The Unexpected Draft

Sports have much to teach us about life and the skillsets to live it. We kids had to run the bases: first, second and third…then we could slide into home. However, if we skipped a base (without planting our foot firmly) there would be no home plate and no scoring run. When in doubt…you had to go back and touch that base. Someone always caught us trying to circumvent the rules and called us on it.  You either go back…or you are out!

Returning to the States was just like the memories of those softball games. At nineteen I had completed everything active military. I was definitely ahead of the game. But, was I?

A young man’s civil liberties were curtailed in the 60’s. We were called on one tiny detail. Have you registered for the draft? I sort of missed that. I was busy. I don’t ever remember receiving a draft notice anyway.

However, the devil is in the details. I was soon forced to do my civic duty. I made my way to the county offices and inquired of the proper official. He turned out to be a tall stately man. He looked official. I introduced myself and quickly informed him of my intentions.

He was a right friendly fellow. Until…he casually inquired of my date of birth. That date would put me at almost 20. His faced turned quite sullen. He was really looking official! He stared sternly, as if measuring his words. He finally uttered, “You know that I could have you arrested today?” I thought to myself, ‘So much for civil liberties!’ We held our uncomfortable silence for some time.

I reached into my pocket for a carefully folded piece of paper. While I dutifully unfolded it, I said, “Sir, I came as soon as I could.” I handed him the DD-214. He stared even further in disbelief. He noted every detail, the story of my past three years. He took much care in returning it to its original fold and gave it back to me.

Once he realized my plight, his smile returned…yet his gaze was markedly etched with approval. I suppose this official was a true patriot. You could see something of his heart in his face. My own mind was distracted, as all I wanted was some of my civil liberties. I would have to turn 21 to get them all.

Officials always have the last word. He warmly touched my shoulder and said, “I will personally take care of all the details of your registration. You call me, if you do not get a letter by the first of next week.” I thanked him for his help, while  turning toward the door. He stopped me to say, “Thank you for your service.”  I never heard that again in the 60’s, nor for several generations. I felt satisfied in returning to one of those missing bases in my life.  I really didn’t know much about the draft. I was busy.

Currahees…I already missed my 506th buddies and the life we shared by then. But I was very busy touching a multitude of bases that I had personally skipped and some that I missed while fighting a war. My most recent life base was in returning to my own in 2015. The Reunion and trip to The Wall brought me to home plate. Thanks to you…I finally scored.

Flag Flown Round The World

My heart has always shown deep respect for good old boys…those Southern gentlemen who take up arms. They all seem to have that disarming smile.They smile best when depositing Yankee money. Their sweetest grins come when anyone takes them as fools.

Doc Lovy writes (Combat Surgeon in Vietnam) of two of our Southern born medics…who had a penchant for flying flags. God loves a patriot. However, a Southern gentleman often flys a different flag. Hence we had a controversy. Not everyone enjoyed their choice of flags.

Doctor Andrew Lovy balanced his love of truth with a sense of cultural fairness. However, that brazen flag had to be removed from its strategic place, near the medical aid station.

Our medics protested to no avail. They insisted it was merely a state flag. However, as I will explain later…this flag was undoubtedly the ‘Stars and Bars!’

The Southern boys and I were somewhat at odds over an incident that happened before our deployment. Lets just say we were at best professionally cordial.

I was shocked when they came to me, in our final days, with a present. They gave this Maine Yankee…The Flag. A peace offering doesn’t get any better than that! That flag was the only memorabilia that I took home from the war.

What do you do with a battle sized Confederate flag in the great State of Maine? Well, I had to find my flag a good home. Near Tip Top (a mountain landmark in Newport, Maine) I knew of a gracious Southern lady. She had married and dutifully moved to the cold North with her husband.

When I presented her with that folded flag…she beamed from ear to ear. My gift secured a lifelong friend. Random acts of kindness have always been my trademark. Life was good.

A few days later, I was summoned to step outside to discuss some urgent business. It was in the long driveway that I looked upon a committee of the local citizenry. They had a bone to pick with me.

My new Southern Lady friend had run the Stars and Bars up her flag pole. It could be seen for miles. Word was out that I had given it to her. The committee turned out to be a potential lynch mob!

In the heat of the moment, I did the only honorable thing I could do. I had to blame this craziness on that poor deranged Southern lady. Hell, I didn’t think anyone was stupid enough to fly that damned flag in our great State of Maine!

My vehement denial of responsibility superficially satisfied the comittee. However, they had also heard of my penchant for mischief. They parted with a stern warning to not pull any more antics…or they would send my body South.

Currahees…I laid low for a while. That flag had the same universal reaction as it flew round the world. I will leave the flag flying to the good old boys.

A Promise Kept…

In January of 1969 I was still recovering from my malaria attack. Adjustment to the States got very complicated. It was times like this that I needed my spiritual father Glen Davis, at the Christian Servicemen’s Center, in Clarksville TN.

Life events make the same people and same places look so very different. They haven’t changed; you have. Yet Glen always knew how to read me. I could tell Glen my whole heart. He never saw the horrors of war…but he knew the young man who went off to that dark side. Glen was also very spiritual and had a good sense of the right path. I would return to Maine with renewed confidence.

A young soldier at the center agreed to drive me part way North. He also committed to take me by Coatsville PA. I wanted to look up Christopher Smith. With that grand thought in mind, we said our good byes to Clarksville.

The next stop was the post office in Coatsville PA. I went to the counter and looked the man straight in the eyes. I said, “I am passing through, but need to see my war buddy. I have minutes to find him. There are so many Smiths in the phone book. Please help me sir.”

The postman stared a while before replying, “We are not authorised to devulge that information. There may be a young man by the name of Christopher Smith, about your age. But I can’t tell you.”

This postman was my only shot. I countered, “We fought together sir. He is like a brother. Please.” The postman spoke firmly, “There is nothing I can say. However, that piece of paper, by your hand, might be of some help to you.” I grabbed the small white slip like a treasure. I softly spoke a thank you. As I turned I heard, “Thank you for your service.”

Bursting out the door, I flipped the slip over to see an address. We hit pay dirt! I had to warn my ride of what DZ had told me several times. ‘Don’t come straight to my home. White folks aren’t welcome there.’ He laughed it off by saying, “We are too close to turn back now.” I liked his attitude.

With some local directions, we arrived at the address in 10 minutes flat. I went alone to knock on the door. The inside door opened tentatively…a screen door seperated us. I said, “Ma’am, is this the home of my 101st friend Christopher Smith?” The door and screen opened as wide as that smile on the elderly lady’s face. She firmly gestured for us both to come in. She sat us down in grand living room style…like honored guests.

She called into a back room, “Christopher, you’ve got company!” I heard a stir and a lanky man emerged straightening his pants. The big brother grin told me this trip was worth it.

DZ spoke up, “You get your ass back here in one piece?” I nodded affirmatively. He just shook his head. Then he replied,  “Well I didn’t. They breached the perimeter and came straight through. I was listening to my music and getting high. The tent flap opened and the grenade rolled across the floor. I dove under the side; I didn’t clear the tent before it blew. I rolled free in the dark. All I could feel was blood!”

I sat there stunned. Everybody seemed worried that I wouldn’t make it…but I was one of the few who did make it in one piece. Then I saw the telltale limp. I started to hurt with his every labored movement.

We put a lot of men on those medevacs. We didn’t think about their future then…only that our job was done right. DZ is a lot stronger than his smarts. I thought to myself, ‘How is this 22 year old going to make a living? What future does Chris have?’ It was then that a young girl slipped by DZ’s side. She was pregnant.

DZ opened up, “They don’t check the wounded. I brought back a boat load of the best pot. I will give you half!” I graciously refused. I did reply, “Please remember Al sometime when you light a joint. Smoke one in my honor.” He grinned with approval.

My ride friend started moving about a bit nervously. It was about time to move on. He had been so gracious and patient…like so many who were influenced by the Christian Servicemen’s Center. This had been a priceless experience.

After a short good bye, we stood to leave. Chris painfully regained his own footing. It was then that he confessed, “I have a black friend living less than 50 miles, another less than a hundred. You would think they would at least call. My little white friend goes way out of his way to see me. You are going to Maine. Damn.” I nodded and quietly responded, “You are a brother. I don’t leave brothers behind. See you soon.”

Currahees…I lost track of DZ. Life got complicated. Some lessons are hard to learn…harder to walk away from. Doc Smith was a good medic. I pray he remains a great family man. We fought another kind of war to regain our footing Stateside.

Flashback on Division Standdown

The Currahhees served most of the first year living up to their namesake… We Stood Alone. During my last 100 days we were pulled back to the division for a rare brief standdown.

I took a chance of finding my best buddy from the Geronimos (501st Airborne Infantry). Christopher Smith aka DZ was operating with their long range recon patrol unit.

As I approached the unit, I got the typical airborne welcome. The all stared at me thinking, “What the hell are you in my face for? I don’t know you.” That is typical of combat troops.

Your world begins to shrink from the battalion to the company and finally the platoon…for.some their squad. You can’t really love the whole world, but you can love your world. Troopers grow close to the men they: eat with, sleep with, fight with, and hurt with. We didn’t do anything at all more than a stone’s throw away from each other.

But I was no longer a Geronimo. I couldn’t read any of the ashen faces…I didn’t care to. Without pushing into their space I said, “Got to see Doc Christopher Smith. Tell him it’s his stateside friend Thompson.”

They never said a word. Soon DZ appeared out of nowhere. He was damned glad to see me, but he held back because his homies couldn’t quite figure out what this was about.

DZ quickly relaxed and got into his big brother routine. He couldn’t believe that I had looked him up, instead of hanging with my own unit.

Christopher questioned, “How long you been on line?” I replied about six months. He rejoined, “They are pulling me back…I’ve got my full six! It’s nothing but the rear for me now until I rotate.” (I would pull a full eight months on line. Six months were required, with an expectation of a 50% casualty rate.)

He looked at my collar and saw the Sp/5 tags. He shook his head and smiled like a proud brother. We had been busted stateside for ‘failure to repair.’ We had some great times in lieu of our stripes. He would return home a Sp/4. We were really the same rank…brothers. Seemed like the hell raisers were the best combat troops. DZ was the best of both worlds.

DZ gave me a lecture just before I left. He told me to keep my ass in one piece. I told him that I would hang tight in a good platoon. Just before I turned to walk away, I looked him in the eyes to say, “Glad you made it! See you stateside.”

My own world grew strangely small. I cared about: Doc Lovy, the medics, and that platoon I served with. The only exception was a tall lanky Geronimo by the name DZ. I walked away to find my own men. They knew me.

Currahhees…true to my word, I would look up DZ stateside. What I would see then…tore me up deeply.

Flashback on a Snap

Winding down a search and destroy mission, we got an unusual order. There were strays from a military engagement heading our way. We were told to string out in a line to net them in.

We always circled the wagons by nightfall. A circular perimeter was the choice defense, whether you formed as a platoon, company or battalion. It kept life simple: those on the inside are presumed friendly, shoot anything that moves outside the perimeter.

Stringing into a line meant your front and backside where both unsecure. It also left a tiny doubt about the right and left. I just didn’t like it. This was just one of those crazy nights in Vietnam.

The radio man and I built a nice low poncho hooch. We could see 360 degrees on the prone. We both left nothing to chance.

We set up just before the evening monsoon rain. We were sleeping dry tonight. That sure helped us get some sense of rest. I turned in early.

The RTO tapped me for watch. This wasn’t just radio watch; we were peering through the rain for movement, straining our ears for the slightest sound. Those enemy strays could walk right up on our position.

About 10 minutes into my watch, I heard a loud snap. It happened while I was outstreached, reaching for something. I was on hands and toes, now peering intently toward that snap.

I frequently say that I am from Maine. I grew up hunting deer, in all kinds of inclement weather. Rarely will a large animal snap a branch…unless completely startled. However, it would take a weighty being to snap a branch that loud, especially soaked in the wet rain. My military mind thought it must be the escaping enemy heading our way.

Without moving more than a slight of hand, I secured my weapon and flipped it on automatic. I remained on one hand and toes. I didn’t move nor speak, for fear that I would compromise our own position. A short burst from my M16 would pretty well sum up the situation anyways. The intensity made the time fly. When I woke up the radioman, I was already ten minutes into his watch.

He asked if I had overslept. I told him about the noise in front of us. He acknowledged and took over staring into the drizzle. I hit the sack…knowing he was a good soldier.

Currahees…that snap was real and it was damned close. I will never know the source of that sound…we were always one misstep away from eternity. We relied on each other, as if our lives depended on it. They did.

Flashback with Both Boots

There are orthodox ways of waging war, that prove so predictable. The unorthodox often yields the greater military success. Our unit grew to like the unorthodox.

We sat up ambushes in the most unlikely places, especially at night. One night we stopped on a trail, leaving the high ground completely undefended. Our plan was to see what might come around the bend.

No one in their military mind would position themselves in that spot. That is exactly what made our ambushes work. I grew quite comfortable with our unpredictable ways.

Other than radio watch, I didn’t have a care in the world. That is, with the exception of my feet. Jungle rot was pervasive. It just didn’t seem right for a medic to have…the rot.

During monsoon season it was impossible to keep your feet dry. All we could do was change socks and powder our feet for temporary relief. Dry feet remained a losing battle. Wet feet eventually rot.

I took off one boot and smelled the telltale odor. The rot was just mildly ulcerous, but it had a good start. So I quietly attended to my foot. There is no way I could face other medics with a bad case of jungle rot.

The other foot turned out to be my next patient. It looked about as bad as the first. I decided to leave both boots off for the night, to let them air out. Fresh air is medicinal.

I put my boots next to my M16 rifle. I carried a bi-pod in my ruck sack and would attach it to the M16 at night. Raised from the ground, I could quickly grab my weapon in the dead of the night.

The only thing that discomforted me was the shale-like rock underfoot. It was a bit hard to lay on. It would be nigh  impossible to run on those rocks with bare feet.

I had to rest before my turn at radio watch. Ambushes were much like fishing; the fish don’t always bite. Patience is a virtue on an ambush. My two major concerns were my radio watch turns and my feet; the ambush would take care of itself.

With all my gear in order, I went into a deep sleep. My rest must have been due to those pampered feet. It was just then that all hell broke loose! A claymore went off over my head. However, claymore anti-personnel mines are low to the ground. It was then that I realized I was sleeping on a slope. The contact came from that undefended high ground.

We were platoon sized, at about thirty men. I couldn’t tell if we had caught a fish or a whale. I could tell you the bullets started flying! Within my two second rule, I secured: my helmet, M16,  and my medical bag. There were shouts, rifle fire both ways, grenades and or claymores in the mêlée. However, I was ready.

It was then that I felt strangely naked. Rocks began to cut at my  bare feet. Where to hell are my boots…both boots! I had never ever slept with even one boot off. I found them in the pandemonium and tried my best to secure them to my feet. I was thanking God that no one had cried medic, but that wouldn’t last long in a firefight like this! Once my puppies were secure…I regained my sanity. Now I was truly readied for anything.

However, the firefight ended abruptly. We heard a man moaning up the hill. He wasn’t one of mine. We stayed put until early light. A squad crept up the hill toward the now faint moans. I was called, once the wounded enemy soldier was secured. (As I remember, this one made it back to the rear and survived.)

We also secured an added bonus…an anti-aircraft gun! The small unit must have been dog tired carrying that gun up the hill…only to run headlong into us! I was far more interested in the enemy gun, rather than our captive. I had never been close to an anti-aircraft gun. However, both were shipped off expeditiously. That turned out to be a very productive ambush.

Currahees…a mission was always deemed successful, in my mind,  when all thirty men returned unharmed from the field. My feet eventually healed (under my own medical care). However, I can tell you that I never ever slept with those boots off again. I don’t like feeling naked in a firefight!

Drinking Out of a VC Sewer

It’s amazing how the enemy could avoid contact in seemingly open areas. We were on search and destroy operation in the flatlands. With no enemy contact, we settled near a large stream.

I remember this as the hot dry season. However, this stream provided an abundant water supply. Some men waded into the water to beat the incessant heat.

We received food rations, but the water was apparently waived off due to our natural supply. Everyone dutifully made use of their water purification tablets; these proved effective in far worse water  sources.

Our unit operated in this sector at full company strength. This gave me a rare opportunity to catch up on small talk with the other medics. My senior aid man informed me that a soldier was experiencing abdominal problems; a water sample had been sent to the rear for analysis.

The next day it was confirmed that our water source was heavily contaminated with human feces. We were pulled back to LZ Betty, our main base camp.

We were placed on a medical stand down for five days. Our full company was treated preemptively for dysentery.

It may sound gross, but we were not shot at for five days. That means there were no wounds…no deaths for five straight days in a row. We had an unexpected reprieve from the war.

Currahees…you know our ‘friends’ were camped out upstream from us. With five days of medication, we returned to the field to render our enemy a taste of their own medicine!