Uncle Sam
Ain’t Released Me Yet
Memoirs of a REMF
Copyright©
2016 by Robert B. Martin, IV
All
Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express
written permission from the copyright owner, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. I have attempted to recreate
events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them.
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Chapter 36
Payback is
a Bitch
“When ill luck begins, it does not come in sprinkles, but in
showers.” ............Mark Twain
One of my small victories
in BCT came back to bite me. Remember when I missed out on the tear gas
training because of the boil on my forehead and the DI said I could make it up
later? Well, I more than made up for it while in Vietnam. I should have known
that it would happen sooner or later.
There was a lot of CS gas
in Vietnam and its use in perimeter defense was quite common. It was not
intentionally set off during the “Mad Minute,” but that didn’t mean that CS
canisters never went off accidentally every once in a while. The culprit was
usually an electrical storm during the monsoon season. Electricity from
lightning would trigger the electric detonator and explode the CS canister. If the
wind was blowing the wrong way, you were gassed.
One evening I was enjoying
a warm beer in the EM Club when someone ran into the club yelling, “GAS!” Within
seconds, my eyes began to burn. There was a brief panic as everyone tried to scramble
out the only door at the same time (there was no fire code requiring two doors
in Vietnam). Once through the door, I ran toward my hooch to grab my gas mask
hanging on a nail above my cot. My hooch was the closest one to the club but my
eyes, nose, and mouth were already burning and my face was wet from the flowing
tears, snot, and saliva by the time I reached my hooch. I ran inside, unable to
see very well and couldn’t find my mask. I realized it was not where it should
have been. Someone had beaten me to the hooch and grabbed the first mask they
could find. By this time, the entire area was smothered in CS gas, and as
Martha of the Vandellas said, there was “no place to run to, no place to hide.”
Someone suggested the aid station, so I ran there as fast as I could. They gave
me an oxygen mask and covered me with a wet blanket to help protect me from the
CS gas. I sat under the blanket with the oxygen mask until the area was clear
of gas, then went to the supply room where I was issued another gas mask. I
wasted no time in putting my name on it.
Later in my tour, I decided
to drive out to the perimeter where a buddy of mine was pulling guard duty in
one of the lookout towers. It was after supper and I drove the ’captain’s jeep
out to the perimeter. I parked the jeep next to the tower and climbed the
thirty feet to the top where I chatted with my buddy while enjoying an
excellent view of the denuded countryside. It might have been scenic had there
been any green vegetation in sight.
Suddenly, I heard someone
shout that dreaded word, “GAS!” When I turned in the direction of the shout, I
could see the growing clouds from several triggered CS canisters.
Unfortunately, the prevailing breeze was pushing the clouds in my direction. This
time I didn’t panic because I knew there was an excellent chance the gas would
never reach the top of the thirty-foot tower. CS gas is heavier than air and
should stay close to the ground. I would just wait it out. If only it had
worked that way. Within a few minutes, my eyes began to burn. My buddy was okay
because he had his mask with him as required when on guard duty. I had to make
a fast decision. Should I stay in the tower where the gas should not be as
dense as it would be at ground level, or should I get down as fast as I could,
jump in the jeep, and try to beat the worst of the gas back to my hooch and my
gas mask? It was getting worse in the tower and my eyes were on fire, so I
decided to run for it. I climbed down the ladder as fast as I could and, although
barely able to see, drove like crazy back to my hooch. I pulled up behind the hooch, slammed on the
brakes, and ran inside for my mask. “SON OF A BITCH!” I screamed. Someone had
stolen my mask again.
Even though I had put my
name on the mask, I realized that it would be next to impossible to find it without
checking every gas mask in the battalion. I wanted to grab my M16, find the asshole
who stole my mask, and shoot the shit out of him! Instead, I ran next door to
the supply room and got another mask. If this kept up, the Army might start
charging me for gas masks.
Continued in Chapter 37, Disillusionment, Drug Use, and Protests.…
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