True Stories

These are anecdotal in nature rather than stories but all true and are 
somewhat of a hoot.
                                   BUNKER GUARD       
When Bravo Company was in Binh Phouc, the Delta's answer to Vegas and 
Monte Carlo with its vibrant night life and world-class cuisine, someone took 
it upon themselves to volunteer us to pull bunker duty at another 
basecamp. The name of the basecamp is either forgotten or I didn't give a shit back 
then what it was. They took a small group of us and our handful of troops 
was headed by Sgt. Allen Brunt. Allen was a very savvy grunt and a typical 
New Jersey lad that did not waste words. 
During those days of our youth, we were constantly pulling ambush 
patrols or going on search and destroy missions. Towards the end of 1968, I don't 
think they called them search and destroy missions but changed the term into 
something more acceptable for the public consumption. 
When we arrived at this basecamp, we were beat, we were dirty, guys 
needed shaves, and we were definitely not happy. We arrived there at night and 
right before we went out to the bunkers, a REMF Lt. Colonel accosted us. He 
looked at us and checked us out, head-to-foot, and said in a loud exaggerated 
tone of voice.
"YOU MEN ARE FROM THE SECOND OF THE FORTY-SEVENTH? WHY, YOU LOOK LIKE 
YOU'VE BEEN IN THE FIELD FOR A MONTH!"
Allen looked at this clown for a second and said:
"WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU THINK WE'VE BEEN YOU, FUCKING ASSHOLE!"
We all laughed and walked away. The Lt. Colonel just stood there and 
sputtered and reflecting back on that incident, it was just as well 
that he stayed in place. You can never tell about accidental discharges.

                PERIMETER GUARD  

We were still at the old basecamp, Bearcat, when this took place. It 
happened sometime in early 1968. The first platoon got tagged to pull perimeter 
guard for an artillery unit that was located off Highway 15. It was my turn 
to sit at Ma Deuce and that I did. An officer appeared with what may have been 
either another officer, high-ranking EM, or perhaps his babysitter. He 
told me to stay alert (good idea since the redlegs were all sleeping in 
their positions) because Intelligence (when he said that word I knew my ears 
would be assualted with foolishness and I was not disappointed). In the 
appropriate, dramatic tone of voice he informed me that I should stay 
alert because Intelligence reported there were two battalions to the east, 
battalions to the west, the north and the fucking south. Altogether, I 
do believe he at least ten battalions in all directions. I looked in his 
direction and said, "if there are that many battalions in the area, 
don't worry. They can walk in and take this place." With that, he went on to 
the next position with his tidings of doom.

                         PAW TO HAND--A GRIPPING ACCOUNT  
                                          
We were pulling ops at a FSB outside of a rubber plantation. This was 
at the same time when we lost Norman James Erbland. Someone in the redlegs had 
a pet monkey and this monkey had a very bad habit of jumping on peoples' 
backs and putting its paws around their necks. 
One day the monkey could not be found. Theories abounded. Perhaps the 
monkey defected to the other side. Perhaps the monkey went AWOL and shacked up 
with one of the beautiful women that serviced the company. No one knew (or 
was not talking). Time went on and the monkey never reappeared. One day some 
sandbags had to be removed and underneath a sandbag were the remains of a badly 
decomposed simian. The mystery was solved. During its last night in 
this earthly realm, it must have jumped on the back of someone who 
instinctively killed it or did so for payback. I never saw another pet monkey.