“It reminds me of the enchanted forest in the movie The Wizard of Oz,” I said. “The only thing missing is the flying monkeys.”
“The bamboo is as big as drain pipes,” Dennis Silig added. “I just hope the VC are afraid of places like this, because I sure don’t like it.”
“What the hell are you guys worried about?” chided Stan Alcon. “I don’t mind this bamboo because we can hear anybody coming a thousand feet away. Besides, as bad as you think this is, anything is better than being in the A Shau Valley.” We all nodded in agreement.
Each morning, two six-man teams went on a daylong ambush at a trail junction bordering the thicket. No one ever showed. At sunset, the platoon retreated into the bamboo to ambush any VC who tried walking through it in the dark. No one ever showed up there, either.
On our third night, a frantic radio call came from battalion headquarters ordering us to move to the nearest LZ and prepare for immediate extraction. The entire company was regrouping to intercept a platoon of VC spotted on the outskirts of a village hamlet.
The quickest route to a natural LZ was directly through the thicket and out the other side a half-mile away. Our toughest obstacle was the inky blackness of the bamboo forest. In order for us to proceed without losing anyone, each man held onto the web gear of the man in front of him, forming a human chain. This linked procession voided all noise discipline, so every fifty feet we stopped to listen for sounds other than ours. There were none.
Our advance was too slow to suit Sergeant Krol, so he fired a flare skyward to illuminate the route. It shot through the bamboo canopy and we never saw it again. Krol then fired a second flare parallel to the ground, which provided an instant sight line, but the luminous trail ended abruptly where the flare smacked into a tree. The flare exploded on impact and ignited the dry leaves on fire, providing adequate light to see by. The problem was that if there were any VC around, now they knew our position, and as the fire quickly spread, the smoke rose only a short distance because most of it could not escape through the canopy. To keep from choking on the fumes, we rushed to get out. Just a few hundred feet outside the bamboo was a large natural clearing we could use for an LZ.
After a brief wait, hand-held strobe lights guided five helicopters to our position. The pilots were reluctant to land because from the air they didn’t know what to make of the fire glow under the nearby bamboo. After we convinced the pilots that the situation was under control, all five choppers descended at once. When the helicopters neared the ground, powerful landing lights were turned on, obliterating our night vision. As each slick touched down, we stumbled aboard.
This was our first night ride and we couldn’t see anything until our eyes readjusted to the dark. I wondered how the pilots saw where they were going. I couldn’t even distinguish the bodies of the helicopters flying beside us; I only saw their forward green light and a flashing red taillight. Inside our chopper, the glowing instrument panel cast a pale reflection on our silent faces as we exchanged worried glances over what lay ahead.
When our five helicopters met the choppers carrying the rest of the company, an unseen US Air Force Douglas AC-47 gunship dropped huge parachuted flares to illuminate our synchronized landings. The Air Force gunship, nicknamed “Spooky” or “Puff-The-Magic-Dragon,” is a slow-moving transport plane armed with three multi-barrel electric-driven 7.62mm machine guns, each capable of firing 6,000 rounds per minute. Since every fifth bullet is a tracer, when Spooky is shooting, the plane looks like it is attached to an orange column of fire.
Our descent was quick and the landings were completed without incident. We found ourselves in grassy flatlands dotted with patches of short brush and irregular hedgerows. We promptly formed an assault line nearly a half-mile long with each man ten to twenty feet apart. As many as ten flares were in the air simultaneously, lighting the night skies and our surroundings with a bright amber glow. The flares drifting slowly earthward, causing the shadows to dance about. That made it difficult to determine whether enemy soldiers were lurking out in front of us.
As Spooky lit the way, our assault line moved toward the area where the VC were last seen. We pushed forward at a fast pace, stimulated by the magnitude of the operation and the firepower waiting to be unleashed. If our tactics were successful, the VC would be flushed into the open where they would get cut down by Spooky’s guns.
During the first hour, nervous Cherries fired occasional shots into the shadows though no enemy was sighted. By the time the second hour passed, the operation was obviously a bust. We finally gave up. The helicopters and flares must have scattered the Gooks in so many directions they would never be found.
As the last of the flares died out, the company broke down into platoons, each securing a knoll for the remainder of the night. We tried to pull 50% guard duty, but with all the earlier excitement we were now exhausted, and hardly anyone could stay awake. Besides, since every VC within ten miles already knew where we were, there was little concern that any of them would be stupid enough to try sneaking past our positions. As a result, most guys slept through an uneventful night.
When I awoke at first light, I discovered that of the entire platoon, only two other men were awake. Rather than going around waking everyone, I decided to make enough noise so they would get up on their own. As I dug into my rucksack I noticed movement behind a hedgerow about one hundred feet away. I studied the area and caught glimpses of a Vietnamese man walking toward our position. I was confused by his blatant approach so I crawled over and woke up Krol.
“Sergeant Krol,” I whispered. “There’s a Gook just outside the perimeter and he’s coming this way.”
“He’s probably a farmer,” Krol said, rubbing the sleep from his face. “Go see what he wants.”
“But it’s too early for them to be way out here. The sun isn’t up yet and we’re not that close to the village.”
“Just go see what he wants.”
That sounded nuts to me, so I returned to my position and patted two sleeping men on the shoulder. “Gook,” I said in a quiet urgency. “Wake up.”
With my rifle at the ready position, I watched as the man materialized from behind a bush less than fifty feet away. When I saw an AK-47 rifle slung across his chest, I realized he was a Viet Cong. I froze at that moment of recognition, unsure of why he was being so bold. He glanced casually in my direction, then said something in Vietnamese.
“Chieu Hoi!” I yelled back at him.
He laughed and continued closer, apparently thinking I was one of his comrades making a joke. As several GIs quickly gathered behind me I thought he was coming in to give himself up. When Freddie Shaw yelled, “He’s got a weapon!” the VC halted.
For a split second, the enemy soldier and I made sharp eye contact, both of us realizing that our thinking was wrong. His expression instantly changed from bewilderment to defeat, but rather than be taken prisoner the VC turned to flee. I could not let him escape, so I quickly reeled off a dozen rounds as five men behind me simultaneously opened fire. Even before the VC hit the ground, rifle and machine gun bursts had cut him to ribbons. As his legs gave out, he managed to shoot a volley of six rounds at us. Our maniacal firing continued until somebody threw a hand grenade, engulfing the VC in an explosion of dust and debris. When the shooting stopped, Dennis Silig joked, “Do you think we got him?”
We looked around to make sure none of us had been hit. Everyone was okay. That’s when we spotted Krol crouched behind his rucksack.
“Sergeant Krol,” I called, shocked to see he was hiding from the action. “What are you doing behind your rucksack?”
“He shot at me!”
“He shot at you?” I asked, amazed Krol thought he was in more danger than us. “He shot at all of us. Are you hit?”
“I’m not hit, but there could be more of them!”
“He was alone…you can come out now.”
We were stunned. Had Sergeant Krol turned chicken or was he always a coward finally exposed by this i
ncident. No one dwelled on his behavior. Instead, we rushed to examine our kill. We surrounded the riddled body and silently watched a reflex twitch and a labored last breath. The VC was dead.
“That was the third time in two months an enemy soldier walked up to one of our positions,” Siner remarked.
“Maybe the VC draft requirements have been lowered,” joked Silig. “They’re either stupid, need glasses, or both.”
“The VC aren’t stupid.” I said, knowingly. “We’ve just been lucky that none of us have been blown away. Let’s make a quick patrol of the area to make sure none of his friends are hanging around.”
Finding nothing, we returned to the perimeter where Krol and Lieutenant Petry were searching the body. They found a pouch with documents and maps and a wallet with 800 piasters, which Krol pocketed.
“What about us,” Silig protested. “That money should be split among the shooters.”
“Negative,” Krol answered, shaking his head. “Rank has its privileges. This is one of them.”
Nothing else was said, but now Krol’s complete character had been exposed. He was a coward without a conscience and to the men who realized it, Krol would no longer be trusted or respected. With the excitement over, we returned to our positions for morning chow.
The dead VC was about thirty feet from my position. I looked at the lifeless form, wondering why it didn’t repulse me. I remembered when I could not eat for two days after we killed a VC girl early in my tour. And now there I was, eating while looking at a corpse that wasn’t even stiff yet. My attitude change had been so gradual it went unnoticed. The violence of the war, no longer shocking, had turned me into a hard-core veteran.
We left the VC to rot and humped two miles to a daytime ambush position. In the meantime, the villagers complained to us that the body could not be left where it was because their farmland would be cursed. Late that afternoon we were ordered back to bury the VC. Since my squad did the killing, we were chosen to do the burying.
By the time we returned to the scene the body had bloated from lying under the hot sun all day. Dozens of buzzing and crawling insects magnified the disgusting image. We didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary so we quickly dug a shallow grave, which later turned out to be too small. When the VC was rolled into the hole his feet stuck out. We knew the grave should be deeper and longer but no one wanted to touch the body again. We finished the job with everything buried except his feet. The next morning we received an angry radio call from battalion headquarters about our sloppy burial of the VC. The villagers now complained that his feet sticking out of the ground not only scared the shit out of the local kids, but was an insult to the land.
We returned to the grave site once more. This time we dug up the corpse, which stunk so bad I almost vomited. We slipped the Gook into a body bag. Handling the dead VC for a second time made me feel like death had embedded itself into my hands. It was difficult to shake the sensation. A short time later, a pickup truck arrived to take the body to a more suitable location, probably a mass grave. The entire episode confused me. I thought our job was to kill the enemy, not to conduct burial services for them.
Our next assignment was one of our best ever. We were sent to guard a US Navy Seabee construction site on the banks of the Bo River between Hue City and Camp Evans. The Seabees were rebuilding a two hundred-foot span of railroad bridge that was destroyed six months earlier by VC sappers. It was the kind of guard duty Grunts dream of: hot meals each day, swimming whenever we wanted, and plenty of time to catch up on lost sleep. The rest of our duty was spent lazily watching the local fishermen and other boat traffic on the river. If there were no boats, we turned our attention to the villager’s constant procession along a timeworn path connecting two nearby hamlets.
The Seabee compound was no bigger than a suburban house lot, which made it easy to defend. It had the familiar bunkers and concertina wire, but it also had a forty-foot tall concrete railroad tower. The tower provided such a commanding view of the terrain that a two-man team perched within it was the only daytime defense the compound needed. The only drawback was that we had to send out a daily RIF so any nearby VC knew we were actively patrolling the area.
On one RIF, we were walking in a four-foot deep gully when a sniper shot at us from a nearby hedgerow. The bullet zipped over our heads. We figured the sniper was either on his first mission or just plain stupid, because he pinned us down in a location that offered protection and maneuverability. Lieutenant Petry radioed in the situation as we positioned ourselves for an attack. Just when we were ready to shoot back, Petry told us to hold our fire. It turned out that a squad of ARVNs had mistaken us for a group of enemy soldiers they thought were preparing to launch a daring daylight attack on the village. What assholes. We couldn’t imagine how the ARVNs had confused us with the VC. After that, we returned to the Seabee compound and never sent out another RIF.
A few days later, Siner and I were on guard in the railroad tower. The view of the distant hedgerows and thickets was picturesque, but being on that lookout all day was a drag. To amuse ourselves, we spied on Sergeant Krol, who spent most of the day relaxing in a hammock under a shade tree.
“Just look at that lazy bastard,” I said to Siner. “The only time he gets out of that hammock is to take a leak or fetch something to read.”
“I noticed him twice going to the compound gate,” remarked Siner. “Both times he spoke with a young village boy. I wonder what he’s up to?”
“Probably making a drug deal,” I joked. “Either that, or he’s a VC sympathizer selling secrets to the enemy.”
“Naw, I’ll bet he’s just trying to buy some beer.”
About an hour later, Krol nervously left the compound carrying only his rifle and a bandoleer of ammunition. He walked out to the villager’s trail and waited under a shade tree a few hundred feet away. We wondered aloud what that was all about.
Guessing that Krol was up to no good, I radioed Lieutenant Petry and asked him to come up and see for himself. Just as Petry joined us, a motor scooter carrying a well-dressed Vietnamese man and young woman stopped alongside Krol. They spoke briefly and the woman took a rolled blanket from the scooter and led Krol into the bushes. The man stayed behind to smoke a cigarette. We laughed when we realized Krol’s clandestine meeting was with a pimp and a prostitute.
“Don’t you guys know it isn’t polite to watch someone have sex?” asked Petry.
“But Lieutenant,” I moaned, “Krol is such a jerk that he doesn’t deserve privacy.”
“Not only that,” added Siner, “Krol’s nothing but a hypocrite. He is always preaching to us about avoiding the field whores because they could be working for the VC or have venereal disease. Now he’s going to get laid with one of them.”
“Forget about Krol,” I said excitedly, “I don’t care to see his hairy ass. I want a peek at the girl.”
After the woman spread the blanket out, both her and Krol stripped naked. The three of us fought over the binoculars for a look at the woman, but Krol quickly mounted her, obscuring our view. Less than a minute later, he rolled off.
“Boy that was quick,” commented a laughing Petry. “He dropped his load faster than a B-52.”
We laughed and fought over the binoculars again, but the woman dressed herself in an instant. She was a real pro. Krol watched as she walked away and then got dressed himself. When he stood up to look around, his gaze settled upon the tower—and our reflecting binoculars. It took him a few moments to realize what was happening. His chin dropped when we yelled and waved at him. Krol rushed back to the compound where Lieutenant Petry promptly scolded him. Siner and I added to Krol’s humiliation by telling everyone what we saw, causing snickers, finger pointing, and a further weakening of his already damaged credibility.
Krol’s escapade provided a welcome respite from the war, but the best diversion was always letters from home. GIs depended on the mail because it was our only contact with the outside world. A letter from home tem
porarily distracted us from our miseries. But sometimes the news was bad, delivering problems impossible to deal with over the great distance and through the military bureaucracy. Problems that I felt immune from until my mail turned nightmarish.
It all started innocently. My sister Diane gave birth to a baby girl, making me an uncle for the first time. But no sooner did I become an uncle, when I lost one. My Uncle Jack was only 57 years old when he died in his sleep. Feeling a little sorry for myself because I was unable to say hello to my niece or good-bye to my uncle, I received worse news. Jimmy Manning, a hometown classmate who was also serving in Vietnam, had been killed by enemy gunfire. It was events like those, coupled with the craziness around me that helped produce an emotional numbness. However, that was just the beginning.
A hometown friend and anti-war activist corresponded with me about twice a month. Most of his letters made for interesting reading, but they were nothing to get excited about. However, after attending the Woodstock Music Festival, which boasted peace, love, and hallucinogenic drugs, he wrote to me for the last time. His letter included a distressing verse from a protest song performed at Woodstock about packing boys off for Vietnam so “your boy could come home in a box.” He followed the song with a skull and crossbones sketch. Then splattered red ink over the paper to look like bloodstains. His letter ended with; “The blood on this paper symbolizes the murders committed by the American war machine for which you work. Anyone who willingly participates in an illegal war that kills women and children will also die.”
What a pal. It seems that he got caught up in the protest movement and decided to lay a ton of guilt on me in hopes of somehow ending the war sooner, as if that was supposed to work. I simply could not understand his attitude because I had often written to him describing how much I despised the war. I just wished he directed his anger at the US government instead of me. I never wrote to him again.
About the same time, the two or three letters each week from my girlfriend Mary suddenly stopped. I knew there was no problem with the mail service because I continued to receive letters from my family. Something else had to be wrong. With no mail from my sweetheart I became discouraged and listless.
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