Jump That Didn’t Happen

 Actual Targeted Drop Zone, Courtesy Ron Ford

The 3/506th Parachute Infantry Task Force was conceived for a special jump in Vietnam. We carried all things airborne onboard the ship Weigel for this task. True to our Currahee name, We Stood Alone.  The rest of the 1st Brigade resented our mission. They had the combat experience, but we were jump qualified, equipped, and reinforced with over 900 personnel. To remain on active jump status meant parachuting at least every 90 days. Most 1st Brigade members hadn’t seen a jump for several months. Paratroopers returning to the States went through a refresher course, to regain active jump status.

 

As I heard, we were to land at a mountain pass, to block the retreat of a major enemy force. Apparently this enemy unit regularly attacked and then escaped routinely into Cambodia, by way of this pass. They were using the shield of the American policy, of not crossing the international border. Our mission was to jump behind them and hold this escape route. Other American units could then engage the trapped enemy, from multiple directions, in even greater force. We would stand directly in the way of our enemy’s survival. Even with tactical surprise, we would be fighting a desperate superior force.

The plan came down to the wire. We returned to the 101st base camp, awaiting the early morning jump. The Air Force flew one final reconnaissance mission for intelligence pictures.  This was the first full night’s sleep in a while. Although we were pumped for this special mission, it was pure luxury to sleep in relative safety.

Awakened the next morning, our leadership announced the jump had been scratched. The intelligence pictures confirmed the enemy had been alerted of our plan. They had littered our drop zone with punji stakes, setting their own trap against us. A jump without surprise is at best ineffective; a jump without surprise usually spells disaster. The news was bittersweet; we had invested nine months into this very operation. It is good to be alive. It was disappointing not to make history. In truth, these stories and author may not have survived that jump.

The scratched jump provided a whole new mandate. We would head to the provincial capital of Phan Thiet, to maintain the security of this city. My break into the line companies came rapidly. I served consistently by the first of January to the end of September in the field. Medics were required six months on line, with a 50% probability of being wounded or killed. I felt much better in the field. There are many things worse than death…the 3/506th rear area was one of them.

Currahees…It remains my hope, that those of rank, might recount more details of why this airborne drop was cancelled.

 

 

Peril Outside the Perimeter

Peril comes so unexpectedly. This account recalls an altercation between an officer and an enlisted man. The outcome, life or death, was held in the balance for a few short moments. These moments are forever etched in the memories of those involved.

Doc Max and I were having our final foxhole time…somewhere in the mountains of Vietnam. I can tell you, this was before the Tet Offensive of 1968. We were settled in for the night. I was admiring our degree of visibility. Our position was cleared for several yards forward. The moon shined sufficiently to detect any movement. If it moved outside our perimeter…we could and would shoot it. Keep it simple!

Being on first watch, I soon overheard a vocal altercation to my left. Noise is NOT a good thing in combat. It is a sure way to cause an enemy grenade to drop in your lap. The gunner at the M-60 machine gun position spouted off. Training my ears to the left, I heard a very heated one-sided conversation.

Gunner said,”I hear movement to my direct front. No one is supposed to be outside the perimeter. Therefore, whoever is moving should be shot! ” He elaborated, “The target in front of me has a vague resemblance to my commanding officer. However, it is too dark to ascertain that for sure. Seeming this officer is always on my ass, my first thoughts are to shoot without question. Why should I take any chances?”

I heard a contrite voice reply very judiciously, “You are right. I stand to be corrected. You have my word. I will never get on your ass again. Request permission to come inside the perimeter.”

The silence seemed to go on forever. I am thinking, ‘What am I going to say if that machine gun goes off? They really did have bad blood between them.’ I was so relieved when I heard the reply, “Sir, you are recognized. Come on in.”

Rank has its privileges; rank has its perils. I imagine the gunner had screwed up a few times and had gotten on the old man’s list. However, this officer made a crucial mistake in veering outside the perimeter. He now directly faced well armed men. Vietnam was a terrible place to make additional enemies; we already had a sufficiency.

First watch went by quickly. I thought hard on the incident for those two hours. There is a great gulf between management and leadership. Rank is the only power needed in peacetime. War demands leadership. Rank is given to fulfill the mission. But the troops need someone to give them sound answers, for why they are expected to die. Valor sounds altruistic until blood spills. This is the very point where we pray for good leadership. In my humble opinion, great leaders are gifts from God.

The M-60 gave an enlisted man a moment to express his case. In the short time that I spent in their proximity, the officer held true to his word.

Currahees you will rarely hear me say, ‘this is a true account.’ It happened! I didn’t see a thing, but I heard too much. They may never have realized that I was privy to this private conversation. In reflection, I think this officer realized he wasn’t stateside anymore. In my opinion, a true leader was born.

 

 

Faux Firefight

Pulling headquarters duty became old fast. We started with 34 personnel in our medical platoon; twelve could serve in our three line units at one time. Some were dispersed with the recon platoon. I soon felt like I was waiting in the wings.

On a hill, somewhere in Vietnam, we established yet another headquarters position. Our unit was attached to the 1st Brigade of the 101st Airborne Division. However, we were separated for a combat jump, planned almost from our inception. The battalion was reinforced with over 900 men. The division wanted us both ‘experienced’ and sufficiently healthy for the jump.

A full third of the medics were on this particular hill. I remember one afternoon when we comprised  the entire serving line for the evening chow. A huey helicopter descended in front of the chow line (this hill was compact for space). A man rode the skids with his full ruck. He knew he had an audience, and demonstrated his bravado by leaning away from the ship, sweeping his rifle through the air. About five feet from the ground, the trooper release his grip on the huey for a good Airborne show jump.

This hill was a pimple. A gust of air whipped the helicopter up another five feet or so into the air. The trooper was already fully committed. He now leaped at least two full body lengths to the ground. I thought he might pull a parachute landing fall; he planted both feet firmly on the ground. His prideful grin soon transformed to anguish.  This troop was bound for a white boot. He broke it in front of plenty of help. We drew straws among the medics, the rest continued to serve chow.

Doc Max Sclair and I shared a foxhole. Sclair was extremely intelligent. The only thing that keep him grounded was his New York City upbringing. Guys from the Big Apple ride subways and cabs. Just a piece of advise, don’t let Sclair drive! However, Doc Sclair was a true gentleman and good company.

The position to our left was manned by medics. Their hole jutted out a bit. Our defense line used the natural terrain as given. I had served with them for a short stint at Ft. Campbell, and I suspected an incident there influenced our present location. They were really cool guys, but they liked their altered state all too well.

Vietnam was a personal turning point. Every man stood on his own two feet. For the most part, I stayed civil with the old group, but I kept a distance. We had briefly talked that day. During our conversation, they informed me of an acquired supply of Dexamyl. They had plenty of drug induced energy; they bragged about not sleeping for days. A full night’s sleep in Nam was pure luxury and rare. Most of us dragged through the days from sleep deprivation.

Night fell and Sclair and I settled in for another round of two hours on and two hours of sleep. Suddenly, all hell broke loose! The position to our left fired off several claymore anti-personnel mines, some grenades, and several clips of ammo on full automatic.

Sclair and I carefully searched the field of fire ahead of us. Nothing was moving. There were no incoming rounds. Sclair said, What to hell is going on?” I said, “Dexamyl, they’re  hopped up on Dexamyl!” He said, “What do we do?” I said, “Get to the bottom of the hole until they run out of grenades!!!”

When the last blast subsided, I raised my head to check the perimeter ahead. I heard them shouting, “The damn VC are swinging through the trees!” Their effective field of fire was held down range. I fired a clip on semi-automatic. An officer eased up behind our position and asked my assessment. I reported, “Sir, definite movement forward, between our position and the left.” He retreated, that left position jutted out a bit too far in this confusion.

The Dexamyl Boys and I never served in proximity again. They did swear off pills, and stuck to their alcohol. In their own crazy way, they were great medics. Doc Sclair and I shared one more foxhole, until we all made our way out of headquarters.

Currahhees…they flew dogs in the next day to sniff our perimeter line. There was not a smell, not even a raised eyebrow from those dogs. Sometimes you just have to stick by your story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Shots Fired!

Firsts tend to be hard to forget. Our first shots fired easily fit into that category. The division pushed us farther and farther way from the safer areas. Although the whole country held an element of danger, certain segments were more hotly contested. I also noticed that everyone tended to share the wealth…as in if my butt is on the line…your butt better be right there with me! So, we shared.

Somewhere in our earliest wanderings, I served perimeter duty for the battalion headquarters. Three of us took over a really well fortified bunker. I checked it out for hours…it was impressive. This one was topped with at least two layers of sand bags, supported by perforated steel plates. There were two frontal ports for fire, and one on each side. The rear was fairly open, with a wide step up, affording some rear protection. The depth was perfect for a standing shot, with the barrel resting for accuracy. The bunker appeared to be built by combat engineers. If I were a real estate man, this bunker could be sold at a premium.

My two bunker mates were friendly. They liked having their own resident medic. I was just beginning to think that war was great. This bunker was certainly adequate for the three of us. A three man rotation would give us two hours of sleep and one hour watches. Life was good.

I excused myself for a stand up nature call to the rear right of the bunker. The head high brush attracted me. About mid-stream I heard a ‘crack crack crack!’ Growing up in the Maine woods, I knew these were rifle shots, fired toward our immediate vicinity. Thank God I wore my steel pot.

With all my military training intact, I shot back to the bunker, like the rifle I didn’t have. An M-16 lay by the back door (not mine) and I grabbed it on the way in. A round ejected as I checked the chamber. I laid the M-16 out the portal and dialed to full automatic. With that, I was ready for war.

My two mates were still on top of the bunker during all this time. It had taken just seconds for my hasty return. They came inside to see me at the ready. However, the VC had high tailed it after their short welcome. Without a target, I never fired a return shot. One of the guys said, “Doc, you are going to make it through Vietnam at that speed. Just give me my damned rifle.” I thought possession was nine tenths of the law, but these weapons do have serial numbers.

An Aussie soldier quickly joined our bunker, with a half dozen darker skinned indigenous individuals. He asked me pointedly if the shots were fired in our immediate sector. I quickly affirmed. He saw my quizzical glance toward his team. He offered, “these are mountain men, from a group called the Montagnards. They are fierce warriors and we pay them by the ear.” [Most soldiers do not give up their ears willingly. This was a practical body count.] Our conversation was cut short. These guys were anxious to pursue a hot trail. As they began the chase, I inadvertently took inventory of both my ears.

Our watch rotation would soon begin. I had secured my own M-16. My mind went through that old army adage, “This is my rifle, this is my gun…” I would never again be more than half an arms length from my weapon; the medical aid bag also never left my sight. We were lucky the VC didn’t approach close enough for a clear shot. If we can walk away from an experience, we can call it a life lesson.

Currahees…Standing watch, our sector is secure!

Other Side of the World Lonely

I was told, ‘If the Army doesn’t issue it…you don’t need it!’ For the most part it was true. It was particularly true for the short run. My mind was primarily focused on the daily tasks at hand. I didn’t have a struggle keeping the love fires burning on the home front.

However, I did make a contingency plan with three female pen pals. I figured at least one of them would last six months. All letters ceased before Christmas. I didn’t have anything great to write about my days. Even my Dad shut down that year. He survived through denial. I knew that he loved me; that was enough.

The only care package I received that year was from a missionary family, that I had met through the Christian Serviceman’s Center. His name was Frank Gill, though I am sure his wife put the package together. I was in the field. It was a fine moment to share home made cookies with the platoon. Some had previously offered to share with me; at times I would take one cookie, never more. After giving up hope, I felt embarrassed to take from anyone else. When the Gill’s package arrived…that evened the score. The cookies were not extremely fresh, but the were from the other side of the world. They were from home!

Two ladies found themselves etched in my Vietnam memory. The first worked with the Red Cross. I stumbled onto their center by accident. Guys were playing board games. The ladies tried hard, but they were clearly bored. I reluctantly asked one, if she would kindly play a game of checkers. The were informally called Donut Dollies. It was so great to see an American lady, after all these weeks abroad. I tried to play a bit slow, in hopes of a small conversation. The ratio of American men to women on this base was probably 10,000:1.  With those odds, a ten minute checkers game was as good as it gets. I thanked her and left. She was the last American female that I saw in Vietnam.

One Vietnamese lady stands out to this day. She was a Tea Lady. Something like a Japanese Geisha, these ladies would sit at a  table and converse. The gentleman was required to buy tea for both the lady and themselves. I had heard that they were lovely; I had heard that they were highly suspected of being enemy agents…extracting bits of information from careless soldiers. Some things you have to see for yourself.

We drank a round of tea. Her features were fine and her hands delicate. Her silk dress conveyed that same aura of an elite class of Vietnamese. Her English betrayed an educated woman; there was no apparent monetary need for her to waste time with a lower ranked soldier.

Mid-way the first cup, she broached into inquiry of things military.  I assured her that I was totally ignorant of any news past this very moment. I must have thoroughly convinced her, because she reluctantly accepted the offer of a second cup. Since we were on my second-cup dime, I boldly asked her, “What do you think of the American presence in Vietnam?”

Her eyes flashed, before her studied reply. I knew that I stared into a most beautiful face, of the enemy. She might as well have carried an AK-47. Her weapons were words. She carefully replied, “The French were here; the French are gone. The Americans are here; the Americans…will also leave.” Her conviction utterly surprised me. I hurried the last of the tea. The empty cup signaled the end of this conversation.

Several years later, with the fall of Saigon televised, I remembered the Tea Lady. I wondered where she was celebrating.

The army couldn’t issue anything for an empty heart. We filled our minds with excess. The only way to fight loneliness was to  keep moving and to rid oneself of any unnecessary baggage. The war is won or lost between the ears.

 

Formal Welcome…P Training

Nothing is ever quite like you imagine, especially in the Army! One of the biggest reality shifts was the 24/7 of combat. This constant pace began on the ship. Days of the week held no meaning, because every day was a work day. I had a birthday in November, but I am not sure when November 16th arrived, nor when it left. I think I realized I was 19 when somebody mentioned Christmas.

Our calendar was 365 days. Endure those and you go home! The fundamental reality was survival. Between the Army’s mission and the enemy’s resistance, the notion of rotating home distanced itself, into the far corners our mind. Two groups of people didn’t make it. The new guys were on a steep learning curve; the old guys began to take life too seriously. Living to the ripe old age of 20…was at the very end of the 365 day marathon.

All God’s children took P Training. Rotating vets would provide direct lessons learned to all the new guys. Shifting from the possibility of…to the reality of combat…blows the normal mind. You have a feeling of forgetfulness. Forgetting is a means of escape. But you can’t escape this new reality and live. Get it and get it right!

The Preparatory Training assumed we were well trained soldiers. Our classes instructed us on the localized conditions and the habits of a specific enemy. I listened quite intently. We heard the constant military presence in the air. We slept through the distant artillery barrages at night. Phan Rang was military on steroids.

Most troops hit P Training alone; we came as a unit. I sat next to a Sergeant First Class, toward the end of the five days. My Dad was an SFC. My whole existence was under the shadow of this man’s army. My father had given me only one piece of survival advise. [All Vet’s have at least one piece of survival advice!] He said, “If all hell breaks loose, do whatever the platoon sergeant does. Just don’t get too close to him. He will kick your ass!”

So, I felt comfortable next to this SFC…but I didn’t get too close. He looked a bit tired. Perhaps the information seemed redundant to him. Sarge was somewhere else. This particular instruction focused upon booby traps. It had my military mind. I did not want to be impaled nor find my 1001 pieces after something blew up. I was glued to this lecture like a video game.

Thinking it was about smoke time (the only official break in Vietnam), we were quickly caught off guard. At the end of this class…we hit the ‘trail’ with booby traps! Sarge was designated point man. My proximity caused me to be second. Within three inches into the trail, my SFC hit a booby trap. God…we are wiped out already! I know he was embarrassed in front of his own platoon. You snooze…you lose here.

The instructor looked at me. I figured he would say I died with Sarge. He said, “You lead this unit through the booby traps.” I said, “Sir, I am a medic.” He said, “You lead this unit through the booby traps, Doc!” So, I said, “Follow me!”

There were about 20 booby traps. Some were obvious, like the one Sarge stepped upon. Some were a bit subtle. With a high degree of pain avoidance, I discovered every damn one of them. I dutifully showed each to the man behind me. Word carried throughout the single-file of men. With each discovery, Sarge grew more embarrassed, as he tagged on the end.

Our capstone exercise was a couple of hours outside the base perimeter. We went on night patrol with live ammo, locked and loaded. We had simple instructions, “If it isn’t us…shoot it!’ Man, my adrenaline pumped. The odds of seeing a ‘live one’ were pretty slim. As graduates, they would feed us into less secure areas over time. The Vietcong and North Vietnamese Army would complete our instruction.

I imagined the Sergeant First Class would ask for me by name. After all, I had saved his platoon single-handedly. In reality, I never saw him nor his platoon the remainder of our tour. I think he never wanted to see me again…ever. What the heck does a doc know anyway?

First Vietnam Convoy!

Did I say that I grew to hate convoys very quickly? We assume riding is always preferable to walking. However, this is far from true in a combat situation. Convoys tend to be easy targets; the participants are sitting ducks. The ONLY free pass we received was, in fact, this first trip from Cam Rahn Bay the 101st base camp at Phan Rang. We were escorted through the most difficult part of this trip.

Why would a combat battalion need escorting? We abruptly hit the mountains. Most roads meander snakelike over mountainous passes; this road was blasted through shear rock. In peace time, the passes were picturesque. In wartime, a convey held no cover against innumerable attack positions. The sides were so steep that one would only have to roll a boulder over the cliffs to create havoc. The only thing that thwarted the enemy were the strategic flyovers of the Cobra attack helicopters.  Trips through this area were few and well planned.

Once cleared, we were largely left to our own devises. We gazed at the countryside to get a feel for this new country. We all soon surmised that we were complete foreigners to this culture. An adaptation process formed within each of us for survival.

Two foods are main staples in Vietnam, fish and rice. Both were pungent for different reasons. Our convoy drove directly through a myriad of rice paddies, that stretched as far as the eyes could see. There were no places for personal convenience. If nature called, one would drop their draws beside the road and hide their face. Only the face is totally unique. This was one of many customs that demanded cultural awareness. Some of us almost fell off the truck staring. The Vietnamese thought we were crude. In this instance…we were.

Children ran near the vehicles for G.I. chocolates.  We had a tropical bar that withstood the heat. Whether we stopped or just took mobile aim, the kids would be delighted for a treat. Children have a universal element about them. They are natural cultural bridges.

The Vietnamese all looked alike to the untrained eyes. Over the months the facial details of our Asian friends would stand out in a crowd. I only had a handful of Vietnamese friends. Most of our days would be spend in search and destroy missions; there were no friendlies in these sectors.

 

Land ho…it’s Vietman!

Happy Anniversary to all the Boat People, the original Currahees, who first saw Vietnam, off the bow of the Weigel. We are known by many names…aka Currahees (We Stand Alone), Boat People, Band of Brothers (HBO) and officially as the 3/506th Airborne Infantry Battalion and Task Force 3/506th Airborne Infantry. On the anniversary of the 1968 Tet Offensive…we celebrate our landing. Vietnam would welcome more of those crazies, proudly wearing that Screaming Eagle patch!

A seaman’s eye can see the first trace of land. As the word spread, I raced up the ladders for my own first glimpse. This did not remotely compare with the Philippines.  With no islands in sight, we struck directly for the main coastline. I only knew our proximity. Perfect information was a luxury to the regular trooper. We had a least one, perhaps two stops, from below the DMZ headed southward. We finally settled in at Cam Rahn Bay.

It was at the earliest stop that my eyes fixed upon what I would call a Chinese junk, sailing close to our position. A harbor craft raced between us and fired just off their bow; the craft was not kidding! The boat immediately yielded its course. I thought to myself, ‘Welcome to Vietnam!’ May I add, ‘thank you harbor patrol!’

You would think to see rows of hotels, lining the beach, as one would sail into harbor.  The beaches were barren of anything but essential steel structures. I don’t remember docking until Cam Rahn, which was the major military deep sea port. With land in now sight, we raced to prepare for our own landing. Dr. Lovy, Combat Surgeon in Vietnam, documents our arrival at Cam Rahn Bay, on October 25th. Simply put, we completed 25 days at sea.

With all our mess neatly stacked on the main deck, I was ready! A sergeant called me for an errand below. I reluctantly left my equipment for a direct order. Upon return, my helmet was missing! I haven’t had a piece of military equipment stolen from me since basic training. After dutifully checking my immediate area, and asking those present if they had seen anyone suspicious,  I began a tirade of speaking French. My French is a bit poor, but I was hotly fluent that day. How to hell was a man going to war without his helmet? I put a curse on that thief, that if it ever came to fruition, he would lead a most miserable life everlasting!

Reluctantly, I went through the chain of command. My new issue was a steel pot, with no helmet liner. Thompson would hit the beach with a steel pot rolling on his head. I looked like hell with that stupid pot. We loaded on 2 1/2 ton trucks and rolled in country. Medics were disbursed throughout the convoy (for a reason).

Two things struck me about that expansive sandlot called Cam Rahn Bay. The massive steel docks established a world class port. It wasn’t pretty, but America invested a fortune in building this facility. The second thing was the swimming pool we passed, on the way out of town. The pool belonged to the United States Air Force. I saw a lot of planes nestled in their fortified positions. However, that pool remained etched in my mind for the remainder of my tour. I never saw another swimming pool in the entire country.

Many a night, I would nestle into a foxhole, somewhere in Vietnam. I would wonder what life would be like, if my father were anything but an Army Recruiter. Thoughts of those airman in that pool still run through my mind to this very day.

For all you Currahees…Good morning Vietnam!

 

Man Overboard!

The sight of a man going overboard was a bit shocking. The words ringing out, “Man Overboard” brought chills to my spine. I am by no stretch a seaman, but the peril of a man in the drink…is a universally understood distress call. For me, it was sobering.

The bus brought us directly from our demise with the Shore Patrol (see First Blood at Subic Bay). Arriving unscathed, I was perused by a senior medic for service. Smelling my two beers, he dismissed me from engaging in the forthcoming triage of cuts and bruises. Resigned to ascend the gang plank, I watched the events from the main deck. More buses delivered the troops like clockwork. Most should have felt their pain, which would surely catch up with them by morning. It was glorious pandemonium! You would have thought we had won the skirmish.

The momentum of the day carried some troops beyond the call of reason. One of our men jumped over the rail. Two or three more were inspired by the first brave soul. From my perspective, it was quite the drop from deck to sea. With their comrades in trouble, more began to dive in to save their friends. An army officer burst through to the rail. With quick assessment, he sounded the alarm, “Man overboard!” Then he abruptly added, “Not another damned troop better jump this deck…I will personally have you court-martialed!” The tenor of the deck immediately changed.

A small boat scooped up the guys in the drink. Amazingly, no one was hurt (to my knowledge) going over the rails. It brought a chuckle to see them pulled harmlessly to safety. Soon the busses ceased arrival, signaling the end of the festivities. A very careful count of all manifest personnel was taken and retaken that night. The ship finally slipped from the dock. Our next stop…Vietnam.

Breakfast was pretty routine that next morning. We quickly returned to our shipboard routines. I climbed the ladders to the main deck at mid-morning. There leaned a familiar figure on the rail. Hesitantly, I braved to disturb the silence of our Battalion Surgeon, Dr. Andrew Lovy. “Good morning Sir.” His smile provided the non-verbal permission to proceed. After some brief small talk, I just happened to mention, “Sir, the guys bought some extra time ashore last night.”

Dr. Lovy never hesitated to seize a teachable moment. He turned to me full faced to say, “Let me set the record straight Thompson.” Then he added,”I want you to spread this word.” The Battalion Surgeon continued, “The base command and the officers of this unit knew exactly what you would pull. Contingency plans were already in place. Everything went exactly as planned. However, the troop resistance was grossly overestimated. At this very minute, the ship is turning in circles. Otherwise, we would arrive four hours early. We must arrive at our first port exactly on time.”

Perfect information is rare for the lower ranking enlisted man. In that short conversation, he burst my bubble. Dutifully, I relayed Dr. Lovy’s information with the troops I knew. I never saw anyone from the 503rd again; we moved throughout the ship, in our own separate circles.

This post is dedicated to those brave souls who jumped into the brink. I trust some comrades will add more input to this notorious event. We were very young soldiers once…all volunteers on that Currahee  Trail.

 

 

First Blood at Subic Bay

Great expectations can sizzle after about three weeks of boredom. My father had fought from the initial landings on the Aleutian Islands (Alaskan territory) to the shadows of Japan. Some of the famous islands, of WWII lore, appeared more like fossilized icebergs to me. They were just  hazardous obstacles you could run into unaware. I wondered if he had been on the Weigel as a young man; he certainly rode a sister ship. Little did I know that I was heading toward my own island invasion.

Every day on this ship was a blessing. We had one more day alive. Life would look pretty cheap soon. The voyage counted as part of our combat time. On the flip side, the ship was shrinking by the day. We had a lot of pent up energy and no place to go. We normally ran for miles, and humped the woods all night. The Weigel altered everything. It was the quiet before the storm. Our ship had a volcano brewing in its berth!

Dr. Lovy took copious notes, as recorded in Combat Surgeon in Vietnam. He marks our departure as October 1st and our arrival in the Philippines as Oct. 19th. With rumors of land, I raced to the top side…before the break of dawn. Most of what I saw was a series of uninhabitable islands. These were at least dressed with tropical trees. There seemed to be more islands than a star constellation. Slowly we approached larger and larger islands. The ship’s pace seemed to plod, now that we could reference our speed with points of interest.

I have never seen ocean water clear enough to view schools of fish. Perhaps our deck height and the sun’s angle played a part. The sight was purely breath taking. I swear, it looked like we could see a hundred feet deep! This was my first full taste of the tropics. The ship closed in on its destination…Subic Bay.

Sea legs were a bit difficult to develop; solid land presented a reverse challenge. Adaptation is more natural in younger men. Soon we raced to see the Philippine ladies. However, we were very restricted in both activity and location. Two days in paradise fly by faster than the Bird of Paradise. I had time to pick up a few souvenirs to send home.  The threat of curfew fast descended.

I finally stopped into a bar, hoping to find my friends. At first glance, they all looked like members of the 503rd, the unit on our other deck. Then I saw my medics were piled in the far corner. I thought of buying a coke, but Doc Jones told me to man up and drink a brew. Its always been hard to say ‘no’ to Jones. I thought to myself, ‘Well, how often do you get to the Philippines?’ We shared some brew.

The structure was quite large; it was designed to hold the mass of lower ranks. Cinder blocks and wired windows gave it a penitentiary look. The beer was cold and plentiful. Most of the guys were well ahead of me by now. They were gearing up for another dry spell on the Weigel. About the second beer, all hell broke loose. It started several tables over, toward the center.

When two different airborne units converge…sooner or later…a fight is bound to happen. At first, I thought this was brilliant. These guys waited until the last minute to buy extra time. It could take several more hours to get on the ship. Then, I had another thought. I only knew less than half our battalion by sight! So I donned on my hat, with the unit crest. I immediately reduced my risk by half!

With perhaps two minor altercations under my belt, I looked upon my very first bar fight. We pressed toward the center. The place was so crowded, we might have to take turns for a swing. I was just totally impressed, until the 503rd utilized their immediate access to the bar. The first round of full beer cans flew in our general direction. Several more salvoes continued. My thoughts of a bar fight quickly turned into bar flight. I told my guys, “I am getting to hell out of here!”

Instinctively, I dove under the nearest table, moving in the general direction of the only door. I felt the coward, until I saw the conga line forming behind me. Bravely, I led the pack on all fours. We were making good progress, until I got the  far side of the third table. A pair of big boots stood directly in the way. Hesitating, I figured the fight might draw the boots away. The boots didn’t budge. Then, I saw the white laces. In the slightest gesture, my eyes turned upward. Then I heard a booming voice say, “Are you looking for trouble?” I said, “No Sir! Not in this position, Sir!” He says, “I am going to give you some instructions. Follow them completely to the letter.” I said, “Sir, yes Sir.”

The room was engulfed in total chaos. However, these are the detailed instructions, as best as I could hear under duress. He continued, ” Get up slowly. There are two lines of Shore Patrol on either side of you. Do not look directly at them. Do not talk. Do not raise your hands from your sides. Walk straight between them. Do not hesitate. At the end of the lines is a bus. Get on it!” I said, “Yes Sir!”

About two heads behind me, I heard a sharp crack. God only knows, I headed straight to the bus. There might have been two 503rd on ahead of me. I sat in a seat and minded my own business. The 506th thought they were tough; the 503rd thought they were tough. The Shore Patrol was tough!

Story tellers often make themselves the hero. There are too many beloved witnesses that remember this all too well. Reflecting back as an older man, this was a PTSD claim in the making! Once contained, the experienced turned into a comedy of errors. That sounds like another true account of the Currahees in action.