Ain’t There Somethin’ Missin’ Here or Sir You Gotta Be Shitin’ Me!

Red Hill was India Company’s home for several months, from late 1966 into the spring of 1967. Actually, “Red Hill” was the biggest of several hills over which all of our Platoons and our Headquarters and attached units from Battalion were spread out. Nothing much ever happened there except the usual patrols, the occasional probing of our perimeter and the onetime the106 Platoon from Headquarters Company lit up the night sky with a ground-level barrage of flachette rounds.

Big scuttlebutt came down through Sergeant Zaidinski that we were getting a new Commanding Officer, a guy from Battalion. He was supposed to be a real mean son of a bitch who was finally going to lay down the law and straighten out typical screw-ups like me. But, I think that report from the Sarge was fabricated solely for my benefit.

A few days passed, and nothing happened. It was business as usual with Gunny West, our Acting First Sergeant, literally running the Company. Our Officers were mostly Stateside replacements who couldn’t find their asses with both hands tied behind their backs. The experienced Lieutenants were willing to rely on the Gunny to keep things running smoothly.

Just the typical routine for me also one night radio watch, one night at my bunker and, supposedly, one night off usually spent either on radio watch or at my bunker. It seemed as though Sergeant Ski’s prophecy of impending doom for Sad Sacks like me was not to be fulfilled.

Three days after the Oracle Non Com Stan had made his dire prediction, it happened. As I made my way, mess kit in hand, toward the mess hall for breakfast, a “Mighty-mite” (a mini knock-off a ‘Jeep’) rolled up with a rather gung-ho looking, straight-laced, starched Marine Captain in the passenger seat. He stepped out of the vehicle, and he looked like his uniform was pressed on him, not one crease or fold evident.

I could not avoid him. I was between the Command Post and the road. So, I stood there and, as he walked by, I saluted him, almost with my hand that was holding my mess kit. The son of a bitch was huge. Geez, he had to be six foot six, about 240 pounds. Was this guy going to be our new CO? And, was he smart enough to put an end to all of my scams, like trading batteries for beer rations? Oh, yeah. The battery scam. Selling “C” cells to the grunts from discarded radio batteries.

What about my doctoring the duty schedule? Platoon Sergeants would tell me to put their screw-ups on extra duty and lose some records in return for some extra ammo and grenades. Not that I ever fell for such a scheme, but I was the best-armed Corporal in the Marine Corps at the time.

The Captain returned my half-assed salute and moved on to the Command Post tent. It was as if he hadn’t even noted my existence, which would have been fine by me. The lowest profile I could maintain was my best bet to survive the rest of my tour. Anyway, I had another priority. I made it a point to never miss a hot meal and real coffee, and the chow hall was closing down in about ten minutes.

When I returned to the CP, it was the usual routine. Put on the headset, monitor the radios and answer the two SB-22 switchboard telephone sets. Then, Sergeant Ski came out of the back of the tent, where the CO’s office was, and told me to take the rest of the afternoon and night off. But, the next morning, around zero-dark-thirty, I was to meet the new Skipper at the East Gate and be his radio operator on a reconnaissance patrol. And, I had best be looking extra sharp, according to Zaidinski. The new CO didn’t take any crap.

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting out my best set of fatigues, which had been starched at “Suzy’s”. Of course, all the laundries were named “Suzy’s” in ever G.I. or Marine town north of Chu Lai. Most of the “laundries” also doubled as whorehouses. I cleaned my M-14, checked my ammo load and seven magazines, and made sure I had the right grenades for the patrol two smokes (one of which was always red) and two M-26 anti-personnel baseballs. If this had been a night patrol, I would have taken along a couple of “Willy Peters” (White Phosphorus or “WP” illumination grenades). I checked my radio and my spare battery. I went through my list of radio frequencies from each platoon up to Battalion. Later, I would write them and their corresponding call signs down on my left forearm with a ballpoint pen to have them readily available. I was all set up.

All this preparation was for a good reason. This was my first opportunity to be the radio operator for the Company Commander, “The Big Six”. I was going to be the guy who filtered messages to the CO. I would decide what priority would be assigned to incoming and outgoing messages. I would talk to Battalion. I would call in the artillery, the choppers and the air cover. I, I, ME, ME!!! This was my big chance!

It was quiet when I showed up at the East Gate early that morning, just your typical bunker-watch night. I looked like something out of the Marine Corps manual, totally starched, fully equipped and armed to the teeth. But, something was missing. Usually, when the CO went out on a mission, at least half the Company went with him. This time, there was no movement by anyone to line up to move out. “Okay.” I thought, “We’ll just team up with them later.”

There was just enough light to see this huge image moving toward me. When he got close, I saw the set of silver railroad tracks on his collar and saluted, reporting for duty. He looked at me, asked me if I was ready, and said, “O. K. Let’s go. “Duh? My head reeled. What the hell do you mean, “Let’s go?” My body scrunched up (if those words are a proper definition) into a half crouch. I looked up at the new Captain in dismay and asked, “Ain’t there somethin’ missin’ here, Sir?”

“Like what?” Sims replied.

“Like two fuckin’ platoons of Infantry and a couple of weapons squads!” The glare from the Captain’s eyes was unavoidable. The only thing to counter it was my disbelief that he and I were going out on a two-man patrol.

“We’re on a Recon, Corporal. You just follow me.”

“Sir. Yes, Sir.” And, with that, Captain Sims led me through the East Gate onto our two-man patrol. We crossed the “No Man’s Land”, the area in front of the bunkers, which had been cleared of any vegetation, and, as usual, headed north. We had been moving for over an hour when daylight finally broke, and I was able to turn on my radio. When I did, Zaidinski initially acknowledged me, but then when I started cussing him out in whispers so Sims wouldn’t hear me, Ski didn’t reply.

I wanted to keep in the tree line, but Sims kept us smack in the middle of dried-out rice paddies. We kept moving north with Sims making mental notes and me making futile radio calls back to the Company, either to threaten my good Sergeant or to tell him the new CO was absolutely fuckin’ nuts. About 1100 Hours (that’s an hour before lunch for those of you from Round Lake Beach, Illinois or for a White Sox fan), we came upon a village. We were off to the west of it and were on lower ground. The village was surrounded by a berm with a pointed bamboo fence atop it.

Just in front of us, directly to our north and just outside of the village fence was a huge mound. It had two entrances ““one to our left, and one to our right. We had been noticed by some villagers. They began to gather along the fence to see what these two stupid Americans were up to.

Sims turned to me. “Give me your grenades”, he ordered.

“Huh? What for, Sir?”

“That’s an ammunition bunker, and we’re going to blow it up.”

“Uh. Sir. That’s where the villagers store their rice. Almost every village has one.”

“Corporal, just give me your grenades.”

Very reluctantly I untapped my M-26 baseballs and handed them over to the Captain. Seemed to me that this guy was hell-bent on getting the both of us killed. We were about 100 yards from the bunker, and more locals from the village were gathering along the fence. I kept one eye on them and my other eye on the new Skipper as he approached the bunker. Sims started at the door on the left. I watched him pull the pin and toss the grenade into the bunker. Then, he ran to the other door and threw in the second grenade. By this time, the locals must have realized what he was up to and were jumping up and down, yelling and waiving dangerous looking hand tools at us. Sims started racing back toward me, and I kept my weapon pointed at the locals. At the same time, I kept muttering over the radio that this asshole was trying to do his best to get us both killed.

The first grenade went off within a muted “puff”, probably shaking up a pile of rice bins. The second one went off with a bang; smoke billowing out of the opening. Then, all hell broke loose ““ a second explosion, the bunker started to cave in. Sims was still running toward me, and the gooks looked really pissed off. That son of a bitch could really run. As he leaped over the last paddy dike in front of me, he said, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” I didn’t need much convincing, and we must have run 400 or 500 yards before we took cover. Of course, he got there first because he wasn’t carrying any gear, and he wasn’t looking over his shoulder every ten feet to see what the locals were up to.

We regrouped behind a paddy dike and caught our breath. The villagers may have been upset at what Sims did, but there wasn’t too much they could do about it now. We were long gone out of their area, and for them to react and move out would have taken a couple of hours. “Oh! Just a rice storage bunker, huh, Ski?” I had to admit that I was wrong. But, I did remind the Skipper that were about three to four hours out. He told me we would not go back the same way we came out, but that we would find another route. That was fine by me. Between us, we only had 140 rounds of M-14 ammo, one .45 pistol with three clips, two smoke grenades and a radio which Zaidinski refused to answer.

We got back before evening chow, but I wasn’t very hungry. Sims thanked me for a job well done, apparently forgetting about my early-morning insubordination. I was released and went looking for my nemesis, Sergeant Stanislaw Zaidinski. I had been had again, and I wasn’t going to take it anymore. True to his normal routine after putting one over on me, Stan was nowhere to be found. Then, after expecting a night off, I was intercepted by the First Shirt who sent me back to my bunker for another night’s watch.

In the military, there’s an old saying: “Don’t volunteer for nothin’”  Well, hell, I didn’t volunteer for anything. I let my ego get so pumped up expecting to be the “Big 6’s” radioman that I fell, once more, into Zaidinski’s trap.

Author/Jerry Czarnowski