“Knock it off, Harrison!” shouted the Lieutenant.
“Hey, man. I can smell him,” he growled back, pointing toward an opening in the brush. “Look over there.”
Nobody believed him, of course, thinking it was just another one of his acts to convince us he’s crazy. Krol took five guys to check it out just in case. After a few minutes one of the men yelled, “Over here! A dead Gook!”
“I told you we got one,” Harrison smugly said. We looked at him in amazement, wondering whether he had some magical power or if he was just plain nuts.
I couldn’t resist the temptation to check out our kill. Death must have been instantaneous. The body lay face down with arms and legs frozen in a running position. Near the right shoulder blade, the shirt had a tiny bloodstained bullet hole. One of the men prodded the corpse several times before rolling it over. Each person stepped back with the same astonished look on his face. I felt nausea. There was a gaping hole in the shoulder big enough to put a softball in. The mutilated tangle of splintered bones and flesh seemed unreal. The face was contorted with teeth gritted and eyes closed. I squirmed inside as the lifeless form became recognizable. The physique was that of a young woman, maybe in her late teens, about my age. We had killed a girl. During my sheltered civilian life I had never been to a wake or funeral, and now the first dead human I set my eyes upon was a female with her shoulder blown away. It was sickening.
A few of the platoon members came over for a glimpse of the body. The others, not caring, continued eating and talking. I was subconsciously glued to the spot, watching as the Lieutenant searched over the grisly corpse.
“She didn’t even have a weapon,” I said faintly.
“The Gooks know the rules. Don’t get caught after dark.”
“Holy fuck!” shouted Stan Alcon as he wandered over. “That’s the boom-boom girl I screwed the other day!”
“Are you sure?” asked Lieutenant Bruckner.
“I’m positive. She came around with her pimp about three days ago. Cost me five bucks.”
“She was probably a VC, but we won’t know until someone from G-2 checks these documents she was carrying.”
“See if she’s got my five bucks.”
“There’s no money, you asshole! Only these papers.”
I walked back to fill Harrison in. He seemed happy.
“Good,” Harrison remarked. “We don’t get laid that much, so now them Charlies won’t get laid either.”
The villagers started coming around then. After all the shooting the night before, they knew something was up, but we wouldn’t let any of them near the corpse. An hour later, an Intelligence officer and two GIs drove out in a pickup truck to recover the body. They loaded her into the back like a piece of firewood. As they drove away the villagers chased after them, perhaps to see if they could recognize the remains. When the truck was out of sight, we hiked off in the opposite direction as if shooting women was routine.
Between the ambushes and hiding in thickets, each squad took turns going out on a RIF (Reconnaissance in Force) patrol. A RIF involved sweeping over large areas to make our presence known so the village would be less likely to be threatened by the VC. Except for booby traps, however, there was very little evidence of enemy activity. There weren’t a lot of them, but enough to keep us on our toes.
The most common booby trap was a trip-wired hand grenade, usually placed inside a discarded C-ration can or tied to a tree. A thin wire attached to the grenade pin is stretched across a footpath just high enough so anyone walking by would kick the wire, activating the grenade. Our fear of hidden traps forced us to be constantly vigilant for wires or suspicious objects. Whenever a booby trap was located, we hooked onto the trip-wire with a rope then tugged on it from a safe distance to set it off.
The RIFs and booby trap hunts were radical on-the-job training exercises, with very serious consequences. One afternoon, two men were considered lucky to receive only minor wounds when one of them tripped a poorly aimed trip-wired grenade. Also, on two separate occasions, men were evacuated due to heat exhaustion. Losing men to injuries or sickness was an expensive way for our platoon to gain experience. It was obvious we had developed some bad tactical habits. The men bitched about it, but only to each other. No one dared make a formal complaint for fear that Krol would make us hump all the more. That’s when I decided it was time for me to speak up. Even though I was the new guy with minimal experience, I figured there was nothing to lose by offering alternatives. Besides, if anything I said was of value, it might contribute to the success of each mission. With that in mind, I confidently went to the CP to discuss my concerns with Bruckner and Krol.
“I’ve been watching how we operate,” I started, “so I thought you might be interested in my observations.”
“Go ahead, Wiknik,” Lieutenant Bruckner said curiously. “Whatcha got?”
“Well Sir, our AO seems to have its fair share of hand grenade booby traps, so I think we should be crushing our C-ration cans to keep the Gooks from using them against us. We should also be walking in single file, stepping where the last man did, not sweeping over the terrain like we’re trying to find booby traps. I also think we could eliminate the heat exhaustion problem if we humped during the cool of the morning rather than the blazing heat of midday.”
Before responding, Lieutenant Bruckner paused to look at Krol who stared back at him with his eyebrows raised. Their silence worried me.
“Sergeant Wiknik,” Bruckner began, sounding slightly irritated. “Do you think we don’t know what we are doing out here?”
“No sir, that’s not it at all. I just think some of the things we do are dangerous and should be done differently.”
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” he said rigidly. “We’re in the middle of a fuckin’ war here, and war is dangerous. We cannot be expected to win this thing if we sit back playing it safe. However, I’m not an unreasonable man, Sergeant Krol and I will consider your suggestions. But you may want more field experience before you get too many bright ideas. Most old-timers don’t like it when Cherries try to change things overnight. You better think about that.”
I didn’t know if I had done the right thing or not. They looked at me as if I was a malcontent who had just insulted them. Like typical Lifers, they either doubted my ability and training, or felt threatened by it.
Several hours later, Bruckner told me I was correct about the crushing of C-ration cans and also about the way we walked on our patrols, but he sure didn’t like admitting it. There was also a price to pay for my speaking out, we still went out on mid-afternoon patrols, and my squad was selected for the honor more than any other.
The everyday RIFs got old real fast, especially when it got so hot that Krol stayed back, sending us out by ourselves. His attitude made me more determined that no one from my squad would get hurt or sick while I was in charge. On my next patrol, we traveled far enough to get out of sight of the platoon then hid in the bushes. I kept calling in different locations on the radio to make it appear as if we were moving.
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 follow
ing 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?”
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