Chapter 14 

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

The middle of July seemed to be an emotional turning point for the 14th Engineers, since the men who had come with the battalion originally and who had not been transferred to other units were all becoming short-timers, meaning the number of days they had left in Vietnam was dwindling rapidly. Their DEROS was about 70 days away. Short-timers' calendars began to appear everywhere--in the barracks, the personnel office, the motor pool--just about anyplace these men lived or worked.

The short-timer's calendar was not a calendar in the normal sense, that is, it did not display days and dates in a rectangular grid. Rather, it was a hand drawn picture of some everyday object such as a car, whose form was subdivided into small rectangular cells, each containing a number. A man who had 75 days left in Vietnam would break his picture into 75 cells and number them from 1 to 75. Every day he would color in the cell that corresponded to the number of days he had remaining, so that as his days diminished, his picture became more complete. The objects depicted in these calendars were often lewd, and a favorite seemed to be a naked woman, whose lowest numbered parts were those most prized by these sex-crazed deviates. Often the calendar was carried on the person like some valued possession, to be taken out and looked at frequently or to be displayed to others in a show of pride.

In July, the battalion received some strange replacements. First, there was PFC Altman, a lanky 20 year old kid from New Jersey who had been reassigned from Germany and whose original MOS had been missile technician. Naturally, we nicknamed him "rocketman." Why he had been sent to the engineers was a mystery to us and remained so, since he was not inclined to talk about his past assignments. The other replacement was a twenty-three year old sergeant E-5 infantryman named Benson who had been reassigned to us from the 1st Cavalry Division at An Khe. Altman was now a driver, and Benson worked in the motor pool doing only minor maintenance. Both men had arrived at the 14th at about the same time and were quartered in our barracks. In Altman's case, our suspicion was that he had gotten into some kind of trouble in Germany, for which he had lost his missile rating and been reassigned to Vietnam. Where Benson was concerned, our guess was that he was a screw-up who simply had been rejected by the 1st Cav. He talked frequently of his combat experiences at An Khe, but nobody believed him. Though he tried to act tough, he lacked the menacing physical presence necessary to back it up, so he scared no one. For some unknown reason, Steiger took an immediate dislike to Benson, and I knew this could only lead to problems sooner or later.

Though Altman had been with us less than a week, he definitely displayed initiative, probably the kind that had landed him in trouble in Germany. Steiger, Lew and I had congregated at the bunker one night drinking beer. About 9 P.M. Altman appeared and asked us if we wanted to go to Ba Ngoi village. Stunned, we asked him how this could be accomplished, given that no one was permitted out of the compound after dark. He brandished a pass and explained that he had been on water duty all day, driving water to the compound from the water point just north of DBT. His pass allowed him to exit at the guard station until 10 P.M. for that purpose. Steiger and Lew were in favor of going, but I expressed doubts about the wisdom of the adventure, since the village had been designated off-limits to us. The others poked fun at me and derided my caution to the point that I, myself, felt somewhat silly about it. Throwing aside common sense, I agreed to go, though if I hadn't been drinking, I probably would have thought better of it.

After arming ourselves with our M-14's, we piled into the front of the water truck, and everyone except Altman, who was driving, ducked down out of sight. Altman held his pass out the window, and we rolled past the guard bunker without being stopped. We proceeded south on Q/L 1. After we passed the turnoff for the My Ca bridge, we were on a stretch of highway I had never traveled before, and about 10 minutes later, we reached the village, which was much bigger than I had imagined. Ba Ngoi had been built by the army as a resettlement camp for Vietnamese refugees, and, consequently, many of the structures looked like army barracks.

We parked with dozens of other military vehicles near a two story building that was blaring music. Inside, on the first floor, there was a bar and many tables, all of them quite crowded. Loud music was coming from a phonograph somewhere behind the bar, and the sound was being piped through speakers hung on the walls. I noticed immediately that most of the other patrons were armed. We picked our way through the crowd to the bar, where we all bought a beer, the only drink sold. It was impossible to talk over the din of music and voices, so we simply stood and assessed the activity. About 50 percent of the customers were American GI's, while the remainder were Korean and South Vietnamese servicemen. Vietnamese prostitutes plied their trade in ample numbers, often sitting on the laps of the soldiers as an enticement.

About halfway toward the rear of the building, I saw a pair of ascending stairs, and I persuaded Lew to go with me to the second floor. Steiger and Altman insisted on staying behind at the bar. The second story was dimly lit with several bare bulbs hanging from the roof, and the air was permeated with the smell of marijuana. Since the only music here filtered up from below, it was infinitely more quite and conducive to conversation. Lew and I moved about freely, going from one end of the building to the other. Groups of soldiers stood in small knots with their drinks, talking to one another. When I looked more closely, I noticed that many of the men were carrying AK-47's and other fully automatic weapons. The tension in the air was palpable as the ethnically diverse groups of soldiers watched one another suspiciously, especially the Koreans and South Vietnamese.

Lew and I spent about twenty minutes upstairs, and the longer I was there, the more anxious I became. The situation seemed fraught with danger: armed men, who appeared openly antagonistic toward one another and who were unable to speak each other's language, were becoming intoxicated in close quarters, where an occasional push or shove in passing was inevitable. To me, this combination of factors became so increasingly disturbing that I couldn't stand it anymore. I decided I didn't care whether Lew and the others thought I was being a killjoy. I said to Lew, "This place gives me the creeps. I think we should get out of here before we get killed."

"I agree," he said. "There's a lot of bad vibes here." I was surprised at his response. Maybe I wasn't being paranoid after all. We went below and found our two companions, offering them a sense of our misgivings about the place. Altman was reluctant to leave, but Steiger grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out the door behind us. As we walked to the truck, Altman complained bitterly that we had cut short his chance to kick up his heels and have fun.

"You can do that on your own time," Steiger said. "Now shut up and drive."

Our truck was soon back at the compound, where, thankfully, we passed the guard post without being stopped or questioned. I felt my sense of apprehension subside as soon as we returned to DBT's familiar surroundings, and I realized how stupid we had been to venture out in the first place, leaving a haven of safety in search of God knew what. Next time I would know better.

Russell Nash, our legal clerk, made good on his promise to provide a case of steaks to Ales and Steiger, and the meat was delivered still frozen to our barracks on Sunday morning. Using this delicacy as an excuse, a group asked Sergeant Greenley to arrange a trip to the beach in Cam Ranh that afternoon. Greenley was wise enough not to question how the steaks had come into our possession, and he obtained permission for ten of us to go to the beach. Personally, I was thrilled because I had never seen the South China Sea except from a distance, and I had heard that the sand and water were unparalleled. Greenley scrounged up some potato salad, bread, and condiments from the mess sergeant, and we packed sodas and beer in ice chests. Clearly, this was to be a glorious day of fun and sun.

Like true party boys, we started drinking well before we left at 1 P.M., as a consequence of which we were all fairly lit, except Ales who was driving, and I wasn't so sure how sober he was. O'Brien passed out in the back of the truck during our 50 minute drive to the far side of the Cam Ranh peninsula, where the land met the South China Sea. When we arrived, I was awed by the white sand running for miles in either direction, lapped by waves of the most crystal blue water I had ever seen. Ales parked near some other vehicles at the closest point on the beach, but still a good quarter-mile from the water's edge. Most of us jumped off the truck immediately and ran over the sand, leaving behind a few to tend to the food and drink. When close to the water, we stripped off our clothes with wild abandon, and, like teenagers, we raced into the brine in our boxer shorts. It was quite a thrill, even though the water temperature was lower than I had expected. Standing waist-deep and shivering slightly, I looked at the shore, where I counted 15 to 20 scattered groups of GI's, ranging in size from five to thirty people each. Then, suddenly, it struck me that there were women on the beach as well, dressed in bathing suits. Reflexively, I first concluded the women were donut dollies, but then I realized they could also be nurses or female members of the army or navy.

The presence of the women was quite unexpected, though it occurred to me that, coming from an all male unit, I was simply unaccustomed to seeing them. I wondered if my dress was inappropriate and whether I should be embarrassed at parading around in my wet skivvies. If I had brought my etiquette book, I could have sought an answer to this question. Relying on my instincts, however, I decided my attire would be acceptable if I acted modestly and avoided close contact with those few groups that included women.

I was pulled from this reverie by the sight of Ales running across the sand, fully dressed, waiving his arms at some of our group standing on the shore. I waded out of the water to see what the commotion was. Ales was telling Alvarez and Wallace about a fight that had just taken place between Greenley and O'Brien. Naturally, we all hurried back to the truck to learn the details for ourselves. According to Steiger, who was the only witness, O'Brien had been standing on the back of the truck urinating into the sand, probably because he was so drunk. Greenley, aware that there were women on the beach, had yelled at O'Brien to desist from this foul behavior. When O'Brien failed to obey, Greenley had climbed into the truck behind O'Brien and pushed him off the vehicle, head first into the sand. Greenley had been so enraged that he then jumped down and placed a hammer lock on O'Brien's head with his left arm, proceeding to beat the top of O'Brien's head with his right fist. Steiger had been forced to separate the two men physically. As things stood now, both men were covered with sand, and O'Brien was sitting on the ground sobbing quietly. Greenley was still angry and insisted on taking O'Brien back to the company area so he could report him for article 15. Steiger told us he was going back to DBT with the two of them in order to file his own report on the incident to ensure that the record was clear that Greenley had physically attacked O'Brien, which was a violation of army regulations. Steiger, who was openly agitated at Greenley's behavior, wanted to be certain that O'Brien didn't get railroaded in some sham proceeding that omitted any mention of Greenley's conduct, which, according to Steiger, was shameful and unbecoming an NCO.

Well, I certainly saw some merit on both sides of the issue, but I wasn't about to spoil my day at the beach by returning with this sorry lot to DBT, especially when I had no hand in anything that transpired. I could see by the looks on the faces of the other non-protagonists standing around me that they all shared my strong, albeit selfish, lack of commitment to either cause. Sensing that none of us wanted to go with them, Steiger, Greenley, and O'Brien set out in the truck for DBT. Before leaving, Steiger promised to return for us, and we promised to save him a steak. We carried all our food and beverage down to the beach and formed a base of operations near one of the barbecue racks. Shortly, those of us who remained had put the previous unpleasantness completely out of our thoughts.

We swam and lay in the sun, all the while drinking beer and sodas. By and large, it was a great way to relax, but we kept to ourselves and didn't mingle with the other groups on the beach. We didn't want so spoil our languor by having to muster the energy necessary to socialize with people we didn't know. After two hours, we grew tired of waiting for Steiger to return, so we fired up the barbecue to cook our steaks. As we took the first cooked pieces off the grill, Steiger reappeared with the truck, unaccompanied by either Greenley or O'Brien. He joined us on the beach and began to strip to his shorts.

"Well," Lew asked, "is O'Brien in the stockade?"

"No," Steiger replied, slightly disgusted. "The first sergeant convinced everybody not to file any reports about the incident. He said that no one would come out a winner, and everyone would get hurt to one degree or another because there was some fault on both sides."

"That makes sense to me," Alvarez said.

"Yeah, I guess it does at that," Steiger admitted reluctantly. After a moment, he laughed and said, "Sergeant Johnson even got both of them to shake hands and make up, believe it or not. O'Brien went to the barracks and passed out, and I think Sergeant Greenley was too embarrassed to come back here with me. Either that or he just couldn't get in the mood of it anymore. Anyway, it's over, and I don't want to waste any more time on it."

We ate our steaks with great gusto, and I was surprised how tender and choice the cuts were. I had expected them to be tough and full of gristle, but they weren't. It occurred to me that this guy Nash was on to a good thing--too bad such an amenity had to come by way of illegal deeds. As we packed up to leave around 6 P.M., I wondered if I would ever get to the beach again, with or without steaks. I certainly hoped so, for today had been one of my better days in Vietnam, definitely.

The following week offered one of those good news, bad news situations I hated so much. The good news was that an aviation company had assumed responsibility for manning the first bunker and the neighboring machine gun tower at the west end of the northern perimeter. This meant we would be on guard duty less often, since six fewer men would be needed each night from the 14th Engineers. The bad news was, I had guard duty again on Wednesday.

When I reported for guard mount Wednesday evening, I was wearing my field jacket and poncho because the weather had been cold and inclement all day, and it looked as though it might rain through the night. The officer conducting the inspection was a captain I had never seen before, which surprised me, since Steiger hadn't said anything about taking a new officer onto his payroll, an event which usually warranted some discussion.

This officer was unusually gung-ho and was making us snap to during the formation, causing the affair to be much less casual than it normally was. I concluded somewhat cynically that he must be a West Point graduate. As the captain was commenting sarcastically about the condition of some poor slob's M-14, it began to sprinkle. As usual, within 30 seconds the sky opened up, and the rain came thundering down in buckets. Naturally, we all broke ranks and ran for the protection of the eaves overhanging the back wall of the personnel office. Standing there, huddled together with our backs pressed up against the building, we were completely astounded to see the captain, stiff as a rod in the pouring rain, yelling at us.

"Where are you going?" he screamed. "No one dismissed you. Get back here, right now!" There were some chuckles and a few barely audible comments, punctuated by the sound of feet shuffling in the sand, but no one made a move to return to the formation.

"Where is your discipline?" the captain bellowed. "You act like a bunch of raw recruits."

I knew what was going through everyone's mind: this guy didn't have enough brains to come in from the rain. He just stood there, drenched to the bone, with rain pelting down on his helmet. He ought to lighten up, I thought. After all, we weren't fighting the battle of Waterloo here; we simply were conducting your everyday, run of the mill guard mount. Then the rain stopped, as quickly as it had started, except for a light drizzle. This turn of events was indeed fortunate, for we were able to assume our previous positions, moving as though at the captain's command. Who knew how long we would have stayed where we were, had the rain not stopped. A nasty showdown thus avoided, we continued the business at hand, the captain grousing all the while about our lack of professionalism. Once more I failed to be chosen supernumerary, and, in due course, we were posted to the perimeter.

I spent another cold, wet, and sleepless night, doing the thing I hated most. At least the time passed without alarms, and I was thankful to God for that. No flares had sputtered up into the air, and no fusillades of tracer fire had emanated from the Korean sector. Shortly after dawn, the duty driver appeared to relieve us from our posts, and I noticed right away, as we trudged toward the truck, that he was grinning from ear to ear. "Man," he said, "you'll never believe what happened last night."

"Tell, tell," someone said.

"Okay," he said. "You know that new, by-the-book, craphead captain who was duty officer last night? Well, about two in the morning, he informs me he wants to check the guard. On the way out to the perimeter, he keeps telling me his favorite thing is to catch people sleeping on guard duty. So, anyway, we drive past the gate and down the perimeter, and he tells me right away to stop the truck. So I tried to tell him that those first two positions don't belong to the 14th--you know--they're not our guys. He says he doesn't care, stop the truck anyway. So I do."

"Yeah, okay, so what happened?" somebody asked. Annoyed at being interrupted, the driver continued.

"Well, he approaches the machine gun tower, and no one challenges him. He goes a little closer and still no challenge. So I'm figuring this lifer thinks he's got himself a righteous bust--somebody sleeping on guard duty. Anyway, he climbs the ladder to the tower, and as his head comes up to floor level, somebody shoves the muzzle of an M-14 dead in his face. I thought he was going to crap in his pants. I can hear him saying, `It's all right...it's all right. Don't be nervous, son. Just put the rifle down.' When he comes back to the truck, he's white as a ghost. Man, he was shaking so bad it was all I could do to keep from laughing my ass off. He made me take him back to headquarters on the double, and he never left the building the rest of the night."

By now, all of us listening to the story were in stitches. Maybe there was a God after all, I thought.

"So did he report the guard?" someone asked.

"No, he couldn't," the driver said. "The kid wasn't sleeping. He was just inexperienced. He'd never been on guard duty before, and no one told him what to do."

"That's great," another man said. "Maybe now the captain won't be so quick to mess with everyone's head."

We were all in a good mood as we drove back to the company area, for it was little pleasures like this that helped to get us through another day.

Toward the end of July, I was in the barracks reading a letter from my wife when O'Brien came in and said that Sergeant Johnson wanted to see me in his hooch. It was about 8 P.M., which struck me as a strange hour for him to be conducting business. Mulling the matter over, I decided he couldn't want me for soldier of the month again, and I certainly couldn't be in any trouble, unless, of course, he had found out about our trip to Ba Ngoi, which I doubted. I finished my beer and hurried down to the sergeant's quarters, in order not to keep him waiting. As I approached the door, it opened, and Sergeant Greenley stepped out of the hooch. He greeted me, somewhat warmly I thought, and held the door for me so I could enter. Sergeant Johnson was alone, sitting on his cot, holding a glass. He motioned for me to take a chair nearby.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "Would you like a little Cherry Herring?"

"Yes," I said, "I'd like that." He located a glass and poured me a substantial measure of the red, thick liquid. I had heard that the first sergeant was partial to this cherry flavored liqueur. I took a sip of the beverage and found it to be quite pleasant, though it was so sweet I doubted one could drink it in quantity without getting sick. Still, it was a nice change from beer.

"Before I get to the point," Johnson said, "I just want to tell you that I've heard good things about your work in the pay section. Sergeant Greenley thinks highly of you and considers you to be very capable."

"Thank you," I said. I felt myself begin to blush and become flustered, exhibiting the usual problem I had with compliments.

"I've decided, after talking to Sergeant Greenley, to put you in charge of the pay section," Johnson said. Now, my confusion turned to panic. What flashed through my mind instantly was the painful memories I had of the past resentment heaped upon me by Steiger and Lew.

"Oh, no," I said, "that's not a good idea."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm the most junior man there," I said. "I don't think the other pay clerks would like that at all."

"You needn't worry about that," he said. "Sergeant Greenley has already talked to the other men involved, and he's assured me there are no negative feelings about this." I couldn't believe my ears. How could Steiger and Lew, both Spec-5's, not object to me, a Spec-4, being head of the pay section. Sensing by my silence that I was still skeptical, the first sergeant added, "Trust me. Everyone is behind me on this, 100 percent." When he said that, my misgivings gave way to a feeling of satisfaction, a sense that all my hard work and study in pay school had paid off. I felt a sort of warm glow, which probably more than anything else was caused by the Cherry Herring, a conclusion I reached when I saw my glass was empty. In my panic, I must have consumed the rest of the drink.

"Would you like some more?" Johnson asked, when he saw me staring at my glass.

"Sure," I said, "just a little." I did feel good about this development, now that I was certain it posed no problems. I graciously accepted the new position and thanked Sergeant Johnson for his confidence in me. I stayed another ten minutes or so while I finished my second drink, and the first sergeant asked me where I was from and what I had done before I joined the army. Walking back to the barracks, I concluded that, all in all, my visit with the first sergeant had turned out to be quite a pleasant interlude.

I was relieved to discover later in the night that Steiger and Lew did know of Johnson's plan, and they seemed to be genuinely in favor of it. Steiger pointed out that he and Lew would be leaving soon anyway, and that I would need some experience in running the section before they left, a thought that had never occurred to me. The more I reflected on this, the more sense it made for me to be put in charge now, while Steiger was still around to help me through the rough spots.

My elevation to head of the pay section had immediate practical consequences, as well as, for me, important psychological ones. Steiger and I exchanged payroll responsibilities the next day at work, with me taking the officers' files and those of headquarters company and A company, while Steiger took over the D company payroll. Lew retained B and C company. The prospect of preparing the pay vouchers of the officers, including the battalion commander, frightened me to some extent, but it was an unwritten rule that the head of the pay section handled the officers' payroll, for they expected no less.

The first thing I did was familiarize myself with the officers' records to see how they differed from the enlisted men's, which up to now were the only type I had handled. It took me most of the morning to examine the records of the 39 officers, and I found that the only significant differences were that the officers had a separate pay schedule and they were required to pay federal income taxes. My confidence was renewed when I realized the new vouchers would be no sweat. Of course, dealing with these prima donnas face to face would be the sticking point, requiring no doubt an infinite amount of tact on my part. Then again, maybe not. Steiger had never struck me as the sort of person who resorted to tactful conduct, especially where officers were concerned. On the other hand, perhaps this was a facet of his personality I wasn't in a position to appreciate.

When the others left the office for lunch, I stayed behind to bask in my new found glory as head of the pay section. Sitting at my desk, I leaned back in the chair and clasped my hands behind my head. This is cool, I thought. Yes, being in charge of the pay section was definitely a very cool thing.