Nam Sense (21 page)

On September 3, 1969, after a period of declining health, seventy-nine-year-old North Vietnamese political leader Ho Chi Minh succumbed to heart failure. American foreign policy makers hoped the Communist war machine would crumble without him. But the revolutionary spirit and memory of Uncle Ho instead became a rallying point to inspire the North Vietnamese into a more determined effort to win the war.

On October 15, 1969, the American anti-war movement reached historic proportions in what became known as Vietnam Moratorium Day. This nationwide protest attracted hundreds of thousands of people who advocated the total and immediate withdrawal of all US forces from Indochina. It was a day of bell ringing and anti-war speeches followed by an evening of candlelight services. Although this was the largest expression of public dissent ever in the US, opponents of the protest movement cited that the activists in attendance represented only a fraction of the American population as proof that war protesters were a small, yet vocal, minority.

Regardless of this skepticism, the GIs’ alliance was mixed. Some sided with the protesters, encouraged by any effort aimed at ending the war; others believed that opposition to the war was demoralizing. The North Vietnamese government in Hanoi joined in the event by sending a letter of encouragement, which was hailed by the moratorium organizers. The letter had many Americans questioning whose side the protesters were on. This widening gap of national commitment made developing a purpose or pride in our involvement difficult. Perhaps it was the organizers’ intent to end the war even if it meant destroying America from within. Whatever the case, up to that day 39,000 American troops had the dubious honor of dying in Vietnam. Despite the moratorium, the war continued.

At the end of the French-Indochina War in 1954, the Geneva Agreements left North and South Vietnam divided at a five-mile wide, forty-mile long demarcation line along the 17th parallel. The NVA violated the agreement by repeatedly crossing through the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone). However, sustained heavy US bombing in the aftermath of the 1968 siege on the US Marine base at Khe Sanh and the highly developed Ho Chi Minh trail in nearby Laos left the DMZ nearly free of any organized NVA presence. Therefore, the region was ideal for initiating President Nixon’s Vietnamization program by withdrawing the US 3rd Marine Division and assigning the South Vietnamese 1st ARVN Division. To assist in the transition, elements of the 101st were called on to secure suspected enemy infiltration routes and provide reconnaissance patrols. Mai Loc, one of the northernmost villages of South Vietnam, would be our battalion’s temporary forward command post.

The native people inhabiting this remote mountain area are the Montagnard tribesmen. A unique aboriginal group, referred to as savages by other Vietnamese, the Montagnards lived simple semi-nomadic lives, hunting animals with handmade weapons such as crossbows. As the war escalated and more American Special Forces advisors supported them, the capable Montagnards became proficient with all types of small arms weapons and explosives. Perhaps this allowed the natives to live so close to the NVA without being wiped out by them. However, the Montagnards avoided taking sides in the war and chose not to be involved with the Vietnamization program.

We flew to the Mai Loc base camp crammed aboard a de-Havilland C-7A Caribou aircraft because the tiny airstrip could not handle the larger C-130 transports. While waiting at Mai Loc for choppers to bring us to our new AO, we were able to casually observe the Montagnards. The women wore colorful sarongs with tight blouses and carefully wrapped shawls on their heads. They also adorned themselves with a clutter of silver and brass arm bracelets. The men had a few bracelets, but for clothing wore nothing more than a loincloth. To the American base camp soldiers, the Montagnards seemed to be honest, loyal, and friendly, making them easy to like. However, we would never get the chance to find out if that was true because before we knew it, dozens of choppers swarmed in to take us on the next leg of our journey.

The helicopter ride afforded us a distant view of North Vietnam, which was just ten miles away. The enemy country appeared to be a restored green jungle while the area of South Vietnam below us remained filthy, scarred, and brown with only scattered patches of green. The most noticeable feature of the region was a 700-foot tall pyramid-shaped rock mass known as The Rockpile. This seemingly out of place centerpiece dominated the otherwise flat and open area of the Cam Lo River basin. The area was once considered a critical piece of military real estate because it contained a maze of natural caves ideal for hiding enemy soldiers and supplies. However, our AO was beyond The Rockpile in the mountain area between Mai Loc and the abandoned US Marine base camp at Khe Sanh.

We landed in an area pulverized the previous year by B-52 bombings. The remnants of this once lush jungle had become a patchwork of scarred trees, bomb craters, and new-growth ground cover. The new plant life benefitted from the monsoon season, now at full strength with constant rain showers and infrequent sunshine. We hated the idea of being wet for long periods but willingly traded our comfort for the positive side of the monsoon: the lack of insects.

Our job at the DMZ was no different than anyplace else we had been: seek out and destroy the enemy through daily patrols and nighttime ambushes. One afternoon, while slashing through elephant grass, our point man found the skeleton of an NVA soldier. The flesh had been picked clean by animals and insects leaving behind bones, a helmet, belt, and boots. We guessed the soldier had been dead for about six months, but still radioed in the location so the remains could be used for the body count.

This was the first time many of us had seen a human skeleton, so we propped the bones against a stump and took turns posing for pictures. When we left the area, one of the men put the skull on a stick and carried it with him. At first we considered the skull a good luck charm to keep the NVA away, but waking up to it every morning eventually gave us the creeps. Besides, we knew we would not want our head separated from our body no matter how long we’d been dead. We decided to leave the skull behind. Someone placed it high on a large boulder so it would have a commanding view of a lush valley.

In the five days since we had arrived at the DMZ we did not spot a single enemy soldier. But we were not without problems. Our food supply dwindled because the poor weather prohibited re-supply. To avoid surviving on toothpaste and roots like we had in the A Shau Valley, a strict rationing program was put into place. To compound matters, several of us were plagued with diarrhea. My condition not only included the GI shits, but also a mysterious case of sore testicles. Eventually, the pain became intolerable and I decided to tell Doc Meehan about it.

“When was the last time you got laid?” he asked, quite seriously.

“More than a month ago,” I answered honestly, wondering what kind of medical problem he thought I had. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“That means it’s not gonorrhea. It sounds more like you have testicular tension.”

That didn’t sound good. “What?” I gasped.

“The only cure is sex, but out here you’ll have to settle for masturbation. Do it tonight. Nothing fancy, just get the job done. You’ll feel better in the morning and your balls will get back to normal.”

Was he pulling my leg? “I don’t know Doc,” I winced, “that sounds pretty bizarre.”

I was waiting for him to break into laughter, but he didn’t. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard about this before,” he answered in all seriousness. “You’re the only one who can get yourself back on track.”

The discomfort was so bad I was willing to try his prescription for relief, but I had to be careful. Grunts had an unspoken code of conduct about masturbation. Everyone was aware of it and often joked as if masturbating was a common practice. Getting caught, however, was more than just embarrassing and many GIs were shunned because of it.

When the time seemed right that night, I mentally prepared myself for the task. “Doctor’s orders” I thought, almost laughing. If masturbating would relieve my problem, I may as well enjoy it. I did the deed as fast as I could, but pleasure was nowhere to be found. Instead, at the moment of ejaculation a sharp pain stabbed deep in my abdomen. In the morning I didn’t mention anything to Doc because I figured the discomfort was normal for such therapy. However, while sitting down for morning chow my scrotum felt oddly uncomfortable. Without looking, I instinctively scratched at it and continued eating. A few seconds later, I scratched again but when I brought my hand up, the fingers were red. I jumped up to find my crotch was wet with blood, so I immediately I dropped my pants. Horrified onlookers started to back away at the sight of blood pumping from my pecker with each heartbeat. I fell to my knees, as if to beg for help, but no words came out. My voice was weak and garbled as I began slipping into shock.

Doc Meehan called for a medevac and went to work to stop the bleeding. With no wound to patch, he started to wrap gauze around my penis. I vaguely remember him asking for someone to “hold it” while he wrapped, but instead of help he got remarks like “not me” and “I’m not gonna touch that thing.”

Doc finished rolling the bandage to a lemon-sized wad. When the flow finally stopped, the wad had soaked up so much blood it felt like a lead weight was attached to me. Doc attached a medical tag to my shirt that boldly read: PROFUSE BLEEDING FROM THE PENIS.

Not knowing what kind of bizarre affliction I had, the tag could have just as well read: “One hour left to live.”

When the medevac came in I was in such a daze that two men had to guide me to the LZ. Some of the guys patted me on the back to say what they thought would be a final good-bye, figuring that in my condition I might not be seen or heard from again. I certainly liked getting out of the field—but not this way.

I stumbled onto the medevac and it quickly lifted off. I sat paralyzed, feeling as if my life was draining away through my penis. One of the door-gunner’s, curious about my lack of visible wounds, leaned over to read the medical tag to see what was wrong. He studied the tag as if it made no sense, but when he noticed the blood stains on my pants, he knew the condition was real. Rather than being sympathetic he radioed the pilots, figuring they would get a kick out of my ailment. They did, and everyone had a good laugh. I became angry. “I have an advanced case of genital leprosy,” I said in all seriousness, leaving the impression it was terribly contagious. Whether they believed me or not I don’t know, but they kept their distance and stopped snickering.

Ten minutes later we landed at the Mai Loc aid station, where a team of doctors was waiting to treat me. As I undressed they began to smirk and joke about the condition.

“Boy, that’s some case of the clap you’ve got there,” said the first one. They all laughed. “What were you trying to do?” asked the second doctor. “Mummify your pecker?” More laughter.

“Maybe he’s the first man to have a menstrual cycle,” added the third.

Looking back, they were probably just relieved at the break from treating a steady flow of combat wounds, but at the time I did not see any humor in their remarks. Worried about what kind of treatment these three clowns would give me, I nervously laid down on an examination table.

One of them carefully unwrapped the gauze. The bleeding had stopped.

“I think a leech crawled inside the penis and attached itself to the urethra,” proclaimed the first doctor, as the others nodded in agreement. “We’ll have to use a probe to pull it out.”

“There’s no leech in there!” I shouted. “You’re not sticking anything in me!”

“Now take it easy,” said the second doctor, as an orderly appeared with the instrument. “The probe might be uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt.”

“Bullshit!” I protested. “You guys are just guessing about the leech. I got this problem from masturbating.”

They laughed at my announcement, giving me just enough time to leap from the table and run off. Two orderlies chased me as far as I dared run without my pants. I was captured behind the mess tent and returned to the doctors.

After explaining the masturbation circumstances, the doctors had second thoughts about their leech diagnosis. Figuring I had other problems, they decided to send me to the nearest hospital. To prevent further bleeding, they re-wrapped the penis but got carried away with cotton balls and over ten feet of gauze.

“We are the penis protectors,” one of them mused. At least they stopped short of using a splint.

I was medevaced to the 18th Surgical Mobile Hospital at Quang Tri where a sign greeted me that read: 90% OF THE PATIENTS THAT ENTER THIS UNIT HAVE SUFFERED INJURIES CAUSED BY WEAPONS. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR’S OUTSIDE.

A supply sergeant locked my M-16, rucksack, and equipment in a conex for safekeeping. From there, I was directed to the outpatient clinic where a dozen REMFs were on sick call for everything from hangnails to paper cuts. I thought I was in worse shape than any of them, so I asked the desk clerk to get me moved to the front of the line.

“I’ve got a problem,” I said, holding up the medical tag for his inspection.

“Everyone has a problem,” he replied without looking. “Get in line and wait your turn.”

“But I’m really sick, look at this tag.”

“Yeah,” he said, reading it but not showing any emotion. “Is it bleeding now?”

“I don’t know, it’s all bandaged up.”

“Get in line; you’ll be taken care of.”

I was too discouraged to argue so I sat on the bench with the rest of the sick call. After a few minutes, the guy next to me leaned forward to read the tag. Then he looked at my blood stained pants and cautiously edged away. I felt like I was lost in a continuing saga where everyone laughed, ignored me, or kept their distance. It was just a good thing I had mobility or I would really be in trouble.

About fifteen minutes passed when an emergency brought doctors and nurses rushing out to the hospital entrance. A mud covered Grunt, laying face down on a gurney, was wheeled in. The staff prepared him for surgery right in front of us. As the GI’s clothing was removed, he let out several tortured moans. With the staff crowded around him I couldn’t see what the injury was, but the harsh odor of human waste left little doubt it was an open abdominal wound. After the GI was prepped and wheeled toward the operating room, I saw it. A two-foot long bamboo splinter protruded from his rectum like a spear. The hapless GI had slipped and fallen in the mud, jamming the stick up his ass. The splinter sliced open his intestines causing a loss of bodily functions. And I thought I had problems.