Vietnam

I should explain my use of the term “palimpsest” and how and why I use it here. The “piece of writing on which the original writing has been effaced” is my memory, my mind and the choice to blend my characters from my experience. People I shared time with in the military might remember individual parts of my recollections, but see them through their own prism and their own context. It's been almost a half-century (46 years). The dialogue, I'm sure, isn't precise. Each of the characters is a blend of several. There really was a “Natty”, but the more traditional names have been changed and their experiences with me interchanged. The real “Natty” played a different role and I'm sure he will know that and recognize he was not the same exact “Natty” in this version of events. Nevertheless, the story unfolds as it did in reality (in my mind); “...the names have been changed to protect the innocent…” (Dragnet 1951-1959)

Growing up in the 50’s and 60’s, watching TV’s COMBAT! and THE GALLANT MEN, shows dedicated to heralding “The Greatest Generation” and their heroic work during World War II, gave us a warped perspective of war and the men who fought in it. My father had been a lieutenant during World War II, who served in North Africa and was seriously wounded in the final battle for Bizerte (Tunis) in 1943. He almost lost his legs, which, as a world class sprinter would have been doubly devastating. Following high school graduation, my friends and I looked forward to joining the fight in Vietnam. It was what “men” did - they went to war and came back heroes. War was relatively clean as portrayed on TV and my father never really discussed his role in combat much at all.

I went to college, Kent State in Ohio (1964-68), interestingly enough. My attitude towards Vietnam was shaped there. As an ROTC freshman, I was a gung-ho American in complete support of the war. I argued with the protesters, but my information level was pretty shallow. Actually, I didn’t even know where Vietnam was. The more I researched, the more I questioned my beliefs. That’s what college is supposed to do, right? I was an art major. I quit ROTC (long story) and in my senior year I worked for the Bobby Kennedy Presidential campaign. I had become an anti-war advocate. I graduated and went to work for Lockheed in New Jersey. Pretty safe working for a major defense contractor of their magnitude, I thought. I bought a car and life seemed pretty good. Until the day I came home after work and saw my father standing in our kitchen, holding up a letter…

“It’ll make a man out of you…” he said seriously.

I knew right away what that letter entailed. “Yeah,” I acknowledged. “…a dead man. I’m going skiing.” I turned on my heel and headed to Vernon Valley to test out my Yamaha skis and contemplate my fate.

My father and I had different attitudes toward the war. He was a World War II veteran and held the government line. I still had my doubts (Bobby Kennedy, Eugene McCarthy, etc.). But I knew I would go for any number of reasons….and I would do everything I could to become a foot soldier, infantry, like my father whom I respected and loved more than any other person, despite our differences.I was inducted into the U.S.Army in mid March of 1969. I was a good test taker and I was still incredibly naïve when it came to this issue of war. I rigged my test scores to ensure that I would be assigned to the infantry. Questions like, “Would you rather paint a picture or go hunting?” Being both an artist and a liar, I chose”..go hunting..” which I had never done and an activity in which I had absolutely no interest in pursuing at all. Test scores came in and I was assigned my MOS, 11 Bravo 10: Infantry.My father had given me one admonition when he dropped me off at the induction center, “…Never volunteer…for anything!”

I violated that on Day One. I volunteered to be a squad leader. That decision led me on the path of leadership throughout Basic Training, Leadership School and Advanced Infantry Training. I refused OCS, but accepted the invitation to NCOC, Non Commissioned Officers Candidate School. It was there that I met Rick Scanlon. I nicknamed him “Natty B”after Natty Bumpo, James Fenimore Cooper’s hero of his Pathfinder series. Rick was already Airborne (Paratrooper) and Pathfinder and was the best of us at NCOCS.

Rick (Natty B.) and I became close at NCOCS, especially during field operations. We both scored high were comfortable working together in simulated combat operations. Several times, the two of us worked together in the field and had time to sit and talk about our coming situation. Both of us were college educated and discussed our individual philosophies of war, of life, colored by our college experience, but heavily influenced by the aforementioned Vic Morrow, John Wayne and the Hollywood heroes to whom we had been exposed. This “band of brothers” ethic was strong and the thin veneer of our understanding of combat was also colored by our success in combat simulations during NCO School.

During one of our ambush training exercises, Natty and I were assigned as advanced guard to recon a site for ambushing a convoy scheduled for a post-midnight run. We had some time together to look ahead to our time in real combat. We were short-timers in training and Southeast Asia was looming large. We solidified our bond by considering that we might wind up together “over there” and death or serious injury were more than possible - probable was our default position. We slipped into our Vic Morrow, Gallant Men “ideals.”

“You know, Rich, my biggest concern is not getting killed. I think that would be easy. Pop! The world goes blank, and my worries are over. Black. The void...Nada..Poof..Scanlon is done. But, to be seriously wounded, blinded, crippled, mentally wounded, that is unacceptable. I would hope that if that happened to me, and you were there, you would finish the job. I don’t want to be a burden on my family. I don’t want them to have to feel sorry for me or to have to take care of me if I can’t take care of myself.” He paused. “You know what I mean?”

Of course, I did. The same thoughts had more than just crossed my mind, but until that moment, no one else had vocalized them to me. I thought they were my personal fears and I had tried to submerge them by living day to day and doing my best at whatever task I was assigned.

But Rick (Natty B.) and I were now “brothers” in a very real sense and he had put on the table a serious issue that we might have to confront. The odds that we would wind up with the same outfit at the same time were slim, but our naïveté and our “manly” concerns drove us to an untenable place that we took very seriously at the time. Looking back, it was borderline idiotic, immature and beyond unrealistic. But at that moment, it represented a sacred bond. We both agreed that if the situation occurred, we would take appropriate action. Upon graduation, Natty B. Was awarded the extra rank of E-6 and was named Distinguished Graduate. Natty convinced me to volunteer for Airborne School (paratrooper) after our NCO training. Upon graduation, we had both earned our sergeant stripes which earned us entrance into NCO clubs at Fort Benning. Our first evening at one such club, Natty B. introduced me to Sgt. White, a “black hat” airborne instructor who had trained Natty’s class prior to his stint at NCO School. Natty suggested that the good sergeant look after me when I went through my jump school training. It's another story, but Sgt. White looked after me alright! He made my three weeks of airborne training a living hell! (Thanks a lot Natty, you ignorant mutha-fucka). We each went our separate ways for additional training and eventual assignment to Vietnam.

Vietnam...Phu Tai...The 173d Airborne Brigade...an elite infantry unit.

Kellmeister, another brother of the sword, had suggested that when I got to ‘Nam, I volunteer for the LRRPs, Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. That's what he had done and that was his assignment. His AO (Area of Operation) was, in his words, “Louse.” (“We don't have any ground troops in Laos.” Meese)

But the 173d Airborne had different ideas. They looked at my rank (E-5) and college background and told me that the “Herd” (173d) would be leaving the killing fields of II Corps within the year and it was necessary to bring their paperwork records up to standard. Sergeant Lockery, an E-6, and I were ordered to lead a team to complete that mission and we were given two weeks (after training) to resolve the bureaucratic issues in order to pass an IG (Inspector General) inspection. We were assigned to Company A (Admin) at Phu Tai in early May of 1970. Remember, I was a graduate of Kent State University and May 4, 1970 was a significant date in my alma mater’s history as four students were killed and several

(14) wounded by the Ohio National Guard during a student protest of the invasion of Cambodia. As I entered the Phu Tai compound, an MP (Military Police) stopped me and asked if “..I was Johnson from Kent College (sic)...”

I hesitated for a moment processing the question, realized what he was asking, but I was completely ignorant as to the terrible events that had occurred at my alma mater in Ohio. “Yeah,” I responded curiously.

“Are you a communist?” He asked aggressively.

“Yeah,” I responded sarcastically. “ I just infiltrated from the north.” I was trying to figure out what problem this guy was dealing with.

“Oh, you're a smart ass too, aren't you!” He virtually spat in my face.

“Yeah, you got it,” I laughed.

“Well, I’m going there when I get out and I’m gonna kill me some commies…” he snarled.

“Really?” I had no idea to what he was referring. It wouldn't be long before it was all clarified for me. Nevertheless, I entered Phu Tai believing that at least one MP was a serious head case.

As the Kent State issue loomed large given my position in the 173d Admin company, we completed our mission to retool the Brigade’s records. Lockery and I were about to be reassigned and jungle school and/or an infantry squad unit seemed to be my fate. We were both called in to meet with the Admin company commander. James and I were commended for doing a good job, but our physical appearance immediately came into question. We had worked 20 hour days for a little more than two weeks without a break. Hair length and facial hair, including sideburns no longer matched airborne code. The conversation with the CO (Commanding Officer) went something like this:

“You guys did a great job, but you don't exactly look like airborne troopers and you are certainly not in accordance with your rank and station. (James wasn’t really airborne anyway. He had never earned his jump wings.) Nevertheless, you handled a difficult task admirably and I have been authorized to offer you boys a one time only opportunity.

Go clean yourselves up top to bottom, come back this afternoon and I will offer each of you permanent administrative positions. The alternative is the “bush” which, of course, is an alternative choice you are free to make.”

James and I looked at each other. “Sir, could we know in advance what positions are being offered?” I asked.

James smiled and stepped forward. “I’ll take it, Sir. Moving out for clean up!” He saluted, received a return salute, turned on his heel and moved smartly towards the door. Under his breath he muttered, “Follow me, Sarge.”

The captain laughed and turned to me.. “We have a position available for a hard five (E-5) as an OER clerk. Officer Efficiency Reports. In essence, you will review and edit, if necessary, any and all officers’ rating sheets for the entire brigade. Clean up punctuation and improper syntax, that kind of thing. You interested?”

“Yes, Sir!” I saluted smartly and repeated Lockery’s, “Moving out for clean up, Sir!”

The captain smiled, returned my salute and said,”I thought you might go that way.”

As OER clerk, I began to meet a serious number of our brigade officers and I was also receiving newspaper clippings detailing the events of the Kent State shootings. I posted many of them on the wall behind my desk and, of course, the pictures and articles generated a lot of conversation. I was never asked to remove them by the warrant officer that was my boss and, though there were some complaints, many of the brigade officers wanted to discuss the nature of Kent State University. Was it a hotbed of radicalism? Where was it located in Ohio? What was the school like? What was the student population like? There was a genuine and sincere curiosity and not so much the political heat that I had anticipated and had experienced when I first entered the compound.

A lot had played into my decision to take the OER job. After all, my training was specifically infantry based. Kent State events had played a role. The decision made very quickly was more complex however, and reviewing all those brigade records, many intimately, played a role as well.

I had lost track of Scanlon (Natty) and most of my buddies from NCOC training. The “Knappster” was in LZ (Landing Zone) English with the Herd, also working in an administrative role. Kellmeister was an active LRRP in “Louse”, as I mentioned earlier. I began receiving word, oftentimes from Kellmeister, that a number of our classmates had paid the ultimate price. Then, I saw a reference to Sgt. Rick Scanlon (GSW shoulder) being located at the military hospital in Qhi Nhon. That was the nearest city to my base at Phu Tai, about 10 miles away. I decided to catch a ride and check him out, to reconnect.

I was dropped off near the hospital and hot-footed toward the entrance. The whop, whop, whop of incoming choppers caught my attention and some medics grabbed my arm and shouted for help. I ran toward the choppers and we started carrying the wounded grunts, some in pretty bad shape. It was my first experience with the true reality of the sight and stink of wounded soldiers and I nearly went into shock myself. I helped with one litter and the wounded were rushed into the ER. There was a lot of noise and a lot of hustle and then, they were gone.

Stunned, I went to the front desk and a nurse came over and asked, “Can I help you, Sergeant?”

I explained that I was there to visit Sgt. Rick Scanlon and it was my understanding that he had been admitted with a gunshot wound to his shoulder. She left and returned with a military doctor who asked me what my relationship was to the wounded Scanlon. I gave him a brief history and restated that since it was a gunshot wound to the shoulder, I hoped it wasn't too serious.

“Oh, no.” He stated solemnly. “That was over a week ago. We patched him up and sent him back to his unit. Currently, he is in intensive care with serious wounds to both legs and he is in danger of losing them or worse.”

Again, I drifted into near shock and asked if I could see him, given the circumstances.

“Well, yes, but I must caution you. He is in a bad mental state. You might be able to help since you guys are close. His condition is deteriorating because he is blaming himself for the death of one of his men, his best friend, in fact. He won't eat, fights the med staff and asks to be left alone. Says he wants to die; deserves to die.

“Physically, he’s not really that bad, but his mental attitude and his reluctance to cooperate could cost him his legs or worse if he doesn't snap out of it, but we haven't been able to get through to him. Maybe you could give it a shot. I've given you all the relevant information we’ve got. Be careful, and do what you can to help him shift his attitude.”

I agreed and they escorted me to the intensive care unit. Natty was propped up on a cot and he looked incredibly pale and drawn, given that he had spent so much time in the field and its heat and sun. His face was slack and emotionless. He looked very weak and, in a sense, “out of it.”

“Hey, Natty B…” I said softly. “It's me buddy. How ya doin’?”

He turned his face toward me and a weak smile worked its way slowly and he looked at me and weakly grabbed my arm.

“Johnson...Hey, man…” He grunted slowly. “Good to see you. I’m in some shit…”

“I noticed. What the hell did you do to yourself?” I asked trying to lighten things up a bit.

(WRONG RESPONSE!)

“I fucked up big time. I fucked myself. I fucked up my buddy. I fucked up the whole damn team. I’m a fucking asshole...a piece of shit…” He moaned.

The next half hour or so started out with Natty telling me the story. He was leading a patrol, an ambush mission, I believe, and after humping in the heat and humidity in the 506 valley, he and his team stopped at the edge of a small clearing to refresh and recoup.

A shot rang out...a stray. No one was hit, but Natty saw where it came from. A sniper had taken a chance shot and darted back into the underbrush. Natty grabbed his M-16 and raced toward the opening through which the sniper had retreated. Following on his heels was his assistant squad leader. The path was congested but relatively clear and Natty thought he had a great chance of either catching the sniper or putting him down. His focus on the path ahead, the tightly packed vegetation hid the ground floor from his sight. Suddenly, he hit a tripwire and there was an explosion. The pain ripped through his legs and thighs and he dropped to the ground.

“I’m hit!” He cried, but behind him there was only smoke and silence. His assistant squad leader had been beheaded by the blast. Scanlon lost consciousness. That was his story and he began beating himself up for not being smart enough to assess the situation before he took off like a bat out of hell to hunt down the enemy soldier. Try as I might to create a logical perspective, to get him to see that this was war, things happen, that these events are no one’s fault. He sunk deeper into self-flagellation and got more emotional and angrier as the adrenaline fueled his rage.

Eventually, he turned on me. He deserved to lose his legs. He deserved to die. He had killed his best friend. He was suffering because of his foolishness; his bad choices. The enemy sniper had set the trap. Natty went for the bait and tragedy, avoidable tragedy, was triggered by his thoughtless, macho responsive action. He should have known better. He was going to lose his legs, maybe his life and that was justice served.

At one point, he meekly brought up the mutual pledge that we had made back in training in NCO school. He wasn’t serious. He used it as color to register his disappointment in my not validating his “maxima mea culpa.” I wasn’t in the same place mentally and psychologically that he was. I was worthless, no longer his friend. He turned away from me and snarled, “Get out. Fuck you, you worthless REMF (Rear Echelon Mother Fucker)! GET OUT!” He shouted with energy.

The doctor came over, hearing the emotional outburst and escorted me out of the ICU. I was seriously in shock. I apologized to the doctor. I had been worse than no help. I had triggered a nasty response and made matters even worse.

I can’t recall the exact emotion I felt. I couldn’t process the event at all. I was flat emotionally. I couldn’t pull the right trigger. There were too many options and my lack of experience didn’t allow me to push the right button. Also, there I was, flat emotionally as a bevy of young Vietnamese children came racing up to me.

“Hey, Aih-Bown! Hey, Sahgen!” They shouted in chaos. There must have been a half dozen in ages from three to ten. They grabbed my arm, hugged my legs; they were all over me. “You numbah one G.I.!

I paid little or no attention. I was stunned and flat, trying to process my encounter with what had been a really good friend. Suddenly, the kids released me and rushed across the street to a shanty town, a gaggle of huts, hastily thrown together hovels, dilapidated constructs of corrugated metal and cardboard frames. Only one youngster, maybe three years old, was still clinging to my leg. Two hookers came running over to me and informed me that the clutch of kids had ripped off my watch.

Yep. It was gone alright. I tapped the remaining street urchin on the head and pointed in the direction taken by his little “gang of thieves.” He looked up at me, smiled and ran to join his buddies.

The hookers insisted I go after those kids and retrieve my $6 watch. I was still in a blank state and waved them off and said, “Let them have it...a gift from Numbah One Aih-Bown Sahgen.” They continually urged me to chase the kids down but finally gave in, gave me quizzical looks and turned in frustration to walk away waving at me in disgust.

At that moment, across the street, a young marine was striding parallel to the street and adjacent to the shabbily constructed shanty town. Out came another clutch of young kids, one of whom leaped, grabbed his campaign cap and, accompanied by his crew, scurried into the cuddle of shacks, chortling as they ran. The marine immediately turned and blasted his way after the little gangsters. There was a lot of screaming, howling and general pandemonium as the dust flew and a number of the shacks collapsed in his wake. It wasn't long before he emerged with his cap in hand. He jammed it back on his head and continued on his way. He looked sharply over at me.

“Airborne!” I laughed. That was a button I could push. Then we each flashed an “Australian thumbs up” at each other and went our respective ways. The incident had temporarily shaken me out of my stupor, but all I wanted to do was return to base and try to avoid people for a while.

Four decades and change later, this incident still weighs heavily on my mind. In training, we were such naive, macho guys, soon to prove our manhood by participating in the male ritual of joining other males in battle on the killing fields of combat. Combat! and The Gallant Men portrayed manly men, who fought beneath a manly code. When wounded or killed, it was relatively clean, somewhat painless, given time to say goodbye in a strong, quiet peaceful manner with a nod to family or buddy before peacefully closing eyes and crossing over into Valhalla.

Of course it wasn't that way. The bonding that takes place in combat can't be denied, but the idealism that precedes the reality dissipates and is subsumed by the practical reality of protecting the guy next to you and assuming he feels the same bond. I don’t know what happened to Rick (Natty was a fiction). I've tried to research his whereabouts and have come up empty-handed. I searched THE WALL and his name is not there, so I assume he survived. I know he was awarded three Purple Hearts. I'm aware of two and I can't imagine that he returned to combat after the wounds that I witnessed. I don't know how he would feel if we ever did reconnect. I don't even know if he would remember our last encounter. He was seriously hurt, in a bad psychological state and under the influence of some serious pain-killers. I do hope that he would forgive my futile effort to make things right back then, and I hope he will forgive me for relating my version of these events now. AIRBORNE, Rick!