“As long as the brew is cold,” I answered, accepting their invitation. “But I’ve got to warn you, I’ve been accused of not being able to hold my liquor. Back home my friends nicknamed me Bottle-cap Artie.”
“Bottle-cap Artie?” a bewildered Silig asked. “What the hell for?”
“Because I have such a low alcohol tolerance they figured I could get drunk by just sniffing bottle-caps.”
“Well, look at your size,” Silig announced. “You’re one of the smallest men in the platoon. It’s no wonder why you get drunk so fast.”
“Drink this,” Siner commanded, handing me a beer. “You’ve been working too hard and need to relax. By the time we’re through with you, you’ll be known as ‘Two-beer Artie.’”
As we laughed, I felt a warm rush of friendship. I sensed that our similar personalities would create a stronger bond than just a squad leader and his subordinates. We were equally educated, shared the same sense of humor, and had a driving desire to get everyone home alive. Being close to twenty-one years old, we also had a higher level of maturity than the platoon’s mostly eighteen and nineteen year olds. Without saying it, we knew we would be the ones to teach new guys how to survive and to keep their wits about them. I felt fortunate to have Siner and Silig as friends.
Late in the day we walked to the camp’s outdoor theater to hear a Filipino band perform popular American songs. They played good music but the singing detracted from the performance.
“Set me fwee why don’t joo babe, get out of my wife why don’t joo babe.”
“What the hell are they trying to sing?” I asked.
“I think it’s a Vanilla Fudge song,” Silig answered, shaking the butchered words from his head. “But it sounds more like Elmer Fudge.”
“Oh, you cwazy wabbit,” Siner added with a laugh.
The Filipino’s tried hard, but we had not been in the field long enough to consider this worthwhile entertainment. The name of the song was “You keep Me Hanging On,” originally performed by the Supremes, and later covered by the rock group Vanilla Fudge, whose version became popular with hippie-types in the late 1960s.
We continued walking. It was relaxing just to not have to carry a weapon and rucksack or watch for trip wires and booby traps. We enjoyed simple pleasures not allowed in the field, like smoking after dark, drinking beer, laughing and talking without having to whisper, drinking beer, sitting on a toilet seat instead of a log—and drinking more beer! As the sunlight faded, the drone of generators peaked. Camp Evans was alive with electric lights, radios, and tape decks. It was a different world in the rear and we wandered around in awe of a time and place so contrasting to our familiar jungle life.
Outside our battalion area, an argument between Lennie Person and an unknown GI had escalated into a heated exchange. The GI, who was obviously drunk, threatened the small crowd of onlookers with an M-16 he had taken from the conex. Lennie grabbed at the weapon and a struggle ensued. Suddenly a shot rang out. Lennie jumped back screaming, “You mother-fucker! You shot me!” and fell to the ground clutching the side of his head. A small chunk of his ear was shot off.
The crowd quickly overpowered the GI, holding him until the MPs (Military Police) arrived. In the meantime, we rushed Lennie to the aid station for treatment. He was okay. The MPs locked up the GI for the night. We never found out what the argument was about. Perhaps Freddie Shaw was right: booze is ignorant oil. We decided to return to the battalion area where it was safer because no one had weapons there.
We got back just in time to see the start of a porno movie. With no screen, the film was shown on a bed sheet nailed to the supply room wall. The movie was about an escaped gorilla that was so horny he decided to try his luck with human females (it was obvious that a man was wearing a cheap gorilla suit). As the animal sneaked through a neighborhood, it broke into a girl’s apartment and somehow convinced her to go to bed with him. When the gorilla exposed his penis, everyone could see that it belonged to a white male. That’s when a black GI sitting behind us got up yelling, “Fake! Fake! That gorilla ain’t real! A real gorilla has a black dick just like me! Where did this movie come from?”
He was serious. Up until that moment he had believed it was a real animal! We laughed so hard we had to rewind the movie for the parts we missed. How could anyone be so naive? Damn that ignorant oil.
The movie was so stupid that we ended up throwing beer cans at the sheet every time the gorilla appeared. One GI tried to feel the girl and accidentally pulled the sheet off the wall. No one bothered to put it back up. After that, the guys wandered back to the hooches to sleep.
The night in our hooch was quiet except for heavy breathing and occasional groans. I was almost asleep when two pranksters giggled outside the screen windows.
“What’s so funny?” I drowsily asked.
“You’ll find out,” came their impish reply. Then they tossed a CS (Chemical Substance, a.k.a. tear gas) grenade onto the ground where a gentle breeze brought the gas inside. In an instant, the fumes snapped me out of my stupor. When I screamed, “Gas! Gas!” twenty-five drunks scrambled like disturbed bees in a hive. We clawed at the walls trying to locate an exit but we couldn’t see because the lights didn’t work. The clever pranksters had shut our power off. Choking and gagging, we smashed through the screens to escape. Once outside, some guys vomited, while others tripped over each other. We must have been quite a sight. Too sick and drunk to get mad, we waited until the air cleared and then stumbled back into the destroyed hooch to sleep. It was a good joke, though I would rather have been one of the pranksters.
Morning came too quickly and, as expected, everyone was dragging ass from their hangovers. But more important, we grumbled over the fact that we were being sent back to the field. No one wanted to go.
The routine of gathering our gear was interrupted when a jeep pulled up with a trailer full of grenades, claymores, and other ammunition. To avoid a mob scene, each squad leader was supposed to collect ammunition for his men. But almost before the jeep stopped, GIs surged up to the trailer, digging into the load. I could not understand the rush, unless they knew of beer or a boom-boom girl hidden under the ordnance. The men pushed and shoved until one GI backed away holding a grenade pin. He shouted “Grenade!” and everyone ran in several directions. We stood about a dozen yards away curiously watching the trailer until the seemingly harmless yellow smoke appeared from a smoke grenade.
“It’s just a smoke grenade,” someone yelled. “Pull it out!”
“No!” shouted another. “It’s too hot, it’ll burn ya!”
“You bunch of candy-asses,” chided Lieutenant Pizzuto, as he pushed through the crowd. “I’ll get it out.”
Just as Pizzuto reached in, there was a loud pop. He jumped back, waited a second, and then started forward again. There was another pop. Then another. Then a cloth bandoleer burst into flames. Unsure of what would happen next, Pizzuto quickly retreated. When a grenade exploded, sending hot ammo twenty feet into the air, we all scattered for cover.
Most of us ran about 150 feet and jumped into a ditch while others simply disappeared. It was a dangerous situation as the fire grew higher and the explosions more frequent but it sure looked funny. Shrapnel flew in all directions as the trailer jiggled and spit burning debris. We laughed when illumination flares shot past us like Fourth of July rockets. In less than one minute the explosions had completely obscured the trailer and caught the jeep on fire. Before long, two sleeping hooches were engulfed and the supply room wall began to burn.
Fire trucks with blaring sirens and flashing lights rushed to the scene. The firefighters began unrolling the hoses before realizing the burning jeep was shooting live rounds. They jumped back into the truck and drove off with the hoses dragging behind. The firefighters parked 500 feet away and watched helplessly as the flames slowly devoured our battalion area. We kept our distance too, but continued to laugh at every loud blast.
When the explosions ceased and the firefighters were ab
le to get close enough to extinguish the blaze, there was hardly anything left to save. The supply room and two sleeping hooches had become charcoal pits. Other nearby structures had bullet and shrapnel damage. Even the ten-gallon coffeepot in the mess hall was punctured. The jeep was totally destroyed and the trailer had vaporized. Most of our rucksacks, canteens and web gear had melted into globs. Only our rifles survived because when the fire broke out we had instinctively ran away with them.
The only thing I felt bad about was losing the M-16 magazine that had saved my life on Hamburger Hill. For safekeeping, I had put it in my duffel bag in the supply room. However, after searching the rubble, the magazine was nowhere to be found. To ease my remorse, I submitted a $200 claim for items lost in the fire. Things like a camera, radio, and smoking jacket that I had never owned but was reimbursed for anyway. If I had known the Army would pay so freely, I would have claimed expensive jewelry, too.
Since our gear was destroyed, we had to spend another night at Camp Evans. However, this time we were strictly confined: drinking, gambling, and movies were prohibited. As long as we were out of the field, we didn’t care. Most guys obeyed the confinement rule, but Siner, Silig and I pretended it didn’t apply to us. We waited until dark and headed to the nearby EM (Enlisted Men’s) Club for a few beers.
Being the only Grunts in the place, we thought it best to keep a low profile. Siner and I found a quiet corner table while Silig ordered drinks from the bar. No sooner had we sat down when two of the firefighters who had responded to our jeep fire began giving Silig a hard time.
“Aren’t you one of those crazy Grunts who burned down half your company area today?” one of them asked loudly.
“That fire got us another night in the rear,” Silig chuckled, thinking the firefighter was joking with him.
“Is that right?” he said in a nasty tone. “That fucking fire almost got us killed! Shrapnel and bullets were flying everywhere while you guys were laughing! Do you have any idea of how dangerous that was?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” Silig snickered, walking toward us with the beers. “That’s what made it so funny.”
The other firefighter did not see the humor so he sucker-punched Silig. Siner and I leapt to Silig’s defense as a fistfight broke out. Not everyone joined in; most of the patrons backed off, encircling the melee to watch. The bartender yelled something about the MPs being on their way but that didn’t slow us down. Broken glass, beer, and popcorn quickly littered the floor. It was like a cheap western movie as the three of us battled our way to the door. As we slipped outside, the firefighters didn’t give chase. Instead, they stood in the door shouting obscenities, telling us never to come back.
Silig shut them up when he yelled; “If you assholes ever get to the boonies then you’d find out what real danger is like! Guys are dying out there while you’re huddled in base camp like sniveling whiners. You make me sick.”
Embarrassed by the truth, the firefighters sheepishly closed the door. Other than a few minor cuts and bruises, we felt great for defending the honor of Grunts with fists and words. The way we saw it, a battle was won against rear echelon complacency.
The next day we were resupplied with a mix of new and used equipment. The Lifers scrutinized our every move to avoid a repeat of the previous day’s fireworks. There was hardly anything left to burn down anyway. We were just happy knowing we had cheated the Army out of a day in the boonies.
Late that afternoon we returned to the flatlands outside the village of Phong Dien. I was surprised to find that our new AO was the same area we patrolled when I first arrived in Vietnam. Our platoon’s job, as before, was to protect the village by ambushing the VC trails that led to the mountains.
As we made our way past the village huts, an ominous feeling came over me. It was like we were being watched but no one was there. I felt that an unseen force was telling us we were not welcome, to go away and leave the flatlands alone. Perhaps the eerie sensation was the land’s way of saying it was tired of war. The Vietnamese believed in ghosts and spirits and I began to think there was some truth in their folklore. Moreover, our ambush site amplified the spooky atmosphere: it was in the local cemetery.
The graveyard had no gates or borders; it was just a series of randomly positioned circular grave mounds. The Vietnamese believe the round design eased the deceased’s transition into the next world. Some of the graves had stone monuments, but most were unmarked. There were no fresh graves, which made me wonder where the villagers were burying their dead. That first night back in the flatlands was uneventful, but it took me several days to shake the mysterious anxiety.
During the next three weeks, we settled into a tedious routine of ambush, RIF and ambush. Enemy activity around Phong Dien had all but ceased. We did not even find any booby traps. Lieutenant Pizzuto, who could not stand the monotony, did us all a favor and transferred to Echo Company. He said he wanted to be where the action is. Echo Company was a collection of gung-ho warmongers who got their kicks by going on long-range recon and ambush missions in six-man teams. Their patrols disappeared into the jungle for up to two weeks at a time, rarely moving and laying in wait along VC trails until they made enemy contact or ran out of food. Echo was the Marines of our battalion, usually being the first to land and establish initial lines of defense. If that’s the kind of excitement Pizzuto wanted, then more power to him. As long as he was off my back, I did not care where he was.
Our new Lieutenant was a tall, lanky fellow from Kansas named Petry. Unlike Pizzuto, Petry actively sought advice from the old-timers of the platoon. He knew their longevity was a result of field experience that outweighed any classroom training learned back in the World. Even better, Petry seldom listened to Krol because he wisely realized Krol’s old Army method of leadership through intimidation was outdated for Vietnam. We finally had an officer on our side and it drove Krol crazy. Lieutenant Petry would work out just fine.
For the next several days we patrolled the flatlands northward along the base of the mountains. We humped up to three miles each day, moving farther from civilization and deeper into VC territory where huge bomb craters pocked the landscape and the grassy plains grew thicker with large clumps of shrubs. We finally came upon an overgrown dirt road that looked as though the last activity it had witnessed was during the 1950s French occupation. We stopped for the night. Since we had not seen action for nearly a month, I got lazy and placed my claymore only ten feet outside the perimeter instead of the usual 50 feet.
It was almost dark as I gazed at the emerging stars, drifting into a dream of home. Suddenly there was a commotion in the bushes on the opposite side of the perimeter. A Viet Cong, thinking we were his comrades, had walked up to one of our positions. He calmly stood next to Hawaiian Norman Keoka, who was rolling out his poncho with his back turned, and tried to strike up a conversation. Since we had no one with us who could speak Vietnamese, Keoka knew something was wrong. As the VC continued to jabber, Keoka leaped for his M-16. At that instant, the enemy soldier realized his mistake, pushed Keoka over and ran onto the roadway.
Not wanting to chance shooting into the perimeter, Keoka fired several shots skyward and yelled, “Gook! Gook!”
Instinctively, I clutched the claymore detonator. As the VC sprinted past, I fired the device. The explosion spewed shrapnel, dirt, rocks, and twigs into the air, covering half the platoon with debris. Someone spit, then yelled, “Who the fuck blew that claymore?” I didn’t answer because I knew I had not placed it correctly.
The intruder hotfooted past our last position where Silig stood ready with his machine gun. A burst of four rounds was the only shots fired because when he stood up to hip-shoot, he jerked the weapon, breaking the gun belt off. By the time he got the weapon back together, the lucky VC had vanished.
Our relaxed attitude not only cost us an easy kill but the subsequent ruckus gave our position away. We stayed on 50% alert all night in case the VC came back with his friends. Fortunately, no one showed. At f
irst light we conducted a token search of the area but found nothing; we couldn’t even locate any tracks. That VC earned the nickname “Supergook” because his luck made him impossible to kill.
The next morning we were airlifted to the coastal sand dunes between Camp Evans and the South China Sea to join the rest of the company. The dunes were once home for the native fisherman, but the war had driven them inland to the relative safety of larger villages and hamlets. More recently, the dunes region had become a VC refuge where high concentrations of booby traps were discovered. We were sent there to find out why.
The landscape of the region was a mix of large patches of thick underbrush paralleled by the wind blown dunes. Clumps of tall trees grew where the sub-soil could support them. A network of footpaths was the only means of quick travel through each green oasis. There was no sign of civilians; only the scattered remains of destroyed concrete buildings gave testimony to a life that once was. On some of the walls, the VC painted warnings, “DEATH TO AMERICANS” and “VIETNAM WILL CONQUER.” We regarded the threats as feeble attempts to scare us off.
My squad took the first point. We traveled less than 200 feet before Howard Siner found a trip-wired hand grenade. We backed away and exploded it with a rope hook in case it was a double booby trap. After that, we doubled the point with one man concentrating on the ground and a second man on his butt with his eye out for VC. As we progressed, the traps became easier to locate. We didn’t know if we were being led into something or if the traps were set out to conceal an enemy retreat.
Squads from each platoon broke off to follow minor paths leading into the brush on both sides of the main trail. As we searched the terrain, booby trap locations were plotted on a map to see if a pattern developed. If it did, we didn’t spot it. In just over two days our company discovered twenty-six various type and sizes of booby traps. Our only conclusion was that the VC used the area for booby trap training. We never made enemy contact and, miraculously, the traps hurt no one. Captain Hartwell wisely decided there were too may traps for us to safely maneuver and that we should leave the VC to their fun in the dunes.
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