Snowbood's Journal

By Bob Linsenman

Jason Snowblood and Benny Coyne, cousins of Ottawa-Irish descent from a small, northern Michigan town, are assigned to the US Army's scout dog program in Vietnam. They develop a friendship with a gallant but shady helicopter pilot and unbreakable bonds with their heroic dogs.

Coyne's special native powers erupt with brutal real and spirit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arbutus Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781933926889

Book preview

1

I am Jason Snowblood. This is my journal.

1967 April 21. Vietnam–day one. Cu Chi

We are the only two assigned to this tent. It is about 30 x 20 feet and filled with cots, but Benny and I are alone here. The others, both enlisted and draftees, have been sent elsewhere. Benny is sitting on the next cot. He is very still, head down, face in his hands.

Outside, the mud is four inches deep. It is thick and sucks hard when you try to walk. The rain keeps coming. We've been in this tent for three hours and it has not let up for a second. It is very hot. It might be a mirage, but I can see steam rising off my arms and Benny's neck. The mud stinks. It gives off the odor of something freshly dead and quietly rotting. The rain, and the air itself, smells old and dying.

We thought we were going to Bien Hoa to be assigned to the l73rd Airborne, but were told to board the bus to Cu Chi, home of the 25th Infantry Division. The lieutenant who directed this seemed frustrated and tentative. He kept checking his clipboard and walking over to a sergeant for quick conferences. The sergeant was busy with two other groups. He rolled his eyes at one of the lieutenant's questions and he caught my stare with a smile and a wink.

The lieutenant tried some dark humor that, frankly, sucked. Body bags were being staged next to the plane that delivered us to the Tan Son Nhut complex outside Saigon.

He pointed at us and said Soldiers to Vietnam, then to the bags and added, Soldiers going home.

We had been separated into enlisted and draftee squads. All enlisted soldiers have RA in their numbers; all draftees have US. Although Benny and I volunteered for the draft, it is not the same as enlisting. We carried the US.

The lieutenant (I think his last name was Charles, but Benny is sure it was Prick) pointed to a battered Isuzu bus and said, All draftees are going to replace wiped out platoons.

It took us less than two hours to get here. It started raining before we left. I hoped that the rain would wash the stink from the air but it has not. The smell of jet fuel faded quickly but was replaced by this rotting mud and the continual roar of 175mm howitzers. Benny is shaking a little. He might be crying. I have never seen him cry. I think this is going to be a very bad year.

1967 April 22. Killing time. Cu Chi

We've been here for two days. Nobody seems to know anything. Nothing but make-work, shit details. This morning we moved 18 tents 100 yards. That's it. Now we're waiting. Benny went to find someone who might know when and where we meet our dogs. Sergeant Mike Greycliff thinks that a captain he knows might be helpful. I hope so. Nothing for me to do but sit here. It's raining, again. Sheet after sheet of stinking rain. I'll write a bit.

Ours is a proud and unordinary family. We are Ottawa-Irish, which is rare enough but there's more. Benny and I are double cousins. His dad and my mother are brother and sister; my dad and his mother are brother and sister. His dad, Uncle Bill, and my mother are Coynes, about as Irish as folks can be. My dad and Aunt Katie are pure Ottawa.

Aunt Katie says that we are direct descendants of Chief Pontiac, who, according to her, was America's highest ranking cannibal.

Uncle Bill and Aunt Katie's house is two blocks from ours in Grayling. When we lived downstate in Birmingham, their house was only three doors down on the same street. Benny and I were born two days apart. We're close.

We have aunts, uncles and cousins all over the place. Some have hard ties to reservations near Saginaw and Traverse City, but most do not. We have Fitzgeralds, Gormans, Cahills, and Coynes, and Walkers, Pipes, Negiks, and Snowbloods in the family circle. Family gatherings were pretty normal unless there was a football game being played that involved Michigan State, Notre Dame, or the University of Michigan. We seemed to be evenly divided in passionate support between the Spartans, Fighting Irish, and Wolverines. This sometimes caused hurt feelings or worse problems. Uncle Gib Negik was so upset when the Irish whomped the Spartans one year that he jumped off the roof of our house to end it all. He broke his bottle of scotch and his right leg in two places and didn't get much sympathy except from my mother. After singing the Notre Dame fight song a few more times, the Fitzgeralds elected Pat and Kelly to drive Uncle Gib to the hospital.

Things changed during our senior year in high school at Brother's Academy. It was clear that we would get scholarships to play football in college. After our freshman year at Grayling High School we were courted by the coaches at Brother's Academy. Benny threw 17 touchdown passes that year. The sophomore year was even better. He threw 24 touchdown passes with only three interceptions all year. I like to think I helped a little. As his center, I never let anyone near him. Well, the folks from the rich Catholic school went nuts. The next thing we knew, Uncle Bill and my dad had good jobs in Royal Oak and we moved to Birmingham to attend and play football for the big school in Oakland County.

We did pretty well. Benny set new passing records for the school as a junior and broke the state record for completions and touchdowns as a senior. We both made the all-state team both years. Benny and I played linebacker on defense our junior year, but the coaches would not let him play defense as a senior, horrified at the thought that he might get hurt. He had peaked his weight at about 190 pounds and I kept gaining. I played at 235 my senior year. My mom said that after I had my tonsils removed, I woke up hungry and have stayed that way ever since.

The recruiting really picked up after our first game in 1960. We played Detroit Catholic Central, the 1959 Class A State champs, and knocked the shit out of them. Benny threw for 286 yards and two touchdowns. I had 14 tackles. We beat those jerks 28 to 7. Uncle Bill and dad later agreed that their phones never stopped ringing after that game. We had coaches calling and visiting from Arizona, Kansas, Minnesota, Purdue, and yes, Michigan, Michigan State and Notre Dame. Do you see a family problem developing here? There was a lot of pressure on both of us and on our parents by every aunt, uncle, cousin, some of whom I'd never met or even heard of, as well as from our grandparents. As I recall, it broke down predictably with the Fitzgeralds, Coynes, Gormans, and Cahills lobbying hard for Notre Dame. The Walkers and Snowbloods wanted us to play for the Wolverines, but the Negiks (Uncle Gib had played tackle for the Spartans) and Pipes howled for Michigan State.

It got crazy. There was no peace. Our parents were even upset with each other and I saw my mother crying after an argument with my dad and Uncle Bill. Everybody understood that Benny and I were a package deal; we were going to play together and this made the pressure more intense.

Even though our parents had promised, It's up to you boys, the rest of the family kept after us.

Two weeks before we had to commit, Benny called and told me he had just thrown-up.

Let's go for a ride, just us. he said.

We drove south on Woodward Avenue, two 17 year-old boys with the world in our hands, sick to our stomachs and scared to death.

Jason, where do you want to go? asked Benny.

My mom wants us to go to Notre Dame…

Benny said quietly, I don't give a shit where your mom and dad, or my mom and dad want us to play. I want to know where you want to play.

Notre Dame thinks I'm too slow to play linebacker, I said.

That's not important. You're going to play offense, you're my center. You will never play a down on defense. Now which school will it be?

I have followed Benny through thick and thin since we were little kids and things had usually worked out well enough. You pick, I said.

Benny grinned, I like those funny helmets. I love the song and I want to play in a really big stadium. Benny stuck out his hand and I took it. He squeezed hard and said, We'll fill that fucker." From that moment we were Wolverines.

When we got home we told our parents, they made a few phone calls and all the bullshit stopped. Thank God.

We had high hopes to go along with our physical abilities, but Benny and I didn't fill the stadium. Benny only started nine games in our three years of eligibility. I started seven. We got to play a bit and earned three letters each, but we weren't quite good enough to be Wolverine superstars. No politics, no bullshit. We played hard and made a difference when we did play.

•

Major Jake Batterman had a terrible headache and his telephone conversation with Colonel Dillon made it infinitely worse. Colonel Dillon, was called Cowboy behind his back, and had more jagged edges than a junkyard. When Batterman had asked Cowboy to repeat himself it had not gone well. Colonel Dillon had spoken loudly, slowly, and with long pauses between each word, as though directing a very young child or a particularly dim-witted lackey. This is coming from Senator Dayton Cole, member of the Armed Forces Sub-committee. Michigan Senator Cole and General Tacey would appreciate our consideration in keeping these two soldiers together if at all possible. Do you understand?

Yes sir, Batterman answered.

The line went dead. Within seconds the phone rang again. It was Staff Sergeant Dutter from Cowboy's office.

Just so you know, and nobody here called you, but every Indian and half the Catholics in Michigan voted for Senator Cole. This is some kind of bullshit payback. Do what you can.

Thanks, Batterman said and hung up.

Most of Dillon's staff were called assistant assholes and had been given numbers, such as AA-3, but Batterman acknowledged that Dutter was at least human. He hadn't even met these two and thought he hated them already. He got up from his chair and went outside. The heat and humidity sickened him. He could feel the hot weight of the air pressing on his throat and neck. Sweat rolled down his back and pooled around his eyes.

No more vodka, he said aloud. Not ever.

It seemed like it took forever. Batterman looked at his watch; it had been eighteen minutes. He finally found Captain McClean talking to Sergeant Greycliff next to the Playboy Club, a large, gazebo-like structure that displayed fold-outs of a dozen favorite playmates from the magazine.

Why, he asked them both at once, are Coyne and Snowblood here? Get those two their dogs and on their way to Bien Hoa, ASAP.

It's being taken care of right now. We just sent Coyne back to get Snowblood. There are two dogs available, well, one and a half anyway, right at Bien Hoa. The 173rd is ready for them, the Scout Dog Platoon is ready. There's a Huey headed up there in an hour. They'll be on it, Captain McClean said.

Greycliff stood silent and stared at Batterman.

McClean continued, I got a call from the Cowboy's office right after he talked to you. Figured I'd get a head start on this. You've got more important things to worry about.

Like where to throw up without being seen, thought Greycliff.

McClean continued, They also called the 173rd and told somebody up there about the Senator's interest. It's a done deal.

Well done, thank you.

Batterman returned salutes and headed back to his office fan and a fistful of aspirin.

•

The UH-ID Huey was a utility helicopter. It was fifty-seven feet, one inch long and weighed 4,900 pounds empty. This one was so full of cargo there was barely room for Coyne and Snowblood. As soon as it leveled off Benny looked out over the rolling green of Vietnam. Diked, quilt-patterned rice fields were surrounded by lush jungle and cut by curving ribbons of brown water. He compared the vista with memories of his parent's book on Ireland. The book was a prized heirloom, a catalyst to dreams of visiting the old country. Its stunning color photographs held the heart as well as the eye with brilliant emerald and blue. Vietnam seemed greener somehow and nearly as beautiful from this height. The rivers were another matter. These seemed tired, in no hurry to go anywhere and certainly the wrong color. Benny longed for the clear, cold waters of his home. He wished he and Jason were wading the Manistee, or sitting on the bank waiting for the brown drake mayfly hatch on the Au Sable downstream from Mio. He thought that would be very nice indeed.

Well, Jason, he said while continuing to stare out the window, what do you think so far?

Jason had been staring at the ceiling, silent and still.

I think, after we get home and I kiss the ground, I will immediately proceed to kick you into Ohio, he answered without moving at all.

Benny reached over and touched his cousin's arm.

I won't fight back. I promise.

•

The 173rd Airborne Brigade was the first major U.S. Army combat unit sent to Vietnam. The Sky Soldiers arrived in early May of 1965 from Okinawa on what was planned to be a temporary assignment until it could be replaced by an airborne brigade from the United States. The original intention was to have these elite soldiers provide security for the Airbase at Bien Hoa but it became an offensive force, launching major operations in War Zone C.

The men of the 173rd developed a swagger as the list of successful operations lengthened through 1966 and early 1967. High praise and numerous citations came to the brigade for its sweep of the Iron Triangle and Cau Dink Jungle in January 1967. In operation Cedar Falls, Sky Soldiers destroyed troop concentrations and tunnel systems and brought out enemy weapons, supplies and food caches as well as Viet Cong captives. Operation Big Springs followed almost immediately. From January to February 16, the brigade located and destroyed twenty-six base camps, 1000 bunkers, and more than 20 tons of rice while killing approximately eighty Viet Cong.

Operation Junction City took place in Tay Ninh Province from late February to March 15. The 173rd was a major participant, but the entire deployment contained forces from the 1st and 25th Infantry Divisions, the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, the 196th Light Infantry Brigade, parts of the 4th and 9th Infantry Divisions, and various South Vietnamese units. The main objective was to locate and destroy the central headquarters of the Viet Cong and this was accomplished during the first phase. Phase two established fire support bases from Lai Khe to Quan Loi, near An Loc. A Viet Cong attack was decimated by artillery support that killed more than 200 of the enemy with only three American casualties.

When Benny and Jason arrived at Bien Hoa in late April, Operation Jersey Hammer was in process and going extraordinarily well. So far, the casualty ratio was as good as it could possibly be with ninety-six confirmed enemy dead and no American casualties. The 173rd was running like a fine watch and the Scout Dog Platoon's handlers and dogs were highly praised and in demand. Up to this point, there had been no successful ambushes of units that had a scout dog working.

Reviews for Snowbood's Journal

[timbazzett · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

SNOWBLOOD'S JOURNAL, Bob Linsenman's novel of Vietnam, had all the elements of a great read. The protagonist, Jason Snowblood, was from northern Michigan. He and his "double cousin," Benny Coyne, were very close and an interesting mix of Native American and Irish heritage. They had been high school football stars, heavily recruited by major colleges, and had played for Michigan. Then in 1967, their student deferments expired, they went into the army together and ended up in Vietnam as Scout Dog handlers, a small, elite and specialized group. And this is where the story should have gotten even better. Unfortunately the author, who obviously did a lot of research about the operations the army was conducting in Vietnam in the 1967-68 period, made the mistake of letting the historical facts and figures - all that research - slow down the forward momentum of the narrative. Instead of working more on character development, storyline and dialogue, he stuffed the narrative with the names of specific military operations, body counts, numbers of American deaths and injuries, etc. - i.e. what you heard on the news every night. Plot and character languished. I found much of the first hundred pages or so to be turgidly slow and became frustrated and impatient. It picked up for a while when Benny becomes an emotional and mental casualty of combat and is evacuated back to the U.S. for treatment. There are elements of the supernatural here, intimations that Benny has shape-shifting powers, has always had them. I mean, shades of Tony Hillerman's SKINWALKERS, except Linsenman's treatment of this Native American belief isn't really all that convincing. The author is at his best when describing the cousins' love of fly fishing and certain rivers.This comes as no surprise, since Linsenman has written several well-received books about fishing Michigan rivers. In one scene, Jason is imagining himself an old man on a river bank with his dog -"He slowly lowered his arms and laid face down on a mix of white pine needles and old cedar. He put both hands in the river's gentle side current and felt a cool tingle creep up his forearms. The river always helped. It sucked poison from his soul." Passages like this made me think of Nick Adams, newly returned from his war, fishing the "Big Two-Hearted River." This is not to say that Linsenman is any Hemingway, but he knows fishing, and he knows the healing power of streams and rivers.There have been countless novels of Vietnam in the past forty years, but not many about the war dogs and handlers from that war. That angle alone would have made this book unique. Unfortunately there is simply not enough detail included about the dogs and their role, and Jason and Benny remain underdeveloped as characters. Jason tries desperately to bring his dog home with him as his tour nears its end, but his requests fall on unsympathetic ears, as the military tells him that the dog is "military equipment and nothing more." There is a surprise twist tied on at the end (which was inconclusive and anticlimactic), but it seemed contrived and simply did not ring true. SNOWBLOOD'S JOURNAL is not a bad book; it suffers mostly from too much telling and not enough showing. I'm confident, however, that Linsenman's loyal fans will probably find this book an interesting curiosity, and will add it to their collection, placing it on the same shelf with his fly fishing books.