storeeze

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, I almost crashed into Bob. The point had stopped chopping when he came upon a fresh path. Mmm-hmm. Intuition is a funny thing. When you get that flash, “something isn’t right here,” you’d better listen.  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 shoulders. He took no unnecessary...

“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 ...

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 air assault.  A Huey is the greatest invention since the wheel. It gets you to ground where there are no roads or rails, which is most everywhere.  The next morning, five Hueys landed thirty feet apart on Jamie's dirt strip.   I said to Bob,  “ I don't want to be killed on my first air assault. ” “ Artillery already cleared the LZ (landing zone). T he choppers touchdown 3-4 feet in the  LZ  for only a few seconds. Jump out and run kinda bent over for the wood line, ...

12:00 Noon. Fasting since last night. Swallowed two laxative tabs with eight ounces of water.  People always mean well. They wag their fingers and shake their heads, “Don't go skating." Toss my skates into the trunk. Strange gurgling from my abdominal region. 4:34 PM. The fast-lax was negatory. Toss back two more. Pick up the phone and call Richard. “What’s the big deal?” Richard laughs, "Just you wait!" Doc Klucka has to catch a mid-morning flight. I’ll have to report to hospital at 5:30 AM. I get to eat three hours sooner! Ten ounces ice cold Gatorade & forty grams of powdered antifreeze down the hatch. Ten more ounces. Forty more grams. 6:55 PM. And another one gone and another one gone and another one down the hatch. A call to the expert. Richard laughs manically, "No one escapes! Resistance is futile!" More bubbling. Pressure at both ends. Burps and hiccups. Running behind. No number two yet. Time to chug-a-lug number four, the yucky-tasty one. The...