Vietnam War Story
stood there in a stupor unable to move or think a coherent thought for
what seemed like a long time. '
For the year I was
there, my job mostly consisted of driving a truck and slinging sandbags.
I never lost any close friends or killed anyone. There is still a feeling
of guilt for not having suffered "enough" even though what I
experienced puts me through almost overwhelming grief sometimes for the
people involved in what I saw. It's senseless, but it's almost as if by
having more pain I could somehow lessen the pain of others carrying horrors
that would make my memories seem like welcome relief to them. There were
some who went through much more, and some who went through much less,
but in the end what matters is that we try to learn from all our experiences
and then use them to benefit ourselves and others.
story took place in Vietnam, but it's about any violent conflict.
And it's not about me, it's about the very real nightmares we can
find ourselves living if we don't reason things out for ourselves,
and continue to let movies, television, and the violent fantasies
of others do our thinking for us.
At times I'm filled with anger and resentment for the stupidity and gullibility
of a major part of the human race. The vast ocean of shallow, psychotically
romantic hype fodder called humanity that doesn't have the sense to see
the reality of pain, grief, and horror of war and death. Even those are
all just words that don't begin to convey the convoluted tangle of feelings
involved. Then I remember that if I'd known then what I know now, I'd
never have gone to that miserable place myself. But I didn't know. I couldn't
have known what is so obvious to me now until after the experience. I
don't mean to imply that I think the world could destroy all its weapons
and then everything would be paradise. Evil is a very real thing and sometimes
must be fought. I doubt for example that a loving note to Hitler would
have changed the fate of six million Jews. But "the young want to
die nobly, the wise, to live humbly". Evil takes many forms, and
one of them is the willingness of governments, businesses, and individuals
to corrupt and steer youthful naivet\'e9, exuberance, and strength toward
terrible destruction because of petty dedication to their own purposes,
no matter what the cost, as long as the cost doesn't seem to be directly
I'd only been in country for a few weeks when a couple of guys and I went
into the village of Duc Pho to get haircuts. We were excited and sort
of mesmerized by the fact that we were actually in a tropical country,
in a war, and all on our own. Sort of like going to Disneyland for the
first time and finding a sign inside warning "assassins in the park,
enter at your own risk." We walked into the town orphanage which
was a small, high walled schoolyard with a large rambling building inside
where the barber was located.
I sat down in a rickety chair, laid my rifle up against the wall next
to me, and the barber began cutting my hair. Suddenly he jumped aside
as another Vietnamese grabbed my rifle, jacked a round into the chamber,
put the muzzle inches from my nose and shouted "NOBODY MOVE!"
My friends could do nothing. As he glared at me over the top of the sights,
I clearly realized that my time on earth was over, that I was a dead man.
I remember being suddenly sick with sadness for myself, and thinking that
it wasn't fair. It just really wasn't fair at all! We looked at each other
for what seemed forever, and then he smiled. He said "Everything
OK, no problem, nobody shoot!" Then he lowered my rifle, handing
it to me, and said sternly "You no do! You no leave weapon alone,
ever! No do ever, or you maybe die!" He was in civilian clothes,
but turned out to be an officer in the South Vietnamese Army. It may come
as no surprise that I always remembered what he said, and especially the
way he said it. For the first time I realized that it was no game, it
was all too real. Nothing and nobody can save me if I get careless.
Whatever our age, childhood is over the day we lose that sense of immortality,
and it never comes back. It's odd how sure we are that we're aware of
everything, until we suddenly get shocked into the reality of how little
we actually perceive.
One night I was sitting in a bunker watching a battery of 105mm Howitzers
during a fire mission. They were about 100 yards away and firing right
over a group of huge boulders that had a bunker sitting on top which was
in a perfect spot to watch the perimeter. As they fired again, an unexpected
flash and boom split the night, and a billowing mushroom of smoke and
dust shot from the bunker on the rocks. Somehow a round had been fired
point blank into the bunker from one of the cannons.
We didn't know whether anyone was in the bunker or not until a minute
later when the most agonized, piercing, terrified scream I'd ever heard
cut through the dead silence that followed the explosion. At least one
man, no doubt badly wounded, was buried in the collapsed bunker. For a
while there was horrifying silence, then another awful, long, anguished
scream. Then silence. Then another scream, then whimpering. This went
on for what seemed like a couple of hours, although I doubt it was actually
that long, with the sounds slowly growing weaker until they either got
him out, or he passed out, or died. We never knew which it was.
We'd just crawled into our cots after another exhausting day of digging
holes and filling sandbags (we usually called them mudbags for good reason)
when a series of jarring explosions put us on our feet grabbing for boots,
rifles, ammo, and set us running from our tents to the bunkers. I'd only
been in country for a short while and other than a few incoming mortar
rounds, nothing much had happened in that time. As I ran out of the tent
more explosions went off, and then I saw something that still sends chills
up my spine. The bunker out on the perimeter in front of me, full of guys
in my company, was exploding with huge sprays of sparkling fire jetting
from the door and windows, and everyone was running for cover in total
We grouped up and formed a secondary perimeter behind any cover we could
find, but the attack was over as quickly as it had begun and then the
cleaning up began. Luckily I didn't have to pull the dead and wounded
out of the bunkers, but was in one of them moments later to replace the
guys they had hauled out. The dirt floors of the bunkers had been drenched
in blood and it created patches of gooey mud with a chilling odor. The
sandbags and wooden bracing had been blown apart, and my fear was more
that it would all collapse and bury us than that the VC would attack again.
But the rest of the night while very scary, was uneventful. We saw what
had happened the next day. The VC had crawled across rice paddies in front
of us, crept in through concertina wire, trip flares, and claymore mines,
jacked apart some metal bars covering a drainpipe, using the pipe to crawl
under a dirt road, and crawled up and down a weed filled ditch behind
seven or eight bunkers full of wide awake men on a moonlit night. They
then simultaneously began throwing three and four satchel charges into
each bunker and as the charges exploded made a quick and clean escape.
But that wasn't the end of it. After a couple of days in the high heat
and humidity, the blood saturated dirt began to rot. For the next couple
of months while we were in the area we
had to sit in those damaged bunkers at night surrounded by the overpowering
stench of rot and death. Several times as we were heading to the perimeter
to pull guard duty we were told that intelligence had been received that
we should expect a massive offensive with the possibility of being overrun
by a "human wave" attack. That didn't happen or I wouldn't be
writing this. But add up the horror of that smell with the fear of the
attack and you have nights guaranteed to last your nerves the rest of
your life whether anything happened or not.
I slammed the shift into a higher gear, bouncing and laughing with my
"shotgun" rider and flying down the road toward somewhere. It
didn't really matter where, we just hoped we could find some cold beer
and a safe place to sleep. As we barreled through villages we could tell
how the people there felt about things. If they smiled and waved they
were friendlies. If they frowned and threw rocks they were VC, or VC sympathizers.
Hopefully all we would get was a dent or two from rocks. It could always
We usually drove in convoys. Long lines of trucks sometimes joined by
tanks or armored personnel carriers for protection. Every so often a helicopter
gunship would scream low overhead with a deafening roar as it patrolled
the roads, guarding the convoys and looking for a little something to
do. Like unleashing the unbelievable firepower they carried in the form
of rockets, grenade launchers, and most impressive to me, miniguns, which
were super machine guns with firing rates so high that when they went
off all you saw was unbroken red lines of tracers and all you heard was
a continuous burp so loud your ears would ring for quite awhile if they
were close enough. At the other end of all that was hell on earth. Hauling
ass down a road in a truck with an M16 at your side and gunships and tanks
around, or sitting in a bunker surrounded by a considerable selection
of deadly weapons could make you feel powerful and invincible at times.
That was a very welcome fantasy. Most of the time I had the much more
realistic and stressful awareness that I was in a very dangerous place,
and if it was my turn to get it, no attitude or weapon in the world would
save me. But the attitude was also valuable. We had to try to convince
ourselves that we were dangerous too, and anyone with a gun really can
be. Sometimes feeling that way was the only way people stayed sane, but
it's an exhausting way to live.
The bunker was ready for the night. The machine gun, claymore mines, grenade
launcher, hand grenades, ammo and flares were all laid out and ready to
go. The four of us were sitting back in the relative coolness of the early
evening, watchful, but just talking and relaxing after a long hard day.
Our shifts of staying awake all through the night on guard would start
soon enough. This was the best time of the day. I felt lazy and comfortable
just talking with friends.
Then one of them got an idea. "Lets shoot a few flares into the village.
That'll wake 'em up!" I was always uncomfortable around that sort
of thing, but what the hell, we shot them at each other now and then as
a sort of sick joke. Why should the villagers be exempt? The instigator
cut off the little parachute attached to the flare so that it would really
fly, and smacked the cap to launch it toward the houses a few hundred
yards away. Much to our surprise, he actually hit a house, and in no time
at all quite a little fire was in progress on the roof. A crowd of villagers
quickly gathered, running and yelling and trying to put out the fire.
I felt kind of guilty, but couldn't help but laugh a little as my buddy
did a little victory dance and whooped it up. I don't know when it all
really started, but what had begun as a little joke soon became something
We were inside a bunker which is a tiny building built of sandbags, with
its confinement able to amplify gunfire into hammering explosions inside
that could actually be felt as concussions in your body. What had been
a relaxing, friendly evening abruptly turned into a horrifying nightmare
as without warning the machine gun went off, quickly followed by an M16
on full auto, and the hollow "thunk" of the grenade launcher,
all accompanied by bright flashes and unbelievable noise. While I had
been sitting by the back door, my buddies had begun a killing frenzy up
front, and as I looked up I saw a vision straight out of Hell. As I write
this it seems almost like a joke to try to describe those emotions and
perceptions with words. That's something that could never be done.
As I realized what I was seeing, I remember bringing up my rifle with
a raging elation, and a desire to join in and KILL THE DIRTY BASTARDS!
As quickly as the feeling came it disappeared, thank God, before I pulled
the trigger. And I have thanked God thousands of times since that night.
The rage was replaced with a terrified, paralyzing fascination while tracers
ripped into the crowd, grenades exploded around them, and horrible shrieks,
screams, and cries of agony from the wounded and dying men, women, and
oh my God, children bored into my brain and scorched out gaping wounds
which will never, ever, ever be gone from my memory.
All of a sudden the firing stopped with a shocking silence. And then even
with gunfire deadened ears, the sounds of wounded and dying human beings
cut through the night air in a crystal clear, sickening wail. I just stood
there in a stupor unable to move or think a coherent thought for what
seemed like a long time. What happened the rest of that night is gone
from my memory. Thank you God.
The story was told of VC being shot at, and the casualties were blamed
on the village being too close to our perimeter bunkers. The story worked
just fine for the record. But we knew. And so did they.
The next day the village showed up in all its funerary finery.
Led by the elders, the people held a procession by the bunker that had,
in just a few sickening moments, destroyed so many people. So many precious,
irreplaceable lives and stories. They were dressed in beautiful, richly
colored silks that flowed around them in the breeze. They carried many
festive, brightly colored caskets on their shoulders. Red, gold, blue,
green, yellow. The whole thing was unreal in its color, beauty, and dignity.
The bright sunlight shone down on this dream and made me wonder if it
was all real.
And then I noticed how small some of the caskets were. They were too small
for a real person. Why was that? Oh! They weren't too small! They were
for the children! I remember feeling rather clever that I'd figured it
out. So very clever, until my mind couldn't bullshit me any more. Until
the whole reality hit me. Then, even though I hadn't done anything, the
knowledge of what I'd seen, and of how close I'd come to being a monster
out of my nightmares kicked me into a place I wouldn't be able to leave
for a long, long time. Although not the only reason for the self destruction
to follow, when the walls finally did begin to crumble so many years later,
the process came close to killing me as it has so many others with the
self medication of alcohol and drugs.
When I see scenes on television of people in pain from war or anything
else, it's not just pictures for me.
The people in that village were not saints. Some that died may have even
been the enemy. But all of them had been living human beings.
And now they were dead and gone forever. Just like the thousands of young,
bright, hopeful Americans and others who made the one way trip to their
doom. All I know is that from that night on my life was never the same.
One of the lessons I learned then is that we may feel that life is precious,
but we are all capable of terrible evil if the time is right. And that
until (God forbid) the time it happens, most of us are ignorant of it,
and would deny it to the grave. Which is probably just as well. Knowledge
like that can be a very heavy burden. Too heavy for the many who give
mute testimony by their choice to be absent from this world.
I sat on a sandbag with a cooling monsoon breeze flowing by and the fresh
smell of growing things perfuming the air. Huge, white, billowing rain
clouds drifted overhead with wide patches of pure blue sky standing out
between them. The village looked like a tropical island in the rice paddies,
with little toy palm frond houses and palm trees everywhere. It was so
beautiful and alive I wanted to cry with happiness. Villagers walked on
the dikes between rice paddies so green that emeralds look pale in comparison.
They talked and laughed among themselves and I found myself wanting to
join them. What a wonderful place to be, and a beautiful day to be alive.
Then I got up, lifting my rifle, turned around and headed back to the
As the truck dropped the six of us off alone on the side of the mountain
near Kontum, I couldn't help but wonder at the insanity that had put us
there. A new firebase would be built here and we had been "volunteered"
to start cutting it out of the jungle with axes and machetes.
Eventually the engineers were brought in with heavy equipment to really
do the job, as there was no way that the amount of growth that needed
to be cleared away could possibly be done by sixty, let alone six men.
As the years have gone by, many mysteries about the happenings in Vietnam
have cleared up for me, but why our lives were risked out there remains
We decided to check out the trails close by to try to put a little insurance
on our safety while working. None of us were used to any sort of recon
patrol, so we were pretty nervous. It was a good thing we were walking
slowly, because a little way down a trail I suddenly felt my boot snag
a tripwire, and I froze, gritting my teeth, expecting to be blown up by
my blunder. Nothing happened. Afraid to even talk or move, I quietly called
to the guy in front of me to wait up. He turned, puzzled, and stopped
the others. I said "I'm hooked on a trip wire. Try to find out what
this damn thing is!" At that point their eyes got wide, and they
all began backing away from me down the trail. When I realized what they
were doing, I as carefully as possible brought up my rifle and said "You
better get back here and help me quick!" I was too scared to be really
angry, and doubt that I'd have shot anybody, but thank God they didn't
know that. Itchy sweat was pouring down my whole body in that miserable,
scorching humidity, and my muscles were shaking and about to cramp up
by the time they finally found the ends of that wire. When a voice said
"No sweat, it's only a trip flare!" I almost collapsed, puked,
and cried all at once. But of course I only said something like "You
assholes better not punk out on me again like that!" or some such
swaggering bullshit. It was a very good lesson though. You never know
what people will really do until the pressure is on. And that changes
from day to day. It was that way for them, and it's that way for me too.
It seems that Vietnam veterans are all supposed to be brave, dangerous,
trained killers, primed and ready to show the world that they're not to
be messed with. I'm sure that some came back just like that. But training
in itself doesn't make you brave, dangerous, or a killer. I, for one,
went to Vietnam not feeling particularly "brave" and I surely
came home with many more fears than I left with. And I learned that being
able to kill someone doesn't necessarily have anything to do with courage.
If you take the goodness and love out of courage, what remains is merely
insanity. Insanity is nothing to be proud of.
I only wish more people knew that.
Garbage detail again. Damn. Oh well, better that than burning shit. Burning
shit was much worse. Our latrines were outhouses with the bottom half
of an oil drum used in place of a hole in the ground.
Disgust and disease prevention demanded that we pull the drums out, pour
diesel fuel into the mess inside, light it up and stand there stirring
it up occasionally to make sure it all burned away. Lots of fun and fragrant
too. Like I said, garbage beat shit anyday.
We would load up four or five large metal trash cans brimming with rotting
garbage and trash and heavy enough to need three men to comfortably lift
one high enough to slide into the bed of a truck. Then we'd drive out
of the firebase about a mile to the dump area where a crew of Vietnamese
would be kind enough to unload it for us and put the empty cans back in
the truck. Of course they did get paid. Their pay was that they got to
eat that slimy, stinking, rotting garbage, swarming flies and all. And
that they did, handful over skeletal handful in a horrible, frantic, disgusting
way. These people were starving to death. We'd bring a little food along
to help them, but it didn't make much difference. There were just too
many of them.
As I'd stand there watching all this with a sickened fascination I'd wonder
how they could live like that. They were the homeless in a place where
"homeless" was a deadly serious thing. I came to the awareness
that the reason I was in the truck with a full belly and a place to sleep,
and they were just feet away actually dying of hunger with no place to
go, had nothing to do with deserving anything. It was fate. Or God's will.
Or luck. Whatever you called it, it had little to do with fair. There
are always those wanting something for nothing, or feeling that the world
owes them something. I'm not speaking of them, and I certainly don't have
all the answers. But years later when I came close to taking our version
of homelessness as my only option to deal with a life I'd turned into
a nightmare, I felt those feelings of frustration with mankind's selfishness
even more. Anyone can end up there. But most of us have to end up there
ourselves, or come very close to it, in order to see that truth in our
hearts. Maybe someday we'll evolve far enough to feel enough compassion
to actually do something about the unnecessary suffering of a large part
of humanity without having to suffer ourselves to do it. But that isn't
how it is now. And although I have much more faith in our future now than
I once did, it just isn't going to change anytime soon.
I pulled the truck up next to a bunker out on the perimeter. It was an
unusual vehicle. It was a 3/4 ton truck with armor plate welded to the
front of the bed rising above the cab. A machine gun mount was placed
in the middle allowing the gun to fire over the top of the cab. I had
been ordered to take the truck to the bunker line to add the firepower
of the machine gun to the already formidable line of weapons facing the
rice paddies and cane fields outside the wire. On hindsight this wasn't
a very good idea. While far from impregnable, a bunker is a very hard
structure to destroy and can be rebuilt quickly and cheaply. A truck on
the other hand is a relatively valuable, easy to destroy, and very tempting
I got out and hopped up into the bed to get things ready for the night.
Since I had to pull guard duty anyway, the thought of spending the night
in a nice, dry, relatively clean truck sounded much better than the usual
damp, dirty, rat infested bunker. I loaded a belt of ammunition and settled
back to begin another long, tense night. \tab The gun mount had a spotlight
on both sides of the gun so you could see what you were shooting at in
the dark. This was undoubtedly designed by someone who had never thought
the situation through. I had no intention of ever using them to aim, as
doing so would be about the same as drawing a bull's eye on your nose
and shining a light on your face. But the lights were good for surveillance.
I would duck below the armor plate, flip on the lights and look through
a small hole drilled in the plate while swinging the gun back and forth
to illuminate the landscape.
The night was very dark. I had just flipped on the lights and started
moving the gun, when right in front of me almost to the concertina wire
a VC sapper jumped up and started running. I was startled for a second,
but yanked the charging handle, swung the gun around on him, and totally
forgetting what an easy target I made, started shooting. As the tracers
caught up to him, he dove below one of the dikes of a paddy.
By this time someone had popped a hand flare, and the landscape was bathed
in the eerie Halloween glow of its flame. The only sound was the hissing
of the flare drifting down from far above on its little parachute. Suddenly
the man jumped up a short distance from where he had disappeared and began
zig-zagging away across the landscape. I started firing, following him
with tracers, but every time the rounds caught up to him he would dive
and disappear again. This went on for quite a few minutes until he finally
made it into the cover of a cane field and was gone for good. If I'd hit
him he never showed it. I yelled out at the night "Motherfucker,
you DESERVE to get away!" and really meant it. I was laughing with
the stress and adrenaline rush, but was absolutely furious at myself for
missing him. I was a pretty good shot and I wanted that bastard DEAD!
He had been only seconds away from lobbing a satchel charge or two into
my truck, and that could have very easily ended in disaster for me. That,
plus the sick and all too common conviction men are subliminally taught
from boyhood, that killing a man would make me more of one, only added
to the anger. Very quickly those feelings were tempered with the awareness
that I had just witnessed the bravest thing I had ever seen. That guy
had single-handedly crept up to a perimeter of barbed wire, claymore mines
and trip flares, backed by bunkers filled with soldiers equipped with
quite an array of deadly weapons, and all for the purpose of destroying
one lousy truck. Or he had possibly not been alone, but had taken the
heat on himself to save his friends.
Either way it was amazing. I think we were all stunned by the display
of courage and skill we had just seen. It had been something totally outside
my previous experience. Then as I began to realize how close I had skirted
death, the raw reality of our situation set in once again. It was impossible
for me to stay aware of how dangerous Vietnam was on a continuous basis
and still maintain the ability to function. But every so often a reminder
would jolt me back into the paralyzing fear, and once again I'd just have
to hang on and wait until it slowly drifted away.
The anger that I'd felt on failing to kill that man, along with many other
terrible memories ate at me for years. But slowly as time passed, my mind
began to heal, and I found my heart opening to a more loving, kind, and
spiritual way of life. The anger turned to acceptance, and then one fine
day to gratitude. I am so very glad I don't have the death of another
human being on my conscience. He was an enemy soldier fully intending
to kill me if he could, and if I had killed him I'm sure I could accept
it as just another part of my life and a necessary action at the time.
But on those nowadays rare nights when I wake up feeling lost, alone,
and afraid, with Vietnam all around me, the relief of not having killed
him helps me find my way back to my warm, safe bed a lot sooner than those
old feelings used to. Love and kindness are such beautiful, healing things.
"Harris" was a friend of mine. He was a tall, lanky, soft spoken
black man with an easy smile. A gentle man with a kind disposition and
a wry sense of humor. Sometimes we'd pull guard together and talk quietly
in the eerie silence of the bunkers at night. Solving the troubles of
mankind, or talking about what we were going to do when we got back to
"The World" helped ease the fear and tension of our situation
and also helped keep us from falling asleep. Harris somehow transmitted
confidence to me just by being around. He was one of those people it was
hard to imagine God allowing anything bad to happen to, and being around
him just felt somehow safer.
He was in one of our bunkers that VC sappers blew up one night.
He was also one of the few wounded "lightly" enough to come
back to the company out of all the guys that had been in those bunkers.
I never saw most of those guys again, but old Harris came walking back
one day and I was so very glad to see him. But something was wrong. He
was distant and cold. It was like he didn't even know me. He was scary
and alien, and from then on I kept my distance. It hurt, but he had been
through an experience I hadn't, and looking at him I knew that it must
have been much stranger and more horrible than I could imagine.
\tab Months later, a few of us had been drinking beer and celebrating
our soon to be homecoming. We were staying in a large, relatively safe
basecamp at Pleiku in a sandbagged shack my company used as a transit
barracks. We were processing out to go home! Home! We couldn't believe
it (we had yet to experience the "Welcome Home" of the 1960's
for Vietnam Vets). The other guys had gone somewhere, and as I was sitting
alone reveling in the awesome feeling that it was almost over, who should
walk in but Harris! It was great to see him before I left, and I greeted
him with a smile and feeling of love in my heart.
He looked at me with a funny smile, then came over and sat next to me
on the bunk. He stared at me for a minute and then said "I knooow
who you are! I knooow about your kind!" in an eerie, wavering voice.
He sounded so much like an actor in a scary movie I thought he was kidding
and waited for the punchline. But what happened next was so quick and
surprising, I didn't realize what had occurred until it was over. I suddenly
found myself with a choking arm around my neck, and a knee in my back
with the pressure steadily increasing to the level of very serious pain.
Harris began to laugh. But the sound he made was like a horrifying caricature
of someone insane. It dawned on me then that this was no joke. He wasn't
kidding. He was really, truly out of it, and I might be in terrible trouble.
I still couldn't believe it. Then he said "I'm going to kill you
now! I'm going to snap your spine! I know who you really are!" and
that's when the terror kicked in. He began to slowly push in with his
knee while choking me tighter, and the pain became unbelievable. The shock
of what was happening was almost worse than the pain. All of a sudden
the pressure was released, and I dropped to the floor. My buddies had
returned, and seeing what was happening had crept up behind Harris and
yanked him off of me. He didn't even fight or say anything, just sat on
the bunk and stared at me looking totally vacant and emotionless. He was
the most frightening person I've ever seen, then or since.
I don't know what happened to him. I don't know what weird place his mind
went after the attack that awful night. And I never will know. It's just
one of those things I've had to learn to accept. But something I find
much harder to accept is that Harris wasn't alone. What happened to his
mind happened to many, many more than just him. Who knows how many? And
who knows what kind of torturous horrors they've lived with since, and
may live with until the day they die? Those thoughts I sometimes find
very hard to accept. But as with so many things, I'm powerless over it
all. I just try to be thankful to God for the life he's given me. Thankful
that I wasn't in that bunker with him. It was very close.Harris was a
kind and loving man. I like to think he found his way back. He was my
friend, and I miss him.
It was during the Tet offensive in February 1968. The Tet offensive was
a very bad time for everyone in Vietnam. The communist forces launched
the biggest offensive of the war and the whole country fell into total
chaos for about a month.
The effect on my unit was mainly mortar and rocket attacks many times
a night, very hazardous convoy duty to supply a tiny firebase nearby,
and the most ominous event to us, the halting of mail delivery for several
weeks. The lack of mail in itself was a hardship, but for circumstances
to be bad enough to halt something with as high a priority as mail, we
knew that something horribly bad had to be happening everywhere. I'm certain
that the folks back in "The World", as we called home, had a
much better picture of the situation through the news than we who were
actually there did. In movies and books, soldiers always seem to have
a handle on the situation. In real life, I remember not knowing what was
happening from day to day, and waking up totally disoriented in pitch
blackness to the screaming of "INCOMING!" while trying to figure
out where I was and where to go as I grabbed for my rifle and bandoleers
of ammo. Many times we slept with our boots on for several days, as to
keep trying to find them and put them on every time a mortar attack came
in was just too time consuming and exhausting. I got to the point where
I'd just roll off my cot and huddle in the sandbagged corner of my tent
rather than run across an open area with mortar rounds exploding here
and there to find "safety" in a bunker. That didn't seem so
safe to me.
Not to mention the terrible feeling of claustrophobia I felt when packed
into a tiny sandbagged space in pitch darkness with a bunch of guys between
me and the door who would pack in tighter and tighter each time the VC
would walk the rounds in close. Anyway, as the convoy moved out, the tension
increased, and once again I'd find myself thinking of how long it would
be before I'd see home again if I ever did at all.
The fifteen mile or so round trip to Ross took from early morning to late
afternoon. Out front of the convoy was a jeep, and in front of the jeep
were guys on foot with sharp eyes and metal detectors. By the time we
got to Ross they would have blown quite a few mines in place, and filled
part of the bed of a truck with mines that they'd dug up. The landscape
we drove through looked like the moon in places with the hundreds of huge
bomb craters saturating the area. Gunships constantly flew low and fast
over us, startling, but reassuring us with their roaring presence. As
my truck was mostly filled with high explosive mortar ammunition, grenades,
and rifle and machine gun ammo, I knew that if I hit a mine, there was
a good chance it wouldn't hurt. Nothing would ever hurt again. It was
actually kind of comforting in a weird way. Once they found a mine out
front of a little house next to the road. Why anyone would be living in
that nightmare place I couldn't imagine, but there they were, right next
to my truck, a family of several women and children with one old man in
their midst. A few of our guys were questioning them about the mine, and
apparently they didn't like what they heard. They knocked the old man
down and began beating him with rifle butts and kicking him while the
women and children screamed and screamed with fear and anger, wanting
to stop them but knowing they couldn't. It was very vicious and thorough,
and he looked dead or close to it by the time they finally stopped. Then
they lit the house on fire and walked away. As we moved out I looked back
in the mirror. The family was just huddled by the old man's body and crying
as they watched their home go up in flames. All that was left on our return
trip was a little blackened and charred area with nobody there at all.
I walked up and sat down beside him like I'd known him for years.
I felt sure he wouldn't mind. We looked at each other for a while and
then sort of struck up a conversation. The reason I'd singled him out
was because he scared me. For the past few days whenever I had to go down
to the bunker line at night, passing by him was a bit unnerving.
Maybe if we got to know each other a little better the fear would go away.
I hoped so, because I'd always been afraid of people like him even though
the fear seemed unfounded. Getting over those feelings would be well worth
the effort. There were too many of his kind around to let my fear and
prejudice rule meAs we spent a little time together, I began to feel empathy
for him. I knew that before my tour in Vietnam was over we might have
a lot more in common than we did now. But I hoped not. His life was a
story like my own. He'd known happiness and sadness, love and anger, fear
and strength. He'd held a girl's hand at night and watched the moon and
stars reflecting off the water, thinking of how beautiful life was going
to be from now on. Felt all the things we all feel. He'd marveled at a
beautiful sunset, and laughed at a silly joke. We were from different
countries, but he'd felt alot like me in many ways. As I sat there, his
appearance began to be a bit of a burden. The wispy hair, and whiteness
of his face. The hollows where his eyes had been, and bits of leather
still stuck to the bone. The time he'd spent in a muddy mass grave before
one of my buddies tripped over his slightly protruding skull and unearthed
his rotted face hadn't done much for him. Still, I was glad I'd taken
the time to have an imaginary conversation with him. He wasn't so scary
any more. He was a person now. Just another guy like me who wanted to
live his life the best he could. That was over for him now, but not for
me. It made me want to do a little better. Be a little nicer, maybe smile
a little more. After all, things could always be worseYOU were in Vietnam?
I didn't know you'd been to Vietnam. You've never mentioned it before.
I guess it just never came up before.(br) It was pretty bad over there,
It wasn't good, but it could have been a whole lot worse.
Were you at the front doing the actual fighting?
There really was no "front". I mostly drove a truck and filled
Oh, so you weren't in actual combat. That's good. The guys who were really
in combat came back pretty screwed up. That kind of stuff can really screw
up your mind. You're lucky you got to drive a truck. I've got a friend
who was up at the DMZ most of the time. He's really messed up over all
that shit. All of his friends got killed while he was there. He was the
only one left out of all the guys he went over there with. He still gets
pretty bad dreams about it, his buddies dying in his arms and all, but
he sure wasted a bunch of gooks to make up for it.
Made 'em pay for it real good. Those gooks were really mean, cruel fuckers.
You had to watch out for those sneaky bastards. They'd cut some guy's
dicks off and stick them in their mouths while they were still alive.
I've seen alot of books and movies about it, and stuff like that happened
all the time. Yeah, a lot of bad things came out of the war. There was
some pretty good exaggeration about some of that stuff though. A lot of
cruelty and horrible things definitely went on on both sides, but some
of the stories you hear weren't very typical of everyday reality. And
sometimes, exaggerated or not, that's all you do hear because of a vet's
overwhelming desire to get things off his chest combined with the knowledge
that so many people don't really want to hear what's important to him.
They just want to feed their fantasies. It's a hard realization when you
find that the painful baring of your soul is really just cheap entertainment.
One of the reasons people don't talk about it much is because unless you
babble stuff full of blood and guts, nobody seems to listen. The important
things, the things that tear you apart and really matter to you, just
aren't very interesting to most people. It's too uncomfortable for them.
As they say, the first casualty of war is truth.
And the truth fades as the "boring" things are left out.
Oh, I know some guys bullshit, but this guy I know doesn't lie. He really
had it rough there.
I didn't mean your friend was a liar, I just meant that it's a good idea
to have an open mind, but take everything with a grain of salt.
And to try to listen to the underlying messages; that war isn't romance,
glamour, and excitement, with music in the background and tough guys saying
tough and humorous things at just the right time. That love and compassion
for others is the true and final solution to every one of our problems.
The sad fact is that unless you've been there yourself, it's sort of hard
to imagine what "tough" can be. If a story isn't pure, distilled
carnage, it sometimes doesn't make much of an impact on people who haven't
had a similar experience, and who have been conditioned all their lives
by books, television, and movies pushing different versions of "Kill
'em all and let God sort 'em out".
I know what you mean. Did you see Platoon? Man, that showed some of the
really gory action that happened to the guys over there! Most Nam movies
are crap, but that one showed what it was really like. I've read a lot
of stories about it, and Platoon really showed some truth. A lot of stuff
you see is like the old John Wayne hero junk. John Wayne was a really
good actor, but his movies were made a long time ago.
Nowadays movies show a lot more real stuff. The good ones do, anyway.
Well, I'm just glad to be home. And I'm glad your friend made it home
too. Mostly I'm glad the war is pretty well over for most folks.
What? Oh yeah. Me too. Be glad you weren't in combat. You were lucky.
A lot of guys like my friend are still real screwed up. Well, take it
Yeah, you too.
This was written quite awhile ago. Since then I have found that most of
the time, the pain of Vietnam is, if not gone, at least tolerable. Life
today is good. A great part of that is due to a profound spiritual change,
but a considerable amount can be attributed to the writing of the above.
I don't know how it works, but putting things down on paper has proven
to be an amazingly therapeutic activity for me. If you, like many of us,
have memories that seem to eat away at all the good things in your life
and keep you from enjoying the blessings that you may not even know you
have, try writing about them. Then maybe you too will be able to finally
seize your life back from the demons of the past and strive to walk in
awareness of the grace of God.
© Robert Flynn Updatged August 2002
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