Deros Vietnam (19 page)

Turner let out one of his knowing whistles before he was hurried off to be outfitted with a flak jacket, a fully-loaded M-14—complete with an unsheathed bayonet, no less—tear gas, grenades, and a gas mask. Next thing you knew, he was on his way across the base to the notorious LBJ to quell an uprising by American GIs.

Five days later, Turner was standing next to my bunk, telling me his incredible story and begging me to write it all down. And to get it out.

“No matter what,” he told me, his forehead doing that honesty crinkle, “no matter what, this story has to get out.”

What Turner saw and experienced in those five days changed his life forever, and mine, too. But I'm rambling, probably because I'm afraid to keep going, to get to the nub of all this. Something inside me knows that my confession alone can't relieve all the fucking guilt and responsibility, that it won't save lives or turn back time.

Still, it's important to come clean, to seek absolution, if only from myself. It matters that somebody, some time realizes what the fuck we had to do over there and what we did to one another. Maybe it can help explain why things are so fucked up back here. That's what the LBJ “disturbance” epitomizes—a mini-drama on the big stage that was Vietnam, one that opens a window to the putrid air we had to suck into our lungs for 365 days.

Shit, we still can't exhale.

* * *

So, what was LBJ like? Our office had done some earlier stories about it, puff pieces mainly, the latest one pumping up the new light bird the Army brought in to run the place in July. I wrote that pile of shit, too. Vernon D. Johnson was his name. Arkansas born and bred.

Otherwise, our access to LBJ stories, especially LBJ prisoners, was totally off-limits. But even a fucking blind lizard could stumble upon an LBJ turd. Mind you, these were America's finest young men: guys who'd answered the call and took up arms, but were now branded as “inmates,” spending their days in tedium and humiliation.

For those not inclined to follow the LBJ rules, there was the glorious “Silver City,” the maximum confinement area made up of converted Conex shipping containers. I know for a fact—because we stored copies of our weekly Army newspaper in these things—that temps inside those boxes exceeded 120 degrees. Who can live like that? Nobody. No wonder imprisoned GIs saw this as a form of torture and why Silver City helped nail LBJ's reputation as the worst fucking place to be in ‘Nam.

To top it off, just like my old neighborhood back home, you could cut the racial tension in this eight-acre compound with a government-issued can opener. The fucking overcrowding was the
coup de grâce.
When I interviewed Lt. Col Johnson he admitted that LBJ was designed to only hold about 400 inmates and the number had exceeded 700 and was still climbing. I was ordered not to put that in my article.

We knew the other numbers but never reported those either—that black GIs made up almost 90 percent of LBJ's inmate population, that they displayed their defiant identity with “Black Power” signs and intricate hand gestures, while the predominantly white—and racist—guards didn't have a clue how to deal with an angry, dapping GI with an Afro.

In short, LBJ had been a booby trap since it opened. But thanks to the Army's public relations campaign—aided and abetted by lazy civilian journalists—most of what went on at LBJ remained essentially quiet, despite uprisings in 1966 and 1967.

* * *

There it is. By August 1968, (here's the best line from my story) “the embers of the flames from the American cities that had burned the previous two summers, intensified by the April 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., finally ignited the smoldering environment at the Long Binh Jail.” Definitely Pulitzer caliber, wouldn't you say?

The way the official story goes—and it's out there for anybody to read—a small group of black “militants” got high on drugs and attacked the LBJ fence guards in the admin sector. From there, total chaos ensued as the rebels burned mattresses, tents, and trash. Within minutes, the mess hall, supply building, latrine, barber shop, and administration and finance buildings were ablaze.

Everybody not rioting was taken by surprise, especially the guards. Turner said that by the time the guards realized what was happening, more than 200 prisoners had joined in the riot, systematically destroying the camp and beating guards and other white inmates with wood planks and bars from dismantled beds.

Around midnight, Lt. Colonel Johnson and his aide-de-camp entered the compound, expecting to calm the rioters. While addressing the mob, Johnson was sucker punched, kicked and pummeled, sustaining a major head wound before he escaped.

By that time, Turner and the other MPs were helping the prison guards shore up perimeter security, with a platoon of fire trucks standing by. A significant number of those who'd opted not to join in the riot were escorted by the MPs to a secure field adjoining the prison where they waited out the night under close guard.

By now it was August 30. Turner and his unit were ordered to hustle to the stockade front gate and assemble in a V formation. He watched and waited.

“Every time the front gate opened,” he told me, “we formed a barrier to follow whatever vehicle went in. We did this all day and all night.”

By the 31st, the mood of LBJ prisoners, according to Turner, had swung from racial discord to revolt against the Army. In unison, black and white inmates threw rocks and debris at him and the other 720th MPs who were hunkered down on the outer perimeter. The smell of burning debris from the fires was so strong and pungent that Turner had to put on his gas mask.

Once the perimeter guard was established, the waiting game began. Turner said it felt like some heavy duty poker game, with the Army holding all the cards. They could just sit back and wait you out because they'd stacked the deck. Hell, they owned the whole fucking casino. Turner's hand was pretty shitty too, pulling 12-hour shifts, constantly being cursed at, and baited into approaching the fence.

“If you happened to venture too close,” he admitted, “the inmates would spit or piss on you.”

Later that evening, several truckloads of blankets, cots, and food were brought in for the prisoners. Turner and the MPs formed a skirmish line at bayonet point so the gates could be opened to get the trucks inside, unloaded, and removed. That was when everything fell apart for him.

“It was just too weird,” Turner told me, whimpering, “too weird and too un-American to be holding a bayonet-tipped and loaded rifle pointed at a fellow soldier, a brother no less, knowing you'd have to kill him if he rushed you. I mean, why wasn't I pointing my weapon at Charlie?”

Turner never went back to his post at LBJ. He came looking for me.

Eventually, the number of holdouts dwindled to a dirty dozen, and by the end of the week, they surrendered too. Those sorry SOBs realized, I think, that anyone who didn't give up, or give in, would be charged with attempted escape. Trust me, nobody in ‘Nam, not even these guys, wanted any more time added to their sentences, or to their tours.

Right around this time they let us media types in—notepads, microphones, and cameras even—to watch them mopping up. There was even an impromptu statement delivered by Col. Johnson (he'd been promoted and given a bronze star ‘cause of being attacked). The colonel reported that while the LBJ disturbance had left 63 MPs and 52 inmates injured, “there was one lone fatality, a Private Edward Haskins of St. Petersburg, Florida, who was beaten to death with a shovel.”

I couldn't help myself. Standing there in what looked like Watts or Newark, listening to this Army bullshit, something snapped. “What about the four that got away?” I burst out. Turner had told me about the four escapees, and I was sick and tired of all these pussy-ass journalists standing around and playing along as if this was just another installment of the five o'clock follies.

I didn't get to hear the rest of Col. Johnson's crap because I was immediately yanked out of line by a very big—and very pissed off—MP.

“You think this is your press conference, solder?” he snarled, forcing my left arm behind my back so far and so fast that my fingers were almost touching my ear. “These fucking scum bags killed a United States soldier, and you want everybody to know that some of them got away? I'm going to have to kick your sorry ass.”

A freshly-scrubbed lieutenant jumped between me and the MP. He, too, looked unhappy, but he had his arm on the MP's shoulder, urging him to ease up. He turned back to me and was right in my face.

“What's your name, Specialist?”

“Spec. 4 Bailey, sir.”

“Specialist Bailey, how the fuck do you know that four inmates escaped from the stockade?”

* * *

You know what comes next. I keep asking myself, why did I give up Turner? Was it the pain in my left arm? The look of pure hatred in the face of the MP? The fear of court-martial and being sent to the DMZ?

I kept remembering what Turner had said about poker and the Army holding all the cards, and in that moment before I started blurting out what I knew, I saw myself throwing down my hand, aces and eights, saw me being cleaned out by Col. Johnson and the faceless lieutenant and the pissed off MP. I knew I was screwed. And as soon as my survival instinct kicked in, Turner was toast.

The story I finally did get to write about LBJ focused on the 129 courts-martial that were levied against the “insurrectionists” for charges including murder, assault on a superior officer, aggravated assault, mutiny, aggravated arson, larceny, and “willful destruction of government property.” It was a big story and it was juicy. It got me bumped up to Spec. 5.

The real irony of the LBJ riot was the lack of coverage it received in the mainstream media, despite the fact that the Army had given the story to so many members of the press. The Army's reports highlighted the fact that the riot was racially motivated and was patiently quelled. Unlike My Lai and a lot of other shit during the war, the 1968 riot at LBJ was a public relations tactical victory for the military.

* * *

So, go ahead and call me a REMF. I've been called worse. By myself even. Hell, I've lost count of all the names and faces and dates and places I fudged or chose to ignore. I'm trying not to remember the lives, the honest to goodness human lives, I maybe could have saved.

And then there are words. Words that I wrote and, even worse, those that I didn't. And those few I uttered that hot September day in 1968.

I was in a position to expose things, even if only to my own heart.

And I didn't.

I was a coward. I
am
a coward.

And now that I've told you my story, you're a part of it, too. You can pardon me, forgive me, or wag your finger at me and tell me I fucked up.

That's how it was in Vietnam. That's how it still is, too.

Moron Corps

“Goddamn, Hawk,” muttered Arthur Poole as his city's infamous wind slapped him in the face and curled inside his pea coat. Arthur's sidekick, Lanny Watkins, quivered like a pool cue.

“Man, it's fucking c-c-c-cold!” The loquacious Lanny could hardly talk.

“What else is new?” Arthur deadpanned.

Both men scanned the line in front of them. It zigzagged along and up Michigan Avenue, its numbers of shivering brothers ebbing and flowing. Someone up ahead told them that yesterday's line was twice as long as this one.

“Shit, man, we'll freeze to death ‘fore we get to the front of the goddamn line!” Lanny's teeth were chattering. “I have n-n-n-never in my life been so cold. Damn line ain't m-m-m-moved in an hour … what a s-s-s-sorry-ass d-d-d-deal this is …”

Arthur half-listened, figuring that Lanny was talking to keep himself warm.

“By the time we get to the front of this f-f-f-fucking line, Uncle Sam's gonna be out of j-j-j-jobs and out of money. She-e-e-it..…”

Arthur gave Lanny a look that said shut up and kiss my ass simultaneously. Lanny stopped talking.

“Brother, you don't know shit,” Arthur eventually broke the silence. “Them Army recruiters that come through Cabrini-Green the other day ain't goin' home empty handed. Like the sign says: Uncle Sam Wants You!—and me—and the rest of the brothers standing in this line.”

Lanny was taking this in when the big dude in front of them turned around.

“You shoulda seen the badass that blew into Robert Taylor yesterday.” The big guy lowered his head so that his words made their way down to Lanny and Arthur. “All shine and polish. Tight uniform. Lots of fancy medals. Big, booming voice. He told us if we joined up we'd get some schoolin' and be able to pick what Army job we wanted to do and where we wanted to go. Sure sounded sweet to me.” The big guy smacked his lips.

“Did the dude ever mention Vietnam?” Arthur asked.

“Just to say that's where they send the draftees,” the big man replied.

Lanny whistled. Arthur shook his head.

“This is my t-t-t-ticket outta here,” Lanny smiled. “I stay around the projects any longer and I'm going out f-f-f-feet first.”

Arthur and the big fella laughed. Then the three of them shivered. Arthur kept thinking about what Buster, his cousin who joined up and ended up in ‘Nam, had warned him about the Army. “Don't believe their promises. Watch what you sign. Don't ever trust the white man,” Buster told him.

But this deal was different,
Arthur argued with himself,
this here program had been blessed by the secretary of defense hisself.
Project 100,000 he'd called it. They didn't have to come into Mother Cabrini's backyard and seek him out. They were trying to help him. Shit, there were no fucking jobs here.

“Did you ever take the test?” The big guy was trying to get his attention.

“Say what?”

“Did you take the qualifying test? The Army test?”