Standing Out

Collectively we were Currahees; We Stood Alone…together. The unit made us strong and effective as individuals. We were ordinary in our individuality. We were extraordinary together. I never felt safer nor stronger than with my Currahees. Our time in Vietnam sealed that affinity forever.

However, there were certain points of individuality that make a person stand out in your mind. Schaeffer stood out immediately. I trust I have his name spelled correctly. We were primarily known by our last name, yet often differentiated by rank or position. For instance, most guys will check out the new medic…to draw their own conclusions. Schaeffer came up immediately and showed me his arms. I sensed that was a ritual with him.

Schaeffer was square and solid built. I thought he was going to show me  a neat Airborne tattoo. No. He showed me the inside of his arms. His thick arms revealed no of trace veins. His blood ran deep. He would be a medic’s nightmare, if hit. In civilian life, he had been an RC Cola truck driver. I thought he looked like a machine gunner, but I remember him as a rifleman.

The squads would rotate, giving each squad a turn at the front. I remained toward the front of the middle squad. I liked Schaeffer and walked near him on many occasions. We were in a typical firefight one day. Schaeffer bravely advanced and took his position. His head went down behind some cover, but his butt went straight up in the air. I said to him, “Schaeffer, may I suggest you get your ass down man. I don’t want to search for your vein today!” He just laughed at me…like he had an impervious butt or something. We had some mileage on this tour; perhaps he did.

I remember traversing three mountain ridges with him in one day. The brass wanted us to move from point A to point B, regardless of the terrain. We were in great shape, but on the third range I began to question my own personal limits. We were breaking trail on this last one. We took a break near the top. Schaeffer sat down; I dropped my ruck and stood up. I was afraid of showing any kind of weakness. I might look mighty weak trying to get up. I shared my concern with Schaeffer…he just laughed. On the other side of the crest, I slipped and slid on my rear about a hundred feet before regaining my footing. I thought I would be hanging out, but the pants held up! Schaeffer had a good laugh on that too.

I went on R&R with the promise of returning to this platoon. Upon my return, the guys shared that they were in a firefight and Schaeffer was hit.  I asked, “Was he hit in the ass?” they laughed and said, “Yes he was doc. How did you know?”  I know that he was hit, but I wasn’t there. I do know that he was a fine trooper, one of our best. A million dollar wound is one sufficient enough not to return, yet recoverable. I pray this particular trooper had such a wound. I missed seeing him going forward.

Currahees…I write to remember, but I also write to connect. I trust a comment will come that Schaeffer, and men like him, are alive and well today. Someone will tell me his name is spelled correctly, and that they liked him also.

While I was on R&R…the war didn’t stop.

R & R…Rest and Recuperation

Ron  G. Ford’s picture of Fort DeRussy Beach

Dedicated to: Mike & Donna Krawszyk, Mike & Sheila Trent, Scott & Cassandra Johnson, Jerrett & Ginny Goodman, and Ron & Lois Ford. They did the Currahee Hawaiian trip 2016!

The bulk of the Currahees arrived in Vietnam by boat. The originals are now known as Boat People. Most units had staggered replacements; we did everything about the same time. This included our R&R leaves. I missed out on the proverbial Bob Hope Show, but I would be darned to miss out on that R&R leave!

Information flowed rather freely at the aid station. As a medic, I had an unspoken right to hang around and look medical. My approach was to sit in a corner and listen, until everyone forgot I was there. One night they discussed the difficulty of placing the remaining medics in R&R slots. They did have a slot for Hawaii, but none of the single guys preferred there. (I can’t remember being asked.)

I thought about it overnight. I could always get killed or wounded and lose my R&R completely. I could wait and find out, at the last minute, that all slots were used up. I could probably ask for Hawaii now…and be on the next plane out. My heart began a strange rhythmic beat… aloha, aloha, ALOHA!

Al was off to see Sgt. Martin, my ‘go to’ man. I said, “Sgt. Martin, I hear Hawaii is open now.” Sarge  replied, “You sure you want to go there Thompson?”  I offered, “Sgt. Martin,  I don’t think anyone wants to go to Hawaii. But, I’m willing. But, I also have one strong condition.” “What’s that”, he replied?  I told Sgt. Martin that I didn’t want to lose my platoon. I wanted to remain with my line unit the final weeks of my tour. We had a deal!

I was Hawaii bound in no time. We boarded a civilian plane. It had stewardesses, plush seats, air conditioning, cold drinks, and stewardesses. Did I mention they had stewardesses?  I hadn’t seen an American woman in about nine months; they were just indescribably beautiful.

The plane landed on schedule. Two uniformed greeters boarded the plane for orientation. The gist was short and sweet. ‘Welcome to Hawaii. You are now in the United States of America. You will be on the very next plane to Vietnam, if you even think about trouble. The planes leave daily. Stay out of trouble. There are NO second chances. Am I clear?’ The point was well taken…don’t screw up!

My toughest image was in departing the plane. [Sgt. Martin asked me if I really wanted Hawaii.] Wives and girlfriends eagerly greeted most of the men departing the plane. I passed by as quickly as possible. I could not escape the sounds of those emotional greetings. No one waited for me. It was a terribly lonely first impression. I made my way through the terminal…to Paradise.

I stopped at a store to buy: a shirt, a pair of shorts, shoes and swimwear. I planned to live in the swimwear. I rented a cheap room for the week and secured half my money. Waikiki Beach, Fort DeRussy style, was mine in less than one hour off the plane!

My second image was…rows and rows of bikini clad ladies glistening in the sun. These ladies were all wives, daughters, or girl friends having one of the best moments of their lives.  Ft. DeRussy was embedded in the middle of a world famous beach. The untrained eye would not even notice this military respite from the beach. The perpetual holiday spirit stood in stark contrast to the war I had just left, and to which I would soon return. I felt like a man freed from years of solitary confinement…given absolute freedom. How do you handle freedom? How do you instantly take the jungle out of a man?  I realized that life was going on, in the rest of the world, as if our war didn’t exist.

I didn’t exist. They say, out of sight…out of mind. A part of me wanted touch just one of those bikinis…just to see if they were real! Inside I cried, ‘ Can’t I also have someone in my life too?’ I wanted to ask one of these strangers, ‘Do you know there is a war going on…that I am in it?’ Then, I remembered the uniformed man talking about the next plane out. I had to somehow find my sensibilities. We had to pretend as if no war was ongoing. I had to remain invisible to this outside world.

A senior NCO talked to me at Fort DeRussy. I told him my father was a sergeant. He inquired if I was alone. He offered to share his family for the upcoming luau (BBQ Hawaiian style). I spent my first night with a real family; that was a bit of sanity. I thanked them for the evening and politely withdrew from his precious family time.

I could not legally drink because I was not yet 20 years old. Therefore, most of the beach establishments were technically off limits. However, this was unofficially ignored  on the military premises. I was a 19 year old E5 senior combat medic, but I could not take a legal drink in the States. Legally I left my military majority rights and responsibilities for the minority rights of a teenager, as soon as I stepped into this civilian world.

The issue was not drinking. I wanted to remember every moment of this trip. Yet I managed quite well. A group of sailors were taking extended leave, before shipping out to a deserted island. They adopted me. Ship Ahoy! I got to like those sailors. One sailor had procured a Harley and took me downtown for a cruise. It was great until he asked me, “What color is that stoplight?” We headed back to basecamp…or I was walking! They were a bit crazy, but good company.

Met one fine young lady at the beach and struck a long conversation. We took a bus to her apartment; she would  introduce me to her roommate. All was well, until the girls held a conference in the back of the apartment. Her female roommate voted to run me off, sight unseen. Her roommate probably had more sense. There isn’t any future with a military man staying a few days on the island. As I mournfully returned by bus, I asked myself,’Where were the Wartime Romances…like that of WWII vintage?’ Life had its ups and downs…the Hawaiian days were limited with regards to youthful fantasy .

I walked downtown one evening by myself. I passed a fortune teller. I politely declined her offer. I said, “Mam, I really don’t want to know about the next 100 days.” She said there was a cloud in my aura and she couldn’t read me anyway. That somehow comforted me. I sensed God’s protective presence in my life. Perhaps that cloud within was a touch of the Divine.

A massage was almost impossible for a young soldier to acquire. The lady kept insisting…’no happy ending!’ I thought there was happiness in any massage. I really needed a legitimate touch. There hadn’t been an authentic hug nor kiss in a very long time.

A day before leaving I boldly rented a car. They let me have it with only a military drivers license. I had joined the Army when most guys were taking drivers ed.  They gladly gave me a used vehicle…for my cash. I hadn’t even driven a jeep in a year. However, I cautiously adjusted myself to this urban traffic and soon had things under control.  I saw much of the coastline before returning that prize ride. Overall, Hawaii was a good experience and tough to leave. I would be a short timer upon return to the ‘real world’ of Vietnam.

Currahees…I am still thinking about those Hawaiian bikinis! The military offered us a chance to see the world. I saw a slice of it. I returned to rejoin my platoon and finish my course on the Currahee Trail.
Aloha!

Not Quite…Secure!

How secure is…not quite secure? It sounds like the definition of false security to me. At least that is how I felt that day.  We completed an uneventful search and destroy mission. It was time to pull out. Sometimes we returned and rested at base camp; sometimes we probed deeper into the mountains. We would know our destination once the choppers successfully transported us. The huey was the ultimate means of transportation in Vietnam.

We arrived at a particularly large landing zone for pick up. As I gazed across the expanse, I couldn’t figure how our company strength could man such a large area. The field was naturally rectangular in shape. We held the upper third of the sloping terrain. Two platoons took positions on each side; to secure the elongated sides below us. We effectively gained some control with this ‘U’ formation. That whole unguarded bottom made me nervous, but I liked our higher end of things.  I heard the Company Commander confirm to the incoming choppers, “Yes the landing zone is secure.”

I didn’t like the  looks of that long straight line of troops on my side. We all formed against the perfect tree line. I looked behind me and noted a nice deep trench. I moved my rucksack to its edge. Leaning against my gear, I awaited the arrival of our ride. The noise of the beating rotors gained my attention. There was room for all six hueys on our high ground.

The lead pilot edged his way almost directly across from my position. As his skid touched the ground, all hell broke loose. Apparently his landing was the signal. The pilot’s jaw dropped, in one of those unforgettable moments. I saw one man jump into the craft, as the pilot buried the stick for rapid ascent.

I flipped my feet over my head and rolled into the trench. I prided myself as being in place, well under my two second rule. The engagement lasted under a minute. Charlie gained a free lick at us…just to say ‘good bye’ for now.  A gunship came to dutifully fire up the lower end.

While retaking my former position,  I heard the cry…Medic! Charlie had managed to hit someone in our own elongated line. I asked, “Is anyone from our platoon hit?” The radio operator confirmed that we had no one hit. One of my guys said, “Doc, its definitely the next platoon over.” Every few seconds I heard the cry, “Medic!” Waiting forever, I finally released my medical bag from my ruck frame and headed down the slope. It felt strange approaching a squad that didn’t know me.

Settling into wound assessment, I was interrupted by a new presence. The new man was a medic. I knew all the medics; I didn’t know him. With a polite long stare, I asked if he had it under control. He replied, “I’ve got it.” I hurried back the 100 feet or so to my platoon.

Currahees…my platoon sergeant let me have it for taking the risk. It was a mild stretch, but how do you ignore the wounded? We were picked up, two choppers landing at a time. The gunship remained until the last troops were in the air. At about 200 feet…I felt secure.

 

Choices…

Choices were made each and every day in Vietnam. Every man held his own. A single shot rang out to pierce the quiet day. It was close. I couldn’t tell if it was incoming or outgoing. We all listened for the second shot. My alertness was distracted by the call for…MEDIC. Of all the sounds, that one word would cue all my sensibilities. I rushed quickly to a wounded soldier.

He looked sheepishly and said, “My gun went off…it just went off by itself.” The soldier had shot himself in the foot. By the look of his boot, I gauged  the round hit in the area of the metatarsal bones. It looked a mite painful.

His boot proved the initial obstruction.  My scissors took care of some of that problem. The wound looked pretty clean, as in possibly missing that whole system of tiny bones. The smaller dressings proved more than adequate, above and below. I used an ace bandage to keep an even  pressure, gently anchoring his wound’s dressings with the ankle. A canteen of tepid water restored his fluids.

Our LT was pissed. There was some exchange between the soldier and him. Our wounded man shifted his story, trying to put himself in the best light.  The pain was beginning to settle in…after the initial shock of the trauma. LT said defiantly, “No morphine Doc” and walked off.

We were getting some replacements. This young 11B (infantryman) was among them. The original members of our unit were all volunteers. Our replacements were assigned to units as needed. We suffered many KIAs and WIAs…we needed bodies. I was looking at a young man who didn’t have a clue of our culture. He had made a painful decision, to take a certain nonfatal wound over the uncertainty of fatality.

The medevac arrived quickly. My man was light…no problem to carry. They gave him his weapon, with no clip and an empty chamber. I never saw the man again. His decision didn’t factor in, that a unit that needed his best…for us all to survive.

Currahees…I may have hesitated and then  honored LT’s order. He broke the code. We Stand Alone…together.

Sp/5 Thompson

Had bad experiences with medics returning from Vietnam as…PFCs. Promotion slots were decent for combat field medics. Most solid medics returned as Sp/4. When I was promoted, I felt pretty content with that. The military has a pragmatic way of measuring your worth.

We got a radio call in the field…somewhere in Vietnam. That’s typically no big deal. Then I heard the Lieutenant say,”Doc, come on over here.” I’m thinking to myself, ‘Nobody has been hit lately. I have been hiding out in the field, minding my own business. What to hell did I do now?’ With a big grin on his face, LT adds, “You’ve been promoted to Sp/5 doc. Congratulations soldier.”

One of the squad leaders had privy to a set of collar pins.  We held an informal ceremony right there in the bush. For the rest of the day I heard, “Good job doc.” You would have thought it was my birthday. Medics are always attached from Headquarters. I knew there had to be some leadership banter on, ‘How is he doing?’ The LT must have put in a good word.

Many of the very best combat troops have…character. They may never win a good conduct medal, but you would give your right arm, to have them in your foxhole. When the firing starts…they are all soldier. The cream rises to the top. The ‘boots on the ground’ experiences serve as the ultimate litmus test of rank and position. I had managed to get into minor troubles stateside. This rebound exceeded all my expectations. My Dad was a career soldier; this promotion would make him proud.

From then on I watched my step carefully. The field duty was less complicated.  The rear area remained the political mine field. I never stayed in the rear more than a day or two. Life was simple that way.

Currahees…you were the best. Finding place among you remains a great honor.

Friendly Fire!

Always had a sixth sense…which I attributed to Divine care. Our platoon moved rapidly to a potential LZ (landing zone) for immediate extraction. We were reportedly near a large enemy force; we would extract and then come back at them, on our terms. Some areas held dense growth. However, this site could be quickly prepared. A team began clearing some small trees. They strapped claymore (anti-personnel) mines to them. It was a crude, but an effective means to clear an area quickly.

I sat near my favorite radio operator. He would call for extra fire protection, whenever we got a cry for medic. That unofficial  relationship was a missing piece that I picked up over time.  He knew that I made house calls and put the word out as soon as I needed to move. That split second timing made the difference between a smart move or fatal move. Even when no one is hit, being near him cut the typical confusion that develops during a firefight. I could surmise the state of things from his communication.

After the first blast, I grew uncomfortable. I asked my radioman friend, “Where’s the farthest squad from this?” He replied, “The rear squad has set up an ambush down this back trail. I said, “If you need me, that’s exactly where I’m going!” Well…I surprised the troops with a friendly visit. I sat out on a tangent, away from those blasts. The troops said I should shoot at anything that moves from this point on!

It wasn’t five minutes when I heard the cries, “medic…MEDIC!” I retraced my steps to my former position. The RTO (radio operator) had been hit in the head with a claymore fragment. (I had been sitting right next to him.) The frag had entered his mouth and exited his neck. The external bleeding was minimal, considering a head wound. His rucksack held him upright…but we released his straps. The position was good for his labored breathing. We used swabs to keep his throat cleared.

The internal damage would have to be ascertained at the clearing station. I asked the guys to watch his breathing while I prepared the IV. This was one of those times I prayed for a miracle. Some men are tough and have a strong will to live. I could see the fight in our RTO. The medevac came quickly, throwing a cable down through the trees. We tucked the IV bottle in his shirt…he still managed a good fight as he ascended.

I felt a bit lost for a couple of days. The Lieutenant came up and said the RTO was doing fine.  The frag had somehow missed the most vital areas of his head and neck. There again, I looked up after that news…we needed good news.

I used the term friendly fire loosely. But I think I used it within its broader definition. We carried much lethal equipment. Accidental use of equipment or mistakes in judgment could give the same unwanted results, as any intentional enemy. These instances are always common. To err is human.

Trauma is reduced in the medical system, that begins in the field. Life or death remains the major consideration. However, the length of  time and degree of recuperation also depend on this medically strategic system…minutes matter.

Currahees…we rallied under Doc Lovy…and we still do. Our war was to rob the Grim Reaper. Those were mighty good wins.

Hitting The Beach!

Jerry Berry, Combat Photographer 3/506th

Our base camp held one great asset…a beach! The only drawback was the means of getting there. The quickest route meandered through the mine field. Doc Mark Jones showed me the trail initially. I know a good deal when I see it; I made at least three trips on my own.

A few air mattresses were usually left in our medical tent. I loved floating in the South China Sea. My home state of Maine is known for both rocky shores and ice cold waters! These were my first tropical shores. My trips were usually short. I never felt like the beach was absolutely secure. Our primary mission was to make it back to the States. It was hard to stay wired 24/7 for 365 days; there had to be an occasional outlet. The beach was mine.

Armed with an air mattress, I embarked upon my first solo jaunt. I questioned myself, ‘did I remember the path through that mine field?’  Actually, it was a well worn path…that didn’t fool anyone. I had the beach pretty much to myself. However, the surf pounded hard that day. Eventually,  the strength of the waves proved stronger than my endurance. One last run beckoned me…to catch the perfect wave. I caught a dandy. It left me suspended about two feet over the beach sand. My air mattress flew one way…I flew the other! I landed end over end. It was a blast.

My timing at the beach always proved perfect. If the waves tried to get me the first time, the sea creatures tried to finish me off the second time. At the end of my half mile trek, the water was crowded. There were hundreds of jelly fish in my water! I don’t discourage easy. Making my way out on my trusty air mattress, I defiantly floated among them. Jelly fish have more going on under the water…more than I wanted to personally know. It was difficult making my way out into the deep. The plant like jelly fish have quite the sting. The toxins of several stings could prove quite dangerous.

After about ten minutes…floating became boring in the calm South China Sea waters. The hundreds  of jelly fish proved poor conversationalists. My better sense caught up with me. My only salvation was an army issue air mattress. If I sprung a leak…or fell off…I would never make it back to shore. I carefully retraced my way unscathed to shore.

The third solo trip remains a private memory. It was a rare opportunity for a young man coming of age. My Currahee Trail went through the mine field several times, usually with fellow medics. These beach memories were some of my best of 1968 Vietnam.

Currahees…our trails often went through the mine fields. This one was a rare friendly. Do you remember the club at the beach? I have a club house story near the end of the Trail.

Phan Thiet Chariot Race

Diversions were few and far between in Vietnam, especially for field units. However, we were fortunate to have Phan Thiet as our base camp. My best memory of the City of Phan Thiet was, in fact, a dramatic return to basecamp (LZ Betty). Somebody suggested a rickshaw. I thought that was ho hum for an infantryman. Although it was uphill, we had traversed far greater challenges. When somebody added a race…that brought on more talk. I was in!

We had to pick quick. I think three rickshaws were readily available. I spied a man with strong calf muscles. I said, “You go up the hill #1 and you get boo koo money! Got to be #1!” We paid them upfront for the ‘regular’ fare. I hopped in my winning chariot. These guys had raced before…they knew the drill.

Although I may have had a couple of beers, I rode with a clear adrenaline boosted mind. The runners started off with a bang. I felt somewhat humbled, in being carted by another human being’s effort. It was a long graded hill to the top. He hammered every step of the way. Towards the top, another rickshaw took a clear lead. I was glad I hadn’t bet with the other chariots.

Jerry Berry, Public Information Officer 3/506th
The race was such a blast. We raced right up to the arch. I don’t think it impressed the gate guards a whole lot. I could hardly stop laughing. There weren’t too many moments like this.  I felt like taking a round trip and trying it again.

All good things come to an end. I dismounted the contraption…never to ride again. I looked at my man’s dejected face. He had tried hard for that second place finish. I dug deep into my pocket full of military  script (money) and pulled out a handful. As I extended it to him, I saw a look of surprise. “You #1 man…you #1”, I said.

Currahees…we all left the gate winners. It was a rare good day in Vietnam.

 

 

Body Count

“If you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it” is a quote attributed to W. Edwards Deming. From a military perspective, this was accomplished through a body count. However, on many levels…our enemy knew the futility and made this task nigh impossible. They scurried their wounded away and quickly buried their dead. On typical days, you were left with one list…your own casualty list. Facts are, we did inflict heavy casualties and our troops were highly effective. However, the war is always won or lost between the ears. We all carried the casualty list between the ears.

I remember the first time my lieutenant needed my assistance. Privates were always wary of superiors…for very good reasons. However, I liked this line officer much. He led me to the troops digging up a fresh grave. They had exposed the top of the corpse. The Lt. asked me, “Doc, give me an official autopsy.” I replied, “Sir, he is dead! You can count him.” The Lt. probed further, “Doc how did he die?” I replied, “The large hole in his skull is definitely the cause of his demise, Sir. In my military opinion, he was shot fatally in the head!” With that the Lt. said, “Thank you Doc. We can count him.”

Our officer didn’t need me. He wanted to see my reaction to death. I was sharp and tough under that kid exterior. However, that was exactly my first brush with military death. Life is dang cheap in the battle zone. It never let up after that day. I was tough, but respectful in the glib soldier talk over this fallen enemy. I didn’t want anyone to die. However, those of us in the killing zone knew that it was kill or be killed.

Some time later, I approached a severely wounded enemy with one of our squads. We got the best of a quick firefight. One of the guys shouted, “He’s got a grenade!” The salvo was short and sweet; he didn’t have time to pull the pin. I cussed at the squad leader, “Kill him dead next time. One in the chest and one in the head!” We were all within range of the blast..it was a close call. Rumors were spread of atrocities on both sides. The man had made a choice in not being captured alive. I think most of our prisoners were handed to the South Vietnamese intelligence. He may have chosen the best route, but he didn’t have to take us with him…and he didn’t.

Some time later, as a seasoned Sp/4, another Lieutenant asked for my assistance. He was forthright, “Doc, we got a grave.” I looked over the situation. We were in rainy season. This grave was a few days old. I said, “Sir, he is dead and a good body count. With all due respect, in my medical opinion, I would count it and walk away. This one is ripe.” After a brief exchange, he agreed to call me after they had successfully exhumed the body. [I think this was his first grave.]

Within about ten minutes the officer approached. I said, “Sir, are they ready for me?” He replied, “Doc, you were right. We got about a foot deep from him. He stank so badly, I ordered the men to cover him back up.” The Lt. won my full respect that day. It is rare for a leader to admit anything less than a perfect image. We were all on a learning curve. It was guys like that that I would follow to hell and back…and I did.

Toward the end of our street fighting in the Tet Offensive, I remember taking a break. I found a spot with a curbing on the street. While opening a can of chow, my nose filled with a pungent odor. I looked down to see the sparse remains of an enemy body still smoldering. The townspeople had poured gasoline on him in place. I moved two feet on the curb and turned my back, to continue eating.

I had one prayer, that I prayed over and over again. ‘Lord, I would like to know what it is like to be 20, to go home and see a bit of life. If I am not going to make it…please make it quick.’ I also promised to serve him the remainder of my years, should I live. As best I could, I have given back for that answered prayer.[We lost some men…far better than I.]

Currahees…I will never understand violent death, never in this lifetime. I think all combat veterans pray for peace. We never forget our own. We Stand Alone, together.

 

 

More Life in the Zoo

Life in the flora and fauna of Vietnam can be fatal to even the most experienced troops. I am personally glad that the creatures graduated, in presenting themselves over time, to wax my nerves. Currahee Paul Clement asked, “What about the bamboo vipers?” My first thought was, ‘how did he know that I ran into a viper?’ Of course, Paul is no ordinary paratrooper.

My incident with The Snake was anecdotal and rather ho-hum.  The Bamboo Viper looks like a garden variety grass snake. A trooper said, “Look Doc, a viper.” I said, “He doesn’t look like much…for such a venomous wallop.” He just meandered off the trail, to somewhere we weren’t going. That is the thing about true danger…it doesn’t appear to look like much.

My last confrontation came on another ordinary day. We broke into a single file column to cross a mountain stream. As I entered the water, my anxiety level shot sky high. The stream was at least 20 feet across. Although the water was shallow, it was extremely swift. The slick rocky bottom afforded no means of security. There was no way to traverse this deathly open area quickly. If fired upon, there were never more than two troops in the water. (This was like playing a negative lottery ticket!)

Shuffling was the only sure means of traversing. When my turn came, my boots slid carefully across that wet rock. I had to depend on the guys ahead to provide cover. We were making an ‘X’ with the stream; those advanced formed a natural defense line, to those of us who followed…but we were dangerously exposed to the area downstream. I was a happy medic to breach the other bank. Life was good!

For a moment, I thought I had landed in the Garden of Eden. There were millions of dollars worth of greenery, ready for transport to American green thumbs. It was beautiful. The underbrush was minimal; you could see for at least a hundred feet. But then something began to move out of nowhere…fast. We had pinned a creature between us and the stream bank. In milliseconds the movement came directly towards me.

It was a tiger! He had tiger eyes…that was my recognition point. His eyes flamed wild. This was the real deal. He opened his mouth and all I could see was teeth. This was the only time I completely froze in Vietnam. I was paralyzed with fear. He instinctively knew that I  presented no threat. The tiger veered slightly to my left…at the last second. He was close enough that I could hear him breathe, but I never heard a paw touch the ground. It was all over in less than three seconds…which included his disappearance behind me. Not a single shot was fired!

The paratrooper, 20 feet directly ahead of me joked, “Did you see that! The guys are never going to believe us.” I said, “If it wasn’t for my pounding heart, I wouldn’t believe it either!” That tiger had shot between us. But I didn’t see anything…except those teeth.

Lt. John Harrison (johneharrison.wordpress.com) provides another great tiger story. It is entitled The Tiger That Tried To Join The Platoon Formation.They at least fired at their critter. In hindsight, I stared too long at the eyes and teeth. As paratroopers, we know we can’t stare at the ground the last hundred feet…it jumps into your face.  The critter was lightening fast and held the element of surprise. I can tell you that I won’t hunt anything, that I can’t hear until it breathes in my face! If you can walk away, it is a lesson learned.

Currahees…a man isn’t an optimist unless he can look a tiger in the eyes, count his teeth, feel his breath…and still believe in life!