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[ - 2100 Hours - ]
An under-sectretary, a messenger actually, marched briskly down the
corridors of my mind. The halls twisted and turned, spiraled and
looped then inverted like a roller coaster. The messenger had waited
patiently for his master, my * ‘Ego’ to nod off. Once he
was sure the director of my universe was unconscious he tiptoed
quietly from the
room and made a bee line for the office of the ** ‘ID’.
The ‘ID’ was in charge of my unconscious. He wasn’t
dominated by his co-director, my ‘Ego’; who when combined
represented what was
effectively the sum of my mental condition. My ‘ID’, the
director of
impulsion's and instinctive nature was open for business. The latest
intelligence he had reported that my condition was to be static.
Biochemically, for the moment, my condition was upgraded to stasis;
or the involuntary paralysis of sleep. This would soon change. My
‘Ego’, before passing out, had made a futile attempt to
slip my ‘ID’ a ‘Mickey’. His six beers and two
Valium had misfired. He then posted a forward observer to track the
night’s activity. The ‘F.O.’ spotted the
messenger’s hurried pace and lased him like a spotter for a
sniper. He then projected his destination and cut an intercept course
through a forest of neurons.
He was in position to get a positive identification on the messenger.
He watched him pass from his position of concealment as the messenger
found and arrived at his prearranged destination.
The messenger knocked twice on the door and entered the ‘Office
of the Director of Dreams’. The small cubicle in my mind was a
flurry of activity. Something in black; something in charge of
nightmares was busy programming the coming night’s calendar of
events; a libretto of the macabre.
My ‘ID'’ sat before a large screen. Before him was a vast
desktop array of buttons, switches and slide bars. The control panel
of my
mind; vast, complex. It looked like the sound board in a recording
studio. On the floor, scattered like the discarded toys of a petulant
child lay tapes. Recordings of my past. Most of them were subjects of
disinterest to the night watch. No one wanted to watch reruns of
happiness, joy, pleasure, love. Nope. Not tonight.
My Hippocampus was bridled and saddled; ready to stampede with
complete abandon over the plains of ambiguity. A Psychogenic rodeo.
The steed snorted intrusively and bellowed in rage; brought about by
the past. He did not want to be ridden again. The spectators packed
the stands. The show was about to begin. The ‘Band of
Broca’ marched across the parade grounds. The marching horn
section could not do justice to ‘Martha and the
Vandella’s’. There was ‘No place to run to’, so
they marched in circles as the hits just kept on coming.
The ‘ID’ was a biochemical engineer with minor in
‘senseless violence’. It was his favorite subject and he
never tired of watching it. The
‘F.O.’ slipped quietly closer and eavesdropped on the
conversation. The messenger informed them the boss was out like a
light. They could began anytime. The ‘ID’ spun around in
his chair faced the vast
array and programmed ‘ThanksGiving Day-1966’, it was one of his
favorites. He never tired of watching it. It was rewound and ready to
go. He reached forward and flipped ‘Play’.
The movie began it’s endless loop. There were no credits; but
the title was well known. ‘Operation Rio Blanco’, the last
week of November; Quang Ngai Province, 1966. The 7th Marines were 17
kilometers due West of Quang Ngai city on the ‘Son Tra
Khoc’ river. It was to be a short but nasty engagement. The
surge in the Northeasterly monsoonal flow preceding the passage of a
cold front brought with it the typical ‘Crachin’ weather.
The ‘1st VC Regiment’, along with five separate battalions:
‘The 20th, 38th, 48th, and 72nd Infantry including the 409th
Sapper Battalion’ wanted a shot at Chu-Lai before the end of
December, 1966.
The ‘R.O.K.’s ran ‘Operation Dragon Eye’ and
stopped the 48th Battalion dead in their tracks. November 20th to the
27th was going to be hard on the ‘1st VC Regiment’; many
would die the day after ThanksGiving in a flooded rice paddy. The
Marines would lose seven men. Sixty helicopter missions would be
flown; thirty three of them medevacs.
On November 25, 1966 the ‘1st Battalion, 7th Marines’ put
three companies on line and engaged the VietCong. It seemed like
I’d spent a week in the air. I was one of a handfull of people
who actually witnessed the VietCong’s attempted ‘break
out’. I was in the air at 1,500 feet. I watched this little
known; largely unrecorded major engagement unfold below. By the end
of the day a pivotal turning point in the history of the war in the
Southern provinces of ‘I’-Corps would be changed. The
NVA’s strategic plans to drive their forces into Quang Ngai and
Quang Tin province; take Chu-Lai by the end of December would fail.
‘Operation Rio Blanco’ and ‘Dragon Eye’ set the
stage for their defeat. It would be reinforced in December, 1966 by
‘Operation Sierra’. The vast rice fields and their harvests
would be lost to the VietCong. The destruction of Chu-Lai and a
Communist foothold spanning two provinces would not happen. Their
plans to separate ‘I’-Corps from the Northern most province
of (2CTZ) also would fail. Their hopes of being able to strike North
toward Da Nang or South were lost that day.
Ironically the record of this historical event is not listed in most
of the Marine Corps archives. It can be found here and there in
‘After Action Reports’. It remains there today. A small
footnote in the history of a long and bloody war. It was over
shadowed by larger events taking place in the North.
The ‘F.O.’ raced back to the office where his boss lay
comatose, drugged by the ‘ID’. He was too late. He could
only stand guard
throughout the night and wait for the morning sun, he was helpless.
There was nothing to do now but protect his ‘Ego’. He found
a comfortable spot and flipped on a monitor. “Oh! shit!, He
screamed, Not this one again. God I hate this one”.
He looked at the boss. Well at least he is asleep. To night we were
going back to Vietnam...again. The ‘F.O.’ clicked twice.
The ‘ID’ picked up, “Yeah! What's up?” The
‘F.O.’ raged, “Do we have to go to Vietnam every
single fucking night? Damn! You've been running that shit for
thirty-two years. Give the man a break Goddamn it!”
The ‘ID's’ squeal of laughter had the high pitched tone
that could only be described as evil. “I’m in charge of the
dark! He declared. As long as I’m in command the ‘Doc’
doesn't get a break! Out!” The protective ‘F.O.’
sighed and looked at the comatose fifty-one year old veteran.He felt
a painful empathy. He wondered how long the ‘Doc’ would
last. He made a mental note to check on his health and
stamina. His life depended on it. If the ‘Doc’ died, he did
to. The ‘ID’ could care less. He was suicidal.
The Monsoon rains had gone on nonstop. Everywhere I went I looked
down. To look up was to drown; drop by drop in the Southeast Asian
downpour. ThanksGiving Day, 1966 in the Province of Quang Ngai was
wet. The Southern most sector of ‘I’- Corps was the essence
of deception. Up North the large Marine Combat units were heavily
engaged with the VC and the NVA. In September, 1966 Westmoreland
decided he wanted to open up a place called ‘Khe-Sanh’. In
the ‘Fall’ of 1966 in Northern ‘I’-Corps was
devoted to ‘Operation Prairie’ to name but one of many.
By the end of 1966 many names would become common place. Names like
‘Mutter’s Ridge’, ‘The Rock Pile’, ‘Cam
Lo’, ‘LZ Crow’, and the ever present ‘A Shau
Valley’.
In Quang Ngai around the Mo Duc sector, the concentration of
enemy units were equally heavy as the North. They were just less
visible. The only thing that held them back were the roving elements
of the 7th Marines. Soon we would side step a few kilometers this way
or that; explore familiar places and give it a new name. The next one
on the list of December hits would be ‘Sierra’.
From the foothills and jungles of the Annam mountain range the
VietCong and NVA units could stage hit and run forays in any
direction. They didn’t want to engage the Marines unless the
odds were overwhelmingly in their favor. They were however poised to
strike further south, attacking the U.S. Army units in the
‘II’- Corps’ or (2CTZ’s) T.A.O.R. with impunity.
They attacked their ‘A.R.V.N.’ brothers with equal impunity
and raged at the counteroffensives staged by their Asian nemesis, the
R.O.K.’s. The Korean Marines were savage.
They understood a part of the North Vietnamese mentality that the
western mind could not comprehend. The R.O.K.’s initiated a hard
dagger thrust into the foothills of the Annams Southwest of Quang
Ngai City. They called it ‘Operation Dragon Eye’. When they
were done the 48th VC Battalion suffered 154 K.I.A.’s, 31
probable K.I.A.’s, 25 captured.
On our LSA/LZ between Mo Duc and Quang Ngai City the 7th Marines were
engaged in ‘Operation Rio Blanco’. The main blocking force
was
inserted 17 klicks due West of Quang Ngai City just South of the
‘Song Tra Khuc’ river that ran a winding course West to
East to the South China Sea.
An 0-1 Bird-dog landed on our LZ. The LZ was the remnants of an old
packed dirt Japanese fighter strip carved out of the jungle during
the Japanese occupation of the Indochine during the second world war.
The old ‘U’ shaped earthen berms were still intact; used to
house and
protect a Japanese fighter aircraft from the next plane in case of attack.
The white Cessna rolled to a stop on the other side of the air strip
and two men climbed out of the tiny plane. One man was Vietnamese,
the other was Caucasian. He was in his late forties, with salt and
pepper hair. He marched across the strip as though he owned it. He
radiated an authority that was meant to convey that he was above all
else. He was outside the tactical jurisdiction of III M.A.F. or
M.A.C.V. His uniform was clean and pressed; it was fucking starched!
His cover
was blocked and meticulous as if he had just purchased it. His boots
were spit shined and appeared to brand new.
He was sporting the rank of 2nd Lieutenant, U.S.M.C. A strange if not
contradictory sight amid the chaos of the war. How many spit shined
forty-ish something ‘Brown Bars’ do you see in the bush?
‘Air America’ screamed his purpose from the black lettering
on the fuselage of the aircraft. It’s lettering was the marquee
of death. This was one of Langley's ‘Wet Boys’. His eyes
said it all. ‘I love to kill’. ‘Torture is my
hobby’. ‘Death is my craft’, and ‘I'm so very
good at it’.
I had a gut feeling what was to come. A small PC, (personnel
carrier), or military jargon for what amounted to a Marine Corps
‘Olive Drab’ green pickup truck arrived with two
‘A.R.V.N.’ peons who were set quickly to the task of
putting up a 12-man hardback tent; then surrounding the tent with a
redundant double roll of concertina wire.
Millions of Americans were about to give national thanks for the
bounty and freedom of their country. Tables across America
would be groaning under the weight of roasted turkey and all the
trimmings. Millions of eyes would be glued to a dozen football
games.
Within the span of twenty four hours the entire country would be
napping from a roast turkey induced dose of ‘Tryptophan’;
the chemical in the bird of choice that is sacrificed to the
Pilgrim’s feast each ‘Fall’. The North American Turkey
used to be our national bird until someone figured out it tasted
really good and was an excellent compliment to NFL football. After
that Congress demoted the Turkey and promoted the *** ‘American
Bald Eagle’.
All across a disinterested America families filled their bellies with
succulent homemade dishes. Football pre-empted the death and dying in
Vietnam. Not everyone would celebrate the feast of freedom. Some
banquets sat untouched; growing cold. A telegram had arrived. A son
was lost. A chair at the family table would be forever empty. Before
the week was done ‘Operation Rio Blanco’ left seven place
settings empty and forever unused.
While over fed America slept, I was wide awake. A tableau of horror
was about to unfold. The VCS (VietCong Suspect) or suspected
VC prisoners soon to arrive would soon be taking permanent dirt naps.
No turkey required. I had seen this before. When ‘Air
America’ arrived in the form of a ‘C.I.A.’ field
operative the words interrogation and execution were interchangeable.
The heavy rains were about to run pink as rivulets of blood mixed
with the muddy water. Today the slaughter was not restricted to
turkeys, it would include humans.
The ‘F.O.’ sat there his fists clenched in anger. Knuckles
white; his rage total. The ‘ID'’ was laughing his ass off;
screaming with joy. This was his favorite scene. He had the script
memorized and could mouth the text nanoseconds before it was
expressed. After all, he did have
thirty two years of experience. Anyone can memorize something given
thirty two years. On Thanksgiving Day, 1966 the ‘ID’ found
the ‘delete and forget’ button for that day and disabled
it.
The prisoner's were brought in nearly naked, blindfolded; hands tied
harshly behind their backs. Their feet hobbled like cattle. They were
placed in a circle within the perimeter of the wire; backs to each
other facing outward.
They were forced to squat in the mud and driving rain. They remained
so, stoic; knowing what was to come. The ‘C.I.A.'s’
Vietnamese counterpart was a killer. He stepped into the middle of
the prisoners. He approached one. Shouted something to him in his
native tongue. Without waiting for a response he pulled a 12. gauge
shotgun up and fired point blank from behind. The prisoner's head
splattered like a melon in a million directions; it’s headless
corpse driven forward into the mud. Like I said. I had seen this
before. My only surprise was witnessing it take place again.
The ‘F.O.’ jerked around and watched his boss. The
‘Ego’ was unconscious, but his body jerked with the memory.
The memory so
graphic; so utterly barbaric and violent that it reached out from
it’s thirty two year old past and in a spasm of anguish, kicked
the old bush ‘Doc’ unconscious from his bed. Each time a
shot was fired; the body jerked with involuntary spasm.
The ‘ID’ was in a fit. He rejoiced at the scene being
replayed. Two more shots rang out and two more bodies hit the red
mud; headless. He was in his element rejoicing in his power to
torment the old
man on the floor. The old ‘Doc’ was jerking in paroxysmal
reflex on the floor in his bedroom. His mind was in the control of
the ‘Director of Dreams’.
Nightmares fresh from the past reached forward thirty two years
kicking him brutally as they had done time and time again. The
‘F.O.’ watched as the old man suffered; wondering how much
more could he take. The ‘ID’ was pushing all the
‘recall’ buttons for the past; testing the old man's mental
stamina.
In the dark cubicle where the shadowed figure of dreams resided was a
neurogenic flurry of activity. He was busy programming the nightmares
in the old man’s mind, while he pushed the old man’s mental
condition to it’s limits as he had done so for over three
decades.
He keyed in subliminal messages to augment each night’s dreams.
He layered dangerous hidden messages. Hopefully one night or in the
early hours before daybreak the old ‘Doc’ would awaken from
his sleep as usual on the floor and crawl through the false dawn and
reach for his shotgun.
The ‘Ego’ knew that was not the answer, but it was if
nothing else, a permanent solution to the nightly horrors the
‘ID’ loved to play out over and over again.
I had just turned 19 during that September, 1966. I was at the time
already indoctrinated and used to the carnage. It was late
November
and I had been in-country since late May. I watched as the killer
from Langley took a three foot piece of concertina wire; crossed it,
making a loop and dropped it around a prisoner’s neck. The barbs
ripping the flesh as he drug the bound prisoner by this neck through
the mud.
There were only ten or twelve of us on the LSA. We were not supposed
to watch. The others wandered off toward the West end of the old dirt
strip to eat and smoke stale cigarettes that came from the boxes of
C-rations we lived on.
I remained hidden in a canvass covered trailer just a few yards from
the concertina barricade and watched the executions through a
small hole I’d punched in the canvass with my ‘K-bar’.
The back flap of the hardback tent opened up and the
‘A.R.V.N.’ murderer drug a corpse up the slippery muddy
berm and dumped the body over the side. It rolled down hill. The
sound of the body smacking the surface of the mud filled berm was
drowned out by the rains.
The screams and torture emanated from the tent throughout the night.
The next morning just as the sun came over the volcano I
awakened on the floor. The bed was a shambles. My wife lay sleeping
peacefully. She had not witnessed last night’s murders. I got up
slowly, my joints stiff with age. Stiff from sleeping on a hard
surface. I walked to the kitchen to put on the coffee as the night's
memories began to recede; not disappear entirely but fade slowly.
My ‘ID’ was putting the tape away for the day. My
‘F.O.’ yawned with fatigue. Another night’s watch
completed. No casualties. The old man had survived another day. The
ever protective ‘F.O.’ nodded off to sleep content that the
old ‘FMF Corpsman’ would make it through his day. Today was
September 28, 1998 he noted; the old ‘Doc’ was getting a
year older.
In the last week of May 1966 the young Fleet Marine Force
‘Doc’ arrived in Vietnam and was immediately assigned to
1st Battalion, 5th Marines. Little did he know that on the day he
reported for duty at the firebase at ‘Hill-54’, his duty
would be permanent. He was to remain in Vietnam for the rest of his
life.
Today promised to be a busy day. Rains fell heavily yesterday and
today more of the front acreage would have to be mowed. Somewhere in
the day I would have to come up with something for dinner.
Wife’s day off. The tractor needs work. Today is trash day. The
house needs a good cleaning. I need to pick up the mail. It’s
the end of the month and the bills are trickling in. Tuesdays for
some reason are always busy days.
As the days move toward Winter and the light fades faster there
is less time to get the daily chores out of the way before bedtime.
Around 2100 hours this evening I will slip my ‘K-bar’ under
my pillow; swallow a couple of sleeping pills and return to
Vietnam.
There are few things that frighten me these days given my age. The
word ‘Sleep’ is terrifying and it would seem that insomnia
is not an option.
- END -
Notes:
* Ego - The Ego possesses consciousness and memory and serves to
mediate between the primitive instinctual or animal drives (i.e., the
ID), internal social (the superego) prohibitions and
reality.
** ID - The unconscious undominated by it’s ego, but by
it’s own impulsions which are of an instinctive nature such as
the ‘pleasure’ urge.
*** The ‘American Bald Eagle’ - Is not really bald.
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