Nam Sense by Jr. Arthur Wiknik Page A

referring to the famous Korean War fight. “That was a real battle.”
    We all looked at Krol in disgust. “I’ll kill him,” grumbled Person.
    “No, I’ll kill him,” I whispered, not sure I didn’t really mean it.
    “Forget it,” said Siner. “He’s nothing but an asshole Lifer. He hopes you’ll try something. That’s his style. Don’t let him get to you.”
    Our company set up positions on the hilltop alongside several huge bomb craters, each deep enough to park a truck in. We were told Lieutenant Bruckner had been wounded and that Krol would take charge of the platoon until a new leader was assigned. It was just what we didn’t need; Krol having complete authority over us.
    All shooting had ceased by mid-afternoon, but the area remained a flurry of activity. Misplaced GIs criss-crossed the summit trying to locate their units. Cobra gunships and agile Loach helicopters also remained on station to prevent an NVA counter attack. As the regrouping continued, Krol ordered me to help get the walking wounded down the hill for evacuation. Near the bottom was a small LZ from which Loaches flew casualties to firebases for transfer to medevac choppers.
    As we headed down through the area were the 3/187th was first hit ten days earlier, I got a good look at the mountain. I estimated the main battlefield covered almost a half of a square mile, more if the draws and ridges were included. There was no trail to follow, just a desolate ridge lined with a dozen body bags, each containing the remains of a slain GI. The dead NVA, and pieces of them, were scattered on either side of the ridge. They were uncovered and some had begun decomposing. The stench of decaying flesh, the shriveled NVA corpses, the silent body bags, and the massive destruction would be my lasting memory of this hellish hill.
    With no trees left to shade us, the late afternoon air became unbearably humid. We waited around the LZ just to feel the helicopter rotor wash from each landing and takeoff. After the last of the wounded had safely gone, I began to feel faint. Then, before I could sit down, I blacked out. I was quickly revived by the piercing scent of smelling salts. I looked up as a medic hovering over me joked, “Hey buddy, no one leaves here that easy.”
    A few minutes later we started up the hill when I remembered the M-16 magazine that had saved my life and decided to go back for it. I found the magazine right where I had tossed it. It was twisted out of shape with a jagged tear across the middle. I knew the magazine was something unique, so I slipped it into my side pants pocket where it stayed for the next three months.
    The mountain had become an anthill of soldiers. Everywhere, GIs were digging in. There were also a few souvenir hunters checking over the dead NVA and their bunkers. Interpreters later found evidence of the enemy’s determination with commands sewn onto their uniforms reading, “KILL AMERICANS” and “STAY AND FIGHT AND DON’T RUN.”
    When I got back to the top, there was so much brass stumbling around that it looked like the Pentagon had opened a branch office, everyone wanting to be a part of the action. There was also a square cardboard sign pinned with a bayonet to a blackened tree trunk reading, “HAMBURGER HILL.” A weary Grunt trudged over and attached a note to the bottom that read, “Was it worth it?” I stood staring at the sign, contemplating the question, when an officer ran over and tore the note off. “Bastards,” I mumbled to myself, thinking that we at least deserved the right to express some feelings.
    “Sergeant Wiknik!” Krol yelled, waving me to come over. “Pick three men to go with you to the bottom and bring back some C-rations.”
    “C-rations at the bottom?” I questioned, as if I didn’t hear him right. “If the Brass could be flown up here, why can’t our food be flown up too?”
    “Our rations are already at the bottom!” he yelled. “So don’t argue!”
    Everyone within