Mickey 6

By John Koelsch

What if your country started a war and when you answered the call to duty you discovered that not all of your enemies wore a uniform different from your own? What if your knowledge of enemies-among-friendlies increased ten thousand-fold the basic insanity already instilled by diametrically opposed priorities to “accomplish the mission” and “protect the troops”? Welcome to the Vietnam War and the conflicts of leadership experienced by Mickey 6, young 2nd Lieutenant and protagonist of the novel bearing his callsign as its title.

Readers of MICKEY 6 will journey with combat platoon leader Mickey through an incomprehensible war made more devastating by the unnecessary stresses of a power struggle between leaders within the hierarchy of combat command.

MICKEY 6 provides a rare view of war as examined in the stream of consciousness dialog between Mickey and Problem Solving Central, or PSC, his callsign for his conscience. Through detailed combat scenes and exquisite storytelling prowess, novelist John Koelsch brings the Vietnam War and all of its conflicts and glory to life as no author has done since Ernest Hemingway wrote about World War I.

In MICKEY 6, Vietnam Veteran John Koelsch’s carefully wrought characters, torn between duty and personal ethos, tread deeply into the circumstances that force payment of an eternal price from the souls and minds of those who serve, and from those who lead, as they fight for their country. With themes as applicable to the 21st Century warrior as to warriors from all eras, MICKEY 6 chronicles the struggles of leadership in war, of loss of humanity, and of the enduring spirit of those who must return to life from the ravages of war.

Novelist John Koelsch served as a Combat Platoon Leader in Vietnam. He was awarded a Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the Bronze Star with “V” Device for Valor, and the Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster. In 2009, 2010, and 2011 he placed in the National Veterans Creative Arts Competition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MilSpeak Books
• Release date: Sep 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452484778

John Koelsch

John Koelsch served as a Combat Platoon Leader in Vietnam. He was awarded a Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the Bronze Star with “V” Device for Valor, and the Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster. In 2009, 2010, and 2011 he experienced positive results in the National Veterans Creative Arts Competition writing in various forms. John currently resides in Salem, Virginia with his wife Nancy Wheeler.Of MICKEY 6, John writes:"You may have read many stories about war but have you ever lived through it? Mickey 6 takes you on a journey through the Vietnam War in the mind of a man who did. You will experience the rush of battle adrenaline, the fury of combat, the horror of death and destruction surrounding you, and the despair for ever finding a path home. You will come to understand that men fight, finally, for each other in the hope they will all survive. You will discover the true cost to the soul of doing what is necessary to accomplish the mission, while striving against overwhelming odds and fighting both the enemy and those who should be supporting you, to keep those around you alive. At the last, you will know that those who serve want recognition only for doing their job and will leave heroes and devils to the judgment of others."Other Publications by John KoelschStrategic Budgeting (ICMA MIS Report) (5,000+ sold - Non-fiction)A Christmas Pony (Short Story) – (Patchwork Path: Christmas Stocking Anthology)PoetryLove is in The Air – “Horizons” – South Carolina Writers Workshop AnthologyShall I Lay You In Lavender – “The Quill” – SCWW NewsletterLove Begins But Never Ends – Turning Corners – Poetry AnthologyCalm – (Haiku) – Prime Living” MagazineMusings 1 – “Clinch Mountain Review” – Poetry AnthologyYou Don’t Know –Lacrossetribune.comFast Movers –Lacrossetribune.comSeasons (Haiku) - Graphics By Marilyn: Lara’s Den ~ Haiku: SeasonsBugs – Graphics by Marilyn: Lara’s Den ~ BugsSilent Thunder – Graphics by Marilyn: Lara’s Den ~ Silent ThunderThe Unique Whole - Graphics By Marilyn: Lara’s Den ~ The Unique WholeCherry Blossoms – (Haiku) Sandusky Register NewspaperAwardsNational Veterans Creative Arts CompetitionsForever In Black (Poem) – 1st Local/2009Harvest (Poem Collection) – 1st Local/2009The Interview (Duologue) – 1st Local & 1st National/2009Ghosts (Monologue) – 1st Local & 3rd National/2010The General - Keith Lincoln Ware (Short Story) – 1st Local & 1st National/2010Andraste (Poem) – 1st Local/2010Shirley Jeffries Memorial Therapeutic Arts Scholarship Recipient/2010Grunts (Poem) – 1st Local & 2nd National/2011Call Of Duty (Monologue) – 1st Local & 1st National/2011Service (Short Story) – 1st Local/2011PoemsForever In Black – 1st Spiritual Category - “Poetry Square Off I” Columbia, SC /2002Flutterbys – 3rd Open Category - “Poetry Square Off II” Columbia, SC/2003Olde Wheelbarrow New Tulips – 2nd Adult Category – Botetourt County Library Poetry Contest, VA/2007Short StoriesThe Interview – 2nd – Virginia Writers Club (Valley Writers)/2009

Book preview

Mickey 6

John M. Koelsch

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Smashwords Edition

Published by MilSpeak Books

A Division of MilSpeak Foundation, Inc. (501c3)

http://www.milspeak.org

EBook version copyright 2011 MilSpeak Books

All EBook rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

All other literary rights copyright 2011 John M. Koelsch

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MilSpeak Foundation, Inc., a 501c3 nonprofit organization, exists to raise awareness about creative works by military people to a more visible and influential position in American culture and seeks to be a leader in shaping a receptive climate for creative works by military people. By developing new audiences, creating new avenues for delivery, and encouraging creativity among military people, MilSpeak Foundation aspires to make creative works by military people directly relevant to the public, while diminishing the military stereotype and assisting military people assimilate their experience through participating in the Arts. Through writing, creating art and performing, military people preserve the history of everyday military life, learn about stress management benefits of participating in the Arts, and increase civilian understanding about military life. Purchasing a MilSpeak Books title supports MilSpeak Foundation programs. MilSpeak Foundation is not affiliated with the Department of Defense or the U.S. Government.

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Table of Contents

Dedication

To The Reader

Prologue

Chapter 1 ~ Welcome to ’Nam

Chapter 2 ~ Learning to Dance

Chapter 3 ~ Little Tet

Chapter 4 ~ Quick Kill

Chapter 5 ~ Search & Destroy

Chapter 6 ~ The Michelin – Not Just a Tire

Chapter 7 ~ Messages

Chapter 8 ~ I Could’ a Been Killed

Chapter 9 ~ Frolics for the Fourth

Chapter 10 ~ Thunder Six

Chapter 11 ~ Phu Loi

Chapter 12 ~ Who’s Ambushing Whom?

Chapter 13 ~ Of Milk Caramels & Other Joys and Sorrows

Chapter 14 ~ Passages

Chapter 15 ~ The Playmate Was Golden – the Star Bronze

Chapter 16 ~ Citation for Mickey’s Bronze Star

Chapter 17 ~ Riding a Whirlwind

Chapter 18 ~ Final Days – Part the First

Chapter 19 ~ Final Day

Chapter 20 ~ Aftermath

Chapter 21 ~ Afterword

Chapter 22 ~ Forever in Black (On Visiting the Wall)

Acknowledgements

A Note From Nancy Wheeler

About the Author

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Dedication

To Robert and Anna Koelsch, my parents who gifted me with the strength of spirit to survive Vietnam. To Marlene Ann Koelsch, my daughter who gifted me with a reason to keep on living. And, to Joseph Michael and Savannah Lee Koelsch, my grandchildren, who gifted me with hope for the future.

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To the Reader

I chose to tell this story in the form of a novel for three reasons: first, that form enabled me to more easily present the truth of my experience; second, it allowed me to include a few stories that happened, but not to me; and third, it protects the guilty, beginning with myself. Some of the people who have assisted me in completing this book commented that it reads almost like a memoir. While that is not precisely accurate, I believe that, in a sense, it represents a memoir for all who have served their country in this sad chapter of our military history. This includes those who did it well and those who struggled. Most importantly, it includes those who paid the ultimate price. I hope you find that I have represented them in the positive manner they deserve.

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Mickey 6

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Prologue

Pre-monsoon rains caused a precipitous drop in the temperature that night. A wicked 116 degrees during the day fell to 68. An arctic cold 68. The Kafkaesque landscape was a ghoulish, murky, midnight green. The flares being dropped from the Cessna O1 Bird Dog spotter plane droning overhead transformed the area to an outpost of Hades. Alone, fifty meters outside the ambush perimeter, I searched for a spot to set up a listening post.

My unease, already high from day-long nasty fire fights, had been heightened by my earlier sighting of a Viet Cong patrol. My platoon was set up on the base end of an L shaped ambush bordered by the jungle where the sighting had occurred. The long side of the L ran into the rice paddies. The listening outpost was needed for early warning of the enemy’s approach.

Suddenly, there was no need for the post. Twelve VC walked into the paddy about two hundred meters out from me. They were spaced one on point, ten in the main body, and one on trail. I froze and prayed they wouldn’t notice me. I thought, The guys know I’m out here. They won’t trigger the ’bush! Recon platoon, on the far end of the L to my left, shredded that thought as they triggered and decimated the enemy. Red tracer rounds from M-16 rifles and the M-60 machine gun ripped into the point and the main body with a huge roar.

Deep in my gut horror erupted as the ‘Trail’ spotted me, pivoted, and threw his AK47 to his shoulder aimed directly at me....

I took a half step toward him, slung my M-16 halfway up my ribs, pointed, and with obscene calmness, ripped off all twenty rounds in my magazine....

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Chapter 1 ~ Welcome to ’Nam

The Continental Jet, The Bird with the Golden Tail, made a sharp turn. The pilot announced, We’ll be taking a steep landing approach to minimize the chances of being greeted with a rocket. Those babies tend to mess up the paint job. Welcome to Viet Nam, Republic of. Today’s temperature is a balmy one hundred and seven degrees at eleven hundred hours. Thank you for flying Continental. We work our tail off for you. Have a nice war.

When I graduated from Infantry Officer Candidate School in April 1967, about ninety percent of each O.C. class received thirty days leave and a ticket to Sunny Southeast Asia. When my class was commissioned, all of the levies were filled so they placed my company in a file to reach out and touch a year later. This wouldn’t have been a bad deal if the powers that be had deigned to let us know. A year spent in expectation of receiving orders to go to war at any minute is not conducive to a peaceful life and good times. However, it did provide us something of a class reunion on the plane, albeit a less enthusiastic one than other circumstances might engender.

My classmate, Tony Lawrence, finished his story about our encounter on the grenade range where, as the Officer In Charge, he had volunteered me to demonstrate to my training company the proper technique for throwing a grenade. I had returned the favor by volunteering Tony, much to his distress – he had seen my grenade throwing skills – to act as my safety officer. Tony laughed as he said, ...and he threw that damn grenade straight and true, clear off the whole damn grenade range. Never before, and likely never again, is he gonna throw one like that.

He pointed at me, reminding me of the priests in the seminary giving a sermon, Don’t you be messing with throwing any grenades, you hear. You’ve used up the only good throw you’re ever gonna have.

That’s so true, I agreed. Fortunately, I do a bit better with other weapons.

I’d qualified at expert level with the M-16 and M-14 rifles, the M-60 machinegun, the .45 caliber automatic pistol, and the M-79 Grenade Launcher. I even received instruction in knife throwing by a Green Beret Captain friend. If I could see it, I could hit it; although my eyesight made that problematical at times. I’d also trained as an instructor in the Army Quick Kill system of accurate combat shooting. Through a chance encounter with its creator, I’d received additional instruction on the system’s theory and use, which would significantly contribute to my survival, although I didn’t know it at the time.

Conversations tailed off as the wheels touched down. I swallowed the anti-malaria pill that the stewardess had distributed. Guess that makes the war officially open for business. Everyone gathered their meager personal belongings, and in a moment long in coming that arrived too quickly, the ‘stews’ were ushering us off the plane.

The heat, humidity, and bright, blistering sun – a tad less bright than gazing directly into a supernova – hit me like a sledge hammer. The 107 degrees, slightly higher than normal, was intensified by the tarmac. We assembled into basic military formation a hundred meters from the plane. Following the proud military tradition of hurry up and wait, once formed and ready to move, we didn’t go anywhere.

After an hour, we marched a few hundred yards to a large metal, airplane-hangar-type building. Out of the sun, but also nearly out of air, its hot, stagnant, pungent ozone stifled us. Three officers keeled over from the heat. I’d fall over and join them, but that would require an expenditure of energy.

The Welcome-to-Vietnam–Here-is-what-you-can’t-do lecture droned on. We declared we were not bringing any contraband into the country, picked up our duffle bags, and cleared the building. We loaded onto an OD – the Army’s favorite color; the Army’s only color: olive-drab – deuce and a half transport truck for the ride to in-country processing, where we would receive our unit assignments.

As we rolled onto the hard pack road and picked up speed, we received momentary relief from the heat due to the wind and no canopy on the truck. Then another major element of the Viet Nam experience enveloped us. A whirlwind of airborne-red, sandpaper, crawl-right-into-your-underwear-and-grind-on-important-parts grit boiled over us stirred by the trucks ahead. I hunkered down stoically, and thought of a nice, cool, three-hour shower. No help, but it passed the time.

We drove past soldiers, stripped to the waist, who had a sun-baked nut-brown finish that any California surfer would envy, engaged in various activities from driving Rome Plows – huge D7 E tractors with a special tree-cutting blade for land clearing – to filling sand bags. Each and everyone, thumped their chest, and yelled the same thing. At first, I couldn’t make out their gracious greeting. Finally, I understood. Short! Short! I confess that for five seconds it offended me to hear derogatory comments on my five-six stature. Then I realized they were commenting on the item of highest importance to each Viet Nam soldier – their DEROS (Date Estimated for Return from Over Seas).

A U.S. Army tour of duty in Viet Nam was one year – three hundred and sixty-five days. Marines, being very dedicated and not too bright, got an extra month. DEROS was your day of delivery from hell. The closer the date, the shorter you became. On the truck, we were the tallest kids on the block. An on-going contest in country was to creatively describe your shortness.

"I’m so short....

I have to look up to see down.

When the hot water from the shower finally gets to me, it’s cold.

I have to climb a ladder to lace my boots.

I can’t carry on a long conversation.

I’m more worried about Charlie stepping on me than shooting at me.

We reached the processing area, off-loaded, got our billets, had lunch at the mess hall, and settled down to wait. All assignments would be posted late that day.

No shade and no breeze. I found a spot on some sandbags where I could see any postings, sat and thought, How had I, a young Catholic boy – an ex-seminarian for cripes sake – arrived at a for real shooting war as, of all things, a Combat Platoon Leader?

The Catholic part is easy to explain. I was the third child of eight, born into a large, closely knit Catholic family. When you’re born into it, it’s hard to get out.

The ex-seminarian part requires a bit more explanation.

The priests who taught us, and who, as God’s representatives on earth (according to the Catholic Church), were our role models, turned out to have feet of clay and minds of mush. In later years, I would come to understand this was a common human condition.

At the time it devastated me.

I never understood how you could claim to represent God and routinely choose to cheat over meaningless things, and not keep your word. My highest value was honesty. Cheating was cheating and lies were lies.

Following a two a.m. rule-bending episode involving a dynamic basketball game, and a Prefect telling lies, I spent a long year searching deep in my soul, and decided that the particular hypocrisies involved in religious life weren’t for me. I left the seminary.

I’m not sure the Combat Platoon Leader in a shooting war part is explainable.

After leaving the seminary, I spent a few months working and having a good time, then enlisted in the U.S. Army. I would have gone Air Force but with my eyesight – blind in the right eye, can’t see out of the left, according to my Dad – there was no chance of my learning to fly. Army it was.

I loved my country enough to kill and die for it, but I did not enlist out of patriotic or heroic motives. I would have passed if possible. I knew I’d be drafted, enlisting at least let me choose a non-combat option. I chose Clinical Psychologist Assistant.

Supper time arrived. No postings. Conversations in the mess hall were a bit tense. Everyone focused on the preference for combat assignment.

What do you think? asked one of my table mates.

I dunno, I’d be perfectly happy with any unit operating anywhere in Germany.

The postings appeared about a half hour after supper. The Military divided the country into four Corps Areas, I through IV north to south. I drew III Corps, the First Division, whose headquarters were in Lai Khe about fifty miles north of Saigon. Their AO (area of operations) included Saigon and ranged over to the Cambodian Border, with quaintly named but deadly areas, such as: Cu Chi (infamous for its tunnel system); the Michelin (the world’s deadliest rubber plantation); the Black Widow Mountains (two round mounds imagined as woman’s breasts by horny young soldiers, many of whom would not return alive from the encounter); the Parrot’s Beak (named for the shape formed by the Cambodia/Viet Nam border – a regular jumping off point for VC excursions); and the treacherous Iron Triangle (with a heavy concentration of Viet Cong Forces). I was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry. The 1/28th operated out of a base at Quan Loi, in the Tay Ninh Province fifty miles north of Lai Khe, way out in ‘Indian Country’. A brother unit, the 2/28th, had suffered 64 killed and 132 wounded in a single battle at Ong Than west of Lai Khe the previous October.

None of this meant much to me. I felt moderately pleased to be in the Big Red One. The First Division had a battle history going back to the First World War and a solid reputation. They were well known for their willingness to fire artillery support all day long. This delighted me, as it seemed smarter and far more fun than infantry assaults.

That evening a movie was shown at an outdoor amphitheatre. We sat on wooden bleachers. The popcorn wilted from the humidity. The feature – Mr. Roberts, a favorite of mine – starred Henry Fonda as Lt. (j.g.) Douglas Roberts, James Cagney as Captain Morton, and Jack Lemmon as Ensign Frank Thurlowe Pulver. It was a weird feeling sitting in a foreign country under the stars, munching bad popcorn and watching two American icons dueling each other. Cagney, as the martinet ship’s Captain struggled with Hank, the second in command, who was intervening on behalf of the troops. Kind of a comedic version of The Caine Mutiny. A true, All-American bit of war propaganda. It worked well for WWII. I had serious reservations on how it might apply in this war.

A lot of people thought God was always on America’s side. I believed Napoleon had it right when he said, God is on the side of the heavy artillery. Of course, we did have the heavy artillery. I hoped it would prove sufficient.

About fifteen minutes into the movie...

SHREEEE! KABLAM! SHREEEE! KABLAM!

The shrieking scream of 122 MM rockets will get your attention! We vacated the amphitheatre in military terms with great rapidity. For the civilians among you that means like the fox motivating from the hen house when the farmer shows up with his double barreled artillery. After a few moments we realized the attack was focused on a section of the base several miles from us. It produced one hell of a nice fireworks show, but wasn’t an immediate, direct threat to us. It ended quickly in under fifteen minutes.

Few returned to the flick. I wandered back to the barracks, sat on my bunk and prompted by my first, albeit brief and distant, taste of real hostilities, resumed my musings about why I was in Vietnam.

Going from a Clinical Psychologist Assistant to an Infantry Combat Platoon Leader was a matter of making small decisions which meant little when taken singly but collectively became an awesome, life-changing force.

The first small decision was at the Ft. Benning, Georgia Army Reception Center. I decided to take the Officer Candidate Test rather than clean the barracks. The second, was to treat the test as a challenge. I turned the test over to Problem Solving Central where my Superior Problem Solving Skills reside and aced it.

Acing it brought on the next decision. The Captain and the Colonel both attempted to persuade me to abandon the safe haven of Psychologist Assistant and attend Officer Candidate School. Fully aware of my allergy to small holes being inflicted on my body causing the leaking of precious red liquid, I declined.

My Drill Instructor, Sergeant First Class Cletus Tillman disagreed with my decision and took offense. He pressured me with an amazing variety of tactics—unsuccessfully. When I won the trophy for the highest score in the Individual Proficiency Test at the end of Basic Training, he went ballistic. He chewed thoroughly up one side and completely down the other for a full hour.

He finished with, Yoo must have cheated. Y’ain’t thet smart. A mahlingerer like yoo can’t be as good as a damn avrij soljer, let alone be the best. Does cheetin’ run in yore famlee boy? Yoo best not go to O.C.S. Yoo won’t make it through!

That was the button. He not only hit it, he smashed that sucker good. My insides imploded. Betrayed by my church and now derided as incompetent by this fool. Enough! I’ll go become an officer and come back and lock that ignorant hillbilly D.I.’s heels. I’ll show him. I’ll show them all!

I heard a voice saying, Where do you sign up for Officer Candidate School? That voice was mine. Another small decision and the slippery slope to war steepened.

I survived Officer Candidate School because of a small decision by some unknown clerk to place me in the 5th Student Battalion (OC) 54th (OC) Company, 4th Platoon, where I fell under the gentle scourge of Tactical Officer Robert Bobby Butler.

As a Tac, Bobby utilized a unique approach to training. He came in on Thursdays, issued sufficient demerits to eliminate weekend passes, and ignored us for the remainder of the week. Meanwhile all the other Tacs were constantly harassing their platoons and their platoons were shaping up and looking sharp.

We were not.

We requested a meeting with Bobby to explore this issue.

We assembled in a twelve by thirty foot room. Bobby ordered all forty-five of us into the front leaning rest position (commonly known as the push-up position), sat in the only chair in the room and said Okay, what’s this all about?

Our spokesman yelled Sir, Candidate requests permission to speak. Sir.

Permission granted. Speak. said Bobby.

Sir. Why is it you spend so little time with us? Sir.

Bobby laughed and said "You people are sooo stupid! I am going to tell you the answer right now. I am going to give you everything you need to succeed. But, will you listen? I doubt it.

"You will never be honor platoon. They stop giving out honor platoon in the sixteenth week and you will never be honor platoon. For the next eleven weeks you will be a bunch of disorganized, stupid clowns. In the sixteenth week you will wake up and understand what I am about to tell you. From that point you will be the best platoon and be recognized as the best. But, you will never be honor platoon.

"The secret is simple. All you have to do is keep in mind that the goal is for the team, the group, to succeed. That won’t happen until everyone works together and does their job. The secret to success in understanding leadership is finding what it takes to get the team to do what needs to be done. Not issuing orders and yelling at people.

I’ve given you a gift. You’re too stupid and stubborn to believe me, so you will continue to struggle. Now give me one hundred push-ups and go clean your barracks.

As we bounced up and down on the floor, I was as skeptical as any of my platoon mates of the gift. It would be some time before I realized that it would not only be the key to my completing O.C.S., but would also be responsible for my surviving Vietnam.

Bobby seemed correct, at least regarding honor platoon. The Fourth remained a mess. He was also correct about the sixteenth week, when he appointed me acting Platoon Sergeant. On my first morning as Platoon Sergeant, the Company split in half with the first three platoons sent out on training. As the Platoon Sergeant for the Fourth, I automatically became Acting Company First Sergeant. The Fifth Platoon received the morning off from their Tac. As Honor Platoon, Sixth Platoon was not available for work assignments. All of this meant that I had one platoon to perform the work tasks of six.

Problem Solving Central failed to generate any engagingly dynamic ways to work out this particular leadership problem, so I called the Fourth together and simply told them what we had to deal with.

To my bemusement there was no bitching or griping. Instead the guys went to work. I mean, they went to work, sweeping the halls at a full run and doing everything else at the same pace. They all reported back to me for work assignments at least three times with many finishing four and five tasks. They completed all of the work scheduled for the entire company by lunch. We boarded the buses for transport to an afternoon of training in good order.

Bobby, as usual, did not ride on the bus with us. That placed me in the unique situation of being actually in charge, because the Acting Platoon Leader/Company Commander was a mental midget – useless. Most days not important, this time it was. The bus broke down. We were stranded with neither communication nor supervision. The Platoon leader panicked and began spewing gibberish. I ignored him and considered the situation for a moment. Problem Solving Central kicked in with a brilliant solution. Send someone for help.

I told the Platoon Leader, Shut up! grabbed one of my squad leaders and instructed him to hike back to the company and advise them of the situation. The squad leader took off. I sat down with every intention of relaxing and forgoing any additional decision-making.

It was not my day. Five minutes after I had mentally signed off, an ice cream truck pulled up behind the bus. In the proud tradition of military discipline every officer candidate clamored for pogie bait goodies, not withstanding the cold February weather.

The Platoon Leader resumed panic mode, babbling about court martials and other silliness. Again, I told him Shut up! and did the same for the troops. Stepping off the bus, I looked around very carefully for any sign of Tac Officers. Seeing none, I stepped back on the bus and, in my best command voice, shouted Okay! Listen up! This is the plan. Two guys off the bus at one time. It’s your own ass if you get caught and nobody squeals. Nobody!

My announcement was greeted with cheers and a rush to be first off the bus.

Finally, all were served, and I went to get my share. Ice cream in February? Delectable!

There is simply no sanity in war.

Shortly after I finished, another bus pulled up. We loaded and proceeded to the training site.

Because the bus broke down, we arrived too late for a briefing on the mission. Quickly informing us of a mechanized assault on a hill position with M-60 Main Battle Tanks and Armored Personnel Carriers, our instructors bellowed, Mount up! Go!

I hopped into an APC with one of my squads, and we took off through the woods behind a tank. As we approached the edge of the woods, short of the objective, the tank disappeared into a huge shell hole. A moment later it rose on the far side, struggling. Its tracks churned, spewing red Georgia clay everywhere, trying to exit the hole. The APC driver, a former officer candidate who had little love for current candidates, slammed on the brakes and stopped the APC at the rim of the hole. The driver and everyone else stared at me.

If we went around the hole, the evaluation of the mission would go into the toilet.

If we went into the red, Georgia, tank-stopping hole in an underpowered APC and didn’t make it out the other side, the evaluation would go into the toilet, followed by me. My guys would insert me and righteously flush away because they would have to climb out through that red muck. Problem Solving Central became non-functional.

The tank, with far stronger traction and power than our APC, struggled out the other side. Hell! Live a little! I gave a tally-ho wave of my arm to the driver and shouted Go for it! My guys muttered. I heard various vague references to lynching – mutinous for sure – as we plunged down, slipped through the bottom and started up the other side.

The phrases grew quite descriptive as to the length of the rope and the height of the tree as the APC, its treads losing traction, stalled and slid back. I leaned down to the driver and yelled in his ear, Gun it! Now!

The driver snarled back You got it! and applied full power. We stopped, spun in place momentarily and shot upwards out of the hole. Airborne! We flew over the top, missed an extremely large tree by eighteen inches, thudded to the ground and roared up the hill. My spirits went airborne with the APC. A damned exhilarating ride! We slammed to a stop at the assembly point and ran up the hill, screaming as all warriors are trained to do. My own vocalizations were from exultation at the exercise, plus extreme relief at not having to carry the entire squad out of that hole on my back.

The instructors rated our exercise Superior, due mainly to the Dynamic Aggression displayed by the APC going airborne. The morning group had received only an Excellent rating. One week later, Bobby called me to his office, and I found out how dynamic the week had been. I stood at attention in front of his desk. He stared at me and in a quiet, sinister voice said, I want to know what you did.

Sir. Candidate does not know whereof you speak, Sir.

You received eight Outstanding and one Excellent rating as acting Platoon Sergeant. I want to know what you did. Did you pay these people?

Which jerk only gave me an excellent? I said, Sir. Candidate paid no one. Candidate believes he merely demonstrated his leadership ability and was rated accordingly. Sir.

Bullshit! I intended to kick you out! Now I can’t. You’ve been in leadership positions before and didn’t demonstrate goose doo-doo. I want to know what you did.

Sir. Candidate respectfully notes that previously he has only been a squad leader, which is a flunky position. He tried to be a good flunky and let other candidates demonstrate their leadership, Sir.

I’m not buying any of that. I believe you had to do something, but I don‘t have a clue as to what you did. I can’t panel you and get rid of you with these ratings but I’m going to be watching you. Now get out of here and give me 500 push-ups in the hallway.

Sir. Yes, Sir.

Around push-up 237 it hit me. It was the sixteenth week. It had nothing to do with my leadership – well, maybe a little – we had finally got it! As a group, the essence of leadership – do what is necessary to get the job done – had dawned in our skulls. Around push-up 327 I decided—astutely—not to point this out to Bobby.

I graduated and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant, Infantry. I went back to Sand Hill looking for Tillman to lock his heels for him, even though I felt no anger. He had shipped out for Vietnam the week before. A year later, having spent a year as a Basic Training Officer across the street from where I had taken Basic, here I was – a Combat Platoon Leader in a real shooting war. God, help me. I’m not ready to lead and care for men in combat. I wasn’t really looking for this. God—I mean it—help me.

Finally, rest was the best idea. I laid down to sleep.

Morning arrived at early 0600. In addition to my other quirks, I see sleeping as one of the truly great sensual delights. I never did learn to appreciate the military’s insistence on facing the day before any normal person is awake. However, I managed to rise, make it to the mess hall for breakfast, grab my duffle, and assemble on time for my flight to Quan Loi.

Hurry up and wait. Arrival at the airport was 0830 hours. Departure wasn’t until 1045. The UH 1D Huey Helicopter, called a slick, could transport eleven soldiers. My ride brought us into Quan Loi at noon. Viewed from six thousand feet, the base sat on a large hill among slightly higher surrounding hills, clipped by some giant scythe to flatten its top and denude it of greenery. It nestled in a primeval jungle stretching to the farthest horizons resembling a tumultuous ocean with raging green waves. To me Vietnam frequently resembled imaginary, fabled Oz. So green. So strange. So beautiful. Yet filled with dangers far worse than flying monkeys and pissed off bad witches. I mean, a few fireballs from a witch’s broom and monkeys with swords and pikes isn’t nearly as intimidating as small brown men with 122MM rockets, AK-47s, and improvised mines.

I’m not in Kansas anymore.

The slick landed in good order, and I reported to battalion headquarters promptly. The clerk said Drop your duffle in the corner LT We’ll process you after lunch.

Lunch; excellent idea.

Processing accomplished, I was assigned to Company D and scheduled for in-country training the next day. The company was due in from the field in two days. I found a bunk in the officer’s billet and set out to enjoy the rest of the day.

I took a walk to check out the base – all of thirty minutes – not many sites of interest. The two highlights were the PX, an eight by ten foot room where you could get sundries such as toothpaste and two month old magazines; and the beer garden, a dozen picnic tables next to a bar area. Closed. I returned to the barracks and read a Modesty Blaise novel I had brought. Modesty, a private sector, female James Bond was definitely a light weight concept. It was a fun, no mental strain read.

I passed the afternoon heat alternating between Modesty and naps. Following supper, I read some more, took a short walk, felt depressed, alone, and isolated, took a long, cold shower and went to sleep before 2200.

My ‘sweet wet dreams’ were rudely interrupted—

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Incoming! Mortars! Incoming!

I struggled to sit up, wipe the sleep from my eyes and focus on my wristwatch. Damn! 0100, a helluva time to start playing.

Boots thudded down the hallway, past my cot and out the door to the bunker fifty meters away.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Don’t like the dance music either!

I reached for my boots. Problem Solving Central kicked in, The rounds are landing a good half mile away. Mortars typically are not adjusted a half mile at a time. Reasonably safe from the mortar rounds, I listened for the sound of bugles, or whistles, or the ring of rifle fire which would indicate a ground attack. None. I took my time pulling on my boots. Three more rounds thumped in.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Not any closer.

I walked out of the billet and strolled to the bunker. I bent down near the entrance and said Hello in there. Hey, what kind of mickey mouse establishment is this that allows its guests to be so rudely awakened?

Are you crazy? There’s a mortar attack going on! You could get killed! Get in here!

Nah! I think they were aiming up the road a piece. Besides, I think Charlie has called it a night and gone home to mama-san. I’m going back to my suite.

As I turned some one asked Who is that?

It’s that new LT. He must be crazy!

I smiled. A reputation for crazy might be useful in the insane arena of war.

Staff Sergeant Lopez, a small wiry man, conducted in-country training the next morning. M-16 rifles issued, we assembled outside the wire on the west slope of Quan Loi hill. The mosquitoes swarmed. I sprayed the army insect repellant in liberal amounts on my neck and arms and squirted a few ounces of repellant into my hands and bathed my face.

Sgt Lopez intoned, The temperature is projected to reach a toasty 105 degrees today. You will note, we have chosen an area for training where there is no shade. This will allow you to take full advantage of the opportunity to lay a good base for your tan.

His remarks seemed innocuous enough, but they seemed aimed directly between my eyes.

The training, as most military training, proceeded ponderously, mind-numbingly slowly. The army believes if everything is done at the slowest possible pace, everyone will learn the lesson. For those with intelligence, of course, it means a lot of time spent daydreaming. In this case, my mind focused on cool, clear water in an amazing variety of settings. I certainly was sweating significant amounts of H2O as Sergeant Lopez had us fire a refresher course with the M-16 and conducted various types of assaults up the hill.

As the morning moved towards lunch time—two discoveries: Vietnamese mosquitoes consider army insect repellant equivalent to A-1 Steak Sauce; and the sun treats it as cooking oil. I soon developed a lobster glow, and was not amused when Sergeant Lopez said, LT, that repellant has one good use, but it’s got nothing to do with insects.

What would that be Sergeant?

He responded laconically, A smart officer would figure it out.

Pretty Mickey-Mouse, Sergeant.

I shook my head and decided to figure out the good use later. It was clear what the damn repellant was not good for! By lunch a claim of being Native American would have been upheld per the available evidence. Fortunately, lunch signaled the end of training.

Back at the barracks I applied salve to my face, neck and arms, and ruefully thought, At least I’m ready to go into the field and get it on. Naturally, per army S.O.P., I would sit at the base doing nothing for two more days before joining the battalion. There was no special reason. Every morning and afternoon I checked with Battalion Ops and was told, no orders to the field yet.

On the second evening we sat in the mess hall, which doubled as a lounge, enjoying beer at fifteen cents a bottle. Mixed drinks cost twenty cents. Sergeant Major Barnes gave a language lesson when a Sergeant asked him his opinion of the Vietnamese Language school.

The Sergeant Major belched, rubbed his bulging stomach, stared at the sergeant with a suitable evil eye and sneered, Hell, you only need about a half dozen words to get through this piddling little war. I’ll list ’em for you. There’s ‘Boo Koo’, not that crappy French ‘beaucoup’, but ‘Boo Koo’ and ‘Tee Tee’. Boo Koo is a whole bunch and Tee Tee is very little. Damn gooks can’t count! With them, a bunch or a little is all you need.

He took a long swig of his Heineken and continued, Next you have Number One and Number Ten. One is the best, of course. All good, A-OK. Another swig. Ten is the pits. No good.

Then there’s ‘Diddymau’ and ‘Laddymau’. They mean get out of here for Diddy and come here for Laddy. Easy enough! He finished his beer, gave another belch and concluded with a flourish, Finally, ‘Dinkydau’, means crazy mother fucker. And let me tell you, if you ain’t when you get here, before you leave you’ll be Boo Koo Dinkydau!

The Sergeant Major was pretty short, five days and a wake up left to his DEROS. He’d been sleeping in one of the covered bunkers, built by the engineers near the barracks, every night for the last month. Dug eight feet down and layered over with timbers and five feet of earth they weren’t comfortable, but he was determined not to die in a mortar attack. He was not courageous, but had developed a truly admirable command of the language.

After lunch the third day, the battalion clerk came running to find me. LT, grab your gear and hustle down to the air strip! A chopper is holding to take you out to the battalion. The Colonel is pissed about where you’ve been and why you ain’t in the field! Gotta move, Sir!

For just a moment, I considered bringing several varieties of mayhem down on his head, since he had been the one who had kept me sitting and now, apparently had got me in trouble with the Brass. Then I shrugged, This is why you’re here, and got my gear. Thirty minutes later my chopper lifted. Another fine mess you’ve got me into.

The chopper circled the Battalion Night Defensive Position. The pilot called for smoke. It was clearly a large group of American soldiers below, but military protocol for pilots to identify the Landing Zone was a seriously important element in everyone staying alive. It was followed meticulously, even if not apparently necessary. A canister of red colored smoke was popped and the pilot circled in to the LZ inside the N.D.P. circle.

Smoke came in four colors – red, yellow, green, and purple. A pilot called for smoke and identified the color. Upon confirmation, the pilot would land. In the boonies, such a call often resulted in two smokes being popped. Charlie had access to grenades stolen from us. He figured he might throw the right color and draw a chopper into an ambush. It rarely worked, but no one objected to following the protocol.

I reported in to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers, who gave me a slant eyed look and said, Lieutenant, we’ve needed you out here with your company. Where’ve you been goofing off?

Sir, I’ve been at Quon Loi checking Battalion Ops twice a day for orders to report. I’m ready and willing to go! Sir.

Well, you better never give less than 110 percent! You understand me?

Sir. That will be my minimum effort, I assure you. I tried to not spit it out, but biting my tongue makes me edgy.

Fine. You’re assigned to Delta Company as a Platoon Leader. Captain Chapman will give you your platoon. He’s short. About two weeks left in the field. His replacement should be here soon. You’ll be going through a lot of changes quickly. Try to stay on top of them. The men need and deserve good leadership. Any questions?

No, Sir. I’m ready to do my best to lead my men and accomplish the mission.

Okay then. Before you join your company, I’m sending C Company’s third platoon on a recon. Since the Tet offensive ended, the VC have been trying to build up for another offensive and we’re trying to find them. Why don’t you tag along? Start learning your job.

Sounds excellent to me, Sir!

"Sergeant Jordan, take this young buck over

Reviews for Mickey 6

[Anthony · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Great book. Leadership explained in a nutshell. John has a unique style to his writing, so compelling!