Land ho…it’s Vietman!

Happy Anniversary to all the Boat People, the original Currahees, who first saw Vietnam, off the bow of the Weigel. We are known by many names…aka Currahees (We Stand Alone), Boat People, Band of Brothers (HBO) and officially as the 3/506th Airborne Infantry Battalion and Task Force 3/506th Airborne Infantry. On the anniversary of the 1968 Tet Offensive…we celebrate our landing. Vietnam would welcome more of those crazies, proudly wearing that Screaming Eagle patch!

A seaman’s eye can see the first trace of land. As the word spread, I raced up the ladders for my own first glimpse. This did not remotely compare with the Philippines.  With no islands in sight, we struck directly for the main coastline. I only knew our proximity. Perfect information was a luxury to the regular trooper. We had a least one, perhaps two stops, from below the DMZ headed southward. We finally settled in at Cam Rahn Bay.

It was at the earliest stop that my eyes fixed upon what I would call a Chinese junk, sailing close to our position. A harbor craft raced between us and fired just off their bow; the craft was not kidding! The boat immediately yielded its course. I thought to myself, ‘Welcome to Vietnam!’ May I add, ‘thank you harbor patrol!’

You would think to see rows of hotels, lining the beach, as one would sail into harbor.  The beaches were barren of anything but essential steel structures. I don’t remember docking until Cam Rahn, which was the major military deep sea port. With land in now sight, we raced to prepare for our own landing. Dr. Lovy, Combat Surgeon in Vietnam, documents our arrival at Cam Rahn Bay, on October 25th. Simply put, we completed 25 days at sea.

With all our mess neatly stacked on the main deck, I was ready! A sergeant called me for an errand below. I reluctantly left my equipment for a direct order. Upon return, my helmet was missing! I haven’t had a piece of military equipment stolen from me since basic training. After dutifully checking my immediate area, and asking those present if they had seen anyone suspicious,  I began a tirade of speaking French. My French is a bit poor, but I was hotly fluent that day. How to hell was a man going to war without his helmet? I put a curse on that thief, that if it ever came to fruition, he would lead a most miserable life everlasting!

Reluctantly, I went through the chain of command. My new issue was a steel pot, with no helmet liner. Thompson would hit the beach with a steel pot rolling on his head. I looked like hell with that stupid pot. We loaded on 2 1/2 ton trucks and rolled in country. Medics were disbursed throughout the convoy (for a reason).

Two things struck me about that expansive sandlot called Cam Rahn Bay. The massive steel docks established a world class port. It wasn’t pretty, but America invested a fortune in building this facility. The second thing was the swimming pool we passed, on the way out of town. The pool belonged to the United States Air Force. I saw a lot of planes nestled in their fortified positions. However, that pool remained etched in my mind for the remainder of my tour. I never saw another swimming pool in the entire country.

Many a night, I would nestle into a foxhole, somewhere in Vietnam. I would wonder what life would be like, if my father were anything but an Army Recruiter. Thoughts of those airman in that pool still run through my mind to this very day.

For all you Currahees…Good morning Vietnam!

 

Man Overboard!

The sight of a man going overboard was a bit shocking. The words ringing out, “Man Overboard” brought chills to my spine. I am by no stretch a seaman, but the peril of a man in the drink…is a universally understood distress call. For me, it was sobering.

The bus brought us directly from our demise with the Shore Patrol (see First Blood at Subic Bay). Arriving unscathed, I was perused by a senior medic for service. Smelling my two beers, he dismissed me from engaging in the forthcoming triage of cuts and bruises. Resigned to ascend the gang plank, I watched the events from the main deck. More buses delivered the troops like clockwork. Most should have felt their pain, which would surely catch up with them by morning. It was glorious pandemonium! You would have thought we had won the skirmish.

The momentum of the day carried some troops beyond the call of reason. One of our men jumped over the rail. Two or three more were inspired by the first brave soul. From my perspective, it was quite the drop from deck to sea. With their comrades in trouble, more began to dive in to save their friends. An army officer burst through to the rail. With quick assessment, he sounded the alarm, “Man overboard!” Then he abruptly added, “Not another damned troop better jump this deck…I will personally have you court-martialed!” The tenor of the deck immediately changed.

A small boat scooped up the guys in the drink. Amazingly, no one was hurt (to my knowledge) going over the rails. It brought a chuckle to see them pulled harmlessly to safety. Soon the busses ceased arrival, signaling the end of the festivities. A very careful count of all manifest personnel was taken and retaken that night. The ship finally slipped from the dock. Our next stop…Vietnam.

Breakfast was pretty routine that next morning. We quickly returned to our shipboard routines. I climbed the ladders to the main deck at mid-morning. There leaned a familiar figure on the rail. Hesitantly, I braved to disturb the silence of our Battalion Surgeon, Dr. Andrew Lovy. “Good morning Sir.” His smile provided the non-verbal permission to proceed. After some brief small talk, I just happened to mention, “Sir, the guys bought some extra time ashore last night.”

Dr. Lovy never hesitated to seize a teachable moment. He turned to me full faced to say, “Let me set the record straight Thompson.” Then he added,”I want you to spread this word.” The Battalion Surgeon continued, “The base command and the officers of this unit knew exactly what you would pull. Contingency plans were already in place. Everything went exactly as planned. However, the troop resistance was grossly overestimated. At this very minute, the ship is turning in circles. Otherwise, we would arrive four hours early. We must arrive at our first port exactly on time.”

Perfect information is rare for the lower ranking enlisted man. In that short conversation, he burst my bubble. Dutifully, I relayed Dr. Lovy’s information with the troops I knew. I never saw anyone from the 503rd again; we moved throughout the ship, in our own separate circles.

This post is dedicated to those brave souls who jumped into the brink. I trust some comrades will add more input to this notorious event. We were very young soldiers once…all volunteers on that Currahee  Trail.

 

 

First Blood at Subic Bay

Great expectations can sizzle after about three weeks of boredom. My father had fought from the initial landings on the Aleutian Islands (Alaskan territory) to the shadows of Japan. Some of the famous islands, of WWII lore, appeared more like fossilized icebergs to me. They were just  hazardous obstacles you could run into unaware. I wondered if he had been on the Weigel as a young man; he certainly rode a sister ship. Little did I know that I was heading toward my own island invasion.

Every day on this ship was a blessing. We had one more day alive. Life would look pretty cheap soon. The voyage counted as part of our combat time. On the flip side, the ship was shrinking by the day. We had a lot of pent up energy and no place to go. We normally ran for miles, and humped the woods all night. The Weigel altered everything. It was the quiet before the storm. Our ship had a volcano brewing in its berth!

Dr. Lovy took copious notes, as recorded in Combat Surgeon in Vietnam. He marks our departure as October 1st and our arrival in the Philippines as Oct. 19th. With rumors of land, I raced to the top side…before the break of dawn. Most of what I saw was a series of uninhabitable islands. These were at least dressed with tropical trees. There seemed to be more islands than a star constellation. Slowly we approached larger and larger islands. The ship’s pace seemed to plod, now that we could reference our speed with points of interest.

I have never seen ocean water clear enough to view schools of fish. Perhaps our deck height and the sun’s angle played a part. The sight was purely breath taking. I swear, it looked like we could see a hundred feet deep! This was my first full taste of the tropics. The ship closed in on its destination…Subic Bay.

Sea legs were a bit difficult to develop; solid land presented a reverse challenge. Adaptation is more natural in younger men. Soon we raced to see the Philippine ladies. However, we were very restricted in both activity and location. Two days in paradise fly by faster than the Bird of Paradise. I had time to pick up a few souvenirs to send home.  The threat of curfew fast descended.

I finally stopped into a bar, hoping to find my friends. At first glance, they all looked like members of the 503rd, the unit on our other deck. Then I saw my medics were piled in the far corner. I thought of buying a coke, but Doc Jones told me to man up and drink a brew. Its always been hard to say ‘no’ to Jones. I thought to myself, ‘Well, how often do you get to the Philippines?’ We shared some brew.

The structure was quite large; it was designed to hold the mass of lower ranks. Cinder blocks and wired windows gave it a penitentiary look. The beer was cold and plentiful. Most of the guys were well ahead of me by now. They were gearing up for another dry spell on the Weigel. About the second beer, all hell broke loose. It started several tables over, toward the center.

When two different airborne units converge…sooner or later…a fight is bound to happen. At first, I thought this was brilliant. These guys waited until the last minute to buy extra time. It could take several more hours to get on the ship. Then, I had another thought. I only knew less than half our battalion by sight! So I donned on my hat, with the unit crest. I immediately reduced my risk by half!

With perhaps two minor altercations under my belt, I looked upon my very first bar fight. We pressed toward the center. The place was so crowded, we might have to take turns for a swing. I was just totally impressed, until the 503rd utilized their immediate access to the bar. The first round of full beer cans flew in our general direction. Several more salvoes continued. My thoughts of a bar fight quickly turned into bar flight. I told my guys, “I am getting to hell out of here!”

Instinctively, I dove under the nearest table, moving in the general direction of the only door. I felt the coward, until I saw the conga line forming behind me. Bravely, I led the pack on all fours. We were making good progress, until I got the  far side of the third table. A pair of big boots stood directly in the way. Hesitating, I figured the fight might draw the boots away. The boots didn’t budge. Then, I saw the white laces. In the slightest gesture, my eyes turned upward. Then I heard a booming voice say, “Are you looking for trouble?” I said, “No Sir! Not in this position, Sir!” He says, “I am going to give you some instructions. Follow them completely to the letter.” I said, “Sir, yes Sir.”

The room was engulfed in total chaos. However, these are the detailed instructions, as best as I could hear under duress. He continued, ” Get up slowly. There are two lines of Shore Patrol on either side of you. Do not look directly at them. Do not talk. Do not raise your hands from your sides. Walk straight between them. Do not hesitate. At the end of the lines is a bus. Get on it!” I said, “Yes Sir!”

About two heads behind me, I heard a sharp crack. God only knows, I headed straight to the bus. There might have been two 503rd on ahead of me. I sat in a seat and minded my own business. The 506th thought they were tough; the 503rd thought they were tough. The Shore Patrol was tough!

Story tellers often make themselves the hero. There are too many beloved witnesses that remember this all too well. Reflecting back as an older man, this was a PTSD claim in the making! Once contained, the experienced turned into a comedy of errors. That sounds like another true account of the Currahees in action.

 

 

 

Life Aboard the USS Weigel

Dedicated to Battalion Surgeon Doc Lovy, who utilized our boat time well.

My world quickly turned from olive drab to navy gray. It also shrunk to a maximum of 622 feet, with parts off limits! This was not a cruise ship. The Weigel was designed to take a lot of troops from point A to point B.

We did eat three squares a day. Food was prepared in the galley…not the mess hall. At first the food appealed because it was different. However, one unique feature stood out in my mind. Somebody had over purchased the rice. We ate rice, in creative variation, two or three times daily. We had: plain rice, rice with gravy, rice soup, rice and beans, rice pudding etc. I never went hungry the whole time because I could deal with the rice.

It proved difficult to bust out in the morning run. I tried to run up and down the ladders at every opportunity. We managed daily mandatory push ups and sit ups. There was a lot of down time and no place to go. We soon fought boredom and the complete lack of personal space. We were packed like sardines. One deck was dedicated to the 3/503rd battalion. Mike Krawczyk remembers this unit as part of the 173rd Airborne Brigade (definitely off limits)! Although the ship’s condition was clean, troop areas were stuffy, to say the least. I went topside as often as I could and paced all the authorized areas.

Showers in hard water were a trip. The soap would get mushy. You left clean, but with some kind of soapy residue. I suppose we were navy clean. My brother was a Navy man, who gave good advise. If you drop the soap…you leave it there.

The sea proved a bit rough at times. You could get the full effect at the bow. Rise and fall gave a cheap thrill on the forward main deck. You had to keep an eye out, at mid-ship, because somebody would occasionally lean over the side to hurl that rice; the wind could carry hurl the entire length of the ship. Really!

We eventually ran through a typhoon that challenged my new found sea legs. We  were  ordered below decks (not a good sign). Every paratrooper knows the nauseous strain of g forces. The stuffy troop area and questions of this old craft’s seaworthiness, heightened the tension at hand. This situation was out of control.  The only choice I had, in this losing battle, was to lay down on my bunk.  In God’s mercy, I passed out. The seas were balmy the next morning! Time for more rice.

We took one amazing class on quick shooting. The instructor advised us to use our middle finger on the trigger, and our normal trigger finger as a pointer along side the barrel. We practiced ‘point and shoot’ with pellet guns. The idea is to get off the first good shot. In close quarters…that is realistic. Pointing is extremely accurate. I adopted that method easily with the M-16. This was ideal in the bush.

The highlight of our ‘cruise’ was the afternoon classes with Dr. Andrew Lovy. Most of us had some medical experience. However, I have not spoken with a medic who did not thoroughly appreciate that priceless time with the master. As I said in Home Away from Home, Dr. Lovy provided the proficiency. Our beloved physician ensured that every one of us left that ship with both competence and confidence.

I later ran into a medic en route to my R & R, who had lost six or seven troops in a row. He held his head down to say that no one he touched had made it. Although, I said all the right words to console him, I breathed a prayer of gratitude for that series of classes on the Weigel. Medics are isolated when the crap hits the fan…not much time to be asking questions. Training is everything.

Dr. Lovy concluded his training with this final thought. From this day forward, we would be Dr. Lovy’s eyes and hands in the field.  I think our medical unit record upholds his affirmation. We were a direct extension of his ability.

On a final note, I think most medics had one thing to say to Doc Lovy, “Sir, if I come back on the meat wagon, please don’t let anyone but you touch me.” I for one…voiced those very words. He gave his promise.

Currahee Doc!

 

 

 

3/506th…Boat People

The sands of time fell silently to the bottom of the hourglass. Mobility was the norm in the 101st Airborne, but this trip would bring us all a few firsts. We sat on the grass in our new tropical fatigues, jungle boots, rucksacks and duffle bags. We were instructed NOT to wear our Screaming Eagle patch nor unit insignia. The trucks came to load us for the airport. Military airports via the U.S. Air Force could take us literally anywhere in the world. This flight would take us to California…Vietnam bound. Chatter was sparse as the general mood became reflective. Reality was settling in.

We landed at Oakland International Airport. The battalion moved in columns across the expanse of this international airport. I looked into the eyes of the people taken by surprise, by the sight and magnitude, of this large unit movement. These would be the last American civilians I would see in a very long time. Some looked directly back; some shifted their eyes toward some unknown destination. With the steel pots on our heads, our destination was obvious…nothing need be said. This was my first and last trip to California. Everything looked so ordinarily metropolitan American. The general surprise brought no resistance…more a resignation, of a war that flamed ever brighter in the public’s eye.

At swift cadence, we were hastily loaded on buses that would take us to the dock and our first glimpse of our new home. There she was…the USS General Weigel, a WWII troopship awaiting another generation of warriors. Ladened with ruck and duffle bags, we worked our way up the gangplank to the main deck. The ships internal ladders were more challenging, as we descended deep within its hold. The web bunks were four high, and I found one at the bottom. Possession is nine tenths of the law; it would be my spot for the next month. Once secured, I made my way toward the main deck for an unusual attraction.

We didn’t linger long at dock. Our main equipment had been shipped and boarded in advance. This was a well designed trip. The ship’s movement was obvious to us all. I wanted some last glimpses of our beloved USA . Momentarily, I would wear the eyes of a tourist, seeing this vista for the first and last time.

The Golden Gate Bridge shined in all its glory. It looked every bit as great as the picture books. As we passed underneath, I heard some commotion from the bridge. The ship’s deck narrowed the vertical distance to this bridge, and we could hear quite distinctly. We cleared the bridge. We all looked toward the source.

Directly above was a rag tagged California demonstration committee. They were genuine California hippies in all their glory. I couldn’t read the makeshift banners. But, I could clearly hear them shout obscenities at us baby killers. Everybody had to have their say in less than a minute…we where picking up speed for the open sea.

For a brief span of time…it was us and them. I just knew the return salvo was brewing. Paratroopers excel in profanity.  Every word not found in the dictionary was duly exchanged. Nobody was jumping off that bridge, and we couldn’t reach up to pull one off by their scraggly hair. It boiled down to profane fun. There were more troops packed on deck, than hippies hanging off the bridge. In my biased opinion, we won the day’s skirmish. By the way, I had never seen one of those California critters before. It was quite a send off.

The Weigel plowed into open waters, muting the verbal skirmish. All that was left was a few inappropriate gestures…until the growing distance made them ineffective.  Being a land lover, open sky and sea quickly grew boring. It was time to explore the 622 feet of the ship.

The original members of the 3/506th became known, amongst our own, as the Boat People.  Many would join us over time, but they would be deemed replacements. The originals were and are still held in special regard.  In my opinion, it was far better to go with a unit, than wind up as a replacement within an established unit. Replacements have a learning curve and are looked upon with suspicion. The draw back, to the Boat People, was that the casualties were far more personal. The more you knew a soldier, the more it hurt. In a distant land, losses would soon come.

This post is dedicated to the Boat People. Currahee ( We Stand Alone) my Brothers in Arms!

Home Away from Home

 

A soldier needs grounding, especially before their combat experience. Instinctively, the army knew a leave home would accomplish much in building/reminding of inner core strength. However, two other elements served to fulfill me as a man. Faith and proficiency completed the inner strength needed for sustained adversity. The battle is always won or lost between the ears. Family, faith and proficiency were the elements below the waterline…that would sustain the external Currahee soldier. Dr. Andrew Lovy provided the proficiency. The Christian Serviceman’s Center provided the means of faith.

It takes a unique love to reach out to soldiers away from home. The constraints of home are largely abandoned within a few weeks of military life.  The army tends to break you down to build up the new soldier within. Old constraints are often replaced for peer acceptance in a coarser environment. The Airborne persona added merit in taking most everything to its extreme…as in drinking, fighting, cussing…anything! The major exception were the married men; they lived a dual life.

The Christian Serviceman’s Center rapidly became that home away from home. With the exception of field duty, I was bound toward the center in my civilians every Friday night. I opted to sleep on one of the many old couches, in lieu of the comfort of my own bunk. We had a simple game room. Often local churches would supply heavy snacks. Sunday mornings we filtered off toward  one of those local churches. However, it was in the Center that we could largely be ourselves. Although I was eighteen, I would never again fit in with a typical 18 year old crowd. I had already gone way past their life experiences.

Director Harold Witmer would often drive us to a Saturday night sing throughout the Tennessee hills. The car would be filled to the brim. We often comprised a simple majority at those sings…typically front and center. Harold always drove and Harold always prayed for us by name. I prayed real hard too! I couldn’t understand how Harold could pray and drive at the same time. However, I knew that Harold was no ordinary Christian. It was only toward the last that I discovered Harold could pray with his eyes wide open! Up to that time, I had resigned my fate to my personal peace with God…readied to meet my Maker!

Resident Director Glen Davis, by virtue of his personal calling, spent much of his weekend time helping us to sort out the balance between soldier and Christ follower. He  was personal and his message was of life with a personal God. Sometimes he would give a fatherly hug…always when most needed. Glen had the balance of being both manly and tender. By day, he excelled as a public school teacher. The weekends were overtime. Glen became my spiritual father…my personal example of how faith is lived in daily life. I surrendered much coarseness through time spent with Glen.

My home away from home became the final pit stop for good byes. Our only other resident paratrooper was a rigger; there we were all just Christian soldiers. We went through the motions, but everyone stopped to acknowledge my orders. They ribbed me because I was by far the smallest in this group…taking on the heaviest assignment. Most were going home straight from Ft. Campbell. They reflected that God has a sense of humor. But they also affirmed a faith in me, that I could get it done. They formed a ring around me, to pray and send me off to battle with those Currahees.

A man is not prepared to live until he is prepared to die. Although I lacked the promise of 72 virgins, it was this newly found faith that would cause me to disregard my own safety. I had no quest to be a martyr. I did see the medic as the highest of battle callings. It was a position where manly and tender intersect. By faith…I stepped up.

Providence is that place where God is in the details of our lives. Being said, I think it was Divine purpose that sent me with the 3/506th. I trust my Currahee brothers feel the same.

Currahee…We Stand Alone, together. Yet, God Himself watched over our Band of Brothers.

 

 

 

 

Final Leave

This picture was taken during my final leave. The summer khaki uniforms were de rigueur in warm seasons. We could not wear fatigues off post, in our day. The light blue represented active assignment to an infantry unit. The Glider Patch on the cap, wings and boots (not pictured) designated my Airborne status. I was 18 years old; I would celebrate my 19th birthday somewhere in Vietnam.

Some of us were given priority military hops, to speed up our travel time home. I was provided a ‘hop’ to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey. This would allow me shorter distance by bus to Maine. We flew in a C-141 Starlifter jet from Ft. Campbell. Most of us sat nervously on the floor.  I couldn’t figure out the tension. Finally before arrival,  I popped the question, “Has anyone ever landed in one of these?” None of us had ever landed in a C-141 before. I had jumped them at least a half dozen times. This was our very first landing! Thanks to the U. S. Air Force, we landed and were immediately shuttled to the bus stop. I was at the New York Port Authority in no time. I remained inside ( see Night Perils December 15th) until my Maine bound bus arrived!

There is no place like home. These 30 days were my longest and final leave. Spending time with Dad was the first and last every day event. However, on this leave we skipped all things military. We still shared our coffee, but we talked about family memories, of peaceful happy times. My Dad was both a WWII and Korean War veteran; he knew the drill intimately. It was only recently that we had begun to reverse our roles. We never, in all my memories ever said good bye…we always said, “See you soon!” On my Dad’s last deployment, he suffered two major heart attacks. I could have lost him at the age of 15, half way round the world, in some God forsaken place. Any and every day spent with my Dad was priceless beyond all comprehension. I lived in the constant fear that we could be forever separated by one missing heartbeat.

I lost track of time…for a season. Everyone that mattered received their greeting. Most didn’t have a clue what I was about to experience, nor had they anyone in harm’s way. I wanted to be just like my Dad, which took me down a different path than my peers.

Time didn’t lose tract of me. My Dad had carefully noted my leave papers. The return bus ticket was arranged well in advance. My Dad knew the consequences of tardiness, for a combat bound unit. Once an non-commissioned officer, always a non-commissioned officer. The evening before finally arrived.

Dad cleared his throat, as an indication to listen up. He finally found the words, “Son, this is the hardest damn thing I have ever done in my life. I have seen hell and back more than once. You are going to see some things  I wish you would never have to see.  If I could only go for you, in your place, is the only thing that would give me peace. But, I can’t this time. I know you will do your best. I pray that  you come home to me, at the end of your tour…all I can do now is pray.”

The bus arrived at the designated moment. I turned around to look one for last time. I smiled to say, “See you soon, Dad!”

I would return one day. We would have a wordless, but deeper understanding. It would prove a costly bond. I would tell very little of my own experiences…the things you read today. I would just take another sip of coffee, and ask an open question of my Dad, about another war, fought valiantly by him…somewhere else.

Dedicated to the man who never heard this…Dad.

“See you soon!”

 

Last Will and Testament

When the training is over, the transition is inevitable and quick. A few things begin to directly hit your consciousness. Most normal healthy 18 years olds do not candidly discuss their own mortality. We quietly waited in line for our turn at the desk. It was now my turn to answer a few simple questions and sign on the dotted line.

Being single and somewhat carefree, my situation was pretty much straightforward. We had a ten thousand dollar policy to distribute, in the event of our demise. The figure would bury us, leaving some extra for a favored kin. This was the last chance to consider my potential beneficiaries before hostile action. I signed and moved on. We were informed that medics have a 50% chance of returning without a wound or fatality, with only six months of frontline exposure.

We were issued new uniforms…jungle fatigues and boots. We were provided with rucksacks and nylon liners designed for tropical sleep, underneath the sheltering ponchos. We packed our winter gear in separate duffle bags…that none of us would ever see again. Personal items could be given away or taken home on the last leave.

We assembled by unit for group pictures. For some, this was the last picture taken alive. To this day, we look back on those pictures and mark the wounded (WIA) and many killed (KIA).

Shot records were given a final review. I was pretty much up to date. For some men, whose immunization records were lost, this would be a day of painful reckoning. Everything necessary for deployment was given highest priority.

Our medics were called aside one afternoon. We all demonstrated, on each other, the ability to thread a needle into a vein. We proved readiness for the inevitable gunshot wounds.

The air was thick in anticipation. When the army says you are ready…you are ready. There was only one more remaining event, entitled to every deploying soldier…the last leave to go home. This leave would be filled with uncertainty, but it would allow us one more glimpse of the things we would be fighting to preserve…and for that  which we strived to return.

We had a Rendezvous with Destiny, days not weeks,  after final leave.

Dedicated to the families, of those who said their last good byes, on that last leave before deployment. Families also serve…all too painfully.

Shooting Blanks in the Smokies

Be careful when the army spares no expense! Our last stateside trip was to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. We convoyed for this trek. It was one of those wide open spaces road trips, that wouldn’t quit. The army had plans that we would conduct a combat jump in Vietnam, in a mountainous area. Therefore, to the hills we go!

They asked who had civilian drivers licenses. We would spend significant time on civilian roads. To date, I personally saw no use in gaining one. A car purchase was out of our pay grade; the maintenance on a fix-or-repair-daily kept the average car owning soldier broke. My lot was to take in the sights from the back end  of a two and a half ton truck. So, I took it all in, with eyes wide open.

This was my first time at serious mountain trekking. Our legs were in great shape. I did note that different muscles would tighten on long descents. Everything was either up or down. Tactically, we ascended by ridges, versus the stream beds and dry ravines. The easier paths made us more susceptible to an ambush.  I also noted that the mountains seem to grow more ridges…there was always one more ridge when you had hopes to see the top. Keep climbing soldier!

With perfect weather, the days of maneuvers flew by. We were provided some blank ammo to fire up the hills. It was all good training. Our platoon finally settled on a ridge, overlooking Battalion Commander Geraci’s command tent. (We may have rotated into perimeter duty.)  In the cool of early evening, I observed two ladies walking up the path toward the command post. This was a very large national park. Where did they come from?  One carried a long rifle, that would stretch the length of her; the other lady carried the  ammo. These were real mountain ladies. I doubt they carried blanks!

On their approach they demanded, “Who’s making that ruckus in our hills?” In some respects this was quite humorous. However, I could envision one of our tactical platoons in  a firefight with that long gun.  The ladies would win hands down! Somehow, I thought they were just bored and they wanted to make a statement. I don’t think the opportunity of chatting with several hundred guys came that often in these parts.

The Mountain Ladies had a certain rugged appeal. Their wide brimmed hats framed their weathered looks. Our alternatives were mountain lions and bears. However, their ages were more in common with our top brass. Our commanders resolved their concerns with great diplomacy…and a touch of airborne chivalry. Our Ladies of the Mountains sauntered off triumphantly…gun toting…fading round the bend.

The unit training experiences faded pretty much the same way…round the last bend. Training saves lives; it must be embraced wholeheartedly, to save lives.  Two things stand out, after years of reflection. We grew closer and more cohesive with each passing day. We had a Rendezvous with Destiny…live or die…we would share the same experiences as one.

The closer we grew, the more distant we were from anyone else. We never fit neatly into the natural space of others. Everyone stared at us…trying to define us. We reminded them of the war televised daily, yet we were a flesh and blood evidence of that distant reality. They would lead ordinary lives. There was nothing ordinary about us.

Human beings don uniforms daily. They remain fully human, yet the uniform serves to separate. We laughed and cried. We trained hard to fight hard. We slept, we celebrated. We whispered private fears. We talked tough. If you took on one of us…you took on the whole unit. I have never seen that degree of loyalty since.

Let’s pack up Currahees. Out time has finally come.

 

 

 

Totally Challenged

Currahee training was unique, as one of those units forming specifically for actual combat. We held unit orders. Our tactical assignments were already being configured into the mix of the upcoming ‘in country’ division strategy. Every man in every position was constantly being evaluated. At my level…the goal was to focus on being my best.

I wandered into the cross-hairs of a field captain by complete surprise. We returned to Ft. Campbell, to a continuous series of field exercises. All was pretty typical.

A soldier came up to me to take a look at his buddy. His squad member had been stung in the face, by a flying insect. You rarely have the luxury of complete information. God only knows exactly what bit him. However, there are no fatal creature threats at Ft. Campbell, KY.

What I observed was the severest reaction, of any bite I had seen to date. The trooper’s face was grotesquely swollen; I thought his upper lip might split. They were soaking his face in water, partly to relieve the pain.

I immediately gave him Benadryl and told him to stay in place. I hunted for the platoon leader to request a routine evacuation, on their first jeep out. I did not have a field ambulance. Based on the fact of severity, complications to the facial area, and the abruptness of allergic reaction, I wanted this man evacuated to a medical team setting. Although his breathing seemed regular, the remote chance of anaphylactic shock made me want to err on the side of caution. Obviously, bed rest would help him recover. The combination of his medical condition and the Benadryl rendered him useless in the field. A sick soldier can easily tie up another two or three soldiers.

When the platoon leader informed the company commander, all hell broke loose! I was summoned to an officer’s meeting to address my poor judgment. I heard, “Soldier, don’t you know that one additional rifleman can make the difference in a firefight?” This was the beginning of the diatribe. One does not discuss nor directly question a line officer. For the most part they are right. Line officers ruled our universe. Our officer’s judgment would prove to bring most  of us home. 

I had experienced more than one good butt chewing, but never for a medical decision. I sucked it up until the summation. Then I quietly repeated my original request, “Requesting a routine evacuation for this soldier, Sir.”[What I wasn’t going to do was discuss anything about my medical decision. It would put me on the defense. Bottom line, neither was he medical.] Life moves on, and I dismissed the experience as ‘the life of a Private First Class.’ Everything rolls downhill.

Eventually, I called for two routine evacuations in Vietnam. Basically, if a man doesn’t have a bullet hole…it’s routine. The first may have saved a man’s arm (according to Doc Lovy, Battalion Surgeon). This evacuation will be treated as another story in due time. However, I was bracing myself for another real butt chewing…fully remembering the above conversation.

The second was due to a severe case of hemorrhoids, protruding at length from the anus. The latter example provides a case for a temporary evacuation, to preserve the fighting strength for the duration.

The field is a dirty place at best. The jungle proved to be a medical horror show. Our medics proved to be very much Currahee!

As a post thought, I am truly grateful to most of those hard headed line officers. Most were solid leaders and effectively balanced the tension between successful mission and their men.

Salute…to the Anonymous Captain, for the best butt chewing I ever received in this man’s army.

Currahee, Sir!