Our “rebellion” lasted less than an hour. We made a stand, then gradually rejoined our units. One of the men summed it up with a resigned grumble, “Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin.’” We knew we weren’t going to change anything by allowing ourselves the luxury of compassion. In the violent world of combat we had learned more about death than life, so the only thing to do was continue numbing ourselves and soldiering on.
When I returned to my platoon, I found that we had a new leader, 2nd Lieutenant Alexander Cramer. But before meeting him, Silig took me aside to warn me about Cramer’s erratic behavior.
“You are not going to believe this new Lieutenant,” Silig began, noticeably concerned. “He’s a nut case who never stops babbling about killing Gooks. The first thing he did was to put the machine gun on LP to “surprise the enemy.” He didn’t care that the LP is supposed to be manned by rifleman for early warning; he wanted offense.”
“Where the hell was Wakefield?” I asked, irritated at Cramer’s audacity. “He’s supposed to stop shit like this.”
“Wakefield is too busy sucking-up to make any waves. Besides, Cramer is the real problem. He also tried to RIF over too big an area in thick vegetation. Two men got disoriented and were lost for nearly an hour. They were pretty shaken up when we finally found them but Cramer shrugged it off as a strategy lesson.”
“I just don’t understand why cherry officers have such giant egos,” I said angrily, shaking my head. “They establish themselves as war authorities before experiencing it and without getting advice from who’s been fighting it. No one should ever be put in danger because of some gung-ho Lifer. The time has come to stop that kind of bullshit.” Silig nodded in agreement as I went to confront our new platoon leader.
Lieutenant Cramer motioned me to wait while he talked on the radio. At first glance, he appeared to be an ordinary guy about twenty-five years old with average stature. While watching him speak, I noticed his not so ordinary presence. He reminded me of the comic strip character “Pigpen,” disheveled and dirty from head to toe. But Cramer wasn’t just dirty like the rest of us; he was filthy from falling in the mud so much. Both bootlaces were untied and his extra-long pants belt hung loose. Ink from a leaky ballpoint pen had found its way from his hands to the side of his face. The slob picture was complete as he constantly scratched his head.
When Cramer finished talking on the radio, he took two steps toward me then tripped on a vine and fell flat on his face. Rather than stand up where he fell, Cramer crawled to a small tree to pull himself upright. He casually dusted himself off as if his appearance and clumsiness were routine. Though I planned to form my own opinion about Lieutenant Cramer, this first impression left me agreeing with Silig’s warning of incompetence. I wondered how such a klutz ever made it through Officer’s Candidate School.
“I understand you’re the senior NCO in the platoon,” he said, shaking my hand. “Why then aren’t you the platoon sergeant?”
“I like being a squad leader,” I answered rigidly. “That way I know who I can trust.”
“That’s admirable, but the only way you’ll ever be considered for advancement is to have additional leadership skills on your military resume.”
“Save it for someone else, Lieutenant. The only advancement I want is back in Connecticut.”
“Ah, home,” he sighed wistfully. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Reno, Nevada. That’s my hometown. I want everyone to call me Reno because that’s my radio call name; it makes for a good nickname, too. I’m surprised you guys don’t have nicknames for each other. That’s just not right. As I get to know each of you better I’ll come up with some nicknames that fit your characters.”
“Lieutenant,” I interrupted, trying to stop his chatter.
“It’s Reno,” he shot back. “Call me Reno.”
“No way, Sir,” I replied angrily. “Making up nicknames for the men is like taking away their identity. Some guys already have nicknames given to them by their friends, not assigned by a Cherry Lieutenant.”
“If that’s your way of reminding me I’m the new guy, you can keep your opinions to yourself,” he scolded, then quickly changed the subject. “I don’t want our relationship to start off on the wrong foot, so we’ll skip the nicknames for now. Instead, I want you to know how I plan to inflict the maximum number of casualties onto the NVA, be it physical or psychological. The first thing we need to do is make significant enemy contact. Not just a crummy firefight or ambush, but close hand-to-hand combat. You see, I hold a black belt in Karate, which allows me to legally kill a man with my bare hands.”
“Lieutenant!” I nearly screamed, shocked by his outrageous remarks. “Do you know what you’re saying? Do you realize how crazy this sounds?”
“Wait, just hear me out,” he continued excitedly. “Every time we kill a bunch of Gooks, we’ll stick one of these calling cards into their mouths.” Cramer handed me an ace-of-spades deck of cards reading, “Death Dealers, Company A, Reno’s Raiders: NVA and VC Extermination, 24-Hour Service.”
This man was fucking nuts. No doubt about it. I was too stunned to respond. No officer in any Army could be as moronic as Lieutenant Cramer. My only hope was that he was just trying to impress me. A black belt in Karate? Death calling cards? These were just the tip of the iceberg regarding his bizarre ideas.
“The Gooks hardly attack platoon-size patrols anymore,” he continued, “because they know they’ll get their asses kicked. So we’re going to break down into six-man recon teams to spread ourselves over a larger area. That will give us more chances to ambush the NVA and pick up some easy kills.”
Easy kills? I thought I had seen and heard it all. Cramer had to be the world’s biggest asshole. There was no way I could sit back and listen to any more of his lunacy. “Lieutenant Cramer,” I began firmly, trying to stay calm, “there are a few things you obviously don’t understand. First of all, we cannot and will not change our names to satisfy your nickname hang-up. It’s just too confusing. Everyone already knows who the other guy is; you’re the one who doesn’t. Second is no such thing as an ‘easy kill.’ The Gooks have guns and bullets just like us, and they are not going to die for their country without a fight. And as far as using karate on the enemy, the first time you try any of that shit, we’ll be sending you home in a body bag. This is not a training exercise and we are not making a movie. We’re dealing with real life and real death. This is a not a game!” When I finished I just stood there, glaring into his eyes.
Cramer cocked his head back with a confused look.
“I don’t like your attitude, Sergeant. Need I remind you that you are speaking to a commissioned officer of the United States Army?”
“It doesn’t matter who I’m talking to,” I responded in disgust. “You Lifers are all the same. For once, I’d like to see the war-dogs listen to us Grunts. We’re the ones who get your precious body count.”
Cramer didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face told me we shared the same disbelief about each other. It was the only thing we had in common.
“Before you do anything,” I continued, “get rid of those stupid ace-of-spades cards. If we start planting them on dead bodies, the Gooks will do something worse to GI corpses. In other parts of Vietnam it’s escalated to a mutilation contest. We cut off an ear and they cut off a pecker. There’s no end to it!” Lieutenant Cramer was getting annoyed but I didn’t care. He needed to be educated and it was obvious that no one else had stepped forward to do it. “And another thing,” I said doggedly, “those six-man recon teams are nothing but suicide squads. North Vietnam is less than ten miles away and that means lots of Gooks, up close and personal. A small enemy force can easily wipe out those six men. You’re asking us to do what a LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) team does, but we are not trained for that kind of duty.”
“That’s enough Wiknik!” Cramer finally shouted. “I call the shots! I determine the tactics! If you think being an old-timer gives you the right to run thi
s platoon, then you will find my brand of military discipline very harsh. I will not permit malcontents to undermine my command. Do I make myself clear?”
“Like I said before, you guys are all the same. You can get yourself killed if you want, but I’m not going to let anything happen to the men on account of your sorry ideas. I’m going to do whatever it takes for us to survive—even if it means leaving here as a Private.” I knew my remarks would forever taint our relationship, possibly putting us in greater jeopardy. But I had to attempt to wake up Cramer to the realities of war for the sake of the men under his command.
The next day, I was not surprised when Cramer ignored my protests by dividing us into six-man ambush and recon teams. Cramer put me in his group. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on me, but I hoped he wanted me along for my experience.
We didn’t speak to each other for nearly two days, which made the men uneasy. Cramer finally broke the silence when we came upon a hole in the ground that appeared to be an opening to an enemy tunnel.
“Sergeant Wiknik,” he began, staring at me with a sly grin, “since you’re the smallest man here, I think you should explore the hole.”
“No thanks,” I answered coolly, as if what he asked was meaningless.
“It won’t be that bad. We’ll tie a rope onto your leg so your body can be dragged out if anything happens while you’re down there.”
“I’m not going in there,” I insisted. “The Army has trained teams for exploring tunnels, and none of us are qualified. We won’t know what to look for.”
“You are a member of the best trained army in the world,” Cramer snapped, furious at my insubordination in front of the men. “You should be able to perform any task presented to you.”
I didn’t answer Cramer. Instead, we had a staring standoff until a new guy, PFC Daigle, broke it up by volunteering for the job. Cramer reluctantly conceded.
We armed Daigle with a .45 handgun, a flashlight, and a rope tied to his leg. He crawled down the opening and had wiggled perhaps twenty feet when we heard the dull thuds of several pistol shots. Before we could pull the rope, Daigle flew out of the hole like a human cannonball. He stood on the surface, trembling like he’d seen a ghost. It turned out that Daigle was claustrophobic but too ashamed to admit it. He volunteered to go into the tunnel just to end my standoff with Cramer.
The tunnel was a NVA bomb shelter. Once inside Daigle came face-to-face with a large snake that must have fallen in a few days earlier. When the snake came after Daigle, he emptied the .45 into it. Daigle was so terrified he didn’t even remember how he had turned around to scoot back out. Since no one else was willing to go into the hole, and we weren’t sure if the snake was dead, a grenade was tossed down to finish it off.
The snake episode completely psyched-out Daigle, turning him into an emotional wreck. The only thing he talked about afterward was how to get out of the infantry. For several days he bugged Cramer about getting him reassigned, but Cramer wouldn’t even consent to granting a short rest in the rear. We were sure Daigle had lost his mind when he openly fantasized about shooting himself or wandering off to take his chances as a prisoner of the NVA. Eventually, Daigle quit the crazy talk when he worked out a deal with Cramer who, to our surprise, agreed to send him back to Camp Evans. When the next supply chopper came in, Daigle said his good-byes as if he would be gone forever. Little did we know, he was leaving the field for good.
After the helicopter flew away, Cramer giggled loudly. “That Daigle is such a dope,” he boasted, as we gathered around. “I told him the only way to get out of the infantry was to sign up for two more years of service. So he’s going in to meet with a re-enlistment officer and I’ll get the credit if he goes through with it.”
We were shocked that anyone could stoop so low. “What did we ever do to deserve someone like you?” I asked, as the others nodded in agreement. “Daigle wasn’t thinking straight and you took advantage of him.”
“What’s the big deal?” Cramer asked, honestly wondering why we did not share his view. “He was no good to us anyway. The guy was a basket case.”
The men looked at Cramer as if he was the enemy. That’s when I made up my mind that somehow, before my tour is over, I was going to find a way to ruin him. No one as despicable as Cramer deserved a command.
During the next two days we painstakingly followed a ridge trail looking for an ambush site with an escape route. The path wound in all directions and often passed through small clearings, perfect for an enemy trail watcher to keep tabs on our movement. To our surprise, we found several pieces of US military equipment sloppily hidden in the bushes alongside the trail. Not knowing if they were abandoned by fleeing GIs or planted by the NVA, we avoided them for fear of booby traps.
We finally located a spot that gave us a clear view of the trail in both directions and, if needed, we had an escape route down the side of a ridge. Technically, we had a good ambush site. The problem was the weather. Fog and rain moved in, forcing us to be extra alert because the steady dripping of rainwater masked other sounds. After dark, the dripping made things worse. We would not know if the enemy approached unless they tripped over us. Those conditions made for some long nervous hours. Luckily, the NVA never showed.
On the third morning the sun broke through, warming the air and drying us out. We had just finished morning chow when the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches caught our attention. The noise came from the small valley below us. We quickly positioned ourselves for action and concentrated on the foliage for a glimpse of movement.
“The NVA likes those valleys,” Cramer whispered knowingly. “There must be a whole platoon digging in down there.”
“Sounds like monkeys to me,” I remarked nonchalantly.
“Monkeys?” Cramer blurted, spinning his head around. “Are you crazy? No wild animal makes that kind of noise.”
“Last month a band of monkeys foraging toward our position sounded exactly like that.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Cramer shot back, trying hard to prove his competency. “That commotion is from the Gooks. I’m calling for an air strike.”
Cramer contacted a Forward Air Controller who refused to authorize air support for noise in the trees. Instead, he had to settle for artillery. Cramer’s request for fire support was surprisingly accurate. It took only two shots for the battery to hit the target. As the first rounds exploded, blood curdling screams and weird howls echoed from the impact area. Cramer was ecstatic. He must have thought he was wiping out an NVA division as he yelled into the radio, “Fire for effect! Fire for effect!”
Sure enough, as the barrage continued, a pack of monkeys swarmed through the trees past our position. We just shook our heads. Realizing his mistake, Cramer called for a cease-fire. The artillery commander radioed back to question the abrupt stop, but Cramer was afraid to tell the truth. He said the NVA troops apparently evacuated the area after the first rounds. Captain Hartwell, who was listening on his radio, ordered us to check the impact area for bodies. We didn’t bother.
“I told you so,” I said gloating. “Once in a while give us some credit for surviving so long.” Cramer sat pitifully embarrassed and did not acknowledge my remarks.
In the afternoon we moved to a hilltop with a commanding view of a trail that zigzagged through the valley below. This gave us the chance to employ our own style of trail watching. Each man took turns carefully inspecting the terrain through binoculars. After a few hours, one of the men spotted a lone NVA soldier sitting beneath a distant tree. He was too far away for a rifle shot so Cramer called for a Cobra gunship. Helicopter pilots must love “Gook in the open” radio calls because a chopper showed within minutes.
Cramer verbally guided the gunship to where we had last seen the soldier. When the NVA broke from his cover, the pilot shot him to pieces.
“There’s no stopping us now,” Cramer boasted proudly. “We’re gonna make them Gooks eat lead.”
“Eat lead?” Freddie Shaw whisper
ed in disbelief. “Is this guy for real?”
We came to wonder why our platoon was cursed with Lieutenant Cramer. If any of us believed in evil spirits, the day’s events were a bad omen: it was Halloween.
In early November, the 38-day US Marine deployment was complete, transferring responsibility for the DMZ region to the South Vietnamese 1st ARVN Division. Accordingly, 101st units began phase-out operations in preparation for their next assignments.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant? Can’t you tell the difference between the enemy and a fucking pig?”
CHAPTER 9
Guns and Chain Saws
Back in the United States, opposition to the war was gaining strength. On November 15, 1969, one month after Vietnam Moratorium Day, America’s capital was the scene of the biggest peace rally yet. An estimated 250,000 demonstrators gathered at the foot of the Washington Monument for “The March on Washington, DC.” As big as this rally was, four days later the nation’s attention was diverted from the war to outer space where the Apollo 12 astronauts successfully completed the second moon landing of the year.
To the average Grunt, neither event was cause for celebration. America’s passions and priorities were clearly going in opposite directions. We knew that neither technology nor protest fervor would get us home any sooner. Our best hope for leaving Vietnam alive lay with our ability to ignore the outside world and continue sharpening the tools of our trade.
After leaving the DMZ, my company was supposed to go to Eagle Beach for a well-deserved three-day stand down. An intense tropical rainstorm canceled those plans and sent us instead to Camp Evans, where the only recreational facilities consisted of the outdoor movie theater and the tiny EM Club. The lack of organized recreation did not bother us because we were just as happy staying dry and getting drunk. However, since our superiors did not consider that kind of activity to be either recuperative or productive, we were sent back to the field after only one night under a roof, despite the persistent rain.
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