The Horse Soldiers of Vietnam

By Chuck Breuer

THE HORSE SOLDIERS of VIETNAM is based party on fact, but is primarily a work of fiction. It is factual in the sense that a specific individual well known to me disappeared after Vietnam and has never been seen since returning to the states from that emotionally devastating conflict.

The specifics of that young mans trials are completely unknown to me. The fiction begins with speculation as to the kinds of events that would so totally alienate a veteran from his family and friends to the point that he would refuse all contact with them. Then, he seems to have completely disappeared from the face of the earth.

In fiction Carl Steiger faces the increasing psychological turmoil of war and lost love, and becomes addicted to heroin-- a drug which has also been called HORSE-- hence the title. As the story line progresses the impending disaster is softened by the fact that the reader has already seen the Prologue and knows that Steiger will survive both conflicts: He will physically survive the slaughter in Vietnam, and-- after years of addiction-- he will also finally overcome the terrible and seemingly insurmountable malady of heroin dependency.

Steiger survives and the hope of the storyteller is simply that the young man mentioned above will also survive. Further it is our hope that all of the forgotten Horse Soldiers--many of whom still wander through the shadows of society today--will also survive. We pray that they will

Chuck Breuer, Edgefield SC, August 3, 2000.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 29, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462831326

Chuck Breuer

‘Chuck’ Breuer is Dr. Charles E. Breuer Jr. a Psychologist retired from private practice. Breuer served a total of eight years in both active and reserve duty in the U.S. Coast Guard and obtained his Ph.D. from USC in the interim. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, he was granted a reserve appointment as a commissioned officer in the United States Air Force. He has thus seen military life as both an enlisted man and an officer. Breuer’s knowledge of military procedure was augmented by employment at Fort Jackson (US Army). He also worked as a Veteran’s Counselor for the State Employment Service and as a Civilian Personnel Specialist at Shaw Air Force. In those positions he interviewed many service personnel who were being (or had been) discharged. Some of the content of his book the Horse Soldiers of Vietnam is based on those interviews.

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Copyright © 2000 by Chuck Breuer.

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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PROLOGUE

BOOK I

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BOOK II

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

This book is respectfully dedicated to the men and women of all branches of the Armed Forces of these United States who swore to defend—with their lives if necessary—the Constitution of this great nation. May further depredation to that document be forever forestalled!

PROLOGUE

Steiger walked out of the hospital lobby and down the marble steps to the street.

Across the freeway, the brilliant rays of the sun seemed to grow even brighter as they danced upon the rippling waters of the harbor. It was a harbor where Charlestonians had lived and died for more than three centuries.

A sense of history never failed to move him as he viewed the panorama that stretched to the shining horizon. What secrets lay in the holds of the rotting men-of-war that had yielded to the guns of his forefathers and now rested at the bottom of the bay? From the Spanish invaders to the trials of the Confederacy, armed ships had sailed into that safe-haven with malevolent intent and paid dearly for it.

Steiger too had paid a staggering cost for his part in a more recent conflict, the war in South East Asia. There, Steiger was the invader, the interloper, the uninvited. There too, he had lost the war of his generation.

No trumpets sounded his return to his homeland. There were no parades, no drums or confetti. To welcome him, there had been nothing but the rustle of stiff white uniforms and the unpleasant barks of the medics as they unloaded the litter-bearing aircraft.

Steiger had no visible wounds when he was returned from Vietnam; the wounds were to his mind, his very soul. Grief, shock, fear, constant fatigue and lastly heroin addiction had drained him of his last bit of usefulness to the United States Army. He was shipped home like a badly abused carcass of no further value to himself or anybody else. His one saving grace was the commendation of his former commander and the Silver Star they had pinned on his tunic; otherwise he would have been dishonorably discharged rather than surrendered to the care of the Veteran’s Hospital system.

On arrival in San Francisco, he was little more than a vegetable. He did not speak, had to be frequently force fed, and would have died but for the unstinting—if some time callous—care he received in more VA hospitals than he could remember.

He, like hundreds of his comrades in arms, had returned from South East Asia only to spend endless months, or even years, at one or another of those seldom mentioned VA facilities for the walking wounded of Vietnam.

No bullet felled Steiger. It had been smack, heroine, or—if you prefer—the Big H, Horse. With his addiction, Steiger became one of the ‘Horse Soldiers of Vietnam.’ Many of them, even today, drift in and out of VA hospitals across the land.

For years, stretching into decades, he had spent no more that a few consecutive months on the street at a time. Then, he would plunge once again into the abyss of despair and addiction. Thereupon, the grim merry-go-round of arrest and commitment would begin anew.

San Diego, St. Louis, Houston, Louisville and finally Columbia—in his home state—had been his reluctant hosts over the years. Finally, during the bitter winter of 1998, he had awakened one morning in a too bright room with bars on the windows. Between those bars, he saw the masts of tall ships. On leaving his bed with an unsteady gait, he had looked out upon a somehow familiar vista, and slowly came to the realization that he had finally returned to the city of his birth: Charleston, Charleston by-the-sea, Charleston, South Carolina.

Now, with the warm April sun to his left, he was leaving yet another hospital. This time, his head was clear, and his walk was confident, erect. For more years than he cared to remember, he had wanted to go down to the water’s edge and somehow cleanse his very soul in communion with the phantoms he believed would be there to hear his pleas. In so doing, he was absolutely confident that his time in Perdition would be at an end.

Thereafter, thoughts of a bent spoon and candle would neither frighten him nor cause any longing. He was free, free at last and free forever from the tyranny of drugs. He was home, home from the hill, hunting, searching, longing and even praying; but he was also free.

Steiger’s story began years before when headlines concerning school integration, bussing, or riots—as often as not—pushed news of the war below the fold in the local newspapers. His trials, to some degree, paralleled the trials of the nation. His ultimate victory, hopefully, foreshadows the same future for his country as it gropes toward a solution to the problems of drug addiction. Hopefully too his native land will also succeed in conquering the vile chemistry that has so plagued three generations of young Americans. Then, perhaps, we can once again agree that … in God … we trust.

BOOK I

CHAPTER ONE

Wump! Wump! The mortars fell after the brief fluttering sound they make in flight. The explosions came in quick succession, but were muffled by the soft earth they penetrated before detonation. Carl dropped his mess kit and rolled behind the log he’d been using as a rest.

Get down Shad damn it. You’re gonna get your fool self killed for sure.

Steiger reached up and clawed at his buddy’s battle jacket, but Shad didn’t move. He was dead. A long sliver of shrapnel had hit him in the throat … he made no sound as he died. Steiger’s hand recoiled. It was covered with blood. He lay there in shock unable to grasp the fact that his friend had died so suddenly, so violently.

All right, let’s roll you characters. Pack up and let’s see if we can catch Charlie and ram those little mortar guns down his throat. Corporal Yascheck, old and hoary at 24, had more than two years of threading his way between the rice patties of Viet Nam behind him. Come on Steiger, get that buddy of yours off his lazy ass …

Why don’t you go to Hell you jerk, don’t you see he’s had it, he’s dead, he’s dead …

Yazz realized he had made a mistake, and that it might be a crucial one. Steiger, the new guy, was one who would require special handling.

All right, take it easy kid, I didn’t know, see. I’m, sorry. O.K? Look, take the bolt out of his rifle and I’ll get his tags. The detail will come for him in the morning. O.K.?

Yascheck rarely made a mistake with his men and he realized it would take a lot of effort to get Carl Steiger worked into the squad. There had been something funny about Steiger from the start, something he’d never quite pinned down … but right now they had other things to do.

Morgan, you and Stevens take the point. Jenkins, you’re on me with the phone. O.K., let’s move out people.

The squad started out along a well define pathway that they felt was safe this close to the village they had scouted earlier. Ordinarily, walking a path in Vietnam was an invitation to lose a foot; your legs or those uniquely masculine organs where the legs came together … too many men had done just that.

Gimme that buzzer Jinks. As they walked, Yascheck reported. Alpha Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Four, Whisky Four, over? He heard only hissing static for a moment, then the thin reedy sounds of the voice of the Comm Sarge at mission headquarters crackled in his ear phones.

That you, Walt? What’s up?

Yeah, Sarge it’s me. Tell the major, Charlie just dropped about six mortar rounds on us and killed one of my boys …

Who got it?

Jones, Shadrach we got his stuff.

Jones? O.K. I got it. What’s your position?

We’re about twelve hundred meters south of Hill 215. I think those mortars crews are up there, and I’m gonna take a look.

Right, out.

The sun had begun to set behind the low rise ahead, which the cartographers had dubbed number 215 on their precise little table-model country. Steiger sometimes thought the whole world was like that. Just a little table with painted grass and matchstick men being moved around by some kind of giant imbeciles playing at being gods.

What Hell is it all about, he thought. Why did Shadrach Roosevelt Jones come 8,000 miles to die with a spoon in his hand? Why?

Hold it, quiet! Steiger, lost in his own thoughts, had bumped into the man ahead of him. The point had evidently stopped the squad for some reason and Carl hadn’t noticed the silent signal to halt.

The man up front, walking point ahead of the squad and moving silently, had caught the scent of Charlie. He hurried back to stop the file.

Yazz, Stevens said in a hoarse whisper, there’s about eight or nine of them. Looks like three mortar crews. We gonna hit em?

Not here … come on.

The VC had fired from the slope of hill 215 and apparently set out immediately for new cover. It was Charlie’s favorite trick. Hit, run and leave as many booby-traps as possible behind him. Yascheck reasoned that there would be no threat, at least no more than usual-of booby traps now. Charlie seemed to be moving too fast to have set up anything elaborate, and had probably fired at Yazz’s squad as a ‘target of opportunity’.

O.K., look, they’re headed toward that village we saw this morning, I’d make a bet on it. They won’t use the road; they don’t have the nerve so soon after a hit. If we hustle, we can double-time it and get to the town first. Come on let’s go.

The squad hit the unpaved road and began jogging toward the tiny village they had scouted earlier, each man hoping the rattle of their equipment would not alert the enemy to what was going on.

Ho Loung had heard the mortars that were fired at the Americans and hadn’t worried about them. As village Chieftain for some fifty odd years, he knew the sound of trouble when it knocked. Every time the fighting drew near, he and his village suffered for it.

First the white devils would come with their food and candy. They’d string more barbed wire, then sit about for several weeks pretending to be his friends and coaxing the women off into the night. When the Americans left, black-garbed ones, his so-called countrymen, would come. They would tear down the wire and shoot someone of the village as a lesson to all. Why they had spared him thus far remained a mystery to everyone including himself. The Black Vermin, as he secretly thought of them, had thus far done no more than warn him about the evils of listening to the Americans.

Ho Loung had seen innumerable wars in his long life. This time the fighting was different than before. In those earlier conflicts the soldiers had fought only in the big cities and at the great fortresses. Now, the fighting raged all through the land. No one was safe anywhere. With the nearby explosions, he realized that the warriors were again coming to his village.

Hey Corporal, that’s the ole geezer we seen before. He’s the mayor or something. What we gonna do?

Forget him, we’re not going into the village, not now anyway. Come on.

Corporal Yascheck took the lead and moved off along the bank of the stream that flowed past the native hamlet. After a few minutes of brisk hiking, he called his men to a halt. All right, now listen, I think those birds will try to ford this stream right about here to get into the town. They’ve probably got a buddy in there somewhere who’ll hide em out. The artillery they’re carrying won’t slow em up too much, so they’ll be here any minute. Cut the gab and hunker down. Martin, take Jinks, Morgan and Stevens with you. Spread out, across that wash over there. The rest of you guys stick with me.

Yascheck was good, damned good as a tactician, and he noticed the obvious fording place when he had scouted the area the day before. If Charlie were looking for a place to hide within the village, he’d probably cross the stream right here, right up his alley.

The bugs droned for ages it seemed and nobody showed. The jungle was as quiet as—a grave. Yascheck had almost given up when the grunting sounds of heavily laden men echoed from the bush.

Carl Steiger heard them too and stiffened. God no, he’s going to cut those guys down like dogs … he isn’t going to give them a chance to surrender at all! What can I do? What?

The sound of his own weapon on full automatic was the answer Carl found. Firing first and without intent to kill ought to make them freeze long enough to call out a demand for surrender. That at least was Carl’s hope. His hope went unrealized.

The dirt three feet ahead of the enemy’s line of march flew into the air as Steiger’s bullets slammed harmlessly into the ground. The rest of the squad then hurriedly opened fire as well. They had expected a command from Yazz, and were rattled by the sudden unexpected gunplay.

The warning Steiger provided the enemy almost cost him his life. One of the V.C. dropped the mortar base he had been carrying and rushed up the embankment toward him. Steiger had emptied his weapon and watched almost in a trance, as the long blade of Charlie’s machete arched toward him.

Move Steiger, yelled Yascheck, MOVE|

A millisecond later would have been too late, but Carl threw his rifle up just in time to catch the deadly blade against the perforated metal hand guard. Then, with the reflex action his basic training had given him, he raised the butt sharply and caught his man full across the jaw.

The black clad figure dropped like a rock at the feet of the bewildered Steiger.

The firing stopped almost as abruptly as it had begun and the men, ears still ringing from the fury of it, walked cautiously out to count the dead. The entire enemy troop appeared to be lifeless.

Steiger, shouted an exasperated Yascheck, "what the Hell do you mean with that kind of a stunt? Who told you to open fire, you … ?

Yascheck stopped, took a deep breath and started again with a different tone. Look kid, I know this is just your second time out, but if you want to live to make a third trip, you’d better get with the program. Not only that, there’s a lot of other guys here that want to get back to some Saigon Sweetie that isn’t going to make it if we have any more foul-ups. O.K.?

Hey Corporal, Martin shouted, this guy’s alive.

Martin, and of course Steiger, were the only men of the squad that called Yascheck anything but Yazz. He was a man that carried authority that needed no stripes. He had that kind of commanding presence that most men looked to regardless of their own rank. Somehow, he knew instinctively how to deal with all kinds of men, all except Steiger. He’d seen what Steiger intended to do even before the kid had fired the first round, but was more curious than angry about it. Why had he done it? That was the more important question in Yazz’s mind just now.