Fearless Rep

I was three months in country before I came across booby traps. The feeling of resigned fearfulness snapped on me at the platoon’s first encounter. Up north I hadn’t even been shot at yet. I had been lulled by the long periods of anticipation waiting to be hit. Don’t get me wrong; there were different fearful feelings with artillery barrages and the smell of death. But down here in the rocket belt just south of marble mountain not far from China Beach, we hit a booby trap on our first patrol.

We had been used to having flanks on our column and there were three men to the left and three men to the right; right up there by the head of the column, the point man. Following a path, the point man found nothing but the right flank did. The sound of a grenade exploding in the soft sand isn’t enough to make you really jump. Hit the deck we did and were greeted with the screams and cries of the man who suffered from it. He made a hell of a noise and it was apparent that he would live the rest of his life albeit without some toes. The medivac went smoothly although forming a perimeter was a shouting match with arm waving and hesitant soldiers. Not the least was me and when we camped for the night right at dusk I carefully probed our position with a K-Bar; a bad night on watch for I had the ringing in my ears of a man who had shamed himself. At least in my eyes, his pathetic blubbering had a demoralizing effect on me. He should have shut up and the platoon took a lesson. We praised the men silently who would allow us to believe they were all right.

The morning advance was halted without going a click when another marine tripped a grenade. He was point and had led the column off the path to the left and towards a thicket. As soon as he tried to enter the single canopy jungle the grenade went off. This time the perimeter was formed quickly and the old chopper came in to land in the middle of us, which was also a paddy with low damns. When the Skirosky landed it tripped another grenade. The explosion was so close that there was enough force to rip the front nose cowling half off the chopper. It hung from the front bobbing up and down as the helicopter rose up and hovered a hundred feet in the sky. It circled us as we decided whether to try again or hump the casualty back to Battalion. I think everyone wanted to give up and go back to the barn but we didn’t. That chopper returned to the base only a few miles from us and another completed the pickup and rescue. To his credit, the injured marine was quiet even in the agony of a second booby trap that really made us sit up and take notice.

We got back on the path and marched without flanks towards the South China Sea due east. The column took a hard left when the trail disappeared into the sand dune leaving the point man with a choice. I was far back in the column humping two LAAW’s and stepping in the shoe prints of the man in front of me. The sand dune made elevation towards the beginning of the pine forest and we could see treetops beyond the crest. Before the point man could reach the top we were shot at by a sniper on full automatic with an AK. I was at a small crest of the dune with the column to my left curving along the thicket line. After hitting the deck in the open I saw the rounds stitching the sand in front of me. I wriggled furiously backwards to get below the crest and out of the line of fire. Just then I heard a bloop, the unmistakable sound of an M-79 launching a round. It came from behind me where the point would make if he had turned right. Seconds later I felt the blast from the mike mike shell on the sole of my boots. Muffled by the soft sand the force was enough to remind me of caning even the noise of the explosion was reduced. A single piece of hot shrapnel hit me on the ass falling back to earth. I squirmed to make room in my pants for it hoping it would burn a hole and get out. The sand was hot enough and my sweat made it hard to distinguish hot metal immediately.

“Rockets Up” I heard echoed down the column relayed in the silence that lets voices through after an explosion. Maybe the jungle noises are silenced by a blast, too, but I swear it is the silence of men facing mortal terror. I heard it, didn’t believe it and had trouble finding my footing. Soft hot sand on a steamy morning in Vietnam is a bitch. Carrying a helmet, a flak jacket, 300 rounds of M-16 ammo, four grenades, two LAAW’s not to mention life support equipment like water and smokes, I responded by attempting a trot up the right side of the column. Everyman I passed every 10 yards would give me a different face. Some thought I was too slow,” get a move on marine”, while others looked at the ground for booby traps I might set off near to them. It was uphill all the way. The lieutenant said to go up to the point, who didn’t get shot by the way, and lob a LAAW over the crest of the dune. By then I was winded and didn’t even try a trot making due with big steps. The column had a good look at me and I knew it. I tried to use the single experience I had had with a bazooka like LAAW to set the thing up to fire. It’s complicated and I almost forgot to fire without exposing my legs to the blast. I realized this after I had gone prone and aimed over the crest some 40 yards away. Self-consciously I shifted my position and aimed and fired. The pine trees that grew beyond the crest of that dune were spindly but mature. My round hit one of them at mast height. The shape charge blew away the trunk and toppled 30 feet of healthy spruce. I looked back at the lieutenant and he motioned me back. My heart was pounding from facing the enemy alone with my comrades watching. My tendency was to watch carefully with my M-16 at ready. Instead I was exposed to the sniper at close distance; standing, crouching to prepare the weapon and never looking up until I aimed. I felt pride as I walked back past the column to my position at the end. No one spoke to me on the way back but I looked many men in the eyes with my confidence to stand up in the face of fire. This was earning Esprit de Corps something many men wanted to do but had not the opportunity yet.

That’s the beginning of a “rep” and I joined the many rep’s of men we could count on to come through when the shit hit the fan. Wary boots like McGuirk were just petrified by the booby trap’s anonymity. We tightened up quickly on pointmen and their role at the front of the column. Up north the pointman looked ahead and picked a path. He was looking for troops. Down here in the Riviera the pointman looked down and followed the point of his stick. The best pointman I had was a slight stooped lad from Kentucky. He resembled a good coon dog in searching for trips. Found’em too but that meant work for me as the demo man. Disarming booby traps earned me even more “rep” in the eyes of the troops. I was not looking for trouble, don’t misunderstand. I was trying to play it safe.