by a lightweight poncho liner. As soon as the sun went down, it was as if the dinner bell had rung for the bugs. Mosquitoes that seemed to be as big as birds would carry someone off unless they were doused with the Army issue insect repellent we nicknamed “bug juice.” It was a foul, eye-burning chemical strong enough to melt holes through rubber. Some guys developed a rash from the bug juice, so they wore a face net to keep insects from crawling into their eyes and ears.
Our AO (Area of Operations) outside the village of Phong Dien was relatively quiet with rare enemy confrontations. During the daylight hours, when not humping, we stayed concealed in one of the many bamboo thickets, playing cards, writing letters, sleeping, or just hanging around. Other than the mail, our only diversion from the war’s activities was an illegal transistor radio each squad took turns passing around. AFVN (American Forces Vietnam Network) was the only American station with broadcasts limited to top forty rock, country western, the news, and some interviews. Otherwise strictly forbidden, the radio was a luxury allowed only during daylight in a considerably safe location.
Each night we moved to an ambush site to wait for an unsuspecting VC to walk by. The routine became boring, and boredom itself became an enemy. We did the same thing every day and every night. Relaxation followed by the extreme tension of waiting for something to happen that never did. After a while, the frustration affected us such that we wanted to fight. One day we blasted a large snake out of existence as it tried to slither past our position. It was a welcome relief just to fire our weapons.
Some of our duty was hard to take seriously, especially our daytime positions around the outskirts of the village. We were supposed to be concealed, but because there was such a maze of footpaths throughout the AO, the villagers would pass by our location and wave hello to us. Sometimes they would even come in looking for food. If we got real lucky, the local boom-boom girl would stop by to offer her services.
There was a dull humor to us hiding in the bushes. Our weapons could wipe out most anything in our way while the peasants walked by with only farm tools as they traveled to work their fields and rice paddies. Night, of course, was a different story. No one dared to venture from the security of the village. Once darkness fell, the area became a free-fire zone, and anyone out there was fair game. It was strictly shoot first, and ask questions later.
“We’ve got a dead Gook out there! I can smell him!”
C HAPTER 2
No Career Moves for Me
With the coming of dusk, the mixed character of the local Vietnamese, who were friendly by day, often enemy by night, made relocation of our platoon a first priority for survival. After spending the entire day in a bamboo thicket, we moved at twilight to a nearby position to decoy any VC that may have observed us earlier.
I had been in the field only two weeks, but easily fell into the quiet dusk-assembling routine. There was no talking, and the only noises were the dull thuds of equipment being gathered. With everything collected, we stood motionless in the eerie quiet, darting glances at one another until the point man was given the hand signal to move out. With owl-like eyes I glanced at the men in front of me and observed the surrounding terrain in the fading light. To our left was a series of dark hulks–the village huts. To the right, the distant lights of Camp Evans. Directly ahead, the grass knolls had faded, casting heavy shadows on the low-lying shrubs and bamboo thickets.
Suddenly, the column stopped. The point man signaled us to kneel down as he pointed to the right. On the horizon, we could barely distinguish what appeared to be a squad of VC walking toward us. They moved to within 100 yards until their leader stopped, staring cautiously in our direction, somehow sensing our presence. He motioned his squad to retreat, but
Our AO (Area of Operations) outside the village of Phong Dien was relatively quiet with rare enemy confrontations. During the daylight hours, when not humping, we stayed concealed in one of the many bamboo thickets, playing cards, writing letters, sleeping, or just hanging around. Other than the mail, our only diversion from the war’s activities was an illegal transistor radio each squad took turns passing around. AFVN (American Forces Vietnam Network) was the only American station with broadcasts limited to top forty rock, country western, the news, and some interviews. Otherwise strictly forbidden, the radio was a luxury allowed only during daylight in a considerably safe location.
Each night we moved to an ambush site to wait for an unsuspecting VC to walk by. The routine became boring, and boredom itself became an enemy. We did the same thing every day and every night. Relaxation followed by the extreme tension of waiting for something to happen that never did. After a while, the frustration affected us such that we wanted to fight. One day we blasted a large snake out of existence as it tried to slither past our position. It was a welcome relief just to fire our weapons.
Some of our duty was hard to take seriously, especially our daytime positions around the outskirts of the village. We were supposed to be concealed, but because there was such a maze of footpaths throughout the AO, the villagers would pass by our location and wave hello to us. Sometimes they would even come in looking for food. If we got real lucky, the local boom-boom girl would stop by to offer her services.
There was a dull humor to us hiding in the bushes. Our weapons could wipe out most anything in our way while the peasants walked by with only farm tools as they traveled to work their fields and rice paddies. Night, of course, was a different story. No one dared to venture from the security of the village. Once darkness fell, the area became a free-fire zone, and anyone out there was fair game. It was strictly shoot first, and ask questions later.
“We’ve got a dead Gook out there! I can smell him!”
C HAPTER 2
No Career Moves for Me
With the coming of dusk, the mixed character of the local Vietnamese, who were friendly by day, often enemy by night, made relocation of our platoon a first priority for survival. After spending the entire day in a bamboo thicket, we moved at twilight to a nearby position to decoy any VC that may have observed us earlier.
I had been in the field only two weeks, but easily fell into the quiet dusk-assembling routine. There was no talking, and the only noises were the dull thuds of equipment being gathered. With everything collected, we stood motionless in the eerie quiet, darting glances at one another until the point man was given the hand signal to move out. With owl-like eyes I glanced at the men in front of me and observed the surrounding terrain in the fading light. To our left was a series of dark hulks–the village huts. To the right, the distant lights of Camp Evans. Directly ahead, the grass knolls had faded, casting heavy shadows on the low-lying shrubs and bamboo thickets.
Suddenly, the column stopped. The point man signaled us to kneel down as he pointed to the right. On the horizon, we could barely distinguish what appeared to be a squad of VC walking toward us. They moved to within 100 yards until their leader stopped, staring cautiously in our direction, somehow sensing our presence. He motioned his squad to retreat, but
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