Nam Sense (28 page)

“Hey Silig,” called Siner. “What are you looking at? Let’s get going.”

“I hate this fucking place,” he said in disgust. “Being around those kids reminds me of how much I miss my nephews.”

We had become so accustomed to the GIs cold-hearted image that Silig’s emotion was a surprise. It opened a little crack of our otherwise dormant tenderhearted side.

“We all miss somebody,” I answered slowly. “I guess it comes with the territory.”

“Oh yeah?” barked Silig. “Don’t ever ask me to go on one of these goddamn missions again! I’ll stick to the boonies where there are no reminders of home!”

“Listen Silig,” added a consoling Siner. “We all hate this place, but you can’t let it get to you. If it’ll help to let your feelings out, go ahead. Anything said stays between us.”

“Fuck it,” Silig uttered with his voice trailing off as he trudged toward the truck, “it don’t mean nothin.’”

But we knew it did.

Time away from the war and the boonies was welcome, but this week long training gig at Camp Evans was starting to get to us. Having already done these exercises under life and death situations, doing them for fun grew old really fast. As the grumbling continued, a troubled Grunt reached his limit.

We were milling around the mess hall after lunch one day when Specialist Henry Nelson, an otherwise good-natured guy, calmly announced, “The food here sucks.” We all nodded in agreement as he walked off and disappeared between the hooches. He returned a couple minutes later with a loaded M-16, two bandoleers of ammo, and several hand grenades hanging from his web gear. No one paid much attention; we see guys dressed like this all the time. Some of us thought he was preparing for more training. Nelson looked back at us with an odd look on his face that told me something was really wrong. Without a word he stormed into the mess hall and fired three shots into the roof. Seconds later, the cook nervously walked out with his hands raised followed by Nelson holding his collar and pointing the M-16 at his head.

“Nelson!” a shocked Silig called out. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Me?” he answered unsteadily. “I can’t take this shit anymore. I’m going home and I’m taking this lousy cook for a hostage.”

An unknown GI joked, “Don’t take him, take me. The next cook might be worse!”

Everyone chuckled, but there was nothing funny about what was going down. It was too insane to be real and yet, no one really tried to talk Nelson out of it. We simply watched as he guided the cook to the chopper pad, where they waited for the next helicopter to land. The MPs were summoned, but unsure about Nelson’s state of mind they kept their distance.

When a chopper came in, Nelson chased the door-gunners away and demanded to be flown to Da Nang, where he planned to catch a flight out of Vietnam to the United States. We quietly watched the helicopter lift off and fly out of sight. No one said much of anything as we walked to the training area. A few guys smirked that finally someone had the guts, or was crazy enough, to pull a stunt that many of us only dreamed about. The next morning, however, any humor anyone saw in this event vanished when we learned that after the hijacked helicopter landed in Da Nang, there was an unsuccessful standoff that ended only when US Marine snipers killed Nelson.

We didn’t know for sure if Nelson had been killed or we had just been told that to keep others from trying the same kind of escape. Given how it had all gone down, it was likely he had been shot and the news shocked us. All of us took his death personally because we silently rooted him on without trying to stop the insanity. Maybe, with just a few words, the outcome might have been different. Obviously Nelson was out of control, but the thought of him dying in a shoot-out with other GIs was devastating. To keep us from dwelling on his dumb sacrifice, the refresher training exercises were canceled and all units were ordered back to the field. However, Nelson was not so easily forgotten because we all shared his frustration over a Grunt’s bleak life and how it could lead to tragic consequences.

As for the cook, he was assigned to a different mess hall. His food really did suck.

At the end of his tour of duty, Captain Hartwell called the company to Firebase Jack for an informal farewell. After a brief speech, he walked the perimeter saying good-bye to selected soldiers. I was surprised when he took me aside to talk privately.

“Sergeant Wiknik,” he sternly said, “the time has come for you to stop fucking with Lieutenant Cramer.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Cut the dumb act. I’ve watched the two of you to go head-to-head long enough and your new company commander won’t be as tolerant of rebel NCOs as I have been. So, for the remainder of your tour, end the feud before you get into something you can’t worm your way out of. Got it?”

“Captain,” I began, “Cramer doesn’t have his shit together. He’s so intent on impressing the Brass that he creates dangerous situations by his own stupidity!”

“That’s enough!” Hartwell commanded. “Lieutenant Cramer is a commissioned officer and will be respected as such. He’s come a long way, and now you will cut him some slack, mister.”

“Yes sir!” I answered, feeling somewhat betrayed but not defeated. What a bummer. The Captain turned Lifer just before going home.

“There’s one more thing, Wiknik,” he said in a much calmer tone. “I understand you’re from Connecticut.”

“Yes, sir,” I nodded, somewhat puzzled.

“I’m from Connecticut, too. If you like, when I get home I’ll call your folks to tell them that you’re well and getting along alright.”

“Really?” I said, feeling flattered. “Thanks!” Maybe Hartwell is not so bad after all.

The first thing I had to do was send a letter home to alert my folks that Captain Hartwell would be getting in touch with them. Parents with sons in the war zone who receive a phone call from the Army instinctively fear the worst. Unfortunately, Hartwell got home faster than the mail and his surprise phone call had my parents reeling.

Initially, my mother was glad to talk with someone who had just seen her son, but since I had never mentioned Captain Hartwell in any of my letters, my mother became suspicious. Hartwell’s natural style is slick, like a salesman, so as the conversation continued, my mother remembered a newspaper article exposing a scheme where con men called parents of sons serving in Vietnam. The callers promise that through their military contacts, they could get infantrymen into safe jobs in the rear. The cost was a large cash payment whose size depended on the time each soldier had left to serve.

My parents were frantic. They were also embarrassed to tell anyone they might be targets of a scam. Worse still, they worried that if Hartwell had the connections to get me out of the field, then he would also have the ability to keep me in the field longer if they failed to cooperate. However, Hartwell did not imply any such thing and of course never asked for money, so my parents now began worrying that he was withholding information on my health or status, and that this call was an initial contact to gain their confidence. The fact that my tour was nearly over and my parents were anxious for my return only increased their concern.

Of course, none of their wild fantasies were true, so when my parents finally received my letter notifying them of Captain Hartwell’s impending phone call, they were ecstatic. Now they could happily tell friends and relatives of the nice things the Army had to say about me. They were proud, but also felt sympathy for parents who were indeed victims of fraud.

Back at Firebase Jack, our new company commander prepared for his first combat command. As Captain Giroux was introduced to us, a few GIs whispered insulting remarks because he looked cherrier than most Cherries. Giroux’s pressed fatigues and polished boots already called attention to him, but the dozen grenades dangling from his web gear completed the recruiter’s poster boy look. New guys were often the butt of jokes, but Giroux’s officer status naturally invited sarcasm.

Captain Giroux began his first day visiting each squad and reciting the same worn-out sermon about how we are going to crush the Communist threat and make South Vietnam safe for democracy. Some of the guys still believed that drivel, but the months of humping the boonies and getting shot at should have made it clear that the war was going nowhere.

As dusk approached, the firebase quieted noticeably. The bunker line guards settled in while artillery soldiers melted into the safety of their hooches. As Captain Giroux checked our defenses, he was shocked to learn that there was no LP going out and that there had not been any LPs for the last month. Captain Hartwell did not believe an LP was needed because the wide-open scrub brush terrain did not offer a likely avenue of enemy approach. After dark, the bunker guards used starlight scopes to see farther, and cover more ground, than an LP ever could.

Giroux did not care how our former commander ran things, so he immediately decreed that an LP would go out every night. In addition, he wanted the most experienced man (which was me) to perform LP on-the-job training of the new guys. Hoping to avoid a steady diet of this potentially dangerous job, I protested.

“Captain Giroux,” I said, mindful of his inexperience, “I’d like you to reconsider sending out an LP.”

“Are you kidding?” he asked, looking at me as if were crazy. “In a war zone, early detection of enemy movement is essential to the security of any military installation. That’s basic defensive strategy, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir it usually is. But in our situation, there is just too much ground to cover,” I countered. “We’d be better off dropping random harassment mortar rounds outside the firebase.”

“That’s ridiculous. Do you have any idea what mortar rounds cost? The LP is going out. That’s final.”

“In that case, sir, I’m requesting to be excluded from LP duty.”

“Excluded?” he asked in disbelief. “Nobody gets excluded. What’s the problem. Are you afraid?’

I hesitated for a moment, realizing that I really was scared.

“Yes, I’m afraid,” I answered candidly. “I am especially worried about being out there with only Cherries. I have forty-eight days left, and I don’t want to take unnecessary chances.”

“Sergeant, a scared soldier makes for an alert soldier. I’ll see you in the morning when you back come in.” The discussion was over.

Completely disgusted, I gathered the LP members and led them to a position with an adequate view of the surrounding terrain. We were only three hundred feet from the firebase, but being outside the wire was so spooky I stayed awake most of the night—more afraid of a Cherry pulling the trigger at a shadow than the Gooks. As the night wore on, I was surprised at the amount of noise coming from the firebase. I heard sounds of people talking and laughing, metal clinking, and I even saw someone light a cigarette. They made perfect targets for a VC sniper. If nothing else, the LP would serve as a teaching aid to show the new guys how not to act after dark.

The night was uneventful, but when it was my turn for guard I got an unexpected surprise. To keep track of guard time, Grunts passed around a wristwatch with a luminous face. However, on this night one of the Cherries handed me a large pocket watch that glowed with the Walt Disney cartoon character Mickey Mouse. The mere sight of the smiling Mickey Mouse in a war zone stunned me. With all the chaos and loneliness of Vietnam, here in my hand was a tiny piece of my childhood. It painfully reminded me of how much I hate the war and of how bad I wanted to go home.

At first light we returned to the firebase. The Cherries did okay on their first LP but it did not matter much to me. In fact, nothing seemed to matter. Over the next several days I found my behavior in the grip of erratic mood swings. I was becoming nervous, suspicious, and obsessively cautious of the people and activities around me. I felt as if my life was in greater danger then when I first came to Vietnam.

My sudden attitude change was known as STS (Short-Timer’s Syndrome), a condition where the subconscious mind thinks it is time to go home, but the reality of still being in Vietnam created a psychological conflict. To us Grunts, STS simply meant that a guy was getting burned out. The Army only acknowledged it if it rendered a soldier useless in the field. The most common symptoms of STS are agitation with new guys over things as minor as eye contact, excessive talking, or too many questions. A soldier with this neurosis also hands out merciless warnings for honest mistakes and often fanatically check and recheck each man for ample ammunition, clean weapons, and basic combat readiness.

The commonly accepted cause of STS, other than having a lifetime of ordeals crammed into a relatively short period of time, was that GIs arrived and left Vietnam alone. If soldiers came in as a unit, they would be counting the days together like a class of high school seniors waiting for graduation. The way a GI’s tour was arranged, there was no one who shared the same feelings about being close to going home. Each GI’s DEROS became an individual event.

Commanders who recognized STS sometimes removed the soldier from the field and allowed him to finish his tour performing mundane tasks in the relative safety of the rear. I knew I would have no such luck with Lieutenant Cramer, but I had not forgotten the escape successfully used by Specialist Harrison back in June. His goofy antics convinced everyone he was too unstable to remain in the boonies, so a similar performance enacted at the right time might also work for me.

A few days later, a supply chopper brought Siner back to the field. Silig and I breathed a sigh of relief upon his return. Not just because Siner was our friend, but also because he was experienced and kept his cool no matter how frustrating or dangerous things became. Siner was sacrificing a lot to be back with us, but as a true Grunt he knew Lieutenant Cramer had to be stopped once and for all. If it could be done, the three of us would find a way. In the meantime, the war went on.

In addition to putting out LPs each night, Captain Giroux also sent out ambush patrols. When it was our platoon’s turn, the target area was a rarely used VC trail junction that began showing signs of renewed activity. Captain Giroux was so sure our ambush would be a success that he assigned us a Kit Carson scout for interrogating any VC we might capture.

Under the subdued light of a full moon, we zigzagged across the mile of open terrain outside Firebase Jack, walking primarily in gullies and draws to hide our movement. The moonlight also helped us pinpoint the ambush location by the sighting of a nearby stone cliff. Once we were at the ambush site we quietly melted into the brush on a knoll that provided a commanding view of the trail junction and possible enemy escape routes.

Lieutenant Cramer placed his CP on top of the knoll, giving him an observation advantage over the rest of us. I had no sooner finished checking my squad when Cramer scurried over to Silig’s position. In a loud whisper he announced, “I just saw movement by the cliff!”

That shot the platoon into high alert status. We readied for action while I joined Silig and Cramer to determine what was out there. Because there was a full moon, we did not bring a starlight scope. Cramer left his binoculars at the firebase, so we had to depend on our night vision. We watched for thirty minutes but nothing happened. We eventually shrugged it off because the cliff was not close to the trail junction and it did not make sense for the VC to be anywhere near it.

About twenty minutes later, Cramer again told Silig he saw activity around the cliff, only this time he radioed for five rounds of mortar fire. The short barrage landed with exceptional accuracy and, as the dust settled, we watched intently for signs of life. Nothing moved, but now we needed to focus our attention on both the trail junction and the cliff.

Another twenty minutes passed when Cramer again claimed to see something moving on the cliff. He requested and received another mortar volley. The results were identical: no movement and no return fire. In the meantime, Captain Giroux radioed Cramer and gave him hell for scaring away every VC within five miles and told him that he better have something to show for it in the morning.

Perhaps ten minutes passed when, for the fourth time, Cramer again claimed to see movement near the cliff. This time, instead of standing on the perimeter, Silig and I climbed to the CP to share Cramer’s view. We watched for a short while until, sure enough, we saw something moving too. But the movement was peculiar, as if it shifted in one direction, and then the other direction. When it started again, we watched more intently.

“Lieutenant,” Silig groaned, realizing what the movement was. “Are you for real? Stay here and watch the cliff while I go down to the perimeter edge.”

Silig walked about fifty feet away just below the crest of the hill, where he grabbed a skinny tree and shook it. The tree stood about three feet higher than the surrounding vegetation and was in Cramer’s line of sight with the cliff. Whenever the perimeter guard leaned against the tree, the branches and leaves wiggled back and forth. In the moonlight, and in Cramer’s mindless world, the illusion was enemy movement.

“Well, it could have been something,” Cramer shrugged, walking away. The remainder of the night was uneventful.

Whenever mortars or artillery are requested, it is standard procedure to check the impact area for enemy casualties. We knew such a search would be fruitless so in the morning, instead of admitting to an error, Cramer radioed in a story about finding several blood trails that disappeared into the brush.

When we returned to Firebase Jack, Captain Giroux asked Cramer for a detailed account of the previous night’s events. Perhaps Giroux knew about Cramer’s tendency to exaggerate because he also spoke with several platoon members to see if everyone’s versions were consistent. They were not. As a result, Captain Giroux ordered our platoon to patrol an area far from the remainder of the company; a move not based on strategy but rather on punishment. The only positive aspect of our being exiled was that it was not likely we would be used to reinforce another platoon if it got into trouble. The problem was, if we needed assistance, there was no one close to help us, either.