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 40
Back to School
“I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being
taught.” .................Winston Churchill
After five months as HQ
Battery Clerk, someone up the chain of command decided I should receive formal job
training. On Sunday, January 4, 1970, I was sent to Camp Evans for a week of
Clerk School. Camp Evans was a 101st Airborne Division installation but smaller
than Camp Eagle. It was about fifteen miles northwest of Hue, not far off QL-1.
Four guys from other units were also sent for training and we were given
temporary housing in a vacant hooch located near the camp’s perimeter. There
were no other buildings between our hooch and the bunker line, which was a bit
disconcerting, given the fact that if the VC made it through the wire, we could
very well be the first GIs they encountered. We had been told to check in our
weapons when we arrived at Camp Evans. This was a big surprise to us. We didn’t
do that at Camp Eagle, and none of us wanted to give up our weapons, especially
since we would be sleeping in such close proximity to the wire. We simply
refused to do so and nothing more was said about it.
Our
classroom hooch saw double-duty as a classroom for the 101st Airborne Division’s
Sniper School in Vietnam. On the front of the instructor’s podium was a 101st
plaque reading, “Sniper School.” Talk about irony. Clerks and snipers being
trained in the same classroom (at different times, of course). After class, we
all took photographs of each other standing behind the “Sniper School” podium
with our M-16s.
The clerk training
was intended to make sure we knew which forms to use, how to properly complete them,
and their proper disposition. It was a terribly boring class because by this
time I had already been forced to figure most of this out on my own.
At
lunchtime, we were given thirty minutes to walk to the mess hall, eat lunch,
and walk back to the classroom in time for the afternoon session. The mess hall
was not very close, and thirty minutes was not enough time to get there, eat,
and get back.
I believe it was our
second night at Camp Evans when we decided to requisition some rations that could
be eaten in our hooch during the lunch break. C-rations were not very
appetizing, but freeze-dried LRRP (Long Range Recon Patrol) rations were very
much like the MRE (Meals Ready to Eat) in today’s Army. Just add hot water and
stir. They were preferred over C-rations, but the Army was very stingy with
them and we were not allowed to have any, which meant that we would have to use
a “midnight requisition” (aka, steal them).
We knew they were
stored in a Conex container (a metal portable storage unit from a container
ship) located in a nearby supply yard. A barbed wire fence protected the yard and
a guard was posted at night, which could be a problem. We got up around 0200 or
0300 hours (2:00 or 3:00 AM) and slipped through the fence without being caught.
The guard must have been asleep because we successfully made off with several
cases of LRRP rations. For the remainder of the week, we no longer had to worry
about getting to lunch and back on time.
I began to
dislike my job more and more as I checked the days off on my “short timer’s
calendar.” January 23, 1970, came and went, marking the end of my first six
months in Vietnam. More 122mm rockets hit Camp Eagle six days later, but fortunately,
there were no injuries. Except for these occasional rocket attacks, I was bored
and tired of being a clerk. It meant repeating the same tasks over and over
every single day. As I have said before, there was nothing glamorous about my
job, and I felt guilty for having a relatively safe job.
One of the perks I
mentioned earlier about my job was being the first to see the official Army
bulletins and orders we received every day. One memo that showed up every few
weeks was a request for volunteers to serve as observers for forward air
controllers (FAC). These crews lived in air-conditioned brick buildings, worked
shorter hours than I did, and the observer was taught to land (nothing was said
about takeoffs) the small single-engine aircraft, which had a crew of two, a
pilot and an observer. The observer’s job was to call in artillery and air
strikes on enemy positions. I met the qualifications because I had been trained
as a Fire Control Specialist.
I was told the observer and
pilot usually went flying three times a day for a couple of hours each time. During
those flights, the FAC flew low and slow in an attempt to locate the enemy. Of
course, flying low and slow was an invitation for someone to shoot at the
airplane, but in doing so, the shooter would often reveal his position. Once
the enemy was spotted, the pilot would mark the location with colored smoke and
the observer would call in fire on the position.
Of course, there was always
the risk of being shot down. One of the observer’s duties was to watch for
ground-to-air heat-seeking missiles. If one was spotted, the observer opened a
small flap in the floor of the aircraft through which he fired a flare gun in
hopes the missile would lock onto the heat of the flare instead of the aircraft’s
exhaust.
I was unaware of the
dangers of the observer’s job at the time. It just sounded fun and glamorous. It
never dawned on me why the observer was taught to land the aircraft but not how
to takeoff. I discovered later that FACs suffered a great number of casualties,
which could necessitate the observer having to land the aircraft. This would
also explain why they were always looking for volunteers.
Fortunately, every time I
put in a request for the assignment, the BC would refuse to sign it because he had
no one else who could type.
Tet, the Vietnamese New
Year, would begin on February 1, 1970.
Continued in Chapter 41, Letters From Fourth Graders.…
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