“Yes, Top,” I answered weakly, feeling like my father had just chewed me out.
“Listen Wiknik, you only have a few months left to serve and I know you won’t be re-enlisting, so make it easy on yourself and play the game a little longer. If you can’t get with the program, then I’ll have you defusing booby traps until you go home. Is that what you want?”
“No, Top,” I said, trying to sound apologetic. God, that was the last gig I wanted during my final few months in this place. “I don’t know what came over me. Sometimes I get a little crazy from being out in the boonies too long. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not. Now get your ass down to the training area and help Lieutenant Cramer at the rifle range.”
“Lieutenant Cramer?” I protested. “Come on Top, that guy is bad news. Can’t I do something else while we’re in the rear?”
“Sorry kid. Cramer brought this shit on himself, and you just got pulled in with him.”
I dreaded this rifle range assignment because Cramer’s ideas for running a training exercise were as bizarre as his field tactics. He was so worried about doing a good job that he had spent the previous night creating a script for his class. As his assistants, Silig and I acted out the roles he invented. Cramer began each class with a brief history lesson on the evolution of the M-16 rifle. Speaking softly and using a range of hand gestures, his voice steadily rose until he yelled out: “TO KILL THE ENEMY!” That was the cue for Silig and me to menacingly charge out of a nearby bunker and fire several well-placed rounds into a pair of straw VC dummies that looked like scarecrows. Then we attached our bayonets, fired a few more shots, stabbed the dummies, and finished with a vertical butt stroke to knock their heads off. The class knew that our phony routine had nothing to do with what really took place in the boonies, but Cramer stuck to his script just the same.
Silig and I looked like idiots as we performed our act three times each day, so we decided to liven up things a bit. Before the next class, we loaded our rifles with tracer rounds and doused the dummies with lighter fluid. When Cramer yelled out his line, we charged out and shot into the dummies. Within seconds they were completely engulfed in fire. Unfortunately for Cramer, he had his back to us and did not know what was going on. While Silig and I admired the flames, the class erupted in laughter. Cramer turned around to see what was going on, spotted the fire, and began yelling hysterically, “Get some water! Get some water!” Then he knocked the dummies to the ground and stomped on them as if they were salvageable.
After the smoke cleared, Cramer looked even more foolish when he got on his hands and knees to push the charred remains into a pile. Rather than continue, he dismissed the class. The oddest thing was that when it was over, there was no punishment except we had to make new dummies.
At the end of each training day, Silig and I got together with Howard Siner to have a few beers and listen to some music. One afternoon, an aid station doctor noticed us hanging around and asked if we would be interested in providing security for a medical team going into Phong Dien village the next morning. Recognizing the opportunity to avoid the rifle range with Lieutenant Cramer, we agreed to go.
Medical teams visited villages throughout South Vietnam as part of the on-going pacification program designed to show the civilians that Americans are more compassionate than the Communists. Our team was comprised of one doctor and two medics who carried only basic examining equipment; antibiotics, rubbing alcohol, and first aid supplies. Since this would be a peaceful mission we left our grenades and bayonets behind and only took along minimal ammunition. If we looked too intimidating, the villagers might feel threatened and not be as eager to take the free medical care.
Early the next morning a truck drove us to what looked like the village square, which was nothing more than a water well and a cluster of banana trees surrounded by straw huts. Word spread fast announcing the doctor’s presence as the elderly and young mothers with children quickly formed a line. Conspicuously absent were the teenaged boys and able-bodied men who had been drafted into the military. When the examinations began, Silig, Siner, and I stood a short distance away and watched for trouble. There was none. Aside from the weapons we carried, the peaceful tranquility of the village nearly made us forget there was a war going on.
To get the children to cooperate, the medics promised each a candy bar, then teased and tickled them until they giggled. The long forgotten sound of children innocently laughing caught us by surprise and made us wish we were kids again and not part of this damn war. After the kids were examined, some wandered over to us, perhaps hoping for another treat. But as they gathered around, their interest was in something other than candy.
Siner never went anywhere without something to read, and on this day he carried the latest issue of Life Magazine. The kids were awestruck by the photographs. They pointed and gawked at the turn of each page. In their sheltered lives they had never seen, even in pictures, the skyscrapers of New York City, the beauty of Yellowstone Park, snow covered ground, or Caucasian girls with flowing blonde hair. An entirely different world was right in front of them. Curiously, the mothers kept their distance, but acknowledged us with approving smiles.
When the medics called for us to leave, Siner handed the magazine to a little girl, “Here, you’ll get more use from this than I will.” The kids howled with gratitude and scampered back to their mothers.
Siner and I walked toward the truck, but Silig did not move. He stood erect, staring sadly into the village where the children had disappeared.
“Hey Silig,” called Siner. “What are you looking at? Let’s get going.”
“I hate this fucking place,” he said in disgust. “Being around those kids reminds me of how much I miss my nephews.”
We had become so accustomed to the GIs cold-hearted image that Silig’s emotion was a surprise. It opened a little crack of our otherwise dormant tenderhearted side.
“We all miss somebody,” I answered slowly. “I guess it comes with the territory.”
“Oh yeah?” barked Silig. “Don’t ever ask me to go on one of these goddamn missions again! I’ll stick to the boonies where there are no reminders of home!”
“Listen Silig,” added a consoling Siner. “We all hate this place, but you can’t let it get to you. If it’ll help to let your feelings out, go ahead. Anything said stays between us.”
“Fuck it,” Silig uttered with his voice trailing off as he trudged toward the truck, “it don’t mean nothin.’”
But we knew it did.
Time away from the war and the boonies was welcome, but this week long training gig at Camp Evans was starting to get to us. Having already done these exercises under life and death situations, doing them for fun grew old really fast. As the grumbling continued, a troubled Grunt reached his limit.
We were milling around the mess hall after lunch one day when Specialist Henry Nelson, an otherwise good-natured guy, calmly announced, “The food here sucks.” We all nodded in agreement as he walked off and disappeared between the hooches. He returned a couple minutes later with a loaded M-16, two bandoleers of ammo, and several hand grenades hanging from his web gear. No one paid much attention; we see guys dressed like this all the time. Some of us thought he was preparing for more training. Nelson looked back at us with an odd look on his face that told me something was really wrong. Without a word he stormed into the mess hall and fired three shots into the roof. Seconds later, the cook nervously walked out with his hands raised followed by Nelson holding his collar and pointing the M-16 at his head.
“Nelson!” a shocked Silig called out. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Me?” he answered unsteadily. “I can’t take this shit anymore. I’m going home and I’m taking this lousy cook for a hostage.”
An unknown GI joked, “Don’t take him, take me. The next cook might be worse!”
Everyone chuckled, but there was nothing funny about what was going down. It was too insane to be real and yet, no o
ne really tried to talk Nelson out of it. We simply watched as he guided the cook to the chopper pad, where they waited for the next helicopter to land. The MPs were summoned, but unsure about Nelson’s state of mind they kept their distance.
When a chopper came in, Nelson chased the door-gunners away and demanded to be flown to Da Nang, where he planned to catch a flight out of Vietnam to the United States. We quietly watched the helicopter lift off and fly out of sight. No one said much of anything as we walked to the training area. A few guys smirked that finally someone had the guts, or was crazy enough, to pull a stunt that many of us only dreamed about. The next morning, however, any humor anyone saw in this event vanished when we learned that after the hijacked helicopter landed in Da Nang, there was an unsuccessful standoff that ended only when US Marine snipers killed Nelson.
We didn’t know for sure if Nelson had been killed or we had just been told that to keep others from trying the same kind of escape. Given how it had all gone down, it was likely he had been shot and the news shocked us. All of us took his death personally because we silently rooted him on without trying to stop the insanity. Maybe, with just a few words, the outcome might have been different. Obviously Nelson was out of control, but the thought of him dying in a shoot-out with other GIs was devastating. To keep us from dwelling on his dumb sacrifice, the refresher training exercises were canceled and all units were ordered back to the field. However, Nelson was not so easily forgotten because we all shared his frustration over a Grunt’s bleak life and how it could lead to tragic consequences.
As for the cook, he was assigned to a different mess hall. His food really did suck.
“They’ve been trailing this platoon for nine months just waiting for the chance to capture me.”
CHAPTER 12
Insanity to Go, Please
At the end of his tour of duty, Captain Hartwell called the company to Firebase Jack for an informal farewell. After a brief speech, he walked the perimeter saying good-bye to selected soldiers. I was surprised when he took me aside to talk privately.
“Sergeant Wiknik,” he sternly said, “the time has come for you to stop fucking with Lieutenant Cramer.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Cut the dumb act. I’ve watched the two of you to go head-to-head long enough and your new company commander won’t be as tolerant of rebel NCOs as I have been. So, for the remainder of your tour, end the feud before you get into something you can’t worm your way out of. Got it?”
“Captain,” I began, “Cramer doesn’t have his shit together. He’s so intent on impressing the Brass that he creates dangerous situations by his own stupidity!”
“That’s enough!” Hartwell commanded. “Lieutenant Cramer is a commissioned officer and will be respected as such. He’s come a long way, and now you will cut him some slack, mister.”
“Yes sir!” I answered, feeling somewhat betrayed but not defeated. What a bummer. The Captain turned Lifer just before going home.
“There’s one more thing, Wiknik,” he said in a much calmer tone. “I understand you’re from Connecticut.”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded, somewhat puzzled.
“I’m from Connecticut, too. If you like, when I get home I’ll call your folks to tell them that you’re well and getting along alright.”
“Really?” I said, feeling flattered. “Thanks!” Maybe Hartwell is not so bad after all.
The first thing I had to do was send a letter home to alert my folks that Captain Hartwell would be getting in touch with them. Parents with sons in the war zone who receive a phone call from the Army instinctively fear the worst. Unfortunately, Hartwell got home faster than the mail and his surprise phone call had my parents reeling.
Initially, my mother was glad to talk with someone who had just seen her son, but since I had never mentioned Captain Hartwell in any of my letters, my mother became suspicious. Hartwell’s natural style is slick, like a salesman, so as the conversation continued, my mother remembered a newspaper article exposing a scheme where con men called parents of sons serving in Vietnam. The callers promise that through their military contacts, they could get infantrymen into safe jobs in the rear. The cost was a large cash payment whose size depended on the time each soldier had left to serve.
My parents were frantic. They were also embarrassed to tell anyone they might be targets of a scam. Worse still, they worried that if Hartwell had the connections to get me out of the field, then he would also have the ability to keep me in the field longer if they failed to cooperate. However, Hartwell did not imply any such thing and of course never asked for money, so my parents now began worrying that he was withholding information on my health or status, and that this call was an initial contact to gain their confidence. The fact that my tour was nearly over and my parents were anxious for my return only increased their concern.
Of course, none of their wild fantasies were true, so when my parents finally received my letter notifying them of Captain Hartwell’s impending phone call, they were ecstatic. Now they could happily tell friends and relatives of the nice things the Army had to say about me. They were proud, but also felt sympathy for parents who were indeed victims of fraud.
Back at Firebase Jack, our new company commander prepared for his first combat command. As Captain Giroux was introduced to us, a few GIs whispered insulting remarks because he looked cherrier than most Cherries. Giroux’s pressed fatigues and polished boots already called attention to him, but the dozen grenades dangling from his web gear completed the recruiter’s poster boy look. New guys were often the butt of jokes, but Giroux’s officer status naturally invited sarcasm.
Captain Giroux began his first day visiting each squad and reciting the same worn-out sermon about how we are going to crush the Communist threat and make South Vietnam safe for democracy. Some of the guys still believed that drivel, but the months of humping the boonies and getting shot at should have made it clear that the war was going nowhere.
As dusk approached, the firebase quieted noticeably. The bunker line guards settled in while artillery soldiers melted into the safety of their hooches. As Captain Giroux checked our defenses, he was shocked to learn that there was no LP going out and that there had not been any LPs for the last month. Captain Hartwell did not believe an LP was needed because the wide-open scrub brush terrain did not offer a likely avenue of enemy approach. After dark, the bunker guards used starlight scopes to see farther, and cover more ground, than an LP ever could.
Giroux did not care how our former commander ran things, so he immediately decreed that an LP would go out every night. In addition, he wanted the most experienced man (which was me) to perform LP on-the-job training of the new guys. Hoping to avoid a steady diet of this potentially dangerous job, I protested.
“Captain Giroux,” I said, mindful of his inexperience, “I’d like you to reconsider sending out an LP.”
“Are you kidding?” he asked, looking at me as if were crazy. “In a war zone, early detection of enemy movement is essential to the security of any military installation. That’s basic defensive strategy, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir it usually is. But in our situation, there is just too much ground to cover,” I countered. “We’d be better off dropping random harassment mortar rounds outside the firebase.”
“That’s ridiculous. Do you have any idea what mortar rounds cost? The LP is going out. That’s final.”
“In that case, sir, I’m requesting to be excluded from LP duty.”
“Excluded?” he asked in disbelief. “Nobody gets excluded. What’s the problem. Are you afraid?’
I hesitated for a moment, realizing that I really was scared.
“Yes, I’m afraid,” I answered candidly. “I am especially worried about being out there with only Cherries. I have forty-eight days left, and I don’t want to take unnecessary chances.”
“Sergeant, a scared soldier makes for an alert soldier. I’ll see you in the morning when you back come in.” The discussi
on was over.
Completely disgusted, I gathered the LP members and led them to a position with an adequate view of the surrounding terrain. We were only three hundred feet from the firebase, but being outside the wire was so spooky I stayed awake most of the night—more afraid of a Cherry pulling the trigger at a shadow than the Gooks. As the night wore on, I was surprised at the amount of noise coming from the firebase. I heard sounds of people talking and laughing, metal clinking, and I even saw someone light a cigarette. They made perfect targets for a VC sniper. If nothing else, the LP would serve as a teaching aid to show the new guys how not to act after dark.
The night was uneventful, but when it was my turn for guard I got an unexpected surprise. To keep track of guard time, Grunts passed around a wristwatch with a luminous face. However, on this night one of the Cherries handed me a large pocket watch that glowed with the Walt Disney cartoon character Mickey Mouse. The mere sight of the smiling Mickey Mouse in a war zone stunned me. With all the chaos and loneliness of Vietnam, here in my hand was a tiny piece of my childhood. It painfully reminded me of how much I hate the war and of how bad I wanted to go home.
At first light we returned to the firebase. The Cherries did okay on their first LP but it did not matter much to me. In fact, nothing seemed to matter. Over the next several days I found my behavior in the grip of erratic mood swings. I was becoming nervous, suspicious, and obsessively cautious of the people and activities around me. I felt as if my life was in greater danger then when I first came to Vietnam.
My sudden attitude change was known as STS (Short-Timer’s Syndrome), a condition where the subconscious mind thinks it is time to go home, but the reality of still being in Vietnam created a psychological conflict. To us Grunts, STS simply meant that a guy was getting burned out. The Army only acknowledged it if it rendered a soldier useless in the field. The most common symptoms of STS are agitation with new guys over things as minor as eye contact, excessive talking, or too many questions. A soldier with this neurosis also hands out merciless warnings for honest mistakes and often fanatically check and recheck each man for ample ammunition, clean weapons, and basic combat readiness.
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