy soldier was young, possibly a teenager, and totally helpless. He was scared to death at being surrounded by so many Americans. Our Kit Carson scout interpreter was unable to get any information from him except that he didn’t know where he was or why his buddies left him behind. He must not have known his companions were dead. Nervous, wounded, and half-naked, the NVA could have been a candidate for a cruel attack, but no one bothered him. The young soldier was simply a prisoner of war who required a 24-hour guard.

The weather conditions made for long dull hours. When a platoon was out on patrol, the rest of the company just hung around. Everything was wet, so we could not play cards or write letters. Most guys made hot chocolate or coffee and snacked on C-rations. We didn’t bother rationing ourselves because we thought the weather would clear in time for the normal three-day re-supply. As the days passed, nearly everyone ran out of food. The first day without a meal wasn’t bad, but on the second day the hunger began in earnest. For the first time I realized what a powerful force an empty stomach is. The coffee and chocolate mix were long gone and our cravings were not satisfied by plain water. There were probably edible plants in the area, but no one knew what they were. The need for food reduced us to chewing and swallowing gum, lapping up teaspoon-size packets of sugar and, as a last resort, eating toothpaste. To keep our spirits up, we guessed which toothpaste had the highest nutritional value, the fluoride brand or the mint-flavored brand. After eating half a tube, no one cared if they ever brushed their teeth again. Our hunger problem brought out the worst in some people. One enterprising GI sold his hoarded C-rations to the highest bidder. He made some money, but lost a few friends in the process.

On my platoon’s turn to go on patrol, Lieutenant Pizzuto decided to follow one of the small paths that veered off the main trail. The path led to a steep overlook where the NVA could post an observer to watch activity on the next ridge. There was no one at the overlook because it was too foggy to even see the ridge. We followed the path diagonally down the hill until the slope leveled off. As we neared the bottom, we found ourselves on the edge of a small NVA bunker complex. We quickly spread out to search the area when Freddie Shaw found a spilled bowl of rice near a bunker entrance. On the chance an NVA was hiding there, a hand grenade was pitched inside. After the explosion, Shaw checked it out. The bunker was empty.

Each bunker was approached in the same manner: sneak up carefully, toss in a grenade, wait for the explosion, and check it out. There were no NVA. They must have seen or heard us coming and bugged out. We finished examining the area but turned up nothing worth reporting.

We headed back up the path but as the slope got steeper it became impossible to walk. The soaked ground and our foot traffic had turned the path into a slippery mess. Without any traction, everyone kept falling. The only way to climb the slope was by grabbing onto shrubs and vines and pulling ourselves up.

Dennis Silig, the new guy from New York, took a spill that ripped out the rear of his pants. He was about ten feet ahead of me, but because of the slope, his butt stayed at eye level. Whenever he leaned forward to grab a branch, his testicles swung into view. I thought it was funny and was smirking about it when Silig happened to look back at me. He seemed a little rattled, probably worried that I had been out in the bush too long and was beginning to think his ass looked good to me.

We returned to the company perimeter exhausted, covered with mud, and with our hands wrinkled from the rain. I wondered how the Gooks could stand it out there like this. When I got to my position, Howard Siner pulled me aside.

“Hey Sarge,” he whispered, “I think you should know that while we were out there today, Pizzuto had his M-16 set on rock n’ roll.”

“Are you sure?” I asked in disbelief. “He can’t be that stupid.”

“Maybe he was scared.”

“I don’t give a shit. What if he took a header in the mud? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t notice until we were almost back.”

I went to the platoon CP to check it out. His rifle was leaning against a tree and it was still set on full automatic. Whether he knew the weapon was off safe or not, he had violated everyone’s trust, which was just too important to ignore.

“Lieutenant Pizzuto,” I said, trying to be diplomatic, “were you aware that your weapon was on full-auto while we were out?”

“Yes,” he admitted casually, walking over to switch it back onto safe. “I must have forgotten about it.”

“Sir, it was pretty greasy out there and you fell a couple of times. What if your weapon went off? You risked everyone’s safety.”

I was hoping Pizzuto would say I was right and that he would be more careful in the future. Instead, he glanced at Krol before chastising me.

“Look young man, I know what I’m doing out there.”

“Sir,” I began, just before he cut me off.

“Shut-up, Wiknik!” he shouted. Krol grinned with approval as Pizzuto continued. “Who are you to question me? I’m in charge of this platoon. I decide the tactics and how they are carried out. And just for your information, I had my weapon on full-auto so I could provide immediate return fire in case we were ambushed.”

“Lieutenant,” I groaned, “if we were ambushed, you would be needed to assess the situation, organize our defenses, and call in fire support. The men will shoot back.”

“NCOs like you are a disgrace,” he blurted, steering away from the subject. “If you don’t shape up, I’ll start proceedings to get you busted down to a Private. You got that?”

“I hear you, sir,” I sighed, knowing that if I ever got busted I would not be in any position to help the men.

“Good. Now get back to your squad and don’t bother me unless it’s for something important.”

Pizzuto and Krol were meant for each other. Regular Army all the way, except in their case, the initials R.A. stood for “Real Assholes.” With people like Pizzuto around we wouldn’t need the enemy attacking us. We could kill our own men just by being stupid and arrogant.

At least something good finally happened. During the night the sky cleared, ending six days of rain and fog. I never thought a star-filled night in Vietnam could be so beautiful. It meant we would soon get re-supplied.

At first light we began cutting an LZ. Usually it takes a team of twelve half a day to do the job, but everyone knew food would be coming, so thirty volunteers completed the task in about two hours. The supply chopper came in at 10:00 a.m. with C-rations, ammo, and mail. Two Cherries also came out to exchange places with two GIs going on R & R. The wounded NVA was carried onto the supply chopper, but he panicked and started hollering when the crew chief strapped him down. It was probably his first helicopter ride and he was afraid of what might happen once they were airborne. I could hardly blame him. I had heard rumors that enemy soldiers who refused to talk sometimes “fell” out the helicopter door. He may have heard the same thing.

When the C-rations were distributed, we gorged ourselves first with the least desirable meals, figuring this would be the only time they would taste good. After our bellies were full and our mail read, we were like contented sheep. No one even balked when word came down that we would continue deeper into the A Shau to resume searching for the enemy.

Two days later, our platoon was on point when the NVA set off a hit and run ambush. We returned fire but it was obvious the enemy escaped unharmed. We had two wounded, PFC Hoag and Specialist Prue. Their wounds were not life threatening, but both required evacuation. After things calmed down and the wounded were patched up, Prue began yelling into the jungle.

“You Gooks fucked up! We’re only wounded! We’re going home you fuckin’ assholes! You have to stay forever! Ha, ha!”

With less than two months left to serve, Prue knew his wounds were a ticket home. He was so happy to be leaving that he started giving his equipment away. By the time the medevac picked him up, he had only his M-16, helmet, and an empty rucksack to take back. It seemed crazy to be happily wounded, but the life of a Grunt was the worst job imaginable and some men were willing to endure anything to get out of it.

We left the ambush site on a footpath that looked like it had not been used for several weeks. The path led down a slope and merged with an NVA high-speed trail. The trail was a miniature roadway with a hard packed dirt surface and drainage ditches. It was wide enough for two-directional bicycle travel and for transporting wheeled armaments. The trail was cleverly concealed from the air by anchoring treetops with vines to form an arched tunnel. The trail appeared to be abandoned. There were no tire tracks or footprints, and it had patches of new sprouts of jungle foliage. The lack of NVA activity on such well-engineered route seemed unusual, so we decided to follow it.

As we moved cautiously forward, the foliage changed to a dull rusty color; the plant life was dying. The farther we traveled, the worse it became. Eventually every stalk of vegetation was stripped of leaves. Huge teak trees that once shaded the jungle floor stood motionless and bleak, like the dormant winter woods back home. The jungle here was dead. The eerie stillness was interrupted only when the wind rustled crumpled leaves.

“It looks like the edge of two different worlds,” Alcon lamented. “What the hell caused it?”

“Agent Orange,” Lieutenant Pizzuto announced. “It’s a defoliant that kills vegetation to deny the NVA natural cover. It makes it easier for us to detect their supply routes, staging areas, and troop movements.”

It could not have been good for us to be exposed to the stuff, so we headed back. When we returned to the living jungle, we took a break. Before long we spotted three low altitude aircraft spraying more defoliant. As the fine mist slowly settled around us, we looked at one another and shrugged. What could we do about it? At the time, we did not know the chemical’s terrible side-effects.

Our next resupply point was on a ridge where the jungle was thin enough for supplies to be dropped from a hovering helicopter. From eighty feet high, the first item tossed out the door got stuck on a tree branch. It was our mailbag. To get the bag down, the helicopter crew chief threw twenty-pound C-ration cases at it. We scattered as the cases bounced and tumbled out of the trees. A key hit finally knocked the bag free.