Nam Sense (11 page)

Things got even dumber after that. We were finally going to get the fresh fruit Captain Hartwell had been begging for. To our dismay, two cardboard boxes of apples were thrown out the helicopter door. The first box struck a tree limb, splitting the box wide open. Apples rained down like hailstones as everyone scattered again. Most of those apples disappeared down a hillside. The second box missed the limb but landed on the ground in a heap, smashing them into fruit cobbler. Needless to say, very few apples were eaten. During the next few hours, thousands of insects were attracted to the mashed apples, forcing us to leave the ridge. Captain Hartwell never asked for fresh fruit again.

A week later we returned to Firebase Airborne. It was good to be back. Portable showers were set up for our fourth bath in three months. We were also issued clean clothes and received daily mail, which included a scheduled delivery of newspapers. After humping in the A Shau for two months, the newspapers made us realize how isolated our assignment was.

The battle for Hamburger Hill was front-page news. We were surprised and proud to have taken part in a victory that captured the attention of the entire nation. However, our spirits were quickly dashed when we read Massachusetts Senator Edward M. Kennedy’s charge that Hamburger Hill had no strategic value, calling the assault senseless and irresponsible. His assessment may have been correct, but we resented his taking away our hard-won victory.

Stan Alcon received the June 27 issue of
Life Magazine
carrying the special 13-page article, “Vietnam: One Week’s Dead.” The story contained pictures and names of the 242 Americans killed in Vietnam during the week of May 28 through June 3. Among the list were 35 men from the 101st, including the three killed on Firebase Airborne when the NVA mortar round exploded on top of their bunker. Captain Hartwell took the magazine away because he thought it was anti-war material. We thought it was sobering.

The July 10 news focused on US troop withdrawals from Vietnam as the first of 25,000 GIs stepped onto American soil at McChord Air Force Base in Washington. Every in-country Grunt hoped and prayed he would soon be one of the lucky ones going back to the World. But the Army was selective in determining which units would go home early and which would not. Unfortunately for us, the 101st was not selected for withdrawal.

As the days passed and more newspapers became available, the most amazing news of 1969 was announced. On July 20, Apollo 11 landed on the moon and astronaut Neil Armstrong became the first man to step onto the lunar surface. Men on the moon—how could it be? The thought was both exhilarating and depressing. Our nation had the technology to send humans 200,000 miles into space and return them safely home. Yet, we could not peacefully resolve a war here on Earth. With nothing to gain by debating the issue, the moon landing was soon forgotten. Our primary concern was still keeping our asses from being shot off.

Not all mail brought welcome news. Howard Siner received a startling letter from his younger brother Michael, who had been drafted into the Army four months earlier. Michael proudly boasted about his recent assignment to the US Army’s 4th Infantry Division in South Vietnam’s central highlands. Although the US military discouraged brothers from being in the war zone at the same time, either a paperwork mix-up or Michael’s own doing had allowed it to happen. The news completely depressed Howard because he had promised his worrisome mother that his Vietnam service would protect Michael from having to participate in the war. Now that promise had unraveled. To top it off, our superiors refused to take action in what they considered a done-deal. Although I had no power to resolve the dilemma, I did have a sympathetic ear.

“What am I going to do about my brother?” Siner moaned. “While he was in basic training, I wrote to him describing what a horrible place Vietnam was and that he should do everything to avoid it. Instead, he thinks war is an adventure.”

“An adventure!?” I stammered. “Everything about this place sucks. Why would anyone think war is an adventure?”

“I guess that’s my fault,” Siner sighed. “I wrote about our experiences on Hamburger Hill. Now he thinks I’m a hero and he wants to be like me.”

His situation led me to think about my own younger brother who, though he was not old enough yet, could eventually be drafted into the war as well.

“Maybe both of you being in Vietnam can’t be changed,” I told him, “but I’ll bet the company clerk can find a way for you guys to visit each other. Let’s write a request and see what happens.”

The possibility of seeing his brother raised Howard’s spirits. A few days later, the clerk responded with a tentative timetable for the brothers to meet during a stand down. Even better yet, with some creative scheduling Howard and Michael could possibly go on R & R together. Howard was ecstatic. During their concurrent time in Vietnam, Howard and Michael managed to get together on two occasions.

As the days slowly crept by, life on the tiny firebase became a drag. We used what little free time we had writing letters or grabbing short naps. Otherwise, we were tasked with standard make-work projects like building a new latrine, filling the endless supply of sandbags, or stringing another row of concertina wire. Between work projects we went on recon patrols or set up daytime jungle ambushes. At night, we were put on different alert levels or driven practically deaf by artillery fire missions. We endured the same grinding bullshit over and over again.

To ease the monotony of firebase life, pairs of American Red Cross girls, known as Donut Dollies, paid us weekly two-hour visits. Their mission was to bring some close-up cheer to help soldiers forget about the war, if only for a short time. GIs generally liked the Dollies because they were attractive young women fresh out of college and full of high ideals. Their bright blue dresses, ingenuity, and smiling compassion also helped endear them to the men. Lonely GIs gathered around to watch them perform a routine called “the program.” The program was a set of audience participation games better suited for adolescents at summer camp than for men in combat. In one game, a Dolly held up a picture of a penny and asked, “Which holiday does this represent?” The answer is Lincoln’s Birthday, but the Dollies wanted us to make up titles like National Coin Day or Annual One-Cent Sale. Some guys got a kick out of it; I thought it was bubble-headed nonsense.

I nicknamed the Donut Dollies the “Biscuit Bitches” to make it easy for me to avoid them. It was nothing personal, and although it was nice to know someone cared, I felt these girls did not belong in the field. The Dollies were round-eyed females casually dangled in front of young men who hadn’t seen a woman for months. I thought they were a tease, and they only deepened the lonely remoteness of the war.

To me, the Donut Dollies were no different from other free people who made token visits to the field. Free people like reporters, photographers, politicians, and others had a choice about being in Vietnam and were not bound by a tour of duty. They caught mere glimpses of the war without having to live it or become part of the GI’s world. None of them could feel what we felt, and none of them were stuck like us until death or DEROS (Date Eligible for Return from Overseas).

However, one welcome diversion from the war did arrive from the World in the form of packages sent from mothers and girlfriends. A typical package consisted of cookies, fruit cakes, seasonings, powdered juices, and a variety of canned goods. One package from my mother contained several seven-ounce cans of apple juice. It was the first real juice I’d had in more than three months and it was so refreshing I wrote a thank you letter to the manufacturer. In it, I briefly described infantry life in Vietnam and explained how the juice was such a welcome change that I wanted to purchase some to share with my squad. About two weeks later, I received a complimentary case of twenty-four cans. The manufacturer’s representative said it was their way of showing support for the troops. As I divided the juice among the men, they were surprised that something good happened to us. After drinking water from rice paddies and rubber bladders for such a long time, the juice gift revitalized our taste buds and restored some lost faith in the folks back home.

The men’s enthusiastic reaction sparked an idea. Maybe, with the right kind of letters I could get us more free food. After sifting through the garbage for addresses of hard to get foodstuffs from the World, I tabulated a log of manufacturers and distributors and sent requests to them at one-week intervals. The log was necessary to avoid contacting the same manufacturer twice. Plus, I thought it would be interesting to note who was generous, who was cheap, and who didn’t bother to respond.

It didn’t take long for the goodies to start rolling in. In the coming months I received peanuts, pretzels, fruit nectar, canned berries, sardines, steak sauce, and more. As a joke, I asked a tobacco distributor for cigar prices and they sent me a box of decent stogies! Everyone was curious about how I got case after case of the provisions, but I just shrugged and told them, “Somebody likes me.” If they knew the truth, they might try the same thing, and it wouldn’t take long for manufacturers to catch on to the scheme.

Freddie Shaw nicknamed me “Operator” because I reminded him of the Private Sefton character portrayed by William Holden in the 1953 movie “Stalag 17.” However, unlike Private Sefton, I shared everything that came my way. It could be said that I took unfair advantage of some generous people back home. But the end result was appreciated. To Boonie Rats stuck with the same twelve meals for a straight year, the products helped make our situation (just) bearable.

We had been back at Firebase Airborne for several weeks where, in our routine security role, we had not fired a single shot in anger. The lack of enemy activity frustrated Lieutenant Pizzuto. During a squad leader meeting he let his feelings be known.

“This is no way to fight a war,” he griped, “trapped here playing nursemaid to a bunch of artillery lazies. We’re being denied the chance of proving ourselves in combat when there’s plenty of Gooks out there just waiting to die for their country. Hell, a token attack on the firebase is the least the NVA could do.”

I think I was the only one who thought he was nuts.

“Lieutenant, listen to yourself!” I said, disbelieving his idiotic statements. “You sound as if we’re invincible. Every time we’ve had enemy contact someone dies or gets wounded because it’s always been on the NVA terms, not ours. We should be putting more thought into our strategy before wishing for trouble.”

“Sergeant Wiknik!” Pizzuto shot back with a cold glare. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion. In fact, I don’t think anyone here is interested in your opinion. Why would they? You are nothing but a malcontent who wants to destroy the morale of this unit. If I hear one more negative word from you I’ll charge you with insubordination so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

The other squad leaders stared at me shaking their heads with disapproval. They didn’t understand that Pizzuto was just an advocate of recklessness. I didn’t say anything more.

A few days later, Pizzuto got especially upset when a platoon of elite ARVN Rangers used the firebase as a stepping off point for a raid on a suspected NVA base camp. The ARVNs returned the next day after killing three NVA and capturing a soldier and a female medic. That was all Pizzuto could stand. He begged Captain Hartwell to set up a joint search-and-destroy operation with the ARVNs. The Captain agreed to a one-day mission. The problem was we didn’t get the elite rangers. Instead, we got a platoon of ARVN Cherries on their first time out.

GIs were paired off with ARVN soldiers, making for a combined troop strength of forty-five. None of the ARVNs understood English and they only brought one interpreter. When spoken to, they smiled, uttering a goofy, “Okay GI.”

Our insertion to an LZ about one mile away was uneventful. From the LZ, we began a zigzag trek back to the firebase. We hiked along a thickly vegetated ridge with my partner clinging to me like a shadow. Sometimes I stopped quickly to see if he would bump into me. He didn’t.

Less than half a mile from Airborne we came upon five deserted NVA bunkers. A routine search turned up nothing, so we took a break. While sitting on a stump I noticed a camouflaged bunker previously passed over and decided to check it out. The entrance was jammed with fresh cut branches and there were several footprints nearby. I checked for booby traps before gingerly pulling each branch out of the entrance. When the opening was clear I eased my way inside.

In the bunker were several long wooden boxes. I opened one and found a dozen Chicom SKS assault rifles. An arms cache! I grabbed one of the weapons and scrambled out the door waving it around yelling, “Rifles! This bunker is full of rifles!” Everyone ran over as I went back inside for more to pass around. The ARVNs joined in and immediately went to work removing the weapons. As they did, we conducted a more intensive search of the area.

About thirty feet away we found another bunker with no doorway at all. It looked like a mound of dirt. We dug a hole through the top and broke into a chamber that contained two burlap sacks filled with AK-47 ammunition and several stacks of 82mm mortar rounds.

Figuring there must be more munitions in the area, we expanded the search. Our final discovery was a small thatch hooch built over a four-foot square bamboo bin. The bin contained hundreds of wooden-handled Chicom hand grenades.

The total cache contained sixty-seven SKS assault rifles, 450 mortar rounds, nearly 1,000 hand grenades, and more than 15,000 rounds of small arms ammunition. Everything was airlifted back to Airborne for display and inventory. We were thrilled to take something away from the enemy without firing a shot.

The mission was a double success. Not only did we capture a substantial amount of enemy supplies, but we may have saved American lives as well. The proximity of the cache to Firebase Airborne made it clear that the NVA were planning a major attack.

Since I had found the cache, I figured there would be a medal or citation in it for me. There wasn’t. In fact, Lieutenant Pizzuto did not acknowledge my role at all. Instead, his report stated that the credit belonged to the teamwork of the operation. I was disappointed, but at least I was able to keep a rifle for a souvenir.