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In October 1968 I got a punji stick in my left knee while conducting
a combat assault with Charley Company
of the 4/3 Inf. I found the punji
stick by a large, gray, moss and debris covered rock God had put there for me
to hide behind.
I was hiding behind the rock because that’s what I always did when I
reached the destination of a combat assault.
I would get off the
chopper, hide behind a rock or tree, or a piece of bamboo or an anthill
or a chick dressed up
like a rice paddy Dyke on a motorcycle. I could
hide behind a single blade of grass or a distant sound. I was
determined to
hide behind something because that’s how the army had trained me. They called it cover and
concealment.
Even though I was a self proclaimed expert at hiding I always liked to be on the
first lift of a combat assault. As
company 4.2 FO I was independent and attached which allowed me the freedom to choose who I traveled with on
any given day. my alternative reason for being on the first lift was that maybe then
I would catch some shit and
get
out of the bush in a half-way, sort of respectful manner. It never
occurred to me that I could die again. Hell, I had
already died once.
So I am hiding behind this rock covered with debris from the two
B-52’s who, 1/2 hour earlier, had dropped half
their load in this huge
valley that had its mouth pointing in a northeasterly direction.
The B-52’s did a 180 and dropped the rest of their load in the
valley. “C” and “D” companies were far enough
away to be safe but close
enough to be impressed. We could feel the shaking of the earth like God
taking command
of the planet with a completely controlling hand and
moving it about. The sound was a deep, deep rumble unlike the
sharp
smacking sound of artillery or the air moving freight train sound of 16
inch rounds from a Battleship as they
passed overhead. This sound was God awful death
from 40,000 feet. Hundreds of bombs going off individually and
combining into one move the earth rumble.
Both Delta and Charlie companies would combat assault into the
decimated area left behind by the B-52 drop.
Minutes after the rumbling from the B-52’s subsided we could hear the wop, wop, wop of
helicopters descending
on our dry rice paddy LZ. Some of the choppers picked up the first lift of Charlie company and took us to the West
ridge of the valley. That’s how I got behind this rock.
So I am hiding behind this rock after a CA and I get a Punji stick
in my left knee. I called the second lift and tried to
send the message
about Punji sticks. It's hard to talk on an open mike inside a heavely loaded chopper. I’m not clear
weather the message was copied but no
one else to the best of my knowledge got stuck that day.
Very close to my hide
rock I saw what used to be a human shortly befor we arrived. He was 5
meters from the edge
of a crater created by either a 250 or 500 Lb high explosive bomb. I think pulverized or maybe
pulverized jelly might
be the best I could do in describing the condition
of the body. Almost burnt into the ground by concussion like
a
surreal sculpture hinting at the life that used to exist there.
It’s like,
“Wazup breeze, want a smoke.” A dropped cigarette would
poke a hole through his body like a spear.
It’s like, “Your looking thin man, Maybe you
need to stop smoking .” Smoking from the B-52 bomb.
We patrolled the ridge and on the third day worked our way to
the bottom of the valley. At this point my left
knee had swollen up real good from the pungi stick and a medic told me to go to a firebase and get it fixed.
At the bottom of the valley we were entertained by a show where fast movers (Jets), were
dropping Napalm close
enough for us to feel the heat. A pull me-push me
FAC (forward air control) plane was on station using WP
(white
phosphorus) to mark targets for the fast movers and a Gook piloted prop job that could slide into
box canyons or tight places the fast mover could not reach.
I think the Col. got shot down on this week. If memory
serves, he was shot down 3 times in one week. This did not
bother me much. Every time he flew over us it pinpointed
our location for
Charlie. After he was shot down I sent an imagionary thank you note to the Gooks.
Later that day, after I mailed my note to the Gooks, we prepared for
another combat assault. Choppers came in
and we were taken to the top
of the opposite ridge. I was on the first chopper of the first lift. As the chopper was
about 6 feet off the ground I
jumped, much to the dismay of the pilot. I could read lips well enough
to know that
the pilot was not praising my courage and tumbling skills.
No, it was more like, ” you dumb SOB, what the fuck
are you doing.”
After the company had landed and formed a perimeter I talked with
the Company CO about catching a ride to
an LZ to get my wound treated.
He said that if I could bum a ride on the battalion commanders bird it
would be
O.K. with him.
The Battalion commander landed his chopper to confer with the
Company CO. I ran up to the Battalion CO
Stinking from beau coup sweat
and no personal hygiene for over a week plus the fact that I had not
worn shorts
for over 9 months.
I approached the commander and dropped my pants to my ankles to show
proof of my wound. Looking back
on it 40 years later I think this is
when I concluded that the Battalion CO was not gay for unwashed grunts
with
an M-16 and their pants around their ankles.
I requested a ride to whatever LZ he was going to. One look at my
leg and he agreed I should have the wound
treated. I did not tell the
Battalion commander about my note to the Gooks. After this ride I would
never again
be required to go on patrol or to the field. This was a
good thing. I was taken to Duc Pho. The first shirt from Echo
company met me at
the chopper and told me to go to the medics, “Get fixed up and tell
them you have earned a
purple heart,” he said.
I lost it. I started crying and yelling at the first sergeant. I
told the first shirt that everyone in Charlie company
was losing their legs and arms and their lives and the only thing they received was a
purple heart. I pointed out a
place he could put his purple heart.
I went to the medic tent and they told me I had earned a purple
heart. In my mind, medics walk on water so I
told them in a civil voice that I didn’t want a purple heart
because my mom would receive a telegram notifying her
of the wound and that would concern her. They
said, ” OK, but you will be sorry.” 25 years later when I started
dealing with the VA I found out the medics were right.
For the next two months I smoked weed. I smoked like the top of a
nuclear reactor’s cooling tower. I bought a
brand new pipe and burnt a
hole through it in a month. One day I smoked 40 T's before lunch,
ate and then
smoked my pipe for the rest of the day. I do not remember
ever being stoned. I just smoked and smoked.
I don’t think the smoke could match up to the full combat alert that
my mind and body were in. Even after
being out of the field for close
to two months my hyper personality and combat experience had me wired,
violent,
depressed, and I would find out later, a bunch of other
emotional and psychological stuff I had not even heard of.
During the last week of November I was handed my ticket back to the
world. I went to Chu Lai and just waited.
Semi-morbid, waiting for dead
guys. I couldn’t remember any names but I couldn’t forget the explosive
body
ripping images of people being blown up by a Bouncing Betty. I
could have jumped on a plane and flown to Cam
Ranh bay but I needed to
know, I wanted to see how many Charlie company boys would show up.
After five days
it was clear I was on a flawed mission. Some of the
boys had been wounded, some had finished their time in the
service,
some had transferred or extended. I had only my memories void of the
names that went with them.
I flew to Cam Ranh bay. As the C-130 was about 5 minutes from the
runway I saw smoke coming from the
electrical panel. I was about to
inhale the smoke but decided I might some day want to run for political office.
Everyone in the cargo department was asleep except for me. I went to
the back ramp where the crew chief was
catching ZZZZ’s and gently woke
him. He startled awake and looked at me with contempt. C-130's are loud and
there was to much noise to yell so I stepped to the side and pointed to the smoking electrical panel just
behind the
pilots cabin. At this point the crew chief became the leader
of all the panic that would visit the C-130 over the next
5 minutes and I
had a front row seat.
The crew chief jumped up to run to the front of the plane where the
smoke was as he reported to the pilots on his
headphone setup. His cord
got tangled up and it unplugged before it broke. He had to come back
and plug it in
causing additional disturbance which alerted more people
on the flight to our crisis. The crew chief was in charge
and aggressively recruiting sleep deprived partners for the growing panic on the plane. Although panic is an
understandable result of being trapped on a burning C-130 in flight it does not solve the problem. We were still in
the air and the electrical panel was still smoking.
When we landed everyone was lined up behind the side door I had been
sitting beside when I noticed the smoke.
Everyone wanted to be the first
out of the plane. I stayed the last in line figuring I would have soft
injured bodies
to land on.
I timed our landing from when our tires first touched the ground
until we stopped, got off and firemen in silver
suits were getting on
the plane with hoses. The landing and evacuation took less than 30 seconds. When my feet
touched the tarmac I walked away from the C-130 and never looked back. I did not know or care what happened
to the C-130.
I checked in with the freedom bird people and was told I would be on
the first flight the next day. About one month
earlier I had put a 10
pack of Nuc Mao’s in my wallet. Nuc Mao’s are Pall Mall size prerolled
joints that come in a
pack of 10 for $1.50. I was afraid of being
searched getting on or off the plane so I went to the beach and smoked
every last one of them. It was a mission. Not to get stoned but to get
home.
The USO or other people who do these kinds of things organized a
party for the departing veterans inside a large
brightly lite building. You would think light radiated outward but in this case I saw it as a
big fucking magnet attracting
every unpinned grenade in Charlie's kingdom. It was like the headquarters of the galactic solar exchange.
Nobody needs
that much light for anything. They could cover up a black
hole and have light left over. The light was strong enough to
hold up the ceiling without the walls.
The Biscuit Bitches provided food, music, entertainment and
nonalcoholic drinks for the party. Three times I made it
to the door and looked in
at the R E M F’s (Rear area mother fuckers) smiling and telling lies
about their imaginary
“cop a feel” from a round eyed Donut Dolly. The
doorway, the line between light and dark, was like the Concertina
wire that separated an LZ from the
bush. Once I stepped into the light, once I crossed that wire, Charlie would have
the upper hand. If Charlie hung around after first contact we would fuck him up but
Charlie was smart, he would hit
and run, or place a mine and di di mau. He rarely presented a target.
In my High school yearbook I am listed as the outstanding male
personality of the senior class “66″. Now, less than
three years later,
I am the king of paranoia and antisocial behavior who cannot make
myself attend a party on my own
behalf.
I flew back to the world at the end of November 1968. I had an aisle
seat and as the plane lifted off I reached across the
chest of the
person in the window seat and flipped off the whole fucking country. I
was crying and I couldn’t talk to the
guy beside me. I think I freaked
him out. We didn’t talk for the entire flight. When we landed at McCord air force base
In Washington State we all clapped. Four hours
later I was out of the army and hopping a plane to Portland Oregon. I
don’t know if I will ever really come home.
My brother and sister-in-law picked me up at the airport. They gave
me dinner and a piece of floor to sleep on.
I ran patrols all night
long.
The next day I called my mother to check in. She told me that my
best friend from High School was in Portland being
fitted for his prosthetic arm. We had played football and basketball together. We
spent every weekend together. We took
basic training in Fort Lewis
Washington together. He went to Ft. Polk for jungle training and then
joined The Big Red
One. After running patrols for nine months he lost
his right arm in a night time battle.
I hooked up with my high school friend and we spent all day
together. Late that night we were at a bar and grill in
downtown
Portland when a homeless drunk told me to go get a haircut. I blew my
top. My buddy helped hold me back.
I told the drunk that I hadn’t
killed anyone in a long time but I would make an exception in his case.
This was a lie as I
maintain I never killed anyone. I told him that 40 hours ago I was
in Vietnam finishing my one year tour and I don’t
remember seeing his sorry ass in my foxhole.
I was less than 40 hours out of the Nam and I was psyched to kill a
civilian for little reason. I did not know that this
kind of anger and hate would still be with me in 2008 at the age of 61. I never did come
all the way home and that’s
O.K.
At this time in my life the VA sends me Meds in the mail. I like to think of it as, the
people who go postal delivering
Meds so I won’t. If I went postal it
would be like some kind of a franchise infringement on the post office and I could
get in trouble.