In this LP, both men understood their assignment: sit, listen and report any enemy movement during the night. Firing a weapon in the darkness would immediately expose their position, enabling the enemy to find and kill them. The mines and grenades offered a line of defense without giving away their position. If discovered, both men were to take whatever action necessary to protect themselves and evade the enemy while attempting to return to the firebase.
Polack and LG sat in the depression and used the two trees for back rests, the radio and armaments were in place on the ground and within reach between them. Trying to get comfortable, both men happened to catch each others eyes, barely visible in the darkness. LG offered a weak smile of confidence which Polack quickly returned. Both bumped fists in a mini-DAP and settled in for the long night.
Polack picked up the radio handset, cradled it on his shoulder, and then tapped LG to get his attention. Seeing only the whites of his eyes, Polack pointed to himself then to the luminous dial on his watch, and held up two fingers close to LG’s face, hoping LG was able to see them. LG responded with the “OK” sign, equally close to Polack’s face, then covered himself with his poncho liner, understanding that Polack was taking the first watch and would wake him in two hours.
At not yet seven in the evening, the light of the crescent moon wasn’t bright enough to penetrate the thick foliage. Soon it was so dark that Polack was unable to see his own hand moving only inches in front of his face. He blinked a few times just to verify that his eyes were open. It was no use; whether they were open or closed, he could see nothing.
As the nocturnal creatures woke, the cacophony of their various sounds carried through the darkness. This symphony was sure to grow louder as the night progressed. Right then, it was calming in a way, and one could imagine that all the individual mating calls were timed and repeated in a closed loop. If the noise stopped, then it was time to worry.
Polack hated the dark, especially when it was like this. Everything was shaded either dark gray or ink black without a sign of color anywhere. With eyes opened or closed, it was all the same, and he felt as claustrophobic as if sitting in a small closet in the middle of the night. In addition, the rotting smell of dead vegetation as a result of the defoliant Agent Orange made him nauseous. His hearing now enhanced, his mind actively tried to absorb all the sounds, applying filters to help recognize those which did not belong. Adrenaline was ready to soar – just waiting for the right signal.
LG’s breathing settled into a steady rhythm, making it clear that he was sound asleep. Without any visual stimuli to keep his mind occupied, it had a tendency to wander, and in this case, caused Polack to get lost in his thoughts. A memory jumped out, sending him back to the age of seven...
TWO – THE BASEMENT
Let’s face it, darkness can be scary. Being in the dark can sometimes give you the unnerving feeling that you are being watched. Children everywhere may feel nervous about closets and the “spooky” space under their beds, but while those patches of darkness can be intimidating for some, for me, there was a much creepier place: our basement. Built in the 1930’s, our house in Detroit had an unfinished basement typical of most in the neighborhood, and its basement was dark and cellar-like. When my parents sent any of us kids downstairs on an errand after dark, it was considered a sure death sentence.
Early one day, at the tender age of seven, I accompanied my mother into the basement when it was time to change loads in the washing machine. Although shafts of sunlight glared brightly through the high window panes, she did turn on the light over our old wringer-style washing machine. Nevertheless, I followed right on her heels, making sure that I stayed close, and that I kept her in between me and that monstrous old furnace.
I watched Mom as she pulled an article of sopping wet clothing from the barrel of the washing machine and fed it cautiously into the mouth of two horizontal rollers just above the basin. Clothes were crushed by this powerful squeezing process resulting in a steady stream of water that fell into a nearby washtub. A wild whirlpool of water spun over the drain in the center until the last item of clothing fell into the basket with a thud.
Why is it that when somebody tells a child that he or she shouldn’t do something, it seems more like a dare? While Mom continued to feed articles of clothing through the crusher, she cautioned me, “Be very careful of these rollers. They’ll catch your fingers and crush them if you’re not paying attention!” (Note to self: “Investigate that roller thingy when I get a chance.”)
While Mom was busy with the laundry, I used the time to study my surroundings. Several four-inch wide cast iron poles stood like sentinels every ten feet. Old furniture, stored haphazardly on the floor and draped with white bed sheets looked eerie, even during the day. Wooden boxes contained tools and other miscellaneous junk. Dozens of them were stacked adjacent to the ghostly-looking furniture that ran the length of the remaining wall. Then, of course, the huge, ugly furnace – looking like a torture chamber from the Dark Ages – took up much of the floor space near the rear corner.
Our basement lighting was sparse and comprised of just a few lights strategically placed on the ceiling. Every light had a pull-cord or chain attached to turn it on and off. A bare light bulb above the washing machine hung from the end of a foot-long electrical cord and swayed back and forth, casting animated waves of light into the shadows, worsening any sense of foreboding that already existed.
Three small storage rooms lined the far end of the basement. I wasn’t sure if the homemade plywood doors were meant to keep the things inside hidden from strangers, or to keep the things inside from getting out. The left-most room stored coal and kindling wood for the winter. The middle room was full of Christmas ornaments, Halloween decorations and out-of-season clothing, which hung from hangers on a horizontal metal pipe. The far right room was a pantry filled with dozens of home-canned glass jars of vegetables and fruits stored on shelves, and boxes filled with empty extra jars, lids and screw-on rings. I should also mention that the pantry door was in the corner behind the behemoth furnace.
It was time well spent, as I was able to plot a mental route from the stairway to the storage rooms at the far end of the dungeon-like setting. I felt the need to have a plan, just in case I ever had to come down here alone, which by the way, happened later that night.
After dinner, while Mom was busy washing dishes, she asked me to run down to the basement and bring up her short, brown winter jacket with the fur collar from the center storage room. She mentioned that the weather had turned chilly and that she would need it to wear to church the following morning. I stood there for a moment, stunned, and thinking hard for a way to get out of it! I was pretty sure that something evil lived behind each of the doors down there, waiting patiently in the pitch darkness for some unsuspecting schmuck like me to let it out. I was extremely anxious and felt veritably rooted to the kitchen floor.
My mother, seeing my apprehension, usually had to prod me (and sometimes threaten me) to get me moving. I remember her exasperation, finally warning me: “There’s nothing down there that can hurt you. Get moving before I lock you down there for good!” My father’s voice then boomed from the living room, “Johnny, be a man!” Hell, I was only seven years old and far from being a man, but I couldn’t let my father down. There was no way out of this; I had to do it!
The dim lightbulb at the top of the stairs provided just enough artificial light to expose the stairway and cinderblock wall beyond the final step. I remember venturing down the staircase ever so slowly, keeping my eyes focused on the darkness ahead and then taking a break to catch my breath on the bottom step.
I stood perfectly still, staring intently into the darkness, contemplating my next move. A chill suddenly ran down my spine when I heard a creak near the furnace. I was positive something evil was hiding in the shadows behind the old coal burner, patiently waiting for me to move forward into the darkness. My racing heart caused beads of sweat to gather on my forehead, a single drop brok
e away and found its way into my right eye. My vision blurred and I began to panic. The last thing I wanted to do was close my eyes until the sweat washed away, and I could see again. That was not an option, as the monsters would be all over me within seconds. I quickly wiped my eye and forehead with my shirt sleeve, ready to bolt at the first sign of the slightest movement.
My route and timing had to be spot-on through this obstacle course, or I’d end up lost in the dark and probably die within 30 seconds. Ready or not, it was time to go!
I took one last deep breath and then leaped into the darkness, jumping up to reach the pull chains of every light as quickly as possible to keep the hidden monsters at bay. Finally, I was standing at door number two.
I don’t care how many times I performed this task – the process never changed. The doors all opened outward and had small handles positioned on the left side, hinges on the right. Moving to my left a few steps, I’d hold my breath and approach the door from an angle, shuffling my feet only inches at a time. I made sure to keep my body clear of the door’s swinging path in the event that somebody hiding inside tried to use a battering ram. Once there, I’d slide my right foot forward and jam it into the small gap at the bottom of the door. With shaking hands, I unhooked the latch. I had a rule about waiting a full five seconds to be sure that nothing tried to force its way out; then I’d swing the door open completely. Stale and musty odors permeated through the open doorway – nothing vile there, just typical old, unfinished basement smells.
The next element in this challenge was for me to step slowly into the darkness and locate the hanging light in the center of the eight by eight-foot room. I’d raise my arms and wave them in front of my face, taking small baby steps, until finally snagging the chain from the hanging light and quickly pulling it down to light up the room.
That evening, I lucked out and immediately spotted Mom’s jacket on the overhead bar. Once I had it in hand, I had to execute my escape plan from this nightmarish place. Taking a few deep breaths in and exhaling out of my mouth slowly, I yanked down on the light chain and jumped free of the room. Slamming the door, I leaned against it to prevent whatever might have been hiding in the shadows from getting out and grabbing me. All that remained was for me to lock the door and hightail it out of there. After re-hooking the door, I placed my foot at the base of the plywood door and prepared myself as a runner might in starting blocks.
After hearing a silent signal in my head, I launched myself across the length of the basement, pulling down on every light chain while aiming for the stairs. Once there, I charged up the steps, two at a time, and jumped headfirst through the open doorway, landing hard on the kitchen floor. My foot automatically pushed out and caught the edge of the wooden door behind me, sending it on its arc at a speed slightly less than sound. The metal hinges screeched briefly in protest before a deafening slam, announcing the journey’s end, and startling everyone in the house. Reaching up, I engaged the latch. Start to finish, the entire process took less than five minutes.
My mission into Hell was a success and I could now take a deep breath to celebrate. My feeling of self-gratification, however, was soon interrupted by Mom. She proceeded to scold me for making such a production out of a simple trip to the basement, citing that the sudden banging noise had stopped her heart. ‘If she only knew,’ I thought.
Of course, my fear of our basement diminished when I got older. When I was 12 years old, my father properly introduced me to the furnace. He taught me how to stoke a fire, add coal, and remove ashes through the heavy iron door at the bottom of the huge furnace. It still looked like a giant octopus hung upside down from the ceiling with tentacles (the round circular duct work) jutting out in all directions. It became my job to check the fire before and after school. It wasn’t long before I was assigned the full-time responsibility of maintaining the furnace during the winter months, occasionally requiring visits in the middle of the night to get the fire going again. This job continued for the next couple of years until my parents saved enough money to purchase a new furnace. Thankfully, they converted to gas heat.
Later, when I discovered an interest in girls, the basement became my friend. I found a used couch and television set at the local Salvation Army and set up a small area to socialize with friends of both genders. At times, one or more of us spent the night amongst the shadows, not worried in the least.
As I got older, I do remember occasionally asking my younger sister or brother to fetch something from the basement for me. It was like asking them to descend into a crypt! Neither of them would go. Instead they would suddenly become “busy” or would disappear into their rooms, leaving me to retrieve the article myself. I became irritated with their attitude... until I remembered my own past fear of the shadows and unknown creatures lurking below!
THREE – LISTENING POST (2000 HOURS)
Polack’s memories were suddenly interrupted when the steady rush of white noise on the radio handset disappeared. After several seconds, a voice whispered in his ear, “Lima Papa 1, Thunder 3, sit-rep, over.” Polack hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary or seen anything beyond the end of his nose, so he depressed the talk button on the handset, holding it down for a split second, indicating an ‘all clear’ status. When he let up, the static returned briefly before the voice whispered in acknowledgment, “Roger, 1.” The battalion radio operator then continued his query of the other units in the jungle; all responded with a single break in the squelch. When finished, the white noise returned to keep Polack company for another hour.
If any of the elements felt threatened or suspected enemy forces nearby, the radio operator would respond with two quick breaks in the squelch instead of a single one. When that happened, the battalion RTO immediately announced on the frequency, “Check, check, check. This is Thunder 3 – hold your traffic on this net and keep it open unless there is an emergency. Out.” That response quickly garnered the attention of everyone listening in on the frequency, including members of the battalion Command Platoon. They’d all stand-by and wait in nervous anticipation for the next update from the unit in distress.
Polack was placed on LP twice before since arriving in country, however, neither of the former assignments were in jungle as dense as this. His first was actually inside of Cu Chi base camp during in-country training, delegated to an obscure location within the wire and facing the village of Cu Chi. His job that night was to watch for sappers in the wire and villagers moving about during the curfew. There was so much illumination from the base camp throughout the night that his position was as brightly lit as late afternoon. That particular location was probably the most secure of any within the country. Nevertheless, Polack felt anxious and insecure sitting there alone on only his fifth day in-country. His second turn at LP was during a week-long, platoon-sized patrol through the Michelin Rubber Plantation. There, he and another squad member spent the night lying on their bellies 200 feet outside their night defensive perimeter. With hardly any vegetation to cast shadows or hide behind, the full moon lit up the area like a night baseball game at Tiger Stadium. They’d lay in the shadows of seedling trees, shifting positions regularly to stay within the small trees’ silhouettes as the moon crossed the sky. They could see in any direction for at least a mile, and help – in the event that it was needed – was only seconds away.
Polack and LG both earned their Combat Infantryman Badge (CIB’s) many times over while patrolling through the jungle with their platoon. However, no matter how much experience a person had, a night in a two-man outpost in known enemy territory during the pitch blackness of night took a toll on its occupants both physically and mentally. These men were well-trained soldiers, taught how to react in any situation. They practiced every scenario and had the right procedures drummed into their heads repeatedly over the past several months. The correct response should be immediate, with the body operating on autopilot. Fear caused panic, which interfered with a soldier’s ability to follow protocol and react per his training. It
was also a sure fire way to get yourself killed!
Their latest LP position was set up within a large thicket of vegetation, making physical movement both difficult and restricted. Sitting on the hard ground for extended periods of time put John’s ass to sleep – not only figuratively, but by numbing and cramping his backside and legs. It was impossible to stand up in these locations to stretch or to move about without making lots of noise, thereby exposing their position. Sound carried at night through the jungle and those nearby quickly reacted to it.
Finding a comfortable body position for the night was paramount. It was also important to protect your eyes from getting poked by the thickets of twigs and branches surrounding them. Joint and body stiffness was guaranteed in the morning after sleeping on the hard, uneven ground. Soldiers took their time when returning to the firebase, using the short hump as a way to work out their kinks and stretch out the soreness. If it became necessary for the two men to bug out because of enemy pressure during the night, stiffness impeded a fast getaway, and would not serve them well.
Fighting mosquitoes, fire ants, snakes, spiders, centipedes, and horseflies was a battle in itself. Army-issued insect repellent (“bug juice”) helped to keep many of the mosquitoes at bay, but the relief seemed to last just a couple of hours or so. The need to reapply the liquid by hand at every opportunity was a necessary effort to keep mosquitoes away during the long night. Wrapping oneself inside a poncho liner offered some protection from the biting insects but the constant drone of those flying swarms was nerve-wracking, and the continuous buzzing around their ears kept the men awake for the duration.
When Can I Stop Running? Page 3