Nam Sense
Published in the United States of America in 2009 by CASEMATE
1016 Warrior Road, Drexel Hill, PA 19026
and in the United Kingdom by CASEMATE
17 Cheap Street, Newbury, Berkshire, RG14 5DD
Copyright © 2005 by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.
ISBN 978-1-935149-09-5
Cataloging-in-publication data is available from the Library of Congress and from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Printed and Bound in the United States of America
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To the families and friends of the 58,209 men and women who sacrificed their all in Vietnam;
To Tommy Shay, Jimmy Manning and Ray Contino, boys from my childhood who died in the war.
And to the thousands of men and women who so proudly and bravely served in the military during one of the most turbulent times in our nation’s history.
Chapter 1: Vietnam Apprenticeship
Chapter 2: No Career Moves for Me
Chapter 3: The Battle for Hamburger Hill
Chapter 5: The Bamboo Shooters
Chapter 6: The Emotional Gauntlet
Chapter 7: Ghosting in the Rear
Chapter 9: Guns and Chain Saws
Chapter 12: Insanity to go, Please
Youth is the first victim of war: the first fruit of peace. It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him. —Baudouin I
This story is about my life in 1969 and 1970 during the height of the Vietnam War. I wrote it to give you a sense of what the average GI endured during this turbulent time in our nation’s history. I think it also shows why most young men can go to war and return home without being haunted by their experiences for the rest of their lives, and why some cannot. Although many veterans and their families suffered in different ways, this book does not seek to discredit those killed, wounded, or psychologically affected by the war.
I was drafted into the US Army in 1968 and after extensive stateside training, was sent to Vietnam in 1969 as a non-commissioned officer and infantry squad leader. The military expected me to drop into the middle of the war and, without any experience whatsoever, lead men in combat. I was barely twenty years old. The last thing I wanted was to be fighting an enemy in his jungle on the other side of the world, but there I was, and I was determined to make the best of it. My extra stateside training, discipline, and will to survive instilled within me a resolute goal as a squad leader to finish my tour of duty and go home in one piece—and take as many of my men with me as possible. This usually put me at odds with gung-ho superiors who habitually put the mission ahead of the men.
And so my series of adventures and misadventures began in Vietnam, a country where the bizarre was often the norm. I tried as best I could during my year-long tour of duty to find the humorous side of daily life in Vietnam, where shooting and blowing up other human beings was what you were supposed to do. Finding humor and staying sane in the middle of a war is not an easy thing to do. My occasionally flippant attitude and desire to survive the experience did not always help matters—and certainly did not sit well with other officers, some of whom were utterly incompetent and dangerous in the field. As a result, I often found myself in outlandish situations, most of my own making.
In addition to trying to survive the war, soldiers had to deal with the unpopularity of the conflict at home, as well as the venom heaped upon us by the anti-war movement, which made it difficult to perform our duties to the fullest. Also, as in all wars, we were forced to endure the ever present specter of human death by gruesome means. Unlike how it is at home, in combat there are no wakes or funerals, and little or no time to grieve. When someone is killed or seriously wounded, we simply acknowledged it and soldiered on. To do anything else would exhibit weakness, something few soldiers were willing to portray.
Nam-Sense
is not about heroism and glory, mental breakdowns, or haunting flashbacks; nor does it wallow in self-pity. As you will discover, the vast majority of GIs did not rape, torture, or burn villages. We were not strung out on drugs, and we did not enjoy killing. Although these unfortunate incidents did indeed occur during the war, as they do in every war ever fought, they were not on the grand scale we have been led to believe by people and organizations with different axes to grind. Brutality, violence, and offensive activities are the main ingredients of any war, but they were not the only ingredients of this war. Unfortunately, the media’s negative and sensationalized reporting of isolated incidents not only made being a Vietnam veteran an embarrassment, but stereotyped us as well. This book responds to that unfair stereotyped image by revealing the level of courage, principle, kindness, and friendship demonstrated by most GIs. These are the same elements found in every other war Americans have proudly fought in.
This memoir was completed nearly thirty-five years after the fact, and so it was impossible for me to remember the exact name of every person who appears within these pages. A few of the names have been intentionally changed to protect familes, reputations, and memories.
Acknowledgements
As with every book ever written, there are many people to thank.
Nam-Sense
has been “in development” for the better part of three decades. During that time, many people have read bits and pieces of the evolving manuscript, offered their suggestions, and encouraged me to continue. Unfortunately, I cannot now remember everyone who played some role in assisting me. If I have overlooked your contribution to this book, please know it was inadvertent, and that I will forever be in your debt.
First, I would like to thank my Connecticut Local Draft Board #6 for selecting me above so many others for induction into the US military. Thanks are also due to the US Army for sending me to an exotic, dangerous land, riddled by war.
Dennis Silig and Howard Siner, two of the best friends a soldier could ask for, played an important role in my life. They helped to keep me alive and sane. Dennis passed away from cancer some years ago. I miss him.
Bruce Randall edited early versions of
Nam-Sense
and pushed me to keep writing; John Meehan came up with the clever
Nam-Sense
title.
I would also like to thank my publisher David Farnsworth, who directs Casemate Publishing, for believing in this project and accepting it for publication; and Theodore P. “Ted” Savas for rapidly and accurately getting the manuscript into publishable form.
Many people took the time to write letters to me in Vietnam when I needed them the most. I can’t thank them enough.
My three daughters supported me along this long road, each in her own way. Sarah never tired of hearing my war stories; whenever I needed to talk, she was there to listen; Kimberly used her skills to prepare the photographs for
Nam-sense
(because her dad is a dinosaur when it comes to technology); when the computer was in her bedroom, Ashley never complained—even when I typed away late into the night with the lights burning bright. My hope is that when each of you read this book you will better understand what so many endured for their country. I love you all, forever.
And finally, my wife Betty-Jane. She spent years typing and re-typing this book on a manual typewriter until we could afford a word processor, and supported me over many years of disappointment and frustration. I could not have done this without her.
Arthur Wiknik, Jr.
“Gentlemen, welcome to the Republic of South Vietnam.”
HAPTER
1
Vietnam Apprenticeship
The war seemed distant. My tiny New England town had men in the military, but at nineteen years old, I didn’t personally know anyone who was serving in Vietnam. Other than the war death of Tommy Shay, a kid I vaguely knew from junior high school, I never had reason to think about the conflict. My free time was spent hanging out with the boys at the hardware store or cruising with my girlfriend in the new Camaro I had recently bought. But in May 1968, my life changed dramatically after I was drafted into the US Army and sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana—“Home of the Combat Infantryman for Vietnam.” No longer would I be known as Artie Wiknik. I was now Wiknik, Arthur, US 52725533.
The training at Fort Polk’s Tigerland was tough and intense. It had to be. Our training company, with the exception of those men with brothers in Southeast Asia, was Vietnam-bound. I didn’t want to go. It’s not that I was a coward but I wasn’t a hero, either. There was but one honorable escape and even that proved temporary. A five-month NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) course, taught at Fort Benning, Georgia, was offered to trainees with post high school education who the Lifers felt had leadership potential. After high school I had completed a one-year automotive repair course. It wasn’t exactly college, but who was I to argue with military logic?
I accepted the challenge with visions of stalling off the war as long as possible, expecting that the fighting would have ended by the time I had to go. If that illusion didn’t hold true, then at least the extra training might increase the chance of survival for the men and myself I would be expected to lead. Unfortunately, my timing could not have been worse, for the war was at its peak.
I completed the NCO course and earned the grade of sergeant without ever setting foot in a war zone. The rank came with the resentment and suspicion of hardcore NCOs who had made the grade over a period of years, rather than months. I was sometimes ridiculed with names like Ninety-Day Wonder, Instant NCO, and Shake-n-Bake Sergeant. Their feelings were understandable, but the Army had given me an opportunity and I grabbed it.
In April 1969, I was sent to Fort Lewis, Washington, a reassignment station for GIs going to or returning from Vietnam. The process of militarily clearing the continental United States was a three-day psychological nightmare. The endless hours of waiting in long lines with extended periods of idleness gave us too much time to think about our destination. As infantrymen, we knew we had the Army’s shortest life expectancy position and were being sent to fight in a war that had already claimed 25,000 American lives. It was also a war that was rapidly losing what little public support it had. We felt lonely and miserable knowing our inevitable departure was unnoticed or unpopular with a large segment of the nation.
To make matters worse, our stay coincided with the arrival of several planeloads of happy homeward-bound GIs. When we were in the clothes warehouse being issued jungle fatigues, they were being handed dress greens. The veteran GIs joked, hooted, and slapped each other on the back as they embraced their new freedom. They also shouted cruel obscenities in our direction—not meant to hurt us, but rather mocking the war, the Army, and the world. We did nothing in return except to watch them in awe, hoping that one year from now we too would be alive to experience the same high. The exuberant mood of the veterans left us so depressed that when word finally came to ship out, it was almost a relief.
We were bused to McChord Air Force Base in Washington state, where a waiting McDonnell Douglas DC-8 was fueled up and ready to go. The sun had already gone down when we boarded the plane so we were denied what would be, for many of us, a last look at our homeland. It was the final insult of an already gloomy process.
There were 250 GIs on our flight. We were mostly kids between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, and hardly any of who knew each other. Only a few spoke or made eye contact. Most of the men sat quietly in a self-imposed daze. The mood was one of alienation and fear that we were flying off to our deaths. Sadly, for some that was true.
The 8,000-mile trip to the Republic of South Vietnam took nearly twenty hours. Our first stop was at Elmendorf Air Force Base just outside of Anchorage, Alaska, where we stayed only long enough to fill the fuel tanks. No one was allowed off the plane and we wondered why. It seemed unlikely anyone would wander off because it was winter there, and the only thing we could see in every direction was wilderness and snow. Once airborne again, our gloominess gave way to casual conversation or short naps. No one really slept because we wanted to savor our last hours of relative safety.
The next morning we landed at Haneda Airport in Tokyo, Japan. We were allowed off the plane for two hours, but only to a restricted area of the airport. As usual, there wasn’t much to do but hang around. This was the first time I saw masses of Asians. I supposed the culture shock was an indication of things to come.
We left Tokyo and flew directly to the coastal port of Cam Ranh Bay in South Vietnam. Halfway there, our American greenbacks were exchanged for MPC (Military Payment Certificates), an all paper currency that looked like monopoly money with better pictures. Even the coin denominations were made of paper, just different colors. MPC was used to keep American dollars from flooding the fragile Vietnamese economy. To discourage profiteering on the back market, the MPC script was changed periodically, without notice.
When we left Fort Lewis, no one told us what to expect when we arrived at Cam Ranh Bay. I imagined our plane being shot out of the sky or that the instant we landed we would sprint across the runway to the nearest bunker. The closer we got, the more nervous I became. As we began our descent I looked around, expecting the crew to pass out M-16s for our defense. They didn’t.
As we approached the airfield, I glanced out the window at the distant green mountains. Below us were irregular patches of undergrowth, grass huts, and rusting hulks of destroyed vehicles. I thought we were landing in the jungle on the edge of the battlefield. I was wrong again.
We landed without incident on a modern concrete runway. I stepped out of the plane to an unexpected sun-drenched paradise. The initial blast of tropical heat was shocking, but other than that Cam Ranh Bay looked like a scene from a movie. The bay area was a natural harbor with warm white sand stretching from the sparkling ocean water a quarter of a mile inland. Palm and banana trees dotted the landscape, shading picturesque thatch huts. Vietnamese civilians busily scurried in different directions as if they were rehearsing for a tourism advertisement. A war? Here? Impossible.
A deeply tanned staff sergeant led us around the back of the tiny air terminal where several US Air Force shuttle buses were parked.
“Gentlemen,” he began in a loud southern drawl, “welcome to the Republic of South Vietnam. Pay no attention to the humidity because it actually gets worse in the summer. You will spend the next twenty-four hours at the 90th Replacement Battalion for orientation. Your paperwork will also be reviewed for errors, omissions, and false statements. While at the 90th, do not speak with, or attempt to make contact with the Vietnamese civilians working there. Now grab your gear and climb aboard the buses.”
No one spoke as we timidly looked for seats. I was surprised to see the bus windows covered with chicken-wire screens to keep grenades from being tossed inside. The ten-minute ride took us through a tiny section of the sprawling military port. Along the way we passed huge sandbagged bunkers strategically positioned behind rows of concertina wire. GI guards were posted atop each bunker, but they seemed quite relaxed without their shirts or helmets on.
The 90th Replacement compound was small, consisting of two large open-wall rectangular buildings for processing our paperwork and a dozen smaller structures for housing and supplies. There was no air conditioning or fans. A boardwalk linked each building because the compound was a virtual sand pit.
The replacement process was similar to that at Fort Lewis because both stateside-bound GIs and those unfortunates just starting their tour were at the same location. The only difference was that the GIs going home weren’t yet as jubilant as those at Fort Lewis because they were still in Vietnam.
There was, however, a notable contrast in our appearance to that of the veterans. We were “cherries” or FNGs (Fuckin’ New Guys), and it was written all over us with our new fatigues, shiny boots, and pale winter complexions. We couldn’t help but stare at the rugged-looking soldiers. A few wore clean pressed uniforms, but the majority sported faded fatigues with mud stains like they’d just been plucked from a foxhole.
As the processing continued, there were the usual long delays which the Army took advantage of to complete various work details. There were no septic systems in this area of Vietnam, so the most common chore was the cleaning of the enlisted men’s latrine. The latrine was little more than a screened outhouse with partial walls concealing a person from the waist down. Anyone walking past could easily see who was sitting on the throne. The building sat on a cement slab. Inside was a long wooden bench with a row of ten toilet seats and no privacy partitions. Underneath each seat was a 25-gallon barrel shit-tub in which sloshed about varying amounts of human waste.
I was selected to supervise a five-man team tasked with exchanging the full barrels with empty ones. Tubs with only a small amount were dumped into full ones and then replaced under the seats for use while the cleaning was going on. As we played musical chairs with the barrels, a GI came in and defecated on the floor.
“Hey!” I yelled at him. “Can’t you see that there’s no tub underneath you? You just shit on the floor!”
He casually looked at me saying, “I never check to see where my turd is going to land. Do you?”
Who would argue with that logic? After he finished, one of my helpers shoveled up the mess and tossed it into a tub we had already pulled out.
The next step was to place the full barrels in a row and saturate them with diesel fuel. Then we lit them on fire, stirring each one until all the contents were consumed. The stench was unbelievable. Carrying tubs of shit was bad enough, but burning it was nearly too much.
If anyone had to urinate, they could not use the latrine. Only solids were allowed there. The urine made the tubs too heavy to pick up, and there was always the chance of getting splashed. Besides, piss doesn’t burn very well. The only place to urinate was in a piss-tube, an exposed six-inch diameter pipe stuck in the ground at an angle. The tubes are never cleaned or moved to a new location, so before long the surrounding soil becomes saturated and the tubes overflowed. When that happened, most guys just pissed on the ground next to it. The accumulation of urine became so rancid that piss-tubes could be easily found in the dark.
Early the next day, many of us finished processing and were cleared to attend a full week of training at SERTS (Screaming Eagle Replacement Training School) in Bien Hoa, the giant US air base 200 miles west of Cam Ranh Bay. We flew to Bien Hoa in a C-130 Hercules transport, a four-engine turbo-prop aircraft used for airfreight or long distance troop deployment. The plane held forty of us, and we sat or spread out on the bare metal floor because there were no seats. There were no windows either, only two rows of six-inch glass portholes too dirty to see out of. The walls had no cover or insulation. Wires, pipes and framework were exposed. The four engines made such a racket that the only method of communication was by shouting or hand signals. It was like a flying garbage truck. The noise and vibration helped to keep me from thinking about what lay ahead. My immediate concern was whether the plane would get shot down or simply fall out of the sky. We landed without incident.
The SERTS training was to prepare us for permanent assignment into the 101st Airborne Division. Our instruction included classes on the Vietnamese people and their culture, the war and the enemy, and weapons familiarization. At night, we pulled bunker line guard duty. During the day, we performed light physical activities to help get us accustomed to the climate. However, just like all my other stops, I still had to go through the paperwork routine. As I did, the clerk specialist reviewing my file asked a few questions.
“Is there anything in your records you think should be removed?”
“Sure,” I answered eagerly. “I’ve got an Article 15 for being AWOL (Absent Without Leave) from Fort Benning for two days. I was on a three-day pass, but I traveled too far and didn’t get back in time.”
He flipped through the pages searching for the document.
“Here it is,” he said, as he tore it out and crumpled it into a ball. “Is there anything else you don’t want in there?”
“How can you do that?” I asked, somewhat surprised.
“We like to give new guys a clean record so they will have no problems when they reach their units.”
“How come I’m being placed in an airborne division? I’m infantry!”
“The NCO squad leaders in the 101st have a rather high casualty rate,” he said seriously, “so they need you guys pretty bad.”
That was comforting.
On the second day of training, a loudmouth infantry specialist named Doyen joined our group. He had been in-country for three months when he got wounded. After spending several weeks in the hospital, Doyen’s unit didn’t want him returning to the field without first refreshing his military skills. He resented the decision and made life intolerable for the rest of us by constantly complaining and making stupid wisecracks. While we were on a class break, he noticed my sergeant stripes and decided to direct his anger at me.
“You’re a Shake-n-Bake, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “Is that a problem?”
“You better believe it. You Shake-n-Bake’s are walking death.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered.
“How do you think I got wounded? A Shake-n-Bake fucked up. When I get back to my unit, I’m gonna fix him good. Ever hear of fragging?”