Family Secrets

by Zina Abbott

  A lot of the time things were uneventful, boring even. But, too many times it got hot, and I don’t mean the weather. More than once, I was sure I wasn’t going to live through a firefight.

  Sometimes, being dropped into the middle of the jungle in order to tear out the trees and brush to build an LZ wasn’t much different than building a road back home. Other times, we were under fire.

  I remember one time, it was so hot, I absolutely could not believe they were sending us in there, even with fellow operators as guards to ride shotgun and shoot back at the enemy. But the CO had sent down the order to build an LZ in this one location, and only that location, and he wanted it done yesterday.

  The infantry assigned to protect us were dropped a ways back and did their best to contain Charlie while a big enough hole was created in the brush and our equipment was brought in. But, needless to say, once Charlie saw those dozers, they knew what we were up to. We were not only building an LZ for our use, we were taking out the foliage they used for cover, not to mention we might be jeopardizing their tunnel system that laced the country. They were bent on stopping us. Even with the infantry keeping them as far from the equipment as possible, we still had bullets flying around us as we zipped down to our seats.

  The enemy shot at us from two sides as we cleared this LZ. We didn’t have the big covered Rome Plows they used later in the war. Instead, all we had were some open-cab dozers we had modified by welding on big sheets of steel plate. So, sure, I had steel plate welded to two sides of the dozer—in front and on the left, the operator’s side—and sure, they gave me a guard to sit on my right side to shoot back at Charlie in an effort to protect me while I operated the equipment. But, as we drove in circles to blade down the brush, we were still exposed too much of the time. While I was in the thick of it, though, I couldn’t worry about that. I just hugged that side sheet of steel plate and looked at the ground ahead of me through the slit cut in the front plate and kept on operating.

  Problem was, all my guard had was the steel plate in front of him. It didn’t take long until he got shot. I glanced at him slumped down in his seat, held there only by his seatbelt. He looked dead. I turned back to the trees where the men on the ground waited for me. They off-loaded my dead guard and I picked up a live one.

  I forget how many guards on my dozer got killed. I was too busy trying to stay alive to keep track. But, it finally got to the point that when I went back to get another guard, they refused to give me one. The lieutenant told me he’d lost too many men. I was ordered to go back out and finish by myself.

  I just looked at him for a moment, but said nothing. If there was one thing the Army drilled into us during my two years of stateside training, it was that you never question an officer. You just follow orders. Period. End of discussion.

  I turned the dozer around, and with my M-14 in one hand and my other hand on the joystick, I went back out alone. I hunkered down behind that steel plate, hoping that between my flak jacket and my steel pot, I had my back covered.

  I muttered every cussword I knew until I reached the place where I needed to drop the blade and push brush. Then I started talking to God. I can’t say I was praying, because I didn’t know how to pray. But I figured that there was a good chance I might end up like the guards that were shot off my rig. If so, I wanted to warn God that I might be coming His way so He wouldn’t be caught off-guard when I showed up on the other side.

  But I wasn’t dead yet, and I wasn’t going to give up. Charlie was going to have to get a lucky shot in for me to meet God or anyone else beyond this world. I kept pushing that dozer and I did my best to not flinch at each resounding ping caused by the bullets bouncing off that steel plate. Between times, I shot back in the direction where I heard the pops and saw the flashes of enemy rifle fire.

  Finally, the LZ was finished. Along with the other operators, I turned my dozer toward our defense line. Charlie knew the gig was up. Like those on the ground who didn’t have the whine of an engine blaring in their ears, they could hear the Hueys coming in to extract us. Charlie gradually stopped firing and faded into the jungle.

  Once I was back with the others, I turned off the engine and jumped down. Then I pushed my way through the men to put some distance between me and the LZ.

  “Good going, Carpenter,” one of the infantry grunts said as he clapped his hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off. Sure, this was just another day in Nam, but I needed a few minutes to walk off the adrenaline before joining the others for some good-natured joking around.

  I rejoined the group in time to watch them load one of the last of the dead into the medevac. It was my second guard, a greenie whose name I couldn’t remember. I decided then I didn’t have as much to complain about this day as he did. Sure, he was meeting up with God and his body was going home. But I made it through to fight another day.

  This war was different from any others I had heard about. It was not about taking and holding territory. We fought over the same territory more than once just the year I was there. No, our commanders wanted body count. That’s what S & D was all about. A successful campaign was measured by how many of the enemy we killed rather than by how many towns we took and enemy combatants we captured and held prisoner. That kind of war can wear on a man.

  I knew it had to be that way, though. We might gain ground, capture a village, but then the enemy often slipped away, slinked down through their tunnel system, and turned up who knew where else.

  Before we even left the States for Nam, we were conditioned to call the enemy gooks and other derogatory names. It was all about trying to dehumanize them. I guess they thought by dehumanizing the enemy, it would make it easier for us to kill them.

  The staff sergeant in our platoon called everyone native to Nam gooks. Before long, we did, too, even those who were supposed to be fighting on the same side as us. Why? We couldn’t trust them. It didn’t take me long to figure out that we never knew who was friendly and who was an enemy. We would be told some of the locals were “friendlys”. Then the Viet Cong would get to their village, threaten to burn it down and kill their families. Next thing we knew, those “friendlys” turned on us.

  Even the ARVN, the South Vietnamese army that fought alongside of us didn’t like us. For all that we were supposed to be over there risking our lives to save the South Vietnamese from communism, Vietnam was their country. They didn’t want us there.

  It took a lot of years after I returned to the States before I could look at people from Vietnam and see them as people rather than gooks. I really had to watch it at work, because using an ethnic slur like that was beyond being not politically correct. It would have meant me getting written up and could have cost me my job. Only after I got to know some of my co-workers whose families had escaped to the United States to keep from being slaughtered was I able to appreciate them as individuals who were just from a different culture.

  Although, back then, I agreed with a lot Sarge taught us, I didn’t want to end up being like him. That man was a lifer. He was on his second tour when I joined his platoon, and he re-upped a third time before I left. War was his life. He was as jaded as they come—mean, prejudiced, disrespectful and ornery. He didn’t cut anyone much slack, not even the new guys that were fresh out of boot camp.

  Once I got past hating him, I had to hand it to him. His bullying went a long way as far as keeping his men alive. Part of that was by convincing us to not trust the locals.

  I remember Chuey, the barber. I think his real name was Chu Bao. Nicest guy you would ever want to meet. He was approved by the head honchos to come into the compound to give us haircuts. Just about everyone liked him. Well, everyone except for Sarge, who didn’t like any of the locals. Sarge preferred to let his hair grow long rather than let Chuey touch it.

  Chuey did a good job cutting hair and he did it for real cheap. A lot of the guys enjoyed shooting the breeze with him and looked forward to his visits.

  At the time we were having problems with the co
mpound getting mortared most nights. A couple of times, they got part of our ammo dump. Other times, it was our fuel dump. We really hated it when they hit a platoon tent dead on and we lost a lot of men. It didn’t matter where we moved things around inside the compound, Charlie seemed to know where to aim the mortars and the bursts of AK-47 shots that followed before they fled to safety.

  I have to hand it to Butter Bars. He’s the one who first noticed something strange about the barber.

  Let me tell you about Butter Bars.

  First of all, none of us were real fond of most of the lieutenants they sent over to command our platoons. It seemed like too many of them didn’t care much about the war or us men, but were merely doing their time in Nam in order to advance their careers. Mostly, they were into logistics and tactical planning, often choosing to not get themselves dirty by going out on the missions they set up. They usually put their sergeants in charge of the S & Ds while they stayed in the compound and wrote reports.

  The second lieuys tended to be the worst. They were younger, fresh out of Officer Candidate School and thought they knew it all. Besides being a hazard to the platoons they commanded, they could be downright annoying.

  That pretty much sums up the second lieutenant we dubbed Butter Bars until the day of his transfer. We tended to refer to any second lieutenant as a butter bar because the brass officer bars they wore on their uniform collars looked like sticks of butter. With his yellow-blonde hair and his typical new officer attitude, our platoon never got past calling this particular second lieuy anything but Butter Bars. Obviously, we never called him that to his face.

  I remember the first time Butter Bars came around to our platoon to look up Sarge. It was too hot deep inside the tent, even with part of the sides rolled up, so several of us were more out in the open trying to catch any shade the tent might cast. I was part of a card game. Sarge was sitting off by himself inspecting his ammo. Sarge wasn’t into games much, so he was always cleaning his rifle, sharpening his knife or checking his ordinance.

  Butter Bars walked up to Sarge and announced that he was the new lieutenant assigned to the company. Sarge nodded and asked what he could do for him.

  “Sergeant, I expect you to stand and salute your superior officer when you are addressed,” said Butter Bars. “That’s an order.”

  We all stopped our card game and turned our attention toward the two to see what would happen next. Sarge kept his eyes on his ammo as he responded with his drawl.

  “Lieutenant, meaning no disrespect…Sir…but because I know you’re too new in-country you to know which way’s up, I’m going to save your life by refusing to obey that order. You don’t see him, but Charlie’s hiding all around this here compound just outside that there concertina wire, just waiting to take out someone he thinks is a CO. Once he figures you for an officer, you’re gonna catch a sniper’s bullet. That’s why nobody here’s going to salute you…Sir. We know you’re the lieutenant, but it’s safer for you if you can pass for one of us grunts. Now, if I was you…Sir…I’d get that 45 off your hip and rip all that celery off your uniform and stow it ’til you get back home. If you don’t believe me, ask some of the other officers who’ve been in-country awhile.”

  That was about the longest speech I think I ever heard Sarge make. That was also about the only time I ever remember Butter Bars being speechless. He just stared at Sarge for a moment. Then Butter Bars ordered Sarge to meet him at Alpha tent at the top of the hour, spun on his heels and left.

  “What a jackass,” Sarge said once Butter Bars was out of hearing range, only he didn’t use such nice words. Sarge shook his head and voiced what we sometimes wondered about ourselves. “Someone must of figured out it would be doing us a favor to let him get shot early on or else they woulda warned him how it is out here.”

  The next time we saw him, Butter Bars wasn’t wearing the sidearm. He had nothing on his uniform that would set him apart as an officer except for the dark-painted camouflage bars on his collar.

  But I was telling you about the barber, Chu Bao.

  This one day, Chuey finished up with the guys whose tents were in the middle row of the compound. As he left the last tent, he smiled, exchanged a last quip or two with the men and waved good-by like he always did. Instead of heading straight for the row of tents on the north, he looped around until he was just outside the communications center. From there, he walked a careful straight line toward the north wall of the compound.

  Butter Bars was standing at the edge of our tent with Sarge checking over…again…a few details of the recon we finished up the day before. I was half listening, and I could tell Sarge was bored. Knowing him, he was probably wondering why Butter Bars had to rehash the whole thing instead of being done with his report and moving on.

  “What is that crazy barber doing heading for the wall?” Butter Bars asked mid-sentence.

  Sarge and I both jerked around to look in the direction Butter Bars nodded his head. Sarge immediately tensed up and focused on every nuance of Chuey’s body language as he watched the barber walk toward the wall with measured steps. Then Sarge studied the barber’s facial expression and the way he moved as the man turned carefully away from the wall before sauntering with measured steps toward the next tent. Chuey broke into his usual friendly smile as he approached a group that had been engrossed in a game of pitch penny. He started queuing up those who wanted haircuts.

  “Well, Lieutenant, it looks like you figured out how Charlie knows where everything is in this here compound, no matter how much we shuffle stuff around. Explains why they’re so dead-on with their mortars at nights, don’t it?”

  Butter Bars stepped back with disbelief and stared at Sarge.

  “Naw, not Chu Bao,” he stammered. “He’s been checked out and cleared.”

  Sarge looked at Butter Bars like the man had rocks for brains.

  “Reckon he bears keeping an eye on...Sir.”

  “Well, I suppose that would be a good idea. Keep me posted, and if it looks like something we need to pursue, I’ll look into it further. But, I’m sure the man is okay.”

  After Butter Bars walked away, Sarge and I just looked at each other.

  Sure enough, that night, our communications center was hit dead-center by a mortar. Charlie also got the corner of the platoon tent Chuey had walked to after visiting the north wall. One man was killed and three others were injured, one of them badly.

  The next morning, a furious Sarge joined us at our tent after being with the company officers.

  “Charlie took out four good fighting men last night,” Sarge announced, as if we didn’t already know what happened. “That’s four too many.” Then he muttered something questioning the parentage of Butter Bars. He then told us that our orders were to continue monitoring the situation. No one was to overreact because the COs were still of the opinion that the scene with Chu Bao and the placement of the mortars in the compound was just a coincidence.

  Sarge didn’t believe in coincidences like that.

  A couple of days later, Chuey returned to the compound to cut hair. As he walked through an open space between the platoon tents, a shot screamed through the air. Chuey’s chest exploded. Men grabbed their weapons and ran out in the open to see what happened. After glancing at the body crumpled on the ground, all eyes searched the trees outside the compound wall, our guns ready to rock and roll.

  Several officers converged on the scene. After consulting with each other, they determined that the shot came from our platoon tent. Realizing they referred to the tent over which he was in charge, Butter Bars swelled up with an inflated sense of importance and ordered Sarge inside of the platoon tent to question him.

  Except for the men who had been detailed to collect Chu Bao’s body and personal effects to prepare them to be returned to his family with the Army’s official apologies, most of us, especially the men from our platoon, did our best to gather around the open sides of the tent to hear what was said. I noticed that near the side of t
he tent still staked to the ground, there were rifle cleaning supplies scattered on Jefferson’s rack. Jefferson was out in sick call with a flesh wound to his arm, but Sarge was holding his rack because he expected Jefferson back within the week.

  “Sergeant, someone from this platoon shot that man,” the excited Butter Bars insisted, his voice an octave higher than usual. “I need you to determine who’s responsible. That soldier needs to be brought to justice.”

  “Yes, Sir, I will look into it,” Sarge responded calmly. “But, to tell you the truth, Sir, I think this here was an accidental discharge. Everyone here liked Chuey. No one wanted to see him killed.”

  “Accidental what? Come on, Sergeant! You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “Yes, Sir, I do. Happens all the time,” Sarge drawled with a shrug of his shoulders. “With all this dust and humidity, we’re always needing to clean our weapons to keep them from jamming. Sometimes that’s not enough, especially with these new M-16s they keep trying to shove at us. Accidental discharges happen.”

  “That is not acceptable, Sergeant! We need to have answers for this man’s family and for the local leaders of our host nation whose good will is an important part of the war effort. Besides, what if it had been one of our own men that was hit?”

  “You’re right, Sir. Losing Chu Bao was bad enough, but it would have awful bad if one of our own guys bought it. No one wants to get killed by accidental friendly fire, but it happens. Every day we get up, we ask, ‘Who’s going to die today?’ Looks like today was Chu Bao’s day to die.”

  “Sergeant, stop being flip about this. This is a serious matter. I need something done about it so I can report to my superior officers.”

  I knew there was nothing flippant about what Sarge just said. We did get up each day and ask ourselves, “Who’s going to die today?” That was all part of being in Vietnam.

  “Yes, Sir!” Sarge answered in an official tone we weren’t used to hearing from him. “I’ll find out what’s what and get back to you within the hour. Also, to keep this from happening again, before the day’s out, I’ll drill this here platoon on the proper handling and cleaning of their weapons. Sir!”