Nam Sense (25 page)

As I mentally prepared myself for the trip down the rope, I envisioned the enemy waiting to ambush us once we were on the ground. Two sharp tugs from Mauro signaling me to come down snapped me into action. The descent was exhilarating, with branches slapping my face and pulling at my equipment. Once through the canopy, the ride to the ground was so simple I landed standing up. It was strange to travel so swiftly from the panorama of the airborne world to a dark world of trees, shadows and no view. I quickly freed myself from the rope and assumed the anchor position while Mauro provided security.

I gave the two-tug signal and had barely positioned myself before the next GI plummeted down at me in a blur. Screaming like he fell off a cliff, the GI traveled so fast that blue smoke poured from his leather gloves. I let go of the rope so he would not land on me. The soldier back-flopped onto the ground and bounced nearly a foot high. After coming to rest, his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. Since he was not breathing I assumed he was dead.

I could not understand why he had gone so fast because the friction of the rope looped through his gear should have controlled his descent. When I moved to release him I discovered that he never hooked up, the GI simply grabbed the rope and free fell two hundred feet. As he shot earthward, he instinctively squeezed the rope tighter causing the gloves to act like a lubricant and they got so hot they smoked.

The unlucky GI was not dead but had had the wind knocked out of him. When he got his wind back, he began thrashing and yelling, “Arrgghh! My back! Arrgghh! My hands!” When I removed the gloves, they curled into grotesque claws. In addition to burned hands, the GI injured his back and could not walk. Before the rest of the team could come down, the GI was hoisted back up and flown to the aid station for treatment. If the Gooks were watching and saw what happened, they would never bother to attack because we stood a better chance of killing ourselves than them.

After everyone was on the ground, we conducted a cursory patrol of the immediate area. There were no signs of the enemy; not even an old trail. I put six men on guard duty and the rest to work. I reminded everyone that the chain saw and demolition noise would be sure to attract attention, so the sooner we finished the job and got out of there, the better.

The best way to clear the LZ was to cut below the crest of the hill, dropping the trees down the slope as we worked our way to the top. Trees that were less than a foot in diameter were felled by chain saws. Larger trees were knocked down with a charge of C4, a powerful plastic explosive that was surprisingly safe to handle—even with this crew. As the day wore on, one by one, the saws were rendered useless as their inept operators dulled the chains by hitting rocks. One misplaced saw was crushed when a tree landed on it. Without spare chains or files for re-sharpening, we had to put the saws aside and use the C4 to knock down the remaining trees. The C4 did not last long, so I radioed in for spare saw chains, files, and more explosives.

When our re-supply arrived, it contained no files or chains but we did get explosives: five cases of surplus Korean War-vintage stick dynamite, blasting caps, and fuses. That was just what I needed, ultra sensitive explosives being handled by ultra unbalanced people. By the time we got to clearing again, it was evident the LZ would not be finished that day. Rather than call any more attention to our location, I set up an NDP (Night Defensive Position). A small knoll about three hundred feet from the LZ was chosen.

Normal guard duty rotation was arranged but no one followed it. When I woke in the morning everyone was asleep. I yelled at the men, warning them about the hazards of sleeping on guard duty, especially since our position was not exactly a secret. But they all pointed fingers at one another trying to shift the blame. I did not bother pushing the issue. I just wanted to complete the job and go back to Camp Evans.

The LZ was finished by mid-morning so I radioed in for the helicopters to pick us up. However, I was told to sit tight because all available aircraft were committed to a big combat assault operation. So we sat and waited. In the afternoon, a lone helicopter came out to pick up the chain saws, gasoline, and extra explosives and at the same time try the LZ for size. As three team members loaded equipment inside, the pilot called me to his window.

“I’m not taking that dynamite back!” he yelled over the engine noise. “It’s too volatile! Use it to blow away some of the stumps, then destroy the rest!”

“Okay!” I agreed, nodding to him. “When do we get picked up?”

“Probably tomorrow morning!” he yelled back. “All hell broke loose today so most birds are tied up!”

That was not what the three men loading the chopper wanted to hear. As the engine revved for take-off, they dashed aboard. I had my back turned to avoid the rotor wash, so before I realized what happened, the helicopter was airborne. None of us on the ground could believe our eyes. Like rats deserting a sinking ship, the three cowards took their first chance for escape. I radioed the pilot to bring the trio back, but got no response. I was down to eleven men. I was furious, not just at the three who had fled, but I was also mad at battalion headquarters for experimenting with such simpletons. To keep busy, we blew apart any stumps that might affect helicopter landings and takeoffs. When we finished, there was still about one hundred sticks of dynamite left.

“I think the best thing to do with this dynamite is to dig a hole and bury it,” I said, hoping everyone would agree. “No one will ever find it out here.”

“Let’s blow it up instead,” an excited Mauro insisted.

“Can I do it?” begged a giddy GI the men called Cowboy. “Those hundred sticks will make enough noise to scare away every Gook within ten miles of here.”

Why an alarm did not blast off inside my head I don’t know, but it didn’t. I agreed to blow it up. Our only command detonator had a seventy-five foot long cord. That would not give Cowboy much distance to buffer himself from the explosion. But he found a seemingly safe spot alongside a fallen log. After carefully stacking the dynamite over the crest of the LZ, I handed Cowboy the detonator. He dropped down next to the log grinning like a mischievous boy ready to pull a fire alarm so he could watch the red trucks whiz by. Little did we know that would be his last fun for a long time.

The rest of the team high-tailed it to the far side of the hill. I radioed a general alert of the impending explosion and yelled the standard blasting phrase, “Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!” On that signal, Cowboy squeezed the detonator.

An awesome blast rocked the hilltop, spewing dirt, stones, and wood splinters so high that some of it landed on us. When the rubble stopped falling, we shot questioning glances at one another wondering how much debris had landed on Cowboy, and whether his proximity to the explosion had been fatal.

We ran to the LZ and discovered a hole in the ground big enough to park a car in. There was so much pulverized debris that it looked like the earth had vomited over itself. The blast so dramatically changed the familiarity of the LZ that we couldn’t immediately locate Cowboy. We pushed aside branches and clumps of soil until someone heard a moan underfoot. We accidentally discovered Cowboy by stepping on him. He was alive.

Cowboy survived the blast and the temporary interment but not without side effects. Dirt was packed into every crevice of his head. His eyes opened no wider than tiny slits and dirt-filled drool ran out of his mouth. The concussion gave him a nosebleed and he mumbled incoherently. Worse yet, when we tried to stand Cowboy up, he fell down in wobbly slow motion. Cowboy needed immediate medical attention. I called for a medevac and within an hour he was taken away. I later learned that Cowboy developed an equilibrium disorder that sent him stateside to finish his enlistment.

Early the next morning, the helicopters came out to return us to Camp Evans. We arrived without fanfare. Our stupid injuries, the damaged chain saws, and all the time wasted gave our commanders little to celebrate. Never again would there be any such team comprised of the battalion misfits because we came too close to getting someone killed. A trained team from the Army Corps of Engineers would cut future LZs.

Since the LZ team was disbanded, each member was sent back to his original unit, which meant I would again fall under the control of Lieutenant Cramer. However, Cramer would have to wait because I was going out of the country on a mid-December R & R. And, if my luck held out, I was hoping to earn some extra ghost time upon my return by taking advantage of the expected Christmas cease-fire.

Vietnam servicemen earned a week’s vacation after six months—if they survived that long. These seven days are known as R & R, or Rest and Relaxation. To a Grunt, R & R is the ultimate stand down. We could choose from among eight exotic locations: Bangkok, Hong Kong, Honolulu, Manila, Singapore, Taipei, Tokyo, or Sydney, Australia.

My first choice was Hawaii because I knew the currency and the language. I also wanted to enjoy modern American conveniences like cars, television, abundant electricity and musical lyrics undistorted by pidgin English. Most of all, I wanted to be back in the World where my girlfriend Mary and my sister Janice could visit me. The three of us had been planning this reunion for several months, hoping to create a bond we would cherish forever.

The Hawaiian R & R option was especially designed for reuniting spouses, sweethearts, and family members who had been separated by the war. However, our company clerk, Specialist Simmons, cautioned me about going to Hawaii.

“You’re going for all the right reasons,” he began, “but I’ve seen too many Grunts come back from Hawaii with a radical personality change.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, disbelieving.

“It’s simple. Hawaii is the World. The shock of being in America again and then being jerked back to Vietnam is too depressing. Returning GIs don’t care about their Grunt friends like before; everything they do is controlled by self-preservation. I think you would be better off vacationing in an Asian country where the lifestyle is similar to what you’ve been used to.”

“Are you nuts? The Asia I’ve seen is a little too primitive for me. Besides, how could I change, me of all people?”

“It’s just a natural progression where the stages of your tour take on different meanings. In a war zone, soldiers change all the time because they’re experiencing life ten times faster than a civilian does.”

It all sounded clinical, especially coming from a clerk. I shrugged it off. Besides, Simmons knew I was not going to change destinations, especially at this late stage, so he handed me a set of R & R orders and sent me to the Camp Evans airstrip.

After a non-stop C-130 transport flight I arrived at the giant Ton Son Nhut Airbase in Saigon. I was immediately struck by the contrast of this modern R & R processing center when compared to the rudimentary setting of the one in Vung Tau. Ton Son Nhut was like a tiny piece of transplanted Middle America. The grounds featured fine trimmed lawns, hedges, and flower gardens. The paved streets were lined with concrete sidewalks and streetlights. Even the buildings were reminiscent of a stateside military post. It was hard to believe I was still in Vietnam. Gone were the familiar tents, sandbags and guard posts, and no one carried a weapon. I reported in and was assigned a locker and a bunk for the night. Like most out-country R & R travelers, I would spend the next twenty-four hours purchasing civilian clothes, toiletries, and shedding some of the anti-social behavior acquired from the war zone.

One of the first civilized acts I wanted to perform was to relieve myself in a flush toilet. After eight months of crapping over the edge of a log or squatting in the bushes with cold rain running down my ass, I deserved a slice of dignity. I flushed twice, marveling at the long forgotten gurgling sound that whisked waste away. Then I amused myself by repeatedly flipping the light switch off and on until a showering GI yelled at me to knock it off.

After securing my few belongings, I changed into civilian clothes so I could quietly blend in with everyone else. Then I tagged along with two GIs headed for the EM Club. When we walked through the club door, the flashing lights, blaring music, and huge dance floor transfixed me. On each side of the bandstand were bikini-clad Vietnamese Go-Go girls dancing suggestively to the driving beat. It was all downhill from there, for the crowd of wild, drunken GIs was yelling obscenities and throwing ice cubes at the dancers. The waitresses had it worse; they were pinched and groped as they worked their way through the tables.

A dozen MPs tried to maintain a level of civility by removing the rowdiest GIs, but it was a losing battle. The lack of self-control spread like a disease. I never understood why people behaved like obnoxious morons simply because they were far away from home. Their conduct made all servicemen look like assholes. Undaunted by the riotous atmosphere, we grabbed a table as far as possible from the ruckus.

I decided the best way to celebrate my upcoming R & R was to toast it with a few drinks. My only previous drinking experience was with beer, but I figured hard liquor was not much different. Like a country bumpkin on his first trip to the city, I decided to try whatever was on the menu. I searched for a drink that tasted good and started downing rum and cokes, followed immediately by a screwdriver. From there it was gin and tonic, then rye and ginger. By the time I worked up to scotch and soda, the noisy club had turned into a blur. I was completely blitzed. Since I had drunk different brands of beer in one sitting, I never gave a thought to the effects of mixing liquors. I supposed that being stupid was the only requirement needed for getting shit-faced. Thinking it was funny, the GIs I came in with never tried to stop me. Nice guys. Where was Freddie Shaw and his lecture on ignorant oil when I needed him?

The two GIs helped me stagger back to the R & R center and lifted me into the top bunk. I fell asleep instantly. About an hour later I woke up to a violently spinning room. I remembered hearing that the best way to stop the spinning was to put one foot squarely on the floor. Forgetting that I was in the top bunk, I rolled sideways and dropped my leg over the edge, expecting it to hit the floor. The momentum pulled me off and I landed in a heap.

“Hey you fucking drunk!” the GI in the bottom bunk yelled. “I’m trying to get some sleep! Get back in the rack and quit squirming around!”

“Yesh…oshay,” I slurred, climbing back up.

Ten minutes later the room was spinning again, only faster this time. As the reeling intensified, my stomach rumbled. Too weak to move, I laid still fighting the urge to vomit. I lost. Without giving it a thought, I leaned over the side and spew onto the floor. The GI below was still awake and now more pissed off than ever. He yanked me out of the bunk and dropped me into the vomit.

“There you go asshole,” he sneered, stepping over me. “Now sleep in it.”

The sour odor burned my senses and triggered additional nausea. I did not want to throw-up in the sleeping area again, so I stumbled down the hall toward the latrine. The problem was I stopped every thirty feet to drop a fresh load, leaving behind a disgusting trail that had to be tiptoed around.

Miserable and groggy, I took a shower and washed the stench off my clothes. I returned to the sleeping area to find my mattress on the floor covering the vomit. Knowing that I was not wanted there, I found an empty bunk at the other end of the room. Unfortunately, I had to move every couple of hours as R & R travelers came and went. It seemed I was always in someone else’s assigned bed.

In the morning, I had such a hangover I wanted to die. My head was pounding like an artillery barrage and the inside of my mouth felt like it had fur growing in it. How could I have been so stupid? Surviving the ten-hour flight to Hawaii in this condition would be quite a feat. Still, I thought, I would rather be miserable flying high above the Pacific Ocean than feeling good on the ground in Vietnam.

At 9:00 a.m. we boarded a DC-8 that had just arrived from the World. Everyone raved about how beautiful the plane looked, but I could not have cared less. In my condition, the only thing that would look good to me was an open commode. I stumbled aboard and groggily located my seat where two GIs had already claimed the aisle so they could watch the stewardesses walk back and forth.

“How about letting me sit on the aisle?” I asked them. “I don’t feel too good.”

“Oh no you don’t!” one of them snapped. “We’re staying right here. Those stewardesses got round eyes and tight skirts.”

“Yeah,” offered the other, “you can look out the window. We’ll let you know if anything happens on this end.” Then they giggled and poked each other like little kids.

“Okay,” I moaned. “But I’m giving you fair warning. Last night I got drunk and threw up all over the R & R center, now I’m just waiting for my morning puke. How about lending me your airsickness bags? I’ll give them back if I don’t use them.” That did the trick, and the guy sitting on the aisle begrudgingly gave up his seat while demanding I return to the window as soon as I felt better. I agreed.

The plane taxied to the end of the runway where it sat for what seemed like an eternity. When we finally got takeoff clearance, the engines revved up and we sped down the tarmac. The liftoff was smooth but shortly before reaching cruising altitude, the plane hit a downdraft and suffered a series of sinking dips. That was the last thing my stomach needed. The FASTEN SEAT BELTS light was still lit but it didn’t matter. I grabbed an air sickness bag and ran to the nearest restroom and vomited for the last time. Feeling better, I offered to take the window seat, and slept there the entire way to the island of Guam, our refueling and rest stop.

At the end of World War II, Guam became a principal US defense position in the western Pacific. Although the World War II remnants were gone, Guam was still the site of extensive Navy, Army, and Air Force installations. We would only be on the ground for an hour but it was enough time for me to take a short walk around the airfield. The island did not have much to offer for sightseeing because the nearby terrain was relatively flat, but I was amazed to see so many B-52 bombers in one place. Their drab camouflage paint really made the DC-8’s gleaming silver body stand out.

After we re-boarded the plane, my hangover did not nag me nearly as bad as before, so I asked the girl watchers if I could sit in the aisle seat for a while. They refused. After six hours on the plane, they still snickered and poked each other. I was beginning to think they were weird. As we crossed the International Date Line, I tried to make conversation about going from a Monday to a Sunday, but they acted more annoyed than interested. I could not figure out what their problem was, so for the rest of the trip I kept busy with magazine crossword puzzles.

Four hours out of Guam our plane touched down at Honolulu International Airport. I felt like I had just returned to planet Earth. Gone was the military backdrop I had become so accustomed to. Hawaii was a pure civilian setting with cars, modern facilities, and friendly faces.

An airport shuttle bus brought us to the R & R processing station at nearby Fort DeRussey. Our paperwork took only minutes, after which the staff commanding officer reminded us of their strictest rule: travel beyond the Hawaiian Islands in any direction was strictly prohibited. Any attempt to do so meant immediate R & R cancellation and a court martial. The harsh punishment was instituted after some homesick GIs succeeded in making it back to the States, where they either deserted or were caught for being AWOL. With only four months left to serve in the military, I saw little to gain in taking that chance.

We were also advised of the possibility of confrontations with anti-war activists. Their fervor was at an all-time high over the recent disclosure of how US soldiers had murdered South Vietnamese civilians in the village of My Lai in March of 1968. The accused GIs were from a company in the 23rd Infantry Division (nicknamed Americal Division), which was demoralized by repeated casualties from sniper fire and booby traps. They surrounded the My Lai village expecting to trap the VC; instead found only women, children, and old men. In the hours that followed, the civilians were murdered and their homes were destroyed. The news of the atrocity and the alleged cover-up sent shock waves through the American public and the US military command.

The reporter who initially broke the My Lai Massacre story received the Pulitzer Prize for journalism. In the aftermath of the award, much of the media gorged themselves on the sensationalism of isolated disgraces of the American military. No longer did it matter how well GIs performed or how many continued to die for their country. Instead, we were portrayed as drug-crazed psychopathic killers. This unfair label was much more than a black mark on GIs. It was a disgraceful image that ultimately led many homeward-bound soldiers to deliberately return unnoticed and quietly slip back into society as if they had never been away. I did not want to hear any more about the atrocity—even if it was true. I came to Hawaii to forget about the war, not to be reminded of its ugly brutality. When we were finally released to our loved ones, the My Lai incident was far from my mind.

I stepped into the R & R greeting room where my sister Janice was waiting. We ran to each other and embraced. Then I anxiously looked around, expecting my girlfriend to surprise me by suddenly jumping out. But she was not there. I realized from my sister’s pained expression that Mary had not come to Hawaii.

An empty feeling shot through me. My mind started to race over why Mary did not come. Was her absence part of a cruel joke, or does she simply no longer care? As those thoughts raced through my mind I felt even more discouraged watching wives and lovers dash into each other’s arms. Their happiness made me feel out of place, unloved. I was certainly glad to see my sister, but the number of times I could hug and kiss her was limited.

“Why isn’t Mary here?” I finally asked Janice, afraid of what the reason might be.

“Um…,” she hesitated, “her parents wouldn’t let her come.”

“Why not? It was all planned. Nobody said there was a problem.”

“They didn’t want us all sleeping in the same room,” she winced.

“So, who said we were all staying in the same room?” I asked, questioning the logic of what I’d gone through in the war and not being trusted overnight with my girlfriend of two years, and with a chaperone no less.

Janice did not answer. Instead, she changed the subject by talking about her flight over, how Mom and Dad were doing, and the car she had recently bought. I was so depressed that it was an effort to show genuine interest. The only thing I wanted was to telephone Mary to find out the real reason why she had not come, but I could not even do that. It was after midnight in Connecticut, so my call would have to wait until the next day.