Nam Sense

by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.

  Silig gave me a funny look. “Who the hell wants to be reminded of this fucking place after they get home?” I nodded in agreement.

  “But you have other things to worry about,” Silig continued. “Lieutenant Cramer has been bragging how he shipped you off to the LZ cutting team. He said you’re the problem child of the platoon and needed to be taught a lesson, and if you didn’t change, he would do it again for good. If you want to stay in the platoon, I think you should offer him an apology.”

  “I would rather kiss Ho Chi Minh’s stinking dead ass than ask forgiveness from that bastard.”

  “So lie,” Silig suggested. “Cramer doesn’t have to know you’re faking it.”

  Rather than take any chances, I took Silig’s advice to swallow my pride and tell Cramer what he has probably wanted to hear for a long time. I sought out the lieutenant and edged my way up to him and saluted.

  “Lieutenant Cramer,” I began, hoping to get through the apology without making myself sick. “I was wrong to question your authority and tactics. I’m going to work hard at making sure it never happens again. I also want to apologize for the pig-shooting incident. That was supposed to be a joke, but it went too far.”

  “Well isn’t this something,” Cramer said with a smirk, thinking he had finally broken my will. “My brand of punishment has finally taught Sergeant Wiknik the error of his ways. From now on, it would be in your best interest not to complicate the war by questioning my strategy or trying to embarrass me.”

  “Yes sir,” I faintly conceded, “but my goal still has not changed. I plan to finish my tour with as little risk as possible to me and the men. If I question you in the future, sir, it is only because I am trying to offer something constructive, and it will not be anything malicious.”

  “That’s more like it,” he said with a handshake, believing my comments were honest. “I’ve always thought that you’d be a productive member of the platoon. When we get back to the field, let’s get started on that body count. We haven’t killed anyone lately.”

  What a jerk.

  Now that I had apologized to Cramer, trying to control him would be harder. I did not think Silig and I could do it alone. To succeed, we would have to enlist Howard Siner who, several weeks ago had been mulling a return to the field. I hoped he had not changed his mind.

  The next morning, I watched the men excitedly board the Chinook shuttle for Camp Eagle. It was good to see them so cheerful, especially knowing that whatever entertainment they would see had to be far better than what was offered at the Camp Evan’s theater. As soon as the Chinook left, I got together with Siner to ask for his help.

  “I want you to come back to the field,” I said with all the honesty and sincerity I could muster. “With most of the old-timer’s gone the platoon’s experience level is too low for me and Silig to handle—especially when it comes to dealing with Cramer. What do you say? Will you come back? I think you’d make a big difference.”

  “Thanks for your confidence but I’m way ahead of you,” Siner smiled. “I requested field duty two weeks ago and I’m just waiting for my replacement.”

  I almost screamed with joy. “Great! What made up your mind?”

  “Several things,” he frowned. “I just got so sick of listening to the REMFs whine about how rough it is in Camp Evans when they have no idea of how much worse it could be. Then they bitch and moan when Grunts come in from the field, calling them gun-toting crazies who have nothing better to do than shit-up the place. Being in the rear is a reward in itself, but when I found out that more REMFs than Grunts are going to the Bob Hope Show, I just didn’t want to be associated with them anymore.”

  “Fuck it, don’t mean nothin.’”

  “It gets worse,” Siner added. “The Brass knows all about Lieutenant Cramer’s leadership troubles. The problem is no one is willing to do anything about it because young officers, good or bad, are getting harder to come by. But I think you, me, and Silig can straighten him out.”

  “Just straightening Cramer out isn’t good enough for me,” I said in grave determination. “We need to get him removed from the field.”

  When the men returned from the Bob Hope Show, most were rejuvenated from the first-rate entertainment. In addition to Bob Hope, the ninety-minute show included singer-actress Connie Stevens, The Golddiggers all-female song and dance troupe, astronaut Neil Armstrong, Les Brown and his Band of Renown, and Miss World, Eva Reuber-Staier. However, some men were visibly depressed. The show represented a little piece of the World, a life we all missed so terribly. Worse than that was Christmas Day at Camp Evans. There were no seasonal decorations, no familiar Christmas carols, no exchanging of gifts—not even a cheap Santa Claus costume for a few laughs. Aside from being in the rear for the cease-fire, Christmas was like all the other holidays that passed unnoticed. The only significance was that it brought us another day closer to going home.

  The next morning we returned to the field, working the flatlands about five miles northwest of Phong Dien. During my absence from the platoon, I hoped Lieutenant Cramer would mature as a leader or at least realize he was not going to win the war by himself. I was sadly disappointed. Cramer had not changed at all. He was the same incompetent jerk he always was, except now a new level of ineptitude emerged: without well defined terrain, he could not read a map.

  One afternoon, Cramer decided to call in artillery on a hedgerow about a quarter of a mile away. Following proper procedures, he asked for a first-round white smoke marker. The marker landed on a hilltop so far off that the smoke blended in with the clouds. Rather than request another marker for adjusting the fire, he simply radioed in new coordinates and asked for two high-explosive rounds.

  At first, the familiar screech of the approaching shells sounded like they would sail harmlessly past us. However, as the noise intensified, it was quite obvious that the rounds would land far short of the hedgerow. Silig and I exchanged panicked glances and yelled, “Incoming! Hit the dirt!”

  Cramer stood watching the target while the rest of us sprawled on our bellies. An instant later, two deafening explosions ripped into the earth a few hundred feet away, sending shock waves through the ground below us. “Cease-fire!” I yelled to Cramer. “That’s too close, Lieutenant! Cease-fire!”

  I had just finished screaming those words when chunks of hot shrapnel noisily landed in the bushes just a few feet away. Cramer never moved. He just stood staring at the impact area as if he were on a street corner.

  “Lieutenant!” I called to him, “what the hell are you doing!”

  “Wow,” he calmly answered. “Did you see that? I guess I’ll have to adjust before firing again.”

  Luckily he had only asked for two rounds. “You’re damn right you’re going to adjust, but let’s look at the map first!”

  I checked his coordinates and discovered we were about one thousand feet away from where he thought we were. His error could have been tragic, but luckily no one was hurt. It was difficult to hold back my anger, but since I had just returned from exile I said nothing more and hoped this was an isolated incident.

  Three days later we set up an ambush next to a VC trail that skirted a shallow river. After dark, Cramer radioed in for harassment mortar fire to keep the VC off balance and possibly chase them into our line of fire. The problem was, Cramer failed to tell us that he requested the mortars. As a result, when an errant mortar shell exploded less than a hundred feet away, we thought the VC had fired it at us.

  Pandemonium broke loose as everyone quickly gathered their gear on Cramer’s order to evacuate the area. Rather than calm us down and admit that he called for the mortar round, Cramer played it as if the VC really did fire at us. Within moments we were headed for higher, more defensible, ground. Moving like phantoms in the dark always made us jittery, even more so now because we thought the VC were close. There was no talking allowed, so if we drifted apart only the dull thuds of our equipment pulled us back together again. We were always afraid our movement wou
ld attract a wandering VC who might mix in with us. But our biggest fear was that we would stumble into another platoon and get shot up. Luckily, neither concern came to pass.

  Several minutes after we retreated from the river I began wondering why only one enemy mortar round had been fired. That was when I figured it out. We were not under attack but instead running away from another map fuck-up. I halted the platoon and told the men to set up for the night. When things calmed down I took Cramer aside.

  “Lieutenant,” I began, barely restraining myself from grabbing him by the shirt front, “you asked for that mortar round, didn’t you?”

  Cramer did not know what to say. His puzzled look was all I needed to confirm my suspicion.

  “Do you have any idea of how much danger you just put us in? If you’re going to call for fire support, keep us informed. We’ve been lucky with some of the mistakes you’ve made, but one of these days it’s going to catch up with us, and the platoon won’t take it lightly. Being out here is supposed to be a team effort; no one will think any less of you for getting a second opinion on map reading and tactics.”

  “Now Sergeant Wiknik,” he responded calmly, as if trying to patronize me. “I know you mean well and you think I have a few kinks to work out, but really, I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

  Cramer’s attitude was unbelievable. He should have been removed from the field long ago, but I guess Howard Siner was right when he said young officers, even incompetent ones, were hard to come by. Rather than waste any more time trying to get through to him, I had to find a way to get Cramer to self-destruct before he killed one of us. Simply getting him removed from the field was no longer good enough; I want him bounced out of the Army as well. I would just have to find a way to capitalize on his stupidity.

  A few days later, when Captain Hartwell arrived for a routine visit, the opportunity I was so desperately seeking fell into my lap. As Hartwell and Cramer walked the perimeter to review our defenses, Cramer waved his M-16, using it as a pointer. As they approached a nearby position, a shot rang out. Everyone except Cramer hit the dirt.

  “Lieutenant!” shouted the Captain. “Get down! We’re taking sniper fire!”

  “Hey everybody,” Cramer sheepishly announced. “There is no sniper. Heh, heh, heh. That shot was mine. Heh heh. My weapon went off by mistake.”

  Captain Hartwell could not believe what had just happened. “Lieutenant!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why wasn’t your weapon on safety?”

  “Don’t worry about it Captain,” I chimed in before Cramer could respond. “His weapon goes off like that all the time, but we’re getting used to it.” I nodded softly to Cramer as if I was trying to support him in front of the Captain. Cramer almost jumped out of his skin at my comment.

  Hartwell’s eyebrows arched up in disbelief as he waited a few seconds for Cramer to deny my remark. Cramer was speechless and his silence only infuriated the Captain all the more until he could hardly maintain his composure. Finally, he spoke slowly and deliberately.

  “Lieutenant, have your RTO get me a chopper so I can get back to Camp Evans where it’s safe. Then I’m going to figure out a punishment that fits your level of ineptitude. You’ll be hearing from me real soon.” That was it. There was no other conversation.

  Cramer’s jaw dropped and it looked as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. He was in shock as he agonized over what Hartwell was going to do to him.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” I said with false consolation, “the worst thing Hartwell could do is put you in charge of a mine-sweeping detail.”

  “Why did you tell the Captain that my weapon goes off all the time?” moaned Cramer.

  “I just wanted to ease the tension with a little humor. Did I do something wrong?” I asked, feigning surprise.

  Cramer was too depressed to argue. Instead, he went back to the CP and stared into space. I was ecstatic. I could not have dreamed up a better scenario myself. However, Cramer had not survived all this time without someone covering for him, and that someone turned out to be our own Platoon Sergeant Wakefield.

  Wakefield was a classic case of an Instant NCO gone bad. He started his tour as a seemingly regular GI, but during the last few months had been brainwashed by Cramer, who had recently promoted him to Staff Sergeant. Since they were always protecting each other’s ass, it was my job to torment Wakefield as well. The next day, while Cramer was still reeling from Captain Hartwell’s visit, I got the chance.

  We were patrolling along a high ridge when Cramer was notified that a supply chopper was inbound and that we needed to locate a natural LZ in order for it to land. From our lofty position, a good LZ was spotted at the bottom of the ridge, so we headed for it on an old VC trail. However, our movement was slowed by thick brush that choked the path. We were not even halfway down when the chopper pilot, thinking we were in position, radioed us to mark the LZ with smoke. Rather than ask the pilot to return in an hour, Cramer yelled a ridiculous and dangerous command, “Everybody run! The first guy to the LZ can pop smoke!”

  I thought that this could not be happening, but sure enough the lead squad disappeared, running down the trail while the guys in the back bunched up behind me because I stopped.

  “Maintain your intervals!” I shouted at them. “Nobody runs! We’re going down this trail as if we are walking point!”

  I took only a few steps before Sergeant Wakefield bellowed, “Wiknik! What the hell are you walking for? You heard the Lieutenant! Now step it out!”

  “Come on Wakefield,” I said, appealing to his sense of judgment, “don’t you think it’s a little dumb to go blindly running down a trail? It’s too easy to set off a booby trap or get ambushed. Besides, look at the helicopter circling up there. They think we’re somewhere near the LZ. If they spot people running toward it, what’s to stop them from thinking we’re Gooks and start shooting at us? We can’t even call in our position because Cramer took off with the radio. So we’re walking.”

  “Like hell you are. Everyone runs to catch up with the others.”

  “Fuck it, man,” I said firmly. “My squad walks or we park our asses right here.” I glared directly at him, challenging his authority.

  “What did you say?” Wakefield asked, implying he had not heard me right.

  “I said ‘fuck it!’. We are not going anywhere until someone at the LZ pops a smoke and that helicopter goes in for a landing.”

  Everyone’s attention was on Wakefield, who knew he had to keep the upper hand.

  “Sergeant Wiknik,” he said, giving me one last chance, “hustle your men down that trail. And I mean now!”

  “Sure, I said. You go first.”

  Wakefield did not know what to do. No one had ever stood up to him like that. He nervously glanced at the men staring at him and then turned back to me. Before he could speak, I pointed to the LZ and casually announced, “Hey look, smoke is out. Let’s get moving, guys.”

  As the men started down the trail, Wakefield stopped me when they were out of earshot. “Just what were you trying to pull back there, Wiknik? I don’t like being fucked with, especially by a malcontent like you. Don’t ever pull any shit like that with me again.”

  I merely looked at him, shrugged, and walked off without replying. That only pissed him off all the more.

  Three days later we were sent to Camp Evans, where Captain Hartwell began Lieutenant Cramer’s punishment by placing him in charge of the SERTS rifle range. The in-country replacement training school had recently moved from the relative safety of Bien Hoa to Camp Evans to put the new guys closer to the action. It was poetic justice to have Cramer responsible for teaching Cherries about the firing, maintenance, and safety aspects of personal weapons. Also in camp was one of our other battalion companies for a mandatory weapons and tactics refresher course. The Brass felt that the additional training would increase our confidence and make Grunts more effective in jungle warfare. Not too many old-timers wanted to practi
ce what we had been doing for real, but we figured this exercise would help the new guys benefit from our experience as well.

  The training was fairly basic: how to deploy the M-60 machine gun; how to make maximum use of a claymore mine; how to recognize terrain that offers a military advantage; and different ways to identify and avoid booby traps. We also practiced rappelling from a fifty-foot tower, climbing up and down a rope ladder hung from a hovering Chinook, and everyone’s least favorite—bunker line guard duty. Between training sessions I was summoned to battalion headquarters for a talk with Edgar Boyce, our First Sergeant,.

  All First Sergeants liked to be called “Top.” The unofficial title was customarily given to senior enlisted men who had made a career out of the Army. Boyce had more than two decades of dedicated service to his country and was highly respected for his uncanny common sense and knowledge of the military. His present job was to keep a logistical and administrative watch over the battalion from the rear.

  One thing Boyce hated was a bad officer, but he was on a first name basis with the good ones, Generals included. Another thing he hated was NCOs who argued among themselves, like Wakefield and I did. Just having to face him on this issue was scary. His square-jawed, imposing figure reminded me of a tough football coach.

  “Well now, Sergeant Wiknik,” he began, glaring at me, “what’s this bullshit I hear about you telling Sergeant Wakefield to go fuck himself?”

  “Me?” I asked innocently, trying to look like I had no idea what he was talking about. “I never told him to go fuck himself.”

  “What exactly did you say?”

  “Er, just…fuck it.”

  “Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin. “According to Wakefield, you said ‘fuck it’ to him three times. To me, ‘fuck it’ still means ‘fuck you.’”

  “But Top, if you knew what he wanted us to do…”

  “I don’t give a damn about the circumstances! I don’t care if you were one hundred percent right! You don’t challenge a superior—especially one of my Sergeants—in front of subordinates. That only makes you both look like assholes. Respect for the chain of command is essential if we expect to be successful. When you don’t agree with someone, you discuss it privately, otherwise the system breaks down. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”