Broken Field

It was an operation like many other, a chopper to an ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) unit, about battalion size, and I was accompanied by an American sound man newly arrived in country, and Troung Houng Nghia, my cameraman and friend. As usual we were loaded with about fifty pounds of gear and camera equipment and it was Vietnam-hot, as hot as it gets, probably around 102 degrees.

We landed about three hundred yards from their positions and started humping it to the copse where our gallant allies were reclining in the mid-day heat. People find it hard to believe, but I’ve been in fire fights that literally wound down when the sun hits its zenith, when it was literally too damned hot to kill each other.

I was about twenty yards from the chopper when the first round went by my ear, then I heard the report. That happens when the weapon is fired from a distance. One round meant a sniper, and he was looking to kill what he presumed was the American advisor to the ARVN unit. I wore regulation U.S. Army fatigues and I carried a side arm. How was he to know I was a Boa Chi, a journalist, or as we were described by the other side, “running dogs of the imperialist American press.”

.I started broken-field running toward the South Vietnamese positions and noticed that the new American was dogging my footsteps, literally using me as a shield. The sniper kept firing, eight rounds in all, but I was in a rage not at him, but at the son of a bitch that was using me as a wall between him and the rifle fire. I dove over a small rampart, rolled and was on my feet within five seconds as, believe it or not, the entire South Vietnamese battalion laughed its head off. Vietnamese humor could take a curious turn.

I couldn’t believe it but felt I had a couple of chores to perform. One, to find that god damned sniper and two, to kick the ass of my sound man who knew to stay away from me. Nghia was furious at him but he was an American and Nghia wasn’t sure of his ground. He looked at me and said quietly, “Him number God-damned ten,” the lowest form of life. This guy’s reputation was shot before he started because the Vietnamese would object to going into the field with him and the bureau chief would get the message.

The area was high canopy, tall trees with heavy foliage at their trunks. It was an impossible quest and the South Vietnamese didn’t seem the least bit interested in me or the sniper. I fired at what I thought was a human head but what was more likely a coconut and, cursing and swearing, returned to the commanding officer’s command post. Before I could deal with the sound man, the South Vietnamese officer was leading me and my crew to a cache of weapons they had uncovered.

It was small stuff indeed, some ammo for an AK 47, a couple of rusting rifles and a “ChiCom” grenade which resembled the famous “potato masher” grenade used by the Germans during World War 1. It looked like a soup can on the end of a stick. I was about to turn toward the South Vietnamese when something caught my eye. The sleeve of the grenade, which was pulled down before throwing, was half-way down, the damned thing could go off if you breathed on it. Nghia conveyed my observation to the surrounding officers and they backed off hastily, my sound man was to their rear.

What the hell do you do with a half cocked grenade? The colonel knew exactly and told Nghia that since I was the one who had discovered it, it was all mine and that I should get it the hell out of there. If you understand anything about Asian “face” and your standing among others, you would realize I was in a bind. I could, of course, tell him it wasn’t my thing, and walked off. But they were all taking my measure. I was a big American in uniform and I carried a weapon, they would have thought me crazy if I hadn’t been armed.

I looked at Nghia, he looked at me and I made a macho decision. “Nghia, give me one of you boot laces.” He looked puzzled then realized that I was going to try and tie the sleeve to the handle of the grenade. He didn’t say a word but removed the lace and tied the sleeve himself. We looked at each other as he handed my the dangerous weapon and I took it and very carefully carried it over the bulwark, into the open field. The sniper must have lit out for other parts because he wasn’t using me for target practice. I walked about fifty yards away, then threw the thing as far as I could and I had one helluva throwing arm in those days, the result of fifteen years of “stick ball,” in New York.

I dropped on my forearms, approved USMC style after throwing a grenade, I remembered from my reserve days at Camp Lejuene, and landed on the rough, concrete-like paddy. Since my fatigue sleeves were rolled up, it lacerated my arms but I was more concerned about the grenade blast. I waited for seconds, then a minute when it became apparent that the damned thing wasn’t going to go off.

I arose and both elbows were bleeding but I was damned if I was going to even admit that I was hurting in front of the South Vietnamese, who, believe it or not, thought my performance was probably the funniest thing they had ever seen and were laughing uproariously. The whole damned battalion had been treated to farce and there probably wasn’t much to laugh about during the course of their work days.

The Lieutenant Colonel looked at me with a big grin on his face and said. “You are a brave man,” then burst into laughter. Nghia tactfully turned his head but I knew he was grinning too. It convinced me again that I was in the middle of “A Mid Summers Night’s Dream,” as conceived of by Franz Kafka. I thought about that as the battalion went back to its siesta.