The FNG(James brown) This is my friends story about arriving in Vietnam as a draftee, but then kicked up to Sargent due to his college degree and old age, 24. At his permission I edited it throughout. Like many after the war it took him years to talk about it. I coaxed him to say what he thought. It is not politically correct, just straight from the shoulder of what a young draftee experienced and thought.

Craig’s story, as related to me and edited by me:

Jim,

After seeing the sun set and rise again while flight bound, I stepped off the Pan Am 707 at Da Nang, Vietnam in early November 1969. Da Nang was the largest and busiest Military base in Vietnam, halfway between Saigon and Hanoi but on the other side of the earth from the “real world”. I was 7,000 miles from home, a long swim.

Arriving was a private personal experience. My fellow GIs on the plane which took us to our new surreal world were unknown to me until we were seated. We sat, mostly silent, strangers, encapsulated in a common aluminum tube but in our own worlds which we had just left behind.

Occasionally we were jostled aware to our suddenly new predicament by the jet stream. The stewardesses back then, young, and pretty, were the only females. They served our TV dinners with a smile as if we were all on a flight to Miami. I scanned the commercial Pan Am magazine tucked in the pouch in front of my seat. Sure enough, they did fly to Miami. If I did not look around at my fellow sullen passengers, I could imagine we were flying to Miami.

The truth, the GI term “Government Issues” applied to us. We were replacements for a plane load of a similar number from among the 516,000 in Vietnam going back to the real world. I wondered if I was replacing someone returning safe and sound, wounded or dead.

We were required to serve one year there or 365 days, less than half of a percent of a 10,000-day war but a forever to me back then.

From the macro perspective the US was the replacement for the French first Indo China war. They came by ship and had time to reflect and acclimatize. We were hurled in on a plane with 24 hours from our real world to the surreal world.

When the aircraft doors opened, hot humid air from the South China Sea announced our tropical arrival. We shouldered our OD duffel bags full of skivvies, new jungle fatigues and personal mementos then walked down the stairs to the tarmac. In the oppressive heat we marched in formation to the receiving Quonset quickly soaked in sweat with our ridiculous new olive drab baseball caps atop blocking the glaring sun. On our caps were our black pin-on rank insignia, soon to be torn off once in the field.

I scanned my new surroundings. The base was vast, mostly barren and spread out despite the hum of activity. I looked down at the red colored dirt and the perimeter with triple layers of concertina wire. Definitely, it was not Miami.

Small scrub covered hills were nearby and mountains in the distance, not real hills, or mountains like California, but miniature ones seen through a haze of humidity. Rusting corrugated metal and the red dirt were the dominate features inside the base. A large morgue near the end of a runway caught my attention. I vaguely remember seeing body bags, but this could be seeing them now in hindsight, not actually then.

Dogs were hanging out, scratching, and scrounging for scraps. They were scrawny, ugly, medium sized and filthy. Not the petting type. The first on locale mental adjustment was “I no longer like dogs”. There were so many I thought they must be on the local’s menu. Before arriving, I heard in barrack gossip Vietnamese thought dogs with straight tails were better eating, but I also heard black ones were better too. The ones I saw were feral like feral cats in the US. They eked out a miserable existence, unloved by all. Theirs was the bottom rung of society.

I learned later the feral dogs were not for eating. Those eaten were raised in pens for that purpose. They hung the dog to kill it when butchered. A barracks joke to tell a recruit was the Vietnamese ate dogs and they hung them to kill them before they were butchered. You then asked the new guy how they knew it was dead after hanging. When the recruit did not come up with an answer you told them, “When it stops wagging its tail, stupid”.

Vietnamese civilian employees squatted between the corrugated metal huts waiting to be of service. I scanned them and thought, “How do I tell the good guys from the bad guys? After reading about Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, I knew it was hard to tell friend from foe in a guerilla war. My unease increased.

I then smell the rancid odor of feces burning in diesel fuel. The cut-in-half metal collection barrels were removed from the back of wooden privies and their content stirred in diesel fuel and then burned for disposal. I wondered what the poor bast...ds did to pull this duty in the hot Nam sun baking the red clay earth.

We didn’t have rifles yet. As new arrivals we were moved around in buses with protective screens on the windows. I felt naked. Our safety and general briefing were short but pointed. They told us Viet Cong Mortars come in at night and you were to take cover in bunkers built near the huts. We all thought, shit we can even get killed here. I felt sorry for myself. I thought, like everyone else briefed, how did I get to this spot? I promised myself I would do everything in my power to survive, but a year here seemed like forever after the first day.

At the briefing we were told how as USA soldiers, we were to treat the Vietnamese. Treat the women with politeness and respect; don’t attract attention, no loud, rude conduct or unusual behavior, always give the right of way, don’t call them dinks, slants, or gooks, etc. I wasn’t paying attention. I pondered my fate.

In the field these rules were ignored. We had a similar briefing when we went on R&R but that was mostly about VD. Again we didn't listen or follow the rules.

I spent some time in the relocation camp before the Army could figure out which unpronounceable city to send me. I drank Schlitz beer at the Enlisted Men’s club and laid low killing time until the army made up its mind. When they did, I was sent to Camp Enari at Pleiku in the Central Highlands.

Once there while waiting my unit assignment, I pulled KP at Camp Enari. The mess sergeant apologized for making an E-5 clean pots and pans. His apology felt good. Maybe rank could help me during my tour avoid “shit jobs“.

At Camp Enari I slept nights in various locations. First, I slept in an underground bunker where I was awakened with rats running over my chest. They were large rats. I don’t know that they were edible. I eventually ate some in Thailand on vacation much later in life and got even with their awakening me in the bunkers.

To escape rats I slept in the open air on a metal base plate on a tarmac. My bed was called PSP, in army parlance, perforated steel planking. I thought if I could sleep here, I could sleep anywhere. My rational was I did not have rats on my chest, and I could hide under the PSP if mortared.

I don’t remember how I was transported north to Pleiku, maybe a C130 military plane or C47 Chinook helicopter. While in the EM club at Pleiku I ran into Mat, the only person I met in Vietnam I knew from the states. Mat was in my NCO class at Fort Benning and went on to complete Airborne and Ranger school. Mat was now an E-6 with a “Ranger Tab” and airborne wings after less than a year in the Army. Promotion came fast with a war on.

The ranger tab meant the world to the rangers. They had passed the severe ranger course and considered themselves elite and members of a special club. Mat was a physical specimen. His earlier career as a lifeguard was rowing a boat through the surf to rescue drowning swimmers. His muscles had muscles. Sounded like an Australian when he talked. What’s an “Auzzie” was doing in the US Army I didn’t have a clue.

As we shared a beer, He told me about his six-week Ranger school that I had decided against. He described the training in the Georgia swamps. It was brutal. One time he was so delirious from lack of sleep he hallucinated and tried to put a quarter in a tree trunk believing it was a Coke vending machine.

Mat was now a platoon leader heading long range recon patrols deep into the bush away from any immediate support. He described hiding in the thick vegetation while sleeping days and operating nights. Their recon missions were to gather enemy intelligence and avoid contact.

If the recon platoon was discovered his group would be outnumbered. If that happened his plan was to squeeze the clackers on their Claymores, (anti personnel mines), shoot their weapons on “rock and roll” (automatic) and run like hell, all the while praying that they get a dust off (a helicopter ride out) in time.

Ironically, later while teaching college, I had a friend guest instructor “Bomb expert” demonstrate the Claymore by pointing it the wrong way in class. I used his demo error to tease him in the following years.

After my beer with Mat, I was happy being a “grunt” trying to do my year and go home. The airborne guys could call me a leg and a draftee, I didn’t care. He could be Rambo. I never saw Mat again. I hope he made it but like for many, he may have his name on the wall.

Joining 3rd platoon, “B” Company, 2nd of the 8th

I probably knew at the time I was in the fourth Infantry Division or Ivy Division but did not know much about it except the square patch displayed four Ivy leaves attached in the center by their stems. The patch was worn at times on our left shoulder in OD green with dark leaves. In the field a lot of the fatigues did not have a patch. We didn’t think about adornment in the field. Because of the heat, we often went shirtless. In any case clean fatigues were used interchangeably among us so name, rank or insignia on the shirts were pointless.

I certainly didn’t know the Fourth’s famous history from WW1 to the D-day invasion on the beaches of Normandy. I didn’t know the Fourth’s motto was “Steadfast and Loyal”. I also didn’t know it was called the “Funky Fourth” in Nam. No one used that term. All I really knew was my jungle boots were on the ground and I was assigned to the third platoon near a central highlands’ town called Pleiku.

I remember being picked up at Camp Enari to join my unit. Randy, an ace mechanic, and Armored Personal Carrier (APC) driver in our Platoon was my chauffeur. Our APC was covered with a thick layer of red dust as was “Randy” who was a short greasy friendly guy in need of a haircut. He also had a small mustache and unkempt bushy brown hair.

I sat atop the APC behind the 50-caliber machine gun and shield. Randy maneuvered the APC with steering levers within the track. He sat on the interior driver’s seat with just his head visible above the hatch. This looked surreal from the roadway. He was a body less driving head.

Randy told me to “grab a gun”. I looked around the top of the APC and picked up a dirty M16. After inspecting this red dirt covered throw down weapon, I knew I was starting out poorly since having a clean rifle was drummed into our heads over and over in training. This was not a good start. The top of the APC had a layer of dirt from the roads and was cluttered with C ration litter, ammo boxes, weapons and what looked like color faded, discarded shrapnel vests.

I arrived at the B Company Command Post in bunkers at bridgehead 36 next to Highway 19, west of Mang Yang Pass. The bridge we were protecting was a concrete structure with several large supports beneath. It was solidly built to support tanks and heavy trucks. At the east and west ends were several tiers of sandbags and Beau Geste type machine gun towers made of sandbags and large timbers overlooking the concertina wired compound. The tracks were strategically placed to defend the bridge and there were sandbagged mortar positions.

We were also assigned to defend other strong points along Highway 19 which led west from An Khe to Pleiku (50 miles) . The famous Mang Yang Pass was along this route. Whoever controlled Highway 19 controlled the central highlands and the highlands were key to winning the war in Vietnam, at least that was what they thought back then. Highway 19 was the main route for military supplies between the port of Qui Nhon to our east on the China Sea and An Khe and Pleiku military bases to the west. This control was our duty. We were in the central highlands of Viet Nam. No rice paddy swamp leeches for us.

I did not know until recently the French lost a major battle at Mang Yang pass which effectively ended the first Indochina war and resulted in the North /south division of Viet Nam. After the French lost the battle at Dien Bien Phu in May of 1954 the French Regiment Groupement Mobile 100 were retreating from An Khe to Pleiku along Highway 19 to avoid another defeat. This French group of 2,500 men was ambushed by 3 battalions of Viet Minh initially near MM15 along the highway and was “wiped out”. This fight was called “the battle of Mang Yang Pass or the battle of An Khe. It was the last battle of the first Indochina war.

Our 4th infantry Mechanized Unit secured this very road. We drove past the French and Vietnamese War Memorials at the ambush site many times but never knew it. The memorial is a modest marker bearing in Vietnamese and French the inscription: “Here soldiers of France and Vietnam died for their countries”.

Highway 19 and its pass were optimal for an enemy ambush.

Later, our company was deployed for road security along Highway 14 which runs north/south from Pleiku to Kontum. a critical corridor for logistical supplies. Highways 19 and 14 were the only two all-weather roads in the Central Highlands.

I reported to the Company commanders and the platoon leaders, my officers. I don’t remember them. The officers moved around more than we did, and their tours were shorter (6 months). The short tour was presumably so more regular officers could have wartime experience and “get their ticket punched” for future promotion. Although promotional concerns were not in the minds of a lot of officers who were just serving their time as we were.

The Officers who led us in the field suffered the same deprivations we did and faced the same risks. Based on my squad leader experience, I had some understanding of their burden of command. It is a tremendous responsibility to lead in a combat environment. Who would volunteer to take it on when decisions often meant some died?

It was hard to establish a personal relationship with Officers with their shorter time in county and constant changes of personnel in the Officer corps. Establishing relationships with either Officers or Enlisted men was difficult considering the DEROS system of 6 months for officers and 365 days for us. There were people leaving the company every two days or so and new government issues to replace them.

I was assigned to third platoon, squad two which corresponded with our track (APC) 3/2. I was 24. The average age of my squad was 19 or 20, so young. I was a little older but looked young too. I started growing a mustache. Even though young I knew a couple of things. First, Nam was not Fort Lewis or Fort Benning and as a squad leader I had to learn the lay of the land from the experienced guys before I could start leading.

The squad let me know I was new. I remember squad member “Dennis” telling me I was FNG, a “F...ing New Guy”. I would remain so until exposed to incoming fire. I was still “pissing stateside water” (a PSW), as they said. I don’t remember anyone calling me a “Shake and Bake” I guessed they would judge me on their own time. No one asked how I got my rank of Sargent. I could of told them I never asked for it, just was made it due to my college degree. They didn't care. They just wanted out of Vietnam after their 365 days. When you are new to the platoon nobody pays a lot of attention to you. Dennis told me the last few months had been rough and the company had been under attack, incurred a lot of WIAs, (wounded in action), and some KIAs, (killed in action). I learned I was one of the KIA replacements. They didn't want their Sargent to add to the score.

I still had my duffel bag with new jungle fatigues inside until my squad helped themselves to the clothing behind my back. It upset me. The army had trained me to care for my assigned “equipment” and be responsible for it. I thought I was among a bunch of thieves. I was wrong. I learned we shared everything in the squad. I mean everything. All one really needed were the clothes on one’s back and a small metal ammo can with personal affects. There were no formal locker inspections here. I mused we were fighting communists while being communist.

We had 8-10 guys living out of a single APC which was the size of a small prison cell. There was no room for material things anyway. We needed two sets of fatigues. One being washed, the other worn. The locals washed our fatigues for a small fee paid in Military Payment Certificates (MPC) or Piasters . We didn’t have American dollars. The army paid us in MPCs. It was amazing how clean and pressed the uniforms with came back washed by hand in the muddy river the bridge we protected crossed.

The Mamasan at the bridge over time made a lot from the GIs. This was America’s longest war. We heard she had a” trunk full” of MPCs and believed it. If you look at the fine print on the MPCs it says:

“for use only in United States military establishments by authorized personnel in accordance with applicable rules and regulations “

Mamasan failed to read the fine print. The army pulled a fast one and cancelled the existing MPC for a new issue. This change made her trunk hoarded stuffing worthless in one day. There was no redeeming of the old MPC series. Mamasan's retirement program was gone in a flash. It was like she owned Leman Brothers stock in 2008. We didn't feel sorry for her. She made her money on the backs of her working girls, village fatigue washing, and our sperm dumping. I felt sorry for the girls.

Most of the guys laughed because we screwed them twice. We were supposed to win hearts and minds. Looking back, I wonder how many hearts were broken with the script becoming worthless. Now retired, I have more empathy for mamasan' retirement plight in hindsight.

Another nagging question is where did the money go? Mamasan and the girls got nothing, we paid in MPC but the MPC was deducted as US dollars from our pay. Where did all the money go? We paid out and the girls put out. We got what we paid for, but the girls got screwed again. I wonder where the money we spent, and they lost went. It is too complicated for me to understand.

During my tour with the 4th our company was designated “Mechanized” as we utilized the APCs, (Armored Personnel Carrier), for transportation and base of operations. However, we parked the APCs at Ahn Khe base camp during the times we were given two other assignments.

One assignment was regular infantry (grunt) duty, walking through the boonies with our rucksacks as enemy bait for their exposure to subsequent napalm bombing. Another was “Search and Destroy” missions where we hunted for hidden enemy villages and burned them down. The big one was Air-mobile, being inserted into the jungle via Huey helicopter to destroy or block the enemy.

For grunts it was a helicopter war. We were always supported by Helicopters or “slicks”. They were our lifeline. They brought the beer, inserted us into and out of combat and took out the wounded and killed.

I soon lost my FNG status. And started pissing Vietnam side water.

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