We're in trouble. The Lieutenant's got an idea.

A constant strain in any army is the work of sergeants to keep new lieutenants from getting themselves or someone else killed until they can gain enough knowledge and humility to become a useful officer.

Some never get there.

One day in 1970, Headquarters and Headquarters Company (Head and Head) at Long Binh got presented with its very own example.

They got one Lt. Clayton Wood. Fresh from a major personal screw up. The son of a well-connected family in Tennessee, he had managed to snag a place in the Tenn. National Guard. A sure berth, in those days, to keep out of Vietnam. Ah, but you noticed we're speaking of his arrival in Asia. It seems the young prince had amassed such a record of failure to attend weekend meetings that he was punished by being placed on active duty, and sent to VN. It soon became clear that his arrival was not just punishment for him.

The first clue came when the Orderly Room clerk was sent over to the Replacement Depot to pick him up and bring him to the company. Upon climbing into the jeep, the looie asked, “How far, corporal?”

“About 4 Klicks, Sir.” (The Army in VN spoke in meters and kilometers. “Klick” was GI slang for kilometer.)

When they pulled up in front of the Orderly Room, the Lt. said, “Get the jeep looked at. I didn't hear the speedometer click once.”

Lt. Wood's looks revealed his Welsh heritage. He had a long torso and stubby legs. He was round-headed. In fact, he looked like every round-head, spike haired, dumb bad boy you've seen in cartoons.

He began to hold formations for the troops the next day. Something no other office in the unit did. He held morning formation, Guard Mount, and who can remember what else. These allowed him to strut up and down in front of soldiers, pontificating, and smoking a cigar to seat what he thought was his John Wayne/Glenn Ford image as an officer. Except, of course, Wood couldn't smoke a real cigar, so he used the small, plastic tipped Tiparillos. He'd wave and gesticulate with them, finally punctuating his rant by manfully slamming the stogie back into his mouth, and growling, “Dismissed!”

During his first Guard Mount formation, he began to bellow to the 6 men lined up, “The S-2 report....” (S-2 was Battalion level Intelligence.) The company First Sergeant came flying out of the Orderly Room. “Lieutenant! We do not yell the intell report.”

“Huh?”

“There are EARS, Sir.” Gesturing round.

Lt. Wood winks, nods, and taps the side of his nose as if to say, “I was just testing the men.”

As the sergeant returned to his office, he was heard to sum up both the Lt.'s brains and ancestry in a single muttered phrase.

He put several soldiers on report for falling to the ground laughing the day he got to waving his smoke so wildly he forgot which end was which, and slammed the burning end back into his mouth.

Luckily, his visit wasn't to be a long one.

One night his name came up in the rotation for Officer of the Day at the perimeter bunkers. (see earlier stories for information about them)

Just as the sun was going down, the Head and Head bunker began hearing the smack of an occasional sniper round into the sand bags. A fairly common harassment, the troops knew to just keep low, and Charlie would give up and go home to dinner at dark.

But Lt. Wood heard the AK out there in the dark and rang down the line on the field phone.
“Who's firing down there?”

“Just a sniper, Sir, he'll be........”

“I'll be right there.”

“Sir, there's no.... Sir? Sir?”

The jeep roars up, the Lt. Jumps out and storms into the bunker. “Where is he?”

“Sir, he isn't hitting anything. He'll go away.”

“I'm gonna call in artillery on him.”

“WHAT!!??”

The Lt. runs out the back and climbs onto the top of the bunker so he can spot the sniper. He reaches down and demands the phone, then stands up. Making a perfect silhouette against the twilight sky.

The four men in the bunker pushed their helmets down and slid below the level of the open firing port.

From out there in the tree line beyond the rice paddies, you could almost hear the soft click of the selector on the AK being pushed to full auto.

A burst of 6 ofr7 rounds came in. Charlie missed low, and the bullets slapped into the sand bags under the Lt.'s feet. One was just high enough to catch the heel of his boot and fling him to safety off the back of the bunker. Breaking his ankle.

First Lieutenant Clayton Wood, of the Tennessee National Guard, had just dumbassed himself into the Million Dollar Wound. A Purple Heart, and a ticket home.

Somewhere in a small country club bar in Tennessee, a sweaty, chubby, stubby man has scored innumerable Scotches with his tales of manly derring-do, and the time he was a “By God, leader of MEN!” in the Great Asian War.