Chapter 12 

(© 1996 Michael J. Horton. All rights reserved.)

Early the following week, I was put on detail as an armed guard on the truck that went to pick up our employees every morning at their village north of DBT. The assignment was easy enough since all I had to do was ride along with my M-14 while the driver went to the village and back. The nasty part was getting up at 4:30 in the morning so I could report to headquarters company by 5:00 A.M. I made it on time, however.

The air was cold and damp, and the sun had not yet broken the horizon. In the headlights of the truck, I could see tiny water droplets dancing sideways through the air. When the fourth man arrived, we departed in the 2-1/2 ton vehicle, rending the otherwise quiet night with the roar of our engine. I didn't know any of the other three men, but it was apparent to me by the orders he gave that our driver, a sergeant E-5, made this trip every day, while the rest of us were here only because our names had come up on some roster. Two of us had been picked at random to ride in the back, and the third man rode in the passenger seat of the cab. When we hit the highway and began to bounce through the potholes, it occurred to me I should have been smart enough to stand near the passenger door so I could have drawn the more desirable seat inside the truck. It certainly would have been warmer in there too, where the wind couldn't knife through my clothes. Only the driver had been wise enough to wear his field jacket.

About ten minutes into our trip, we passed the charcoal village that I had first seen on my expedition to Nha Trang with Snuffy. Only dimly could I make out the shapes of the shacks and ovens as we rattled by, since the sun was just now rising. When it got lighter, I could see that my companion's name was Ingram, and he, like me, was a PFC. He was holding his arms close to his sides and shivering. When we arrived at our destination, the village was just as I had remembered it, and the driver backed into the clearing from the road, so the truck was surrounded by huts in the form of a horseshoe, with us in the center. Behind the ring of dwellings were trees and dense underbrush, clearly visible from the back of the truck.

The driver climbed down and took the other man with him, instructing Ingram and I to remain where we were until he returned. The two disappeared between some huts, presumably to fetch our employees. Ingram came across the truck and sat next to me on the bench seat so we could talk. I learned that he worked with Snuffy in the motor pool, but he hadn't come with the battalion from Fort Bragg. Instead, he was a recent arrival, having been in country only two weeks longer than I. As we spoke, I noticed over his shoulder some Vietnamese men emerging from the woods at the back of the village. First, one, then two, then three came into view, marching in single file. They were heavily armed, and all wore black pajamas. By now, a total of ten men had appeared, not more than 200 feet from us. My mind raced frantically, and I fought back a feeling of panic in my gut, not knowing whether I should raise my rifle to shoot. The Viet Cong always wore black pajamas, so they must be VC. Yet they looked straight ahead and seemed to ignore us, or they didn't see us. As Ingram chattered on, oblivious to their presence, I knew I had to make a decision and fast. Then I decided: they weren't VC. I prayed to God I was right. By now, Ingram had followed my gaze to the back of the village, and he also caught sight of the line of dark figures. As he started to swing his M-14 up to his shoulder, I put my hand on the muzzle of the weapon and pushed it down. "It's okay," I said softly. "They're on our side." I felt more confident about this now because they had closed within 100 feet and still seemed to ignore us. We watched in stony silence as the men marched by, not farther than twenty feet from the truck. At the highway, they turned left and walked north, still in single file. I finally felt as though I could breathe again, normally.

"That was pretty scary," Ingram said. I couldn't have agreed more, but I said nothing. When the others returned a few minutes later, neither Ingram nor I mentioned our encounter with the shadow figures, since there was nothing we could say that wouldn't have betrayed our inexperience. A total of ten villagers climbed into the back of the truck, and we departed. Still feeling a little edgy, I was happy to be surrounded by so many bodies, for obvious reasons. Aside from getting hit up for a few cigarettes, the ride back to DBT proved uneventful.

In the afternoon, Lew left the office to run an errand, and when he returned, he was in a rage. After he stopped swearing and thrashing objects around on his desk, Steiger asked him what the problem was. "That damned supply sergeant," he said. "That's the problem. Last week I DX'd a pair of leather boots and a pair of jungle boots. When I went to pick up the new ones today, he only gave me the leather boots. He said he knows I've got another pair of jungle boots, and I'm only supposed to have one pair. I knew I couldn't trust that lifer." Having said this, Lew just sat in his chair, fuming. After several minutes, he arose and walked to Steiger's filing cabinet, where the pay records for headquarters company were kept.

"What are you doing?" Steiger asked.

"Oh, nothing," Lew replied, pulling a two inch thick file from the drawer. "I thought the supply sergeant's pay records might need to be audited, that's all."

A big smile came over Steiger's face. "Good idea," he said.

Lew started with the bottom voucher and worked upward, meticulously examining what must have been three or four years' worth of pay slips. Returning to work, I lost track of Lew's activity until two hours later, when he carried the file to Steiger's desk. "Bingo," Lew said, pointing to a voucher in the middle of the folder. "The sergeant received an advance partial payment of $300.00 when he PCS'd from Fort Leonard Wood to Fort Bragg two years ago. It was never collected from his monthly pay."

Steiger carefully went through all the ensuing pay vouchers, one at a time, to confirm the oversight discovered by Lew. "You're absolutely right," Steiger finally said. "Well, if it has to be collected, there's no time like the present."

"I hope the sergeant enjoys his $300.00 boots," Lew said, returning to his desk. With Lew's lust for blood apparently slaked, a sense of normalcy returned to the pay section.

I was the last to leave for the barracks after work, and when I arrived, a small huddle was taking place around Ales' cot. Snuffy was there talking to Ales, Steiger, and Wallace. When I walked up, the group fell silent and looked at me, expectantly. "What?" I asked, raising my hands.

"Ingram told us about your little encounter in the village this morning," Snuffy said. "Ingram said he almost wet his pants when he saw those guys in the black pajamas."

"So," I said.

"So, the question is," Snuffy said, "how did you know those creeps were on our side and not VC?"

"That's simple," I said. "They didn't kill us."

"What do you mean?" Steiger asked.

"Well, they obviously saw us a long time before we saw them," I replied. "If they hadn't been on our side, we'd have been dead." A look of pained understanding came across their faces, as the truth of my words sank in.

"I'm not sure I needed to hear that," Ales said, gloomily. "I drive around in the countryside a lot." I patted him on the shoulder.

"You'll be okay," I said.

The rest of the week I spent most of my spare time preparing for the soldier of the month panel to be held on Saturday, June 10th. I reacquainted myself with the general orders and guard procedure, learned for the first time the chain of command between me and President Johnson, and mercilessly polished and re-polished the pair of leather boots I never wore for everyday use. I read every issue of the Stars and Stripes I could find, hoping to master the diverse world of current events as told from that organ's perspective. Tidbits that I read and stored in my mind involved two British plane crashes within 12 hours of one another, in which 88 and 72 people had died, respectively. Also, a tearful Lucille Ball had accepted her second Emmy in 14 years for "The Lucy Show." Israel had gone to war with the surrounding Arab states on Monday, June 5th, and, on the same day, the Dow Jones Industrial Average of 30 stocks had fallen 15.54 points to close at 848.22. I was convinced that these were the sort of solid facts that would give me a leg up on my competitors.

Sergeant Johnson made good on his word and returned to me a pair of pressed fatigues that were so starched I could hardly push my hands and feet through the sleeves and legs, so flattened and board-like had they become. Where this fabric petrifaction process had been performed, I had no idea, but I was certain it was some secret place known only to NCO's of stature. When the day finally arrived, I was as well prepared as I felt I could be.

The panel I was introduced to consisted of three officers and three NCO's, none of whom I knew, probably because they were drawn from all five of the battalion's companies, most of which were outside Cam Ranh and DBT. To have gathered people from so far away was an indication to me of the seriousness of the proceeding, and this was also reflected in the demeanor of the panel. I put on my gravest face and answered all the questions the best I could, without hesitation. They hammered away particularly at current events, a subject I knew well enough to answer every question except one. Oddly enough, when I was dismissed, I felt the panel hadn't grilled me sufficiently or given me a chance to show what I knew, which made me apprehensive about the outcome. It just seemed to be over too fast.

I returned to work at personnel without changing my uniform in case the panel should call me back. Barnett told me I looked "spiffy," and Alvarez called me "pretty boy." Steiger and Lew subjected me to other weird criticisms, having mostly to do with the color of my nose. About an hour passed before Sergeant Johnson walked through the door and looked in my direction. I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach, and I hoped for his sake I had come in second, at least. He marched to my desk, looking very serious. Then, extending his hand, he smiled and said, "Congratulations, you won. You're soldier of the month." Slightly flustered, I shook his hand and blushed at the same time, not knowing what to say. Steiger, Alvarez, Greenley, and the others all clapped in a show of support, which surprised me.

"It was your knowledge of current events that put you over the top," Johnson said. "That's what the panel told us." Still shaking my hand, he seemed genuinely proud of me, as a father would be of a son. Thank God for current events, I thought to myself. Years hence, maybe my epitaph should say: Current Events Are Happening Every Day.

June 10th proved providential for me in another way, for that was the day my promotion orders had been issued by the 35th Engineer Group, elevating me to Spec-4. Greenley assured me the promotion had nothing to do with my winning the contest, since the promotion board had met several days before that event. I didn't realize until I became a Spec-4 how happy I was to shed the title "PFC." Everyone uttered it always with such contempt, saying things like, "Hey you, PFC." Now, I felt my probation was over.

Little happened of consequence between the day of my victory and the day I left for Vung Tau on my three day in-country R&R. Of course, there was the overtime work on the 13th and 14th of June, as we made our big push to complete the payrolls by mid-month, an effort hampered by the continued transfer of men into and out of the battalion. Also, the following week, the battalion received vague reports that an enemy attack might occur during the dark of the new moon, the VC's favorite time for hostilities. As a consequence, we began putting more men on guard duty, and all of us came up on the roster more often. One night when I was on the northern perimeter, General Bishop, the commanding officer of the 18th Engineer Brigade, toured the road along our perimeter with his entourage, and he sent several of his officers into our bunker, presumably to raise our morale. While edging around a cot to shake my hand, one of the officers hit his head a good whack on the ceiling beam, and it was all we could do to contain our laughter until the visitors were out of hearing. We all agreed, however, that the incident had improved our morale immeasurably. Fortunately, no attack ever occurred, so we soon cut back to our normal complement of guards. Finally, my Vung Tau travel orders came through, and I departed with a small valise on Friday, June 23rd.

It was a pleasant change to move about the country without my M-14 and field file. Also different was my mode of transportation out of DBT, a C-123 fixed-wing cargo plane that I caught at the airstrip on the other side of the compound. Powered by two turbojets and two piston engines, this aircraft looked like a real piece of junk, yet it seemed quite air worthy as the pilot lifted us off the ground. Since I could see nothing from where I sat in the cargo area, I was glad the first leg of our trip went quickly. We landed just north of Saigon at the giant Tan Son Nhut airport, said to be the busiest airfield in the world at the time, primarily because of the military traffic. There was no central terminal that I could see. Instead, I was directed to a flight scheduling center in a medium-sized shed, where I turned in another copy of my orders and awaited onward movement to Vung Tau. The flight center was busy, with about 20 other men waiting for transportation at this one location alone. I sat outside on a bench with my bag, but it was difficult to see the entire airport complex because my view was cut off in all directions by small shacks and buildings.

Numerous planes took off and landed only 200 feet from us on the runway, which I could see horizontally through only a 90 degree arc in front of me. Suddenly, I heard the full-throttle sound of jet engines to my right. All of us waiting there turned and saw a Cathay Pacific 707 passenger jet flying directly above the runway. The plane was level and only twenty feet off the ground as it flew by our position at about 300 miles per hour, making an earsplitting noise. The aircraft didn't appear to be taking off or landing because it went neither up nor down but stayed the same height off the runway as it flashed by, billowing dark jet fumes behind it. It was a truly amazing sight. I never saw whether the plane took off or landed since it disappeared from sight behind a shed to my left.

The aircraft assigned to take me to Vung Tau was a C-130 cargo plane, powered by four turboprops. About 50 percent larger than the C-123, it looked remarkably similar in its configuration. I was surprised to find I was the only passenger. My seat was facing forward in front of the cargo area, and it was just behind and four feet below the platform on which the pilot and copilot sat. From my position, I could overhear the two pilots talking before they began their preflight instrument check. Both aviators wore nylon flight suits. As he stowed his thermos bottle, the older man, a colonel, was telling the younger man, a major, that he was thinking about buying a piece of land in the Sierra mountains in anticipation of his retirement. The major folded up a newspaper, which was not the Stars and Stripes, and secured it in a document holder to his right, all the while making cogent comments about the land acquisition proposed by the colonel. No one who overheard this dialogue would ever have guessed these guys were in a war zone. Instead, they sounded like civilians flying mailbags from Hong Kong to San Francisco on Slick Airways. For these cargo jockeys, it was probably just another day at the office.

After we landed around mid-afternoon, I was taken by bus, along with some other men at the airport, to the R&R center in downtown Vung Tau, where we were deposited at the gate. A representative of the center who met us there explained that we could stay at the center for free, or, if we chose, for $12.00 we could take accommodations at one of several hotels that were within walking distance of the center. The R&R facility was a regular, two story, concrete building surrounded by high barbed wire fences for security purposes. It's entrance was located on the southwest corner of the intersection of two city streets, and several MP's were stationed in a guard shack there to intercept intruders. Considering the fortress-like ambiance of the center, I found the prospect of staying in a civilian hotel irresistible. Most of us opted for hotels, and we left on foot in a group after receiving directions from the representative. As we walked, we were harassed by Vietnamese men operating small three-wheeled vehicles called "taxis." These contraptions were topless and could accommodate no more than two passengers. Quite conveniently, many of the taxis already had one occupant, a scantily dressed young lady, who, if my instincts were correct, was probably not a tour guide.

Upon checking into the hotel, the first thing I did was take a long, hot shower. I luxuriated in the warm water without worrying that its flow would suddenly cease, leaving me covered with soap, a constant fear back in DBT. As I dressed, I surveyed my room. One window, a wooden floor with no rug, a double bed with not so new blankets, an old chest-high dresser, a table with chair, one hanging bulb, and one night stand with chipped table lamp. Not four star, but definitely better than the barracks at DBT. Next, I went to a bar across the street for another treat, a mixed drink with hard liquor that I didn't have to steal from the officers. It tasted wonderful. When I had started out in the morning, I wasn't sure the trip would be worth the travel, but now that I was here, I was glad I had come.

The bar, like a cave, was but dimly lit, a condition appropriate perhaps to its activities. The place was crowded with GI's, most of whom I guessed were also on R&R. Music was provided by a Vietnamese band that played western rock and roll badly, but with volume and too few intermissions. Vietnamese waitresses served the tables, and a dozen prostitutes alternately sat in groups or walked among the customers, trying to drum up business. To be honest, many of the hookers were quite beautiful, probably because they were only 16 or 17 years of age. Many wore the ao dai as well, which only added to the allure. I was not surprised that many men left the bar hand in hand with these young ladies. God knew, far smarter have succumbed to less temptation. For my part, I was content with my drink, being, as I was, wise beyond my years.

At the bar, I struck up a conversation with a sergeant E-6, who was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam. He was also on R&R and staying at the center. I was surprised to learn from him that most of the prostitutes who worked the bars, especially the younger ones, were put into the trade by their families. By agreement, ninety percent of a girl's earnings were withheld and saved by the madam. When the contract was up, usually a period of two to three years, the girl was returned to her family, along with a substantial sum of money. Although the girl, afterwards, was considered by society to be tarnished, the sergeant assured me the practice was considered to be an honorable tradition. My guess was, the more desperate the family's condition, the more honorable the tradition. I stayed, drinking, far longer than I should have. Before going to sleep in my genuine, if somewhat lumpy, bed, I took another warm shower, as if I could stockpile the experience.

When I arose on Saturday, it was after 10 A.M., and I had a mild hangover. It was nice to awake naturally and not be drummed out of bed by the sound of reveille at the crack of dawn. I realized happily that I could sleep late another two mornings before I had to return to DBT. After taking yet another shower, I checked out of the hotel and into the R&R center. I did this primarily because I was afraid I would run out of money before my three days were over, but also because the hotel's lack of security bothered me. We heard tales all the time of GI's getting killed in civilian establishments by satchel charges and other means.

At the R&R center I was assigned to a long, narrow dormitory lined with double bunk beds on the second floor. The center was very clean, relatively modern, and it had hot water. From the bank of windows behind the beds, we could see the three-wheeled Vietnamese taxis standing across the street near the entrance to the center. All the men entering or leaving our building were subjected to the entreaties of these local entrepreneurs, who offered transportation around town or to the beaches. As before, many of the taxis were occupied by young prostitutes waiting for customers.

On the ground floor, the center had a bar that was decorated in a tropical motif and that opened every day at 10 A.M. to accommodate the alcoholic bent of the vacationing GI's. Other than drinking, the primary pastimes were playing cards, shooting pool, reading, and sleeping, all relaxing enough activities. For the adventurous, there was sightseeing around the city by taxi or on foot, an alternative that most of us chose not to explore because of our fear of the unknown and our unwillingness to take unnecessary chances. A few men traveled to Back Beach and the R&R Annex there, called the Beachcomber Club, but most stayed at the center or walked to nearby Vietnamese bars. I found myself sleeping off and on throughout the day.

After idling away Sunday, I left for DBT on Monday at 9 A.M., wishing I could stay longer. The return trip was also through Tan Son Nhut, and the two air legs were flown on C-123 cargo planes. I arrived at the barracks just after 3 P.M., tired but relaxed. As I looked around the familiar surroundings, I was glad I had gone away for a few days. Somehow, I felt renewed enough now to go on doing my job another few months, either until my battery ran down again or until my mind snapped, whichever came first. As I was unpacking my bag, Ales came into the barracks to get something from his wall locker. "Hey, you're back," he said. "How was Vung Tau?"

"Very relaxing," I said. "You should try it sometime."

"See, you went away and missed all the excitement," he said, smiling. "Some guy in the barracks next to the mess hall was cleaning his M-14 at lunch time and discharged a round right through the wall of the mess hall."

"Good Lord," I said. "Was anybody hurt?"

"No," he replied. "The bullet ricocheted around the mess hall several times and came to rest in the wall. But you should have seen everyone hit the floor. It was hysterical."

"I'm glad I missed it," I said.

The next day at work, PFC Harris from D company reappeared to have his BAQ started, so his wife could receive her monthly allotment. "Did you bring the marriage certificate?" I asked.

"Yes, I did," he said, holding out a folded piece of paper. I took a BAQ form from my filing cabinet and sat down at my typewriter. I unfolded the marriage certificate and examined it carefully. Everything appeared to be in order, except it was not a certified copy. "Look," I said to Harris, "your wife sent you an uncertified copy. I can't use this." He stared at me, expressionless, for a moment.

"This isn't any good?" he asked.

"It looks great," I said, "but the law requires me to have a certified copy before I can start your BAQ." His face sank, as though he had been rendered powerless. "If it will help any," I said, "I'll write some instructions for your wife so she can get the document we need." On a blank sheet of paper, I wrote instructions telling Mrs. Harris to go to the county court house in the county in which the marriage took place. Next, I told her to go see the county recorder and to tell someone in that office that she needed a certified copy of her marriage certificate. "There," I said to Harris, "send this to your wife right away, and when you get the certified copy, come back immediately." He took the piece of paper and left, still looking somewhat downcast. I felt sorry I couldn't use the marriage certificate he had come with, but then, I didn't make the rules.

Bizarre pay episodes continued to plague us. The following night at 3 A.M., Steiger and I were waked by the duty NCO who told us that Sergeant Greenley wanted to see us in the personnel office immediately. When we arrived, Greenley was there with the duty officer and one of the battalion chaplains, who seemed decidedly agitated. The chaplain told us he had received an emergency call by radio from the Red Cross in the United States just minutes before at battalion headquarters. The Red Cross, it seemed, had received a frantic telephone call from the parents of one Sergeant Pelosky, an NCO stationed in Cam Ranh with D company. The parents had called the Red Cross to find out if their son had been killed, the chaplain explained.

"Have we had someone killed?" Steiger asked.

"No, I don't think so," Greenley replied. Turning to the chaplain, he said, "Tell them why the parents think he's dead."

"His mother and father received a check in the mail from the Treasury Department for $6,875.00," the chaplain said. "The check was payable to them, but it had the son's name as a reference. Because it was such a large sum of money, the parents feared it was a death benefit."

"I looked at Pelosky's pay record," Greenley said, pushing the manila folder toward Steiger and me. "There's nothing in there that helps at all." Together, Steiger and I perused the file for several minutes, until we found a record that made Steiger begin laughing uncontrollably. When I saw what he was looking at, the whole thing fell into place.

"Well," the chaplain said impatiently.

"Not to worry," Steiger said. "He's not dead, he just re-uped. You remember, Sarge. Horton and I processed this guy's re-enlistment bonus about six weeks ago, and he had us instruct Indianapolis to send the bonus check to his parents so they could put the money in his bank."

"Of course," Greenley said. "That was the E-6 that re-enlisted for six years so he could get the maximum bonus."

"Can you believe that," Steiger said. "That idiot never told his parents to expect the check. No wonder they were scared."

The chaplain was very relieved by our explanation, and he promised to contact the Red Cross immediately. As he departed, wringing his hands, he said, "Those poor people."

"You see," Steiger said, looking straight at me, "that just proves what they always say."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"Guys who are too stupid for the infantry are assigned to the engineers. That's why the engineers are called `muckers,'" he said.

Greenley listened with little amusement to Steiger's theory. Pushing us out the door and turning off the light, he said, "Get some sleep and don't be late in the morning."