Nam Sense (15 page)

“Just look at that lazy bastard,” I said to Siner. “The only time he gets out of that hammock is to take a leak or fetch something to read.”

“I noticed him twice going to the compound gate,” remarked Siner. “Both times he spoke with a young village boy. I wonder what he’s up to?”

“Probably making a drug deal,” I joked. “Either that, or he’s a VC sympathizer selling secrets to the enemy.”

“Naw, I’ll bet he’s just trying to buy some beer.”

About an hour later, Krol nervously left the compound carrying only his rifle and a bandoleer of ammunition. He walked out to the villager’s trail and waited under a shade tree a few hundred feet away. We wondered aloud what that was all about.

Guessing that Krol was up to no good, I radioed Lieutenant Petry and asked him to come up and see for himself. Just as Petry joined us, a motor scooter carrying a well-dressed Vietnamese man and young woman stopped alongside Krol. They spoke briefly and the woman took a rolled blanket from the scooter and led Krol into the bushes. The man stayed behind to smoke a cigarette. We laughed when we realized Krol’s clandestine meeting was with a pimp and a prostitute.

“Don’t you guys know it isn’t polite to watch someone have sex?” asked Petry.

“But Lieutenant,” I moaned, “Krol is such a jerk that he doesn’t deserve privacy.”

“Not only that,” added Siner, “Krol’s nothing but a hypocrite. He is always preaching to us about avoiding the field whores because they could be working for the VC or have venereal disease. Now he’s going to get laid with one of them.”

“Forget about Krol,” I said excitedly, “I don’t care to see his hairy ass. I want a peek at the girl.”

After the woman spread the blanket out, both her and Krol stripped naked. The three of us fought over the binoculars for a look at the woman, but Krol quickly mounted her, obscuring our view. Less than a minute later, he rolled off.

“Boy that was quick,” commented a laughing Petry. “He dropped his load faster than a B-52.”

We laughed and fought over the binoculars again, but the woman dressed herself in an instant. She was a real pro. Krol watched as she walked away and then got dressed himself. When he stood up to look around, his gaze settled upon the tower—and our reflecting binoculars. It took him a few moments to realize what was happening. His chin dropped when we yelled and waved at him. Krol rushed back to the compound where Lieutenant Petry promptly scolded him. Siner and I added to Krol’s humiliation by telling everyone what we saw, causing snickers, finger pointing, and a further weakening of his already damaged credibility.

Krol’s escapade provided a welcome respite from the war, but the best diversion was always letters from home. GIs depended on the mail because it was our only contact with the outside world. A letter from home temporarily distracted us from our miseries. But sometimes the news was bad, delivering problems impossible to deal with over the great distance and through the military bureaucracy. Problems that I felt immune from until my mail turned nightmarish.

It all started innocently. My sister Diane gave birth to a baby girl, making me an uncle for the first time. But no sooner did I become an uncle, when I lost one. My Uncle Jack was only 57 years old when he died in his sleep. Feeling a little sorry for myself because I was unable to say hello to my niece or good-bye to my uncle, I received worse news. Jimmy Manning, a hometown classmate who was also serving in Vietnam, had been killed by enemy gunfire. It was events like those, coupled with the craziness around me that helped produce an emotional numbness. However, that was just the beginning.

A hometown friend and anti-war activist corresponded with me about twice a month. Most of his letters made for interesting reading, but they were nothing to get excited about. However, after attending the Woodstock Music Festival, which boasted peace, love, and hallucinogenic drugs, he wrote to me for the last time. His letter included a distressing verse from a protest song performed at Woodstock about packing boys off for Vietnam so “your boy could come home in a box.” He followed the song with a skull and crossbones sketch. Then splattered red ink over the paper to look like bloodstains. His letter ended with; “The blood on this paper symbolizes the murders committed by the American war machine for which you work. Anyone who willingly participates in an illegal war that kills women and children will also die.”

What a pal. It seems that he got caught up in the protest movement and decided to lay a ton of guilt on me in hopes of somehow ending the war sooner, as if that was supposed to work. I simply could not understand his attitude because I had often written to him describing how much I despised the war. I just wished he directed his anger at the US government instead of me. I never wrote to him again.

About the same time, the two or three letters each week from my girlfriend Mary suddenly stopped. I knew there was no problem with the mail service because I continued to receive letters from my family. Something else had to be wrong. With no mail from my sweetheart I became discouraged and listless.

After waiting several agonizing weeks with no mail, a letter finally arrived. I hesitated before opening it, fearing a “Dear John.” It was even worse. Mary wrote a shocking account of her experimentation with drugs—uppers to get high and downers to come back to earth. She gave no reason for her behavior, but instead declared how the drugs riddled her with so much guilt that she wanted to end it all with an overdose.

I was angry and confused. How could this be happening? How rough could life be back in the World to entice a healthy, attractive eighteen-year-old girl to get involved with drugs? Mary knew I loved her and needed her support for my survival. I wondered what I could have done to deserve such treatment. Ever since the Army drafted me, Mary and I were separated for months at a time but managed to keep our romance alive. Now that I was in the midst of a full-year Vietnam tour, the long separation had probably overwhelmed her. I didn’t know how to handle the situation, so I requested our battalion chaplain to come out and have a talk with me.

A pious looking individual with thick dark eyebrows and a warm smile, Major Barnes gave the impression he was an understanding clergyman. However, after I told him my story, he acted more like a suspicious high school principal.

“Does your girlfriend have a sense of humor?” he asked pointedly. “Could this be her attempt at a joke?”

“A joke?” I asked in disbelief. “This is my first letter from her in more than three weeks. Before that, I got mail all the time. This is no joke.”

“Let me see some of her previous letters. Maybe there was a warning sign that you ignored.”

“We don’t save our letters. After the mail has been read it’s burned so the Gooks can’t get the home addresses.”

“You burned them?” he asked, incredulously. “Aren’t you afraid that you’ll give your platoon’s position away by starting fires in the jungle?” I could not believe what I was being asked and began to wonder if Barnes was a real chaplain.

“Major, please,” I begged. “Help me find a way to figure out what’s going on with Mary so I can get her to stop taking those pills.”

“I hate to disappoint you,” he said, looking me in the eye, “but a scheme like this won’t get you home any sooner. Who helped you cook it up?”

“Scheme?” I protested, not realizing he was probably testing me. “Do you think this was made up? Mary could be dead right now. Why won’t you help me?”

“Now calm down, we’ll get this thing resolved. Give me Mary’s address and phone number and I’ll have someone contact her.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan? How do you think she’ll react when some stranger calls her to ask if she’s been popping pills and considering suicide?”

“We’re a little more subtle than that,” he said, changing to a more sympathetic attitude. “The Army isn’t as heartless as you might think. We’ll have a trained person check it out. You’ll just have to trust us.”

I knew I could never trust the Army with this issue, especially with someone like Barnes running the show. To be on the safe side, I wrote a letter to my mother, who was a head nurse in a state mental hospital, asking her to look into the problem. She works with several substance abuse psychologists who could offer advice or perhaps speak with Mary.

During the next several weeks I was miserable and lonely. I never realized how much I needed Mary’s letters and how important it was to have someone waiting for me. As the days dragged by without any word or explanation I began to wonder if I was being told everything that was going on back home. Now I could understand why it was difficult for some GIs to concentrate on staying alive when they felt they were forgotten.

Eventually, someone got through to Mary because her letters resumed, almost as frequently as before. Except now they read differently. The words were mechanical, as if just filling up space. Her passion was gone. She was slipping away and my absence only added to the helplessness of a depressing situation.

God how I wanted to go home.

Grunts would try anything to get out of the field. A week or even a day in the relative safety of the rear put a GI that much closer to DEROS without having to endure the dangers and miseries of front line duty. The problem was, the Army always found a way to keep us out there. If a GI had a personal problem, the Chaplain was summoned to deal with it. If someone developed a bad attitude, he carried the machine gun for punishment. If a GI contracted gonorrhea, the medic carried penicillin to cure it. If someone got diarrhea, the medic had a pill with enough pucker power to keep a Grunt’s ass tight for a week. There was no escape. I needed a break, but to get unscheduled vacation time I had to come up with something new. The answer to my dilemma lay in the soggy swamps and water-filled rice paddies of the flatlands.

We often took time out to dry our boots and socks to prevent immersion foot, a fungal disease caused by the frequent immersion of our feet in stagnant water. I purposely neglected the foot maintenance, hoping for an infection that would require medical attention in the rear. Within a week my right foot developed an inflammation that worsened as the days went by. When the itch became unbearable, I removed my boot to find that the sock had become stiff from the dirt and moisture and smelled like rotten food. Beyond the sock was a water-wrinkled foot with an oozing sore between two toes. It did not hurt to walk but rather than risk permanent damage, I figured it was time to tell Doc Meehan. However, I never got the chance. While re-lacing my boot, Lieutenant Petry stopped by.

“Sergeant Wiknik,” he said with a smile, “how would you like to go to Vung Tau for a couple of days?”

“Vung Tau?” I stammered. “The in-country R & R city?”

“That’s the one.”

“Why me? We’ve had guys in the field longer than me.”

“If it wasn’t for you, we would never have gotten that kill last week. And the body count has been pretty hard to come by lately.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” I beamed. “When do I leave?”

“Hot chow will be brought out this afternoon. When the truck goes back to Camp Evans, be on it.”

It was a dream come true. With a legitimate opportunity for freedom from the boonies I didn’t need an infected foot after all. With excitement running high, my toes were quickly forgotten. But they continued to deteriorate as I failed to pay attention to them.

My first time at Camp Evans without the rest of the platoon felt strange, even lonely. Solitary Grunts in base camp were an oddity, our dirty sweat crusted fatigues usually caused rear echelon soldiers to stare, but I paid no attention to them. I was out of the field!

I reported to our company clerk, Specialist Simmons, who was much friendlier than the clerk who signed me in when I first came to Company A. Simmons was short and stocky with a receding hairline and honest warmth magnified by his distinctive Mississippi drawl.

“Hey there Sergeant Wiknik,” he smiled. “Let’s get your gear stowed away so you can take a shower and get into some clean fatigues. We can’t have you going on R & R looking like you just crawled out of a sewer pipe.”

“Thanks,” I nodded, feeling welcome by his remarks. “Where do I sleep?”

“Hooch number four is for transient GIs. Just pick out a cot that looks good. If you’re hungry, the mess hall is open until 1800 hours. After dark, there’s a science fiction movie about women from Mars who plan to take over the Earth. I’ve already seen it, but I’m going to watch it again because it’s the only time we’ll see any round-eyed women at Camp Evans.”

“There better be some women where I’m going,” I quipped.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I’ve heard that Vung Tau is loaded with all kinds of women. Now get yourself squared away and I’ll check back with you.”

After I settled in, Simmons returned to ask about the men. He wanted to know if they had enough writing paper, cigarettes, clean socks, whether their clothes and equipment were in good condition, and if the mail arrived regularly. Simmons was genuinely concerned about the creature comforts that meant so much to us in the field. If there was something we were lacking, he promised to get it. I wished there were more people like Simmons.

I stayed awake late that night catching up on neglected letters and reading magazines. It was so relaxing to feel safe and have a roof over my head that I slept through morning roll call. Simmons must have had other Grunts oversleep because after roll call, he woke me with an understanding grin, waving a set of R & R orders in my face. I skipped breakfast and stumbled down to the chopper pad, where I caught a ride on a Chinook that shuttled GIs to LZ Sally, fifteen miles south of Camp Evans.

Located on Quoc-Lo 1, LZ Sally is a tiny processing and supply station for US military travelers. A circular drive in front is used for motor vehicle access while a rear chopper pad handled the helicopters. The compound consisted of six hooches arranged in a semi-circle. The main hooch is an office for clearing paperwork, three hooches are sleeping quarters for transient GIs, another is a supply shed and the last, a tiny EM club serving cold beer and soda and hot C-rations for snacks.

After clearing through the paperwork, I waited for transportation in the EM Club. When I walked through the door, everyone’s eyes focused on me, perhaps because most NCOs stayed out of EM clubs. Initially I felt unwelcome, but moments later everyone went back to what they were doing. Three GIs sat quietly sipping cokes, two more were looking at a magazine, and another was at the jukebox playing the latest music from the World.

Of all the anti-war songs that were popular during this time, one in particular captured the mood of the war with a driving beat: Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” Although it was a very catchy tune, it also was very depressing—if you listened closely to the lyrics. I had my “shit” together, all right, but I was not, as the song asked, “quite prepared to die.” I also knew how dangerous the nights were, as alluded to in the lyrics. Whoever wrote that song really knew how to strike a nerve. It was haunting, eery, and depressing. After listening to it, I decided to wait outside.

Eventually, a canvas-covered truck took me and four other R & R traveler’s five miles down Quoc-Lo 1 to the Hue-Phu Bai Airport. However, before setting foot in the airport terminal, GIs had to work their way around several Vietnamese shoeshine boys who hustled them for a dollar boot shine. If a soldier made eye contact with one of those kids, that was regarded as the go-ahead signal. Before a GI knew what was happening, polish was smeared onto his boot and he owed a dollar. If a soldier did not want a shine, he had to shake the boy loose or physically push him aside. The rejected entrepreneurs responded with the familiar, “Fuck you, GI.” The inside of the terminal was off-limits to the kids, so as soon as GIs were out of reach, the boys moved back and waited for other unsuspecting soldiers to arrive.

The terminal itself was nothing more than a large wood-frame shelter divided into two sections. US military personnel used one side while upper-class Vietnamese nationals used the other. The cooperative segregation was based on cultural differences as well as mode of travel. The Vietnamese flew on domestic airlines while GIs were limited to transport planes. Military air transportation was free to GIs, but proof of travel authorization, such as R & R orders, were required for assignment to the flight manifest. A GI without travel papers could still obtain a ride on standby to anywhere in-country, but ran the risk of getting bumped at the last minute if the manifest was filled.

After a short wait, a US Air Force C-130 transport plane taxied to the terminal. With the engines still running, an Air Force Loadmaster opened a side door and waved us aboard. Inside the plane were twenty-five GIs sitting on the floor alongside four large cargo pallets. As soon as everyone was seated, the Loadmaster closed the door and briefed us on ditching procedures. I don’t know why he bothered to explain anything, as none of us had a seat belt, so if the plane ditched the cargo would crush us.

Our destination was the giant Bien Hoa airbase where I first joined the 101st as a Cherry replacement. As the plane rumbled down the runway and lifted off, I suddenly realized that I had to urinate. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it for the two-hour flight, so after the plane leveled off I waded through the men to ask the Loadmaster where the latrine was, unaware that there was no latrine. He casually pointed to a funnel next to the emergency door. I looked through the opening to the ground far below. To be sure that was where the Loadmaster meant, I glanced back to him for approval.

“Go ahead!” he yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Piss in there and you can piss all over Vietnam!”

Some of the men watched to see what I would do. I really had to go, so I gave Vietnam my own shot of Agent Orange, actually more like Agent Yellow. The plane’s air speed created a siphon so I didn’t spill a drop. After we landed, I checked the side of the plane and found urine stains streaking from the funnel hole all the way to the tail. It was obvious that plenty of other GIs had been using the hole long before I did.

My arrival at Bien Hoa stirred vague memories. It was only five months since I was there last, and yet it seemed like five years. Bien Hoa should have looked familiar but it did not. I wondered if the war had aged my mind faster than the calendar. After a short layover, those of us going on R & R boarded a different C-130 for the flight to Vung Tau. In less than thirty minutes we landed at a tiny one-runway airstrip with a control tower; there was no terminal. When the plane stopped we got out and traded places with a group of GIs who were leaving Vung Tau. A few minutes later, a shuttle bus arrived to take us to the R & R center.

Vung Tau is a coastal city fifty miles southeast of Saigon located on a narrow peninsula separating the South China Sea from the Saigon River delta. An old city situated in a non-military region of South Vietnam, Vung Tau was well preserved and much cleaner than I expected. The main thoroughfare was lined with souvenir and pawn shops, clothing stores, two and three-story apartment buildings, and the everyday Vietnamese street vendors. The air was filled with the familiar odor of exhaust fumes and burning sandalwood.

Vung Tau’s streets were alive with motor scooters, bicycles, and three-wheel Lambretta taxi cabs. Their frantic driver’s disregarded every imaginable traffic rule as they zigzagged around pedestrians with reckless abandon. The Vietnamese traffic police, nicknamed “White Mice” for their white gloves and headgear, did little to control the situation. As long as traffic moved in the same direction, they simply watched. Our shuttle bus was one of the largest and most formidable vehicles on Vung Tau’s streets, so we were given a wide berth.

The R & R center was an old two-story hotel that had been converted into a fancy barracks. The R & R administrators occupied the top floor, while we bunked on the ground floor. Our sleeping area accommodated up to fifty GIs in four-man dormitory-style cubicles. Each cubicle had two bunk beds, four wall lockers, and a few pieces of simple furniture. The showers and toilets were typically military: one large room used by everyone. A frugal GI could stay at the center without spending any money because the Army was treating us to two buffet meals a day, chambermaid and laundry service, hot showers, a nightly movie, and more. We were also pleased to learn that no officers or senior NCOs would be sharing our R & R. Vung Tau was exclusively for enlisted men recovering from a hardship or those serving an extremely hazardous tour of duty. I didn’t think I met either requirement, but I was not about to complain.

It was mandatory for all arriving R & R personnel to attend a conduct lecture before going out on the town. Even though Vung Tau was a wide open city, weapons, drugs, drunkenness, or barroom brawls would not be tolerated. Our travel was restricted to the city limits and everyone had to be back at the hotel by 10:00 p.m. for a head count and lights out. The R & R officials promised not to watch us too closely, but warned that at the first sign of trouble, offenders would be immediately returned to their units.

We were also cautioned against abusive behavior toward the civilians. Unfortunately, some GIs felt that most Vietnamese were beggars, thieves, and whores, and treated them as such. On the other hand, the Vietnamese people, many of whom were forced by the war into unpleasant lives and work, saw the worst side of many Americans as well.

Vung Tau has no factories or heavy industry. Money was pumped into the local economy by the steady stream of free-spending GIs. The most lucrative businesses were barrooms and bordellos. The thriving red-light district, which bristled with neon lights and blaring music, offered scantily clad Vietnamese bar girls who adorned the doorways of each saloon. Like the sirens of Greek mythology they lured GIs inside to buy them drinks. Once inside, an unwary GI could easily spend all his money on the vixens. Only a few bars had bad reputations but we were warned to keep on our toes and to buddy-up with another GI to avoid being taken advantage of.

I did not know any GIs in Vung Tau, but when I noticed a mustached sergeant without a partner I introduced myself.

“Hi,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’m Artie Wiknik. I’m not paired up with anyone. How about you?”

“No, not yet,” he answered, looking at me long and hard. “I’m Mortimer Moriarity. I hate my name, so if we’re going to hang around together, don’t call me anything other than Mort.”

“That’s fine with me,” I nodded, trying not to laugh as I wondered how his parents could be so cruel as to give such a name to their son.

“And another thing, I’m an Instant NCO squad leader. So the first time you bust my balls about it…I’m gone.”

“No sweat, Mort, I’m a Shake-n-Bake myself.”

“Really?” he said, pleasantly surprised. “Then I guess we’ll have plenty of leadership war stories to discuss.”

Mort admitted that he endured the same unwelcome reception I had when he first arrived in Vietnam. As a new squad leader, his subordinates doubted his unproven abilities until a VC ambush wounded their Lieutenant and thrust Mort into the leadership role. While under intense enemy fire, Mort remained calm and accurately called in artillery fire to break off the attack. Mort was never doubted after that. Since our experiences were somewhat similar, it was easy for us to become friends and hang around together.