From Chapter 12 of "Boocoo Dinky Dow": The Convoy
You die before you die, GI! You in first truck!
Word came down that we were going on a convoy in the morning, heading out for a major operation south of Blackhawk. The Army hoped to trap a North Vietnamese battalion in a hammer-and-anvil movement, and Charlie Company was to be the hammer. But first, we were to set up in an old French base camp in the boontoolies. The usual rumors abounded: By God, we told each other, we’re finally going to see some action.
We were nervous—not about the possibility of battle, but about the convoy. This time, we would be on a dirt road, not a major highway. We would be vulnerable to an enemy who had perfected the business of attacking a convoy by boxing it in. The North Vietnamese would let the tank and armored personnel carrier at the front of the convoy pass by. The NVA then would detonate mines under the first and last trucks, forcing the convoy to stop, then open fire.
This tactic was such standard operating procedure that the GIs who were assigned to the first truck were the subjects of much pity. Or self-pity.
“We’re doomed!” was the consensus in my squad when we heard that our truck was the first in line. We’d be easy pickings for the NVA.“What a chicken shit way to go!”
Our only hope was to get on the road early, before the enemy knew we were coming. But we didn’t leave early, so we had plenty of time to contemplate that our number was up. We also had time and the means to get drunk, thanks to a grunt who bought whiskey down by the river.
About noon, after we piled some of the company supplies and ammunition into a trailer that our truck was pulling, we started drinking. Then we loaded ourselves into the truck. As the waiting and drinking went on, one of the men began using a radio in the truck to call other, equally bored GIs. Someone else produced a spotted camo parachute, ripped it into strips and made gaudy headbands for everybody. The whole squad looked like a den of Cub Scouts dressed like Indian braves.
The only sober person in the vicinity was a girl hawking sunglasses. She was about 11, not young enough to be cuddly-cute and not old enough to be feminine. She was all business, demanding five piasters for wraparound plastic shades with paper-thin lenses. She aimed her sales pitch at Longest.
“You buy these. GI! You buy before you die, GI! You in first truck!”
“Kid, you get the hell out of here,” Longest answered. “Little jerk!”
“No, GI, me just make fun. Me want sell sunglasses,” the girl fired back. She never softened as she launched into a voracious argument. Or maybe I should say tenacious. Longest was no match for her. The other guys were growing fond of the kid. Somebody said, “Hey, man, she can flip shit back as fast as you can dish it out.”
Longest snorted. He asked the girl: “Hey, kid, you boom-boom?”
“No, me no boom-boom.”
“Well, you got a big sister?”
“No, no. No big sister.”
“How about a little brother?”
“You no boom-boom my little brother, you dinky dow GI!”
That line got everybody clapping, and somebody said, “What the hell, let’s buy some of the kid’s sunglasses.” And they all did, except for me. I couldn’t, because I wore those thick prescription shades.
It was about 1530 hours when she made her last sale, and we finally started to roll. Our truck fell in behind the rattling tank and personnel carrier. As usual, I was on top behind the cab with the M-60. The edge of the forest came right down to the road. There was plenty of cover out there. Way too much cover.
We’d bounced along for 15 minutes, and the truck went around a bend. Just as it turned, I could see a tree that overhung the road. Men on top of the personnel carrier were ducking so they wouldn’t get whacked. I reached for the machine gun to get it out of the way of the branches. I’d barely lifted it when the explosion hit. The concussion threw me against the cab, shoulder first. The other men—who’d been dangling their feet over the back of the truck, hiding behind the trailer as they passed around a bottle—were thrown on top of me. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t see anything, could only hear groans.
Stotka yelled. “Get outta the truck, get outta the truck!”
Men started falling over the sides. With their weight off me, I could get some air and get my bearings. I climbed over the cab to retrieve the M-60, which had fallen on the hood. Then I hopped off and joined everyone at the side of the road.
The mine had hit the trailer instead of the truck, nearly demolishing it. Amazingly, the explosion didn’t set off any of the C-4, the dynamite, the TNT or the riot gas that was inside. No one was badly hurt, either, though the men who’d been in the back were complaining about splitting headaches. The driver, a big guy like me, was on the verge of a breakdown, shaking and crying. “I don’t want to do this shit anymore, I can’t handle it anymore.”
I watched everybody running about, taking orders, and it struck me. Every polka-dot-bandannaed face I saw was covered with soot and wearing a pair of James Bond wraparound sunglasses—with no lenses. The explosion had popped the lenses right out of the chintzy frames. I was watching a bunch of pickaninnies in a bizarre comedy, and I laughed hard. I roared.
When I wiped the tears that were streaming down my face, the back of my hand got smeared with black. The rest of the squad just looked at me like I was the strange one. Not one of them grinned back.
Word came down that we were going on a convoy in the morning, heading out for a major operation south of Blackhawk. The Army hoped to trap a North Vietnamese battalion in a hammer-and-anvil movement, and Charlie Company was to be the hammer. But first, we were to set up in an old French base camp in the boontoolies. The usual rumors abounded: By God, we told each other, we’re finally going to see some action.
We were nervous—not about the possibility of battle, but about the convoy. This time, we would be on a dirt road, not a major highway. We would be vulnerable to an enemy who had perfected the business of attacking a convoy by boxing it in. The North Vietnamese would let the tank and armored personnel carrier at the front of the convoy pass by. The NVA then would detonate mines under the first and last trucks, forcing the convoy to stop, then open fire.
This tactic was such standard operating procedure that the GIs who were assigned to the first truck were the subjects of much pity. Or self-pity.
“We’re doomed!” was the consensus in my squad when we heard that our truck was the first in line. We’d be easy pickings for the NVA.“What a chicken shit way to go!”
Our only hope was to get on the road early, before the enemy knew we were coming. But we didn’t leave early, so we had plenty of time to contemplate that our number was up. We also had time and the means to get drunk, thanks to a grunt who bought whiskey down by the river.
About noon, after we piled some of the company supplies and ammunition into a trailer that our truck was pulling, we started drinking. Then we loaded ourselves into the truck. As the waiting and drinking went on, one of the men began using a radio in the truck to call other, equally bored GIs. Someone else produced a spotted camo parachute, ripped it into strips and made gaudy headbands for everybody. The whole squad looked like a den of Cub Scouts dressed like Indian braves.
The only sober person in the vicinity was a girl hawking sunglasses. She was about 11, not young enough to be cuddly-cute and not old enough to be feminine. She was all business, demanding five piasters for wraparound plastic shades with paper-thin lenses. She aimed her sales pitch at Longest.
“You buy these. GI! You buy before you die, GI! You in first truck!”
“Kid, you get the hell out of here,” Longest answered. “Little jerk!”
“No, GI, me just make fun. Me want sell sunglasses,” the girl fired back. She never softened as she launched into a voracious argument. Or maybe I should say tenacious. Longest was no match for her. The other guys were growing fond of the kid. Somebody said, “Hey, man, she can flip shit back as fast as you can dish it out.”
Longest snorted. He asked the girl: “Hey, kid, you boom-boom?”
“No, me no boom-boom.”
“Well, you got a big sister?”
“No, no. No big sister.”
“How about a little brother?”
“You no boom-boom my little brother, you dinky dow GI!”
That line got everybody clapping, and somebody said, “What the hell, let’s buy some of the kid’s sunglasses.” And they all did, except for me. I couldn’t, because I wore those thick prescription shades.
It was about 1530 hours when she made her last sale, and we finally started to roll. Our truck fell in behind the rattling tank and personnel carrier. As usual, I was on top behind the cab with the M-60. The edge of the forest came right down to the road. There was plenty of cover out there. Way too much cover.
We’d bounced along for 15 minutes, and the truck went around a bend. Just as it turned, I could see a tree that overhung the road. Men on top of the personnel carrier were ducking so they wouldn’t get whacked. I reached for the machine gun to get it out of the way of the branches. I’d barely lifted it when the explosion hit. The concussion threw me against the cab, shoulder first. The other men—who’d been dangling their feet over the back of the truck, hiding behind the trailer as they passed around a bottle—were thrown on top of me. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t see anything, could only hear groans.
Stotka yelled. “Get outta the truck, get outta the truck!”
Men started falling over the sides. With their weight off me, I could get some air and get my bearings. I climbed over the cab to retrieve the M-60, which had fallen on the hood. Then I hopped off and joined everyone at the side of the road.
The mine had hit the trailer instead of the truck, nearly demolishing it. Amazingly, the explosion didn’t set off any of the C-4, the dynamite, the TNT or the riot gas that was inside. No one was badly hurt, either, though the men who’d been in the back were complaining about splitting headaches. The driver, a big guy like me, was on the verge of a breakdown, shaking and crying. “I don’t want to do this shit anymore, I can’t handle it anymore.”
I watched everybody running about, taking orders, and it struck me. Every polka-dot-bandannaed face I saw was covered with soot and wearing a pair of James Bond wraparound sunglasses—with no lenses. The explosion had popped the lenses right out of the chintzy frames. I was watching a bunch of pickaninnies in a bizarre comedy, and I laughed hard. I roared.
When I wiped the tears that were streaming down my face, the back of my hand got smeared with black. The rest of the squad just looked at me like I was the strange one. Not one of them grinned back.