Living with the Two Seconds

We lived from zero to two seconds at a time. I think it was the tranquility that got to me. You could almost momentarily forget. A temperate breeze, a bird singing, a gentle stream could get your mind on other things. Then all hell broke loose. One thousand-one…the strike troops are already engaging. One thousand-two…most everyone has their spot and returning fire. After that, the new guys still wondered what to do…if they are not the first casualty. It’s always the new guys and the short-timers that fall victim to the two seconds.

Search and destroy missions are intended to draw fire…and they did. Whether in the mountains or rice paddies, our mission remained to keep the enemy on the run. Contact was inevitable. Today, I write about the typical day. These were the days, weeks, months before and after the Tet Offensive of 1968. My opinions seem to have kept me alive, though nothing worked every time.

Sound is past tense. It has already happened. It is history and there is nothing you can do about history.   We soldiers in the field connect sound with death very quickly…but it is past tense. The first bullets have passed. You have less than two seconds to make meaning of it…interpret it and react…after that you are dealing with the aftermath. Snooze you lose.

Much like the association Pavlov made by ringing a bell, when feeding his dogs, sound evokes strong reaction from the vet. The first shots seemed to hit the mark. The later rounds tended to defoliate the jungle. At times engagement would be sustained; most of the time it was that short cat and mouse game. Damage was done quickly. My nerves settled after that first startle.

I write this, because some 50 years later sound still rings my bell. Even though it is history…sound is death. After the sound, I have watched men run their hands over their bodies, too afraid to look. It’s automatic with a close shave. I remember doing that at one particular time myself. When the guys catch you doing that…you smile sheepishly. It looks stupid…but it is a natural way to deal with it.

My thoughts are from the middle squad, where I lingered as a medic. I never had to serve as point man nor slack man…the two infantrymen that probed the area in front of our lead squad. Every clue (sight & sound) was in real time for them. They were advanced almost completely out of sight, unless we moved through open areas. There are no words to express what they did. God bless them.

Sight is salvation. If it doesn’t look right…it probably isn’t right. A good eye and great reflexes will save your life. If it moves…shoot it. These judgements come from numerous experiences; the lessons you can walk away from.  I would normally lean toward the front of the middle squad (squads normally rotated positions…front-middle-rear). I tried to be close enough for a short run, without being too close and pinned down by the direct line of fire. Each medic has his own feel. However, the longer the run, the more of a target you become. I tried to run frontal, facing both my guys and the enemy…as a side-to-side chest wound is always fatal. Bullets are indiscriminate. If they miss the troop in front of you…they have to miss you too!

I had a nasty habit of hanging back a few feet, when I didn’t like what I saw. I would drag butt a little. A squad leader noted my ‘vote’ one day. He read my body language. I moved it up a couple of feet…not much. Yep, and I proved right. Nobody in their right mind wants to get shot at. It’s insane. Some tough spots were forced. The unit had to deal with it.

People asked me two questions when I returned home. Were you shot at? Did you kill anybody? Answer one…I don’t know how many times. Answer two…possible. I believed in preventative medicine, when no one was hit. Some would ask if I was afraid. My first thought was to take them out to a field, and help them find out for themselves.

My biggest fear and hope, after the two seconds, was in being the best medic possible. Some wounds are fatal. Some wounds could go either way; those were the wounds where you needed to be on point. An hour later our unit could be eating chow together. I lived in fear of screwing up, that I might not think of that extra edge, to keep a young Currahee alive. I never wanted to face those men with baggage on my mind.

Currahees…in later good days I drank coffee with my Dad, most Saturdays at his home, bragging about you. I told him you were just like the men he fought beside. May we feel  a temperate breeze, hear the birds sing, and wade through gentle streams…in peace.