Viet Vermin

While I was in the country, I did not see a single elephant, rhino, or bear. Other vets have told me that elephants could occasionally be seen from helicopters in the northern part of the country and along the borders of Cambodia and Laos. The NVA used elephants to move heavy equipment down the Ho Chi Minh trail and the elephants, which were spotted, may well have been domesticated resource in service of the enemy. As I understand it, the rhinos were very rare and most of these were located deep in the delta wilds, well south and east of Ben Luc. While in the rainforests, there were many animal tracks in the mud near streams and along the trail after a rain. I do not remember ever seeing a bear track, however, along with those of assorted deer, monkeys and small mammals, we would occasionally see large cat tracks that were the size of a human hand. These were probably those of leopards or tigers.

One of these large cats wondered into the concertina wire distributed around the perimeter of a base camp we called "Bear." The thing was hooked up in the wire for only a few seconds. Yet, in it’s struggle to get loose, it set off a multitude of flashes and small explosions with the trip flairs along the wire barrier. After his sojourn, none of us could decide if it was a leopard or tiger that we saw in the huge, black, momentary, silhouette, carved by the light from the flares, however, I was not the only soldier that had trouble getting to sleep after the cat’s visit and those few seconds of excitement in the night.

There were a variety of snakes and four of these seem to merit some mention. In G.I. slang, there were "one steps," and "two steps." The names were supposed to allude to the number of steps that one could be expected to take before expiring to the bite. Fortunately, I never had an occasion to see any of the banded kraits, the "one steppers." In our training, we were told that the bite of the Krait was capable of delivering one of the most lethal venom of the Asian snakes. The onslaught of neurotoxic symptoms was expected in seconds or minutes. We were told that the enemy had been known to thread a string into the skin these snakes and anchor them, alive, near the entrances of their tunnels.

The "two steppers" were the king cobras and green bamboo vipers. I saw only one bamboo viper while in the field. The thing was above me in the darkness of the thicket and I must have knocked it out of its perch. The distinctive, wide triangular shaped viper head and part of the long green body came flopping down near me as I pushed through the trail. It hung there for an instant and then it dropped on down to the jungle floor. Within seconds, the snake slithered off into the underbrush leaving me standing there with chills up my neck, down my spine, no breath left in my lungs. That kind of experience was enough to make a fellow momentarily loose control of his bladder.

Some of the soldiers also reported seeing 20 foot Indian pythons in the jungle. Fortunately, I never had the pleasure of an encounter with the huge things. According to Rodney Lewis and Chuck Eastman, one such encounter caused the entire company of Redcatcers to re-rout their movement through the jungle, giving the mammoth serpent all the respect that it deserved.

King cobras seemed to be more common in Vietnam. These are the serpents that can extend the spines under the skin of their necks in order to present the wide, flat, display when they raise their heads and sway back and forth when disturbed. Redcatchers reported finding one in the sandbag walls of their sleeping bunker at FSB Elvira, I saw several of them later in the year, after my time with the Infantry. The species was occasionally spotted in the walls of ammo boxes and sandbags surrounding base camp hooches where we slept at Cu Chi and at Lai Kah. The things seemed to want to move right in with the roaches and the rats. I don’t remember any of the soldiers in my unit being bitten by the snakes but several were killed by the men and others escaped into the walls of our quarters to insure a number of sleepless nights after an encounter.

I remember a strange lizard which had a two syllable shrill bark that sounded kind of like, " Huck Qwheeeeuuu." I do not know what the correct name for the thing was, but we all called it the "Fu_k You" lizard because the thing sounded like a Vietnamese teenager blurting out profanity with a bad English accent. You have to get a mental picture of the situation with a little squad of frightened grunts, alone with darkness setting in. Then, rupturing the silence, one of these things begins to bellow out its call. Soon others would respond.... shortly, dozens of the things would be calling back and forth from all around. For the new fellow, this was very disconcerting, however, the "old timers" seemed to relish in the pleasure of watching the newbie’s face in the midst of the lizard racket.

To close this letter, Blake, I will use part of one of my short stories written four years ago. It was intended to be fictional. Yet, as was often the case, my fiction soon ended in accounts of real situations. If you want to read the entire short story, it can be found at:

http://www.fromme-usa.net/spoon4.html

Among other things, this story included my experience with critters we called the "Land Leeches!" Here is part of the short story taken from memories drawn from experience in 3rd Platoon in the summer of 1969 in Vietnam.

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In confusion and frustration, the young officer fires a single shot in the air, taking all of us to our stomachs in the sticky blood red mud. The shot sets off the rush of fear. You never get used to the torrent of adrenaline. Like sliding turtles, under our rucks, we go belly skidding down the mountain side, among the mold and jungle undergrowth.

When no other shots follow, the fear turns to rage. As I stop sliding, I realize that it was probably the captain, lost again. It was not the sound of an AK. I should have caught it. It was an M16. That damned captain has to be crazy! This is the third time he has strayed from his own company and gotten lost in the bamboo. Why doesn't he take an R.T.O and a radio with him? What is his problem?

I think to myself, ''That incompetent ass! That fool! He is going to get us all killed!''

Knowing that it will take a few minutes for the second lieutenant, with the help of whatever was left of the first platoon, to find the inept ''boob,'' I rolled over to my side and relax in the muddy dark silence. Then I crawled back up the bank to the narrow foot path hacked from the lush vegetation only a few minutes earlier. At the path, I was too tired to do anything else. I lay there.

For a moment, I close my weary eyes. I think, '' we are nothing more then pack mules to these people.''

If you were drafted, and you end up in the infantry, you begin to figure it all out. The enemy is out there, dressed in black, coming in from the north, but the enemy is also right here, the incompetent ones giving you orders, taking your life and using you. They are the ones that draft you in the beginning and they are those that lust after fame, after rank. You are nothing more to them then coinage for their aspirations.

There is no easy way out of this. Self respect keeps you from lashing out against the foolish enemy whom is near. You must survive in spite of it all. That is the only way one can play this terrible game and have something of a soul on the other side, if you make it through.

Jeez, the shoulder straps are cutting into me today. I stink. I need a bath and a clean set of cloths. The supply chopper has not come for three days. The bacteria and mold is growing on my skin. It is in my cloths. The filth and fabric pulls across my back. It is like fire and needles on my red flesh.

A thin green bamboo viper silently moves above my bed in the mud. I stay still long enough for it to get on past before trying to roll over and get my legs under me.

Eighty-five pounds of ruck-sack is a god-awful load for any man.

Yeah, they took one look at me and said, ''he looks big and dumb. He can carry the M60.''

So here I am with burning skin, covered in mold and red mud. If light ever came to this place it would find me looking like a crazed Mexican movie bandit. Under the ruck-sack from hell, like a Christmas tree, two full bandoleers hang like surreal strings of a different kind of pop corn. Kind of like X marks the spot. Shoot me here. Right here, between the hand grenades and the smoke grenades, where the strips of M60 ammo cross. If you do it right perhaps the Claymore in my pack and C-4 in my pants pockets will explode, as well. Yes, you could turn me into one little explosion dwarfed by the vastness of this jungle hell. Yes, and your

marksmanship would be celebrated several weeks later, taking the form of a stranger at my parents' front door.

I tell myself to shut up and quit feeling sorry. None of the anger and pouting is going to help me survive. I have to survive. I can not let it beat me.

''To hell with them all,'' I growl out, in the silent wet darkness of late morning.

I talk to myself, saying, ''I will make it or die trying.''

''Shit! That is funny.''

''That is the truth of my life in a moment.''

''Aren't I just profound?''

Faint movement up the trail interrupted my private game of cynicism and forced humor. We were on the move again. ''They must have found the stupid bastard who is supposed to be our leader.''

Like the rest of the men, I jerked up and under the load, centering it up over me and started placing one muddy boot ahead of the other. Silently our fragile, thin spaced line of yesterdays' little American boys begins again to slither through the thick foliage on a mission

to no particular place.

I was not Sisyphus. Without respite, I was not destined to roll my rock up a steep cliff. My version of that hell had the weight explosive and upon me as I slid and fumbled an endless, lonely gauntlet of mud through the bamboo darkness.

Later in the day, the leeches began to rain down upon us. High above us, driven by instinct and movement below, they crawled by the thousands to the edge of their monsoon leaf puddles. Then they came falling. Fat, short little rubbery blood-sucking worms bounced from our helmets and from our shoulders and packs. Some of the torrent found a ripped sleeve or torn pant leg. Others moved in around my collar.

They were there, I could feel them. Hanging there, sucking, growing fat. I could not stop. I would loose sight of the man in the darkness ahead of me. One foot ahead of the other, and the leeches kept sucking. Now I could feel them in my armpits and crotch. Any soft flesh was fair game and a good spot for their lunch. Some were behind my ears, one at my neck. I brushed one out from below my nostril. I could not stop. This GI and all the men behind me would be lost in the jungle. I could not stop and loose sight the man up ahead. He was my tie to the company. Staying with him in distant view was part of my mission. The orders were for us to never bunch up. We had to stay apart. They could mow us all down if we were together. We marched on past noon and then, finally, a faint echo of human voices came through the dark silence. It was not distinguishable at first. Then as it came closer, I began to hear it. ''Leech break.'' ''Leech break.'' ''Leech break.'' The sounds crawled over the black bamboo silence for the length of our unit. Then each of us stopped and began searching for salt, for a knife, for anything to rid ourselves of the parasites. Fiendishly we worked at extracting the fat little worms from hell.

I was on the trail above several switchbacks and overlooking one of the rare open areas of the jungle. A few thin gold slivers of light found paths through the canopies and left a dim light on the distant men below. Like myself, each was alone, standing naked to their ankles, salting, picking and scraping at the nasty black, bloody critters.

There in that place, at that time, this all struck me as funny. No, it was damned hilarious. Like the others, I was standing there, naked, in a war zone, in a jungle, in a distant and strange land, like a fool, a symbol for the weakness and limitations of humanity. It was as if I had been asked to pose for another visual sermon by Hieronymus Bosch.