Freaks Macintosh Archive/Freaks Macintosh Archive.bin/Freaks Macintosh Archives/Textfiles/zines/fuck/fuckvl14.sit/fuckvl14 Folder/FUCK0333.TXT

Text File | 1997-05-24 | 7KB | 119 lines

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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                          War is Hell
                          -----------

        During my "tour of duty" in Vietnam, which lasted for 364
   days - 14 hours - and 7 minutes, I lived a lifetime. So much
   happened in that short period of time that sometimes, it becomes
   mind boggling. Going to Vietnam at 18 years old was a
   tremendous culture shock. The acclimation and adaptation process
   was so swift that a young man could literally go from his room
   at home to a "fire-fight" in the bush, in less than 24 hours.
   The culture shock was complicated by the nature of the
   circumstances upon their arrival. For the guys assigned to
   combat units in the field, their introduction to Vietnam was
   the most traumatic. Often thrust into an area of V.C. and or
   N.V.A. activity. They were literally forced to assimilate the
   multitude of nuances as a requiem for survival. Your prior
   training was essentially useless. Jungle life and guerrilla
   warfare were primitive, barbaric, and the antithesis of American
   lifestyles and culture. A F.N.G. didn't lose that label until
   they earned their worth. The unwritten rule was, a new guy's
   life wasn't worth as much as a combat vet. To gain your comrades
   respect, you had to be "baptized under fire". In the bush,
   your "buddies" were your key to survival. Everyone needed to
   know that their "backs were covered" at all times. Therefore,
   trust was a key ingredient. How you handled the "small stuff"
   (the heat, rain, mud, bugs, rats, snakes, bad food and water)
   and how you responded in a "fire-fight" were the prevailing
   criteria.

         My "baptism by fire" occurred on my second day in the Nam.
   When you first arrive, you count the days "in". Towards the
   end of your "tour", you count backwards. How many days are
   left. After experiencing and surviving my "initiation", it
   was decided that I would be groomed to "walk point". Perhaps
   because of my size, and athletic abilities, I was chosen. In
   reality, it was because I was an F.N.G.. The man that walks
   point is the one that is at the highest risk. They are vulnerable
   to snipers, ambushes, trip-wires, and booby traps. Their primary
   function is to lead the troops through the jungle with the least
   amount of losses. The pressure on the point man was incredible
   and the responsibility was to your buddies. If they were wounded
   in action (W.I.A.) or killed in action (K.I.A.), subconsciously,
   it became your burden. A point man needed total control,
   concentration, good instincts, and a lot of luck. This was
   strictly an on-the-job, learn as-you-go process, mistakes were
   always costly. A point man had to develop a "skill" and a "sixth
   sense" for the jungle, an "intimate relationship", if you will.
   My first "op" (operation or mission) was a basic "search and
   destroy" mission. We were to "hump" the bush in a pre-designated
   area of operations (A.O.) to find the elusive V.C.. We
   transversed several "klicks" (kilometers), through thick, hot,
   wet, steamy, triple canopy jungle. Dealing with the elements
   would in time become the "small stuff" you learned to disregard.

        I was walking right behind the point man. My heart was
   in my mouth. I didn't know where we were going, or what (who?)
   we were looking for. The jungle was hot and my ruck sack was
   heavy and digging the straps into my shoulder blades. Suddenly,
   shots rang out and all hell broke loose. We walked into an
   ambush. This was my first experience in a fire-fight, what
   grunts called a "mad-minute". Everything was happening so fast,
   time was a blur. Bullets were coming out of the jungle at such
   an intense rate, I thought we would all die. After a while,
   we received orders to "hold our positions" until the size and
   extent of the fortifications of the enemy had been accessed.
   There was a temporary lull in the fighting, and we were ordered
   to move ahead while additional units were called in to "flank
   our positions". The strategy was simple. We were to force
   the enemy out of their bunkers and as they began our retreat,
   our artillery (from base camp) or assault choppers would "finish
   the job". Simple strategy theoretically, but realistically,
   we had tremendous difficulty. As soon as we began to advance,
   they began to intensify the assault. Guys were getting hit,
   screaming for a medic, while others walked into booby traps
   and anti-personnel mines. The carnage was mounting and there
   I was, praying real hard. It's amazing how close one gets to
   God when your life is on the line. Suddenly, one of our guys
   near me jumps up to throw a "frag" (fragmentation grenade).
   He takes several hits to his chest and stomach and goes down,
   near me. He's alive, but just barely. I know I've got to save
   him. I crawl over to him, take off my ruck and begin to apply
   compression bandages to his wounds, all the while, screaming
   for the medic. But there would be no medic, too much "incoming"
   fire and too many wounded. Eventually, the fighting slowed
   down and the wounded were tended to. And eventually, evac'd
   out (medical evacuation by chopper). I never knew who he was
   or if he ever survived. The ground where he laid was saturated
   with his blood. I was covered with mud, blood, and his "guts".
   My baptism by fire was etched into my brain forever. It is
   as vivid today as it was on that day. It was common to hear
   the Vets say that "survival" was the only thing you had to
   do in Nam. I was beginning to understand what they meant.


                       Brooklyn of AoC

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