Thirty Days Has September

  Thirty Days

  Has

  September

  The First Ten Days

  by

  James Strauss

  Geneva Shore Publishing, Inc

  Geneva Shore Publishing, Inc.

  www.genevashorereport.com

  Thirty Days Has September: The First Ten Days. Copyright © 2017 by James Strauss. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and locations portrayed in this book herein are fictitious. Any similarity to or identification with the locations, names, characters, or history of any person, product, or entity is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  All trademarks and brands referred to in this book are for illustrative purposes only, are the property of their respective owners and not affiliated with this publication in any way. Any trademarks are being used without permission, and the publication of the trademark is not authorized by, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover Art: “Landing Zone” by John O. Wehrle (U.S. Army Combat Art Program)

  This is the ebook edition of the traditional book with the following identifiers:

  ISBN-13 978-1-5440502-2-5

  dedication

  I would like to offer this work as a tribute to all the men who came home only to find a place for themselves on that shiny wall in Washington, D.C.

  I offer it to their survivors, as well.

  author’s note

  This is a novel. It is peopled with imaginary persons and units and was not written with reference to any person or unit that was part of the Vietnam War. I would also like to apologize to every member of the military who served, and even those who did not but remain vitally interested, for inventing some people places, outfits, and incidents that may appear to have existed but have never really. This novel is, truly, a story.

  Thirty Days

  Has

  September

  The First Ten Days

  one

  The First Day

  The door opened. It was a steel door about six inches thick, or so it seemed. It hit with a jarring thud when its heavy flat surface pivoted down and smacked upon the mud. Sunlight shot in like a wave of heat, followed by a wave of real heat, the air-conditioned inside of the armored personnel carrier likely to be my last until my tour was over. I had no weapon, no pack or jungle boots. I was new.

  The civilian airliner had landed at Da Nang, offloaded a hundred uniformed men like me and then left without the crew ever getting off. No passengers had been waiting to come aboard. An F-4 Phantom fighter lay burning at the end of the runway. We’d all seen it before we touched down. The flight attendants said it was probably an old plane used to train fire fighting teams.

  I hunched over, moving toward the torrid heat and light streaming in through the hole made by the back of the armored personnel carrier falling into the mud. We’d ridden maybe five minutes from the airport. Nobody told us where we were going or what we were doing, so I simply followed the silent procession of men out into the mud, dragging my government flight bag at my side. I was an officer, but I’d taken the single gold bars from my utility jacket after being told by the plane crew that the shiny bars weren’t worn in combat areas.

  Six of us had climbed into the waiting carrier. There had been other carriers but I had no idea where they’d gone because when I stepped outside, only one remained. A tall Marine staff sergeant stood facing the rear of the vehicle about fifteen feet away, on more solid ground. His boots gleamed in the sun, his spit shine on each perfect. The pleats on his uniform, a short sleeve Class A in khaki, were ironed so starchy sharp they looked dangerous. Unaccountably, he wore a D.I. instructor’s flat brimmed hat with a small black leather tassel dangling from its stiff edge. His hands were on his hips, his elbows sticking out looking as sharp as the pleats running up and down the front of his shirt.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to the ’Nam,” was all he said, waiting a few seconds for his words to sink in before turning and heading off on a path through the thick undergrowth.

  It was the first day of my time in Vietnam. I was unafraid, my emotions blocked by wonder. The light, the heat, the thick cloying mud with a burning Phantom sending up tendrils of black smoke snaking across the sky, masked everything else I might be feeling. The plane I’d arrived on was from America and it was gone, America gone with it. I moved along the rough-hewn path, my flight bag knocking into the ends of every hacked off branch. I was nobody. I didn’t feel like a Marine officer or even much of a citizen, and I sure wasn’t in California anymore. I was a slug moving through a forest that looked like something out of a bad horror film, following an enlisted man I was supposed to out rank but who apparently didn’t think so, toward a destination nobody had told me about. I was not disconcerted. It went deeper than that. In only moments, with no warning, I’d become lost in another world that defied the darkest imagination. We came out of the bush to see a wooden structure in the distance.

  “Gentlemen, the Da Nang Hilton,” the staff sergeant announced, continuing to lead us without pausing or turning.

  Just before we came up to the building, he stopped. We stopped behind him in a row, as if we were in a squad he commanded.

  “It’s got a moat,” one of the other men said, pointing at the five-foot-wide stretch of water dug between us and the building. A thick plank extended out over the water to allow access to a ratty five story wooden structure beyond it.

  “That’s a ‘benjo ditch,’ not a moat,” the staff sergeant indicated. “No bathrooms here, except for the ditch.” He stopped and ushered us up, one by one, onto the plank. “They’ll come for you when they come for you,” he said to our backs, walking away after the last of us crossed.

  There was nothing “Marine Corps” about the shanty of an open barracks. No windows or even walls. Wooden pillars held the wooden floors up with a big tin roof covering the whole affair. I saw so many bunks it was impossible to count them from the outside. A corporal sat at an old metal and rubber desk taken from some earlier war supply house. I watched him deal with the officer in front of me, making no attempt to hide his boredom. “File,” the corporal said when he finished, holding out his hand toward me. “That’s your bunk. Break the rack down and make it with clean stuff in the cabinet down at the end. No lockers. Keep your own stuff close.”

  There had been no “sir” in any of his delivery to the guy in front of me. There was none to me either.

  “Tag,” he continued, handing me a metal edged paper tag with the number 26 written on its white surface. “First floor. Officer country. You heard the rest.”

  I wondered why officers were quartered on the first floor. I presumed, as I made my way to rack number 26, that it was because the benjo ditch aroma would be more available. The rack was filthy when I found it. The place was nearly full with men recently returned from combat patrols or whatever, I presumed. Most were covered with mud. None looked like they’d showered or washed in days or maybe even weeks. I hauled the old sheets to a bin near the end of the narrow row that led to my bunk. I tried to talk to a few of the other officers who lay without sleeping atop their muddy beds. They would only look back at me like I was some specimen on display at a zoo. They would not answer. Not one of them. I finished making my bed, deposited my flight bag under my cot and then huddled with my back against a corner support. The bunks were four high with a sla
tted ladder going up on one end. The three bunks higher up my tier all sagged with the weight of other officers in them. Their packs simply lay all over in the aisles with junk loosely attached to them. Junk like muddy guns and grenades.

  It started to rain. Like the day was not proving bad enough with the smell, the mud, the zombie company and a miserable cot without a mattress as my supposed resting place. There was no pillow either, but there were mosquitoes. Perfect. It was at that moment that I became afraid. I’d never been afraid of anything in Marine training, other than the very likely fact that I might not get through to become a Marine Officer. That I was second in my OCS platoon, and then won The Basic School Military Skills award, only reinforced the fact that I’d found my calling. And here I was, in absolute squalor, trapped in misery with a bunch of other men who’d preceded me and who now appeared all mentally ill. What had happened and where was I really? I’d seen all the war movies through the years and I’d never seen anything like where I was. Nothing close. Those wars and those characters had meaning, relationships, communication and decent clothing. I had shit. Quite literally.

  I tried to lay down but could only cower and slap at the mosquitoes. From a bunk above, someone tossed a small clear plastic bottle. It landed on the wooden floor with a small thunk.

  “Repellent. Use it and then shut the fuck up,” a voice said from above. I leaned over and picked up the container, the voice presumably registering a complaint about my slapping of insects. I rubbed the foul but strangely attractive oil onto all the exposed surfaces of my body and returned to my previous position.

  As the sun set out in the rain, I passed the time watching mosquitoes land, but not bite me, as if they sensed a tender morsel nearby but couldn’t access it. The repellent didn’t repel them at all. It simply made me less edible, which was fine by me. Only a few of the other men had flashlights or bothered to turn them on. I had nothing in my bag except some extra socks, underwear, and a useless change of street clothing. And my hard fought for but now unworn proud gold bars.

  I waited. Even though it was still early, I knew there would be no sleep. I recorded each passing moment by reading the luminous dial on my special combat officer’s watch I’d bought at the PX stateside for fifteen bucks. At eight o’clock a face appeared before me — a man holding a flashlight so I could see his features.

  “Welcome to Vietnam,” the face said, its eyes not looking at me. “Chief of Staff will see you now.”

  Another zombie, I concluded, already getting tired of hearing the welcome phrase.

  “What’s your rank?” I asked.

  “Buck sergeant,” the illuminated face replied, staring out into space, waiting.

  “Then call me sir,” I replied, getting out of the bunk to follow him.

  “If you like,” the sergeant said, not saying another word — certainly not sir.

  My first day in the welcoming ’Nam was over, and my first night about to begin.

  two

  The First Night

  I followed the buck sergeant down the dark muddy aisle of the Da Nang Hilton, tripping into back packs and other field equipment strewn all over. I’d tucked my flight bag under my bunk, for whatever security that might provide. My watch was my only valuable possession. At some point I knew, since I was a Marine, everything I needed for whatever reason would be assigned to me — if I could just get to the point of distribution where the stuff was issued. The buck sergeant was kind enough to stop, once he was across the plank spanning the benjo ditch, to direct his flashlight back so I could make the crossing in relative safety. Full dark had overcome us, although the light rain continued. The falling drops were more of a sticky mist than real rain and provided no relief at all. In spite of the unending moisture, the sergeant and I walked upon relatively hard ground toward wherever we were going in the dark. The sergeant’s flashlight bobbed up, down and all around, revealing nothing. It only took a few minutes for us to arrive at the side of a dimly lit concrete wall.

  “Headquarters,” the buck sergeant said, turning out his flashlight. “Door’s on your right down the wall,” he pointed. “Just go in. The others are already there.”

  I wanted to ask the buck sergeant who the others were but he was no longer there. He moved quieter than I thought possible for a

  Marine wearing field utilities and combat boots. There had been enough light at the wall to see that he had the new cloth-sided boots, the ones I’d heard about in training with the special triangular metal strips running the length of their soles. “Punji sticks” were a common hazard, or so I’d heard — little pits with sharpened sticks covered in human excrement. Regular boots, especially those like mine that had been regular issue back in WWII, did nothing to stop them. I needed a pair of those boots, a set of jungle utilities, and a gun. But most of all I needed an assignment.

  I found the handle to the door and went through into a different world. I actually smiled as the door closed behind me. I felt that all my questions were about to be answered and my problems, solved. I was finally experiencing the real combat conditions that the Marine Corps was all about.

  I stood at the end of a short hall in real air-conditioned air. I didn’t move, just took in the cold dry feeling. At the end of the hall I saw a water bubbler. I made for it. Hitting the handle, I stuck my face down and let ice cold water pour into my mouth and over my face. I drank until I thought I’d burst.

  “Over here,” a voice said from behind me.

  I let go of the life-giving bubbler and turned in the gently blowing cool air that seemed to emanate out through a set of wide open double doors. I could see Marines inside the room.

  “Welcome to the ’Nam,” a Marine attendant by the door said.

  I nodded. No “sir” here either, but then I wore no rank because I hadn’t thought to dig my bars out of my bag in the dark muddy misery surrounding my bunk. I noted that the floor was made of rough dirty concrete, the only dirt visible in the place. A line of concrete extended through the doors leading to what resembled a cartoon illustration balloon on the floor inside the room. A vibrant blue, luscious and thick rug outlined the cartoon balloon area. Five men stood on the dirty concrete, none touching the clean rug. They stood side by side, not at a position of attention but not really at ease either. There was a space at the right end and I guessed it was for me. I walked to where I thought I was supposed to be.

  In front of us a raised dais, covered by the same blue rug material, set at least three feet off the floor. A wooden desk rested imposingly atop the dais, with a lectern to its left. A uniformed colonel, wearing short-sleeve Class A attire, stood at the lectern with his hands gripping the top edges, a look of impatience on his face. The other man sat facing sideways behind the desk, his highly polished, black regulation shoes, crossed at the ankles. His ankles sat up on the edge of the same desk. He leaned deeply back into his swivel chair and worked at lighting a long cigar with a Zippo flip-top lighter.

  “Glad to see you all could make it,” the Colonel said, displeasure evident in his tone and a quick glance toward where I stood. For whatever reason, I was late to an appointment I didn’t know I had.

  “If I don’t miss my guess, you’re late…you, person at the end,” the Colonel said, staring straight into my eyes. “You don’t seem to have a rank, little Marine.”

  I hadn’t been referred to as little anything since I’d been in high school. There, I’d been five-feet tall in my senior year, the smallest male in my graduating class. I’d grown nine inches as a freshman and sophomore in college. Now as tall as three of the other five men standing in the concrete balloon, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The public disparagement by the Colonel was just the last frosting on a brutally disgusting and bizarre day. I said nothing, however. I’d reply to a direct question but nothing more.

  “Move on,” the big man at the desk with the lit cigar said. I presumed that he was our regimen
tal commander and I was attending a welcoming briefing before receiving an assignment. The deskman blew smoke rings. Each ring was carefully generated through his pursed lips, and then sent out over his crossed legs and past the tips of his spit polished shoes.

  The Colonel went back to talking. He said we’d be given our assignments in the morning, go to supply for our stuff and then be transported out to our waiting units in a matter of days. He talked about military pay currency and why we would be issued some in lieu of U.S. money. I’d never heard of MPC but was surprised that the Marine Corps would give out cash of any kind. The Marine Corps prides itself on being one of the cheapest run outfits in the world. The Colonel launched into a speech which he titled the “Revolutionary Development Doctrine.” It was a ten-minute talk about how the U.S. was winning the war by converting enemy soldiers to become allies by joining the South Vietnamese Army. Right after the speech he told us about Chu Hoi passes, which we should be aware of because they were free passes to safety being dropped behind enemy lines by air. Any enemy soldier could use one to cross over to the allied side at any time while out in the field. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t heard about any of what the Colonel said back in training. Nothing. It was like I was in a different world.

  “Chu Hoi my ass,” the big man sitting at the desk intoned quietly, before blowing little circles of cigar smoke through the big rings he’d already generated.

  The Colonel ignored him and finished his introduction. He concluded by telling us that the special photo contour-interval maps we would be getting would all have to be specially marked with magic markers. All north/south coordinate designations sent over the radio combat or artillery net would be referred to by the names of popular toothpastes. All east/west coordinates would be named after different kinds of chewing gum. This last part of the briefing stunned me. How could the enemy fail to quickly find out about such a ridiculously easy and stupid code, and then use it to our disadvantage?