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