Nam Sense

by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.

  The storm set a record for the region, dumping more than fifty inches of rain during a seven-day period. Since we didn’t dare attempt crossing the flooded terrain, our daytime defensive position became a permanent ambush site. As successive torrents deluged the AO, we were as miserable as livestock trapped in a muddy pen.

  The Brass were concerned that the seven days of rain may have allowed the enemy to advance their infantry and mortars closer to Camp Evans in preparation for an attack. To counter this perceived threat, and to create a buffer between the mountains and Camp Evans, a new artillery firebase was ordered built. Located atop a barren bluff only two miles west of the base camp, Firebase Jack would be my company’s new command post.

  Two days into the construction, a VC sniper took several potshots at a helicopter ferrying building supplies. This first sign of the enemy quickly changed my platoon’s mission from static defense to roving offense. Unfortunately, the low scrub brush and open rolling hills allowed the enemy to easily evade our patrols. To effectively pursue the VC, we moved during the pre-dawn hours to likely avenues of enemy approach, where we waited patiently in daylong ambushes. No one ever showed.

  The unseen enemy and the lousy weather overshadowed the frustration of long, dull hours of lying in wait. As the storm wound down, there were rain showers everyday, sometimes heavy, and sometimes light, with only rare glimpses of the sun. Even these breaks in the clouds were never long enough to dry our clothes and equipment. After dark it was worse. We were so cold from being wet that some of the men slept huddled together for body warmth. Each day of rain caused morale and alertness to dip dangerously low, so we increased our patrols just to stay active. One squad went out in the morning; a different squad went at noon; and a third in the late afternoon. Each patrol returned with the same report: no significant signs of enemy activity.

  However, we were finding an abundance of wild boar tracks. The scrub brush and rolling terrain outside Firebase Jack was ideal habitant for the boars. This quick-footed beast can weigh more than two hundred pounds and looks ferocious with woolly hair and long sharp tusks. Though the animal was not generally considered a threat to humans, I was not going to test that notion if I came face to face with one. The boars were given the same treatment as an enemy soldier.

  A few nights later on guard duty I detected movement in a nearby gully. It was a boar. Initially, I was just going to shoot it, but instead I recognized this as a perfect opportunity to rattle Lieutenant Cramer. I woke the men in my position and told them we were going to kill the boar while trying to make it look like we were under attack.

  As the animal continued to approach, it stopped to sniff the human scent on a claymore mine. That’s when I squeezed the detonator.

  KA-BOOM!

  Though the blast almost certainly killed the boar, we fired our M-16s and threw grenades to simulate a real battle. Believing this was an actual firefight, the positions to our left and right started firing as well. After the shooting stopped, Cramer crawled to my position for a report.

  “What’s down there?” he whispered excitedly. “Gooks? How many?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” I answered gravely. “It looked like a Gook trying to sneak up on us.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “I think so,” I said confidently. “After blowing the claymore we fired up the area pretty good. I didn’t see anything moving after that.”

  “Way to go,” Cramer said as he patted me on the back, elated by the prospect of a kill. “Since we already gave our position away, I’ll pop a flare to see if anything is moving.”

  As the flare shot skyward, the flickering light made the blood splattered hulk indistinguishable as man or beast.

  “All right!” Cramer cheered. “A dead Gook! We’ll wait until daybreak to check him out in case he was able to booby-trapped himself. In the meantime, I’m calling this action in.”

  “Good idea,” I encouraged him. “The Colonel will love it.” This was too good to be true. In the morning our battalion commander will come out to verify the body count and instead see our gung-ho Lieutenant for the asshole he really is.

  As soon as it was light enough to safely see, Cramer hustled out a squad to view the kill. When he approached the boar, he glanced at it as though it was an innocent victim of the previous night’s firefight and continued searching for the enemy body. Eventually, Cramer returned to the impact area and gazed down at the carcass. His mind raced as his eyes darted from man to man. Finally, Cramer’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened when he realized what had happened during the night.

  “A pig!” he screamed at me. “You killed a fucking pig!”

  “It looked like a Gook to me,” I shrugged.

  “It looked like a Gook?!” he bellowed, while charging to my position. “I called in a pig as a dead Gook!”

  “Maybe it was a Hog Cong,” I grinned, as some of the men laughed. “Next time be sure of what we’ve killed before you call it in.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch! You knew it was a pig all along, didn’t you?!” I just smiled knowingly in reply.

  Just then we heard the faint whirling thump-thump of Colonel Dynamo’s approaching helicopter. Cramer lurched forward, cranking his head skyward.

  “The Colonel’s coming in!” yelled the RTO.

  “Noooooo!” Cramer shrieked. “Call him back! Tell him it’s a mistake! Tell him the VC got away!”

  It was too late. A smoke grenade had already been popped, signaling the location for the chopper to land. The entire platoon snickered as Cramer ran frantically through the perimeter trying to figure out what to do. But there would be no escape. The helicopter landed and Colonel Dynamo leaped out with a triumphant smile.

  “Good morning gentlemen!” he heartily greeted us. “Where are the vanquished?”

  Cramer perspired as he weakly pointed down the gully at the mangled carcass. The Colonel’s smile faded as he looked long and hard at the boar. Cramer stood motionless staring at the ground until the Colonel turned to him.

  “Last night,” the Colonel slowly snarled with his head cocked sideways, “my RTO woke me because you said you had engaged the enemy and had at least one kill. So I came out to confirm the body count and what do I find? I find that you killed a goddamn pig! What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant?! Can’t you tell the difference between the enemy and a fucking pig?”

  “Uh…er…I,” Cramer sputtered, as the Colonel continued belittling him.

  “I will not tolerate any officer who hallucinates in the dark. If you don’t know how to recognize the enemy, dead or alive, then you need a crash course on the subject. Maybe I should send you to the Ho Chi Minh Trail to direct NVA truck traffic! Do you understand what I’m telling you? You fucked up mister!”

  “Y-y-yes Sir,” Cramer whimpered.

  “From this day on, you will radio in a daily report of this platoon’s activities. If one of your men fires his rifle, throws a grenade, or detonates a claymore, I want to know why. I also want to know who walks point and who walks drag, who takes a shit and how deep it gets buried! Now take your sorry platoon and link up with Captain Hartwell. You certainly cannot be trusted out here on your own.” The Colonel stormed back to his chopper and sped away.

  Cramer was so stunned at this crushing blow to his credibility, delivered with gusto in front of his men, that he was nearly despondent. I however, felt quite smug over the incident. Only now, I would have to watch my step because Cramer would surely seek revenge.

  For the next several days Cramer refused to speak with me. I was even excluded from regular platoon meetings; communication between us was relayed through one of the other squad leaders. If giving me the silent treatment was the only punishment Cramer could come up with, it was great. I didn’t want to talk with him, either.

  On Thanksgiving Day, our entire company gathered for a traditional turkey dinner that was flown out to us by helicopter. Along with the meal came four mess hall servers to set things up, not much of a task since
it was a paper plate and plastic fork affair. Surprisingly, the food was hot and quite good, causing several to joke that there must be a new cook at Camp Evans.

  The best humor of the day was found watching the servers. Like typical REMFs scared at being in the field, they overloaded themselves with M-16 ammunition and hand grenades; some even had bayonets attached to their rifles. After the meal, the servers formed a mini-perimeter with their backs against one another, as if an enemy attack was imminent. They were where the war was and, true to REMF tradition, wanted no part of it. When the helicopter returned to shuttle the servers back to Camp Evans, Cramer finally broke his silence.

  “Sergeant Wiknik,” he began, with a contented grin, “you’ve been selected to participate in a special assignment. Get your gear together and grab a seat on that chopper.”

  My bullshit detector was spinning off the meter. “What kind of special assignment?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t want to bore you with the details. When you get in, report to battalion headquarters. They’ll tell you all about it.” I surmised that Cramer’s revenge for the pig shooting incident was to separate me from my friends. I was upset, but tried to look at the bright side: it was a fair exchange for embarrassing him in front of the Colonel.

  At Camp Evans, the battalion Operations Officer briefed me on the newly-formed LZ Cutting Team that I would be in charge of. “This mission is the first of its kind for our battalion,” he began. “The team will be inserted at strategic locations to cut a series of LZs that will be used for future combat assaults or troop extractions. You’ll go in at first light, cut the LZ, and then are extracted before dark.”

  “What about the team members?” I asked curiously. “Who are they and where did they come from?”

  “They are fifteen specially selected men who all have knowledge of demolitions and chain saws, as well as infantry training. I think that with your leadership skills and their background, it will be a great team. You’ll meet them in the morning. Now get a good night’s rest.”

  I thought it odd that I didn’t meet the men right away, but the task sounded simple enough to not cause any alarm. Besides, any reasonably experienced team should be able to easily cut an LZ in half a day. I was even looking forward to the change of pace and hoped the team shared my enthusiasm.

  At dawn, I went to the chopper pad where the group was already assembled and waiting. While introducing myself, I began to feel uneasy as I vaguely recognized some of their faces. Then it hit me. These GIs were not part of any organized team; they were the duds from our battalion! Each had a history of problems ranging from bad attitudes to poor hygiene to just plain stupidity. They were the useless GIs who flunked out of stateside training but still managed to get sent to Vietnam. I surmised that this assignment was the Army’s last ditch effort to make something of them before resorting to disciplinary action for being so dysfunctional. I hated to admit it, but Lieutenant Cramer got the last laugh by recommending I be put in charge of such misfits.

  Based on the team’s makeup, I began to doubt that our function was for really cutting LZs. Perhaps our noisy activity was supposed to drive the enemy into a nearby ambush, or worse yet, we were going to be used as decoys to attract the enemy because the Army considered us expendable. Whatever the reason, I was stuck. I tried not to panic by reminding myself that the team was a tactically sound idea and that this mission could instill a renewed sense of honor and duty into the men. Before the day was over, I would never think such thoughts again.

  Our LZ site was a jungle hilltop about five miles northwest of Camp Evans. Triple canopy vegetation nearly two hundred feet tall covered the hill and concealing the ground below. The only way to reach the ground was by rappelling down through the trees. As our helicopters circled the area, I expected the standard artillery barrage to scare off any lurking NVA. There was none. Instead, the lead helicopter flew at treetop level, where it hovered while nylon ropes were tossed out the door into the wind-blown leafy ocean. It was beautiful, but it was also scary as hell.

  PFC Mauro was the first to rappel. With a radio strapped on his back, Mauro crouched on a landing skid and prepared for the drop. A second GI stood on the opposite landing skid to balance the helicopter. When the pilot signaled, Mauro disappeared into the vegetation as if he were swallowed. The rope was taut as he descended, but slackened each time he got snagged on a tree limb. Within a short time he was on the ground. From there, Mauro directed the pilot to move the helicopter approximately fifty feet to an area between the trees where the rest of the team could rappel down with minimal obstructions. I was next.

  As I mentally prepared myself for the trip down the rope, I envisioned the enemy waiting to ambush us once we were on the ground. Two sharp tugs from Mauro signaling me to come down snapped me into action. The descent was exhilarating, with branches slapping my face and pulling at my equipment. Once through the canopy, the ride to the ground was so simple I landed standing up. It was strange to travel so swiftly from the panorama of the airborne world to a dark world of trees, shadows and no view. I quickly freed myself from the rope and assumed the anchor position while Mauro provided security.

  I gave the two-tug signal and had barely positioned myself before the next GI plummeted down at me in a blur. Screaming like he fell off a cliff, the GI traveled so fast that blue smoke poured from his leather gloves. I let go of the rope so he would not land on me. The soldier back-flopped onto the ground and bounced nearly a foot high. After coming to rest, his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Since he was not breathing I assumed he was dead.

  I could not understand why he had gone so fast because the friction of the rope looped through his gear should have controlled his descent. When I moved to release him I discovered that he never hooked up, the GI simply grabbed the rope and free fell two hundred feet. As he shot earthward, he instinctively squeezed the rope tighter causing the gloves to act like a lubricant and they got so hot they smoked.

  The unlucky GI was not dead but had had the wind knocked out of him. When he got his wind back, he began thrashing and yelling, “Arrgghh! My back! Arrgghh! My hands!” When I removed the gloves, they curled into grotesque claws. In addition to burned hands, the GI injured his back and could not walk. Before the rest of the team could come down, the GI was hoisted back up and flown to the aid station for treatment. If the Gooks were watching and saw what happened, they would never bother to attack because we stood a better chance of killing ourselves than them.

  After everyone was on the ground, we conducted a cursory patrol of the immediate area. There were no signs of the enemy; not even an old trail. I put six men on guard duty and the rest to work. I reminded everyone that the chain saw and demolition noise would be sure to attract attention, so the sooner we finished the job and got out of there, the better.

  The best way to clear the LZ was to cut below the crest of the hill, dropping the trees down the slope as we worked our way to the top. Trees that were less than a foot in diameter were felled by chain saws. Larger trees were knocked down with a charge of C4, a powerful plastic explosive that was surprisingly safe to handle—even with this crew. As the day wore on, one by one, the saws were rendered useless as their inept operators dulled the chains by hitting rocks. One misplaced saw was crushed when a tree landed on it. Without spare chains or files for re-sharpening, we had to put the saws aside and use the C4 to knock down the remaining trees. The C4 did not last long, so I radioed in for spare saw chains, files, and more explosives.

  When our re-supply arrived, it contained no files or chains but we did get explosives: five cases of surplus Korean War-vintage stick dynamite, blasting caps, and fuses. That was just what I needed, ultra sensitive explosives being handled by ultra unbalanced people. By the time we got to clearing again, it was evident the LZ would not be finished that day. Rather than call any more attention to our location, I set up an NDP (Night Defensive Position). A small knoll about three hundred feet from the LZ was chosen.


  Normal guard duty rotation was arranged but no one followed it. When I woke in the morning everyone was asleep. I yelled at the men, warning them about the hazards of sleeping on guard duty, especially since our position was not exactly a secret. But they all pointed fingers at one another trying to shift the blame. I did not bother pushing the issue. I just wanted to complete the job and go back to Camp Evans.

  The LZ was finished by mid-morning so I radioed in for the helicopters to pick us up. However, I was told to sit tight because all available aircraft were committed to a big combat assault operation. So we sat and waited. In the afternoon, a lone helicopter came out to pick up the chain saws, gasoline, and extra explosives and at the same time try the LZ for size. As three team members loaded equipment inside, the pilot called me to his window.

  “I’m not taking that dynamite back!” he yelled over the engine noise. “It’s too volatile! Use it to blow away some of the stumps, then destroy the rest!”

  “Okay!” I agreed, nodding to him. “When do we get picked up?”

  “Probably tomorrow morning!” he yelled back. “All hell broke loose today so most birds are tied up!”

  That was not what the three men loading the chopper wanted to hear. As the engine revved for take-off, they dashed aboard. I had my back turned to avoid the rotor wash, so before I realized what happened, the helicopter was airborne. None of us on the ground could believe our eyes. Like rats deserting a sinking ship, the three cowards took their first chance for escape. I radioed the pilot to bring the trio back, but got no response. I was down to eleven men. I was furious, not just at the three who had fled, but I was also mad at battalion headquarters for experimenting with such simpletons. To keep busy, we blew apart any stumps that might affect helicopter landings and takeoffs. When we finished, there was still about one hundred sticks of dynamite left.