THERE POSSIBLY IS no worse sin for a soldier to commit than sleeping on guard. It is the ultimate betrayal of the trust that one soldier places in another. In most armies and in most times, it is a crime punishable by death. However, in my experience in Vietnam, it was virtually impossible to successfully prosecute such a case. It may be that the punishment was too horrific for anyone to apply. Then again, it may be that the Army was bending over backwards to prove itself fair and just to the point that it became impossible to satisfy civilians that the crime merited the punishment 

I once found a guard sleeping on duty atop the corner bunker in the center of our sector of the base camp perimeter. It was the tallest bunker and could not be scaled without difficulty, especially in the dark. I found his buddies asleep beside him while he sat behind his tripod-mounted M-60 machine gun. The fact that he was sleeping while sitting upright fooled me at first. However, he remained unresponsive to my calls and I began to suspect that something was amiss.

When I arrived atop the bunker I found him wrapped in his poncho, with his chin firmly embedded in his chest. I could see his eyes closed in the available light emitted by moonglow, stars, and drifting flares. He did not stir even when I shook him by the shoulder and spoke in a normal voice. I would have thought him dead but for his snoring.

Failing to wake him I pondered the situation for a few moments. Seeing that there was no immediate threat, I called the Command Post (CP) on the bunker's field phone and requested that the senior officer join me.

He too climbed the bunker with the same results. Sitting there surrounded by the sleeping guards we discussed the situation at length. He was prepared to file charges, but I cited the problems in courts martial for sleeping on guard duty to dissuade him. How, I asked, could be be sure which guard was supposed to be awake, since we allowed the teams to set their own schedules of who was to be awake and who was to be asleep? I suggested that we simply teach them a lesson and, maybe, allow them to decide who was at fault and apply punishment as they saw fit.

He and I removed all weapons from the bunker. Thank God, we weren't Viet Cong. We were very inept at it. I forgot that a belt of ammunition was attached to the machine gun and it rattled loudly against the ammo can when I tried to pick up the weapon. The other officer fell off the bunker as we were working and landed on the sandbags stacked around the base with a sound similar to a car running into a fence. Even so, we were able to remove both machine guns, all personal weapons, and the detonators for the claymore mines that surrounded the bunker.

After returning to the CP with our loot, we watched the sleeping men atop the bunker through starlight scopes as the sergeant of the guard rang them on the field phone. It rang a very long time. We could here it above the curses of the sergeant who was growing tired cranking his instrument until the guard who had been sitting behind the machine gun looked around groggily and finally answered.

The sergeant followed the script we had given him saying that Ground Surveillance Radar (I believed that I had heard of such a thing) had detected movement near his position and that he should watch out for anyone lurking nearby.  

We waited awhile until the sergeant made his second call. Again, following our script, he told the guard that he should recon by fire – that is, fire a few rounds to see if anyone returned fire or reacted in some other way. We waited and watched. The guard lifted the poncho that had been covering his machine gun and we could see his body tense. Looking frantically left and right he stood up and tossed the poncho off the bunker. His buddies were awakened by the commotion and there was a hurried conference that we could not hear, and they left the top and entered the bunker where we had stolen their second machine gun.

Again, the sergeant called asking why the man hadn't fired. He lied. He claimed the gun had jammed, and the sergeant ordered him to fire a claymore mine. Of course, he couldn't; we had taken the detonators.

Finally, we walked to the bunker and explained what had happened. The guards began to argue among themselves as to who was supposed to be awake, and the man we had found sitting at the machine gun claimed that he had been awake the whole time.

We calmly explained that we were not going to file charges. However, our experience had taught us that the difficulty of climbing up and down the bunker in the dark and that we would not be surprised if one of them might also fall as the officer in charge had done. We advised them to be careful as someone could suffer injuries.

No one else fell that night nor did any of them sleep. Apparently, our suggestion was simply too subtle.  

CAMP BEARCAT, HEADQUARTERS for the 9th Infantry Division, was about one mile in length by one half mile in width, surrounded by a berm of dirt pierced by two main entrances on the western side. A bunker manned 24/7 by the Military Police flanked both sides of each entrance. Other bunkers at each corner and evenly spaced along each side of the base camp were manned by junior enlisted personnel among the REMF (Rear Echelon Mother F***rs). Although the rear echelons (behind the lines) were considered safe in conventional wars, there were no safe places in Vietnam and standing guard was vitally important duty.

Command of these bunkers was divided into four sectors, each with a Command Post (CP) manned by sergeants and company grade officers, also REMF. Each bunker was connected to its CP by a field phone and the CP had lines connecting it to the other command posts and other division assets such as artillery. As a second lieutenant, I was generally second in command of a sector and had the privilege of walking the perimeter to check on the guards while my superior slept.  
Three men were assigned to each bunker and they took turns sleeping inasmuch as we all had to report to our regular duty posts each day following guard duty. All built revetments atop their bunkers using spare sandbags so that they could sit guard duty without going inside where the air was stale and fouled by rotting wood and humidity. Many feared the structure that was supposed to protect them would fall around their heads at any moment thanks to unrelenting attacks by termites.

The most unnerving aspect of guard duty was the fact that division artillery fired  flare rounds to illuminate the ground outside the  camp all night and they cast shadows that moved as they drifted slowly to the ground on parachutes. Often they swung to and fro making the shadows dance even more sinisterly. One of my men was scared back to his bunker when the casing from a flare round that detonated too close to the perimeter, fell to the ground next to him while he was urinating.

I lived on a boat moored in Marina Del Rey when I first moved to California. Sitting on deck in the late evening I could watch airliners approaching LAX and their landing lights reminded me of those flares and the memory took me back to Vietnam.

Sometime after midnight, I would take our assigned vehicle, a three-quarter ton truck to our mess hall where baked goods were being prepared for the following day's meals in the relative cool of the night. I then visited each bunker passing out hot coffee and cakes. In the morning, I had to form a patrol to sweep the area outside the base camp to look for signs of enemy activity or tampering with the defensive lines of barbed and concertina wire.

One evening before sunset, the guards at one of our bunkers had spotted activity about a quarter mile outside our perimeter. Since the area was “closed” to all civilians about an hour before sunset, I was told to take a patrol to investigate. I chose six men, two with M-79 grenade launchers and four with M-16 rifles. I divided them into two fire teams led by the grenadiers. We followed a deep drainage ditch that exited the camp perpendicularly and led past the road where the activity was observed. When we passed the last line of wire defenses, I stopped the men and explained our situation. We were on our own. There was no preplanned artillery support and we were too far from the perimeter for anyone to organize a rescue and come help us. Thus, I reasoned that we would have to attack fast and furiously if there was any trouble. Five of the men simply nodded their understanding and climbed out of the ditch onto open ground. The sixth had to be coaxed out.

We found a family collecting dead wood for their charcoal furnace and loading it onto a three-wheel motor scooter. I left the men to scout the area to see if they had done anything besides collect wood while I went to check for contraband and encourage them to leave. Since none of them spoke English, I had to pantomime my communication.

On the way back to our camp I began to wonder about the security of the ditch we had used to traverse the defenses. There was nothing in it to discourage anyone from approaching our perimeter. That night I installed trip flares and Claymore mines in the ditch. Possibly the Viet Cong in our vicinity were also REMF.   

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT are “directives issued by competent military authority that delineate the circumstances and limitations under which United States forces will initiate and/or continue combat engagement with other forces encountered.” Joint Publication 1-02, Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Related Terms. Unfortunately, this publication does not also define competent military authority, and we are left to our own devices to question, were the rules of engagement employed in Vietnam during U.S. counter-insurgency operations devised by any competent authority? I think that, by-and-large, it is obvious that they were issued to emphasize political rather than military objectives.

Certainly, military operations cannot be divorced from politics. War is a failure of politics leading one to ask, what purpose can failed politicians serve meddling in the conduct of war? In Vietnam, we learned the answer to that question.

I was once asked to accompany an officer from the division's Judge Advocate General's office who was investigating a sergeant who had branded a suspected Viet Cong soldier on the forehead with a heated wire in the shape of a “9.” I believe that I was being considered to serve as his defense counsel, but I lost my favored son status with the Judge Advocate in another incident. The sergeant had led his platoon with great competency for the better part of a year, losing few to wounds and none to death, until he was denied artillery support because of his proximity to a peaceful village, resulting in numerous casualties. His branding of Charlie was an apparent reaction to his frustration with the rules of engagement. Although we can sympathize with his frustration, his was a criminal act and he accepted his justly deserved punishment, while plastic sergeants repaired the damage to the VC.

In all probability, many such acts arose out of frustration with the rules of engagement. The massacre at My Lai probably falls into that category. Again, no excuses are being made, only understanding that hopefully would prevent competent military authorities from putting American service members in combat situations and then tie their hands. Armed forces are well-trained and adept at winning battles. They are not policemen nor nation builders. They should never be used as pawns in political games. Unfortunately, they are, more often in recent times.

War has never been civilized, but it was once fought more gentlemanly. Civilians could sit on hillsides with their picnic lunches and thrill to the gallantry and bravery of their sons engaged in pitched battles for their amusement. Indeed, one such great battle, between the Bon Homme Richard, under the command of John Paul Jones, and the British man o' war, HMS Serapis, was viewed by spectators gathered on the cliffs at Flamborough Head, England. The defeat of the Serapis alarmed the citizens of England who subsequently prevailed upon the British parliament to sue for peace with their colonies and acquiesce to their independence.

Insurgency or guerrilla warfare is fought by irregular forces who are as wont as not to insinuate themselves into the civilian population to shield themselves and their purposes. Indeed, Mao Zedong, the author of the strategies and tactics of insurgencies, schooled his disciples to disperse, to hide among the innocent population, and from there, to harass and demoralize the enemy. No leader of a counter-insurgency should miss the opportunity to read Chairman Mao's teachings. It appears that our political and military leaders never did. The rules of engagement denied us the freedom we needed to fight such an enemy effectively, until the Viet Cong made the mistake of massing for the Tet Offensive of 1968.

Officers who violated the rules of engagement frequently were relieved of command and reassigned to battalion, brigade, and division headquarters until the furor died down or their tours of duty ended. I had the opportunity to get to know a few such officers. The 9th Admin company whose officers and men staffed the division's administrative, personnel, and finance offices, was frequently commanded by such men. I remember a pair of lieutenants who were serving as the Executive Officer of the 9th Admin company when I first arrived. They were affable young fellows with little to do but drink beer and chase mama-sans around the base camp. They told stories, speaking in guarded terms of tossing a grenade into a civilian hooch suspected of harboring Charlie or hiding his supplies. I suspect that they would not have been in trouble had there been reasonable evidence to support their actions. One of these young men complained that if a Vietnamese fired on him and fled, the American could not then respond if the VC had discarded his weapon before being caught. I did not have enough information to refute his assertion.

The most controversial applications of the rules of engagement were those regulating combat operations north of the DMZ. I'm certain that the public was confused by them, but no more so than the military who suffered casualties for them. Driven by political expediency or changes in political leadership, U.S. Armed Forces were subject to constantly changing guidelines. North Vietnamese leaders openly confessed that they were on the verge of suing for peace when President Nixon declared most of the north a free-fire zone.

The most prized rule of engagement was free unobserved fire, allowing us to fire any weapons system into an area for any reason, without first obtaining permission from the headquarters that had designated an area a free-fire zone. To my knowledge, Camp Bearcat was the only 9th Infantry Division base camp surrounded by a free-fire zone. In fact, it might have been the only one in all of South Vietnam. We could return fire or fire to interdict possible enemy activity anywhere, anytime within a radius encompassing the range of any enemy weapons system. As a result, Camp Bearcat received just one rocket during the whole of the thirteen months I was there. It was a 144mm rocket launched by a North Vietnamese unit several months after the Tet Offensive of 1968.

All other division base camps had peaceful civilian enclaves within range of them. Viet Cong gunners would frequently enter innocent homes, cut holes in the roofs, and lob mortar rounds against which we could not retaliate without endangering innocents. I experienced the insanity of the situation one night while visiting our Mobile Riverine base camp at Dong Tam. I sat with the officer of the guard, watching through a starlight scope as VC's set up and aimed a recoilless rifle at us from just outside our perimeter. Being accustomed to our rules of engagement at Camp Bearcat, I wondered aloud when the artillery rounds would arrive on the enemy group, and was informed that we couldn't shoot at them until they fired on us. We ducked our heads when they fired, and the round pierced the base camp library behind us. The VC were long gone before our artillery could respond.

The simple truth is that they didn't have any rules and ours gave them an advantage. The interesting thing is that we defeated them in spite of it.  

I WAS THE duty officer at division headquarters, Camp Bearcat, when Melvin Belli arrived on a fact-finding tour of military tribunals in Vietnam. The press was accusing them of being little more than kangaroo courts, and Belli was there to investigate on behalf of the American public. He wasn't expected until the next morning, and I had no instructions as to what to do with him. An aide for one of the Assistant Division Commanders (ADT) said that his general was away, and Belli could bunk in this trailer for the night. Wouldn't you know, the general returned unexpectedly to find the famous barrister, with his great beer belly and unruly crop of long, white hair sleeping in his bed. My night got exciting when the general appeared in the headquarters building demanding to know what the hell was going on.

Unfortunately, I wasn't interviewed by Belli; I could have told him a few things. The division Judge Advocate found out that I had a law degree, and began sending defendants to see me. Most were being tried on charges of using marijuana, and were unhappy with the defense counsel assigned to their cases from the officer ranks of their own units. They came to me looking for a member of the Justice League to get them off. The best I could promise was to make sure the prosecution proved their case.

I was able on one or two occasions to introduce doubt. For example, an investigator from the U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Division (CID) testified that traces of marijuana had been found in the breast pocket of the defendant's fatigue blouse, thus proving possession, in much the same way that traces of tobacco collected in the pockets of cigarette smokers. On cross-examination, I was able to force the investigator to admit that such traces might have occurred if the defendant's laundry had been used by Vietnamese civilians to smuggle marijuana on to the post to engage in illicit sales, thus raising a doubt that the evidence was conclusive. Unfortunately, for this defendant, another witness testified that he had seen the defendant throw away a butt as the witness approached. Suspecting that the defendant had been smoking marijuana, the witness retrieved the smoldering butt and turned it over to an investigator who testified, clearing establishing the chain of possession of the evidence to a criminal laboratory in Japan and back to the courtroom, proving conclusively that the defendant had been smoking marijuana. 

All of my “clients” were caught red-handed and destined for some bad time at the LBJ (Long Binh Jail). [Note: Bad time meant that your enlistment in the Army and your one year tour of duty in Vietnam were extended for a period equaling the time you were incarcerated.] All of my clients complained that prohibitions on marijuana were unreasonable if not unconstitutional. They weren't happy when I informed them that they could appeal, but only after they had been convicted. Most “copped a plea.”

The most memorable case I handled actually made it to a battalion-level Special Courts Martial. Four young enlisted men had been caught using while sitting atop a bunker where they were plainly visible. Only three were seen smoking joints, which were collected by NCO's and sent by CID to Japan for analysis. The fourth was accused of being an accomplice. I felt I had a chance of getting him acquitted. 

I cross-examined the senior NCO who had apprehended the men, questioning him as to why he thought the defendant was an accomplice. He testified that the young enlisted man knew that they were illegally using a controlled substance. How? I asked him. The NCO testified that he must have smelled it.

Ah, I thought I had my opening. How could he be sure the young man knew what marijuana smelled like? There was no evidence establishing that fact. The president of the court laughed, averring that everyone knew what it smelled like.

Now, I was a virgin at the time, at least, in the world of drugs. I didn't know what marijuana smelled like. Indeed, when the marijuana they had been smoking was entered in evidence, I asked to see it; it would have been a first for me. The president of the court then informed me that he knew because their battalion commander had held an officer's call at which they all smoked a “joint” so they would know what they were dealing with. The other officers sitting on the court martial board concurred.

That stopped me cold. I then asked the court, how could they sit in judgment of these defendants when they had admitted to being guilty of the same crime for which the defendants were charged? The officers defended themselves by saying that they were “only following orders.”

The court martial ended in chaos when I reminded them of the trials at Nuremberg where Nazis defended themselves unsuccessfully using the same excuse.

That evening, at the division officer's club, the Judge Advocate let me know that the battalion commander wanted me charged with insubordination. I countered with charges against him and all his officers. We negotiated a settlement over a rubber of bridge, and I was never again referred to defendants. It's just as well; I was the antithesis of Perry Mason. I never won one.

Other than that experience, I did not see much to complain about in the application of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). Article 32 investigations seemed to insure that charges were not filed without adequate cause. I could be wrong.

Article 15 of the UCMJ permitted commanders to apply limited punishment for minor infractions without the need for trial by courts martial, if the soldier consented to it. I'm certain that there were cases of abuse by commanders, but none ever came to my attention, nor would anyone ever learn of such abuses at a division headquarters if the soldiers did not appeal.

FLYING INSECTS WERE especial nuisances in Vietnam, especially those that could raise lumps in the event your head inadvertently crossed one of their flight paths. I believe that several species of beetles registered on our radar systems. One Goliath variety, the Rhinoceros beetle, outweighed any possible insectile airframe inasmuch as they grew to eleven inches in length. One of those in flight could easily knocked a man off his feet in the event of collision. The most dangerous, though, of all flying insects were the mosquitoes. Armed with eukaryotic protists of the genus Plasmodium, they spread malaria indiscriminately. I was one of their victims. 

Although I was armed with mosquito netting and various forms of repellent and anti-malarial drugs, I think that I would have been better served encircled by an army of spiders. We welcomed spiders to our domiciles and took great care to avoid disturbing theirs; unless, of course, they proved inefficient. Each day we examined the accumulated insects in each spider's web and destroyed those that were barren, giving the occupant an opportunity to rebuild using a better design. Two consecutive failures resulted in instant eviction making their space available to a more suitable tenant. Those spiders were our friends.

One night as I sat trying unsuccessfully to stay awake in the division headquarters (I was the duty officer that night), I heard a bug walking in the hallway outside my office door. It's footstep was not familiar; indeed, I was not certain it was an insect at first, thinking that it was rather a cat in serious need of having its claws trimmed. On investigation, I found an enormous example of the earwig family with long pincers at each end. It was a wonder. It was a trophy. I had to have it for the next night's bug fights. Scrounging through the drawers of my temporary desk I found a match box and, after emptying its contents into an envelope, attempted to imprison this specimen. After a few moments scratching around inside, it unceremoniously hacked away the end of the wooden box and exited.  I don't think he was happy. 

I remember watching a trail of black worker ants scurrying to and fro outside my hooch in Vietnam one afternoon soon after arriving in-country, eviscerating some dead thing to stock their colony's larder. They were large ants, the largest I had ever seen. Just as I was about to lose interest, the flank of their column was assaulted by a platoon of red soldier ants with heads of such Godzilla-like proportions that I wondered how they stood and walked without tipping forward and resting on their mandibles like insane tripods. My attention riveted on one in particular that grasped a blank ant by the head and seemingly froze. I was not able to understand that it was simply applying pressure until the head of the black ant collapsed with an audible snap. Thus, I was introduced to the insects of Vietnam.

Termites, the arch-enemies of ants, demonstrated voracious appetites by devouring any wooden structure they could find. Viet Cong mortars blushed in comparison. Apparently, our bunkers appeared especially appetizing to them. Inasmuch as any shelter we attempted to dig soon filled with water, we had to build our bomb shelters on the surface. We began with 4x4 frames covered in 2x10 planking, and then entombed all in layers of sandbags. Within three or four months, the sandbags fell into a pile after the termites had totally consumed the underlying wooden structures. Thank God our M-16 rifles had composite plastic stocks rather than a wooden ones.

Our hooches were elevated above the ground in a futile effort to avoid crawling insects. Plywood floors were placed on half buried canisters that our friends in the artillery batteries had disposed after after removing the shells for delivery to the enemy. Insect screening was stretched over flimsy wooden frames and layered with widely-spaced clapboards to allow airflow. Heavy duty canvas tents were stretched overall, and we sat back to see which would occur first; would the termites destroy our abodes from below before or after the jungle rot destroyed them from above. It little mattered to the insects who traversed our hooches looking for a tasty ankle to bite. Interestingly, just as we learned to distinguish the type of helicopter approaching by the sounds of its rotors, we learned to distinguish species of insects by the sound of their footsteps on our plywood floors. 

I LOST ALL my money soon after arriving in Vietnam. We all did. The Army replaced it with Military Payment Certificates (MPC). Real money was too valuable to leave in our hands. The enemy might get it. 

All MPC was paper money. There were notes for nickels, dimes and quarters as well as dollars (I can't remember if there were penny notes). Smashed together in your wallet and liberally saturated with sweat and humidity, they congealed into one mass.

Periodically, old MPC would be exchanged for new MPC. Only those who were authorized to have it could get the new notes. Thus, if anyone held any MPC illegally – Vietnamese civilians and the enemy – they ended up stuck with worthless money. 

Purchases on the civilian economy were made using South Vietnamese piastres and dong. I believe that the exchange rate was about fourteen piasters to the dollar when I arrived, and fifty dong equaled one piastre. Dong was of so little value I never traded in them. A popular myth held that the value of the piaster was secured by a thin thread of gold embedded in each note. I don't know anyone who didn't try to find it, and I suppose that the Vietnamese government enjoyed watching us destroy the money we had purchased with hard American currency, leaving them with an unintended profit.  

My first purchase on the civilian market was a bit of an adventure. I was returning from my first meeting at USARV in Saigon, and was passing Long Binh when I asked the driver to stop so that I could purchase a chair for my hooch and a trunk to store my clothes. The Vietnamese had made an industry of salvaging beer and soda cans from American trash heaps and converting them into all manner of useful merchandise. I had my driver stop at Widow's Village outside the base at Long Binh to make a couple of purchases. I wanted a chair and a trunk to keep my possessions at our hooch.

The Widow's Village was named for the wives of members of the ARVN (Army, Republic of Vietnam) who lived there. Some were actually widows, and others were virtual widows – widows by virtue of the fact that there husbands marched off to war and were never seen and heard from again because their superiors were loath to give them leave to visit, expecting them to never return.

We stopped at a roadside shop and I selected my goods. The young proprietress asked for five hundred piasters. My driver interrupted when I reached for my wallet, and asked me to wait aside while he bartered for a better price. A few minutes later, he came to me and announced that my three hundred piasters were good for the trunk and the chair, as well as fifteen minutes with the mama-san. Yes, he had bartered for sex for me. I was contemplating what to do when the MP's (yes, Military Police) arrived and informed me that the area was Off Limits. I grabbed my trunk and chair, and left the woman's honor (and my reputation) unblemished. 

One of the most dreaded extra duties assigned to me in Vietnam was MPC exchange officer for the 9th Admin Company. In the event that an MPC Exchange was announced, I was supposed to be given a supply of the new notes and exchange them for every cent of old MPC held by all authorized personnel in the unit. I dreaded it because any mistake would come out of my pocket. Fortunately, no date was announced during the time I was assigned that duty. However, I once came close to making an even greater mistake.

I cannot remember why, but I once was handed an attaché case containing forty thousand dollars in MPC and tasked with escorting it to our base camp in Dong Tam where the Mobile Riverine Force was headquartered. It was a simple enough assignment. I carried it to the airfield at Camp Bearcat and hitched a ride on a Huey (UH1-D) headed in that direction. Being that it was my first trip in that direction and I had been lucky enough to get a door seat, I wanted to take pictures. I jammed the attaché case against the door with my foot and leaned out to take photos. Unexpectedly, a Phantom jet fighter tore past us on a bombing run. Apparently, neither the fighter pilot nor our helicopter pilot had seen each other. The fighter dropped a large bomb under us and we dove to one side to avoid chunks of mud the size of sofas blown up around us. The attaché case was slipping out the door when I dropped my camera and lunged for it. Luckily, the camera was fastened to my neck with a strap and I was fastened to the helicopter by a loosely fitting seat belt. I believe I had both arms and legs securely locked around the attaché case.     

EVERYDAY LANGUAGE IS rich with idioms and phrases derived from wars throughout the ages: Act of War, All's Fair in Love and War, Axe to Grind, Bite the Bullet, Drop the Bombshell, Great Guns, In Your Sights, Loose Cannon, Pull the Trigger, Run the Gauntlet, Shot Across the Bow, Stick to Your Guns, Take the Flak, War Chest. These are phrases that we hear and use almost daily. More recently, World War II produced such famous words as copacetic (don't worry, everything's fine) and snafu (situation normal, all f**ked up). It seems that unpopular wars such as Vietnam and Korea, did not bring anything to the nation's lexicon. I have never heard popular words and phrases from Vietnam used since I returned from my tour of duty.

I suppose that we don't hear these phrases because veterans stopped using them when they returned home for much the same reason that they quickly removed their uniforms and hid them. We were unpopular for fighting an unpopular war and shunned anything that marked us for ridicule and scorn. So, before they're lost to the ages, I decided to make a collection. Who knows? It might come in handy when you're watching a war film from the Vietnam era. 

beaucoup: very many (French) - as in "beaucoup VC in the village"

C-Rats:  C-rations (also, 49 c's - the last year they were produced, but we ate them anyhow) 

Charlie: Viet Cong or VC or Cong 

Choi oi: Program whereby enemy combatants who surrendered were paroled to join the Army of Vietnam (ARVN) 

cowboys: gangs of street urchins - thieves and pick pockets like Fagin's crew in Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Di Di Mau: (Vietnamese: Di Di Mau Len) go away fast 

Donut Dolly: (delta-delta) - female Red Cross program director

dust off: air ambulance

expectants: (triage) patient not expected to survive (usually shunted to the side and left to die when triage personnel are inundated with many casualties)

geographical bachelors: married men separated from spouses by long distances

getting your car washed – soldiers parked their vehicles in the middle of streams where Vietnamese urchins swarmed over them, washing away the grime of war while young girls sat in driver's laps servicing them. Thus getting your car washed became synonymous with sexual intercourse with a hooker. 

gook: any Asian (pejorative)

hump: hike

immediates: (triage) patients requiring immediate attention

klik: Kilometer

mamasan/papasan: Vietnamese woman/man - Japanese woman or man when used in that nation.

Number One - best 

push: (triage) - large number of battle casualties arriving at medical facility

real world: life outside (before or after) the armed services

round-eye: (pejorative) - used by Vietnamese (and other Asians) to describe Americans (and other non-Asians)

Short - due to go home soon 

sick call: (triage) - time allotted to care for the walking wounded

slant or slant-eye: (pejorative) - used to describe any Asian

slope: (pejorative) -any Asian 

sorry 'bout that – Inadvertently administered harm to another, especially a non-combatant is a byproduct of all armed conflict. From random drive-by shootings in urban areas to death by friendly fire in the combat theater, people are injured and even killed, and property damaged almost daily. This is especially true when your enemy fights according to a doctrine wherein they are directed to hide among the civilian population. In Vietnam, we often responded to such incidents, “Sorry 'bout that.” 

Steel Pot - helmet (also used as a chair, wash basic, pillow, and anything else we could think of) 

strac: (high praise for a soldier) - tough and ready, all spit-shined and clean when preparing for a parade or guard mount

walking wounded: (triage) - patients whose care may be delayed until after all immediates are treated

Finally, let me clear up the confusion of the evolving name of the insurgents in Vietnam:

Viet: The Viet were the early peoples who occupied the area known today as Vietnam. They are ethnically related to the peoples inhabiting southern China and were originally referred to as the Lac. "Nam" means south. Thus, "Vietnam" is the land of the Viet to the south of China. 

Viet Cong: Red or Communist Viet – National Liberation Front (NLF) – the name adopted by the Viet Minh following the defeat of the French at Diem Bien Phu, and used until the end of the American involvement of the Vietnam War era.

Viet Minh: Free Viet – the League for the Independence of Vietnam – the nationalist movement that opposed occupation by French colonialists as well as the Japanese during World War II. Led by Phan Boi Chou during most of its early history and later usurped by Ho Chi Minh.   

I WENT TO USARV headquarters in Saigon for guidance when I became the casualty reporting officer for the 9th Infantry Division. I was given two pieces of advice. First, the major in charge of casualty reporting at USARV stressed accuracy. There was no greater nightmare than misidentification, and notifying the wrong next of kin. 

Secondly, the major turned and reached behind his desk where he retrieved a box of 3x5 inch index cards. The cards were divided into groups, bound by rubber bands. He then informed me that each card represented a soldier who had been medically evacuated from Vietnam.

Generally, the “walking wounded” were treated by medical corpsmen and remained with their units. They visited aid stations for further treatment if infection was a concern. All other wounds and illnesses were treated at military aid stations maintained near battalion headquarters, and hospitals maintained at brigade and division headquarters. Patients with more serious wounds and illnesses were evacuated to offshore medical facilities, or MEDEVAC to the United States. They might be treated in nearer hospitals such as the Philippines, Japan, or Hawaii, if their condition precluded transport back to the continental United States.

Patients treated in-country usually were returned to duty with their units if their absence was short. However, those that were medically evacuated were not expected to return to duty and replacements had to be assigned to take their place. The casualty reporting office was responsible for initiating the replacement of MEDEVACs as well as making certain that their personal records and gear were shipped to them at the medical facility where they were being treated. 

Each index card in the major's deck of cards represented a MEDEVAC who had not been properly processed. They were waiting in medical facilities for their orders, their records, their pay, their mail, their personal gear. The deck of cards for MEDEVACs from the 9th Infantry Division was thicker than all the other U.S. commands in Vietnam combined!

On return to my headquarters I brought my team together and told them we had a new priority. They complained that they hadn't been getting the cooperation they needed to take care of the MEDEVACs. I didn't care. Having worked for Social Security as a Claims Examiner before entering the Army, I knew that a Congressman was as effective as a polecat at a picnic, and I told my men to tell unit commanders that each MEDEVAC's case had risen to “Congressional attention.” 

We got results and our division Adjutant General received a visit from the USARV major who informed us that the 9th Infantry Division was now the paradigm of efficiency in casualty reporting.

So much for an officer's honesty, but a lie got the job done.    

THE NEXT OF KIN of every 9th Infantry Division casualty received three letters: one each from the unit commander, the division chaplain, the commanding general. There were probably others, but these were the only ones for which I was responsible. 

During the six months that I was the division casualty reporting officer, only one letter reached me from a unit commander to be sent to the next of kin of one of his men who had been killed. It was beautifully written, but badly handled. I had it retyped and personally carried it back to the commander in the field for his signature. I also made sure that commanders at every level were aware of it.

Personal letters written by unit commanders were highly unusual because of the nature of the Vietnam War. They were in combat 240 days out of each 365 day tour of duty versus only 40 days for soldiers in the South Pacific during World War II. The mobility of helicopter and riverine transport made the difference.

Similarly, I can excuse the Commanding General for not writing his own letter of condolence inasmuch as he was responsible for combat operations spread out over several thousand square miles of the Mekong Delta. However, unlike other forms of official correspondence and documents, he insisted on personally signing each letter of condolence. I cannot make any such excuse for the division chaplain. I had to sign his letters as well as write them. I even had to find a non-denominational biblical passage to include.

Several years ago, my family visited the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library in Simi Valley, California, and, about midway through the tour, my wife found me weeping in a corner. I had been listening to a recording of Reagan speaking about his love of his ranch where he vacationed as President and entertained notable visitors including the Queen of England. He said that the vista there reminded him of his favorite biblical passage:

“I will lift mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the Lord, which made the heaven and the earth”
– Psalm 121

It was the same verse I had chosen to include in the chaplain's letter of condolence.

Every letter had to be typewritten perfectly. Erasures were equally forbidden along with errors. We feared that the next of kin might interpret any error as evidence that we could have made other mistakes, such as misidentified the remains, and that the person in the casket might not be their loved one. Of course, we frequently sought to discourage them from viewing the remains, inasmuch as battle casualties often suffered traumatic amputations and mutilations.

Interestingly, my best typist was a young man who seemingly should never have been drafted or recruited. His mental acuity was severely disabled. However, he was diligent in his duties, never distracted, and rarely made an error let alone allow one to reach me. I wish I had more like him.   

MY MOM WAS a telephone operator in the days before direct dial long distance calling. In those days, you dialed “0” (not “o”) for Operator and told her the city and telephone number you wanted to reach. She plugged a cord to connect you with the city you wanted using a “trunk” line and placed the call for you. If you specified “person-to-person,” she waited on the line with you and asked for the name you were calling. She didn't begin timing your call until that person came on the line to speak, but you paid a higher per minute rate than you would for a simple “station-to-station” call. Actually, she wouldn't be too lost had she been running a switchboard for the Army in Vietnam.

The Army had direct dial long distance calling long before it was available in the civilian world. They called it AUTOVON. It was a worldwide network and had an added feature that never appeared in the civilian counterpart. If the caller's message was especially urgent, such as notice of an imminent attack, they could press the “Flash” button on their phone and the call would be routed immediately, bypassing all other callers, even terminating their calls if necessary to make the connection.

AUTOVON connected to major headquarters in Vietnam, but all other phone lines connected to field phones much like those used in World War II and Korea. Even those of us who had desktop telephone instruments like the ones found in homes and offices in the United States had to request help from the operator to make a call anytime, anywhere. We had dials but not telephone numbers. Most often, the instruments at the other end were field phones, with a crank handle attached to a magneto to generate an electrical pulse to signal the operator that they needed help with a call.

We picked up the phone and waited for an operator to assist us. Some whistled and shouted into the instrument when they got tired of waiting. They believed that the operators could hear them. In truth, no one could hear them until the operator plugged a cord into the circuit of the person placing the call. The caller named the military unit they wanted to call and waited for the operator to find a circuit to connect them.

Telephone circuits generally followed the chain of command. For example, if I wanted to talk to someone in Company B, 3rd Battalion, 60th Infantry, the operator would begin with a connection to the 60th Infantry. If all circuits to that regimental headquarters were in use, they might call another regiment and see if they had an open circuit to the 60th. From there, another circuit was used to connect to the 3rd Battalion, and another from there to Company B. We had to rely on the ingenuity and perseverance of the operator to get our calls through.

Most of the calls that came to the Casualty Reporting Branch of the Adjutant Generals Office, originated in the S1 of a battalion headquarters. Just as division commanders, major generals, delegated responsibilities to a general staff (G1 - Administration, G2 - Intelligence, G3 - Operations, and G4 – Logistics), regimental commanders, colonels, and battalion commanders, lieutenant colonels, delegated responsibilities to staff officers (S1, S2, S3, and S4). Battalion S1s were responsible for notifying division headquarters of battle casualties: KIA (Killed in Action), MIA (Missing in Action), and MEDEVAC (Medically Evacuated). 

Most S1s were platoon leaders who had survived six months or been relieved of command for leading combat patrols poorly. In either case, they were not administrative experts which is why I hitch-hiked on helicopters to visit them and brief them on their duties, especially those relating to casualty reporting. Having been infantry-trained myself, I knew that they were ill-prepared for their duties.

Soon after taking over command of the Casualty Reporting Branch, I decided one day to take a few calls to see what my men were having to cope with. I took a blank form in hand and my pen when the telephone rang and took a report for a KIA, cause of death: Traumatic amputation of both legs when he stepped on a mine. It rattled me, but I completed transcribing all the information and confirming its details.

The Army tolerated no errors in casualty reporting. No excuses were allowed for the primitive communications that we were forced to work with any more than they cared for our personal sensibilities. The horrors we faced dealing with the dead were nothing compared to those who faced death.