Written March, 2021
October 1962
American intelligence discovered that Russia had placed nuclear missiles 90 miles off the coast of Florida in Communist Cuba. This was the beginning of the “Cuban Missile Crisis”. I was in the 8th grade. One day at the beginning of the crisis the nuns rolled a TV into our 8th grade classroom. Everyone was asking, “What’s going on”? One of the nuns answered, “There might be a nuclear war”. We sat and watched, scared, as President John F Kennedy spoke about the crisis. Video clips of the American Navy encircling and blockading Cuba were shown. The local news showed “Nike” anti missile rocket launchers being placed along the shoreline of Lake Michigan throughout the city. We were instructed about emergency procedures in the event of a nuclear attack on Chicago. “Get under your desk, curl up, and cover your head.” These instructions eventually morphed into, “Duck, curl, cover, and kiss your ass goodbye”. The seeds of the fear of communism had already been planted in our brains. This event was the fertilizer that helped it thrive.
One of the famous lines from JFK’s 1961 inaugural speech was: “Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.”
How does a 12 year old boy argue with that?
June 19th, 1968
On watch in the early morning hours, waiting and wondering what is next. Still bargaining with God. Can’t figure out if there is anything right about this war. The idealism of the fight against communism allows me to justify my decision to join the fight. And to justify the destruction and suffering. Somebody’s gotta do it. The alternative opinion would declare me a fool for being here. Don’t mean nothin’.
We are rousted out of our holes in the faint light of dawn and ordered to gear up. Today, B Company, about 120 marines, will do a sweep of the area near our perimeter and loop back and stay here again tonight. We leave our big packs behind and just carry water, a few loose food items, our weapons, necessities, and plenty of ammo. I scrounge up a “clean” towel and open a couple of cans of dry product “C” rats to have ready so I can grab a quick snack without using my can opener.
There is the belief that there are large numbers of NVA soldiers nearby. We need to move quickly, unburdened. We are spread out over a broad area and the 4 platoons of B Company are each assigned a different route.
The sun was barely in the sky for an hour and it is already blazing hot. We move quickly to a map coordinate and then stop for radio contact with the company commander. There seems to be a higher level of coordination going on than during our usual rambling through the bush. Like we have a known target.
We then hustle off to another destination. Rice paddy territory. We move quickly through dry paddies covered with big clumps of dirt. The footing is difficult. 100 steps and then over a paddy dike, then repeat. Like a series of adjacent football fields. Out in the open.
We stop again near a village. A small team is sent in to look around. They come out with a well dressed older man and a woman. They clearly are not locals. He is tall and dignified looking and she is too well dressed to be a farmer. A South Vietnamese scout/interpreter is called up. The platoon sergeant is interrogating the man right in front of our squad, 10 feet away, as we sit on a paddy dike. The scout says the man is a doctor and the woman is a nurse.
He says there is a hospital for VC and NVA troops, nearby in the jungle. Well stocked, fully staffed hospitals had been captured by American troops from time to time, either underground or in thick jungle.
The platoon sergeant gets on the radio and pretty soon the Company Commander shows up, Captain Somebody. They all step away from us and continue to interrogate the MD and nurse. I can’t hear them but I see the NVA MD point to a tree line in the distance.
Eventually I can hear some of the conversation because they are yelling. The Captain wants our platoon to get online, (side by side) and march across the paddies, take control of the tree line, and find out what is in that jungle area. The platoon sergeant objects strenuously. He says that the NVA doctor is sending us into a trap and the tree line is probably filled with NVA troops. The Captain insists that we follow his order. The platoon sergeant requests artillery or air strikes to prep the area. He says we will get wasted walking in the open, straight into their guns. He is getting really upset. The guy sitting next to me, who has been filling in the pieces of conversation that I can’t hear, says that we should “blow away” the Captain and bury him right where he falls.
The Captain refuses the request for artillery and airstrikes. He starts getting in the platoon sergeant’s face, stabbing his finger at him and pointing to the tree line.
“Get moving sergeant”.
It’s a big WTF moment for me and the other guys in my squad who are bunched together listening. Even I know that this is really stupid.
Our platoon sergeant is totally gung ho. He is the one that always gives us the “Why We Fight” speech. When we go out on our daily sweep he always gives pep talks about how we are going to “get some” and “kill some gooks”. So we are surprised that he is speaking against the foolish order of the Captain. I am looking at him in a different light.
He comes toward us and steps up to our squad leader, my friend Johnny Laboy, and tells him that our squad will lead the “assault” on the tree line. The other 2 squads will provide cover and flanking maneuvers. Like nothing just happened. Like it was normal. Just forget about what I said to the Captain. When he sees the disbelief in our faces and hears the grumbling and outright complaining and resistance, he starts spouting macho marine corps cliches. Within 5 minutes he went from obnoxious gung ho lifer, to protector, and back to gung ho lifer. He tells the platoon to get in formation and start moving toward the tree line, our squad on point. We all walk through a few sections of the rice paddies and stop at the last paddy dike before the tree line. Two other squads of our platoon have already split off to our flanks. Johnny says that my fire team and another fire team will form online, and be first to go straight toward the tree line. He will stay with the third fire team, including the machine gunner, to provide cover fire behind the paddy dike. This is appropriate because Johnny has to supervise the squad and direct the cover fire from the M60 machine gun. The eight of us spread out along the paddy dike and Johnny puts me at the far left flank of the line. We are spaced about 30 feet apart, so the eight of us stretch out about the length of a football field, side by side. There are about 25 other marines further behind us or slightly at our flanks. We step over the paddy dike which is the last bit of cover before the tree line. The ground is very uneven with large clumps of dried dirt. Hard as rocks. I have to look at the ground to keep my footing which makes it hard to keep an eye on the destination.
The closest person is 30 feet to my right and I would not be able to hear him if he had instructions for me or needed help. I feel very afraid, alone, and vulnerable. I keep touching and counting my weapons and ammunition, 2 grenades in the cargo pockets on my thighs, 2 LAAW rocket launchers slung over my shoulder, and maybe 12 M16 magazines of 18 rounds each in my two bandoliers. God help me.
We make our way slowly towards the tree line, rifles at the ready. Half way between the last paddy dike and the tree line there comes a tremendous explosion of small arms fire. I look to my right and see the marines in my line contorting in response to bullet strikes and dropping to the ground. I hit the dirt immediately and start making myself small by scraping away as much of the bulky dirt as possible. A few rounds from the tree line pop in the dirt nearby but not too close. I unload a magazine on full automatic into the tree line which invites a rain of fire on my position. A couple of the hot ejected cartridges from my rifle have popped onto my exposed neck, and land snuggled in my collar, burning skin. Like getting stung by bees.
I lay still for a while to figure out what is happening. I can hear Johnny’s group back at the paddy firing feverishly into the enemy position. I look right and don’t see any movement or note any firing from the rest of our point group. Seven marines down, so I’m out here in front alone. There is small arms fire off to my left which tells me that our left flank marines are engaged nearby with a different enemy fighting position.
I hear and see a LAAW round crash into the tree line which reminds me to use one of my LAAWs. I slither it off my shoulder, pull the pin, extend it to full length, look through the sight eye and fire. It hits a little high in the trees but hopefully it does some damage. Again the bullets start popping in the dirt in front of me, some close enough to spray dirt on my head. I frantically use my body as a shovel, swishing back and forth to get myself below ground level. With as little movement as possible I take off one bandolier of M16 magazines and pull some out for easy access. I reload my rifle and get a couple canteens off my belt. I’m totally soaked in sweat and it looks like I will be here for a while. The rest of my squad is far behind me and to the right and it would be insane to try to dash back to their position. Definitely not going forward.
I peek my head up and see an NVA soldier in the tree line crouching and pointing at me. His bright green uniform and face are clear. His determination shows on his face. I open up on him as does Johnny’s group. The NVA soldier gets stitched with M16 rounds. I can tell that some of them are mine. His machine gunner starts to fire at me so I stay low and don’t move. He loses interest. It gets quiet for a while and I listen to see if any of my point group is alive. I can’t hear anyone calling “Corpsman” which is a sign that all seven of them are probably dead or badly wounded. There is no way I can get over there to help, so my only choice is to take care of myself for now. Reload. Two magazines used up. Don’t waste any rounds.
Debating whether to play dead and wait for artillery and/or air strikes to end this. Who knows how long that will be. Johnny starts yelling at me. I assume he is asking if I am ok, but I can’t hear his words. Still prone on the ground, I bend my knee, foot up, and wave my foot back and forth. Not a good idea to lift my head up at this point. The NVA start popping off rounds my way again. I better shoot back or they will think I am helpless and try to come out and take me. I start to fire my M16 again, a couple rounds at a time. My rifle jams.
I quickly pull out the magazine and put my fingers in the chamber and feel that two rounds have entered the chamber so I sweep my fingers back and forth trying to clear the jam. I unleash a stream of profanity at my bad luck. My right elbow is up above ground level so I can get my fingers into the chamber. Suddenly my exposed right elbow takes a huge impact. At first it seems like someone dropped a large rock on my arm or smashed it with a five pound hammer. I look up to see if someone is standing next to me. No-one there, must be a bullet from an “AK”. I move my right arm and have an intense explosion of pain. Blood is dripping off my elbow. I tuck my arm into my body and roll to my back. Not easy to see the back of your own elbow, but I can see pieces of skin hanging off. So there is a pretty serious flesh wound and definitely a fracture. Any movement of the arm brings paralyzing pain. Now I am really in deep shit. I need to get back into prone position to watch the tree line. My M16 is jammed and I can’t fix it. Not sure I could shoot if it is working. I need to get deeper into the ground to stay safe so little by little I move dirt out from under me with my left hand, stopping when the pain on my right becomes overwhelming. I get back to prone and clear dirt on the other side of my new fighting trough. If I move too much, raise a canteen to my mouth, pour water on the wound, or reach behind for my battle dressing, I get bullets pinging off the ground near me.
Time to play dead. I lay still for what seems like a long time, thinking, thinking. It’s kind of quiet for awhile, so I keep peeking very slightly to the tree line to see if they have left the scene or are coming to get me. They love prisoners. What should I do if they try to take me? Pull the pin on a grenade and lay on it? Probably not doable. Once in a while I hear Johnny yelling to me but my ears are ringing and I don’t know what he is saying. I take advantage of the quiet to try to get the green towel off my shoulders and use it to wrap my elbow. A combination wound closure and sling might work. The overflow movement involved in shifting around to get the towel off is affecting my injury. It is nauseating and I almost faint, but I get the towel free. After I recover I roll to my left side and try to wrap the towel around my right arm which is now caked in dirt. The movement draws more pings, close to my head. Time to play dead again. I lay there baking in the sun for a long time. Giving up and accepting death seems easier at this point than continuing the struggle. Almost out of water, unable to fully protect myself, and weak from hunger, dehydration, and pain. I guess this is it. I hang on to these dreary thoughts for a while. Then I start to visualize what my death here in the dirt might do to my family, my girlfriend, my friends.
Eventually some artillery rounds are dropped into the tree line. I am guessing the NVA are dug in deep and will sit out the bombardment deep in their fortifications, (hunker in the bunker). After a few rounds for marking location, a white phosphorous round lands in the tree line. This identifies the target for an air strike which is very encouraging.
After this barrage, it is quiet again and I hear Johnny yelling. Still not sure what he is saying but seems to be repeating the same words. Finally, he yells each word slowly. Airstrike coming… …run ..…. jet….. dives. I raise my left hand and wave.
I have to get “packed” up. Not sure how I am going to carry my rifle, remaining water, bandolier and LAAW. I hear a jet rumbling into our airspace. I’m not going to make this run.
As it gets closer I sit up for 15 seconds and throw my rifle and LAAW over my left shoulder, secure my bandoliers, and finish off a couple of canteens that are nearly empty. I save one to carry back. I feel safe doing this because I know the NVA are underground to avoid what is coming.
The jet makes a tremendous roar as it makes its dive to the target. I lay on my back and make myself small and hope his drop is accurate. And hope I can recover from this wave of pain and get up and run on the next bombing pass—if there is a next one.
I’m ready to get out of here. I think I might have a “going home” wound. Boom! A rolling thunder of explosions. I don’t even look because I can’t move. Quiet. I hear Johnny yelling again. He seems closer? “Go on the next dive.” I wave. And wait.
Is the same plane coming back? When? I can’t wait too long lying on my back like a wounded turtle.
After an eternity of 2 minutes I hear another incoming aircraft. I wrap my green towel around my right forearm and elbow and pinch my left arm tight against my weapons. I have a huge rush of adrenaline and I feel like I am going to make it. He’s diving. Go!
I get up and start running toward the paddy dike. To safety. I am screaming in pain, or growling, or both. I get about 3/4 of the way to the paddy dike and trip, falling on the hard dry ground. More screaming, no growling. Landed on my shot arm and made it worse. More bleeding. More dirt embedded in the wound. I don’t know if the concussion from the bombs knocked me down or what. It takes me a while to recover and I look to see if the NVA are back in action or knocked out. Seems like the aircraft have dropped whatever bombs they had and are heading home. I better get to the cover of the dike now. I get up and make a short sprint. As I get close I slow down and take a roll over the paddy dike on my left arm and land safely, screaming bloody murder. I lay there for a long time trying to settle down. I need rest. There is no-one nearby. I am in line with the Johnny’s fire team but far to the left. I still have to crawl through this segment of rice paddy and go over a perpendicular paddy dike to get to their location.
But first, it takes a while for me to calm down and feel stable. I am able to get my battle dressing off the back of my cartridge belt. It is very frustrating trying to wrap my elbow with one hand. It takes a long time but I feel better when it is covered and compressed, over dirt chunks, coagulated blood and flaps of skin. I start working my way along the paddy dike towards my squad.
(Like the photo below, but totally dry, no plants, just chunks of dirt)
It is slow going. I lay on my left side, my rifle and LAAW on the ground. First sweep away the big chunks of dirt that block my smooth movement. Then drag myself with my left arm while pushing with my legs, then drag the weapons forward. Repeat over and over, making a few feet of progress with each round of inch worming. I need to stay low because the paddy dike is good cover only if you are flat. There is still some firing going back and forth. I’m kind of surprised that no-one from our squad has come to help me. Must be busy. I rest frequently, sipping on my remaining water, trying to ration it. There are occasional AK rounds pinging the top of the dike near me. Sniper.
Eventually I arrive at the junction of a north/south paddy dike, and an east/west heading dike. It is so damn hot. I’m fried.
I call out for Johnny and the others but no answer. I’m pretty sure that they are near, but maybe I’m underestimating the distance. I rest to gather the strength to flip over the paddy dike. I want to see where my squad is. I don’t want to spend the energy to lift up a bit and peek over to the other side. I feel like taking a nap but that’s not too smart. Weak with hunger, I remember that I have some food items in my cargo pocket. On my back, feeling around in my left cargo pocket, I find a few items and pull them out and lay them on the ground. I also notice that the grenade in my left pocket seems to be coming apart. All this movement must have vibrated it loose!
I gently feel around the edges of the grenade and can tell that the cap over the grenade is loose, and thus, the blasting cap is not tightly secured in the grenade. Too much pressure, or friction, or an impact, could set off the blasting cap and grenade. Certain death. The cap needs to come out, so I gently unscrew it the rest of the way. Carefully pull it out of my pocket and toss it away. Whew! Safe. I take the grenade out of my pocket and notice that there is some explosive powder spilled in my pocket which is not a worry. Empty the rest of the powder out of the grenade so it can’t be used as a booby trap. Toss it. Now eat.
Still on my back, I see that I have a package of cheese and crackers, a “dinner roll”, and a small can of peaches. The easiest, fastest thing to eat is the bread roll since I already had opened the can. I devour it. Next, the cheese and crackers, which are in an unopened can, two hands required. Save it for when you have help. No way I can open the peaches either, no pop top. Rest, then go.
I collect my weapons, sling them on my shoulder and heave myself over the paddy dike. I land right on Johnny’s outstretched legs and let out a howl of frightened surprise. He is sitting up, facing me, leaning against the dike. I can’t believe I didn’t see him before, but my head has been down the whole time to avoid a sniper’s bullet. It takes me a moment to realize he is dead. There is a big hole in his chest where a bullet entered. I am stunned and freaked out. I shake him a little bit to see if maybe he is alive. No sign of life, eyes vacant and fixed. I say something to him— don’t remember what. Maybe this is where he came to call out to me. He died saving me??
This is bad. There is no-one else in sight. They must have pulled back to a more distant rice paddy dike. Dreadfully, I have no time to think of Johnny, his family, his girlfriend. I have to get the hell back to my platoon. It’s all about me. I lay down on my back and try to think. What to do? There is some gunfire exchange between our side and the tree line. I look and see some muzzle flashes from our platoon in the distance and figure that I am about halfway between the platoon and the enemy stronghold. Long way to go. My adrenaline is gushing through my arteries. In my head, I can feel my heart pumping. I have to buck up and realize that I have to cover a lot of ground, am out of water, and no-one is coming to get me. The marines who were in the assault line with me are still laying out on the ground where they fell.
Knowing I will have more cover on the other side of the dike, I crawl slowly over it, to where I came from. Better get going and use the fuel that is burning in me now. Back to the inchworm game. Clear the dirt chunks, drag with left arm, push with legs, haul the weapons. At least I don’t have to carry that faulty grenade. I have a LAAW, one intact grenade, and my K Bar, (knife) to defend myself. Get moving. It looks like it’s getting close to noon.
Trudging along, about halfway through this paddy section, PFC Johnson comes crawling up to me on his way to the platoon perimeter. He says “Got any food?”, as I am saying, “Got any water”? I give him my peaches to open and we share. I hand him the cheese and crackers pack and he opens them for more sharing. He gives me a partially full canteen which saves my life. We share the story of our day while we rest and eat. First time I ever broke bread with a black man.
PFC Johnson was in the group that was on my left flank. They got beat up pretty bad too. He was hit in the legs with some shrapnel and cannot walk much, but he seems ok , just dehydrated and exhausted as expected. He was sent back to the designated platoon gathering point where a medevac chopper is supposed to drop supplies and pick up the wounded. He is an African American marine from the Southside of Chicago. We try to make a plan for getting back to the platoon. He wants to get moving. I ask him if he can first help with my rifle. “Can you clear it”? He tries for a couple of minutes but is unsuccessful. I tell him that it is really slowing me down and he tells me to leave it. I say it would be an unforgivable marine corps sin to leave my rifle on the battlefield. He asks me if it is worth dying for. He tells me again to leave it, and the LAAW. “You won’t be able to fire either of them in your condition. The marines will take this turf, so no enemy troops will get your weapons. There it is. See you later.” He says, that when he gets to the platoon perimeter he will try to get someone to bring me water and help me get back. I didn’t blame him for leaving me. He is moving much faster than I can. It was really helpful to have this encounter.
I lay there for a few minutes trying to decide what to do. PFC Johnson is right. There is no way I can use my weapons. I will leave the LAAW and keep my rifle for a while longer. I start to inchworm along the dike. Leaving the LAAW behind doesn’t help much. I still have to do the same repetitive movements which wear me out and cause more pain. My pants and shirt are in tatters from the dragging and falling on the ground. My skin is getting shredded. F’ it. I push forward and leave my M16 behind. What are they going to do? Send me to Vietnam?
Hordes of flies are feasting on my sweat and blood. It’s too painful and exhausting to try to swat them all away. Just try to keep them out of my eyes, nose and ears.
Johnson and I had earlier tried to calculate how far we were from the main enemy position. We discussed the accurate range of an AK 47. We were trying to calculate whether it was safe to get up and walk/run. His squad has a radio and heard that all four of B Company’s platoons were under fire in their area and no one is coming to help us. Most importantly, we have enemy forces on all points of the compass. Not like we are surrounded up close, but we don’t know who else can see us from a tree, or a spider hole, or bunker. We agreed that we were probably still within firing range of an AK47, from somewhere. Keep crawling.
My mouth is painfully dry. I have never experienced this before. Dehydrated and eating dirt that I stir up while crawling. I need another adrenaline rush. I am running out of steam but that little bit of food and water keeps me going. I push myself hard and finally reach the next paddy dike and take a peek over the top of the dike. I see the tops of the helmets of the marines in my platoon. Almost home safe!
I realize I still have a can of pound cake in my right cargo pocket. Yes, pound cake, in a can, from the Korean War. True, I didn’t share it with PFC Johnson, but it’s mine and I need it. Glad that I opened the can this morning or it would be stuck in the can. It takes me a long, frustrating, painful time to get it out of my right pocket with my left hand. Can’t move for a while after that. Nauseous. Mind running on high speed.
When we were very young, boys would always ask for toy soldiers and “army” stuff for Christmas and birthday presents. We would set up elaborate battles with soldiers, jeeps, cannons and tanks. Most of the kids’ fathers had been in WW2. TV and movies were full of war stories. Our cause was always just. Our soldiers were heroic and ethical. Their soldiers were pure evil. All the wounds were clean and only a little painful. Our soldiers died in a blaze of glory.
“In our neck of the woods, a real man goes to war just as his father and his father before him. We offer the blood, sweat and tears for generals, politicians, and the Christian right, a ready army of boys waiting to become men. The temptation to face a trial by fire for God and country overwhelmed us with a craving for combat”.
3rd Platoon, A Corpsman’s Story of Vietnam, A. Keith Gum
How’s that working out for me now? Should’ve done some more research before I signed up for this shit. I push on for the final leg of my journey, praying that I won’t need to wait long for a medevac chopper. I finally make it to where I could see our perimeter line of marines. I just need some water and I will be ok. I begin to realize that this day has been a powerful life changing experience. I won’t ever have another experience with this level of intensity. (Unless I heal really fast and get sent back to the bush).
I crawl past a line of men. No-one has any water. A team has been sent out to the nearest village to try to get some. I’m on my own.
They send me further down the line to find a corpsman. I am a bit offended that no-one seems to care but as I move down this long defensive line I can see that my problems are trivial compared to the big picture.
There are wounded marines spread along the whole line. Marines are bringing in dead and wounded from all directions. Take a number.
I’m desperate to find a corpsman to wrap me up. My battle dressing is coming loose.
I start walking down the line asking about water and evacuation. “There’s no water, we’re waiting for help, there it is”.
“There it is”: commentary about the insanity of it all. “Don’t mean nothin’: commentary about the results —horrible wounds, destruction, dead bodies.
They are phrases used to shunt your feelings somewhere else, so you don’t have to deal with them.
Little by little I gather information about the situation. “Where is my squad?”. There are no squads, just remnants and stragglers. Wounded marines, dead marines, and those separated from their units are collecting/being collected here for evac, to hold the line, suppress enemy fire, and protect the awaited supply and medevac choppers. There is too much enemy fire for helicopters to land right now.
Someone tells me there are corpsmen further down towards where the LZ is set up. I press on, walking in a crouch. Passing more and more wounded and victims of heat stroke. I could use a little attention and some TLC but I see how lucky I am. I might actually make it out of here somewhat intact. My right hand is working ok so I don’t have nerve damage.
I make it to the vicinity of a corpsman who is working on someone. These poor guys have an awful job. Totally exhausting, horrifying and mind numbing. Can’t imagine them ever recovering from these experiences. I give him a wave to tell him that I would like to see him. Not likely to happen soon.
As I get closer to the LZ I run into a few guys from my platoon, including Coleman, my boot camp “buddy”. Still no water, but it is good to see some familiar faces. I decide to stop and set up here hoping to flag down a passing corpsman. No energy left to go hunting for one.
I can see that every marine in every direction is on the edge of collapse either from heat stroke or plain old dehydration and exhaustion.
Finally, a corpsman sees me and comes to help. He unwraps my dressing, which really hurts because dirt, dead skin, and dried blood pull away with the dressing.
He puts some kind of iodine on it and wraps it up. The whole process is painful but the new dressing feels so much better. He says I have a fracture of the right elbow with no skin coverage. “You might be going home”. Externally calm, internally ecstatic, I went into a dream state for a few seconds. The million dollar wound! He offered me a shot of morphine for the pain, but I declined. Not to be heroic, but to be able to defend myself if we get overrun. And, to stay alert enough to be able to haul ass to the medevac chopper.
I am feeling guilty about leaving my rifle behind, but easily convince myself that I wouldn’t have made it if I kept dragging it all the way here. No one seems to notice. I consider grabbing a rifle that belongs to a dead or severely wounded marine. There it is. Don’t mean nothin. That’s how it works. At this very moment, every marine who isn’t able to fight is being stripped of everything that is useful. I have nothing left of any value except my K Bar and a grenade, so leave me alone.
A big Chinook chopper starts an approach to our area. Every able bodied marine needs to provide cover fire. Ironically, a random sergeant comes up to me and lays an M16 on the paddy dike and tells me to get my trigger finger in place and empty a magazine. Our perimeter opens fire on the enemy position which is a couple hundred yards away. The NVA is pouring everything they have, including RPGs, (rocket propelled grenades). Hot metal is flying overhead, thick as bees. The chopper gets close and marines on the crew dump boxes and a net full of supplies out the back door and fly away without touching down. Not safe to land. Cover fire continues as other marines go get the supplies. We will need artillery and/or air strikes to pin the NVA down long enough for a chopper to land and load wounded and dead.
I am disappointed that I missed my evac, but there is enough water and food for everyone and more ammunition. Canteens of water are passed around and everyone
gets maybe one canteen to share with another marine. Enough to keep us going for, how long?
I haven’t seen anyone from my squad and ask the few guys that are familiar to me if they know how Johnny got killed. I am fearful that he might have died trying to save me. No-one knows anything about him. I’m not sure I really want to know. I assume he is still laying out there. Don’t mean nothin’.
It is universal to have nicknames for marines in the bush. Most corpsmen are called “Doc”, all Native Americans are “Chief”, southerners are “Tex” or “Johnny Reb”, or just “Reb”. And so on, to include all forms of racial slurs and body shaming terms. In the remnant of our platoon there was a “Chief”. He learned that his good friend was known to be on the ground, wounded, out in front of our perimeter. He wanted to go out and pick him up but he was obviously delirious from the heat and barely able to stand up. The marines in our group pulled him down to the ground and convinced him not to go. He was crying and begging to be allowed to go. Suddenly, PFC Coleman jumps up and says he will go get the marine. He strips away his gear and asks for cover fire. Our line of marines open up on the tree line and Coleman dashes out to pick up the wounded marine. He scrapes him off the ground, throws him over his shoulder and starts to hustle back to the perimeter. Wow, don’t think I could ever do that! He gets back to the perimeter, right in front of where I am crouching, and starts to unload the wounded marine. An AK 47 round hits him in the back and they both tumble over the paddy dike and fall into us. I don’t remember if the wounded marine was alive or dead but Coleman was definitely alive and in serious trouble. Everybody was calling for a Corpsman while Coleman struggled for breath.
He was groaning in agony from his chest wound. The bullet exited through his chest. He says his left side is hurting. He has a “sucking chest” wound. Blood is filling his left lung, drowning him. One of the nearby marines says to turn him on his left side so me and another marine roll him over. Keeping him on his left side will keep the right lung somewhat dry, hopefully.
It is late afternoon. I really don’t know the big picture of what will happen to us. There is some talk of a counterattack. I feel bad for these marines, but I am so ready to get out of here. I have nothing left to give.
An artillery barrage commences in the wake of a few jets bombing the tree line. Another helicopter comes into the area. I ask the marine next to me to take the grenade out of my right cargo pocket. It is awe inspiring how all the marines get into character and fulfill their roles. Many are assisting the wounded to the helicopter. The word is passed that there is no room for the dead on this run. Corpsmen are directing the handling of the wounded. Other marines are providing cover fire.
Suddenly, the enemy opens up on our perimeter as the artillery barrage has stopped. Those of us who can, run in a crouch to the helicopter. A mortar lands nearby and we all hit the dirt or are knocked to the ground by the explosion. But we immediately get up and dash into the waiting medevac copter.
No hesitation by the pilot. Quick lift off and flying sideways to pull away from the LZ. The door gunner is firing non stop. He looks a little insane. A couple enemy rounds come through the side wall of the chopper. One hits the shoulder of a seriously wounded marine who is leaning against the wall. He is so F’d up that the barely notices.
He just lets out a tired groan. Soon we fly into safe clear sky. I think I am home free. Yes, it is all about me.
“It ain’t no sin to be glad your alive”
Bruce Springsteen, “Badlands”
We land at the Danang Hospital and various personnel come out and start transporting the wounded into what is basically the emergency department. (Imagine the horrible things they must see on a daily basis.)
We are packed into an area that is already pretty full of wounded marines. We are getting triaged and I am appropriately parked against the wall as a non priority. There are sawhorses filling the room to set the stretchers on while the wounded are waiting for care. There is auditory pandemonium as nurses and corpsmen and doctors are yelling out. Some of the wounded are unconscious and some are calling for a corpsman or just screaming in pain. Their first morphine shot must be wearing off.
Our brave platoon sergeant who followed the order to send our squad right into NVA gunfire is seriously wounded and crying out, screaming, pleading, and actually calling for his mommy. I had heard stories of this happening with men wounded in combat but did not believe it. I have a hard time feeling sorry for him.
I see Coleman nearby lying on his left side and he is gasping for breath and begging for help. A nurse screams to the doctors that they are losing him. A corpsman and doctor come over, pull out a scalpel, and carve a slit in his chest as Coleman soundlessly screams in pain. Blood comes pouring out of his chest cavity and he starts breathing better immediately.
A marine sitting against the wall near me has a huge bulge in his throat. I have seen him around our platoon area but don’t really know him. There seems to be a bullet lodged in his throat. Sometimes a bullet coming from far away loses momentum and barely punctures the body. He has a big bloody dressing that he holds on his throat and sometimes removes to drain the fluid that is collecting. Otherwise he seems fine. He tries to talk and is gurgling and coughing. The casualties keep coming and coming and never stop. I just want to close my eyes.
A nurse comes to me and says “are you ok honey”? Wow, my mother never said that to me. I fall in love with the nurse right there. She looks me over and says I will need to go to the OR, but there is a bit of a wait. She says she will be back with some meds
for pain and to make me a little sleepy. I am already very sleepy which is currently masked by nausea.
The next thing I remember is having my boots pulled off and clothes cut off. I have some blood on my legs from crawling and they probably think I am wounded there too. Or they find it amusing to play with their scissors. Will be embarrassing to be undressed in front of these people. Especially since my underwear is probably pretty nasty. I get some kind of anesthesia shot in my armpit which is not fun and then some more pills. I feel pretty good for a moment and then disappear into a fog.
At some point I become more aware, hearing and feeling some grinding on my elbow. I remember asking the doctor if he is cutting off my arm. He says no, just filing down some rough edges of the bone. That’s nice. I drop back into sleep.
When I wake up the next morning I am in a nice bed with clean sheets. I have a cast on my right arm. There is an IV in my left arm which is hanging from a cable above my head, near the ceiling. It is noisy. I hear a woman in the bed next to me groaning in pain and groggily speaking in Vietnamese. I look around and see that the patients in this area are civilians. I see part of the woman’s face and it is clear that she has severe burns. The rest of her body is wrapped in gauze bandages. Probably napalm.
Why am I here in the civilian section? I really have to pee. Does anybody work here? I wiggle my fingers in my cast and am relieved that they work ok. But any movement of my right arm hurts a lot. Well, no surprise. I’m so hungry, but I really need to take a leak. I look around and see a urinal on a bedside stand, which is on my right side. I wiggle and move to get my left arm over to the right side and the IV line is too short. Then I figure out that I can slide the IV along the overhead cable.
A nurse comes in and finds me all tangled up and ready to cry. I temporarily forget about my exploding bladder, arm pain, hunger and frustration as I fall in love again.
But first I must ask for help. The nurse takes a few moments and helps me to get the urinal under the sheet. I pull down my pajama pants and get everything in position with my left hand. For a few moments I am too embarrassed to urinate in front of this nice young lady. But eventually it all comes pouring out. Now I can think clearly.
Me: “Why am I in the civilian ward?”
Nurse: “We don’t have enough beds in the military ward because of the high number of casualties. And you were determined to be the one with the least need for help, besides him over there. He isn’t expected to live, he’s in a coma”
Me: “Oh, and what happened to her?”, (pointing to the female civilian)
Nurse: “Napalm”.
She reviews my orders/instructions. “Stay in bed in order to not disturb your wound.”
“If you need a bed pan, someone will help you. ( I am immediately seized with constipation) You will be taking medicine”…..etc., etc..
“Are you hungry”? “Yes Ma’am.” (She is an officer.) “Ok I will send someone with your breakfast. When you finish she will give you a sponge bath and shave you”. “Oh”.
“The doctor will be making rounds soon and he will tell you about your situation”.
Before too long a nice young Vietnamese lady comes with a food tray and sets me up.
This looks like real food! But I am not very good using utensils with my left hand plus IV. After she leaves I just eat everything with my left hand.
She comes back with a cart of other supplies. She says she will shave me. I get a little paranoid and wonder if she is VC and planning on slitting my throat. Not likely, but all things must be considered in this crazy place. “Now bath”. Awkward!
Concerned about blood flow changes that might arise.
The medical crew comes in later for “rounds”. The MD takes a look at my cast. There is a “window” in the cast to have access to my elbow wound for inspection and dressing changes. The doctor tells me that I have a compound, (bone broken in half), comminuted, (into 2 or more pieces), fracture of the olecranon, ( prominent part of the elbow). He says that a large section of the elbow skin is gone and I will need skin grafting. He also tells me that the wound was impacted with dirt and I already have signs of infection. (Privately, in my head, Ka-Ching, Ka-Ching Ka-Ching!!) Shattered bone, skin grafting, infection? Sounds like a ticket home. Also sounds a bit serious. The doctor seems optimistic about my recovery.
Later today I can get up and walk around. Tonight I will be moved to the military ward. Tomorrow morning, evacuation to Japan because I need long term care due to the infection and need for skin grafting. There was no comment on the plan beyond that and I didn’t want to be too aggressive and ask them if I am ultimately going home.
Later that day a nurse comes in and says it’s time to get up and move around. There is a bed ready for you in the ward next door, with your buddies. I get out of bed and walk, pulling my IV pole along to the bathroom. A bit shaky. There is a real toilet. What
a treat.
Anxious to get out of this very sad part of the hospital. The civilians here have really been mangled, (by us?). We head down the connector walkway to the jarhead ward.
The only thing I remember about the rest of this day is that I wanted to go back to the quieter civilian area. Marines are loud, boastful, whiny, demanding. I am in an orthopedic ward so most of these guys have broken bones and other non life threatening wounds. Not amputations, brain damage, disembowelment. So their natural personalities come out. It’s not flattering.
June 21st
We are awakened at 6am. Breakfast, toilet, and shave no matter how difficult it is. We are marines and we have to look good when we show up at Yokosuka Naval Hospital near Tokyo. An eight hour flight. Otherwise there will be shame on the 95th Evacuation Hospital here in Danang. We get packed up for our flight. By packed, I mean a toiletry bag. I have no possessions other than that and the pajamas I am wearing. Not even a pair of chonies. I ask about my sea bag. It is stored at the regimental compound. My camera, letters from home, and all my other possessions are there. “ Don’t worry. It will be sent to you.”
Every marine who is being evacuated has to go on a stretcher because there is no seating for patients on this particular converted cargo plane. I am one of very few going on the plane who can walk but I still have to get on a stretcher and carried to a bus. They lift our stretchers onto racks, then drive out to the tarmac and load us on to the plane.
They put me up on the top rack, (like stretchers forming a bunk bed), since I don’t need that much help or observation. I just need my IV strung up on the plane’s IV cable and a sheet to cover up. The majority of the these wounded marines are seriously or severely wounded and need a lot of attention. I am laying flat on my back and if I sit up more than half way my head will hit the ceiling of the plane. At first I thought, “what a great chance to sleep”. That would prove to be only partially accurate.
It is truly exciting though. Getting ready to take off and fly out of the country to a safe haven. I am concerned about the future function of my arm, but willing to take whatever comes because the alternatives are much worse. We take off with a roar, shaking, banging, creaking inside this poorly insulated cabin. Some of the wounded are howling in pain because of the jolting of the plane. But soon we level off with less disturbance. Even though there are no windows I am sure we are flying above the ocean out of reach of enemy guns. Homeward bound!??
Everything is going well, sleep, think, stare at the ceiling. Wonder if family has received the telegram about my situation. A lot of the marines have been medicated and are asleep for a while but when they wake up there is a lot of moaning and calling for the nurses. They are hustling between patients. I start to notice that I am going to need a urinal, soon. This IV is filling me up with a lot of fluid. There isn’t one within my sight. Got to keep an eye out for a nurse in view. Too shy to call out, (be a man).
Eventually I get lucky and one starts working on the guy below me. I ask her for a urinal, urgent. She says she will get one for me ASAP. Which doesn’t come soon enough. I am desperate, ready to bust. I finally swallow my pride and yell out for help.
The nurse comes back, and is sorry, and hands me the urinal and dashes off. It takes a long time for me to get things set up with my limited mobility. Finally, I deliver a flow to
the urinal, and it doesn’t want to stop. I have to keep the urinal horizontal because of the limited area to sit up. It overflows and soaks my sheet and pajamas. I try to get
the urinal out from under the sheet so I can stand it up. But I only spill more on myself. I am frustrated and furious. I lay in my soaked bedding and pajama bottoms for a long time before I can flag down a nurse. It is humiliating but she is kind and we work together to change the sheet and my pajama bottoms. Hopefully, this will be the last time I ever wet my bed.
In due time we begin our descent to Yokusuka Naval Air Base in Japan. There is a huge hospital here. I wonder what is going to happen next. Right now I feel safe. Can’t ask for more than that.
Epilogue
Johnny Laboy was my only friend in Vietnam. His actions allowed me to make it to safety after I was shot.
I assume that he lost his life trying to help me, but I don’t know for sure. He was 6 months younger than me, “In Country” for less than four months, and was leading a squad of marines in combat, (as a Private First Class).
I never knew his name was “Neftale”, so was unable to find records about him on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington DC. I discovered “The Wall-USA” online about 6 years ago. I was able to find him based on date of casualty. I left a posting to his family on his “wall page” in 2015. Since so much time has passed, I assume his family has not seen my posting.
I was glad to see that his body was recovered.
I never saw Roy Coleman again, but since his name isn’t on the wall, I assume he survived.
1st Marine Division History of battle on June 19th, 1968, involving B Company, 1st Battalion, 27th Marine Regiment
(excerpts)
The 1st Marine Division ordered the area of operations extended to permit the Allen Brook forces to venture east of the National Railroad in pursuit of the enemy. Early on 19 June, an ad hoc force composed of elements of Companies B and D (under the command of the executive officer of Company B) ran into a North Vietnamese force near the hamlet of Bac Dong Ban. One Marine platoon immediately went to ground in the face of overwhelming enemy fire. (us)
As the Marines called for air and artillery, another ad hoc Company (also composed of elements of companies B and D) moved to the rescue under the command of Company B’s commanding officer, First Lieutenant Richard M. Wozar.
The North Vietnamese were thoroughly dug in, occupying a line of trenches and bunkers with their backs to the Song Ky Lam. For nine hours, the battle raged with neither side able to gain the upper hand. Finally, at 1800, the Battalion command group, with Company A and a platoon from Company C arrived and attacked from the West. Swinging northward, the reinforcements assaulted the enemy positions while Company B and D provided a base fire. By 1900, the Marines overwhelmed the enemy suffering 6 dead, 19 wounded, and 12 heat casualties. By noon the next day, the Marines found 17 North Vietnamese dead.
Seems to be portrayed as a victory. Thirty-seven marines taken off the battlefield. Sounds like a tie. We were numbers on the scoreboard of body counts.
A word about helicopter crews. I had six helicopter rides. Two with guns blazing, and two with blood flowing. I also had three or four experiences unloading choppers.
The crews were incredibly brave. Flying in a slow moving, giant target, providing supporting fire, transport, supply, and medevac when needed.
Pilot, Co-Pilot, Door Gunner, Supply Crew, Corpsmen
Records show that 7,013 Hueys served in the Vietnam War. Total helicopter pilots killed in the Vietnam War was 2,202. Total non-pilot crew members killed was 2,704.
And, I am very grateful to fighter pilots in general, and especially to the ones who supported B Company on June 19th. I don’t think I would have made it back to my platoon if not for them.
Vietnam War Casualties were the worst in 1968.
thomasleecurran.com 