Nam Sense (29 page)

The rainy season was ending and the dry season’s renewed heat restricted our humping to the early morning and late afternoon. Most of our day was spent relaxing on a trail edge or in a bamboo thicket. During these hours our most popular pastime was playing cards. Hearts was our favorite, and we played for a nickel a point. Even Cramer tried his luck but, after losing a few dollars, he grew tired of a game because “it is not much of a challenge for men of intellect.” His remark gave us an idea: an officer gambling with enlisted men was strictly taboo. Win or lose, if we could lure Cramer into some serious gambling, it could be the opportunity we had been seeking for so long to rid ourselves of him.

Since Cramer needed “a challenge for men of intellect,” we figured that the best game to beat him at was chess. Howard Siner was a successful amateur player who just happened to have a traveling chessboard. When asked if he was interested in playing a thinking man’s game, Cramer quickly accepted, bragging that he was the captain of his high school chess team.

The stakes were set at $20 a game, and it did not take long for Siner to discover that Cramer was not the chess player he claimed to be. He easily beat him, but kept the games very close to keep him playing. When Siner sensed Cramer was about to quit, he purposely lost several games by an ever-widening margin. This tactic prompted Cramer to raise the stakes to $50 a game for a better chance of winning his money back. Siner reluctantly accepted and Cramer promptly began losing. Still convinced he could win, Cramer foolishly wrote $50.00 IOUs that he also signed and dated. The games continued with Siner dropping one on occasion, until he was ahead $220 in cash and $1,100 in IOUs! In a desperate attempt to break even, Cramer begged Siner to play one last game for double or nothing.

“C’mon Siner,” Cramer whined. “You’ve won almost three months of pay from me. I at least deserve a chance to break even.”

“The games are over,” Siner said with finality. “I think we need to cool it a bit. You didn’t play very well toward the end. Perhaps we can try a rematch in a week or so.”

“A week?” Cramer blurted out, getting everyone’s attention. “I’m not waiting a week! You’ve got my cash and IOUs! I demand more playing time!”

“Let’s give it a rest,” Siner insisted. “A week without gambling won’t hurt us.”

Cramer was stunned and possibly a little suspicious now, but he said nothing more because the men were staring at him. As Siner put the chess game away, he gave me a wink because the IOUs were all the evidence we would need to nail Cramer. The only problem we had now was to figure out a way to get them back to battalion headquarters. In the meantime, we needed to get Cramer refocused on the war. That was my job.

“Lieutenant,” I began, looking nervously into the jungle, “for two days we did nothing while you and Siner played chess. Since we never sent out any patrols, there’s a chance when we leave here that we’ll walk into an ambush or a booby trap. I think we should cut our own trail and head straight into the jungle.”

Cramer thought about it for several moments. “Okay,” he agreed with a sneer, “but Siner is walking point.”

Silig and I looked at each other in disbelief, knowing that Cramer was trying to punish Siner for winning—or get him killed so the IOUs would be worthless.

After several hours of hacking through the brush, Siner broke out to a freshly worn trail that looked like the VC used it only moments before. After checking it in both directions, we felt an eerie sensation of being watched or that we were close to something evil. We decided to proceed with our Kit Carson scout at the point because he would be able to spot danger easier than we would. After hiking to a trail junction, we stopped to rest and consider which direction to go.

Silig and I climbed a nearby knoll for a better view. On the far side of the knoll were three rectangular dirt piles similar to the cache site I had discovered in the A Shau Valley. We dug feverishly into one, expecting to uncover hidden weapons or food. When we hit a plastic covering, I eagerly tore it out of the ground. When I saw what it was my whole body lurched backward in shocked disgust. I had opened the shallow grave of an enemy soldier’s decomposing body. The rotting stench was so putrid it gave me the dry heaves. We hastily covered it back up. Neither of us had any desire to dig into the other mounds. Whenever they could, the VC carried their dead from the battlefield and secretly buried the bodies to keep US forces from tracking the exact number of enemy soldiers killed. However, in this case it did not work. Although already dead and buried, the last earthly deed of these three VC was to become part of our body count when Cramer radioed in the location of the grave.

Our scout was nervous hanging around the bodies of former comrades, so we left the knoll to follow the trail that led to higher ground. As the path took us deeper into the jungle, the scout slowed his pace, taking deliberate, cautious steps. He was rounding a turn when his foot tripped a hand grenade booby trap. The explosion killed him instantly.

The scout’s specialty was the detection of booby traps, so the one that got him must have been cleverly hidden. Cramer assumed the explosion was command detonated and signaled the beginning of an enemy attack. “Ambush!” he yelled, firing fanatically into the jungle. A few Cherries shot along with him until Siner ran up calling for a cease-fire. Cramer was flat on the ground yelling into the radio that we were in a firefight and may soon need artillery support.

“Lieutenant!” Siner shouted. “What the hell are you guys shooting at?!”

“The Gooks blew an ambush on us! We were taking small arms fire!”

“Really? Then how come when I yelled ‘cease-fire’ the Gooks stopped shooting, too?” Siner stared hard at our commanding officer. Still lying on the ground, Cramer didn’t respond. “That was no ambush,” Siner continued, the disgust dripping from his words. “It was a booby trap and you know it.”

“Our scout was killed by an enemy explosion and there was rifle fire,” Cramer replied, though without his usual conviction. “I radioed in that we were ambushed and that’s how it’s going to stay.”

“Who are you trying to impress?” asked Siner. “The only thing you accomplished was to let the Gooks know where we are.”

Cramer quietly stood up and walked away. He radioed in to cancel the artillery and request a medevac for the scout’s body. To satisfy my curiosity, I took a squad up the trail to the spot where the VC had supposedly launched their attack. The search revealed nothing to support Cramer’s claim of an ambush. The medevac arrived soon thereafter and hovered above the treetops, sending down a rescue basket for the scout. The body was loaded and the chopper flew away without incident.

Cramer decided we would watch the trail for the next several days, hoping to ambush any VC who might come around to investigate our shooting. Each squad would take a turn lying in wait with the remainder of the platoon in a nearby support position. The close high ground would conceal us, but to get there we would have to hack through thick undergrowth. Once again Cramer ordered Siner to take the point and cut the trail. Bad blood was rapidly developing between these two.

With Silig close behind for protection, Siner slashed through the jungle as the rest of us slowly followed. Our column moved ahead ten feet, sat for two minutes, then moved again. Eventually we were stretched out so far I could no longer hear the steady whack of the machete. Since the man in front of me had not moved for several minutes, I assumed the point had reached the top and that Cramer was checking the area for defensive positions.

Without any warning there was a loud blast at the top of the hill: another grenade booby trap had detonated! Seconds later we heard the dreaded words, “Medic! Medic!” When I did not hear his trademark panic rifle shots, my spirits soared in the hope that Cramer had finally gotten zapped. For an instant, I felt embarrassed realizing how we had played right into the VC’s game plan. The first booby trap on the trail killed our scout. Then, knowing how predictable GIs are in heading for higher terrain, the VC set a back-up booby trap at the hilltop. The Gooks might be miles away, but they continued to kill and maim without firing a shot.

We were unnaturally quiet while the medic was at the point position for what seemed like an eternity. Waiting to find out who was hit often brought on a feeling of helplessness. No one felt much remorse over the loss of the Kit Carson scout because he was a former VC, and probably had wounded or killed GIs. Finally, word was passed down on who was wounded. It was like a message from hell: the shrapnel had hit both Siner
and
Silig. The news paralyzed me. How could this have happened to my two best friends? With machine-like quickness I headed for the top.

I found Siner sitting with his back against a tree. The left side of his face was splattered with blood and partially covered by a field dressing tied around his head like a turban. A chunk of shrapnel had ripped into his scalp above the forehead. He had no other wounds, but was in pain and had blurry vision. Silig was hit in the buttocks and the back of both legs. In his own silent agony, tears trickled down his dirty cheeks as the medic attended to him.

“Are you guys all right?” I asked, knowing even before I was through speaking that the question was a stupid one.

“We’ll be okay,” Siner winced. “Just tell the guys to watch for trip wires and to keep their helmets on. If I had kept mine on, I wouldn’t have gotten hit. Tell them!”

“Okay, I’ll pass the word along. Do you know what happened?”

“When we reached the top, I didn’t bother to look for wires. I just dropped my rucksack and threw my helmet down. I began clearing a spot for the CP when I tossed a branch aside, tripping the booby trap. It was something only a Cherry would have done.”

Siner and Silig’s wounds were serious but not life threatening. I just wished Cramer had gotten it instead because he seemed to revel in the fact that Siner was hurt. Cramer also wasted no time reporting the action to whoever was willing to listen on the receiving end of the radio.

“Yeah, we’re onto something big,” he bragged. “The Gooks are trying hard to slow us down. That means we’re getting close. Real close.”

“Hey!” I yelled at Cramer. “Did you call for a medevac?! These guys are hurt! Let the fucking war take a break!”

“The chopper’s on its way,” Cramer waved at me. “So take it easy.”

His attitude infuriated me. “I’ll take it easy after these guys get picked up. But until then, you better get your shit together! If we’re so fucking close to the Gooks, then let’s check for more booby traps so we can get the rest of the platoon up here into defensive positions. When that medevac comes in, we’ve got to give it protection.”

“You’re right,” Cramer sheepishly agreed as he signed off the radio. “I’ll have Wakefield conduct a quick sweep of the area.”

Siner and Silig knew that getting wounded as they did was a blessing in disguise. Once they got back to the rear with Cramer’s IOUs, they could expose him as an out of control officer who neglected his military duties while gambling with subordinates.

The same medevac returned and the rescue basket still had the scout’s blood smeared on it. Silig, the most seriously injured, went up first. Siner followed shortly after. There were no goodbyes because somehow I knew I would see them both again. As the chopper sped away with its engine noise echoing off distant hills, I looked around at the remainder of the platoon and felt a terrible void. No one was left from Hamburger Hill, the A Shau Valley, or the DMZ. Except for Cramer and Wakefield, everyone had less than six months of field experience. Humping the boonies with a platoon of Cherries under Cramer’s twisted command was something I wanted no part of. The time had come to enact my escape plan; to convince everyone that I had finally lost my mind.

To put things in motion, I set up a meeting with the newest guys to pass along some “little known facts” I had been saving for months. Most new guys believe anything an old-timer says because they figure that surviving for such a long time must mean we have done something right. It also helps when the new guys are gullible.

“I got you guys together because I’ve got some health tips that just might make life a little more bearable in the jungle,” I began in a serious tone. They edged closer as if I was a football coach preparing to give them final instructions before a big game. “Everyone is always complaining about the tropical heat and humidity. The best way to tolerate it is by letting your fingernails grow long because they’ll act like cooling fins to lower your body temperature.” The Cherries shot confusing glances at one another until I added, “and long fingernails make it easy to pull leeches off.”

They nodded knowingly until one of them inquired about my fingernails.

“Sergeant, why aren’t your fingernails long?”

“That’s because, I’ve been climacteric for a long time.” I said it with an all-knowing exasperation in my voice. No one dared ask what it meant.

“Another thing we don’t do in the field is wear under shorts,” I continued. “Guys who wear shorts often come down with crotch rot because their balls can’t get proper ventilation. But worse than that, there’s a greenhouse effect in your pants that can cause uncontrollable pubic hair growth. That would be mighty embarrassing when you get back home.” I knew that story was a winner when a few minutes later I spied a guy stretching his pubic hair to check its length while he urinated.

Besides coming up with silly statements, I also marched around the perimeter with a fixed bayonet on my rifle and grenades hanging from all over my web gear. Acting jittery, with my eyes darting about, I repeatedly checked each man for loose and noisy equipment, telling them, “The Gooks are out there. I’ve seen them.” Then, to completely astound them I added, “Don’t forget to leave Vietnam as you found it by not littering or carving initials into trees. After the war you may want to come back for a camping trip.” With that, everyone looked at me as if I had finally lost it—everyone except Wakefield.

“I know what you’re doing,” he sneered, pulling me aside. “You’re not fooling me with your bullshit. But the thing is you’re such a bad influence on the men that I want you out of this platoon, too. So do what you want, but stay out of my way.”