Chapter 13 

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

The next day I had the opportunity to process travel vouchers for ten incoming men who were replacing engineers transferred to other battalions. I had done travel pay on several occasions but only one or two men at a time, so this proved a true test of my skills, particularly since these replacements had used every manner of conveyance known to man. Some flew or drove, while others had gone by bus or train. In the end, I managed all the vouchers according to the rules, which made me feel confident. While this was going on, Steiger announced that a Filipino band would be playing at our club on Saturday night, the 8th of July. This news seemed to cheer all the replacements hanging around my desk, but for the life of me, I didn't know why, since they had just arrived from the U.S. Little could they have known how welcome this event would be for the rest of us, desperate as we were for any form of diversion.

When payday arrived at the end of the month, the financial bomb that Lew had planted detonated, as scheduled. The supply sergeant arrived at personnel in an agitated state. From the back of the office where the pay clerks sat, we could see him standing in front of Greenley's desk, ranting and waiving his pay slip around. Greenley took the paper and examined it closely. After several minutes, he had the sergeant sit in a chair near his desk while he brought the voucher back to us. Without going into the background details at all, Steiger explained to Greenley that an uncollected partial payment had been found in the sergeant's pay file quite by accident, and the $300 owing had been collected at the first opportunity. Steiger pulled the folder and showed the uncollected payment to Greenley. "That's all well and good," Greenley said to Steiger in a hushed voice, "but we could have collected it over a two month period so the man would have some spending money. As it is, he received only $37 after the collection."

"Gee, I had no idea there'd be so little left," Steiger said, looking as concerned as possible.

"Well, it's done now," Greenley said. "He'll have to make do until next month."

As Greenley turned to go to his desk, Lew said under his breath, "Have his wife send him some money."

"What?" Greenley asked, turning back.

"Oh, nothing, Sarge," Lew replied. "I just said life is funny. I mean, you know, the way things work out." With a perplexed look on his face, Greenley went back to his desk with the pay file. We could see him going over the pay record with the NCO, explaining the details as patiently as possible. The supply sergeant, having been well aware of the uncollected payment for some 18 months, was in no position to dispute the action taken, so he was calmer now, though clearly not happy. Saying he was going to the latrine, Lew stood and walked to the front of the office, where he made a big show of being friendly and saying hello to the supply sergeant, before going out the door. Obviously, Lew wanted the unfortunate man to know without doubt who had dented his fender. Nothing like a little salt in the wounds, I thought.

On Sunday morning, I was stirred from a dead sleep by the sound of voices nearby. I looked at my watch in the pale dawn light and saw it was 5 A.M., less than an hour before reveille. Lifting my head, I could see from behind some person talking to Ales, who was sitting up and pulling on his boots. Ales and the other man walked past my cot and stopped at Steiger's bed, some 30 feet away. As the two shook Steiger awake, I glimpsed the face of the second man, and it was Nash, our legal clerk. Steiger seemed annoyed at being deprived of his sleep, but, after some muffled discussion with Nash, he began to dress. I had no idea what was happening, but if Nash was involved, it had to be some nefarious activity, for certain. As soon as the three left, the stillness of the barracks lulled me back to sleep.

Later, during our personal development session, I became bored with the topic and was looking around at the throng in attendance, when I spotted Ales and Steiger surreptitiously slipping into the back of our group. The NCO in charge of training was going on about personal integrity and how we had to act responsibly in carrying out the tasks assigned to us for the sake of the larger mission, even if we couldn't see the "big picture." When this claptrap ended twenty minutes later, I went to the back, where I found Lew talking to Steiger and Ales. From what I could understand of the conversation, Nash had been trying to peddle American beer to the Vietnamese in Ba Ngoi village on Q/L 1, south of the My Ca bridge, at 1 A.M., when, for some unknown reason, he had driven his 3/4 ton truck into a ditch. Not having been able to extricate the vehicle after valiant efforts, Nash had spent the next several hours hiding about 60 cases of beer in some distant shrubbery so it wouldn't be stolen while he went for assistance. Steiger and Ales had spent most of the morning helping Nash retrieve the beer and the mired vehicle, aided by a winch on a larger truck. For their efforts, Nash had promised them a case of steaks, to be delivered at a later date.

"How did he get into the ditch in the first place?" Lew asked.

"Duh!" Steiger said. "You don't suppose he was drunk, do you?"

"You'd have to be drunk to be wandering around down there all by yourself at 1:00 in the morning." Ales added. Everything considered, I was glad Nash hadn't asked me to help him this morning. If he had, I would have turned him down, almost certainly.

A slightly unnerving incident occurred the following week. Around mid-afternoon, I had gone to the barracks to get a soda from my duffel bag, when Barnett came running through the door, short of breath. Steiger had sent him to tell me that Bill Waller, a man on the D company payroll, had come to the office looking for me. The name sounded familiar, but it didn't mean anything particular to me at first. Then I remembered the note Greenley had given me conveying Waller's desire to have his wife's BAQ allotment stopped. I had sent a reply to that first message. There had been two subsequent letters from Waller, neither of which I had answered. Oh, God, I thought.

"Maybe I'll di di mau and avoid this guy," I said. Barnett walked back to the door and looked out.

"I don't think so," he said. "He's almost here."

"Look, Barnett, don't take off," I said. "I want you to stick around in case this guy gets violent, okay?"

"Well...I guess so," he said, reluctantly.

What was I thinking? Barnett was so timid he couldn't even take care of himself in a jam. How was he going to protect me? Still, I felt more comfortable having him around, even if only as a witness. Waller opened the screen door and poked his head into the barracks tentatively, unsure if he was in the right place. "You Horton?" he asked. When I answered affirmatively, he made a beeline toward me. I was relieved to see he wasn't carrying any weapons.

"Look, I know why you're here," I said.

"I got another letter from my mother," he said. I explained the situation to him as patiently and as slowly as I could, repeating the key points about legal requirements frequently. To no avail. He still insisted I should stop sending money to his wife, and I was afraid that if I kept refusing, he would become enraged and beat on me. I could see our discussion would soon hit a dangerous impasse, and I knew I had to find a solution.

"Let me ask you something, Waller," I said. "Does your mother like your wife?" He looked at me, surprised by the question.

"No, not really," he said.

"Has your mother ever liked your wife?" I asked.

"No, I don't think so," he said. After a short pause, he added, "My mom sure didn't want me to marry Yolanda, I know that. She said she wasn't good enough for me." I waited a while to let the direction of this dialogue sink into his brain.

"Did it ever occur to you," I said, "that your wife might not be doing all the things that your mother says she's doing?" Waller stared straight at me without saying a word, but it was apparent by the look on his face that the wheels were spinning inside his head. To make them turn even faster, I posed another question. "How were you and your wife getting along before you came to Vietnam?"

"Well...pretty good," he said, somewhat reflectively.

"You know, Waller," I said, "maybe you ought to have a little more faith in your wife. Your mom may not be telling you the truth about all this. After all, you'll be going home in a couple of months. Don't you think you can have a little patience and wait till you get home to find out for yourself what's really going on?" He looked at me as though this suggestion made some sense to him.

"Maybe you're right," he said. "I shouldn't believe everything my mom says. Sometimes she's just an old busybody." With that, he thanked me and left. I could tell that Barnett was relieved by the outcome.

As I looked at Barnett's face, it occurred to me that my little performance had persuaded even him that everything was okay with Yolanda. God, I felt terrible. How cynical I was, pulling the wool over Waller's eyes like that. Of course his wife was doing all those things his mother described--and probably worse. But what the hell. What harm was there in making Waller believe that everything was all right, especially if it gave him peace of mind while he finished out his tour? For most of us, being in Vietnam was a wretched business at best. We had to take our solace where we found it.

Later that week, one of the men in our communications section received some tabs of LSD in a letter from a buddy back home. Anyway, that was the buzz going around our barracks. Several of these commo guys had cots up near the front door, where our ammunition lockers were. Most of us in headquarters company didn't know the commo people very well because they stuck to themselves for the most part. Also, the commo operation ran in three shifts, around the clock, so these men never pulled guard duty, which the rest of us resented. In addition, these guys thought they had elite positions because they were privy to most information coming into and going out of the battalion and their operation was off-limits to everybody else. The communications tent, which stood two doors down from our barracks, was shrouded in secrecy, an attribute that the men themselves sought to wear like a mantle.

I could tell something was up by the cluster of people around one man's cot and the furtive whispering they tried to conceal from the rest of us. All but two of this whole group had dispersed by the time I left for the movie area at 7:30 P.M., and this pair was sitting on a cot listening to music on the radio. As I passed by on my way to the door, I noticed that one of the men seemed to be staring straight ahead into space, not paying any attention whatever to his companion. On top of that, his mouth hung open as if he were asleep. This man, I concluded, had taken some LSD, and that's probably why he appeared so slack-jawed.

As I walked to the movie, I remembered the comments about drugs made by the man from C company who had talked to me on the beach near the EM club, my first Sunday in DBT. I thought for a moment, but I couldn't remember his name. He had been a nice guy though, I remembered that. He had said that drug use by the GI's was common, yet I had seen little evidence of it. Wallace and I had accidentally discovered a disposable, hypodermic syringe in a trash barrel near the latrine one day in May, but other than that, there had been no noticeable manifestations of drug use. Maybe the drug takers were incredibly secretive about their activities, and that's why there were so few signs. Certainly, none of the people I associated with were drug users--if you didn't count cigarettes and alcohol as drugs. Still, there were constant rumors about dope.

The movie started, and it was named The Group. As it unfolded, I perceived it was about the goings-on of some neurotic college graduates in the 1930's. This movie was not nearly as good as the one the night before with Frank Sinatra called Assault on a Queen, the kind of macho stuff we GI's really liked. About 40 minutes into the film, I became bored and decided to get another beer from my duffel bag.

As soon as I entered the barracks, I saw this pathetic kid, wearing only his boxer shorts, down on all fours on the floor next to his cot. He was stone still, but staring straight ahead at his wall locker. I stopped to see if he was going to move. He didn't. I stood there for three minutes or so, during which time the only sign of life was his breathing. There were only two other people at the far end of the barracks, and they seemed oblivious to this man's plight. Either that or they erroneously thought this guy had his wits about him. Realizing that nothing was about to happen that needed my help, I walked to my area and opened a beer. I sat on my cot and watched the horizontal figure about forty feet away. I felt very uneasy about the man's condition because it was obvious he was completely spaced out and possibly a danger to himself. Finally, I put my beer down and went to the end of the barracks to take matters into my own hands. I had determined to get the man on the cot at least. I spoke to him but received no response. I touched him on the shoulder, and he didn't flinch. Not knowing what else to do, I stood over his back, grabbed his body under the arms, and lifted. He was dead weight. After a considerable struggle on my part, I had him sitting on the cot, slumped over forward with his chest on his knees. Luckily for me, his underpants had stayed on. Surveying my work, I realized I couldn't leave him like he was, so I pushed his body sideways onto the cot and raised his legs. Now, I needed only to straighten him out a little, which I did, placing an arm down each side. At last, he looked reposed, but his eyes were still wide open, gazing at the roof overhead. Well, I thought, that's the best I can do, so I went back to my cot and sat down.

Rather than go back to the movie as I wanted to do, I decided to stay awhile and keep my eye on this helpless creature up the way. As the minutes ticked by, I felt increasingly annoyed, not understanding how I had become accountable for this man's well-being. Just then, a Spec-4 came through the door and went to the man's cot, where he stopped and looked down at the semi-naked, supine figure. I recognized him as the man who had been sitting with this zombie when I had gone to the movie. I saw my chance and walked immediately to his side. "Is this guy a friend of yours?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "We work together."

"I don't know why you went away and left him in this condition," I said. "He obviously has no idea where he is or what he's doing. I strongly suggest you and your buddies make sure someone is with him at all times until lights out." I could see by the Spec-4's expression that he was annoyed by my tone of voice and my giving him orders. He looked as though he wanted to tell me to go to hell. I hoped he would, because I was so angry by now that any reason to punch him would have suited me just fine. We glowered at one another, and I gave him ample opportunity to play the smart mouth, but he didn't. He sat on the cot next to his comatose friend and ignored me.

I retrieved my beer and returned to the movie. My bitching apparently did some good, for later I observed that at least one person was attending to the inanimate one at all times. The man must have regained his senses during the night because he was up and gone by the time I went to breakfast the next morning.

Sometime late Friday afternoon or early evening on July 7th, Lieutenant Hanson was killed in a jeep accident. We didn't hear about this until late Saturday morning, when the adjutant came to inform the personnel officer. The reality of his death didn't sink in for several minutes, and when it did, I felt sick at heart. I don't know why his dying should have affected me so much, except that I had gotten to know him personally, if only briefly, that night I had served drinks in the officers' club.

Little information was available to the enlisted ranks, but what we did learn was that Hanson had been driving the jeep, and Lieutenant Brigwight had been his only passenger. They had collided with a bridge abutment somewhere near Phan Rang, and both men had been thrown from the vehicle. Hanson's neck had been broken, as was Brigwight's collarbone. Both men had been drinking prior to the accident. No doubt the members of Hanson's family would be told he died in the line of duty, and, unless they made diligent inquiries, they would never learn he was intoxicated at the time. It was a very sad affair.

Hanson's death plagued my thoughts the rest of the day and was still on my mind when I went to the EM club at 8 P.M. to see the much heralded Filipino band. For that reason, I drank more than I should have, though considering the circumstances of the lieutenant's accident, moderation would have been a more logical response. I left the club early before the end of the show, and through the exercise of considerable forethought, common to drunks, I carried with me as I went out the door, one open beer and three unopened cans. As I attempted to reach the road in the dark across the driveway spanning the drainage ditch, I was prevented from doing so by a 3/4 ton truck taking the same route. Unfortunately for me, the vehicle started backing up toward me, and I had no doubt the driver couldn't see me, there being no moonlight. I yelled at the driver, while moving left to a safe position about six feet to the truck's side. Then, as though he hadn't heard me over the noise from the club, the driver maneuvered forward and backward once more, again coming straight toward me. I bolted to the right, this time spilling half my open beer down the front of my pants. I was so outraged, I let fly a string of obscenities calculated to insure that the chucklehead behind the wheel knew I was present and in danger. When I saw the brake lights flash on, I thought I had succeeded in making my point, and I felt quite proud of myself. Unexpectedly, however, the passenger door opened and someone dismounted in a hurry. The figure approached me in the dark, and I was horrified when I realized it was the duty officer. "Do you know who you're swearing at?" he screamed. It was obvious he was extremely upset. I quickly shifted all four beer cans between my body and my left forearm so I could salute with my right hand.

"I'm really sorry, Sir," I sputtered. "I had no idea it was you." I held my salute the whole time he vented his anger on me, threatening to report me for article 15 or to have me court-martialed. He may have even suggested that I be drawn and quartered for all I knew, so terrified was I at the thought of being disciplined. By now, the duty driver had come back to observe, and I saw it was Snuffy.

"Sir, I know his type," Snuffy said. "The worst thing you can do to this guy, whoever he is, is take away all that beer. That would teach him a lesson."

"That's not a bad idea." So saying, the officer wrenched the cans away from my body with both his hands, causing the open beer to fall to the ground. "If you ever swear at me again," he said, "you're going to the stockade. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I said feebly.

The officer turned and walked back toward the truck, leaving Snuffy behind momentarily. When the officer was out of earshot, Snuffy said, gleefully, "Horton, stop saluting. You look stupid." I dropped my hand, and it didn't even occur to me to thank Snuffy for helping me out of this jam. I was so mortified by the whole experience, I didn't move until they were gone. I made my way back to the barracks and opened a warm beer. I realized I had come through a close scrape with authority, and I vowed never to swear at anyone in the dark, ever again.

The next week produced for me an unexpected peril. After dinner on Tuesday, Barnett found me in the barracks and told me that Captain Simpson had a question about pay and wanted to see me in the personnel office right away. When I got there, he was alone in the office, working on some papers at his desk. He asked me to sit down and handed me a document that I recognized immediately as PFC Harris's uncertified marriage certificate. When I looked up from the paper, he took his cue to speak. "Harris and I are from the same small town in Illinois," he said. "I've known his family for years, so I told him I would talk to you about his situation." When I didn't say anything, he continued. "Harris got his girlfriend pregnant just before he left for Vietnam, but he didn't find out about it until he'd been here for over two months. When the girl's parents learned she was pregnant, they threw her out of their house. She doesn't earn much at her job, so she's desperate for money. That's why Harris wanted to get a BAQ allotment started for her." He looked at me expectantly. "Well, what do you think?" he asked. "Can we do that?"

"Well," I said, "technically he's not married."

"I know," he said, "but he's assured me that he plans to marry this girl as soon as he gets home. I believe he's honorable and will do the right thing." He sat quietly as I pondered the situation. I felt anxious, wanting to oblige the Captain, who was after all the personnel officer, but knowing at the same time it wasn't right. I could see how, from his viewpoint, the facts cried out for some kind of relief. In the end, I knew what I had to do.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said. "I can't do it." The disappointment was evident on his face.

"You can't or you won't?" he asked.

"Both," I answered. By now, his eyes had taken on an angry cast, as though he felt he was being defied by some underling.

"Why won't you do it?" he asked.

"Because," I said, "the prospect of my going to jail is not particularly appealing. What you're asking me to do is illegal."

"What do you mean?" he asked. Knowing his detachment from his job, I sincerely believed he might not understand the problem.

"Read the language on the BAQ form," I said. "When I sign that document, I am swearing under penalty of law that I have personally seen a certified copy of the marriage certificate." This response clearly set the Captain back, for he said nothing for a long time. Then, I could see a thought building in his mind.

"Can't I, as the personnel officer, order you to do it?" he asked. Though I tried not to, I couldn't help smiling at his naivete. Was he really expecting me to say yes?

"Sir, you should know the answer to that as well as I do," I said. "An illegal order is never required to be followed, even when given by an officer. They taught us that in basic training."

"Oh," he said. I couldn't tell from his response whether he didn't know the rule or was only testing me to see whether I knew it.

"I think I might have a solution to your problem though," I said.

"Really? What's that?" he asked.

"What if I type up the form, and you sign it," I said. "As the personnel officer, you could do that." I could see his whole body go rigid when I said this.

"No, you're right," he said. "If we can't do it, we can't do it." As I stood up to go, he said, "Horton, I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about this to anyone. We should keep it between ourselves...personnel matters, you know."

"Don't worry, Sir, I won't say a word. This is obviously a very sensitive matter, and we need to protect Harris's privacy."

"Of course," he replied. I was glad at last that we had agreed on something, even if it wasn't clear whom he thought my silence was protecting.

The rest of the week was spent finalizing the payrolls, which were ready for delivery to the finance center at 1:30 P.M. on the 15th. Under color of Greenley's authority, Lew and I hunted down Wallace and made him take us to Cam Ranh. Ales couldn't take us because he was on R&R in Australia, as was Steiger. The two had gone together.

We left the compound in a jeep, and I was forced to ride in the rear seat with the boxes containing the payrolls. As we drove along QL/1, Lew was telling Wallace and I about his R&R to Sydney and how he had been able to spend several days with an Australian family under a special program the army had there. We were about halfway to the My Ca bridge when I heard a sharp cracking sound in the air above our heads. Wallace must have heard it too because he slammed on the brakes and pulled the jeep off onto the shoulder. As we slowed down, Lew started beating Wallace on the arm and yelling, "Go, go, go. Get us out of here. Someone's shooting at us." Wallace gunned the engine and sped back onto the highway. We all ducked our heads down as far as we could without losing sight of the road.

After we had gone about a mile, and it seemed we were out of danger, Wallace said, "I thought I had a flat tire."

"I'm not sure what a bullet sounds like going through the air," Lew said, "but that wasn't a flat tire." I wasn't sure what had happened back there either. I only knew how scared I had been.

We made it safely to the My Ca bridge and on into Cam Ranh. Once we had delivered the payrolls, we discussed the matter among ourselves, and we all agreed we'd rather not waste time going to the PX or anywhere else. We decided the prudent thing to do was to head back to the compound immediately, which we did. All the way from the float bridge to DBT, we stayed low and traveled fast, as fast as the road would permit. Later, when this incident was discussed more calmly, a theory was propounded that maybe what we heard passing overhead had been a stray bullet from the small Korean camp we had passed a few minutes earlier. That was certainly a possibility. I knew for sure I would never be completely at ease on that stretch of highway again.