Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - The Cambodian Incursion

The Cambodian Incursion

We weren’t told where we were going, but we knew that our 11^th Armored Calvary Regiment was facing the Cambodian border.   There was a general understanding that we were going to cross the border the next morning as the lead unit in what became known as the “Cambodian Incursion.”   The night was spent guarding our perimeter and watching tracer bullets flying overhead, listening to the sounds of sniper fire, along with the sounds of mortar rounds being launched in our direction.   Near daylight we were told to move back away from the border about ¼ mile.  A few minutes later, B52 bombers unloaded their payloads in the area from which we had just moved.   The magnitude of the bomb explosions was terrifying and unlike anything most of us had ever experienced.  The ground shook underneath us in waves of violence. 

At daylight, we crossed into Cambodia and quickly discovered that there was absolutely no resistance as we moved forward. We assumed the bombing along the border had obliterated many of the North Vietnamese, with the remaining having fled the area.  North Vietnamese used the area, known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail, to supply their troops in the south.  Our task was to patrol the Cambodian areas along Highway 13, interrupting the supply line.  The highway was an important link between Saigon and the district capital of Snuol, Cambodia.

As it-turned-out, the time in Cambodia was a relief from the battle-scarred landscape of Vietnam.  The lush unspoiled countryside and jungle, plus the simple, mostly welcoming Cambodian villagers we encountered were wonderful.  The contrasts with the war weary Vietnamese was stark.

There were two events about my time in Cambodia that stuck with me.

The first was during a time when my unit stopped in a small village to rest.  The villagers were by all appearances very happy to see us.  The children ran alongside our caravan as we arrived and many villagers were along the road, waving as though we were heroes having come to liberate them.  After a few minutes, a trooper brought a relatively young man over to me, introducing him as the leader of the village.   He spoke very limited English, but I understood that he was inviting me into his home.  His house was made of bamboo, had a thatched roof and was on stilts.  We entered his single room house by climbing a wooden ladder, where he then introduced me to his wife and young family.  They were extremely hospitable to me and I had no sense that they were afraid of my presence, treating me as an honored guest.  As we tried to communicate, I noticed a homemade musical instrument made of bamboo, partially covered by snake skin, with two wire strings and a bamboo bow.  I later learned that it is called a Tro – a Cambodian violin.  I asked him if he played it and he proceeded to demonstrate the instrument.  The Tro had the most beautiful, interesting sound.  It was played to imitate the human voice in song.  He noticed how much I enjoyed hearing it and gestured that I could have it. I was very touched and traded food, cigarettes and some currency in the exchange.

I remember another incident in a village several weeks later that left me shaken.  Again, our troop had been traveling for quite a long time and we stopped at this remote village to rest.  As it turns out these villagers had abandoned the area as we approached.  Possibly they were North Vietnamese sympathizers, or they were just simply afraid of us.  It was a poor village with palm trees, a dusty main road with branching lanes, homes on stilts, water buffalo, chickens and other livestock wandering about.  Each home had a garden that supplied the family with vegetables.   After resting for a while, I ordered the troops to get back onto their tanks and armored personnel carriers, to resume our patrol. 

I noticed as the troopers were loading up, joking and laughing, that many of them had stolen vegetables from the villager’s gardens.  I remember being shocked that they would take food that these poor people depended upon.  Even as soldiers it was clear that we had many more material things than any of these people.  I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of rage and anger that these kind, simple people would be treated in this manner.  I ordered everyone back on the ground and remember yelling and cursing at them for desecrating the gardens of people that would likely return home after we left.  What a terrible example of who we were as Americans, I told them.  We were not leaving until they left something of value in the gardens, in payment of what had been removed.  Nearly everyone went back into the gardens and left such things as cans of C-rations, cigarettes, soda, beer, clothing, and money, as compensation.

I’ve often wondered why I was so overcome with anger and rage during this second memory.  Clearly, the anger had to be more than just the incident in the gardens.   Although, a sense of the immorality of pilfering items from people that had little probably played a part in my response, that was not quite it.  I had been feeling worried about leaving this unexpected respite in Cambodia and dreaded the return to Vietnam.  I now suspect that It was returning to the shattered sites like defoliated forests, bomb craters, the burned-out villages, as well as the seemingly never-ending sounds of tank engines and motor scooters, exploding landmines, all-of-which we had distanced ourselves while in Cambodia.  For me is was also the smells of Vietnam.  The smell of the dead water buffalo that someone had used for rifle practice, the acrid burned metal smell of a helicopter that had crashed with two dead pilots still strapped into their seats, the constant smell of diesel fuel, the smell of dirt and most offensive…my own stink.  Upon reflection, it was likely the totality of all these things that contributed to my overall response to the event in the gardens.

After my personal explosion near the gardens, I felt some relief.  When it was over and we were on-our-way once again, I was proud of the troops and their efforts to set things right in the village gardens, plus their matter-of-fact response to their “crazed” Lieutenant.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - The Court Martial of PFC Roundtree

The Court Martial of Pfc Roundtree

I entered the post brig for my first meeting with Pfc Roundtree.   As the only available 2^nd Lieutenant at Ft. Leonard Wood at the time, I was assigned as his defender for a court martial in which he was charged with assaulting an officer.  With no legal background or experience, plus no instruction in how to proceed, I assumed the first logical step in his defense would be to meet with him to get his side of the story.  At the brig, I was ushered into a cell like room, with a narrow slit of a window, pale green walls, a grey metal military issue table and two chairs, one on each side of the table.  Eventually, Pfc Roundtree was brought to the room by a guard.  As the guard left, he locked the door leaving us alone.

Introducing myself to Pfc Roundtree, we shook hands before we sat down across from each other at the table.  I noticed that he had a strong grip, with very large hands and long fingers appropriate for a man who must have been six five or taller.  He was a black man from Georgia and although he had a slight air of distrust of me when we first met, he was soft spoken, polite and had a delightful southern drawl.  I, on the other hand, felt small, unprepared and embarrassed with the task of asking him about the alleged assault.

After some small talk and going over with him the schedule for his court martial, we both seemed a little more relaxed.  I finally asked him what had happened leading up to the incident. He talked about how he had gone off post to a local bar called Miss Bobby’s, just outside the main gate of Ft. Leonard Wood and, losing track of time, had been running late getting back on post.    He began describing a situation in which the Army officer had approached him and started reprimanding him about being late to return to the post.   He said that the officer was in his face and would not accept his explanation.   I could see that he was reliving the incident and was becoming agitated.  His eyes wandered, his body tensed up and he began shifting in his chair.

I then made the mistake of asking him to explain to me what he recalled doing to the officer.  He suddenly jumped up from his side of the table, and towering over me, grabbed me around the neck, pulling me to my feet.  I could feel his large hands completely circling my neck and all I could think of was that he was going to choke me to death, and I had no way of calling out for help.  After a moment or two he let me go, relaxing his grip on my neck and recovering his composure.

It took me a moment or two to recover my composure as we returned to our chairs.  Although Roundtree’s demonstration was not intended to frighten or harm me, I was flustered and felt somewhat unhinged as the interview continued.

The court martial of Pfc Roundtree was an agonizing procedure during which I was given a binder, whose sole purpose was to walk me through his defense.  As the rushed court martial proceeded, I was flipping pages in the binder trying to keep up with the inevitability of the outcome, but trying to help Pfc Roundtree who was obviously being represented by an uninformed dolt.

Military justice was served and Pfc Roundtree was convicted.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Ft Sherman's Jungle Warfare School

Fort Sherman’s Jungle Warfare School

Seriously, Lieutenant Brookstone, I had doubts about getting through this training from the moment I landed in Panama City.  When I deplaned, the heat and humidity, as well as the smell of the jungle, gave me my first hint as to what was in store.   I didn’t yet know about the sights, sounds and terrain of the jungle, as was probably true for you, too.  It’s hard to forget the screaming monkeys, the full-throated croaking frogs, the unidentifiable sounds of the night and the screams of that other trainee having a nightmare during our first bivouac.  I certainly wasn’t assured of this graduation day once I discovered those afternoon rains, the mud, the huge bugs, and the piranha fish that we suspected were in the river that we swam across.   Did you notice that our “Jungle Expert” graduate certificate is embellished with the graphic of a snake?  How appropriate, right?  Honestly Brookstone, how did we both wind up here? 

There were a couple of times during our training that seriously almost caused me to wipeout.  The first was when we were learning how to cross the river using a zip line.  Not sure how you felt, but it sounded like fun until I saw what we were expected to do.  First, it was the sight of that monstrous tower up on the bluff at the river’s edge.  It must have been close to fifty or sixty feet high and displaying that spindly looking ladder on the side that we would climb to the top platform.  I don’t know about you, but I was such a wreck by this time that I could barely recall our instructions.  All I remembered was to hook our harness to the zip line, look for the ready signal from the other side of the river, jump, go into a tuck position to control spinning and then brace for a hard landing.   I was near the middle of the line of maybe 25 trainees starting the climb to the platform.  My old fear of heights bubbled up and I seriously wondered how I was going to even get on the ladder.  In the beginning, I took some comfort in the rhythm to the process, which helped to control my panic.  One soldier jumped as another reached the top platform, while one was half-way up and the next was waiting for the OK to start the climb.  After a few minutes of this, I noticed a couple of guys too frightened to climb off the ladder and onto the platform, starting back down to the howls of ridicule from the trainers.  Eventually, it was my turn and I somehow managed to step onto the ladder.  Shaking and sweating, I tried not to look down but felt really sick to my stomach.  I debated going back down, but just couldn’t face the consequences and the loss of face.

Finally, after that agonizing climb to the top, I dragged myself onto the platform.  Lining up behind another soldier beginning his jump, I felt dizzy.  As I tried to focus on how he was doing his jump, he got his signal and then leaped forward.  You probably remember that this is when everything went wrong.  Right away he started screaming and his arms and legs were flailing…he was completely out of control, spinning all the way down.  From my vantage point, it was obvious that he had been injured when I saw the trainers on the other side removing his harness.  They placed him onto a stretcher with a collapsed lung, so I hear.  During this commotion, I was standing on the edge of the platform, tethered to the zip line for maybe ten minutes, with nothing to hold onto before the medics finished with the injured guy. I just stood there waiting, feeling wobbly and honestly, just praying my ass off.   Finally, I got the signal to jump, took the leap, went into the tuck position and took the ride of my life.  The landing was hard, but I was thankfully in one piece.

The second instance wasn’t nearly as intensely scary as the first, but it really tested me in a way that I had never imagined.  Awakened in the middle of the night we were told to get our gear and climb into the back of the truck parked outside.  Driven for several miles down the dirt road we were unloaded into the pitch black of the jungle’s night.  As you probably recall, we divided into groups of five and were handed a glow in the dark compass and told the group’s coordinates to follow.  We were ordered to remain totally silent during the exercise and to start walking.  The instructors climbed back onto the truck, driving away.  At first, I didn’t know what to do.  Not sure how it worked in your group, but in ours one fellow holding his compass started to move in the direction we were given.  As we all quickly discovered, there were no trails or cleared spaces in the jungle, so this was not going to be easy.  Someone soon noticed that the hats we were wearing had a small glow in the dark patch on the back.  It was so dark that you couldn’t see anything else, except the patch and the compass.  Eventually, we figured out that we should hold the shoulder of the guy in front of us, as we silently moved as a unit in single file.  Going through bushes, bumping into trees, climbing over rocks, getting entangled in hanging vines, we managed to move forward.  At one point, our group had to sit down as we slid down a steep and wet slippery slope, walking across a shallow stream at the bottom and then crawling back up the other side.   The only sounds as we moved forward, besides critters, were our boots crushing the foliage, and the grunts from the occasional trip and fall.  Unable to see anything but the patch, my biggest fear was that we might walk off a cliff, or be attacked by a wild animal lying in wait for us.  Of course, we encountered the alarmed monkeys, the monster frogs and heard the unrelenting sounds of crickets.  A couple of hours later we emerged onto a road exhausted, but relieved to see a military truck waiting for us. 

I can’t imagine I’m saying this, but I was happy that we learned how to capture one of those screaming monkeys.   Who knew that if you ever got lost in the jungle and needed something to eat, this is what to do.  Find a coconut, punch a small hole in the side, drain it out, stick a wadded-up piece of foil or something shiny inside, hang it up and then wait.  As we learned, monkeys are very curious and will stick their hands in through the hole to retrieve the shiny object.  They won’t let go of the shiny foil…no matter what.  And congratulations, we just caught lunch.  Fortunately, I thought monkeys tasted like chicken.   Brookstone, what did you think?

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Trouble in F Troop

Trouble in F Troop

I spotted trouble when he climbed out of the supply helicopter that had just landed on the road next to our encampment that night.  In contrast to the rest of us, his uniform was clean, his boots were shined, his hair was freshly cut and there was a hint of a swagger in his gait as he cleared the rotary of the helicopter.  Stepping high over the foliage separating us from the helicopter, this burley new trooper made his way in our direction.

Our troop commander had informed me that a soldier from our headquarters in Xian, would be joining our troop.  Apparently, he had been in a fight with an officer, or some such offense, and for his punishment was sent out into the field to be with a fighting unit.   Frankly I was pissed that he had been assigned to my troop as punishment.  You should understand that it was critical to our survival that each member of the troop work closely together, and over time we had managed to become a cohesive, effective team.  The idea that jerks back at the headquarters would send us their spit-and-shine trouble was demeaning to our daily sacrifices and perpetuated the dangers we faced. 

As expected, the new troop member was nothing but trouble.  He was always unhappy with his surroundings, not seeming to notice that the rest of us had been there for months without a break.  When we had a troop assignment, he was vocal about how stupid it was and always seemed to be lagging.  He was very slow to take orders from me and in general made everything we had to do harder.  For example, if I gave an order to mount our vehicles to move, he would display a sour look on his face and always was the last trooper to climb aboard, delaying just long enough to get my attention.  Without doubt, he was the most difficult solder in F Troop to deal with.  With a scowl or a smirk, he always managed to undermine what we had to do.  I constantly struggled to get him to follow any direction.

Although many members of the troop tolerated him, some members found him disruptive and found it hard to deal with his constant complaints.  They noticed that he wouldn’t take direction and it unsettled them, knowing that he was someone that could not be trusted to do his part when there was an emergency, as frequently was the case.  I was becoming concerned that another trooper might try to harm him, just to get him sent back to the rear area.  Although I had hoped he might adjust, I concluded that I was going to have to confront him about his attitude and his uncooperativeness for our sake, and his.

The next afternoon I called him over and we walked a short distance from the encampment and I asked him to sit next to me on a fallen tree.  Not being sure how to approach him, I jumped in and simply asked him what was wrong.  Why was he being so difficult to work with, why wouldn’t he cooperate with me or anyone else?  Could he explain to me why he resisted everything he was asked to do? Surely, he understood how important it was that all of us work together.  To my shock and surprise, he started crying…no, sobbing.  After he got himself under control, he explained to me that he was terrified.  He felt that having been sent out from the headquarters to our unit in the field had been a death sentence.  It turned out that he had only 2 weeks left in-country and he was afraid he would die before he got home.   After his explanation, my feelings about the situation with him shifted.  I was caught off guard, but in understanding this trooper was troubled, I felt sympathy and empathy for him and felt somewhat protective of him.  

We talked a bit more and I assured him that he was not the only one terrified.   I then made him a promise.  If he did everything I asked him to do without complaint or opposition for the next two weeks, I would do my very best to get him home in one piece.   Starting at that moment “trouble” went from being the 50^th least cooperative trooper in my unit to the most cooperative.   He followed me everywhere, constantly asking what he could do to help.

I can’t quite remember the last time I saw “trouble” before his two weeks were up and his chopper ride was there, but I know that I had witnessed the making of a proud new member of F Troop.

Without any way of knowing, I suspect that “trouble” might have reverted to his old ways of fighting, arguing and being uncooperative.  I can say for certain that he probably faced his first real challenge as he came back to the U.S. mainland.  We were warned that when we landed in San Francisco there was a good likelihood that protesters of the war would be there to greet us at the gate.  We were told that regardless of what happened, we were not to stop, or to escalate a challenge from the group.  As happened upon my arrival, they heckled us as we came through the gate and a protester hocked a louie at me…I kept walking.  However, I rather suspect that “trouble” having once again landed, predictably got into a brawl.

My real hope for him is that he arrived home to a nice family, felt like a war hero and patriot, and is now regaling his grandchildren with stories about his close calls and heroic deeds while in Vietnam.  There is part of me, however, that would love to see him as an old biker, with a long white ponytail, wearing a black leather jacket, with all sorts of military and patriotic paraphernalia attached to it, riding a big shiny hog in a 4^th of July parade.  Acting the part of a tough guy but being just a regular guy underneath.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Close Encounter

“Close Encounter”

A hot summer’s night In Washington, DC, I wandered,

looking for a place to have a peaceful dinner, alone.

Chinatown so close, I headed toward the gaudy, neon signs.

An old woman in a heavy, ratty fur collard coat took notice of me.

She - a diminutive black women, missing teeth and about sixty -

touched my arm.

“I need money so that I can eat for the first time today.”

Unexpectedly, I felt a welling up of emotion,

a feeling of tenderness, as if I were looking at my mother.

Would anyone have helped her?

Against my instinct to turn away

I blurted, “May I buy you dinner?”

In a nearby Subway Shop to a skeptical clerk

I said, “Give her whatever she wants and I will pay for it.”

She ordered a large roast beef sandwich,

a family-size bag of chips and a full liter bottle of Coke.

Afterwards, as we were leaving,

she turned back to the clerk

and tried to sell her the unopened Coke.

She refused to take it.