Chapter 2 

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

The next morning I was able to survey my surroundings. The ground was very sandy and bare, with occasional, sparse patches of short grass. From where I stood outside the barracks, I could see about a dozen other woodframe, unpainted buildings, including what appeared to be another group of barracks. The land was flat, with no hills visible anywhere on the horizon. I had no sense of how the compound was situated with respect to north, south, east or west. Though we must have been near water, I couldn't see any. Probably because of the sunshine, the air did not feel as damp as it had the night before.

I had a two-day growth of beard that I gladly shaved off while standing in a large community shower, whose entrance was covered by a sign that said in large white letters NON-POTABLE WATER, and beneath that, DO NOT DRINK. I knew what non-potable meant, but I had never encountered undrinkable water before. Was this an indication that I had taken too many things in my life for granted?

After breakfast in the mess hall, we assembled outside a Quonset hut that was about 30 feet long. Everyone from the plane appeared to be there, except for the NCO's who had accompanied us. After some delay, as usual in the army, a sergeant E-7 came out to speak to us. Out of habit, some of the men in front began to shuffle around as if to move into formation.

"As you were, men. No need to make a formation. Milling around will do," the sergeant said. "You're probably wondering how long you'll be here. Well, anywhere from one to three days is usual, depending on how long it takes to determine your final assignment--which, by the way, we don't have anything to do with. We here at the 22d just get the orders and pass them along to you. So I don't want any of you guys coming up here wanting to know can you go here or can you go there."

"Now, the assignment you finally get may not be the same unit shown on the orders you had when you left the continental U.S. I just want you to be aware of that," he said. This information produced some grumbling among the troops. It also confirmed my worst fear that I could be assigned to some infantry unit rather than to the 864th Engineer Battalion. I experienced a really sinking feeling because I knew how paranoid I was going to be until I found out for sure where I would be sent.

"We do have a routine here," the NCO continued. "Reveille is at 0600. We have formations right here for orders roll call at 0730 and 1300 hours. Between formations, you may be assigned to a detail. If not on detail, you are required to stay in the immediate area so we can locate you. Anyone missing and not accounted for will be assigned to the Marine Corps for jungle duty. Just a word to the wise." With that, we were dismissed until the midday formation. It crossed my mind to ask someone in authority about having my tooth fixed. Almost reflexively I pushed my tongue to the side of my tooth. It still didn't hurt, so I decided to wait until I reached my permanent unit.

I went with the others back to the barracks to wait for lunch. A card game was set up, among other activities, all of which I watched from my bunk. Nearby, two adolescent PFC's spoke in animated voices about the pitched battles they expected to fight once they got to their units. Despite this isolated display of enthusiasam, it was apparent to me that none of us had any idea what we were getting into here. Unfortunately, the only way to find out was to live through it. Hopefully, we would live through it.

At the 1 P.M. formation, there were about 200 men present, and four lists of names were called, totaling about 60 men. Each of these four groups clustered around an NCO, well apart from the rest of us. These men appeared to be receiving copies of their new orders. Roughly half of the remaining men, including me, were assigned to various details before the formation was dismissed. I was chosen with three others to go on garbage detail. Just when it seemed that things couldn't get any worse, they did. Ironic, really.

Our detail consisted of a PFC driver, a supervising corporal, and four of us grunts who were in transit. The equipment was a 2-1/2 ton truck with a lift bed capable of dumping its contents. The two staffers--the driver and the corporal--were friendly, and I had the impression that they weren't going to hardass us on this detail.

We drove around in a fairly leisurely fashion, stopping from time to time to pick up junk or garbage. We grunts rode in the back of the truck and took turns with two up, two down at each stop. The two on the ground threw the trash into the truck, and the two in the truck pushed it to the front of the bed, behind the cab. Our haul consisted of some actual food waste picked up from two mess halls, plus boxed junk we retrieved beside various barracks. The boxed goods were discards such as old boots, clothes, magazines, broken aluminum folding chairs, and just about anything one could imagine.

As we went along, I perceived that the driver had a preordained route that he followed, with regular stops. This sense of routine was somehow psychologically comforting, given the transitory nature of my present existence. I also became more assured of my safety here in Cam Ranh, for it became apparent as we drove around that the normal indicia of a battlefield were missing. There were no guard towers, no barbed wire or concertina, and no pock marks made by explosions on the ground. The men we passed on the graded dirt streets carried no weapons either.

After an hour or so, we took a break. At the time, we were parked near a building high on a hill overlooking the bay side of the peninsula that made up the land mass on which the whole Cam Ranh facility stood. We could see the bay itself, but not well, because of its distance from us. It was clear from this vantage point that all of Cam Ranh was basically vacant sand, except for the scattered army buildings, storage tanks, wharves, and other military structures. But for these, the place would have been quite desolate. Before the war came, there hadn't been much here, obviously. Of course, we could not see the whole peninsula from where we were since it was about seventeen miles long and five miles wide, according to our driver.

We sat near the crest of the hill facing the bay. Half way to the bay, and parallel with it, was a dirt road whose lines of demarcation were just barely discernible. On this road was a long line of trucks. At the front were two jeeps, followed by two 2-1/2 ton trucks. Behind these were approximately 20 big-rig tractor trailers, with a lone jeep at the very end.

"What's that?" one of the men asked.

"That's a truck convoy," our driver said. "Believe it or not, they're going to drive out into the boonies with all those loaded trucks. They're carrying supplies and ammunition needed somewhere north or south of here on the mainland."

"Is that dangerous?" another man asked.

"Well," the corporal said, "I sure wouldn't want to be going with those guys down there." Then, after a pause, he added, "See that jeep in front? The sitting duck who rides up there in front is some boob 2d lieutenant in the transportation corps. That's not a job I'd want to have."

Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach. God, what had I so narrowly escaped? I couldn't believe it. I had almost become a 2d lieutenant in the transportation corps. During basic training, I had been invited to go to officers candidate school. And, if I had, I could have been an officer only in the quartermaster corps or the transportation corps because I wore glasses. People with bad eyes were not permitted to be officers in the combat arms branches, like the cavalry, the artillery, and the infantry. Naturally, I would have chosen the transportation corps since I had worked several summers on the railroad, and my father had worked his whole life for the New York Central. Incredibly, at the time I was making that very important decision about officers candidate school, it never occurred to me that novice transportation officers rode at the front of truck convoys like this one and got their heads shot off. In retrospect, what a wonderful decision I had made to decline becoming an officer.

Now, just as suddenly, I felt very guilty.

"That could have been me down there riding in the front of that convoy," I said.

"How's that?" our driver asked.

"I could have gone to OCS," I said. "If I had, I would have picked the transportation corps after graduation."

"You turned down OCS?" the corporal asked. "Why?"

"I didn't want to do the extra ten months," I said. "See, as a draftee, I'm only on active duty for 24 months. If I had gone to OCS, my commitment to the army would have been for 34 months, minimum."

"Hey, I can dig that," the driver said. "Back to the real world ten months early. Yes sir, smart choice, my man." The driver reached out and shook my hand. "Us U.S.'s gotta stick together," he continued. "Now, the corporal there, he's R.A. all the way. Wouldn't surprise me none if he turned out to be a lifer. Yes, sir." At this, the corporal made a motion as if to strike the driver.

"No way," the corporal said. "I'm outta here after my three years are up. They're not gonna get me to re-up. No, sir. There's not enough money in the world for that."

I remembered when I was in basic training how the army tried to convince all the draftees, whose serial numbers always began with the letters U.S., to sign up for a third year of duty by promising us special training schools or European assignments. The dupes who fell for this ploy and signed up for the extra year had their serial number prefixes changed to R.A., which stood for regular army. Anyone who voluntarily enlisted for three years or anyone who re-enlisted, that is, re-up'ed, for more time, also had an R.A. prefix. For those of us who had been drafted into the military, the U.S. before our serial number became a badge of honor which, to our minds, elevated us above the enlistees and the career men. The career men were sarcastically referred to as lifers because they spent their whole lives in the army.

After the break, we continued on our route. By the time we hit the last stop about two hours later, the truck was so full of junk that there was practically nowhere for the four of us who rode in back to stand.

"Okay, men," the corporal said, "that's it. Let's head for the dump."

The dump proved to be a popular place in Cam Ranh, so we lined up behind six other trucks of various sizes to await our turn to unload. There were men working on the ground as the trash was pushed off the back of the trucks, but I couldn't make out their faces because of the distance. As we slowly approached the drop point, I realized that the men on the ground were Vietnamese. Most wore army fatigues, but some were in street clothes. These were the first Vietnamese I had encountered, and I watched, fascinated by them. I could tell these were men and not boys by the wrinkles in their faces.

When we finally came down from the truck so the bed could be raised, it occurred to me that the Vietnamese were all quite short. Not one was taller than five feet four inches. "Do these people work for the army?" I asked the corporal, who was now standing beside me.

"Not really," was his reply. "They work here without pay, but they get to keep all the junk they can carry away with them at night. They love it too. Look at that," he said, pointing. As the bed of our truck went up and the junk slid out, the aluminum folding chairs we had picked up came tumbling out onto the ground. Two of the Vietnamese both saw them at the same time and made a lunge for them. They pushed and shoved one another fiercely to establish possession of the chairs, and, finally, they each came away with one. Both men smiled at us with pride.

Others picked through boxes in search of used clothing, which, when they found it, they draped around their necks, so they could look for more. Of course, that explained why most were dressed in army fatigues. Then I noticed their feet. I couldn't help but laugh at several who were wearing leather army boots. Being much too long for their feet, the boots bent at a line behind the toes and pointed straight up in the air--like pixie shoes.

When the Vietnamese had collected all the truly valuable items from our load, they picked up rakes and shovels to move the remaining trash backward into a neater, higher pile. Presumably, this promoted a more efficient use of the available land. In any event, this was the work the Vietnamese did for the right to scavenge.

Back at the barracks, after dinner, I felt very tired. My weariness was not from throwing trash on the truck all afternoon, of that I was sure. More likely, I was still exhausted from that interminable flight on Saturn Airlines. Nevertheless, I managed to talk with some of the other men, and I discovered we were all more or less preoccupied and worried about our potential assignments. It was as though we knew we could never relax until this uncertainty was removed. When it was removed, however, we might be out of the fat and into the fire. Not a pleasant prospect, either.

Another topic seriously discussed, though only half-heartedly, as it turned out, was the notion of laying our hands on some liquor or beer. No one had seen any enlisted men's clubs in the immediate area. Also, there seemed to be a consensus that someone had asked about this, and he had been informed that we were not permitted outside the area for the purpose of drinking. Yet, others doubted whether this exchange had actually occurred because no one knew who had engaged in this conversation and with whom, and so on it went for about twenty minutes. Finally, even the most adolescent among us lost interest in this subject. One by one, we all succumbed to sleep.

The next morning at the 7:30 formation my name was called along with many others, and I was sent nearby to a point marked "Station C" to pick up my orders. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I stood waiting. Finally, the orders were handed to me by one of the NCO's. The print was purple and the paper stank of mimeography. I looked carefully for the unit assignment, ignoring all the other meaningless dates and data. Sure enough, there it was: the 14th Engineer Battalion (Combat). Combat! What was the meaning of "combat?" My old orders had read: 864th Engineer Battalion (Construction). Why did these new orders include the word combat? Suddenly, I wanted very much to go to the 864th Engineer Battalion. I wondered if it would be possible to go there still. Maybe someone simply had made a mistake. Maybe if I pointed this out.

But, wait. What I was doing was absurd. Immediately, I felt somewhat silly and ashamed of myself. I needed to get hold of my emotions and stop over-analyzing this situation. At least I was still assigned to the engineers and not to an infantry division. So, it wasn't that bad after all. Who knew? Maybe combat really meant nothing at all.

"Horton. Hey, Horton," someone was saying.

"Yes, what?" I heard myself reply, as I continued to stare at the papers.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," I said, looking up. "I just spaced out there for a minute. Sorry about that, Sarge."

"Go get your gear and report back here," the sergeant said. "Someone will be here in an hour or so to pick you up."

My hour turned into two and one-half hours as various vehicles came and went. While waiting, I remembered to pull my new orders from my personnel file to check my DEROS date. Sure enough, there it was directly under my name and serial number: DEROS 23 Mar 68. Finally, two men arrived in a three-quarter ton truck covered by a tarp with bench seats in the back. One of the two went inside the Quonset hut and emerged several minutes later. He looked in my direction and then walked toward me. He was a specialist fourth class.

"You Horton?" he asked, squinting at the name tag on my shirt.

"Yes," I said.

"Well, good, let's saddle up." He started to turn away but then turned back. "By the way," he said, "my name is Ales--Roger Ales. Welcome to the 14th."

I rode in the back of the truck with my duffel bag. From there I could look forward through the back of the cab and see the road ahead, though I had to slouch down a little to do so. I immediately noticed that both Ales and the PFC who was riding in the cab with him had M-14 rifles resting against the seat between them. The PFC had his left leg over the lower stocks, below the magazines, to keep the rifles from bouncing around and falling over against the driver. Also on the seat was a web belt with two ammo pouches, each capable of holding two magazines. Between them, these guys were carrying considerable firepower. I hoped they would have no cause to use it today.

We drove for approximately twenty minutes and then stopped. We sat, parked on the road for a while, which struck me as odd. I bent over and looked out the front window. We were in a line of vehicles, apparently waiting to cross some sort of single lane bridge. Several MP's were standing next to a small guard station. One of the MP's was holding our line back, while another was waiving the oncoming traffic across the bridge.

We soon moved forward over the bridge, and the tires made a peculiar whining sound like they would on metal grating. Once we were off the bridge, the road became very rough, as though it were filled with potholes. We bounced along for another twenty minutes or so. On one occasion, I was actually thrown clear of the seat into the middle of the truck bed, so bad was the surface of the highway. We suddenly slowed and turned off the road to the right. We were there--wherever there was. I had absolutely no idea what the name of this place could be, but I was certain I would find out soon.