As I mentioned in a few earlier posts, I am a veteran of the war in Vietnam. It was an ugly meat grinder of a war, fought for the wrong reasons, against the wrong people, and, predictably, it all went terribly wrong. I'm not smart enough to explain the the political, ethical or fiduciary reasons for the war, I'd just like to relate a few odd incidents that you might find interesting.
Incident #1
We had a 2nd Lieutenant, let's call him Lt. Smith, who served as my platoon leader for several months. He seemed to be a nice enough guy, considerate of his men, easy to talk to and not too eager to cover himself in glory. He was an educated man, with a degree from the University of Pennsylvania, and when we had some downtime he would usually spend it reading paperback books. He seemed like a completely normal guy.
If Lt. Smith had a quirk it was that he was madly in love with his college girlfriend. Whenever I talked to him the discussion would invariably turn to the love of his life. He carried a photo album of her and would whip it out at the slightest sign of interest. The photos depicted an attractive young woman in a variety of settings, on campus, at the beach, on the ski slopes.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" Lt. Smith would always ask me, after showing me her latest pictures.
"Yeah, she's a real looker."
"We're going to get married when I get back to the world."
"That's great, sir."
"We were going to get married before I came in-country, but I thought it best we wait, just in case."
"That's real sound thinking, sir."
One day Lt. Smith got a letter from his beloved, which contained a couple of more photos and mentioned that she and a few girlfriends were going to spend the weekend in upstate New York attending an outdoor music festival. As it turned out, the festival was Woodstock.
Just to remind those of you whose memories are shot, whose brain cells are fried, or who are in the early stages of Alzheimer's, Woodstock was the blow-out party of the 20th Century. It was a life-changing event for many people, changing their attitudes, redefining their reasons for existence and altering the trajectory of their lives. Apparently, Lt. Smith's girlfriend was one of the people who went to Woodstock and never looked back. Lt. Smith, who used to get a letter from his girlfriend every other day, never heard from her again, at least while he was in Vietnam. I doubt I've ever seen a sadder or more forlorn man.
Incident #2
Packages from home were always a welcome treat. We called them "Care Packages" and they usually came from parents, grandparents, wives or girlfriends. The packages contained everything from homemade cookies to bottles of whiskey, porn magazines to editions of hometown newspapers. My father once sent me a wicked-looking Buck knife with a fine leather sheath. I lost it a couple of months after it arrived.
There was a guy - let's call him Freaky Joe - who received a package from his girlfriend that contained a DayGlo paint set. Readers of a certain age will remember that DayGlo paints were all the rage for a time, especially with the psychedelic set. The paints glowed in the dark and were used for decorating t-shirts, making posters and face painting. I knew a guy in college who liked to get stoned, use Day-Glo paint to paint all of his teeth different colors and then go out at night and smile at people.
Anyway, Freaky Joe spent one afternoon smoking reefer and painting a Claymore mine with his newly-arrived paint set. A Claymore mine is a plastic shell filled with C-4 explosives and packed with hundreds of BBs or ball bearings. It was attached to a 50-yard-long cord that had a manually activated detonating device at its terminus. When the device was set off, the Claymore exploded with devastating power, shredding everything in its range.
Freaky Joe was sitting with a goofy smile on his face, a Claymore in his lap, painting stars, half moons, polka dots and stick figures all over the mine's outer shell. When asked what he was doing, Freaky Joe replied, "Just fucking around."
That night Freaky Joe's squad went out on night ambush. This was an exercise where a squad of eight men went out in the evening and set up an ambush along a well-traveled trail. Anybody who came walking by was in trouble. To be fair, the other side did the same thing.
Freaky Joe had his own idea of how to run a night ambush. He hung the painted Claymore mine in a tree, about head high. Then he went off about 40 yards, found a good place to hide, and , using his night vision goggles, waited for some poor soul to come by.
A while later, a lone Vietnamese came strolling along. He might have been an NVA regular, a Viet Cong or just a luckless farmer. The man saw something odd hanging in a tree, something unexplainable. It was a group of stars, half moons, stripes and stick figures, all twinkling and glowing in the dark. His curiosity obviously piqued, the man walked up to the glowing vision and pressed his face close to see what it was. At that point Freaky Joe activated the Claymore and blew the man's head off.
"Curiosity killed the gook," Freaky Joe said. The boys got a lot of laughs out of that one.
Incident #3
Every couple of months my company would be taken out of the field and taken back to Division Headquarters in Chu Lai for three days of rest and relaxation that was known as "standdown." There was plenty of relaxation but very little rest. It was basically a three-day beer bust, with lots of reefer and opium to grease the skids.
One of the best things about standdown was that Division HQ provided live entertainment, in the form of rock, country or R&B bands. The bands were generally from Australia, South Korea or the Philippines. I don't remember if they were any good, but they were always fronted by attractive female singers.
One of the rumors going around was that these singers also doubled as whores. We had just finished watching a performance by an Australian group that featured three very good looking singers. They played mostly Motown stuff and did a credible imitation of the Supremes. When the show was over, I huddled with a guy named Duffy and a 2nd Lieutenant, whom I'll call Bruce Diksas to spare him any undue embarrassment. We decided to take a shot at the the Aussie Supremes.
Lt. Diksas, being an officer and a gentleman, was able to commandeer the company jeep. Then he, Duffy and I went in search of the women.
"Oh, man, round-eyed women."
"Yeah, and two of them are blondes."
"Shit, man, I haven't seen a blonde in eight months."
"Did you bring the weed?"
"Brought a bottle, too."
"Oh, man, this is gonna be great."
"Fucking blondes, can you believe it?"
We finally located the entertainers' compound. It was a heavily guarded area of Airstream trailers enclosed by barbed wire. The only reason we were able to get inside was that Lt. Diksas pulled rank, telling the MP at the gate that we in search of an AWOL and had information that he might be in the area.
When we located the Aussie Supremes' manager, a greasy looking guy who resembled a debauched Oliver Reed, we made our offer.
"We'll give you a hundred and fifty dollars each for the three girls for the night."
The manager lit a cigarette - I remember it was a Salem - and considered our offer. He pursed his lips, rocked his head from side to side, squinted his eyes, and then finally broke our hearts.
"I'm sorry, lads. That's a nice offer, but the girls are playing the Field Grade Officers Club this evening and I'm sure we'll get a better deal."
I guess the old adage is true - rank does have its privileges. With apologies to General Sherman, war is, indeed, hell.
