Nam Sense

by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.

  “I got you guys together because I’ve got some health tips that just might make life a little more bearable in the jungle,” I began in a serious tone. They edged closer as if I was a football coach preparing to give them final instructions before a big game. “Everyone is always complaining about the tropical heat and humidity. The best way to tolerate it is by letting your fingernails grow long because they’ll act like cooling fins to lower your body temperature.” The Cherries shot confusing glances at one another until I added, “and long fingernails make it easy to pull leeches off.”

  They nodded knowingly until one of them inquired about my fingernails.

  “Sergeant, why aren’t your fingernails long?”

  “That’s because, I’ve been climacteric for a long time.” I said it with an all-knowing exasperation in my voice. No one dared ask what it meant.

  “Another thing we don’t do in the field is wear under shorts,” I continued. “Guys who wear shorts often come down with crotch rot because their balls can’t get proper ventilation. But worse than that, there’s a greenhouse effect in your pants that can cause uncontrollable pubic hair growth. That would be mighty embarrassing when you get back home.” I knew that story was a winner when a few minutes later I spied a guy stretching his pubic hair to check its length while he urinated.

  Besides coming up with silly statements, I also marched around the perimeter with a fixed bayonet on my rifle and grenades hanging from all over my web gear. Acting jittery, with my eyes darting about, I repeatedly checked each man for loose and noisy equipment, telling them, “The Gooks are out there. I’ve seen them.” Then, to completely astound them I added, “Don’t forget to leave Vietnam as you found it by not littering or carving initials into trees. After the war you may want to come back for a camping trip.” With that, everyone looked at me as if I had finally lost it—everyone except Wakefield.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he sneered, pulling me aside. “You’re not fooling me with your bullshit. But the thing is you’re such a bad influence on the men that I want you out of this platoon, too. So do what you want, but stay out of my way.”

  “You better be careful Wakefield, I’m unstable and I might snap at anytime.” I raised my eyebrows and widened my eyes.

  “Fuckin’ flake,” he mumbled, walking away.

  The only platoon member I felt bad about fooling was Specialist Mike Perdew, who had been with us for five months. Perdew was one of those quiet individuals who would never dare question an old-timer, no matter how bizarre he acted. But he was also the one person I felt certain would continue the fight against Cramer if Siner, Silig, and I failed in our effort at getting him removed.

  My antics continued for two days before the men finally complained that I was driving them crazy. That left Cramer with two options: get me to stop or send me to the rear. Since he would never willingly let me out of the field, he called me to the CP for an attitude adjustment speech. I gave him my best performance. Better than an Oscar, the rest of my lifetime would be my award for the act of a lifetime—if I could pull it off. In military fashion I marched to Cramer’s position and snapped to attention.

  “Sir! Sergeant Wiknik reporting as ordered, sir!”

  “Cut that out!” he yelled, scanning the jungle around us. “If the Gooks are watching, they’ll know I’m an officer and try to kill me first.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” I assured him. “It’s not you they’re after. It’s me.”

  Cramer’s eyes narrowed. “You? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The Gooks have been watching us for a long time,” I answered. Cramer suspiciously eyed the jungle above both my shoulders. “They’ve been trailing this platoon for nine months just waiting for the chance to capture me.”

  “Capture you?” he asked, jerking his head back. “What makes you think they want you?” He was serious, and he thought I was, too.

  “It all started one night last May. We ambushed and killed the daughter of a VC Colonel outside Phong Dien village. I didn’t shoot her, but in the confusion of my first enemy contact I continued firing after the other guys stopped. Everyone was shouting at me to cease-fire, so the Gooks that got away heard my name and memorized it. I was safe when we went to the A Shau Valley because the NVA had never heard of me. Then, when we came back to Phong Dien, we ambushed and killed a VC Colonel’s son and the same thing happened. Everyone was yelling at me to stop firing, so the Gooks heard my name again. They’ve been after me ever since. Hell, the villagers said the VC have a bounty on me.”

  Cramer stared blankly at me. If he considered the recent booby trap incidents together with my story, it could make perfect sense in a Lifer mind as warped as his. Then quite seriously, and to my pleasant surprise, he asked me how I knew the Gooks were watching us. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

  “At night,” I whispered, while darting glances beyond Cramer, “they sneak up close, calling my name and telling me to give up. They promise that if I surrender, they will stop setting booby traps. I don’t trust them.” Then, practically sobbing, I leaned in close and grabbed Cramer’s shoulders. “You’ve got to protect me. The VC are not going to wait forever. One of these nights they’re going to attack and drag me off. What am I going do?” I looked at him with pleading eyes.

  “I…I…well, I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Go back and check on your men while I think about it.”

  I returned to my position to wait for Cramer’s next move, which didn’t take long. After hearing my story he radioed for advice on what to do with me. Less than an hour later he gave the order to start cutting a LZ for the next morning’s resupply. As the men worked, Cramer gave me the good news.

  “I’m sending you to the rear,” he began as I listened without expression. “You’re eligible for a seven-day leave and I just received word that it was approved. Isn’t that the dumbest luck? Besides, it would be better for the platoon if you rested, you know, to forget about the Gooks looking for you. That kind of talk makes the new guys nervous.”

  Actually, Cramer was the nervous one. He always knew I hated him, and now my antics convinced him I was unstable. That’s where the seven-day leave idea came from. By sending me to the rear, Cramer showed that he was more concerned for his own safety than the platoon’s. Regardless, I was happy that my plan succeeded.

  Since that night might be my last in the bush, some of the guys offered to pull my guard duty as a going-away present. I refused. If we had enemy contact during my last night, I wanted to be on top of it right away. Besides, I needed to pull guard duty to reinforce my story about being singled out by the enemy.

  Guard duty that night was long and maddening. It seemed darker and quieter than usual. With my close friends gone from the platoon, I felt terribly alone. That’s when I made myself a vow to never step into the field again. With only thirty-two days of service remaining, I would do anything to stay in the rear—even if it meant becoming a REMF. The night was uneventful, and the only attack we endured came from the pesky insects.

  The next morning I was packed and ready to go before most of the men were awake. While saying goodbye to the few people I was friendly with, I sensed their feeling of abandonment as well as the all too familiar envy of watching someone escape the field. However, I was pleased with one accomplishment: I was living proof that a Grunt could endure a year of combat duty with hardly a scratch. Of course, my ghosting was a big help.

  When the supply chopper came in, two Cherries scrambled off and, in their typical clumsiness, stood gawking at their new surroundings. I felt a twinge of pity knowing what miseries lay ahead for them—especially with Lieutenant Cramer. Yet nothing could prepare them, the war was something they would have to experience personally. Each man had to find his own way.

  As the chopper crew tossed supplies to the ground, I headed for the open door. In a final display of goodwill, Cramer came over to shake my hand.

  “Good luck, Wiknik!” he shouted over the en
gine noise. “As bad as things have been between us, I want you to know that I’ve enjoyed the challenge! When you get back to Camp Evans, don’t go into any crazy talk about the Gooks wanting you to give up! That was some joke! You almost had me going there for a while!”

  I couldn’t resist testing his stupidity once again. “After last night, I won’t have to worry about the Gooks anymore!”

  “What do you mean?” yelled Cramer, tugging on my shirt as I climbed into the helicopter. “What happened last night?”

  “The Gooks said an officer is more valuable than an NCO, so I gave them your name!”

  Cramer’s mouth fell open and he took two steps backward and stood motionless as if he had just received a death sentence. As the chopper lifted off, I smiled and waved goodbye. Cramer was already peeking over his shoulder to scan the tree line.

  I grinned from ear-to-ear all the way back to Camp Evans.

  “Susie’s is the ultimate massage parlor and the best place in the city to find a woman.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Vacation Time

  Camp Evans never looked so good, not just because I was out of the field but because my tenure as a GI was nearly over. As far as I was concerned, the last of my military days would be treated as a formality.

  I reported to our First Sergeant, Edgar “Top” Boyce, to get my seven-day leave in order and also to find out how Siner and Silig were doing. Silig was at the 18th Surgical Hospital at Camp Evans and would soon be released for light duty. Siner was at the 95th Evacuation Hospital in Da Nang because it was the nearest facility capable of handling head wounds. Since Top had no information on Siner’s condition or recovery rate, I asked to start my leave that afternoon and visit Siner at the hospital along the way.

  “You can visit your friend,” Top said, glaring at me. “But you’re not going anywhere for at least two days.”

  “What?” I asked, startled by his restriction. “Why so long?”

  “Because you have been recommended for promotion to Staff Sergeant and you have to appear before the review board. But if it were up to me, I’d bust your ass down to PFC and send you back to the goddamn boonies where you belong!”

  “Gee, Top,” I asked, acting oblivious to having done anything wrong. “What did I do?”

  “Come on, Wiknik!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger. “That story you told Cramer about the Gooks trying to get you was bullshit!”

  “You’re right,” I smiled. “It was bullshit. Those Gooks didn’t fool me. If I surrendered like they wanted, they’d still put booby traps out. It’s a good thing I didn’t fall for that, huh?”

  Top shook his head and looked skyward as he rolled his eyes. “Draftees like you make the Army look bad. When are you going to get serious?”

  “Look, Top,” I countered, trying to stay on his good side. “I don’t want to appear before the review board. Hell, I don’t even want the promotion. I’ll be out of the Army in a month, so just give that sergeant stripe to someone who can use the extra money.”

  “That suits me fine,” he shot back. “I don’t like the idea of promoting a flake anyhow. Now get your sorry ass out of here and don’t let me see you again until your leave is over!”

  Top just didn’t understand. He thought I committed an unpardonable sin by acting crazy when all I wanted to do was stay alive as the end of my days in Vietnam were drawing to a close.

  The next morning I took a C-130 shuttle flight to the US airbase in Da Nang. The out-of-country R & R processing center moved its operations there to ease the overcrowding of the Ton Son Nhut airbase in Saigon. However, the vacation destinations for seven-day leaves were still the same as for R & Rs. This time, however, I had no intention of going to Hawaii again. I opted for Sydney, Australia, because returning GIs bragged about free women with round eyes and no language barriers.

  As usual, there, was a problem. Seven-day leaves were considered a second R & R and Sydney was in such high demand that first-time furloughs took priority. As a result, I was placed on the bottom of a standby list behind thirty people. Since I would not secure a seat that day, I visited Siner at the hospital.

  Aside from the thick bandage on his head, Siner looked fine and seemed quite normal. Unfortunately, his spirits were down because he felt his head wound was relatively minor and did not deserve the same attention as men with more serious combat injuries.

  “Listen Howard,” I began, sounding uncharacteristically sympathetic. “You should be proud to be with these guys no matter how minor you think your wound is. You got hurt in combat and have earned the right to be here. When I came to this hospital a few months ago it was to stop my penis from bleeding because I was convinced I had masturbated once too often. That had nothing to do with combat and every doctor examining me thought I was a weirdo. Try living that down!”

  We had a good laugh and Siner felt better. That is, until he told me how Cramer’s gambling IOUs were lost. Then I got depressed.

  “As soon as the medevac brought me to the Camp Evans aid station,” Siner explained, “the medics removed my clothing to check for additional wounds. While being treated, someone went through my stuff and took the IOUs.”

  “That means Cramer has a friend working for him in the rear.”

  “Right,” Siner sighed. “It looks like our efforts were for nothing.”

  I groaned out loud as we both shook our heads in disgust.

  “I don’t know how a guy like Cramer could have someone willing to stick their neck out for him,” Siner added.

  “Not only that,” I answered, “with me going on leave and you and Silig out of the picture, there’s nobody out there to threaten his command or keep him in line. I should have never played like I was crazy. I feel like I ran out on the platoon.”

  “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” Siner said profoundly. “After spending eleven months in the bush you’ve taught guys how to watch out for the Lifers and the Gooks. The example you set will probably save lives.”

  I nodded a silent thank you.

  After a two-hour visit I returned to the R & R center to check my flight status. I had advanced only four spaces. At that rate I could be hanging around for a week—a definite plus for earning more ghost time! The next morning I checked the list again to find that I had not moved at all, so I went back to the hospital.

  When I arrived, Siner was preparing for transfer to Japan for further tests. This final round of examinations would determine whether he finished his enlistment in the States or would be given a medical discharge. Either way, he was leaving Vietnam for good.

  I was always glad for anyone who got out of Vietnam alive, but this departure was bittersweet at best. Together, Siner and I had survived the battle of Hamburger Hill as well as countless ambushes and patrols. We were not only a team, but had become close friends. We exchanged home addresses and promised to meet someday after the war. I tried to say goodbye, but it was too awkward with the hospital staff pushing me to leave. Instead, we simply shook hands and nodded, purposely hiding any display of emotion. If anything good came from my Vietnam experience, it was having Howard Siner as a friend.

  It would be ten years before I saw my friend again.

  My return to the R & R center left me feeling empty and alone. With no reason for me to continue waiting for a chance at Sydney, I changed my plans and took the next flight to any location that did not have a standby waiting list. My new destination was Bangkok, Thailand, and that afternoon I was on my way with 200 other GIs. The commercial flight was uneventful except for a detour around Cambodia because our fat jetliner would be too tempting of a target for the NVA surface-to-air missiles located there.

  The capital city of Bangkok is only five hours away by air, but as a society it was light-years from the blight of Vietnam. Thailand’s economy was among the most prosperous of the Asian nations, making Bangkok one of the busiest commercial and transportation centers in all of Southeast Asia.

  The city was also the center of Thai c
ulture and education with six universities, several museums, and hundreds of richly decorated temples. The busy streets were modern and filled with automobiles, streetcars, and billboards. Aside from the prominent Thai writing style on signs and advertisements, Bangkok was not much different than a stateside metropolitan area.

  Since Bangkok’s economy was not fully dependent on vacationing US servicemen, our visit here would bring us closer to the everyday Thai people. As a result, the R & R directors offered some behavior guidelines to prevent us from offending the citizens by a thoughtless act. We were also encouraged to buddy-up with at least one other GI because the Thai way of doing business was to offer group discounts, thus minimizing transportation and entertainment costs.

  As GIs paired off, a lanky fellow with a confident swagger approached.

  “Hi there,” he said with a smile, stretching out his hand. “I’m Eddie Landell. Do you want to pair up with me?”

  “Sure,” I answered, feeling comfortable with his friendliness. “What do we do first?”

  “After we check into the hotel, we’re going to Susie’s Bath House to celebrate freedom from the war.”

  “A bath house?” I asked indignantly. “I don’t need a bath.”

  “You’ll want this bath,” he laughed.

  “Why will I want this bath?” I asked, acting almost as dumb as a Cherry.

  “Susie’s is the ultimate massage parlor and the best place in the city to find a woman,” he answered with a hint of reverie.

  It finally dawned on me what he was talking about and began to laugh.

  “I ought to know,” he continued. “I came here for R & R two months ago and had such a great time that I had to come back. I found a terrific girl at Susie’s. Her name is Uwe. She was beautiful and treated me so good that I stayed with her for the whole week. In fact, I’m here to get her again.”

  As Landell reminisced about his misplaced romantic feelings for a prostitute, I could not help from thinking about my girlfriend Mary. I still loved her and since I only had one month left to serve, I foolishly held to the hope that we might get back together again when I got home. Then I reminded myself of how much Mary hurt me and how she tried to soften the blow by promising to write more often. I only received three letters during the last two months, none of any substance. It was clear no one would be waiting for my return.