Grenade

With the bunker incident over, we were happy to set up our NDP (night defensive position) at last.

An FNG from our platoon went for a shit in the jungle. He thought he was doing a good deed, picking up a grenade. He must have missed that lecture. When he set it down, it blew his hand off! Most people would have passed out but instead he came screaming back to our perimeter for Doc Walsh.

[The grenade was probably a dud dropped by a Loach (a small helicopter with a pilot and a guy with an M60 on his lap whose job was to scout by flying low.)]

I was supposed to get married! What am I going to do now?

If you're both in love and it's meant to be, don't worry about it. Take care of yourself first.

We felt terrible.

Somebody went out and brought his hand back in a box, like a reliquary.

It was getting dark and we’d had no enemy contact that day so we radioed for a MEDEVAC. We waited on pins and needles. A chopper landing at night, broadcasting our position was not part of our regular routine. As it approached, we set a strobe light at the landing site. The bird picked up the wounded man and his hand and disappeared into the night sky.

We triple-checked our position. Everyone reminded everyone else,

Don't pick up anything! 

No one did.

Doc continued to check on the man by radio after he left and they stayed in touch after he returned to the States.

The rest of the night was uneventful. In the morning, we moved on. We had learned to detach, the medics will take care of him. 

Swamp

Charlie Company was conducting a B-52 BDA (bomb damage assessment) on a cloudy Spring day when it humped out of the jungle to a five acre field. The small trees scattered in medium-high grass reminded me of the field where I first took point. A field like this would be unremarkable to most, but not to us - we preferred to be snug as a bug in the jungle.

It was early afternoon, but we were told to set up for the night here where sparse cover could invite rocket and heavy weapon attack. The lack of wildlife and bird songs made us uneasy. Hopefully, the enemy will be just as scarce, but we would need to dig deeper.

As we were scooping out foxholes with our entrenching tools and filling sandbags with the earth, we noticed that water was slowly seeping into the holes. Within five minutes they were full of water. We had the makings of a hot tub instead of a foxhole!

We had never run across terrain where the water table was so high. The guys wondered if they would float away on their air mattresses during the night.

Damn the unexpected!

We had all these sandbags full of dirt, so we piled them up in a shallow defensive arrangement. If attacked, we could lay on the ground behind them, place our weapons on top and fire away. It was better than a stick in the eye.

Bobby Parris (L), Terry McClish (C), Carlos (Buck) Howley (R)

Thank God the NVA stayed away, but the critters didn't.

The place was perfect for snakes (not many), scorpions (too many) and the ubiquitous “fuck you” lizards (named from the sound they made).

While preparing our NDP (night defensive position), such as it was, a Bird Dog (the Cessna O-1 single-propeller two-seater) popped up in the distance. It caught our attention, because they were often used for FAC (forward air controllers) or recon. We didn't want more surprises, like nasties from F-14s or artillery dropping on our heads.

O, the appalling diversity of Vietnam!

Most of us stopped what we were doing, stood up and waved. Dangerous? No! The NVA Air Force was nonexistent. When the pilot dipped his wings back and forth in a friendly gesture, we knew he got the message. Good thing – these pilots were gutsy and the most decorated in the war. Over four hundred Bird Dogs were lost in Vietnam.

It was no KOA (Kampgrounds of America), but once we setup for the night, the guys used the extra time to read, write letters, and shoot the shit.

Others went on a war against the tons of scorpions. In an attempt to clear their sleeping areas, catching scorpions became job one. They put 'em in steel pots, squirted lighter fluid on 'em, set 'em on fire and listened to the snap, crackle and pop. Don't tell PETA.

It made at least a temporary difference. I was not aware of anyone stung during our stay, although Bobby found a six to eight inch scorpion under his air mattress after he slept on it. Scary.

When morning came, we humped back towards the jungle, leaving the scorpions behind.

Good riddance!