The 332nd day: We had this ARVN assigned to us. I don‟t trust Vietnamese, not even the southerners.
They have a tendency to run when things get hot. I know that‟s a generalization, but over here,
sometimes generalizing keeps you alive. Anyway, this ARVN scout was on point and he runs into a
sniper. One lousy sniper but this crud leaves the point arid comes running back to report. What it
was, he didn‟t have the guts to cream the fucking gook.
So he comes running back and the sniper pops off three men, one, two, three, just like that. We get up
there and I get around behind the sniper and I empty halfa clip into him.
When we get back to base I radio it upriver and tell them I‟m sending this creep ARVN back to them, I
can‟t use him.
“Keep him,” they say. “It‟s politics.”
Poli-fuckin‟ -tics. Jesus! Politics my ass.
Tonight we‟re camped out in the bush, he heads back into town to see his lady friend. I take off my
shoes and follow him. He‟s going to the river to hop a ride and I jump him before he gets to the dock
and slit him ear to ear with my K-bar, just drop him in the fucking river.
That‟s one son of a bitch isn‟t getting any more of my people killed.
The 338th day: This time when I went down to Dau Tieng, it was the captain and this lieutenant
named Harris, who looked like he didn‟t take shit from anybody, and we met in this bar which
everybody jokingly calls the Café Society. 1 figure it‟s about the ARVN. They probably found him,
he‟s some asshole‟s brother or something. It doesn‟t even come up.
“You know the trouble with this war,” the captain says. “We get these people for a year. Just when
they‟re getting good enough to stay alive and take a few tricks, they go home.”
And I says to myself, Uh-oh.
The lieutenant says to me, “You got a real handle on what it‟s all about, Sergeant.”
And I laugh. I don‟t know what‟s happening two miles away and I say so.
“I mean out on the line,” the lieutenant says.
“Oh, that,” I says.
“Ever hear of CRIP?” he asks me.
I had heard some vague stories about a mixed outfit made up of North Viets who had defected to our
side and called themselves Kit Carson scouts, plus infantry guys, some leftover French Legionnaires,
and, some said, even some CIA, although you could hear that about anything. What I heard was that
they were pretty much assassination squads. Our own guerrillas, like the Green Berets and the
SEALS, which is like the Navy berets. Anyway I said no, because what I heard was mostly scuttlebutt.
“It‟s Combined Recon and Intelligence Platoons. Special teams. We keep them small, four or five
people. You know how that goes, everybody gets so they think like one person. You move around
pretty much on your own, targets of opportunity, that sort of thing. I think it would be just up your
alley.”
“I got ten weeks left,” I said, and I said it like You must be nuts.
But it was funny, I was interested in what he was saying. I mean, this lieutenant was recruiting me,
asking me to do another tour, and I was listening to the son of a bitch. And he went right
“We have a low casualty rate because everybody knows what they‟re doing. You go out, you do your
thing, you come back, everybody leaves you alone.”
“That‟s about what I‟m doing now,” I said.
“That‟s what I mean, you‟re perfect for CRIP. We need people like you.”
I‟m getting a little pissed. “What‟s in this for me, Lieutenant? Just sticking my ass out there to get
whacked off for twelve more months? Shitt”
He says, “So what‟s back home? You work eight hours, sleep eight hours. Shit, Sergeant, all you got
left is eight hours a day to live. Tell me this isn‟t better than bowling.”
I told him I‟d think about it and I got shacked up for two days and went back down to the squad.
The 347th day: We had this kid, a replacement, his first time on the line. I don‟t even remember his
name. Anyway, we‟re rushing this hooch and there‟s a lot of caps going off and the kid twists his
ankle and down he goes and he starts screaming. We all just stay down and all I‟m thinking, as many
times as I told this kid, “You go down, keep your mouth shut no matter how bad you‟re hurt,” and
he‟s losing it all.
They zero in on him but Doc gets to him first and he‟s dragging this kid by the feet, trying to get him
behind something, away from the fire.
I hear the round hit. It goes phunk, like that.
I was hoping it was the kid but no such hick. Doc took one round, dead center.
Then the kid freaks out and runs for it and they just cut him to pieces too.
What a waste, what a goddamn awful fucking waste.
Later on, the GE‟s come in with their body bags. Doc is lying beside a tree. He looks like he‟s taking
a nap and I‟m sitting beside him and this guy comes up with the bag and plops it down beside Doc
and zips it open.
God, how I hate that sound. I hate zippers.
“Don‟t put that on him,” I say, and I grab that goddamn green garbage bag. “Don‟t put that fuckin‟
bag on him.”
“Hey, easy, pal, okay,” the Gunner says. “He‟s gone. We lost him. Let them take him back.”
You can‟t cry, you know. Nobody cries up here. You cry, everybody thinks you‟re losing it. Doc had
eight days. Eight fucking days to go. All that time, all that experience. All stuffed in a fucking garbage
bag.
The 353rd day: Ever since, I been thinking a lot about Carmody and Flagler and Jesse Hatch. Doc
Ziegler. Some of the others. The lieu-tenant‟s right; it is kind of a waste, spending a year on the line
and then leaving it just when you really get so you know what you‟re doing. I‟ve never been a pro
before at anything. But I know how to fight these motherfuckers. I feel like I‟m doing something