Crime Scene Cleanup Book

Crime Scene Cleanup Book fills a void in my work as a crime scene cleaner. It would flow more nicely if I could dig some levity out of my mind -- maybe later. For now, I need a place to bring loose ends together. Since becoming a crime scene cleaner my work as a professional cleaner has gained political goals, none of which I desired or chose for my final working years. At the risk of sounding grandiose, history selected me for this mission. I could neither quit nor share what I alone must do here. (more on these delusions of grandeur soon)

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"The way of Heaven is not at all remote, Wash a human heart and out it comes." Nguyen Dinh Chieu

A torrent of protest literature appeared almost overnight. The most famous and articulate advocate of resistance was Nguyen Dinh Chieu (1822-1888), who heaped scorn upon those who did not fight the French and despised those who cooperated with them. Those few Vietnamese who seemed to wish to imitate the French were beyond his comprehension. He himself refused all contact with anything of Western origin, even soap powder. It is said he even refused to walk on a paved road, and he forbade his children to learn the romanized alphabet.1' (Kindle Locations 682-685). Kindle Edition -- my highlighting

For certain, anyone reading this far has given their attention to A Bright Shining Lie: John Paul Vann and America in Vietnam . He's in the back of my mind as I write. He knew too much too soon and died among the last Americans to die in Vietnam.

Vietnam, it turned out, sought to maintain a closely nit family-village society rather than the western model. Unfortunately for Vietnam and many other peasant countries (traditional societies), colonialism cast a wide net for global resources. It happened that the Viet Mihn were headed on a parallel track in the 20th century to peasant traditions. Ho knew where the Vietnamese peasants were coming from and how far he could go with their sentiments. We didn't have a clue anymore in Vietnam than we do in Afghanistan's tribal society. Today, Vietnam's resources remain free of colonial or emperial control. Crime scene cleanup remains our Vietnam's Franco-American war legacies.

President Johnson

President Johnson and our ruling political parties led the charge. Vietnam attacked a United States ship in international waters. Our media joined in the chorus. It took some time for truth to blow out the smoke-and-mirrors. "Nothing happened," to paraphrase an Arizona Senator, John Mc Cain. Why the different stories? Mc Cain happened to fly the Navy's fighter jet in response to the alleged attack on the USS Maddox. He would know. Others knew too. Over three decades passed before I heard Mc Cain's story on the radio in his own voice. As for the "hawks," lies were good enough to mangle a generation of Vietnamese peasants.

Such an attack by mosquitoes upon an elephant seemed absurd. Why would a tiny, third-world nation risk its security by attacking the greatest navy in the world?

Dominant Political Ideology - - Balance of Power as a Domino Game and Containment

Johnson and our war profiteers either believed a communist menace stood to destroy the "balance of power" between the Soviet Union and the United States, or something else. Whatever popular ideology held our nation's consciousness during those dark and dangerous years, war against Vietnam won out. It had something to do with the "domino theory." Communist countries would infect their neighbors. Maybe like waterborne or bloodborne germs, one country caught another's political disease. In the end, containment became the watchword for the domino theory. Contain the communist before more freedom-loving countries "fall," not contained.

But the Sandinista helped poor people and those people without sight, sound, and even crippled people. I could not see how this had anything to do with a country falling like a domino. Then there's Afghanistan falling to the Russians. In fact, Afghanistan fell so hard like a domino it bounced. As it bounced the Russian Armay bounced out of Afghanistan. Now it looks like Afghanistan has fallen to our own military. Now it looks like we get to bounce out too.

Then there's that little conflict between Vietnam and China when our dominoes left Vietnam. I don't see how Vietnam was going to become dominoed by China if they were at war; then there's Vietnam's good war against Cambodia (Kampuchea) and those year-one communist fundamentalists, the Khmer Rouge. Apparently infectious dominoes were oversold.

My Trauma Cleanup Work Begins

I began my crime scene cleanup career as a young man. I broke into homes in the early morning hours. I chased people from their homes. At least once I helped kill all their animals. Several times I helped burn deserted homes. Deserted homes had something to do with the dominos' wrong side. I'm sure that I did not take part in burning occupied homes. Anyway, this I believed made the world safer for my way of life. Besides, I needed to keep favor with my peers. All soldiers do. Foot soldiers do these things.

Sergeant Martinez gave the good word. "First Platoon stays back. We're cleanup platoon. Third squad reinforces second platoon. Be ready." This would change for my squad, third squad, within minutes. For now I reveled in a moment's rest and relaxation. "At last," I thought.

In a few minutes I made my way back into to the "woods." Some 20 yards from the wood line I found my spot. First I ensured third platoon had my attention. Twenty more yards into the "woods" beyond me, they served as a listening post and reinforcements. This forty yards from open space cut their line-of-fire dramatically. Dwang's surrounding rainforest had that primeval density I had come to fear and hate. But with third platoon nearby, I felt secure enough in the woods. They would hear Charley before they saw him. Me, they ignored. I too would hear Charley before he saw me.

Then I dug my first cathole of the day. I dug quickly. My expertise with an entrenching tool gave me great pleasure and a sense of growing soldier skills. I thought to myself, "Charley would find me before hitting them, a bonus for third platoon. Allowing me into their field-of-fire paid dividends. So I paid my rent for their real estate. I would serve as a momentary observation post and listening post. For Charley I would create a cartoon character-like comical kill. For a growing army of hungry, long black leeches I created an underweight bag of blood. I must have looked like sick bait.

As Vietnamese villages go, Dwamg housed a pretty large population. I had no desire to defecate anywhere near a foe's view. Getting zapped while making a nature-call dignified nothing. If I were to leave Vietnam as a KIA (Killed in Action), a dignified combat death would do best. This seemed how my cards were to play out, about one-in-three as our numbers worked, I figured.

While preparing for my business I quickly ran through the math, most soldiers do this daily many times. How many days? How many KIAs? How many wounded? How many days to R-and-R (Rest-and-Relaxation).

Leaches quickly zeroed in on my heat and maybe stink. Who knows. Their slow but persistent undulating, forward motion often impressed me for their persistence and climbing strength, not to forget their stealth and sucking powers. Would they reach my boots before I reached contentment? My supporting left-hand became a succulent target, it appeared. Leach's made first contact with my left hand's index finger.

I still had time. I knew only that these leeches followed marching orders cut eons ago to suck my blood. How many other squatting soldiers had fallen victim to these blood-sucking squirmers? Looking back, I'm sure that everyone in my fire-team philosophized on leech patrols. We all remained impressed by their soldierly qualities. Like good soldiers, they followed their orders without hesitation. They had an uncanny ability to find us quickly and organize full on-line attacks if not randomized attacks. Now they had zeroed in on me at my most vulnerable moment. I had fire power, they had sucking power. Who would come in first?

We both lost. A short burst from an AK-47 cracked on second platoon's point squad as they moved south through Dwang. It took a short moment. Their-M-16s burst forth with hell-fire, piss, and vinegar. I heard their weapon's squad working its M-60. As a machine gun, this weapon belonged on a chopper, not a machine gun squad's table of equipment. Fortunately my Vietnam tour included rifle-squad equipment. I've always had a streak of luck in this way, when I most needed it, it seems.

I mumbled to myself, "Go Evans." "No time to wipe," "Get out of this fire zone!" I thought, and could not help remembering a growing truism among our line-doggies (grunts): "You're not going to the senior prom." A deep unconscious spark of fear turbo charged my raging adrenalin. Fight-or-flight, and I had nowhere to go but home to Alpha Company, 3rd. platoon, 1st. squad, 173rd Airborne Infantry. Maybe not the safest place on earth, but my home for now.

Third platoon took note of my situation. A squad leader signaled for me to leave his field-of-fire. "Don't need to tell me twice," I motioned with soldierly body motion, a subordinate to a senior soldier.

Running with my head down, I quickly found 3rd squad. My guys were saddling up. In a moment they would vaunt forward into Dwang's main road. "The shit hit the fan" Shoebine shouted as I entered our perimeter. For now 3rd and 4th platoons remained under the rainforest's comforting shade, cool, secure in well dug foxholes. If they were complacent before, they were now in full touch with their surroundings. They too waited on their marching orders.

The rest of my platoon, 1st platoon, remained in place. Anyone bouncing out of the woods would hit them. Anyone trying to outflank my squad would deal with third and fourth platoons. Anyone in the woods South of Dwang would shortly die from a 105 howitzer barrage. Our New Zealand artillery battery filled its role in this joint operation to halt the fall of dominoes. Captain Daniels had it planned out. "Sorry Charley -- No exit."

Arvin (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) had a place in this to the East and West. We knew better than to count on them. Just the same, they could oblige us by making some noise if needed.

Now I met Randy. Kneeling with his eyes pinned on the village, he greeted me. "Charlie's home," he uttered. More than obvious, he had a habit of reflecting conditions out loud. I suppose we all have our own means of seeking reality checks. Randy's followed a military logic since I'd known him. "Say again?" .

His fatigues still looked clean, neat, and tailor-made. Barely 5 feet and 8 inches, his stocky body could handle any load-bearing humping the army could dish out. Strong, agile, and the fastest point man in our rifle company, Randy always looked sharp. He had "cool" too, natural cool. We were "homeboys" he used to say. One day we would know one another "back in the world." Randy's point speed got him killed one hot day in War Zone D, days before his date of return to CONUS (Continental United States). That's another story. Thirty-five years later his mother would recount waiting his approaching return, the letter, and the next year indoors. She could not leave the house, broken hearted.

Randy's pocmarked face gave him the appearance of an older man, maybe ten years older. In these days baby boomers created a market for "zit" creams. Television advertisements made us all feel that our skin must look flawless, if we were going to have girls in our lives. For a foot soldier, "zit cream" has no place. No matter. Randy's a soldier's soldier. Complexion belongs to garrison soldier concerns, not a field soldier. I sometimes wondered if I might mention to Randy that his face needed attention, but thought better of it.

White, dangling pustules sometimes drained in the day's heat from the younger solders' faces. It's their continuing maturation. Beards become thicker. Since infantry soldiers rarely carry mirrors, we often failed to groom our faces. Shave, yes. Shave every day or pay a sorry price, but without a mirror.

Who was I, low guy on the totem-pole, to tell Randy, high guy on the totem-pole, that his face looked like a big, postulating zit? No beard, dark brown skin, his heavily blemished face belied this 19 year old soldier's age. His mature, orderly, gung-ho drive tapped him for a natural leader. Besides, who cares about complexion when dominoes threaten to fall any moment.

Medivacs now circled a green smoke grenade's landing zone. Lieutenant Trent waved the first chopper down. Thin, blond, 28, he came to our platoon as a gung-ho officer up from the ranks. By the book and then some, Trent commanded, intent on getting his silver bar quickly. At his age, a second lieutenant's gold bar meant something's wrong with this soldier. Not here, though. Trent went through Officer Candidate School (OCS) late in his army career. Others in their early twenties had the advantage of a younger body. Trent went through at 27. Trent would remain over-qualified, even as a captain. No one doubted Trent's command performance, skills and abilities, or his drive.

With the 173rd Airborne's loss of lieutenants, plenty of opportunity for moving up the ranks came fast. He'd have his silver bar and then some, soon enough. I once overheard Captain Daniels remark about "How bad" first battalion's officers felt about second battalion's officers. Second battalion had a majority of West Point officers, and they died more often. OCS had placed our lieutenants into competition with West Point's alumni; if this seemed unfair, Vietnam made it more unfair. But life's not fair, anyway.

Randy and Trent, either one in a rifle platoon meant a star burst of motivation. They set a challengingly high bar to reach.

Now two company medics carried one wounded, bundled foot soldier in a poncho. Setting down briefly, the first chopper's blades and engine created a momentary hearing chaos. It's hard for people to understand how loud these machines become.

Anyone hitting us now had noise for cover. Not good. Sergeant Martinez saw me arrive within our perimeter and shouted, "Cover the lieutenant." Logically enough he chose the one guy moving about while others were making smart moves, like low to the ground. I quickly double-timed toward the lieutenant while keeping a safe distance. Too close and one AK-47 burst would take us both out. This we knew too well from the Iron Triangle.

I reached a safe distance between the chopper and Lieutenant Trent. Experience also dictated to keep distance from officers and anyone else waving directions, pointing, and showing command. Trent waved to me to help the medics.

"OK," I poop in the bush and next I'm standing next to a chopper hovering inches off the ground. I can't hear squat. Two medics loading our wounded guy gently hand him off to the chopper's medic. If this chopper's skids ever hit the ground, it happened in an instant. That's when the hand-off took place. No sooner had its crew pulled our wounded into this ship's cavity than it was taking off. A stack of body bags slammed to the ground at my feet as a crew member booted it out, an after thought. I took the hint.

I grabbed the body bags and returned to third squad. Martinez said, "Get those bags to Moody in headquarters section." Now, moving again bent at the waist, I worried that my diarrhea would recur without pity. Bent at the waist, running, and the weight of the body bags turbo charged my bowels. I found headquarters section and Moody sorting our mortar rounds for distribution to third and fourth platoons. They would cover second platoon's foray into the woods with mortars, if needed. "Moody!" I screamed above the noise, and threw the body bags in his directions. Glad to be rid of their weight, I turned around and headed back toward first platoon's third squad, my squad.

They were gone. Just in time I saw Shobine entering a Vietnamese house, "hooch" might serve as a better word. These homes were like their small streets, dirt. Dirt floors, dirt walls, and thatched roofs added to their simplicity in design and practicality in function. Shobine enjoys rear security, but today he wanted the point. He wanted to join second platoon because a VC village offered an opportunity to excel, to gain points, to gain rank. Busted twice from buck sergeant to Specialist E-4, Shoebine's determination to return home a buck sergeant would not slacken for a few "VC gooks." "No one home," I hoped.

Running full speed, keeping my head down, I could hear and feel wild rounds tearing through the air. Close enough to a target these lead projectiles carry their super-sonic sound. The surrounding air gains pressure as each round screaming through space. Finding its target, each round promised to crush bones while flaying flesh and anatomicals. Small rounds compared to other combat ordiance, the 5.62 caliber M-16's rounds began to spin was they made contact with obstacles. They tore out a great deal of meat and bone as a result. Their velocity at this stage of technological development made the M-16's rounds second to no other standing Army's rifle round's velosity.

I followed Shoebine. We both heard screams piercing the air, amazingly above the fire-fight's ongoing explosion. Most Vietnamese peasants dig holes inside their homes because of artillery and air strikes. Not much to brag about, these holes provided quick cover. This time a momma-son with an infant took refuge in their family bunker. No doubt they live in this hole at night. B-52 strikes in this area were common, judging by the craters we circled to get here.

Two dead, one mangled surviving mother filled their bunker. Momma-son screamed in pain, agony, and terror. She held her dead and mangled infant with her one good arm, her right arm. Blood and anatomical's paid testimony to the two mangled bodies, the baby and its grandmother. "Now what could I do?". "Is this real?".

Shoebine jumped quickly into the bunker without a thought. "God, what a fucking mess!" he cried. Now I knew. "Follow." I had no idea until he took the lead. It would have been tight in this small hole without Shoebine. With him we could barely move. I never shared a foxhole with Shoebine. I could tell it would need to be larger than the ones "Little Robbie" and I dug together. So when I jumped in we were elbow-to-elbow with a wounded Vietnamese peasant woman and two dead bodies. All squashed together, I needed out. Shoebine and I were soon soiled with their wet blood and goo.

Now I knew what to do, and he needed to give orders. It's a soldier thing, I suppose. We both knew the mother had to come out and we were going to do what we could. It's one of those unspoken communications people make with their body language, tone, and understanding of one another. Lumpkin would have said, "Fuck no, I'm staying with the platoon." This might have been a better call at the moment. Neither Shoebine nor I knew where Charley would or could pop up. Tunnels would make for a really bad day. We were now alone in his world.

Her right-arm dangled like a piece of raw steak from her shoulder. Ligaments held it aloft, swinging wildly as Shoebine grabbed her under the armpits.

I crauled from the bunker, laid out my poncho, and as gently as humanly possible, pulled the screaming woman from Shoebinie. Gently I placed in the center of my poncho. Her screams became inhuman. Shoebine climbed out of the bunker and we each carried her out on my now bloody poncho. Her dismantled arm hung limply from the poncho. Not wanting to put her down, not wanting to lose time, we held our own two corners of my poncho while running to the Landing Zone (LZ). Deep red blood puddled near her bottom as it found poncho sagged in the middle.

We placed her gently in a small clearing; not too far from the LZ and far engough from the village to lose contact with my rifle company.

Shoebine shouted to me to remain with her. He turned and ran back toward the fire fight. Looking back at this singular event, Shoebine's character and drive lead us to this juncture. Had Lumpkin or someone else of his type entered this woman's home, and I then followed, odds are that Lumpkin would have ran out, empty handed. In my mind, I might have staid. I might have pulled her out of that death trap and dragged her to where I sat with her. Soldiers sometimes question their actions during combat and never find an answer. This one event remains an open question for this writer. Shoebine's presence made all the difference in outcomes. For the other outcomes, I'll never know.

I quickly became attached to this trauma victim. She seemed so tiny. Her tattered, black pajama clothing now soaked with blood here, there, and nearly everywhere testified to her horrific injuries. Her screams dug deeply into my young being. I had never known a moment like this.

A medic passed from a trip to the LZ with one of our wounded. "Help her," I asked. I knew this guy outranked me. I knew he had experience I would not gain in this conflict. I expected him to help out of common decency, something I had yet to articulate verbally or in writing.

"Not enough plasma." "Not enough time." He ran back in the direction of second platoon and now my squad's growing clatter of rifle and machine-gun fire. Shoebine would be joining the fight at about this time. Instinctively he would join up with Sergeant Mitchell's fire-team, leaving my fire-team short. Always short on grunts, my fire-team now numbered three without my presence. They might possibly need my rifle for fire-superiority. I should have moved along with Shoebine. I felt a little guilty.

In short order, third squad soldiers began to appear with prisoners, mostly peasant women and children. My guilt subsided. They were easily getting by without me.

These peasants were placed in a tight group. Two "new guys" from first platoon were assigned for to guard them. Everyone kept their head down as much as possible. The Vietnamese peasants looked wildly about. Their world had gone from a peaceful morning to a raging chaos of bedlam and noise. They too felt the air pressure pulsate as rounds passed overhead. The two new guys looked really scared. They also appeared like giants next to these tiny Vietnamese.

And here, off to the side in my own sphere of influence, I remained with a screaming, butchered woman. I had somehow become detached from it all, but for her. I now existed in my own tiny bubble. Bullets no longer mattered. My mind went elsewhere. I hoped to somehow care for and comfort this gravely injured mother; a task for which I had little training and no experience. Shoebine had, thankfully, tied a bandage to her arm. To this I added my own. Otherwise, she bled.

I had an epiphany that day and didn't know it. I would later read "Big Boy Leaves Home" by Richard Wright and understand more about moments like this. There, the protagonist hides in a hole while Klan types search and find his two friends, torturing and killing both. He went into the hole a boy, and exited a man. Intellectually, he had not grown, but hardened his emotional timber and attained a higher level of understanding, Guatama-like, I suppose. I suppose this moment in Dwang became something similar for me.

When a mother loses a child she suffers mightily I learned; this mother lost her own mother and her infant. I didn't know then what she told me with her eyes, but somehow her words, hers eyes told me great Truths. These Truths came back to me when my own mother lost her first-born, a daughter. Of course, my sister chose to smoke herself to death; this Vietnamese peasant happended to be born at the wrong time and place. Her baby had one of those cosmic bad days.

Now she's looking at me, pleading for help in a language I could not hope to understand. Her brown eyes pleaded in a language well known by our species; a language common to war wounded mothers pleading to an enemy, "Help." So I didn't know then what she said with her words and eyes, but I know now. How could I not know after four decades that I changed in an instant without fully recognizing the change? I suppose this was one of those moments some philosophers refer to as an "archetypal moment."

Nearby mortar rounds told me that second platoon got hit again as they exited Dwang in the South. My mind shifted from my bubble world to the real world. Third and fourth platoons remained hidden in the woods. "What could they hear, not hear?".

Then a third firefight raged almost instantly and now began to grow in the woods behind us. Charley hit third platoon, probably about where I abandoned the leeches. By now both the butchered mother and I were fixtures on the village outskirts in our own little world. Hell had now erupted. We remained as before, at peace together. Her, physically and psychologically mangled. Me, emotionally scarred with no wounds to bare the damage. I remained powerless in grief for another.

Finally another medivac arrived. This time it soundly placed its skids on sun beaten, green grass. A medic jumped out and motioned me in his direction as he ran. Instinctively I grabbed my poncho near the woman's feet. He took the head. We both ran to the chopper. Now she wailed. Finally realizing that we were sending her away, a new fear sharpened her hysteria. Thinking back all these year, I can now understand. Maybe this would be her first trip away form her village, away from her family, albeit dead. Somewhere she had a husband trying to kill guys like me. For sure, I suppose. Would she somehow return?

Her searing, brown, sloped eyes widened. Staring into my eyes I could feel an attachment breaking between us. I also felt guilt. I got the feeling that she somehow believed that I had betrayed her when I was trying to save her crippled life. With her one good arm she reached out to me, still screaming. The ship's crew chief signaled a takeoff and in a moment they were airborne. For years I replayed this these scenes trying to gean more information, more insights into that afternoon. Finally, I stumbled into a thought process better left alone. Could it have been that she believed I and Shoebine had thrown that grenade into her family's shelter. Whatever I imagined at the time did not fit the surviving woman's perception either Shoebine or myself.

My job with first platoon should have come first, I later learned, but no one grouched about Shoebine and my efforts. No one reproached me for my momentary AWOL in the midst of utter chaos. Trent ignored me. Hell went its way.

Shooting stopped. My platoon began slowly returned to our original position just north of Dwang. The woods had taken a beating from third platoon's weapons'' fire. Small trees fell and tree limbs hung in the vines. From the time squatted in this same field-of-fire to the present, I experienced an estrangement from time. Time had warped ahead hours while seemingly standing still. The woods demolition by flying lead proved time had passed, but how much?

The Sun's shadows now covered the LZ. Soon our position would darken with shadows. We had foxholes to dig. Headquarters section escorted the villagers to Chinooks landing and loading villagers quickly in the twilight. Soon enough they were gone and we were alone, it seemed.

Second platoon would remain in the open south of Dwang. Third and fourth platoons now moved to opposing positions just east and west of Dwang for the night. My platoon, first platoon, staid in place, on the northern end Dwang. We considered the LZ part of our perimeter. Claymores strategically placed to ward off probes in the night helped to ease tensions. We would not sleep this night.

Who would have the better night? Not me. Caked blood soiled my poncho and carried blood's decaying odors. Folding it tightly I placed it downwind. Tomorrow I would work at blood cleanup for the first time.

I can say today, "A wounded Vietnamese mother victimized by a scared paratrooper lost her family and soiled my poncho with peasant blood." I and Shoebine were both wearing her family's blood for some days. Finally, I began my crime scene cleanup career by soaking and scrubbing momma-sons blood from my poncho in a river. It took years for me to put this together. Like it or not, outside of military dogma, we were all complicit in a multiple, family homicide that hot, sticky morning. Perhaps not Penal Code 187, but murder by any other name. Little that I knew, somehow that day I helped save the balance of power.

Four decads later I learned that the Vietnam (US) war's casualties were about 80 percent civilian. Before the US war, the Vietanmese fought the French within their unified boarders, unlike their partitioned North-South Vietnam during our war with those tiny people. This tiny county suffered over a million civilain cassualties as a reult. We have learned that a counter-insurgency war as in Vietnam attacks relationships, civilian relationships, unlike typical wars over territory. So it turns out that in Vietnam, "winning" meant genocide by any other term. Would we, could we destroy an entire people? It took decades before I would learn the true meaning of the phrase, "crime scene cleanup."