The Life and Adventures of Pineapple Sam
Killing Peace
by Pineapple Sam
Copyright © 2011 Pineapple Sam
License Notes
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be reproduced, resold, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my faithful readers and listeners. Without you, my stories would be nothing but jumbled letters, tossed together with no meaning. Thank you for giving me a purpose, a reason to continue telling my stories with passion and enjoyment. If you are not a reader or a listener at heart, please pass this work on so the adventures of Pineapple Sam can be discovered and enjoyed by others who are.
Disclaimer
The following memoirs are constructed from what I (and others with whom I conferred) can remember of the times depicted. While each and every event may not be true in every detail, the events described herein contain a larger truth that I refer to as “emotional truth.” These are the ways the memories have presented themselves to me and have grown in my mind as I have made a concerted effort to recall and reflect on the gifts of the past. I look forward to hearing from others who may remember things differently so that we may all learn from each other in our shared recollections.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Twilight Secrets
Why South Vietnam
First Firefight
Rogue Team
Wrong Place at the Wrong Time
About the Author
Introduction
In Kauai, a Hawaiian Island, I am known as Pineapple Sam. I have always enjoyed telling stories about my life experiences to my friends or anyone else who would listen. More often than not, the stories involve something that happened to me personally. This allows me to express the true sentiment and feeling behind the stories so that you, as a reader or listener, can experience each moment in a way that cannot be found in a fictional story. I have found that stories are more compelling if they come “straight from the horse’s mouth,” as they say.
Having adventures in life has always been easy for me; it is the writing that is difficult. Even though I enjoy “talking story” more than writing the tales of my life, I know that if I do not record them, my stories will end when I’m no longer on this beautiful, amazing Earth to share them. Since I can’t live forever, I want to leave a legacy, of sorts—to leave stories behind so people can enjoy them and have some idea of Pineapple Sam’s life. I strongly feel that this incredible, educational, entertaining life I’ve lived for over a half a century is a gift that must be shared.
Twilight Secrets
The cool evening breeze whistled through the bamboo trees, making the leaves hum, whispering their twilight secrets like clandestine lovers in the darkness. Through the dark, hidden paths, our patrol fire team moved cautiously, step by step. There was Weasel, the rifleman and assistant team leader; Lacherco, our grenadier; Mr. Clean, our radioman; Chief, our automatic rifleman; and me, our point man. I listened to my jungle boots slosh in the mud, sucking air with each careful step. The warm, muddy water squished out through riveted brass holes on the sides of my Marine-issued footwear. My feet were waterlogged, my socks dripping wet and begging for drier conditions before the nasty jungle rot could take up residence on my feet.
Like any good point man, I stopped every few minutes to survey our surroundings with my bare-eyes night-vision, concentrating on discreet sounds and smells for signs of hostility. A lengthy minute or two passed as I paused, with bated breath, straining to listen for any distinct sound other than the pounding of my heart in my ears. I am brave. I cannot reveal how scared I am, for fear is the mind-killer, a driver for panic and insanity. A Marine kills or gets killed!
I move to the far end of the ambush line and burrowed into the flattened grass, snuggling up close to the damp earth, the best cover for when the proverbial sh*t would hit the inevitable fan. Like an ostrich, I put myself out of reach of the hunters, the killers, the enemies—the North Vietcong communists, “gooks” to us. I stared at a lone Marine, squatting at the base of the field radio. His lips were moving, and he muttered something indiscernible as he fondled the plastic-covered handset tucked under his helmet, tilting his head to one side.
Despite the tropical heat, I shivered; I was soaking wet, after all, so every breeze felt arctic. The occasional warm drizzle continued to drench everything in its path, pelting the muddy ground. The humidity drew beads of sweat from the pores in my forehead, and I wiped them away to avoid the stinging in my eyes—the most valuable asset a point man could have. After weeks of insomniac night patrols and extreme physical exertion in those unforgiving conditions, the hallucinations I’d been warned about commenced. I began to lose all mental orientation, all awareness of time and place. Like hot lead cooled, even my most sensitive emotions and feelings hardened. I found myself wandering around in a routine daze, dreaming with my eyes wide open, utterly unaware of what normal even was.
I wasn’t alone in drifting away; the same thing was happening to my fellow few, good men. Their demeanors had changed; they’d gone from the excitement, curiosity, and gung-ho, kill-’em-all-and-let-God-sort-’em-out attitude we’d all had upon arrival to walking dead, as if we were all caught in some horrible zombie movie. Before, we were wide-eyed, bushy-tailed, naïve newbies—just rookies—but now most of us were either stoned or buzzed on one thing or another, chemical escapes we hoped would grant us some means of mental escape while we served our time in hell. With drug-distorted psyches, we became more dangerous—to ourselves as well as others. My balance of soberness and inhibitions was no longer apparent. My sanity hung by a very thin thread, and further tempering of my physical or mental state became extremely precarious. There was no turning back as we all entered “the zone,” that unfortunate place where the horror stains of war would deeply, permanently mar us, mind, body, and soul.
Sleep-deprived and hallucinating, during my watch, I thought of my younger days—a nostalgic moment of warmth in a faraway, seemingly unattainable place called home. There, immersing myself in those familiar places and better times gone by, I did find a temporary refuge, but there was no real cleansing of the scars being inflicted upon me in the damp, dank, reeking-of-death-and-rice-paddies place where I stood.
Then, interrupting me from my insufficient reverie, there came a quiet whisper: “Pineapple? Pineapple, man, wake up. Your turn for watch.” He shook my right shoulder.
F*ck! Another freaking watch? This sucks big time. “I’m awake,” I grumbled, struggling to sit up as my body protested and my aching muscles screamed in pain. I gradually took a deep breath of cool air that rushed into my lungs, then exhaled just as slowly. The warm air from my sleepy lungs formed a steamy mist in the dark night. “Anything going on out there?” I whispered, trying to quietly clear my dry throat.
“I thought I saw some movement on the right side earlier,” he said, pointing with his right index finger. “Other than that, nothing.”
D*mn, his breath reeks of tobacco and smells like sh*t. Then again, mine probably does too. “All right. Thanks.”
He handed me the radio handset attached to our bulky field radio. The clear plastic cover safeguarded the radio against moisture and water; it deserved to be protected from the elements, as it would be our only lifeline to base command if and when everything hit the fan.
“Snakebite 2, sit rep.”
Tessssssht…
I fumbled wit
h the handset and depressed the talk button twice to provide the requested situation report.
Tessssssht, tessssssht…
“Snakebite 2 all secure, sir,” I said, acknowledging to our rear base communications that we were alive and okay. The sit rep code from base command communications came randomly, to ensure that the watchman was awake and alert enough to answer, and the sequence was done quietly and quickly.
Sufficiently assured that I was awake, the sleepy Marine crawled back to his spot, mumbling something under his rancid breath.
Just like that, I was again the lone sentry on guard, entrusted with the lives of my fellow warrior Marines, who were all sleeping restlessly, albeit motionless, just a few feet from each other.
I carefully reached for my helmet so I could use it as a seat, then repeatedly blinked my eyes, trying to gain my night-vision. Slowly, my blurred vision adjusted to the dim light and dark shadows. The morning night seemed cooler, and the humid air smelled muddy.
Buzz! Buzz!
Clearly, the bug juice (mosquito repellant) I’d liberally slathered all over my face wasn’t helping, because the oversized blood-suckers were flying around my head, zeroing in. I allowed them to use my face as a landing strip; that way, I could gently squash them without making a sound; experience taught me where and how. The humongous malaria pills the doc had given us were supposed to ward off the virus. Honestly, I only took them occasionally, because I didn’t really see the point in choking myself to death while trying to swallow something that was supposed to save me. Even those who gulped down the horse pills religiously were still afflicted with the disease, so I had about as much faith in them as I had in that useless repellant.
My flexible flak jacket was still on the ground, my makeshift mattress in the damp, flattened grass. I picked it up slowly and slipped it on, relishing the warmth. I glanced down below my waist for a brief second and was none too happy to see the uninvited bulge. Sh*t! Where the hell can I go to take a p*ss? I looked from side to side and felt with my hands to make sure no one was within firing range. I didn’t want to risk standing up, so I was glad to have at least two to three feet of empty space on either side. I slowly edged back toward the river a few feet away, turned on my side, and relieved myself. My warm urine filtered through the grass, but some of the hazy, warm steam assaulted my nostrils with the salty, ammonia-like stench, nearly gagging me. About thirty seconds later, I silently farted and felt much better.
No matter how often I slept, it never seemed to be enough. Every time I awoke, I felt as if I needed to go right back to sleep. I was fatigued in my fatigues, way beyond tired. In ‘Nam, we got about three to four hours of not-very-relaxed sleep a night, and it was never enough. My body and mind were never fully asleep; I was always half-awake, on edge, ready to respond to any threat. The only positive things about ‘Nam were the beautiful sunsets and the countless sunrises I had the chance to marvel at during my nighttime patrols.
The night seemed quiet, other than the distinct chatter from the miniature green frogs that populated the surrounding rice paddies. Their croaking and chirping canticle was a good indication that no one was lurking around. When the frogs grew silent, that spelled trouble; whether they knew it or not, the little Vietnamese amphibians were working for the U.S. Marines, serving as the most effective of security alarms.
The moonbeams from the bright, hovering crescent drew faint, shadowy images on the horizon of the distant rolling hills, tree line, and the edge of a dense, beckoning jungle. I stared into that darkness and found myself envisioning the warm beaches of home, particularly Poipu and Brennecke, on my sunny island of Kauai. I could almost hear the waves pounding against the shore, rolling in and lapping at the sand and rocks. Somehow, even though I wasn’t asleep enough to dream, my mind found a way to soothe me with those vivid images, and my ears echoed the lullabies of the rhythmic sea. In that much-appreciated, surreal dream-state, I found an escape—a pondering of a beach party in Anahola, surrounded by my friends…