Status Updates From The Foot Soldier

“Listen, Costa. The men agreed ... Johnson was hit by a sniper. His pistol went off and you took one in the foot. That’s the story.”

“Yeah...” “Sergeant Davis put a slug through Johnson’s chest. Shot him in the heart. As Johnson went down, his .45 went off and got you in the foot.”

There was a blast so shattering, everything burst in a flash of intense light. I don’t recall much, least of all, falling, but I must have gone down. The world pinwheeled. There were soldiers’ voices and women screaming and babies squalling, and something exploded in my body. There was pain beyond description.

Could this really be happening? I said nothing, just stood there, stunned. “All right, college boy,” Johnson snarled. “We’ll bust your cherry. You’re gonna shoot the dink.” “No, sir. I—” “I said you’re gonna shoot him.” “But, Lieutenant, it’s illegal. It’s a violat—” “You don’t disobey an order. Not in the field, where our lives are at stake. I’m ordering you to kill this dink.”

"There’s nothing.” But Johnson wasn’t listening; no logic would penetrate. He’d descended into some beastly valley of mindless hatred. “Sir, these people’ve done nothing!” shouted Davis. “You really believe that, Davis?” asked Johnson, his face crimson and eyebrows arched. “If you do, you’re more stupid than I thought.”

I shuddered inwardly when he called me. I knew what was coming, and I was sure I’d be the next casualty, thanks to Johnson. My knees felt wobbly as I approached him; a smirk materialized on his face. “You’re up, college boy...” A minute later, I was walking point. Certain my time was near, I was filled with the dreadful anticipation of sniper fire.

The Hueys made air drops and kept us supplied. We ate lousy food and guzzled warm, metallic-tasting water from our canteens, but I could never slake my thirst. My mouth felt parched and my lips were cracked.

“Lieutenant, there’s nothing here,” said Bonilla, a buck sergeant from another platoon. “Make sure, goddammit,” shouted Johnson, again brandishing his .45. “If we find one fucking thing, we’ll burn this place down and poison their well.”

I sensed we were on a never-ending and indefinable battlefield. It seemed there was no beginning, no end—just nonstop, nerve-racking danger—actual and imminent.

I tried not thinking of snipers or VC scouts or booby traps, but the thoughts intruded, filling my brain with a neural overload or dread. That’s just the way it was.

We stripped naked to check for the bloodsuckers. Leeches were all over us, already boring into our flesh and sucking blood. These wormlike bastards thrived in bamboo stands or any pool of stagnant water. They could smell our blood and would crawl toward us through the water.

The last thing I or any soldier could afford was to vomit in those jungle conditions. It could bring on dehydration real fast. The only thing worse would be the get the runs.

He aimed it at the kid’s head, and shot. Blood, bone, and brains spewed everywhere from the slug’s impact. Then Johnson pumped one round into the skull of each VC body. The flies buzzed madly, swarming over the dead like a roiling green horde.

I knew one of our guys was hit. The groans were agonizing to hear. Some minutes later, we got to our feet. A medic was tending to a soldier from the Second Platoon. He’d been gut shot and was bleeding out. The bullet had torn his belly apart.

I had no idea if I was hitting anything or was just riddling the jungle with lead, but it didn’t matter. Actually, nothing mattered; you had to just blow lead and hope you’d survive. I suddenly had a detached, almost surreal feeling as my thoughts drifted crazily back to Buffalo, where my former life had evaporated with the draft board notice.

It was a given if we were going to survive: no one could afford to let the others down. To fall asleep on watch would be the ultimate betrayal. The most I ever slept at one stretch in the bush was two hours.

The mosquitoes were now. They were unbearable, and no matter how much they whined near your ears, you learned never to swat them. A slapping sound could give our position away to the VC, who were undoubtedly nearby.

No matter how you tried, you could never get acclimated to jungle conditions carrying all that gear and being constantly on the lookout for danger. We sweated from the heat, humidity, and unending tension. Fear alone could make you sweat, and we dripped rivulets. We gobbled salt tablets like M&M’s and gulped warm chlorinated water from canisters dropped by the Hueys.

the chopper pilots wanted to drop us as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there. The platoon—all four squads—rushed blindly through the elephant grass. The blades were unbelievably sharp and sliced through my fatigues, lashing my arms and face. I could see nothing in front of me, just eight-foot-high grass—thick and almost impenetrable—more and more of it.

Approaching the area, the Hueys hovered as artillery pounded the LZ. The barrage went on for nearly an hour, but I wished it could continue—hoping it would pulverize every inch of jungle for miles around the LZ. When the artillery prep ended, Cobra helicopters appeared and began raking everything.

We climbed aboard and took positions on the Huey’s floor. We sat on our steel helmets for protection from gunfire below. “You don’t wanna get it in the ass,” said Sergeant Davis, smoking a Camel. He looked calm, pensive.

For us at that moment, there was only base camp where we wrote letters; told jokes; cleaned latrines; did KP; cursed officers; got drunk, stoned, or high; played low-stakes poker; listened to radios; and wondered how our lives had dwindled down to what they’d become.

Rumor had it that after this next mission would come R & R—rest and recreation—meaning a trip to China Beach on the coast near Da Nang. There, R & R was better known as I & I—intoxication and intercourse.

Back at base camp, things seemed normal. Of course, everything’s relative, including one’s sense of normality. The place was filthy and reeked of open latrines, beer, sweat, and marijuana, but amazingly, it became home. Anything was better than the bush.