Kit Carson

Some captured enemy soldiers were repatriated to our side of the war. They proved themselves by fighting along side of American soldiers. They served as interpreters and advisors.  A small group of them remained with us for the duration. We all had our own favorites among them.

The Kit Carson I liked knew a woman in every village. He invited me to slip away with him on numerous occasions. I just laughed at him. It would be insane for me to venture about in Vietnam without knowing: the area, the language, or who was friendly. The most difficult thing was returning to our own perimeters, without being shot by our own men.However, this was both an offer and standing joke during the year. With forty-eight years behind us, his name slips my mind. I will call him Kit.

With my tour ending in weeks, I had a chance to share my future plans with him. We sat by the light of evening chow…while talking about the local girls I would never see. I told Kit that I planned to return to school after the military. He thought that was great and nodded in approval. Then I laid an unintended bombshell. I said, “Kit, I am going to buy a new car.” His face turned sullen as he retreated from me. I knew I had offended him.

Moving around to face him, I said, “What’s wrong Kit?” He replied, “You have never lied to me. Why start now? Who has money enough for a car?” I then slowly explained how we could gain access to a  car with partial money down and monthly payments. I told him most of the returning soldiers would do the same. In a war torn area…cash is king.  He began to consider my response. The mood of the evening lightened up.

I last saw Kit during a firefight near an old rubber plantation. We approached it from the open rice paddies. My senses told me we were going to get hit. When the enemy opened fire from the plantation thickets, Kit was within a few feet of them. They hit him in the foot and tried to finish him off. Kit crawled beneath their cover. They had to raise up to get a clear shot at him. We maintained  our fire to deny that clear shot. Sensing we had time to call in air support, the enemy hastily retreated. The jets arrived to confirm their nightmare. This engagement was over.

Several of us medics focused upon Kit. I asked for the honor of carrying him to the medevac. Kit was a bit nervous, but I could carry his 100 lb. carcass easily in my arms. After all, I had gained about 40 lbs. of muscle during my enlistment.

Sometimes the Vietnamese were stacked on the medevac floor, allowing the litters and seats for the Americans. I approached the flight medic with my man in hand. I said, “Hey, please take care of this one.” He replied in disbelief, “What?” I countered, “I am a doc. This man has served us for a year. Take special care of Kit…please!”

Currahees…I could care less about what people think of the war. What bothers me is what may have happened to Kit and so many others that faithfully believed in us. Some things are hard to leave behind.

 

Do You Want To Shoot One Doc?

You never know how well you fit with a platoon until you receive their feedback. If they called you Doc…that’s a pretty darn good clue. Platoons gel with extreme cohesiveness to function well. They quickly assessed everyone’s strengths and weakness. No weakness was acceptable in my primary function as a medic.

One particular ‘your in’ signal genuinely flattered me. A squad leader asked me if I wanted to participate in an ambush, as first shot. I said, “You want me to knock off the first guy?” He replied, “Yep, giving you the honor of the first shot Doc.” I thought, ‘Damn, that is quite the honor.’

I took my time, for a long minute. Squad leaders are used to quick responses. My roots dug deep into the woods of Central Maine. Country boys are noted as good shots. There was a high degree of certainty that a small band of enemy was headed directly toward us. I had never shot directly at an enemy target. When possible, I emptied a clip to support return fire…particularly when we moved in column formations. However, there were usually members of our unit between me and the war. Once a trooper was wounded, my total focus was medical.

Times up…decision time! I looked at him square in the eyes and replied respectfully, “I don’t know if I have spilt blood. I am short and would rather save lives. However, I would really like a ringside seat. I have never had a good view of our ambushes.” He nodded, “You will be up close and personal.”

With that we moved into our positions and waited. Three young men walked into the kill zone. Those low in the army hierarchy took on chores like fetching water. Their strapped weapons dangled wildly by their sides. They laughed while carrying their empty water containers. Once firmly inside the kill zone…the first shots fired. They missed!

I could have thrown a rock at them. I saw their faces turn to shear horror.  They high tailed like deer with the first round. All three deserved Olympic gold medals for the 500 meter. I can tell you that it would be pure luck to drop a man on his run for life. The boys disappeared in the thicket, followed by a thunder of discharging weapons.

Currahees…I have always been an advocate of making that first bullet count…versus throwing a hundred rounds. Too bad the three boys remained on their trail. Their uniforms made them soldiers. The Cobra attack helicopter found them about two minutes later…with a confirmed kill.

Medical Tent

Dedicated to the Medics of the 3/506th 1967-1968!

It was just another general purpose tent, erected over a wooden floor, near the aid station. What made it special were the men who belonged there. It was a haven for unassigned medics and those of us passing through for a few hours. If you didn’t wear a combat medical badge, you didn’t belong. Stay out!

We couldn’t cut loose in the field. The medical tent was our place to de-stress.  We had a lot of fun…it was  truly cool place to be. What went on in The Tent stayed there. When I made Sp/5, I became a bit worried that we were having too much fun. I truly desired to take my rank home to my Dad. However, the lure of The Tent was irresistible.

There are two gatherings that I will talk about. The first was  early 1967. Doc Mark Jones stood up and announced that two of our own had been killed. Due to our varied assignments within the battalion, we were not always privy to mourn our own. From that day forward, Doc Jones seemed to take the task of bad news bearer. Their names were mentioned once…we rarely spoke of them again…not until after the war. I breathed a sigh of relief in those gatherings, when Doc Jones didn’t stand up to make another pronouncement.

The second was near the end of tour, late summer of 1968. The medical tent was unusually full of medics. We would all return home soon…never to see each other again. We had almost made it, so the mood turned quite light hearted. An icy barrel of beer stood on my end of the tent. It was a glad time to know we had survived; it was sad knowing this was possibly our last stand down.

This was a night to shake the dust off a long year. I normally had one or two beers. When I popped the third can, Doc Jones grinned from ear to ear. He says, “You are drinking heavy now Thompson.” I replied, “We have a lot of beer here. Somebody’s got to do it.” The beer was truly icy cold and my mood turned pure festive. We did a lot of damage to that barrel full of beer.

When I saw nothing but ice floating, I got the great idea of sitting my butt in that barrel. Man, that water felt good. Jones looked up and said, “What do you think you are doing Thompson?” I said, “What does it look like Jones?” He replied, “You are going to pay for this in the morning Thompson.” Well, about that time the Chaplain’s Assistant came looking for me. He was my friend. In a blurred conversation, he took off. We had shared of faith and life together. Being shot at on a regular basis was an experience we didn’t share. I needed to forget…I drank until I had no memory.

Haven’t a clue as to how I got out of the barrel nor about the three steps needed to return to my bunk. A sergeant tapped me to wake up for morning formation. I tried to move a finger to no avail. I slept soaked. Someone had mercy to throw a blanket over me. I apologized to the sergeant and told him that I would gladly attend the next formation. My state was pretty obvious. Nothing was ever said.

Currahees…I pray that I didn’t offend the Chaplain’s Assistant. I think his name was Smitty.  I just needed one night to forget. However, I have never forgotten him

 

 

Field Morgue

We all deal with stress in different ways. My personal strategy was to delay dealing with many issues, to focus on the tasks at hand. Busy was always good. The rear area provided way too much time to think.

Field medics put wounded troops on medevacs. Once we robbed The Reaper, they were loaded on the chopper. Our job was done. That was the end of the story. I didn’t think about the permanent results of their injuries. I didn’t think about how their lives were inalterably changed.

I never thought about the dead. I never thought about parents, wives and other loved ones who would receive the remains and weep. These thoughts put you over the edge. A soldier can only take so much thinking. Put them on the chopper and wish them well, if they were still breathing. We would remember…later.

So I thought I was battle hardened. My tour was coming to a close. I heard that a friend had been killed in a helicopter crash. It felt right to go and pay my final respects. The field morgue was all too accessible to medics.

They gave my friend a promotion and some nice medals. The military shows reverence to their fallen. I watched as the mortician unzipped the body. It was him. I saw the big tag attached to his toe. I drew my gaze upwards to his face, noting the teeth marks where he screamed before impact. The silence was thick, until the mortician rezipped the bag, over his face, to the top of the bag, which cause me to gasp for my own breath. There were so many ways to die here.

I wasn’t ready. Clothes bag zippers still bother me to this day, as I remember that body bag being unzipped. A young man was alive…then he was gone. He just doesn’t come back. We couldn’t save them all.

Two weeks later I boarded the last chopper in a hasty exit. I see three heavy laden radio operators and way too many guys. We were definitely pushing the weight  limits of this chopper. The pilot eased through the triple canopy trees. The blades incessantly brushed the tree branches. Choppers usually move forward to increase their lift. This pilot navigated a forced straight up.

I saw what looked like a torque needle buried deep in the red. We couldn’t go up; we couldn’t go down. The pilot found some lift to ascend inches at a time. There was nothing more than pilot experience keeping this ship aloft.

The image of my deceased friend returned to me. I tried to keep my mouth shut. I would try not to scream…if we didn’t  make it. It was stupid thoughts. No one would ever know if I bit my tongue. Dead is dead. A mortician does his best, when The Grim Reaper wins.

The chopper cleared the final canopy, lumbering forward like a whale almost beached. We needed altitude to avoid small arms fire from any number of directions. Slowly, surely the pilot guided us up to cruise altitude. My body relaxed, but my head kept swirling in a canopy of dark memories. 

It was hard avoiding thoughts that I could return home soon, flying at amazing altitudes toward a peaceful place, where friends don’t die daily, to a place where it is safe to think. But for now, I need to concentrate, doing the things that brought me to this day, where I am still alive, still breathing.

Currahhees…we finally left with a duffle bag full of bad memories. The unprocessed load takes a lifetime of unpacking.

 

Fixed Target

A unit on search and destroy lusts for a fixed target. Our purpose was to find and engage the enemy sufficiently, to gain access to their position. Once we had their firm location, we could call in: artillery, Air Force or Army aviation. Smart units used all the available tools at their disposal.

The enemy knew this. They attacked quickly; they retreated abruptly. They played a game of beat the clock. Do the damage…leave before the fire support becomes effective. Often they used terrain to their advantage. Jungles and forests allowed for close engagement. The closer the enemy…the more difficult it became to call in effective fire support. The nightfall was the last common tool…to level the playing field.

We were ecstatic one day to engage a unit in an open rice field. It was broad daylight. Everything was in our favor. Our unit laid a barrage  of effective rifle fire. We could sense the kill, like a bloodhound. The North Vietnamese would normally return effective fire. These uniformed troops buried their faces behind the dikes. Now they couldn’t move without being shot.

A medic hasn’t much to do until someone is hit. However, I was close enough to enjoy this rare moment. I remember giving a thumbs up to a radio operator. All was well until we called in artillery support. Then the order came, “Cease fire!!!” A few sporadic shots were fired in the confusion. A firefight is like a wildfire, easy to start and hard to stop.  Finally the shooting desisted. I saw heads timidly appearing over the opposite dike.

We got the word that these were friendlies. Artillery somehow knew their position…we obviously didn’t. I saw the fear in their eyes. Several were wounded. Their fear turned to hate. This wasn’t a time to ask, “How are you doing?’ It was best to disengage and go our separate ways. I never turned my back on them.

I heard of great South Vietnamese military units. I never saw one. Most local friendlies guarded bridges from their hammocks. Their wives would be cooking, while their children played. We would drive by them in active pursuit of the enemy.

Currahees…two things converged that day. Contempt built against soldiers, as we fought their war. We had a fixed target. It was gasoline and fire. Our paratroopers left the field without a scratch.

Dalat

Mountains are particularly sweet in hotter climes. Dalat served as a relief with incessant cool summer breezes. The French left a particular stamp on the local architecture. In summary Dalat stood out as a summer resort. Yet, we were not there for rest and recuperation…we were on standby alert.

We sat on one of the many hillsides. I grasped the ambience with my eyes. It was truly a pleasant place. The villas were painted in an array of pastel colors. I thought about hanging out here a day or two. Within the hour, the disruptive call came.  The order to ‘Mount up’ served more to change our mindset; we were already readied. In less than 10 minutes the choppers arrived. A unit of the 173rd had run straight into an enemy basecamp. We would fly in to take the pressure off from them. I would never lay eyes upon Dalat again.

Time flies when your having fun. The day turned to dusk…the dusk to darkness. I was on the first wave. In the pitch darkness, we received orders to jump. The chopper pilot refused to land. (Welcome to Vietnam!) We took turns leaping from the runners. The pilot moved forward at a snail’s pace…to prevent us from landing on those who went before. This was truly Airborne without the parachute.

I leaped into the dark enemy territory by faith and training. Crazy was the norm. The ground strangely gave way beneath me. My first thoughts were that I had landed directly upon a tunnel system. I could feel my butt being stabbed by someone below me…but there was no one. My feet were deeply pinned and immobile. I  had breached the earth’s thin crust and had mired myself up to the armpits. My ruck sack had saved me from literally being swallowed up by the ground.

What do you do when literally pinned deep in enemy territory? My honest answer is…I don’t know. Once I realized that I was temporarily paralyzed from the chest down, I listened briefly for movement. Stark silence enveloped me. I put my M-16 on full automatic fire. I waited. If they spoke English…all was well. If they spoke Vietnamese…we were all going to hell.

Some unknown souls came by. I nonchalantly hailed them…with, “hello.” I was prepared to blow their butts away; I knew they were prepared to blow mine. I had enough sense not to startle them. God bless me….they spoke English! However, they cussed me out while trying to pull me out! I was a 200 lb. turnip rooted into the ground. Once freed, I realized that nothing was broken. We could focus upon that enemy  force lurking in our vicinity. The three of us wandered until we contacted the other troops in the squad.

Waves of choppers landed throughout the first half of the night. All God’s children knew that we were now loaded for bear. The main enemy forces scurried before we could make direct contact. However, I think we lost a troop or two in that rescue operation, from snipers. We did capture much equipment hastily left at the enemy basecamp. Our presence was sufficient for the enemy to cease from attacking our 173rd brothers. Overall, I counted it a good mission. None of my guys were hurt.

Currahees…we returned to a secure area. Senior members of the 173rd silently assembled at attention, on the ridge above us. We marched by. I took this as a thank you. I turned my head and saluted them.

The Thump of Mortars

No one likes 4th of July fireworks as much as I. But the initial hollow sounds of the discharging tubes still bring back the memories. Sounds get to me far more than images. It remains a struggle. Once the sky lights up pretty, I can reframe the experience.  The hollow thump takes me back to then…every time; the beautiful colors return me to now.

I first heard the first thump at LZ Betty, our basecamp in Phan Thiet. Everyone served on perimeter watch, to secure the basecamp.  The towers and bunkers had been firmly constructed long before we took over these positions. I felt uncomfortable in thinking the enemy must know this perimeter far better than we did. Then I heard the thump. The first mortar rounds went off. Yet they sounded random and ineffective. I realized the enemy didn’t know anymore than I. A crap shot would have the same random chance as a bolt of lightening.

We would fire flares behind them. The light would compromise their position. The enemy mortar teams would run off for another night. These proved repeat performances over time. Initially I served the perimeter with headquarters personnel. My later experiences were with the line units that rotated for a ‘rest’ in the rear. I could never figure out how we would rest pulling perimeter duty. However, I knew the base was far more secure with a line unit than: clerks, jerks, spare medics and cooks guarding them.

Of all things, I am most grateful never to have experienced a mortar barrage on a fixed position. Most of my fellow Currahees have been there. By fixed, I mean the enemy has your exact grid.  Once that is established…they fire for effect. Mortars create mass casualty situations. They are extremely effective.

I do remember an evening during the dry months. We were on a search and destroy mission in the rice paddies. The sun baked the clay fields into bricks. I pulled out my entrenching tool for a fruitless dig. We made a hell of a noise.  I couldn’t cover my big toe with my best effort. Our unit operated at company size. We scattered a hundred men over a wider expanse; that was the only thing in our favor. As night fell, the order came for silence…stop digging. Then the word came down to keep our gear together.

We were ordered to move out…in strict silence. Have you ever heard one hundred men move without making a noise? I heard some that night…not much. Any noise could be absolutely deadly. We moved two or three full clicks. Reaching another nameless position in that maize of rice paddies, we settled in. We had no dig, no food, no nothing.

Then I heard the thumps. It was fire for effect. The light was so very beautiful. They fired up our old position! It was a rain of death in the wrong place. We took a heck of a chance to escape hell. Our company commander had been spot on. We were watching from the safety of an unknown position. The enemy’s fire was as fruitless as our original dig!

Officers do not take critiques from enlisted personnel. However, the next morning I caught the captain alone. I looked him in the eye and said, “Thank you sir. I know its not my place. But I know that you saved our lives.” He turned his glance momentarily. I took it as a silent acknowledgement of message received. I walked away in respect for a great leader.

Currahees…I could have kissed the captain’s butt with my masculinity intact that day. Because of him…I never experienced that full rain of terror. To that unnamed captain I again say, “Thank you Sir!”

 

You Same-Same Goldie

Doc Morristo was a favorite medic on many levels. He was one tough Native American. Every drop of his blood pumped true warrior. He could be your worst nightmare come true…if you deserved it.

Morristo liked me. So…he smacks me beside the head coming out of the medical tent. Not seeing a followup blow, I asked, “What did you do that for?” He grinned and replied, “I just wanted to toughen you Thompson!” So I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “I am a lot tougher than you think Morristo!” He walked away still grinning. Again, you were always glad to be on his good side.

I was a medic..through and through. On those rare occasions that we medics gathered, I was always in a good place. Several of us headed for the beach club for some beers.

Goldie served as the barmaid. Her front teeth were loaded with gold fillings, a popular look amongst the Vietnamese. Goldie served with a smile…showing off all those teeth with abandon. Her heart made her popular with the troops.

All was well as we savored the cold drinks and banter. Then Morristo pulls out a National Geographic magazine. The issue sparkled with color photographs. Most photographs were black & white in Vietnam…color stood out as a premium.

We passed the magazine around rhe table full circle. Once Morristo regained his treasure, he called for Goldie. Her English was barely functional; she thought he wanted another round. He finally settled her attention upon the National Geographic. He let her view the pictures a few moments. She politely returned it.

Morristo didn’t let her leave his side. He was up to something. He then pointed to a picture of an ape and said, “Goldie, you same-same.” Her confused expression revealed she didn’t get it. So Morristo thumps his finger on the ape and then points his finger directly at Goldie and repeats, “Goldie, you same-same!”

Goldie scurried away awash in horror. We started giving that hard head hell. Goldie suddenly appears to dump a full pitcher of beer on Morristo’s head. As Morristo begins to rise…every man reached to hold him back. As Morristo settled, I breathed a sigh of relief. It could take a half dozen men to contain him…it was Morristo who settled himself.

I thought for the longest time that the war had eroded our humanity, that we were becoming animals…worse yet beasts. Despite the hardness of it all, we still maintained some civility… particularly for a lady.

We drank up and left. The party was over. I don’t think Goldie would have served us…especially not with that contagious smile. But we all left a very generous tip.

Currahees..Morristo will smack me with that National Geographic when he reads this. Most great warriors are rough around the edges.  We climbed the hill through the mine field to end the night.

Fatal Distractions

Dedicated to those participating in the 2000 views of this blog. Thank you.

All things human were often fatal in Vietnam. Warriors are pictured as cold, calculated, aloof  and somehow less than human. Uniforms add much to the effect of dehumanization. If you see an antisocial veteran…give him a break. They often have a hard time returning mainstream.

We take so many activities for granted in peacetime. The common activities of life could kill you in the combat zone. Sleeping, eating, going to the bathroom, or hanging out with friends were all distractions. Most wartime survivors proved to be persistently diligent. Great habits increase your chances; bad habits proved fatal distractions.

My R&R signaled a turning point. I had less than 100 days upon return. The 365 day clock had turned deeply into home stretch. I was short…but I didn’t dare count. Thinking of returning home was in itself a distraction. My job was to intentionally survive…one day at a time. Short Timers worried too much and lost their flexibility. I had consciously put away most distractions.

Women and children reminded us of the softer side of life. Children particularly gave us thoughts of home. Anti-war protesters liked to call us Baby Killers. This was so removed from the truth. An American soldier was far more apt to be killed by giving the benefit of the doubt. Our enemies knew this and used this trait against us. Civilians got caught in crossfires. The enemy used innocence (both ours and their victims) to kill us.

Smoking seemed most universal. A smoke is a quick stress relief. The Sarge said, “Smoke em if you’ve got em!” The times have now certainly changed. Smoking acceptably distressed soldiers then… life and death situations proved a constant pressure. Cigarettes came with rations and full cartoons were issued periodically during resupply. Yet, a smoke at night could give your position away for a mile. I used them as currency; they were far too valuable to smoke. However, I was leery that someone might cheat in the stillness of the night. Most men were disciplined…but someone always cheated.

My dream was to become educated. High school dropouts held few opportunities. I came into the army with strong reading comprehension. I tried to build upon that in the field. I carried James Michener’s Hawaii in my ruck for the longest time. I kept it within reach for the rare downtimes. Michener writes tomes. My book got wet in the monsoon rain and expanded twice its normal size. That didn’t discourage me. One day I heard the rain falling through the leaves…but I didn’t get wet. I read through the early rain, waiting to put the book up at the last minute. My curiosity finally got the best of me. I arose to discover an ongoing firefight far below me. What I heard was spent bullets falling through the leaves. After quick deliberations…I left James Michener  in the bush. My dream could wait a few more months.

Upon returning to the States, I  habitually informed everyone in the house,  “I’m going to the bathroom.” I drove them nuts. In Vietnam, everyone needed to know exactly where you were…particularly for nature’s acts. I hid on the other side of the tree as a new man. I hid in plain sight (this side of the tree) as a true vet. If shots are fired, anything that moves is fair game. Nobody looks at private acts, but the enemy. An American had to always look like an American, so that only one army shot at you!

Both sides probed for weaknesses. Clusters of men were easy targets. About ten feet from any one man was my ideal of being close. The exception was sharing a foxhole. Distance keeps you from distracting chatter. It’s hard to hear when you are making noise.

Cooking fires were modestly maintained. We extinguished fires before dark. Eating cold food could keep you alive at night. Our C-rations were packed in grease. If you are truly hungry…they taste pretty good cold. Our enemies often followed us for discarded C-rations. They were vitally nutritious.  Sometimes we would fain movement to catch the scavengers. The enemy also succumbed to fatal distractions.

A full night’s sleep was the exception to the rule. We lived tired. We fought tired. At least a third of the unit remained awake at all times. We had a saying, ‘You might wake up with your throat cut.’ Most perimeter breaches were due to sleeping guards. Discipline kept you, and the men who trusted you…alive.

Currahees… a state of  hyper-vigilance remains a hard habit to break.

 

 

 

Most Deadly Image

I grew up hiding under countless school desks…to protect myself from the threat of nuclear blast. They called these Civil Defense drills. The black and white newsreels, of early Nevada Test Site explosions, etched an indelible image…that our world was not safe.

Propped up against a rice paddy dike, I saw a sight that brought all that back. A column of smoke billowed over the general direction of our base camp (LZ Betty). As it reached high into the atmosphere, it developed into a nightmarish mushroom. This image of nuclear war took my breath away. I said to myself, “We finally did it! The Super Powers have played chicken too long.”

We were in Vietnam to fight the spread of Communism. At least this was our stated purpose. We allied with South Vietnam. The Chinese allied with North Vietnam. The Vietnam Conflict held many similar characteristics to the Korean War. In Korea we breached the threat zone that provoked the Chinese into the battle. I could only imagine the Chinese dispensing limited nuclear war. The cloud before me was humongous.

Our radios brought us, particularly me, back to reality. The ammo dump had taken a direct mortar hit. We were still in a state of conventional war. Although a significant hit, I could deal with that, especially from this distant field.

I returned to basecamp a few weeks later. Every structure had pinholes where shrapnel had entered. I could lay on a cot in our medical tent at night… and literally see the light of stars. I was convinced that the field held the only true safety. We were both armed and vigilant in the field. Our mobility kept our position vague. The rear area held a false sense of security.

You might think my thoughts of the mushroom as an overuse of youthful imagination. But I vividly remember the days my Dad was on high alert, during the Cuban Missile Crisis. My friends, we all live under the shadow of those nuclear buttons. They hold the power of hell. We came out from underneath the chairs…but the mushroom still looms as an ever present possibility.

Currahees…the ammo dump was one of those events we all remember. We remember the day, where we were and what we were doing.