War is for the Wicked. Violence. One man arrives at the War in Vietnam. (standard:action, 8284 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 06 2020	Views/Reads: 1349/956	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A typical story of a young soldier’s arrival in-country during that long-gone war.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

The aircraft moved away from us. I could see tendrils of smoke coming
out of one of the engines. Seeing as the Flying Tiger Airlines is run 
by the CIA, another being Air America, I wondered if the engine had 
been shot up before coming to Oakland or on landing here? In any case, 
once it left, the formation was dissolved and we ran over to search for 
our own baggage. 

“After you find your bag, fall back into formation,” the same lieutenant
ordered us. “And hurry it up. We all go in together. It's cooler in the 
terminal.” 

That last seemed to indicate he hadn't been on the airplane with us but
was an assigned greeter. It was just like the military to pay 
lieutenant's pay for such a simple task. 

The scene reminded me of ants, as a hundred soldiers descended on piles
and clumps of discarded bags, all the canvas baggage looking the same 
except for stenciled names and serial numbers. At first, it was a 
cluster-fuck, everyone yelling, bitching and searching for the one that 
belonged to them alone. 

Finally, a couple of the NCOs got together and organized the search,
bringing order to chaos. They quieted us grunts and, reading the names 
on the bags, called them out. As the search progressed, the waiting 
group became smaller and smaller, as did the piles of luggage. 
Meanwhile, the lieutenant stood back and grinned, waiting. 

“Sam Johnson,” a staff sergeant called out and I trotted over to claim
mine. 

Hefting the bag of uniforms, interspersed with a few personal items
carefully cushioned in the center, I returned to the new formation. 
Since I was one of the last, my wait there was short. 

Hefting bags to our shoulders, we were marched to the wooden terminal
building. The interior consisted of one huge room about the size of a 
football field with supporting poles spotted throughout. We were 
pointed to one corner sectioned off by yellow stripes to sit on our 
bags and wait. It was slightly cooler inside, probably less than 
ninety-degrees. About an hour later, a sergeant came over to us. 

“Greetings, gentlemen. Welcome to the Republic of South Vietnam.” He
gave us a short speech, speaking from rote as though he'd gotten it 
well memorized and probably went through the same speech several times 
a day, finishing with, “You are at the Tan Son Nhut Air Base near 
Saigon. We have buses waiting outside to take you to the Reception 
Station at Cam Rhan Bay. It's about forty-five miles from here. Take a 
good look at the outskirts of Saigon. For most of you, it's as close to 
civilization as you're likely to get in the next year.” 

*** 

I took a seat on one of the buses. They were grade-school type, painted
gray and with heavily screened windows. “To keep indigents from 
greeting you with grenades,” the sergeant told us. It seemed not all 
the Vietnamese wanted us there. The ride was long in child seats with 
legs drawn up to chests or, like myself, sitting on my bag with head 
bumping the ceiling -- my choice. Hot air blasting in through screened 
windows did little to cool us down. Although starting out with a great 
deal of enthusiasm as we peered at unfamiliar scenery, most of us 
eventually nodded off in our seats. 

I woke as noise resumed and the buses stopped. Looking out a window, I
saw we were parked at one end of a large open area, no vegetation 
visible as far as I could see. We left the vehicle to stand in yet 
another formation. 

It getting near evening, the sun wasn't as hot as when we'd left the
airplane, though the heat and humidity were still terrible. By then my 
heavily starched stateside-fatigues were soaked in sweat. Maybe a good 
thing, since a breeze evaporated it and made me feel a little cooler. I 
felt sorry for the men still wearing winter dress uniforms. A corporal 
in camouflage fatigues came out of one of the buildings behind us. 

“All right, listen up,” he yelled and waited for us to quiet down. ”Fall
in, five ranks. Hurry up people, chow's waiting. Let's get this over 
with.” 

We did as ordered, sorting ourselves into a long formation, five men
wide and forty deep. About that time, four more corporals and sergeants 
had come out, each of them leading one of our lines to different 
barracks buildings. It was the first time we'd been separated since 
before the eighteen-hour flight. 

I followed my sergeant and was finally allowed to plop my bag down onto
a regulation army bunk. Tired and hot, I lay down on bare springs, 
using the bag as a pillow. Not for long, since we were hardly done for 
the day. 

“Don't get too comfortable, people,” the sergeant told us, “since we got
to get you dressed and then fed. The clothing depo closes in an hour, 
so that comes first. Then, if you're lucky, you can get some hot chow. 

“On your feet, pick up your bags and follow me. And remember, this is
barracks A12, so don't get lost.” To make certain we didn't forget, he 
had us stick out our left wrists and wrote “A12” on each of them with a 
Magic Marker. 

At least we didn't have to get into a formation and march. Straggling
while looking around, we followed him to a long low wooden building – 
all of them were wooden, hastily built for the new influx of troops -- 
where we clustered around a door at one end. As though to tempt us, he 
had shown us where the mess hall was on the way over. Man, what I 
would've given for a Coke or even a glass of cold water. Single file, 
the first three of us were let inside that end of the building. I was 
among them. 

The room inside was comprised of a wide open lane with a wooden counter
along one side, for the length of the building. Behind the counter were 
shelves of clothing and other gear. Clerks were stationed at intervals 
along its length. 

As we entered, we first clustered around one of those bottled-water
dispensers, fighting for a sip of cool water like a pack of puppies 
reaching for the same tit. I was briefly worried, watching those 
bubbles rising and the water level fall, that it'd run dry before my 
turn. 

At the first station, I was given a large paper bag. It was in a space
before the counter began and consisted of a row of large laundry bins, 
lined up, empty and waiting. 

“Dump out your dufflebag and throw all the military gear in the
appropriate basket; that includes ALL your clothing, even your military 
issue lace undies, girls,” the bored clerk told us. “You'll get all new 
stuff. Your personal items go on the counter to be inspected. We can't 
have any contraband entering the country. That does include carry-on 
bags.” 

That was before the entire army had gone to jungle fatigues. I still had
white boxer shorts and t-shirts, as well as standard khaki utility 
uniforms. It was the second time our personal effects had been checked 
for contraband like drugs -- which we would soon find available locally 
and cheaply – or unauthorized firearms. 

While I stacked my personal items on the counter, emptied my pockets and
undressed, throwing everything else into one or the other of the large 
laundry baskets, the clerk attended to the personal items. He appeared 
bored and impersonal, idly shoving my pocket-knife and wallet contents 
around, tossing a white handkerchief past me and into a bin. I guess it 
was because it was white. When he was through, we were allowed to put 
the remains of our possessions into the brown paper bag. 

Naked, we were led to the beginning of the counter, keeping both bags --
empty duffel and paper bags. We three shuffled a few feet along the 
counter while more guys came in to take our place by the laundry bins, 
also undressing. We advanced down the line, picking up items on the way 
and stowing them into the duffel bag. Jungle fatigues came next, green 
and brown striped, as was the new underwear. At least we had time to 
dress in order to make certain the new clothing fitted. 

The jungle boots were made to be loose fitting and had studded holes
near the bottom, right above steel soles, to let air and water in and 
out as you walk. Metal plates were built in to thwart punji sticks. The 
last made me a little nervous. Are those things that prevalent, I 
wondered? ( Punji sticks were lengths of bamboo, sharpened at the tips. 
It was a common trap used by the enemy in Vietnam. A pit would be dug 
with lengths of bamboo sticking up from the bottom, sharp side up. 
Often they were rubbed with human feces to cause infection. The pit was 
then covered with brush or mats. Unwary GIs would be walking along and 
abruptly have a sharp slimy stake through their foot. ) 

At the end, we had to sign papers itemizing our new issue. Our guiding
sergeant kept busy going back and forth along the length of the room, 
keeping order and answering questions. 

After the clothing issue, we were told to go back to the barracks, “A12”
of course, drop off our bags, and get some chow. After that, we were 
free for the day, processing in-country was to begin in the morning. 

*** 

During the next three days, we were processed in, both as a group and
individually. I was surprised at all the paperwork involved, almost as 
much as before basic training. At one building, all our American money 
was taken away, exchanged for military script looking somewhat like 
Monopoly money. Possessing American money was illegal for us troops. 
The reason was that it would bring an enormous exchange rate downtown, 
up to ten for one. Many Vietnamese hoarded it in case we lost the war 
and the current currency, called “Dongs”, would be worthless. 

The induction didn't take long in itself. It was the waiting. That and
the odd jobs we were given to keep us busy that were a bastard in the 
heavy hot atmosphere. Some of those details were walking guard duty 
around dumpsters, painting buildings that were already freshly painted, 
and nightly fire watches where we walked around the base for hours, 
looking for fires. Anything to keep us busy and out of trouble. 

There was some excitement on the second night. I was guarding a
dumpster, a broom over my shoulder in lieu of a rifle, when all hell 
broke loose. I heard two explosions and sirens going off. Men with real 
rifles and jeeps mounting machine-guns raced past me. Other troops ran 
out of the barracks and toward ditches. Not knowing if I should leave 
my guard post, a serious violation of orders, I huddled between 
dumpster and building, not really frightened but anxious. 

The "permanent party," meaning people assigned to the base, mostly
ignored the commotion. It turned out that such attacks were a normal 
occurrence. The local Viet Cong liked to shake us up by firing a couple 
of mortar rounds or rockets into the large base, just to laugh at the 
noise and confusion. They then evaporated back to their homes for a cup 
of tea or beer, and into their civilian roles, having had a few laughs 
at our expense. 

We sat and nodded through a few training classes on the customs and
makeup of the country. They were given by a lieutenant that was almost 
as green as we were, having arrived two days prior to our flight. It 
was mostly a propagandized history of Vietnam, along with a few classes 
designed to scare us. Such as a sapper demonstration where a tame local 
man showed us how easily he could crawl through several layers of 
razor-edged concertina wire. So far we hadn't been issued any combat 
gear or weapons. 

*** 

“All right, you REMFs ( short for Rear Echelon Mother-Fuckers ) your
orders are posted on the company bulletin board. You may check them out 
after formation, as if you care,” the first sergeant told us during 
morning formation on our third day. 

Of course, right after formation there was a mob at the bulletin board.
I found my destination was to be the 198th Infantry at a place named 
Chu Lai. A map tacked to the other end of the board showed it was about 
halfway up the length of the country, bordered by the China Sea. Some 
of us would be trucked to our destinations when the vehicles arrived. 
Others, like myself, would be lucky and get an airplane or helicopter 
ride. 

*** 

The next morning I found myself on a C-123 "Caribou," the little brother
of the C-130 “Hercules” airplane, headed up-country to Chu Lai, and my 
duty station. The two aircraft were the workhorses of Vietnam, them and 
helicopters. It was too dangerous to take long road trips. The enemy 
enjoyed waiting for trucks to pass over land mines, laughing as they 
blew up. Flying was much safer and quicker. 

It was a short flight, about a dozen of us sitting on web-work folding
benches along each side of the plane. The middle of the large vehicle 
was filled with huge wooden crates of supplies, so that we felt 
claustrophobic, as in a narrow tunnel, not being able to see more than 
two feet in front of us. The Caribou landed in the same manner as the 
airliner had, a steep dive, leveling off just before touching ground. 
That was to avoid ground-to-air missiles. 

The back of the plane opened up like an oyster, the entire rear folding
both up and down. We were ordered out, filing down the length of the 
craft to jump a few inches down to an airstrip composed of 
corrugated-steel mats. We were then lined up in single file to load 
onto a waiting deuce-and-a-half (two and a half ton truck). We were 
somewhat crowded into the back. Along with our own baggage there were 
crates of supplies. 

The Chu Lai base was large, hilly, and sprawling. It was located along
the coast of the South China Sea. Speckled along a dusty interior road 
were groups of tents and plain unpainted single-story wooden buildings. 
There was very little vegetation. 

Vehicles of many types, from jeeps, to tanks, to mobile artillery pieces
sat in orderly rows. I saw GIs walking or working, most without shirts 
in the heavy heat. There were also native workers doing odd jobs or 
standing around. Every soldier seemed to have a weapon of some type 
near them. It was an area where attacks could come at any time, day or 
night. 

Six of us were dropped off at a neat grouping of long narrow buildings.
A sign in front of one said, "Headquarters Company, 3d Battalion, 198th 
Infantry Division." ( Not Really. ) 

Leaving our bags outside the Orderly Room (Company office building), all
of us that could make it trooped inside. I saw a typical setup of 
bulletin boards, several large floor fans blowing hot air around, 
filing cabinets, and two desks. One desk was for the company clerk and 
the other for the first-sergeant. A door in back led to another room, 
that of the company commander. There was no glass in the windows, only 
screening and a plywood flap outside that could be lowered in case of 
rain. 

The clerk, a corporal, looked up from typing on a manual typewriter.
"Top's in with the CO," he told us, going back to work. 

A few minutes later, a burly partially-bald man with first-sergeant
stripes came out of the back room. 

"Get their paperwork, Jones," he commanded the clerk, then went to his
own desk to wait for the stack of manila envelopes to be collected from 
us and handed to him. "Wait outside until I call you," we were told. 

We went back outside to sit in the hot sun while waiting for an
interview. 

I was the fourth man called inside. By then, I really appreciated the
breeze from the fans and the shade in there. I stood at parade rest in 
front of the first-sergeant while he looked over my “201 file.” (A 
written record of all that had happened to me since I'd enlisted. 
Mostly training and duty stations.) 

"Private Samuel Johnson, uh? You're the only white Johnson I've seen
here," he said, not a smile evident to make it a joke -- only a 
statement of fact. 

“Since I don't want to screw around with two Sam Johnson's in my company
area, I'll send you to Recon." (Reconnaissance was a unit that sent out 
patrols to look for the enemy and tried to estimate his position and 
strength.) 

"After you're issued your weapon, zero it in and report back here. I'll
call for a chopper to take you to firebase Murphy," he told me. 

I was directed to the Supply Room, one end of another wooden hooch, and
issued not only an M16 rifle, but other combat equipment. Another 
duffel bag was required to hold it all. There was a backpack, ammo 
pouches with several boxes of live ammunition and empty magazines, a 
first-aid kit with web belt, along with a heavy flack-jacket comprised 
of rows of steel bars sewn, side-by-side into a canvas vest. Also, of 
course, the traditional steel pot helmet with plastic liner. At that 
early date, no cleaning kit or bayonet was issued. 

"Be back here in forty-five minutes," the supply sergeant told us. "All
you new guys will be trucked out to the range to zero in your weapons." 


"Where'll I put this stuff?" I asked. "I don't have a cot or anything." 

"Dump it in the corner, there, if you want. I'll keep an eye on it," he
said. "Nobody'd steal that crap anyway. Oh, and load your weapon to 
take with you. The rules here are you must have a loaded weapon and 
helmet with you at all times while on base." 

"Is it that dangerous here?" 

"Sometimes it is." He shrugged. "Besides, it's orders. We have had
sappers come in. They swim in on the tide and raise hell. Blew up a 
barracks once, in the afternoon." He laughed, actually laughed. "Guard 
was asleep at his post, may he rest in peace. Slit his throat on the 
way in." 

"Sounds bad." 

"Just as well. We'd have killed the lazy bastard ourselves." 

Going outside, I wondered where to spend the time. Looking around, I saw
nothing but makeshift huts, an area of squad tents at a lower level, 
and miles of red sand, only a few small patches of vegetation in sight. 
Even though we were on a hill, there was no breeze in the blistering 
heat of the afternoon. 

I walked around, ignored by other troops, sweat pouring down the inside
of my uniform, for about a half-hour before returning to the supply 
room. Finding a sheltering shadow on one side of the building, I sat 
down to have a smoke and wait. 

I was joined, within a few minutes, by most of the guys I'd come in
with. We didn't have long to compare notes, though, since a 
deuce-and-a-half truck arrived and we were herded into the back for a 
short trip to the rifle range. 

At least the breeze in the back of the bouncing vehicle felt nice as we
traveled down and uphill past endless rows of barracks, tents, and 
parking lots. 

The truck stopped next to a small shack. I looked around for the
traditional firing lines, rows of raised Earth in the distance where 
targets would be raised and lowered as we fired off rounds. All I saw 
was that one shack, nothing else. No range or control tower at all. 

"Here we are, guys," the truck driver told us. "Let's get it done. I've
got real work to do." 

We followed him to the edge of a steep cliff looking over a valley
containing a forest. Almost the first real vegetation I'd seen since 
arriving at that post. It seemed incongruous to see all that greenery. 
How could it be, I remember thinking, that the military had chosen the 
only completely bare area in that country to build a base? Or was it 
that we made the post that bare? Of course, I found out that it was the 
latter. I never did see an army base in that country with much 
vegetation. 

"Where's the range?" one of the guys asked. 

"Just pick a tree or something and shoot," we were told. "It's all a
free-fire zone. Any people there are considered the enemy." 

As it turned out, that ridge overlooked the edge of the base. There was
a waist-high fence of filled sandbags along our part of the cliff. 
Probably to keep us from falling over, I thought at first. 

I aimed my weapon at a distant tree that looked to be several hundred
yards away and began firing, stopping occasionally to adjust my sights. 
All around me, others were doing the same. 

Suddenly, one of the guys yelled. 

"Christ. Somebody's shooting back," he screamed. 

I thought I could see movement below us, along with flashes of light.
Bullets began hitting the sandbags as we turned to run back out of 
sight of the vegetation. Looking around at other astonished GIs, I saw 
the truck-driver laughing. 

That was my first taste of actually having someone trying to kill me.
Let me tell you, it was a sobering experience. A rifle range that shot 
back at me. 

We were quiet on the return trip, everyone lost in their own thoughts. 

A few hours later, I had my first trip on a real helicopter. It was a
"Huey”, I have no idea of model. I was the only passenger, along with a 
few crates of what must have been supplies. I did notice they all 
seemed to be of the medical variety, which was a little unnerving. 

There was a pilot and co-pilot, along with a machine-gunner at one of
the side doors, both of which were left open to the elements. The 
pilots were belted in, with the gunner wearing a safety harness of some 
kind. I had no safety belt at all, with an open door a couple of feet 
from me. I could see mouths moving as the gunner talked to the others, 
using a microphone under his chin, though the noise kept me out of 
their conversations. To them, I was simply baggage. 

Luckily it was a short trip of only about ten minutes, start to finish.
At one point, as we were descending, I saw green tracers flashing past 
us. Looking out while hanging onto the back of one of the seats, I 
could see their origin in an enclosing forest. They started out real 
slow, seeming to float toward us. At a certain point, they'd flash past 
the chopper. The gunner seemed unconcerned, not bothering to fire back. 
He sat back a ways, out of the wind with hands clasped around a 
cigarette. 

Even as I stepped off the chopper at my new home, another sad-faced
trooper took my place inside the helicopter for the return trip, 
duffel-bags and all. I later found that he'd been caught hiding from 
gunfire -- just one time too often. He was being sent back to the rear 
for some easy job like Kitchen Police, washing pots and pans. I already 
envied him. 

*** 

There's no coolness in the ground. Even a temperature of a
hundred-ten-degrees can't dry it out. High humidity keeps everything 
damp. Even without the constant drizzle of heavy raindrops twenty-three 
and a half hours a day. Nothing is cool or dry in Vietnam during the 
monsoon season. 

Sweat forms on my back, running in streams down both sides under the
cloth, mixing with the rain to pool under chest and thighs. I'm lying 
on a small rise. The earth itself is as soft and spongy as a dung heap 
and smells about the same. 

I lie in semi-darkness, peering through green leafy bushes at a dirt
trail barely evident within triple-canopy jungle. A dawn-like glow 
filters down through trees, brighter on sunny days than on others. The 
stock of an M16 rifle lies beside my head, a spare magazine lying 
beside it for a quick reload -- symbols of potential violence. 

It's my twelfth day in-country, with only three-hundred-forty-three and
a wake-up to go -- and my first ambush. My fear is almost tangible, 
lying as a heavy protective shield over a cowering mass of flesh and 
blood. 

I'm acutely aware of my vulnerability, head having been filled with
stories told by others. Stories like the one where the ambushers never 
returned, only to be found later, still in place with their throats 
cut. The enemy had found them individually, sneaking up from behind and 
killing them as they lay alone in the dark. 

It's never silent, with the sounds of many small creatures intruding on
my thoughts. I lie here, trying to filter them out while listening for 
rustling of anyone sneaking up behind me. Occasionally I hear a cough 
or metallic sounds of one of my companions changing position. But then, 
any Viet-Cong would be silent -- wouldn't they? Insects are a constant 
companion, never leaving me alone, constantly searching for another bit 
of flesh. The old-timers have learned to ignore them; something I'll 
learn too if I live long enough. 

Every errant breeze that rustles leaves or grass beside the silent path
below me causes my body to tense. If events go right today, I may kill 
my first man. “Go right,” seems a strange way to put it. As though it's 
an initiation into a fraternity, which in a way it is. 

I've never killed anyone -- yet. The thought doesn't fill me with dread,
more like anticipation, wondering what it will be like. Of course, I 
might be the first kill for someone else. That thought also enters my 
mind. 

In another sense I hope I do, to prove myself. Until I kill, I know the
others won't completely accept me -- not fully embracing me into their 
tight-knit society of professional killers. Although they haven't told 
me I know that, even now, I'm slightly below and in front of them. That 
way they feel safer. I've heard it's done that way until a new member 
is blooded. Nobody wants to be in front of a new man with an automatic 
rifle. Hell, can I blame them? 

I look at the faint glow of my watch -- only a half-hour has gone by. It
seems like I've lain here forever. I adjust my position to get more 
comfortable, every sound I make sounding like moving a piano. 

More waiting, head down on my elbow this time. The feel of the wet
sweaty cloth of the camouflaged sleeve is cool to overextended senses 
as it dries slightly after losing contact with the ground. 

At the root of a bush in front of me I see a string of black ants,
busily cutting up the carcass of a beetle. They seem to be ignoring me. 
The same when I probe at them with a small stick I find near my 
reclining chin. All but one. He -- or she? -- looks up at the stick and 
I can almost see its eyes following the line of my finger, coming up to 
look into my own, reminding me of a poem I once read: 

When I was young I went to war, like many youngsters do. I knew not then
and still don't know ... why? In wartime I first saw death, all life 
and land to fore-go. It was simply you are born, you live, you die. 

One day, I saw a soldier about to expire, smiling in his bed. While
other wounded near him in fear and pain, cried. "Why," I asked, "are 
you grinning at what the others dread? Don't you understand? Don't you 
fear inside?" 

Painfully, he motioned and muttered for me to come near. His voice was
low and weak but somehow firm, as he whispered the following in my ear, 
in quaking body and demeanor, his nearness to death did confirm. 

"Why do most people look on death as a cessation of life rather than
simply an advancement to a greater destiny?" he asked. "Death is not an 
eternal state, and not a destination. It is simply an inevitable and 
unavoidable step on your way to eternity." 

He settled back upon the cot and appeared to slumber. In silent
contemplation, I went on to my destination. Going back to my war, I had 
adventures without number, and soon forgot that soldier and his 
situation. 

One day I had cause to lie on a hill quietly waiting, for some now vague
war related purpose. I was bored and doing little but, idly, studying 
insects working and playing on the nearby surface. 

"Hey!" I heard a tiny voice that somehow was familiar. It seemed to be
coming from the ground near my face. Looking down, I saw a small brown 
dung beetle, a ball of crud trying to acquire. It was pushing, pulling, 
and straining as it rolled the offal at a frantic pace. 

The beetle stopped and, wiping its tiny brow, looked me in the eye. As
it stretched its legs, I recalled where I'd heard that voice before -- 
suddenly I knew. "Pushing shit is a heavy job," it said in the now 
familiar voice, "but I still have to try." He finished with, "You 
didn't believe me before. Did you?" 

Like everybody in this god-forsaken country, the ant is polite and looks
away. Another one loads a chunk of leaf onto its back and the ant 
trundles away with the load. As the ant leaves, it seems to look at me 
and smile. That's exactly the way the Vietnamese are, stoic and steady, 
trying to go on with their lives. Despite being poked with the 
fire-sticks of endless war. 

I wake up, wondering how the hell I've fallen asleep. I don't see any
ants or dissected beetle carcass. Were they real, or a dream? A person 
can only stay alert so long before boredom sets in. Maybe even 
hallucinations? 

Fear never leaves me completely. Instead, it becomes a constant dull
feeling, like a toothache. I can learn to ignore it, but that feeling 
never goes away, staying in the back of my mind to sometimes come to 
the fore; heralded by a scream in the night from the next bunk -- or my 
own. It's often hard to tell which. 

I've already been sniped at a couple of times since arriving in this
country. As a general rule, if you can see off post you can be in 
someone's gunsight. If you can't see off post you can still be hit by a 
mortar or rocket. We receive them almost every night. There really is 
no safe spot in the entire country, except maybe in a deep officer's 
bunker. 

Lost in thought, fear surfaces with a touch on my ankle. I jerk around,
weapon swinging, only to have a strong black hand grab the barrel. 

“Form up, we're leaving.” It's Sergeant Jamison. 

I get to my feet -- using a nearby log to help -- and stretch, prior to
going back to the fire-base. For no real reason, I remember my first 
sight of the place.... 

*** 

As I ran, crouched under still-whirling blades of the supply chopper,
the returning man rushed past me to fall inside, a sorrowful look on 
his face at the prospect of being thought a coward for the rest of his 
tour for hiding when he should have been shooting back like his 
buddies. 

The blast of violent wind from whirling blades picked up as the chopper
pilot hurried to return to the relative safety and comfort of the sky. 
He had a point, I saw as I turned around to scope out my new home, twin 
duffel bags at my feet as I breathed hard after the brief spasm of 
effort. I saw green tracers reaching as if to embrace the helicopter 
while it rushed for the safety of hovering clouds. 

Turning, I saw a desolate countryside. Firebase Murphy was an enclosed
area of maybe a city-block square. I was standing in roughly the 
center, with humps of sandbags -- designating bunkers -- on all sides, 
as well as spotted around the exterior. Outside, fences sporting razor 
wire were interspersed with wide plowed earth, random shell holes 
looking like large pimples spoiling the decor. 

Two lone trees stood within its perimeter, only one sporting any
greenery at all, while the other was a splintered hulk, apparently an 
enemy casualty. Even so, it had its own share of GI's sitting at one 
side in what little shade it still offered. Apparently shade was a rare 
commodity there. The tops of bunkers were near ground level and formed 
little shade, although men could be seen lying in whatever was 
available, such as the shady side of vehicles, sleeping or reading. 

There was a depression nearby in which were parked a number of vehicles,
mostly jeeps and deuce-and-a-halves, with a lone M-113 Armored 
Personnel Carrier along with two men working on it. They seemed to be 
welding an iron plate onto one of its flat sides. There were also four 
105 howitzers almost hidden from my sight by sandbags, only a few feet 
of massive barrels showing. Some men were lounging in that area, 
probably waiting for a target to be called in. 

The sun was beating down mercilessly. Although situated within deep
jungle, the base itself sat in an elevated clearing. Most men were 
shirtless in the heat, although there was a sprinkling of flack-jackets 
and hats of every type, mostly military baseball caps. 

One thing I'd noticed is that the farther I got from civilization, the
less military the troops looked, wearing anything they liked with 
beards and long hair abounding. In that way, you could easily tell army 
from marines. The marines were almost always in proper uniform. 

I found two other new men and myself had been left alone on the edge of
the helicopter pad, marked by a powdered lime circle in the dust. No 
greeters? I thought. Apparently not. 

“Where the hell we supposed to go?” one of them asked me. I could only
shrug. 

“Guess we have to ask someone,” the other said, picking up his bags. 

The rest of us did the same, starting for the nearest dugout, or pile of
sandbags that showed a dark entrance in the side. No printed signs were 
apparent, and none of the men around us seemed to take any interest in 
newcomers. 

After a dozen or so steps, I saw a blinding flash. Two guys nearby
ducked and fell to the ground. Taking their example, so did we. At 
about the same time, a machine-gun chattered, firing a burst into the 
jungle. After a minute, the two picked themselves up and went about 
their business. 

After the three of us climbed back to our feet and brushed red dust off
ourselves, we looked at each other. Here we'd been fired at, and nobody 
seemed to give a damn. Was it that common an occurrence? As it turned 
out, it was. Enemy snipers were damned poor shots, and rarely hit 
anyone. As a scare tactic, it fizzled. 

We reached the first bunker, squeezing through an entrance and having to
turn through a sandbag baffle to enter. The inside was about 
twenty-degrees cooler, with electricity and a large army fan moving the 
still-hot air. 

It enclosed a room about twenty-feet or so square, hard to tell with all
the bunks -- many sectioned off into individual living spaces with 
jerry-rigged partitions. Others were dug into the earthen walls 
themselves, like sleeping-shelves. 

Some bunks had men lying in them, many bare-assed naked, with a few
sitting at a folding card-table, drinking beer and reading by a bare 
electric bulb hanging from the ceiling. 

“We're new here. Where do we report?” one of my buddies asked. 

“Fresh fish,” came a call from the shadows, along with a weak spat of
laughter. They didn't seem very interested. 

“That bunker with the yellow tent-pole next to the entrance, over to the
right,” one of them told us, looking up from a copy of the army 
newspaper “Stars and Stripes.” 

“If you guys want, you can leave your bags here. Just find an empty
bunk,” another GI said, that one reading a copy of “The Berkeley Barb”. 
He wore corporal stripes attached to an Aloha shirt. The "Barb" was one 
of a half-dozen underground anti-war newspapers supposedly banned from 
our troops, but that could be found everywhere. “Behind that partition, 
the one with the picture of Marilyn Monroe should be good. Peters won't 
need it anymore,” the corporal told me. “Don't mess with his stuff, 
though. Sergeant Jamison has to inventory it to send home.” 

“Inventory? To send home?” one of my buddies had to ask. 

“When one of us is killed, someone has to go through their personal
effects before they're sent back to the World,” the guy with the Stars 
and Stripes told us. “To take out any illegal substances, like drugs 
and anything their parents or loved ones might find objectionable.” 

“Don't bother looking,” another one added from the shadows. “We already
got his dope and porn. No reason to let the sergeant or officers have 
it.” 

Being closest, and not feeling too magnanimous, I hurried behind
Marilyn's picture to claim the bunk. As I unpacked, I found I had to 
move the other person's property to the side. I admit, when I stop to 
think of it, that it was kinda creepy. A night or two before, a dead 
man had slept on that bunk and I didn't even have clean sheets. 

I did notice that others had already been through the man's property.
Items were thrown around the inside of the seven-by-five-foot cardboard 
enclosure. About all that was left were torn and dirty uniforms and 
underwear, with a scattering of personal effects -- most too cheap or 
common to steal. No radios, fans, or other conveniences were evident. 

As I found out later, as hard as it is was to get little comforts out
there, it made no sense to send such items back to the States where you 
could buy them in any store. When the Post Exchange in rear bases 
received a fan, tape deck, or radio -- and they were few and far 
between -- there was always a long line to purchase it. 

On my first trip to a PX at Chu Lai, I found a large display of “Sterno”
stoves, a small stove that could be used to heat rations by use of 
canned fuel. However, there was no fuel for them. Later, they might get 
in a shipment of fuel, but no stoves. It was the Military Way. 

In any case, I dropped my bags onto the bunk, seeing no reason to carry
them around with me, and went back out to the main room of the bunker. 
In a few minutes I was joined by the other two newcomers. The three of 
us rushed outside to find the Command Bunker, in order to report in for 
duty. 

As the three of us emerged, we were in time to be met by a cloud of the
ever-present red dust as another supply chopper flew over to land a 
little ways off. We had been told, laughingly, to forget about being 
clean. For one thing, we lived in a hole in the ground, piled on the 
sides and top with sometimes leaking sandbags. For another, water for 
bathing was rare. If we were lucky, we'd have time to bathe in streams 
while on patrol. 

Also, not to drink the water in rice paddies, no matter how clear. Those
people fertilized with human feces as well as other not-so-nice things. 
I'd also been told to pick up a handful of condoms. They were used to 
keep dust and mud out of our rifle barrels. 

We arrived at the proper bunker. Inside, it looked normal with the
requisite desks, fans, and filing cabinets. However, the CO's desk was 
in the back of the room, rather than separate. In that particular case, 
a swivel chair behind it held a large red-painted cross made of 
cardboard. 

“He was caught in the crapper a few days ago,” a burly older man told
us, looking up from paperwork. A nameplate on his desk indicated he was 
a sergeant. “I wear both hats until we get a replacement.” 

He introduced himself as Sergeant Thompson, a sergeant-first-class with
three rockers on top and two down on a black pin on his lapel. 

We were assigned to different squads, a common practice. Since new men
could be dangerous until they were blooded, no squad leader wanted more 
than one at a time. 

“You'll have two days, if we have time, to get acclimated. Talk to the
other men in your squad. Learn the ropes, and remember ... what they 
tell you may well save your lives.” 

And that, fellows, was my introduction to life on a fire-base. Our
reason for being was to fire artillery missions in support of the 
infantry. I was a member of a platoon that pulled security details as 
well as reconnaissance patrols for the fire-base itself. 

Typically, our four squads would do two days and nights of perimeter
duty, manning defensive machine-gun positions. Then a day and night on 
patrols close in to the base, looking for signs of enemy activity. 
After that, if we were lucky, we'd have a day off. I soon learned I 
couldn't count on the last.... 

*** 

Returning from patrol, I have the number-three spot. The point man walks
ahead of me, breaking trail. We never, but never, use paths or roads. 
It's slower but safer to cut your way through the jungle, making 
certain not to use the same path on the way back. The enemy is good at 
mining paths and roads. That and setting up ambushes. 

The point man walks with a crouch, his eyes steadily scanning the ground
ahead, looking for tripwires or anything out of place. The man behind 
him concentrates on what's going on ahead and above. Myself, I have the 
right side of the trail, the man behind me concentrating his gaze on 
the left. The rest of the squad trails behind us, also wary, with the 
last man spending most of his time looking behind with one hand on the 
man ahead of him. We're all nervous, even the old-timers -- especially 
the old-timers, who are also short-timers. No one wants to be injured 
or killed while down to only a few days or weeks in the Nam. 

In that respect, officers have it made. They typically pull their first
six-months in combat, then spend the rest of their tour in the rear. 
Enlisted men have damned near the whole year back and forth in the 
bush. It's because there are more junior officers than needed in combat 
roles and they all want such experience on their records -- for 
promotion. 

In the midst of the squad, all of us armed and alert, I lose most of my
fear, though never all. Keeping my eyes to the right, scanning through 
tightly-packed vegetation with only occasional clear spots, I'm not 
aware of anything except the man ahead of me, all of us trying not to 
trip as well as keep a safe distance from the man in front. 

Suddenly, I hear a loud "KaThump," at the same time a feeling as though
being hit in the back with a sledge-hammer, staggering me forward. I 
don't recall hitting the ground, but am aware of the ground staring me 
in the face. That and my sight seeming to fade in and out. 

Trying to rise, I can't feel my legs. Someone's disconnected hand is
loose, lying near my head. On an upswing in my sight, I notice my own 
high school class ring on it. Somehow, I'm not all that surprised, or 
affected. I feel ... I feel a kind of peace, as though unconnected with 
... with anything. All I want to do is rest, to relax. To sleep a few 
minutes. 

There are sounds of rifles going off, along with other explosions ...
that don't interest me in the slightest, as I relax, face falling into 
cool jungle mud. Too tired to do anything but stare at a crushed bug 
under my right eye, I wonder if it's the same one I saw earlier? That 
and inhale through one unclogged nostril and mouth. It's hard to get 
any air, no matter how much I suck and gasp. 

“What about Johnson,” I hear a voice, as though from a vast distance.
“What'll we do with him?” 

A blanket? ... I'm cold and can't help shivering. 

“Give him that third shot of morphine, doc.” 

“Three? Can't do it. Too dangerous.” 

“Doc. Shut the fuck up and do it before the pain sets in. For him, it
don't make no difference. No difference at all.” 

I feel the prick of a needle, then reality begins to fad....” 

The End.


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