Flashback…on a Hero’s Advice

Sgt. Phillip Chassion giving a briefing. Photo credit to Robert C. Lafoon

Infantry instruction would normally be a hardsell to medics. Like any typical paratrooper, we thought our personal mission was the ‘be all end all’ of the army. We were airborne medics. Is there anything better than that?

However, the instructor was none other than Sargeant Chassion. He was a combat veteran and mastermind of our newly formed long range recon platoon. Sgt. Chassion was in effect a living legend. He also hailed from New England, my own home of record. Need I say anything more?

We were well enroute to Vietnam aboard the vintage troopship USS General Wm. Weigel. Sgt. Phillip Chassion would speak from personal experience on how to thrive and survive the hostility. I pushed as far forward as I could, to hear every word.

His talk was convincing. He tried to encourage us by stating the army had put up some additional money and resources to insure our readiness. He said we were one of the best prepared units to set foot on Vietnamese soil. We would do well.

What struck me most was the conclusion of his talk…those final reluctantly stated thoughts. During a long pause, he chose these words carefully…

“I may not be the best qualified to say this, but I feel strongly that this is important. If you have a faith, keep it. You will need it in these coming days.”

Sgt. Chassion wasn’t selling religion nor taking the chaplain’s place. He knew that we looked up to him and wanted us to give credence to our personal sources of inner strength.

Those ending comments encouraged me to hold on to my own faith. We would soon see things that defied any loosely held notions. Everything we thought we knew would be totally challenged.

Within weeks…we lost friends. We lived in constant danger of both life and limb. We killed and destroyed. We were there to win a war. We learned firsthand that war is truly hell.

I saw a lot of men speak a quick prayer on the fly. If nothing else…’God help me’ works pretty well. Sometimes an expletive was thrown into the prayer. In hindsight, those prayers were just as genuine and valid as any others. I truly believe in the Divine care of soldiers, on both sides of the battlefield.

Sgt. Chassion was killed Feb. 2, 1968. We lost a great one…of many great ones. Although not in his proximity at death, I mourned his loss upon hearing the news that eventunally spread throughout the unit. A remarkable 34 year old leader made his way into eternity. Military families also serve, Sgt. Chassion was married with three children.

Currahees…as a returning veteran, I am sure that Sgt. Chassion knew firsthand the loss of friends. If we were fortunate enough to live…he knew full well we would be living with the burden of our own losses. We did and we are to this very day. The words still ring true now, “If you have a faith, keep it. You will need it.”

Slow salute…First Sargeant Phillip R. Chassion.

Flashback on Grace

Even the heartless army had grace. The word grace means unmerited favor, at least in religious realms. I experienced it just one time in my military life.

We supposedly had a 24 hour grace period at the end of our leaves. I never tested that. My dad was strict regarding my thoughts of coming home. I still remember the first time he meticulously checked my leave papers. He laid down the rule, “Don’t come home without proper leave papers! Always return to your unit on time.”

I got the point that he would disown me for being AWOL…absent without leave. He knew that I would have homesick days. He kindly stated, “I will personally take you to the military police.” Yes, those were his exact words! He believed in honoring commitments.

My friend Christopher Smith and I went home at the same time. He lived in Pennsylvania and I lived in Maine. We split somewhere in Ohio to complete our personal journies. I was surprised when we landed back at our barracks at the same time.

Smith aka DZ asked me, “Did you sign in?” I replied to the negatative. Being my big brother he barked, “Get your butt down to charge of quarters!”

I got off my lazy butt and headed down the stairs to the CQ. However, I had this moment of brilliance. I asked the CQ, “Do I have a grace day?” He quipped that I had to sign in before midnight tomorrow on this set of leave papers.

DZ never gave it a thought to ask of my progress, when I returned to bunk out for the night. The travel made us both weary. We both slept pretty soundly.

Our assistant platoon sargeant graciously greeted us the following morning with, “Get to hell out of the bunk troops…leave is over.” I snapped off my bunk.

DZ calmly remained in his prone position. Sarge said, “I am not repeating myself Smith.” DZ replied, “I got grace.” Sarge asked, “Did you sign in last night?” DZ said, “Yes.” (He probably should have said, ‘Yes, Sargeant.’) Sarge said, “Leave is officially over when you sign in. No grace Smith. Get your ass out of bed!”

By then DZ knew he was had. I stiffened as Sarge glanced back at me. He barked, “Did you sign in Thompson?” I responded, “No Sargeant.” He advised me to make myself scarce. I knew how to do that with great proficiency.

Showered and spiffy in my civilian clothes, I exited the barracks. I peeked into the kitchen window and spied my buddy DZ. Apparently Sarge found something for DZ to do, on his first day back.

I dutifully drew close to the window to ask DZ how it was going. He narrowed his eyes to say, “If you don’t get out of my face, I will beat your ass.” I smiled and replied, “Grace.”

Currahees…I had a fabulous day goofing off. I didn’t sign in until about 2100 hours. Had time to see DZ as he recovered from all those pots and pans. However, I didn’t push my luck that night. We learned a practical lesson about the fine points of grace that day.

Does the Uniform Make the Soldier?

The men looked sharp for inspection. My father served as a drill instructor at Ft. Benning. Unlike other career soldiers, he didn’t take it home to his children. We saw another side of him at home. But this day was all army.

The men fell out and entered the barracks. My dad let me hang out with the trainees. It was then that I heard one trainee’s profound statement, “You only think you know the army…until you wear the uniform.”

Years later I was issued my own set of fatigues. On my first full day I was assigned to kitchen police aka KP. We were awakened before the other men. Upon arrival I was given my very first military assignment…directly behind the kitchen. The E5 wore a crisp white uniform. He pointed at some large garbage cans and curtly ordered, “Clean them.”

I didn’t join the army to clean a bunch of garbage cans. These cans were literally covered with raw garbage. Stunned, I just nodded my head in assent.

The sargeant dissappeared. It was just me and those garbage cans on a dark lonely morning. I was paralyzed with fear. I stood there looking at the daunting task.

Well before sunrise, the Sarge returned. My body remained in the exact position as when he left me…the cans also took up their original repose. It was a technical standoff.

Sarge barked, “Did I not make myself perfectly clear?” I nodded in assent. “Do you think you can disobey an order soldier?” I nodded to the negative. My eyes betrayed my best military stance, as the tears began to silently flow.

He inquired briskly, “How old are you troop?” I responded, “Seventeen sargeant, I just turned seventeen. I don’t know how to clean a garbage can. But, I am sure that I could Sargeant.”

Sarge assured me that he had given me the best detail on KP. He grabbed a can and a power sprayer to wet the can. He filled a small pail with soapy water and loosened the contents of the first can, with that mighty brush. He finally blasted the can with a good rinse. It shined inside and out…squeaky clean. Turning, he asked, “Can you handle that private?” I quickly assured him that I could do that. Sarge disappeared again.

That power hose could make mince meat out of that garbage. I started knocking them out, one can at a time. They all shined, just like the one the sargeant showed me. This job was easy.

My father was deployed almost all of my early teen years. There were lots of father-son things that I missed in being a military dependent. But I didn’t want to be returned home by failing to adjust to military standards. I had to grow up at warp speed to wear the uniform.

By the time Sarge returned, every last can was spotless. He looked at them with a glimmer of pride, as I stood tall before him. After his nod I asked, “What would you like me to do now Sargeant?”
He replied, “Follow me.”

He led me to the serving line and told the trainees, “Give him all the chow he wants to eat.” He then pointed at the table where I would chow down. It was one one the best plates I ever ate in this man’s army.

Just before I finished eating, Sarge returned. He said, “Your KP is finished. If anyone asks you, tell them that I said to take the day off. You did a good job soldier. If they question that, have them call me.”

I was already finished work as the sun came up! I spent the day in leisurely fashion. We would move out for basic training in the morning.

Currahees…I obviously learned a lesson that solitary morning. Most jobs are not half as hard as they look. I thereafter tackled many new projects and learned by doing.

I also saw a rare form of leadership. The Sarge could have disciplined me, but he instead sized me up. He led by example. He also generously rewarded genuine effort.

My intention was to wear my uniform to be just like my Dad. The uniform didn’t immediately make me a soldier. But I wore that uniform daily…to face whatever tasks it demanded. Over time, the uniform’s duties made the soldier.

In the end, I didn’t wear the uniform for my Dad; I wore the uniform for myself. I also wore it in respect of the men that I served with, those who served before me…and for those who serve now. The uniform shaped us all.

Monsoons

My weather experiences in Vietnam boiled down to: hot and dry, or cold and wet. It was hard to believe that cold in a tropical climate like Vietnam. 

Our first mountain probes reminded me of the many freezing nights in the fields of Ft. Campbell KY. However, we were equipped for the cold stateside.

The thick moisture laden clouds rolled in every night to soak our clothes and poncho liners. Then the temperature would drop about 40 degrees. Young disciplined bodies can adapt. But there was no adapting to soaking wet cold! Sleep was minimal with rotating watch. We lived tired and wet in those mountains.

In the lowlands our sky was devoid of anything but American military aircraft. The days were hot and the ground impervious. Entrenching tools bounced off the dirt, as if hitting cement.

Troops jettisoned their nonessentials quickly. Everything you owned was on your back. It was no surprise that most tossed their ponchos. We slept in the open, wrapped in our nylon liners. Our backs adapted to sleeping on that hard soil.

One day I heard a troop exclaim he had spotted a cloud. I looked up to eventually see a wisp of cloud. It was like trying to locate a small feather,  flying in the wind. Someone else spotted it shouting, “There it is!” We could sometimes make so much about nothing, as a welcomed distraction.

Each day the wisp grew bigger, eventually forming into a real cloud. The war kept our attention on the ground. But I would look up occasionally. The cloud became clouds. As time passed I saw layers…then more layers upon layers of cloud. The whole blue sky filled with massive formations of clouds.

Those clouds began to darken. There was talk of the monsoon season. The tropics seem to go from one extreme to the other. However, our eyes were fastened to the ground for far more urgent threats.

Finally the clouds, weighted down with moisture, let loose its burden. It started as a trickle. Then the bottom literally fell out. All God’s children have heard the story of Noah’s Ark. I have some inkling of what life looked like outside the ark.

I had never seen such heavy rain, nor seen it since. The parched ground soaked it up for a while…then gave it up in massive puddles. I sat my butt on my helmet to take a break. Soon there was water everywhere!

Somebody cried out, “Whose got a bar of soap?” The laughter was pretty general amongst all those dirty grunts… including me. My unit went 45 days without a shower or a change of clothes, in one stretch. The rain felt good. The temperature didn’t fall as much at night in the lowlands.

Most of us didn’t have our ponchos. If you didn’t carry it…you lived without it. We were issued ponchos on our next supply chopper (a couple of days later.)

The rain didn’t stop at first. Finally it set a pattern of raining and threatening to rain. On a good day, we would make a hooch with those new ponchos…tying the hood to any convenient branch. They could sleep two, with the other poncho laid for a ground cloth.We built them low, but with visibility 360°. This was no Boy Scout trip. A firefight always happened when you least expected it.

We often pushed too far and the rains would set in. That meant we would sleep wet. I remember one day we pushed well into the early evening rains. I couldn’t see much of the terrain, but managed to back my ruck up against a tree. My head found rest on that ruck. The rain felt refreshing on my eyes and face. The sun woke me in the morning in the exact same position…no one woke me for radio watch. I had a great sleep still attached to my ruck sack!

I remember how easy it was to dig a foxhole. Problem was…it soon became a swimming pool. I prayed that the rain would stop at 3/4s full so I could breathe if I really needed it! The torrential rains also gave us some pretty close calls with the enemy…close enough to surprise each other!

On my last memorable monsoon night, I managed to build a hooch before the rain. It looked like a pretty good spot on some slightly elevated ground. It felt so good to sleep dry…until I felt the first trickle run across my back. With darkness, my position was committed for the night. My spot turned into a regular stream bed. I had to lay my head inside my helmet. Sleeping in running water was a true test of military adaptation. Let’s just say that I remember it to this day!

Currahees…it’s fun to remember those common experiences now. Back then…it was all part of that survival package. We learned to deal with it.
 

Flashback on Regrets

Not many combat vets leave the field without at least one regret. Significant decisions are made in split seconds. An innocent screw-up can cost lives. I did not go completely unscathed.

My regret stemmed from a typical fire fight. The engagement was intense, but short and sweet. We came out of it with no one killed and no serious injuries. Everyone was still pumped with adrenaline. But I felt relief in not having to deal with a medical crisis…at least until the next hostile contact.

A trooper came up to me with a minute break in his skin…small enough that he literally had to point it out. He stated that some rounds had grazed his position; one round may have hit the metal on his gear…creating a secondary fragment.

I put something on it to prevent infection and covered it with a bandaid. (It paled against the multitude of battle dressings we commonly used.) He said it stung. I noted that.

There was no visible reason to immediately evacuate him. However, I asked him to do two things. First, let me see him if anything about it changed. Then I asked him to remind me of the incident as soon as we returned to the rear; I would personally take him to the aid station.

Time flew by. The return to base camp didn’t materialize. I eventually transferred out and ended up in a different company, different platoon.

My tour finally ended. The original Currahees were all rotating out at the same time. I saw the trooper on my very last day at base camp. He actually called me out to confront me.

He had volunteered to extend his tour as a helicopter door gunner. They took an xray and discovered a small fragment; he did not pass their flight examination.

Our medical team was disbanding. The window for documentation had passed. I listened to his frustration sincerely. I honestly felt bad for him. A thought crossed my mind that he never reminded me…but I had lost that memory after several more firefights. I just sucked it up and let him vent.

Currahees…in hindsight, I should have radioed a message to the aid station to document a possible secondary fragment. They would have noted the incident and found some routine means of follow up.

Now I see that a trooper also missed a purple heart and probably had major issues with the Veteran’s Administration with medical claims. Of all the decisions I made…this was my own personal bad call. Living with a mistake is not easy. I honestly think that was the only one… but I wish it had never happened.

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.