Nam Sense

by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.

  The company assembled for extraction on a grassy knoll below one of the abandoned buildings. We spread out and relaxed while waiting for the choppers to pick us up. Lennie Person casually walked toward the bushes to get out of the sun when Siner called out.

  “Lennie stop! Look at your feet!”

  Just inches to his left were the triple trigger pins of an anti-personnel mine sticking out of the ground. Lennie almost turned white, looked skyward, and leaped backward so fast he could have set a record for the reverse broad jump.

  “What the hell is that thing?” a shaking Lennie asked.

  “It’s a Bouncing Betty,” Siner said knowingly. “The mine is activated when one of those little prongs is moved. Then a small explosive propels the main charge to a waist-high altitude, sending shrapnel into a killing zone impossible to escape even by diving to the ground. I’m just surprised that a World War II mine like that would be found out here.”

  As the news of the Bouncing Betty circulated, we were ordered to stay within the borders of the perimeter. If someone had to relieve himself, it was to be done where we stood. Unfortunately, not everyone heeded the warning.

  As if part of a slow-motion movie, I watched as a blond-haired GI walked from the perimeter edge toward the destroyed building. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped through the doorway, tripping a booby-trapped artillery round. The entire structure disintegrated in a giant explosion, belching dust, stones, and gore in every direction. A medic rushed up and leaped over what was left of the walls. He turned left, then right, spun around several times then slowly walked away with his head hung low. There was nothing left to save; even the GI’s boots were gone. The poor guy had completely vaporized. As we brushed the dust off our clothes, someone nearby vomited while frantically struggling to get his shirt off. We didn’t know what was wrong until we discovered that tiny bits of flesh from the disintegrated GI had splattered on us. It was disgusting to pick the pieces off. A distant voice muttered, “Assholes and booby traps. Some people never learn.”

  The saddest part of this GI’s death was the lack of anything to send home except a memory. As we returned to our positions, eyes darted back and forth but no one spoke. Each man felt sullen but in the back of our minds was the same thought, “I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

  We left the dunes for a return to Eagle Beach, though this visit was not for a stand down. This assignment was to guard American construction companies who were expanding the harbor. Our function was to protect their machinery and equipment from possible sabotage by VC sympathizers. A week of guard duty in a relatively secure area sounded like a good assignment and might even be downright enjoyable. It was not.

  On the first night, Scoggins and I were assigned to the deck of a dredging ship anchored 1000 feet offshore in Da Nang Bay. We were the only Americans on board along with a dozen Vietnamese crew members who kept the dredge pumps going during the night. If they decided to sabotage something, we could not tell the difference because we had no idea of how a dredge worked.

  “Are we supposed to watch out for the crewmen?” I jokingly asked. “Or are we watching for an attack from the ocean?”

  “How should I know?” chided Scoggins. “Maybe the VC are expected to swim out here from shore. But if anything does happen we’re on our own because we don’t have a radio.”

  “We better get some rest,” I suggested. “There’s a wooden picnic table around the corner you can stretch out on. I’ll take first guard.”

  As I gazed out at the ocean, the quiet hum of the pumps and the gentle swaying of the ship lulled me into dreaming about home. I had just placed my helmet on the deck when out of no where I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Hearing no one approach, I spun around, accidentally kicking the helmet overboard. Standing before me was a Vietnamese worker, clad only in sneakers, shorts, and a silly safari helmet. He smiled as he leaned over the railing to look into the water that had just swallowed my headgear. I was angry and started to walk away. As I moved, he came in close and tried to put his arm around me.

  “Cut it out!” I yelled, pushing him away. “Get the fuck away from me!”

  The worker ran off, disappearing around a corner. Scoggins woke up and rushed over to see what happened.

  “I think the crew is queer,” I stammered. “One of them just tried to get a little too friendly with me.”

  “Maybe they’ve been on this ship too long, and they consider us fresh meat,” joked Scoggins.

  “Ugh! Don’t even say that! They have each other to play with. I’ll just stick with girls if you don’t mind.” We decided to pull guard together hidden among the ship’s shadows. It made for a long night, but we survived without further incident.

  In the morning, we went ashore to get some sleep before the next night’s guard duty but decided instead to visit the nearby town. The civilian area was supposed to be off-limits, but there were US military personnel in the town; we decided to go, too.

  The bay area was densely populated with townspeople living as poorly as the villagers of Phong Dien. Their dirt floor shanty houses, made from discarded packing crates, sat almost on top of each other. There was no plumbing and sewage flowed in an open ditch alongside the pathway. It was a depressing sight and the stench was awful. As we walked along, a young boy standing in a doorway called out to us in Pidgin English.

  “Hey GI, come here. I got what you want.”

  We walked to the front of the shanty.

  “You want numba one boom-boom?” he asked. “We got. My sister is a virgin and wants to make love with you.”

  “A virgin?” Scoggins asked grinning.

  “Yes,” he continued. “Mama-san very sick, cannot support family. You make love to my sister. Only five dolla MPC.”

  “Five bucks for both of us?” I asked hopefully.

  “What? You crazy?” he answered pointing. “Five dolla for you and five dolla for you.”

  I pulled Scoggins aside, “What do you think, should we do it?”

  “Let’s go for it. I have six months to go and if I get killed without getting laid, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Okay, but you go first. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “You never got laid?”

  “Sure I did, but not with a prostitute…with my girl,” I reminisced, “before I left to come over here…sex was my going away present.”

  “That’s a good one. Do you think she’s gonna wait for you?”

  “What makes you think she won’t?” I asked, irritated at his insinuation.

  “Are you kidding?” he asked in disbelief. “Girls back in the World got better things to do than sit at home waiting for us. They get lonely too, and there’s no shortage of horny guys with draft deferments ready to take them out. My girl already quit waiting for me, she sent me a ‘Dear John’ two months ago. Come on, anything is better than beating your meat.”

  We paid the fee and Scoggins went first. I waited outside, fantasizing about the sexual delights I would soon experience. Ten minutes ticked by before Scoggins finally came out.

  “How was it?” I eagerly asked.

  “Okay,” he said, running his fingers through his hair and grinning, “but I don’t think she’s a virgin. She wasn’t very shy.”

  “Did you use a rubber?”

  “You bet I did. I ain’t gonna get Black VD (venereal disease).”

  “Black VD—what’s that?” I asked, cringing.

  “That’s when your balls turn black and your cock falls off.”

  “Bullshit,” I sneered as Scoggins laughed.

  The boy came out and pointed at me, “You next GI.”

  I stepped into the building where a portly middle-aged woman known simply as Mama-san greeted me. I supposed she was the boy’s mother. Mama-san did not speak or show emotion. She waved her hands directing me towards an adjoining room separated by a blanket over the doorway. I entered a cubicle and was surprised by the sparseness of the interior. The walls were simply the insi
de of the packing crates that made up the shanty. Furnishings were skimpy; a small bed, a wooden folding chair, and a braided rug. A foggy plastic sheet serving as a window flapped with the wind. The room smelled.

  The girl sat on the chair with her legs crossed, smoking a cigarette and looking at a magazine. She had a large bath towel wrapped loosely around her. I guessed her age to be about eighteen. She was slender, with straight black hair but not especially attractive.

  “Take clothes off,” she commanded without glancing up from her magazine. “You want rubber?”

  “Yeah…sure,” I answered timidly.

  She called out to Mama-san and an arm appearing from behind the hanging blanket handed her a condom. I quietly undressed as she put the magazine down. The girl glanced over just long enough to be sure I was naked. Then she removed the towel and crawled onto the bed. Still smoking, she handed me the condom saying, “No suckie, only fuckie.”

  That blew my mind. Nothing was happening like I had imagined. Her pimp brother hustled us, her mother in the next room handed her a rubber, and I’m her second trick in less than fifteen minutes. This unprofessional setup so unnerved me that I began fumbling with the condom, unrolling it like it was a toy. She chided me with a sarcastic laugh when she saw that I didn’t know what I was doing.

  “You not need rubber,” she said. “I no got VD.”

  “Good,” I said, pulling the condom off until it snapped in my hand. She shook her head and laughed again, probably realizing I was an amateur. I climbed onto the bed and asked her to put out the cigarette.

  “No way, GI,” she said firmly. “I smoke, you make love.”

  I guessed that kissing would be out too. So much for romance.

  I satisfied myself but hardly enjoyed it. As soon as I had finished, the girl nudged me aside and pulled a basin of water out from under the bed. She squatted over it, giving herself a hand douche. It should not have struck me as strange after all I had seen from this family run business. I dressed quickly and dashed outside to join Scoggins.

  I was too embarrassed to look at him. I felt I had just dishonored my family. I was also afraid that my girlfriend would somehow find out what I had done. I just wanted to get far away from there. As we were leaving, Mama-san and the boy yelled at me.

  “Hey GI, you numba ten!” they shouted. “You owe one dolla for rubber!”

  “Bullshit!” I shot back. “I didn’t use it.”

  “No matter. What GI will use it now? You pay!”

  “I ain’t paying nothing. I never got my five dollars worth. That bitch wouldn’t put out her cigarette or kiss me or anything.”

  “Kiss you?” Scoggins asked, rolling his eyes as if I was nuts. “Are you out of your mind? You don’t kiss a prostitute!”

  The boy picked up several baseball-sized rocks and motioned as if to throw them at us. I didn’t want any trouble so I tossed at dollar at his feet. He scooped it up and ran back to the shack. After that, we decided to stay out of town and stick to our sentry duties on the dredge. We wondered what was worse, being killed by someone in the jungle, queer-raped by a deranged worker on a ship, or attacked by a rock-throwing adolescent pimp who had just sold us his sister.

  For each of three nights our platoon members were spread around the bay guarding everything from air conditioners to pipe insulation. Eventually, we rejoined for a platoon-size guard duty at a US Navy fuel depot located on a river channel that snaked through Da Nang. To get to the depot, a US Navy utility ship motored us up the waterway.

  On both sides of the channel, homes built on wooden stilts hung out over the water. As we rounded a bend we spotted Vietnamese kids swimming in the river. When they saw us coming, the kids yelled a warning to each other and quickly scampered from the water. I could not understand why they were so afraid. We weren’t going fast, the ship was not close to shore, and no one threatened them. I supposed the ship’s wake made for difficult swimming. I was wrong. The kids were scared for good reason. The ship’s pilot and signalman spotted a slow swimmer and tossed a concussion grenade at him. Concussion grenades are used to stun enemy soldiers without killing them and are most effective in tight quarters like bunkers, tunnels, and underwater.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” I yelled at the signalman in disbelief. “Those are just kids! What have they done to deserve that?!”

  “Sergeant,” the pilot calmly answered, “don’t you know that those kids are the future VC? We’re just letting them know who’s in charge here.”

  “You guys are sadistic,” I shot back. “We’re supposed to win the hearts and minds of the people, not turn them against us.” They shook their heads as if I was crazy. With attitudes like theirs, we deserved to be hated and I was embarrassed to be a part of it.

  A few minutes later the ship dropped us off at the depot. The tiny supply base was about the size of two football fields. A thirty-foot high chain-link fence enclosed three sides. The dockside of the compound had no protective barrier at all, just the channel. One hundred feet beyond the fence, Vietnamese homes were crowded together. It looked like a middle-class neighborhood because the houses were permanent concrete buildings and not the packing crate variety. At night, some of the residents congregated outside the fence beneath huge floodlights until the 10:00 p.m. curfew.

  The depot was in a safe area that had not seen a VC or act of sabotage in nearly a year. The area is protected by weekly rotations of infantry platoons that needed a rest but not a vacation. Our guard posts and sleeping quarters were located in eight huge bunkers strategically placed throughout the compound. Each bunker had two fighting positions and accommodations for up to ten men.

  The depot itself consisted of three 50,000-gallon fuel tanks and four US Navy buildings; a barracks, an operations center, a supply room and a mess hall. Each night around 8:00 p.m. the mess hall converted into a liquor bar.

  On our first night, there was a going-away party for a homeward bound sailor. We were invited for free snacks and drinks but before that, we had to endure boring speeches about a guy we didn’t know. Not many of our men were interested, but to be sociable I hung around for a few beers.

  At 9:00 p.m. the party quieted down so I went outside to check on the guards. I was surprised to see that most of the bunkers were not occupied. Instead, several men waited in a line near the doorway of the corner bunker.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked the last man.

  “Boom-boom,” he said, pointing to the front of the line. “There’s a whore inside taking on everyone for five bucks a pop.”

  “What?” I asked, stunned at his nonchalance. “How did she get in the compound?”

  “There’s a hole in the fence so the local talent can sneak in and take turns each night.”

  A hole in the fence? I could not believe it. The Navy had their own rotating supply of boom-boom girls? I thought about joining in, because now I was experienced with Vietnamese prostitutes. Unfortunately, I was nearly broke. When I turned to leave, the line had grown longer behind me. I didn’t want to look like a first-timer turned chicken, so I stayed. I thought it might be fun to see what my last two dollars could get me with a five-dollar whore.

  After half an hour, it was my turn. I scooted inside to be nauseated by the stench of sweat and stale beer—and worse. The bunker was dimly lit with incense-coated candles that didn’t help the odor much. The girl was about twenty with a homely scowl that made her look like she had crawled through the fence one time too many. Her arms and legs had bruises and her neck bore small scars. She stood in the middle of the bunker with a blanket drooped over her shoulders.

  “Five dolla,” she demanded with an outstretched hand. “You pay now.”

  “Not so fast,” I shot back. “Don’t I get to see what I’m paying for?”

  “Okay wise guy.” She dropped the blanket and struck a pose. “You pay now!”

  “Uh…turn around for me.”

  She rotated but would not turn completely around.

  “N
ow turn the other way.”

  She turned but was getting aggravated.

  When I said, “Now bend over,” she reached for a baseball bat carried for people like me. As soon as I saw the bat I ran out the door. She charged after me yelling a combination of profanities. She was still naked and stopped just outside the door. The men in line gave her a few catcalls and sent a few in my direction as well. They were afraid that if I got her pissed-off they would not get laid. But she calmed down and went back to work. Since the free show did not cost me anything, I certainly got my money’s worth, but I could not understand how anyone would be willing to pay for sloppy sixteenths or seventeenths. Those guys must have been in the field too long. At least when Scoggins and I had our prostitute, I only had to contend with sloppy seconds—and he had worn a condom.

  Our platoon stayed at the depot for a week’s worth of bunker sex and booze before returning to the flatlands of Phong Dien.

  “The Army isn’t as heartless as you might think.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Emotional Gauntlet

  Our platoon’s next area of operation was about ten miles northwest of Camp Evans. There we came upon a giant old-growth bamboo thicket where the trees grew fifty feet tall and as much as three inches in diameter. The thicket was eerie because the dense canopy prevented the sun’s rays from ever reaching the ground. Even in broad daylight the thicket was a shaded twilight world. At night it was so dark that even the night creatures stayed away. The trees grew far enough apart to make for easy movement, but the terrain was littered with dry bamboo leaves that crunched when we walked on them. To maintain noise discipline, we brushed the leaves aside to make a series of quiet walking paths to each perimeter position.

  “It’s kind of spooky in here,” Howard Siner whispered, looking cautiously around, “it reminds me of an eclipse of the sun.”