Nam Sense (8 page)

We finally got the chance to talk about the events of the day.

“Man, look at this place,” commented Person, “Talk about destruction. How did the Gooks survive such a pounding?”

“They didn’t,” answered Siner solemnly. “There’s body parts all over this hill. I think the NVA decided to make a stand here to prove they weren’t afraid to pour their people into it.”

“I guess you guys know that Anderson got wounded,” I added, “but he should be okay.”

“Did you hear how Lieutenant Bruckner got wounded?” Person asked. We hadn’t, so he continued. “Apparently he was pinned down behind some rocks, so when he returned fire, he didn’t look to see what he was aiming at. The stupid jerk shot into the rocks and one of the bullets ricocheted back into his leg.”

“Theoretically,” Siner surmised, “Bruckner has a self-inflicted wound. He can get court-martialed for that, maybe even lose his commission.”

“And to think the bastard yelled at me for shooting that bush back at Phong Dien,” I joked. It was the first time we had laughed all day and it felt good.

I had just begun to relax when a supply chopper began dropping cases of C-rations and canisters of water at our company CP. After all our humping up and down the hill, our supplies were finally brought to us like they should have been in the first place. I didn’t react. I couldn’t. I was so frustrated that my brain went numb along with the rest of me. I was truly thankful to be alive, but so emotionally drained that I felt closer to dead.

Some positions didn’t bother pulling any guard duty that night. With so many GIs crowded on the hill we would have been just guarding each other. However, we were advised to stay in our positions and not move around because it was possible a few NVA could still be alive in tunnels beneath us.

I felt safe with Siner and Person nearby so sleep came easier than expected. During the night I dreamed I had lost my entrenching tool and needed to find it to dig a fighting position. At the same time, Person was having a nightmare that the NVA were coming out of the ground to kill us as we slept. I began fumbling around Person’s body, touching him several times until he awoke with a blood-curdling scream. When he grabbed me around the chest, I shrieked too. Neither of us knew what was going on as we tumbled into a bomb crater locked together. The entire hilltop woke up to the clamor. I think Person was on the verge of killing me when Siner jumped in to pull us apart.

At first light, more rucksacks were choppered in. I told the door-gunner where mine and Siner’s were hidden and asked if he could have someone find them. Eventually, our rucksacks were located, but as they were being flown back, the helicopter began to take enemy ground-fire. To avoid getting hit, the pilot steered the chopper into a steep bank. That’s when our rucksacks slid out the door, disappearing into the jungle. If some lucky Gook finds them, he’ll be taking pictures with my camera and reading my letters from home.

At mid morning, our company was airlifted off the hill. As each chopper rose above the disfigured mountain, the survivors glanced down to a nightmare that had come to life. A Presidential Unit Citation for extraordinary heroism was awarded to the twenty-one infantry, medical, artillery, and aviation units that took part in the battle. The entire operation claimed sixty American lives and 480 wounded. Another twenty-five were missing and presumed dead. My company lost one man killed and eight wounded. The 29th NVA Regiment lost an estimated 600 killed. Though we didn’t know it at the time, Hill 937 was not regarded as a piece of real estate worth keeping. Within a few days it was deserted by American troops.

The rapid abandonment of such hard-won territory continued to fuel the growing lack of support for the war, which in turn caused President Nixon to accelerate his plans for systematic troop withdrawals from South Vietnam. Ironically, only one month after the battle, NVA forces were reported to be moving back onto Hamburger Hill.

US ground troop operations in the A Shau Valley were strengthened by fire support bases strategically located throughout the area. Firebase names like Eagle’s Nest, Berchtesgaden, and Currahee evoked connections to the 101st Airborne’s storied past during WWII. To us Grunts, the names had little effect in stirring our pride. Instead, the bases were nothing more than tiny safety islands by day and mortar magnets by night. Our assignment after Hamburger Hill was at Firebase Airborne.

Perched high atop a mountain overlooking the valley, Firebase Airborne was about the size of a football field. It was encircled by irregular rows of concertina wire, sandbagged bunkers, trenches, and fighting positions. The firebase housed batteries of 60mm and 81mm mortars, as well as 105mm and 155mm artillery pieces manned by units of the the 211th and 319th Field Artillery. Every fire mission was coordinated through a tactical operations center, which was located in the command bunker. When at maximum strength, 150 men defended Airborne. There were no comforts there—no bunks, no showers, and no hot food. A rarely used generator provided electricity only to the command bunker when necessary. As with most firebases, Airborne was accessible only by helicopter or foot.

Our arrival at Airborne brought congratulatory handshakes from the artillerymen who monitored and provided some of the fire support for the Hamburger Hill battle. Some said they felt safer knowing we would be guarding them. The battle was a bigger deal than we thought, and several Cherry replacements were in awe of us and what we had done there. Their respect was evident in how they kept their distance, but we didn’t want to be treated differently. The real heroes were found in the 3/187th Infantry who suffered through the siege for the entire ten days.

I did delight in the special attention I received when word got around about the M-16 magazine that had saved my life. A group of unknown GIs had sought me out to get a look at it.

“Hey Sergeant,” one of them asked. “Can we see that M-16 magazine that everyone’s talking about?”

“Sure,” I proudly answered, offering it for all to see.

Each man carefully examined the magazine as they passed it around.

Then one of them rubbed it over his body as if it were a talisman.

“Will you take fifty bucks for it?” he asked, hesitating to give it back.

“Thanks, but it’s not for sale.”

“I’ll give you a hundred,” he insisted.

“No,” I sternly answered. “It’s a special souvenir I plan to take home. Besides, the power of the magazine can’t be bought. It has to be a gift or a blessing.”

He looked at me in a funny way, as if I made sense, then handed it back. My guys knew I was kidding, but if a superstitious GI thought he could buy good luck, then he might get careless and put himself in danger.

Shortly after our company settled in, the long arm of the military law caught up with me. The Article 15 I received for sleeping on guard duty when we were in the flatlands needed my signature to make it part of the official record. Captain Hartwell waved the document in my face demanding that I sign the admission of guilt.

“I’m not signing that,” I said, glancing away. “No one woke me up so how could I have crashed?”

“Everyone else involved already signed because they knew they were wrong,” he scolded me. “If you refuse, I’ll personally see that this is elevated to a court-martial.”

“But no one woke me up,” I pleaded, knowing he only wanted to intimidate me into signing.

“Sleeping on guard duty in a war zone is a serious offense. If you don’t want any bad-time, you’d better sign it.”

“Bad-time” was the magic word. If I ended up in the stockade, I’d have to make up the time lost to a jail sentence to complete my tour of duty. Not wanting one extra minute in Vietnam, I signed the paper. A few yards away, Sergeant Krol gave me an evil smile, just to let me know how things are done in the Army. I was disgusted with myself for allowing Krol such satisfaction.

Eight days before our arrival at Airborne, a vicious nighttime attack by the NVA there had resulted in the deaths of twelve Americans and thirty-one enemy soldiers. Our job was to repair and protect the base until it was a formidable outpost again. The work began with the construction of stronger bunkers and deeper fighting positions. However, we had to be careful where we dug because after the attack, some of the dead NVA were buried where they fell.

I shared a bunker with Howard Siner, Stanley Alcon, and Freddie Shaw. As luck would have it, our bunker was right on top of a dead NVA. As I dug into the earth, my shovel hit what I thought was a tree root. Instead, what I pulled from the dirt turned out to be a partially decomposed arm. No one was willing to dig deeper, so we ended up with the shallowest of all positions, not much more than a crawl space. The thought of sleeping on top of the NVA, or parts of him, gave us the creeps. So we slept on the roof and spent our free time elsewhere.

After the bunker rebuilding was completed, we worked on the jungle side of the concertina wire removing vegetation for maximum visibility of the terrain. The tree cutting was a revealing experience. Just 200 feet beyond the wire was an enemy observation post built high in a tall tree. The NVA must have used this tiny tree stand to gather information for their attack on the firebase. Before we tore it down, Captain Hartwell made sure everyone saw the observation post to demonstrate how brazen the NVA can be and how lazy our guards had been for not spotting it sooner.

It was during a land clearing detail that I had my final encounter with Sergeant Burke, the NCO who turned me in for hiding in the bushes back at Phong Dien. Our two squads were on a steep slope burning a brush pile. I worked with my men while Burke stood around barking orders at his. I had chopped some branches and was throwing them into the fire when Burke approached.

“Sergeant Wiknik,” he began sarcastically, “I see you are still setting a bad example of how an NCO is supposed to act. Your job is to give the orders and your men are expected to carry them out. Rank gives you the privilege of watching your men work.” I could not believe what Burke had just said.

“Are you for real?” I shot back, irritated by his attitude. “What makes you think that being an NCO makes you better then your men? No matter what kind of detail we get, I try to make it a team effort so everyone knows who they can depend on. But you can’t see that. You’ve turned into a tyrant on a power trip.”

“I told you once before,” he answered with a tilted smile. “There’s an unwritten law about NCOs arguing in front of their men. If you keep it up, I’ll be forced to report you again.”

“That’s the one thing you’re good at Burke; squealing on fellow NCOs.” I should have kept quiet and walked away but he was so irritating that I continued. “So tell me Burke, did you turn me in to divert attention away from yourself or was it because you think I’m a threat to you?”

Burke didn’t answer. He didn’t like me mouthing off in front of his squad, but he obviously enjoyed provoking me. He pushed further.

“If you must work with your subordinates,” Burke offered, putting his hand on my shoulder, “at least do the job right. Let me show you the proper method of burning a brush pile.”

“Keep your fuckin’ paws off me,” I shot out through clenched teeth, pushing his hand aside.

Burke’s stupid grin showed that he loved every minute of my anger. Then, speaking as if I was a moron, he picked up some branches and threw them into the fire.

“Here’s how you do it. You start with small twigs and toss them into the fire. Then you throw bigger sticks on top to pack it down. Little sticks, big sticks. Got it?”

I couldn’t stand his idiocy any longer so I turned away, pretending he was no longer there. However, now that everyone’s attention was on us, Burke felt he needed to do something dramatic to stay in control of our dispute.

“Oh,” Burke continued, speaking to my backside, “I forgot to show you one thing. When the end of a branch burns away like this one…” He picked up the burning piece and shook it over my head until hot coals rained down on my bare shoulders.

“Arrrrrhhh!” I screamed, brushing the burning embers away from my scorched flesh. “You fuckin’ asshole! What the hell is the matter with you?”

“Oooh, does Sergeant Wiknik have a boo-boo?” he asked, laughing hysterically.

That did it! Burke finally pushed the wrong button and I wanted to retaliate. As I picked up an axe and held it like a baseball bat, everyone backed away, except Burke.

“You’ve bugged me for the last time!” I shouted at him.

“Temper, temper,” he said, mocking me with a wagging finger. “Are you a little ‘hot’ under the collar?”

“I’ll show you how fuckin’ hot I am!”

I let out a howling “AAIIEEE!” war whoop and threw the axe at him, barely missing his head. Burke had ducked for the ground just in time. All was silent until the axe landed in the trees far below us. Burke was genuinely terrified as he looked up at me, afraid of what might happen next. I silently glared at him to make sure he got the message then I turned and went back to the firebase perimeter. When I reached the concertina wire, Captain Hartwell was standing there. He had witnessed the entire incident.

“You’re lucky you missed him,” Hartwell scolded.

I looked back down at Burke and gestured, “He’s the one who’s lucky.”

“Really? Perhaps I should include assault with your Article 15. Or maybe charge you with aiding the enemy.”

“Aiding the enemy?” I asked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Right now, that axe is of more use to the NVA than to us. When you cool off, go back down and find it.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled in return.

Now there was an inspiring example of our priorities. If I had wanted to, I could have killed a man, but the Captain was more concerned about a lost axe. Considering how I felt about Burke, I almost had to agree with Hartwell’s wisdom.

Sergeant Burke never spoke to me again. We spent a year in the same company and I only saw him at a distance. I think he was now genuinely afraid that I was crazy enough to kill him.

Our stay at Firebase Airborne was a welcome change from the humping we did around Phong Dien. There was, however, no escape from the typical Army bullshit duties. We were required to perform police calls, latrine duty, and submit to bunker inspections. Our days were spent filling sandbags, pushing the edge of the jungle back, or going out on short patrols. There was little free time. Perhaps the activities were the Army’s way of keeping us from thinking about home.

Daytime on the firebase was physically exhausting, and the nights were mentally demanding. The most likely time for an enemy attack was from midnight to dawn, so we rarely got sufficient sleep because Captain Hartwell often put us on 100% alert for up to four hours at a time. When we were allowed to sleep, the artillery battery seemed to have a fire mission at the same time. Rounds might be launched for only one minute, or the mission could drag on for an hour. More often than not, the guns were aimed over our shallow bunker, so every cannon blast shook us from our sleep.

The biggest disadvantage of being on a firebase was that we were sitting ducks for the enemy. Although we weren’t directly attacked while I was there, we did get mortared one night. The NVA walked four rounds across the base scoring a direct hit on one of the bunkers, killing three GIs as they slept in a fighting position on the bunker roof. The trio never knew what hit them. The next morning their mangled bodies were found strewn over the sandbagged walls like rag dolls. It was a grim and depressing sight.

We didn’t have any body bags, so we loosely wrapped the dead in ponchos. After the bodies were placed on the chopper pad for extraction, I was drawn to the spot where they lay. Their feet were grotesquely tilted in the same direction and the uncovered legs each had an identification tag tied to the right boot. I didn’t recognize their names and I couldn’t see their faces, which was just as well.

Though the mortar attack deaths were shocking, their impact soon faded as the routine firebase activities resumed. However, Specialist Harrison, the GI who claimed he smelled the VC girl we killed at Phong Dien, went off the deep end. He was mentally unstable and we had not realized it. We watched in amusement as he loaded himself with ammunition and declared, “I’m gonna get me some NVA. Don’t you see them watching us from the tree line?”

“Sure Harrison,” Freddie Shaw laughed, “they’re making faces at us!”

“Take no prisoners!” shouted Stan Alcon. We all laughed. Five seconds later we had stopped laughing and were staring dumbfounded as Harrison leaped over the concertina wire and dashed into the jungle. Once out of sight, he hollered “Geronimo!” then sprayed the jungle with a full magazine burst of M-16 fire, finishing the barrage with several grenades. Two squads scrambled to retrieve Harrison in case the NVA really were out there. When we found him, Harrison complained that the Gooks ran away when they saw him coming. Harrison was clearly a risk to the firebase as well as to himself. The safest thing to do was send him to the rear for psychiatric evaluation or simply keep him busy at Camp Evans until his tour ran out.

“They’re sending me to the rear?” he shouted, questioning the move.

“Those dirty bastards know damn well I want to be where the action is!”

“Are you crazy?” we scolded him. “Most Grunts only get a couple of days in the rear before going home. You’ll have nearly a month.”

“They can’t fool me,” he continued, his eyes open wide as if to better make his point. “They’re sending me back to Camp Evans because the Gooks are digging tunnels under the airstrip and they need me to flush them into the open.”

The poor guy had gone crazy. The past eleven months of combat had burned him out. Later that day, a chopper brought out two new guys and prepared to take Harrison back. Most of the men were superstitious about being around a nut case, and so I was one of the few who bothered to say goodbye. Besides, as his squad leader, I felt it my duty to see him off.

Harrison sat in the helicopter looking out at me with a stupid grin. As we shook hands, he pulled me close saying, “Everybody thinks I’m crazy, but I don’t give a fuck. I was just crazy enough to get my ass out of the field. Ha, Ha!” His eyes burned into mine.

As the chopper lifted off, I laughed to myself. Harrison wasn’t nuts after all. His act fooled everyone, even me. He was just a short timer who had seen so much shit that he pulled something desperate to get out of the field. His scheme worked so well I decided to keep it a secret. Who knows, someday I might need a similar stunt to save myself.

One of the new guys who came out was a platoon leader to replace Lieutenant Bruckner. 2nd Lieutenant Anthony Pizzuto was a baby-faced Italian from a town in Idaho no one had ever heard of. A college graduate who planned on a long military career, Pizzuto wasn’t bashful about voicing his belief that serving in Vietnam would provide the necessary grooming for future success. However, I wasn’t sure how he planned to accomplish his goal because Pizzuto wasn’t interested in meeting the platoon members. Instead, he spent several days in private meetings with Hartwell and Krol.

The other new guy was PFC Dennis Silig. He was a good-looking muscular fellow who didn’t act nervous like the average Cherry coming to the field. He was relaxed, friendly, and already talking with some of the men.