Long Journey Home: A Marked Man
Recap: After a year of intense training and preparation with other new recruits, Steve is called to ship out to Vietnam.
Our battalion — me and 750 other “green” troops — assembled on an airstrip before being loaded into a huge C5A Starlifter. Destination: Vietnam.
As the Starlifter took off, the enormous wings moved up and down like a huge bird of prey — yes, they actually flapped! — while the guys in the belly of the beast mumbled, “Mommy, Mommy, I’m a lover not a fighter, I don’t want to be here.”
We were all wearing our web gear, these suspenders-and-belt-like harnesses for carrying cartridge and pistol belts, along with other bags and packs. Rifles between our knees, live ammo in our pouches, we anticipated landing on the tarmac in the middle of a firefight. After a grueling 36-hour flight, we landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base outside of Saigon.
We emptied out, took up defensive positions … and saw palm trees, waving back and forth in the gentle breeze. It looked a little like Miami Beach without the hotels, the beaches, or the fun. Who knew we were tourists at the entrance to Hell?
Soon it became clear this wasn’t Miami Beach and we weren’t tourists. I drew a big Jewish star on top of my helmet, looked up, and said, “I don’t know if anyone’s up there, but if You are, keep an eye on this one.”
Within a week, my squad was picked to go on night patrol, guarding a large ammunition dump. It was New Year’s Eve, this was Vietnam, and we were in the thick of it. Our sergeant, so tough back in the States, totally fell apart when we got into the bush. He led us into a small stream, and we walked and walked and walked — until it became clear we were lost. Even more concerning was that with all the splashing, I knew anyone could hear us from far away. It would be like shooting ducks — us! — in a barrel.
After twenty minutes of this, I got the nerve to go to the head of the line.
“Hey Sarge, let’s get onto the bank, settle in defensive positions, and we’ll find our way back to base in the morning,” I said.
The sergeant stared back at me with glassy eyes the size of saucers and kept on walking. I went back in line. What could I do? I was just a private.
After another twenty minutes, I went back to the head of the line and said, “Sarge, let’s go onto the bank.”
He didn’t react, so I put my hand on his chest. He stopped, frozen in fear. I started to lead him by the hand to the bank, but the others just stood there. I joined their hands together, took the sergeant’s arm, and led the entire squad onto the bank. After placing them into defensive positions, guns pointed facing outward, I collected grass, which I stuffed into everyone’s shirts as insulation from the cold and wet. At this point it was about 2 a.m.
G-d, if you get me through this, I’ll be my brother’s keeper, I thought to myself. What I meant by that, I don’t even know, I was just a scared kid who kept my wits about me and made a promise to a G-d I wasn’t sure was there — though perhaps it was a prayer? It wasn’t my last, thank G-d, and in the morning, we found our way back to base.
A month later, we headed south to relieve a battalion based in Bien Chanh, a hamlet twenty klicks (kilometers) south of Saigon. As we pulled in, the outgoing soldiers were just loading onto trucks. They were somber looking, their uniforms grey and mud-soaked. They walked with their heads down, not glancing up, and I thought to myself, Oh my G-d! What did they go through?
We took over the base camp and my company — Charlie Company, Third Platoon, third squad — headed into the bush. I trudged through jungle foliage — me, my rifle, my pack, and my fears. It was indeed hell, sharp thorns pricking your exposed flesh, leeches crawling up your legs as you crossed small streams. Bamboo branches whipped across the narrow trails like spring steel catching the unwary in the face. We had machetes to chop through the bush, and when you stooped under an overhanging branch, a load of fire ants dropped down the back of your neck. Swatting the stinging ants, cursing, hopping around, and discarding clothing; it was just Vietnam’s way of saying, “Welcome soldier — we’re just getting started!”
To be continued…