I discovered veterans' chat, rap, discussion and support groups on the Internet in 1996 when I set out to celebrate the 30th anniversary of my tour of duty in Vietnam by trying to remember it. I had, over the years, cast off my memories of men I shared a tent with for a year, and of the events that were to shape my life more profoundly than any others. The more I thought about it, the more frustrated I became. I let some of my new-found electronic friends know my feelings. Many assured me my “selective amnesia” was not unusual. They called it "CRS" syndrome (Can't Remember Shit), a common vets' malady, apparently. Some even suggested I had the more extreme form known as CRAFT (Can't Remember a Fuckin' Thing). But I wanted to remember. I needed to remember. One veteran friend finally suggested I begin simply, with the basics. She asked “How did you get to Vietnam? On a plane? By ship?” I sat at my keyboard and memories came flooding in. This was my answer.

Now, how did I get to Vietnam?

That's easy. LBJ called me up one day and said, “C'mere, boy, I wanna talk to yooo...”

Let's try again:

Boeing 707. Pan Am. I was surprised that commercial airplanes with real stewardesses (nobody had yet invented "flight attendants") were flying to Saigon. I had always had an affinity for the tropics...the "jungle"...I was excited and scared shitless. Didn't want anything to do with the Army, the war, etc., but the idea of Southeast Asia kept my nose glued to the window of the plane.

Blue ocean gave way to deep green-brown, flat landscape, snaked by muddy water. I turned to the guy next to me and said, "That's the Mekong Delta. Big River. Starts way up in the Himalayas..."

Green, brown, shades of gray.

Then we descended. The green fuzz took on the shape of tree canopies, rice paddy. The brown tones became endless mire islanded here and there with pieces of levees with hooches on them. Then more houses, some with red tile roofs. And more. Then, very quickly it seemed, we were landing. Down the steps onto tarmac teeming with jeeps, deuce-and-halfs, guys with OD everything. I was in Class-A dress uniform, carrying a duffle bag and a PFC stripe. Guys with green berets. Wow, this was the real thing. M-16s!! I had never seen one. Mine was a big clunky M-14 (Lord I hated that piece...love them now, though).

Shuffled slowly into a bus, or was it a truck, I don't remember. Next I remember being led to a squad tent. Lots of us in Class A's, big eyes, short hair, shiny leather shoes...no jungle boots or fatigues yet. Bright shiny yellow stripes on our arms, not like the black and OD patches on the old-timers.

“Fresh meat!” someone called.” FNGs!” “ Long-timers!” “365-and-a-wake-up.” I didn't understand what they were saying, but I knew they were glad it wasn't them just arriving in country.

First night. Don't remember talking, eating, anything. Just sacking out in a bunk, beginning to drift asleep, and Whoooompf! A strange, percussive sound...more a feeling than a sound. Lots of yelling, cussing. Big sergeant appears in the door and tells us to stay put. Comes back later and says that two tents down a mortar shell tore up a bunch of guys supposed to go home tomorrow. Three-sixty-five-and-a-wake-up is all I could think.

***

The second day is gone, don’t remember anything until night. I was bussed into Saigon--my only visit there--and they put me up in front of a hotel to stand guard. A few hours later, truck took me back to Camp Alpha.

The third day was it. Still in Class A’s and toting a duffel bag and an M-14, I fell out in the morning with probably 200 other guys. One by one they called names and guys ran to get on this bus or that bus or some deuce-and-a-half. As they called our names they also called out our new units and handed us orders. After about an hour of this I was the last guy standing there. Everyone else was on a truck or a bus heading somewhere. The officer doing the calling asks if I’m Mouer. I considered denying it, but didn’t figure that was good for much.

“Yes, Sir!” I answered politely but unenthusiastically.

“Mouer, that Chinook over yonder is waiting for you. You’re going to the Central Highlands. 1st Cav base camp. COMBAT Engineers.”

Didn’t care for the way he said “Combat.” Why me, Lord? What’d I do?

We landed on the "Golf Course" at Camp Radcliff. A jeep with a Spec4 was waiting for me, told me to get in right now, and hurry. We were moving out.

WHO’s moving out WHERE? It’s dark. Must be 8:00 at night. I can’t figure out where I am or what’s going on around me. Completely disoriented.

Jeep pulled into what I would later come to know as the company area, in front of the HQ tent. Spec4 tells me to run in and report. I run in, salute a captain, shake hands with the Top, and he tells me get a move on, we’re moving out. He points to a tent, tells me to dump my bag. Points to a bunker, says meet him there in five minutes. I get to the bunker--still in Class A’s--and I’m introduced to the man who will become my best friend ‘til his DEROS eight or nine months later. I’m jealous. He’s got on fatigues and jungle boots. I’m wearing a friggin' suit and shiny shoes.

Top opens the bunker, hauls out a case of NATO 7.62. My buddy-to-be...his name was Lee...grabs the heavy case. To me the Top hands an M-60 and a tripod, says this is your Mama, show her some respect. You’re our new gunner. Spec 4--he’s the company clerk I find out-- takes Lee and me to the motor pool. The rest of the platoon is mounted in their 5-ton dump trucks, engines running, waiting for me. Lee jumps up on the headache board of the front truck, reaches down to grab the ammo, the tripod and the gun, then me.

I’m standing up in the back of a dump truck bumping down a road somewhere I’ve never been trying to put the gun on its tripod. We stop at a quarry where a big loader dumps tons of large granite boulders in the bed of the truck. Now there’s no place to stand. Me and Lee lay out on either side of the gun as the line of trucks boogies down the road. We cruise out past the last of a string of Vietnamese houses at the edge of An Khe, into the dark night. I figure all is copasetic because we’re not blacked out. All the headlights are blazing away. On me. Lights from ten trucks all pointing at me. On top of the cab of the lead truck. With a machine gun.

At first it’s just a strange clicking sound. Then a snick and a barely audible whistle near me ear. Then a ping on the side of the truck. And it sinks in.

“JEEESUS! Somebody’s shooting!” I must have sounded hysterical. Lee turns his head to me, looking at my screwed-up face under the barrel of the gun, and, just as cool as he can be, he says,

“Yeah, ‘cruit. And who you think they shootin' at?”

I sat bolt upright, slammed a belt in the gun aimed to the black horizon and let ‘r rip to the tune of about 200 rounds. Of course, by that time, we were down the road. And everything was quiet. Very quiet. And somebody must have passed an order, because all the headlights shut off, and the blackout lights came on. I hadn’t realized it but it was raining. Misting, really. And the mist was sizzling on the barrel of the M-60.

We cruised off to some river to dump our load of granite to make a ford where a bridge had just been blown. We worked at it all night, and the next day, without any sleep, we rebuilt that bridge. More than 24 hours after arriving at Radcliff, I found my bunk for the first time. I made it up, stripped off my wet, filthy, stinky, Class A uniform and my scuffed up shoes. And I slept.

And I had 361-and-a-wake-up. And I knew I didn't have a prayer.

© Dan Mouer