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!

Flash Back on Carrying Water

There were two routine maintenance questions from new men in the field. The first question was, “How deep do I need to dig my foxhole?” The stock answer was usually, “You will know.” Hence, they dug much deeper after the first firefight. Of course the squad leaders would insist on the minimum before a solid standard became instilled. No one needed much prodding once a foxhole became that personal life saving haven.

The second question centered around the number of water canteens needed. We counted upon a three day cycle for supplies. Typically six canteens per day proved adequate. We would walk away from resupply burdened with three days of chow and a camel’s portion of water.

Every man was expected to carry what he needed…particularly water. Only a real friend would share water on the third day…because the giver had paid a three day price carrying it. Running out of water proved as self evident slothfulness or at least demonstrated a lack of personal discipline.

One night we received confirmation of resupply the following morning. I felt confident to heat up some dehydrated food for a real evening splurge. That meal took all but my last canteen. Life was good.

Morning arrived with ugly news. We would resupply late that evening. I was down to one last canteen. We packed up for one long hot day’s march.

I noted a 11B opening a dehydrated spaghetti dinner…munching on it dry for breakfast. Most infantryman bear minimum watching. This 11B seemed to be high maintainance.

My thoughts were devious as I watched him eat that spicy dehydrated food. The spaghetti would lust for his remaining body fluids throughout this long day. How could someone not think of the dire consequences?

It was then that his squad leader interrupted his demise with a few choice cuss words, directed at his IQ level. Then the squad leader turned to give me an evil stare, to wipe the obvious grin off my face. It was time to move out.

I sipped instead of drinking. I ran out of water about two hours after the high sun had crested. All our internal thermostats were over heating.

We marched on for another four hours. It was pure discipline to put one foot in front of the other. About two hours into the final push I heard, “Take a swig of water Doc.” I took a disciplined taste. I gave a hearty, “Thank you.”

I learned that afternoon that a canteen in the hand is worth a dozen in the resupply chopper. I made a mental note to add a few canteens to my ruck. Actually, I started using water bladders, which seemed to lay closer, to balance the load, as I walked.

From that day forward, I carried a four day supply of water. I always had extra for that new man…who hadn’t figured out that resupply isn’t always clockwork.

Currahees…I still grin thinking about my spaghetti man. He made it. He paid a dear price. He should be grateful for a good squad leader.

The End of the Currahee Trail

An unwise decision landed me in hard times. I sometimes describe it by saying, “I died on February 29th, 2012. Life radically changed. A man with much promise crashed. A demon  returned to visit me periodically…to unbalance my life. This instance seemed fatal.

My education and life experience provided much of the technical information needed. I knew what I needed to do…I just didn’t care any more. I lost the will to move forward. A few people stood relentlessly by my side. They believed when I couldn’t believe. I survived, but that is still not a life. I needed something that was missing, to move forward.

My Daughter strongly encouraged me to establish my Social Security retirement. She also persuaded me to enroll at the Dayton Ohio VA. They asked me when I had seen them last. I said, “1970.” Those were the days before computers.  My former VA relationship had been under the radar. The admissions officer kindly said, “Welcome home.” I was issued a VA card. My basic safety net was complete.

I sought out Doc Mark Jones and Doc Tom Lundgren and Battalion Surgeon Dr. Andrew Lovy. Each holds a certain level of communication expertise. Two you call. One hangs out on Facebook. I carried their phone numbers in my cellphone. They were available 24/7. My phone was a lifeline for months at a time. Currahees do not leave Currahees. We come back together, or we just don’t come back. This fact remains true almost 50 years later. These three were also members of the medical team. Doc Lovy is our Patriarch… who  sourced all of our  life giving abilities. Dr. Lovy is still larger than life to this day.

When I heard that Dr. Lovy would attend the 101st Airborne Association meeting, I needed to see him in person. Due to the lateness of this information, my registration was fraught with problems. A former infantryman, by the name of Mike Krawczyk, heard that I was one of Doc Lovy’s medics. We had some brief email exchanges. Mike finally said, “Call me.” I did. Then Mike said, “You come, just come. I will work out all the details.” So, I did. Without that push of encouragement, the real healing process would not have started. In the end, I needed to be with my Currahees again. Nothing could replace that. A few beers and a few stories brought me many more friends. However, they all looked older than the young warriors I knew in 1968.

My daughter, Stephanie Thompson Smith, influenced her DAR chapter to invite me to a state luncheon honoring Vietnam vets. Within a couple of more weeks from my reunion,  I attended a very gracious meeting with the Ohio Daughter’s of the American Revolution. They are grand patriots in their own right.

During the family holidays of 2015 I spent much time alone. Something compelled me to start my story on a WordPress blog. Writing brings much healing and personal closure. Writing ignites a spark of life with me. Lt. John E Harrison provided some great examples of our Currahee story. He encouraged me to write; he kept on encouraging me to write. If you look at my blog…you will see many other Currahees backed me in similar fashion. In the end, its our story. We Stand Alone…together.

On February 19, 2016, I took my place with other Currahees at the Vietnam Wall. They have faithfully upheld this tradition for many years.  I had slept in my car in 21 degree weather to join them. (Thank God for a great sleeping bag.) We remembered our fallen. We then had a few beers and shared many stories. Most of these men were from A Company.

It was during these conversations that I could connect some dots. I actually shared some months in Vietnam attached to these very men. I also knew with certainty that I had spent some of that time under Lt. John E. Harrison.

Currahees…only Currahees have the power to truly say, “Welcome home.” There is much more peace in my heart, in returning to my unit.  We Stand Alone…together.

 

 

Togus Veteran’s Administration Hospital

It was hard to escape the war. It was hard not to watch the war’s progress on television. A malaria attack personalized the war again for me. Vietnam veterans were just entering the system. We brought with us some fresh problems. The Togus VA hospital provided much care to my older step brother, who served as a WWII Navy vet. I had visited there with him on numerous occasions. It was located at our capital city of Augusta, Maine.

I liked the thoroughness of their care. The VA practiced preventative medicine. The follow up care was exceptional, relative to my military experiences. They admitted you for a week at a time for complete care. Once the malaria was checked, I made one additional appointment.

My adjustment to civilian life seemed to be less than successful. I needed to talk with someone about my issues. Most of the staff had no direct military experience. However, I thought that someone might be trained about lagging military issues.

The appointment with the psychiatrist was brief. He asked me if I had seen combat. He asked me about my transition into civilian life. For a few minutes, the conversation seemed helpful. Then he looked squarely at me and asked, “Are you crazy?”

I had seen the psych ward floors by accident. The far away stares are hard to miss. The drooling and mismanaged body functions were hard to process…even for a hardened vet. The psychiatrist didn’t know what he triggered. I either had to jump across that desk, or remove myself from the premises.  I sucked it up and left.

That was early 1970. I didn’t return to a VA facility until about 2013, in shear desperation. For 43 years I managed the best I could.

Currahees…the war never went away…it just hid in the shadows.

Outprocessing – Fort Dix

Two years and nine months ago I entered the Army at Ft. Dix. I remember wearing a crew cut and sneakers, as a 17 year old high school dropout. I promised my Dad that I would obtain a GED and come home honorably. With promises fulfilled, I prepared to come home, one month before my 20th birthday.

My holding barracks was two doors down from the exact location where I first slept in this man’s army. I ventured to that very first barracks that evening. The young recruits still occupied the building. I sat with a few men my age. Humbly, I explained that I had just rotated back. I had one brief piece of advice, “Gentleman, the training will keep you alive. You will most likely make use of it. Please stake your life on what you will learn.” I think my tone established their interest. For almost three years I held the mission to save lives. Perhaps that conversation saved one of those young men from a needless body bag.

After confirming that I was not reenlisting, my name was placed with those given a rapid exit strategy. I was given a brief physical. I answered questions in a manner to be discharged as soon as possible. I would go nuts if held for long in a holding barracks.

They issued me a Class A uniform. All was well until they asked me about shoes. I said, “Paratroopers do not wear shoes.” The supply man asked, “Were you a paratrooper?” I replied, “Give me my God damned jump boots!” I walked out of there with my Class A dress uniform…wearing a pair of boots.

Currahees…I never saw so many hundred dollar bills before, that were placed in my hand. I boarded the bus for home.

Outprocessing – Vietnam

Pinch me. It all happened so fast! I stopped by the Aid Station to check in with Sgt. Martin. It was time to finally get rid of all my canteens! I wouldn’t need them any more. Sgt. Martin took my syrettes of morphine…my only controlled substance. To keep life simple, Sgt. Martin told me to just drop my ruck sack and they would scavenge what they needed.

Sgt. Martin showed me where I was on the list for a Bronze Star. Between Phan Thiet and Division Headquarters my name was deleted from the list. Some rear area officer needed to be added. Trust they wore it proudly. Most of us who put our lives on the line were largely unsung. We lived…that is good enough.

I had been a Currahee  for 18 months. The chopper flight to the division base camp began the process of disconnection. Literally hundreds of paratroopers were incoming and outgoing; it was a mass of confusion. I thought I would be happy…I grieved a serious loss.

I ran into two people I knew at the 101st Division Headquarters. The first I knew from the Christian Serviceman’s Center in Clarksville TN. He took my records and told me to meet him at the same exact location in the morning; he would hand carry my processing himself. On the one hand I was treated as a VIP; on the other hand, I lost complete contact with my Currahees. It would be decades before I saw them again.

The second soldier was from my old unit, the 2/501st Infantry, the Geronimos. He startled me…because he was startled. After he got his breath, he said, “Thompson, I swear I saw your name on the Killed In Action list!” I told him I was very much alive. Perhaps some other Thompson bought it this tour and went home in one of those damned bags. He shared that a large portion of the men we both knew didn’t make it.

The next day, with all my completed  paperwork in hand, I boarded a plane bound to the States. We spent hours on the commercial plane. We had a quick layover in Japan. We flew to Seattle and were quarantined because someone had an unspecified fever on the flight. I first stepped on United States soil at  McGuire AFB en route to Fort Dix.

Currahees…I had one thing on my mind. My mission was to go home, with no thoughts of returning.

 

Replacement

It was just another typical day somewhere in Vietnam. I remember being bedded down in the foliage, as we awaited the resupply chopper. The rain forest provided some protection from the incessant heat. My water and chow were low. Resupply cycled every three days. Each resupply gave our position away to the enemy. I always had some water left. Drinking  was most important for staying in shape; food absorbed body fluids and became a lesser priority in lean times.

The unmistakable chopper sound dispelled any fear of not being supplied today. I had my canteens at the ready for the refill. All was quiet; all was well.

A young man jumped off the chopper. The helmet liner, the jungle fatigues, the boots were all new. The cherry reported to the Lieutenant for duty. It was then that I spied the brand new medical bag. LT motioned for me. LT said, “Here is your replacement Doc.” I shook the lieutenant’s and the platoon sergeant’s. Their silent expressions, of a job well done, was good enough. There wasn’t enough time to say much to anyone else.

I turned to the new medic. I spoke privately, “Do you need anything?” I knew he was as green as his uniform. He replied, “Not a thing.” I responded, “Good luck.” He would figure it out…eventually. It was time to get my crap and jump on that resupply chopper. We lifted off towards basecamp.

The wind fell full force on my face. I felt like I was flying…half way out of the chopper. I remembered my first flight. I didn’t dare to get within two feet of the door.  I knew that I was now an experienced soldier. But I was taking my experienced butt home.

Currahees…it was strange how abruptly my tour ended. Instead of getting nailed by the enemy, I got hit by the words…you’re being replaced. ‘Thank you Jesus!’

Mountain Fog

Phan Thiet had been secured for some time since the Tet Offensive of 1968. Eventually we pursued to farther and farther reaches. The mountains held promise, as the enemy retrenched  there to fight another day. We brought the fight to them…always keeping them on the run.

My eyes gazed over the terrain, as we flew there towards evening. From the air the sight has the appearance of a 3D map. My greatest fear was of being overrun by a much larger force. [That thought never left me since being surrounded on a recon mission.] I viewed these countless ridges that all looked alike. It would be impossible to navigate intelligently without a compass. If we were overrun, escape would be complex.

Our landing proved to be without incident. We moved quickly away from the landing zone. Our air assault could be seen for miles. All was well as darkness soon enveloped us. It was then the heavy fog began to rise into the lower mountain ridges in waves,  like an evening returning ocean tide.

A sniper fired from a dark recess. Our men responded in turn. He was baiting us. The sniper knew this area and all of its advantages. The sniper fired several intermittent shots. He was on the move. I prayed the troops would not take the bait.

It was then that I thought more on that fog…rising to  engulf us. In my mind I heard, ‘If anyone is wounded, we can’t get them out until the fog lifts in the morning.’ That could keep a wounded man eight full hours in pain. Our medical successes were largely due to rapid evacuations; that could not happen this night.

Fear arose with the dense fog. I had been shot at too many times. In the eerie quietness of the fog…I just wanted to go home.  It was the same old crap, different day. So I prayed. I really prayed, “God, please get me out of here.”

Currahees…most would admit fear during some part of their tour. I couldn’t see going back in a body bag, not after a full tour. The thick night fog protected us from that sniper.

Grenade!!!

Two groups of people were often killed. The new guys were on a survival learning curve. The short timers lost their edge thinking of home. Typical to the latter, I experienced my closest brush with death, within weeks of return.

Two of our companies converged near a village. The residential area stood barely in sight. Our immediate area was open field and sparse trees affording some shade. With this feeling of safety, I began to let my guard down. A 24/7 diligence served to bring more soldiers home.

My own distraction was the two medics attached to the other company. Soldiers always seek out their own. I had a decent bond with these two. We were  all original ‘Boat People.’ We asked each other for news. We talked a bit tough about going home. I did note the position of the nearest foxhole.

An old man ambled slowly along the road on a bicycle.  Since the village was nearby, it made sense. Anywhere else, I would have put a rifle on him. As he neared…he smiled. I kept one eye on him. We continued the conversation. At about twenty feet away, he nonchalantly pulled  out a chicom grenade from his shirt, his smile morphing into a contemptuous smirk, and in one smooth motion, he tossed it toward our feet.  I cried, “Grenade!!!’

There is something arresting about a grenade being thrown in your direction. Now I kept one eye one the grenade; my other eye looked at the foxhole. My two eyeballs were conversing about where the grenade would land. I was committed to landing in the hole. However, I did not want to jump in, if the grenade plopped in there with me. I successfully landed unscathed and put my hands to my ears.

The grenade was a dud. I jumped out of that hole to chase that old man down. For all that open area, no old man nor bicycle could be found…he just disappeared into thin air. I lowered my M16, really disgusted with myself.

Currahees…I broke a lot of personal rules of engagement that day. We almost paid dearly. I’ll never forget the old man’s  unmasked hate. There was nothing innocent about Vietnam.