John Podlaski's Blog, page 2

Technicians Couldn’t Restart a Downed Helicopter, Then the General Called a Forgotten Combat Veteran

Truth or fiction? Either way, this is one hell of a story that shows practical experience is sometimes better than being school smart.

When a team of the military’s brightest technicians can’t restart a legendary UH-1 Huey helicopter, they openly mock the one man called in to help: an elderly veteran in a faded jacket. They see a relic from a bygone era, a man hopelessly out of touch with their world of digital diagnostics and complex schematics. His quiet talk of the machine having a “soul” is met with condescending laughter and outright dismissal. What begins as a simple technical failure becomes a powerful public reckoning, proving that the deepest knowledge isn’t always found on a screen, and that true legends command a respect that technology can never replace.

This short video is worth watching…

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you’re interested in learning more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog to receive notifications by email or your feed reader whenever a new story, picture, video, or update is posted on this website. The subscription button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

America…Vietnam…Italy

Imagine you are touring Italy and a stranger joins you at your table during lunch. After some small talk, he wants to share his Vietnam War experience with you. He has to tell his story, and you listen intently for the next two hours. Later, his memories will need to be paid forward.

How the traces of the Vietnam War never end.

By David Gerstel.

Two of the men in this story I never met. The third was a stranger who introduced himself in Sarnano. His name was Joe. We had drinks at an outside bar under a large umbrella in the medieval village, which I was
visiting as part of a slow food tour and introduction to Le Marche. We began with bruschetta, focaccia, and triangles of pecorino cheese with honey that ran to the edges of a black Japanese slate. I took notes on thin napkins. Our conversation lasted more than two hours, and he was sitting silently when I left, continuing to drink an excellent Rosso Piceno wine.

We discussed Sarnano’s history and character. I thought he was moving in the direction of an invitation to dinner, which I was expected to pay for. After the second glass of wine, he changed the conversation to the story of his life. Joe said, concentrating on the table, “The journalist Mark Jury died at the end of August of this year. I did not know him or The Vietnam Photo Book, but had seen his photographs in magazines long ago. “Vietnam”, Jury is quoted as saying in the NY Times obituary by Clay Risen, “caught up with me.” Our lives were touched by the news of his death and the reference to the passing in 2016 of Michael Herr, the author of Dispatches.

Joe: “I was at sea, east of Suez on an American Export Line vessel, the steamship Exemplar, in the summer of 1965. It was the India run, and we spent more time in Calcutta than New York, berthed at the Kidderpore Locks for so long that some crew had apartments and wives. This was my second or third India voyage after a year on passenger ships and time in the Med. My parents received a letter from the local Selective Service office. It would have to wait until the voyage ended. At 23 years old, I was a merchant marine officer on voyages to countries that few Americans cared about.

“The India ship paid off in New York on a Thursday, cash in our pockets, a great deal of cash. By law, we were paid in US dollars at the end of a voyage. Seamen are wards of the government, along with Indians. The government does not think much of either group.

“The letter was short. I could sail on ships to Vietnam or be drafted into the army. They had no reference. Door number 1, door number 2. I chose the first because the pay was better.

“The subway brought me to the operations manager’s office of the company in Lower Manhattan, from which you could see Miss Liberty. I waved to her every time we headed up the Hudson River to the company’s piers in Hoboken. Francis Xavier O’Bryn glanced at the letter with the government stamp and the signature of a clerk who decided the fate of men and boys he would never meet beyond their zip codes. He said there was a ship to Vietnam on Saturday. Two days between voyages. No time for a Broadway play. I went to the doctor to be vaccinated.

“We loaded at Hoboken and went coastwise to Philadelphia, Savannah, New Orleans, Beaumont, Texas for ordnance, tanks and bulldozers, beer and peaches, air conditioners and china dishware, condoms
and medical supplies, coffins; the necessities and accessories of war. Our voyage was going to take 6 to 7 months. I don’t remember if we went through the Panama Canal or around the Cape of Good Hope. It was a long way to the sound of cannons.

Michael Herr, author of Dispatches PHOTO COURTESY MICHAEL HERR

“Ships were in high demand and short supply that year. Every available freighter was chartered for Vietnam. The companies were going to make a fortune. Any mate, engineer, or seaman who could walk found a ship. Some had sailed in the Atlantic convoys to England and Russia from 1941 to the surrender of Germany. All the deck officers on my ship had unlimited master’s licenses and could have been in command. The crew was experienced with a few like me, young. Vietnam was a birthday cake with candles and gift wrapping. The North Vietnamese had no submarines and no aircraft to sink merchant ships. We were all going to make it through.

“Some Captains never drank, others never stopped. I sailed with one who was falling down drunk for six months without a day off, and every officer took the ship away at least once. Johnny Walker Red Label scotch was a dollar and a half, duty-free. In Saigon, the Captain closed the ventilators and ports to his cabin for fear of VietCong hand grenades. Never mind that the temperature reached 120 F and there was no air conditioning. We laughed. In that moment, we loved the war.”

Mark Jury: According to his biography, he joined the army to become a combat photographer. He had no restrictions and went where he wanted, from the Continental Palace in Saigon to triple canopy jungle and rice fields, hot landing zones, search and destroy missions, and the Brown Water Navy. He took great and terrible photos, saw combat, and too many bodies. He ran towards the sound of gunfire. It took ten years for him to feel the effects of Vietnam. Then he began to drink and broke down.

Mark Jury – His stark photographs captured the Vietnam experience

Michael Herr: Late in 1967, according to the New York Times, he persuaded the editor of Esquire, Harold Hayes, to send him to Vietnam. It was shortly before Khe Sanh, one of the war’s bloodiest battles, and the Tet Offensive, a North Vietnamese campaign against targets in the South. Writing for a monthly magazine, Herr was an oddity in the press corps; one soldier asked if he would be reporting about what they were wearing, and the American commander, General Westmoreland, wondered if his assignment was to produce articles that were “humorous.” Yet he struggled. “The problem with Vietnam is that if your body came back, your mind came back too. Within 18 months of coming back, I was on the edge of a major breakdown. It hit in 1971, and it was very serious. Real despair for three or four years; deep paralysis. I split up with my wife for a year. I didn’t see anybody because I didn’t want anybody to see me.” It was writing Dispatches that brought it on, the memories and people asking about Vietnam. What he had seen went into the book, and there was nothing left. The first question is always: How many did you kill?

Joe: “I stayed in Vietnam for three years, back and forth across oceans. For the most part, it was easy, waiting to be discharged, watching the sunrise, and doing the job. That left time to lend a hand and fly supplies to fire support bases on C-130s from Da Nang, join the Koreans on sweeps through rubber plantations, be ambushed on the streets of Saigon and Cholon, or be killed in a cargo hold 50 feet below the freighter’s steel deck.

“Once or twice, I went out with American troops, pretending to be a warrior. We ran the river to Saigon under machine gun fire. None of it seemed real and I wanted more, a speaking role in the movie. I was a participant in the great adventure, excited and exhausted. I carried a union card with benefits.

“Vietnam was a roulette game. The bowl was dark and the hooded croupier dressed in black. All the segments on the spinning wheel were shadowed. The gamblers stood around, played with their cigarettes, gum, and weapons, and listened to rock and roll. You were not surprised when the ball stopped. It was continuous play, and your bet came up before the sun. No one wanted to win but you had to play. The newspapers at home had casualty lists bordered by thick black lines, but papers were not delivered to the casino. The notices were never read. Death was an empty space on the field.”

Jury and Herr wrote other books, but their lives were built in Vietnam. The tragedy, the legacy, even the laughter, was Vietnam.

Joe: “My war ended and other mates replaced me. I was back on the India run, done what the government said was my duty in the South China Sea, and carried the same germs of the disease that afflicted Jury and Herr. But I was unsure if it was Vietnam or dysentery from bad shrimp in Bombay at the Chinese restaurant near the Gateway to India that caused the pain. I worked the ship.”

In Vietnam, you learned caution and courage, deeply buried the dread that settled like fog in low valleys. Yesterday was gone and you forgot the day ahead. Some men wrote home every day, others never. They thought luck was with them. Until it wasn’t. Personal items were put into a cardboard box with a tag; socks and sweets were divided among the other men.

You did not realize when you came home that Vietnam was a finishing school for the remainder of your life. You weren’t smart enough for that. It made you different, tougher, more afraid and less. You pushed boundaries because Vietnam had none. You saw what men could do.

Joe: “Years later I left the sea and went far from the watery part of the world, work on the land carrying freight. Vietnam came with me. The infection continued to grow, invisible to an X-ray. Eventually, it would show a darkness on the negative held to light, but the terror on the edges was missed.”

Joe kept speaking, unwilling, unable to stop. I asked him why he was telling me all this. His answer was, “Because I will not see you again. Maybe the drinks and I needed to talk after I saw Jury’s obituary and read about Herr because I am tired and you are here, and there is no one else. Bad luck for you. And you are paying.” I was the audience and stenographer.

He said a few participants in Vietnam were fortunate and able to speak, Jury through his camera, Herr on a typewriter. Others had someone to listen to or say get over it, deal with it, and move on. Joe’s war was replayed in his car, at the stream where he fished, at breakfast in a diner with bacon and eggs, a baseball game on a windy day, in bed. There was remission from time to time.

Awareness came slowly; he changed jobs and cities, and abandoned friends. His wife left with the children, saying his war was behind her. Eventually, he bottomed out, gave up the companionship of men, and drifted away and downward. He had his devils, and together they visited his youth in the eastern seas, needing no guide or compass. The difficulty was returning.

He had to find a simpler world and so came to Italy, recalled from his days at sea, retreated to a village built on a rock one thousand years ago, and met a tourist in the historic center.

I had a room at the Hotel Terme off the Piazza della Libertà, which has tall trees and many benches, the statue of a priest paid for by a doctor in Toronto, and a bathing pool for birds. It is a peaceful spot. There is a memorial carved from Carrara granite that names the Sarnano men dead in the Nazi war. From the restaurant in the hotel, I ordered dinner, asking that it be brought to my room with a liter of wine.

My travels continued and I came back to Sarnano after two months. I had seen Ascoli Piceno, Urbino, the wonderful bronze horses in Pergola, and many other towns and villages. Asking for Joe, the bar owner said he had died in a fall, an accident late at night on the steep turning steps to the Piazza Alta
and the Chiesa di Santa Maria. I knew it was not accidental. He died of wounds.

It was a year before I understood what Joe had spoken about under a setting sun beneath the Sibillini mountains. I make an effort now to remember him, as well as Jury, Herr, and the others who lived that time. Joe’s life and memory have been paid forward, a good thing. I wish it could be more.

A quote on the internet, “Not everyone who lost his life in Vietnam died there, not everyone who returned from Vietnam ever left there.” Amen to that.

For Roni and Florence

David Gerstel is an American expat who has lived for many years in Sarnano, a small town nestled among the hills of the Province of Macerata, in the Italian region of Marche. It’s the middle of nowhere, but the center of everything.

dgerstel@securenet.net

This article originally appeared in THE AMERICAN, the transatlantic magazine July – August 2025/ Here’s the direct link:

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you’re interested in learning more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog to receive notifications by email or your feed reader whenever a new story, picture, video, or update is posted on this website. The subscription button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

Why is it called The Wall That Heals?

This is an email I recently received from the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund:

It’s a question asked every year, and the answer is often difficult to put into words. It is a transformative experience, and when you witness our three-quarter scale traveling replica and Education Center arrive in a community, the answer becomes quite clear.

Inside the 53-foot trailer that becomes the Education Center is our three-quarter scale Wall replica, which carries the more than 58,000 names of service members who died or were missing in action during the Vietnam War. The 58,000 names are inscribed on 140 panels that span 375 feet, and in that space, something miraculous happens: it becomes a place of healing.

The Wall That Heals brings the power and purpose of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial to our hometowns. Each site becomes sacred ground, and while we are there, it is always open, always welcoming, and always healing. Here, veterans find a comforting space to remember, honor, and grieve. Families get a chance to visit their loved ones. Communities and younger generations can witness the service and sacrifice of their hometown heroes.

The transformation, from open ground to hallowed ground, is made possible by you. Your support keeps this symbol of honor, remembrance, and healing on the road, reaching those who need it most.

We hope you can visit us on the road and experience the impact of your support. Here is the schedule for the rest of 2025:

CITY HOST OPENING CLOSING

St. Louis County, MOThe Wall That Heals – St. Louis County, MO7/24/257/27/25Buckner, MOThe Wall That Heals – Buckner, MO7/31/258/3/25Nevada, IAMain Street Nevada8/7/258/10/25Emporia, KSThe Wall That Heals Emporia8/14/258/17/25Spokane, WAWA State Fallen Heroes Project8/28/258/31/25Ellensburg, WAKittitas County Rotaries9/4/259/7/25Port Townsend, WAAmerican Legion Post #26 & Hadlock VFW Post 74989/11/259/14/25Independence, ORVeterans & Independence OR The Wall That Heals 20259/18/259/21/25Orange, CAThe Wall That Heals – Orange 202510/2/2510/5/25Clovis, CAThe Wall That Heals Central Valley10/9/2510/12/25American Canyon, CACity of American Canyon10/16/2510/19/25Wylie, TXThe Wall That Heals – Wylie Host Committee10/30/2511/2/25Athens, ALAthens State University11/6/2511/9/25Crystal Springs, MSMS Patriots and The City of Crystal Springs11/13/2511/16/25

To view additional posts about THE WALL, go to the top right of this page, click on the magnifying glass, and type THE WALL. Several articles will appear in a scroll-down menu. After reading a post, simply click on the back arrow at the top left of this page to return to the list.

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you’re interested in learning more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog to receive notifications by email or your feed reader whenever a new story, picture, video, or update is posted on this website. The subscription button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

One Ride with Yankee Papa 13

The photo is part of a photo essay by photographer Larry Burrows. The photos and the story were published under the title “One Ride with Yankee Papa 13”. It was published in Life Magazine in April 1965.

Written By: Ben Cosgrove

In the spring of 1965, within weeks of 3,500 American Marines arriving in Vietnam, a 39-year-old Briton named Larry Burrows began work on a feature for LIFE magazine, chronicling the day-to-day experience of U.S. troops on the ground and in the air amid the rapidly widening war. The photographs in this gallery focus on a calamitous March 31, 1965, helicopter mission; Burrows’ “report from Da Nang,” featuring his pictures and his personal account of the harrowing operation, was published two weeks later as a now-famous cover story in the April 16, 1965, issue of LIFE.

Over the decades, of course, LIFE published dozens of photo essays by some of the 20th century’s greatest photographers. Very few of those essays, however, managed to combine raw intensity and technical brilliance to such powerful effect as “One Ride With Yankee Papa 13,” universally regarded as one of the greatest photographic documents to emerge from the war in Vietnam.

Here, LIFE.com presents Burrows’ seminal photo essay in its entirety: all of the photos that appeared in LIFE are here. (Note: In a picture from the article, Burrows mounts a camera to a special rig attached to an M-60 machine gun in helicopter YP13 a.k.a., “Yankee Papa 13.” At the end of this gallery, there are three previously unpublished photographs from Burrows’ 1965 assignment.]

Burrows, LIFE informed its readers, “had been covering the war in Vietnam since 1962 and had flown on scores of helicopter combat missions. On this day, he would be riding in [21-year-old crew chief James] Farley’s machine, and both were wondering whether the mission would be a no-contact milk run or whether, as had been increasingly the case in recent weeks, the Vietcong would be ready and waiting with .30-caliber machine guns. In a very few minutes, Farley and Burrows had their answer.”

The following paragraphs, lifted directly from LIFE, illustrate the vivid, visceral writing that accompanied Burrows’ astonishing images, including Burrows’ own words, transcribed from an audio recording made shortly after the 1965 mission:

“The Vietcong dug in along the tree line, were just waiting for us to come into the landing zone,” Burrows reported. “We were all like sitting ducks and their raking crossfire was murderous. Over the intercom system one pilot radioed Colonel Ewers, who was in the lead ship: ‘Colonel! We’re being hit.’ Back came the reply: ‘We’re all being hit. If your plane is flyable, press on.’

“We did,” Burrows continued, “hurrying back to a pickup point for another load of troops. On our next approach to the landing zone, our pilot, Capt. Peter Vogel, spotted Yankee Papa 3 down on the ground. Its engine was still on and the rotors turning, but the ship was obviously in trouble. “Why don’t they lift off?’ Vogel muttered over the intercom. Then he set down our ship nearby to see what the trouble was.

“Twenty-year-old gunner, Pfc. Wayne Hoilien was pouring machine-gun fire at a second V.C. gun position at the tree line to our left. Bullet holes had ripped both left and right of his seat. The plexiglass had been shot out of the cockpit and one V.C. bullet had nicked our pilot’s neck. Our radio and instruments were out of commission. We climbed and climbed fast the hell out of there. Hoilien was still firing gunbursts at the tree line.”

Not until YP13 pulled away and out of range of enemy fire were Farley and Hoilien able to leave their guns and give medical attention to the two wounded men from YP3. The co-pilot, 1st Lt. James Magel, was in bad shape. When Farley and Hoilien eased off his flak vest, they exposed a major wound just below his armpit. “Magel’s face registered pain,” Burrows reported, “and his lips moved slightly. But if he said anything, it was drowned out by the noise of the copter. He looked pale, and I wondered how long he could hold on. Farley began bandaging Magel’s wound. The wind from the doorway kept whipping the bandages across his face. Then blood started to come from his nose and mouth, and a glazed look came into his eyes. Farley tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but Magel was dead. Nobody said a word.”

In his searing, deeply sympathetic portrait of young men fighting for their lives at the very moment America is ramping up its involvement in Southeast Asia, Larry Burrows’ work anticipates the scope and the dire, lethal arc of the entire war in Vietnam.

Six years after “Yankee Papa 13” ran in LIFE, Burrows was killed, along with three other journalists, Henri Huet, Kent Potter, and Keisaburo Shimamoto, when a helicopter in which they were flying was shot down over Laos in February 1971. He was 44 years old.

Helicopter gunner James C Farley shouts to the rest of the crew as the fatally wounded copilot lies beside him. Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13. Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

The fatally wounded pilot in the photo was not the pilot of the helicopter Farley was assigned to. He’s actually the copilot of another copter, “Yankee Papa 3″. When Farley’s helicopter spotted a downed helicopter and landed near it, Farley and the photographer ran over to the downed helicopter and found the wounded copilot. The photo was taken inside the downed helicopter. Farley and the copilot are the ones in the photo above. Farley also examined the pilot, who was bleeding and not moving. He came to the conclusion that he was dead. In fact, he was alive. The copilot and another marine from YP3 were taken back to Farley’s copter. Two more marines from YP3 made it to Farley’s copter on their own. Later on, another copter landed near YP3 and rescued the wounded pilot, who survived.

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Vietnam War, LIFE Magazine, Yankee Papa 13 Larry Burrows Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Henry Frank Leslie Burrows (29 May 1926 – 10 February 1971), known as Larry Burrows, was an English photojournalist. He spent 9 years covering the Vietnam War.

Here is the link to the original Life Magazine article:

Sudden Death in Vietnam: ‘One Ride With Yankee Papa 13’

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. Should you have a question or comment about this article, then scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, then subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video and changes occur on this website – the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience – before leaving, can you please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

Distentio

I recently received this Vietnam War poem from my Facebook friend and author, William Paul Beau Gruendler. I thought it was quite good and wanted to share it with you.

Distentio is a Latin term that translates to “a stretching” or “a distention.” It refers to the act of being stretched or expanded and can also indicate a state of being stretched apart. (Apologies to HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW)

The shades of night were falling fast

As through an Old Man’s hourglass

passed

A youth, who penned,

in marker, black,

His helmet with the

Latin crack:

“Distentio”!

His brow indifferent

beneath,

His bayonet still

in its

sheath.

He’d had some

college, so he sung

In accents of that

unknown tongue,

“Distentio!”

Downhill the shrapnel

split the air.

Artillery? What did he

care?

Above, the spectral

gunships roared,

But from his lips

escaped a bored,

“Distentio!”

Intel had cut the

troops no slack.

“Beware the human

wave attack!”

Thus were the

peasants poised to kill.

A voice replied, far up

the hill:

“Distentio!”

“We’re calling jets,”

the sargeant said;

“So stack those

sandbags overhead,

And dig in deep;

prepare to fight!”

Now hear a voice

o’ercome with fright:

“Distentio!”

“Dear John,” the

girlfriend’s letter said,

“For all I know, you

might be dead.”

A tear stood in his

bright blue eye,

He’d answered her but

with a sigh:

“Distentio!”

At break of day, from

heavenward

As MEDEVAC came

chopping toward

The ruins of that

landing zone

A voice cried, though

it were a groan:

“Distentio!”

A soldier, by cadaver

hound,

Half-buried in the clay

was found,

Still perched upon his

quiet head

That helmet scrawled

with black and red:

“Distentio!”

This morning, under

cold gray skies,

Alone, an old man

tries to rise.

He feels he hears a cry from

far,

As from the clouds

the Muse of War:

“Distentio!”

*****

If you are interested in helmet artwork during the Vietnam War, then follow the link to check out that post on my website: https://cherrieswriter.com/2018/08/27/helmet-cover-graffiti/

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you’re interested in learning more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog to receive notifications by email or your feed reader whenever a new story, picture, video, or update appears on this website. The subscription button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

U. S. Casualties in the Vietnam War by Branch of Service

Here’s another breakdown of U.S. casualties sustained during the Vietnam War. I have also added links to other posts on this website, which contain additional information at the end of this article.

The following chart was found on the following website: National Archives and Records Administration / Defense Casualty Analysis System

Casualty TotalArmyAir ForceSpace ForceMarines NavyKilled in Action40,93427,0471,080011,5011,306Died of Wounds5,2993,6105101,486152Missing in Action – Declared Dead1,085261589098137Captured – Declared Dead116452501036TOTAL HOSTILE DEATHS47,43430,9631,745013,0951,631Missing – Presumed Dead1231180032Other Deaths10,6637,14384101,746933TOTAL NON-HOSTILE DEATHS10,7867,26184101,749935TOTAL IN-THEATER DEATHS58,22038,2242,586014,8442,566Killed in Action – No Remains575173206010294Missing in Action – Declared Dead – No Remains69120133907477Captured – Declared Dead – No Remains523270310Non-hostile Missing – Presumed Dead – No Remains91860032Non-hostile Other Deaths – No Remains3326930037196TOTAL – NO REMAINS1,7415615820219379WOUNDED – NOT MORTAL153,30396,802931051,3924,178NUMBER SERVING WORLDWIDE8,744,0004,368,0001,740,0000794,0001,842,000NUMBER SERVING SOUTHEAST ASIA3,403,0002,276,000385,0000513,000229,000NUMBER SERVING SOUTH VIETNAM2,594,0001,736,000293,0000391,000174,000

The following information is from www.lzsalley.com (101st Airborne)

9,087,000 military personnel served on active duty during the Vietnam Era   (28 February 1961 – 7 May 1975)

8,744,000 personnel were on active duty (worldwide) during the war (5 August 1964-28 March 1973)

3,403,100 (including 514,300 offshore) personnel served in the SE Asia Theater (Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, flight crews based in Thailand, and sailors in adjacent South China Sea waters).

2,594,000 personnel served within the borders of South Vietnam ( I January 1965 – 28 March 1973)

Another 50,000 men served in Vietnam between 1960 and 1964

Of the 2.6 million, between 1 and 1.6 million (40-60%) either fought in combat, provided close combat support, or were at least fairly regularly exposed to enemy attack.

7,484 women served in Vietnam, of whom 6,250 or 83.5% were nurses.

The peak troop strength in Vietnam was 543,482 on 30 April 1969.

1,736,000 were US Army

391,000 were US Marines

293,000 were US Airmen

174,000 were US Sailors (this figure includes the US Coast Guard)

Casualties:

Hostile deaths: 47,359

Non-hostile deaths: 10,797

Total: 58,156 (including men formerly classified as MIA and Mayaguez casualties.

Highest state death rate: West Virginia–84.1. (The national average death rate for males in 1970 was 58.9 per 100,000).

WIA: 303,704 – 153,329 required hospitalization, 50,375 who did not.

      Severely disabled: 75,000, 23,214 were classified 100% disabled. 5,283 lost limbs, 1,081 sustained multiple amputations.

Amputation or crippling wounds to the lower extremities were 300% higher than n WWII and 70% higher than in Korea. Multiple amputations occurred at the rate of 18.4% compared to 5.7% in WWII.

MIA: 2,338

POW: 766, of whom 114 died in captivity.

Draftees vs. volunteers:

 25% (648,500) of the total forces in-country were draftees. (66% of U.S. armed forces members were drafted during WWII)

Draftees accounted for 30.4% (17,725) of combat deaths in Vietnam.

Reservists KIA: 5,977

National Guard: 6,140 served; 101 died.

Ethnic background:

88.4% of the men who actually served in Vietnam were Caucasian, 10.6% (275,000) were black, 1.0% belonged to other races.

86.3% of the men who died in Vietnam were Caucasian (including Hispanics)

     12.5% (7,241) were black.

     1.2% belonged to other races

170,000 Hispanics served in Vietnam, 3,070 (5.2%) of whom died there.

     34% of blacks who enlisted volunteered for the combat arms.

Socioeconomic status:

76% of the men sent to Vietnam were from lower middle/working class backgrounds

75% had family incomes above the poverty level

23% had fathers with professional, managerial, or technical occupations.

79% of the men who served in ‘Nam had a high school education or better.

63% of Korean vets had completed high school upon separation from the service)

Winning & Losing:

82% of veterans who saw heavy combat strongly believe the war was lost because of a lack of political will.

      Nearly 75% of the general public (in 1993) agreed with that.

Age & Honorable Service:

The average age of the G.I. in ‘Nam was 19 (26 for WWII)

      97% of Vietnam-era vets were honorably discharged.

Pride in Service:

91% of veterans of actual combat and 90% of those who saw heavy combat are proud to have served their country.

66% of Viet vets say they would serve again, if called upon.

87% of the public now holds Viet vets in high esteem.

Helicopter crew deaths accounted for 10% of ALL Vietnam deaths. Helicopter losses during Lam Son 719 (a mere two months) accounted for 10% of all helicopter losses from 1961-1975.

Other posts on this website cite casualties by age, race, country, category, year, state, enlisted vs. officer, married vs. single, and civilian contractors.

Fatal Casualties of the Vietnam War

Vietnam War Casualties #2

Casualty Lists of the Vietnam War

#####

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, then subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video, and change occur on this website – the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

Courage and Coolness in a Pressure Cooker – A Vietnam War Story

“Where do we find such men?”

This author manages a website titled BRAVO BLUE. He recently sent me a link to a post by his friend detailing a Ranger mission in Vietnam, and then followed by his personal observations about the story. It is well worth reading.

By John A. Lucas

This is a story few of you have ever heard. It is a story of courage that required nerves of steel. As I think on this and others like it, I recall the movie, The Bridges at Toko-Ri (based on the book of the same name by James Mitchner). The book and movie are about Navy carrier pilots attempting to take out heavily defended bridges in North Korea. At the end of the movie, pondering the raw courage of the pilots who braved the fire and died, the Admiral in command asks, “Where do we find such men?”

The story below was authored by my friend, Pete Dencker. Pete has been a friend for almost 60 years. In 1970 – 71 we served together in the 1st Cavalry Division. Pete commanded the 1st Cav’s Ranger Company, H/1/75 Rangers. I was the Blue Platoon Leader (Bravo Blue) with Bravo Company, 1/9 Cavalry. Among other things, we were the QRF (quick reaction force) for the Rangers when the stuff hit the fan with the Rangers in the middle of it.

Some of you have read my prior articles about B Troop, 1/9 Cavalry. If you have not, please read them here (“Running Through the Fire”) and here (“Remembering a Little-Known Veteran”) to get some background about the story that follows. Among other things, they explain the “Pink Teams” and the “Blues,” discussed in Pete’s article.

Pink Team. Photo from “My Vietnam Experience” web site

For readers who may not be familiar with all the military terminology, I have added a few explanatory notes below in brackets. Otherwise, the article is Pete’s, with the exception of my concluding comments.

So, here’s Pete:

RANGER TEAM 75, AUGUST 1971

On the afternoon of 3 Aug 1971, Team 75 of H Company (Ranger), 75th Inf., of the 3rd Brigade (Separate), 1st Cavalry Division was on a long-range reconnaissance patrol in Long Kahn province.  The patrol was acting on specific intelligence concerning a possible sampan docking sight surveilled during a previous mission led by SGT Jim Faulkner (also of H Company), a notably successful Team Leader. 

The patrol consisted of five American Army Rangers and one former Viet Cong Kit Carson scout.  The team included Team Leader SGT Terry Wannish, Assistant Team Leader SGT Daniel J. DeMara, Jr, RTO SP/4 Wayne Okken, Rear Scout SP/4 James Dickman and Lt Mike Davidson.

SGT Wannish was walking point and saw numerous footprints in the mud on the side of a stream, indicating a possible sampan docking site. The Team located a hide site on the opposite side of the stream in the heavy jungle about thirty feet from the stream bed.

Late in the afternoon, several sampans arrived at the docking site.  Before dark, the Team counted 120 Viet Cong and/or North Vietnamese Army soldiers get off sampans and make camp near the bank on the opposite side of the stream.  A number of enemy soldiers used the stream for bathing.  The Team remained in their hide site throughout the night.  Shortly after dawn, the enemy reloaded the sampans and left the area.

The Team then crossed the stream and set up an 18-claymore ambush on the side of the stream that the enemy had used the previous night, anticipating that another group might come through that night.  The Team concealed themselves in the dense brush in the center of their camp area, about 40 feet from the stream. 

The VC/NVA did, in fact, return that night in numbers similar to the previous night. 

The company SOP was to make commo checks every fifteen minutes over the full time of deployment, day and night.  During the night, the enemy could be heard speaking in a normal tone of voice, and the Team, concerned about being compromised, suspended the normal commo check procedure, opting instead for breaking squelch twice if everything was OK. 

The Team made a more complete situation report on the morning of 4 Aug after the enemy left the campsite and after the Team crossed the stream and moved back to their original hide site.  At the time, H Company was OPCON [under Operational Control] to the (1st Cav) Brigade S-2, and based on the reporting over the past few days, the Brigade staff began preparations to support a possible Team-initiated contact that night.

The patrol area—a four click [kilometer] grid square with a surrounding one click buffer zone—was typically outside any US or ARVN [Army of Vietnam] artillery support.  Air/ground fire support normally came first from an Air Force Forward Air Controller (OV-10 Bronco aircraft, who typically used the call sign “RASH”).  RASH was airborne 24/7, and a Team could usually expect fire support within several minutes of a request.  Helicopter gunship support from Blue Max 229th [Cobra gunships with 2.75-inch aerial rocket artillery] or Bravo Troop, 1/9th Air Cavalry usually arrived within 10 to 15 minutes.  At that time, the H Company rear was co-located with Bravo 1/9th at a Thai fire support base (Bearcat), southeast of Bien Hoa. The close proximity of this living arrangement was responsible for an intimate and important working and personal relationship between the Rangers and the 1/9th support units. 

As night fell, a pink team (an OH-6 LOH [Light Observation Helicopter] and Cobra gunship) was airborne and masked beyond a nearby hill just out of range, to eliminate any aircraft noise before any impending contact.  The Blue platoon of the Air Cavalry squadron, a heavily armed light infantry force, was on standby at the closest fire base.  RASH and everyone else had the Team’s location plotted.  The deputy brigade commander was airborne in his command-and-control Huey with the pink teams.   

As light began to fade, once again, a group of 100+ enemies pulled into the same unload site and began to set up camp for the night. At full dark, SGT Wannish blew the clacker for the claymores located in the main camp area.  Several minutes later, there was additional movement by the enemy, and SGT DeMara blew a separate set of claymores on an avenue of approach to the right front.  H Company SOP was to lie quiet after blowing the claymores to let the enemy think they might have run into an automatic ambush [a claymore mine ambush triggered by a trip wire, instead of a manual firing], a technique used frequently by regular Infantry units at that time.  As the remaining enemy survivors and wounded began moving in the contact area, the Team used grenades which would not reveal any specific friendly location to the enemy, neutralize any additional movement, and, at the same time, instill fear into any remaining survivors.

At that point, the Team’s air support arrived on station.  The AF RASH began rocket fire and machine gun fire.  Bravo 1/9 pink teams brought in danger close 2.75-inch rocket, 20mm cannon, and 7.62mm mini-gun fire.  The ongoing relationship and mutual confidence between the Ranger Team and the 1/9th pink teams were instrumental in allowing for this very close-in air support.

After the air support had sufficiently worked the area, SGT Wannish, SGT DeMara and Lt Davidson had just begun to move into the kill zone to review the damage and look for any remaining survivors when the deputy brigade commander in the command-and-control aircraft, concerned about other potential large groups of enemy soldiers in the area, ordered an immediate extraction by McGuire rig.

The pink team aircraft were very low on fuel (One of the Bravo 1/9 Cobra pilots later explained that he landed back at the firebase with 2 minutes of fuel on board), and this created questions regarding the availability of fire support in the event additional contact materialized.

The Team was extracted by McGuire rig without further incident. The following morning, at first light, the Team returned to the contact site, accompanied by the 1/9th Blue platoon as security, to see what, if anything, could be recovered.  Despite the enemy working through the night to remove bodies, wounded and intel, approximately a dozen bodies were remaining (initial estimates of enemy KIA were multiple times that number, some estimates as high as 100+), along with numerous blood trails, body parts and a large amount of material that proved to be of significant intelligence value.

There were no friendly casualties. Sgt Wannish and his Team reported to the Brigade S-2 for a debriefing upon their return to Bien Hoa and subsequently received impact awards for their actions in August 1971. [An impact award is an award for valor or meritorious service that is presented immediately by a general officer, without waiting for the supporting paperwork to be completed.]

RLTW!

“For those who’ve fought for it … Life has a flavor the protected will never know.”

Impact Awards Ceremony for Ranger Team 75

MY OBSERVATIONS

When you read an account like this, it is too easy to lose sight of the reality on the ground. So let me put this story in context. In 1971, when this action took place, the Country was still experiencing the turmoil that began in the 60’s. Unlike today, when “Thank you for your service” is ubiquitous, the military was not just unpopular, it was “loathed” by many.

THE TEMPER OF THE TIMES

The tone of the times is exemplified by Bill Clinton’s 1989 statement that what he called “many fine people” actually “loathed the military.” Clinton’s view was widely shared. Those of us who served still remember the demonstrations where the supposedly “elite” college students were supporting our enemies, waving the flags of those who were trying to kill us, while chanting, “Ho, ho, ho.  Ho Chi Minh is going to win.”

It was in that sick environment that the men of H Company, 75th Rangers, risked their young lives every day.

RANGER PATROLS IN THE JUNGLE ENVIRONMENT

Now, try to reflect upon what these Rangers did in August 1971, and every day, and what it took for them to do it, especially given the lack of support by their countrymen. They could have taught the NVA flag-waving college students what “elite” really looks like. These Rangers typically were about eighteen to maybe twenty-two years old. They normally went out in a small group of five or six soldiers. These patrols were called “LRRPs” for long-range reconnaissance patrols. They were long-range because they typically operated beyond the range of artillery support. So, for fire support, they had to rely on helicopters, which might not always be available because they were subject to the vagaries of the weather.

When a LRRP team made contact with the enemy, they might not know initially if they were up against ten men or a hundred or more. If it were a large enemy force, they would need to be reinforced immediately by the Bravo Troop Blues, but even then, the Blues might be a twenty-minute helicopter flight away. A lot can happen to a six-man patrol in twenty minutes. 

Now, try to imagine what it was like on those early August nights in 1971. The typical terrain is Southeast Asian jungle, occasionally cut by a stream or river. Visibility in the jungle is often limited to fifteen to fifty feet. That’s during the day. At night, the visibility is about what it is in your closet at midnight with the door shut. As we all know, pitch-black darkness can heighten the fear factor. Especially when you know there are men in the darkness who want to kill you.

Now, think about the length of time these young men had to think about what was happening and what was going to happen. On Day 1, they observe a force of more than 120 enemy disembarking from their sampans to set up for the night. Throughout the night, the Rangers stay awake, knowing that they are just a short distance from a full enemy company.

The Team remains in their hide site throughout Day 2, but that evening they re-cross the stream and set up an ambush with claymore mines, forty feet from the stream. Now think about that – Picture yourself in a six-man team, forty feet from the stream, so you will only be fifteen or twenty feet from the enemy once they disembark and establish a position for the night. Another enemy force arrives and again sets up for the night. Another almost-sleepless night passes, and the Rangers remain hidden.  But think about the stress they are under, knowing that they are outnumbered by more than 15-1 by the enemy just a few feet away.

If they are discovered, they will die.  

After that enemy force departs on Day 3, anticipating the arrival of another similar force, the young Rangers again set up for a night ambush. Close your eyes and try to put yourself in the place of those young men. You have just spent two nights just a few feet away from large enemy units, and just before dark, another 100+ man enemy force arrives for the night.  You lie there, sleep-deprived, hoping that you will not be seen and that the NVA cannot hear your heart pounding. Then, after dark, your Team Sergeant initiates the Claymore ambush. Aircraft arrive, adding to the chaos by firing their rockets, cannons, and mini-guns. Because the enemy force is so large, the Team Sergeant has the coolness and presence of mind to direct the aircraft’s fire outside the claymore mine kill zone, to ensure that the enemy who survived that initial blast could not close with and kill the Rangers. And, need it be said, calling in aerial rocket and cannon fire just a few yards away, at night with scant visibility, is not for the faint of heart.

Many men die. Others are wounded. You hear them thrashing about and screaming or just lying there, groaning. Those alive are still armed and dangerous, even if wounded. That could easily be you if only the enemy had run security patrols around the area before nightfall. That it is not you is due to that failure, to your superb training, and to your and your teammates’ ability to remain calm and focused while under the stress and fear of possible imminent death.

General Sherman was right: “War is hell.”

McGUIRE RIG EXTRACTIONS

Pete’s reference to the Team being extracted by McGuire rig merits a short explanation. A McGuire rig is a harness suspended from a long rope, used for emergency extractions where there is no clearing nearby that is large enough to allow a helicopter to land. With one end of the rope fixed in a hovering helicopter, the rig is dropped through the jungle canopy to the ground.  After the men get into the harnesses, while in a hover, the pilot must raise the helicopter completely vertically until the men are clear of the trees.  Only then can the aircraft begin forward movement. If the pilot does not raise the helicopter, and the men dangling from the ropes, straight up with no forward or lateral movement, it becomes even more dangerous because the men hanging in the McGuire rigs will be dragged through the trees.  This is difficult enough during the day, but at night, the danger is off the charts.

Photos from “My Vietnam Experience” website. Photo courtesy of Dave Roger (right).

RANGERS LEAD THE WAY

Pete’s concluding “RLTW” may require a short explanation. On D-Day, June 6, 1944, Brigadier General “Dutch” Cota was the assistant division commander of the 29th Infantry Division. The 29th was a National Guard outfit that was seeing its first combat in the Normandy invasion. Cota and the 29th went ashore on the deadliest section of the beach, code-named Omaha, where the Americans suffered 2,400 casualties in just a few hours. Cota was personally directing the attack, but the slaughter was devastating. As related by the Pennsylvania National Guard Military Museum, Cota was trying to motivate frightened and shell-shocked men into advancing into the deadly fire when he encountered a group of men and asked their commander, “’ What outfit is this?] Someone yelled, ‘5th Rangers!’ To this, Cota replied ‘Well, goddamn it then, Rangers, lead the way!’” The Rangers then did lead the way in the successful attack to reach the heights above Omaha Beach, and “Rangers Lead The Way” became their motto. Now abbreviated to RLTW, it is a frequent exhortation among Rangers, both when speaking and writing.

EPILOG

Pete Dencker was my West Point classmate, where he was a standout Army football player. Before taking command of the 1st Cavalry Ranger Company, he served as a lieutenant with 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry, where he was wounded and awarded a Silver Star Medal for gallantry in action. He was on the helicopter that performed the McGuire rig extraction of Team 75. After getting out of the Army, Pete founded a successful construction company in Tennessee, where he now lives. He is a subscriber to this Substack account.

Then-Lieutenant Mike Davidson is also a subscriber to this Substack. Before joining the 1st Cavalry Ranger Company, Mike earned his green beret as a Special Forces officer. He also served with 5th Special Forces Group after his Vietnam service. Among other decorations, Mike was awarded a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star Medal, and an Army Commendation Medal for Valor. Mike ultimately retired as a Major General and makes his home in Kentucky.

In searching for a suitable conclusion that does justice to the courage of these young Rangers, I found a quote by President Reagan. I cannot possibly improve on it. President Reagan said, “In James Michener’s book ‘The Bridges at Toko-Ri,’ he writes of an officer waiting through the night for the return of planes to a carrier as dawn is coming on. And he asks, ‘Where do we find such men?’  Well, we find them where we’ve always found them. They are the product of the freest society man has ever known. They make a commitment to the military—make it freely, because the birthright we share as Americans is worth defending. God bless America.”

If you want to learn more about this author and his work on BRAVO BLUE, then subscribe on this link: https://johnalucas6.substack.com/

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video, or change occurs on this website—the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

Unexpected Encounters: A GI’s Surprise in Vietnam

What was the probability that, more than 8,000 miles from home, I would run into even one GI from Tonawanda? And when I did, it couldn’t have been more surprising. Read what happened.

By Paul A. Scipione

During the absolute peak of 543,000 American GIs in Vietnam in the summer of 1969, I found myself on a midnight flight from McGuire AFB, New Jersey to Bien Hoa AFB, 25 miles north of Saigon. There, 200 other “cherries” and I were packed into several buses (with wire mesh over the windows, for protection from grenades lobbed by our South Vietnamese “allies”) and driven 10 clicks over to the infamous 90th Repo Depot on Long Binh Post. The next day I was one of 15 GIs trucked back to Camp Ray, a dusty base on the Army side of the two giant 10,000 ft. runways at the big airbase. As was the custom in the 101st Airborne Division, cherries were given five days of in-country training (SERTS – Screaming Eagle Replacement Training School) to try to increase the odds that we would survive our year in Vietnam.

On the third day of training, we were taken out to several gun ranges, just behind the protective berm that surrounded the huge American airfield and base, to record fire the M-16 automatic rifle and M-60 machine gun. We had just finished sandwiches, apples, and orange-flavored bug juice for lunch and were sitting around, bullshitting about the training and speculating on where we would be assigned within the 101st . There were about a dozen of us and we exchanged information about our two hometowns back in ‘The World.’ A rough-looking guy surprised me by saying that his hometown was Tonawanda, New York. Tonawanda was less than 20 miles from my hometown of Lewiston, and my dad, Al Scipione was a guidance counselor and history teacher at Tonawanda High School.

“Did you go to Tonawanda High School?” I asked my fellow cherry (his name was something like Ken Williams). He answered, “yes.”

“Did you take the World History course at Tonawanda High School?”

“Yes, I did. Why?”

“Was your teacher Mr. Scipione?”

“Yes, he was. How could you know that?”

“Because Al Scipione is my father.”

PFC Williams suddenly stood up and walked across our circle of trainees and cold-cocked me right on the chin, knocking me flat on my back. Wow, that sucker punch hurt like hell! Several other guys jumped on Williams and held him in case I wanted to strike a retaliatory punch, but I waved them off.

“That son-of-a-bitch father of yours flunked me,” Williams hollered, “so I had to repeat it in summer school!”

After dinner chow that evening, I went back to my sleeping hooch and wrote a short letter to my parents. “Dear Dad, thanks a lot for flunking that stupid SOB! Too bad he didn’t shatter my jaw bad enough so I could get a medical discharge!”

For years I considered sending in this cautionary tale to the “Humor in Uniform” feature in the Readers’ Digest, but never got around to it. I checked the Official Directory of Americans killed in Vietnam, but didn’t find a “Ken Williams” from Tonawanda, New York. During the rest of SERTS training at Camp Ray, I covered up the “Scipione” nametag on my jungle fatigues. But what was the probability that, more than 8,000 miles from home, I would run into even one GI from Tonawanda?

About the Author
Dr. Scipione, a retired market research executive and college professor, is the author of ten books and several dozen feature articles and short stories. His latest book, A Nation of Numbers was published in 2015. He now writes from his home on Canandaigua Lake in New York’s Finger Lakes. His author website can be found at: http://www.nationofnumbers.com.

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video, or change occurs on this website—the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

‘Come Hell or High Water’

A broken Bell OH-13 Sioux used to scout ahead of Huey formations. Photo courtesy of the author.

It was June 1970, more than a month into the U.S. campaign in Cambodia and the expansion of the war in Vietnam. An Army Ranger team was caught in a deadly ambush, and men were wounded. Now, others risked everything to save one of their own. This is their story:

By Jim Ketrow

I looked out the door of the Huey helicopter into the orange, yellow, and purple fan rays of the sunset over Southeast Asia. The air was cool up here—about 70 degrees compared to the 112-degree heat just 2,000 feet below us.

It was June 1970, more than a month into the U.S. campaign in Cambodia and the expansion of the war in Vietnam. The view, along with the noise from the prop wash and jet engine, was quite soothing—a paradox to the mission at hand.

Everyone on our team was dressed in fatigues, either tiger or leaf pattern, and we’d treated our exposed skin, including our faces, in light or dark green, brown, or black.

A helicopter returns from a scouting mission in Vietnam. The purpose of these missions was to get a layout of the land and map the area before small special operations teams were inserted. Photo courtesy of the author.

The door gunner interrupted us from our reverie as he spoke into the mic on his headset. He looked over at us and gave us two palms, 10 fingers up, to signal we were 10 minutes out.

My team members’ relaxed expressions revealed nothing. They might have been watching a piano recital. Everyone checked their weapons and gear one last time as we approached our area of operation. The pilot began a slow bank and descent into the jungle.

I sat on the port side of the bird, feet on the skids, looking down now as the cool breeze rushed past. As I checked the area below the canopy for movement, I thought I saw something. I nudged Fisher seated next to me. He saw it, too, but apparently, no one else did.

We sounded off, alerting the rest of the bird and directing everyone’s vision to where we looked. Sure enough, there they were: members of the North Vietnamese Army in khakis walking around relaxed, guns slung over their shoulders. They looked up at us with the air of someone strolling along the beach who’d spotted a breaching whale—an anomaly, but not a threat.

We were now between 900 and 1,200 feet above them, but they made no movement to prepare their weapons or take potshots at us. The pilot made one slow turn, moving away from them but not in such a way as to be too obvious, and began an ascent to about 3,000 feet.

As the pilot moved away from the insertion/infiltration location, we overheard snippets of a heated argument that had broken out between him and the commander who’d wanted us inserted yesterday.

“You’re going to be inserted, come hell or high water,” the commander said.

The pilot and our team leader tried to tactfully state that our five-man Ranger team, if inserted into a platoon-sized group of North Vietnamese waiting on the ground, would be decimated in a fusillade of gunfire.

The colonel answered by asking if they knew who they were addressing.

In the end, our chopper pilot’s tact, strategic knowledge, and experience prevailed, and we ended up back at Fire Support Base David for the night for another look at the maps and a discussion about what had happened that day. After all, the colonel had said he was going to get us inserted come hell or high water.

A helicopter in Vietnam. Photo courtesy of the author.

The next morning, my mouth felt like water buffaloes had used it for a latrine. It had been a rough night of rowdy base camp frolicking. Fisher and Tex stood behind me with their mirrors up checking their camo. We gave each other our usual “middle finger salute.”

Omer Carson was there, too, but he didn’t feel well and wasn’t putting on his camo. He was 18 and looked it with his red hair, freckles, and small frame, belying the fact that he was a battled-hardened Ranger.

Our team leader, Partin, was nervous. About five-foot-10 and a buck 60, Partin was a staff sergeant and honor graduate of stateside Ranger school, but this was his first mission on his own. It didn’t help that it was “across the fence” in Cambodia, a focal point at this juncture of the war. The rest of us were experienced, with at least 10 missions each or more.

Today’s mission would have two different members from the day before, including Smitty, a large man at about six-foot-three and 230 pounds, and one surly Okie, tough and all business in a firefight. Tex was also from Oklahoma, a rumored lady’s man who was quiet until he had a few drinks, and the best point man on our teams.

We all felt the weight of what we’d seen on the overflight the day before. We had no illusion as to whether the enemy was present. As we readied, we did a “bounce test” for noise, checked each other’s equipment, thoroughly applied camouflage makeup, did two communications checks, and rolled our boonie hats up and tucked them into our tiger or leaf-patterned fatigues. Just then the mule—a four-wheel-drive utility vehicle—sped in to pick us up and take us to the flight line.

We hurried now. The urgency of destiny was thrust upon us with no apologies. We didn’t think much about what could happen to us. It was best to keep yourself occupied and make sure you did the job you were trained for and not screw up any part of it because every man’s life next to you in small units depended on it. In the event you couldn’t do your job, everyone was cross-trained to pick up the slack and do whatever was necessary.

The high-pitched whine of the jet turbine engine on the Huey and the whop-whop-whop of the rotors grew into a screaming, deafening pitch, and the prop wash threatened to blow our boonie hats out of our camo jackets.

We ran half-crouched toward the Huey, split into port and starboard elements to balance it, and plopped down almost simultaneously. After a final check, we were airborne, streaking down the strip at 125 knots as the pilot tried to pick up speed inside “friendly territory” and the runway flashed beneath us.

At about 1,500 feet, the chatter started over the radio. “M-JAG-SkReq … two- Nhniner … SPLugg SKreek over?”

The pilot shook his head and threw a hand up in the air. “Confirm? … Something?”

After a brief conversation that sounded to us like gibberish, the pilot turned the bird around. Back on the ground, he motioned us over. We knew him well—he was savvy and reliable. He told us that the colonel had gotten some birds to fly recon over the area again and, on his own, had come up with another infiltration/insertion site about 2,000 meters from the original site.

We all looked at each other with knowing glances, shaking our heads. A late-day insertion was usually not a great idea, especially when the enemy had already seen and heard several birds in their area.

We waited all day, passing the time by playing mumblety-peg. Bored, we threw knives at a stump and then each other. Two guys got into a fistfight, and nobody moved or said anything as they practically fell at our feet. We just watched as they beat each other’s asses. Fisher and I talked about how pretty the fall would be in Kentucky and Tennessee for fishing and hunting, although neither of us was really thinking about that right now.

Finally, it was time to camo up again. We loaded our gear onto the mule for the second time that day, and off we went.

The view from the sky was just as beautiful as the night before, a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of yellows, burnt orange, and shades of purple. This could be the last sunset I ever see, I thought. I tried to distract myself, to get my mind to a calm place—and settled on diving a reef in the Caribbean, blowing bubbles.

A broken Bell OH-13 Sioux used to scout ahead of Huey formations.
Photo courtesy of the author.

I fiddled with the radio, looked at our codes and asset list to check for Medevac birds on standby. Then it was time.

The door gunner gave us two palms, fingers up, and mouthed: 10 mikes out … get ready …

The team leader was now in the cockpit talking directly to the pilot and comparing his map with the one on the pilot’s kneeboard. He gave us the “go” signal, one thumb up. With only one low pass, we started easing ourselves further out onto the skids, balancing on our knees as he came in fast.

The whole chopper was nose high for an instant, then fell back to allow us our quick, choreographed movements. We jumped in unison so as not to cause the bird to pitch and yaw for his takeoff.

In less than five seconds, we gathered ourselves, threw our equipment on our backs, and ran as fast as we could toward the tree line as the bird became a low hum in the distance.

Partin, our team leader, gave us the signal to halt, and we all faced out, looking intently for anything unusual while trying to stifle the sound of our panting. We waited for 15 minutes, then moved quickly, each man checking his sector and trying not to make a sound—not even the snap of a twig underfoot—as we moved through the jungle.

In the fading light, we found a game trail that allowed us to move more rapidly. Tex gave us the halt sign, and we fanned out, dropping low and checking our sectors again. I called a situation report in code to our relay on a mountaintop in Vietnam: We’d inserted successfully, no incident, moving en route to objective.

We moved forward with purpose. We had to get set up for the night before darkness fell—a darkness so black it was like someone kicked over a bucket of tar. Partin gave a “circle up” signal. We’d all noticed footprints on the way in. At best, they were six hours old, maybe fresher.

A bird is recovered and returned to its unit after being shot down in Vietnam. Photo courtesy of the author.

Partin pointed to positions for us to move into, and we quickly, quietly moved into our night defensive formation. I was on the radio giving another situation report, which meant I’d be the first to eat. I got out a long-range patrol ration while sending my second coded message to our tactical ops center.

As I watched the team set up for the night halt, I thought I saw something moving beyond them. But try as I might, I could not make out anything in the dim light. Still, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. Silence at this time of day was very atypical.

I strained my eyes and ears. Fisher came back into our area with the rest of the team. He was closest to me, followed by Partin. In the waning light, I couldn’t tell who was on the other side of him. There were still no normal night sounds, and that was odd.

As Fisher and I sent hand signals to each other, we heard a metallic “click”—the distinctive sound of an AK-47. Fisher’s expression changed in what looked like slow motion. His smile disappeared and, eyes as big as dinner plates, he mouthed, “NVA.”

We were too late.

B-R-R-P–clack clack clack, B-D-D-O-W-W, came the sound of gunfire. Frump, came the sound of grenades. Whoosh, came the sounds of B40 rockets. Through the smoke, I grabbed the handset off my shoulder and began screaming into it as I cranked squelch.

“Slashing Talon Six, this is 71A, CONTACT, CONTACT, SIX this is SEVEN ONE, CONTACT!  Slashing Talon Six, 71 alpha, CONTACT, CONTACT!”

The headset crackled to life just as another long burst ripped through our AO. “Team 71, this is Slashing Talon Six, understand you have contact, over.”

Something hit me hard in the back, like a baseball bat or a large tree limb. I wasn’t sure what it was as I fired to my front with the radio on my shoulder while trying to relay our plight to our tactical operations center. I felt it again—like getting hit by a baseball bat. This time, the impact knocked me from where I sat and spun me like a top.

I could taste copper now, and my mouth filled with globs as thick as molasses. I knew this taste. I had boxed and played football when I was younger.

Fisher and Tex noticed something was wrong and crawled to me as rounds tore up the dirt around us and thuds and sweep-o-ouch sounds flew overhead. They screamed into my ear and I tried to talk. But the thickness clogged my mouth and the last burst had knocked the wind out of me.

I was bleeding badly now from the mouth and nose, and I heard an odd, faint rasping sound when I tried to breathe. It felt like a truck was sitting on my chest, and I struggled to stay conscious and fire my sector.

I was glad to see Fisher’s face in front of mine, and I handed him the handset.

“Did you call it in?”

I nodded. “Thway acknowledged,” I gurgled.

He understood and began transmitting. The infiltration/insertion bird would come back to us even though it was dark—normally, you were on your own until morning.

Fisher laid the radio handset on his shoulder and dug into our rucks for bandages and supplies.

“How bad is it?” I asked him.

“Aw, quit your whinin’. It’s just a scratch,” he said, and it looked like he was smiling.

I saw the large compresses, the 90 MPH tape, and some plastic off a radio bag and knew he was preparing for a “sucking chest wound.”

A little more than a scratch, not quite a gash, in Fisher’s words.

He and Tex were both talking to me through it all now, screaming at me above the cacophony, asking how I was doing as they continued to function as a Ranger team.

Jim Ketrow kneels in front of his Ranger team. Photo of the author.

They had handed the handset off to Partin, and as they pulled me into a standing position, they asked if I could run. I nodded yes, but didn’t really think I could.

Here came the exfiltration/extraction bird. The chopper pilot has huge brass balls, I thought. He has his fucking lights on.

Above the sound of the bird came the clacking of automatic weapons. Green tracers that looked like laser points went through the fuselage of the bird with a pling pling pling pling sound as they tried to hit the pilot and crew.

But now there were additional weapons firing.

The door gunner on the exfiltration/extraction bird fired at the wood line with his 60, and his red tracers found their mark for suppressive fire in long bursts, raking everything, the bright red laser-like rounds pissing blood into the enemy positions. Other red tracer rounds started coming into the contact area from about 45 degrees above, apparently from a Cobra gunship and a light observation helicopter (pink team).

But somehow through all that, Fisher, talking to me patiently, got me up with my left arm over his shoulder. I felt a stabbing, excruciating pain as he did this; I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d been shot through the left tricep, and shrapnel was lodged in my back.

“Can you fire our sector?” he screamed. He was already moving with me.

I nodded.

“I’ll carry your ruck?”

I still have a good right hand, I thought. All my wounds are on my left side. I began running, running, gasping for air. Then everything started to go black—even the bright lights on the bird and the tracers. Pilots never turn their lights on at night in combat, I thought, and that was the last thing I remember before I awoke with a cool wind blowing across me on the deck of the bird.

“This is Quon Loi,” he shouted into my ear as we landed. Medics ran with a litter toward the bird. They threw me onto it like a sack of shit and ran like hell to a tent, where we were greeted by a doctor and two nurses.

“Son, I can save your life—or not. But it’s up to you to help me,” the doctor said. “This is what you have to do. When I tell you to do it, strain like you are taking a crap, and DO NOT breathe! Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I managed weakly, and globs of blood shot out of my mouth.

The doctor brought out a chest tube and an Emerson bottle. “READY?”

I nodded.

I must have done all right. The next thing I knew I was back on a bird, and we were preparing to land. Two IVs with whole blood were attached to me, along with one of Ringer’s lactate.

Two medics ran out from the 24th Evacuation Hospital and threw me onto a litter. As they ran up the hill to triage, they tripped in all the bloody mud in front of the entrance and dropped me. I fumbled, trying to keep the chest tube from being yanked from my rib cage. I rolled across the ground, fumbling with the surgical tubing attached to the Emerson bottle, and I cussed them fuckers.

Carol Brown, one of the nurses at the 24th Evacuation Hospital. The author credits her and other nurses and doctors with helping to save his life after he was shot in the chest. Photo courtesy of the author.

They grabbed me and threw me back onto the litter, and continued rushing me into the triage line. If not for my Ranger team petitioning for me, I most likely would have bled to death right there. I was taken inside, where the nurses and doctors were a well-oiled machine of efficiency.

From here, a whole other chapter began, and possibly another story, about how the heroic helicopter and crew medevaced us out, about the nurses and doctors who saved precious minutes.

I spent 25 days at the 24th Evac fighting infections and a fever of 105 degrees. Day and night, nurses sponge-bathed me with alcohol and ice, taking turns with freezing hands to keep me alive. I had four debridement procedures and received 20 milliliters of whole blood and at least an equal amount of Ringer’s lactate.

Two weeks later, Omer Carson, who was supposed to be on this ill-fated mission, was killed when shrapnel from a B40 rocket hit him in the back of his head. He was two weeks shy of his 19th birthday.

This is a tribute to all who were involved in this mission, and others like it, where men and women risked everything, without regard for themselves, to come to this Godforsaken place.

This War Horse reflection was written by Jim Ketrow, edited by Kristin Davis, fact-checked by Jess Rohan, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar. Abbie Bennett wrote the headlines.

Jim Ketrow

Jim Ketrow was inducted into the Army in March 1969. Following basic training, he was selected for Officer Candidate School but instead chose to attend Noncommissioned Officer Academy at Fort Benning, Georgia. He arrived in Vietnam in January 1970 and served with a long-range reconnaissance patrol group with H Company Rangers of the 1st Cavalry. He was severely injured on June 5, 1970, when his squad came under heavy enemy fire. Ketrow was discharged from the Army in 1971 and went on to operate a diving company in the Cayman Islands for many years. He also served with the special forces in a reserve unit from 1984 to 1990.

This article originally appeared on May 15, 2024 on THE WARHORSE website. Here’s the direct link:

https://thewarhorse.org/us-ranger-veteran-recalls-nearly-deadly-mission-in-cambodiars-caught-in-urgent-fight-flight-to-save-one-of-their-own/

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video, or change occurs on this website—the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!

The Guilt Trips

Photo description: Best buds: The author and Lonny Livingston

Two Marines became fast friends on the first day in the military and did everything together. When in Vietnam, they did everything together. At the battle of Con Thien, an injury thought to be fatal separated them for good. Guilt ate at them for the next thirty-five years. Here’s their story:

By Perry Walker

I met Lonny Livingston in June 1966 when I reported to Camp Del Mar for Amphibious Warfare Training. The meeting took place in a large brick building that had a whole side of a parade deck. Across the front portico, rows of windows, fogged and caked with years of dirt and sea salt, sat quietly beneath a line of palm trees.

He entered through the side door and followed the hastily printed signs down the hall and through the open door. Thirty men, all dressed in green fatigues, milled about, shaking hands and balancing coffee cups precariously in the stale, moist air. We waited for the Captain to begin. A Lieutenant, his shirt and trousers starched, nervously stared at his watch, then walked to the podium.

“Take a seat, please.” Men began to shuffle toward the metal chairs, seating themselves. I sat and extended my hand to the Marine sitting beside me. “Perry Walker,” I said.

“Lonny Livingston,” he responded.

The Lieutenant stepped back, and the Captain took the podium. “I don’t want to burn a lot of daylight. You will learn more as I learn more. In short, the division is forming a new regiment. Your new designation will be the First Amtrac Battalion. Some of you might have noticed the Navy ship off our shore. You will be loading and offloading on that ship starting tomorrow. In two weeks, we will load all equipment, beans, ammo, and personnel, and join a convoy. Your next stop: Vietnam.

Any questions?”

He stepped back, and the lieutenant stepped up. “Hit the mess hall for chow, then meet at the ramp at fourteen hundred. Dismissed!”

“You really want to eat at the chow hall?” Lonny asked.

“EM Club?” I responded.

Con Thien – Amphibious vehicles in the background

With that, we left the meeting and walked across the parade deck. The enlisted men’s club was busy, so we sat by a display of paintings depicting Marine accomplishments. In the corner stood an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor in a haze of cigarette smoke. We leaned against the bar and ordered two beers. Then returned to our seats to await the Burgers. We talked for more than an hour. I learned Lonny was from the Tampa Bay area in Florida, and his main interest was the same as any other nineteen-year-old. I queried further and asked why he ended up in the Marine Corps during a war. He paused and looked at me. “I like their uniforms.” That elicited laughter from both of us.

True to the Captain’s word, we loaded everything we could on the USS Tortuga, and with a troop ship at our side, we set sail for the Philippine Islands with a short stop in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

USS Tortuga (LSD-26)

We only had two days at Pearl. Lonny and I made the best of it. We spent one day drinking beer on Waikiki Beach, then the next day drinking more beer on Waikiki Beach.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, we reboarded the ship, and before we awoke the following morning, the ship was rocking and pushing into an easterly wind. The mountains of Hawaii were but a memory.

Occupying our time was an ongoing problem. The sailors were kept busy with their jobs, but the Marines were left to their own devices. Cleaning our equipment became monotonous and routine. We talked during the lulls..I learned Lonny’s home life was focused on his sisters, with him being the odd man out. Joining the Marines was an escape from this, and the brotherhood of the Corps became his new family, one he craved badly. The men around us became like siblings. Lonny was one of those rare people who, when he asked “how do you feel?” he actually waited and watched your eyes for a response. Lonny really cared.

We disembarked our ship in Subic Bay, Luzon Island, and for the next two weeks, we trained and lived in pup tents in the jungle. One of the first things we learned about our environment was to not eat green coconuts. I won’t go into that now.

On the last weekend, we were turned loose on the little town of Olongapo. While we stood in line picking up our “Liberty Passes,” we were warned by the Captain that the USS Enterprise was pulling into port, four thousand sailors strong. Lonny and I, and a few of the guys, made straight for the “jeepnee” waiting near the gate. The Captain’s words were still ringing in our ears: “Behave yourselves!”

Early the next morning, our Lieutenant picked me, Lonny, and a few other men up at the Shore Patrol Office. While signing our release, Lonny leaned forward, and with a purple half moon under his left eye, asked the officer if we could go back to town.

Our new ship, the USS Vancouver, was newer, providing us with better sleeping arrangements and more ventilation. The Vancouver was a flat-bottom boat, so it pitched and rolled much more than the Tortuga. We learned this shortly after leaving the harbor. More men were hanging over the rails chumming the water below. This was a source of amusement to Lonny, who moved down the rail slapping men on the back, and asking, “What’s up?”

U.S.S. VANCOUVER (LPD-2)

We reached Vietnam on our sixth day out, but before we could make safe harbor, we received word that there was a serious storm bearing straight for us. The decision was made to sail to open sea and ride it out. We were birthed one deck down from the top deck, and the sun beat down mercilessly on the gray metal above. The heat in our area was extreme. So the Navy opened a hatch above us in an attempt to cool our compartment.

That hatch was rectangular, five feet by three feet, weighing in at a good hundred-plus pounds. It was hinged on the short side to the deck and held at a forty-five-degree angle by two stanchions. Around four in the evening, two young sailors entered our area and explained they were there to close the hatch. They requested help with lowering it into place.

Lonny jumped at the idea of getting out of the enclosed space and into the open air above. He volunteered immediately, and I followed. On the way up the ladder, the sailors explained that they would be on the top deck where they would lift the hatch, disconnect the post, and then lower it to Lonny, who was waiting below. The ladder leading up to the sailors above was only two feet wide and six or so feet high. I waited below, looking up at Lonny, hands above his head, waiting to receive the heavy hatch.
While the sailors struggled with the stanchions, it began to rain lightly, and the deck became slippery. The ship seemed restless and rolled gently. As the roll began to increase, the sailors’ foothold on the deck failed, and they lost their grip on the hatch. The single post still viable gave way, and the hatch collapsed downward onto Lonny.

It happened in a blink: the edge of the hatch caught Lonny on the left side above his ear, and drove his head downward onto the vertical edge of the deck. Lonny fell back and tumbled down the stairs into my waiting arms. His head was bleeding profusely from both sides. He looked up at me, his eyes wide in disbelief. As he opened his mouth to say something, his eyes rolled back and closed. Within minutes, a stretcher appeared, and Lonny was transported to sickbay. Sargent Streck instructed me to go to the head and wash the blood off myself, and then report back to him. By the time I got back to our bay, the blood had been cleaned from the deck and ladder. The Lieutenant was leaning against the bulkhead, filling out forms. I waited patiently until he raised his head and asked what had happened. I gave him what I believed to be the details. As he finished and began to walk away, I asked if Lonny was dead. I felt eyes fall on me, and a quiet calm filled the room. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’ll go back to sickbay now.

Lonny was transferred to the much larger troop transport sailing beside us. Unlike us, they had an X-ray machine. Three days later, Lonny was back in our area. Both eyes were black, his head was wrapped like a swami, and he had a new tale to tell. The doctor on the troop ship determined that he had suffered a severe concussion, ten stitches on each side of his head, and a hell of a headache. Lonny never remembered much of that afternoon, other than climbing the ladder, my face staring down at him, and then later waking up in sickbay.

We landed in Vietnam on December 6. We were assigned to a camp in the very early stages of construction. We were kept busy digging bunkers, foxholes, and stretching barbed wire. Lonny’s head healed, and his headaches passed into a bad memory. So he was in the bunker getting dirty with the rest of us. We worked during the day, had C rations for dinner, and after a brief respite, we occupied a foxhole and stared into the blackness of night. We would be four hours on, then Lonny would take over till dawn. Lonny was a constant source of entertainment. He usually finished digging his hole before us, and would sit on its edge, and smoke a cigarette, chattering like a bird in a cage. Occasionally, a sniper would shoot at us, and Lonny, true to his demeanor, would extend his middle finger above the foxhole, then yelled something dirty in response.

I was moved to another platoon, and Lonny and I were finally separated. His tent was now about a hundred feet from the artillery pieces at the edge of the base. On the twenty-sixth of December. Around three in the morning, the artillery group received a fire mission. Their first shell misfired and exploded directly above Lonny’s tent. The whole camp came alive. We were sure we were under fire. Minutes passed before it was clear what had transpired and where help was needed. I ran over to Lonny’s tent and found it shredded with shrapnel holes. The wounded and dead lay among the flotsam of cots, tables, and shards of canvas. A Corpsman was moving from wounded Marine to wounded Marine. I soon found Lonny lying on his back with a red bandage wrapped around his leg. I sat there waiting for him to go into shock, but true to Lonny, he just chatted and asked who else had been hit.

Loading the dead and wounded after the battle, May 1967

Within the hour, helicopters were ferrying the wounded to hospitals. I’m not sure where they took the dead. Lonny spent three days at Battalion Aid and then came back to us. After five more days on light duty, he was back to his old self. Lonny was awarded the Purple Heart for his wound. He was very proud of that.

In May, the whole platoon went on an operation north to the DMZ. We were told it might last a month or more. Soon after the news to “saddle up,” Lonny stuck his head in the tent.

“You going on the operation?”

“Sure am, someone has to babysit you,” I responded.

He chuckled and turned to leave, then stopped and turned toward me. “I hear it’s bad up there.” Then he walked away.

It took a full day to arrive at our point of departure. From the time we started moving westward, just under the Demilitarized Zone, the sniper opened up, and mortar and artillery started falling on us. We would move forward for eight hours, stop, and dig in for the night.

Lonny Livingston

Lonny and I usually kept track of each other, and we would dig our holes within rock-throwing distance. Some nights, either Lonny or I would crawl over to the other‘s hole and just lie there and talk, until someone would whisper: “Shut the &^%$ up”.

After a week or so, it became routine that a chopper would fly into camp, drop ammo, food, and water, and then lift off with at least one or two body bags. Shortly before the chopper would arrive, three men would be chosen to run to the open area where it landed, grab the dropped supplies, and then drag them back to cover. More than he should have, I spotted Lonny doing it. I knew he volunteered, and more than once, I told him to “knock it off.”

After being out for six or so weeks, we arrived at a small hill and dug in on the south side. Our company of Marine infantry dug in on the north side, leaving some Army Green Berets on the hill to our East. At 2:45 am, we were attacked by a very large group of North Vietnamese Soldiers.

After the battle of Con Thien, May 1967

The battle lasted until daybreak, when they broke off and retreated. While the enemy stragglers stayed behind to cover the main groups’ retreat, we started looking for our wounded and those killed. I spotted Lonny off to my left, helping a Marine lying on the ground. So I started searching the foxholes, working away from him. The shooting was sporadic, and about the time you stood up, you would hear a round buzz by your ear.

By nine o’clock, the fighting had ended, but the cleanup continued. I got word that one of our troops could not be accounted for, so we dropped everything and started searching. I was making my way back towards where I last saw Lonny when a Marine called out that he had found the body of Landon, the missing man. I turned to continue my morbid job when I noticed Bond standing beside a tank. He was wearing a white bandage wrapped around his wrist. He noticed me and pointed to an Amtrak. I turned my palm upward and shook my head. Bond stared at me and called out, “Lonny!”

A Corpsman was affixing a WIA tag to Lonny’s tunic. Looking around, he stated: “We need him on a chopper now.”

I quickly moved to Lonny’s back, pushed him into a sitting position, and then looked for help. A marine was standing next to Bond, a white bandage wrapped around his head.

“Can you help?”

Helicopter evacuating Lonny – their final separation

He said nothing, just moved to Lonny‘s side, and together we lifted Lonny to a standing position. With the bandaged Marine under one arm and me under the other, we exited the Amtrac. Walking as quickly as possible to the cleared area where the choppers brought in more Marines and ammunition. Then, pausing to take on the wounded. We half-carried Lonny to the side door of the green helicopter and set him on the door sill. I jumped in and moved behind Lonny. Grabbing him, I pulled back, and just before I laid him down, I noticed the deck of the chopper was awash with blood. I suddenly felt sick, but before I knew it, the door gunner pushed me out the door. I remember looking down at Lonny, whose eyes were shut. Then the roar of the engine, and the world around me swirled with dust, and he was gone.

35 Years Later

I came home after the war with PTSD. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was like a cancer hidden deep inside of me, waiting, raising its ugly head in the middle of the night, or when my stress level swelled. I was told by many people that I had “changed,” that I was not the person who had left years before.

That hidden world collapsed on me in 1986. The night sweats, the anger, the fear – it all came back. After many anguished nights, my wife read an article about veterans and PTSD. She immediately recognized my cry for help.

With the guidance of a counselor, we identified it as PTSD, or, to be more precise, guilt. I constantly thought about Lonny’s face on the day I put him into that bloody chopper. When I pictured this, my emotions would skyrocket, and my eyes would well with tears. With the help of two friends that Lon and I served with in Vietnam, I obtained Lonny’s phone number in Texas. I remember my emotions were ramped, my hands trembled, and my breath was short and choppy.

A woman’s voice answered. She heard me out, and said nothing, then I heard her ask Lonny if he knew Perry Walker in Vietnam. I heard his footsteps across a linoleum floor, the receiver lifted to his face, then a pause. I heard him take a deep breath, as if all his memories were rushing in.

“Do you hate me?” He said.

I was taken aback. “Lonny, why would I hate you?”

“Because I left you”.

*****

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you have a question or comment about this article, scroll down to the comment section below to leave your response.

If you want to learn more about the Vietnam War and its Warriors, subscribe to this blog and get notified by email or your feed reader every time a new story, picture, video, or change occurs on this website—the button is located at the top right of this page.

I’ve also created a poll to help identify my website audience. Before leaving, please click HERE and choose the one item that best describes you. Thank you in advance!