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.

          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. There 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 in 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 multiply 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 pilot Warrant Officer. “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 several times 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 that same soldier. Grenade-Man was 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 villager’s 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 him.

          Before I was drafted into the Army, I was a tattoo artist in the Bronx, NYC. I was doing a good business because I was 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 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 give me a even more intense stares. Anyway, I got drafted and had to postpone that goal for the future and close my shop until next year.

          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 newspaper 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 with citizens, but with 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. You happen to know what they look like or have some pics of them.”

“Two types of grenade were used in the Vietnam War. In the beginning the Mk2 was used mostly. That’s the one most people recognize due to its pineapple shape. A few years later the M26 with a baseball shape, which made it familiar and easier to throw for longer distances, became predominant, though the Mk2 was still used. Both are fragmentation grenades. It’s the fragments of the grenades thick outer shell that explodes outward that kills or wounds, the fragments act like sprayed bullets. The explosions can cause hearing loss and concussion, also. Both grenades had a three to four second delay before they exploded, giving the thrower time to take cover. The killing radius was about fifteen feet. The wounding radious was about fortyj-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. So, you were in Vietnam the same time as me. Where did we meet?”

          “From 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 ‘The 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 at, not old men, women and children. And, yes, I do disapprove of murdering non-combatants. Christ, there weren’t any young men of 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 wonderful experience for me. Never had such a good time 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 from soldiering”

The bastard paid and I started on tattooing Grenade-Man. I did one and 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 walked out of the shop whistling a happy tune.

About 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 said, “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“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.”

“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” I said. “What the fuck,” I added. They had moved. Both ankle tattoos had moved up to his mid-calf. I had no idea what was going on. But I did notice something that he hadn’t noticed yet. The pin in each grenade was pushed out just a little.

“I didn’t do anything except tattoo you. I have no idea how that is happening. I thought, I’ve never seen a tattoo move before. Must be something to do with your skin chemistry.” I muttered to him.

Thankfully, my other client was sitting quietly, but amused.

“So, you blammin’ me for doing this?”

He stepped toward me, thrust both arms straight out and push 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, followed by a kick in he groin. He dropped like a boxer that was just knocked out. I try to avoid using my fists because I need them for work. I don’t want them to swell as they would if I used a traditional 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 nest client as a witness the cops dragged him out to their vehicle. I didn’t know what happened after that. Didn’t care.

But a couple days later Roy threw a rock through my front window. He came inside and was ranting incoherently, waving his arm like propellers, kicked me in the shin and spit on my shirt, then started harassing a twoe of my clients so that they left the shop. The guy in the tattoo chair had to stay. I wasn’t done with his tattoo.

I called the police, again. It took them a little longer to get there. When Roy tried to leave, I forced him to stay and sit down.

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 helped the first time Roy caused trouble. That verified my story and explanations, plus I was lucky again and had a witness who was being tattooed when it was all happening.

Roy kept pointing to his thighs and telling the officers that the tattoos were originally about six inches above each ankle. The officers listened but thought he was mentally unsound. 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 mobile tattoos. He was right, of course, but he could control his emotions, so the appearance was that he did sound and looked crazy, as well as unbelievable. Furthermore, on the way to the patrol car he kicked both patrol officers and that was added to his crimes, assaulting an officer of the law, or more common stated, resisting arrest.

He was constantly in motion so I didn’t get a good look at the tattoos, but it seemed to me that 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 charged with assaulting me, causing property damage, and resisting arrest. I was informed that he was going to be in jail for a few days until he went before a judge and that I may have to attend the hearing to verify for the judge what happened.

He never saw the judge.

In the morning newspaper, front page story and picture of Roy. The headline was Man Explodes While in his Jail Cell. No Other Injuries.