Day of the Bomb (29 page)

Dan’s letter was from Mom. With no
steady girlfriend back in Madisin, Dan heard mostly from her and
Jason, although one girl from his graduating class wrote to say she
way praying for him, especially if he went to Vietnam. After basic
training came AIT at Ft. Sam Houston, Texas for ten weeks of
training as a combat medic One of the first classes was an
orientation. The E-7 promised little.

“Some of you will get
lucky and sent off to Korea or Europe where you might work at a
hospital or dispensary. Some of you smart ones enlisted and are
going off to a V.A. hospital
or
fort near your home because you put that into your contract. But a
lot of you are going in country to the wonderful Republic of
Vietnam where you will apply first aid to the wounded. Since you
made it through basic training I can call you men and soldiers. All
the wimps, pansies, misfits, and rebels washed out already. So you
are the cream. Now because you could end up in any number of
situations we have to teach you a little bit of everything. You
will learn to give shots, take blood, take vital signs, stop
bleeding, treat for shock, start IVs, assist in births, and many
other functions. At the end of each week you will take a test. If
you do not pass the test you will be recycled back a week to
another company. If you end up failing three tests you will be sent
off to cook school or maybe learn how to drive a six-by truck
capable of carrying tons of men and equipment. Some of you will be
tempted to go AWOL. I advise against it. If you’re gone over thirty
days you become a deserter. Keep your nose clean.”

Dan took good notes during
the classes, which lasted eight hours a day, five days a week. He
learned about cells in the human body, that a group
of related cells is an organ and that
skin was the largest organ of the body and most vulnerable organ in
Vietnam.

“You will treat skin constantly if you go
to Nam. There’s jungle rot, trench foot, and jock itch to name a
few common ailments there,” an instructor said.

After being instructed on how to give shots
and take blood samples, the fledging medics practiced on each
other.

“Aspirate the plunger before you
inject that dose to see if you hit a blood vessel.” At the end of
the session the teacher help up a syringe full of blood. “As you
can see, sometimes you hit a vessel. You don’t want to inject
whatever you are giving directly into the bloodstream.”

Grainy black and white movies broke up the
seemingly endless lectures. In one, an army doctor delivered a
baby; the mother was a nurse and his wife. Another film showed an
amputation of a leg in a field hospital. A third was a portrayal of
a rushed operating room technician who hurried through the pre-op
sterilization process of his hands and forearms. Some of the
remaining bacteria from the unwashed areas transferred to the
patient’s incision and entered his bloodstream. At the end of the
drama, the post-op patient was shown hobbling on a cane, a casualty
of the technician’s incomplete washing.

Dan filled two notebooks and passed
every test. Only one from his company went AWOL but turned himself
in on the twenty-ninth day of his being absent without leave. The
commanding officer in charge of the medic training praised Dan’s
company during graduation.

“Your company had the
lowest rate of AWOLs and deserters so far this year. I know you
will all continue to uphold your high standards during
your duty with the U.S.
Army.”

Afterwards, Dan commented on how superior
he and his fellow graduates were. A nearby chain smoker scoffed.
“They give the same speech every time, Rhinehardt. Wise up.”
Private Catlin was one of those who had been given a choice by a
judge, three years in jail or three years in the army. His jaded
view of life had tempered Dan’s fading optimism from day one of
AIT.

With little left to say, the medics, a gold
colored caduceus shining on each one’s collar, departed San
Antonio, most by plane or bus, the rest by train, car, and
motorcycles for nineteen days of leave before having to report for
duty, some at stateside forts, others to Ft. Dix, New Jersey for
transport to Europe and the rest to the West Coast for travel to
Korea, Hawaii, or Vietnam.

***

Having only one plan
during leave, Dan decided to take care of business first, a
thrashing of Jimbo McManey. Fat gone, muscles hard, testosterone at
its peak, trained in hand to hand combat, Dan knew his mission
required care. He had to catch Jimbo with no nearby spectators.
After conking hi
m senseless from
behind with the blackjack he had bought during a weekend pass in
San Antonio, Dan would tie up Jimbo in a place where he could be
found naked; his clothes deposited in a trash can. Dan hoped the
humiliation would haunt his enemy for life. Attacking Jimbo from
behind was crucial. No sense in letting him know his identity,
which would only ensure vengeance from Jimbo and his gang. Dan
decided to study his prey to learn if his habits dictated any
isolated times. First he went to the wrecking yard where Jimbo had
worked when Dan had left Madisin.

“What are you looking for, son?” The yard’s
owner yelled at him.

“Uh, something fixable that will get me
around.”

The grease and oil stained man shook his
head. “You’re looking in the wrong section. These are the totaled
ones. Follow me.”

Dan obeyed. He pretended to scan the rows
of wrecked cars but watched for the one he hated.

“Here you go. This section has mostly just
front end damage or something that needs some body work.”

“Thanks. Say, does Jimbo McManey still work
here?”

The old man laughed. “Used to. Then he got
arrested for grand theft auto. He’s up at the state pen serving
time.”

“Oh.” The anger seeped from his soul like
steam from a pressure cooker that’s been left on the stove too
long. “Thanks.”

Dan next paid Jason a visit.

“So how’s Uncle Sam been treating you?”

“Okay, I guess. I have to report to Ft.
Riley after my leave is over.”

“Yeah. I figured as much. I went back
and talked to the recruiter. He said a lot of troops are spending
the last year or so of their enlistment in Vietnam. The way LBJ is
going pretty soon they’ll be sending troops right out of AIT to
Nam.”

***

In May 1967, Jason’s prediction came
to pass. Most of Dan’s battalion at Ft. Riley received orders to go
in country. He arrived at Travis AFB, California and within a day
boarded a contracted DC-8. It stopped for fuel at Hawaii, Wake
Island, and the Philippines. The nation of 7,000 islands looked
like many sized emeralds sitting on a deep blue cloth.

“I never saw country that green.” Dan
pointed out the window as the plane banked right to descend into
Clark Air Base on Luzon, the largest island.

“Get used to it. The Philippines is
on the same latitudes as Nam so where we’re headed is going to look
the same.”

***

The Viet Cong welcomed Dan’s plane
to Tan Son Nhut Air Base, near Saigon, with a mortar attack. As the
shells exploded near the perimeter of the base Dan was more
interested in the aircraft of every shape and size that were flying
in every direction at various altitudes. After a week of
processing, Dan reported to a fire base north of Saigon. He was
relieved when another medic met him at the base’s headquarters, a
bunker surrounded by and buried beneath hundreds of
sandbags.

“Rhinehardt?” He studied the new guy’s name
patch. “I’m Roscoe. Let’s go.”

Dan flinched and crouched at the sounds of
artillery shells flying overhead.

“That’s just the afternoon mail to the NVA
and Cong out there.” Roscoe pointed at the thick jungle that
bordered the 1,000 meter clearing that surrounded the base. “Have
to let them know we know that they’re out there.”

“So the platoon I’m assigned to has two
medics?”

“Not for long.” Roscoe fondled the
necklace that hung about his neck. Most of its beads had been
broken off; only about a dozen remained. “I’m short, eleven days
and a wake up and I’m on a freedom bird back to the world. Well,
here’s home.” He led Dan into a bunker filled with fourteen grunts,
infantry who only counted one thing, the number of days left for
each in Vietnam. Roscoe banged a greasy mess kit on a can of
C-rations. “Listen up! This is your new medic, Dan
Rhinehardt.”

One of five poker players looked up. “Hi
‘cruit.”

“Okay, the card sharks are
Lewis, Ben, Ed, Pete, and Mike.” He turned toward another group,
lost in a haze of whitish-gray pungent smoke and the sounds of
Jefferson Airplane’s
Surrealistic Pillow
thumping
out of a small cassette player. “And that’s Bernie, John, Chuck,
Bill, Ken, Kevin, Al, and Junior.”

Two of them acknowledged
the new arrival
with nods. The
others did not lift drooping heads or focus bloodshot
eyes.

“I guess the other two guys are out
somewhere.”

“Hey, I’m here.” A figure rolled out of a
bunk. “I’m Hank.”

Dan shook the only hand that had been
extended to him since leaving America. “Hi. Good to meet you.”

Roscoe was all business, even as they
went through the chow line and then sat on a mound of sand bags to
eat supper. “Guess I should run down the slang so you don’t get
confused too bad. The word ‘cruit is short for recruit, which is
what we call all the new guys like you. A dust off is when you call
in a med-evac copter. A klick is a kilometer. Sappers are VC with
explosives strapped to their bodies. They try to get through the
fence and then run to the ammo dump to blow themselves and most of
the base up. The mama san and papa san run joints that GIs go to
for booze, dope, and girls. OJs are marijuana and opium joints that
come in from Thailand. They grow the poppies over there. Do not, I
repeat, do not smoke anything with opium or heroin in it unless you
want to get strung out.” He stopped talking and shoved three
forkfuls of beef stew into his mouth in rapid succession. “Ugh,
tastes like dog meat again. The cooks must’ve run out of beef
rations. Any questions?”

“How long are they going to call me
‘cruit?”

“Until you do a good enough job
patching somebody up. We’re due to go out on patrol tomorrow so do
your best work.”

“There a lot of drugs here? I could barely
see in the hootch because of all the pot smoke.”

Roscoe choked on a string bean and then
spit it at Dan’s boots. “I forgot. You’re from the Heartland. Not
many drugs where you went to school?”

“No. Some kids took cross
tops.”

“You ever go down into
Mexico while you were at medic
school on the weekends?”

“No.”

“Boy, you are green. Listen, there’s every
drug and then some floating around here. Our platoon is lucky.
Sergeant Felder is cool. He looks the other way if we get high back
here in our hootch. But he gets bent out of shape real bad big time
if anyone brings any drugs out on patrol. He’s tight with the C.O.
and gets those ones shipped out of his platoon in a heartbeat.
Believe me it is his platoon. I kid you not.”

***

Dan met Sgt. Felder at 0700 hours the next
morning during formation.

“So this is our new medic?”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Good. Specialist Fourth Class Drummer will
show you the ropes on patrol, Private Rhinehardt. We leave at 1600
hours. All of you tear down and clean your weapons for my
inspection at 0900. Dismissed.”

The nineteen-man platoon shuffled
back to their hootch. They knew if even one part was not devoid of
dirt, sand, or any other foreign object, Sgt. Felder would lecture
them while he watched them tear down, clean, and reassemble their
weapons. Roscoe ran after his NCO.

“Sarge, you can’t send me
out on patrol. I only got ten days and
a wake up left.”

Sgt. Felder spun around and leaned
toward him until his body tilted at a 30-degree angle. “Troop, I am
infantry. I have been since the Korean War and will either die or
retire as infantry. I am not equipped to give the new man on the
job training as a medic that he needs. Without it one or more of my
men might die. Do I make myself clear, short timer?”

***

The platoon filed through the lone
gate in the base’s concertina wire perimeter fence at 1602 hours.
Hank walked point. The others believed he had a sixth sense of the
enemy and obeyed whatever commands Hank issued, verbal or
gestures.

“Either that or he smells them,” Roscoe
explained to Dan.

Neither medic carried the M-16s that
the others held, fingers on triggers. Lewis also toted a sawed off
shotgun strapped over his shoulder and Bill a mortar. Armed with
.45s, the medics lugged forty pounds of lifesaving equipment,
including IVs. No one spoke until they stopped after penetrating
five klicks into jungle that blotted out the sky.

Sgt. Felder ordered them to bed down
twenty meters from where they had congregated for supper. Those who
acted as sentries watched for enemy and waited for their shift to
end. Dawn never appeared soon enough. The platoon had travelled for
half an hour the next morning when Hank spotted a trip wire. His
hand signals sent the long line behind him diving for trees,
bushes, rocks, anything that might protect. The first rocket
propelled grenade showered Dan with dirt and shredded foliage.
Roscoe laughed at his baptism.

“Welcome to Congville, ‘cruit.” When
the enemy’s fire came from all sides Roscoe stopped laughing. “Oh
Jesus, please don’t let me die. Not when I’m this
short.”