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Civilian Issue

By Marc Levy

Dear Katha,

Your review in The Nation of the Vietnam documentary, Regret to Inform, about widows on both sides of a distant war, immediately caught my eye, stung my heart. Quote: "US soldiers, by and large, did not revolt, throw down their guns, refuse orders that violated the Geneva conventions, nor do we honor the ones who did, who fragged their officers or deserted." You're a smart gal behind the keyboard, I like your writing, respect you much; but when it comes to war, you are way out of line.

So here's the real deal, Katha: how I tried to kill one Capt. Peter L. Krucinski III, battalion surgeon, First Cavalry Division, Vietnam, Class of '70.

On a firebase near An Loc, Moon and me, we're infantry medics, regular grunts you understand, we're getting stoned on good Thai dope and warm beer. But we are not happy campers. Not when you drag in casualties and find the doctor sloppy drunk. Captain Krucinski, pushing thirty, bright-eyed, handsome and slick-hair young, liked his Johnny Walker straight up, his Pabst Blue Ribbon icy cold. It's thirty years, mind you. Some things are hard to forget.

"Locklear," I yell to the man inside, "Get out, the bunker's gonna blow!" There's a case of frags on top, the bunker is on fire. Concussed and wounded, he can't hear me. A sergeant drowns the fire. I reach in and drag Locklear out. Inside the Aid Station, the causalities twist and turn; the Captain staggers drunk. "Hey, how . . . how ya use a morphine syrette?" he splutters in the awful heat. "You push the plunger down, Sir. Then pull it back. Then squeeze." "Ohhhh . . ." he says, missing twice before he jabs Locklear good. Up top, I hear moaning; someone being carried down dirt steps. It's Klaber, second platoon. His back is slashed, face gone white; he calls my name, then crumples. The wounded outside, I hear them screaming. Crying, I rush back out.

That evening Moon, sucking a fat joint, nods his head toward the doctor's hooch. "We ought to frag that fuck," he says.

"Fuckin' A, man. You know how to do it? I never fragged no one before."

Moon says, "You take a baseball grenade, twist rubber bands around it nice and tight, push the safety off, pull the pin, put her nice and easy in diesel oil, that shit eats the elastic bands, KA-BOOM!"

So we do it, Katha, cause we're regular grunts, infantry, only we're medics, too. We hump bandages and morphine, aspirin, antibiotics, fungal creams. We take good care of our men. And I've got my .45, my M-16, three bandoleers of ammo, and four grenades. Frags to you civvies.

Moon pulls the pin. Christ, I am scared. Katha, you ever seen a baseball grenade explode? The killing radius is five yards. It blows up like a cloud on fire. "Here you go, Moon." I'm holding a Coke can with the top cut off. He drops the frag in, we shove that little Easter bunny under Battalion Surgeon Capt. Peter L. Krucinski III's cot, make sure no one sees us, then move out.

Moon whispers, "Takes about eight hours for the diesel to work." I clip the grenade ring to my boonie hat. But nothing happened, Katha, nothing, not a goddamn thing. The diesel ate through the rubber bands but the spoon - the grenade handle to you civvies - had nowhere to fly. We should have used a big glass jar, a soup can or some such thing. The Coke can was too damn small. I'll bet when Captain Krucinski found our season's greetings he said, "Those assholes. They forgot the goddamn ice cubes."

That was a long time ago, Katha, but I loved my men. I still do. I think about them every day. And you, smart gal behind the podium or printed word, I like your writing, respect you much. But when it comes to war and why we tried or killed our own, you are way, way out of line.

Yours sincerely,

Marc "Doc" Levy
D 1/7 Cav '70