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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                         War is Hell
                         -----------

       During my "tour of duty" in Vietnam, which lasted for 364
  days - 14 hours - and 7 minutes, I lived a lifetime. So much
  happened in that short period of time that sometimes, it becomes
  mind boggling. Going to Vietnam at 18 years old was a
  tremendous culture shock. The acclimation and adaptation process
  was so swift that a young man could literally go from his room
  at home to a "fire-fight" in the bush, in less than 24 hours.
  The culture shock was complicated by the nature of the
  circumstances upon their arrival. For the guys assigned to
  combat units in the field, their introduction to Vietnam was
  the most traumatic. Often thrust into an area of V.C. and or
  N.V.A. activity. They were literally forced to assimilate the
  multitude of nuances as a requiem for survival. Your prior
  training was essentially useless. Jungle life and guerrilla
  warfare were primitive, barbaric, and the antithesis of American
  lifestyles and culture. A F.N.G. didn't lose that label until
  they earned their worth. The unwritten rule was, a new guy's
  life wasn't worth as much as a combat vet. To gain your comrades
  respect, you had to be "baptized under fire". In the bush,
  your "buddies" were your key to survival. Everyone needed to
  know that their "backs were covered" at all times. Therefore,
  trust was a key ingredient. How you handled the "small stuff"
  (the heat, rain, mud, bugs, rats, snakes, bad food and water)
  and how you responded in a "fire-fight" were the prevailing
  criteria.

        My "baptism by fire" occurred on my second day in the Nam.
  When you first arrive, you count the days "in". Towards the
  end of your "tour", you count backwards. How many days are
  left. After experiencing and surviving my "initiation", it
  was decided that I would be groomed to "walk point". Perhaps
  because of my size, and athletic abilities, I was chosen. In
  reality, it was because I was an F.N.G.. The man that walks
  point is the one that is at the highest risk. They are vulnerable
  to snipers, ambushes, trip-wires, and booby traps. Their primary
  function is to lead the troops through the jungle with the least
  amount of losses. The pressure on the point man was incredible
  and the responsibility was to your buddies. If they were wounded
  in action (W.I.A.) or killed in action (K.I.A.), subconsciously,
  it became your burden. A point man needed total control,
  concentration, good instincts, and a lot of luck. This was
  strictly an on-the-job, learn as-you-go process, mistakes were
  always costly. A point man had to develop a "skill" and a "sixth
  sense" for the jungle, an "intimate relationship", if you will.
  My first "op" (operation or mission) was a basic "search and
  destroy" mission. We were to "hump" the bush in a pre-designated
  area of operations (A.O.) to find the elusive V.C.. We
  transversed several "klicks" (kilometers), through thick, hot,
  wet, steamy, triple canopy jungle. Dealing with the elements
  would in time become the "small stuff" you learned to disregard.

       I was walking right behind the point man. My heart was
  in my mouth. I didn't know where we were going, or what (who?)
  we were looking for. The jungle was hot and my ruck sack was
  heavy and digging the straps into my shoulder blades. Suddenly,
  shots rang out and all hell broke loose. We walked into an
  ambush. This was my first experience in a fire-fight, what
  grunts called a "mad-minute". Everything was happening so fast,
  time was a blur. Bullets were coming out of the jungle at such
  an intense rate, I thought we would all die. After a while,
  we received orders to "hold our positions" until the size and
  extent of the fortifications of the enemy had been accessed.
  There was a temporary lull in the fighting, and we were ordered
  to move ahead while additional units were called in to "flank
  our positions". The strategy was simple. We were to force
  the enemy out of their bunkers and as they began our retreat,
  our artillery (from base camp) or assault choppers would "finish
  the job". Simple strategy theoretically, but realistically,
  we had tremendous difficulty. As soon as we began to advance,
  they began to intensify the assault. Guys were getting hit,
  screaming for a medic, while others walked into booby traps
  and anti-personnel mines. The carnage was mounting and there
  I was, praying real hard. It's amazing how close one gets to
  God when your life is on the line. Suddenly, one of our guys
  near me jumps up to throw a "frag" (fragmentation grenade).
  He takes several hits to his chest and stomach and goes down,
  near me. He's alive, but just barely. I know I've got to save
  him. I crawl over to him, take off my ruck and begin to apply
  compression bandages to his wounds, all the while, screaming
  for the medic. But there would be no medic, too much "incoming"
  fire and too many wounded. Eventually, the fighting slowed
  down and the wounded were tended to. And eventually, evac'd
  out (medical evacuation by chopper). I never knew who he was
  or if he ever survived. The ground where he laid was saturated
  with his blood. I was covered with mud, blood, and his "guts".
  My baptism by fire was etched into my brain forever. It is
  as vivid today as it was on that day. It was common to hear
  the Vets say that "survival" was the only thing you had to
  do in Nam. I was beginning to understand what they meant.


                      Brooklyn of AoC

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