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As April wore on, the days grew longer, and the temperature began to rise noticeably. At work, things had settled more or less into a routine, except that a number of men were being transferred to other engineer battalions and replaced with other engineers. From a pay standpoint, this created no problems since extra work was not required on our part. The transferred men simply carried their pay records with them to their new units. These personnel movements certainly caused Barnett, our orders clerk, no end of grief, however, because each man transferring out of the l4th needed to have a set of special orders. Poor Barnett. I felt sorry for him. He typed steadily all day long, cutting mimeograph stencils to be used in running off the sets of orders. Whenever he made a mistake, he had to paint the error out on the stencil with a special liquid. Barnett never complained, however, and he seemed to accept his lot stoically, as though he were being punished for some unspeakable act he had committed earlier in his life. To help out, Sancho frequently cranked the mimeograph machine for Barnett, though Sancho always stated for the record that it was not his job to do this. A photocopy machine capable of reproducing black letters on white paper would have been a godsend, but none was available. Indeed, whenever we were requested to provide someone with a copy of a letter or other document, we had to type a duplicate of the item, keeping the duplicate as close to the original as possible, including elements of spacing and margins. Then, in the lower left corner of the duplicate, we typed a signature block containing the statement: "I certify that this document is a complete, true, and accurate copy of the original." This certification was then signed by an officer. Fortunately, we were rarely asked for copies of documents. As April wore on, I also discovered that Captain Simpson was not a trained personnel officer. Like most of the 14th's officers, he was an engineer by trade, but he had agreed to act as personnel officer because no one else had wanted the job. That probably explained why he gave the appearance of doing nothing most of the time. However, he read extensively--usually magazines, and always the Stars and Stripes, which was a small unofficial newspaper published by the military. I had read the Stars and Stripes several times when I had found it laying around, but I had put it down rather quickly each time because the articles were either propaganda on the war or news items that were simply innocuous. There seemed to be no middle ground. Recently, for example, the newspaper had run an article about a University of Cincinnati graduate student in psychology who had been fined $27.50 and had forfeited his dog to the SPCA because he had bit the dog on the ear and had carried him inside his apartment by the hind legs and tail in order to discipline the dog for running away. Now, that was news I couldn't live without. At the other extreme, this organ of propaganda had informed us that American deaths in the war were running at 160 per week, as opposed to 1,800 per week for the enemy. The same article had put enemy casualties for the first three months of 1967 at 33,000 wounded and 22,000 dead, with the total of 55,000 representing nearly 20% of the enemy's 1967 average strength of 281,000. Another article had revealed that 10,000 Viet Cong had defected to the South Vietnamese government for repatriation during the first quarter of 1967. I was no mathematical genius, but at this rate, it was clear the war would be over in 15 months, assuming the statistics were true, of course. I particularly enjoyed the piece that had told of the bravery at Sroc Con Trang, where outnumbered GI's "cut down waves of Viet Cong attackers Saturday in a battle that killed at least 581 communists and left only nine Americans killed." This glorious outcome had been due in large part to the American soldier who "jumped from his foxhole and ran into the clearing, firing his machine gun from his hip." Such was the stuff of war, as reported in the Stars and Stripes. Ruminating on more personal matters, I asked Sergeant Greenley about having my tooth fixed, for it was still a matter of concern to me. Actually, I was just annoyed because I constantly found myself sticking my tongue up to the side of the tooth that was missing. If I could get my tooth fixed, I reasoned, then I could cease this obsessive behavior. Greenley told me that dentistry was only practiced in Cam Ranh, and it was difficult to get an appointment for anything except emergencies. "Does it hurt?" he asked. "Not actually," I said. "Well, why don't you wait until you get home," he said. Since I really didn't want to see the dentist anyway, this was all the suggestion I needed to do nothing about my tooth. I kept going to mail call, and I finally received my first letter from home. It was from my wife. Of course, I hadn't really expected anyone else to write me in Vietnam. Though I didn't completely understand why, I was absolutely thrilled to receive a piece of mail. I felt as though I had been given a present, or as though someone were actually thinking about me right at that moment. It was an exhilarating experience. The substance of the letter was another matter, however. My wife complained about the car breaking down several times, but she said it was fixed now. Good, I thought, one less thing for me to worry about--as if I needed something else to worry about. Also, the cat was fine, but her students at school were constantly misbehaving. My brother had written to my wife offering his best wishes for my safe return. That was useful, I thought, since I knew he wouldn't write to me himself. Finally, she said she missed me, and she wished I were home. That made me feel good. I folded up the letter and stored it safely in my duffel bag. If I didn't get any other mail for a while, I could always go back and read that letter over again. Just when I thought I had seen the worst the army had to offer, I was introduced to the most unpleasant assignment of all: guard duty. Because of the number of stations assigned to the l4th, guard duty fell to each man about once every six days. There was also an extra duty known as ready squad, but that was relatively simple compared to guard duty, and it came only once every two weeks. On ready squad, we had to remain in the barracks fully dressed all night with our battle gear at the ready. We were allowed to sleep though. If there were an alert, it was the purpose of the ready squad to be the first arrivals at the perimeter to assist the guards in the bunkers at holding back the enemy until the remainder of the men were on line. Except for not being permitted to drink, we didn't mind the ready squad assignment; though, in truth, our drinking was now so habitual that a night on the wagon seemed painful. Guard duty, I discovered, was much worse. I was released from work at noon to rest and to prepare my equipment, and I reported for the guard formation Thursday evening promptly at 5:30 P.M. in front of battalion headquarters. I wore my helmet and my web belt, and my ammo pouches were filled with loaded magazines. In all, there were thirty-one men present when the duty officer conducted the guard mount, as it was called. This ritual consisted of an inspection of men and weapons, a recitation of various general orders by a few men selected at random, and a review by the officer of guard procedure, especially the proper use of the challenge and the giving of the password. Tonight, the password was "Chicago." Much to my amazement, we were told by the duty officer that anyone discharging a weapon on guard duty without justification could be court-martialed. One man was selected to be the supernumerary, the lucky guard who stayed behind and slept all night unless he was needed to replace a sick guard on the line. Having passed muster, we were posted to our positions, with some men merely walking to nearby waterfront bunkers, while the rest of us were taken by the duty driver to the northern perimeter, where we were given our assignments. There were three men in each bunker or machine gun tower, and we would man these defensive positions from dusk till dawn. Each man had two hours on guard and four hours off for sleep, so theoretically one man was awake at all times. This cycle was repeated twice during the night, which meant each man could sleep eight hours. By agreement, I took the first watch from 6 P.M. to 8 P.M., permitting me to sleep from 8 P.M. till midnight, when I would be on watch again until 2 A.M. Thereafter, I could sleep until 6 A.M., at which time we would be relieved from duty. After my two hours were through, I remained up with the second guard, a man from C company, and we both stayed on alert together, while the third man slept on one of the two cots kept in the bunker. The moon was half full, so there was ample light to see easily for several hundred yards in front of our bunker. "By the way," I asked my companion, "what do they mean by `discharging a weapon without justification?'" "Well," he said, "I was told it means the enemy has to really be out there. You know, there has to be someone to shoot at." "So, if I'm not sure, I don't shoot. Right?" I asked. "Something like that," he said. "God, that's outstanding," I said. "I just hope I can see them clearly, before they get a bead on me." "Pretty stupid, huh?" the other man said. "Is it ever," I said. "The VC have to be cleaning my teeth practically before I can blast them. That's great." At 10 P.M. we woke the third man, who seemed to have no trouble sleeping, and the second man and I laid down to sleep. I knew I should rest, since I was on again from midnight until 2 A.M. After 20 minutes, I dozed off, but I awoke again some 40 minutes later. Much to my chagrin, not only was the second man asleep, but so also was the third man, who we had awakened just an hour ago. He was sitting in the corner, slumped over against the wall of the bunker. He was actually snoring! I was so upset, I wanted to go over and kick him in the stomach, but I didn't. Despite my anger, I didn't want to cross him, so I simply finished his shift. The alternative was to go back to sleep and, possibly, to die. We heard reports all the time of men having their throats slit or being shot while sleeping on guard duty. And, when this happened, the enemy killed everyone in the bunker, not just the guilty sleeper. By now the moon was setting and the light was going, which made it extremely difficult to see farther than about 50 feet. I found myself squinting in an effort to see better, but that did no good. In fact, it made matters worse, for I began to imagine I saw things that weren't there. For a minute, I thought I saw something move along the ground near the barbed wire. The harder I looked, the less I could see. I finally concluded it had been only my imagination. I tried to compensate for the darkness by listening more carefully. As time passed, I became concerned that someone would slip into the bunker behind my back through the doorway located at the rear. Accordingly, I moved to a corner in the rear and stood with my back against the sandbags, where I could still see forward clearly and also keep my eyes on the openings in all four walls of the structure. Thus vigilant, I spent the next three hours until 2 A.M., when I awoke the second man, who I had talked to earlier. He was so sound asleep that I raised him only with great difficulty. Finally though, he was up and about, but I said nothing to him regarding our other companion's penchant for snoozing. I lay my weary head down on the empty cot, but I didn't trust myself to sleep for fear the others would sleep as well, without my knowing it. About an hour later, I heard faintly the sound of a vehicle behind the bunker. The second man, still awake, walked outside the bunker and challenged someone who was approaching. "Halt, who goes there?" he asked. "Is it friend or foe?" "Friend," came the reply. "What is the password?" he asked. "Chicago," came the answer. "Approach and state your business," said the guard. Seconds later, I could hear him talking in a low voice with our visitor. When he returned, I sat up and asked him who had come. "It was just the duty NCO checking the guards," he said. "They do that, you know, to keep us on our toes and make sure we're not sleeping." Oh great, I thought to myself, why hadn't the NCO come earlier when the other guard was sleeping. I would have enjoyed that. Soon, the second man's shift was over, and I heard him wake the third man again. It was 4 A.M. and quite chilly now, which helped me to stay awake as I lay on the cot. Not knowing whether the third man would doze off again, I decided not to sleep. After what seemed an eternity, the sky began to lighten to the east, and, somewhat later, I heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Much to my relief, the duty officer and driver had come to retrieve us. Climbing into the back of the truck, I looked out over the northern perimeter, which was now completely bathed in sunlight. Everything seemed calm enough, and I was thankful the night had passed without incident. The next day at work, I fought off sleep hour after hour as I continued typing my vouchers. Unfortunately, the date was April l4, which meant our payrolls had to be delivered to the 92d Finance Detachment in Cam Ranh the next morning. By late afternoon, D company was complete, but Lew needed me to help him finish C company, and Steiger was still working on A company. Consequently, Steiger decided we would report back to personnel at 6:30 that evening and stay until everything was wrapped up. In addition, Steiger told us that if we finished before the EM club closed at 10 P.M., he would buy Lew and I each a six-pack of beer. About one hour into our overtime stint that evening, I complained to Lew about being very tired because I hadn't slept on guard duty the night before. He opened his center desk drawer, from which he extracted a small container. Taking off the top, he dumped some tiny white pills into his hand. He broke one of the pills in half and handed it to me. "Take this," he said. "It'll do wonders for you." "What is it?" I asked. "Benzedrine," he said. "We get them from the battalion medic. They're pharmaceutical, so they won't hurt you." "You get them from the medic?" I asked, in disbelief. "Of course," he said. "How else can the army expect us to stay up all night working on these payrolls?" I swallowed the tiny half-pill, and within 20 minutes I felt like a new man. Amazingly, my fatigue was completely gone, and I set about my work with a new vigor. Around 8:30 P.M., it appeared we would have no problem meeting our self-imposed deadline to finish work and arrive at the club before closing. Just then, however, the battalion adjutant came into the personnel tent from headquarters next door. Lieutenant Hart was his name, and, apparently, he was the duty officer tonight. "Well, men, how's it going?" he asked. "Pretty good, Sir," Steiger said. "We're just pulling together some loose ends here." Lieutenant Hart sat on Steiger's desk, with his legs dangling down in front while he talked to us. Out of politeness, we stopped our typing and sat attentively, listening. He was telling us about his overtime work at Fort Dix, New Jersey, and how he had received a commendation from the installation commander. This, he thought, had furthered his career substantially. Not, however, that this had been the first time he had shown such initiative. I looked at my watch about every ten minutes as time slipped away irretrievably. Finally, at 9:25 P.M. Lieutenant Hart wished us a good night, saying he had to check the ready squad. When he was well out the door, Lew said, "Jesus, what a pain in the ass he is." "Not so loud," Steiger said, putting a finger to his lips. "He may be just outside the tent." "Oh, I know he means well," Lew added, his voice lowered, "but can't he see we don't have time to listen to his crap. I mean, we're trying to work here." "I know," Steiger said, sympathetically. "But I think he gets real lonely sometimes. I don't know how well he gets along with the other officers, you know? Anyway, what's done is done. We'll just have to stay a little longer tonight." Steiger gave me $2.00 in MPC and sent me to the club to buy two six-packs of beer, which I was to stash in my wall locker until we finished. Ultimately, we completed everything by 10:45 P.M. and celebrated our success in the bunker outside the barracks. Because of the Benzedrine, it didn't even occur to me until midnight that I hadn't slept in 42 hours. The next day, after five hours of deep, solid sleep, I felt renewed. Our payroll vouchers had been dispatched early for the 92d Finance Detachment, driven there by Ales, accompanied by Steiger and Lew. "Is it necessary that you all go?" Sergeant Greenley had asked Steiger. "Gee, Sarge," Steiger had said, "we're just playing it safe. If we get attacked, we'll need all the firepower we can get." "Yeah, sure," Greenley had responded sarcastically. "I know you guys are going to the PX, but I want you to stay away from the village in Cam Ranh--and, I don't want you to be gone all day. Be back here no later than noon. Got that." "Right, Sarge," Steiger had replied, giving Greenley an exaggerated two finger salute. Before they left, I had asked Steiger when I could go to Cam Ranh, and he had replied, "Soon." As Saturday, the 22nd of April, approached, the compound was a buzz about a performing group that would play at the EM club that night. This would be the first live entertainment we'd had since I arrived in DBT. The word was that a Korean band would play rock and roll, and that the band had several sexy women members who played instruments and sang. Except for our Vietnamese employees and the other locals, women were rarely seen here. As a consequence, the men felt deprived and would drool practically at the mere mention of "women entertainers." USO tours, I was told, did not appear frequently in Vietnam. In fact, no one in the 14th had ever seen a USO sponsored group since the battalion had arrived six months ago. There were, of course, the Red Cross volunteers--American women mostly--who were irreverently referred to as donut dollies. The problem was, according to Steiger, the donut dollies showed no interest in the enlisted men, other than occasionally to come around and hand out a few donuts. These young ladies, many of whom were quite attractive, preferred to spend their time with the officers. In a way, who could blame them: the officers were far more dashing. Put less charitably, the officers made more money. This probably accounted for the vicious and persistent rumor among the EM that the donut dollies were selling themselves to the officers for cash. The EM could not prove this, but in their hearts, they knew it was true. To my way of thinking, it was probably just sour grapes on the part of the enlisted scum (as we were referred to by the officers). Finally, the awaited night came, and we all piled into the EM club to see the Korean band. It was very crowded, and the majority of the men stood, because there were only about 50 chairs. I estimated that 200 men attended, all crammed in together. Though the ceiling fans were on, the air was hot from so much body heat. Consequently, everyone began to sweat. Of course, the alcohol being consumed didn't help matters either. When the band appeared at the far end of the club on the small stage, the place erupted with whistles, clapping, and catcalls. It wouldn't have surprised me if the musicians had fled out the door in fear of their lives. The band launched into a very loud number, and gradually the crowd noise died down. They were good, but definitely not the Beatles. The band consisted of three men and three women who played, and another woman who sang. The women all wore mini-skirts that showed most of their legs, and this excited the audience. Frankly, I found the Korean's legs to be too thick below the knee, definitely an unattractive trait by western standards. Though all the men around me were wild with lust for these ladies, I, myself, didn't lose my heart on this night. I stayed for an hour to listen to the rock and roll and to soak in the ambiance, such as it was. Finally, the noise and heat took their toll on me, and I was forced to retreat into the cool night air outside the club. Besides, I couldn't get to the bar to buy a beer, so crowded was it. As I left, two men near the door appeared to be arguing about something, but I didn't hang around to find out what the disagreement was. I returned to the barracks and opened a warm beer. About 40 minutes later, men began to straggle in, leading me to believe the performance was over. I went out to the bunker to join Steiger, Lew, Wallace, and O'Brien. Everyone was seriously drunk, especially O'Brien. I hoped he wouldn't pick tonight to turn in his mess kit and resign. "Is the show over?" I asked. "It sure is," Wallace said. "The band was whisked away by the MP's," Lew added. "Can you blame them for having protection?" Steiger asked, rhetorically. "Did you see those guys down near the stage? I thought they were going to storm the band." "I didn't see that," I said. "I was in the back." "Well, what happened back there?" Steiger asked. Since I didn't know what he was talking about, I didn't say anything. Lew seemed to know what had occurred, however. "Some guy from C company got into a fist fight with our friend, Mr. Army, about 20 minutes before the show was over," Lew said. Steiger burst out laughing, which in turn set everyone else off. "Who is Mr. Army?" I asked. Wiping tears from his eyes, Steiger gradually stopped laughing long enough to explain that Mr. Army was the name they had given to a lifer in headquarters company. "This guy has been promoted to E-5 and busted back to E-4 more times than anyone else in history," Steiger said. "Yeah," Lew added, still laughing, "when he's an E-4, he can't drink hard liquor, so he gets sober and cleans up his act. Within about six months, he works his way back to E-5. Then he starts drinking again and getting into trouble. First thing you know, he's busted back to E-4 once more." "Well, he was just demoted to E-4 last month," Steiger said. "Maybe after tonight they'll bust him down to E-3, just for good measure." "Wow," Lew blurted out, "that would probably keep him on the wagon for a year." With everyone so inebriated, this last conversation proved to be the most intelligent one we had the rest of the night. On Monday, after lunch, I went to pick up a batch of laundry I had given to the Vietnamese two days earlier, and I was nicked by the laundry women for another half-pack of cigarettes. It occurred to me that I was getting a reputation among the locals as an easy touch. Almost every time I walked between the mess hall, the barracks, and the office, I was chased down by the women and children, who wanted to hold my hand or arm and talk. The more I came to know the Vietnamese, the more I realized that these encounters were not strictly about mooching cigarettes. The Vietnamese by nature seemed to be a warm people who enjoyed friendship and conversation, that is, they struck me as eminently companionable. I even detected a slightly flirtatious disposition among the women and girls, but this was manifested in a mild, safe way, as though it were not intended to be taken seriously. Of course, my conversations with the locals were conducted completely in pidgin English, since I knew not a whit of formal Vietnamese. Some of the Vietnamese and other slang that we commonly used was the following: beaucoup, from the French, meant "many, much, a lot"; ti ti meant "a few, a little, a small amount"; di di mau meant "to go away, to leave" (often shortened simply to di di); same-o, same-o meant "the same thing, more of the same, just like yesterday"; dien cai dau meant "crazy, unbalanced, not right in the head"; dep meant "beautiful"; and xin loi meant "excuse me, sorry about that." Soldiers were all called "GI," and a popular soldier was #1, while a disfavored soldier was #10. The Vietnamese men were much more reticent than the women and children, and they seemed to like to keep their distance from us whenever possible. My sense was that the Vietnamese men either felt menaced by the soldiers or were reacting to the threatened feelings exuded by the GI's. There was no doubt in my mind that we were all more cautious around the Vietnamese men. Some of the GI's, like Wallace, hated all the locals, and he said frequently that he would just as soon shoot them as look at them, men and women alike. Negative feelings such as these were engendered from the numerous reports that the locals were aiding and abetting the enemy. As a result, people like Wallace always said that only a fool would turn his back on a Vietnamese. The VC, we knew, were getting local support in South Vietnam from someone, and certainly one couldn't discount all the stories about local sympathizers. It was a complicated situation, hardly black and white. In talking with the Vietnamese who worked in DBT, I discovered that most of them lived in a small village about 10 miles to the north on Q/L 1, the highway that ran through DBT. The 14th sent a truck every morning except Sunday to pick up some twelve to fifteen men, women, and children. Both men and women worked in our mess hall, while women and children washed clothes, and some women worked for the officers in their private quarters and club. I had no idea what the army paid the locals, but it must have been pitifully small by our standards. I had overheard Sergeant Greenley telling Captain Simpson about a settlement offered by the army to the family of a Vietnamese man who was struck and killed by one of our trucks as the man rode his bicycle along the side of the road. The man was 30 years old, and his wife was given $400, that being a fair approximation of the total earnings the man would have made during his lifetime, assuming he lived to be 55, which was quite elderly by Vietnamese standards. These compensations to the families were called solatia payments. In fairness, I shouldn't have said that all the Vietnamese men were aloof. One afternoon I stopped to watch an old Vietnamese man dressed in black rayon pajamas working behind our latrine, which was officially designated as building "T 3042." His employment was to pull the waste barrels from under the latrine and to incinerate the waste. The containers were 55 gallon drums that had been cut in half. I was trying to determine whether he was pouring gasoline or kerosene into the barrels for burning. Although I was a good distance from him, he apparently became aware that I was watching him because, after several minutes, he walked over to me and held out a plastic bag he had removed from his pants pocket. Taking an old chewed up pipe from his mouth, he said, "You buy malijuana?" In the bag, he had what appeared to be a large handful of marijuana. "No, thanks," I said. "For you, cheap," he added. "Five dolla'." "No, really, I'm not interested," I said, and I gently pushed his outstretched hand away. He persisted, and I finally turned and left, since I believed this to be the only effective way to halt the man's entreaties. Obviously, he was only trying to augment the meager income he received from the 14th Engineers. I wondered whether the old man had any idea that the army considered his wares to be highly illegal. God only knew. When I returned to the personnel tent after picking up my laundry, Sergeant Greenley called me to his desk. "During the first few days in May, you're going up to Bao Loc," he said. "I beg your pardon," I said, aghast. As I said this, I instinctively put a finger behind my right ear, for I actually thought I wasn't hearing correctly. Sergeant Greenley looked at me like I was some sort of moron, and he repeated very slowly and patiently, "I said, we're sending you up to Bao Loc around the first of next month." "What in the world for?" I asked. "To talk to the men about their pay," he explained. "We have companies, platoons, squads, and details strung out all over this God-forsaken country, and we have to make sure these engineers are not having any problems with their pay. You know, there is nothing more demoralizing to a soldier than to have a big pay problem and not be able to get it fixed. For example, what if a man's wife is not getting her allotment--well, that's a nightmare." "I see," I said. "That makes sense." "That's part of our job, to support these men in the field," he added. "No. You're right. You're right," I said, holding up my hands in agreement. Greenley turned his attention to the papers on his desk, and I stood there for a moment thinking about what he had said. I couldn't help but interrupt him. "Look, do I really have to go to Bao Loc, wherever that is?" "Yes. Both Steiger and Lew have gone on these jaunts," Greenley said, impatiently. "Now its your turn. I mean, after all, you're the new guy. Seniority has to mean something." I knew when he brought up the seniority thing, there was no way of escaping this assignment. |