Heat Wave

Be careful in the sun:  Seek shade, drink lots of water, and remember that perspiration is God's way of telling you that you're going to Hell!

In Viet Nam, (1969-1970)  ... three months into my tour.

We were assigned to "Firebase Security", my platoon and another, and we were assigned to a "cloverleaf patrol" outside Firebase "November 2" ..

"We" was Charley Company, 1/18th, First Infantry Division.  One hundred Infantrymen commanded by Captain Cagill and we were Third Platoon ("Third Herd") commanded by Lieutenant Smith ... known as "The Rutgers Ranger" ... he was a graduate of the ROTC program at Rutgers University.

Lieutenant Smith (all names are invented here) commanded First and Second platoons, I was senior NCO (E6/Staff Sergeant) of Third Platoon.   Fourth platoon did not exist .. manpower was short.  We had to use everyone we had, regardless of the risks.

I led the 30-man platoon, which we had split into two 2-squad elements; our company mission was to perform a day-light "cloverleaf" patrol around the four corners of the firebase to search for daylight infiltrators or any enemy positions.  Mostly, we were just showing the flag so Charley knew he couldn't sneak observers into the area of the firebase without being discovered.

In truth, it was a bullshit mission because the CO didn't want us to just sit behind the wire and get soft.

It was a delicate minuet we danced: Chi-Com Charley vs GI Joe.  We all  knew that November 2 guarded Hiway 15 (AKA "Thunder Road" as it was the most direct access to Saigon from the North .. where Charley ruled the High Ground and we guarded the road ... the easiest and fasted route to Saigon in the country.

Running a daylight patrol in the 130 degree tropical sun is not a softening exercise.  It had its own threats, including that Charley might have set up a few trip-wires to break up a (REALLY important) Night-time patrol.  It was one of Charley's favorite games.  He set up a daytime booby-trap  which would have attracted defensive fire at night in a quadrant which was NOT the planned access for a late-night    We HAD to patrol, every day, regardless of the high probability that some of our men would be unable to withstand the terrible heat and high humidity.

But Charley left a few routes "not mined".  If we could find where the traps were, we could figure out the routes which Charley was un likely to pour troups at us during the hours of darkenss; a pre-dawn raid was their favorite tacktic.

So .. yes!  Taking a patrol out in the heat of the day was risky because of the chance that American troups would be decimated by heat-stroke.  It was stupid to send troups on patrol in the heat of the day.

That's why we did it, and that's why we assumed the risk of the deadly noon-day sun.

And Charley's simple little trap worked, at least as far as it went.

All of our attention was on providing First Aid to a "wounded comrade", and our patrol never completed its assigned mission because of the need to (a) get our man the best medical attention immediately, and (b) get the rest of our men under cover.


(For what it's worth, we never found any mines, booby-traps, or other conditions which might have hazarded a night-time patrol .. so we patrolled the outside perimeter that night, too.)

What is heatstroke?

Heatstroke is a serious condition that occurs when our body’s temperature rises over 103 degrees Fahrenheit. It is usually the result of overexerting yourself in extreme heat and is an emergency. “With heat stroke, the body tries to lower its internal temperature by systematically shutting down organs to protect the heart and brain,” explains cardiologist Paula Montana De La Cadena, MD.

In a word .. "Heatstroke Will Kill You!" almost as fast as a bullet.  (Okay, more than one word.)

We all carried three to five canteens of water 

 I also carried a 5-gallon backpack of water, because when you're on a long patrol, the three or four or five canteens won't last anyone if the patrol is extended.  The weight was grueling at first, but we always took it slow and easy for the first day of the patrol.  When we stopped for the night, I refilled canteens from my back-pack.  It still wasn't as much as we wanted, but every man "hydrated" every time we stopped. Sometimes, more often.   My backpack was necessary because we typically didn't meet a "resupply" convoy more often than every 3 days (unless we were in contact .. when we sometimes needed ammunition resupply anyway);  and we always needed more food ... humping through the bush required a lot of calories, and the one thing that the Army was good at was supply!

It wasn't my choice to carry extra water because I was "noble"; I didn't walk as far as everyone else in the unit, but I always encouraged them to "hydrate" (drink water) at every stop ... even if it was only a sip from a canteen.  You are not your best judge of your need for water in a combat patrol; that's MY job, as Platoon Sergeant ... to look after your men.   I would send them out on short patrols to investigate the flanks of our line of match, and they would come back later having travelled two or three times as much ground as I had travelled.  They were our "Flankers", and our first line of defense.

These men were our most important members of any patrol.  I was nothing more than the guy who sent them off on dangerous missions ... and I was their Water Bearer.  They did the hard work; I sent them out as well-supplied as possible.  I knew I might not see them back for hours .. or alive.

After all these years, I have lost contact with the men I commanded, and also with their families (with whom I maintained an email relationship until they ceased to respond.

I am very proud of the men who allowed me to work with them in the most dangerous part of their lives.  Most of them came home again, and I talked with them.  Those who didn't come back "whole" left me with family contacts, and for a while .... but then it became more uncomfortable for them to talk to me, and i did not force myself and my memories upon them.

But I hope they know that I have not forgotten the brave men who fought with me.  A couple of whom I watched die, some of whom went elsewhere .. and the most of them just don't want to talk about Viet Nam any more.

I hope that this is the last time I'll talk about those awful days .... my brother-in-law accuses me of having "Loved It", but he avoided the draft (I wish I could have done so .. for m soul's sake) and i can't guarantee that I won't have more "War Stories" to get off my chest in the future.

The truth is, it's helpful for me to talk about The Bad Old Days.

Fighting in an undeclared war against an enemy who had never constituted a direct threat ....
against me, my country or my family, is not my "Bravest Moment". ... I wish I had never been involved.  Why couldn't they just let me be?  But NO .. they drafted me and (GOD help me) I did my best to be the most fierce warrior possible.

It's late nights such as this one, when I wonder if I should have just renounced my American citizenship and moved to Canada.

But that would have been an act of cowardice, I think, and I should always wonder whether I had renounced my American Citizenship out of moral outrage, or fear of death in war..

In the end, I did not have the moral courage to refuse the draft. 
What would my children think of me then?

No, I did what I thought was the lesser of evils .. I "served my country" to the best of my ability, and for a cause that I did not espouse .... because it IS My Country.

No Mission Too Difficult;
No Sacrifice Too Great!
Duty First!

That's the motto of the First Infantry Division.

Independence Day Blues ... Second Draft ... The Real Story

In the aftermath of Independence Day, my thoughts often veer toward a consideration of my role during the war in Viet Nam.

I was drafted, and that was no excuse.  I could have migrated to Canada, I could have refused to serve, I could have opted for a non-military role ... oh, no!  I couldn't.   I decided to serve my country, comforted by the  arrogance that I was competent to lead men into battle.

I went where I was told, did what I was told, and the world is a better place because I did my duty as an American.

Well ... perhaps not.  Allow me to tell the story of my failure to lead and to protect the men who bravely accepted my leadership and died as a result of it.

Tom Arnold's Gun Control Essay Presents a Passionate Argument

Tom Arnold's Gun Control Essay Presents a Passionate Argument | Hollywood Reporter:

 Because I've had personal demons, I worried about those who would come back as heroes to everyone but themselves, and now might find themselves alone, without their team, sitting in their basement with their drugs and their guns.

Tom, bless you for your concerns.  But I think that you might pay attention to the fact that since you are a "name", people will listen to your words.  Most of whom are not .. excuse the word .. suicidal.

That may be what you want ... not the suicides; the discretion.  But what happens is that a lot of perfectly sane people who own firearms might be tarred by the same brush.
(Sorry: feel remorse and consider suicide as a viable alternative to live.)

I know you're a big hollywood star, and I've seen both of your movies (one of them had AHNOLD in it, I can't recall the other movie right off-hand) and you were married to that revered woman celebrity ... the one with the mouth?  Yeah, that one.  Rosanne?  (Correct me if I'm wrong, sorry.)

Anyway, you might consider the effect your words have on the millions of people who are responsible gun owners.   Their experiences may not quite parallel yours:

My nephew Spencer was a sweet boy, but he was small, and I'm sure he was picked on. He was kicked out of the Army after attempting suicide. He was diagnosed as chronically depressed and unsafe around weapons. Yet he was able to get a concealed weapon permit from the state of Iowa and buy five guns. Like me, Spencer was a substance abuser. He refused my offer for help with that as well as his mental illness, so I was very concerned. Last fall, when I saw on Facebook that he had joined a crazy, racist, neo-Nazi (I'm Jewish, as is my mom) gun group and videotaped himself showing off, drunkenly shooting his assault rifle and calling President Obama the N-word, I headed to the airport to go see him.

Tom ... can I call you Tom?  I don't want to presume on you, but you're being quoted in the press as an expert on firearms, and I honestly regret your loss of a beloved nephew due to suicide.  I know that's hard to deal with; I've had friends and family who were also victims of firearms violence.

Well, actually, I'm thinking mostly about the 18 year old kid who was killed by a booby trap in VietNam, in 1969.  Not the same as suicide, I know, but the feeling of loss is almost comparable, except my kid died thinking he was fighting for his country, and your nephew (obviously closer, personally, to you than this kid in my platoon) was morbidly depressed because ... ah .. well, I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure he was experiencing some tough-to-handle things, unlike my happy-go-lucky friend in ... you  know ... the army?

So just because I was in the army, and 'over there', doesn't mean that I don't feel your pain.  It's hard to lose a loved one, especially someone who was such a close relative as a nephew.

Anyway, even though my friend wasn't a substance abuser, he DID have firearms.  (Not that it did him much good, but that's another story.  I carried his M16 and his web gear back to base camp, after his body was picked up by the helicopter.)   I don't think we can label him an "expert on firearms", although he did carry an AR16 for the rest of his life.  Which ended at age 19.

I don't think my friend called the president an "n-word", but that was a different decade and a different president; Nixon?   Is that an "N-word"?  Whatever, my friend gave his life for his country, not for his president.

Sorry; it's been a lot of years, and sometimes I get confused about just which president sent us to the beautiful, balmy country of South Vietnam.  It was ONE of those guys, probably a fucking Republican (and you know how THEY are).

Or was it Kennedy?  Or Johnson.   Never mind, I kind of zone out from time to time.

Where was I?
Oh yeah, now I remember.

Tom, I'm sorry your nephew blew his brains out.  I've seen it, it's not a pretty sight.

So please accept my most sincere  ... um ... condolences for your personal loss.  Nobody should have to suffer as you obviously have, at the loss of your son.

Oh, no ... sorry .. NEPHEW!   (Knuckling my head, why can't I get that straight?)

Sorry for your lose Tom.  Truly.  People think that Celebrities shouldn't be like real people and feel pain at the loss of a loved one.

There is no shame in suicide.  Happens to the best of people.

Well, you already know that.

Flamethrowers .. are not QUITE the BEST thing you've ever had in your hand ..

Flamethrower In Super Extra Ultra HD Slow Motion .... but they can be fun!

The article says that a flamethrower is the best thing you've ever had in your hand.  Well, I've used a flame-thrower, and I admit they are fun.

In Christmas week of 1969 (yes, this is a war story) my Company Executive Officer noticed that I had bamboo poisoning over so much of my body that I needed immediate medical attention.  So he pulled me out of the bush and put me into the Company Area on "Medical Profile" for two weeks.

Talk about a great Christmas Present!

Since I was "light duty" and was required to walk about the Division Base Camp with my pants legs rolled up. wearing only shower shoes and NO BLOUSE (shirt) ON, I was of no use to anyone.

The thought was the the more sunshine I got on my running sores on legs, arms, face and neck, the faster I would heal and the faster I could get back to running my platoon ... I was the platoon sergeant, not the Platoon Leader ... (but we know who really runs a platoon. ).  And I damn sure would never heal up while I was wading through bamboo thickets, bogs, creeks, and sleeping on the ground with leeches.

But officers .. ah, officers.  They HATE to see an Enlisted man walking around in a Tropical War Zone looking COMFORTABLE!

The company leadership soon tired of watching me slouch around the company area, so they decided to find "light duty" which was appropriate to my rank and medical profile.

The thing they had me do was to evaluate weapons.

I tested a four-round semi-automatic rocket launcher, first.  This was a weapon which fired missiles similar to the M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon (LAW).  It was a piece of shit; too heavy for use in the jungle, and it required a separate person to carry the reloads .. both the launcher (loaded or unloaded) and the reload weighed on the order of 40 pounds, and had no redeeming qualities.  I told them so.  If the rocket couldn't do the job in one shot, what the HELL was the use of having four shots .. especially since you couldn't reload the one rocket used, but instead had to carry a 4-round rocket launcher and that was the ONLY reload option possible!  (I admit to a little sarcasm snark here.)

Then they had me test ... I swear I am telling the truth .. a flame-thrower!

Again, too heavy, no redeeming qualities in an infantry unit where every man is already carrying a full load of ammunition and supplies; absolutely useless in a Jungle environment except (as was the case with the rocket launcher) if you wanted to neutralize an enemy bunker.  In the jungle.  Which was wet all the time.

Still, I got to fire one, and it was ......... heavy.

Not that it wouldn't have been fun, but who wants to carry forty pounds of fuel that blows up and burns your ass off if somebody puts a bullet in the tank.  Yeah, I had seen all the WWII movies.  But I got to burn up a couple gallons of fuel and discovered that the point of the thing is this magnesium match.  And before you can get the fuel to burn, you have to pull this lever to strike the match.  (Oversimplification alert!)

Once you strike the match, there's no way to put it out.  You can only unscrew the mechanism and drop it.  And then you have to put the new match in, which is a total pain in the ass because it has to go in JUST RIGHT!

(When you drop the match, remember that you have fuel dripping out of the nozzle, unless the flame thrower valve is in top-notch condition. Which puts you at the mercy of the guys in the Arsenal bunker, who maintain the equipment; I've partied with those guys back at Division, and none of them were sober 2 hours out of 24.  So no, I didn't trust the technical expertise of people who were only sober when they were passed out asleep!)

On the third hand, flame throwers are nothing if not dramatic!  There's this slight hesitation when you pull the lever, and then ... WHOOOOOSHHH!!!!!

As the referenced video shows, this great red-and-black Dragon dives out of the muzzle, grows to immense size immediately, and absolutely eats up everything in its path!  (As long as it's within 30  or 40 feet of the nozzle, which is well within the range of an AK47, so it's Not All Good.)

<sigh>

Yes, those were The Good Old Days.  When you could spend a couple of hours on an idle Thursday Afternoon testing 30 year-old equipment and had no more responsibility than to say: "Yep, it still works .. but who cares?"

Oh.  There is suppose to be a point to these little snippets, isn't there?

Let's see, we're talking about (a) 4-round semi-automatic back-pack rocket launcher, and a flame thrower.  Right?

Nope.  No point to them.  No point at all.

Pugil Stick Fighting in Army Basic Training

When I was drafted into the army, in 1969, I was the oldest man in the platoon at 23 years old.  Also, I was the only married man (I got married six days before my report date!) so my platoon cadre chose me to be the "Platoon Guide", which is an honorary position; it means that I was responsible for anything BAD that happened in my platoon.  I had no actual power, except that I would assign platoon members to all the shit details that were assigned to my platoon.  This did not make me the most popular guy in the platoon.

The Cadre made the appointment before we showed up for Basic Training at Fort Lewis, Washington (just outside Tacoma), so they didn't actually know that I was a physical weakling, and total wimp.  They only knew I was a college graduate, old, married, and they assumed I had something going for me.

They may not have noticed that I only weighed 126 pounds, and that I was 6' tall.

Which was not all that bad a thing, because I was able to accomplish administrative tasks remarkably well.

But I didn't know how to fight.

Then came the day when they introduced us to PUGIL STICK TRAINING.

The Qualities Demanded of an Infantry Officer

The Army Looks to the Future | RealClearDefense:

 Army organizations must be led by the highest caliber of officer. Ideal officers should always take the initiative and be capable of daring feats due to high self-confidence and a creative imagination. Their physical and moral courage must be unquestionable and they need a physical stamina that is equal to their mental flexibility. Leadership is the most important element in the Army and we have been blessed to continue to find excellent combat capable leaders because of our great education system.

I read this article with great interest, because it reflected lessons I had learned during my own limited military experience: