Anthology of Broken Pieces

By Casey Clemens

"Whoever said that You cant go back never contemplated
the results of war. Its still an intrinsic part of my mental fabric.
Often my nightmares carry me back to a place that I detest, a
place called Vietnam. It fractures my ego by wafting me along
the gentle breeze that turns fantasy into horror.
It slams me back into the jungles of my mind and once Im
there I cant seem to extricate myself from the bloody legacy of
that brutal war. This book is a story that follows my struggles
through the mine-infested, ragged edge of fear. The book
carries the reader into the places in my mind that mere words
can never explain This book is an anthology of the rude and
brutal images as seen through the eyes of a naive, innocent 20
year old, one who hadnt even tasted life yet.
The book takes a look at what war was like as it evolves
from beauty into horror, into the blood-stained shadows of
the vicious and mind altering images that once housed an
indomitable spirit, fracturing my soul with war torn images of
Vietnam. I sit here, glaring through the windows of sadness at
a war I fought so many years ago, and it left me with way too
much mental baggage"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456877415

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Casey Clemens.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011903155

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4568-7740-8

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4568-7739-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-7741-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

THE WAR WAS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE The Beginning of the End

CHAPTER TWO Killing isn’t the answer

CHAPTER THREE Six down, six to go

CHAPTER FOUR "Eight Down, Four to Go

CHAPTER FIVE Another Big Hit

CHAPTER SIX Going Home

CHAPTER SEVEN As Tough As Nails

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This Book is Dedicated to

The men of the First Cavalry

Especially

Arnie, Barnett, Dowell, Johnson

THE WAR WAS

Forty-three years since the last bullet

bit at my heels.

Forty-three

years after the war

blew a ragged hole in my life.

One year of pure’ unadulterated terror is what it was.

Now all I have left are these silent souvenirs

that rape me every night.

Sometimes I have these nightmares

sometimes they have me.

These nightmares haunt me

no matter how much I try to outrun them.

Sometimes I wonder if they’re real.

I’d like to believe they’re not true,

But I know better.

You go in a virgin

you come out a whore

that’s what war does to you.

PROLOGUE

Being philosophically decapitated by the enormous burden of loyalty to a false god, given no objective except Go kill, just go kill, I learned to accept the kill or be killed mentality. Shoot, shoot before you’re shot. Never mind that they have no weapons, they’re hidden somewhere. But this slanted point of view gradually ravages the soul. It’s an ugly epitaph, that, Go kill" way of life. It’s a rude reminder that my ideology isn’t bullet proof after all. There are no words in the human lexicon to describe my war.

Through these windows of sadness I stare grimly at the past war that I fought. It skewers my mind to think that I could conceivably dance to a merry tune that has never let me disengage myself from the sorry life that I now live. I’d killed the last Viet Cong that I faced and one of my last impressions of Vietnam was the look of his bloody body, as if it was the first kill that I’d recorded.

After over forty years of inherent deception, the ragged ruthless notions that I live with are still an intrinsic part of my personality. I’m relatively safe now, physically, that is, but my mind belongs to an irretrievable past, one that still bleaches my soul. I think back as the graphic scenes peel away in a wicked striptease, revealing the naked truths that I’ve fought so hard to suppress, these angry visions that approach to devour my naked soul.

This anthology is an attempt to deaden the emotions, to allay the horror and the mind-numbing fear that hasn’t been blunted by the passing years. But these words are merely empty vessels, with no ability to transcend the moment, like empty wine decanters to be jettisoned as useless cargo. It’s like seeing these words in black and white can somehow erase the sense of futility that the war has made me face. Most of all, this work is an awkward attempt to soothe the demons that still bite at my flesh, after forty-three years of trying to outrun them.

Unfortunately the only weapon I have left in my silent quiver is this devastating, acerbic and wicked pen. Hardly an adequate arsenal for fighting the unseen terrors, the real, or the imagined.

Like a bitter pawn on the chessboard of life I was sent to Vietnam by an uncaring and malevolent government, one who portrayed the war as a minor skirmish, only to discover that there was a full-blown war going on. I shall never forget the fear and the comrades who died in the line of duty. I’m here physically, but psychologically is a whole other ballgame. I’m a psychosocial miscreant who did some awful things and I brought them home with me.

From the first day in-country I carried a journal to keep so that I could remember the facts and many times on guard I could write in it under my poncho, with a small flashlight that I carried. Most of the time I’d write something like (jly2us12vc24LZblskyrsply) meaning that in the second week of July we took 12 casualties and the enemy took 24 casualties and we were sent to LZ Blue Sky to resupply. Usually every evening when we waited about two hours to go to our positions for that night, I would write in my journal and flesh it out and I usually kept it wrapped in a plastic bag. Sometimes I would write the codes on pieces of paper, on the back of C-ration boxes, and sometimes on the backs of the letters that had been sent to me. Then I would flesh it out when I got the time when I got the chance, usually in the evening when we were waiting to go on ambushes or on the main perimeter.

My war would begin in June 1967 and would end in June 1968, but the mind games linger far beyond that frenetic war. It’s being played out after these forty years and counting. It’s a year that I’d rather forget, but the demons of my past won’t allow me the convenience of forgetting its bloody legacy. If it wasn’t for my therapist, I’d still be a raving lunatic, one who looks at the war knowing that deep inside that I still carry my Beast with me. The effects of Vietnam still play with nimble fingers on the harp of my life. My war is over now but how can I ever validate the wrongs that I’ve committed?

There was much lip service and a lot of saber rattling from the politicians, but little else of substantial worth. The notoriety of the war forced upon us a distinct stigma, those of us who participated in that bloody war that is. Few look past the already known facts and into the reality that we Vietnam Veterans already know. There’s few who understand our side of the story. That’s understandable since the modern public mentality subscribes to the let the sleeping dog lie philosophy. The sleeping dog might bite you if you rouse him. Perhaps that’s why Americans would rather leave Vietnam back in the sixties and early seventies. Why stir up memories and issues that create more questions than they answer. To you cowards who called us some unkind things like murderers and baby killers, and you spit on us; I hope you rouse the sleeping dog and it bites you as much as the war bit us. You were a coward then, and you’re still a coward now.

Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of Vietnam Veterans, we who still live among you, may appear to be here physically, but our minds are still rambling on in the jungle of Southeast Asia, still begging the question Why? Why didn’t you support us? Why did you despise us and spit on us like common criminals? Why didn’t you let us return in body and spirit? We have no clue as to why we were treated and shunned like we were lepers, shunned for doing what we thought was the right thing at the time: defending our country and preserving the freedom that you now enjoy? But that’s the reason we fought: to give you the right to disparage us, even though we don’t like it. We only know that the journey home has been strewn with obstacles and a recalcitrant government who was eager to send us there, but not so eager to accept responsibility for their actions. Ptsd, Agent Orange, depression, panic attacks, antisocial behavior, confusion, irritation, anxiety and frustration: These are just a few of the souvenirs that we acquired from that war. Yes, many of us walk among you, but our minds are still embedded in the jungle of Southeast Asia, and most of us are still a long, long way from home.

CHAPTER ONE

 The Beginning of the End

A time for war and a time for peace."

(Ecclesiastes 3:8)

It’s been four days since the last bullet bit at my heels, or since I’ve seen a booby trap. I’ve eaten my last few meals in an honest-to-goodness mess hall, where the food was hot and cooked, unlike most of the cold C-rations that we ate out in the field. My fatigues have been dry for three days in a row, and I’ve taken several showers, some of the comforts that I’d forgotten. It feels strange when I reach for my M-16 and it’s not there—some ingrained habits don’t die easily. There’s no rifle slung across my back, while I hack my through the Wait-a-minute bushes; there’s no bullets, and no backpacks; there’s no bandoliers draped across my neck, no claymore mines, and no grenades. There’s nothing except for the clothes on my back and my duffel bag, resting silently at my feet, the bag that I thought I’d never need again.

But am I really going home after such a long, long time, after overcoming impossible odds? I’ve survived. Hell, I’m still in one piece, physically, except for the furrows on my side where I was hit by friendly fire, a scar from a bullet that grazed my arm; one that grazed my head, two small gashes on my back from shrapnel that I caught, and a round that plowed through my side while I was trying to retrieve a downed comrade, that turned out to be a flesh wound, and a six inch wound on my left wrist. I may be in one piece physically, but psychologically might be a whole other ball game. For now I’ll enjoy the moment, preparing to lift off in this C-130 that will take me one leg closer to home. But, am I really going home, I think to myself? I’m still afraid that there’s been a mistake, that they’ll come and yank me off this plane, give me back my killing tools and send me back into the jungle once again. We haven’t even begun to lift off yet and already I miss this place. I miss being disconnected from reality, and the adrenaline rush that came from engaging in a firefight. It’s strange to be leaving this place that’s been my home for the past long year.

With a roar and a dash the C-130 speeds toward open space. I took a long look out of the window and I see the velvety carpets that looked so beautiful; jungles that were my killing fields; and the towering mountains where I left a million drops of sweat, as well as many comrades. With a deep sigh I soak the scenery in. This is how I’d like to remember ’Nam, hoping that this snapshot will erase the tragedy of this last awful year, and I think back to the steps that had taken me to this godforsaken place.

On December 10th 1966, I received my greetings from Uncle Sam. The U.S. Army wanted me. I figured that I’d have no chance of passing a physical with my hearing loss: 40% in the right ear and 50% in the left ear. They took me anyway. Then, they made us take the Oath of Allegiance and the first thing we knew it we were considered soldiers. We boarded a bus that brought us to the airport and we were shipped to Fort Bragg, North Carolina for Basic Training, which was a long way from a little settlement known as Bayou Boeuf, where I resided. We were unhappy to be that far away from home, but there wasn’t anything we could do about it. Basic Training (Boot Camp) was as hard as it could be. The Sergeant (Sgt) took a disliking to me,—I don’t know why—and he was constantly on my back. Uncle Sam’s Army sucked, is what I thought. Back in those days the Drill Sgts could hit you with impunity and get away with it. I got hit many times. He made life miserable for me in the next ten weeks that I was there.

Next, after finishing Boot Camp, they sent me home for two weeks, after which I was sent to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas for Advanced Infantry Training (AIT). After I had finished my ten weeks training there I discovered that they had lost my records and I spent another six weeks at Fort Leavenworth before they found them. They made me pull kitchen police (KP)for 42 straight days. They put me in an empty barracks for two weeks, in a mud floor tent for two weeks, and in the day room for two weeks.

While at Fort Leavenworth I had practiced on the 8o mm mortars. There I had learned how to be a forward observer and I learned to read a topographical map, among other things. After AIT training they sent me home for two weeks after which I was to report to Oakland for my trip to Vietnam, which was my final destination. Of course, I knew that there was a minor skirmish going on in Southeast Asia, but the Officers and Drill Sgts conveniently forgot to tell us that there was a full blown war going on. It was the beginning of the end, the season that daydreams died, that dreams were dismantled. It was an abrupt end to what I thought was my real self, about the world and about myself.

Upon my arrival in Vietnam the first thing they did was to hand me an M-16 and it surprised me because we had trained with M-14’s in the States, so I knew very little about the new weapon, but I learned quickly. On my first day in ’Nam they assigned me to the first Squad, first Platoon, in Delta Company. That afternoon, before I could unpack my bag, Sgt Hooke came to get me. He was to take his Squad out on a patrol around the Green Line, which was a safe haven for our Company. I was the first one out of the barracks so Sgt Hooke told me that I was going to be point man. The reconnaissance (recon) mission seemed to be safe since we were close to Base Camp. We headed out and everything seemed to be going as scheduled. However, about one hour into the patrol we came under fire. It looked like it was a single sniper.

I can remember the first bullet zing close to my ear and the shot that tore into Talbert’s chest, and it shook me up. This was the first time, but far from the last, that I had been shot at. This was the first time that the enemy was trying to kill me. Back in the States we had trained with blanks unless it was on the firing range with live ammunition. Jones right, Jimbo left, and see if you can outflank him, and Johnson bring that fricking 60 (60 calibur machine gun or M-60 the M-60 man was called a gunner) up here, I hear Sgt Hooke scream. After that I see Jones go down, but it looked like it was just a superficial wound and he continued on with his mission. As Jones and Jimbo approached the tree where the sniper had been firing from, they fired furiously into the tree and only a few leaves fluttered down. But no gook. That happened often. Most of the time the snipers were behind trees, not in them, behind rocks or from a hill while we were passing in a valley. It’s a misconception that the gooks fired from in the trees all the time.

We took Jones to the hospital inside Base Camp and the Huey helicopter (chopper) picked up Talbert and took him to Pleiku where he would be sent home. Jones was later sent back to our Company in the field two weeks later. We called our firefights Hot Zones, and the choppers hated to land there while the shooting was taking place unless we had wounded to be picked up.

The next morning they sent me and several others to the Company in the field. About ten minutes into the flight we encountered enemy fire and the door gunner on the chopper returned fire. After a few seconds or so the firing stopped, and we