Hug A Vet on Dec. 7th

Have always loved sitting at the counter in restaurants. My favorite haunt was the Country Skillet in Goldsboro NC. That’s where I met Luther, over a cup of coffee.

It’s hard for an extrovert to listen, but the reward comes in letting another extrovert speak first. We were half way through that first cup when Luther became Sgt. Luther…and finally just Sarge. Over the days, weeks and months I looked for him as I entered that crowded place.

Sarge was a WWII vet, who spent much of his later career as an army recruiter. My own dad had common experiences with him. In bye gone days, I used to drink coffee like this with my Dad, now borrowing some time with someone else’s Dad.

Most old soldiers have a story or two they like to tell, and Luther was no exception. Problem is, most people are too busy to listen to old war stories. But in the end, that is how you love a vet…while he or she is still alive. You can get more history over a cup of coffee, than you can from any text book.

Sarge survived the attack on Pearl Harbor, making his story particularly interesting. He liked the fact that I had been a combat medic in the Vietnam Era, so he had a willing audience that understood. He also knew that I would invite him with an open ended question to peel off another layer of the onion, from his own story. He could tell a yarn, packed full of truth, with the rich details of an eye witness.

One day, the management of the restuarant confided with me that Sarge was sick. They gave me sufficient contact information for me to follow up.

There would be no further shared cups of coffee, nor outbursts of laughter in response to some grand point of a story. A unique fellowship had ended.

I met Luther’s son Michael, an amazing man, a chip off the old block. To love Luther was to love Michael.

Michael usually posts on this day in remembereance of his Dad. When he does I remember Sarge too. Coffee just doesn’t taste the same without him.

You know parades are nice. Documentaries remind us much of the challenges of the past. But there is nothing like listening to the stories of an old vet. There is no greater opportunity than when they are alive to: salute them, personally thank them, and if you get close enough… to hug them.

Thank you Sarge for your service. We remember you on Pearl Harbor Day. Slow salute my friend.

The Enemy Has A Face

What’s a good way to start your day in combat? For me it was an uninterupted breakfast, which means an early start, because most anything could and would interrupt a late beginning. We had a short firefight just after dark last night.  We often slept across well worn trails in hopes of unwary company. After our brief exchange things settled in. None of my troops were hit.  All was well. I fell into a pretty deep sleep, as I knew that quick action was enough to keep the troops alert.

I could feel the tension slowly building within the soldiers around me the next morning.  Since the enemy knew our position, we would move out to pursue further contact…and we would make contact soon. We were in a place called the Toilet Bowl, a mountainous area deep into enemy controlled territory. My chow was hot and tasting pretty good, when a hand brushed my shoulder for attention. It was a squad leader. They rarely bothered me, unless they had a sick or wounded paratrooper on their hands.

“We need you Doc,” he said. “Finish eating, but LT (our lieutenant) needs you pretty soon.”  Then, as a matter of fact he added, “Bring your bag Doc.”

I replied, “Thanks, I’ll hurry up.”  I am thinking the day is already deteriorating. Something was up.

Wiping my face, I made haste toward my last sight of the squad leader.  To my surprise, an enemy soldier laid in the middle of the trail. A prisoner was not an every day experience. My first one had tried to kill us with a grenade and I really didn’t care to see another live one. Instinctively, I slowed my approach. They waived me in.

The squad leader barked, “He’s hit in the stomach Doc. LT wants you to do what you can. The chopper is already on the way to pick him up.”

I replied, “Have you checked him?

With a knowing glance he replied, “Checked him myself. He’s all yours Doc.”

This particular squad leader did everything meticulously. I bent down and eased up within an arm’s length. I slowly unzipped the medical bag and turned to meet the new addition to our morning. His shirt was open, haphazard from the search.  I could see the entry wound.  Other than the smell of dried blood, this soldier was clean, cleaner than me. His hands were bound. My eyes moved up until I saw his face. His eyes, that followed my slightest movement, dark and filled with hate, caught my quick attention. If looks could kill, I’d be a goner. That didn’t make my job any easier. I was glad I’d finished my breakfast.

I gently turned him over to look for the exit wound. Finding none, I rolled him back to get things started. Those eyes still locked on my every move, as my mind went through the process of assessment. He breathed in obvious pain, yet his hate seemed to work in his favor. This man was a fighter and would not give up his life easily. Obviously, he was hit several hours ago. He laid in the brush all night, as I slept soundly. 

The squad leader had heard him groan sometime during the night. Caught in complete surprise, his comrades ran for their lives, leaving him a stone’s throw from us. At first light our men dragged his carcass in and stripped searched him for weapons or grenades.  My hands were the first remotely friendly touch. It was hard being nice to someone who stared like that, with eyes that would have shot you just yesterday, and would even shoot you now, given the slightest opportunity. I hurried up at the sound of an incoming chopper.

We picked him up and laid him on the floor of a resupply chopper. They would fly him directly to the South Vietnamese for interrogation. He had the bearing of a disciplined soldier. There was a lot of information behind those dark penetrating eyes. I returned to my ruck and reattached my medical bag, just in time for the order to move out.

Currahees…LT told me the next day that the prisoner didn’t make it. Fortunately, I rarely heard a report like that. If I could touch them alive, most made it. This gave me mixed emotions. Every day thereafter, I knew that we were walking through the bush hunting other battle hardened soldiers. We had to be just a little bit better to walk away from this war. I had seen the face of the enemy, up close and personal. I shall never forget those eyes…that still seem to follow my slightest movement.

 

Did You Hear That?!?

Snap. Heard over the pouring rain, just in front of me, where no one is supposed to be. Who’s brainy idea was this anyway? String out into the bush in a straight line, all night, no digging and no foxhole for cover. Claymore? Do you put them in front of you or behind you? Who told the VC which way to come?

Click.  My M16 is on fully automatic. I’m the medic on radio watch, now doing double duty. Everyone is on perimeter tonight. I am now a full fledged grunt. Whoever shoots first gives away their position. Nothing breaks wet limbs unless it’s really big, no animal of any size betrays themselves, only man can be that clumsy. I know exactly where that sound came from. I know they’re there.What do they know? I’ve got the upper hand, with my finger on the trigger.

Patter. The rain beats on our poncho, so loud it’s like a cat on a hot tin roof. Our hooch is low and opened on all four sides for a clear shot. Crap.The rain sounds unmistakenly different on plastic, than it does beating through the tree leaves or splashing upon soaked ground. Dry isn’t always safe. I wish the rain was drizzling on my face…just like theirs.

Silence. I didn’t dare whisper to the radioman, trusting me with his life. Peering out into the dark, my eyes were trained to see the slightest movement, within the shades of night. I listened for an hour, maybe more, in the highest state of alert, dead certain of that sound. 

Click. My M16 rests on safety. Radioman gets to do half a watch now. I remain alert as he brings himself fully awake.

He says, “Did you go to sleep on me Doc?

I replied, “I heard a really loud snap. It was close my friend. I was wide awake for both of us.”

Silence. Our platoon had formed a net. They didn’t punch through our line. Somehow, some way, desperate men found their way out. Maybe I can get a little sleep before this darkness is no more.

Currahees… We all had a night like that. Sometimes they stumbled into us and paid dearly. But for me…I enjoyed the sound of silence.

When A Soldier Hunts

The army liked recruits from Maine, at least at Ft. Dix, New Jersey. Most of us ‘Maniacs’ grew up in the country or small towns. Therefore we grew up with rifles and shot guns. Hunting was second nature. Maine boys only pointed at what they shot…and they didn’t miss. My personal confidence was pretty high in this category, because I really liked hunting deer. 

I could spot deer through the brush, easily recognizing any minutely revealed portion of their body. However, my specialty was tracking wounded deer. Most deer do not drop when hit, they scurry for cover, often traveling quite a ways. They burrow into the underbrush, you can easily walk right by them. But I was on them like an old hunting dog, just tell me that you made a good shot. I didn’t like to see anything suffer, so ensuring a quick kill showed respect for the animal. We also ate what we shot, or at least put it in some friend’s freezer.  

The army took us en masse to an open field early in our training. The Sarge asked, “What do you see?” I looked all over the place and didn’t see anything.  Soon a troop stood up at about 500 meters, he was followed by another to our right at about 300 meters. They wore camouflage, painted faces, and brush that disguised their natural features. It was the troop who stood up on my left, at 100 meters, that really bothered me. That was just too close…not to be seen.  Civilian hunters wear bright colors, wanting to be seen. That hidden soldier at 100 meters couldn’t miss me, which gave me food for thought. This animal shoots back!

We soon went to the rifle range. They provided targets with bulls eyes, which determined our accuracy. However, we quickly shot at silhouettes, pop ups that were blackened to blend in, shaped like a man’s head and shoulders. That silhouette is all you typically see, before someone makes the first deadly shot. I had some trouble firing an M14 at the longer ranges because I couldn’t keep the barrel on target, due to its weight. I lost points on the final test and only made sharpshooter. (I later made expert marksman with my beloved light weight M16).

For almost two years I trained in hunting men. Although my role was medical support, I never wanted to lose my hunter’s eye, nor my accuracy. We didn’t talk about it much, but we had a war going on, and 100% of our airborne troops managed to serve at least one tour in Vietnam. When my orders came for the 3/506th Airborne Infantry, I was already seasoned by a year of constant field training. However, we were attached and were rarely briefed of the details of typical missions. The lieutenant briefed the squad leaders, who in turn briefed their squads. I was not in the normal operational flow of the chain of command. 

This concept of ‘attachment’ was a fundamental mistake, at least in my own mind’s eye. Toward the end of our final training, I went on a platoon mission providing medical coverage for typical war game tactics. It looked about the same as all the other maneuvers I had trekked for countless months. Toward the end of that day we rested, in what I thought was our night’s destination. We came upon a few long range recon troops, resting in the shade. I gave them a greeting as our men settled in. Suddenly, a war game referee popped up and declared the platoon dead by ambush.  The recon group was our ‘enemy.’ I vowed to never again think in terms of attached…I always asked questions for both inclusiveness and clarity.

During our tour of Vietnam, I spent most of my time with the second (middle) squad as we searched and destroyed. I rarely had an open field to fire my weapon, as there were usually friendly troops between me and the unsecured areas. However, it was every man’s job to look for telltale movement, that would save all our lives. I always thought an ounce of prevention was better than a pound of cure. It was better to be a hunter than the hunted. My eyes always looked for human silhouettes that were not our own. I had good eyes…that finally brought me home.

My tour ended just before the beginning of Maine hunting season. My welcome home was an invitation to the field! I didn’t own a rifle, but there was always a spare. If you could hold a coffee cup without spilling, you were expected to hunt, as the freezers were empty. My only worry was the cold. There wasn’t time to adjust from the heated tropics to the chill of an early Maine morning. We donned heavy jackets and added the required fluorescent vests, gloves and hats. We glowed that early morning, with the least bit of light. We popped a thermos for one last cup of coffee before heading out, weapons unloaded, to our starting place. Our small group would fan out in a straight line, making it impossible for a deer to outflank us.

Daylight came, and we loaded our weapons. Mine felt strange after handling an M16 for three years. I kept on line with the orange clad man to the right and to my left. I did align my sight a few times to a nearby tree, to get a feel for this weapon. My friends were testing me to see if I had lost my edge. All was good.

The problem started as I heard the shooting, it came randomly from the right and left. I tightened and then shrugged it off. My eyes peered through the brush for telltale signs of a profile or movement. Suddenly there came a shot from my rear…and that was the beginning of the end. I realized that I wasn’t hunting the profile of a deer; I didn’t know what I was hunting. I just had to get to hell out of the woods. I lowered my weapon and checked the safety, while slowly breaking ranks. Someone asked me what I was doing. I replied, “I’ll see you at the car.” Standing by the car door alone, I carefully accounted for each round ejected on the ground…they were all there to give back to the owner. Then I slumped into the back seat and unleashed a flood of emotion. I had seen too much blood, and heard too much shooting…my war had to stop.

Currahees…Transition was hard on all of us, it was too much too soon. I never went back into the woods to hunt again. I love hunting, its part of my heritage. I will always support hunting and hunters. As I look back, something about me had changed, never to be quite the same. I still love the woods, but I now I shoot my prey with a camera…whether animal or human…every living thing walks away for another day.

Sleepless in Vietnam

Have you ever battled to keep your eyes open? It is easier to ward off hunger and thirst vs. chronic fatigue. The need for sleep was relentless. Yet as night fell…someone had to stay alert. Like every other soldier, sorely in need of rest, I had to keep my own eyes open. If you were there…you know exactly what I mean. You remember that silent struggle against yourself. We all found ways to stay awake.

Guard duty remains a fundamental skill of the army. But sentry duty in combat challenges those skills to a higher level. The men behind you close their eyes in trust that you will stay awake. Betraying that trust puts everyone in danger. A real enemy often lurked out there probing for a weakness.

Now many of you know that I was a doc and would do radio watch in the field. But we all pulled perimeter duty at basecamp. (Every man’s first MOS is grunt in the Army.)  Again, if I fell asleep on radio…some isolated squad would be cut off from immediate communication. No medic was completely isolated from danger…nor the need of for sharp eyes around him.

My best friend Doc Christopher Smith was severely wounded by a breached perimeter.   He laid in his tent unarmed, listening to music. He had pulled his six months on line and safely awaited his stateside rotation, in the secured rear. When the tent flap opened, a grenade rolled across the floor. He was fragged while rolling out the side. The canvass was no match for the fragments penetrating the side of his body. He laid still until the enemy quickly passed. (They never retrace their steps…it is easiest to push through and break the opposite side’s defenses.)  A breach creates confusion. Someone on the perimeter will be hit from their backside. Did someone fall asleep? Were they somehow distracted from their diligence?  A disciplined fight would have provided some reaction time. This was a silent deadly breach…the worst kind.

Chris slowly recounted how he laid quietly in a pool of his own blood…waiting for those vital moments to pass. He ran his hand over his body and felt the blood running everywhere. He heard the groans of other soldiers in every direction. His medical kit lay inside the tent. He waited in place until some organized resistance gave him a chance at life. Just a few days prior, he had told me of his rotation, he had charged me to keep my senses until I could also pull out to safety. I had tucked my friend’s fortune to the safe zone in my own mind. It would have torn me up to know the facts. Providentially  I would not know, until eventually visiting his home stateside.

Currahees…can you remember those nights when our eyes ached? We hunted the enemy by day, constantly alert for a firefight. Sometimes all hell broke loose. Then the night came. We stayed awake motionless, with our hands near that trigger. We took our turn listening for any telltale break in the silence. No one got a full night’s sleep…an hour on and two off…if you were lucky. Thank you for staying awake when my own eyes closed for a few. We made it!

Fighting remained sporadic for quite some time after the Tet of 1968. It would take months for our enemies to resupply with ammo and reinforcements. But the war went on day by day. They made contact…we made contact. The engagements tended to be brief. The element of surprise wore off quickly in a firefight and our foe retreated to conserve resources.

Our job was to endure the 365 day tour. Higher command wanted to get the most out of our tours. They made us pursue throughout II Corps, once Phan Thiet was deemed secure. On any given day, I was clueless as to where we were or where we were going. It really didn’t matter. Our job was to make contact with the enemy…in the mountains or lowlands, the bush, rain forests, or rice patties. It was all the same. Make contact in the most superior positions possible. Our unit leaders did a fine job. We all did.

On this particular day we played cat and mouse. Today we were the cat…yet the mouse fired back! No one was hurt, despite the exchange of fire. We moved ahead again without further contact. The bushes cleared and I gazed upon a small rectangular house. I asked first squad, “Is this secure?” They replied, Yep, we cleaned the house…its empty.”

I had no real interest in the house. The porch caught my eyes. The tile roof stretched over that area to make a nice shady clean spot for doc. It was still hot for a late afternoon. I figured this was a classy spot for a break. I told at least a half dozen troops about my new found my perch. Just in case another firefight started, I didn’t want to get shot by friendly fire, bolting off that porch. You can’t tell enough soldiers of your position

My ruck sack was firmly pushed in the corner. The concrete surface cooled my legs as I stretched out to survey my find. The smooth surface worked great to prepare a quick hot meal. It seemed too early for us to stop for the night. Besides that, this position was too comfortable to be permanent. Sometimes you seize  the moment for what its worth.

The railings were thick, providing some protection. The narrow slits in the railing gave a window of visibility. However, it was the roof that endeared me to this spot. I can’t remember ever sleeping under a real roof in this country. For the first time, I felt strangely safe in the heart of Vietnam. That was my last thought upon dozing off.

I dreamed about today’s firefight. There were some shouts, but no one cried medic. A day without casualties is a good day. I continued to rest in that safe position. The morning sun glared at me for a wake up call. I had accidentally dozed off far longer than I intended. Thank God the platoon hadn’t moved out with me still on that porch!

Currahees…two things happened from that early snooze. I missed my turn on radio watch that night. No one shared the fact that I was on the porch. Even though I was a stone’s throw away…I was out of place.  

The second thing was the two fresh bullet holes splattered on the wall above me. My dreamy firefight was the real deal! If you can walk away…it is a lesson learned. Never slept under another roof in Vietnam. 

 

 

To Merck…or not to Merck

The Army’s medical training of enlisted personnel has changed over the years; I think largely due both to the successes and failures experienced on the battlegrounds of Vietnam. The Army’s successes heavily influenced civilian medicine. Our present day emergency medical technician and physician assistant programs flowed from the military’s positive experiences in time of great need.

The military produces medics in a matter of weeks. It relies heavily upon OJT (on the job training) to flesh out the training through supervised experience. OJT is sink or swim. There is a system to cull medics who repeatedly fail to use good judgment. In the Army’s eyes, our backup military specialty was infantry…but I am not sure the culled would make good 11Bravos.

How much medical training is needed? I think the correct answer is all you can get.  My daughter is a nurse practitioner.  I listen to her as she strives continuously to be the best in her field. Concepts and practices change with every research breakthrough. Professional stagnation is down right sinful for those called to the field of medicine.

Both Mark Jones and I worked briefly in civilian hospitals after our tour. We had far richer experiences in one military tour than many medical staff  personnel serving in hospitals for years. This has dramatically changed in the course of fifty years.  However, we both decided that the gap was too great between our experience and the opportunities presented.

My time with the 2/501st and Ft. Campbell afforded a solid seasoning amongst a full team of medics. We rarely worked alone (although we were assigned to platoons for field maneuvers). I didn’t want anyone to get sick or injured, but I wanted to glean everything I could out of the situations presented.  We shared what we knew between ourselves. I felt quite comfortable and almost complacent.

Orders for the 3/5o6th changed my mindset. Bullets and mortars would  take our experience to a whole new level. Within the sixth months of training, I sought every avenue to prepare myself. However, I (and most honest medics) felt some self doubt. The only cure that I knew was more preparation. I was relieved when Dr. Lovy answered that call to increase both confidence and preparation.

Dr. Lovy recommended a civilian medical book, more comprehensive than our military manuals. The book was entitled the Merck Manuel. It was the Reader’s Digest of the practice of medicine. [The book has been through a multitude of editions since 1899. “It was meant as an aid to physicians and pharmacists, reminding doctors that ‘memory is treacherous.”” Albert Schweitzer carried a copy to Africa in 1913, and Admiral Byrd carried a copy to the South Pole in 1913.” It’s currently available online. http://www.merckmanuals.com] On my next payday I asked Dr. Lovy to purchase one on my behalf. It was  a sacrificial investment for a PFC.

A few weeks later, I received my prized possession. Doc Lovy had procured the latest edition. I could bet you that no more than a half dozen medics had that reference on the whole base…and I would win. I had about four months to read that tome before we shoved off. My self confidence returned because I was going to be state of the art, practicing our skills with a whole new level of knowledge.

I was attached to an infantry unit and returned to my barracks. During our off duty time I poured through my new reference. All was well until an infantryman approached me asking, “What are you reading Doc?”  I proudly replied, “Some advanced medical procedures.” He replied, “What are you reading that for Doc? Don’t you know your stuff? Have you ever fixed somebody with a bullet wound?”

I had scared my man. There was no recovery in gaining his confidence. However, it tapped me into an awareness of the growing tension…we were all going live combat. As I expected, the platoon sergeant later asked me, “What are you reading Doc?” I informed him honestly, in the most confident manner that I could muster. He strongly advised me, “Don’t spook the men.”   I replied, “They won’t see it again Sarge.”

There is very little privacy in the army; there was absolutely no privacy in the 3/506th. I hid my Merck deeply into my spare gear. I hauled it with me to Vietnam in the bottom of my duffle bag. Once we landed, I never saw that duffle bag again. I suspect my duffle bag and my Merck somehow landed on the black market…somewhere in Vietnam.

Currahees…medicine is both art and science. People have to have confidence in your abilities…that is the art. The science is your training. I would like to have mastered the 11th edition of the Merck. The Merck was just…not meant to be.

 

An Earlier Uniform

Military families also serve. This picture was taken about 1952 in Germany. The tailor downsized one of my Dad’s uniforms.  I wore it proudly at the ripe old age of four. 

My father deployed more than half of my formative years…those years that I asked the question of what it took to be a man. Our family went into survival mode every time he left. My only sister called it quits and married early to escape that life. My mother and I landed in cheap rents and lived simply, often literally ‘out of the box.’  Life would always return to normalcy upon his return.

The year after my picture was taken, my father was shot in the head while stationed on the Korean DMZ. A sniper wounded him a year after the official truce. I heard my Dad clearly when he later said, “Son, keep that damn steel pot on your head.” His helmet saved him from being a fatality. Military families face fear on every deployment.

My father returned to Korea for another tour when I was about 15. He suffered two major heart attacks shortly upon arrival. He was getting too old for field duty. They eventual returned him to the nearest military hospital, a naval hospital in Chelsea, Massachusetts. It was still too far to easily drive from Central Maine. 

My mother was hit by a car while my father was still in the hospital. She died a week before my 16th birthday. My birthday was spent thinking about the possibility of losing both parents.

My father slowly recovered, squeezing out his last year on light duty for retirement. We moved some more. We talked about my education. It was during one of those conversations that I inadvertently mentioned that I had attended 18 schools to date. 

He first thought that I exagerated. I quitely sat down with pen an paper to list the schools in sequence. Near the end I drew his interest. There were 22 entries (I had returned to four schools). 

During the talk of one more move…I broached the subject of my own military enlistment. High school transitions were too big of a change. Dad bought it and the process began in that early Fall. We shook on the promise of an honorable discharge and a GED.  Upon discharge both promises were fulfilled.

Currahees…My enemy was none other than Death. I had both feared it and seen it firsthand before my enlistment. Perhaps you can see why I fought the war as a medic.

However, there would be only one round in my battle. I wanted a family to end that ever present loneliness, known especially by soldiers. I knew firsthand that families pay too high a price for serving.

Reunions

Tennessee welcomed me to one of her finest rare treasures. On July 29th, 2015 I made my way, after many decades, to a ‘rendezvous with destiny.’ Members of the 101st Airborne Division Association  were making the same journey from all parts of our great land. I was filled with uncertainty. But now I pray, it was the first of many trips.

A major draw was Nashville’s proximity to Ft. Campbell, the home of the 101st. We were all making our way toward our old familiar airborne places.

Names are the first things to go. But we all remember a name or two. Doc Lovy and members of the medical team were  naturally on my ‘go to’ list. Upon arrival I met up with Doc Mark Jones. Jones reintroduced me to Gary Flint Purcell. I don’t know what this says about me, but Jones and Flint looked a lot older than what I remembered in the day! What I immediately  realized was an emotional return to my unit. I belonged. Lori Del Greco took what is now my theme picture, that very night.

Battalion Surgeon Dr Andrew Lovy met with me the next morning. He publicly claimed me as one of his medics…that settled my place with the entire unit. Medics were attached to the line units from Headquarters company. It was common for us to placed in three or four platoons, during the course of our tour in Vietnam. Rotation often made us less memorable to line units that also experienced the influx of several medics.

Stories were shared among a wider circle of 3/506th vets. We shared common experiences…that only the original Boat People would remember. It was during one of those meandering conversations that confirmation came that I served with A Company at some time after Tet.

What amazed me was the fact that Currahees still have each other’s back, just like those days in the fields of Vietnam. They are far more hard headed now…but the fierce loyalty remains.

I saw this from a Currahee who had never met me. Mike Krawczyk made sure that my first reunion would be a complete experience first time out. He made several extra effort attempts to include a returning Currahee.

Currahees…it’s no wonder that I am excited to return at every opportunity. But I hope to expand that connection to others who served with us. We truly Stand Alone…together.

 

Flashback…On Being Useful

This post is dedicated to Frank Vinales, machine gun squad leader of the 3rd platoon, C Company, 3/506th.

The M-60 machine gun was always the immediate ‘support’ in any direct contact with the enemy. The M-60 provided a steady stream of fire, allowing us to engage the enemy on our terms.  That steady stream required a lot of ammo! Therefore all troopers were required to carry one  100 round belt of M-60 rounds for the cause, in their pack or on their shoulders (per Frank Vinales).

We typically covered a lot of ground on search and destroy missions. Some ground provided great natural cover…for us. Some ground gave the enemy advantage. We crested a ridge and began a descent into a questionable area. My personal radar went off. I didn’t like the looks of it. I walked with the middle squad, my typical home of choice. The lead squad was well committed to an open area framed with thick brush.

All hell broke loose just as the rear squad began descent. Two thirds of our platoon was completely committed on open ground.  Our command did the smart thing. They called for an advance to the rear. Our rear squad secured the rim and fired over our heads. Their fire kept the enemy from raising up, for a clear shot at us. Our middle squad quickly reached the rim to add additional fire power.

I was caught in a quandary. The lieutenant was heavily engaged in leading the first squad to safety ; the platoon sergeant manned the situation from the rear. No one was hit. That wouldn’t last long in this firefight. I wanted to stay fairly close to the troops at greatest risk, without getting pinned down or killed.

About this time, a machine gun crew edged partially down the slope to improve their fire. My gut instinct told me to stop and stick close to them. A medic doesn’t have much to do until someone gets hit. I didn’t dare shoot because I didn’t know the position of all our friendlies.  The gunner stopped momentarily. I asked, “Is there anything I can do?” He threw a belt of ammo at me and asked me to straighten any loose rounds on the belt. (They could jam the machine gun if not detected.) I straightened the first belt.  Next thing I heard was, “Here’s another one Doc!” I had a part time job with the crew!

I couldn’t believe we were getting out of this mess without a scratch. The ambush may have been far more effective, if we were completely off that rim. Our retreat was well disciplined. Elements of the lead squad finally made their way past our position. I kept my ears open for a cry for MEDIC; my fingers were busy helping the M-60 crew. Finally the gunner said, “Get up the rim Doc. We’re right behind you.” Good news!

Currahees…I got a little hell for not immediately retreating to safety. However, the position made sense to me in the chaos. We shortly pushed forward without further contact. I never got that close to a machine gun again. Thanks to all those M-60 teams that gave us  a fighting edge. Thank you for your service and technical expertise Frank Vinales!