Nam Sense (32 page)

Top was laughing? What was that all about, I wondered.

“While you were in Da Nang, supposedly looking for Clifton, the Army did us both a favor. They moved your DEROS up by nine days. So you might as well start cleaning your gear and get it turned into supply.”

It took a few seconds to sink in. “Yes sir, Top!” I cheered at the top of my lungs. I was ecstatic. Only a few days separated me from freedom.

“There’s one more thing,” Top added. “Since you’ve done such a fine job with the latrines, you will continue as the custodian. Tomorrow you’ll start training the walking wounded so they can assume the task after you leave.”

“Top, I’ll do whatever you want! I’m super short!”

Time didn’t drag anymore; the burden of war had been lifted. I had jealously watched so many other GIs go home and now, with my turn so close, I felt justified treating the last of my Army days as a military aberration. Wanting to end my tour with a final symbolic gesture in contempt of Lifer’s, I deliberately looked for an authoritative figure to antagonize. My unwitting victim was a cherry 2nd Lieutenant just assigned to our battalion. When our paths crossed, I welcomed him to Vietnam with a wink and a smile.

“Hi ya, Wilson,” I cheerfully said, as if we were old friends.

He did a double-take. “Hold it right there, Sergeant!” he commanded. “What kind of greeting was that? Where’s my salute?”

“A salute for you?” I asked, as if his question was absurd. “I don’t have one.”

“What do you mean you don’t have one? Military protocol demands that a salute be rendered when an enlisted man approaches a commissioned officer! You must salute or suffer the consequences!” A small group of nearby soldiers curiously watched to see what would happen next.

“Lieutenant,” I explained. “Camp Evans is located in one of the most hostile regions of South Vietnam. The enemy has increasingly terrorized the villagers living right outside our gates. At this very moment, a VC sniper may be watching us, and a salute would make you a target because an officer is a bigger trophy than an enlisted man. So in effect, I’m could easily be saving your life by not saluting.”

We were locked in a brief stalemate until Wilson leaned in close and whispered, “I don’t care. I’ve got to establish my authority to those soldiers watching us. Just do it.”

“Yes, sir!” I said, snapping to attention and presenting him with a left-handed salute.

“That’s more like it, Sergeant,” he nodded, unaware, or unwilling to admit, that by military standards he had just been insulted.

As the rainy season ended in the mountains, my company was sent to help build a new firebase in the northern A Shau Valley near the Laotian border. Reports from the valley were ominous. The new firebase, named Ripcord, suffered mortar attacks, snipers, nighttime probes, and ambushes from just outside the wire. Although the attacks were initially sporadic and unorganized, the NVA’s constant presence magnified the spookiness and danger of the A Shau. The fighting around Firebase Ripcord would continue for the next 134 days and be the most costly US operation, in terms of lives, during 1970.

As field casualties increased, some GIs advanced a ghastly dimension to the war called “fragging.” It involved the swift and anonymous killing of gung-ho superiors who needlessly risked their men’s lives. Hand grenades were the weapons of choice since shooting a victim carried the evidence of a bullet. Fortunately, fraggings were extremely rare since highly competent officers led the majority of GIs. But now, in my own platoon, a fragging was being planned. A member of my old squad, Specialist Mike Perdew, was in Camp Evans to appear before the promotion board when he confided his plans to me.

“Sergeant Wiknik,” he began seriously. “I need to talk with you.”

“Hey Perdew,” I smiled. “Why so glum? By tomorrow you’ll be a Sergeant in charge of your own squad. How’s it feel to be important?”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t want it. There’s too much responsibility being a squad leader. I don’t know if the guys will listen to me.”

“That’s too fucking bad,” I shot back gruffly, disappointed by his attitude. “I did it, you can too. Sometimes it’s hard being in charge, but if you don’t take the promotion some other asshole will and you’ll have to follow him. Is that what you want?”

“No, of course not,” Perdew sighed, looking toward the mountains. “The real problem is Lieutenant Cramer. Since you left the platoon he’s become more bizarre than ever. He’s got these ace-of-spade cards to put on dead bodies and he keeps talking about getting into a firefight so we can win some medals. I’m afraid he’s gonna get someone killed.”

“Jesus Christ,” I sputtered in disbelief. “I told Cramer to get rid of those cards back in October, and now he’s talking about winning medals? There’s no time to lose, get together with Silig so when he gets back to the field the two of you will have a solid plan for working around Cramer. That’s the way we did it before.”

“And where did that get you?” he asked knowingly. “You were always getting into trouble because everything you tried was a flop. I’m not waiting for Silig. When I get back to the boonies, Cramer will be finished.”

“Really? What are you going to do that’s so different?”

“I’m going to kill him,” he answered softly, but with grim determination.

I wasn’t sure I heard him right. But I had. I assumed he was kidding. “What do you want from me,” I laughed, “my permission?”

“No. After all the things you’ve been through, you deserve to know what’s going to happen.”

I studied Perdew closely for several seconds. He was serious. On the one hand I was appalled because his drastic solution was something I never considered. On the other hand, it was only a matter of time before Cramer drove someone to such an extreme measure. “You need to cool off, Perdew,” I lectured. “Fragging is not the way we operate. You’ll have to find another way to get rid of Cramer.”

“Listen, Sarge,” he said, looking me in the eye. “I can do this because I can live with it. When Siner, Silig, and you were out there we were protected from Cramer’s lunacy. But now, the platoon won’t put up with him anymore; a couple Cherries are even talking about blowing Cramer away, but they’ll probably botch the job. I’ll make it look like a combat death.”

I was stunned by such a casual approach to murder. Though Cramer was stupid enough to get himself zapped, he would probably cause someone else to get killed with him. I was uncomfortable with the prospect but began to understand how eliminating Cramer could be justified as a life-saving measure. I thought about threatening to expose the plan but somehow Perdew knew I would not.

“You do what you want,” I warned Perdew, hoping he would reconsider. “But don’t do a fucking thing while I’m still in Vietnam. I’ve only got two days left and it’s no secret that I hate Cramer. If he ends up dead, the Army may think I had something to do with it and I’ll be stuck here until it’s cleared up. If that happens and I’m delayed going home, I’ll hunt your ass down if it takes me the rest of my life.”

Perdew nodded and walked away. That was that.

I didn’t know what to think. My tour ending should have been upbeat, not shrouded in death and plots of murder. God, I hated this place.

I never found out if Cramer survived and I really don’t care. For me, that part of the war is over.

The morning was like so many others. The rain came down in large heavy drops that saturated everything and everyone. But it didn’t matter because this day was the first day of a brand new adventure: I was going home.

The last official act each infantryman performed before leaving Vietnam was to thoroughly clean his M-16 rifle. The task was second nature for me but now, after carrying the weapon through one year of war, I felt unnaturally connected to it. I wanted the next owner to understand what the rifle meant to me, so I tied a brief testimonial to the barrel that read, “This M-16 has been to the top of Hamburger Hill and to the bottom of the A Shau Valley. It has survived the DMZ and the rice paddies of Phong Dien. Take care of this weapon and it will take care of you. SSG Arthur Wiknik, Jr.”

I never thought that leaving an instrument of death behind would depress me, but it did.

Typically, when a Grunt goes home there is no farewell party, no amusing speeches, and no heartfelt goodbyes because the only people who care about him are still in the field. By mere coincidence, Silig was the only friend I had in Camp Evans because he was still recovering from his ass wound. The only official send-off I got was a stiff handshake from Top Boyce followed by a dry remark that did not deserve a response: “Thanks for coming.”

I was not the only GI going home; five others from Camp Evans were leaving as well. We waited together for truck transportation to LZ Sally, our initial processing station. It was insulting that our “bus stop” was next to the latrine, especially since we had to huddle inside to keep out of the rain.

Silig stayed with me until the truck came. We didn’t talk much; we couldn’t, because all the things we had meant to each other were about to end. When the truck pulled up we shook hands and squeezed each other’s shoulder. It was another bittersweet goodbye, but I felt fearful about leaving Silig behind. When Siner left for Japan it was easier to let him go because I knew he was going to a safe place. Silig’s situation was far different; he would soon return to the field and face the war with no true friends. When he lowered his head and silently limped away, I understood just how intimate our relationship had been.

I never saw him again.

I sat among unfamiliar GIs. All REMFs and because I was infantry, I could not help but feel a little superior to them. Though we were strangers, there was no mistaking our common destination: home. We each carried the only baggage required for this trip, a large sealed envelope containing our military records. A few men had duffel bags cradled between their knees while others held shaving kits. I was the only person with something unique: the Chicom SKS rifle. They all stared at it, but no one was willing to ask how I got it.

As the truck pulled away, my last impression of Camp Evans was a picture framed by the truck’s flapping canvas top and rusty tailgate. We were two miles down the road when I realized I had not asked Silig for his home address. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; I just wanted to forget everything associated with Vietnam. Perhaps not asking made it easier to leave. I knew I would miss my friends, but I would never miss that place.

As the truck lumbered along I downheartedly gazed at the distant mountains. An eerie sensation came over me. I felt the unearthly presence of GIs who had perished, some whose deaths I had witnessed, others I didn’t even know how I remembered. I wondered if there could be such a troubled spirit world in this evil place. Just thinking about it was depressing. In the field, our war dead never received the proper farewell of a wake or funeral. We simply soldiered on, hoping none of us was next. As their faces flashed through my mind like a mournful roll call, the truck hit a bump, abruptly returning my thoughts to home.

The atmosphere in the truck was upbeat, but cautious. One GI wondered aloud why we were not flown to LZ Sally, thus avoiding road mines or snipers. Although a truck had not been attacked on Quoc-Lo 1 in recent memory, his remark kept our exhilaration in check.

We arrived at LZ Sally without incident though there was no need for us to have rushed to get there. After completing some minor paperwork we spent the remainder of the day waiting for more DEROS personnel to trickle in. It soon became obvious that we would spend at least one more night in-country.

In the morning, our DEROS group, about thirty-five strong, was trucked to the Phu Bai Airport. At the terminal we entered under a yellow archway that read, “DEROS AND ETS PERSONNEL REPORT HERE.” I remembered looking enviously at the sign on other trips through Phu Bai, but on that day it was finally meant for me. While we waited, a Chaplain offered a brief sermon.

“Gentlemen, Gentlemen,” he pontificated. “You are nearing the end of a long hard journey. And now, by the grace of God, you are going home. Your faith in our Lord gave Him reason to protect you from the enemy’s bullets…” As the Chaplain droned on I turned away, not wanting to hear anymore. His remarks were too hypocritical coming from a servant of God. I saw enough horrors to be reasonably sure that God did not plan the war, let alone that He took sides.

When the Chaplain finished, we boarded the C-130 transport plane that would bring us to our last in-country stop at the 90th Replacement Battalion at Cam Ranh Bay. The flight was a noisy hour and forty minutes, but the time went fast as our enthusiasm gained momentum with each passing milestone of the DEROS process.

After landing at Cam Ranh, we were bused to a complex of four buildings where briefings and final processing of our records was performed. Although only a year had passed since I last visited the compound, it felt like a decade. And yet, the atmosphere was familiar. Small groups of clumsy Cherries, dazed at their misfortune of being in Vietnam, gawked at us with the same awe I once had when looking at old-timers. Behind them, the black smoke of a burning tub of shit rose skyward, completing the scene. I smiled knowingly.

More than 200 homebound GIs from all over Vietnam converged at the replacement station everyday and, although the processing was the usual maze of forms and long lines, the mood was surprisingly relaxed and cooperative. Though somewhat boastful, and with every reason to celebrate the end of our tour, we had yet to leave Vietnam and so avoided doing anything rash that might delay our departure. Still, the spirit of the moment was reflected on every GI’s face. Glancing anxiously at the other men I could see they all radiated the same silent message: “This is really it!”

After hours of processing we were bused to the airport and detained in a restricted section away from the terminal. We were not put there to prevent escape, but to prohibit stowaways from trying to join our crew of happy evacuees. Our boundaries excluded even the latrine, but no one minded because we did not want to miss the sweet sound of the call to our flight.

And then it happened. The magnificent silver Freedom Bird, a McDonnell Douglas DC-8, dropped out of the sky and roared down the runway. We watched in awe as the plane, seemingly unaware of its importance and audience, rolled to the end of the runway and majestically taxied back to stop directly in front of us. Never before had a symbol of American technology meant so much to me. The Freedom Bird, an angel descended from heaven, had come to take me home.

It seemed too easy then, to just walk out and board the plane, but there was nothing else to do. As we crossed the tarmac a tropical breeze blasted us with hot, humid air—a final reminder of what we were leaving behind. As I approached the passenger ramp, the navigational lights flashed surrealistically, and I floated up the steps as if I was in a movie.

Smiling round-eyed stewardesses greeted us at the door, directing enlisted men to the rear and officers to the front. I dashed to a window seat with child-like enthusiasm when one of the stewardesses asked for my SKS rifle so it could be secured safely in the galley. I handed it to her, realizing how odd I must look carrying an assault rifle onto a civilian airplane.

As the seats filled I looked out at the sand dunes of Cam Ranh Bay and wondered how such a beautiful country came to be so dreadful. Meanwhile, the excitement on board was building as GIs celebrated by shouting out military slang. “Short!” was the favorite followed by, “Take off, one round will kill us all!” Others yelled, “Hot LZ!” and, “Fuck the Army!”

As the plane’s engines began to spool up, our merriment dropped off to whispers. Then the aircraft nudged forward and slowly taxied to the end of the runway where it turned around and stopped. At that moment, all talking ceased and time stood palpably still while we waited for clearance to take off. Then, after what was an agonizing wait, the engines revved faster and louder as the event we had only dreamed about was about to begin.

The pilot released the brakes and the plane lunged forward. The accelerating takeoff roll glued us to our seats. Rumblings and vibrations echoed louder and louder until…AIRBORNE! The moment we lifted off the ground every GI let out a war whoop that out-roared the aircraft itself. As we climbed out of South Vietnam’s airspace the men cheered with delirious joy. To us, leaving Vietnam was like being released from prison for a crime we had not committed. Whatever misfortune brought us there, we were now safe from the war.

When the commotion tapered off the Captain announced, “Gentlemen, you have spent one year in Vietnam and may never see it again.”

More cheers erupted.

“I’ve been requested to circle back and give everyone a final look at the country.”

Our loud reply was a unanimous “FUCK YOOOOUUUU!” With that, the plane continued straight across the South China Sea.

After the aircraft leveled off, a Paymaster 1st Lieutenant worked his way down the aisle exchanging MPC for good old American greenbacks. The money felt like a long lost friend. As the exchange continued I leafed through my military records to see what the Army thought of me. The paperwork consisted mostly of routine forms except the Article 15 I wrongly received for sleeping on guard duty at the beginning of my tour. The document, with its $50 fine, had not been processed, so I removed it from the file and flushed it down the plane’s toilet.

The first six hours of our journey brought us to Haneda Airport in Tokyo, Japan, where we refueled, changed crews, and took a stretch, although we did not dare lose sight of the plane. Within an hour we were airborne again, flying over the 6,000-mile expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The mood on board was festive, yet relaxed, so I was able to sleep for several long stretches. Oddly, the stewardesses stayed hidden for much of the trip, appearing only for meals. The cocky attitude of the more boisterous GIs obviously scared them off.

Even though I understood their bravado, the war had gotten so much publicity that I wondered how things might be when I got home. Would I ever see my girlfriend again? Would my family and friends expect me to resume civilian life as if nothing significant had occurred? Or would they think I might go berserk at the slightest irritation? I knew I had changed in some significant ways. A lifetime of extreme ordeals had been crammed into a year. Who would not have changed? I tried not to think about it.

GIs wandered freely around the plane talking about everything and anything. However, most conversations focused on the same issue. Everyone was glad to be out of Vietnam, but resentful of the several months of stateside duty facing them. They rightfully felt that Uncle Sam had already gotten enough of their time. As for me, I listened quietly to their lament, feeling smug that the extra time I had put in during my stateside training prior to leaving for Vietnam left me only hours away from becoming a civilian.

As the day faded to night, the sunset at 30,000 feet was breathtaking. When it was too dark to see outside most of the men migrated to their seats to nap or read. Meanwhile, against the backdrop of the engine’s steady droning through the blackness, I imagined that the airplane could easily have been a spaceship bound for planet Earth. After all, we were going back to the World.

Several hours later, the calm was broken when the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign flashed, signaling our decent to the American West Coast. Everyone quickly found their seats and silently buckled up. A lone stewardess walked down the aisle spraying insecticide to destroy any exotic insects we might be carrying.

“Do we have cooties?” a voice asked.

“It’s probably Agent Orange,” another whispered.

The Captain broke the silence, announcing that the State of Washington shoreline was directly ahead. We craned their necks toward the windows, straining for a first glimpse of our homeland in nearly a year. Suddenly a voice proclaimed, “I see lights!” Others joined in. “Lights! Lights! It’s the World!” A flurry of cheers and bobbing heads confirmed that we were only moments away from landing.

The Captain spoke again, “Gentlemen, in a matter of minutes we will be landing at McChord Air Force Base.”

More cheers erupted.

“Please remain buckled in your seats until the aircraft comes to a complete stop.”

“Cold LZ!” a lone voice yelled, exciting another round of cheers.

As the plane descended, the cabin was once again eerily quiet. Everyone sat still trying to sort out the myriad of emotions racing through our minds. For a moment it was as if every GI sent out the same silent prayer: “Please God, let this be real.”

Then, like a giant phoenix, the DC-8 touched down with a simultaneous thump, screech of tires, and howling deceleration of reverse thrust. Before the plane had even slowed to ground maneuvering speed, pandemonium erupted. The joy of landing on American soil was celebrated with euphoric war whoops, hats tossed in the air, and the popping of airsickness bags. GIs ran up and down the aisle, climbed over seats, and stomped their feet.

The enormity of surviving emotionally overwhelmed more than a few as they sat half-grinning with tear-filled eyes. Others shook hands, hugged, or raised a victory fist skyward. It was the single most moving experience I had ever witnessed. We were strangers by name, but as war veterans we were linked through savoring this moment of absolute survival.