have to learn to get along, so work it out between yourselves.”
“It won’t happen again, Sir.”
Only four weeks in Vietnam and already I was on everyone’s shit list. What the hell, I still felt my actions were justified under the circumstances. From that day on, I was a marked man. Both Bruckner and Krol kept a watchful eye, waiting for me to screw up. It wasn’t long before they caught me.
The next night I was assigned to a two-hour radio watch, but the man I was supposed to relieve failed to wake me up. In turn, I failed to wake up the next guy, which left us for several hours with no radio contact. In the morning, Lieutenant Bruckner charged everyone involved with an Article 15 for sleeping on guard and levied a $50.00 fine on top of it. Krol also added to the punishment in his own brutal way with plenty of extra humping. I believe Bruckner gave us the Article 15 because I was involved, and he wanted to begin building a case against me.
At least the squad backed me up. PFC Scoggins confided that the entire squad was on my side, and added that it was a welcome relief to finally see someone stand up and try to change the arbitrary tactics we were forced to follow. The encouragement of the men fueled my determination to continue fighting the Lifers and the war with as little recklessness as possible.
“That’s all the guys want you to do, keep them alive.”
C HAPTER 3
The Battle for Hamburger Hill
I had just completed my first month in-country when our company was sent to Eagle Beach, the 101st division rest site, to enjoy a three-day stand down. A stand down was a Grunt’s best friend because it was one of the few times that officers and senior NCOs did not have total control over us. They relaxed with their peers, and we relaxed with ours.
Since Eagle Beach was nearly fifty miles from Camp Evans, we thought the Army would fly us there. Instead, we rode in the back of ten large transport trucks. Our convoy rolled out Camp Evans’ front gate onto Quoc-Lo 1, the only blacktop route in northern I Corps. Running parallel to the South China Sea, Quoc-Lo 1 connected the region’s coastal cities and villages with a steady flow of US and ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) military vehicles and civilian buses and motor scooters.
As we traveled through the flatlands of Phong Dien, I got to view the inhabitants of the Vietnam I would rarely see: attentive farmers, mostly old men and women, working tiny plots of land to support their meager existence. They lived in poverty yet maintained the traditional work ethic passed down from their ancestors. In the midst of war they labored as if the outcome didn’t matter. Whoever the victor was, they simply wanted to keep their land.
Several miles later we began entering the heavily populated streets of Hue, Vietnam’s ancient capital. Hue was a city of constant activity. The streets were filled with kamikaze-driven motor scooters and taxicabs. Vietnamese outdoor markets bustled with shoppers while sidewalk vendors sold everything from stolen black market goods to live chickens. The air reeked of exhaust fumes, dried fish, and burning incense. At each major street intersection there was a sandbagged military checkpoint reminding everyone that even the large city of Hue was not immune from the war.
One of the most pleasant sights in Hue was the teenage schoolgirls dressed in the traditional Vietnamese ao dais apparel. The girls looked like travel brochure models as they strolled beneath shade trees. We waved to them but they would not acknowledge us.
An hour later we arrived at Eagle Beach, a military installation so far removed from the war that it looked and felt more like summer camp. We bunked in cabin-style hooches perched a mere two hundred feet from the sandy beaches of the South China Sea. Gone were the drab surroundings of concertina wire, bunkers, and piss-tubes. In their place were asphalt courts for basketball, tennis, and volleyball. We could swim in
“It won’t happen again, Sir.”
Only four weeks in Vietnam and already I was on everyone’s shit list. What the hell, I still felt my actions were justified under the circumstances. From that day on, I was a marked man. Both Bruckner and Krol kept a watchful eye, waiting for me to screw up. It wasn’t long before they caught me.
The next night I was assigned to a two-hour radio watch, but the man I was supposed to relieve failed to wake me up. In turn, I failed to wake up the next guy, which left us for several hours with no radio contact. In the morning, Lieutenant Bruckner charged everyone involved with an Article 15 for sleeping on guard and levied a $50.00 fine on top of it. Krol also added to the punishment in his own brutal way with plenty of extra humping. I believe Bruckner gave us the Article 15 because I was involved, and he wanted to begin building a case against me.
At least the squad backed me up. PFC Scoggins confided that the entire squad was on my side, and added that it was a welcome relief to finally see someone stand up and try to change the arbitrary tactics we were forced to follow. The encouragement of the men fueled my determination to continue fighting the Lifers and the war with as little recklessness as possible.
“That’s all the guys want you to do, keep them alive.”
C HAPTER 3
The Battle for Hamburger Hill
I had just completed my first month in-country when our company was sent to Eagle Beach, the 101st division rest site, to enjoy a three-day stand down. A stand down was a Grunt’s best friend because it was one of the few times that officers and senior NCOs did not have total control over us. They relaxed with their peers, and we relaxed with ours.
Since Eagle Beach was nearly fifty miles from Camp Evans, we thought the Army would fly us there. Instead, we rode in the back of ten large transport trucks. Our convoy rolled out Camp Evans’ front gate onto Quoc-Lo 1, the only blacktop route in northern I Corps. Running parallel to the South China Sea, Quoc-Lo 1 connected the region’s coastal cities and villages with a steady flow of US and ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) military vehicles and civilian buses and motor scooters.
As we traveled through the flatlands of Phong Dien, I got to view the inhabitants of the Vietnam I would rarely see: attentive farmers, mostly old men and women, working tiny plots of land to support their meager existence. They lived in poverty yet maintained the traditional work ethic passed down from their ancestors. In the midst of war they labored as if the outcome didn’t matter. Whoever the victor was, they simply wanted to keep their land.
Several miles later we began entering the heavily populated streets of Hue, Vietnam’s ancient capital. Hue was a city of constant activity. The streets were filled with kamikaze-driven motor scooters and taxicabs. Vietnamese outdoor markets bustled with shoppers while sidewalk vendors sold everything from stolen black market goods to live chickens. The air reeked of exhaust fumes, dried fish, and burning incense. At each major street intersection there was a sandbagged military checkpoint reminding everyone that even the large city of Hue was not immune from the war.
One of the most pleasant sights in Hue was the teenage schoolgirls dressed in the traditional Vietnamese ao dais apparel. The girls looked like travel brochure models as they strolled beneath shade trees. We waved to them but they would not acknowledge us.
An hour later we arrived at Eagle Beach, a military installation so far removed from the war that it looked and felt more like summer camp. We bunked in cabin-style hooches perched a mere two hundred feet from the sandy beaches of the South China Sea. Gone were the drab surroundings of concertina wire, bunkers, and piss-tubes. In their place were asphalt courts for basketball, tennis, and volleyball. We could swim in
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