We were out on patrol one day. You know, makin' sure all was right with the world and safe for the folks back on Hennepin Avenue. In the world we were traipsing' though, the only men between the ages of eighteen and forty who could be found in the light of day were the ARVNs and us. Oh yeah, I forgot the VC. But we never saw them, just the shell casings they left behind and a few thousand booby traps.
Damn, it seemed Vietnam was populated by women, old men and kids playing soccer when they weren't stealing our trip flares (little bastards). Some of our men took the 'little bastard' seriously. We'd be headin' down the road, a squad of us in the back of a deuce and a half. Vietnamese kids would come runnin, lookin' for the good stuff we carried. Food, candy. Usually, if we had some to spare, we'd share. And, just as usually, what we carried was what we needed. No more, no less. That's the way of the grunt.
But some of us always had a few bars of Hershey's tropical chocolate. Sounds like good stuff, doesn't it? And it is if you like grainy chocolate that not only doesn't melt in the tropics but does about the same in your mouth. Not complainin'. After all it was free.
And it was fairly dense stuff that didn't float. Just ask the kids who fished the bars out of puddles. Or were whupped upside the head with a well aimed toss by some numba ten GI who just didn't like any of the Vietnamese. I had a hard time with GIs doin' stuff like that even though the kids got little off of me. Let's just say it was a bad situation all the way around. In the long run even the good guys could be the bad guys.
So, we're on this patrol. Just stumblin' along goin' from one nowhere to another, all the while in single file keepin' our proper military distance from each other. And I'm softly singin'. No shame in the field even when you're like me and can barely carry a tune. I recall it bein' a Beatles song. Believe it was written by Ringo and called Obla Di, Obla Da. Don't quote me on the spellin' of the title. Spell Check sure as hell don't like the way I wrote it.
I used to sing every now and then when we were marchin'. Did that from the days of Basic Training on. Why not? I like to sing. Most every one does. Passes the time in a real friendly way. Back in civilian life me and the car radio did our share of harmonizin'. That, two bucks of gas and a pack of cigarettes was cause enough for celebration.
Don't believe anyone but me was singin' and don't recall anyone else ever singin' while on patrol. Anyhow, I'm walkin' along, load on my back, lost in a daze and who should I see when I looked up but Bravo Six, he be the Company Commander, starin' me in the eye. And he doesn't say a word. Guess it just struck him as odd that a grunt in the Nam should be happy enough to be softly beltin' out an upbeat tune and he pulled out of line to see who it was. Yup Cap'n, it be me.
Lesson learned from the Nam: Life is short. Way too short. Enjoy it while you can even if it's singin' a Beatle's tune when you're in an unhappy place.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
Mundane Crap - Bunker Guard
Me, Papa-san and Weasel occupied the second one to the left of the gate. That is if you were facing out. It was our home away from home away from home. Not much to look at. She was a wooden box with an eye level slot in the front. The engineers put the box down and built it into the berm. Us grunts covered it with sand bags. As I recall it had a short L-shaped entry, also lined with sand bags. 'Spose the idea of the entry was us not takin' shrapnel from the inside should we have a rocket attack. Sometimes when we were at Moore our daytime job was filling more sand bags. Could never have enough sand bags. Not a thrilling way to spend the day but putting stuffin' those bags beat the pants off of doin' the same with inert GIs.
Days were spent doin' shit - shit's a good word to some of the things we did and goes a long way to summin' up our attitudes - that armies do to kill time, mostly maintenance and the occasional haircut.
That brings up the man with the star in the middle of his chevrons. Our Sergeant Major was a pretend soldier as far as I could see. Maybe he'd paid his dues in an earlier time but in my short span with the 9th infantry, that wasn't the case.
Only saw the man twice that I recall. Once in a chow line at Moore when we'd just come in from the field. He walked down the column and let each of us know, individually, if we needed haircuts. Seemed something like mom asking you if you had clean underwear on in case you were in a car accident. Didn't want the ambulance crew findin' skid marks in your tight-whities when they scraped you off the skid-marked pavement. We had a word for him, though we didn't say it to his face. I recall it bein' something along the line of asshole.
The other time was when we landed at Moore from an Eagle Flight Operation. He'd come out to meet us wearing clean, starched jungle fatigues, a pistol and a couple of canteens on his utility belt. Then walked in with us like we were all the best of buddies. Passed a Lieutenant on the way who asked him, "Been out Eagle Flighting Sergeant Major?" A simple nod from our hero said, "You bet. Combat's what I'm all about."
And that was what command was all about in Vietnam as far as I was concerned. That and a bunch of men who honestly did not know what they were doing. They were just guessing. Try this, try that. See what works and what doesn't. Same as all wars I 'spose. Learning curve and all that. Guess right and Charlie dies. Guess wrong and Charlie still dies but so do we. As I saw it then and still do, in an unwinable war like Vietnam, it was all just a waste of guessin'.
After chow at Moore we'd head out to the bunkers. About as close to alone time as you could get in Vietnam. There the three of us would read or write some letters. Drink a beer. Read a book. Talk. Kill time till the sun went down and then begin our watch rotation.
Best meal I ever ate in my life happened at the bunker. Bet you'd never have guessed that. Maybe the joy of the food had to do with what we'd gotten used to over the weeks and months. After a couple of weeks in the bush my field rations had boiled down to peanut butter and crackers, piece of candy (hopefully a coconut and chocolate patty), water, coffee and canned fruit. All courtesy of c-rations. Not great but tolerable.
Earlier I'd mentioned both Weasel and Papa-san were activated Ohio National Guardsmen. Luck of the draw changed their lives in a heart beat. Seemed that back in Ohio Papa-san got to know one of the cooks. And lo and behold, almost like a fairy tale, the cook ended up at Fire Base Moore. And on the day in question, had prepared a meal for a visiting Vietnamese Brigadier General. Though what he'd concocted didn't sound all that good, it turned out to be heaven on earth. A meal fit for a general, but definitely not for grunts.
Consider it our lucky stars the General was a finicky eater - maybe he had a thing against feed lot beef long before that was considered an unhealthy choice at the supermarket - and there was a pile of food left over, most of which was round steak that had been marinated in beer for two days, then barbecued. Good or not, when we were offered all we could eat, who were the three of us to say no?
Round steak marinated in beer may not sound like it would be tasty but it was. And to me, Papa-san and Weasel it was almost reason enough to be in Vietnam. We ate all the kitchen had and could have eaten more. We were pigs. Carnivorous pigs.
Days were spent doin' shit - shit's a good word to some of the things we did and goes a long way to summin' up our attitudes - that armies do to kill time, mostly maintenance and the occasional haircut.
That brings up the man with the star in the middle of his chevrons. Our Sergeant Major was a pretend soldier as far as I could see. Maybe he'd paid his dues in an earlier time but in my short span with the 9th infantry, that wasn't the case.
Only saw the man twice that I recall. Once in a chow line at Moore when we'd just come in from the field. He walked down the column and let each of us know, individually, if we needed haircuts. Seemed something like mom asking you if you had clean underwear on in case you were in a car accident. Didn't want the ambulance crew findin' skid marks in your tight-whities when they scraped you off the skid-marked pavement. We had a word for him, though we didn't say it to his face. I recall it bein' something along the line of asshole.
The other time was when we landed at Moore from an Eagle Flight Operation. He'd come out to meet us wearing clean, starched jungle fatigues, a pistol and a couple of canteens on his utility belt. Then walked in with us like we were all the best of buddies. Passed a Lieutenant on the way who asked him, "Been out Eagle Flighting Sergeant Major?" A simple nod from our hero said, "You bet. Combat's what I'm all about."
And that was what command was all about in Vietnam as far as I was concerned. That and a bunch of men who honestly did not know what they were doing. They were just guessing. Try this, try that. See what works and what doesn't. Same as all wars I 'spose. Learning curve and all that. Guess right and Charlie dies. Guess wrong and Charlie still dies but so do we. As I saw it then and still do, in an unwinable war like Vietnam, it was all just a waste of guessin'.
After chow at Moore we'd head out to the bunkers. About as close to alone time as you could get in Vietnam. There the three of us would read or write some letters. Drink a beer. Read a book. Talk. Kill time till the sun went down and then begin our watch rotation.
Best meal I ever ate in my life happened at the bunker. Bet you'd never have guessed that. Maybe the joy of the food had to do with what we'd gotten used to over the weeks and months. After a couple of weeks in the bush my field rations had boiled down to peanut butter and crackers, piece of candy (hopefully a coconut and chocolate patty), water, coffee and canned fruit. All courtesy of c-rations. Not great but tolerable.
Earlier I'd mentioned both Weasel and Papa-san were activated Ohio National Guardsmen. Luck of the draw changed their lives in a heart beat. Seemed that back in Ohio Papa-san got to know one of the cooks. And lo and behold, almost like a fairy tale, the cook ended up at Fire Base Moore. And on the day in question, had prepared a meal for a visiting Vietnamese Brigadier General. Though what he'd concocted didn't sound all that good, it turned out to be heaven on earth. A meal fit for a general, but definitely not for grunts.
Consider it our lucky stars the General was a finicky eater - maybe he had a thing against feed lot beef long before that was considered an unhealthy choice at the supermarket - and there was a pile of food left over, most of which was round steak that had been marinated in beer for two days, then barbecued. Good or not, when we were offered all we could eat, who were the three of us to say no?
Round steak marinated in beer may not sound like it would be tasty but it was. And to me, Papa-san and Weasel it was almost reason enough to be in Vietnam. We ate all the kitchen had and could have eaten more. We were pigs. Carnivorous pigs.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Mundane Crap - Gravestones and Pigs
Night in the field wasn't all bad. At least down in the Delta when the paddies were dry. Weasel always carried a small transistor radio with him. Come Saturday night it was Golden Oldies out of the military station in Saigon. I'd pull first watch, he'd forego a little over an hours sleep and we'd listen in.
Back then, what constituted a song bein' an oldie was it comin' from the years between '55 and '65. When most of us layin' in the rice paddy were growin' up. Guess that was the golden part. Didn't seem possible that less than a year earlier, most of us in were toolin' around on a Saturday night with nothing better to do than listen to the tunes on the car radio. Smoke cigarettes, no particular place to go. Listenin' to the oldies with Weasel brought back memories of life before the Army and, most of all, before Vietnam.
But those days were behind us no matter how much we wished they weren't. But we were never gonna be the same and we knew it. Our cherries were popped and there was no turnin' back.
But that's not what this memory is about. Except for the night part. The night where movement out beyond our perimeter could be anything. Or nothing at all.
No matter what the man on watch had to call in a situation report every fifteen minutes we had to let command know what was goin' on. Negative was good, positive bad. Also this let them know you were awake. Or at least sleepin' with your ear on the receiver. Bein' it was my watch I came to eves drop on the following sit-rep positive. Went something like this:
There's something out there I tell you. No doubt about it. Get me the starlight scope.
Believe we had one of the scopes per field company back in the grunt age of 1969. I used one now and then. Can't say they made anything a lot more visible. What it did do was make the world look a lot greener. Lord knows what one cost. Triple the civilian price to get what the government paid.
Something's moving, that's for sure. Best get on the horn and get every one up and at 'em.
So there we were, noses over dikes, rifles with safeties off just in case this was the real deal. In the process of wakin' men up and all the bitchin' that goes with early mornin' hours, we no doubt made enough noise to rouse the neighbors. Our luck the clatter would have gotten someone to call the cops. For sure we'd have been ticketed for disturbing the peace. Or maybe arrested and all eighty of us would've ended up spending the night in the hoosegow.
The discussion on the radio droned on for maybe five minutes while we lost sleep and sweated it out. Finally the pig wandered close enough to be identified. One trigger happy rookie could've easily done the beast in and turned it into pork sausage. First round goes off and all the rest of the company would no doubt open up. Except me. I was of the 'wait and see' school. Pullin' the trigger meant more work cleanin' the gun. Not my kinda fun.
Figure this be a good time to bring up water buffaloes. They were the John Deeres of the Delta. Did most everything a tractor did back in the States. You'd see one off in the distance, a kid on their back and a man would think they were almost cuddly, in an ugly kind of way.
But you get 'em without the kid or any Vietnamese around them and they turned into half ton pit bulls. Come chargin' at us with certain death in their eyes. Visions of grunts impaled on their horns dancin' in their heads. Nasty-assed beasts.
And there was no way us imperiled GIs could shoot the bastards. An M-16 woulda just pissed 'em off and made them nastier. And we were under orders not to shoot them in the first place. Most of us could understand that seein' as how a water buffalo was an important part of a farmstead's livelihood.
Smoke grenades, on the other hand, were another story. No harm to man nor beast but pop one and the buffalo would turn tail with the horizon in its eyes. Not sure why that worked but it sure did, slicker than snail shit.
Then there was the time on bunker guard when Lundsford got spooked. Now this wasn't the same time that Tom Smith and Iron Mike got wasted on Carling Black Label and did the Cobra Dance of Too Much to Drink on top of their bunker while a rocket attack was goin' on. That sure was something to behold but not the point of this here memory.
That was the time one of our men got the heebie-jeebies while on bunker guard. Seems he was seein' something off near the tree line that was movin' around. Exactly what it was doin' he couldn't exactly say. But there was no doubt it was something evil and not evil in the sense of wiping out a Fire Support Base by stickin' pins in a voodoo doll or sacrificing a chicken or maybe chokin' one. Even if he was wrong it was a minor miracle that one of us was paying enough attention to see anything at all.
Eventually he got worked up enough for an officer or two to come calm the man down. And, just maybe, see if there actually was something out there. The look-see evolved into a heated discussion with the officers sayin' the bunker grunt was hallucinatin' and our hero stickin' to his guns.
The only way to settle the argument was to fire up an artillery flare. Under anything but the worst of circumstances doin' that was a major no-no. A flare lit up everything in an ugly way. Like the designers didn't give any thought at all to how it made our moles and pores stand out. Not becoming at all. And it exposed us as much as them. So you never fired a flare at night unless there was some form of infiltration goin' on.
As it turned out, maybe Lundsford was right. Maybe the gravestone out there had been movin' around. Weirder things have happened in a combat zone. Then again, maybe not.
Back then, what constituted a song bein' an oldie was it comin' from the years between '55 and '65. When most of us layin' in the rice paddy were growin' up. Guess that was the golden part. Didn't seem possible that less than a year earlier, most of us in were toolin' around on a Saturday night with nothing better to do than listen to the tunes on the car radio. Smoke cigarettes, no particular place to go. Listenin' to the oldies with Weasel brought back memories of life before the Army and, most of all, before Vietnam.
But those days were behind us no matter how much we wished they weren't. But we were never gonna be the same and we knew it. Our cherries were popped and there was no turnin' back.
But that's not what this memory is about. Except for the night part. The night where movement out beyond our perimeter could be anything. Or nothing at all.
No matter what the man on watch had to call in a situation report every fifteen minutes we had to let command know what was goin' on. Negative was good, positive bad. Also this let them know you were awake. Or at least sleepin' with your ear on the receiver. Bein' it was my watch I came to eves drop on the following sit-rep positive. Went something like this:
There's something out there I tell you. No doubt about it. Get me the starlight scope.
Believe we had one of the scopes per field company back in the grunt age of 1969. I used one now and then. Can't say they made anything a lot more visible. What it did do was make the world look a lot greener. Lord knows what one cost. Triple the civilian price to get what the government paid.
Something's moving, that's for sure. Best get on the horn and get every one up and at 'em.
So there we were, noses over dikes, rifles with safeties off just in case this was the real deal. In the process of wakin' men up and all the bitchin' that goes with early mornin' hours, we no doubt made enough noise to rouse the neighbors. Our luck the clatter would have gotten someone to call the cops. For sure we'd have been ticketed for disturbing the peace. Or maybe arrested and all eighty of us would've ended up spending the night in the hoosegow.
The discussion on the radio droned on for maybe five minutes while we lost sleep and sweated it out. Finally the pig wandered close enough to be identified. One trigger happy rookie could've easily done the beast in and turned it into pork sausage. First round goes off and all the rest of the company would no doubt open up. Except me. I was of the 'wait and see' school. Pullin' the trigger meant more work cleanin' the gun. Not my kinda fun.
Figure this be a good time to bring up water buffaloes. They were the John Deeres of the Delta. Did most everything a tractor did back in the States. You'd see one off in the distance, a kid on their back and a man would think they were almost cuddly, in an ugly kind of way.
But you get 'em without the kid or any Vietnamese around them and they turned into half ton pit bulls. Come chargin' at us with certain death in their eyes. Visions of grunts impaled on their horns dancin' in their heads. Nasty-assed beasts.
And there was no way us imperiled GIs could shoot the bastards. An M-16 woulda just pissed 'em off and made them nastier. And we were under orders not to shoot them in the first place. Most of us could understand that seein' as how a water buffalo was an important part of a farmstead's livelihood.
Smoke grenades, on the other hand, were another story. No harm to man nor beast but pop one and the buffalo would turn tail with the horizon in its eyes. Not sure why that worked but it sure did, slicker than snail shit.
Then there was the time on bunker guard when Lundsford got spooked. Now this wasn't the same time that Tom Smith and Iron Mike got wasted on Carling Black Label and did the Cobra Dance of Too Much to Drink on top of their bunker while a rocket attack was goin' on. That sure was something to behold but not the point of this here memory.
That was the time one of our men got the heebie-jeebies while on bunker guard. Seems he was seein' something off near the tree line that was movin' around. Exactly what it was doin' he couldn't exactly say. But there was no doubt it was something evil and not evil in the sense of wiping out a Fire Support Base by stickin' pins in a voodoo doll or sacrificing a chicken or maybe chokin' one. Even if he was wrong it was a minor miracle that one of us was paying enough attention to see anything at all.
Eventually he got worked up enough for an officer or two to come calm the man down. And, just maybe, see if there actually was something out there. The look-see evolved into a heated discussion with the officers sayin' the bunker grunt was hallucinatin' and our hero stickin' to his guns.
The only way to settle the argument was to fire up an artillery flare. Under anything but the worst of circumstances doin' that was a major no-no. A flare lit up everything in an ugly way. Like the designers didn't give any thought at all to how it made our moles and pores stand out. Not becoming at all. And it exposed us as much as them. So you never fired a flare at night unless there was some form of infiltration goin' on.
As it turned out, maybe Lundsford was right. Maybe the gravestone out there had been movin' around. Weirder things have happened in a combat zone. Then again, maybe not.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Mundane Crap III - Spectacles
I wear glasses. Bad, bad, near-sighted vision. You know, the kind of lenses that made a person's eyes look like B-Bs at the far end of a bowling alley. This was back in the days before hi-tech, polycarbonate lenses thinned the plastic down to normal.
During my induction physical the doctor said I was legally blind without my glasses on. Got me jumpin' up and down, rubbin' my hands together and shoutin', "No Army for this boy!"
"Think again Homer. Bein' blind ain't cause enough to keep you out of the military. You need glasses? We give you glasses. Ugly glasses that go with your uniform." That's what the doctor said. And he went on to add that bein' legally blind didn't keep you from doin' shit. Exceptin' maybe anything worth doin' that didn't involve the possibility of Asian people from shootin' you dead.
All in all, what I learned from that was, in time of war, a man is not much more than a warm body to fill a hole in the ranks or maybe in the ground. That was a good thing to learn but not so easy to accept.
Back when I was a kid my big brother spent his Army time fightin' the good war over in Germany during the '50s. Must have done a good job at it 'cause nary a Russian made a move outside the Iron Curtain during his days there. What he came to learn in the peacetime Army was, if your eyes were bad you didn't have to worry about bein' in the infantry. That's what he told me and that's what I grew up assumin'. Turned out we were wrong.
It was about mid tour when I lost them. Probably wouldn't have happened had I not been in a helpful mood, when I coulda kept my hands to myself 'cause I didn't know what I was doin. You see, our platoon had to cross this river that was too deep to wade. And swimmin' was out of the question with all the gear on our backs. Sink faster than lead. So we commandeered a mama-san with a sampan. An unhappy mama-san with a sampan. And about to get unhappier.
Don't know if it was my record with breakin' down foot bridges but, as usual, I was at the end of the line on the crossover. All went well till our turn. It wasn't that I'd never been a skinny boat before but American canoes are nowhere near as width challenged as a sampan. Those Asian boats were barely ass wide on Twiggy (if you were alive back then, you'll know who she was). Had a big, friendly smile on my face as I used my gun butt to push us off from shore. And immediately roll us into the brink. Boy was mama-san pissed.
Took a moment after I popped to the surface to realize me and my M-16 weren't together anymore. That was a no-no. A rifle was an infantryman's baby. Never do us part. So I started diving in the silt filled river. Kept my eyes closed 'cause whatever was in that water I sure didn't want in my eyes. Couldn't have seen anything through the muck anyhow. Took a couple of trips to the bottom before I found it. Shazam! I was one happy grunt.
Only problem was the world around me. Somehow it'd gone all fuzzy. And my head felt lighter. A quick feelin' of my face told me it was time to start divin' again. Three or four trips and it was time to bag the operation.
Once on shore I was asked if I wanted a dustoff. Bein' the man I am, and that bein' one who's a little slow to pick up on a golden opportunity, I said no. I figured, what the hell, how dangerous could it be walkin' around half blind in a war zone? Simply not smart at all.
As luck would have it - or was it the ghost of irony that seemed to shadow me from the time I spread my cheeks on? - no more than a half hour later we stumbled upon a half dozen VC totin' a mortar, plate tube and all. At least that's what I was told those blobs off in the distance were.
Immediately we sprang into action. First off, I was told to hold my ground and not fire my M-16 under any circumstances. Then two men were assigned to make sure I didn't pull the trigger and maybe protect my useless, blind ass should more of the bad boys show up. Fine with me. Made me feel special.
First Platoon got on line, assaulted and captured the mortar. The VCs took off down the smart road as fast as they could run. Wow! We actually captured weaponry. Got everybody excited like they were actually accomplishing something for a change. Who could blame them?
That night we joined up with the rest of Bravo and set up in the paddies as usual. I couldn't see squat but took my usual turn on watch. Why not? In the dark of the tropical night none of us could see anything anyhow.
During my induction physical the doctor said I was legally blind without my glasses on. Got me jumpin' up and down, rubbin' my hands together and shoutin', "No Army for this boy!"
"Think again Homer. Bein' blind ain't cause enough to keep you out of the military. You need glasses? We give you glasses. Ugly glasses that go with your uniform." That's what the doctor said. And he went on to add that bein' legally blind didn't keep you from doin' shit. Exceptin' maybe anything worth doin' that didn't involve the possibility of Asian people from shootin' you dead.
All in all, what I learned from that was, in time of war, a man is not much more than a warm body to fill a hole in the ranks or maybe in the ground. That was a good thing to learn but not so easy to accept.
Back when I was a kid my big brother spent his Army time fightin' the good war over in Germany during the '50s. Must have done a good job at it 'cause nary a Russian made a move outside the Iron Curtain during his days there. What he came to learn in the peacetime Army was, if your eyes were bad you didn't have to worry about bein' in the infantry. That's what he told me and that's what I grew up assumin'. Turned out we were wrong.
It was about mid tour when I lost them. Probably wouldn't have happened had I not been in a helpful mood, when I coulda kept my hands to myself 'cause I didn't know what I was doin. You see, our platoon had to cross this river that was too deep to wade. And swimmin' was out of the question with all the gear on our backs. Sink faster than lead. So we commandeered a mama-san with a sampan. An unhappy mama-san with a sampan. And about to get unhappier.
Don't know if it was my record with breakin' down foot bridges but, as usual, I was at the end of the line on the crossover. All went well till our turn. It wasn't that I'd never been a skinny boat before but American canoes are nowhere near as width challenged as a sampan. Those Asian boats were barely ass wide on Twiggy (if you were alive back then, you'll know who she was). Had a big, friendly smile on my face as I used my gun butt to push us off from shore. And immediately roll us into the brink. Boy was mama-san pissed.
Took a moment after I popped to the surface to realize me and my M-16 weren't together anymore. That was a no-no. A rifle was an infantryman's baby. Never do us part. So I started diving in the silt filled river. Kept my eyes closed 'cause whatever was in that water I sure didn't want in my eyes. Couldn't have seen anything through the muck anyhow. Took a couple of trips to the bottom before I found it. Shazam! I was one happy grunt.
Only problem was the world around me. Somehow it'd gone all fuzzy. And my head felt lighter. A quick feelin' of my face told me it was time to start divin' again. Three or four trips and it was time to bag the operation.
Once on shore I was asked if I wanted a dustoff. Bein' the man I am, and that bein' one who's a little slow to pick up on a golden opportunity, I said no. I figured, what the hell, how dangerous could it be walkin' around half blind in a war zone? Simply not smart at all.
As luck would have it - or was it the ghost of irony that seemed to shadow me from the time I spread my cheeks on? - no more than a half hour later we stumbled upon a half dozen VC totin' a mortar, plate tube and all. At least that's what I was told those blobs off in the distance were.
Immediately we sprang into action. First off, I was told to hold my ground and not fire my M-16 under any circumstances. Then two men were assigned to make sure I didn't pull the trigger and maybe protect my useless, blind ass should more of the bad boys show up. Fine with me. Made me feel special.
First Platoon got on line, assaulted and captured the mortar. The VCs took off down the smart road as fast as they could run. Wow! We actually captured weaponry. Got everybody excited like they were actually accomplishing something for a change. Who could blame them?
That night we joined up with the rest of Bravo and set up in the paddies as usual. I couldn't see squat but took my usual turn on watch. Why not? In the dark of the tropical night none of us could see anything anyhow.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Mundane Crap II - Tracers
The man who replaced Lt. Olson was a hoss. A big man. And a heckuva nice guy. Easy to get along with and, even though he was the Platoon Leader, he was also a rookie and knew it. Not that he let on but he paid attention to us almost like we knew what we were doin', had been around the block a couple of times and had something he could learn from. For some odd reason I ended up as his RTO and remained so until the rain barrel fiasco when I had to be replaced. Nothing is permanent, 'specially in war.
Memory gets garbled over time and the truth of a matter may never have been truth in the first place. Keep those things in mind. Us grunts humped the boonies under the idea that the Commies were smarter than us. I doubt that was true but that's what we believed. We felt their rifles were better than ours and never jammed. They designed the diameter of their mortars a millimeter larger than ours so they could fire our rounds, no doubt acquired on the black market, but we couldn't fire theirs. And maybe, just maybe, the AK47 could fire M-16 rounds, but not vice versa. That may or may not have been true but like I said, that's what we believed.
What I did know for sure was the tracers buzzing by our ears when we stumbled into an ambush were a mix of red and green. Just like Christmas. The reds were ours and the green ones were the Reds (that's a pun in case you missed it). I assumed both colors were coming out of the same rifle or rifles.
The ambushes we walked into were usually brief affairs. Lasted about as long as it took two or three VC to empty a magazine each while on full automatic. Half the time nobody was hit. I figure the reason for our luck had to do with the VCs not wantin' to get themselves into a fire fight where the odds were stacked in our favor. Squeeze 'em off and di di mau was the plan for them.
On the operation in question, one of the first our new Platoon Leader was on, that's what happened. We were doin' something stupid. Fancy that. Walkin' down the center of a main dike so as to keep our feet dry at the end of the day.
The walkin' ended in shower of bullets and tracers. By then I'd been in country long enough to react instinctively. And those instincts launched me headfirst over the side of the dike opposite the rifle fire. Through the brush, over the lip, seventy pounds on my body be damned. Gone so fast the bullets seemed to be floatin' through the air as I passed them by.
Up atop the dike lay our new Lieutenant. Later he told me that he was feelin' damn proud he'd hit the ground so fast. Just like he'd been in combat all his life. Then looked around and found himself alone. Guess his instinct for survival needed a little honin'. But in his favor, the Lieutenant was set to return fire toward the men who were long gone. Such was life in the Delta.
Memory gets garbled over time and the truth of a matter may never have been truth in the first place. Keep those things in mind. Us grunts humped the boonies under the idea that the Commies were smarter than us. I doubt that was true but that's what we believed. We felt their rifles were better than ours and never jammed. They designed the diameter of their mortars a millimeter larger than ours so they could fire our rounds, no doubt acquired on the black market, but we couldn't fire theirs. And maybe, just maybe, the AK47 could fire M-16 rounds, but not vice versa. That may or may not have been true but like I said, that's what we believed.
What I did know for sure was the tracers buzzing by our ears when we stumbled into an ambush were a mix of red and green. Just like Christmas. The reds were ours and the green ones were the Reds (that's a pun in case you missed it). I assumed both colors were coming out of the same rifle or rifles.
The ambushes we walked into were usually brief affairs. Lasted about as long as it took two or three VC to empty a magazine each while on full automatic. Half the time nobody was hit. I figure the reason for our luck had to do with the VCs not wantin' to get themselves into a fire fight where the odds were stacked in our favor. Squeeze 'em off and di di mau was the plan for them.
On the operation in question, one of the first our new Platoon Leader was on, that's what happened. We were doin' something stupid. Fancy that. Walkin' down the center of a main dike so as to keep our feet dry at the end of the day.
The walkin' ended in shower of bullets and tracers. By then I'd been in country long enough to react instinctively. And those instincts launched me headfirst over the side of the dike opposite the rifle fire. Through the brush, over the lip, seventy pounds on my body be damned. Gone so fast the bullets seemed to be floatin' through the air as I passed them by.
Up atop the dike lay our new Lieutenant. Later he told me that he was feelin' damn proud he'd hit the ground so fast. Just like he'd been in combat all his life. Then looked around and found himself alone. Guess his instinct for survival needed a little honin'. But in his favor, the Lieutenant was set to return fire toward the men who were long gone. Such was life in the Delta.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Mundane Ordinary Everyday Crap - I
Most of our time in Vietnam was not all that exciting. And that's the way we liked it. At the boot meets the ground level, most armies would gladly trade medals for a day of humping from here to there. Kinda fits with the old canoeman's saying of "No Indian ever died on a portage." Happily, in the Delta, fire fights didn't happen all that often. Unhappily, that didn't stop us from losing men one or two at a time. Give me a day of mindless fatigue with sixty pounds on my back and I was a happy soldier.
When the paddies were dry our night positions were almost pleasant. We were lucky enough to never be infiltrated. Rumor had it, and rumor was everything, that Charlie Company had their sleep interrupted one night. Neither the number of VC involved nor casualties were ever known by us. That was normal. But the idea of hand to hand combat in the dark was real enough to get us thinking about what it would be like. Gun butt, knuckles and knife time. You open up with a pistol or rifle in the dark and the odds of shooting your best friend were about the same as gunning down an infiltrator. The thought alone was enough to keep our eyes open when on watch.
Charlie also figured in on my favorite combat story. Gets me to thinking there wasn't actually a Charlie Company besides the one made up by the division's psychological warfare crew. When they figured us grunts were gettin' slack about keepin' awake at night, they started up the infiltration rumor. When we were down in the dumps they fired up the following one:
Not too far from FSB Moore sat an ARVN fire base. Don't know what the hell they did there. Supposedly they had an artillery unit inside to provide all the cover fire an ARVN unit could wish for. But as far as I could see, the ARVNs didn't venture out very often. Once they strolled along with Bravo Company on a bushmaster. Yup, that's about all they did, stroll. Didn't carry any water or rations with them. When they got hungry or thirsty they tried to borrow from us. Like that was gonna happen. That's why, in an earlier entry, I said South Vietnam would tumble like a house of cards when we pulled out. Seemed we were fighting their war. Or, more accurately, it was our war and they were dragged into it whether they wanted or not. Screwed up for sure.
On a bushmaster we'd walk back to Moore. Simple enough. Unless it was gettin' near the end of the day. Seemed like four o'clock was cocktail hour for the ARVNs in their FSB. And when they were a little lit they felt the need to fire a couple of rounds over the heads of a passing grunt unit. That much I know for sure, seein' as how it happened to us on occasion. Pissed us off but we always let it pass.
Not so Charlie Company. I remember it being soon after they were infiltrated. That's how I recall it but after forty-four years my recall might be a tad off. Anyhow, on the evening in question, one way or the other, Charlie Company was a little high strung and ready to snap. All it took was a couple of alcohol inspired rounds to set them off.
As the story reached us it had them assaulting the ARVNs. The result was a few ARVN wounded, maybe a KIA or two. Charlie Company was untouched. And no doubt feelin' a whole lot better.
Whether the assault actually happened is up for grabs. Like I said, we got it through the rumor mill. On the other hand, it sure made us feel good and that said a lot about how we felt about our allies.
When the paddies were dry our night positions were almost pleasant. We were lucky enough to never be infiltrated. Rumor had it, and rumor was everything, that Charlie Company had their sleep interrupted one night. Neither the number of VC involved nor casualties were ever known by us. That was normal. But the idea of hand to hand combat in the dark was real enough to get us thinking about what it would be like. Gun butt, knuckles and knife time. You open up with a pistol or rifle in the dark and the odds of shooting your best friend were about the same as gunning down an infiltrator. The thought alone was enough to keep our eyes open when on watch.
Charlie also figured in on my favorite combat story. Gets me to thinking there wasn't actually a Charlie Company besides the one made up by the division's psychological warfare crew. When they figured us grunts were gettin' slack about keepin' awake at night, they started up the infiltration rumor. When we were down in the dumps they fired up the following one:
Not too far from FSB Moore sat an ARVN fire base. Don't know what the hell they did there. Supposedly they had an artillery unit inside to provide all the cover fire an ARVN unit could wish for. But as far as I could see, the ARVNs didn't venture out very often. Once they strolled along with Bravo Company on a bushmaster. Yup, that's about all they did, stroll. Didn't carry any water or rations with them. When they got hungry or thirsty they tried to borrow from us. Like that was gonna happen. That's why, in an earlier entry, I said South Vietnam would tumble like a house of cards when we pulled out. Seemed we were fighting their war. Or, more accurately, it was our war and they were dragged into it whether they wanted or not. Screwed up for sure.
On a bushmaster we'd walk back to Moore. Simple enough. Unless it was gettin' near the end of the day. Seemed like four o'clock was cocktail hour for the ARVNs in their FSB. And when they were a little lit they felt the need to fire a couple of rounds over the heads of a passing grunt unit. That much I know for sure, seein' as how it happened to us on occasion. Pissed us off but we always let it pass.
Not so Charlie Company. I remember it being soon after they were infiltrated. That's how I recall it but after forty-four years my recall might be a tad off. Anyhow, on the evening in question, one way or the other, Charlie Company was a little high strung and ready to snap. All it took was a couple of alcohol inspired rounds to set them off.
As the story reached us it had them assaulting the ARVNs. The result was a few ARVN wounded, maybe a KIA or two. Charlie Company was untouched. And no doubt feelin' a whole lot better.
Whether the assault actually happened is up for grabs. Like I said, we got it through the rumor mill. On the other hand, it sure made us feel good and that said a lot about how we felt about our allies.
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