Nam Sense Read Online Free
area appealing. There was no grass or plants. The grounds consisted of oil-soaked red clay. The air was permeated with the odor of diesel, dirt, and urine. It was a dreary site.
I signed in with the company clerk, an unfriendly fellow who wasn’t much for small talk.
“You’ll be going to the field today sergeant,” he said in a monotone rhythm, as if he were reading the words. “The supply room is the second hooch on the left. Someone there will outfit you with the necessary gear. After that, wait for the truck to take you out.”
The supply sergeant must have known I was coming. When I walked in, he handed me a rucksack already filled with a three-day supply of C-rations, four canteens of water, four hand grenades, four smoke grenades, 100 rounds of M-60 machine gun ammunition, 24 magazines of M-16 rifle ammunition, a claymore mine, helmet, poncho, and entrenching tool. Then he handed me a brand-new M-16 rifle, serial number 127346. I’d remember the number as well as my name because that weapon would become a part of me. I would eat, sleep, fight and even shit with it, never leaving it more than an arm’s length away.
The M-16 is a magnificent lightweight infantry rifle. It has a twenty-round magazine that can be emptied in the semi-automatic mode by firing one round for each pull of the trigger. On full automatic, a burst of twenty rounds could be fired in three seconds. We called that “rock n’ roll.”
I had an hour to kill before a pickup truck would take me out to my unit. It was too hot to sit in the sun so I waited quietly inside an empty hooch. Camp Evans was nothing like Cam Ranh Bay. Out the door I could see an almost deserted battalion area, where an occasional GI wandered past. On the horizon, the heavily vegetated Annamite Mountain range rose up from the plains before topping out at about 2,000 feet. The dark peaks looked sinister. The rugged territory was where the crafty NVA (North Vietnamese Army) and the persistent VC (Viet Cong) staged their raids. GIs called it “Injun Country.”
Sitting alone like that gave me too much time to think. I felt numb. I stared blankly into space, wishing this was all a hideous joke. My trance was broken when a weary Grunt walked in. Unshaven and desperately in need of a bath, he must have just come in from the field. I watched as he carefully placed his gear on a cot. He never looked directly at me. As he headed back out the door, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of my sergeant’s stripes. Then he stared at me oddly. Nervously, I stood up and put my hand out to say hello. He exhaled loudly out of the corner of his mouth before spitting on the floor near my feet. I quickly jerked my hand back. He shook his head, mumbled something about a cherry NCO, and walked outside.
“What the hell was that all about?” I wondered. These guys don’t know anything about me and already I’m hated. Maybe that screwball Specialist Doyen at SERTS was right. Maybe being an Instant NCO could be a death wish.
Shortly afterward, the truck pulled up and I was on my way. It felt strange to be driven out to the combat zone in the back of a pickup truck because I thought we made an easy target. We drove out the rear gate of Camp Evans past well-tended rice paddies and tea tree gardens. The nearby village gave off a sour odor from the burning of incense and sandalwood. Away from the farmed area, the region abruptly changed to a desolate no-man’s land. Known as the flat lands, the rolling grassy hills were similar to the prairies of Nebraska. However, thickets with giant ferns, elephant grass, bamboo hedgerows and other exotic plants made me think it was a prehistoric land.
In less than ten minutes we pulled up to the 2nd platoon’s DDP (Daytime Defensive Position). The men were set in a one-acre bamboo thicket only a half-mile from Camp Evans and a half-mile from one of the sparsely populated hamlets that made up Phong Dien. I jumped off the truck as the driver waved to
I signed in with the company clerk, an unfriendly fellow who wasn’t much for small talk.
“You’ll be going to the field today sergeant,” he said in a monotone rhythm, as if he were reading the words. “The supply room is the second hooch on the left. Someone there will outfit you with the necessary gear. After that, wait for the truck to take you out.”
The supply sergeant must have known I was coming. When I walked in, he handed me a rucksack already filled with a three-day supply of C-rations, four canteens of water, four hand grenades, four smoke grenades, 100 rounds of M-60 machine gun ammunition, 24 magazines of M-16 rifle ammunition, a claymore mine, helmet, poncho, and entrenching tool. Then he handed me a brand-new M-16 rifle, serial number 127346. I’d remember the number as well as my name because that weapon would become a part of me. I would eat, sleep, fight and even shit with it, never leaving it more than an arm’s length away.
The M-16 is a magnificent lightweight infantry rifle. It has a twenty-round magazine that can be emptied in the semi-automatic mode by firing one round for each pull of the trigger. On full automatic, a burst of twenty rounds could be fired in three seconds. We called that “rock n’ roll.”
I had an hour to kill before a pickup truck would take me out to my unit. It was too hot to sit in the sun so I waited quietly inside an empty hooch. Camp Evans was nothing like Cam Ranh Bay. Out the door I could see an almost deserted battalion area, where an occasional GI wandered past. On the horizon, the heavily vegetated Annamite Mountain range rose up from the plains before topping out at about 2,000 feet. The dark peaks looked sinister. The rugged territory was where the crafty NVA (North Vietnamese Army) and the persistent VC (Viet Cong) staged their raids. GIs called it “Injun Country.”
Sitting alone like that gave me too much time to think. I felt numb. I stared blankly into space, wishing this was all a hideous joke. My trance was broken when a weary Grunt walked in. Unshaven and desperately in need of a bath, he must have just come in from the field. I watched as he carefully placed his gear on a cot. He never looked directly at me. As he headed back out the door, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of my sergeant’s stripes. Then he stared at me oddly. Nervously, I stood up and put my hand out to say hello. He exhaled loudly out of the corner of his mouth before spitting on the floor near my feet. I quickly jerked my hand back. He shook his head, mumbled something about a cherry NCO, and walked outside.
“What the hell was that all about?” I wondered. These guys don’t know anything about me and already I’m hated. Maybe that screwball Specialist Doyen at SERTS was right. Maybe being an Instant NCO could be a death wish.
Shortly afterward, the truck pulled up and I was on my way. It felt strange to be driven out to the combat zone in the back of a pickup truck because I thought we made an easy target. We drove out the rear gate of Camp Evans past well-tended rice paddies and tea tree gardens. The nearby village gave off a sour odor from the burning of incense and sandalwood. Away from the farmed area, the region abruptly changed to a desolate no-man’s land. Known as the flat lands, the rolling grassy hills were similar to the prairies of Nebraska. However, thickets with giant ferns, elephant grass, bamboo hedgerows and other exotic plants made me think it was a prehistoric land.
In less than ten minutes we pulled up to the 2nd platoon’s DDP (Daytime Defensive Position). The men were set in a one-acre bamboo thicket only a half-mile from Camp Evans and a half-mile from one of the sparsely populated hamlets that made up Phong Dien. I jumped off the truck as the driver waved to
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