Read Online Nam Sense by Jr. Arthur Wiknik - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jr. Arthur Wiknik
Tags: Bisac Code 1: HIS027070
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jets provided tactical air strikes. They dropped several 250-pound bombs where bunkers had been spotted and in areas that needed to be cleared for the next ground assault. We cheered each explosion, feeling exhilarated when the ground shook as the planes took turns releasing their ordnance. The raid included napalm canisters that crashed to the earth with a giant fireball so intense that, for a moment, we felt the heat where we stood. The savagery of the attacks was awesome.
After the planes left, it was our turn. We loaded ourselves with ammunition and attached bayonets to our rifles. Each man also carried a field bandage and a canteen of water. No food was allowed, but I took a C-ration can of peaches along just the same. Our rucksacks were too clumsy for this mission so they were collected by a rear guard and placed in a big pile. Howard Siner and I hid our packs in the bushes, figuring it would be easier to reclaim them rather than sort them out from among hundreds of others.
We moved out in single file following a ridge trail toward the base of the hill where we would later link up with the 3/187th. The trail was well used and up to five feet wide in some places. Both sides were littered with discarded US Army equipment, half-used machine gun belts, empty M-16 magazines, canteens, ponchos, and web gear. As we rounded a turn, we came upon three body bags lying along the trail’s edge, each with a dead American inside. Our column stopped there, so we sat down to wait. From down the line I watched Sergeant Krol moving closer until he reached my position.
“What’s the holdup?” he asked officially.
“I don’t know. Everyone just stopped.”
Krol looked around for a place to sit then casually sat on one of the body bags.
“Hey!” I yelled, “there’s a GI in that bag. Don’t you care?”
“What’s the problem?” Krol asked honestly. “He’s dead. He doesn’t feel a thing.”
“You’re a heartless bastard.”
“Watch it, Wiknik. Being insubordinate will just get you into a deeper hole.”
It was all I could do to keep quiet, but I didn’t say anything more to the son-of-a-bitch because no one backed me up. A few minutes later, the column moved again.
Farther along the trail lay the decomposing bodies of two NVA soldiers who had been dead for at least a week. Their lips were receded, exposing the teeth, and their eyes were only shriveled remnants. Insects of every variety were feasting on the flesh. Aside from the bullet holes, their uniforms looked new, quite unlike the black pajamas worn by the VC. We covered our noses and mouths with towels; the stench was stomach-turning.
As we reached the base of the hill, we came upon the men of the 3/187th. It was from this location they had been launching their attacks. The place looked awful. All the ground vegetation was trampled down to the dirt, military equipment was strewn everywhere, and the area stunk of human waste. The GIs were unnaturally quiet as we approached. Most were filthy, unshaven, and exhausted. Some had the thousand-mile stare, the dead, distant gaze many combat soldiers acquire. It was as if they had seen the gates of hell. Looking at them, I felt ashamed of the Army and myself. While this misery was going on, my company should have been here. Instead, we were at Eagle Beach having a picnic and getting drunk.
One of their soldiers focused on me. “Hey, Sergeant,” he called, motioning to my shirt sleeves, “unless you rip those stripes off, you’ll never see the top of that hill. The Gooks shoot the leaders first. And you better remove the tracers from your machine gun belts because the Gooks can see where the bullets are coming from. Then they shoot at the gunners, too.”
I nodded as if we would follow his suggestions, but I didn’t know if he was serious. Then he started again, only this time with more emotion.
“None of you will ever see the top of that hill!” he shouted, pointing at us. “Every time we get near the
After the planes left, it was our turn. We loaded ourselves with ammunition and attached bayonets to our rifles. Each man also carried a field bandage and a canteen of water. No food was allowed, but I took a C-ration can of peaches along just the same. Our rucksacks were too clumsy for this mission so they were collected by a rear guard and placed in a big pile. Howard Siner and I hid our packs in the bushes, figuring it would be easier to reclaim them rather than sort them out from among hundreds of others.
We moved out in single file following a ridge trail toward the base of the hill where we would later link up with the 3/187th. The trail was well used and up to five feet wide in some places. Both sides were littered with discarded US Army equipment, half-used machine gun belts, empty M-16 magazines, canteens, ponchos, and web gear. As we rounded a turn, we came upon three body bags lying along the trail’s edge, each with a dead American inside. Our column stopped there, so we sat down to wait. From down the line I watched Sergeant Krol moving closer until he reached my position.
“What’s the holdup?” he asked officially.
“I don’t know. Everyone just stopped.”
Krol looked around for a place to sit then casually sat on one of the body bags.
“Hey!” I yelled, “there’s a GI in that bag. Don’t you care?”
“What’s the problem?” Krol asked honestly. “He’s dead. He doesn’t feel a thing.”
“You’re a heartless bastard.”
“Watch it, Wiknik. Being insubordinate will just get you into a deeper hole.”
It was all I could do to keep quiet, but I didn’t say anything more to the son-of-a-bitch because no one backed me up. A few minutes later, the column moved again.
Farther along the trail lay the decomposing bodies of two NVA soldiers who had been dead for at least a week. Their lips were receded, exposing the teeth, and their eyes were only shriveled remnants. Insects of every variety were feasting on the flesh. Aside from the bullet holes, their uniforms looked new, quite unlike the black pajamas worn by the VC. We covered our noses and mouths with towels; the stench was stomach-turning.
As we reached the base of the hill, we came upon the men of the 3/187th. It was from this location they had been launching their attacks. The place looked awful. All the ground vegetation was trampled down to the dirt, military equipment was strewn everywhere, and the area stunk of human waste. The GIs were unnaturally quiet as we approached. Most were filthy, unshaven, and exhausted. Some had the thousand-mile stare, the dead, distant gaze many combat soldiers acquire. It was as if they had seen the gates of hell. Looking at them, I felt ashamed of the Army and myself. While this misery was going on, my company should have been here. Instead, we were at Eagle Beach having a picnic and getting drunk.
One of their soldiers focused on me. “Hey, Sergeant,” he called, motioning to my shirt sleeves, “unless you rip those stripes off, you’ll never see the top of that hill. The Gooks shoot the leaders first. And you better remove the tracers from your machine gun belts because the Gooks can see where the bullets are coming from. Then they shoot at the gunners, too.”
I nodded as if we would follow his suggestions, but I didn’t know if he was serious. Then he started again, only this time with more emotion.
“None of you will ever see the top of that hill!” he shouted, pointing at us. “Every time we get near the
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