Published in the United States of America in 2009 by CASEMATE 1016 Warrior Road, Drexel Hill, PA 19026 1016 Warrior Road, Drexel Hill, PA 19026 and in the United Kingdom by CASEMATE 17 Cheap Street, Newbury, Berkshire, RG14 5DD Copyright (c) 2005 by Arthur Wiknik, Jr. ISBN 978-1-935149-09-5 Cataloging-in-publication data is available from the Library of Congress and from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Printed and Bound in the United States of America For a complete list of Casemate titles, please contact United States of America Casemate Publishers Telephone (610) 853-9131, Fax (610) 853-9146 E-mail [email protected] Website www.casematepublishing.com United Kingdom Casemate-UK Telephone (01635) 231091, Fax (01635) 41619 E-mail [email protected] Website www.casematepublishing.co.uk To the families and friends of the 58,209 men and women who sacrificed their all in Vietnam; To Tommy Shay, Jimmy Manning and Ray Contino, boys from my childhood who died in the war. And to the thousands of men and women who so proudly and bravely served in the military during one of the most turbulent times in our nation’s history. Contents Contents Preface Acknowledgements Chapter 1: Vietnam Apprenticeship Chapter 2: No Career Moves for Me Chapter 3: The Battle for Hamburger Hill Chapter 4: The A Shau Valley Chapter 5: The Bamboo Shooters Chapter 6: The Emotional Gauntlet Chapter 7: Ghosting in the Rear Chapter 8: The Bamboo Blues Chapter 9: Guns and Chain Saws Chapter 10: R&R Hawaii Chapter 11: Return to Vietnam Chapter 12: Insanity to go, Please Chapter 13: Vacation Time Chapter 14: Countdown to Freedom Chapter 15: Going, Going … Epilogue Glossary Bibliography Maps and Illustrations Indochina A Shau Valley A photo gallery Youth is the first victim of war: the first fruit of peace. It takes twenty years or more of peace to make a man; it takes only twenty seconds of war to destroy him. — Baudouin I Preface This story is about my life in 1969 and 1970 during the height of the Vietnam War. I wrote it to give you a sense of what the average GI endured during this turbulent time in our nation’s history. I think it also shows why most young men can go to war and return home without being haunted by their experiences for the rest of their lives, and why some cannot. Although many veterans and their families suffered in different ways, this book does not seek to discredit those killed, wounded, or psychologically affected by the war. I was drafted into the US Army in 1968 and after extensive stateside training, was sent to Vietnam in 1969 as a non-commissioned officer and infantry squad leader. The military expected me to drop into the middle of the war and, without any experience whatsoever, lead men in combat. I was barely twenty years old. The last thing I wanted was to be fighting an enemy in his jungle on the other side of the world, but there I was, and I was determined to make the best of it. My extra stateside training, discipline, and will to survive instilled within me a resolute goal as a squad leader to finish my tour of duty and go home in one piece—and take as many of my men with me as possible. This usually put me at odds with gung-ho superiors who habitually put the mission ahead of the men. And so my series of adventures and misadventures began in Vietnam, a country where the bizarre was often the norm. I tried as best I could during my year-long tour of duty to find the humorous side of daily life in Vietnam, where shooting and blowing up other human beings was what you were supposed to do. Finding humor and staying sane in the middle of a war is not an easy thing to do. My occasionally flippant attitude and desire to survive the experience did not always help matters— and certainly did not sit well with other officers, some of whom were utterly incompetent and dangerous in the field. As a result, I often found myself in outlandish situations, most of my own making. In addition to trying to survive the war, soldiers had to deal with the unpopularity of the conflict at home, as well as the venom heaped upon us by the anti-war movement, which made it difficult to perform our duties to the fullest. Also, as in all wars, we were forced to endure the ever present specter of human death by gruesome means. Unlike how it is at home, in combat there are no wakes or funerals, and little or no time to grieve. When someone is killed or seriously wounded, we simply acknowledged it and soldiered on. To do anything else would exhibit weakness, something few soldiers were willing to portray. Nam-Sense is not about heroism and glory, mental breakdowns, or haunting flashbacks; nor does it wallow in self-pity. As you will discover, the vast majority of GIs did not rape, torture, or burn villages. We were not strung out on drugs, and we did not enjoy killing. Although these unfortunate incidents did indeed occur during the war, as they do in every war ever fought, they were not on the grand scale we have been led to believe by people and organizations with different axes to grind. Brutality, violence, and offensive activities are the main ingredients of any war, but they were not the only ingredients of this war. Unfortunately, the media’s negative and sensationalized reporting of isolated incidents not only made being a Vietnam veteran an embarrassment, but stereotyped us as well. This book responds to that unfair stereotyped image by revealing the level of courage, principle, kindness, and friendship demonstrated by most GIs. These are the same elements found in every other war Americans have proudly fought in. This memoir was completed nearly thirty-five years after the fact, and so it was impossible for me to remember the exact name of every person who appears within these pages. A few of the names have been intentionally changed to protect familes, reputations, and memories. Acknowledgements As with every book ever written, there are many people to thank. Nam-Sense has been “in development” for the better part of three decades. During that time, many people have read bits and pieces of the evolving manuscript, offered their suggestions, and encouraged me to continue. Unfortunately, I cannot now remember everyone who played some role in assisting me. If I have overlooked your contribution to this book, please know it was inadvertent, and that I will forever be in your debt. First, I would like to thank my Connecticut Local Draft Board #6 for selecting me above so many others for induction into the US military. Thanks are also due to the US Army for sending me to an exotic, dangerous land, riddled by war. Dennis Silig and Howard Siner, two of the best friends a soldier could ask for, played an important role in my life. They helped to keep me alive and sane. Dennis passed away from cancer some years ago. I miss him. Bruce Randall edited early versions of Nam-Sense and pushed me to keep writing; John Meehan came up with the clever Nam-Sense title. I would also like to thank my publisher David Farnsworth, who directs Casemate Publishing, for believing in this project and accepting it for publication; and Theodore P. “Ted” Savas for rapidly and accurately getting the manuscript into publishable form. Many people took the time to write letters to me in Vietnam when I needed them the most. I can’t thank them enough. My three daughters supported me along this long road, each in her own way. Sarah never tired of hearing my war stories; whenever I needed to talk, she was there to listen; Kimberly used her skills to prepare the photographs for Nam-sense (because her dad is a dinosaur when it comes to technology); when the computer was in her bedroom, Ashley never complained—even when I typed away late into the night with the lights burning bright. My hope is that when each of you read this book you will better understand what so many endured for their country. I love you all, forever. And finally, my wife Betty-Jane. She spent years typing and re-typing this book on a manual typewriter until we could afford a word processor, and supported me over many years of disappointment and frustration. I could not have done this without her. Arthur Wiknik, Jr. “Gentlemen, welcome to the Republic of South Vietnam.” CHAPTER 1 Vietnam Apprenticeship The war seemed distant. My tiny New England town had men in the military, but at nineteen years old, I didn’t personally know anyone who was serving in Vietnam. Other than the war death of Tommy Shay, a kid I vaguely knew from junior high school, I never had reason to think about the conflict. My free time was spent hanging out with the boys at the hardware store or cruising with my girlfriend in the new Camaro I had recently bought. But in May 1968, my life changed dramatically after I was drafted into the US Army and sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana—”Home of the Combat Infantryman for Vietnam.” No longer would I be known as Artie Wiknik. I was now Wiknik, Arthur, US 52725533. The training at Fort Polk’s Tigerland was tough and intense. It had to be. Our training company, with the exception of those men with brothers in Southeast Asia, was Vietnam-bound. I didn’t want to go. It’s not that I was a coward but I wasn’t a hero, either. There was but one honorable escape and even that proved temporary. A five-month NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) course, taught at Fort Benning, Georgia, was offered to trainees with post high school education who the Lifers felt had leadership potential. After high school I had completed a one-year automotive repair course. It wasn’t exactly college, but who was I to argue with military logic? I accepted the challenge with visions of stalling off the war as long as possible, expecting that the fighting would have ended by the time I had to go. If that illusion didn’t hold true, then at least the extra training might increase the chance of survival for the men and myself I would be expected to lead. Unfortunately, my timing could not have been worse, for the war was at its peak. I completed the NCO course and earned the grade of sergeant without ever setting foot in a war zone. The rank came with the resentment and suspicion of hardcore NCOs who had made the grade over a period of years, rather than months. I was sometimes ridiculed with names like Ninety-Day Wonder, Instant NCO, and Shake-n-Bake Sergeant. Their feelings were understandable, but the Army had given me an opportunity and I grabbed it. In April 1969, I was sent to Fort Lewis, Washington, a reassignment station for GIs going to or returning from Vietnam. The process of militarily clearing the continental United States was a three-day psychological nightmare. The endless hours of waiting in long lines with extended periods of idleness gave us too much time to think about our destination. As infantrymen, we knew we had the Army’s shortest life expectancy position and were being sent to fight in a war that had already claimed 25,000 American lives. It was also a war that was rapidly losing what little public support it had. We felt lonely and miserable knowing our inevitable departure was unnoticed or unpopular with a large segment of the nation. To make matters worse, our stay coincided with the arrival of several planeloads of happy homeward-bound GIs. When we were in the clothes warehouse being To make matters worse, our stay coincided with the arrival of several planeloads of happy homeward-bound GIs. When we were in the clothes warehouse being issued jungle fatigues, they were being handed dress greens. The veteran GIs joked, hooted, and slapped each other on the back as they embraced their new freedom. They also shouted cruel obscenities in our direction—not meant to hurt us, but rather mocking the war, the Army, and the world. We did nothing in return except to watch them in awe, hoping that one year from now we too would be alive to experience the same high. The exuberant mood of the veterans left us so depressed that when word finally came to ship out, it was almost a relief. We were bused to McChord Air Force Base in Washington state, where a waiting McDonnell Douglas DC-8 was fueled up and ready to go. The sun had already gone down when we boarded the plane so we were denied what would be, for many of us, a last look at our homeland. It was the final insult of an already gloomy process. There were 250 GIs on our flight. We were mostly kids between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two, and hardly any of who knew each other. Only a few spoke or made eye contact. Most of the men sat quietly in a self-imposed daze. The mood was one of alienation and fear that we were flying off to our deaths. Sadly, for some that was true. The 8,000-mile trip to the Republic of South Vietnam took nearly twenty hours. Our first stop was at Elmendorf Air Force Base just outside of Anchorage, Alaska, where we stayed only long enough to fill the fuel tanks. No one was allowed off the plane and we wondered why. It seemed unlikely anyone would wander off because it was winter there, and the only thing we could see in every direction was wilderness and snow. Once airborne again, our gloominess gave way to casual conversation or short naps. No one really slept because we wanted to savor our last hours of relative safety. The next morning we landed at Haneda Airport in Tokyo, Japan. We were allowed off the plane for two hours, but only to a restricted area of the airport. As usual, there wasn’t much to do but hang around. This was the first time I saw masses of Asians. I supposed the culture shock was an indication of things to come. We left Tokyo and flew directly to the coastal port of Cam Ranh Bay in South Vietnam. Halfway there, our American greenbacks were exchanged for MPC (Military Payment Certificates), an all paper currency that looked like monopoly money with better pictures. Even the coin denominations were made of paper, just different colors. MPC was used to keep American dollars from flooding the fragile Vietnamese economy. To discourage profiteering on the back market, the MPC script was changed periodically, without notice. When we left Fort Lewis, no one told us what to expect when we arrived at Cam Ranh Bay. I imagined our plane being shot out of the sky or that the instant we landed we would sprint across the runway to the nearest bunker. The closer we got, the more nervous I became. As we began our descent I looked around, expecting the crew to pass out M-16s for our defense. They didn’t. As we approached the airfield, I glanced out the window at the distant green mountains. Below us were irregular patches of undergrowth, grass huts, and rusting hulks of destroyed vehicles. I thought we were landing in the jungle on the edge of the battlefield. I was wrong again. We landed without incident on a modern concrete runway. I stepped out of the plane to an unexpected sun-drenched paradise. The initial blast of tropical heat was shocking, but other than that Cam Ranh Bay looked like a scene from a movie. The bay area was a natural harbor with warm white sand stretching from the sparkling ocean water a quarter of a mile inland. Palm and banana trees dotted the landscape, shading picturesque thatch huts. Vietnamese civilians busily scurried in different directions as if they were rehearsing for a tourism advertisement. A war? Here? Impossible. A deeply tanned staff sergeant led us around the back of the tiny air terminal where several US Air Force shuttle buses were parked. “Gentlemen,” he began in a loud southern drawl, “welcome to the Republic of South Vietnam. Pay no attention to the humidity because it actually gets worse in the summer. You will spend the next twenty-four hours at the 90th Replacement Battalion for orientation. Your paperwork will also be reviewed for errors, omissions, and false statements. While at the 90th, do not speak with, or attempt to make contact with the Vietnamese civilians working there. Now grab your gear and climb aboard the buses.” No one spoke as we timidly looked for seats. I was surprised to see the bus windows covered with chicken-wire screens to keep grenades from being tossed inside. The ten-minute ride took us through a tiny section of the sprawling military port. Along the way we passed huge sandbagged bunkers strategically positioned behind rows of concertina wire. GI guards were posted atop each bunker, but they seemed quite relaxed without their shirts or helmets on. The 90th Replacement compound was small, consisting of two large open-wall rectangular buildings for processing our paperwork and a dozen smaller structures for housing and supplies. There was no air conditioning or fans. A boardwalk linked each building because the compound was a virtual sand pit. The replacement process was similar to that at Fort Lewis because both stateside-bound GIs and those unfortunates just starting their tour were at the same location. The only difference was that the GIs going home weren’t yet as jubilant as those at Fort Lewis because they were still in Vietnam. There was, however, a notable contrast in our appearance to that of the veterans. We were “cherries” or FNGs (Fuckin’ New Guys), and it was written all over us with our new fatigues, shiny boots, and pale winter complexions. We couldn’t help but stare at the rugged-looking soldiers. A few wore clean pressed uniforms, but the majority sported faded fatigues with mud stains like they’d just been plucked from a foxhole. As the processing continued, there were the usual long delays which the Army took advantage of to complete various work details. There were no septic systems in this area of Vietnam, so the most common chore was the cleaning of the enlisted men’s latrine. The latrine was little more than a screened outhouse with partial walls concealing a person from the waist down. Anyone walking past could easily see who was sitting on the throne. The building sat on a cement slab. Inside was a long wooden bench with a row of ten toilet seats and no privacy partitions. Underneath each seat was a 25-gallon barrel shit-tub in which sloshed about varying amounts of human waste. I was selected to supervise a five-man team tasked with exchanging the full barrels with empty ones. Tubs with only a small amount were dumped into full ones and then replaced under the seats for use while the cleaning was going on. As we played musical chairs with the barrels, a GI came in and defecated on the floor. “Hey!” I yelled at him. “Can’t you see that there’s no tub underneath you? You just shit on the floor!” He casually looked at me saying, “I never check to see where my turd is going to land. Do you?” Who would argue with that logic? After he finished, one of my helpers shoveled up the mess and tossed it into a tub we had already pulled out. The next step was to place the full barrels in a row and saturate them with diesel fuel. Then we lit them on fire, stirring each one until all the contents were consumed. The stench was unbelievable. Carrying tubs of shit was bad enough, but burning it was nearly too much. If anyone had to urinate, they could not use the latrine. Only solids were allowed there. The urine made the tubs too heavy to pick up, and there was always the chance of getting splashed. Besides, piss doesn’t burn very well. The only place to urinate was in a piss-tube, an exposed six-inch diameter pipe stuck in the ground at an angle. The tubes are never cleaned or moved to a new location, so before long the surrounding soil becomes saturated and the tubes overflowed. When that happened, most guys just pissed on the ground next to it. The accumulation of urine became so rancid that piss-tubes could be easily found in the dark. Early the next day, many of us finished processing and were cleared to attend a full week of training at SERTS (Screaming Eagle Replacement Training School) in Bien Hoa, the giant US air base 200 miles west of Cam Ranh Bay. We flew to Bien Hoa in a C-130 Hercules transport, a four-engine turbo-prop aircraft used for airfreight or long distance troop deployment. The plane held forty of us, and we sat or spread out on the bare metal floor because there were no seats. There were no windows either, only two rows of six-inch glass portholes too dirty to see out of. The walls had no cover or insulation. Wires, pipes and framework were exposed. The four engines made such a racket that the only method of communication was by shouting or hand signals. It was like a flying garbage truck. The noise and vibration helped to keep me from thinking about what lay ahead. My immediate concern was whether the plane would get shot down or simply fall out of the sky. We landed without incident. The SERTS training was to prepare us for permanent assignment into the 101st Airborne Division. Our instruction included classes on the Vietnamese people and their culture, the war and the enemy, and weapons familiarization. At night, we pulled bunker line guard duty. During the day, we performed light physical activities to help get us accustomed to the climate. However, just like all my other stops, I still had to go through the paperwork routine. As I did, the clerk specialist reviewing my file asked a few questions. “Is there anything in your records you think should be removed?” “Sure,” I answered eagerly. “I’ve got an Article 15 for being AWOL (Absent Without Leave) from Fort Benning for two days. I was on a three-day pass, but I traveled too far and didn’t get back in time.” He flipped through the pages searching for the document. “Here it is,” he said, as he tore it out and crumpled it into a ball. “Is there anything else you don’t want in there?” “How can you do that?” I asked, somewhat surprised. “We like to give new guys a clean record so they will have no problems when they reach their units.” “How come I’m being placed in an airborne division? I’m infantry!” “The NCO squad leaders in the 101st have a rather high casualty rate,” he said seriously, “so they need you guys pretty bad.” That was comforting. On the second day of training, a loudmouth infantry specialist named Doyen joined our group. He had been in-country for three months when he got wounded. After spending several weeks in the hospital, Doyen’s unit didn’t want him returning to the field without first refreshing his military skills. He resented the decision and made life intolerable for the rest of us by constantly complaining and making stupid wisecracks. While we were on a class break, he noticed my sergeant stripes and decided to direct his anger at me. “You’re a Shake-n-Bake, aren’t you?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Is that a problem?” “You better believe it. You Shake-n-Bake’s are walking death.” “What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered. “How do you think I got wounded? A Shake-n-Bake fucked up. When I get back to my unit, I’m gonna fix him good. Ever hear of fragging?” I had. It was the killing of superiors by their own men, usually by a hand grenade. “Yeah, what’s that got to do with me?” “Are you kidding?” he laughed. “You better have your GI insurance paid up because you are going to die. Instant NCOs never make it home. You guys come over here, don’t know shit about Nam, and then try to take charge of grunts who have survived for months without you. That’s why there is such a high casualty rate for squad leaders. They get shot by their own men. So I’m warning you, when the shit hits the fan, you’d better look around to see where the bullets are coming from.” I stared at him for a few seconds in utter disbelief. My easy-going nature always had me looking at the humorous side of things, but his attitude was nothing to laugh about. I didn’t know how to respond to such an encounter. Luckily, a first sergeant who overheard the conversation from inside the classroom walked out to lead Doyen away. The sergeant gave him hell for trying to scare the new guys and destroy their confidence. He also threatened to bring charges against Doyen for insubordination to a NCO. Doyen never bothered me again, but he certainly got me thinking about how my future subordinates might receive me when I get to the field. Upon completion of SERTS training, I was sent to Camp Evans, a permanent duty station 400 miles north of Bien Hoa. There was little comfort in going to a war zone post known as a camp. Especially since this camp was located so close to the enemy’s homeland in one of the northernmost regions of South Vietnam. Transportation to Camp Evans was on another C-130 Hercules that proved to be just as nerve-wracking as the first one, except this flight was much longer. I ignored the plane’s unpleasant surroundings and instead fantasized that I was back home with my family. I used to think that my parents were too hard on me, but now I would gladly trade any of their chores or discipline to be free of this situation. Suddenly, a desperate feeling came over me as I realized just how good I had it at home and how much I missed everyone. Since the Army had taken away nearly everything that was important to me, I wondered how other GIs were able to deal with it. I wanted to cry, but pulled myself together knowing that my extra military training and strong family ties would help guide me. training and strong family ties would help guide me. The C-130 landed safely at Camp Evans, a circular tent city nearly one-half mile across, built on gentle rolling hills and surrounded by open grasslands. The camp is defended by perimeter bunker guards and fenced in with dozens of rows of concertina wire. A dirt road splits the camp down the middle. Trucks and jeeps comprised most of the camp’s activity as they traveled back and forth with their tires kicking up red clouds of dust. Countless GIs inhabited the camp but very few carried any weapons. Camp Evans was named after Lance Corporal Paul Evans, a Marine hero killed in action on December 22, 1966, near the present site of the camp. In 1967, the Navy Seabees built a major portion of the camp for the occupation of the US 1st Marine Division and the Army’s 1st Cavalry Division. In October of 1968, the camp became the permanent home of 101st Airborne Division’s 3rd Brigade. Camp Evans was primarily self-sufficient. Besides the airstrip, it had its own fuel depot, motor pool, PX (Post Exchange), post office, ammunition dump, outdoor movie theater and bandstand, a seventy-bed hospital, and a system of gasoline-powered generators to provide electricity. The camp is re-supplied by both truck and air. However, no aircraft were housed there because the remote location made them too inviting of a target for the enemy. The closest civilians to Camp Evans were from the village of Phong Dien, located about one mile from the main gate. Primitive by American standards, the village had no electricity or running water. The villagers lived in thatch huts clustered on tiny plots surrounded by hundreds of acres of fertile farmland. The farmer’s most valuable possession was the domesticated water buffalo, which served as both tractor and transportation. Although the villagers were friendly toward us, the only civilians allowed inside Camp Evans were barbers and tailors. I was assigned to Company A, 2nd Battalion, 506th Infantry Regiment. But before reporting to my unit, I was officially welcomed into the 101st Airborne Division by the 506th battalion commander. Lieutenant Colonel Brookes was a tall, imposing figure who demanded to be addressed by his radio call-name—Ajax. From inside his huge operations bunker, Ajax stood at a podium reading from notes to me, his audience of one. He gave the customary pep talk I’d heard a dozen times already since I’d been drafted. “We have accepted the challenge of a very important mission in South Vietnam. Freedom will come at a high cost, sometimes at the supreme sacrifice, but we are willing to fight for justice and humanity. We will win this war. The tide is turning. There is light at the end of the tunnel. The US Army is the most powerful army on earth and we are making this country safe for democracy by squeezing the enemy from his position and destroying him with swift blows.” The colonel rambled on, waving his arms but never making eye contact. I felt as if he was talking to the wall. I started to daydream. Perhaps Ajax fancied himself to be like the Greek warrior of the same name or like the popular laundry detergent so he could clean up Vietnam. Either way, when he finally finished speaking, Ajax shook my hand and directed me to the site that would be my home base for the next year, provided I lived that long. The 506th battalion area consisted of ten identical buildings referred to as “hooches.” Lining both sides of a dirt roadway, the hooches resembled the rudimentary huts of a Boy Scout summer camp with walls that were half wood and half screens. Each hooch was elevated about a foot off the ground and surrounded by a four- foot high wall of sandbags. The corrugated aluminum roofs were weighted down with several dozen sandbags to prevent strong winds from blowing the aluminum sheets off. The main hooch was the battalion orderly room and field personnel headquarters. A first sergeant and a company clerk manned it. Two adjacent hooches were used as supply sheds, while three others housed rear echelon staff. The five companies of our battalion alternately used the remaining buildings whenever they came in from the field for rest periods. Alongside the hooches were two water towers for showers. For toilet facilities, there was an officer’s latrine and an enlisted men’s latrine. Piss-tubes were also strategically placed for optimum use. Beyond that, nothing was done to make the area appealing. There was no grass or plants. The grounds consisted of oil-soaked red clay. The air was permeated with the odor of diesel, dirt, and urine. It was a dreary site. I signed in with the company clerk, an unfriendly fellow who wasn’t much for small talk. “You’ll be going to the field today sergeant,” he said in a monotone rhythm, as if he were reading the words. “The supply room is the second hooch on the left. Someone there will outfit you with the necessary gear. After that, wait for the truck to take you out.” The supply sergeant must have known I was coming. When I walked in, he handed me a rucksack already filled with a three-day supply of C-rations, four canteens of water, four hand grenades, four smoke grenades, 100 rounds of M-60 machine gun ammunition, 24 magazines of M-16 rifle ammunition, a claymore mine, helmet, poncho, and entrenching tool. Then he handed me a brand-new M-16 rifle, serial number 127346. I’d remember the number as well as my name because that weapon would become a part of me. I would eat, sleep, fight and even shit with it, never leaving it more than an arm’s length away. The M-16 is a magnificent lightweight infantry rifle. It has a twenty-round magazine that can be emptied in the semi-automatic mode by firing one round for each pull of the trigger. On full automatic, a burst of twenty rounds could be fired in three seconds. We called that “rock n’ roll.” I had an hour to kill before a pickup truck would take me out to my unit. It was too hot to sit in the sun so I waited quietly inside an empty hooch. Camp Evans was nothing like Cam Ranh Bay. Out the door I could see an almost deserted battalion area, where an occasional GI wandered past. On the horizon, the heavily vegetated Annamite Mountain range rose up from the plains before topping out at about 2,000 feet. The dark peaks looked sinister. The rugged territory was where the crafty NVA (North Vietnamese Army) and the persistent VC (Viet Cong) staged their raids. GIs called it “Injun Country.” Sitting alone like that gave me too much time to think. I felt numb. I stared blankly into space, wishing this was all a hideous joke. My trance was broken when a weary Grunt walked in. Unshaven and desperately in need of a bath, he must have just come in from the field. I watched as he carefully placed his gear on a cot. He never looked directly at me. As he headed back out the door, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of my sergeant’s stripes. Then he stared at me oddly. Nervously, I stood up and put my hand out to say hello. He exhaled loudly out of the corner of his mouth before spitting on the floor near my feet. I quickly jerked my hand back. He shook his head, mumbled something about a cherry NCO, and walked outside. “What the hell was that all about?” I wondered. These guys don’t know anything about me and already I’m hated. Maybe that screwball Specialist Doyen at SERTS was right. Maybe being an Instant NCO could be a death wish. Shortly afterward, the truck pulled up and I was on my way. It felt strange to be driven out to the combat zone in the back of a pickup truck because I thought we made an easy target. We drove out the rear gate of Camp Evans past well-tended rice paddies and tea tree gardens. The nearby village gave off a sour odor from made an easy target. We drove out the rear gate of Camp Evans past well-tended rice paddies and tea tree gardens. The nearby village gave off a sour odor from the burning of incense and sandalwood. Away from the farmed area, the region abruptly changed to a desolate no-man’s land. Known as the flat lands, the rolling grassy hills were similar to the prairies of Nebraska. However, thickets with giant ferns, elephant grass, bamboo hedgerows and other exotic plants made me think it was a prehistoric land. In less than ten minutes we pulled up to the 2nd platoon’s DDP (Daytime Defensive Position). The men were set in a one-acre bamboo thicket only a half-mile from Camp Evans and a half-mile from one of the sparsely populated hamlets that made up Phong Dien. I jumped off the truck as the driver waved to someone and yelled, “Fresh meat!” The 2nd platoon consisted of more or less thirty soldiers, as GIs came and went to the rear for one reason or another. There were three squads of nine men each. Each squad had an NCO leader and two four-man fire teams. There was also one medic and one RTO (Radio Telephone Operator). A 1st Lieutenant platoon leader was in charge of the platoon with a senior NCO platoon sergeant as his second in command. No one paid much attention as I made my way into the thicket. It looked like the platoon had been in there for quite a while, because the underbrush was matted down and litter was strewn about. Several guys had their shirts off and no one was wearing a helmet. “Lieutenant Bruckner,” I called out, not sure who he is. “Sergeant Wiknik reporting for duty.” A smiling face greeted me. “Welcome to the platoon,” Bruckner said, firmly shaking my hand. “Toss your gear down so we can get acquainted.” Bruckner looked to be about thirty years old. He spoke in an authoritative but friendly tone. My initial impression was that he’s an all right guy, but he had an intense stare that made me feel uneasy. “This is Sergeant First Class Krol,” he said, motioning to the platoon sergeant, “my right hand man.” Krol was much older, probably forty. He was sitting on the ground and made no effort to greet me. I walked over and shook his hand. He didn’t get up. When we made eye contact, Krol looked me over as if I carried a curse. I got the feeling he wasn’t the friendly type. “We’ve been expecting you,” Bruckner said, deliberately speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve had an open slot for an NCO for several weeks, but there is no one in the platoon who could step up to the task.” I glanced around to see that the men were all looking at me. I couldn’t imagine what they were thinking. But I wondered if they were as bad as Bruckner said, or whether he was purposely trying to start me off at a disadvantage. “Are there any other NCO graduates in the platoon?” I asked. “We’ve got one, Sergeant Wakefield. He’s fallen into line quite well. Life out here for Instant NCOs can be simple, if you know your place. Just observe what’s going on, then do what you’re told, when you’re told.” I didn’t dare ask what he meant. I could only guess that he expected me to be a yes-man, but I was always taught that respect should be earned, not demanded. “So Wiknik,” Bruckner began again, “did you enlist or were you drafted?” “Drafted, sir.” “Ah, that’s too bad. The Army’s always looking for people who want to be here, not who have to be here. But, you never know, you might find a home in the Army. Take me for instance. I used to be a NCO, but I realized there are more money and more glory in being an officer. Remember General Custer, the Indian fighter? He didn’t care about money; he only wanted the glory that came from being a hero. Me, I want both. If you’ve got the same desire, you’re going to have to make a bold career move at re-enlistment time.” “Thanks, I’ll be sure to think about it.” What a nut. I plan on having a long career all right—but as a civilian, not a soldier. Bruckner had the makings of a good leader because he experienced the Army from two perspectives, but his ambition seemed to be getting in the way. I soon found out that Sergeant Krol was no better. To his credit, Krol was a veteran of the Korean War, but to everyone’s discontent, he was also a fitness buff. Krol loved the Army and the infantry—sort of a Lifer’s lifer. His favorite pastime was to show us “kids” how tough he was by taking different squads out and forcing them to hump until someone collapsed. He was a real charmer. With Bruckner and Krol running the show, this was going to be a tough year. They had their own agenda and it didn’t sound like they were going to be flexible. Initially, my encounters with Doyen and the spitting Grunt had me thinking that any personality problems would come from my squad members. But now, I was more concerned about my superiors. For my survival, and that of the platoon’s, I’d have to find a way to convince the Grunts that I was on their side. Lieutenant Bruckner gave me command of the second squad. My fire team leaders were Specialists Stanley Alcon and Freddie Shaw. Alcon was a California beach lover who constantly talked about girls, cars, and drag-racing. However, with jet-black hair and brown eyes, he didn’t fit the blond, blue-eyed surfer boy image. Shaw was black and came from the Virginia Bible belt, so he never swore or used foul language. If he had to shit, he called it a rump dump; to piss was a tinkle. His two front teeth were gold capped, each had a pattern cut out of it so the white of the tooth showed through. One pattern was of a cross and the other was a star. Shaw rarely associated with other blacks. He never said why. Our machine gunner was PFC (Private First Class) Jimmy Smith from Kentucky. Smith was tall, quiet, and spoke with a light Southern accent. PFC William Scoggins, a Texan, was the assistant machine gunner. He was also quiet and liked to stay out of everyone’s way. Our pointman was Norman Keoka from Hawaii, who was affectionately nicknamed “Pineapple.” The rest of the squad was a mix of average guys, mostly white and and one other black. Each man had combat experience and they all knew I was a Shake-n-Bake with no combat experience. Naturally, I was worried they might hold that against me, maybe even kill me for it. All I could do was speak honestly to the men and explain how I intended to run the squad until I gained experience. “I’m what a lot of people call an Instant NCO,” I began slowly and deliberately. “I didn’t want to come to Vietnam. I wanted to stay in the World. That’s why I “I’m what a lot of people call an Instant NCO,” I began slowly and deliberately. “I didn’t want to come to Vietnam. I wanted to stay in the World. That’s why I went to NCO school, but you can see how well that worked. I’m not a Lifer, I got drafted. The only thing I want out of this war is to go home in one piece and to help you guys do the same. I don’t know shit about Vietnam yet, but I hope you’ll correct me anytime you think I’m doing something wrong. I don’t want anyone getting fucked-up because of a stupid mistake. We’re all in this together with a huge responsibility to one another, so I expect everyone to cover each other’s ass.” I thought my little speech was a good icebreaker, but the men gave no reaction at all. They listened and bobbed their heads as if to pacify me. I realized it would take a lot more than talk to gain their respect. I also didn’t want to make the mistake of giving the wrong impression with an ego remark like, “Here I am, and I’m in charge!” During my first week, I wasn’t allowed to do much of anything related to the war until I got accustomed to the heat and the platoon’s daily routines. However, I didn’t like sitting back while others went out on patrol or ambush because I stood out too much as it was. I wanted to blend in so badly that I purposely tripped and fell, hoping to soil my uniform to look like everyone else’s. But the weight of my rucksack propelled me to belly flop into the mud. Everyone chuckled as I emerged looking like the victim of a water buffalo attack. My dirty look paid off, but not with the old-timers. The next day, when a new guy joined my squad, he thought I was a seasoned veteran. “Hi Sarge,” he said, nervously introducing himself, “I’m PFC Howard Siner, but everyone usually calls me Howard. Do you mind being called Sarge?” I thought “Sarge” sounded stupid, but I didn’t say anything about it. “Put your gear over there,” I said, pointing to a clump of bamboo. “Where are you from Siner?” “The Bronx, New York City,” he proudly announced, “home of the New York Yankees.” “And Cousin Bruce Morrow on WABC radio,” I added. “That’s right!” Siner beamed. “Are you from the city?” “No, central Connecticut. We don’t have any decent radio personalities, so at night we listen to New York stations.” Siner nodded knowingly as he began to feel at ease. “Boy, it must be rough out here. Look at you Sarge, you’re filthy. Were you in a firefight today?” Everybody laughed. “No, Siner,” I embarrassingly admitted, “I look like this because I fell in the mud. I haven’t been here long enough to get sniped at, let alone be in a firefight. I’m just as cherry as you are.” PFC Siner was the tallest man in the platoon, but his size hid his calm demeanor. He had already spent two years in college, where he learned to take a slow methodical approach to situations, a trait many of us would come to admire. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but in the months ahead, Howard Siner would become one of my best and most trusted friends in Vietnam. If there was anything tolerable about being in the field, it was that there was no military etiquette. We never stood at attention, saluted officers, or had inspections. The only formality we displayed was when we called the Lieutenant “Sir” and Krol “Sergeant.” The most intolerable thing about the field was just being there, especially the physical demands. Each man carried his world on his back. Up to seventy pounds of food, ammunition, and creature comforts were packed into a bulging rucksack. We were so familiar with its contents that we could easily retrieve a toothpick from it on a moonless night. Any personal items, like a wallet, a photograph, matches, or toilet paper were usually carried in our pockets inside tiny plastic bags to protect them from sweat or other moisture. Mornings started with brushing our teeth from a canteen of rice patty water rendered potable by adding two purification tablets. Some men shaved, many did not, and no one ever used deodorant. Chow consisted of our choice of any one of a dozen equally unappetizing C-ration selections, which we either ate or went hungry. One meal, ham and lima beans, was so bad we called it “Ham and Mother-fuckers.” But no meal was more hated than the infamous jellied version of ham and eggs. Even the villagers, who were always looking for a free meal, wouldn’t eat it. A heat tablet that sat inside a tiny stove fashioned from a discarded cracker tin warmed the food. Nearly everyone drank coffee or hot chocolate, while a fortunate few made lemonade from powdered mixes sent from home. Manners meant nothing in the field, even during mealtime. A person might urinate only five feet away, while another is burping, farting, or scratching his nuts. When someone needed to perform their daily constitutional, there was no privacy either. A buddy went along to guard against a VC sniper shooting him in mid-shit. We rarely bathed. During the hottest part of the day, if we were located near a stream, some men took sponge baths, or jumped in clothes and all. We wore the same sweat-soaked fatigues for weeks at a time. The only way to get a clean or new uniform was if something got torn open. The only reserve clothing we carried was an extra pair of socks and a medium-size bath towel. The towel was issued for shaving and bathing, but it was most often used to wipe the sweat from our brows or draped over the shoulders to keep the rucksack straps from digging in. April was the dry season, but about every fourth day a brief rain shower soaked us just before dusk, too late for anything to dry out. As hot as it was in the daytime, we were often cold during the night because everything was still wet. The soggy conditions were ideal for developing ugly pus-seeping body sores that never seemed to heal. This skin ailment, known to GIs as jungle rot, thrived in the damp areas of poorly ventilated wet clothing. Not everyone got the sores, but we took no chances either. No one wore under-shorts because crotch rot was a very real and painful blight. We slept on the ground, usually on a waterproof poncho, sometimes covered by a lightweight poncho liner. As soon as the sun went down, it was as if the dinner bell had rung for the bugs. Mosquitoes that seemed to be as big as birds would carry someone off unless they were doused with the Army issue insect repellent we nicknamed “bug juice.” It was a foul, eye-burning chemical strong enough to melt holes through rubber. Some guys developed a rash from the bug juice, so they wore a face net to keep insects from crawling into their eyes and ears. Our AO (Area of Operations) outside the village of Phong Dien was relatively quiet with rare enemy confrontations. During the daylight hours, when not humping, we stayed concealed in one of the many bamboo thickets, playing cards, writing letters, sleeping, or just hanging around. Other than the mail, our only diversion from the war’s activities was an illegal transistor radio each squad took turns passing around. AFVN (American Forces Vietnam Network) was the only American station