Nam Sense (13 page)

Since our gear was destroyed, we had to spend another night at Camp Evans. However, this time we were strictly confined: drinking, gambling, and movies were prohibited. As long as we were out of the field, we didn’t care. Most guys obeyed the confinement rule, but Siner, Silig and I pretended it didn’t apply to us. We waited until dark and headed to the nearby EM (Enlisted Men’s) Club for a few beers.

Being the only Grunts in the place, we thought it best to keep a low profile. Siner and I found a quiet corner table while Silig ordered drinks from the bar. No sooner had we sat down when two of the firefighters who had responded to our jeep fire began giving Silig a hard time.

“Aren’t you one of those crazy Grunts who burned down half your company area today?” one of them asked loudly.

“That fire got us another night in the rear,” Silig chuckled, thinking the firefighter was joking with him.

“Is that right?” he said in a nasty tone. “That fucking fire almost got us killed! Shrapnel and bullets were flying everywhere while you guys were laughing! Do you have any idea of how dangerous that was?”

“More than you’ll ever know,” Silig snickered, walking toward us with the beers. “That’s what made it so funny.”

The other firefighter did not see the humor so he sucker-punched Silig. Siner and I leapt to Silig’s defense as a fistfight broke out. Not everyone joined in; most of the patrons backed off, encircling the melee to watch. The bartender yelled something about the MPs being on their way but that didn’t slow us down. Broken glass, beer, and popcorn quickly littered the floor. It was like a cheap western movie as the three of us battled our way to the door. As we slipped outside, the firefighters didn’t give chase. Instead, they stood in the door shouting obscenities, telling us never to come back.

Silig shut them up when he yelled; “If you assholes ever get to the boonies then you’d find out what real danger is like! Guys are dying out there while you’re huddled in base camp like sniveling whiners. You make me sick.”

Embarrassed by the truth, the firefighters sheepishly closed the door. Other than a few minor cuts and bruises, we felt great for defending the honor of Grunts with fists and words. The way we saw it, a battle was won against rear echelon complacency.

The next day we were resupplied with a mix of new and used equipment. The Lifers scrutinized our every move to avoid a repeat of the previous day’s fireworks. There was hardly anything left to burn down anyway. We were just happy knowing we had cheated the Army out of a day in the boonies.

Late that afternoon we returned to the flatlands outside the village of Phong Dien. I was surprised to find that our new AO was the same area we patrolled when I first arrived in Vietnam. Our platoon’s job, as before, was to protect the village by ambushing the VC trails that led to the mountains.

As we made our way past the village huts, an ominous feeling came over me. It was like we were being watched but no one was there. I felt that an unseen force was telling us we were not welcome, to go away and leave the flatlands alone. Perhaps the eerie sensation was the land’s way of saying it was tired of war. The Vietnamese believed in ghosts and spirits and I began to think there was some truth in their folklore. Moreover, our ambush site amplified the spooky atmosphere: it was in the local cemetery.

The graveyard had no gates or borders; it was just a series of randomly positioned circular grave mounds. The Vietnamese believe the round design eased the deceased’s transition into the next world. Some of the graves had stone monuments, but most were unmarked. There were no fresh graves, which made me wonder where the villagers were burying their dead. That first night back in the flatlands was uneventful, but it took me several days to shake the mysterious anxiety.

During the next three weeks, we settled into a tedious routine of ambush, RIF and ambush. Enemy activity around Phong Dien had all but ceased. We did not even find any booby traps. Lieutenant Pizzuto, who could not stand the monotony, did us all a favor and transferred to Echo Company. He said he wanted to be where the action is. Echo Company was a collection of gung-ho warmongers who got their kicks by going on long-range recon and ambush missions in six-man teams. Their patrols disappeared into the jungle for up to two weeks at a time, rarely moving and laying in wait along VC trails until they made enemy contact or ran out of food. Echo was the Marines of our battalion, usually being the first to land and establish initial lines of defense. If that’s the kind of excitement Pizzuto wanted, then more power to him. As long as he was off my back, I did not care where he was.

Our new Lieutenant was a tall, lanky fellow from Kansas named Petry. Unlike Pizzuto, Petry actively sought advice from the old-timers of the platoon. He knew their longevity was a result of field experience that outweighed any classroom training learned back in the World. Even better, Petry seldom listened to Krol because he wisely realized Krol’s old Army method of leadership through intimidation was outdated for Vietnam. We finally had an officer on our side and it drove Krol crazy. Lieutenant Petry would work out just fine.

For the next several days we patrolled the flatlands northward along the base of the mountains. We humped up to three miles each day, moving farther from civilization and deeper into VC territory where huge bomb craters pocked the landscape and the grassy plains grew thicker with large clumps of shrubs. We finally came upon an overgrown dirt road that looked as though the last activity it had witnessed was during the 1950s French occupation. We stopped for the night. Since we had not seen action for nearly a month, I got lazy and placed my claymore only ten feet outside the perimeter instead of the usual 50 feet.

It was almost dark as I gazed at the emerging stars, drifting into a dream of home. Suddenly there was a commotion in the bushes on the opposite side of the perimeter. A Viet Cong, thinking we were his comrades, had walked up to one of our positions. He calmly stood next to Hawaiian Norman Keoka, who was rolling out his poncho with his back turned, and tried to strike up a conversation. Since we had no one with us who could speak Vietnamese, Keoka knew something was wrong. As the VC continued to jabber, Keoka leaped for his M-16. At that instant, the enemy soldier realized his mistake, pushed Keoka over and ran onto the roadway.

Not wanting to chance shooting into the perimeter, Keoka fired several shots skyward and yelled, “Gook! Gook!”

Instinctively, I clutched the claymore detonator. As the VC sprinted past, I fired the device. The explosion spewed shrapnel, dirt, rocks, and twigs into the air, covering half the platoon with debris. Someone spit, then yelled, “Who the fuck blew that claymore?” I didn’t answer because I knew I had not placed it correctly.

The intruder hotfooted past our last position where Silig stood ready with his machine gun. A burst of four rounds was the only shots fired because when he stood up to hip-shoot, he jerked the weapon, breaking the gun belt off. By the time he got the weapon back together, the lucky VC had vanished.

Our relaxed attitude not only cost us an easy kill but the subsequent ruckus gave our position away. We stayed on 50% alert all night in case the VC came back with his friends. Fortunately, no one showed. At first light we conducted a token search of the area but found nothing; we couldn’t even locate any tracks. That VC earned the nickname “Supergook” because his luck made him impossible to kill.

The next morning we were airlifted to the coastal sand dunes between Camp Evans and the South China Sea to join the rest of the company. The dunes were once home for the native fisherman, but the war had driven them inland to the relative safety of larger villages and hamlets. More recently, the dunes region had become a VC refuge where high concentrations of booby traps were discovered. We were sent there to find out why.

The landscape of the region was a mix of large patches of thick underbrush paralleled by the wind blown dunes. Clumps of tall trees grew where the sub-soil could support them. A network of footpaths was the only means of quick travel through each green oasis. There was no sign of civilians; only the scattered remains of destroyed concrete buildings gave testimony to a life that once was. On some of the walls, the VC painted warnings, “DEATH TO AMERICANS” and “VIETNAM WILL CONQUER.” We regarded the threats as feeble attempts to scare us off.

My squad took the first point. We traveled less than 200 feet before Howard Siner found a trip-wired hand grenade. We backed away and exploded it with a rope hook in case it was a double booby trap. After that, we doubled the point with one man concentrating on the ground and a second man on his butt with his eye out for VC. As we progressed, the traps became easier to locate. We didn’t know if we were being led into something or if the traps were set out to conceal an enemy retreat.

Squads from each platoon broke off to follow minor paths leading into the brush on both sides of the main trail. As we searched the terrain, booby trap locations were plotted on a map to see if a pattern developed. If it did, we didn’t spot it. In just over two days our company discovered twenty-six various type and sizes of booby traps. Our only conclusion was that the VC used the area for booby trap training. We never made enemy contact and, miraculously, the traps hurt no one. Captain Hartwell wisely decided there were too may traps for us to safely maneuver and that we should leave the VC to their fun in the dunes.

The company assembled for extraction on a grassy knoll below one of the abandoned buildings. We spread out and relaxed while waiting for the choppers to pick us up. Lennie Person casually walked toward the bushes to get out of the sun when Siner called out.

“Lennie stop! Look at your feet!”

Just inches to his left were the triple trigger pins of an anti-personnel mine sticking out of the ground. Lennie almost turned white, looked skyward, and leaped backward so fast he could have set a record for the reverse broad jump.

“What the hell is that thing?” a shaking Lennie asked.

“It’s a Bouncing Betty,” Siner said knowingly. “The mine is activated when one of those little prongs is moved. Then a small explosive propels the main charge to a waist-high altitude, sending shrapnel into a killing zone impossible to escape even by diving to the ground. I’m just surprised that a World War II mine like that would be found out here.”

As the news of the Bouncing Betty circulated, we were ordered to stay within the borders of the perimeter. If someone had to relieve himself, it was to be done where we stood. Unfortunately, not everyone heeded the warning.

As if part of a slow-motion movie, I watched as a blond-haired GI walked from the perimeter edge toward the destroyed building. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped through the doorway, tripping a booby-trapped artillery round. The entire structure disintegrated in a giant explosion, belching dust, stones, and gore in every direction. A medic rushed up and leaped over what was left of the walls. He turned left, then right, spun around several times then slowly walked away with his head hung low. There was nothing left to save; even the GI’s boots were gone. The poor guy had completely vaporized. As we brushed the dust off our clothes, someone nearby vomited while frantically struggling to get his shirt off. We didn’t know what was wrong until we discovered that tiny bits of flesh from the disintegrated GI had splattered on us. It was disgusting to pick the pieces off. A distant voice muttered, “Assholes and booby traps. Some people never learn.”

The saddest part of this GI’s death was the lack of anything to send home except a memory. As we returned to our positions, eyes darted back and forth but no one spoke. Each man felt sullen but in the back of our minds was the same thought, “I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

We left the dunes for a return to Eagle Beach, though this visit was not for a stand down. This assignment was to guard American construction companies who were expanding the harbor. Our function was to protect their machinery and equipment from possible sabotage by VC sympathizers. A week of guard duty in a relatively secure area sounded like a good assignment and might even be downright enjoyable. It was not.

On the first night, Scoggins and I were assigned to the deck of a dredging ship anchored 1000 feet offshore in Da Nang Bay. We were the only Americans on board along with a dozen Vietnamese crew members who kept the dredge pumps going during the night. If they decided to sabotage something, we could not tell the difference because we had no idea of how a dredge worked.

“Are we supposed to watch out for the crewmen?” I jokingly asked. “Or are we watching for an attack from the ocean?”

“How should I know?” chided Scoggins. “Maybe the VC are expected to swim out here from shore. But if anything does happen we’re on our own because we don’t have a radio.”

“We better get some rest,” I suggested. “There’s a wooden picnic table around the corner you can stretch out on. I’ll take first guard.”

As I gazed out at the ocean, the quiet hum of the pumps and the gentle swaying of the ship lulled me into dreaming about home. I had just placed my helmet on the deck when out of no where I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Hearing no one approach, I spun around, accidentally kicking the helmet overboard. Standing before me was a Vietnamese worker, clad only in sneakers, shorts, and a silly safari helmet. He smiled as he leaned over the railing to look into the water that had just swallowed my headgear. I was angry and started to walk away. As I moved, he came in close and tried to put his arm around me.

“Cut it out!” I yelled, pushing him away. “Get the fuck away from me!”

The worker ran off, disappearing around a corner. Scoggins woke up and rushed over to see what happened.

“I think the crew is queer,” I stammered. “One of them just tried to get a little too friendly with me.”

“Maybe they’ve been on this ship too long, and they consider us fresh meat,” joked Scoggins.

“Ugh! Don’t even say that! They have each other to play with. I’ll just stick with girls if you don’t mind.” We decided to pull guard together hidden among the ship’s shadows. It made for a long night, but we survived without further incident.