NOTE: Part 1 published August 8, 2010 - see Blog Archives.
Our company space was a sand pit of canvas tents surrounded by sand bags. The oval of two acres was further defined by twenty five foot sand dunes. The sand was a fine powdery grain which swirled with the slightest breeze. Living in a sand pit surrounded by sandy hills was a continuing challenge. For the next year sand was a constant in our bedding, menu, hair style, outhouse regimen, and workplace environment. The sand was so soft wooden boardwalks were required to provide walkways. These boardwalks connected the troop tents, latrine, dining tent, showers, orderly room, and other canvas enclosures of the company area. The troop tents held ten to fifteen canvas and wooden beds. The tents were set in an oval which enclosed our sand rich company area. When we arrived in December of 1966 our uniforms were still the standard solid green fatigues. There were no short sleeve shirts, short pants, lighter nylon jungle boots, or camouflaged wearing apparel. The weather was usually hot and humid or hot and dry. Sweat was produced with the slightest effort.
Each morning at 5AM the 516th would congregate in a formation of platoons to honor the flag, endure inspections, and screeching orations from Captain Tucker. Each evening before dinner mess the assembly was repeated. Men loading and unloading into diesel belching trucks also took place in the company area. Our early morning commute and late evening return from work was a bumpy ride. The sand streets were hardened by constant heavy vehicle use and the application of oil to the roadbed. The roads were defined by deep potholes in which jeeps and smaller trucks could easily get trapped. During the several mile commute in the canvassed rear of these rumbling trucks one would experience the unique taste and odor of wafting sand, cigarette smoke, and the choking mist of black diesel fuel. We worked six days a week and could work a seventh day if we wished. To avoid messy other duties and gain a few brownie points with my platoon sergeant I often worked seven day weeks.
Everyone worked unless you had an assigned duty in the company area or went on sick call.
Company duties were varied and did allow a change from the filing and typing at the personnel department. Our work compound consisted of filing cabinets, typewriters, and mountains of forms and personnel folders. We were handling the financial and personnel records for thousands of troops all over Vietnam. There was no air conditioning so large fans blew the outside hot air indoors and blew papers in all directions. Typical duties in the company area consisted of helping the mess hall staff, burning barrels of fecal matter from the latrines, all night guard duty with an unloaded M14 weapon, manning the company orderly room all night, or making runs to the local garbage dump site.
Disposing of trash at the local dump site was the worst duty. This job required a few men riding in the back of a large truck filled with garbage cans brimming of discarded food, beverages and other debris. At the dump site bulldozers pushed the refuse into small hills and when conditions were favorable the trash was burned. The really gruesome part of this duty was the sight of hundreds of Vietnamese scrambling after the garbage. With their bare hands, discarded food was collected and sometimes eaten on the spot. The people were frantic in their pursuit of the trash and competed with each other, vicious sea gulls and black swarms of biting flies. There were children, adults, and old people in the melee fighting for the scraps. The stench was overwhelming. It was a terrible spectacle to behold. I wondered then, and even now, how God could allow a world to exist with rich nations and this incredible poverty. It was very clear that for many Vietnamese folk, the current wars and politics were insignificant when starving was a daily reality. Our military provided many jobs to the local population and made huge contributions of food and various supplies yet the overwhelming destitution of these people was an awful spectacle.
Then there was sick call. Sick call consisted first of convincing your platoon leader that you were gravely ill. Next, one would be trucked to the medical aid station. There waiting in a long line you were dispensed aspirin unless you were bleeding, had a limb falling off, or needed an injection for one of those nasty social diseases. I rarely went on sick call because it seemed another army "hurry up and wait" routine to get everyone in a line waiting for nothing more than an aspirin.
Recreation was sketchy. We had an enlisted club where the beer was cheap, the fans were always on their highest setting , and the local entertainers did their best to impersonate Elvis, Dianna Ross, or go-go dancers. Drinking was popular in the early months as pot smoking had not yet become a major source of intoxicating entertainment. Sometimes we'd hike over the sand dunes into jungle thickets and find huge hissing iguanas and other slithering reptiles which encouraged us to retreat. Visits to the local villages were infrequent because one needed transportation and the personal use of a jeep followed a pecking order based on ones rank. When in a small town everything was for sale and a local beer was served that produced the most profound hangovers I've ever experienced. We had a few beach trips but of the thousands of men in the Cam Ranh Bay Area, there were probably only a dozen or two American Red Cross young ladies or military nurses. The beach was mostly a guy thing with a thousand GI's for every Vietnamese girl. We did have a giant USO show. The drama of choppers landing on a huge stage and seeing Bob Hope, Tuesday Weld, Jerry Cologna, and other stars perform was an unforgettable experience. Church was a social occasion best used to catch a rare glimpse of an American girl.
During late 1966 and early 1967, Cam Ranh Bay was a safe place. Once in awhile we could hear heavy artillery in the distance or watch night helicopters spewing gunfire with red tracers falling in a downward spiral. In those first few months, Captain Tucker proved to be the greatest disturbance to our safe and boring existence. In the sweltering heat of a company formation, as we stood at rigid attention, poor Tucker would boom on and on about our need to be combat ready. One could almost see the metal plates in his forehead dangerously shifting and glowing as he blustered. Many of us realized he was desperate to have a heroic tour worthy of a promotion. Some of us worried we might be used to that end. Hartman, Sonderman, Peasley, and a few other guys in my tent were genuinely concerned and considered how to best voice our worries to Tucker's superior officer.
However, once we received our promotions and pay upgrades to Specialist E-4, our mutinous conversations evaporated. Soon after our new chevrons of rank were affixed to our sleeves some of us were deployed to less safe places in Vietnam. But, that is a curious twist to my "remington raider" saga which would materialize in the coming months.
Our company space was a sand pit of canvas tents surrounded by sand bags. The oval of two acres was further defined by twenty five foot sand dunes. The sand was a fine powdery grain which swirled with the slightest breeze. Living in a sand pit surrounded by sandy hills was a continuing challenge. For the next year sand was a constant in our bedding, menu, hair style, outhouse regimen, and workplace environment. The sand was so soft wooden boardwalks were required to provide walkways. These boardwalks connected the troop tents, latrine, dining tent, showers, orderly room, and other canvas enclosures of the company area. The troop tents held ten to fifteen canvas and wooden beds. The tents were set in an oval which enclosed our sand rich company area. When we arrived in December of 1966 our uniforms were still the standard solid green fatigues. There were no short sleeve shirts, short pants, lighter nylon jungle boots, or camouflaged wearing apparel. The weather was usually hot and humid or hot and dry. Sweat was produced with the slightest effort.
Each morning at 5AM the 516th would congregate in a formation of platoons to honor the flag, endure inspections, and screeching orations from Captain Tucker. Each evening before dinner mess the assembly was repeated. Men loading and unloading into diesel belching trucks also took place in the company area. Our early morning commute and late evening return from work was a bumpy ride. The sand streets were hardened by constant heavy vehicle use and the application of oil to the roadbed. The roads were defined by deep potholes in which jeeps and smaller trucks could easily get trapped. During the several mile commute in the canvassed rear of these rumbling trucks one would experience the unique taste and odor of wafting sand, cigarette smoke, and the choking mist of black diesel fuel. We worked six days a week and could work a seventh day if we wished. To avoid messy other duties and gain a few brownie points with my platoon sergeant I often worked seven day weeks.
Everyone worked unless you had an assigned duty in the company area or went on sick call.
Company duties were varied and did allow a change from the filing and typing at the personnel department. Our work compound consisted of filing cabinets, typewriters, and mountains of forms and personnel folders. We were handling the financial and personnel records for thousands of troops all over Vietnam. There was no air conditioning so large fans blew the outside hot air indoors and blew papers in all directions. Typical duties in the company area consisted of helping the mess hall staff, burning barrels of fecal matter from the latrines, all night guard duty with an unloaded M14 weapon, manning the company orderly room all night, or making runs to the local garbage dump site.
Disposing of trash at the local dump site was the worst duty. This job required a few men riding in the back of a large truck filled with garbage cans brimming of discarded food, beverages and other debris. At the dump site bulldozers pushed the refuse into small hills and when conditions were favorable the trash was burned. The really gruesome part of this duty was the sight of hundreds of Vietnamese scrambling after the garbage. With their bare hands, discarded food was collected and sometimes eaten on the spot. The people were frantic in their pursuit of the trash and competed with each other, vicious sea gulls and black swarms of biting flies. There were children, adults, and old people in the melee fighting for the scraps. The stench was overwhelming. It was a terrible spectacle to behold. I wondered then, and even now, how God could allow a world to exist with rich nations and this incredible poverty. It was very clear that for many Vietnamese folk, the current wars and politics were insignificant when starving was a daily reality. Our military provided many jobs to the local population and made huge contributions of food and various supplies yet the overwhelming destitution of these people was an awful spectacle.
Then there was sick call. Sick call consisted first of convincing your platoon leader that you were gravely ill. Next, one would be trucked to the medical aid station. There waiting in a long line you were dispensed aspirin unless you were bleeding, had a limb falling off, or needed an injection for one of those nasty social diseases. I rarely went on sick call because it seemed another army "hurry up and wait" routine to get everyone in a line waiting for nothing more than an aspirin.
Recreation was sketchy. We had an enlisted club where the beer was cheap, the fans were always on their highest setting , and the local entertainers did their best to impersonate Elvis, Dianna Ross, or go-go dancers. Drinking was popular in the early months as pot smoking had not yet become a major source of intoxicating entertainment. Sometimes we'd hike over the sand dunes into jungle thickets and find huge hissing iguanas and other slithering reptiles which encouraged us to retreat. Visits to the local villages were infrequent because one needed transportation and the personal use of a jeep followed a pecking order based on ones rank. When in a small town everything was for sale and a local beer was served that produced the most profound hangovers I've ever experienced. We had a few beach trips but of the thousands of men in the Cam Ranh Bay Area, there were probably only a dozen or two American Red Cross young ladies or military nurses. The beach was mostly a guy thing with a thousand GI's for every Vietnamese girl. We did have a giant USO show. The drama of choppers landing on a huge stage and seeing Bob Hope, Tuesday Weld, Jerry Cologna, and other stars perform was an unforgettable experience. Church was a social occasion best used to catch a rare glimpse of an American girl.
During late 1966 and early 1967, Cam Ranh Bay was a safe place. Once in awhile we could hear heavy artillery in the distance or watch night helicopters spewing gunfire with red tracers falling in a downward spiral. In those first few months, Captain Tucker proved to be the greatest disturbance to our safe and boring existence. In the sweltering heat of a company formation, as we stood at rigid attention, poor Tucker would boom on and on about our need to be combat ready. One could almost see the metal plates in his forehead dangerously shifting and glowing as he blustered. Many of us realized he was desperate to have a heroic tour worthy of a promotion. Some of us worried we might be used to that end. Hartman, Sonderman, Peasley, and a few other guys in my tent were genuinely concerned and considered how to best voice our worries to Tucker's superior officer.
However, once we received our promotions and pay upgrades to Specialist E-4, our mutinous conversations evaporated. Soon after our new chevrons of rank were affixed to our sleeves some of us were deployed to less safe places in Vietnam. But, that is a curious twist to my "remington raider" saga which would materialize in the coming months.
No comments:
Post a Comment