Pour Me

Pour Me

Let’s go for a stroll, a jungle jaunt, 1966 style. My, but we were all in tremendous physical shape back then. Superb conditioning was a prerequisite for the arduous tasks we would be called on to perform. Never did we need it more than one fine day in May. We were treated to an early–morning, scenic helicopter ride that deposited us at the edge of a tangled mass of tropical vegetation forming an impenetrable thicket through which we were supposed to make our way. This was the jungle. It stretched as far as we could see, and since our vantage point was from a few hundred feet above the ground, that was, indeed, quite a stretch.
Waiting for us at the entrance to this morass were dozens of tanks and APC’s (armored personnel carriers). The APC’s were also called “half–tracks”, so designated because they had an endless chain–track drive system like that of a tank used to propel the vehicle which was supported in front by a pair of wheels. The presence of all this armored might was baffling at first. We were used to being driven or choppered to a starting point and then turned loose with orders to cover (“sweep”) a specified area in search of “the enemy”. Since the enemy was indistinguishable from villagers we would encounter along the way, this was often an exercise in futility. It was simple enough to transpose oneself from foe to friend and vice–versa by exchanging a rifle for a scythe. Unless an entire village was overly cooperative and gave us reliable information regarding the presence of VC in the area (and this could only be confirmed afterwards), we could never be completely sure where their allegiance lay. Nationalism was common to virtually all Vietnamese; it was merely a question of whether these feelings of loyalty and devotion favored the interests of Chairman Mao or those of the South Vietnamese government. That the SVN government was rife with corruption while being sanctioned and supported by American interests only increased the difficulty of the average Vietnamese citizen when faced with choosing where his sympathies lay.
But let us get back to all that armor, for that is what is integral to today’s tale. Our initial confusion was abated when it was explained that these vehicles would be “leading the way”. The particular stretch of jungle that was our mission for the next few days was such a tangle that not even Tarzan could negotiate it swiftly or easily. An aerial reconnaissance showed numerous clearings of varying size and even the remnants of an old trail or two. It also revealed growth as thick as a hedge that went on forever. The only way to cross this terrain was to follow behind the tanks and half–tracks. They would precede us and mow down the vegetation, thereby enabling us to advance a couple of “clicks” (kilometers) per hour. It would be slow going, but there was just no other way to make any progress and thoroughly explore the area. It was suspected that there were VC strongholds somewhere in the quagmire, and we were called upon to do our best to ferret them out.
I do not recall hearing a cry, “Gentlemen, start your engines”, but it would have been appropriate. We were not that far from Memorial Day and the brickyard at Indianapolis dwarfed all other racing events back in that era. There were twice the number of tanks and half–tracks as there would be racing cars at Indy. This operation eclipsed any I had previously been involved in, in both size and strength. To further justify the metaphor, these exercises often wound up with us literally going in circles.
Off we went, in a straight line at first, and it quickly became known just what a test of our mettle this little sortie would be. The vehicles flattened the growth all right, but it was no mean feat. Relentlessly they advanced, and it sounded as if even these mighty behemoths were straining for every foot of purchase. Bringing up the rear were the columns of foot–soldiers. Tanks and half–tracks were spaced about 20 meters apart in a horizontal line, and roughly 35 men followed each vehicle. Add it all up and this was an undertaking with considerable strength: over a thousand men on foot and a few hundred men in the support vehicles. Someone certainly thought this expanse of jungle that lay before us held something significant. We would cut a wide swath and find out if the information that sponsored this roadshow had credence.
No sooner had we begun than we met with almost overwhelming resistance. We were heavily outnumbered, literally overrun, and our opponents took us by surprise. We should have expected it, but short–sightedness ruled and I really cannot say that we could have done much different had we forecast this eventuality. The jungle’s most populous inhabitants, the infrastructure that outnumbers all of us everywhere (make that everywhere inhabitable without going to great lengths to survive), came a–swarming and a–buzzing and they were none too happy at what we had just done to the neighborhood.
Their displeasure was apparent by the way they immediately singled us out as the usurpers and focused their entire wrath upon us. They did not aimlessly fly off in all directions; they directed their solitary energy into a combined force that increased their individual might exponentially. We were ambushed from all sides, above and below. Our mission now had an additional objective: to continue our trek while repelling this damnable diversion. The forces of nature would test us mightily that day. To make progress through the trampled thickets we walked as one would through mid–thigh–high water. Each step consisted of lifting the leg up and out of the tangle below and placing it forward and down into the now–doubled quagmire. Both meanings of the word were satisfied in this one encounter. To lessen the area of vulnerability our insect friends could seek revenge we rolled our shirtsleeves down to our wrists and buttoned them fast. Shirts were buttoned tightly to the neck. Now only our hands, faces, wrists, and necks were targets. Imagine if you will, walking as I described while simultaneously slapping one hand with the other, fore and aft, and all the while smacking the face, neck, and brow with these busy hands. Try it. It must be done speedily, and you are not allowed to stop and rest. Soon you will develop a rhythm. It will seem to you, as it did to me, that all of those who have taken up this percussive call (you will need friends to act in concert) have found a similar rhythm. To the symphony of jungle noises has been added a new sound. It is quickly absorbed, and what started out as cacophonous soon becomes placating. The grumbling and curses soon cease as all attention is devoted to the task at hand. When the noise ceases it will be prominent by its absence. For now it will continue, for how long we dare not guess. Only an occasional clearing will grant respite, then the call will be taken up once more.
The offshoot of this added expenditure of energy was that it increased our thirst. We had learned well to conserve out water ration. A pair of quart canteens hung from our belts. These were filled each morning and were often unable to be refilled until we were re–supplied in the evening. By early afternoon everyone had bone–dry canteens hanging from their waists. Fortunately, the tanks and half–tracks were fortified with five–gallon cans and this satisfied the need for a time. At each clearing the queue of weary men ambled to the back of the vehicles with canteen cups held out beseechingly, watched clear liquid life poured into these vessels, then greedily quaffed until drained. Finally the time came when there was simply no more water. All the five–gallon cans had been emptied. It was only mid–afternoon, fully two hours or more before we reached our destination for today. Destination being a bit of a misnomer; some anonymous point on a map that was indistinguishable from any other within miles. A long, thirsty walk was what we had to look forward to.
I have always been thankful for my Irish ancestry. My constant companion, a leprechaun who dwells in my pocket, rises to the occasion time and again. This time would be no different. The “hidden hands” that guide the course of human events are sometimes deceptively small. At a stop slightly more than an hour later the half–track that my merry band was following announced they had discovered another can back in a corner (I have often wondered just how many places there are inside one of those things for a container that size to lay undetected). It was old, doubtless a leftover from a previous mission, long–ago previous, and rusted on the top and sides. When it was at last prized open the contents were unlike anything in my human experience. The rust had found its way under the cap and started to invade the innards. What came out was a dark substance that was alive with specks of iron. They swam and settled as we watched. I was at the front of the line and it was decision time. I was the medic. The men’s health was in my hands. I diagnosed the situation and pronounced the patient fit to drink. “Just a little extra iron to make us stronger,” I announced. I quickly downed my cupful and held the empty cup out for a refill. It took not a second: jostling for a place in line began anew. That extra drink was just the succor necessary to carry us fresh to the end of what we laughingly always referred to as “just another day in paradise”.
I could not begin to count the number of different thirst–quenchers I have sampled over six decades. Were I a fancier of alcohol the number would be much greater, but those I could count. Never developed a got–to–have habit for anything but Coca–Cola and cigarettes. (Okay, one other, but even when I had to have it I didn’t always get it. But I did all right.) Regardless of the number, there is that one that will never be dislodged from the number–one perch. The best drink I ever had, the best drink any of us present that day ever had, was brown, warm, and alive with iron filings. In the kingdom of the blind, the one–eyed man is king; in the land of the parched, we felt royal once more and made it to the end of the day thankful that can had somehow escaped detection until we came along. Now, if I could only figure out just where it was hidden. Bet my leprechaun knows.