“The Insanity Syndrome” Part Two

Warning: Violence, drug use, smoking, gore, fear, offensive language and triggers. Proceed with caution.

Part Two

Ghosts

In the late winter of 1967-1968, my training complete, I boarded a jet headed to war. It took us as far as Thailand after a stopover for fuel and a fresh pilot and crew somewhere, I guess maybe Germany? Only because this wasn’t any airport. Nah, this was an   Air Force base of good size. Then after Thailand I think a C-130 flew us to Da Nang Airbase. It was during the Tet offensive when I was integrated into a unit as a “cherry”, a name for guys ain’t been in any firefights, or not many of them. I never doubted myself for a second. I was a natural, I was full of rage, and I had no fear.

I forgot most of the units I served with because I was probably the most transferred soldier in-country. They flew me and some silent, faceless officer down to Saigon to beef up the defenses after the Vietcong had flooded over the borders with Cambodia and Laos. It struck me how fucking much that place stank and how ancient parts of it looked, almost as if Huck Finn woulda felt at home.

I was puking for the first 30 minutes on the ground. Then mortars and gunfire opened up. I wanted to kill already because the place smelled like a sewer next to a landfill. I had to defend the ugly motherfuckers on these streets who smelled worse than the whole place did? I thought, Fuck this, and told a guy with sergeant stripes to give me the M-60 gunner, an ammo carrier (or A-gunner), and a guy who had three LAW rockets slung over his shoulders. He said, “Cherry, shut up and go sit on yer ass.”

I went and got the men behind his back anyway and went to the end of a wall half a kilometer south. I had them keep down in tall grass while I scoped around. Two mortar crews, 60 meters apart: one firing over the wall and one, northward, firing to the northeast. A rifle squad. 50 men, concealed, about five with rockets. All too close. They’d warned us at Bliss that the VC were too clever for that. I ducked down into the grass, said “LAW”, and told the -60 gunner to fire from concealment where he was. This put him firing blind, but all I needed was covering fire. Four paces to their left I crept so the back blast wouldn’t fry them. I had both mortars lined up and I thought I might get em both with one shot.

I did. And then I saw Charlie spring up comically from the grass like Jack in the boxes, and the -60 cut them to pieces. I got another rocket and hit a cluster of men and all enemy fire ceased. The four of us just kept going like that, grabbing weapons and fresh ammo, and killing the attacking groups of VC on the perimeter of the city.

We ran into trouble when we got to the south and went too far. Charlie was moving in to encircle us so we backed off, me tossing frags and the -60 gunner smoking his barrel pouring rounds into guys who made me laugh when they dropped. Then it got very still and quiet. That sergeant yelled for us to go get a body count, and I was suddenly exhausted. Drained of the adrenaline, I began to shake all over and fell back on my ass. The sergeant looked down at me and said, “Doc, over here. Cherry’s hit.”

I just looked at him. “Your chest,” he said. I did, suddenly, feel the blood inside my shirt, running down my stomach to my waist.

The first time is the worst, I was told. Nobody is ever prepared for it. They either fear it so much that shock kills them when they get so much as a nick, or, they get hard, mean and realize they gotta survive because that’s the only real way to go back to The World. The other way was in a rubber bag.

The wound wasn’t good. Chipped a lung on its way through. I believe even now some cats wouldn’t of survived it. Three days into the post-op infection, they got a handle on it and I had dope and penicillin running through me and I fuckin enjoyed it. That first day of being kinda awake and all dopey were some good fuckin days. After a general walked through the ward I was on, he stopped at the end of the beds and turned around and looked right at me. He talked quiet to the Docs and over the window air conditioning units in the lower half of every window, I couldn’t hear, so I ignored them. I just relaxed.

That night the guy in the bed on my right was moved. I could tell by the stink that his replacement was a local. What the fuck? This was a ward for American casualties so what the fuck was this worm doin next to me?

And then he started fuckin with me: “Why you here, Joe? You not wanted here, American is number ten, you fucking! Go home to Alabama, Joe. Take guitar with you, Joe!”

There was something not right about this commie pig. I said, getting up to a sitting position, “It’s a fuckin banjo, you stupid zipper. A fuckin banjo, okay, and second, someone wanted me here, because if you think I’m here because I like you or your stinkin country or I give a fuck about you, you’re just as fuckin stupid as every other gook piece a shit I seen.”

I pulled the needle and the hose outta my arm and pulled down his sheet and started carving into his chest. I drew an Army star and beneath that wrote my name (Lee Geldmacher) and USA as deep as I could. “Fuckin commie pig,” I said, and looked down because my feet were sticking to the floor. I’d lost a shit load of blood, and tried to make it back to my bed. That’s the last thing I remember.

I woke up, they told me, ten days later. Blood was still being given through one tube and bottle while the other arm had the dope and penicillin drip. A doctor was called as soon as I opened my eyes. “Private Geldmacher, you killed a patient of mine. You should be in a prison hospital, but that fuckhead general ordered you to be kept here. He’s taken some kind of interest in you and gets regular updates.

“I understand that this war is….unclear as to its mission, but you crossed a line. That man stuffed part of his sheet so far down his throat that he choked to death on his own vomit.”

I was too weak to laugh, but that was the funniest shit I’d ever heard. He saw it in my eyes and said, “Why you sick bastard, you! You think it’s funny? Captain Peters, discontinue the morphine drip on Private Geldmacher starting at 0700, and have an MP guard him around the clock.”

By the time the infection cleared and the withdrawal had passed (which the docs and nurses obviously enjoyed watching) it was late April. They ordered me to rehabilitation in Germany, because I’d lost weight and lean muscle mass. I swear, it was worse than basic training and infantry school put together. Yet I was angrier than at any time in my life. That general had tested me by putting the gook in the bed to my right. In Germany that general caught up with me. When he told me it was a test, I said I kinda suspected, but he was at fault, not me. Then he dropped the bomb.

“Where’s your Purple Heart?”

“I didn’t want it. Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t ask for any of this. What is this game you’re playing with me? What is it that you are hidin up your sleeve?”

“I retrieved your Purple Heart for you. I’m safekeeping it until you’re ready for it. You were out of it but you’ve also been awarded other medals and citations. You found your callin here, Sergeant Geldmacher. I’m good at spotting raw talent, you could say.

“Once again you will serve your country, and I can use what you are: a killer. An avenger, a killer angel even. When you leave here you will attach to various units, use them and be used, but you will get orders from noncombatants. These orders will be shared with no one. You will discuss this conversation with no one. Know this, Sergeant Geldmacher: you will be a ghost, but you will save lives.

“One more thing. No man I know of ever commanded handpicked men in such a small group on his second day in-country, before being in any other action, and got a confirmed body count so high. Which brings me to the final condition I will ask that you keep,” and he leaned close and said softly, “I don’t ever want to see a message or hear on the radio your voice and the words ‘body count’ followed by a number. I am not interested in Westmoreland and his fucking body count. Together, you and my operatives will save American lives and friendly civilians, but with the standin order that in some situations you will have to look the other way regardin civilians because we do dirty shit to save American lives. This war makes me sick. Soldiers and pilots and marines wasted so senselessly that nobody in Washington should be able to sleep at night. Bastards.” And even more softly, he repeated, “Bastards.”

I was sent on two solo missions, dropped off by Hueys in the bush, south of the DMZ. Both insertions were hot, drawing fire from hills to the north, and both times I could hear bullets hit the chopper. There were no door gunners to lay down covering fire, and once in the tall grasses, I had no choice but crawl to my first marker. The second time was the worst. The war in early 1969 wasn’t kind to the soldiers. The second Tet was on and tensions were high. Nixon lied to the folks back home, like, every day, and we got news from home there that really hurt us. We began to feel betrayed and unappreciated by everyone back home, and that’s exactly what we were: they protested, carried signs with dirty names for soldiers, and as time went on, men rotating back home to The World were warned against wearing their uniforms, especially dress uniforms with any decorations.

On the second solo foray, maybe my tenth assigned mission, I was fuckin up. Thinkin about how celebrities called down the wrath of God on us when all we were doing was serving our country. I was thinkin, here I had turned 19 and I never even been on a date, never kissed a girl, and it was less likely to ever happen each time I went out into the Bush. I wasn’t focused. I made it to the backside of a ridge, thinking vaguely that I could stop for a drink from my canteen, and became suddenly aware of an entire regiment of NVA to my northwest, well separated and staged, and an unknown number of VC to my immediate south and west. In other words, I fucked myself. I could tell by certain dialects that the soldiers on my left were VC. I had only one way of gettin out of here, and it was the way I had just come in. I couldn’t get to my objective, so the mission was an abort. But I couldn’t even use my handset here. I cursed at myself for losing focus and thinking about stupid shit. Without showing myself, I began to withdraw, but now I ran the risk of detached infantry patrols walking right on top of me. They had seen me coming in and I believe they knew I was a Ghost, a Con ma. We had made the name into something they feared.

Without knowing it, we had also put a price on our heads. For the past year we had spread out, assassinated NVA top officers, the best snipers they had, blown up bridges, laid mines, infiltrated and booby trapped camps and even been on an ambush or two with other units. I know I did some crazy shit, but none of it was ever as crazy as the fucking ambush. Those were the times, the only ones, when I got truly frightened. With a enemy like these guys, NVA or VC, sittin in one place and waitin for a firefight was askin for bad shit to happen. I hated it. When my gut told me to, I’d get out of the holes and hide out in a position I calculated would have most of the enemy end up in front of me, and I’d pick them off at leisure, usually by just bein quiet and usin’ my bayonet.

As I retreated this time, the second solo mission to assassinate an enemy officer just over the border at a camp in Laos, I knew before it happened that I was gonna draw fire. I could hear patrols all around me in the darkness. And my God didn’t the darkness move in fast in that fuckin wasteland. But when I would hear one get close, I’d inch away, slowly but still fast enough to keep from getting stepped on. My bayonet was in one hand, my Colt in the other. And I made it out eventually but now, without any way of reading my map or fixing my position, I was almost as screwed. This was NVA territory and if a spotter saw a flashlight, he’d report it. They usually targeted the whole area with artillery from the high hills, and I sure as hell didn’t want that. I had been through one shelling down south in some valley that wasn’t even on a terrain map. Of course they had the drop on us and some stupid, asshole 2nd lieutenant ordered us right into the perfect killing zone, the best I saw that whole, miserable war.

Out of two platoons of Army infantry, I was only able to save five men. Of course, I shot the lieutenant four times in the head. Vermin like him didn’t deserve to live. He had got a lotta men killed while he sat on his ass for three days, trying to call in medevac and reinforcements. I made him look at me too; I wanted to see the life run outta his eyes. I’d been on foot and belly, encircling the rear of the gun emplacement with five hand-picked guys. We fucked em up enough that they knew it was Ghosts. In the end, we had terrorized them to the point where they fucking ran away, leaving their artillery, tents, a command hooch and radio station. The bastards had it set on our freq, and had heard every word the pussy lieutenant had sobbed into the mic.

The trek down the hill was steep, it was hot as hell, and my new Ghosts (I personally took them with me to the general to recruit them because they had listened to me and learned) dreaded the things they knew they’d see at the bottom.

Over one hundred men. Masks of surprise or terror, some with no heads at all, some with nothing below the torso, some with nothing above the waist.

I cried. They were all fucked-up, every single man. I fell to my knees and bawled like a baby. I had tried so hard to save them. The new Ghosts also wept. They had been buddies with the fallen. Traded stories, shown pictures of their girlfriend back home, crouched together for protection.

And then they had died together.

The lieutenant, he was alive and whole. How the fuck did he manage to do that?

I told him what he had done. Tears still mixed with the sweat running down my face and I never would’ve covered it up. At least I felt the sorrow for the dead men and their families, who had to live every day from now on with an empty chair at the dinner table. Kids growing up with no father or calling the wrong man “daddy”. Never knowing how fucking noble and honorable the old man was because the World hated their soldiers and veterans. Hell, I’d heard a story about a honor guard at an air base in the states threatening to fire on some protesting scum who laughed as the flag-covered coffins were unloaded. A sea of red, white and blue, no matter what Nixon said about Vietnamization. I had been all over the country and seen only what I took as half-ass operation classes for weapons and vehicles.

I told the general that within six months of our military leaving South Vietnam, they would lose. He got angry and said, “I told you I don’t give a fuck! I want our men and women to not go home in a God damned body bag! Now I’ll tell you why, since you seem to have forgotten our mission. I don’t believe in this war. We can’t ever win this war. Too many American lives have been lost, from grunts to Airborne to Navy pilots to civilian reporters! And not one of them should be dead, Sergeant Geldmacher. You’ve heard, no doubt, what’s been going on back there. Veterans getting beaten half to death. Protesters staking out airports. Throwing all kinds of things on the returned soldiers. See what I mean? They knew we were losing when LBJ was in command. Then the first Tet. They didn’t care that the VC failed. It ruined their faith. They never got it back either. I don’t know if you’re aware of my Lai, but American soldiers slaughtered 500 men, women and children there last April. That was no little village. It was a group of villages and there’s been rumors of court martials. But word got out. Still in the unconfirmed section of the news, but somebody’s going to talk. The protests are gettin worse. This war is killin our country. I have one intention, and that’s to save any lives I can. Now. You insolent fucker, get outta my sight.”

I never brought it up again, but it seemed that our relationship had been strained and he held me in lower esteem. I didn’t know it at the time but it affected my performance in the bush. And getting killed in Vietnam, something I never believed could happen before, began to creep into my mind as the inevitable end of my miserable life.

And on my second and last solo, I had no idea where I was or where to go. I knew that to go too far north or south was suicide, but east was too far to a base to hope for.

By the time I was in too much pain to low-crawl and had to walk upright, I heard the commotion to my rear. Puff and a Spooky were circling the enemy back there, both firing fierce destruction that I’ll never be able to stop hearing.

As I watched the tracers, I felt something hit me in the back, like someone hit me with a rock. Before it dropped me, I knew I’d been shot again. As I laid there trying to breathe, I could feel pain, so I figured no spinal injury.

I woke up looking at the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She was working on changing a dressing. My eyes didn’t focus very fast so I asked her to wait when she turned to leave. Finally I saw the beauty as she looked at me with concern. “Please, don’t leave me. Please dont.”

A grown-ass man. A pitiless killer. Never feared anything after my old man had whipped me — killed men in the Bush with my bare hands, smellin them, lookin right into their eyes because I enjoyed it, hated every Zip ever created, hated any god who would inflict the world with their miserable asses — here I was, scared of the dark, begging this beautiful woman, a Vietnamese woman, not to leave me.

She sat on a wooden chair beside me, and asked what was wrong. On that perfect face, a look of genuine concern. “What’s wrong, Sergeant Geldmacher? Oh, I see on your chart it is Sergeant Major Geldmacher. I apologize.”

“Has he been here?” I asked. She knew!

She just nodded. No real reaction. I considered the neutrality an act to conceal disdain.

“Another promotion, that’s terrific. He thinks I’ll stay. It’s a bigger jump in pay this time. I get shot once more, I’ll probably make brigadier general.”

She laughed. Then she said, seriously, “I hope not. This time you lost your spleen. You can’t afford another upper body wound like that. I want to send you home. You will try to refuse, I know. As a doctor, I’ve treated many special forces men who were the same. Although none so handsome as you. When you were brought to my care, and I saw you had lost so much blood, and saw your face, I was not sure I could save you. Such a man, I have never seen the like of. Now I am going to give you a tranquilizer to calm your mind with. You must sleep. I will see you when my shift begins tomorrow. Please rest. You are in Da Nang and we’re safe. And you need to start looking forward to going home.”

“Doctor, I don’t know your name even, but I’ll go home, but only if you come with me. For the first time in my life, I want to live. I really want to live. With you.“