Karma

The horror of death is rarely seen the way a soldier sees it in war. At least the way a soldier with at least a rudimentary conscientious sees it with vivid views of torn apart bodies, unrecognizable corpses, splashing blood pooling in holes and cervices, dismembered women and children, shattered bones. The kind of scenes you can never forget.

I’ve often wondered if a war is the perfect opportunity for all the sociopaths, psychopaths, or simply sadistic persons who needed an outlet for their dreams of killing, as much as possible, without conscience, without punishment and seldom any severe consequences.

How many of these types of soldiers are on the battlefield? How many were where I was in the Vietnam War? I saw plenty of them and your best guess wouldn’t even come close to the actual number of them. They’re in your platoon, in your barracks, you eat with them and after a while you may even call them friends because they kill the enemy who is trying to kill you. It’s like, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

But the unnecessary torture, murder, rape of non-combatants eventually drags you down like quicksand. You become helpless as you sink into a morass of immorality. It’s all around you. It’s unavoidable. It’s dehumanizing.

I saw all these things on March 16, 1968, in the village of My Lai, South Vietnam. I was a machine gunner on an Army helicopter; a helicopter that supported the ground troops. The ground troops my helicopter was supporting was the 11th Infantry Brigade. The day was hotter than usual, and clear. It turned out to be a sweat soaked day filled with mayhem, murder, and rape and ablaze with disgust.

The 11th Infantry Brigade was ordered to root out the enemy – Viet Cong, VC for short – from the village of My Lai. As it happens all too frequently, Army Intelligence was wrong. There were no VC in that village, not even in the area, only old men, old women, young women with children. The order to the troops was search and destroy. After searching the village just three military weapons were found. These villagers may have sympathized with the VC, but they were non-combatants. Young men, teenagers, too, were conscripted into the VC army, so this village was defenseless.

I don’t know what event triggered the beginning of the My Lai massacre, but, from the air, I could see all the villagers being slaughtered, including the children. Suddenly I was on my knees vomiting out the open helicopter door and grasping the base of the machine gun so I wouldn’t fall out.

Later, I read the death numbers: 182 men and women killed including 17 pregnant

women, 173 children, 56 infants, and 93 villagers so dismembered and riddled with bullets and grenade fragments that they were unidentifiable. All dead from an order given by Lt. William Calley. He must have been thinking “search and slaughter.”

Not a single shot was fired at the American soldiers. No VC were in the area.

Death comes in many forms on a battlefield, but I’d never seen such a grewsome mass slaughter of innocents, not even in movies which tend to be hyper-violent.

From my vantage point in the air, maybe 20-25 feet, I could vividly see the technicolor carnage: blood spurting, splashing, pooling, and staining the huts, grass, trees, and bodies.

Many villagers were lined-up shoulder to shoulder, then mowed-down like tall grass by machine guns firing multiple bullets per second. The screaming, crying, and begging had no effect on the soldiers. Old men and women tried to protect the children but failed under the pitiless barrage of bullets and grenades. The resulting gore was something no people in their right minds would allow. Many bodies were not intact, arms and legs being severed by multiple wounds. Even patches of bare dirt took on a pinkish tint from spraying blood droplets.

Inner body organs, plus intestines, chunks of flesh and bone were scattered everywhere. Many victims died from head shots, making them unidentifiable. Some bodies were shot by so many bullets that the force of the bullets tore the clothes off the bodies that now lay naked. It was difficult to look at the bodies, especially those of the children. My guts twisted into painful knots. At times, my tearful eyes blurred the visions giving a short relief from the senseless murders.

The incessant firing of weapons made the area sound like a thousand bees were seeking vengeance on those who disturbed them.

But what I remember the most was one lone soldier running along a line of huts throwing a grenade into each one. There was a vicious, maniacal grin plastered to his face and laughter spurting from his mouth. I wanted to kill him, but there was too much risk of injuring a villager or an American soldier, though the soldiers would have deserved it.

I turned from the devastating sight on the ground and yelled at the Warrant Officer pilot.

“Hugh, are you seeing what I’m seeing down there?”

“Of course,” he responded. “Nothing I can do about it, though.”

“Like hell you can’t. Hugh, please land this helicopter between the American soldiers and the escaping villagers. Maybe we can save some to them. After you land get on the loud-speaker and scream, ‘Cease fire! Cease fire!’ as many times as it takes to stop any more of this slaughter.”

“Hell, yeah. I can do that, but we may take some bullets to the helicopter.”

“Hugh did exactly that and screamed into the helicopter loud-speaker, ‘Cease fire’ several times before it totally stopped.

However, loud bangs could still be heard. I looked toward the source of the bangs and saw that same soldier. Grenade-Man continued throwing a grenade at the tail end of escaping villagers. The bastard had a hell-of-an -arm, throwing the grenades much farther that the average soldier and now he was throwing them at the village livestock. Why he was carrying so many grenades baffled me, but finally he did run out of them. However, he did not stop killing. He took out his .45 Caliber, Colt 1911 style handgun and kept killing the animals with all the thrill of a kid shooting moving targets at a carnival. He either did not hear the commands because of the explosions, or he didn’t care and would use the explosions as his excuse for not obeying the ‘cease-fire’ commands. He stopped only when all the villagers’ livestock were dead or dying. Red was the predominant color; bleating was the predominant noises from the wounded cattle.

After we landed, I heard Grenade-Man’s name mentioned. He was Sergeant Roy Meen. Just how ugly and appropriate was that last name? When I saw him, up close, I felt a stabbing pain in my head as if a sharp pencil was being dragged across my brain as it wrote his name in painful, printed grooves that would never allow me to forget his joyful face and name.

He was surrounded by a group of friends, all slapping him on the back, congratulating him, all proud of him, some just as bad as he.

Before I was drafted into the Army, I was a tattoo artist in the Bronx, NYC and I was doing a good business. I had been told that I was exceptionally good at it. More importantly, I enjoyed doing it. I was my own boss with a good income. I had already tattooed myself. On my left forearm was a wolf staring at whoever was looking at it, on my left bicep, the numbers 777, my lucky number written three times. I had no tattoos on my dominant right forearm and bicep, nor my left calf and thigh because I’d have to use my left hand which is not my dominant hand. I was waiting to meet someone who had my skills to do it. I wanted it done to my specifications. On my mid-left thigh was a silver dollar size, brilliant red ruby, and on my mid-left calf was the atheist symbol, a red capital “A” with a red circle around it. I had fun with that symbol. People would ask me what it meant, and initially I’d answer, “What? This red capital “A”? Haven’t you read the book, The Scarlet Letter? It stands for adultery. I’d get confused stares before I told them that it’s one of many atheist symbols. Then they gave me an even more intense stare. Anyway, I got drafted and had to postpone my plans for expanding my business in the future.

My term of service ended in August of 1968, a few months after the My Lai massacre – the press would not be able to report it until sometime in 1969 because the high command of officers felt they needed to keep it a secret. I had a friend at the New York Times who could be trusted. I told him about the My Lai massacre and how I was so disgusted by the event that I needed to expose it. I wanted anonymity unless I was needed to be called as a witness behind closed doors. When the My Lai massacre was finally exposed it caused a firestorm of protest in America, not only from citizens, but from politicians as well.

I was out of the Army now, so I opened my new tattoo shop. I used a clever name for it, too. I called it Bill’s Tattoo Shop. I guess I lacked imagination to think of something better.

I was only open for a few months when in walks Roy Meen. My dislike was so intense that I could feel the sudden heat turning my face red. He would always be associated with red in my mind.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“I want tattoos of grenades about six inches above each ankle. One grenade will be the Mk2 and the other will be the M26. I doubt that you know what I’m talking about, but I can find pictures for you. Maybe you have a military tattoo book, and they will be in there.”

I said, “Two types of grenade were used in the Vietnam War. In the beginning the Mk2 was used. That’s the one most people recognize due to its pineapple shape. A few years later the M26 with a baseball shape became prevalent. It was a familiar, round shape that made it easier to throw for longer distances, although the Mk2 was still used. Both are fragmentation grenades. It’s the fragments of the grenades thick outer shell, which explodes outward, that kills or wounds. Those fragments act like sprayed bullets, like a shotgun shell when fired spreads many pellets. The explosions can cause hearing loss and concussions. Both grenades have a three to four second delay before they exploded, giving the thrower time to take cover. The killing radius is about fifteen feet. The wounding radius was about forty-five feet. You see, I know exactly what you want. I don’t like you, Roy, but I’ll do a good job anyway, or you can get the hell out of here and go somewhere else.”

“I’ll stay, even though I don’t like you either, smart ass. You know exactly what they look like. With you doing it, I won’t have to keep explaining or having to draw pictures for someone. You were in Vietnam the same time as me, right? So, where did we meet?”

“My Lai. I was in the helicopter.”

“Really. Bird’s eye view, huh? Did you have an orgasm like I did? Really. I did have a real orgasm. Fuckin’ -A, man. What a great feeling that was.”

“No. Do your friends still call you ‘Butch,” short for ‘Butcher of My Lai’?”

“You disapprove of killing the enemy? Hell, I got me almost forty kills in just that one

afternoon. How about you?”

His arms and body were all in motion, swaying and waving like he was high on something. He probably was.

“I killed from a helicopter and didn’t keep count, but it was the real enemy that I shot, not old men, women and children. And, yes, I do disapprove of murdering non-combatants. There weren’t any young men or boys there that could have been an enemy soldier. They were all conscripted by the VC. You…you didn’t get punished for any of your cold-blooded brutality, did you?”

“No way. Just the officers on the ground at My Lai got punished, especially that Calley

dude. He’s in prison, now yah know. But nothing happened to me. Just following orders, my man. That was a thrill experience for me. Never had such as much fun as I did at My Lai.

“Now let’s get started. I didn’t come here to waste my time with useless chit chat. I did my job, now you do yours.”

“You’ll have to pay in advance,” I told him sternly.

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“Because I don’t like you and I certainly don’t trust you.”

“Fuck it! No big deal. I’m loaded with my back pay.”

The bastard paid me, and I started on tattooing Grenade-Man. I did one ankle that day – slow day – and the other ankle the next day. We seldom talked, but the fucker always seemed to be smiling. I wanted to drill a hole through his leg but, somehow, I controlled myself. When he walked out of my shop, he turned around to say something. Before he could talk, I showed him my middle finger and hoped to never see him again. He didn’t respond, just broadened his smile, and walked out of the shop whistling a happy tune.

Three days later he burst into my shop screaming something I didn’t understand. I yelled back at him to slow down and explain himself.

He screamed, “What the fuck did you do to me?”

He facial features were contorted and so stretched out with crease lines that I thought the flesh would tear. He came closer to me, still screaming. I could feel the droplets of spittle bursting from his mouth.

“I did what you asked. A tattoo of a grenade above each ankle.”

“Look!” he screamed and pointed at the tattoos I had done for him.

“See here and here! Both tattoos have moved upward. How did you do that? Demonic magic?”

My eyes were drawn to where he was pointing. I was startled by the fact that he was correct. “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” I muttered lowly. What the fuck’s happening.” The tattoos had moved. Both ankle tattoos had moved up to his mid-calf. I had no idea what had happened nor how it could possibly have happened. In my confused state, my eyes seemed to direct themselves on an exceedingly small focal point in each tattoo. This point had apparently been ignored or unseen by Roy. I looked again, blinked a few times, then checked again. It was true; I was seeing correctly. The pin in each grenade had worked its way out about one-fourth of its length.

We were nearly nose to nose, but I wasn’t hearing what he was shouting. At this time, I kept thinking one thing over and over, “WTF!”

I managed to say, “I didn’t do anything except tattoo you. I have no idea how that is happening. I’ve never seen a tattoo move before. Maybe it has something to do with your skin chemistry,” I muttered, shaking my head to try to understand what had happened.

Thankfully, my other client was sitting quietly, with an amusing grin and curious eyes.

“So, you blamin’ me for doing this to myself? You said that you don’t like me, so you did this, right?”

“No, I didn’t”

He suddenly stepped quickly toward me, thrust both arms straight out and pushed my chest so that I had to step backward to keep my balance. That was a good thing for me. Now, in self-defense, I could fight back. When he came at me again, I used a bear-claw fist and thrust it into his Adam’s Apple, followed by an elbow to his head, and a kick to his groin. He dropped like a boxer who had just been knocked out. I tried to avoid using my fists, especially my knuckles because I needed them to work efficiently and with agility. I didn’t want them to swell as they would have if I had used a traditional tightly closed fist.

I took out my cell phone and called the police. They happened to be close and got to my shop before Roy could get off the ground. After my explanation and my customer as a witness the cops cuffed him then dragged him out to their vehicle. I didn’t know what happened after that and didn’t care.

But, to my surprise and shock, two or three days later Roy threw a rock through my front window. He came inside and started ranting incoherently, waving his arm like propellers, kicked me in the shin and spit on my shirt. He started harassing two of my customers, so they left the shop. The guy in the tattoo chair stayed because I was only half- done with his tattoo.

Again, I called the police. It took them a little longer to arrive. In that time interval Roy tried to leave. I gently forced him to stay and to sit down.

“No problem, man. I’m filing a complaint against you and the cops will be my witnesses. Can’t ask for better than that.”

“They will be witnesses to what? They didn’t see anything that happened, and don’t forget you assaulted me. I just defended myself.”

When they arrived this time, Roy accused me of some sort of demonic, black magic, and abusive chicanery because I said I disliked him during our tattoo sessions.

I gave these officers the name of the other officers that had helped the first time Roy caused trouble. They contacted those officers and verified my story and explanations. I was lucky again and had a witness who was being tattooed when it was all happening.

Roy kept pointing to his mid-thighs and shouting at the officers trying to tell them that the tattoos were originally about six inches above each ankle. The officers listened, but thought he was mentally unsound due to his hostile attitude and his raving speech. They asked if I wanted to press charges against him.

“I sure do. That window will cost me three or four hundred dollars to replace and that does not include the labor costs.”

Roy was handcuffed and taken to the patrol car. He was still trying to get the officers to believe his story about the upward movement of the tattoos. He could not control his panicking emotions, giving the appearance that he did sound and look crazy, as well as unbelievable. Furthermore, on the way to the patrol car he kicked both patrol officers and that assault was added to his crimes as a case of assaulting an officer of the law or more commonly stated, resisting arrest.

Since he was constantly in motion I didn’t get a good look at the tattoos, but it looked to me like the grenade tattoos not only moved further up his leg, but the pins looked as if they were sticking out half way.

Roy was being going to be charged with assaulting me, causing property damage, and resisting arrest. The policeman informed me that Roy may spend a few days in jail until he goes before the judge. The court docket was almost overflowing with cases, so there is a possibility of Roy being bailed out until he had to appear before a judge and that I and my customer may have to attend the hearing to verify what had happened.

I didn’t care about the assault. It was nothing, but the broken window was my concern.

Roy Meen never saw the judge. His family paid the minor bail money, so he was freed from having to spend much time in jail.

A week or so later I was applying a tattoo on a customer. I was in a position where I could look out onto the street. I saw Roy across the street from my shop and he was staring at my shop window.

“Shit!” I yelled, then I had to calm my customer who thought I’d made a bad mistake with his tattoo. “No problem with the tattoo Jim. It’s just that the guy across the street is coming here and he’s been a pain in the ass for me. Give me a moment to stop him before he even enters my shop.

I walked toward the door the upper part of which was glass. As I walked, I was looking out the door glass at him approaching from across the street.

Suddenly I was startled by a metallic blur as it passed before my eyes, then the deafening, screeching squeal of tires sliding on blacktop. This was followed by a thunderous blast reminiscent of an explosion.

My customers gathered around the window. The street people clustered around the Vietnamese food delivery truck which I found out later had been speeding as it ran through the corner red light and smashed into Roy.

I walked back to my chair and waited for Jim to return from the window.

All I could think of was the word KARMA which flashed brightly and comfortably in my mind.