My brief role with the ARVN was to accompany them on patrols, which I hated, to evaluate what weapons they needed. The evaluation was pretty simple. They needed everything. Then my job was to assist in the turning over of artillery pieces, trucks, jeeps, radios, and so on, to certain units. For reasons unknown, careful records were required. In the confusion of a war zone, mixed in with the heat and mud, the danger and the constant interruptions for fighting, exact records were difficult, and besides, and this is important, no one cared whether the records were exact. If a truck was taken from an American unit and transferred to a Vietnamese unit, even a move facilitated and witnessed by Lieutenant Danziger, whose sharp eye missed nothing, some sort of record was needed, not for the Vietnamese necessarily, but for the American unit that was losing a valuable property. It often amazed me, not that few people cared, but that anyone cared. There were army regulations to make them care. When a new commander came to a unit, he had to assume ownership of all the property of his new unit. Anything that was lost, destroyed, stolen, or simply not findable had to be covered in paperwork. There was little faith in any of the army’s actual procedures, but there was great faith in paperwork. Paper covered sins of omission, commission, and just regular old missions.
In my quite powerful job approving transfers of fairly expensive things like 105 mm howitzers, 175 mm howitzers, M113 tracked troop carriers, trucks, jeeps and mules, and even a few tanks, I did things as close to exact as I could. But that was not very. Large, maybe even huge, amounts of stuff were taken from American units and given to the South Vietnamese. Along the line, while I signed off on this stuff — including refrigerators, mobile army surgical hospital (MASH) units, radios, radars, tents, field kitchen equipment, cameras, and tons of metal roofing — it was observed that the donating American units were still there in the war zone, being shot at and mortared, but now without their stuff. The war was still going on. The secret plan to end the war, promised by Nixon, was still secret, except for certain parts. It was a major piece of cynical stupidity, but that was top secret.
9
In telling this sad story, full of waste and loss, I have been advised by friends and my own reading to add a touch of levity every so often. Does anything funny happen in a war zone? Well, yes, of course, as readers of numerous black-humor novels will know. Americans are ready to laugh at themselves, and sometimes it keeps them sane. We are a strange people, and we resist being forced into military structures. Which brings me to the requirement to shave every day. Bill Mauldin, the famous cartoonist in the Stars and Stripes newspaper, entertained the troops during the Second World War with depictions of his gloomy, war-weary, unkempt, and unmilitary semi-heroes Willie and Joe. Willie and Joe also needed a shave and clean uniforms. General Patton, despite his glorious Hollywood depiction, thought all his soldiers should be shaved, uniforms clean and pressed as they went to their foxholes. Patton was insane, as later proved, living in that same movie version of himself. But his legacy in Vietnam was a requirement that soldiers be barbered and that their boots be shined. This was considered to be an aid to morale. It was actually an aid to the conclusion that you were in an idiotic organization with almost no connection to reality. Why an infantry soldier needed to be free of facial hair could not be answered. Maybe the requirement was enforced just to see if people would do what they were told even if it made no sense.
Out in a tropical jungle for days on end, sleeping in hammocks and eating little tins of preserved tastelessness, drinking water that had a chlorine tinge, and spending these days in the same clothes, filthy and sweaty, threatened by attacks from a ghostly enemy and shortfalls of your own artillery — all this was not good for morale. But why should you have to shave? Who cared? Who besides the army, whose commanders, at least majors and above, had living conditions where it was possible to lather up every morning. But there was always American ingenuity. Sometime in the middle years of the war, the Gillette company produced a clever aerosol can of shaving foam that contained chemicals that heated themselves when combined. What it did to your skin was another matter. The product was called The Hot One, a whimsical touch from the Gillette marketing department. It was sold everywhere, especially in the army PXs in the war zone. You squeezed a gob into your hand and paused. Immediately the gob began to expand and steam. It became almost too hot to hold, and then it was ready to smear on your face. War movies should include the image of a soldier standing in the morning rain, in nothing more than an olive drab towel, smearing this triumph of chemistry on his face and trying to shave with a tiny mirror. Anyway, that’s the funny part, and even the soldier in question, me, found it bitterly laughable.
By 1969, when the transfer to the Vietnamese of military goods began, the drawdown of American troops still hadn’t begun. The effect that this clumsy plan had on the already submerged American morale was pretty serious. Items that were obviously necessary were hard to get. American infantry units never completely refused a patrol assignment, but they tailored the exact requirements. How, for example, could you order men out on patrols, searching for the enemy, without working radios? Radios needed batteries, and often the batteries had either been given to the ARVN or were still in the supply lines somewhere. A patrol should take two radios at a minimum. Patrol units had to call for artillery or medevac helicopters. If batteries were not available the patrol assignment was semi-suicidal. And the area that should have been patrolled was much safer for the enemy.
None of these messes, these confusions, these screwups, was invisible to the infantry. Ground troops in Vietnam, condemned for not having the intellect or the money to get into college and avoid the draft, or the proclivity in Romance languages to get into the language school, could still figure out that more care should have been taken to boost their chances of getting back from a patrol unshot. Out in the forests and jungles, where the patrols actually went, the decision of what to do next devolved from the officer in charge to a sort of group decision, a subject for discussion rather than sharp-edged obedience.
On one trek with the infantry I observed a total reassignment of command from the lieutenant in charge to the group as a whole. I observed this because I, despite heroic efforts to not be there, was there. In the so-called free-fire zones, the native woodcutters operated at substantial risk. Woodcutting is a risky business during peacetime, but in the middle of marauding troops, searching for and shooting at each other, it is probably the worst job in the world. The plan was to find the woodcutters and talk to them to see if they knew anything or had seen anything. I was sent along with an infantry patrol who were already the veterans of several months’ fighting and many contacts with the enemy. They regarded me as a strange addition to their patrol. We located a group of woodcutters strapping a monstrous mahogany tree trunk, at least thirty feet long, onto an ancient Renault diesel truck. The truck was in two parts. One end of the log was on the tractor, and the other end was on an axle. Chains and ropes and cables held the whole thing together. After a short talk, in which I understood only that nobody knew anything, the truck was started and crept off down the muddy track. And we were still there, having accomplished nothing. What to do?
A confab was held between the infantry troops and their lieutenant. Maybe there was enemy in the area, and maybe there wasn’t. Did we care enough to try to search for them? The radio operator reported back that we were still there. We were told to go on cloverleaf patrols. This meant setting a central point and then going out in four directions in circular routes looking for enemy. The lieutenant said he understood. Everyone approved, the men, the lieutenant, and, I suppose, me. Except that we didn’t go out on cloverleaf patrols. We just sat down and let the time go by. I remember clearly that the lieutenant was an odd combination, quite distinctive — an Irish kid from Venezuela with a jovial attitude and flaming-red hair. He explained to me that we would not go looking for trouble, and in return we expected the same courtesy from the North Vietnamese. I said nothing, though
it occurred to me that he was Irish and should have trusted cloverleaf patrols. This must have been sometime in December, because the lieutenant had brought along Christmas cards for his men to make out with a Christmas message to send to the division commanding general.
After about two months of duty in Vietnam as a translator / ordnance officer / whatever, I realized the many dangers of such duties. My plan to avoid patrols with the infantry had failed. My plan to get a secure job at MACV headquarters had also failed. I sat down and decided to do something about it. Among other annoyances was that I spent a full year cramming my head full of Vietnamese vocabulary only to have it wasted without so much as an apology.
I wrote a letter to my senator. I had never done this before, or, now that I think of it, since. I said that after a year learning Vietnamese, I was first assigned to mechanical maintenance, replacing gun tubes. In stern but respectful tones, I wondered if, as a taxpayer, I could complain about this obvious waste of funds. As a complaint it was bullshit, but as I previously mentioned, the army creates a fondness for bullshit. In truth I didn’t care at all about the waste of taxpayer dollars. The waste of taxpayer dollars was the last thing the army worried about. Still, it seemed to sound like a legitimate political complaint. I put the letter in an envelope and stuck it in the mail, assuming that I would never hear anything about it, ever.
The portion of my screed about waste in the army in Vietnam was actually not bullshit. Waste in a war is inevitable, and it is tragic. The Pentagon, the army, or whoever made decisions bought all sorts of insane stuff that they must have known was not going to make a difference. For example, they bought thousands of plastic plants with radio transmitters in them. These were dropped from helicopters in areas where enemy troops were thought to be traveling. The plastic plants had pointed weights on the bottom so they would stick in the ground. When they detected human perspiration they would send a radio beep, a message that could be plotted on a map. Then the location could be patrolled with troops, or more likely shelled by artillery. The manufacturer had passed enough tests back in the US to get a contract for a major purchase. But if a lot of these things were used it was necessary to record their exact location, and the specific radio frequency that each fake plant would emit. The slightest sloppiness or inexactitude meant that the artillery might send out a rain of shells and hit an allied unit, or our own troops, or civilians just out there where nobody was, or some deer. In addition, it was overlooked that the Vietnamese people, in general, do not perspire very much. Thoughtless of them to be sure. If the perspiration sensors were activated it more probably meant that an American unit was detected, something we should have known anyway.
The plastic plants, at least the ones I saw, did not look very much like other Southeast Asian flora; in fact they looked more like stylized hedges decorating Broadway stages. Other radio transmitter / perspiration detectors were used, some that mimicked piles of animal turds, even less convincingly. The records of these detectors became so hopelessly muddled that the information they provided was almost entirely ignored. We tried to turn these valuable technological marvels over to the Vietnamese.
At one point the captain of my ordnance support detachment was called home, and I was left in charge. I knew nothing about being a commander. The captain had given me good parting advice. He said let the sergeants take care of everything. Say nothing. Walk around as if you know what you’re doing and never smile at anyone. The enlisted men will assume you are omniscient and leave you alone. I promised to heed that advice, even though I am a poor actor. And just as he was leaving for home he remembered a valuable gift.
The gift was three special connection links for fuel pumps. They were valuable. (You might pay attention here.) When there was a contact with the enemy and all hell was breaking loose, an actual firefight going on, helicopter gunships were called to the site. These helicopters, Hueys and Cobras, had machine guns in front and rocket pods on each side. Their arrival sometimes made the enemy disappear, run back into the jungle or duck into their tunnels. But not always. At times running away wasn’t possible, and the enemy had to stand and fight. These firefights were awful and they could go on for some time with casualties mounting, medics on the ground calling desperately for evacuation flights. It’s hard to forget the odd and curious sound of bullets zipping through the thick foliage. I remember trying to help bandage a man’s shoulder and neck while someone was still firing at us. I remember how heavy he was when we tried to move him.
Helicopters use a great deal of fuel flying back and forth to a contact site and to medical stations or hospitals. They land and must be refueled as quickly as possible. The jet fuel they used, JP 4, essentially kerosene, was stored in large rubber bladders of thousands of gallons that lay, like beached whales, on the ground. The fuel had to be pumped quickly to the helicopter’s tanks. A 350-gallon-perminute trailer-mounted pump, powered by a small gasoline engine, was very essential for refueling. And the most essential part of the pump was the rubber-cushioned connection between the gasoline engine and the pump itself. And this most essential part of the most essential operation was in short supply. My departing captain handed me three of these valuable gizmos.
Anyone with a sense of military obligation would have put these three essential links back into service. After all, lives might depend on the rapid refueling of medevac helicopters. Two questions arose. First, why were these important little things in short supply? No one knew. They just were. They were requisitioned over and over but rarely showed up. They grew in trading value. One unit of a 350-gallon-per-minute fuel pump engine linkage was worth several boxes of frozen steaks, or several bottles of liquor, or a goodly amount of Cambodian hash. Obviously this rough black market was against army regulations, or should have been if anyone thought of it. But the real culprit was the supply system that failed to recognize repeated requisitions as evidence of need.
A second question was, what would happen to these valuable items if, prompted by one’s conscience (my conscience in this case), they were turned in to the regular supply chain. Where would they go? Would they go to their intended role, possibly saving lives? Or would they simply return to the underground trading system used by persons without sufficient conscience? Obviously (and you will notice that the word obviously is used more and more often) they would be drawn out of the regular supply system by someone and traded for steaks or hash. These two questions rattled around in my head, and for a time I forgot all about the morality involved. And in a few weeks my tenure as interim commander of the detachment came happily to an end.
Which was a blessing. I did not like being in charge of the detachment or being in charge of anything for that matter. Some people enjoy command for the feeling of importance and power it produces. Some like to be commanded, to salute and march off with orders. I don’t like either situation, nor do I like any people who like either situation. It would seem that in the army the act of command was simple. Every situation and its solution was addressed in the army regulations. Except that they weren’t. It was thought to be so, but this assumption — that all eventualities had been thought of — was in itself a disaster. In addition, the management-by-following-the-rules approach might have worked in other armies, but not as well with Americans. Nothing works with Americans. They (well…we) don’t follow orders very well. That underlying trait, coupled with the fact that in Vietnam most of the troops were there under duress, requires a stronger form of threat. What was the army going to do with disobeyers? Send them to Vietnam? My recollection is that troops were more or less tractable for about two weeks, and then they realized that obedience was little more than an option.
My detachment relocated from a large poorly secured area near Tay Ninh, near the Cambodian border, south to Bien Hoa, an endless sprawl of Asian wartime overpopulation near Saigon. We trucked all our tools and equipment down the road, fifty miles of dirt road, at ten miles an hour, raising clouds of dust in every village, running ov
er innumerable chickens and dogs, and losing even more of the hearts and minds necessary to keep the support of the people. Our area in Bien Hoa was without water or regular electricity so we lived in tents, with a water truck and generators that ran all night. Everything we needed had to be built or produced by ourselves. Nearby another unit had several buildings, one-story structures that they weren’t using. I tried to find out how we could take these over, but I couldn’t find anyone with anything resembling authority. One night several of the armorers got up on top of the buildings with their rifles, and some beer, and announced that they had captured the buildings for our detachment. I deferred to the first sergeant as usual, and he thought the invasion was a fine idea. Still, I worried that if this turned out to be some sort of illegal move then I, as the officer in charge, would be blamed. In all the confusion no one seemed to notice. On other nights other men of our unit, seeing that you could get what you wanted by getting up on the roof with weapons, got up on the roof with weapons and announced various demands. The first sergeant said that they could stay up on the roof as long as they wanted.
Then, one day, while I was trying to figure out how to have my troops properly mix sulfuric acid for truck batteries, I was called to the battalion command headquarters. The acid had been shipped to us in five-gallon glass carboys at nearly 100 percent strength. It was extraordinarily dangerous stuff that could eat through uniforms, boots, and human skin instantaneously. The question was how much water to add to reduce the specific gravity to the right mix to be put in the dry batteries. The immediate question was whether to add the acid to the water or the water to the acid. There were no instructions present, but luckily one of the troops knew the right procedure, since I surely did not. I tore myself away from the battery acid operation and cleaned up a little and went to the headquarters.
Lieutenant Dangerous Page 8
