Meeting Sandy


by Mark Orr


Our chopper headed almost straight east toward the coast. The color of the sand below changed from yellow to white as we crossed that same highway we took from Evans to Sally.

Highway 1, and everything else, looked much better when seen from the air. The sparse vegetation stayed the same but now there appeared numerous small pools of water. Most of them had been created by high explosive artillery delivered from either Sally's guns or those of Fire Support Base Sandy which is where we were headed. Rumors had it that the U.S. Navy lobbed a couple once in a while too. I never saw the boat, but we all felt better knowing that a rumor said the S.S. New Jersey was out there somewhere with 16 inch guns that could hurl a Volkswagon ten miles... in case we needed one.

It was a hot sunny day and the water in the puddles and craters with water in them reflected the sun as we passed over them. The open air flight was a beautiful thing. I've never found anything close to the feel of a ride on a huey with no doors (except for maybe Harley.) I'd be a liar though, if I said I wasn't at least slightly worried about fire from below. That was a thing about chopper rides. The higher you fly the safer you feel. You want to get very high very fast as a rule, to get out of rifle and rocket range. One more thing about chopper rides... they were always too short.

There were four or five other new guys in the chopper besides myself (Plus two door gunners and two pilots.) So far, we had only gotten as acquainted as pulling bunker guard and filling sandbags would allow. I guess we all had that "in transit" attitude that dictates you should not get to know someone real good because you probably won't see them again. Incidentally, not one soul I had entered the army with was with me now. And I felt like tomorrow these guys who were with me now would probably be somewhere else. They felt the same way. It was part of being in the Army in 1968. However all this would change radically once a soldier finally joined the combat unit he was assigned to.

We were all headed to A Company in the field though, so just maybe an attempt at making a friend wouldn't be a waste of time. However, idle conversation aboard an open and cruising chopper is next to impossible. So these things would wait, at least until the end of this ten minute flight.

[Editors note: It's very interesting to me, to note that one of the guys who waited at the Sandy chopper pad to unload our chopper was a certain Charles Gadd. He later wrote a book about his Vietnam experience with the Third Platoon of A Company 1st 501st Infantry (...just where I was headed.) The book was called Line Doggie. It was published several years ago, and they've stopped printing it but I've read it twice. It's a good book if you can find it, especially for those of us who wandered the same trails .. a year later.]

[lingo: REMF. Pronounced "remf". The word remf is one of those words that can only be used correctly by a grunt. It refers to anyone who has a job in a rear area. Rear areas were generally more safe and secure than the field however they were still prone an occasional rocket attack or an attack by "sappers" which were Viet Cong guerillas who got crazy or drunk enough to charge the perimeter with all the explosives they could carry. It was always a suicide mission. The rear area of the Vietnam war had nothing to do with direction. Since there really was no definitive front line, there wasn't a particular "rear" either. Certain Secured areas were "the rear" in Vietnam, and just like the Calvary outposts of the old West the enemy could be in any direction outside the walls. There were no walls however, to these "forts" in Vietnam. Stretched out rolls of concertina wire and piled up dirt were the best you could hope for. A "secure area" was therefore any one of the various installations dotted throughout the country such as LZ Sally, Camp Eagle, Camp Evans and even the smaller FSBs (fire support bases). If you had a permanant job at one of these secure installations, you were a remf. One further fact about being a remf... it was a much sought after position. We grunts cursed them. (The letters r-e-m-f stand for Rear Eschelon Muther F---er.) It was seemingly out of jealousy, because most of us would have jumped at almost any offer of a rear job. The way we had to look at it was that we had the lowest, dirtiest, scroungiest, most dangerous, sleepless job that a man could possibly have, ...but at least we weren't remfs. We all said that... until we got a rear job. Some of us never got a rear job. Lastly, and so that you perfectly understand, remfs were absolutely the best people in the entire country ...except for all the grunts.]



Anyway, as we touched down at Sandy, a couple of remfs met us at the chopper pad to unload the mail and other supplies. This place Sandy was a fire support base (FSB.) It looked cool as the chopper came in because it was shaped like a star with six points and there was a 105 Howitzer (canon) fixed at each point of the star so that all directions were covered. FSB Sandy sat in the middle of a large area of pure white sand and dirty black scrub growth. It was a much smaller place than LZ Sally. It's purpose was really a permanent artillery emplacement that could reach any target in the flatlands part of the central I corps if needed by an infantry unit in trouble. If the target was too far to the West for Sandy to hit, most probably the long guns at Sally would take over.

I remember Sandy looked all nice and clean compared to Sally. A lot of that was probably due to a coating of white sand on everything in sight. And there was something about Sandy made me think of an Arabian Oasis with French Foreign Legion Post. I half expected to see a legionnaire come out of one of the tents. Instead, some remf who out ranked us came out to show us where the sandbags were. Basically we were to fill bags till evening then take a lunch break. At dusk we would man the bunkers for guard duty. It was all democratic. They let us draw straws to see which shift of guard we would have. Again, I need to mention that those who worked at Sandy did also have to pull bunker guard. (But not if there were any grunts around.) This shit was getting old.

And there was no mess hall at Sandy. From now on our meals would come out of little o.d. green cans and known formally as C-rations. What a dismal concept. But hey... we're just getting started.

Up to this point I had made no acquaintences. That is, I didn't know anyone or get to know anyone since first setting foot in Vietnam. Not only was it difficult to get to know someone because their names and faces changed hourly, but to be honest I had started to recognize a certain advantage to working alone. It's much easier to disappear when you're alone. Sometimes "safety in numbers" is the best rule though, and battle is the best example of that. So to solve this conflict I decided that a survivor ought to be able to adapt either way.

Anyway, I do remember the guy I shared bunker guard duties with that night at Sandy. His name was Fred Yost. He had a strong accent that betold his east coast origin although I don't remember which state he was from. We pulled the first couple of shifts together and spoke of many things as we scanned the horizon for movement. The later and darker it got, the more the conversation became dominated by our reckonings of what we would see tomorrow. In the morning we would be going out to the field... loaded for combat. "The field" is where grunts lived. It's where the combat will be. So tonight, might just be the end of life as we had known it so far.

The stars were incredible that night. They were more clear and bright than normal. Maybe I was just paying more attention.

I took a shift at guard alone while Yost went sneaking around for information, or maybe just a cold beer. I kept my eyes scanning the area in front of my bunker that I was responsible for. After a half-hour or so, a bright flare appeared above the horizon and gave me something to look at and think about. The flares were always a pretty sight as they floated down swinging back and forth from their parachute. Of course the flare would never have been launced if there wasn't some kind of trouble going on that called for it's use. A few tracer rounds did appear under the flare, but the event was miles away and the proximity made me a spectator. I hoped that it was not, but I wondered if it could be Alpha Company out there and in trouble.

Whatever it was, it ended after the flare went out. I was back to staring into blackness. The flare had been a distraction. The darkness brought me back to the reality that the ground directly in front of me was more important than the ground of miles away.

When Yost came back, I went out wandering about the oasis myself. All of Sandy's inhabitants seemed to bed by then though, except for the other bunker guards. One small tent had a light inside, so I went there and found three or four guys on radio watch. Their job was to constantly monitor positions and status changes of the platoons out in the field in case support might be needed from Sandy's big guns. Presently, all things were quiet. The platoons checked in with sit-reps (situation reports) hourly by radio.

A couple of the guys had actually been working with Alpha company out in the field. In fact, one of them named Cordova gave me a message to give one of the guys who I'd meet tomorrow named "3-6 Kilo." I took the note and promised to look the guy up. Cordova had worked as an RTO for one of the platoons out in the field and had just "moved up" to a better job. He was now a radio operator for the Company Commander. That meant he would always be where the Captain was and traditionally... that should be a pretty safe place if there was such a thing.

I asked Cordova a thousand questions that all came down to one. I wanted to know how he and the other guys in the tent had survived this war so far. I wanted to know how guys got killed and if it was even possible to stay alive for a whole year out in the field. Did men die just from making stupid mistakes? Was it just bad luck? Could you really expect to stay alive if you did everything right? Can you ever relax? Are the leaders any good? Do they ever make the wrong decisions?

Strange as it may seem I had no visions of life after Vietnam. On one hand I just knew I would never make it home again. On the other hand though, I did not expect to be killed and there was no way in the world I would ever be taken prisoner. It was a kind of mental limbo that makes you just focus on what you are doing this moment. Your future and your history "...don't mean nothin'." I just didn't want to die because of ignorance and or stupidity, so I asked a lot of questions.

The radio operators (RTO's) eluded to the idea that a grunt's chances of getting killed depended on what job he had. Apparently some jobs were safer than others, but a wise soldier should always try to get a job that would take him the hell out of the field.

This was not exactly the answer I was looking for but I would remember their advice. Of course those guys all said that carrying a radio for "the boss" was about the best job a grunt could get and that's how they'd gotten out of the field and into that tent at Sandy. The only apparent drawback to carrying a radio was that you had to lug around the very heavy PRC 25 radio and an extra battery on top of all the same gear everyone else carried. The good part was that it was your job to stay close to the platoons leader who was usually protected like a queen in a game of chess.

And as far as bad jobs, it was a given that walking point was probably the most dangerous position. Although any position in the field was one that get you killed, walking point was something that you should not volunteer for. "You'll have to do it sooner or later whether you like it or not." I guess their bottom line was to try and get a radio job and then try and get a rear job. Other than that, stay alert and ready for anything. Relaxing was not recommended.

The next morning Yost and I and a few others boarded a chopper bound for Alpha company in the field. The same chopper was delivering a fresh load of mail and supplies to the company, so they would be glad to see our chopper arrive.

As the chopper descended toward what looked like a small bombed out village beside a river, someone on the ground lobbed a yellow smoke grenade showing our pilot where to set down. The blades of the chopper churned the smoke into a large doughnut shape cloud around our bird when we touched down as if it were a nest. Then, the smoke quickly dissipated into the surroundings leaving just a trace of inscense to set the mood. It was that same smell that drifted over the bleechers at the fireworks show on the 4th of July. This would be my entrance to the battlefield. Pretty impressive so far. And the helicopter thing... what an entrance.

A couple troops came running out to unload the boxes and mail bags and point us new guys to a particular clump of trees where someone was waiting who knew we were coming. There, and again, the six of us were split up into different platoons. Yost went to the first platoon and I went to the third. I rarely saw him again. In fact, the last time I did see him he was in a wire body basket being hoisted up through the trees in the jungle by a Medevac helicopter. W.I.A.

So my first friend in Vietnam didn't last two months. I caught his eye while I was helping guard the hasty perimeter we made for his medivac, and he wasn't smiling. I knew he would make it home alive though, bless his Airborne heart. I hope he's rollin' in clover. I also hope he realizes... we both outlived Sandy by-gawd.

Orr

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