Nam Sense (26 page)

Meanwhile, Janice and I walked the busy sidewalks of downtown Waikiki buying postcards and corny souvenirs at curio shops. After dark we wandered through nightclubs, sampling exotic drinks and listening to live music. The variety of activity was amazing. Unlike the Vietnamese strips with only a few bars, Waikiki has so many lounges and cabarets that it was difficult choosing which to patronize. There was no doubt about it: this was Hawaii. I was back in the World! As badly as I felt without Mary by my side, it was a good place to be. I was finally free of the Vietnam time warp, if only for a week. However, contentment is a fickle companion, and my initial sense of ease was about to disappear.

The next day I phoned my parents. My mother cried when she heard my voice. Her emotional release caught me by surprise and made it difficult for me to hold back my own tears. I suppose that servicemen almost always miss their mother more than a lover or a spouse.

Second to my being in the war, my mother’s greatest concern was for Jerry, my younger brother. He had just received his driver’s license and was terrorizing the neighborhood in a beat-up 1959 Dodge sedan. I told her not to worry about it, remembering when I had done the same thing, but just thinking of riding in a car with the radio blasting made me homesick. We spoke for nearly an hour and I promised to call her again before going back to Vietnam.

I called Mary next. I was nervous as her mother answered the phone.

“Is Mary there?” I asked, not sure of what I was going to say to her.

“Just a minute please,” she answered cheerfully. I heard her yell in the background, “Mary, it’s him! It’s him!”

Mary picked up the phone and delivered that sweet hello I had been dreaming about for the past eight months.

“Oh Mary,” I cooed. “It’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you too, but I didn’t think you’d be able to call me. How did you ever get to a phone?”

“Are you kidding?” I laughed. “There’s a phone in my hotel room. I couldn’t very well call you from the beach.”

“The beach?” she stammered, sounding confused. “Where are you?”

“Where am I?” I asked her back, wondering why our conversation was not making any sense. “I’m in Hawaii. Where did you think I was?”

“Hawaii?” she paused. “Wait a minute, who is this?”

“This is Artie! Who did you think it is?” My heart began pounding, but not in a good way.

“Ha!” Mary scoffed. “That’s a good one. Artie is in Vietnam. Now who is this?”

“This really is Artie. I’m in Hawaii on R & R. You were supposed to come here with Janice. Don’t you remember? This trip was all planned. I even sent you the plane fare. Why didn’t you come?”

The phone went silent when Mary realized it really was me. At the same time my heart sank because I just realized that her mother had not yelled “It’s him!” She had said, “It’s Jim!”

What a lovely R & R surprise. I was just initiated into the pitiful club, whose members know the despair of losing the one thing that kept GIs going: a sweetheart. I expected Mary to have a few dates while I was gone, but not find someone to take my place. Perhaps her past letters about drug abuse had something to do with her guilt for taking a new boyfriend. I had lost Mary months ago and never knew it. I felt betrayed, empty, and alone.

We slowly resumed conversation, but it was muddled and strained. I did not bother asking about the other guy because it would not change anything. Mary was back in the World, free to do as she pleased; I was trapped in the military, forced to take whatever came my way. We said good-bye on friendly terms and she promised to write more often. Big deal, any future letters would be from someone who used to love me, so there would be no joy in receiving them.

After hanging up the phone I sat motionless, as if I was in a trance. I agonized over what I had done to deserve such a heartbreaking punishment. I was so devastated I no longer wanted to be in Hawaii. I was ready to go back to Vietnam and direct my misery against the Army and the war. Mary cut me deep, and at that moment I did not care if I lived.

If these are the emotions felt by servicemen who have been dumped while on overseas duty, I wondered how many combat deaths could be blamed on the infamous Dear John letters GIs receive. I told Janice what happened; she was not at all surprised. My family had known of the situation and had wisely planned for me to hear the news in Hawaii with my sister instead of alone in Vietnam. It was a nice thought, but it did not ease the pain.

During the next few days I found it hard to spend time with Janice, though I am sure that hurt her feelings. It was not that I did not enjoy being with her. I just thought my depression would spoil her vacation, too. Eventually I wasted three days moping around before reminding myself I was in Hawaii and the war is thousands of miles away. Only a fool would perpetuate his own misery in a place like this. I had to cure my heartache, and I knew just what would do the trick: female companionship!

Waikiki Beach swarmed with bikini clad maidens from which I figured on having my pick. After surveying the sunbathers, I spotted a lone blond beauty lying on a blanket so I confidently sat down beside her.

“Hello,” I cheerfully began. “My name is Artie. Do you mind if I join you?”

She turned slowly, looking at me with a hollow stare that made me feel invisible.

“Are you talking to me?” she asked indignantly.

“Well…uh…yes.”

“Listen buster, I’ve got a jealous boyfriend who is supposed to meet me here. If you don’t want to get flattened, just head on down the line.”

Hmm, tough customer. I gave her a timid smile before silently turning away. Undaunted, I continued searching until I came across an attractive girl listening to a radio. She was chewing gum and bobbing her head to the music.

“Hello,” I greeted her. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Sure, sit down,” she said with a big smile. “So what’s happening?”

Now this is more like it, a friendly female. We talked for several minutes, with her giggling through the entire conversation. I was not sure if I excited her or whether her bathing suit was too tight because she kept pulling on it. A short time later her parents, who were swimming nearby, rejoined their daughter. I stood up to introduce myself, but before I could say anything, her father started yelling at me.

“How old are you?!” he demanded.

“I’ll be twenty-one in a few days sir,” I answered respectfully.

“Really? I’ll have you know that our daughter isn’t even fifteen, and she is not allowed to date. Just what were you hoping to accomplish?”

“I…I didn’t know,” I stammered, now completely embarrassed. “She certainly looks old enough.”

“Well, she’s not! There are plenty of other girls on this beach. I’m sure you can find one closer to your own age. Good-bye.”

What a bummer. I had been away from home so long that I was unable to recognize jail bait. I could have told her father that some of the whores in Vietnam were only fifteen years old, but that probably would not have changed his mind. Instead, I left peacefully to look for someone else.

My next target was a gorgeous Hawaiian girl who looked like a model from a travel brochure. Her bronze body and long black hair contrasted beautifully with her bright yellow bikini. She sat majestically on a blanket reading a book, looking up occasionally to gaze at the ocean. My instincts told me to stay away, but she was even more tantalizing up close. I just had to speak with her.

“What are you reading?” I asked with an adoring smile.

She looked up to give me a cursory once-over.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked in an aloof tone.

“I just want someone to talk to,” I answered meekly. “Can I sit down?”

“Sit down if you want to. It’s a public beach.”

This meeting was not going as well as I had hoped, but I was determined to see it through.

“Sure is a nice day,” I offered, expecting a similar response but she was not interested in discussing the weather.

“You don’t have much of a tan,” she said, examining me closer. “Only your arms and face have any color. Are you from the mainland or are you in the military?”

“I’m in the Army,” I answered proudly. “I’m on R & R from Vietnam.”

“Vietnam…I see. What do you do in Vietnam?”

“I’m in the infantry. It’s not very glamorous. Mostly humping through the jungle, trying to stay alive.”

“Oh…the infantry,” she sneered, throwing her head back. “Tell me, how many women and children did you murder in the My Lai Massacre?”

The question caught me off guard. “What?” I exclaimed, overwhelmed by the accusation. “That happened over a year ago. I wasn’t even in the Army then.”

“You are part of the war machine, that’s all I need to know. Warmongers like you thrive on bullets and blood.”

I was too shocked to respond. I just sat there watching as she gathered her things and walked away. I was doubly confused when everyone within earshot stared as if I had done something wrong. Embarrassed, I quickly left the area.

I never dreamed of a war protester confronting me like that. I wondered what she hoped to gain by lashing out at soldiers who have no control over the mandates of the government. We had become targets for the anti-war crowd simply because we were unable to obtain a draft deferment. In the aftermath of My Lai, the American military, not the communists, was viewed as the bad guys. It was as if war protesters thought GIs liked being in Vietnam; nothing could be further from the truth. No one hates war more than those forced to experience it firsthand. Now I understood why some GIs were reluctant to pursue the enemy with the same vigor as in the early years of the war. The public’s perception of the American soldier was becoming the war’s controlling influence.

Knowing I had done nothing in Vietnam to be ashamed of, I refused to be discouraged by the bikini-clad protester. I was still determined to find a girl, but it was time to change my strategy. I had to ignore the attractive females in their skimpy swimsuits in favor of someone that most guys would only give a cursory glance. The time had come to find a girl with character, a girl of intelligence, a girl as desperate for companionship as me.

After a careful search, I spotted a young woman who looked like she had just arrived from the back woods. She wore a two-piece bathing suit straight out of the 1940s. The girl was plain, yet oddly appealing, but the feature I found most attractive was her white as a ghost complexion that matched mine. Since our skin tones would not clash, I ventured closer.

“Hi,” I cautiously greeted her, thinking if she turned me down that I might just give up. “Can I join you?”

“I don’t see why not,” she answered with a curious smile, “you’ve got the same farmer’s tan as me. People will naturally think we’re a couple.” I could not help but laugh at her remarks.

Her name was Cynthia. She was a nineteen-year-old Canadian visiting her retired grandmother. As we spoke, I discovered Cynthia had a refreshingly friendly down-home attitude, much different from my previous encounters. To avoid another possible anti-war showdown, I told her about my role in Vietnam.

“Oh you poor thing,” she said sympathetically, “you guys are getting such a bad rap from the press. I don’t think your sacrifices are being properly recognized.”

“Well, thanks,” I responded, pleasantly surprised. “I haven’t met too many people who share your feelings.”

“That’s too bad. Canada has some men fighting in Vietnam too. It’s wrong not to support the soldiers.”

That was all I needed to hear. I convinced Cynthia that I was a harmless, lonely GI, thousands of miles from home, and that we should go back to my hotel room to privately discuss how the war was affecting me.

Cynthia’s acceptance had me hoping that I was going to get some free love to help ease the pain of Mary dumping me. When we arrived at the hotel, my sister, who had been waiting patiently, was there to greet us, so any thoughts of intimacy quickly vanished. After introductions Janice invited Cynthia and her grandmother to dinner. To my dismay, Cynthia thought it was a good idea and called her grandmother, who also agreed to join us. Now I knew nothing intimate would happen.

I expected Cynthia’s grandmother to be a stuffy old lady, but Lillian turned out to be an enlightened woman who had been around. She was so impressed with Janice and I traveling halfway across the world to reunite that she treated us to dinners and shows for the rest of my stay. Lillian’s generosity made me feel that there was still some good in the world.

Nothing romantic happened between Cynthia and me. Love did not bloom and the only physical contact we had was a few embraces and innocent kisses. With Janice and Lillian around most of the time I could not do much anyway. Besides, no one could take Mary’s place that fast. I was just happy that someone was there to help turn a hopeless start of the week into something special.

When the time came for me to return to Vietnam, the last thing I wanted was fanfare, so I asked Cynthia and Lillian not to see me off. However, I could not do that to Janice, although I told her there was not to be an emotional farewell. I wanted our good-bye to be nothing more than a simple hug. I did not want any tears shed for me until the day I walked through the front door of our parent’s home.

As I climbed aboard the airport shuttle bus, the sheer thought of the DC-8 looming in the distance, and the return to Vietnam that it represented, slipped my mind into oblivion. The mixed bag of emotions that was my R & R would forever alter my perception of the war. The company clerk who warned me about going to Hawaii was right about my attitude change. Suddenly, I no longer cared if I had an impact on the war or not, vowing to focus on survival more than ever before. And if survival meant having to stoop so low as obeying the Lifers, I would do it.

Well, maybe.

If war is hell, then the devil was at home in Vietnam and I did not want to be his guest anymore. The return trip from Hawaii was a blur. All I could think about were the endless miseries waiting for me in the jungle. After the Chinook shuttle left me at the Camp Evans chopper pad, I could hardly remember how all my travel connections had been made. However, upon hearing the all-too familiar rumble of distant artillery and breathing the putrid mix of diesel fuel and burning shit, I knew I was back.

With no one to greet me I stood alone, cursing the bitter loneliness of this place. Then, as if on cue, a passing rain shower poured down on me. Feeling adequately insulted, I conceded my fate and trudged to the company headquarters to let the Army know I was back. Specialist Simmons was there to greet me.

“How was Hawaii?” he asked, testing his theory that a GI’s attitude usually changed after being on American soil again. “Did it turn out like you expected?”

“It wasn’t anything like I expected,” I said with a mocked grin. “I lost my girlfriend, I was taunted by a war protester, and the only women I spent time with were my sister, a Canadian virgin, and her grandmother. The whole thing was like a soap opera. I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Simmons offered, trying to cheer me up. “Most units are in the rear for a 48-hour cease-fire, so you’ve got a little time to get back in the groove. Did you know that Company A is going to Camp Eagle tomorrow to see the Bob Hope Christmas Show?”

“The Bob Hope Show,” I mused. “That ought to be something.”

“Not for everyone,” he winced. “You’re back under Lieutenant Cramer’s control. Since you just returned from R & R, he put you on the list of volunteers to stay behind in defensive reserve in case the Gooks don’t honor the cease-fire. I guess Cramer’s dislike for you hasn’t softened much.” I nodded knowingly and rejoined my platoon.

The men were eagerly preparing for the show by shining boots and getting haircuts and clean fatigues. As they paraded through the company area drinking beer and joking around, it was difficult to hide my jealousy. After all, I was exposed to the same dangers as everyone else and felt just as deserving to attend the show as the next guy. As I stepped into the hooch, an unusual number of new faces startled me.

“Hey, Sergeant Wiknik!” Dennis Silig yelled, as he waded through the crowd to greet me. “We’ve been waiting for you! Meet the guys!”

The banter suddenly stopped as all eyes turned in my direction. I gave a hesitant wave and nodded as the unknown men began talking again while still looking me over.

“What the hell is going on Silig? Why was everyone staring at me?”

“It’s all part of my public relations campaign. Since you’ve been gone, we’ve gotten a lot of Cherries, so I’ve been telling them all about your exploits.”

“My exploits?” I said, shocked at the very word. “What kind of exploits?”

“I told them how you were the first to the top of Hamburger Hill and that you prevented an attack on Firebase Airborne by single-handedly discovering an NVA weapons cache. I also explained that you are one of the few NCOs who thinks its more important to survive on a mission than follow stupid tactics and get killed.”

“What the hell did you do that for? I don’t need to impress new guys.” I was actually a bit pissed about the whole thing.

“Yes you do,” he said in all seriousness. “This is a new breed of Cherries with bad attitudes. They know that the war is winding down with the Vietnamization program, so none of them plan to be the last to die here.”

“No shit,” I replied, now at least understanding Silig’s twisted strategy to win them over to the right way of thinking. “But we’ve got plenty of guys to help break them in.”

“Not anymore. After you left for R & R, Shaw, Alcon, Keoka, Scoggins, Smith, and the others were shipped home. Even guys who were supposed to stay until the middle of January received an early-out Christmas gift. I guess the Army is willing to do anything to get more support for the war. You should have seen their faces when they found out they were going home.”

As he spoke, I felt an awful loneliness. My friends left and I never knew it. Would I ever see them again? “Did you get their home addresses so we can keep in touch after the war?”

Silig gave me a funny look. “Who the hell wants to be reminded of this fucking place after they get home?” I nodded in agreement.

“But you have other things to worry about,” Silig continued. “Lieutenant Cramer has been bragging how he shipped you off to the LZ cutting team. He said you’re the problem child of the platoon and needed to be taught a lesson, and if you didn’t change, he would do it again for good. If you want to stay in the platoon, I think you should offer him an apology.”

“I would rather kiss Ho Chi Minh’s stinking dead ass than ask forgiveness from that bastard.”

“So lie,” Silig suggested. “Cramer doesn’t have to know you’re faking it.”

Rather than take any chances, I took Silig’s advice to swallow my pride and tell Cramer what he has probably wanted to hear for a long time. I sought out the lieutenant and edged my way up to him and saluted.

“Lieutenant Cramer,” I began, hoping to get through the apology without making myself sick. “I was wrong to question your authority and tactics. I’m going to work hard at making sure it never happens again. I also want to apologize for the pig-shooting incident. That was supposed to be a joke, but it went too far.”

“Well isn’t this something,” Cramer said with a smirk, thinking he had finally broken my will. “My brand of punishment has finally taught Sergeant Wiknik the error of his ways. From now on, it would be in your best interest not to complicate the war by questioning my strategy or trying to embarrass me.”

“Yes sir,” I faintly conceded, “but my goal still has not changed. I plan to finish my tour with as little risk as possible to me and the men. If I question you in the future, sir, it is only because I am trying to offer something constructive, and it will not be anything malicious.”

“That’s more like it,” he said with a handshake, believing my comments were honest. “I’ve always thought that you’d be a productive member of the platoon. When we get back to the field, let’s get started on that body count. We haven’t killed anyone lately.”

What a jerk.

Now that I had apologized to Cramer, trying to control him would be harder. I did not think Silig and I could do it alone. To succeed, we would have to enlist Howard Siner who, several weeks ago had been mulling a return to the field. I hoped he had not changed his mind.

The next morning, I watched the men excitedly board the Chinook shuttle for Camp Eagle. It was good to see them so cheerful, especially knowing that whatever entertainment they would see had to be far better than what was offered at the Camp Evan’s theater. As soon as the Chinook left, I got together with Siner to ask for his help.

“I want you to come back to the field,” I said with all the honesty and sincerity I could muster. “With most of the old-timer’s gone the platoon’s experience level is too low for me and Silig to handle—especially when it comes to dealing with Cramer. What do you say? Will you come back? I think you’d make a big difference.”

“Thanks for your confidence but I’m way ahead of you,” Siner smiled. “I requested field duty two weeks ago and I’m just waiting for my replacement.”

I almost screamed with joy. “Great! What made up your mind?”

“Several things,” he frowned. “I just got so sick of listening to the REMFs whine about how rough it is in Camp Evans when they have no idea of how much worse it could be. Then they bitch and moan when Grunts come in from the field, calling them gun-toting crazies who have nothing better to do than shit-up the place. Being in the rear is a reward in itself, but when I found out that more REMFs than Grunts are going to the Bob Hope Show, I just didn’t want to be associated with them anymore.”

“Fuck it, don’t mean nothin.’”

“It gets worse,” Siner added. “The Brass knows all about Lieutenant Cramer’s leadership troubles. The problem is no one is willing to do anything about it because young officers, good or bad, are getting harder to come by. But I think you, me, and Silig can straighten him out.”

“Just straightening Cramer out isn’t good enough for me,” I said in grave determination. “We need to get him removed from the field.”

When the men returned from the Bob Hope Show, most were rejuvenated from the first-rate entertainment. In addition to Bob Hope, the ninety-minute show included singer-actress Connie Stevens, The Golddiggers all-female song and dance troupe, astronaut Neil Armstrong, Les Brown and his Band of Renown, and Miss World, Eva Reuber-Staier. However, some men were visibly depressed. The show represented a little piece of the World, a life we all missed so terribly. Worse than that was Christmas Day at Camp Evans. There were no seasonal decorations, no familiar Christmas carols, no exchanging of gifts—not even a cheap Santa Claus costume for a few laughs. Aside from being in the rear for the cease-fire, Christmas was like all the other holidays that passed unnoticed. The only significance was that it brought us another day closer to going home.

The next morning we returned to the field, working the flatlands about five miles northwest of Phong Dien. During my absence from the platoon, I hoped Lieutenant Cramer would mature as a leader or at least realize he was not going to win the war by himself. I was sadly disappointed. Cramer had not changed at all. He was the same incompetent jerk he always was, except now a new level of ineptitude emerged: without well defined terrain, he could not read a map.

One afternoon, Cramer decided to call in artillery on a hedgerow about a quarter of a mile away. Following proper procedures, he asked for a first-round white smoke marker. The marker landed on a hilltop so far off that the smoke blended in with the clouds. Rather than request another marker for adjusting the fire, he simply radioed in new coordinates and asked for two high-explosive rounds.

At first, the familiar screech of the approaching shells sounded like they would sail harmlessly past us. However, as the noise intensified, it was quite obvious that the rounds would land far short of the hedgerow. Silig and I exchanged panicked glances and yelled, “Incoming! Hit the dirt!”

Cramer stood watching the target while the rest of us sprawled on our bellies. An instant later, two deafening explosions ripped into the earth a few hundred feet away, sending shock waves through the ground below us. “Cease-fire!” I yelled to Cramer. “That’s too close, Lieutenant! Cease-fire!”

I had just finished screaming those words when chunks of hot shrapnel noisily landed in the bushes just a few feet away. Cramer never moved. He just stood staring at the impact area as if he were on a street corner.

“Lieutenant!” I called to him, “what the hell are you doing!”

“Wow,” he calmly answered. “Did you see that? I guess I’ll have to adjust before firing again.”

Luckily he had only asked for two rounds. “You’re damn right you’re going to adjust, but let’s look at the map first!”

I checked his coordinates and discovered we were about one thousand feet away from where he thought we were. His error could have been tragic, but luckily no one was hurt. It was difficult to hold back my anger, but since I had just returned from exile I said nothing more and hoped this was an isolated incident.

Three days later we set up an ambush next to a VC trail that skirted a shallow river. After dark, Cramer radioed in for harassment mortar fire to keep the VC off balance and possibly chase them into our line of fire. The problem was, Cramer failed to tell us that he requested the mortars. As a result, when an errant mortar shell exploded less than a hundred feet away, we thought the VC had fired it at us.

Pandemonium broke loose as everyone quickly gathered their gear on Cramer’s order to evacuate the area. Rather than calm us down and admit that he called for the mortar round, Cramer played it as if the VC really did fire at us. Within moments we were headed for higher, more defensible, ground. Moving like phantoms in the dark always made us jittery, even more so now because we thought the VC were close. There was no talking allowed, so if we drifted apart only the dull thuds of our equipment pulled us back together again. We were always afraid our movement would attract a wandering VC who might mix in with us. But our biggest fear was that we would stumble into another platoon and get shot up. Luckily, neither concern came to pass.

Several minutes after we retreated from the river I began wondering why only one enemy mortar round had been fired. That was when I figured it out. We were not under attack but instead running away from another map fuck-up. I halted the platoon and told the men to set up for the night. When things calmed down I took Cramer aside.

“Lieutenant,” I began, barely restraining myself from grabbing him by the shirt front, “you asked for that mortar round, didn’t you?”

Cramer did not know what to say. His puzzled look was all I needed to confirm my suspicion.

“Do you have any idea of how much danger you just put us in? If you’re going to call for fire support, keep us informed. We’ve been lucky with some of the mistakes you’ve made, but one of these days it’s going to catch up with us, and the platoon won’t take it lightly. Being out here is supposed to be a team effort; no one will think any less of you for getting a second opinion on map reading and tactics.”

“Now Sergeant Wiknik,” he responded calmly, as if trying to patronize me. “I know you mean well and you think I have a few kinks to work out, but really, I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

Cramer’s attitude was unbelievable. He should have been removed from the field long ago, but I guess Howard Siner was right when he said young officers, even incompetent ones, were hard to come by. Rather than waste any more time trying to get through to him, I had to find a way to get Cramer to self-destruct before he killed one of us. Simply getting him removed from the field was no longer good enough; I want him bounced out of the Army as well. I would just have to find a way to capitalize on his stupidity.