Formal Welcome…P Training

Nothing is ever quite like you imagine, especially in the Army! One of the biggest reality shifts was the 24/7 of combat. This constant pace began on the ship. Days of the week held no meaning, because every day was a work day. I had a birthday in November, but I am not sure when November 16th arrived, nor when it left. I think I realized I was 19 when somebody mentioned Christmas.

Our calendar was 365 days. Endure those and you go home! The fundamental reality was survival. Between the Army’s mission and the enemy’s resistance, the notion of rotating home distanced itself, into the far corners our mind. Two groups of people didn’t make it. The new guys were on a steep learning curve; the old guys began to take life too seriously. Living to the ripe old age of 20…was at the very end of the 365 day marathon.

All God’s children took P Training. Rotating vets would provide direct lessons learned to all the new guys. Shifting from the possibility of…to the reality of combat…blows the normal mind. You have a feeling of forgetfulness. Forgetting is a means of escape. But you can’t escape this new reality and live. Get it and get it right!

The Preparatory Training assumed we were well trained soldiers. Our classes instructed us on the localized conditions and the habits of a specific enemy. I listened quite intently. We heard the constant military presence in the air. We slept through the distant artillery barrages at night. Phan Rang was military on steroids.

Most troops hit P Training alone; we came as a unit. I sat next to a Sergeant First Class, toward the end of the five days. My Dad was an SFC. My whole existence was under the shadow of this man’s army. My father had given me only one piece of survival advise. [All Vet’s have at least one piece of survival advice!] He said, “If all hell breaks loose, do whatever the platoon sergeant does. Just don’t get too close to him. He will kick your ass!”

So, I felt comfortable next to this SFC…but I didn’t get too close. He looked a bit tired. Perhaps the information seemed redundant to him. Sarge was somewhere else. This particular instruction focused upon booby traps. It had my military mind. I did not want to be impaled nor find my 1001 pieces after something blew up. I was glued to this lecture like a video game.

Thinking it was about smoke time (the only official break in Vietnam), we were quickly caught off guard. At the end of this class…we hit the ‘trail’ with booby traps! Sarge was designated point man. My proximity caused me to be second. Within three inches into the trail, my SFC hit a booby trap. God…we are wiped out already! I know he was embarrassed in front of his own platoon. You snooze…you lose here.

The instructor looked at me. I figured he would say I died with Sarge. He said, “You lead this unit through the booby traps.” I said, “Sir, I am a medic.” He said, “You lead this unit through the booby traps, Doc!” So, I said, “Follow me!”

There were about 20 booby traps. Some were obvious, like the one Sarge stepped upon. Some were a bit subtle. With a high degree of pain avoidance, I discovered every damn one of them. I dutifully showed each to the man behind me. Word carried throughout the single-file of men. With each discovery, Sarge grew more embarrassed, as he tagged on the end.

Our capstone exercise was a couple of hours outside the base perimeter. We went on night patrol with live ammo, locked and loaded. We had simple instructions, “If it isn’t us…shoot it!’ Man, my adrenaline pumped. The odds of seeing a ‘live one’ were pretty slim. As graduates, they would feed us into less secure areas over time. The Vietcong and North Vietnamese Army would complete our instruction.

I imagined the Sergeant First Class would ask for me by name. After all, I had saved his platoon single-handedly. In reality, I never saw him nor his platoon the remainder of our tour. I think he never wanted to see me again…ever. What the heck does a doc know anyway?