Orphans Of The Mourning
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Copyright 2007
Robert Alan Chapin
Smashwords Edition
This book is not intended as a literal account or an exact portrayal of any persons living or dead. Obviously, it has been important to the author to protect the identity of some of the characters in this story, and for that purpose, names and descriptions have been changed.
The saddest part about war is that most young men die with their greatest symphonies still in them.
Beethoven
This book is dedicated to my wife Maureen who is the greatest source of joy in my life. Not only are you my companion, but you are my best friend.
With all my love
Vietnam Casualties
41,331 Enlisted Men Killed In Combat
5,741 Officers Killed In Combat
8 Women Killed In Action
313,616 Wounded In Combat
10,000 Servicemen Lost One Limb
771 Americans Captured (113 Died In Captivity)
One Out Of Every Ten Who served In Vietnam Were Killed Or Wounded
2,110 Soldiers Remain Missing
Prologue
A Trophy For Arvie
West Brookfield, Massachusetts - June 1989
Preston Cunningham drove into the picturesque New England town of West Brookfield, Massachusetts bound for the charming ‘town common’. It was here thirty years earlier, where he and Arvie were to take part in an key race. They were the best of friends, and it was the best of times in 1959. Arvie’s dad was their scoutmaster and it was Mr. Silverberg, who instituted many of the social and ethical principles Preston would later on incorporate into his life.
As with most teenagers, his viewpoint was set on the great inquisitiveness the world had to offer. In 1959, the town had not quite enough industry with which to provide for its residents.
There was the Fleishman Yeast Factory, a wire manufacturing plant and charming Lake Wicquaboag (Wick-a-bog), a preferred vacation destination for the prosperous from Boston to the Berkshires.
Even with the need for more business, the three hundred year old town was rich in colonial custom with its church suppers and lawn parties. Special character that made New England unique.
The windshield wipers were stressed to their maximum; melodiously flip flopping to remove the sheets of rain from a surprising early spring rainstorm. Preston could hardly make out the old mesh backstop to the baseball diamond as his mind flashed back in time to the day of the race.
Lex Carroll, the local Chevrolet dealer, a most generous man was the sponsor for the race. In addition to providing the pace car - a white exterior with red leather interior 1959 Chevy convertible full of options. Mr. Carroll also supplied the trophies. The youth of their town were so often the recipient of Mr. Carroll’s charity.
Several days prior to the race Preston and Arvie were placed into the proper age group, and assigned numbers to be pinned to their shirts. The path of the race would take them on a three mile trip - which, on purpose was a total of three laps around the town common. In the Colonial period, the area of land in the center of town served as a ‘common’ meeting place - thus the term town common.
On the day of the race, a modest crowd assembled at the starting line (which would also serve as the finishing point). The pace car was proceed by the town’s only police cruiser. A woof of the bullet shaped chrome siren on the roof of the cruiser, a wave from the flagman and the contestants were in motion.
The adrenalin raced through Preston’s body as two dozen young men were about to reveal their marathon skills. Arvie and Preston were approaching the end of the first lap when this scrawny skinny kid raced from behind won the first trophy. Another was just as quick to pick up the second trophy.
Preston and Arvie managed to take a quick look at each other laboring to catch their breath between steps. It was at this critical moment when they decided to end the third and final lap on the same foot - and at the same time! The thought never appeared to either of them that in the event of a tie they might be asked to run a fourth and final lap to decide the winner.
They extended their hands to shake on their promise. The muscles in Preston’s legs began to tighten and he could see that Arvie was also in pain.
“Don’t lose your stride!” Arvie shouted, gasping for breath.
They were certain of the win! Along the route there were shouts of encouragement and support.
Lex Carroll actively thrust the last trophy above his head. For a moment, thirst overwhelmed any desire to finish the race as agreed. Preston was anxious for a drink of water. It was an effort just to breathe. They made eye contact one last time and, but extended their hands in anticipation of a mission well done. Success for this pair was definite. They were now only fifteen feet from the finish line.
Then, unexpectedly Preston tripped falling to the ground! Arvie crossed the finish line, and Preston had experienced the agony of defeat - and a bruised knee. Arvie sprinted back to ask if Preston was OK, but all Preston wanted was water!
Although proud of his triumph, Arvie was eager they both share in the trophy - and refused to take no for an answer. Not only was Arvie humble as he displayed the true meaning of friendship, but more significant, he demonstrated the pride that comes with doing your best.
* * *
Preston Cunningham was drafted in March of 1968 making certain of a an assignment in Vietnam.
Yet, with less than two weeks before deployment to the war zone as a draftee, Preston chose the Army’s new four year enlistment program. He was given the opportunity to decide on Spain, Italy or Germany for his entire forty eight month enlistment as a result - avoiding Vietnam.
Following a brief 16 months of civilian status in Germany and a lack of personnel in his occupation (top secret cryptography), Uncle Sam acted in disregard of his contract and Preston was assigned to the jungles of Vietnam.
Orphans Of The Mourning
Chapter One
Nineteen Going On Thirty Something!
South Vietnam May 13, 1968
“Gentlemen! At this time, we will interrupt electrical service to the cabin, a safety measure when flying over hostile territory. Please put out all cigarettes!” The surprising message startled Corporal Preston Cunningham from a restless sleep. his head uncomfortably slumped between his lapel and the window.
“Our approach to Cam Rahn Bay will take approximately fifteen minutes. On behalf of Pan Am and our entire flight crew, we hope for your safe return to American soil. It is 8:30 P.M., Vietnam time, and the temperature - 105 degrees.” a collective moan moved through the aircraft.
“Hello Vietnam - and thank you uncle goddamned Sam!” Preston grumbled, looking intently through the window at the cushion of white marshmallow clouds.
One hundred twenty five men, the majority eighteen years old and scarcely out of high school or the ghetto, sat in total silence on their decline to the runway. In preparation for the landing, Preston supported his body at that moment just prior to touching town when all mechanical noise is subdued.
White smoke drifted beyond the window as the tires chirpped into the runway. The abrupt reversal of engines forced him forward in his seat.
The crew was to wait in Cam Rahn Bay just long enough to refuel and board with G.I’s returning stateside. When Preston stepped into the aisle, a stewardess hugged and whispered “good luck!”
Upon departure, the comfort of the air conditioned cabin was little reward from the blast of tropical heat gripping at Preston’s chest and legs like the tentacles of an angry octopus attacking its victim.
In the time it had taken to descend the steps of the plane to the tarmac, chilled and moderately cool uniforms were misshapen into an accumulation of clammy perspiration and dust. Commercial airliners were preparing to depart with military personnel returning from their tour of duty in Vietnam, or individuals traveling on R & R.
The whine of the jet engines and odor of aviation fuel combined with the flourishing movement of men and military machines implied there was a reason in his being there.
Another plane taxied from the boarding area revealing a stack of grey metal containers. Forklifts relocated them from the pile to the plane. They were coffins, each containing a distorted, twisted body, and the irony at this point in the procedure - a mother was unaware that her son was a casualty. Fear overwhelmed Preston. “Could this happen to me?” he thought. He was to return home in twelve months. But now, there was the probability he might become one of “them.”
His attention was drawn to a tractor transporting an solitary coffin reminiscent of that night in Dallas when President Kennedy’s flag draped casket was raised without formal procedure into the cargo bay of Air Force One.
The sight of that solitary casket and the lack of concern with which it was handled will linger camouflaged deep in his mind forever.
A chain link fence divided the new recruits from those returning stateside. Wearing soiled combat fatigues, their faces visible with the appearance of having been frozen in time. Their haunting eyes sent unspoken messages that these replacements may also endure a horrendous fate in this escalating war. They didn’t bear a resemblance to any of the new arrivals. Preston Cunningham had his youth! Theirs was nowhere to be found. They were nineteen years old going on thirty-something!
Cam Rahn Bay, South Vietnam was somewhat secure, but any effort at sleeping was easier said than done. The persistent sound of artillery was terrifying! It was impossible to make a distinction between that of a discharging friendly round from that of an incoming enemy rocket.
Soldiers and marines who re-enlisted for an extra tour of duty in Vietnam were referred to as “lifers”. For new recruits, there was encouragement that all would be OK - for the time being.
Following a seven thousand mile flight from Germany and the understanding that he was now in an unwelcome environment, Preston Cunningham could not convince himself that he would even live to tell the tale!
With each echoing boom he rolled out of bed. He was not quite asleep when shocked from his bunk by the sudden wail of an air raid siren followed by a number of loud explosions in rapid succession. “Get into the goddamned bunkers! Move it! Get your asses into the bunkers!” a voice shouted.
“What bunkers? No one told me about any bunkers - not this soon!” the thought raced through his mind. Tripping over arms, legs, and steel, he found himself on the floor, and dragged to the front of the building - and down into a ditch and finally into the safety of a metal culvert six feet below the earth. Six feet! How ironic! How terrifying! How ominous!
“Once in a while Charlie gets brave enough to hurl a rocket into the compound. Choppers will blow the bastard’s away!” an nameless voice reassured everyone.
Shortly after that, the whine of jet engines and whapping of rotor blades produced a thrilling cheer as choppers geared up for a search of the enemy. Just about ten minutes later another anonymous voice encouraged the new recruits to work their way to the front of their bunker to observe the awesome firepower of the choppers releasing a volley of deadly rapid fire into their suspected Vietcong target. The Huey gunship is equipped with a nose mounted mini-gun, a highly developed level of the Gatling Gun employed by the U.S. Cavalry in the old cowboy and Indian movies.
Bullets tipped in red die when fired in rapid succession give off a deep red glow permitting the gunners a line of fire and the ability to zero in on the enemy. The Gatling Gun is capable of firing six revolving barrels at a rate of six thousand rounds per minute.
Once permitted to return to the building, all Preston could do was gaze into darkness, unable to keep his mind from doubt of what may lie ahead.
May 14, 1968
Republic of South Vietnam
It was 0400 hours when he drifted off to sleep - and 0530 hours when an Air Force sergeant barked the order to shower, shave, eat, and assemble in formation in 45 minutes.
Geographically, An Khe is located fifty miles west of the South China Sea and four hundred miles from China to its north - but it was on the other hand ten thousand miles from the safety of Preston’s home in rural West Brookfield, Massachusetts.
Surrounded by unfriendly mountains, An Khe was a processing center for recruits beginning their tour of duty. It also served to prepare those returning home. If you were alive - or in a metal box, An Khe was the one place each person processed through - in or out - dead or alive.
In An Khe, Preston learned that no one is excused from KP (kitchen police) - the washing of dirty dishes. Every morning new recruits would assemble in groups of 200 or more. From a especially built platform a sergeant with a broad sweeping motion with his hand, would disperse “this half” or “that half” of the formation to the huge kitchens for an grueling and exhausting fourteen hour day of potato peeling, pan washing, floor swabbing and just plain back breaking misery!
During his first two days in An Khe, Preston, a private, was in the in the wrong half. Preceding assembly on the morning of the third day he complained of stomach pain and reported to sick bay where he persuaded a doctor to order rest for the rest of the day.
Following several hours of much needed essential sleep, Preston Cunningham leisurely walked into the little Vietnamese tailor shop which served the compound and purchased a pair of metal pin-on sergeant chevrons. Sergeants were exempt from any physical duty and were in a supervisory capacity only.
The next morning, wearing the newly purchased insignia, Preston situated himself directly in the front row giving the assumption he was in command of a group of men. This was not a discreet decision.
The duty sergeant, a huge 6’5” black man pointed directly at Preston ordering Preston to move toward the podium. With heart throbbing up into his throat Preston willingly obliged and stepped forward.
“How long you been a sergeant boy?” the sergeant shouted into Preston’s face.
“Two days sergeant!” Preston replied, gazing directly into his eyes.
“Why you so nervous?” the sergeant said angrily, eye-balling Preston from head to toe.
As Preston’s mind raced for an answer, the sergeant tugged at his collar re-arranging the insignia to their correct place.
“You got them gott-damned things on upside down! Git yo’ ass back in formation afore I change my mind!”
For the remainder of his short stay in An Khe, Preston Cunningham was in charge of the sand bag detail - courtesy of his bogus rank. In due course, he had to dispose of the chevrons and take up the role of his true rank of corporal.
* * *
The training area consisted of wooden bleachers upon which every square inch had been carved or scribbled with the names of names, hometowns; Lubbock, Texas, Shreveport, Louisiana, Boston, Massachusetts - an endless sea of names places and sweethearts. It was here where troops learned the purpose of survival in the event of enemy capture - something that would later serve Preston Cunningham well.
In the training area was a fifty foot high tower complete with rope ladder. It didn’t take much street smarts to figure out that all 129 pounds of Preston Cunningham was to be followed up the swaying ladder and pushed off the other side once he arrived at the top of platform, while attached to, and sliding down a rope. The method is known as “repelling.”
On the second day of instruction, attention was directed to an approaching helicopter. The air was instantly filled with clouds of choking red dust agitated by the rotor blades. A large rubber bag was hovering from a cable attached to the underside of the chopper. The survival instructor directed the trainees to gather round in a circle for a clear view.
One crew member disconnected the load from the sling while another pulled the zipper open on the bag. Flies and slimy goop oozed out onto the hot dry dirt. Two bodies, local village people executed by the Vietcong, in all likelihood because they refused to support the cause, lay in a heap of distorted limbs and rotting flesh.
The two severed heads were dumped onto what remained of their corpses. One rolled to the side coming to rest at Preston’s feet. Its eyes hanging from tendons as flies buzzed in and out of the empty eye sockets. Those with dry heaves wiped slimy puke from the corner of their mouths.
Following several more days of survival training, recruits were permitted a visit into one of the local villages.
Simply constructed shacks with hot tin roofs pumped heat waves into the merciless scorching mid day sun. The faces of young women looked like rubber Halloween masks as gnats swarmed their perspiration saturated foul smelling bodies.
Mothers plainly breast fed their infants while tending shop. An assortment of goods was offered at bargain prices; cameras, wrist watches, stereos, and plenty of piss warm Coca Cola and beer - all stolen from G.I’s when the old ladies and their daughters came into the U.S. compound to carry out housekeeping services. By the end of the day they had stolen everything not bolted down.
If you expressed an interest in a particular item, the Mama San would bow graciously while cracking a smile displaying her blackened teeth - a consequence of chewing Betel Nut a mild narcotic plant. If you offered her too little for the stolen goods she would take a corn broom and chase your ass out into the hot, dusty street where you were likely to be swamped by kids tugging, tearing and pulling at your pockets.
Following five days of indoctrination in An Khe, assignments were posted; Preston Cunningham was to go to the First Cavalry Division. His dad was in The First Cavalry in Korea - a jazz drummer assigned to the Special Services Division. In some way Preston’s gut was telling him that he was not going to follow in his father’s foot steps.
At 0700 hours the next morning, fifteen men - together with Preston Cunningham - departed by C-130 aircraft for Camp Evans, The First Cavalry Division Headquarters situated in the Central Highlands, bordered by some of the most intense action of the war.
Chapter Two
The Baptism
Camp Evans was an awe-inspiring fortress carved out at the base of a mountain in the Central Highlands, bordering The South China Sea.
Preston Cunningham at long last had a home; The 513th Military Intelligence Group - 13th Signal Battalion as a senior top secret cryptologist. He was to be responsible for all classified communications between the senior commanders in The First Cavalry Division and Vice President Hubert Humphrey’s office at The White House. His unit was classified as “non-combat” and the chance of actual involvement was supposed to be non-existent.
On the night of May 16, 1968, the enemy, in commemoration of their leader, Ho Chi Minh’s birthday plummeted a rocket directly into the center of the camp’s ammunition stockpile, destroying the armaments required to hold back the enemy. A casualty of the blast was an enormous fuel bladder containing 100,000 gallons of highly explosive jet fuel. Rounds of stored ammunition set off by the blast set fire to the vaporous and volatile helicopter fuel. Instantly the complete tent city and tethered aircraft was in flames.
The blast launched live ammunition in all directions. In expectation of just such an assault, a sequence of trenches were constructed with a backhoe adjoining the soldier’s tents. One could easily roll from his bunk and down into the ditch.
By dawn, the fires had reduced much of the compound to ashes. It was now time to access the damage. Of principal concern were the 50 Huey helicopters. Huey gun ships and fixed wing aircraft were all damaged beyond repair. The replacement cost was in the neighborhood of $25,000,000.
Additional inspection uncovered thousands of rounds of live ammunition had come to rest on and between the helicopters on the runway and landing pad.
Within a week Camp Evans was once again operating to full capacity. Preston will never forget the Chinook CH-47 twin rotor (eggbeater helicopters) transporting new Huey gun ships.
* * *
Duty had not been assigned to Preston since his arrival, but on this day Preston would take his first helicopter ride. The sweltering tropical sun quickly consumed the early morning fog when two Huey’s come into view in a deafening noise. Preston Cunningham was in awe of the huge machines. - so impressed that he thought of applying to flight school while stationed in Germany.
On this day, Preston was to become familiar with the Huey helicopter as he and four new recruits were to take their maiden voyage.
* * *
It all come about with lightening speed! The gunner clutched his chest. They were taking small arms fire! He was yanked from his perch and onto the floor. Minutes later he lay dead!
The gunner on the opposite side was shouting at Preston. Then again, with the roar of the engine, he could only see movement of the guy’s lips. Gunners and crew wear specially equipped radio head gear which allow them to communicate with each other.
Preston could not comprehend why the other gunner was shouting at him. The more he yelled and used sign language above the deafening roar Preston quickly began to understand. Remove the helmet from the dead gunner’s head and place it on his - and get his ass back into the now empty seat.
The enemy fire was non stop as the senior gunner jumped from his seat, stuffing Preston’s head into the headgear and fastening his skinny body into the gunner’s position.
Preston could hear nothing but unclear and mixed-up radio chatter, and in less than a minute it all began to make sense.
“We’re taking on small arms fire from Charlie on the port side.” a voice shouted through the headgear.
Once again, the communication lines sputtered.
“Step on the floor button and talk to me!” the gunner shouted.
Preston placed his foot on what looked like a floor dimmer switch similar to that on an older type automobile - when one wanted to click from regular to high beam headlights.
Nothing happened! Again, the shouting resumed.
“The floor button! The floor button! Step on the fucking floor button and talk to me now!” a furious gunner demanded.
By now, that organ of influence - his brain was searching for options. Preston Cunningham stomped on the button.
“Listen! You do as I say and we may just get out of here with our asses still attached!” the angry voice shouted.
“When I give the word, press the red button inside the gun handles - and hold on!”
The enormous 50 caliber machine gun was attached to a pivotal device and bolted to the belly of the chopper. Consequently, allowing the gunner the freedom to maneuver his body while operating the weapon.
Preston placed his fingers on the trigger. A explosion of rapid fire jerked his body to the left, then just as quickly, to the right as he thrashed about to gain control of the loose cannon. Struggling with the controls, he was finally capable of pointing into the trees below. There he was, sitting right on top of the VC. Numb, dumb and terrified!”
Preston’s Cunningham’s introduction with the radio controls and machine gun was achieved by trial and error, and there was no room for the second. In the time it had taken to make sense another problem developed. Bullets were ripping into the roof of the chopper door above his head. Radio contact with the crew was very insufficient at best. A Marine unit was ambushed by a small group of VC. The platoon was hold down with two dead Marines. The FO (Forward Observer) radioed that Charlie was set with a mortar tube approximately 100 yards to their left. Preston was able to get a peep of the enemy entrenched into the ground with a small tripod.
The pilot aimed directly into the stronghold, releasing rockets which were mounted in a cluster just above the landing skids but underneath Preston’s feet. Gas and fumes otherwise known as “Pittsburgh Perfume” trailed the lethal barrage as rockets pounded the ground with instant accuracy.
In due course, they entered the landing zone (LZ) at a disadvantage! They were low on ammunition and Preston was not sure of what he was doing. One run in with Charlie and they were out of luck! The VC were just waiting to pick them off - one by one!
The pilot located a clearance and dropped quick and hard. The dead were loaded first - then came the wounded. Preston was positive God was his copilot on what was to be nothing more than a customary mission. Once they climbed into what they thought was a safe escape, Charlie opened up with a violent flow of small arms fire.
Preston Cunningham was in country less than two weeks and in the heart of all this bloodshed. While back home, Congress was refusing to admit that America was at war! They considered it a “conflict!” Tell that to the dead door gunner, the two dead Marines and their mothers. Most who fought in Vietnam didn’t give a damn about the skinny starving bastards.
Chapter Three
Beg - Borrow - Steal
In Vietnam there were two methods of getting hold of goods and services. The first, by way of military channels, is at best an organization of red tape and bureacuracy. The second was risky, but created amazing results. Every company in Vietnam had a person familiar with the parasitical term “scrounge.” Richard Spence was infamous for vanishing for days - only to surface with stolen Jeeps, food and booze.
Spence had no main purpose but to steal! An outsider who was rebellious, and disliked authority. He was predestined to a life of crime. At the age of ten he was removed from his crack addicted mother and placed in the care of a teenage aunt - not uncommon for a kid from the ghetto. Lack of parental supervision, affection, and moral values played a part in his social breakdown.
At age eleven, he was placed in a juvenile center by the adolescent aunt complaining of steady threats on her life.
In the early 1960’s, detention centers were filled to capacity in Baltimore. The build up of America’s new war was in high speed. Judges throughout the country, besieged with youthful offenders were obligated to offer the weapon age bearing teens an option: Jail, or a hitch in the army - consequently Vietnam.
At seventeen, Spence was yet again in trouble with the law. His arrest for car theft and taking part in an armed robbery at a convenience store was grounds for him to be in front of a judge - again! Troubled by the young man’s enthusiasm for a life of crime, the judge recommended two years in the service of his country, or face a compulsory ten year prison sentence. Spence chose the army, and Preston Cunningham’s purpose in Vietnam was about to take an unexpected diversion.
Within months following assignments to the First Cavalry, rumor become known that Preston was an undercover agent for the (CID) Criminal Investigation Division of the army in Germany. Spence may have done some snooping into Cunningham’s military record which listed his prior assignment as The 513th Military Intelligence Unit in Frankfurt, Germany - one of the most distinguished intelligence gathering facilities in the army, and closely allied with the CIA. (Central Intelligence Division) and CID (Criminal Investigation Division).
Spence, no more than a school yard bully, had full “authority” to beg, borrow and steal. Company commanders often covered their eyes and stuck their head in the sand, ignoring his corrupt and criminal activity. It did however, get them what they wanted - and it was easier to deal than the official red tape of get your hands on the much needed goods through proper military channels.
When a potential 513th operation was in progress, military records of the investigator were sealed. The only information available was name and rank. The serial number was never included, but the operative was given a code name. Without the serial number and clandestine code name it was next to impossible to connect the name with a time and place. Preston Cunningham’s code name was “Palladin” - he, and only he and the White House and Major General William Freestyle, commander of the First Cavalry Division were permitted access to the code name. His current company commander Major Culpepper only knew that Cunningham was to be considered as that of any soldier in the command. Preston Cunningham’s records were “sealed” and this made Richard Spence nervous and cautious. If there was a method of pulling out information from one’s files, Spence had that skill.
Due to overly sensitive information of highly classified information (Russian Troop Movement in the Balkan Peninsula), Preston was classiified a civilian and lived in an apartment in the center of Frankfurt and was allowed to wear civilian clothes in the performance of his duty. It was an excellent assignment, one that was intended to keep him out of Vietnam.
Spence instantaneously come up with a theory that Preston Cunningham was an informant - someone placed with the 13th Signal Battalion to keep an eye on his covert behavior.
Many of the items Spence made off with were secret. If caught, he could spend many years at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas - the federal penal institution. Preston never acknowledged (or did he deny) his connection with the Criminal Investigation Division.
In the short time he was in country, Preston Cunningham began to generate his own bargaining network with the help of friends now in Vietnam, with whom he previously served in Germany.
Spence was believed to be the only person involved in scrounging - the “forbidden” occupation. Now, another person, Preston Cunningham became an essential player and Spence would have to cover his trail and always find somebody else on whom to lay blame if his plans went wrong. Preston Cunningham may just be his scapegoat.
Preston set about talking to Spence suggestive of how he might be of support in acquiring high end premium items. Everything looked as if is was going well, but within several days, Spence was apprehensive in his decision to bring Preston into his “so called” set of connections.
One of The First Cavalry Division Units was in serious need of protective flack vests - a bullet proof vest worn by the men in the field. Spence re-evaluated his earlier decision not to include Cunningham and in due course asked Preston to join him in a three day pass to Saigon for the purpose of “negotiating” a deal for the vests. Spence, always looking for an concealed motive, thought if he made friends with Preston, he may be taken into an select circle of friends and impervious to reprisal if the axe were to fall.
Something was distressing Spence. Should he get drawn in or not? Perhaps Preston could handle this mission by himself, but being newly assigned had its drawback and he did need Spence’s links - and anyone in the field would leap at the opportunity for a three day pass to Saigon.
* * *
The morning sun was unforgiving through the half torn filthy shade. A noisy half broken 2 blade fan in one corner of the room was the only mechanical method of breaking the unmoving tropical heat and humidity. Perspiration dampened dirty sheets lay twisted in disarray - trailing onto the floor. Preston’s head pounded with stabs of pain as he made an attempt to separate his lips through tightened teeth. His cotton dry mouth occasionally yielding to the regurgitation of alcohol and stomach bile as he awakened to the strange surroundings of the dingy room. Then the thought came to mind! Who placed him there during the night?
Giant flies buzzed through the air suggestive of a jet fighter descending onto the deck of an aircraft carrier - but, this landing zone was Preston’s face! The tickle of the germ infested flies and the thought of where they had been until that time, caused grotesque visions to race through his mind.
The anguish of the hangover would not release its grasp - but Preston was able to drag his legs to the edge of the bed and finally onto the floor. He staggered to the door, grabbed a towel and proceeded to the shower at the end of the hall.
“You sonofabitch! I saved your ass last night!” Spence shouted, poking his head through the door of his room.
“How did you manage that?” Preston asked.
“You got boozed up threw a punch at a gook army officer!” reminding him of the incident.
“I don’t remember a thing, Spence. What was I drinking?”
“Jim Beam - straight! You must have one stinging asshole this morning!”
“After you threw your best shot, four of his buddies blocked the door. Thanks to the Marines we plowed through the skinny bastards and never looked back - while carrying you to safety. It was nothing but assholes and elbows!” Spence related.
“I owe you one!” Spence just laughed then vanished. Preston entered the shower.
Pow! Preston, all of a sudden fell to the floor with a thump! Intense pain gripped his right shoulder. Slowly removing his hand from the wound, blood oozed through his fingers.
“Calm! Just remain calm! If I lay still, the bastard’s will leave me for dead, and pass on by!” he thought.
There were voices! Many voices! They were getting closer. Then someone shouted.
“Goddamned gook trucks!”
It wasn’t a gunshot, but a truck backfiring. Preston was experiencing a flashback, and the instinctive nose-dive to the floor was something he had come to live with. The blood - was the result of catching his shoulder on a towel rack on his destiny with the floor.
Now, it was Preston’s turn in the shower. Hot water! The pleasure of a hot shower and the extravagance of piped in water. In the field, the only showers are cold ones. Making use of the buddy system, you lather up and the other guy pours water over your head. Then, you return the favor.
The gash began to swell and the bleeding stopped once he rubbed the bar of soap into the wound. It throbbed like a sonofabitch! His body drooping against the wooden slats of the shower stall where a cascade of hot water lessened the pain. By the time he left the shower, the throbbing began to diminish.
Dressed in a pair of tan slacks, a white golf shirt, brown socks and a pair of tan penny loafers, Preston dug through his travel bag for the bottle of Old Spice after shave. The once white cap, now yellowed from the incalculable number of hands, like the borrowed clothes, the after shave passed from one Saigon soldier to another.
He squeezed the fragrant liquid into the palm of his hand. A invigorating slap of the liquid on his cheeks created a anesthetizing sensation. Then he walked out into the morning sun - only to be greeted by a blast of tropical heat and humidity.
Next, breakfast stimulated his salivary glands as he walked into HQ mess hall. Real plates replaced the metal trays of those in the field. Knives with sharp edges and stoneware coffee mugs stacked neatly on a serving table.
With all the sounds and appearance of a stateside restaurant he ordered real eggs - over easy unlike the powdered kind in camp, ham, bacon, toast and coffee.
Vietnamese locals rushed about the tables clearing dirty dishes while others prepared for the next meal.
A Vietanamese girl followed and sat at Preston’s table as he eagerly ate the long anticipated breakfast delights.
“My name Nguyen: What your name?” she asked.
“Preston he replied.
“How old are you Nguyen?”
“I am thirteen years old. I work for Uncle Sam - I do numbah’ one job!” she acknowledged in a sharp Asian accent.
“You come back fo’ deen-ah?”
“I don’t know Nguyen.”
Her appearance was different than those of most Vietnamese. Her hair was light, her facial features void of the usual high cheek bones and deep dark eyes. She without doubt had the distinctiveness of a non Aisan child.
“Where do you live?” Preston asked.
“I live in street!” she replied. shaking her head with anxiety.
Just as he was finishing his meal, Spence arrived.
“How about we do some significant scrounging?” he suggested, dragging a chair closer.
“I’ve got a couple of buddies gonna’ pick us up.”
By now, Nguyen had left the table and Spence pointed a finger in her direction.
“She’s a French Asian child. Ten or twelve years ago, before we got caught up over here, French soldiers would get a Vietnamese woman pregnant. The product - kids like her - with the facial appearance of their French fathers.” Spence explained.
A military police Jeep was waiting for them when the two left the mess hall. Spence dapped (a customary ritual handshake) with his friends.
“Hop in! Danny Marino shouted. We’ll get acquainted along the way.” As Spence and Preston climbed into the back seat.
The driver awkwardly extended his right hand into the back seat.
“I’m Tommy DeFazzio.”
Riding shotgun was Dan Marino, shouting over the engine noise - his feet firmly placed against the metal dash of the Jeep.
“Tell us about the fighting and all that firepower you’re bringing down on Charlie!” Marino shouted with interest.
“It’s pretty routine!” Spence hollered back.
“Search and destroy, ass and trash!” (a slang used for the transport of officers and cargo.)
“Get us what we need and I’ll show you guys a time you’ll never forget!” Spence suggested.
“Sure would be a nice change of pace if we visited you guys.” DeFazzio yelled.
“I hope you’re prepared to eat some dust!” Spence again shouted to the driver and his cohort.
They drove the narrow streets past shacks covered with metal roofs passing one particular area with many old mansions - now in ruins.
Deserted buildings resembled haunted houses. With the exception of poverty and neglect, the casualties it looked a lot like the Grand Old South during the American Civil War. It could easily have been Atlanta, Savannah or any splendid southern city with its sweet fragrance of magnolia.
Dogs searched for food while kids fired their fingers in pretend fashion as Spence and party drove through the destruction of the once flourishing residential district.
An old man with a long white beard walked with a twisted stick and bowed as they continued their drive. A cool breeze streamed through the open vehicle drying the sweat on Preston’s neck and face as they advanced past more shacks and dirt yards filled with goats, chickens and hungry kids.
Preston could not shake the hangover from the night before as the morning sun beat angrily on his throbbing head. The men traveled through more small villages to a main highway where their hastening speed created a cooling feeling barely satisfying the searing heat and wringing humidity.
Magnificent countryside summoned them in its cover up of peaceful beauty. Abundant pastures and fertile rice paddies - and those mountain tops - each with a unusual hue of haze unfolding for as far as the eye could see. Peasants dressed in black silk clothing balanced baskets of rice on their head while others effortlessly carried large chunks of wood for fuel on shoulder yokes.
Ahead in the road, an old woman tending several water buffalo forced traffic to a halt. An forceful whipping with her rod and a stern tongue lashing did little to break their stubborn posture. The only movement was from their dung encrusted tails replacing fly swatters, giving “chase” to the insects and flies that made their home in the matted and lumpy coats. Now and again, wet chunks of buffalo manure sailed through the air as tails swished and swayed.
When the animals eventually crossed over to the other side of the road, the Jeep continued its journey - and, once again, the passengers benefited from a cooling breeze.
Chapter Four
A Decaying Mind
Outside the Siagon city limits, the foursome stopped at a small hut where an old lady was scrubbing clothes in the bottom half of a fifty-five gallon drum. The great number of metal drums discarded by the military were previously used to transport dioxin poison (Agent Orange) served as storage or wash bins. For a fee, the old lady would offer her services - providing freshly washed and dried uniforms for GI’s. Once washed in the sudsy mixture the method used to dry the clothes was to hang the wet clothing over a pile of dried buffalo dung. When ignited with gasoline, the billowing smoke from th dung filtered through the clothes - not always sweet smelling - but they were considered clean.
As soon as the Jeep came to a stop, kids attacked like a swarm of bees. The little bastard’s grabbed everything in sight. The adolescent’s of the group begged for smokes while others carelessly stuck their hands into your pockets for candy, Piasters, (Vietnamese Money), or anything that could be sold. Disturbing to the four men and of importance to the kids were the Colt .45 caliber pistols each man was carrying. Weapons, in particular handguns could easily be sold for hundreds of dollars on the black market.
A young mother openly breast fed her baby under shade tree in a corner of a dirt yard, showing little or no interest with the presence of the Americans.
DeFazzio, Marino and Spence battled their way through a human wall while Preston remained in the Jeep.
All of a sudden this kid raced out of a hut carrying a discarded U.S. military ammunition box (ammo box) in his arms. As he ran toward the vehicle, Preston’s adrenalin had an overwhelming effect on him. Painful palpitations thumped against his throat, triggering an event that will be eternally etched in his mind. Several weeks previous - while riding in the gunners seat, Preston’s helicopter and two others was approaching a small village. The gunship to his left was the first to land, and the other to his right. Preston’s chopper was in the middle. With all three aircraft on the ground and rotors at idle speed, Preston observed a kid no more than ten or twelve years old sprint out of a grass hut holding in his arms a metal ammo box. Preston’s gut feeling was that something was wrong! As the kid raced toward the chopper to the left of the formation, Preston clicked the floor button controlling the communications.
“Orphan Six Niner! Orphan Six Niner! The gook kid’s got a homemade bomb! Get up! Get Up! He yelled into the microphone.
The kid aimed his deadly body in the direction of the door gunner. His thrust forced the bomb directly into the gunners lap. Preston tried to forewarn them but it was all in vain. His plea had fallen on deaf ears. In shock, he continued screaming. In a matter of seconds it was all over! The force of the explosion blew the chopper and its whole crew everywhere. The gunner’s skull, or what was left of it banged with a thud against the fuselage of Preston’s gunship spattering blood in a fine mist onto his face and into his eyes.
A small piece of flesh stuck to Preston’s upper lip. Other than his own, that taste of blood was his first - but not to be his last!
The kid who the ammo box was on a suicide assignment. The weapon; fifteen pounds of plastic explosives (a putty like substance), enough to destroy the chopper and its crew.
The village all of a sudden came alive with gunfire and radios filled with frenzied chatter.
“Orphan One Niner”! (Preston’s call sign). To Orphan One Seven”! The call sign of the remaining chopper. “Orphan One Seven” to “Orphan One Niner”, cross conversation continued between pilots, crew and gunners. It was now less than one minute since the assault and plumes of thick intense overpowering smoke billowed from the doomed chopper.
Ping! Ping! Ping! By now, Charlie was pumping small arms fire into Preston’s chopper. They were in grave trouble, and if the crew failed to react appropriately and with lethal force, they would all die! The pilot lifted the craft to a hover, pointed the nose mounted mini-gun in the path of the suspected enemy stronghold and activated the release button. The force of the aresenal leveled the thatched haven, silencing the gunfire.
They continued firing into the grass huts which may, or may not have been shelter for Viet Cong soldiers. As an extra measure of insurance Preston squeezed the buttons on the mammoth machine gun firing a burst of lethal ammunition ripping the building to shreds. Nothing could have escaped the barrage of military capability.
It was over in less than five minutes. Dead cows, pigs, and humans lay spread about. As a preventative measure, one of the chopper pilots called for an air strike. F-4 Phantom jet fighters stationed at the U.S. Marine Base in Da Nang were dispatched and scheduled to arrive within ten minutes unleashing (4) five hundred pound napalm bombs (napalm is a jellied explosive). To ensure that no VC survived, the F-4’s would also strafe the area with their .70 mm wing mounted cannons. Following the napalm and high powered machine gun attack came the horrific task of counting the dead.
* * *
Back at the laundry pick up point
The sight of that ammunition box exploding immobilized Preston with terror. There was no way of knowing if this time it was a fabrication of his mind’s eye, or the replay of the destruction he witnessed in the sabotage attack with the eleven year old kid.
All he could think about was that gunner’s head with its inner nerve endings bouncing off the side of the chopper. Preston Cnningham was now seconds away from being included in that week’s casualty list. By the time the Nightly News aired, he would be just “another Vietnam casualty.”
The kid with the metal box - now running toward Preston - prompted him into action! He could stop him ith a bullet. That would be easy. But, he didn’t have a weapon! He reached for his revolver - but it wasn’t in his holster. It slipped loose and fell between the seat of the Jeep earlier. To avoid becoming a casualty where no ten or twelve year old kid should have a hand in his destiny, Preston vaulted over the side of the vehicle and ran like a sonofabitch for a ditch 100 yards away.
In retreat, he quickly looked over his shoulder onto to see the box now airborne. The clasp which held the cover to the container was not fastened - the usual method used to explode just such a device. The impact of the box smashing against its target would be certain to set off a blast.
Watching that box fly through the air was like running in a dream. In an instant your entire world becomes a struggling slow motion crawl.
By now the Jeep should have been blown apart. He waited…, and waited…! Frozen with hear those several seconds felt like time without end. To his astonishment, a group of kids scrambled about the vehicle foraging for the contents of the metal ammo box. The monster in Preston’s mind, was not a box filled with explosives, but in its place a pile of candy some kid was hoarding from his friends. In his exodus to escape their wrath, the kid stumbled to the ground and the metal box came crashing into Preston’s already decaying mind.
Chapter Five
Booze - The Achilles Heel
Spence and crew were approaching the village of Long Binh, twenty miles northwest of Saigon bordered by majestic mountains. At last, they arrived at the U.S. Marine Supply Depot.
Dan Marino and Tom DeFazzio were assigned to the 284th Military Police Group. They summoned the two visitors into their living quarters for cold American beer before moving to down to the important business of scrounging. Spence and Preston each had several hundred American dollars slipped into their shoes.
Possession of greenbacks in Vietnam in excess of $35.00 was strictly illegal. However, when scrounging, one never exposed their source.
The key to acquiring “no matter what” in the military, particularly in time of war was to shun proper channels and always bribe the bastard’s. One could as a rule count on some enlisted man to have his hand out. The supply guys were god and they knew it. All one had to do was flash greenbacks or a bottle of booze and the result was astounding.
This was Preston’s first scrounging assignment and Spence asked him to observe how he handled it. A short timer - or someone not a career soldier may not want anything to do with your demands. On the other hand, if one was working with a lifer, specially one who knew how to manipulate the system, they could be in for a very sizable payoff.
Spence and Preston were brief on Sergeant Glover in supply. He was Staff Sergeant E-6 busted so often - rumor had it that he was not allowed to wear permenant sewn on stripes. He was permitted however, to wear small metal chevrons on his collar - like to the ones Preston wore in An Khe to avoid KP.
DeFazzio would like the others to know that from the start of the whole scrounging assignment, Glover was too stupid to sheme and screw the Marines into a private nest egg. He relied a great deal on booze! It was his Achilles heel. The man could have without difficulty stashed thousands of dollars in his career. But, the bottle always banned him from doing so.
Preston looked all-around in amazement at the furnishings and military artifacts strewn about the small living quarters.
“Go ahead! Open the fridge!” Marino offered with a tilt of his head.
Preston reached for the handle, carefully tugged as the door popped open revealing an entire bottom shelf filled with icy cold American Beer. DeFazzio invited Preston to grab an assortment of the tempting brew offering his visitors the first frosty cans.
Preston pulled back on the tab, releasing a burst of foam around the top of the can. His dry throat quickly signaled his brain that he was in for a thirst quenching event. He brought the can to his lips, tilted his head back gulping three quarters of its contents - pausing just once to catch his breath.
His eyes suddenly filled with tears from the fizz. In his eagerness to consume the remaining beer, the golden liquid dribbled from the side of his mouth down the front of his sweaty neck.
Next, Marino escorted the two men to a small closet, opened the door, and removed a pair of shiny boots, some belt buckles and a can of black Kiwi. From the corner of the cabinet he uncovered and hauled a giant wooden trunk out into the room. Defazzio unhooked the latches, placed his index finger over his lips, while cautiously sneaking a peek over his right shoulder - as though performing a clandestine act - and raised the lid.
“Holy shit!” Spence shouted.
“Where in hell did you…?” Spence started to ask when DeFazzio interrupted .
“We’ve got friends in one of the infantry divisions. They smuggle ’em in every two weeks!”
The trunk was filled with Russian made AK-47 rifles.
“Do you know what this stash is worth Stateside?” Spence asked.
“Screw Stateside!” Marino replied.
“We get two-hundred-fifty bucks right here in Saigon from American soldiers and Marines who want a souvenir.” DeFazzio said producing a diary.
“This is none of my business, but you guys are dealing with a serius here. This is jail time just waiting to happen!” Preston warned.
“We’ve got a friend in finance who converts the MPC into MPC(Military Pay Currency) into good ole’ American greenbacks. I ship the money to my sister who puts it into separate bank accounts for DeFazzio and me. Our only cost is ten pcent to the guy in finance. The guns only cost us twenty bucks” Marino explained.
“That would be, uh…” Preston muttered, attempting to guess how much money this “little” illegal arrangement earned them to date.
“Thirty-seven-thousand-seven-hundred-fifty dollars to be exact!” DeFazzio made known.
“After the cost of a little over three-thousand-dollars, we each end up with a cool seventeen grand. Not bad.” DeFazzio bragged.
Marino then produced a list of G.I.’s who wanted to purchase the much favored rifles.
“You want one?” DeFazzio asked Spence.
“Sure - but not for two-hundred-fifty-bucks!” Spence replied, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“How about you?” DeFazzio asked - directing his attention to Preston.
“I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Don’t worry about it. Take your pick! You can each have one. As we said earlier, all we want is to see some action up-country.” Marino said.
DeFazzio reached into the trunk sorting through the lot looking for two of the better rifles handing one to each of the men who recklessly took aim across the room. Due to their construction and precision, Russian manufactured AK-47’s were legendary in war - and in Vietnam. They were much heavier than the U.S. military issued M-16’s which consisted of a plastic stock and barrel cover. The AK-47 was made of steel and wood.
“Just remember! You get us some chopper time - some real action and we guarantee when you return home the guns will be waiting for you. Sound like a deal?”
Preston thought it was a good idea. Spence also wanted in.
“What do you guys have to trade for the chest protectors?” Marino asked.
“Greenbacks” Spence responded.
“Greenbacks!” Marino shouted. “That nigger don’t know what to do with no goddamned greenbacks. What he needs is booze!” Spence gave the impression of being offended by the “N” word.
“And where in hell are we going to get booze?” an irritated Spence fired back.
“Danny! Show these men the liquor closet!” DeFazzio said with a pompous attitude.
Another small closet exposed an assortment of booze: Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Chevas Regal, and other brands too plentiful to remember. Before Spence and Preston were able to ask about their source, Marino cautioned the men by saying:
“Don’t even think of asking!”
“Listen you two! The only way to Glover is to offer him booze. He’s too stupid to know what to do with greenbacks. Here’s how we’re going to work this deal! Danny and I will chage you five bucks a bottle. You offer the nigger (Spence yet again offended) one bottle for every five vests. If you do as we say, I guarantee he’ll be lured to grab the bait. But, if you don’t play ball there might be a lot of dead gunners and grunts up country!”
“It’s the way you take part in the game that makes the difference over here, ten thousand miles from home. Glover gets a supply of booze, you get hat you need, and we pick up some of that easy cash you’re carrying!” DeFazzio explained.
* * *
The four men entered the supply building with its odor of moth balls and canvas - a distinct scent burned into the mind of every soldier and Marine.
A short black man to be found at the far end of the counter about 25 feet away. His eyes fixed directly on Marino and DeFazzio.
“Glover, this is Sergeant Cunningham and Corporal Spence. They’re with the Cav in the field. They’re OK. They-re cool man.” DeFazzio made an effort to persuade the sergeant who was unwilling to make eye contact with Spence and Cunningham.
“Let’s get it on Bro!” Spence shouted offering his hand to Glover in a dapping motion.
“Don’t give me any of that nigger jive!” Glover shouted.
“Look old man! I need some goddamned chest protectors!
We’ve got men dying all over the fucking place. Many are brothers just like you and me, man!” Spence responded angrily.
“I ain’t got no chest protectors!” Glover again replied.
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