Fire Support Base Whip


by John Conroy
The following story is a condensed excerpt from one chapter of a manuscript which I am compiling and which I hope to present to publishers by the end of the year. I would appreciate any input which persons present on the scene at the time might be able to provide to me.

"WHIP"
in May, 1969
A Cherry's Perspective
~~~




The work in which we were engaged was slow, hot, and dirty. We certainly had no rhythm going. We each just dragged another gray-green plastic sandbag from atop the bunker, slit it open with the machete, dumped the dirt from within it through the slit onto a large dirt pile, and discarded the bag into another pile which was to be burnt at a later time. We intended to leave as little material behind as possible because we knew that those industrious little rice eaters in the North Viet Namese Army would find a use for everything that we left behind once we had departed from the area.

We worked stripped to the waist. A sunburn gave away those of us who were new in country while the others displayed dark tans on their exposed torsos and limbs. There was little talk between us. Even if I had not been so drained of energy I would still have been too unfamiliar with my comrades to hold much of a conversation with them. They didn't seem to want to have much to do with new guys anyway. So I just removed another heavy bag from the bunker, grabbing it with both hands, hefting it up off of the roof and lowering it down to mid-waist level. More dirt and sand collected on my stomach and arms as it fell from the bunker roof and from the bag itself. The dirt added to the general feeling of misery from which there was no relief in sight. I glanced at the sky. It was still a clear blue. I thought "I never knew that blue could be so hot." I was aware that the only relief which I could expect from my dirt shower was the steady cleansing effect of sweat pouring from my body as if it were rain water while I stood in a constant light drizzle. The running sweat cleared rivulets and patches in the soil layered on our bodies as we worked.

When I heard the explosion I knew that it was close, but I felt no concussion. I dropped the sandbag, turned, and looked in the direction of the blast, up above the rocky, twenty foot high dirt and rock wall extending to the crest of the hill. My gaze was attracted to movement in the sky beyond the top of the hill. I began to stare as if I were hypnotized at the headless, limbless, white naked trunk which appeared to be floating through the air. I was vaguely aware of, but ignored, something flying rapidly past my right side. Still awestruck, I continued to stare at the torso as it completed a slow, high arc and landed with a dull thud in the springy concertina wire more or less to the front of our bunker. As the bloody white hunk of meat bobbed up and down on the springy wire it stood out in stark contrast to the broken, grass-less, dull colored ground beneath it.

Coming back to my senses and believing that we were probably under some sort of attack, I joined the rush into the remains of the bunker which we had been demolishing mere seconds before. I paused only long enough to grab my rifle, helmet, and ammunition bandoleer.

On the inside the bunker was musty, stale, dirty, and suddenly crowded. It smelt strongly of sweat, in some part due to our labors, and partly due to our apprehension. The smell of fear was new to me. There were four of us inside of the small boxed in area, along with our weapons and assorted gear. We all had our weapons pointed out of the firing apertures as we awaited any forthcoming assault from the jungle beyond our perimeter. We were still well prepared, though the top portion of the bunker afforded little protection for us at that time due to our efforts at its disassembly. We peered intently at the uphill approaches to our little haven as well as at the jungle beyond for any sign of movement.

Curt orders were quickly given about where to look for any impending ground assault. I didn't know who gave them as I didn't yet know the squad members voices. It really didn't matter who it was to me as I was the FNG (Fucking New Guy). Everyone else had been there prior to my arrival. Thus it figured to me that they had a better idea about how to survive whatever dilemma we faced than I did.

A Major of Engineers finally came to the lip of the ridge and called down the "All clear!" to us. We left the bunker to look around and the sergeant went to find out what the problem was from our own headquarters.

"Hey! Look at this!" exclaimed Cochise. He was squatting and examining a hand that was lying on the ground. It had about two inches of the arm above the wrist still attached to it. I realized from where it was lying that it was undoubtedly the object that had flown past me a few minutes earlier while I had watched the body fly through the air.

I looked about me and saw that there were small chunks of meat lying virtually everywhere. They were on the bunkers, the ground, our equipment, our clothing, and our bodies. no one yet had any idea what had happened, but I had already had enough exposure to know that we hadn't been mortared. The old hands said that it was unlike anything they had ever heard, and they had heard it all at one time or another. They went through a check list during their conversations. It was ruled out as being an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade), a recoilless rifle, a 122 millimeter rocket, or an artillery round. Everyone was befuddled and I made the error of suggesting that it might be some kind of mine or booby trap. That got me some disdainful looks, as in "What do you know, new guy?".

When I looked back toward the wire I saw several engineers alternating between struggling to free the torso from the wire and vomiting. When they got it freed they placed it onto a green rain poncho and two of them carried it back up the hill.

Then an extremely sick looking black engineer slid down toward us from the crest of the hill. He held a sandbag away from his side as he made the steep descent. When he got to the bottom he knelt and began to retrieve the larger pieces of his fallen comrades. He placed these into the green plastic sandbag, which was already seeping red gore through its sides and bottom. That was apparently the reason that he held it well away from him. The seepage and bulk in the bag also indicated that he had begun his detail back closer to the site of the explosion. Something had to be collected for shipment to and burial in CONUS, and the poor sap with the bag was assigned to pick up all body parts that were larger than chicken feed.

Our sergeant returned from the CP and told us that a trio of engineers had been blown away at the bonfire up on top of the hill. The bonfire was being used to burn what ever was not being flown off of the base. Apparently someone had placed a case of fragmentation grenades on the fire. When it blew it was a really loud, large explosion with plenty of shrapnel. We were soon put back to work demolishing the bunker and derogatory comments about "combat engineers" died down since it just took to much energy to yap about it.

There was still not the slightest hint of a breeze. As the hot afternoon wore on the sun hastened the decomposition of the thousands of small pieces of meat scattered about the firebase by the explosion. As they began to stink the birds from the nearby jungles were attracted to the area. Large numbers of them arrived to begin dining upon the human flesh, as well as upon every manner of insect imaginable, which I supposed was a surprise to the insects during their own perceived free lunch.

After a dinner of C-rations guard duty assignments were given out. I was assigned the 0200 to 0300 shift. I found that there was very little chatting after dark. Four of us lay upon the dirt floor of the bunker, trying to sleep, while the fifth man was on guard duty. It was very uncomfortable inside of the bunker. Not only was I crowded on both sides, but each time the guard changed they had to step over me. It was too dark to actually see someone step over me, so I laid on the hard ground in the dark, waiting for the inevitable foot to fall upon me until I knew that the guards had completed their maneuvers.

The interior of the bunker was stiflingly hot. Mosquitos had appeared in squadrons at dark and were relentless in their attacks upon us. The bug juice that we used might keep them from landing on us until the sweat wore it off of us, but it did not keep them from droning incessantly. More than once I opened my mouth, only to inhale the bothersome things. In spite of my being dog-assed tired I still could not get to sleep. So I laid there listening to the night noises: men rustling in their sleep, coughing, sneezing, snoring, muttering curses, slapping at mosquitos, getting up for guard duty or to relieve themselves, and the chirping, buzzing, droning, and clicking of insects, the occasional squelch of the field radio, the guard moving about as he tried to stay awake, and the occasional explosion from down the hillside. The guard had orders to fire the M-79 grenade launcher down the hill at random times to help ward off any would be attackers.

The odor inside of the bunker was horrid. There was no telling how much time had passed since the men in the squad had been able to take a shower or bath, or had washed or changed their jungle fatigues. It had probably been the last time that they had crossed a river or jungle stream. For me it had been nearly a week, but I was the one most recently removed from civilization. In the enclosed confines of the bunker during the heat of the night body odors and other smells coupled to make breathing laborious. Of course there was still no breeze to help clear the air, but I was the only one whom it seemed to bother. I thanked God that no one took off their boots and that we were sleeping alternately head to toe. I was only able to get to sleep after my guard shift, then I slept very soundly.

The next day we were to leave FB Whip under some minor harassing fire from the NVA on the next hill, but that memory is not the one that stands out to me. To me Whip will always be my initiation into the infantryman's world of dirt, blood, fear, adrenaline, stench, heat, fatigue, and misery. Acceptance and comradeship were a long way off at the time. Fire Base Whip was most of all to me a place of loneliness and confusion.

John Conroy
W.I.A. June 1969
A Company, 1/501, 3rd Platoon
101st Airborne Division