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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/

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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.

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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.

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‘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/

*****

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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”.

*****

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THE SUN CAME OUT TODAY

Here’s another short poetry submission by a fellow Vietnam War veteran.

By Pvt Gerald L. Wolf
 
 The Sun came out today,
 To shed it’s radiant beams on the soil.
 What a curious sight to behold,
 Amid all this trouble and toil.
 
 The Sun came out today,
 But it may as well not have come out at all.
 It brought along blue skies and great white clouds.
 What nerve, what gall.
 
 Yes, the Sun came out today,
 But it may as well not have come out at all.
 It came not for warmth, it came not for hope,
 It came to watch men fall!!
 
 
 HHC 1st Bn, 501st Infantry
 101st Airborne Division
 APO 96383
 April 1969

*****

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Baptism by Fire: Becoming a Marine in Practice as Well as by Name

Ask any Marine if they can remember the first day they actually became a Marine, and you likely will be told it was boot camp graduation day. This Marine cites other defining moments in the journey that eclipse the boot camp experience. Here’s his story:

By Ronald Winter

Ask any Marine if they can remember the first day they actually became a Marine, and you likely will be told it was boot camp graduation day. Whether it was Parris Island or San Diego, only when the senior officer in the graduation program proclaims the graduates “Marines” does the title apply. For officers, it would be a similar graduation from Officer Candidate School when their second lieutenant butter bars were pinned to their uniforms.

The designation could not come at any time before that, and no matter how well the recruits or officer candidates did at the various stages of training that preceded graduation day, if they didn’t graduate, they were not Marines.

Ron Winter inside a hooch in Quang Tri, South Vietnam, four months and more than 100 missions into his tour. Photo courtesy of the author.

But as many Marines will also tell you, there are other defining moments in the journey to becoming a Marine veteran that eclipse the boot camp experience. These include the baptism by fire, when Marines enter combat for the first time and learn how they will react when the enemy shoots directly at them.

For me, that moment came on June 1, 1968, during an initial assault as we inserted troops into an area south of Khe Sanh where the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) was building a road under the cover of a triple canopy jungle. I responded appropriately and survived, yet while that was a personal milestone, something was missing. Even if I couldn’t articulate it, I felt it.

Two more months would pass before I filled in that gap, even though those two months included my first medevacs, reconnaissance team insertions and emergency extractions, and night flights into hot zones—the gamut of missions that helicopter crews face in war.

During the summer of 1968, the 1st, 3rd, 4th, and 9th Marine Regiments operated in northernmost I Corps and along the demilitarized zone between North and South Vietnam, and opened new firebases south of Khe Sanh near the Laotian border, including landing zones Torch, Robin, and Loon. By mid-August, I had completed nearly 100 missions as a door gunner in CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters in squadron HMM-161 (military helicopter transport squadron), many in that area.

Although my baptism by fire had occurred two months earlier in this same area, and it was now August, this day was different. While the initial assault in June had been the responsibility of the 4th Marine Regiment, later in the summer, elements of the 1st and 3rd Regiments also operated in the area. I could only tell which regiment we carried if the Marine infantrymen had written their unit identification on their packs, which they often did.

The reception we would receive when entering a hot zone was a toss-up, as the NVA was sly and often changed tactics. At times, they opened fire on the lead aircraft—“birds,” as we referred to them—and at other times, they waited for later arrivals who might be lured into thinking the zone was free of the enemy and might possibly be caught off guard by a burst of hostile fire.

Ron Winter stands at his post next to a .50 caliber machine gun inside a Marine CH-46D helicopter between missions in June 1968. Photo courtesy of the author.

On this particular day, they chose to open fire right away. I flew starboard (right) gunner in the fourth aircraft in the flight, and I had a brief-but-ever-so-appreciated advance warning of what waited for us. The crews in the earlier flights had pinpointed the enemy positions in a gully flanked by two ridges on the northern side of the zone.

As soon as the target section came into sight, I opened up with my Browning M-2 (Ma Deuce) .50 caliber machine gun. We usually flew with 100-round boxes of ammo attached to the side of the machine gun with a bungee cord. At a rate of 500 rounds per minute, I emptied the first box in slightly more than 12 seconds.

I should point out here that in the years after Vietnam when I met grunts at veterans events, they often said they hated being forced to sit in a helicopter waiting to land, unable to join in, while the enemy, the gunners, and the crew chief were firing. It was strange for us, too, because we rarely saw those grunts again or heard what they encountered on the ground, or whether our fire had been effective in giving them sufficient time to find cover and turn their fire on the enemy.

Regardless of which unit we worked with, any assault was nerve-wracking for those who wanted to fight but—due to safety concerns—had to sit quietly until we landed and lowered the ramp. This probably explains the actions of a grunt sitting right next to my machine gun that day in August.

When I ran out of ammo in the 100-round box, instead of loading another 100-round box, I reached into a much larger box below the gun mount, grabbing one end of a 500-round ammo belt.

As I reloaded, I noticed the grunt stand and turn toward me. I cocked the .50 and began firing—all this happening in mere seconds—as he grabbed the ammo belt and began to feed the machine gun with a smoothness that instantly spoke of long experience. Out the corner of my left eye, I also saw the crew chief grab his M-14 rifle, switch it to fully automatic, and start firing out the hatch on the starboard side of the aircraft, a few feet forward from my station.

Marines from Echo Company, 2nd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment, take five on the Ho Chi Minh Trail in northern Laos, in February 1969, as part of Operation Dewey Canyon. Photo courtesy of the author.

The crew chief and I were about the same size—five foot seven inches or so, less than 150 pounds—and the recoil from the M-14 threw him back a couple of steps each time he fired. But he charged right back to the hatchway and opened up again, oblivious to the force of the recoil. In retrospect, it was kind of funny, but no one was laughing then. We kept firing, and I expended another 200 rounds or so. I ceased firing as we settled into the zone and the crew chief opened the rear ramp using his remote control.

I watched as the grunts charged out to take up their assigned positions in what was a quickly expanding perimeter. But just as he was to turn in the direction of the battle, the grunt who had been feeding my machine gun stopped, looked back for an instant, and flashed “Thumbs up” to me, accompanied by the biggest grin I could have imagined. Then he was gone.

In that instant, for the first time, I truly felt like a member of the Marine air-ground team. I didn’t know the Marine sitting next to me, but he instantly reacted, and we each did our part in the brief but intense firefight. And he obviously was grateful to have a part in the action rather than sitting still, enduring what we referred to as the “pucker factor.” Much later, I realized that a similar scenario could have occurred with myriad other participants, but this moment was our time on center stage.

A CH-46 helicopter from HMM-161 hovers over Fire Support Base Lightning, a forward artillery base manned by troops of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, in February 1969. The Fire Support Base was carved out of the wilderness to support U.S. Marine operations in the A Shau Valley adjacent to the Laotian border. Photo courtesy of the author.

I have heard it said that the entire course of our lives can change in an instant, and decisions we make in that time can affect everything we do thereafter. The time spent in that firefight was two minutes—tops—yet it caused a sea of change in my feelings about my role in the war we were fighting.

I’m not talking about philosophical issues here, or weighty concerns about the justification for America’s involvement in Vietnam. I am talking about the simplest of factors: two Marines, side by side, helping each other stay alive for the foreseeable future, which could be less than another minute. Nearly a year and ultimately more than 300 missions after that firefight, I returned home, went back to school, and tried to reenter society. But the America I returned to, and I hope that grunt made it, too, was not welcoming, and I endured my share of physical and emotional abuse.

Lance Cpl. Ronald Winter aboard the USS Princeton, LPH-5, in May 1968, en route to Quang Tri, South Vietnam, with Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron 161. Photo courtesy of the author.

In the first half of a 20-year journalism career, I was mocked and denied promotions, advancement, and pay raises by people who had never served their country and despised those of us who had. Not everyone, of course, but enough to make an impact on my life.

But regardless of what I faced in the years after Vietnam, I never forgot that moment when two Marines seamlessly took the fight to the enemy—a team that was created on the spot but worked as though we had been practicing forever—and did the job that was required. I often passed that moment on to acquaintances who needed a boost, and who needed to remember what it was like back in “The Nam.”

During my journalism career, I developed a reputation for calmness under deadline pressure, and occasionally, when asked about it, I would simply say, “No one is shooting at me.”

The success and teamwork of that moment helped me be successful in later endeavors, and the reward was far better than any medal because, from that moment on, I knew without question that I had truly joined the brotherhood of Marines, and the expanded brotherhood of combat veterans from all services. And for the first time, I fully understood—not by definition, not superficially, but deep inside me—the meaning of Semper Fidelis: Always Faithful. 

Have you experienced a similar moment in life that made an impact in your life after Vietnam?

Ronald Winter

​​Ronald Winter is a Marine Corps Vietnam veteran and author, including the recently released Victory Betrayed: Operation Dewey Canyon. He joined the Marine Corps in January 1966 and served four years on active duty, including 13 months in Vietnam, flying more than 300 missions as an aerial gunner. He was awarded 15 air medals, combat aircrew wings, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, and numerous other decorations. Winter later earned degrees in electrical engineering and English literature, and spent 20 years as a print journalist, earning numerous awards for investigative reporting, as well as a Pulitzer Prize nomination.

This article originally appeared on THE WAR HORSE website on December 22, 2021. Here’s the direct link: https://thewarhorse.org/marine-learns-meaning-of-semper-fidelis-in-baptism-by-fire/

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A Memory that lasts a Lifetime

American Legion Department of California Historian Fredrick Shacklett looks back at his time on the aircraft carrier USS Hancock during Operation Frequent Wind.

On April 29-30, 1975, North Vietnamese forces brought the Vietnam War to an end when they took control of South Vietnam’s capital, Saigon.

Over the course of those two days, and with 800 U.S. Marines providing security, U.S. Navy, Marine Corps, Air Force, and Army helicopters evacuated more than 7,000 people from Tân Sơn Nhứt Air Base, the U.S. embassy and other locations via Operation Frequent Wind.

Today, hear the first-person account of U.S. Navy veteran Fredrick Shacklett, a member of Whittier American Legion Post 51 and the Department historian. Shacklett was stationed on board the Essex-class USS Hancock aircraft carrier as a quartermaster 2nd Class in the Navigation Division. He was 21 years old.

Spring of 1975

On 17 March 1975, Hancock was ordered to offload its air wing. On arrival at Pearl Harbor, we offloaded half of CAG 21. Then, on 26 March, Marine Heavy Lift Helicopter Squadron HMH-463 comprising 25 CH-53, CH-46, AH-1J and UH-1E helicopters embarked on the Hancock and it proceeded to Subic Bay to offload the other half of CAG 21. It was called Operation Frequent Wind and was the final phase in the evacuation of American civilians and “at-risk” Vietnamese from Saigon, South Vietnam, before the takeover of the city by the North Vietnamese Army (PAVN).

The operation was carried out on 29–30 April 1975, during the last days of the Vietnam War. More than 7,000 people were evacuated by helicopter from various places in and around Saigon.

It was a kind of an odd name for a military operation, Frequent Wind. It made many of us laugh about it. But whatever it was called, we knew it was important. Rescue mission, evacuation, or just plain “Time to Get Hell Out of Town, Jack.” I guess the planners in Washington thought all the helicopters would make a lot of wind.

But here we were, the infamous Task Force 76 (TF76), assembled off the coast near Vung Tau (26 ships in all) to support a helicopter evacuation of as many people as we could take out. The Military Sealift Command (MSC) provided an additional 14 supply and transport ships.

After taking on more helicopters at Subic Bay, Republic of the Philippines, the Hancock was temporarily assigned to Amphibious Ready Group Bravo, standing by off Vung Tau, South Vietnam. Actually, we moved around in circles, from 10 miles off the coast to about 60 miles.

The Hancock had sailed across most of the Pacific and the South China Sea with no fixed wing aircraft. But we had Marines. Lots and lots of “God Bless America” United States Marines.

Task Force 76 was the taxi service, of course. All told, the Marine evacuation contingent was composed of the 9th Marine Amphibious Brigade (Task Group 79.1), consisted of three Battalion Landing Teams (BLT) – 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines (2/4), 1st Battalion 9th Marines (1/9), 3rd Battalion 9th Marines (3/9) – and three helicopter squadrons HMH-462, HMH-463, HMM-165, along with other support units from Marine Aircraft Group 39 (MAG-39). This was the only time in our ship’s history with no naval squadron on board. We carried HMH-463 and two BLTs and 39th MAB, with everything the Marines brought with them.

Also, about that time, our official ship’s nomenclature was changed from CVA-19 to CVAH-19 for the duration of the final cruise. This was another first for a U.S. Navy carrier. It was the first time a CVA (Carrier Squadron Attack) was re-designated CVAH (Carrier Squadron Attack Helicopter). We even reprinted the ship’s stationery and used that designation in the official ship’s logbook.

rarehistoricalphotos.com

On April 29, when the evacuation was ordered, the code – read out loud on Armed Forces Radio – was, “The temperature in Saigon is 105 degrees and rising.” This was followed by the playing of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” by Bing Crosby, played over and over again throughout the day.

By the early morning of 30 April, one CH-46 and one CH-53 landed at the embassy in Saigon, every 10 minutes. Evacuees were loaded and flown back to Hancock. Then, and completely unexpected, every helicopter, still in Vietnam, started flying out to sea. Dozens and dozens of South Vietnamese and Air America pilots were looking for somewhere to land. So many South Vietnamese and Air America helicopters landed on the TF76 ships that some 45 UH-1 Huey’s, and at least one CH-47 Chinook, were pushed overboard to make room for more helicopters to land.

Other helicopters dropped off their passengers and were ditched into the sea by their pilots, close to the ships, their pilots bailing out at the last moment to be picked up by rescue boats. It has been reported that during the three days of evacuation, over 100 helicopters were thrown over the side of TF-76 carriers or ditched into the sea.

The End of Hancock’s Mission

On the afternoon of 30 April, TF-76 moved away from the coast, picking up more refugees as they went. On 2 May, Task Force 76 had picked up over 44,000 seaborne evacuees and set sail for reception centers in the Philippines and Guam. The Hancock returned to San Francisco in mid-August 1976, completing 31 years of service to the nation.

Hancock was decommissioned on 30 January 1976. She was stricken from the Navy list the following day. It was sold for scrap by the Defense Reutilization and Marketing Service (DRMS) on 1 September 1976

I am very proud of my service on Hancock, and in the U.S. Navy, and what was accomplished. I will never forget April 1975. I remember it like it was yesterday. Fair Winds and Following Seas.

This article originally appeared on April 28, 2025, in the American Legion Magazine. Here’s the direct link:

https://www.legion.org/information-center/news/honor/2025/april/the-fall-of-saigon-i-will-never-forget-april-1975?utm_campaign=Source+Code+Here&utm_content=HONOR&utm_term=newsletter&utm_medium=email&utm_source=Adestra

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Here’s an excerpt about Operation Frequent Wind from The U.S. Naval Institute website:

The most spectacular arrival occurred at 1100. The Midway lookouts spotted a small Cessna O-1 “Bird Dog” spotter plane approaching the ship. “The flight deck at that time was extremely crowded with people and helicopters,” Chambers recalled. Most of their Vietnamese crews had already departed with the other evacuees.  

As the Bird Dog circled overhead, its lights on, signaling the intent to land aboard, Chambers and his air boss tried to determine what could be done. Rear Admiral Harris told Chambers he should maneuver the ship to create a calm swath of water and have the plane ditch alongside. But as the Cessna flew by again, the lookouts could see at least four people in the two-seat aircraft. Ditching was out. Attempts to reach the pilot by radio were unsuccessful.

The pilot made several attempts to drop a message onto the flight deck. On the third try, he stuffed a note into a leather pistol holster, which was retrieved by a crewman and rushed up to the bridge. It read, “Can you move the helicopter to the other side, I can land on your runway. I can fly one hour more, we have enough time to move. Please rescue me! Major Bung Ly, wife and 5 child.”

Fearing that in desperation the pilot would attempt a crash-landing into the helicopters near the fantail, Chambers got on to the 1MC loudspeaker, and his voice thundered through the ship as he asked for as many volunteers as possible to the flight deck to clear the landing zone by pushing the Vietnamese helicopters overboard. To his surprise, nearly 1,000 sailors, pilots, and Marines came pouring up from belowdecks. As they began pushing helicopters overboard, Chambers turned his back on the scene.

“I wanted to be able to answer truthfully that I did not know how many we sacrificed in our attempt to rescue the Bird Dog,” he said.

Chambers then ordered the Midway to make 25 knots to give the pilot a 40-knot wind down the deck as he landed. He also ordered the arresting cables removed.

The attempt would have to wait. Seeing the newly cleared area, eight hovering RVNAF Hueys immediately landed, again fouling the flight deck. They too went over the side.

As every man and woman on board the Midway held their breaths, Major Ly rolled out on final approach, descended, and crossed over the flight deck, touching down on the centerline. The Cessna came to a stop abeam of the island and was met by a wildly cheering crowd who surrounded the plane and handed out Ly, his wife, and five young children.

Ly was escorted to the bridge, where Chambers congratulated him, took off his own “wings of gold,” and pinned them on the young Air Force major’s chest, telling him he was now an honorary naval aviator. The Midway’s crew were so impressed with Ly’s bravery they raised more than $10,000 for the family to help them settle in the United States.

Touchdown: With his family in tow, South Vietnamese Air Force Major Bung Ly successfully lands a Cessna O-1 Bird Dog aboard the Midway.
(U.S. NAVY)

At a reunion in Lakeland, Florida, retired Rear Admiral Lawrence Chambers—captain of the Midway during Operation Frequent Wind (back row in blue Hawaiian shirt)—reconnects with former South Vietnamese Air Force Major Bung Ly (now Lee, in white shirt to the right of RADM Chambers) and his wife, children, and grandchildren. The major and his family had made it to freedom when he managed to made a hair’s-breadth landing aboard the Midway in a Cessna O-1 Bird Dog during the evacuation.
(PHOTO BY MICHAEL MCCLEOD, COURTESY OF THE CHAMBERS FAMILY)

Here is the direct link to the article on the Naval Institute: https://www.usni.org/magazines/naval-history/2025/april/bravery-chaos-operation-frequent-wind-april-1975

To read more about Operation Frequent Wind, check out this other article on my website: https://cherrieswriter.com/2017/05/02/frequent-wind-the-final-u-s-operation-in-vietnam/

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Tired of the Rain and Pain

Here’s another poem. This one shows how war can affect your future dreams.

Through the black night I lie
In a muddy foxhole
As the rain soaks my bones,
Beyond tired.
But I dare not shut my eyes,
For this is Charlie’s weather,
When you can’t hear or see him coming!
POP my twenty-five-foot trip flare goes off!
I spray the silhouettes with the 16
And AK fire cracks in the dark.
I lay down over 100 rounds in a panic
And toss 2 frags between the bamboo!

Then an eerie quiet fell
And I could hear my heart beating in the mud.
That morning we found a lifeless NVA soldier.
The guys put Airborne patches all over him.
I looked in his wallet
And there was a picture of him and his little boy together.
I slid down a tree and sat in the pouring rain
Staring at the picture,
Thinking, I took away the little boy’s dad,
And though it wasn’t supposed to, it hurt!
At that moment, a soldier said, Good kill, Greek.
And I said, looking at the picture,
There’s no such thing!
I’m tired of the rain and tired of the pain!–

Pete “the Greek” Agriostathes –
B/1/501

This poem originally appeared on the LZSally.com website.

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A Vietnam Vet Chats about the War with his Granddaughter

This granddaughter of a Vietnam Veteran became curious about the war at age seven. Then, much of it went over her head, but she didn’t lose interest. Sitting with her grandfather and listening to his stories over the next several years allowed her to better understand the war and his contribution. Here, she tells how it all came about:

By Lindsay Bennett

It was 1968 in Hue-Phu Bai, South Vietnam. My grandfather had just graduated from college and enlisted in the U.S. Army as the northern Vietnamese were spreading communist values throughout southern Vietnam. My grandfather, James Moore, a 22-year-old from Connecticut, was stationed right in the middle of it all.

The A Shau Valley was an entry point for communists to cross into southern Vietnam—for my grandfather, also the location of his base. The landscape consisted of hills and mountains, cleared rainforests, and dirt. His job was to cover for the men who would stop the communists from entering. He shot large guns, dubbed “one-five-fives,” a nickname for 155 millimeter howitzers that could shoot up to seven miles away. My grandfather and others were instructed where to aim and fire from their mountain base. He shot at the northern communists to prevent them from entering unseen into southern Vietnam.

Lindsay Bennett’s grandfather with a Howitzer round during the Vietnam War. Photo courtesy of the author.

My grandfather also spoke about the surprise night attacks, but he shared few details—only that the Vietcong approached the barbed wire and tossed grenades onto the base, causing destruction. Mostly, they aimed for the cannons and guns rather than the men, as the guns were more dangerous.

Nearly five decades after his service, I was in second grade. My school assignment was to speak to a veteran family member about his or her service and share with the class. I spoke with my grandfather and was thrilled to have the chance to spend time with him and learn about his service. At seven years old, it was difficult to speak with veterans—even my grandfather. I was afraid I would ask the wrong questions.

He told me about going to war and showed me pictures from his time in the military. He showed me his uniform and explained that he fought in the Vietnam War. I left his house utterly confused and with little understanding of what his actual service was. I was too young to comprehend what he was saying. Because I didn’t understand, I didn’t ask him to come to speak with my class—a decision I would regret. I was left feeling guilty about not being able to understand.

In middle school, I wanted to truly understand my grandfather’s service. I still had so many questions. What did he do? Where was he stationed? What was the Vietnam War? How old was he when he served? What was the importance of his role? What was the impact of his role on him and on the war?

But this time, I was mature enough to understand, though I still lacked general information about war. I needed answers.

During eighth grade, my perception of war was how Hollywood portrayed it: blood, death, bullets and bombs. I knew the military had branches—Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, and Coast Guard—but that’s about it. I didn’t know there were different jobs within those branches. Movies only show the fighting, never the roles that don’t involve action, so there is never any education, and the viewer’s perception of war becomes skewed.

Lindsay Bennett with her grandfather on a boat. Photo courtesy of the author.

That is exactly what happened to me. No one ever tried to explain what that fighting meant or what went on without the fighting or what the impact was on a person or on a nation. When my grandfather informed me that he had been in the artillery, I had no idea what that meant.

After eighth grade, I knew that service was much more than fighting. Yes, there are infantrymen, but there are also lawyers, engineers, doctors, linguists, and more. I also have learned about the impact service has on veterans, about post-traumatic stress disorder, and also the relationships formed in war. I learned how some individuals’ experiences involved traveling around new countries and interacting with the local communities, while others were stationed on ships and their roles were to fix mechanical issues. Some people are doctors and never see fighting, while others are always surrounded by it. Some veterans have long-term negative effects and memories from their service, but others who served differently may not feel the effects of war.

More recently, after learning about war, I went to speak with my grandfather. We went into the basement and he broke out old boxes and uniforms. They covered the floor, couch, and chair cushions—we were surrounded by pins for recognition of service, and the hat he wore while serving, as well as many pictures of his living space, the guns he loaded, the Hue-Phu Bai mountains. And old water-stained professional documents. As he went through them with me, he talked.

To avoid being drafted and getting stuck with a role he didn’t want, he joined the Army after college in 1967. He started in Officer Candidate School but quickly dropped out as he “could not stand OCS.” He then went to artillery school at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, ranking as a private E1. There he learned about all kinds of guns: what types there were, how to load them, what they did, and more. He said artillery training was like going to school all over again.

“They brought you all sorts of torture,” he said about the officers.

Every day, they would run five miles up and down the same hill; they had to eat square meals; and everyone got the same basic training until they got to advanced training specific to their roles. My grandfather did not enjoy getting harassed and belittled by the officers. When he told me this, he chuckled, as he obviously did not enjoy it then, but he does look back at it with fond memories.

Lindsay Bennett’s grandfather’s scrapbook from the time he served in the A Shau Valley in Vietnam. Photo courtesy of the author.

After six months at Fort Sill, he went to the mountains of Hue-Phu Bai for 11 months. It was humid except on the higher-up mountains. The soldiers worked at the base in just their boots and pants to combat the heat. With the mountains having a jungle-like terrain, it was hard to shoot clearly. So the engineers would clear enough for the soldiers to see. The climate was dry and sandy at the base. The soldiers had to dig their shelters and carry water for showers, and they only received one hot meal a day.

My grandfather worked in the gun crew for 45 days. He helped figure out which fuses to use, and loaded and fired the guns. After the gun crew, he joined the Fire Direction and Control Center. My grandfather’s role was a chart operator. When the team was told to direct fire to a specific point, he confirmed and located the coordinates using maps. He found the angle and direction to aim using slide rulers, protractors, math, and more.

This vital job stopped the soldiers from firing at the wrong location, missing the target, and hitting a surrounding village or area. While this all sounded scary to me, my grandfather spoke with pride.

I asked him about the best part of his service.

“Everybody looked out for each other,” he said. “No matter where you were from, everyone was a brother.”

I recalled learning about this from the veterans who came to our classroom—the bonds of war and friendship.

Lindsay Bennett poses with her grandfather. Photo courtesy of the author.

My grandfather also seemed excited about other stories, the ones not about fighting. He grew close with the men he served with, he said, explaining that they worked together 12 hours on and then slept 12 hours off. He proudly showed me pictures of the living spaces they built from sandbags and boxes. They worked hard for what they had, he told me. In every picture, he smiled.

He likes to think about the experiences he had when he was not fighting, all the good that came out of it, all the hard work he put into his time there, and all the happy memories he made, rather than the fighting and shooting. When I asked him if he would sign up again, he said he would if there was a draft.

As my knowledge of war service and its impact still needs expanding, I am grateful that I am better able to understand my grandfather’s service. I now know what he did and how it was impactful and important to the war. I also better understand what the Vietnam War was about. I was able to learn about the combat and what they did during “downtime.”

But it also made my grandfather happy to tell me about the house he made from sandbags, the things he learned, and, especially, to share the pictures of his experience with me. It was important to have this conversation with him again once I was able to understand.

To write this story alongside my grandfather was amazing. To be able to tell his story from his point of view and incorporate my ideas feels great. Occasionally, he would send me a text explaining an aspect we spoke about or correcting an error.

To me, this was more than just an essay. This was a chance to connect with my grandfather again on a deeper level.

Has anybody experienced something similar? Involve your grandchildren and keep your legacy alive. Use the comment section below.

Lindsay Bennett

My name is Lindsay Bennett and I am a tenth-grade student at Berwick Academy. I have attended Berwick Academy for 15 years, and I play softball and soccer. In my free time, I love to spend time with my grandparents at their lake and hang out with my friends. I hope to do nonprofit work after college or work involving helping those in need.

This article originally appeared on THE WARHORSE website 11/11/2021. Here’s the direct link: https://thewarhorse.org/vietnam-war-bonds-memories-shared-with-family-decades-later/

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Military Memories Competition

Last year, I entered a military memory competition on TOGETHER WE SERVED; my contribution was selected as a Runner-Up. This is the question posed:

What do you miss most about your time in the service, and what made this especially significant to you?

Do you agree with my response, or did you have something different to share?

Remember when we were younger, we had lots of friends. Although we had our favorites and best friends, it was a crushing blow when our family had to move to another location. We lost that best friend, never to be seen again. However, we met new friends, and with some, a lasting relationship.

I was assigned to a squad of soldiers in one of the infantry platoons in Vietnam. Although the size should be a dozen or so soldiers, we generally ran with eight soldiers. We spent 24 hours a day with one another and got to know each other rather well. Oftentimes, we shared intricate secrets that we kept to ourselves for many years. Trust was never questioned. Was it possible to have eight besties?

As a tight-knit group, we all suffered the same maladies. We carried, sometimes, unbearable weight on our shoulders, fought the elements, insects, and enemies together, humped through the jungles, and wore ourselves out.  Nobody was different. We took care of one another to ensure we all made it through the day.

We developed a strong bond. A camaraderie. I would do anything for any of them – as they would do for me. When we visited the firebases or rear areas for a short reprieve, we generally stayed together and kept to ourselves. Eight besties celebrating life.

When one of us was injured, killed, or left the group to go home, it was a sad day. Like a piece of our heart was ripped out. It hurt! The rest of us leaned on one another to make it through the next few days. The support was always there, and none of us could escape into ourselves and abandon the others.  They would not let you!

When it came time for me to leave the group and return home, a new sadness crept into my subconscious. I was not only leaving my eight besties behind; many, I would never hear from or see again, but I was going to miss that togetherness. That camaraderie. I was alone, again.

Over the years, I developed new besties, but the feeling I experienced in Vietnam never returned. That is, until 1986 when I joined the Vietnam Veterans of America. I was part of the inaugural Color Guard and am now part of another “squad”. We shared past experiences and developed a close relationship with each other. However, we were all married and had families, so when we parted for the day, we had different responsibilities and priorities. That same level of togetherness and camaraderie with my new VVA squad members was never the same and never will be.

Here is the direct link to the page: https://blog.togetherweserved.com/sgt-john-podlaski-us-army-1970-1971/

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