Nam Sense by Jr. Arthur Wiknik Page A

or simply keep him busy at Camp Evans until his tour ran out.
    “They’re sending me to the rear?” he shouted, questioning the move.
    “Those dirty bastards know damn well I want to be where the action is!”
    “Are you crazy?” we scolded him. “Most Grunts only get a couple of days in the rear before going home. You’ll have nearly a month.”
    “They can’t fool me,” he continued, his eyes open wide as if to better make his point. “They’re sending me back to Camp Evans because the Gooks are digging tunnels under the airstrip and they need me to flush them into the open.”
    The poor guy had gone crazy. The past eleven months of combat had burned him out. Later that day, a chopper brought out two new guys and prepared to take Harrison back. Most of the men were superstitious about being around a nut case, and so I was one of the few who bothered to say goodbye. Besides, as his squad leader, I felt it my duty to see him off.
    Harrison sat in the helicopter looking out at me with a stupid grin. As we shook hands, he pulled me close saying, “Everybody thinks I’m crazy, but I don’t give a fuck. I was just crazy enough to get my ass out of the field. Ha, Ha!” His eyes burned into mine.
    As the chopper lifted off, I laughed to myself. Harrison wasn’t nuts after all. His act fooled everyone, even me. He was just a short timer who had seen so much shit that he pulled something desperate to get out of the field. His scheme worked so well I decided to keep it a secret. Who knows, someday I might need a similar stunt to save myself.
    One of the new guys who came out was a platoon leader to replace Lieutenant Bruckner. 2nd Lieutenant Anthony Pizzuto was a baby-faced Italian from a town in Idaho no one had ever heard of. A college graduate who planned on a long military career, Pizzuto wasn’t bashful about voicing his belief that serving in Vietnam would provide the necessary grooming for future success. However, I wasn’t sure how he planned to accomplish his goal because Pizzuto wasn’t interested in meeting the platoon members. Instead, he spent several days in private meetings with Hartwell and Krol.
    The other new guy was PFC Dennis Silig. He was a good-looking muscular fellow who didn’t act nervous like the average Cherry coming to the field. He was relaxed, friendly, and already talking with some of the men.
    “Hello Silig,” I said, introducing myself, “I’m Sergeant Wiknik, your squad leader. Where are you from in the World?”
    “Lancaster, New York,” he answered, shaking my hand and squeezing it hard.
    “That’s quite a grip. Do you work out?”
    “No,” he laughed quietly. “In college I played a lot of sports to keep in shape.”
    “A college man?” I asked puzzled. “What the hell are you doing in the Army? Did you waive your deferment?”
    “I couldn’t afford my tuition anymore, so I quit. I was just surprised to get drafted so fast.”
    “Maybe you and Howard Siner should get together,” I joked, “he’s a New York college dropout, too.”
    To no one’s surprise, Silig and Siner became instant friends. Their kinship of growing up in New York, similar educational background, and enjoyment of professional sports created a natural bond.
    The rebuilding work on Firebase Airborne was completed so our next assignment would take us on a month long patrol of the A Shau mountains at the northern tip of the valley. In our absence, each company in our battalion during two-week rotating shifts would defend Airborne.
    Our exit from the firebase should have been routine. Instead, it was a fiasco. With no natural clearings big enough to land a helicopter, an LZ had to be cut. The site selected was on a pointed ridge that was visible from the firebase. A five-minute artillery barrage pounded the location to help simplify the tree removal and scare off any lurking NVA. As elements of Echo Company rappelled into the jungle to provide security for a LZ cutting team, Cobra gunships