Nam Sense (12 page)

My cache discovery was all the incentive Lieutenant Pizzuto needed to start making his mark in the war. The very next day he submitted a list of ideas to Captain Hartwell for a series of platoon-sized operations. Unfortunately for us, Pizzuto didn’t have to wait long before his volunteering paid off.

Just two days later, Firebase Berchtesgaden, five miles south of Firebase Airborne, was overrun in a pre-dawn attack by an estimated ninety NVA. Nine Americans were killed while the enemy lost thirty-five. The NVA had broken through the wire and swarmed over the compound like ants. Savage hand-to-hand combat and superior firepower eventually repulsed them. Our battalion commander suspected the NVA might try again that night, so Lieutenant Pizzuto was more than eager for us to set up several blocking ambushes on the ridges adjacent to Berchtesgaden.

When we arrived at Berchtesgaden, GIs were stacking the last of the dead NVA into a grotesque pile atop a cargo net. The bodies would be flown to a mass grave. Pizzuto gazed at the enemy remains and was disappointed he had not been there to add to the casualty count. “Ah, we should have been here.” None of us shared his enthusiasm.

Our platoon split into four squad-sized ambushes equally spaced on the hills surrounding the firebase. Once in position, we were so convinced the NVA would return that we maintained 100% alert through the night. We sat motionless in the creepy darkness as artillery damaged tree limbs cracked and fell to the ground. Every time a twig snapped we wondered if the cause was natural or man-made. The waiting and watching continued all night, but the enemy never showed.

After returning to Firebase Airborne that morning, we were greeted with the news that the NVA had made several light random attacks and probes of different firebases throughout the valley. To combat the threat, each firebase began a program of sending out an LP (Listening Post) each night. An LP is a four-man night position located 300 to 500 feet outside the firebase near a likely avenue of enemy approach. The LP is not supposed to engage the enemy, but rather provide early warning in the event the NVA probe the bunker line or mass for an attack. Grunt’s hated LP because it seemed more like punishment than performing a duty. The position is so vulnerable that strict noise discipline and mental alertness had to be maintained during the entire night.

Communication between the LP and the firebase was performed with non-verbal radio signals, unless there was enemy activity. If enemy activity was confirmed, the LP would radio in the situation and try to get safely back to the firebase. That’s when things really got dangerous, because now the enemy was behind them and their own men on the bunker line were armed and waiting in front of them. If the guards weren’t forewarned that friendlies were coming in or someone was trigger-happy, the LP risked getting shot returning to their own base. Although our LPs rarely ran into trouble, those nocturnal stake-outs made the already spooky nights seem darker, longer, and more threatening than ever.

On my first LP, an angry mongoose periodically circled our position, hissing and growling because we were located too close to its home. As the night wore on, we were afraid the mongoose’s antics might attract any nearby NVA. We couldn’t move to a new location because the firebase plotted their harassing artillery fire around us. We couldn’t kill the animal because then we would give our position away for sure. The only option was to sit tight. Our position was stationary and although the mongoose wasn’t being threatened, it kept coming around. Since wild creatures normally fear humans, any NVA moving in our direction would probably scare the animal away. As it continued to hang around, it dawned on us that its presence was probably a good thing because it meant there were no NVA.

Whether on LP or bunker line guard duty, the night jungle around Firebase Airborne was so quiet that we sometimes welcomed an odd noise just to keep us on our toes. Usually it was the faint explosions of distant artillery barrages, but they often sounded more like a thunderstorm than a fire mission. Sometimes it was the tin cans rattling around our garbage heap outside the perimeter as nighttime animals scavenged for food. The only other sounds came from within the firebase when someone fumbled with his equipment or coughed.

One night we were treated to a B-52 air strike on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which was only three miles away. From our vantage point the air strike had three distinct features, each more impressive than the last. The strike began with a massive display of bright orange flashes as hundreds of 500-pound bombs detonated. Several seconds later, the sound of the explosions roared past us like a pounding drum roll. The noise lasted for only a minute or so, but it was so intense we could not help snickering at the havoc that must be taking place at the impact area. The last phase was the bouncing vibration of the earth. The ground where we stood trembled like an earthquake, causing loosely stacked sandbags to fall over. In the morning, B-52s struck the same location again. In their wake, a giant dust cloud climbed several thousand feet high and took nearly an hour to dissipate. Witnessing such a display made an artillery fire mission seem insignificant.

A few days later, a task force of eighty armored personnel carriers and thirteen tanks entered the A Shau, marking the first appearance of tracked vehicles in the valley’s history. Nine of the tanks and five personnel carriers made their way to the top of Hamburger Hill and criss-crossed the summit at will, proclaiming an uncontested victory.

“Big fucking deal,” said a sarcastic Alcon. “We got to the top the hard way; by fighting to it.”

“Yeah,” added Lennie Person, “nobody gave us a ride. What did those tank guys have to be afraid of? No infantry unit would be stupid enough to stand up against armor anyway.”

“I think you guys missed the real issue,” remarked Howard Siner. “If tanks could go up Hamburger Hill now, why weren’t they used during the battle? I think the Army was looking for a big infantry victory and tanks would have scared the NVA away.”

“So what does that mean?” asked Freddie Shaw. “We were expendable?” Afraid to speculate, no one answered his question.

The armor task force encountered little enemy contact but did uncover several large weapons caches. Convinced the NVA would try to defend or remove remaining caches, the top Brass decided it was time to ambush the valley floor. The target was Highway 548, a dirt truck route along which the NVA had driven their vehicles a few months earlier.

When Lieutenant Pizzuto heard about the plan he immediately volunteered our platoon’s services. Nice guy. Since I was always skeptical of any plan that sounded too risky, I felt it was my duty to protest.

“Lieutenant Pizzuto,” I asked, questioning his sanity but trying to do it in a respectful way. “Why in the world did you volunteer us for such a dangerous mission? The NVA own the valley floor.”

“That’s exactly why the NVA won’t be expecting us,” he answered confidently. “It should be easy for us to catch them with their pants down. Besides, if we get into trouble, every firebase in the valley will have their guns ready to support us.”

“A mission like this should be a company-size operation,” I added, “not platoon-sized.”

“It won’t even be a platoon, wise guy. It will be two squads, yours and Sergeant Wakefield’s. Fifteen men can sneak into an ambush position much easier than thirty can, you should know that. But I’m not going to argue with you on this one Wiknik. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for and even you can’t spoil it. Now start getting your squad together.” It was obvious Pizzuto was only doing this for the glory, which is why anything that I had to say about thinking a little more cautiously was ignored.

We loaded ourselves with the same firepower we carried for the Hamburger Hill battle. Each rifleman carried 300 rounds of M-16 ammo, two claymore mines, and eight hand grenades. Our two M-60 machine guns were bolstered with 1,500 rounds each. We also brought along two night vision starlight scopes and two radios.

Late in the day we left the security of the firebase. After the last man wormed his way through the opening in the concertina wire, the bunker line guards pulled it shut like a castle gate that would not open until morning. We quickly worked our way into the tree line and onto an abandoned enemy trail leading to the valley floor. The steep descent and the log stairs the NVA had constructed made walking easy. There were no signs of recent enemy activity, but I could not shake the feeling of being watched.

Our ambush location on a small knoll was covered with elephant grass six feet tall. After quietly matting down the grass, we had a clear view of the dirt road in both directions. We didn’t expect enemy vehicles, but the chances were good that foot soldiers would be moving after dark. Once into position, everyone set out claymores, determined fields of fire, loosened hand grenade pins, and memorized the landscape.

No one slept nor talked as we stayed on 100% alert all night. Time was passed staring into the darkness and concentrating on the terrain. We were too scared to move around for fear of giving our position away, and no one wanted to be the cause of somebody getting zapped. The valley was so still that the slightest noise or movement from inside our perimeter caught everyone’s attention. The most frustrating distraction was the battery-powered starlight scopes. Each time one was used, it gave off a high-pitched whine. Although the sound was barely audible, in our nervous state of mind it may as well have been a siren. Eventually we gave up on the scopes entirely.

As the uneventful night crept by, Lieutenant Pizzuto called for random harassment artillery fire to get the enemy moving around. The NVA never showed. Even the Fuck You Lizards and other night creatures stayed away. We welcomed the lack of enemy activity but being terrified for ten hours was draining. Luckily, the road ambush turned out to be just a routine night in the jungle. Lieutenant Pizzuto thought the valley floor ambush was a total failure, especially since he didn’t get to go on the next missions. Teams from other platoons took turns but they all ended the same way: no enemy contact.

A week later, we were surprised to learn that the 101st was withdrawing all divisional units from the A Shau Valley. The pullout coincided with the beginning of the monsoon, a season of persistent drizzle and treacherous fog. The changing weather would minimize the effectiveness of the firebases; air mobility would be reduced and resupply would be nearly impossible, allowing the NVA to bring the war close to the coastal cities. Again, Lieutenant Pizzuto was disappointed, but we didn’t care; we were leaving the A Shau.

During the next three days, Firebase Airborne was completely dismantled. Tons of ammunition, artillery pieces, and building supplies were airlifted back to Camp Evans as we stripped the tiny outpost down to a dirt mound.

The final dismantling was finished too late in the day for our company to be choppered out, so three platoons stayed for the night. With no concertina wire or artillery or mortar backup, we protected ourselves from a possible ground attack. Our defense was quite simple. In addition to the weapons we normally carried we had thirty cases of fragmentation hand grenades, giving each man about forty grenades apiece.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but the final night on Airborne would turn into a therapy session. After being in the field for four straight months, everyone needed to release his frustrations. Around 10:00 p.m., a couple of bored men bet on who could throw a grenade the farthest. It sounded like fun. Besides, if any NVA were close by, the grenades would give them something to think about. So the pins were pulled and the grenades were tossed.

It was difficult to measure how far an exploding object was thrown in the dark so we estimated distance from the flash. If it looked like a tie the contestants threw again. Before long, grenade-tossing contests were taking place all around the perimeter. Whenever someone got the urge, he threw a grenade. The guys just went wild.

Captain Hartwell was pissed off and ordered us to stop, but we were out of control and proud of it. Lieutenant Pizzuto and Sergeant Krol were going crazy trying to catch someone to punish. Wherever there was an explosion they ran over yelling, “Who threw that grenade?” Before they got an answer, five more would explode on the other side of the hill, causing them to run in that direction to check those out. The more they ran around, the sillier we got. It went on like that for an hour until we stopped on our own because we were running out of grenades. However, an occasional grenade would still explode and we’d all laugh. It was a great night, if ever a night in the jungle can be.

Early the next morning we left Firebase Airborne. I felt a tug of emotion for the twenty American lives that were lost protecting that god-forsaken hilltop. It was ironic that the way we left Airborne was no different than the way we left Hamburger Hill: we just walked away and gave it back to the enemy.

Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin’.

Our company’s nearly four-month stint in the A Shau Valley concluded with a well-deserved overnight stand down at Camp Evans. It was such a relief to be out of the field that we poured into the battalion area hooting and hollering like cowboys finishing a cattle drive.

We assembled in a loose formation for a boring but thankfully short speech by Captain Hartwell on the great job we were doing and that he would be expecting more of the same. Hardly anyone listened as we talked among ourselves, played grab-ass, and generally ignored him. Hartwell’s announcement that we were free until 9:00 a.m. the next morning met with cheers and applause. But when he told us that new AOs were assigned and tomorrow we would be back in the field, everyone groaned. At least we would have the night off. Our stand down was the first under a new policy where all weapons and ammunition were stored in heavy metal containers called a conex. These were originally used to hold and transport goods aboard ships. On the last stand down, overzealous revelers drank too much, made threats, and were a general nuisance. The final straw was when they shot holes through the movie screen of the Camp Evans theater while watching a monster film.

After securing our gear, the next order of business was to wash off weeks of caked-on dirt. A temporary shower station erected behind the mess hall had no provision for privacy, so we bathed naked to the world. Since this was only my fifth shower in nearly five months, I didn’t care. The old-timer’s comment that a bath a month is a luxury rang true. After being grubby for so long, it felt odd being clean; even our laundered fatigues felt strange. Our sense of smell had adapted so well to the jungle that the soft aroma of soap seemed almost overpowering.

With clean bodies and clean clothes, our platoon split into several groups, though we did not go far. Camp Evans was too remote to worry about seeing any of the local sights. The village was off limits as well, so there were no women for us either. With nowhere to go, we hung around the battalion area where men who received mail and packages from home sat quietly reading, answering letters, and munching on their mom’s cookies. Others bought beer from the PX for the stand down celebration. A small circle of guys we called “Heads” disappeared into the maze of base camp tents seeking their drug contacts.

Drug abuse in Vietnam had its share of bad publicity, but it was rare in our company. More often than not, it was the rear echelon soldiers who had easy access and more off-duty time to indulge who used drugs. The average Grunt avoided drug use for two reasons: first, no one wanted to be labeled as someone who could not cope; second, no one was willing to risk the safety of their buddies by being unable to function properly. Although there were probably isolated cases, I knew of no one—not even the Heads—who used drugs in the boonies. However, with all the hardships we endured, it’s surprising that more soldiers didn’t get high to escape the war. Here on stand down, my platoon’s escape from the war was different. We didn’t need illicit stimulants. We drank.

Case after case of beer and several blocks of chopped ice were placed into a 55-gallon barrel. When the brew was cold, thirsty GIs dove into it like kids grabbing Halloween candy. We were surprised at how the beer stung our throats, unaccustomed to anything so cold, but we got used to it soon enough. The beer buzz was something we had not experienced for what seemed like a lifetime. Nearly everyone indulged except Freddie Shaw who tried to talk us out of drinking.

“Where I come from, any beverage containing alcohol is known as ignorant oil,” he scolded us. “We call it that because it makes people stupid.”

“How do you come up with such nonsense?” asked Scoggins. “Alcohol should be called ‘smart juice’ because it stimulates the brain.”

“That’s right,” joked Howard Siner. “Even as we speak, my IQ is starting to rise. Within an hour I’ll be a rocket scientist.” Everyone laughed as Shaw shook his head and walked away.

As expected, we guzzled the beer as if there would be no tomorrow. In addition, since we were in a war zone and fancied ourselves as tough guys, GIs who over-indulged would sneak off to puke to avoid being laughed at. However, everyone knew what was going on because the GIs who returned were sloppy drunks and usually reeked of vomit.

I looked forward to celebrating freedom from the field, but was apprehensive about how much socializing I should do with the troops. As a Sergeant, it was awkward for me to be friendly with the Privates and Specialists, even those in my squad with whom I was so familiar. I thought it appropriate to distance myself, though the life and death experiences we shared created a bond stronger than any friendship I had known back in the World. Some GIs were reluctant to embrace that friendship because of the high emotional cost should the friend be seriously wounded or killed. That self-imposed defense mechanism is one of the infantryman’s greatest dilemmas and most painful burdens. As I contemplated my problem, Siner and Silig called out to me.

“Hey Sergeant Wiknik! What do say we forget about the war for a while and have a few beers?”

Their invitation was such a pleasant surprise that I immediately abandoned my role-playing concerns.

“As long as the brew is cold,” I answered, accepting their invitation. “But I’ve got to warn you, I’ve been accused of not being able to hold my liquor. Back home my friends nicknamed me Bottle-cap Artie.”

“Bottle-cap Artie?” a bewildered Silig asked. “What the hell for?”

“Because I have such a low alcohol tolerance they figured I could get drunk by just sniffing bottle-caps.”

“Well, look at your size,” Silig announced. “You’re one of the smallest men in the platoon. It’s no wonder why you get drunk so fast.”

“Drink this,” Siner commanded, handing me a beer. “You’ve been working too hard and need to relax. By the time we’re through with you, you’ll be known as ‘Two-beer Artie.’”

As we laughed, I felt a warm rush of friendship. I sensed that our similar personalities would create a stronger bond than just a squad leader and his subordinates. We were equally educated, shared the same sense of humor, and had a driving desire to get everyone home alive. Being close to twenty-one years old, we also had a higher level of maturity than the platoon’s mostly eighteen and nineteen year olds. Without saying it, we knew we would be the ones to teach new guys how to survive and to keep their wits about them. I felt fortunate to have Siner and Silig as friends.

Late in the day we walked to the camp’s outdoor theater to hear a Filipino band perform popular American songs. They played good music but the singing detracted from the performance.

“Set me fwee why don’t joo babe, get out of my wife why don’t joo babe.”

“What the hell are they trying to sing?” I asked.

“I think it’s a Vanilla Fudge song,” Silig answered, shaking the butchered words from his head. “But it sounds more like
Elmer Fudge
.”

“Oh, you cwazy wabbit,” Siner added with a laugh.

The Filipino’s tried hard, but we had not been in the field long enough to consider this worthwhile entertainment. The name of the song was “You keep Me Hanging On,” originally performed by the Supremes, and later covered by the rock group Vanilla Fudge, whose version became popular with hippie-types in the late 1960s.

We continued walking. It was relaxing just to not have to carry a weapon and rucksack or watch for trip wires and booby traps. We enjoyed simple pleasures not allowed in the field, like smoking after dark, drinking beer, laughing and talking without having to whisper, drinking beer, sitting on a toilet seat instead of a log—and drinking more beer! As the sunlight faded, the drone of generators peaked. Camp Evans was alive with electric lights, radios, and tape decks. It was a different world in the rear and we wandered around in awe of a time and place so contrasting to our familiar jungle life.

Outside our battalion area, an argument between Lennie Person and an unknown GI had escalated into a heated exchange. The GI, who was obviously drunk, threatened the small crowd of onlookers with an M-16 he had taken from the conex. Lennie grabbed at the weapon and a struggle ensued. Suddenly a shot rang out. Lennie jumped back screaming, “You mother-fucker! You shot me!” and fell to the ground clutching the side of his head. A small chunk of his ear was shot off.

The crowd quickly overpowered the GI, holding him until the MPs (Military Police) arrived. In the meantime, we rushed Lennie to the aid station for treatment. He was okay. The MPs locked up the GI for the night. We never found out what the argument was about. Perhaps Freddie Shaw was right: booze is ignorant oil. We decided to return to the battalion area where it was safer because no one had weapons there.

We got back just in time to see the start of a porno movie. With no screen, the film was shown on a bed sheet nailed to the supply room wall. The movie was about an escaped gorilla that was so horny he decided to try his luck with human females (it was obvious that a man was wearing a cheap gorilla suit). As the animal sneaked through a neighborhood, it broke into a girl’s apartment and somehow convinced her to go to bed with him. When the gorilla exposed his penis, everyone could see that it belonged to a white male. That’s when a black GI sitting behind us got up yelling, “Fake! Fake! That gorilla ain’t real! A real gorilla has a black dick just like me! Where did this movie come from?”

He was serious. Up until that moment he had believed it was a real animal! We laughed so hard we had to rewind the movie for the parts we missed. How could anyone be so naive? Damn that ignorant oil.

The movie was so stupid that we ended up throwing beer cans at the sheet every time the gorilla appeared. One GI tried to feel the girl and accidentally pulled the sheet off the wall. No one bothered to put it back up. After that, the guys wandered back to the hooches to sleep.

The night in our hooch was quiet except for heavy breathing and occasional groans. I was almost asleep when two pranksters giggled outside the screen windows.

“What’s so funny?” I drowsily asked.

“You’ll find out,” came their impish reply. Then they tossed a CS (Chemical Substance, a.k.a. tear gas) grenade onto the ground where a gentle breeze brought the gas inside. In an instant, the fumes snapped me out of my stupor. When I screamed, “Gas! Gas!” twenty-five drunks scrambled like disturbed bees in a hive. We clawed at the walls trying to locate an exit but we couldn’t see because the lights didn’t work. The clever pranksters had shut our power off. Choking and gagging, we smashed through the screens to escape. Once outside, some guys vomited, while others tripped over each other. We must have been quite a sight. Too sick and drunk to get mad, we waited until the air cleared and then stumbled back into the destroyed hooch to sleep. It was a good joke, though I would rather have been one of the pranksters.

Morning came too quickly and, as expected, everyone was dragging ass from their hangovers. But more important, we grumbled over the fact that we were being sent back to the field. No one wanted to go.

The routine of gathering our gear was interrupted when a jeep pulled up with a trailer full of grenades, claymores, and other ammunition. To avoid a mob scene, each squad leader was supposed to collect ammunition for his men. But almost before the jeep stopped, GIs surged up to the trailer, digging into the load. I could not understand the rush, unless they knew of beer or a boom-boom girl hidden under the ordnance. The men pushed and shoved until one GI backed away holding a grenade pin. He shouted “Grenade!” and everyone ran in several directions. We stood about a dozen yards away curiously watching the trailer until the seemingly harmless yellow smoke appeared from a smoke grenade.

“It’s just a smoke grenade,” someone yelled. “Pull it out!”

“No!” shouted another. “It’s too hot, it’ll burn ya!”

“You bunch of candy-asses,” chided Lieutenant Pizzuto, as he pushed through the crowd. “I’ll get it out.”

Just as Pizzuto reached in, there was a loud pop. He jumped back, waited a second, and then started forward again. There was another pop. Then another. Then a cloth bandoleer burst into flames. Unsure of what would happen next, Pizzuto quickly retreated. When a grenade exploded, sending hot ammo twenty feet into the air, we all scattered for cover.

Most of us ran about 150 feet and jumped into a ditch while others simply disappeared. It was a dangerous situation as the fire grew higher and the explosions more frequent but it sure looked funny. Shrapnel flew in all directions as the trailer jiggled and spit burning debris. We laughed when illumination flares shot past us like Fourth of July rockets. In less than one minute the explosions had completely obscured the trailer and caught the jeep on fire. Before long, two sleeping hooches were engulfed and the supply room wall began to burn.

Fire trucks with blaring sirens and flashing lights rushed to the scene. The firefighters began unrolling the hoses before realizing the burning jeep was shooting live rounds. They jumped back into the truck and drove off with the hoses dragging behind. The firefighters parked 500 feet away and watched helplessly as the flames slowly devoured our battalion area. We kept our distance too, but continued to laugh at every loud blast.

When the explosions ceased and the firefighters were able to get close enough to extinguish the blaze, there was hardly anything left to save. The supply room and two sleeping hooches had become charcoal pits. Other nearby structures had bullet and shrapnel damage. Even the ten-gallon coffeepot in the mess hall was punctured. The jeep was totally destroyed and the trailer had vaporized. Most of our rucksacks, canteens and web gear had melted into globs. Only our rifles survived because when the fire broke out we had instinctively ran away with them.

The only thing I felt bad about was losing the M-16 magazine that had saved my life on Hamburger Hill. For safekeeping, I had put it in my duffel bag in the supply room. However, after searching the rubble, the magazine was nowhere to be found. To ease my remorse, I submitted a $200 claim for items lost in the fire. Things like a camera, radio, and smoking jacket that I had never owned but was reimbursed for anyway. If I had known the Army would pay so freely, I would have claimed expensive jewelry, too.