Nam Sense (22 page)

The REMF on the bench who had earlier moved away from me felt no sympathy for the injured Grunt as he joked with another soldier.

“Man, what kind of hospital is this?” he whispered, motioning toward me. “We’ve got a bleeding pecker over here and a GI on a stick over there. I just hope my infected tattoo will get looked at.”

As they laughed at our misfortunes, I lost my cool.

“Mother-fucking REMFs!” I shouted at them. “You guys have no idea what it’s like out in the bush! What’s the biggest problem you have to face here in the rear—seeing the same movie two nights in a row?” Embarrassed, they got the message and kept quiet.

The patient line kept moving until I finally got to see a doctor. He didn’t bother with an examination and he didn’t want to hear my story. Instead, he handed me a specimen cup for a urine sample. I wanted to fill the cup in his office, but he had other patients and sent me outside.

I was not ready to unwrap ten feet of gauze at a piss-tube with the whole world watching so I went into the closest latrine. It was a four-seater occupied with two soldiers. Since I wanted privacy I paced the floor while shooting glares at them to leave. They quickly finished and left, but not before mumbling something about a “latrine queen.” After they were gone I began unwrapping, worried at the thought of pissing blood into a cup. As the gauze piled up on the floor, a hospital orderly walked in. Startled, I quickly gathered the strips together and turned away.

“Is something wrong?” he curiously asked.

“Y…Yes,” I answered, spinning around. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

The orderly flinched and took a step backward. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, unsure of whether to stay or run.

“I have to give a urine sample but I’m too nervous to get these bandages off. Would you help me?”

“All right,” he said, slowly kneeling to the floor and looking outside. “Just warn me if anyone comes this way. I don’t want anyone thinking we’re in love.”

As he finished I felt uneasy recalling that, up to now, at least three different men had handled my penis. I shuddered at the thought of any of them enjoying it.

“Thanks for the help,” I sighed. “Now would you leave me alone?”

“Are you kidding? I just removed a pound of gauze from a penis that’s about to give a urine sample. I have got to see this.”

I agreed to let him stay, figuring it might be good to have him standing by in case something went wrong. I held the cup in one hand and my penis in the other then took a deep breath and let out a squirt. There was no pain and it was pure urine. I felt so relieved I continued filling the cup as several tiny blood clots mixed in. Since the hemorrhaging had apparently ceased, I didn’t bother to re-wrap.

“I guess you’re all set,” the orderly said with a nod.

“Not really, now I have to take a crap.”

“You mean they want a stool sample too?”

“No…I’ve got diarrhea!”

“In that case, I’m leaving.”

I brought the urine sample back to the doctor, but he wouldn’t let me stay while it was analyzed. He did allow me to remove that stupid medical tag. While waiting, I searched for a clean pair of pants but none were available. The only jungle fatigues on the premises were shredded, having been cut from wounded GIs. After a few minutes I was called back to the doctor’s office.

“Well Doc,” I asked, prepared for the worst, “what have I got?”

“Blood in your urine,” he shrugged. “I don’t know what caused it, so I’m sending you to the 95th Evacuation Hospital in Da Nang for more tests. A C-130 is flying down there shortly. I’ll have a clerk arrange a seat for you.”

The uncertainty of my condition had me worried, but at least he wasn’t jumping to conclusions like the doctors at the Mai Loc aid station.

There was no airport terminal at the hospital, so I just walked out the back door and across the runway to the waiting airplane. I stepped through the doorway into one of the most depressing places I had ever seen. The C-130 was a fully staffed airborne ambulance loaded with GIs on stretchers and in wheelchairs. Some were amputees; others had limbs in a cast or were wrapped with heavy bandages. Many were hooked to an intravenous solution. I tried to sit out of the way, ashamed to occupy the same space as men wounded in combat. I just hoped my masturbating wound would never be revealed to them.

We landed at the giant Da Nang airbase and were taken by bus ambulance to the 350-bed 95th Evacuation Hospital. I was assigned a doctor and told him the entire story about the diarrhea, the testicular tension, Doc Meehan’s masturbation prescription, and the leech theory.

“Only an idiot would give masturbation advice, and only a moron would follow it,” grumbled the doctor while glaring at me like I was a fool. “Masturbation and leeches will not cause a hemorrhaging penis. It sounds more like a possible bladder tumor. We’ll give you a flagging test to determine where the hemorrhage originated.”

The flagging test began with me lying on a cold marble table while a radioactive dye was injected into the femoral artery. As the dye pumps into the bloodstream, the flow is scanned by X-ray and displayed on a screen. Any abnormality in the path is most likely the area where the bleeding occurred. However, my test revealed nothing to suggest an abnormal blood flow.

The next test was a manual probe of the lower intestinal track through my rectum. I had told the doctor about my diarrhea so he put on an arm’s length rubber glove while attempting a joke about not being able to use his shit-shield because it was at the cleaners. I didn’t laugh. When the doctor was ready I closed my eyes, spread open my buttocks and bent over. The entry felt as if he shoved his whole fist up my ass. As I adjusted to the uncomfortable poking and prying, he touched something tender. I howled from the pain and lunged forward out of his reach.

“Sorry about that,” he sympathized. “But I found your problem.”

“What is it?” I grunted, trying to pucker my ass back down to normal size.

“You have prostatitis. It’s an infection of the prostrate gland, something that is common in elderly men. Apparently your diarrhea and continued urination was dehydrating your system, complicating the condition. The pain you experienced from masturbating was coincidental to an internal rupture.”

This could be good news! “Am I going home?” I asked hopefully.

“No, not for what you have,” he laughed. “But you’ll be out of the field for a couple of weeks to heal the prostate and get your system back to normal. There’s no medication but you cannot perform any strenuous activity. You also need to drink lots of fluids like milk, juice and water. Absolutely no tea, coffee, soda, or beer.” No beer. What a bummer.

The next day I returned to Camp Evans. News from the DMZ came in that our company had seized a huge enemy food cache without firing a shot. The cache consisted of more than a ton of dried fish, nearly two tons of rice, and several hundred cans of meats and vegetables. It seemed strange that the NVA would leave such a giant food supply unattended. G-2 suspected a mass enemy troop build-up was being planned, but the NVA must have forgotten where they left the food or else their guards were scared off. If I were out there, I would be worried that if the troop build-up took place, the NVA would be pissed off about their food stash missing and go after whoever took it. But I stopped myself from being overly concerned about the problems in the field. After all, I had two weeks of ghosting to worry about.

I spent most of my convalescence with Howard Siner, who was now assigned to our battalion headquarters at Camp Evans. Each evening we got together to have a few beers and live the life of a REMF. Of course, after serving nearly six months in the field, Siner was no REMF, but I noticed that he was not his normal confident self.

“I’ve been hanging around with you for two days,” I began, “and all the while you’ve been acting weird, like you’re depressed. What’s with you?”

“Sarge,” he answered slowly, “you’re not going to believe this, but ever since you came back, I realized that I miss my friends. I want to go back to the field.”

“Are you c-crazy?!” I stuttered in disbelief. “Or are you just stupid?! Hell, I would do anything to stay in the rear.”

“Yes, I believe you would,” he said glancing toward the mountains, “but only for short periods of time. After a few weeks, you would need to get back to the boonies to be with the guys who really count, the Grunts.” At first I thought Siner was losing his mind, but as he continued I began to understand. “Most of the REMFs I work with are as despicable as we’ve always imagined. They regard their Vietnam duty as a bothersome nine-to-five routine. They’ll spend every night getting drunk, playing cards, and then complain how miserable life is. They have no idea how lucky they are to be back here where it’s safe. Whenever I tell them about the real miseries in the jungle, they don’t want to hear about it. Grunts are bonded by the danger and suffering we share. REMFs are only bonded by the beer they share.”

Perhaps Siner was just stuck with a bad group. Whatever the case, his comments were depressing. As the days went by, Siner continued talking about giving up his job and returning to the boonies. I still thought the idea was nutty, but I would love to have him back with us again.

To occupy myself while Siner working, I decided to register a Chicom SKS rifle from the weapons cache I discovered in the A Shau Valley. For four months the rifles had been locked in a conex, but when Specialist Simmons, the company clerk, opened the door I was stunned to find only eight of the original 67 weapons remained.

“Where the fuck are all the rifles?!” I hollered.

Simmons was almost too ashamed to tell me. “The chopper pilots who flew the cache back to Camp Evans kept half for themselves and the battalion commander gave anyone going home, whether infantry or not, permission to take one as a war souvenir.”

“Those rifles were supposed to be saved for the men out in the boonies!” I howled. “How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be the one person back here that would protect our interests!”

“I really tried,” Simmons moaned, “but I can’t stop the brass by myself.”

Siner was right; REMFs don’t give a damn about us Grunts. I was not only pissed-off but hurt as well.

“I guess if I’m going to have a war trophy I’d better grab one before the bartender at the EM Club gets it,” I told him sarcastically while selecting an SKS. “Now go hide the rest of these rifles and only give them to Grunts from my platoon. We were the ones who found them.” Simmons agreed, hanging his head in embarrassment.

That afternoon I hitched a ride to Camp Eagle, where war trophies are registered with the Provost Marshal, the head of the region’s military police. Before I entered the Provos’ office, a REMF truck driver approached, asking about the SKS.

“Hey there, Sergeant, I’ll give you a $100 for that rifle.”

“No thanks,” I sneered, still angry over our rifles that were given away. “I found it; I’m going to keep it.”

“C’mon Sergeant, you’re in the infantry, you can always get another one. I’m going home in a few days and I’d sure like to bring something back with me. I’ll give you $200.”

“It’s not for sale—especially to someone who never stepped in the field,” I insisted. “An enemy rifle is a Grunt’s trophy. A REMF’s trophy is a beer mug.” The trucker was stunned by my remarks and said nothing more.

After the registration was completed I was somewhat relieved. Now the only way a REMF could take my rifle home would be to tamper with the serial number, which wasn’t likely.

The next day Siner and I were pleasantly surprised to see Dennis Silig come in from the field. He had been recommended for promotion to Sergeant and was scheduled to appear before a promotion review board. As one of the most trusted members of our platoon, Silig deserved the advancement.

GIs typically arrived in Vietnam as PFCs and, after several months, attained the rank of Specialist, which Siner and Silig had easily achieved. However, to advance to the leadership position of Sergeant, potential candidates needed to pass an oral exam. Siner and I immediately went to work helping Silig study. Siner made the task easy by obtaining a set of the exam questions from battalion headquarters. He told a naive clerk that he needed a copy to complete a story he was writing about combat zone promotions. The test questions covered basic infantry tactics, map reading, calling in fire support, disciplining subordinates, and more. They were exactly the topics I had learned in NCO school, so providing Silig with the answers was simple. Besides, Silig was already performing several squad leader tasks under the watchful eye of Platoon Sergeant Wakefield, who had been grooming him for the promotion.

Silig appeared before the board and aced the exam. He probably would have passed without our assistance, but our encouragement gave him the extra confidence to breeze through it. Of course the cheating helped, too. We didn’t celebrate Silig’s promotion because the only good aspect about his new position was the pay raise. The bad thing was that now he would be responsible for leading men into combat instead of following them.

The next morning, Silig was ordered back to the DMZ, so Siner and I went to the chopper pad to see him off. While waiting, we joked about his new position.

“Now that you and Wiknik both outrank me,” Siner began, “do you think you’ll allow me to be seen in public with you?”

“No way,” Silig snickered. “Us NCO’s have to stick together. Although, I’m a real NCO. I got my rank the hard way, not like Wiknik who is one of them Instant NCOs.”

“Oh yeah?” I chimed in. “You think you made rank the hard way? For your information, NCO school at Fort Benning was pure hell from start to finish. It was harder to stay awake during those classes than it is when on guard duty here.”

The friendly banter continued until Silig climbed aboard the Chinook. After the chopper roared out of sight, Siner’s glance reflected a lonely feeling. The three of us had become buddies, and even though we were forced to endure the emptiness caused by Silig’s departure, we tried to act as if it meant nothing.

The next day I went back to the 18th Surgical Hospital at Quang Tri to retrieve my rifle and other gear that was stored during my initial visit. Quang Tri is twenty miles north of Camp Evans, and the only travel link was Quoc-Lo 1. With no scheduled transportation going north, I would have to hitchhike. For protection I borrowed an M-16 and two bandoleers of ammo. It turned out to be just extra weight because I quickly secured a ride with two GIs in a jeep who were going directly to the hospital.