Fighting remained sporadic for quite some time after the Tet of 1968. It would take months for our enemies to resupply with ammo and reinforcements. But the war went on day by day. They made contact…we made contact. The engagements tended to be brief. The element of surprise wore off quickly in a firefight and our foe retreated to conserve resources.

Our job was to endure the 365 day tour. Higher command wanted to get the most out of our tours. They made us pursue throughout II Corps, once Phan Thiet was deemed secure. On any given day, I was clueless as to where we were or where we were going. It really didn’t matter. Our job was to make contact with the enemy…in the mountains or lowlands, the bush, rain forests, or rice patties. It was all the same. Make contact in the most superior positions possible. Our unit leaders did a fine job. We all did.

On this particular day we played cat and mouse. Today we were the cat…yet the mouse fired back! No one was hurt, despite the exchange of fire. We moved ahead again without further contact. The bushes cleared and I gazed upon a small rectangular house. I asked first squad, “Is this secure?” They replied, Yep, we cleaned the house…its empty.”

I had no real interest in the house. The porch caught my eyes. The tile roof stretched over that area to make a nice shady clean spot for doc. It was still hot for a late afternoon. I figured this was a classy spot for a break. I told at least a half dozen troops about my new found my perch. Just in case another firefight started, I didn’t want to get shot by friendly fire, bolting off that porch. You can’t tell enough soldiers of your position

My ruck sack was firmly pushed in the corner. The concrete surface cooled my legs as I stretched out to survey my find. The smooth surface worked great to prepare a quick hot meal. It seemed too early for us to stop for the night. Besides that, this position was too comfortable to be permanent. Sometimes you seize  the moment for what its worth.

The railings were thick, providing some protection. The narrow slits in the railing gave a window of visibility. However, it was the roof that endeared me to this spot. I can’t remember ever sleeping under a real roof in this country. For the first time, I felt strangely safe in the heart of Vietnam. That was my last thought upon dozing off.

I dreamed about today’s firefight. There were some shouts, but no one cried medic. A day without casualties is a good day. I continued to rest in that safe position. The morning sun glared at me for a wake up call. I had accidentally dozed off far longer than I intended. Thank God the platoon hadn’t moved out with me still on that porch!

Currahees…two things happened from that early snooze. I missed my turn on radio watch that night. No one shared the fact that I was on the porch. Even though I was a stone’s throw away…I was out of place.  

The second thing was the two fresh bullet holes splattered on the wall above me. My dreamy firefight was the real deal! If you can walk away…it is a lesson learned. Never slept under another roof in Vietnam. 

 

 

Borrowed Valor

What falls out of the sky? Some would tell you fools and bird droppings. I would say a whole lot more. Besides some ornery well armed paratroopers, there are 3/4 ton vehicles, jeeps, and 105mm howitzers! My first assigned unit was the 1/321st Airborne Field Artillery.

For most, the idea of jumping with equipment is an abstract idea. For the intelligent paratrooper, it means looking above, below and side-to-side. Parachute drops are well planned; not everything goes as planned. While descending, its possible to see moving vehicles, as well as natural obstacles below, guaranteed to hurt the inattentive. When you land, its still a good idea to spot those men and equipment coming down behind you!

It’s amazing to see how vehicles and howitzers are prepared for drop. Everything an airborne unit owns can and will be dropped out of an airplane. The wonderful thing about artillery was the fact that, once on the ground, we rode!  We had to have vehicles to pull the equipment, carry the ammo and artillerymen.

I would wear the Screaming Eagle patch from 1966-1968. Never wanted to wear anything but that 101st patch on my shoulder. Going to war with the 101st meant I would end up with a Screaming Eagle on both shoulders. We wore a parachute glider cap and jump boots with our dress greens.

Those who actively served with the 1/321st also wore the unit’s history. They bore the Presidential Unit Citation and the French Croix de Guerre cord. All the above and Private First Class stripes helped to make an impression for my first Christmas leave. My dad spent much of his career in artillery. I remember doing a direct site on a state police barracks with a 105mm from the ROTC building, at Sienna College NY. My dad and crew laughed at a 12 year old, who wanted one round to prove his point.

Although the howitzers were old hat, the vehicle mounted 106mm recoilless rifles (guns), were a brand new item of interest. As an artillery medic, I was duly warned not to take a nap behind a 106.  These weapons were dangerous on both ends of the barrel. I saw one touched off in Vietnam, a mite too close to the wall behind them. Debris flew everywhere!

Writers have the privilege of making good light of themselves. In reflection, I left some opportunity to grow as a soldier in this unit. Some dispensary duty broadened my medical skills. However, I needed to be in a larger team of medics to prepare for the Currahee Trail.

I often think of Airborne Row. The street ran the length of the base, down to the airstrip. In reflection, it was more like death row. We never watched the evening news of Vietnam. However, we diligently trained for the inevitable. Men often dyed their tee shirts green at the laundry mat, as a sure sign of their individual orders. They often heard the news first at morning formation. I had a free pass the first year, because I was seventeen. A year passes mighty fast.

At the beginning of 1967, I listened up attentively at morning formation. The sergeant called my name. I had orders! I was reassigned to the 2/501st PIR! Clearing my throat, I asked as bravely as I could. “Where’s the 501st.” Sarge said, “You lucked out trooper, its just down the street.” I would celebrate my 19th birthday in Vietnam, but I would receive some excellent training before fulfilling my own commitment. I don’t know of any paratrooper, whether enlisted or drafted, who escaped a tour in Vietnam.

In closing, I owe my own personal survival to the extensive combat training we endured at Ft. Campbell. The Navy trains their medics as hospital corpsman or Marine field medics; the Army has a tendency to blur these two distinct functions. To survive, a combat medic has to have a good feel for how his unit operates. At times, you have to think and respond like an infantryman. Did I say the 2/501st was PIR? That stands for Parachute Infantry Regiment! My riding days were largely over.