One Man’s Army

One night the attack on VC Isle was even more intense and prolonged than usual. Several B-52 strikes had supplemented the gunships, which seemed to be receiving fire. We had become accustomed to the pilots’ lingo, and our ears were glued to the PRK-25 as we watched the fire show. Suddenly a voice came across that seemed different than usual. A very deliberate but calm voice announced “Crispy Critters.” Someone quickly said that crispy critters was helicopter pilot lingo for a transmission lock. As soon as we heard those words a Huey fell like a brick from a hundred feet or so and erupted into a fireball. We were all in shock and quilt ridden. These guys were risking their lives nightly so we could drink beer, smoke pot, and eat like kings in relative safety. I will never forget that voice speaking those words. Basketball games were infrequent, but incredibly intense and physical. The concrete pad adjoining the bunker was rough and the edges sharp. Close friends didn’t go easy on each other; if anything, they were more aggressive. A broken leg or arm was the goal. I heard of a couple guys achieving their goal before I arrived, but all we had to show for our efforts were a few bumps and bruises. Jerry was the best all-around athlete in the unit. His team usually won the pickup basketball and football games. In a particularly hard-fought football-game he threw me a perfect pass, which I clumsily dropped. My teammates, as well as the other team and spectators, had several very derogatory comments to make about my athletic ability and sexuality. Jerry didn’t say a word. It was fourth down, and some of the guys in the huddle snickered when he said I’d be quarterback – he instructed me to go long. I had plenty of time to throw because most of the opposing team massed around Jerry. I just threw the ball as hard as I could in the direction Jerry was running. He never turned around as the ball sailed just over his left shoulder. He somehow pulled it in and ran for a touchdown. We won. Jerry went on and on about what a terrific pass I had made. He was a natural leader who had an uncanny ability to get the best out of people and make everybody feel good. It seemed he had little place in this man’s army. Even the missions became fairly routine. About half the time our names topped the roster we’d draw a fire base assignment, most of the missions weren’t too bad either. I went out a few times with the 2nd of the 60th for two or three days, usually encountering little or no contact. I thought I’d developed a sense for different areas and situations where walking point wasn’t suicide and Tequila could contribute to the safety of the troops. When we walked point, Tequila would run ahead about 50 yards, returning to me every five minutes or so, except when crossing rice paddies where he could run ahead on a dike and easily keep me in view. Much of the area we patrolled was scattered with isolated hootches or small villages. We’d often stop and interrogate the locals. I don’t know of any useful information obtained, but it did seem to give us some purpose. A couple times we were accompanied by civilian advisors, usually guys in their fifties who seemed very strange. I never knew if they were CIA, mercenaries, or what, but they always had de facto command of the units. Every hootch had cisterns filled with rainwater from the roofs. Some of the guys wouldn’t drink the water for fear of diseases and parasites and carried several canteens. The first few times I dipped into the cisterns I used purifying tablets, but they made the water extremely bitter and I soon drank the water untreated, with no ill effects. Many of the hootches had rice wine distilleries, and the occupants were always eager to share. If we were just passing through, we’d drink just a few ounces, but if we spent the night in the area, we’d get fairly snookered. Few Vietnamese peasants spoke English, and those who did, spoke just well enough to communicate basic thoughts. Since I spoke very little Vietnamese, it was impossible to have any meaningful conversations about more than if they had ID’s and if any VC were in the area. One thing that repeatedly caught my eye was that many hootches had a cross on one wall, a picture of Ho Chi Mihn on another, a few Buddha statues scattered around, and often a picture or likeness of Confucius. I frequently discussed these seemingly contradictory symbols with the infantry guys. Certainly, none of us were experts, but the general consensus was that over the past several hundred years many of the Vietnamese had picked up aspects of Confucianism, Catholicism, Zoroastrianism and Buddhism, and admired Ho Chi Mihn for driving out the Japanese and as a national figure. Most every hootch also had pictures and belongings of their ancestors with candles burning in their honor, evidently evolving from their Buddhist roots, but it just seemed to be more of a cultural than a religious thing. I was a conservative who believed that our mission was a noble one, if for no other reason than the global balance of power and the domino theory, but had to agree with my fellow soldiers that a vast majority of these Vietnamese didn’t give a hoot about any political philosophy – they just wanted to be left in peace to grow their rice, raise their families, and worship their ancestors. A few student-philosophers told me that the Vietnamese didn’t consider their kids to be a real part of the family until they were two years old. The Vietnamese all seemed to be devoted parents – it seemed that if that was somehow part of their beliefs it was only a mechanism to slightly lessen the grief they experienced with their high infant mortality rate.