Living in the Zoo

Life in the flora and fauna of Vietnam certainly challenged all incoming troops. The fauna would bite you. The flora would either tear at your clothes, or wiggle overhead to let the world know your exact position. We traveled the mountain tops, the grassy plains and the rice paddies. Each area held its own unique challenge to the American soldier.

My first recall comes from our initial days in Phan Rang. Those were the days of in-country training. A large group of our medics slept on cots, in a general purpose tent. (This was the last time we were all alive together.) Our dwelling rested upon a cement slab. This was the Army equivalent of five star accommodations! Here was the only place, I can recall, that we had mosquito netting.

As the Vietnam darkness fell, we soon learned the value of the netting. A mysterious noise disrupted the banter flying from cot to cot. We were rehashing the training events of the day. An unidentified flying object buzzed, drowning out the spoken word. It sounded like a four engine prop at full throttled. We soon discovered this to be a Kamikaze mosquito… and he had friends.

I am from Maine. Our state bird IS the mosquito. These buggers were the loudest creatures I had ever heard. They made you want to put covers over your head, in the 120 degree temperature. All we could do is laugh…and cover up tight. We put a lot of trust in those bed covering nets! We were fresh meat. I was never again bothered to same intensity. Of course we kept a liberal supply of insect repellant going forward.

Our next creature was found abruptly on the Currahee trails, especially in wetted areas. Vietnam is filled with leeches of all sizes and descriptions. They all love the warm pits of your body. If you don’t smoke, you will light up to get rid of leech. Their bite proves painless. However, just pulling them off can get painful; the spouting blood can also work upon the squeamish.  I saw a foot long leech crossing our trail one day. It curled my toe nails…just to think of him in my pits.

Scorpions proved to be most terrifying. I have dug more than one foxhole in a scorpion bed. Those were the nights I slept above ground…piling in the hole only under the most extreme duress!

I remember walking behind a replacement, in some God-forsaken rain forest. A large scorpion fell down on his open chest. He tried to swat it. That was his first mistake. The bugger bit him good! My soldier screamed and fell writhing to the ground. I bent to my knees, as he gasped for air. We took his shirt off…to keep him from getting another good bite. The scorpion crawled out of the shirt, as big as day. Once my troop got his breath, he wanted to share his last will and testament. It took a full ten minutes to convince him that he would live to see another day! A Benadryl, cold compress and few sips of water restored his soul. With that…we hit the Currahee trail again!

Fire ants were my main nemesis…other than our formal enemy. I grew to fear these fierce beasts of the forests. I asked an experienced trooper what to do, if I ran into one of these creatures. He said, “You will know what to do.” Well, enough said.

Not many days hence, I felt a significant pain all over my body. I mean…everywhere! On a pain scale of one to ten…this was a twelve! I threw my helmet, ripped off my shirt, tore my pants to the ankles. Within seconds, I was butt naked…somewhere in the middle of Vietnam. Speaking a little French, I discovered a swat team of fire ants, in various strategic places. Once the critters were killed, I carefully searched and replaced my clothes. [That is the unspoken procedure for a fire ant attack!]

Now that I had formal contact with these critters, a paratrooper filled me in. You look for the glossy shiny leaves on the trees. The sheen is the tell tale sign of fire ants. I was never to be bitten again. However, I later saw one crawling on the ground. I lit a match and he attacked it until he died. They are the fiercest critters of the jungle, bar none!

Everybody has an ape story in Vietnam. Mine was a monkey. Somewhere at Ton Son Hut Airbase, I passed an open shower. With time before my flight, a shower seemed like a good idea. I dropped my bag inside the stall. While starting to pull my shirt off, I was rudely interrupted by a monkey.  I said, “Hey.” He started getting increasingly aggressive. He positioned himself between me and the door. The shower was now the last thing on my mind; I would take a shower in Hawaii. I picked up the bag and threw it at him…so I could run for the door. That worked out well. Then the monkey decides that I could leave without my bag. He fought me every inch of the way!

The area was pretty clear, but I found something else to throw at him. (We were never going to be friends.) He was up to my game by now and bit me as I grabbed my bag, located below his feet. I think my pride hurt worse than the bite. As a medic, I thought about rabies. However, I would be damned if I missed that flight! In reflection, I think they trained this monkey to guard that shower stall. He never left his post. I did part with a few choice words, a bruised ego and a sore hand.

Currahees…I have one last critter to tell about. He is a story all by himself. He lived further down the trail.

Two Medics Down!

Jerry Berry, 3/506th Combat Photographer

Dedicated to Doc Tom Lundgren (3/506th medic) and to Scott Gay (medevac pilot) a rare breed of heroes!

There are moments that define you. Life puts the question to you. How you answer shapes the person you live with, for the remaining years of your life. I was in the rear long enough to give up my canteens to an outgoing medic; that exchange could take mere minutes, to deplete my valued resource. In actuality, I stayed in the rear overnight.

One of my headquarters friends ran up and said, “Doc, you’ve got to hide. There are two medics down in the field. They are being flown back now!” I replied, “Do you think they are from the same company?” He didn’t know, but he said his information was good.  I suppose he was looking out for me. Certainly he gave me a chance to get lost. The first two medical bodies found would return with that medevac. We were deep into the Tet Offensive. This was the real deal. Casualties, both dead and wounded, were high and mounting by the hour.

Sp/5 Martin is extreme left; Credit photo: Jerry Berry, Combat Photographer

Instead of hiding, I ran to the Aid Station. Sgt. Martin was always my ‘go to’ man. Although he was a specialist, I called him sergeant out of respect. He earned my trust repeatedly. I asked him what was going on. He told me that a line company was engaged with the enemy. They had lost two medics. He wasn’t clear about the extent of their wounds…or if they were alive

Three medics manned the platoons; the senior medic supported the company’s medical clearing. He prepared the wounded for evacuation. The senior medic could potentially cover one line platoon, but not two. The medical support would quickly break down in heavy engagement, with only half their medics. I could picture this all in my head.

Cutting to the chaff, I said, “Sgt. Martin, I’ll go.” He looked at me slowly and replied, “I’ve got some men I can find.” With that I said, “I know. You’ve only got to look for one more.” We both knew two medics had to muster immediately for that returning medevac. I continued, “All I need is some canteens.” Sgt. Martin suggested, “Go down to the line company’s supply. Tell them what you’re doing.”

There was a bit of an argument with the supply sergeant. Then I looked him in the eye and said, “Damn it Sarge, I just volunteered to go out with your company. There are two medics down. Are you going to deny me canteens?” With that he said, “how many you need?” I asked for the equivalent of 22 canteens (a combination of water bladders and canteens). I could drink six a day and have a few left, after our normal three day supply cycle. I could hump more water than a camel!

I ran back to the aid station and Sgt. Martin sent me directly to the medevac pad. Doc Tom Lundgren waited for me there, leaning on some sandbags. The darkness enveloped us as were heard the distant incoming chopper. A litter crew fell into action, removing the  wounded. It looked like painful mortar fragment wounds. Some cried out when moved. Tom and I looked at each other, knowing we were going in where they came out.

I slipped into the right side seat, Tom went around to the left. The chopper lifted off into the dark. We had a long flight ahead of us, long enough to think. My Dad had warned me about volunteering. He had seen a lot of combat. In my mind, I was a combat medic. The thought of two line platoons without medics…was reason enough. I am no hero, but I knew that some things demand you show up.

A pungent odor wreaked havoc on my thoughts;  it smelled like the slaughterhouse of my youth. I realized this medevac dripped with human blood. My knees knocked uncontrollably for a bit…until I could resettle my mind. The pilot took a sharp turn to survey the land. I saw the battlefield light up with two massive interlocking sets of tracers, blue-green and orange-red. We were flying directly into a hail of bullets. Medevac pilots fly and land under all conditions, on a routine basis. The final action shocked me…the pilot turned on his lights for the landing! ‘Oh man’ I thought, ‘the Vietcong are going to fire a rocket and blow us out of the sky!’ I planted my feet on the skids and jumped at about five feet in the air. I hit running…away from that light.

Things were eerily quiet in that pitch dark. The war seemed suspended. Then I heard the machine guns interrupt the silence, but off in the distance.  A voice barked that we had to wait. I saw some wounded. They waited their turn for extraction. I drew near, attempting words of encouragement, from one man to another. I saw a remaining man, just a bit further in the distance. Touching his shoulder, I said my few encouraging words. A nearby soldier abruptly turned around and wordlessly left. I settled my face inches from my man’s chest and realized…this fallen trooper had no head. War holds no hope. I thought,’My God, I think I could go insane.’ Reeling, I slipped back towards the command post.

Our man came to guide us to the front. Our lines were jagged. Doc Tom hit me to whisper, “Hear that?” I listened to a Vietnamese leader voice repeated commands to his troops. It was probably within hand grenade throw distance…but there were only three of us! We slipped quietly further ahead. Our lives were literally in the hands of our guide. Tom settled when we reached the first platoon; I went on to the next.

After a brief introduction, the platoon leader informed me that I would not be a hero. They would bring the wounded to me. I asked him about their water supply. They were nearly out. I said I had plenty to share. When the squad leaders assembled, I gave them all my canteens…keeping the bladders. They kept tabs of the empties for me. The rest I shared with the radio operator and whoever else was out. That was the only time I bonded with a platoon…without a shot being fired. I laid my head on the side of the ditch. I woke up with the sun  shining in my eyes. They had let me sleep…as a welcome. At daylight, I could finally see what these guys looked like!

Currahees…I don’t speak Vietnamese. But I think we heard the orders for our enemy to pull out. That new platoon became my home for awhile.

Sniper Revenge!

“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” (Romans 12:19) This post cannot be fully understood without reading the prior story, The Day I Cried (last post). This sequel happened a few weeks later, but it brought closure to my thoughts on snipers. My role remained to save lives. However, the days in Vietnam took their toll. I viewed this passive experience as a gift…to a noncombatant.

I have a penchant for hot chocolate and cookies. [I am drinking some now, to refresh my memory.] The army supplied both. However, my morning break was rudely interrupted. A sniper opened fired and changed the whole mood of the unit. In this case, he awoke the sleeping tiger.

The C4 (plastic explosives) had just brought my cup of chocolate to a tasty boil. I loved that instant heat. My can of cookies was popped and readied to enjoy. When the sniper shot, everyone hit the ground. However, I didn’t want to spill my chocolate. I’d been thinking all morning about savoring this cup. While carefully planting my cup on the ground, I crouched dutifully to spy the sniper. At this juncture I surmised a limited threat and hesitated to ruin my morning delight. I eased myself into a comfortable position.

We were operating at platoon size (30 troops). Two of our guys began to work their way toward him, on both of the sniper’s flanks. They stalked their prey like a pair of old hunting dogs.  Our sole enemy became quite preoccupied. He was close enough that I could easily read his body language. I felt strangely safe, and drawn into the situation.

Now the only shots fired were from our men. The sniper would look at one…the other trooper would fire at him. They swapped this technique back and forth while closing in. This was definitely a lose-lose proposition for this sniper. He poorly selected his position; the area behind him was open, affording no cover for retreat. The two troopers advance to the point of no flight. They had him. It was just a matter of time.

I lifted my cup of chocolate for more piping hot sips. The guys around me harassed, “Doc, get your butt down!” I replied, “I see him clearly. He has a lot on his mind…for now.” I never left my eyes off him, as I reached for another cookie.

Our two troops had him pinned to his tree. He resigned himself, that he was a goner. The noose round him tightened. He completely gave up firing back. My cookies were almost depleted, when he bolted. It was too little…too late. Our men shot him dead, in a split second.

We were in Vietnam to kill. That is a hard thing to explain to civilians. I hated no one, but I really hated the possibility of one of our guys getting hurt. We were family…nobody else mattered. Thirty guys going in and thirty guys leaving unscathed, is a beautiful sight to a combat medic.

Our enemy forces purposely hid their own wounded and killed from us. It hurt psychologically to see your own fallen, without the satisfaction of clear reciprocity.  Pent up anger was common within our unit. I never saw abuse. However, this poor man shot at the wrong soldiers.

I think I am a nice man. But I didn’t want this sniper to get away. Otherwise, he would return to threaten us, or another unit like us. I doubted this man shot my friend; that sniper had great technique. But this event settled my mind…as if my friend did not die in vain.

We had great soldiers. This is not an isolated case of military expertise. Our enemy respected us…perhaps feared us. Our men had a tough thankless job. I for one am thankful for our warriors.

Currahees…we all took turns checking out the one who didn’t get away.

The Day I Cried

Battalion Surgeon Andrew Lovy (far right) Doc Jones (sitting)

My experience with snipers turned pretty negative. That happens on the receiving end. They are by nature lone wolf killers. They typically slowed down our pursuit of their main troop units. A few made brief contact just to fire pot shots. One day in Vietnam, we ran into the real deal.

A young man from headquarters admin. joined our company. It was good to see a familiar face, as medics are attached out of headquarters. I also knew him from the States. He was particularly likable and friendly to everyone. This soldier had an altruistic bent about the camaraderie in the field. He thirsted for the bond established under fire.  He didn’t fathom the cost that went with it.

We moved on a typical search and destroy mission. Shots were exchanged ahead. We were operating as a full company of men; I was in one of the three platoons. The replacement’s platoon held the rear guard. One hundred men feels much safer than our platoon missions with 30 troops. On this day…it gave a false sense of security.

I preferred setting in the densest brush, at any stop in forward progress. While searching the area, I wandered  across our new man playing cards, with two others. They were on the perimeter. It wasn’t my call, nor my platoon, but I chewed their butts out for a minute. I rudely explained that two is a crowd and three is just plain stupid. I reminded them of that sniper hanging out there somewhere. Although we were friends, the pull of being one of the boys was just too strong. Every man holds his own in the field. My spot beckoned me about 100 feet behind them, with my own troops.

Resting on my gear, my mind wondered in mild contentment. Suddenly, three shots fired. Bam…bam bam! It was fairly close. One of my guys said they heard that someone was hit. Since it was in my neighborhood, I went over to help. The first shot was true, hitting our troop from one side of his chest to the other. Dressings had been applied.

I popped my bag in pursuit of an airway. Some medic had ‘borrowed’ it. I cleared the man’s mouth and give him direct air. Deep shock is such a blessing. It’s frustrating to fight a losing battle, but you can’t help but try. Life slipped gently away. I turned around to respectfully ask, “Who is this?” They told me it’s the new guy…my friend. I turned around to look again at that swollen face, “God, damn it!” The kid never fired the first shot in battle. The poncho liner now wrapped the precious body. It was my turn to look away.

The two card players sat sheepishly a few yards in the distance. I walked over and said, “You know you killed him, don’t you?” It’s not nice to lay that on someone, but they had taught him a fatal habit. I thought to  myself, ‘Where to hell was the squad leader?’ I wanted to blame someone…anyone.

I sat on the perimeter alone, spitting the taste of blood, looking out across the kill zone. The deep depression ran the length in this direction. The sniper had side-stepped and allowed the unit to pass him. His spot had brilliant cover and full firing view. I respected Mr. Charles. You had to acknowledge the enemy’s skill. Then I returned to my own place in the dense.

Our feet held callouses upon callouses. We prized those hardened dogs. It took weeks to build that natural protection. For a brief moment I cried. Then…I resorted back to the callousness of the heart. I couldn’t let new people get too close. I prayed for those remaining in my inner circle. It was time to  tightened up.

Currahees…I lost much that day. I lost a friend that I never expected to lose. On that day…I also lost all vestige of my youth.

Phan Thiet Attacked!

Credit to Jerry Berry, 506th PIR Combat Photographer

There are focal points all Currahees seem to share. One memory is crossing the bridge, into the enemy occupied residential area of Phan Thiet. We crossed as a staggered unit…one man at a time. I saw the bridge on a dead run. It was the longest bridge I ever laid eyes upon. This was my beginning of the Tet Offensive 1968.

We were in the field, doing our part in the war. Orders came at the crack of dawn. We were to fly back to base camp ASAP. Charlie had overrun the city. Everything was routine until we landed. Trucks awaited us; I had never seen an assault by truck! We piled in and headed to town. We entered the business section. All the windows were shuttered; no human dare enter those barren streets.

Every trooper locked and loaded, weapons drawn to the ready. We were given permission to shoot anything that moved. Anyone with good intentions would realize our orders. The trucks stopped near the river. We quickly assembled at the bridge.

Those crossing were under fire. However, the rounds seemed to come from a distance. Once across, I could see one of our companies already engaging the enemy. We ran across with full ruck. I prayed for every man on the bridge, a bit selfish, because I would have to stop and drag somebody’s butt with me. As I remember, both ends of the bridge were exposed. Once our platoon crossed, we headed for the relative safety of the buildings.

From the carnage of the second picture, this looked like a WWII scenario. Our platoon moved up to plug up a fighting perimeter. Advancing, we ran head first into a tall brick wall. Our platoon leader called for directive. We were told to hold the wall; don’t let nothing come over it! For the longest while I watched the platoons, both right and left, in heated battle. A 106 recoilless gun set up on the left. They touched off their gun down the street, while blowing the wall behind them with the backlash. Bricks flew everywhere!

We finally moved out, in the direction the 106mm had repeatedly fired. House to house fighting is uniquely dangerous. It can easily turn into room to room fighting. I am thinking to myself, ‘I can’t see all the members of my platoon. How to heck am I going to get to their wounded?’ Moving around was tricky business, if you valued your life. The rooms were pretty barren by our standards. Our men were firing out of windows and doorframes, as the structure permitted.

About dark, I remember holding up in one room with a small pile of books. As a young man, with a thirst for learning, I respectfully looked through the pile. My guess is that they belonged to a high school student. They were simple paperback textbooks. However, I could recognize that one was a French language book. Another text was filled with geometry problems. Since I don’t know Vietnamese, the last book had me in a quandary. I turned it over and saw a black and white picture of Ernest Hemmingway. I realized this young student was far more educated than I. It was then, that I wondered if we really knew these people called Vietnamese. I carefully restored the book to the pile.

My last recollection was the best surprise. I thought we were finally in the meat grinder; we would trade man for man in this insanity. Then a Cobra helicopter swooped down and blew out the house in front of us. What house? That was the beginning of the end for this residential district. Our technology blew them up, and we advanced. This precious cycle of destruction was our salvation. When the enemy ran out of real estate, they had another unpleasant surprise waiting them. They were hammered by another 506th company, as they headed for the hills!

My memory fades, but I believe we were finally extracted by choppers the next morning. I had one full day of house to house combat. I prayed for the comfort of a friendly jungle, rice paddy or rainforest.

Currahees…in tomorrow’s early dawn, I pray to assemble with those I have learned to love. We go to The Wall. We will remember those who gave their all amongst us. We lost so many in that Tet Offensive of 1968. This post is dedicated to those whose names are written on The Wall.

Living with the Two Seconds

We lived from zero to two seconds at a time. I think it was the tranquility that got to me. You could almost momentarily forget. A temperate breeze, a bird singing, a gentle stream could get your mind on other things. Then all hell broke loose. One thousand-one…the strike troops are already engaging. One thousand-two…most everyone has their spot and returning fire. After that, the new guys still wondered what to do…if they are not the first casualty. It’s always the new guys and the short-timers that fall victim to the two seconds.

Search and destroy missions are intended to draw fire…and they did. Whether in the mountains or rice paddies, our mission remained to keep the enemy on the run. Contact was inevitable. Today, I write about the typical day. These were the days, weeks, months before and after the Tet Offensive of 1968. My opinions seem to have kept me alive, though nothing worked every time.

Sound is past tense. It has already happened. It is history and there is nothing you can do about history.   We soldiers in the field connect sound with death very quickly…but it is past tense. The first bullets have passed. You have less than two seconds to make meaning of it…interpret it and react…after that you are dealing with the aftermath. Snooze you lose.

Much like the association Pavlov made by ringing a bell, when feeding his dogs, sound evokes strong reaction from the vet. The first shots seemed to hit the mark. The later rounds tended to defoliate the jungle. At times engagement would be sustained; most of the time it was that short cat and mouse game. Damage was done quickly. My nerves settled after that first startle.

I write this, because some 50 years later sound still rings my bell. Even though it is history…sound is death. After the sound, I have watched men run their hands over their bodies, too afraid to look. It’s automatic with a close shave. I remember doing that at one particular time myself. When the guys catch you doing that…you smile sheepishly. It looks stupid…but it is a natural way to deal with it.

My thoughts are from the middle squad, where I lingered as a medic. I never had to serve as point man nor slack man…the two infantrymen that probed the area in front of our lead squad. Every clue (sight & sound) was in real time for them. They were advanced almost completely out of sight, unless we moved through open areas. There are no words to express what they did. God bless them.

Sight is salvation. If it doesn’t look right…it probably isn’t right. A good eye and great reflexes will save your life. If it moves…shoot it. These judgements come from numerous experiences; the lessons you can walk away from.  I would normally lean toward the front of the middle squad (squads normally rotated positions…front-middle-rear). I tried to be close enough for a short run, without being too close and pinned down by the direct line of fire. Each medic has his own feel. However, the longer the run, the more of a target you become. I tried to run frontal, facing both my guys and the enemy…as a side-to-side chest wound is always fatal. Bullets are indiscriminate. If they miss the troop in front of you…they have to miss you too!

I had a nasty habit of hanging back a few feet, when I didn’t like what I saw. I would drag butt a little. A squad leader noted my ‘vote’ one day. He read my body language. I moved it up a couple of feet…not much. Yep, and I proved right. Nobody in their right mind wants to get shot at. It’s insane. Some tough spots were forced. The unit had to deal with it.

People asked me two questions when I returned home. Were you shot at? Did you kill anybody? Answer one…I don’t know how many times. Answer two…possible. I believed in preventative medicine, when no one was hit. Some would ask if I was afraid. My first thought was to take them out to a field, and help them find out for themselves.

My biggest fear and hope, after the two seconds, was in being the best medic possible. Some wounds are fatal. Some wounds could go either way; those were the wounds where you needed to be on point. An hour later our unit could be eating chow together. I lived in fear of screwing up, that I might not think of that extra edge, to keep a young Currahee alive. I never wanted to face those men with baggage on my mind.

Currahees…in later good days I drank coffee with my Dad, most Saturdays at his home, bragging about you. I told him you were just like the men he fought beside. May we feel  a temperate breeze, hear the birds sing, and wade through gentle streams…in peace.

 

 

 

Vital Call…on the Fly

Imagine six helicopters revving up for takeoff, loaded to the gills with paratroopers. I am running up to this scene haphazardly. Our 506th unit is short on available medics. Just yesterday they had called me in for a rest. I had given up my canteens to  an outgoing medic; now I had to hustled for some replacement canteens, which made me late. This platoon was heading out to a hot landing zone, expecting to engage the enemy upon landing…shy of medical support. I’m it.

Approaching the first craft, two men intercepted me. “You the Doc?” I replied, “Yes. Which of these birds do I jump on?” One returned, “We got a problem Doc. I don’t feel good at all.” With word of a hot LZ (landing zone), most of us have strange physical reactions. I hated to be a skeptic, but I didn’t know this unit and I didn’t know which chopper to get my butt on. Unless a man had a fresh gunshot wound, he needed to get on the chopper.

His buddy wouldn’t take the first no insisting, “Doc, he’s no slacker. Check him out good.” I asked the sick man to show me his ‘wound.’ He had sliced his finger on a C-rations can and the dang thing was already healing quite well. My patience is running thin and I am about to say something ugly. His buddy blurted, “Doc, I am really worried about him.” I distracted the sick trooper with some small talk, and ran my hand up his armpit. He shot up like a rocket, letting out a yell. I heard that scream over the din of the chopper engines.

Damn, I thought, a systemic infection, and I almost missed it. In laymen’s terms, it was a form of ‘blood poisoning’ that was quite serious.  The lymph nodes in his armpit were working furiously to fight this infection. He could not go on this mission. I spoke, “Troop, you are ordered to go immediately to the aide station. Do not turn right nor left. You do exactly as I say. That is a direct medical order. Tell them Thompson sent you. You hear me?” He replied,”Yes doc” and he high tailed it off the runway.

I ran around the first ship, looking for a chopper that could take one more. I screamed, “I am your doc. Somebody give me some space!” I heard a ‘come on’ and jumped aboard. We were airborne in less than a minute. The troops gave me a thumbs up in welcome; I gave each a thumbs up in return.  This wasn’t my first rodeo.

Thoughts of a hot landing zone kept me pretty silent. I might die for one of these guys and they didn’t even know my name. We were all Currahees, that was all that mattered. I did know that ‘hot’ landings were often cold, and cold landings often proved hot. We would just have to arrive to prove things out.

Our landing happened to be uneventful. We heading into the bush immediately without much fanfare. At first break, the platoon sergeant approached me. It was then I remembered sending the troop to the aide station. I prepared myself for a butt chewing. Sarge said, “Doc, I heard you sent a man back.” I replied assuredly, “Sarge, I am real positive I made the right call. We should get word on that promptly.” It was a heck of way to break into a new platoon. The Sarge shrugged it off.

That night the platoon leader spoke to me, “Doc Lovy said you probably saved my man’s arm today by quick assessment. He says you are one of his best. [Doc Lovy’s standard saying…to give the field confidence in his men.] Thanks. Welcome aboard.” What could have turned into a trust fiasco, became one of the easiest transitions to date. It usually takes that first firefight to be accepted.

A few days later, word came by radio that I was now a Sp/4. One of the troops had some collar pins for my new rank. I was duly pinned in the field. I loved my Dad and was proud of his army career. It would be nice to return home some day, with some real rank.

Currahees…I remain ever grateful for the buddies, that speak up for their friends. If it wasn’t for an insistent friend, I could have made a bad hasty decision that day. We know each other. We know when to call for help…we know when our brother needs us, to speak up for him.  We Stand Alone, together.

 

 

Where’s the Machine Gun Crew?

Sleep is wonderful, except in combat. No one gets a good night’s rest in the field. Everyone pulls either perimeter or radio watch in shifts. A three man crew allows for one hour on and two hours of sleep. Occasionally, somebody nods off. I must admit that I nodded during one radio watch. To say the least…you pray that your mistake doesn’t cost someone their life. Nobody ever said that combat conditions were easy.

In the wee hours of the morning, I was awakened. I thought it was my watch. The whispered command was, “Pack your gear Doc. We’re heading out!” Perfect information came in bits and pieces. A very large enemy unit was operating in our vicinity. After being surrounded once (see Shadow of Death), no one need to persuade me of the potential size of these units. 

Our platoon hustled silently to prepare. I didn’t know if we were going to base camp or unite with the rest of the company. I did know that we were traveling about two kilometers to the landing zone. It was particularly dangerous to leave a fortified position in the middle of the night. Our battalion intelligence was convinced of this overwhelming force.

The landing zone didn’t look like much. We secured it before dawn. I heard the choppers coming in. We would evacuate in one extraction. If our plan failed, the enemy would fire as soon as the choppers landed. Each chopper had door gunners at the ready. We hustled on board. I started breathing somewhere after tree top altitude. With thirty guys in and thirty guys flying out, my mission was successful. No casualties is always a good day.

The dawn’s early light shined upon us in flight. I could see the air strip at base camp. Who knows, we might get a day or two stand down and some sleep! We assembled just past the choppers for a head count. We were short three men! Thinking that was impossible, we organized by squad…I stood by the Platoon Leader’s radio man. The second count didn’t increase the numbers. However, one squad realized their entire M-60 machine gun crew was missing. Somebody snoozed and didn’t get the word!

We were ordered to sit in place. I had one of those bad feelings. I knew the Lieutenant was getting a chewing, the company commander would be getting a chewing, then it would begin to roll down hill. This day was NOT starting out right. After a lengthy conversation, I heard the choppers rev up. We were returning to our original position.

Search and destroy is a cat and mouse game. Sometimes you’re the cat; sometimes you’re the mouse. The game is all about unit size and field position. A unit is most aggressive when they feel the advantage. In this case our mission changed. We leave no man behind…whatever the cost. It was bizarre to fly right back into the face of overwhelming force. Our orders also changed dramatically, ‘Don’t come back in until you find them!’

I think I have the right to pen this for one good reason. I was one of the team that searched for countless kilometers over several days, in hunt for the lost machine gun crew. We didn’t engage that superior force. This mission was strangely quiet. The whole campaign was both frustrating and unnerving. Finally, we were extracted.

The missing machine gunner and I had a pretty good standing relationship. He was a the base camp when I finally caught up with him. I knew he would share the rest of the story. I never asked him directly about the matter of sleeping on watch. That was understood. I just thought their return was a miracle.

Once they discovered their aloneness, the gunner led his crew directly away from the mountains, toward the coast. They hit the main highway, they traveled south through the villages and the city toward the main gate. They had to sleep in the graveyard overnight, for fear of being mistaken for the enemy. The walked through the gate unscathed, the following morning.

Currahees…if you remember, that was just days before the Tet Offensive of 1968. On one hand, I would like to thank God for a miracle. But in my more cynical mind, I strongly suspect the enemy left them alone…letting three men pass unscathed through an army of onlookers.  Our company should have also made contact with the enemy. They didn’t want to tip their hand, for much larger plans. We all came to that party! I can say that God looks after fools and children…enough said.

 

 

 

 

Into the Shadow of Death

The platoon leader’s radio operator just happened to mention, “Doc, I hear you are going on patrol tonight.” That didn’t sound too good on many levels. We were just settling into a mountainous firebase near Phan Thiet. I was trusting my gut instincts…which were usually right on target. I quipped, “Doesn’t sound like a good idea to me.”

Ten minutes later, the Platoon Leader came up to me snorting, “I hear you don’t want to go on recon patrol Doc. I happen to be going on this one and it sounds like a good idea for you to go.” With that I smiled to reply, “That changes everything. Didn’t hear the whole story. When do we leave?”

Thought to myself, ‘The radio operator (RTO) was a heck of a guy and a heck of a snitch.’ Dusk settled in. I detached my medical bag from my ruck. Without much direction, I brought all my ammo and one canteen. Our patrol assembled: one Lieutenant, two radio operators, one medic (me), a squad leader and five additional riflemen.  If you have ever been in a firefight, 30 guys is about as slim as you want it to get.

I had long courted the idea of being a long range recon medic, but Sgt. Chaison (recon leader) didn’t seem too impressed. Little did I know he was correct his in assessment. Our present briefing disclosed we would go behind the mountain.

With last daylight, I pictured the details of the trek in my mind. We had no trail. (This told me that no one had this idea recently.) The descent was both steep and littered with rock. We tried to move quietly, but the rocks banged into each other with the slightest provocation. The brush grabbed my arms (I called these wait-a-minute bushes.) I turned to warn my trailing trooper, with his rolled up sleeves. He said, “No problem Doc.” I decided not to waste my breath. The brush makes microscopic tears that later become infected. Experience is always the best teacher.

We traveled at least three clicks (kilometers) to the bottom. It looked like a dry stream bed, gorged between two mountain chains. The flat area extended no more than 60 feet across (I am not a metrics man.) We had two elongated piles of rocks in the middle. The rocks were no more than a foot in diameter; the piles stood two rocks high. As darkness settled, these two piles were it. There was no cover…just a place to sit! Our Platoon Leader ordered us to the nearest pile…for the night.

All was well until I heard the tom toms and singing, coming from upstream. It sounded like a band of American Indians in full Western celebration. The entertainment grew louder by the second. It was too late to move. Our uninvited guests rounded the bend!  The dark was not set perfectly in…you could still see silhouettes. Enemy troops marched in single-file columns, on both edges of the stream bed. I watched the heads and shoulders, as they passed by. I hoped for a short parade, but they kept coming and coming.

What goes through a man’s mind, when totally surrounded? I prayed…many things silently. God don’t let one of those radios go off! Please don’t let anybody sneeze.  I prayed let the good times roll…and roll on by for our enemy.

We were in the proverbial ‘Yea, though I walk through valley of the shadow of death.’ I could not believe that the 50 or so enemy on my side, nor the 50 or so behind me, did not see ten men sitting less than 30 feet, in the open area between them.  In that moment, I resigned…to fear evil. There was absolutely no escape.

They kept singing. They kept marching. Their sound dissipated  round the bend, in the same manner in which they came. The outcome was far beyond my prayer for a quick death!

We slept on the rocks until daylight. I had no trouble rescaling the three clicks to  the top! Our platoon leader had a fantastic intelligence report to deliver. (These enemy would be seen again, within days…in the lunar holiday they call Tet.) As a medic, ten troops down and ten troops up spelled success to me.

I am going to The Wall next week. God only knows why some of us returned, while some…we remember. The Lord is my Shepherd (Psalm 23). Our recon team should have been annihilated. Other than sitting still and hoping for the best, it was completely out of our control.

Currahees…that was the first and last recon patrol for me. Thank you God for platoons and companies of Currahee fighting men!

Combat Medic

Dedicated to the Currahees who wore the Combat Medical Badge. Special dedication to Dr. Andrew Lovy, Battalion Surgeon 506th Airborne Infantry Battalion, 101st Airborne Division. Thanks to my daughter, Stephanie Thompson Smith, for ordering an old soldier’s medals.

There are only two major questions on the mind of the combat infantryman, concerning the new medic. Can he handle a bullet wound? Does he make house calls? The first question is handled by proper training. The second question is often answered in the first firefight.

My personal award came with the First Shots Fired. I never gave it a thought. Arriving at the medical tent, Sp/5 Martin asked me a direct question, “Were you fired upon  at the perimeter?” I replied, “Yes Sergeant.” (I ignored the specialist designation out of personal respect.) He said, “You are being put in for your CMB.” In reaction I blurted, “Sarge, I don’t deserve the Combat Medical Badge.” Sergeant Martin knew my personal integrity. Sarge looked intently at me for a while. Then he made a statement that I will never forget. “Wear it proudly Thompson, you will earn it many times over this year.” That man was a prophet!

Assignment to a line platoon finally came. It wasn’t long before a trooper was hit. I heard the word you never forget. It starts out, “medic,” and then escalates to, “MEDIC!!!” A soldier was hit in mid-field. In a quick sprint, I was beside him. The first squad was engaged ahead; the middle squad passed by me, to form the reinforced firing line. An infantryman was sent to help me.

With the bleeding stopped, I looked around for cover. There wasn’t anything near that we could hide behind, in this open area. The radio operator shouted, “Medevac is on the way!” I had to get the intravenous started right away. It is very difficult to start an IV in a vibrating chopper.

I cleaned the area, tied off the arm to raise the vein, gently running my left thumb down the vein below the insertion point (for a nice straight track), I inserted the needle. Thanking God for a healthy vein, I had the life saving fluid started. While raising my left arm to elevate the saline solution bottle, I realized the firefight was still in progress. The rounds intended for our line were hitting the dirt around us. I understood why medics have a short tour (six months on line). I knew that combat medics were reenacting these emergency measures, on a daily basis, all over Vietnam.

With the sound of the chopper growing louder, I gave the bottle to my new assistant. (I don’t think he liked raising his hand in a firefight. It’s like saying, ‘shoot me.’) A morphine injection prepared our Currahee for a comfortable ride to safety. We carried him to the medevac. (I think things had finally quieted by now.)

The onboard medic was relieved that I had his patient in order. I asked him, “Do you have a spare bottle of saline, for the one I just used?” He looked at me like I was a new shit. He replied, “Nope, we got to go!”

Turning around and feeling stupid, I asked, “Has anybody seen my M-16?” Returning to my medical bag, I reorganized it, to insure that nothing was misplaced in the confusion. The war wasn’t over yet. This firefight started so suddenly. They all did. An 11B (infantryman) returned with my dusty weapon saying, “Here you go, Doc!”  The ‘doc’ comes from the infantrymen, as a sign of acceptance.

The best words came the next day. Our Lieutenant came up to me. With a rare smile he shared, “Doc, he made it. Good job.” There are no sweeter words on the planet. The platoon leaders knew how to pump up their men and I was one of them.

Medics went out to ‘save’ the infantrymen. I realized that they, in fact, saved me. Our 506th Currahees could put up good fight. It was often far safer with a sharp infantry platoon, than milling around in a so called secure area.

The infantry and their medics comprise a mutual admiration society. The mutual admiration lasts a lifetime.

Currahee…all you Docs!