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The brass came by, proclaiming their message of war. “When the NVA pounces, we’ll dump air and arty on him and wipe him out.”  Lt. Martinez, a veteran presence with four years in-country, didn’t share the line. Martinez was of a mind that you had to be a little smarter than to raise a baiting operation in the Dog’s Head. He spoke with amused vehemence as if he understood everything from the beginning. “Firebases are not a good place. No real cover, no room to maneuver, no chance to flank the other side.”  I didn’t think much of it at the time; my fear was an attack before Jay was hardened. After the last-light patrol sallied forth, it was time to wrap. Col. Hannas, who was not above taking point, was there to check the night readiness of the men. He eyed Thumper (my M79 grenade launcher): “Are you ready to go, son?” “Yes, sir.” “It’s damn hot.” “Yes, sir.” “Do you need anything?” “No, sir.” “Notice anything in the bush?” “No, sir.” “I like your attitude. Show me what you can do.” He p

“The great question is: How can we win America's peace?”—Richard Nixon, Address to the Nation on the War (November 3, 1969) J. R. and I hopped on the world stage when we walked down the steps of a Flying Tiger 707 at Cam Ranh Bay, a humongous seaside base, 180 miles NE of Saigon. No flowers or open arms, just “You are now in the Republic of Viet Nam.” Commies weren't coming for us, we were coming for them. Neither poets nor conquerors, we were gonna make a statement, even a bad one. Funny people, strange smells, nothing I could have invented. The weather was nice. A jeep drove us to a two-story barracks. We shared a blank room on a floor with fifty other guys, picked out beds from scattered empties, and lived out of duffel bags. Each morning after chow, the guys in the barracks lined up outside in roll call formation. A bitch box (bullhorn) called out names. Done for the day, if yours didn't come up. Night-time, we climbed a fifty-foot tower to pull guard with no ammo! They

My life as a company clerk may not have been sexy, but it was the most sought after job in Vietnam. (Killer wanted it bad, but never got his chance.) Besides the full-time job of taking care of company business, I was mother confessor and personal vending machine. “Can you get me a Swiss knife?” “How about a Rolex?” “Any rings?” “Camera?” “A pipe?” If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. “I’ll give you a gook ear for an SKS.” “A TV?” “Chocolate covered cherries?” I’d been running in a thousand different directions when I put away the typewriter and hit the sheets. I was asleep in seconds. Sometime later, I began to dream:  It was raining. My wife offered a ride in our Impala. I said, “I’ve been expecting you,” and got in. Her hair was mussed and she was wearing clothes she wore the day I left for Vietnam. We drove on and smoked cigarettes. Someone was in the back sleeping. My wife stopped outside our apartment and grabbed my wrist. I tried to pull away. She tightened her ice-cold grip

Tanks for the memory Of crap games on the floor, Nights in Singapore You might have been a headache, But you never were a bore —from Rainger, R. and Robin, L. (1938). Thanks for the Memory [lyrics] You never know what you're gonna run into when you’re breakin' bush in the middle of a war. One fine morning, March second, I recall, the jungle was jungle. Then, Presto Mundo—a three-acre clearing with a road running through it. There was no bush on the sides of the road and no leaves on the trees. Agent Orange had been here—“Only you can prevent a forest.” The entire area had been bladed and sprayed extensively. Busybody U.S. engineers had created a wasteland, except for a big pile of logs and brush on the far side of the road, next to a termite mound. Lt. Martinez shouted, “We're makin' a combat assault on the road!” Huh? Against a road? The lead elements of Charlie Company stepped into the clearing. We glanced at each other. No traffic lights. Like obedient Civil War sold

On the sunny afternoon of 8 August 1970, a courier dropped the daily casualty report on my desk. The day prior, Charlie Company had been investigating a suspicious area in the bush. Capt. Martinez, who inclined toward the unusual, had set up an LP (listening post) away from the main body. An LP was the least popular assignment and most unsettling because the enemy owned the night.   Two of the newest men in the unit, an FNG (fucking new guy) and SP4 Pondextuer Eugene Williams, a vet from The Big Red One, were put out there in no man’s land like tethered goats, to pick up enemy traffic. They were huddled around their radio listening to the night noises for tell-tale signs when a Viet Cong snuck up and planted a mine. The blast took Williams' head off and critically wounded his companion. Doc Gerrits went out to check. Williams was done for, so he treated the wounded man.   Taking care of your buddies is utmost, but Williams’ friends were shaky because of recent enemy contact. “H

What am I doin' here? Please Mr. Custer, I don't want to go —from De Lory, A., Darian, F. and Van Winkle, J. (1960). Mr. Custer [lyrics] Early February, 1970, our company was hacking through thick bamboo over our heads, deep in the stomping grounds of the 9th Division NVA (North Vietnamese Army), investigating some funny business the Duck had spotted in a locality we were unfamiliar with. Back in the world, Jean Dixon, the gossip prophet, had marked our regiment (Custer’s 7th Cavalry) for destruction. If that wasn’t enough, the anniversary of the Tet Offensive was also hanging over our heads. Late that afternoon, the point stopped chopping; I almost crashed into Bob. Something piqued the man’s interest—a fresh path. Normally, we didn't touch one, follow one, or cross one. Better to break bush than mix with heavy traffic and ignorant crowds. Patient, soft-spoken Capt. Jackson, our CO, didn’t waste lives to make a name or a point. He felt the weight of each man on his shoul

When it finally happens and it's over, As you stand there and think— Something so mutilated can't be human So it was dead enough without this But even here there is beauty A small flowered patch of ground, a bird's call And the grace of a butterfly Frustration and disappointment Become a laughable thing But always the conflicting emotions to smile Or say the hell with it and cry —SP4 Bob Jackson. The Hell with It. (1970)   In early December, we left Firebase Jamie with orders for a combat assault. Artillery subjected the LZ (landing zone) with high explosives to flatten the jungle. CS (tear gas) was not used. A Huey gets you to ground where there are no roads or rails. The next morning, five Hueys landed thirty feet apart on Jamie's dirt strip and began inserting us into the LZ, not too awfully far away.   Landings are high speed—choppers touchdown barely a few seconds before lifting off. We scrambled out and made a bee line for the wood line, forming into platoons