***
My first glimpse of a Vietnamese village in a city of Da Nang was a place called Dog Patch, located on the outskirts of the city. The place was well known as a haven for black market stores, product and service merchants, and anything one’s carnal heart might have desired in that part of the world. I was absolutely certain elusive enemies were there, mixing and mingling with the crowd, entirely undetected.
Dog Patch bustled with hundreds people, and the streets were jammed with bicycles, pedestrians, motorcycles, mini foreign cars, and a steady stream of convoys of gigantic military trucks. Many of the streets were unpaved and nicked with potholes that became miniature lakes when the monsoon rains came. People of all ages begged for handouts, and dirty-faced, raggedly dressed children were especially handy at panhandling. The poverty-stricken town simultaneously saddened and frightened me. I’d done my share of panhandling during my hippie years, but I’d never seen any poverty like that before, so many begging and struggling. At the same time, I was worried for myself and the other troops. We were about to be sent to our units in the bush, and we hadn’t even been issued combat gear and weapons yet. The only armed Marines were the drivers and the shotgun passengers of the two Jeeps that carried us newbies in their trunks. The stench of open sewer was nauseating, worsened by the humid air.
We drove for about an hour through the village and countryside before we reached our base unit. I was relieved that we didn’t encounter any enemy resistance along the way. At first, the country didn’t even appear to be war-torn, until I began to catch ominous glimpses of gunships and jets flying overhead and heard occasional blasts of bombs detonating in the distance. The smell of diesel fuel exhaust was nearly suffocating, thanks to the presence of so many trucks and other military vehicles.
When we arrived at our command post, we were quickly issued our 782 combat gear. I was caught off guard when we were given used flak jackets, helmets, and weapons, some bearing bullet and shrapnel holes. A few were even stained with the brownish-red hue of dried blood from soldiers who’d taken an early exit and wouldn’t be needing the gear anymore. Once we had a chance to zero in our weapons at a fifty-yard firing range, I felt more secure and confident enough to move around freely.
The old salts, old-timers who’d been enlisted for longer than some of us had been out of diapers, strutted around the compound as if they were at home there. Instantly, I was struck by the detached, distant looks in their eyes and the fact that they smoked cigarettes one after the other. Will I ever look like that? I wondered, and I hoped the answer would be a resounding no.
First Firefight
My first horrifying, scared-out-of-my-mind firefight occurred during my first month on a platoon-sized search-and-destroy mission. The sweep took us across a suspected Vietcong semi-jungle terrain area of tall elephant grass, rice paddies, hidden bunkers, and tunnels about twenty miles south of Da Nang.
The early summer morning was bright and fresh, as a drizzle of rain had cleansed the already warm air. Thirty Marines and a Navy corpsman, aka Doc, were on a staggered line, slowly crossing a clearing of dried rice paddies. Everyone had their rifles and weapons at the ready, scanning the terrain ahead of us as our group approached the tree line, unaware of the imminent danger.
Are they f*cking stupid, telling us to walk out in the open? I thought so before, in training, and I’m sure of it now. The enemies are hiding in the trees, for God’s sake. It’ll be target practice! All they’ve gotta do is put somebody in their sights. I hope it isn’t me. At least I’ll be the hardest to hit, since I’m the smallest. That’s some consolation, I guess.
My position kept me on the left end of the line, carrying three miniature rocket launcher tubes, in addition to my regular gear. Dressed in my plated flak jacket, I slung two fourteen-magazine, cotton-pouch bandoleers over my shoulders and crisscrossed my chest. My M-16 was fully loaded, with two clips taped together end to end, adding to my already heavy load.
Shortly after we’d arrived in the country, the bazooka had been phased out and replaced by the newer, lightweight antitank weapons (LAWs), basically disposable rocket launchers. The 5.5-pound LAWs were not heavy on their own, but carrying a hefty arsenal of three of those, in addition to my regular personal gear, made for some heavy humping in the bush. I weighed around 128 pounds during my tour of duty in ‘Nam, and I was constantly burdened with 40 to 60 pounds of weapons and equipment, nearly 50 percent of my bodyweight. For the sake of example, my basic gear included: helmet, 3 pounds; plated flak jacket, 9 pounds; M-16, 7 pounds; 14 magazines of ammo at 1.5 pounds per clip, 21 pounds total; as well as ammo belt, canteen, first aid kit, and KA-BAR knife, about 5 pounds. All total, even the basics weighed forty-five pounds. I was in peak physical condition at only nineteen, ready to take on unimaginable feats; however, chronic back pain eventually caught up with me early during my military career, which came as no surprise.
My initial training as an antitank assault man included humping rocket launchers, which we also referred to as bazookas, even though they were a whole different animal. Whoever assigned me my military occupational specialty was a f*cking blind, one-eyed, d*ckhead, I surmised. I wish I could meet the *sshole in person so I could shove a rocket up his *ss. I didn’t complain about it audibly most of the time, but I hated my job.
TNT and C-4 plastic explosives with detonating cords were my specialty. That allowed me to release some of my aggressiveness, and I got a great high off of blowing up bunkers, tunnels, and buildings, cutting down trees, and splitting steel drums. On that particular search-and-destroy mission, I’d been dubbed a rocket man, which was why I was carrying the extra miniature rocket launchers.
Without warning, the violent cracking sounds of Vietcong automatic AK-47 rifle bursts split the air, and the supersonic, deadly rounds struck their first Marine targets. Instantaneously, all hell broke loose, and we returned our volley of suppressive M-16 fire and a round of grenade launchers, aka bloopers.
Marines scrambled to find cover behind rice paddy dikes and quickly engaged, shooting with superior firepower toward the tree line.
Within the first minute, an ill-fated call echoed for immediate first aid for wounded marines. “Corpsmaann! Corpsmaann! Over here!”
A frightening chorus of cracks and pops from their Russian-made AK-47 automatics, our U.S.-made M-16 automatics, and grenade blooper explosions flooded the once-silent air.
Oh my God! This is so…real, I thought grimly as I saw a Marine take a hit. Like the newbies, I was totally enveloped in pandemonium and panic.
The sweet, acrid smell of blue gunpowder smoke filled the air that had been so freshly washed by the rain, so clean, just a little while earlier. The haze lingered above, an ominous, low cloud blanketing us, distorting our vision, and clogging our nostrils and throats.
In the midst of the chaos, I met up again with Sack, who’d arrived in the country about the same time as I had. He was also a Marine, but he’d been assigned to a different fire team. Teams aside, the two of us reacted simultaneously when everything hit the fan and jumped behind a deeper-than-usual rice paddy dike. We landed four feet down in ankle-deep mud, and I froze, leaning against the dike.
“What the f*ck, man? This is the real sh*t, Pineapple!” Sack growled, gripping his M-16 with white-knuckled hands as it hung diagonally across his chest. His helmet was tilted to the right, and he was shaking and trembling, with sweat rolling down his face.
I couldn’t fault the man for looking as terrified as I felt; I was scared to death myself. “Yeah, man, dis is da real deal. Let’s get some, Sack!”
Just then, my squad leader sergeant yelled, “Rockets! Rockets!”
That was my cue, and I began to shake, then hesitated, as if in shock.
“You’re up to bat, Rocket Man!” Sack reminded me with a concerned look on his face at the sight of my sudden paralysis.
“No sh*t! I know,” I snapped. Recalling my training, I knew it was better to react than to think about it first. I s
crambled up the soft dike toward the sarge, who was twenty yards to my right. Bullets snapped, ricocheted, and pinged sharply around me, and I hurriedly dived down next to the sarge in the muddy water to avoid being hit.
“Blow that f*cking hooch!” he shouted, kneeling and pointing his index finger at the grass hut that stood some seventy-five yards away, just in the tree line. “See it, Marine?”
“Yeah, yeah, Sarge. I see it.” Why the f*ck are you kneeling in the open?
“Well, what are you standing there for then? I issued you an order, Marine. Take it out…now!” Ricochets and sharp pings snapped around him, a cadence for his panicked barking; the Vietcong had him in their sights, and he was counting on me to be his savior, my inferior rank aside.
“Okay, okay!” I replied, shaking and fumbling with the LAW rocket launcher. D*mn! He’s gone bat-sh*t, f*cking crazy. Why is he out there like that, a sitting duck? I shook my head, then knelt down on one knee, still trembling, and quickly extended the LAW rocket tube, just as I’d practiced many times in my stateside military training. Loud snaps and pings landed all around us, and I was excitedly scared, to the point where my fingers felt numb and swollen three sizes larger than usual.
“Hurry the f*ck up!” he demanded.
Kneeling, I took aim and depressed the trigger mechanism while keeping the sights on the grass hooch.
Click.
I couldn’t believe my bad luck at the most inopportune moment. Huh? No rocket? What the f*ck? I glanced at the sarge, and his eyes were as big as saucers; he, too, wondered why my weapon was being so stubborn. I quickly re-cocked the tube and tried again, but all I heard was a disappointing click. “What the hell? C’mon! Come the f*ck on!” I yelled, growing ever more angry and frustrated and knowing my sergeant’s life and mine were on the line. “I can’t believe this sh*t!” Meanwhile, a merciless rain of AK-47 rounds landed around me, missing me by inches but pelting me with ricocheted mud and water spray. The Vietcong were trying to cut us down, and my weapon was proving worthless.
The sarge reached down and grabbed the other launcher that was sitting by my side. He quickly extended the tube, aimed, and fired. The propelled rocket warhead raced toward its target and slammed directly into the hooch, emitting a solid, explosive thump and scattering bamboo shrapnel and debris in all directions. Black smoke marked the spot where the meager dwelling had stood only seconds before.
The AK-47 firing stopped, but our guns fired away until we were told to lay off the triggers.
“Cease fire! Cease fire! Get online and move up!” the sarge finally shouted.
I was still in awe, wondering why on God’s green Earth my launcher had malfunctioned during my very first firefight. My heart was still pounding in my chest, and I felt worthless. Why couldn’t I have been the one to silence the fire coming from that hooch? Why couldn’t I have been the hero? Now the sarge is gonna think I’m some kind of sh*t-for-brains rookie.
The sergeant looked at me with debilitating disgust as he tossed the spent tube down. “Pineapple, what the f*ck happened?” he hollered.
“I dunno, Sarge. I-I did everything right but couldn’t get a launch,” I stuttered nervously, terrified that the truth would come out like some lame excuse.
He glanced at the launcher in my hands. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t surprise me. Those f*cking pieces of sh*t malfunction far too often!” he shouted and walked away. He was an old salt, a combat-experienced, coldhearted, invincible Marine who didn’t seem to care about anything or anyone but still performed courageously. Again, he’d admirably displayed his confidence in the face of death and had made it through another yet deadly firefight. It was no wonder the man wore so many stripes, and I knew if I was going to survive out there, I’d have to try to be like him—to set my fear aside and focus on doing my job: kill or be killed.
After the firing stopped, our radio man squawked a request for an emergency medevac helicopter. Our staggered row of Marines stopped at the tree line. A fire team moved in cautiously closer to the smoldering bamboo and grass structure that had once been home to an impoverished village farmer and probably far too many of his children for a humble dwelling of such small capacity.
The sarge called out orders, instructing us to form a perimeter around the billowing green smoke so we could signal the medevac chopper for a safe landing. Sack and I were closest to the smoldering hooch. Interestingly enough, the newbies were so shell-shocked and tongue-tied that none of them said a word.
I looked over toward the wounded Marines and shuddered. The skin on the back of my neck tingled when I caught sight of Michael, one of our newbies, bleeding on the ground. A Navy corpsman was kneeling next to him, using his expertise to try and patch up two downed Marines. A couple of other Marines, likely team members of the wounded, were trying to help. There was so much blood, but Doc had managed to battle-dress the wounds. Michael had been hit in the stomach and midsection and was bleeding profusely. The other felled soldier, whom I didn’t recognize, had a blood-soaked dressing around his right thigh and was lying on the ground, clenching his fists over his chest and shivering something awful, as if he were naked in the middle of a blizzard.
“F*ck, Doc,” one of the Marines whined, “am I gonna make it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just take it easy, lie back, and hold this. Keep pressure on it, and you’ll be okay,” Doc tried to console.
“But, Doc, it hurts!” he wailed, trying so hard to stay calm, to no avail.
I could almost feel his pain and was almost in tears just looking at the casualties. Unable to take it any longer, I turned away, my heart still pounding against my ribcage with adrenaline from the firefight. Now what do we do? I wondered while Michael and the other man waited to be loaded into the beckoned medevac. “Hey, Sack, did you see the two gooks?” I asked.
“Yeah. That was some f*cked-up sh*t, Pineapple.”
“They looked like regular civilians, only way younger than the papa sans, those elderly guys we usually see out in the fields.”
“I know. What should we do with the bodies?” I wondered.
“I got no idea. Maybe they’ll put their sorry *sses on the helicopter and drop ‘em off at some Vietnamese funeral parlor.”
“We can’t just leave them here like animals,” I said, sounding sympathetic.
“It’s best to, I think. I’m sure the village people will give them a proper burial, whatever the hell that means in this godforsaken helluva country.”
It sounded reasonable to me, but in reality, neither Sack nor I had any say in what happened to the bodies of those young Vietnamese who’d been caught in the crossfire. The only reason we were talking about it at all was because small talk was essential to keep our minds off of the harsh reality of what we’d just been through. Distraction was crucial for us to maintain any shred of sanity over there.
No one else said a word about the two dead Vietcong lying in the demolished, smoldering hooch that had been destroyed by our rocket blast. They’d died from rocket shrapnel, sustaining fatal puncture wounds in their heads and chests. As we walked by them, most of the Marines and Navy men had only nasty words for the dead, mumbling obscenities and bragging about our hard-fought victory in that small battle. No one bothered to move or cover the bodies, and within minutes, 747-sized flies began to descend on the open wounds and cavities that were slowly seeping and oozing blood and guts onto the ground.
While my comrades, for the most part, felt no pity for the enemy, I couldn’t help but see them as people. They had been someone’s son, brother, or even husband. As angry as I was at them for trying to kill us, I felt sad that we’d been forced to kill them. They couldn’t have been any older than their late twenties or early thirties. Unlike the North Vietnamese soldiers who wore uniforms, those Vietcong were dressed humbly in black, silk, loose-fitting, pajama-like outfits, the common garb of the locals. Their conical straw hats were tattered and torn, lying by their sides. Each man was equipped with an AK-47 Russian-made weapon.
 
; The Marine CH-46 Sea Stallion, a green and olive-drab helicopter, appeared out of nowhere and began its descent to land on a dry rice bed, a landing pad quite obviously marked by the billowing green cloud produced by the smoke grenade. The loud, dual-rotator heavy blades slapped and sliced through the air as it flared, carrying the green iron grasshopper to a safe landing. The rear wheels touched down first, and the single nose wheel followed. The intimidating aircraft door gunners, wearing green dome helmets and darkly tinted face shields, stood vigilantly inside at each side door window, manning their M-60 machineguns. The huge, hydraulic rear ramp whined, lowered, and opened, allowing four Marines to quickly rush our wounded onboard.
I’d survived my first firefight, with no help from my dysfunctional weapon. It was a historic day for me, though we did suffer two casualties, seriously wounded and being lifted out. Michael had been hit in the stomach; luckily, the bullet had been partially deflected by his flak jacket. The other Marine was headed to the hospital for treatment for a shattered tibia.
Within five minutes, the medevac aircraft was ready to go. Everyone stared at the helicopter as it lifted off in a spiral pattern, then flew out of sight, en route to a distant hospital.
The others looked as solemn as I felt. I felt a deep despair, a sense of sadness. I was angry that our Marines had been shot and others killed—lives damaged and lost in a mere fifteen minutes. It was tragic for everyone, on both sides, nothing like I had imagined it would be. It seems so…unnatural, I thought. In spite of all the training and brainwashing they’d subjected us to, when the moment of truth came, I simply felt illusory. The targets had fought back, and the harsh reality struck me that I could have been killed—dead and gone before my life had even really begun. I didn’t know if I could continue like that or, if I did, how I could possibly maintain my sanity.
The Vietcong AK-47s and our downed Marine weapons were gathered and hauled back to the command post. Our base command credited us for two bodies, but there were possibly more, based on the blood trail that led deeper into the foliage. Body count was a sought-after prize for any mission, an esteemed goal that kept the warmongers fat and happy while they gambled with the fate of young lives in their backroom war offices.
Rogue Team
My patrol, our fire team, consisted of five gung-ho Marines, including myself. I was the team leader. For collateral duty, I was assigned as a tunnel rat. There were two of us on the team assigned to that duty, and we were required to enter varied types of Vietcong underground tunnels during our patrols or on search-and-destroy missions.
Pineapple Sam (Team Leader)
In my final months in country, I was an old salt myself, recently promoted to lance corporal, a merit- and combat-based honor not granted to many Marines. I earned it because of my confirmed kills, weapons cache, document recoveries from tunnels, and because I knew what I was doing out there.
I was a grunt in the Corps, a Marine foot soldier who likely walked thousands of miles during my single tour of duty in ‘Nam. My jungle boots were worn down to the raw leather, and I’d gone through three pairs, as well as countless pairs of the ever-sought-after dry, clean, green socks.
For most of my tour of duty, I chose to wear Republic of Korea Marines tiger-striped camouflage clothing and a black beret stitched with a miniature Hawaiian flag. I wore a holstered Smith & Wesson (S&W) .38 Special revolver for my tunnel rat duties. I initially used a .45-caliber automatic pistol, but it felt too cumbersome in tight tunnel quarters and with my inherently small grip, so the .38 Special was a better choice for me. It wasn’t typical Marine Corps-issued gear, but I didn’t care, and it really didn’t matter to anyone in our unit either. It was practical, it worked well in the bush, and I got the job done.
My additional tunnel rat equipment consisted of a preferred yellow smoke and two fragmentation grenades and a military-issued flashlight and a probing KA-BAR razor-sharp knife with a five-inch blade. I also kept a set of earplugs or improvised cigarette butts to attenuate gun blasts in the tunnels. No war movie has ever quite captured the real effects of a pistol fired in such close, claustrophobic quarters. In those tunnels, I learned quickly that the concussion and the noise would only slightly be alleviated with earplugs or cigarette butts, and my ears rang for several minutes after firing. It was a toss-up whether the earplugs were of any use at all in those underground confines; while they did protect my ears a little from the reverberation of the gun blasts, they also prevented me from listening for telltale sounds that could have meant the difference between life and serious injury or death.
Weasel (Assistant Team Leader)
“Hey, Weasel, where’s Lacherco?” I asked as we prepared for our patrol.
“He’s over in the ammo bunker, checking out his blooper ammo bag.”
Weasel was from New York City, a white, Irish dude of small stature and with a baby face but an expert rifleman. As a city boy, he’d never shot a rifle till he became one of the few and the proud, but he qualified as an expert marksman nonetheless.
Strangely enough, I only knew him as Weasel. In fact, none of us bothered to share our real or full names. It didn’t really matter anyway. We were trained to do a job, and our relationship was built around how well we performed. We were expendable, so none of us cared about personal details like first and last names. We respected ranks, as they were hard earned, but we only used those titles occasionally, always coupled with only our nicknames. It was dangerous to get too attached to someone who might be gone with the next bomb or gun blasts anyway.
Weasel was a feisty little guy who wouldn’t back down from any fight. He’d just turned eighteen before his arrival in Vietnam, but I’d seen him stand up to older guys twice his size. In the world we were living in, size didn’t matter; everyone had their equalizers—guns and knives to make up for any difference in stature, strength, stamina, or prowess. Weasel was training to be my replacement as a point man, and I assumed he’d take over as team leader once I was happily rotated out of that hellhole, on my way back to the States, dead or alive. As such, I tried to pass my great wisdom to Weasel, schooling him in point man techniques among other things I’d gleaned and learned. I trained him to recognize the vegetation, know the terrain, and pay attention to the telltale signs of deadly booby traps and potential ambushes. He was a fast learner, and my confidence in him grew quickly.
Lacherco (Grenadier)
“Lacherco, did you get enough grenade rounds for your blooper?” I asked. The grenade rounds were heavy, but Lacherco was a stocky man, about five-eight, a strong-as-an-ox Italian. He’d grown up in a rough neighborhood on Chicago’s south side. He was twenty-one and married, the father of one. I felt sorry for him at first, a man stuck in combat with a young wife and baby waiting for him at him, but he was adamant about doing his share and hoped it would enable him to provide a better life for his family when he returned. Since his real name was far too difficult to pronounce and none of us spoke Italian, we just called him Lacherco. I don’t really know why it stuck, but it seemed a perfect fit for the big guy.
“Pineapple, I’ve got fourteen rounds in two bandoleers so I can keep them in my bag and not have them rattling or banging around making noise.”
“Good thinkin’. We don’t need the grenades exploding or making buncha noise out there on patrol,” I said with a nod. “Hey, did you get your package from the supply run today?” I asked, knowing his wife regularly sent him chocolate chip cookies, only some of which made it to the field.
“The mail arrived, but the doc who received the supplies said none of our fire team had any.” He always looked forward to mail from his wife, especially any baked goodies that managed to survive the pilfering and nosy mail handlers and the long commute from New York to the jungles of South Vietnam. “That’s okay though. The next supply run’s next week.”
When he first arrived in country, Lacherco was a bit chubby, but all that humping with his heavy ammo bag and the M-179 blooper grenade launcher the first month was quite a
boost for his metabolism. Carrying a heavy bag of explosives on patrols wasn’t Lacherco’s choice, but he was stuck with it as a specialty. Lucky for us, he was a darn great shot with the blooper, a single-shell, shotgun-style, breech-loading weapon. He was a very accurate marksman and was credited for once shooting a running Vietcong target in the back of the head, blowing half the man’s brains out during a night ambush. Another time, he managed to shoot some coconuts out of a tree for us without tearing the tasty things all to shreds. Of course we weren’t supposed to waste our ammo on things like that, but we’d done far worse things. Fishing with grenades or TNT or plastic explosives was a common practice too.
Mr. Clean (Radio Operator)
“Pineapple, I got new batteries and replaced the handset plastic for the radio tonight.”
“Good job, Mr. Clean. I’m glad you checked it out before tonight’s patrol. Get a radio check and squelch test on it too, okay?”
“Got it, Pineapple”
My radio man was a tall, skinny black dude from Louisville, Kentucky. He sometimes had a bald head, which inspired our nickname for him. He was a rather quiet guy most of the time, about nineteen years old, and he didn’t at all fit the typical loud-talking or jiving and dapping black dudes who were part of the other teams. For that reason, he was sometimes shunned by our darker brothers-in-arms, and they nicknamed him Oreo, claiming he was only black on the outside. He spoke calmly and talked often of going to college and dreamt about driving Cadillacs. He was very articulate on the radio and had an uncanny, laidback attitude that allowed him to remain calm, cool, and collected during firefight radio communications and artillery fire missions.
“Pineapple, the radio checks out okay all around. I replaced the antenna and got strong signals. Squelch is okay too.”
“Thanks, Clean,” I said, glad once again that he was part of my team.
For all his wonderful attributes, there was one downside to Mr. Clean that made things difficult for him where we were stationed: He had a major phobia of snakes, big or small, venomous or not. On one occasion, while we were taking a ten-minute break from day patrol, he opened up with his M-16 on fully automatic because a two-foot serpent nearly scared him to death. Not only did he get everyone’s attention, but he also committed serious overkill on the poor poisonous thing, making cheese out of it with bullet holes. We ran across a lot of different types of snakes in ‘Nam, unfortunately for Mr. Clean, and sometimes they even made for good barbecue in lieu of chicken and beef.
“Chief, how’re the ammo belts and pop-up flares?”
Chief (Automatic Rifleman)
“I have three bandoleers with twenty-one magazines, as usual, and four pop-up flares. Do you want the other two?” Chief asked.
“Yeah, I’ll carry them.” I wanted to make sure we had enough pop-up illumination flares, just in case we made enemy contact. I knew it would take anywhere from ten to fifteen minutes before we’d receive any additional illumination support from base command.
Our automatic rifleman (AR) was an American Indian Navajo we called Chief; yes, it was a bit stereotypical, but he seemed amused, if not a bit flattered by it. He was a tall man of medium build, with high cheekbones and a round face. For some reason, he didn’t get along with other Indians from other Native American tribes. Chief believed the Navajo from Arizona and other Southwestern states were superior, and that scared any other Indians off. In his own relaxed way, he kept to himself and smoked his cigarettes, often gazing out over the distant landscapes. He was a natural lookout sentry and noticed every minute detail in the various terrains we had to traverse. Because he was my automatic rifleman, he carried three cotton bandoleers, seven magazines of M-16 rounds in each. Chief liked his beer as much as everybody else, and while he was stoned or intoxicated, he often rattled off his native language, cussing out anyone around him. In spite of his admiration of nature and his drunken rants, I rarely ever saw the man smile. Then again, there wasn’t much to smile about in ‘Nam.
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had a shower. The closest we got to the refreshing, stimulating, rejuvenating feeling of being freshly bathed was when we were fortunate enough to cross rivers and had time enough to take a swim, brief as those watery moments were. One hot, sunny day, we came across a very large pond near Charlie Ridge on our patrol route. We were all sweaty and desperate to cool off, so we decided to take turns jumping in and swimming and splashing around. We planned to alternate, taking turns swimming while two people stood guard. We were all excited, laughing and joking around as who would go in first.
“Hey, Pineapple, you’re the head honcho around here. You go first,” Weasel coaxed, laughing and pointing at me.
“Okay. You and Chief can stand watch while Lacherco, Mr. Clean, and I have a swim,” I ordered.
Lacherco’s had his clothes halfway off before I’d even said the word, Mr. Clean was wrestling with the radio, and I began to pull off my boots.
When I dived in, it was such a relief to feel my sweaty body slice into the sobering, clear, cool water. Instantly, I was reminded of home, of swimming in my beautiful Hawaii, only without the waves. “Wow! This is sooooo cool. Jump on in, Lacherco,” I called as I dogpaddled around. It was deeper than I’d expected, just over eight feet or so.
Mr. Clean slid in slowly from a half-submerged boulder on the far side, looking around cautiously as he lowered his tall, lean body into the depths.
“What the heck are you doing, Clean? Just get your skinny *ss in here!” I hollered, laughing at him and assuming he didn’t know how to swim. I thought of yelling “Snake!” but I didn’t want to spook him any worse than he already was as he made his careful, slow descent into the pond.
Lacherco was up to his chest, splashing water on his head and wearing a big, sh*t-eating smile.
“Make sure you guys wash your f*cking crotches and *ssholes, like Doc always says,” I half-joked.
Suddenly, from about twenty-five feet away, Weasel noticed a black patch of amphibious creatures of some sort swimming out of the weeds in the corner and toward the three of us. It was not fish, and it was shockingly reminiscent of something we’d all seen before, suctioned to the rice paddies.
“Wait…leeches? Oh my God! Leeches, guys! Get the hell outta there,” Weasel shouted. “Pineapple, c’mon, man! There’s a whole helluva lot of f*cking leeches comin’ right at ya!” Weasel was frantic and pointed his rifle at the swift-swimming school of leeches, silently skimming near the rippling surface of the pond.
Mr. Clean had just entered the water a minute before that, and within seconds, he was back on the rock, dripping wet. Lacherco made four giant steps and was out in a split second. I was the last in the water, with the school of blood-suckers just a couple feet behind me as I scrambled hands and knees out of the pond. Some of the leeches were caught in my wake and went into a searching frenzy, wondering where their free meal had gone.
“Wow! Sh*t, that was too close. Where the hell did they come from Weasel?”
“Outta those weeds in the corner over there,” he said, pointing at the far end of the pond with his rifle.
We were right to be disturbed by the leeches, as we knew they could easily slip into any of our body cavities via the penis, anus, ears, or nose. Had one of them managed to find an opening, it would have required medical intervention and surgery. We’d all had a leech or two on us now and again, and they were easy enough to remove by burning their heads with cigarettes until they let go and fell off. Some of the small ones were even easy to slap off, but the leeches in the pond were huge—a whole different story.
Lacherco was already half-dressed, and Mr. Clean was standing ten feet from the large rock with his mouth hanging open, staring at swarm of six-inch leeches as they swam around in search of prey.
“Mr. Clean, get your sh*t on. We gotta get outta here.”
“Yeah, all right.”
“Chief, climb up those rocks up there and make sure nobody’s sneaking up on our *sses. Weasel, help Mr. C
lean with the radio.”
“It’s all ready, Pineapple.”
“Good. In that case, come with me so we can check out our position on the map.”
“Man, that little swim of yours sucked,” Lacherco complained.
“Well, it coulda sucked a whole lot worse,” I reasoned, meaning it wholeheartedly.
Wrong Place and Time
Feeling around, I carefully inventoried all of the equipment that was within my reach: M-16 rifle, ammo bandoleer with magazine clips, two illumination pop-up flares, and a couple of fragmentation grenades. I carefully positioned myself in a squat, facing outward toward the tree line, approximately 100 yards beyond the rice paddies. I dared not lie down in the prone position, knowing I’d quickly succumb to exhaustion-demanded sleep. I steeled myself and was ready. If the enemy is stupid enough to die for his country tonight, he can bring it on!
Just before dusk, Marines settled in different positions at a near-perfect ambush site, parallel to the main trail that led out of the dense bamboo jungle. We positioned ourselves on a small, five-foot knoll, overlooking the foot-wide trail bordered by rice paddies. The killing zone would be excellent, and our enemies would be stuck on that thin trail with no chance of escape other than to run back into the jungle; and even that would be nearly impossible because we’d strategically placed claymore mines everywhere.
Our ambush line, composed of twenty cocked-and-ready Marines, stretched out forty yards end to end. As the point man, I was closest to the end of the trail that exited from the bamboo bushes.
Suddenly, just as the sun slowly dipped behind the tree line to the west, we saw a young girl walk out of the bamboo forest, clearly unaware of our pending ambush. No one said a word as she slowly walked twenty feet, parallel to us would-be assassins.
The lieutenant crawled up to me. “Pineapple, get that girl and bring her back here.”
What the f*ck for? I wondered, hoping he wasn’t just trying to score some more p*ssy for the guys. Maybe I can ask for an ID and send her along if she checks out okay. She doesn’t see us. We oughtta just let her pass. I hesitated, not sure what to do.
“Pineapple, you hear me?” the lieutenant said, glaring at me like I was some kind of insect. “Get her and bring her back here now!” he whispered sternly
“Aye-aye, sir,” I paused for a few seconds, trying to determine if she was carrying anything that might resemble a weapon. She was twenty feet on the main trail in front of me when I stood up, and everyone stayed out of sight. In a soft, nonthreatening voice, I called to her, signaling with my left hand, palm down, waving for an ID check. “Lai dai. Cam cook? (Come here. ID?)”
She slowly stopped and turned to face me. I could see no sort of weapon on her, other than a short, thin stick of bamboo in her small right hand. Clearly, I’d surprised her, but she wasn’t frightened; I assumed that was because I didn’t look like the typical brute Marine. She was about sixteen, with a newly woven conical straw hat on her head tied under her chin with a pink lace strap.
“Lai dai. Cam cook?” I repeated.
Her hat tilted as she reached inside her loose-fitting black silk pants waistband under her while blouse. She pulled out her plastic-protected ID and held it out to me when I approached.
I noticed her smooth complexion and cute smiling but concerned face beneath her oversized straw hat. I reached for her ID, but before I could take it from her small fingers, she suddenly jerked it back, panic-stricken at the sight of another Marine approaching. She quickly turned and ran.
“Lai dai!” I chased after her but only managed to get within four feet before I heard the horrible sound.
Bam! One shot rang out from an M-16, followed by an instantaneous thump and sharp crack.
The girl’s head jerked back, and both hands flailed outward. She let out a short, baby-like scream that barely made it out of her throat, then fell forward and slowly rolled halfway off the trail.
Aghast, I couldn’t believe one of the guys actually took a shot at her. What the f*ck? She’s just a girl, a kid, for God’s sake! I was taken by surprise but hustled up to her and knelt down with one foot on the trail and the other in the muddy water. I rolled her over, trying to see where she’d been hit.
Like a fish out of water, she gasped helplessly for air. She tried to scream, but no sound would escape her mouth because she couldn’t manage to inhale. “You Number 10…you…Number…10…” she gasped, clenching her teeth as pain twisted her young face into unnatural contortions that I would see in my nightmares for years to come. She began waving her arms, and every time I reached down to try to help her, she pushed my hand away. She was like a wounded wildcat, fiercely protecting her space even though she was unable to verbally protest to what had been done to her.
The shot had hit her in the right buttock, and her pants had slipped down her thigh, revealing a gaping exit wound. She’d been hit in a main artery, and she was bleeding profusely, soaking the grass and the trail with crimson that should have never been shed.
I looked back at the ambush line and saw two people running toward me.
“Let’s pick her up and get her out of here,” one of the guys blurted out. The guy looked like the f*cking trigger-happy shooter, but I couldn’t be sure. I was too shaken and concerned about the young girl to interrogate him about who had fired the shot.
Our doc, a Navy medical corpsman, scooped her up and cradled her like a baby. Then we ran and scurried back behind our ambush line, where he laid her down on matted green grass. Doc, a big white guy with a distinguished handlebar mustache, feverishly dug through his medical bag and quickly pulled out packs of battle bandages and ripped them open. He applied pressure to try to stop the bleeding from her inner thigh, but we both knew the wound was severe. We knew that without emergency medical help, she would bleed to death or die of shock.
After a moment, the girl stopped struggling and placed both hands down on her sides, clutching handful of green horse grass. I knelt on one knee and gently held her head up, hoping she wouldn’t scream out and reveal our ambush. She was breathing very fast and fading deeper into shock, something I’d often seen before during my time in ‘Nam.
She whimpered and cried, and there were bitter tears rolling down her cheeks, but she didn’t scream out. I gently moved her long, black hair off her face. Her dark eyes darted side to side, then settled on mine, and she just stared at me with her little Asian nostrils flaring. She was whispering something between her thin lips. “You Number 10…Num…ber…10,” she said between hard-fought gasps for air.
It was not lost on me what she meant: To the Vietnamese, “Number 10” was a nickname for “no good,” and I could see why she would think that of me. I hadn’t pulled the trigger myself, but I’d followed a command to stop her on the road, when she otherwise might have gotten away and gone on with her life.
“You beaucoup Number 10….beaucoup Number 10!” she whispered between her sobs.
I tried to help, but nothing I could do would matter. That sixteen-year-old girl was fading away in my arms, and I felt guilty and responsible for her condition. I felt hopeless and wished I’d had a hold of her a just few seconds before the shot rang out. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was, but the words wouldn’t come out, so I just stared at her with sympathetic eyes, hoping she’d understand much more than I did about what in the hell was going on in her part of the world. What’s wrong with these people? She’s an unarmed girl, guilty of nothing but being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Why did this happen? Why is any of this happening? I silently raged, clenching my teeth. With my pulse racing and drowning in anger and confusion, I looked around for her attacker.
The lieutenant bent over her while talking to our command base between the hissing and static of our field radio.
The corpsman looked at me with a look I’d seen before, like staring into the hopeless eyes of the Grim Reaper himself. He was slowly shaking his head from side to side as he stood up. When the lieutenant motioned him over and w
hispered something to him, the corpsman nodded as he looked down at his bloody hands. Minutes passed like a multitude of eternities before he came back with a pissed-off look in his face and anxiety and frustration dripping from his voice. “F*ck them, those motherf*ckers!” he muttered. “This is pure bullsh*t, Pineapple.”
“What? What’s the matter, Doc?”
“They won’t send a medevac because she’s a civilian and a possible Vietcong suspect. Command won’t dispatch a helicopter for her.”
“What? She’s dying, Doc. Won’t she die if we don’t get her out of here?”
“Yes, Pineapple. I know, but there’s not a d*mn thing I can do.”
“But we shot her! She’s a civilian, just a kid! Sh*t, man, who the hell are we? Is this what we’ve become?” I protested.
“I know, man, but it’s out of my hands,” he replied, frustrated. Doc was unable to look at me while shoving unused battle dressings back into his medical bag.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. She was a total mess. Her cute face had gone pale, and her white blouse was splotched here and there with her young blood. She was basically nude from her waist down, with blood-soaked battle dressings wrapped tightly around her pelvis. I looked at her helplessly as tears rolled down the side of her eyes. Her soft, dark tan cheeks were smeared with her own blood, her dry mouth slightly open, and her lips quivering with faint whispers, as if she were trying to say her last words. Even if we couldn’t understand what she was saying, her broken heart understood her final wishes and tender farewells to her family and loved ones, and my heart broke as she tried to utter them.
In the back of my mind, I’d always known that the war could never be won. We were making far too many mistakes, letting the conflict turn us into monsters. We’d just shot a noncombatant, a teenage girl, and her murder would go undetected because the higher-ups were keen on covering it up, like discarding of a poached animals carcass in the woods. It was way out of line, far beyond the scope of what we were supposed to be doing. We were not saints. We were not heroes. We were not doing good things to gain the trust and confidence of the civilians in a war-devastated country. In that moment, we were murderers, plain and simple.
She really didn’t look much different than the scores of young village girls I’d seen along the way. Some were purely Vietnamese, while others had a touch of French in their bloodline, but they all seemed so innocent, walking around in their conical straw hats, every so often carrying a bamboo stick, balancing vegetable loads on each end. Some of them were tasked with caring for younger children, even though they didn’t look that old themselves. Heck, many of them looked like my relatives and acquaintances from Hawaii. I am Filipino, but I’d fooled many Americans into thinking I’m Vietnamese. It was not an easy situation to be in over there, considering the constant fear that I might be mistaken for an Asian in a firefight and quickly dispatched by the American troops, all on a case of mistaken identity. I’d always felt a certain connection to the locals there, from the very first day I’d stepped foot in their country. That affection was a bit of a double-edge, because many of the guys from the States thought I looked like a gook. Racial prejudice was infectious then, much like it is today. Blacks were against whites; Chicanos were against whites and blacks; American Indians were hostile to all others; and Asians like me were harassed constantly, which we resented. We were fighting our own battles within our ranks, and there were people among us who didn’t care to distinguish between me and the Vietnamese. Some half-joked that I might be mistaken for a Vietcong during a firefight. That, in and of itself, was all the more reason for me to remain extra vigilant.
“Doc, what can we do?’ I asked.
“Nothing, Pineapple,” he said as he looked at the girl with pity.
“She lost a lot of blood, and without emergency surgery, there’s little hope that she’ll make it through the night. By the way, the lieutenant wants to talk to you.”
I sat there for a minute, gazing down into at her young innocent face. Fierce anger was brewing inside me, but there was nothing I could do. I wanted to know who had shot her and why. For all I knew, the same bastard could have shot me.
Her chest was heaving up and down, and she began panting like an exhausted animal. Gradually her breathing slowed, then stopped altogether. Her brown, glassy eyes stared at me as her fingers and hands went limp. Her life had been stolen prematurely. There was absolutely nothing I could do. She was dead, removed from the world that didn’t seem to have a heart anymore.
I slowly slipped my arm out from under her head. Her eyes remained opened, but her pupils were dilated. I was the last person she saw before her life ended, and her head slowly lulled lifelessly to the side. I am so f*cking sorry, I screamed inside, trying not to show tear welts in my eyes. After I composed myself, I spoke to the lieutenant. “Sir, you wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes. There’s nothing we can do now except get rid of the body. Get together with Sergeant Gallagher, and he’ll let you know how to proceed.”
“Sir, why was she shot?” I asked with remorse in my voice.
The lieutenant looked at me, speechless for a few seconds. “Pineapple, just get with Sergeant Gallagher.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” I replied with reluctance. I was merely a low-ranking person in the chain of command. The shooter didn’t care if he shot me accidently; for all I knew, he was trying to do just that. The lieutenant didn’t mention anything about the shooting either. Regardless of why it happened, it was a chicken-sh*t move to make, and now a girl was lying dead.
I turned around and headed back to the dead girl, who was several feet away, her small body hardly noticeable in the flattened horse grass and dim light. The last orange rays of sunlight were slowly disappearing behind the tree line, and the darkness of undeserved, untimely death engulfed the whole area.
The sarge came up to me and motioned that he’d found a suitable place to dispose of her body. After she was officially confirmed dead by the doc, her lifeless, torn body was moved to a location in the back of our ambush line.
Another Marine and the sergeant dragged her body toward a bush. I followed to see if I could help, hoping I could ensure that they’d at least treat her humanely. Sarge pointed to a darker spot between the bushes, and they heaved her body head first into a darkened hole; a splash of water echoed as her corpse fell to its final resting place.
I wanted to say something, but the words would not exit my throat. Oh my God! They just dumped her body into a water hole like a piece of trash. What the f*ck? My heart screamed, Bloody murder! Why? Why? We are f*cking animals! This shouldn’t have happened! This should never happen—not to her or to any of them!
It was growing darker, and I blinked and blinked as tears blurred my night-vision. I hunched over and walked, slowly feeling my way back to my spot at the end of the ambush line. It was dark enough to camouflage my tears, but my heart felt as if it had been ripped out of my chest and torn to shreds.
Something went horribly wrong today. My demise could come before dawn tomorrow, this week, or next month. Every day in country could be my last day on Earth or one that draws me closer to a gruesome death. Life is here, but death is lurking everywhere. It can happen so quickly. Still, I knew there was nothing I could do to keep death from knocking on my door. Like the young, innocent girl, I’d have no warnings, no second chances, no future. I’d watched her life end, as quickly and insignificantly as the blink of an eye, and in her death I realized a very grim reality: All it takes is being at the wrong place at the wrong time...and that makes me f*cking sick.
About the Author
Pineapple Sam is the main character—the hero, if you will—who embodies the life and times and tales of Ismael Tabalno. He grew up on the shores of Kauai, the northernmost of the Hawaiian Islands, and later ventured out into the world to embark on his many fascinating adventures.
Pineapple Sam loves to “talk story,” as they say in the islands and has decided to write his stories down f
or posterity so that his many friends and relatives and readers like you can share and marvel in his adventures.
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