Nam Sense (24 page)

“I understand you’re the senior NCO in the platoon,” he said, shaking my hand. “Why then aren’t you the platoon sergeant?”

“I like being a squad leader,” I answered rigidly. “That way I know who I can trust.”

“That’s admirable, but the only way you’ll ever be considered for advancement is to have additional leadership skills on your military resume.”

“Save it for someone else, Lieutenant. The only advancement I want is back in Connecticut.”

“Ah, home,” he sighed wistfully. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Reno, Nevada. That’s my hometown. I want everyone to call me Reno because that’s my radio call name; it makes for a good nickname, too. I’m surprised you guys don’t have nicknames for each other. That’s just not right. As I get to know each of you better I’ll come up with some nicknames that fit your characters.”

“Lieutenant,” I interrupted, trying to stop his chatter.

“It’s Reno,” he shot back. “Call me Reno.”

“No way, Sir,” I replied angrily. “Making up nicknames for the men is like taking away their identity. Some guys already have nicknames given to them by their friends, not assigned by a Cherry Lieutenant.”

“If that’s your way of reminding me I’m the new guy, you can keep your opinions to yourself,” he scolded, then quickly changed the subject. “I don’t want our relationship to start off on the wrong foot, so we’ll skip the nicknames for now. Instead, I want you to know how I plan to inflict the maximum number of casualties onto the NVA, be it physical or psychological. The first thing we need to do is make significant enemy contact. Not just a crummy firefight or ambush, but close hand-to-hand combat. You see, I hold a black belt in Karate, which allows me to legally kill a man with my bare hands.”

“Lieutenant!” I nearly screamed, shocked by his outrageous remarks. “Do you know what you’re saying? Do you realize how crazy this sounds?”

“Wait, just hear me out,” he continued excitedly. “Every time we kill a bunch of Gooks, we’ll stick one of these calling cards into their mouths.” Cramer handed me an ace-of-spades deck of cards reading, “Death Dealers, Company A, Reno’s Raiders: NVA and VC Extermination, 24-Hour Service.”

This man was fucking nuts. No doubt about it. I was too stunned to respond. No officer in any Army could be as moronic as Lieutenant Cramer. My only hope was that he was just trying to impress me. A black belt in Karate? Death calling cards? These were just the tip of the iceberg regarding his bizarre ideas.

“The Gooks hardly attack platoon-size patrols anymore,” he continued, “because they know they’ll get their asses kicked. So we’re going to break down into six-man recon teams to spread ourselves over a larger area. That will give us more chances to ambush the NVA and pick up some easy kills.”

Easy kills? I thought I had seen and heard it all. Cramer had to be the world’s biggest asshole. There was no way I could sit back and listen to any more of his lunacy. “Lieutenant Cramer,” I began firmly, trying to stay calm, “there are a few things you obviously don’t understand. First of all, we cannot and will not change our names to satisfy your nickname hang-up. It’s just too confusing. Everyone already knows who the other guy is; you’re the one who doesn’t. Second is no such thing as an ‘easy kill.’ The Gooks have guns and bullets just like us, and they are not going to die for their country without a fight. And as far as using karate on the enemy, the first time you try any of that shit, we’ll be sending you home in a body bag. This is not a training exercise and we are not making a movie. We’re dealing with real life and real death. This is a not a game!” When I finished I just stood there, glaring into his eyes.

Cramer cocked his head back with a confused look.

“I don’t like your attitude, Sergeant. Need I remind you that you are speaking to a commissioned officer of the United States Army?”

“It doesn’t matter who I’m talking to,” I responded in disgust. “You Lifers are all the same. For once, I’d like to see the war-dogs listen to us Grunts. We’re the ones who get your precious body count.”

Cramer didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face told me we shared the same disbelief about each other. It was the only thing we had in common.

“Before you do anything,” I continued, “get rid of those stupid ace-of-spades cards. If we start planting them on dead bodies, the Gooks will do something worse to GI corpses. In other parts of Vietnam it’s escalated to a mutilation contest. We cut off an ear and they cut off a pecker. There’s no end to it!” Lieutenant Cramer was getting annoyed but I didn’t care. He needed to be educated and it was obvious that no one else had stepped forward to do it. “And another thing,” I said doggedly, “those six-man recon teams are nothing but suicide squads. North Vietnam is less than ten miles away and that means lots of Gooks, up close and personal. A small enemy force can easily wipe out those six men. You’re asking us to do what a LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) team does, but we are not trained for that kind of duty.”

“That’s enough Wiknik!” Cramer finally shouted. “I call the shots! I determine the tactics! If you think being an old-timer gives you the right to run this platoon, then you will find my brand of military discipline very harsh. I will not permit malcontents to undermine my command. Do I make myself clear?”

“Like I said before, you guys are all the same. You can get yourself killed if you want, but I’m not going to let anything happen to the men on account of your sorry ideas. I’m going to do whatever it takes for us to survive—even if it means leaving here as a Private.” I knew my remarks would forever taint our relationship, possibly putting us in greater jeopardy. But I had to attempt to wake up Cramer to the realities of war for the sake of the men under his command.

The next day, I was not surprised when Cramer ignored my protests by dividing us into six-man ambush and recon teams. Cramer put me in his group. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on me, but I hoped he wanted me along for my experience.

We didn’t speak to each other for nearly two days, which made the men uneasy. Cramer finally broke the silence when we came upon a hole in the ground that appeared to be an opening to an enemy tunnel.

“Sergeant Wiknik,” he began, staring at me with a sly grin, “since you’re the smallest man here, I think you should explore the hole.”

“No thanks,” I answered coolly, as if what he asked was meaningless.

“It won’t be that bad. We’ll tie a rope onto your leg so your body can be dragged out if anything happens while you’re down there.”

“I’m not going in there,” I insisted. “The Army has trained teams for exploring tunnels, and none of us are qualified. We won’t know what to look for.”

“You are a member of the best trained army in the world,” Cramer snapped, furious at my insubordination in front of the men. “You should be able to perform any task presented to you.”

I didn’t answer Cramer. Instead, we had a staring standoff until a new guy, PFC Daigle, broke it up by volunteering for the job. Cramer reluctantly conceded.

We armed Daigle with a .45 handgun, a flashlight, and a rope tied to his leg. He crawled down the opening and had wiggled perhaps twenty feet when we heard the dull thuds of several pistol shots. Before we could pull the rope, Daigle flew out of the hole like a human cannonball. He stood on the surface, trembling like he’d seen a ghost. It turned out that Daigle was claustrophobic but too ashamed to admit it. He volunteered to go into the tunnel just to end my standoff with Cramer.

The tunnel was a NVA bomb shelter. Once inside Daigle came face-to-face with a large snake that must have fallen in a few days earlier. When the snake came after Daigle, he emptied the .45 into it. Daigle was so terrified he didn’t even remember how he had turned around to scoot back out. Since no one else was willing to go into the hole, and we weren’t sure if the snake was dead, a grenade was tossed down to finish it off.

The snake episode completely psyched-out Daigle, turning him into an emotional wreck. The only thing he talked about afterward was how to get out of the infantry. For several days he bugged Cramer about getting him reassigned, but Cramer wouldn’t even consent to granting a short rest in the rear. We were sure Daigle had lost his mind when he openly fantasized about shooting himself or wandering off to take his chances as a prisoner of the NVA. Eventually, Daigle quit the crazy talk when he worked out a deal with Cramer who, to our surprise, agreed to send him back to Camp Evans. When the next supply chopper came in, Daigle said his good-byes as if he would be gone forever. Little did we know, he was leaving the field for good.

After the helicopter flew away, Cramer giggled loudly. “That Daigle is such a dope,” he boasted, as we gathered around. “I told him the only way to get out of the infantry was to sign up for two more years of service. So he’s going in to meet with a re-enlistment officer and I’ll get the credit if he goes through with it.”

We were shocked that anyone could stoop so low. “What did we ever do to deserve someone like you?” I asked, as the others nodded in agreement. “Daigle wasn’t thinking straight and you took advantage of him.”

“What’s the big deal?” Cramer asked, honestly wondering why we did not share his view. “He was no good to us anyway. The guy was a basket case.”

The men looked at Cramer as if he was the enemy. That’s when I made up my mind that somehow, before my tour is over, I was going to find a way to ruin him. No one as despicable as Cramer deserved a command.

During the next two days we painstakingly followed a ridge trail looking for an ambush site with an escape route. The path wound in all directions and often passed through small clearings, perfect for an enemy trail watcher to keep tabs on our movement. To our surprise, we found several pieces of US military equipment sloppily hidden in the bushes alongside the trail. Not knowing if they were abandoned by fleeing GIs or planted by the NVA, we avoided them for fear of booby traps.

We finally located a spot that gave us a clear view of the trail in both directions and, if needed, we had an escape route down the side of a ridge. Technically, we had a good ambush site. The problem was the weather. Fog and rain moved in, forcing us to be extra alert because the steady dripping of rainwater masked other sounds. After dark, the dripping made things worse. We would not know if the enemy approached unless they tripped over us. Those conditions made for some long nervous hours. Luckily, the NVA never showed.

On the third morning the sun broke through, warming the air and drying us out. We had just finished morning chow when the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches caught our attention. The noise came from the small valley below us. We quickly positioned ourselves for action and concentrated on the foliage for a glimpse of movement.

“The NVA likes those valleys,” Cramer whispered knowingly. “There must be a whole platoon digging in down there.”

“Sounds like monkeys to me,” I remarked nonchalantly.

“Monkeys?” Cramer blurted, spinning his head around. “Are you crazy? No wild animal makes that kind of noise.”

“Last month a band of monkeys foraging toward our position sounded exactly like that.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Cramer shot back, trying hard to prove his competency. “That commotion is from the Gooks. I’m calling for an air strike.”

Cramer contacted a Forward Air Controller who refused to authorize air support for noise in the trees. Instead, he had to settle for artillery. Cramer’s request for fire support was surprisingly accurate. It took only two shots for the battery to hit the target. As the first rounds exploded, blood curdling screams and weird howls echoed from the impact area. Cramer was ecstatic. He must have thought he was wiping out an NVA division as he yelled into the radio, “Fire for effect! Fire for effect!”

Sure enough, as the barrage continued, a pack of monkeys swarmed through the trees past our position. We just shook our heads. Realizing his mistake, Cramer called for a cease-fire. The artillery commander radioed back to question the abrupt stop, but Cramer was afraid to tell the truth. He said the NVA troops apparently evacuated the area after the first rounds. Captain Hartwell, who was listening on his radio, ordered us to check the impact area for bodies. We didn’t bother.

“I told you so,” I said gloating. “Once in a while give us some credit for surviving so long.” Cramer sat pitifully embarrassed and did not acknowledge my remarks.

In the afternoon we moved to a hilltop with a commanding view of a trail that zigzagged through the valley below. This gave us the chance to employ our own style of trail watching. Each man took turns carefully inspecting the terrain through binoculars. After a few hours, one of the men spotted a lone NVA soldier sitting beneath a distant tree. He was too far away for a rifle shot so Cramer called for a Cobra gunship. Helicopter pilots must love “Gook in the open” radio calls because a chopper showed within minutes.

Cramer verbally guided the gunship to where we had last seen the soldier. When the NVA broke from his cover, the pilot shot him to pieces.

“There’s no stopping us now,” Cramer boasted proudly. “We’re gonna make them Gooks eat lead.”

“Eat lead?” Freddie Shaw whispered in disbelief. “Is this guy for real?”

We came to wonder why our platoon was cursed with Lieutenant Cramer. If any of us believed in evil spirits, the day’s events were a bad omen: it was Halloween.

In early November, the 38-day US Marine deployment was complete, transferring responsibility for the DMZ region to the South Vietnamese 1st ARVN Division. Accordingly, 101st units began phase-out operations in preparation for their next assignments.

Back in the United States, opposition to the war was gaining strength. On November 15, 1969, one month after Vietnam Moratorium Day, America’s capital was the scene of the biggest peace rally yet. An estimated 250,000 demonstrators gathered at the foot of the Washington Monument for “The March on Washington, DC.” As big as this rally was, four days later the nation’s attention was diverted from the war to outer space where the Apollo 12 astronauts successfully completed the second moon landing of the year.

To the average Grunt, neither event was cause for celebration. America’s passions and priorities were clearly going in opposite directions. We knew that neither technology nor protest fervor would get us home any sooner. Our best hope for leaving Vietnam alive lay with our ability to ignore the outside world and continue sharpening the tools of our trade.

After leaving the DMZ, my company was supposed to go to Eagle Beach for a well-deserved three-day stand down. An intense tropical rainstorm canceled those plans and sent us instead to Camp Evans, where the only recreational facilities consisted of the outdoor movie theater and the tiny EM Club. The lack of organized recreation did not bother us because we were just as happy staying dry and getting drunk. However, since our superiors did not consider that kind of activity to be either recuperative or productive, we were sent back to the field after only one night under a roof, despite the persistent rain.

The storm set a record for the region, dumping more than fifty inches of rain during a seven-day period. Since we didn’t dare attempt crossing the flooded terrain, our daytime defensive position became a permanent ambush site. As successive torrents deluged the AO, we were as miserable as livestock trapped in a muddy pen.

The Brass were concerned that the seven days of rain may have allowed the enemy to advance their infantry and mortars closer to Camp Evans in preparation for an attack. To counter this perceived threat, and to create a buffer between the mountains and Camp Evans, a new artillery firebase was ordered built. Located atop a barren bluff only two miles west of the base camp, Firebase Jack would be my company’s new command post.

Two days into the construction, a VC sniper took several potshots at a helicopter ferrying building supplies. This first sign of the enemy quickly changed my platoon’s mission from static defense to roving offense. Unfortunately, the low scrub brush and open rolling hills allowed the enemy to easily evade our patrols. To effectively pursue the VC, we moved during the pre-dawn hours to likely avenues of enemy approach, where we waited patiently in daylong ambushes. No one ever showed.

The unseen enemy and the lousy weather overshadowed the frustration of long, dull hours of lying in wait. As the storm wound down, there were rain showers everyday, sometimes heavy, and sometimes light, with only rare glimpses of the sun. Even these breaks in the clouds were never long enough to dry our clothes and equipment. After dark it was worse. We were so cold from being wet that some of the men slept huddled together for body warmth. Each day of rain caused morale and alertness to dip dangerously low, so we increased our patrols just to stay active. One squad went out in the morning; a different squad went at noon; and a third in the late afternoon. Each patrol returned with the same report: no significant signs of enemy activity.

However, we were finding an abundance of wild boar tracks. The scrub brush and rolling terrain outside Firebase Jack was ideal habitant for the boars. This quick-footed beast can weigh more than two hundred pounds and looks ferocious with woolly hair and long sharp tusks. Though the animal was not generally considered a threat to humans, I was not going to test that notion if I came face to face with one. The boars were given the same treatment as an enemy soldier.

A few nights later on guard duty I detected movement in a nearby gully. It was a boar. Initially, I was just going to shoot it, but instead I recognized this as a perfect opportunity to rattle Lieutenant Cramer. I woke the men in my position and told them we were going to kill the boar while trying to make it look like we were under attack.

As the animal continued to approach, it stopped to sniff the human scent on a claymore mine. That’s when I squeezed the detonator.

KA-BOOM!

Though the blast almost certainly killed the boar, we fired our M-16s and threw grenades to simulate a real battle. Believing this was an actual firefight, the positions to our left and right started firing as well. After the shooting stopped, Cramer crawled to my position for a report.

“What’s down there?” he whispered excitedly. “Gooks? How many?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” I answered gravely. “It looked like a Gook trying to sneak up on us.”

“Did you get him?”

“I think so,” I said confidently. “After blowing the claymore we fired up the area pretty good. I didn’t see anything moving after that.”

“Way to go,” Cramer said as he patted me on the back, elated by the prospect of a kill. “Since we already gave our position away, I’ll pop a flare to see if anything is moving.”

As the flare shot skyward, the flickering light made the blood splattered hulk indistinguishable as man or beast.

“All right!” Cramer cheered. “A dead Gook! We’ll wait until daybreak to check him out in case he was able to booby-trapped himself. In the meantime, I’m calling this action in.”

“Good idea,” I encouraged him. “The Colonel will love it.” This was too good to be true. In the morning our battalion commander will come out to verify the body count and instead see our gung-ho Lieutenant for the asshole he really is.

As soon as it was light enough to safely see, Cramer hustled out a squad to view the kill. When he approached the boar, he glanced at it as though it was an innocent victim of the previous night’s firefight and continued searching for the enemy body. Eventually, Cramer returned to the impact area and gazed down at the carcass. His mind raced as his eyes darted from man to man. Finally, Cramer’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened when he realized what had happened during the night.

“A pig!” he screamed at me. “You killed a fucking pig!”

“It looked like a Gook to me,” I shrugged.

“It looked like a Gook?!” he bellowed, while charging to my position. “I called in a pig as a dead Gook!”

“Maybe it was a Hog Cong,” I grinned, as some of the men laughed. “Next time be sure of what we’ve killed before you call it in.”

“You son-of-a-bitch! You knew it was a pig all along, didn’t you?!” I just smiled knowingly in reply.

Just then we heard the faint whirling thump-thump of Colonel Dynamo’s approaching helicopter. Cramer lurched forward, cranking his head skyward.

“The Colonel’s coming in!” yelled the RTO.

“Noooooo!” Cramer shrieked. “Call him back! Tell him it’s a mistake! Tell him the VC got away!”

It was too late. A smoke grenade had already been popped, signaling the location for the chopper to land. The entire platoon snickered as Cramer ran frantically through the perimeter trying to figure out what to do. But there would be no escape. The helicopter landed and Colonel Dynamo leaped out with a triumphant smile.

“Good morning gentlemen!” he heartily greeted us. “Where are the vanquished?”

Cramer perspired as he weakly pointed down the gully at the mangled carcass. The Colonel’s smile faded as he looked long and hard at the boar. Cramer stood motionless staring at the ground until the Colonel turned to him.

“Last night,” the Colonel slowly snarled with his head cocked sideways, “my RTO woke me because you said you had engaged the enemy and had at least one kill. So I came out to confirm the body count and what do I find? I find that you killed a goddamn pig! What the hell is wrong with you, Lieutenant?! Can’t you tell the difference between the enemy and a fucking pig?”

“Uh…er…I,” Cramer sputtered, as the Colonel continued belittling him.

“I will not tolerate any officer who hallucinates in the dark. If you don’t know how to recognize the enemy, dead or alive, then you need a crash course on the subject. Maybe I should send you to the Ho Chi Minh Trail to direct NVA truck traffic! Do you understand what I’m telling you? You fucked up mister!”

“Y-y-yes Sir,” Cramer whimpered.

“From this day on, you will radio in a daily report of this platoon’s activities. If one of your men fires his rifle, throws a grenade, or detonates a claymore, I want to know why. I also want to know who walks point and who walks drag, who takes a shit and how deep it gets buried! Now take your sorry platoon and link up with Captain Hartwell. You certainly cannot be trusted out here on your own.” The Colonel stormed back to his chopper and sped away.

Cramer was so stunned at this crushing blow to his credibility, delivered with gusto in front of his men, that he was nearly despondent. I however, felt quite smug over the incident. Only now, I would have to watch my step because Cramer would surely seek revenge.

For the next several days Cramer refused to speak with me. I was even excluded from regular platoon meetings; communication between us was relayed through one of the other squad leaders. If giving me the silent treatment was the only punishment Cramer could come up with, it was great. I didn’t want to talk with him, either.

On Thanksgiving Day, our entire company gathered for a traditional turkey dinner that was flown out to us by helicopter. Along with the meal came four mess hall servers to set things up, not much of a task since it was a paper plate and plastic fork affair. Surprisingly, the food was hot and quite good, causing several to joke that there must be a new cook at Camp Evans.

The best humor of the day was found watching the servers. Like typical REMFs scared at being in the field, they overloaded themselves with M-16 ammunition and hand grenades; some even had bayonets attached to their rifles. After the meal, the servers formed a mini-perimeter with their backs against one another, as if an enemy attack was imminent. They were where the war was and, true to REMF tradition, wanted no part of it. When the helicopter returned to shuttle the servers back to Camp Evans, Cramer finally broke his silence.

“Sergeant Wiknik,” he began, with a contented grin, “you’ve been selected to participate in a special assignment. Get your gear together and grab a seat on that chopper.”

My bullshit detector was spinning off the meter. “What kind of special assignment?” I asked suspiciously.

“I don’t want to bore you with the details. When you get in, report to battalion headquarters. They’ll tell you all about it.” I surmised that Cramer’s revenge for the pig shooting incident was to separate me from my friends. I was upset, but tried to look at the bright side: it was a fair exchange for embarrassing him in front of the Colonel.

At Camp Evans, the battalion Operations Officer briefed me on the newly-formed LZ Cutting Team that I would be in charge of. “This mission is the first of its kind for our battalion,” he began. “The team will be inserted at strategic locations to cut a series of LZs that will be used for future combat assaults or troop extractions. You’ll go in at first light, cut the LZ, and then are extracted before dark.”

“What about the team members?” I asked curiously. “Who are they and where did they come from?”

“They are fifteen specially selected men who all have knowledge of demolitions and chain saws, as well as infantry training. I think that with your leadership skills and their background, it will be a great team. You’ll meet them in the morning. Now get a good night’s rest.”

I thought it odd that I didn’t meet the men right away, but the task sounded simple enough to not cause any alarm. Besides, any reasonably experienced team should be able to easily cut an LZ in half a day. I was even looking forward to the change of pace and hoped the team shared my enthusiasm.

At dawn, I went to the chopper pad where the group was already assembled and waiting. While introducing myself, I began to feel uneasy as I vaguely recognized some of their faces. Then it hit me. These GIs were not part of any organized team; they were the duds from our battalion! Each had a history of problems ranging from bad attitudes to poor hygiene to just plain stupidity. They were the useless GIs who flunked out of stateside training but still managed to get sent to Vietnam. I surmised that this assignment was the Army’s last ditch effort to make something of them before resorting to disciplinary action for being so dysfunctional. I hated to admit it, but Lieutenant Cramer got the last laugh by recommending I be put in charge of such misfits.

Based on the team’s makeup, I began to doubt that our function was for really cutting LZs. Perhaps our noisy activity was supposed to drive the enemy into a nearby ambush, or worse yet, we were going to be used as decoys to attract the enemy because the Army considered us expendable. Whatever the reason, I was stuck. I tried not to panic by reminding myself that the team was a tactically sound idea and that this mission could instill a renewed sense of honor and duty into the men. Before the day was over, I would never think such thoughts again.

Our LZ site was a jungle hilltop about five miles northwest of Camp Evans. Triple canopy vegetation nearly two hundred feet tall covered the hill and concealing the ground below. The only way to reach the ground was by rappelling down through the trees. As our helicopters circled the area, I expected the standard artillery barrage to scare off any lurking NVA. There was none. Instead, the lead helicopter flew at treetop level, where it hovered while nylon ropes were tossed out the door into the wind-blown leafy ocean. It was beautiful, but it was also scary as hell.

PFC Mauro was the first to rappel. With a radio strapped on his back, Mauro crouched on a landing skid and prepared for the drop. A second GI stood on the opposite landing skid to balance the helicopter. When the pilot signaled, Mauro disappeared into the vegetation as if he were swallowed. The rope was taut as he descended, but slackened each time he got snagged on a tree limb. Within a short time he was on the ground. From there, Mauro directed the pilot to move the helicopter approximately fifty feet to an area between the trees where the rest of the team could rappel down with minimal obstructions. I was next.