storeeze

“We take this action not for the purpose of expanding the war into Cambodia, but for the purpose of ending the war in Vietnam and winning the just peace we all desire.” —President Richard M. Nixon, Address to the Nation on the Situation in Southeast Asia (April 30, 1970) Out in the boonies, away from the gaiety of modern life, one perilous day bred another in Vietnam, a confused and horrible country that I had zero interest in. Imagine my delight, my joy, when Charlie Co.’s CO, Capt. Martinez, interviewed me for a job I never saw coming. I listened attentively. “Sgt. Andrew Barclay is going back to the world. We like your background, McClish. You’re high on our list. You can be the new company clerk if you want it and think you can handle it.” “I, uhm, think I want the job. Yes, Captain. Yes, sir!” What would life be without fetid water, oppressive heat and rain, random bouts of violence, maddening insects, flies everywhere, loathsome diseases, and beefy loads, where any moment could ...

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 ...

“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 in a strange land, nothing I could have invented. The weather was nice. A jeep drove us to a two-story barracks with a distinct lack of hominess. We shared a room 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 towe...

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. Sometime later, I had that dream again: It was morning. My wife offered a ride in our Impala. I said, “I’ve been expecting you,” and got in. Her hair was mussed. 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 and sobbed, “Borgo!” ...

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. We formed a hundred-yard-lon...

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 off Williams' head 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 contac...

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, Charlie 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. Mmm-hmm. Intuition is a funny thing. When you get that flash, “something isn’t right here,” you’d better listen. Normally, we didn't touch paths, follow one, or cross one. Better to break bush than mix with heavy traffic and ignorant crowds. Patient, soft-...

“For the times they are a-changin'”—Bob Dylan Yet that’s what began to be felt in Charlie Company after Bob took point at 0745 on April 6, 1970, a few miles from the Cambodian border. Circling overhead in his tiny scout helicopter, Lt. Col. Trobaugh thought he had the ideal LZ (landing zone) for the lift ships (helicopters) to pluck us from the strange, unsettling wonders of Vietnam's jungles. After a short while, Bob walked across an old Armored Personnel Carrier track and emerged onto a single-lane dirt road lined by thick vegetation on both sides. Footprints in the mud jumped up and hit him between the eyes. “Fresh NVA (North Vietnamese Army) slicks!” He was standing smack dab on the Ho Chi Minh Trail! The squad stopped. The platoon stopped. Bob ushered us back into the safety of the bush. We were suspicious of our new boss, Capt. Al Rice, 24, ranger and gungho martinet. He had a reckless air and been acting odd—not stoppin’ soon enough to set up an adequate night defensive ...