Nam Sense by Jr. Arthur Wiknik Page B

earshot stopped what they were doing and turned their attention on us. I have never hated anyone in my life but at that moment Krol became an exception. His uncaring attitude for sitting on the GI in the body bag and his unwillingness to acknowledge our performance in the battle—especially after his lack of participation in it—was all I could stand.
    “I was just down there!” I angrily shouted back at him. “Pick someone else for a change! I’m not going!”
    “As your platoon leader, I am giving you a direct order! Now do it!”
    The situation turned into a staring contest until Freddie Shaw and two other platoon members appeared between us.
    “C’mon Wiknik, we’ll go down with you. Let’s get them C-rations. Everyone’s hungry.”
    Their action may have saved Krol’s life. I had allowed my anger and frustration to get the best of me and was ready to blow him away because he was deliberately harassing me. We turned to go down the hill as a chopper hovering near the top dropped off our rucksacks. I moaned to myself, remembering how Siner and I had hidden our rucksacks in the bushes so they wouldn’t get mixed up with all the others. Now there is no worry about them getting mixed up because they’ll be hidden there forever.
    Again I passed where the body bags had been. The slain GIs were gone now, airlifted to Graves Registration to be prepared for their final journey home. The dead NVA were still lying where they fell and would be left there to rot.
    We passed other GIs carrying C-ration cases up the hill, looking more like safari porters than victorious warriors. We went to the same LZ the wounded were flown out of, only now it looked more like a miniature supply depot with stacks of ammunition boxes, dozens of C-ration cases, medical supplies, and water canisters. Hoisting a case onto my shoulder, I gazed at what would be my third trip up the hill, wondering if the day would ever end.
    It was nearly dusk when we dropped the C-rations at the platoon CP. When I returned to my position, I was encouraged to find that Siner and Person had finished digging in. They had also leveled a place for me to sleep.
    We finally got the chance to talk about the events of the day.
    “Man, look at this place,” commented Person, “Talk about destruction. How did the Gooks survive such a pounding?”
    “They didn’t,” answered Siner solemnly. “There’s body parts all over this hill. I think the NVA decided to make a stand here to prove they weren’t afraid to pour their people into it.”
    “I guess you guys know that Anderson got wounded,” I added, “but he should be okay.”
    “Did you hear how Lieutenant Bruckner got wounded?” Person asked. We hadn’t, so he continued. “Apparently he was pinned down behind some rocks, so when he returned fire, he didn’t look to see what he was aiming at. The stupid jerk shot into the rocks and one of the bullets ricocheted back into his leg.”
    “Theoretically,” Siner surmised, “Bruckner has a self-inflicted wound. He can get court-martialed for that, maybe even lose his commission.”
    “And to think the bastard yelled at me for shooting that bush back at Phong Dien,” I joked. It was the first time we had laughed all day and it felt good.
    I had just begun to relax when a supply chopper began dropping cases of C-rations and canisters of water at our company CP. After all our humping up and down the hill, our supplies were finally brought to us like they should have been in the first place. I didn’t react. I couldn’t. I was so frustrated that my brain went numb along with the rest of me. I was truly thankful to be alive, but so emotionally drained that I felt closer to dead.
    Some positions didn’t bother pulling any guard duty that night. With so many GIs crowded on the hill we would have been just guarding each other. However, we were advised to stay in our positions and not move around because it was possible a few NVA could still be alive in tunnels