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
A/1/501
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