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Looking west at mountains along the northeastern rim of the A Shau Valley. 
My memorial presentation at Grace Church in Red Lion, PA, Sunday, May 27, 2001.
STORY OF A HERO Hello friends. It's been a few years since I've been with you, and it feels good to be back, especially to share another Memorial Day service with you in this lovely part of the country. Bob Smoker—you know, he doesn't seem to have aged a bit since we served together with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam 31 years ago—asked me to say a few words about a hero today. I've thought a lot about this, and to be honest, I just didn't know where to begin. I've known a lot of folks who I think are a hero. Most of them are like Bob, modest, self-effacing, yet confident and sure in their bearing. They have a spiritual quality, an inner self, whose value seems to shine through. I've known Medal of Honor winners, men who have the Distinguished Service Cross, and many who have earned the Silver Star. Some are dead. Some still live. You can read about heroes in books. History is replete with their stories and deeds. I thought that it might be interesting to draw a comparison between two different types of heroes. My first hero is actually a small group that had the moral and physical courage to defy friend and foe alike. Their mission was to make a foray into an armed camp—a patrol into enemy territory, if you will. They were warned of possible bloodshed, but they persisted in their plan. And, to make matters even more frightening, they planned to go on their mission unarmed and in broad daylight. Here's what happened. "Led by a local minister who had been a chaplain in the Confederate Army, the women of Columbus, Mississippi, marched, on April 25, 1866, flowers in hand, to Friendship Cemetery, an 18-acre tract on the outskirts of the town. There they honored the dead of both sides, men who had fallen not many miles away in the Battle of Shiloh. As the women had predicted, the Union soldiers who occupied the town made no move to interfere. "Although the ladies of Columbus had not been the first to decorate graves of the dead with flowers—the citizens of Boalsburg, Pennsylvania, had apparently held a somewhat similar ceremony in the summer or fall of 1864—the Columbus event attracted such widespread interest that it is generally considered to have been the initiation of what we now celebrate in the United States as Memorial Day." These women were heroes. They faced a condition of danger—danger that was perceived by many. They certainly must have been afraid—can you imagine that they were not? Yet they screwed up the courage—the will—to do something they believed was so important that they would risk the danger. Now, let's meet a hero from the other end of the heroic spectrum—my friend and fellow company commander in Vietnam in 1970—Rembert G. Rollison. The "G" stood for Gabriel, but most of us called him Rollie when we knew him as the commander of Delta Company. To some he was "sir" or the "Old Man," and to friends and family he was Gabe or R.G. Gabe was a big man, tall, rawboned, born of Georgia parents, he attended college at North Georgia College up near the Dahlonega Ranger Camp. He'd been commissioned from ROTC at North Georgia, and had served a first tour in Vietnam in 67-68. He left Army service briefly, then came back on active duty and was sent to Vietnam for a second time. He was an airborne ranger. There was increasing enemy activity in the 101st Airborne Division area in early 1970. Our forward fire support base, called Fire Base Ripcord, was on a 1,000-meter high mountain near the dreaded A Shau Valley that dominated enemy infiltration routes into the populated lowlands. Ripcord was important, to us and also to the enemy. By July 1st an enemy infantry division had surrounded Ripcord, and began a siege that lasted 23 days. During that time our battalion lost more than 50 percent of its soldiers killed and wounded. Our battalion held Ripcord against heavy odds. Eventually we withdrew under fire—one of the most difficult of all military operations. Gabe Rollison and his Delta Company seemed to be everywhere during the battle. On July 6 they assaulted Hill 1000, which was due west of Ripcord and occupied by heavy enemy forces that were placing heavy mortar and rocket fire on our base. Rollison and his men were repulsed, but not before they had taken the measure of the enemy. Still, half of Delta Company became either killed or wounded in the action, and two men were missing in action and presumed dead. The next day they assaulted again, this time with help from our Charlie Company—Bob Smoker was there for that one. The assault made progress, but was eventually thrown back. The enemy was just too numerous, their fortifications were just too strong. Later, a sister infantry battalion tried to take Hill 1000 from the reverse slope, and they were unsuccessful after four days of trying. During Rollison's initial assault on July 6th, he found himself and his radio operators cut off and pinned down by enemy fire from three bunkers. The battalion commander, Lt. Col. Andre C. Lucas, was circling overhead in a small observation helicopter. Rollison called Lucas and asked him to adjust his throw of hand grenades. Rollison lay on his back, tossing grenades just a few feet forward of his position, trying to get one into the opening of a bunker. Lucas directed his grenade tosses, and eventually one bunker was knocked out. Rollison then assaulted another bunker and killed a North Vietnamese soldier with a blast from a Remington 12-gauge pump shotgun. At the end of the fighting on the following day, when Delta Company was thrown back a second time, one of Rollison's men keeled over from heat stroke. Ordering the rest of his company to continue to withdraw, Rollison gave the man first aid, including CPR, and then carried him back to a landing zone where a medevac helicopter was able to come in to pick him up. Colonel Lucas so admired Rollison that he seemed to always pick him for the toughest missions. And Rollison loved Lucas in a way that only combat soldiers can understand. On the 20th and 21st of July, a company joined our battalion from a sister battalion and air assaulted into the midst of a superior enemy force. Surrounded, they called for help. Rollison and Delta Company led the relief effort, and Charlie Company came right behind to secure a landing zone for extraction. That company from the sister battalion was commanded by a West Point classmate of mine—Don Workman—who was killed minutes before the last helicopters evacuated what was left of his company. And it was Rollison who got them out. On July 22nd, my company—Alpha Company—tangled with a North Vietnamese battalion in a rare daylight action. We were deep in a jungle valley two kilometers southeast of Ripcord. It took an afternoon of vicious fighting before we were able to secure our position and send the enemy fleeing into the jungle. My company was, in Rollison's words, "shot to doll rags." Only six of my 74 men had not been killed or wounded. We were ineffective as a fighting force. Rollison and Delta Company tried to come to our aid that evening, but helicopters couldn't land because the landing zone was on fire from napalm. They returned to the rear base at Camp Evans and slept that night on the heli-pad. The next morning they tried again, setting down before the sun was up. Rollison and his men literally fought their way through two kilometers of jungle to get to us. Meanwhile, what remained of the battalion on Ripcord was being evacuated. Well, Rollison and his men got us out safely and were themselves the last to leave the Ripcord area. Our battalion commander, Andre Lucas, was killed on the final day. He and his operations officer were consumed by a sheaf of 120mm mortar rounds that impacted on top of Ripcord in the final moments of the withdrawal. When Rollison heard of Lucas' death, he wept openly. Later—years later—the tears and the emotion over Lucas' death were still there. "I wish it had been me instead of him," Rollison would say, "I wish to God it had been me." God's will is sometimes obscure to us. The man who saved so many, who pulled others out of tight spots time and again, finally met a foe he couldn't defeat. Cancer claimed Gabe Rollison's life at 0438 hours, Wednesday, October 4, 2000. He died with dignity and with his wife Marty at his side. I was able to visit Gabe and Marty over the years, and was fortunate to be able to see him in September less than a month before he passed on. Well, there it is—two different kinds of heroes from different ends of the spectrum. And I can not tell you which one I value more. Gabe Rollison led the effort that saved my life and the lives of my surviving soldiers. I value that heroism more than I can say. But, those wonderful, courageous ladies of Columbus, Mississippi, 135 years ago, gave us Memorial Day—a day without which we would not be drawn together, as we are now, to honor our fallen heroes. Somehow, for me, I think the value the scales are weighing is the same.
Some Men Some men are stronger than other men. And some men live lives of desperate agony, Wondering if they could have been as strong, If they could have been as courageous As some men, who are men. And those men, who are men, Have a duty, nay, an obligation To reach out to those less endowed To help them see themselves For what they are, and what they can become. On the battlefield of life, The clarion call is not for the brave, For they have proved themselves. It is not for the man in metal clothes, For he is proven in fire. The clarion call is for the weak, The faint of heart, for they, And only they, have yet to make Upon this world a mark Worthy of those we call warriors.
Rain, and the Promise of Life The rain poured down in buckets
Drenching the jungle with its promise of life
And I threw back my head and laughed
For there was no more life. What good, then, is the rain?
Does it wash away my sins?
Or restore the dead, who a moment before
Were living monuments to God? My laughter died in my throat.
The rain continued, uncaring. I looked over at Steve, my forward observer.
The rain couldn't help him,
Couldn't put his shattered body back together,
Couldn't make his lifeless eyes see. "Wanna go on patrol, lieutenant?" I whispered.
"Wanna go out and chase some bad guys?"
"No? Well, you just stay here then," I smiled,
"I'll go. I'll go get some for both of us." I tried to stand, but the rain knocked me down.
So I sat and chuckled. Stupid rain. "Lieutenant," I looked over at him again,
"You seen my boots? Gotta have my boots
To go on patrol." I cursed under my breath.
The rain must have washed my boots away. Then I heard a faint sound, a rustling of air,
And an angel appeared over me. I shot him,
And watched him bleed until his wings stopped beating,
Then the rain washed his brown pith helmet away too. Later on, more angels showed up,
Big green ones this time, with white teeth. I waved to one of them and he came over.
"Get my boots," I rasped, "need my boots."
I looked at Steve. He was smiling.
"You don't need boots anymore, capt'n," he said.
The rain poured down in buckets
Drenching the jungle with its promise of life.
The angels bowed their heads, and cried,
For there was no more life. But Steve and I threw back our heads and laughed.
Early July 1970, in the mountains on the northeastern rim of the A Shau Valley.
Medevac Mission The earth fell away below as the helicopter gained altitude, rotor blades churning and popping in the hot, humid air. Behind lay the lowlands, the savanna and the villages of the populated coastal plain. Ahead lay the mountains and triple canopy rain forest. The green below looked like some child's playground. Ahead lay Fire Base O'Reilly, and nine klicks south was Fire Base Ripcord. It always thrilled him to be on a mission into the mountains. The deep green vastness was enchanting, drawing him in like a sorcerer's spell. He imagined what it must be like beneath the leafy treetops. "Pure hell," he thought to himself, "and beastly hot into the bargain." He had no illusions. He had been a medic in a line company for too long. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he had extended his tour to serve with Charlie Medic out of Camp Evans. He told himself it was because he cared for his fellow soldiers and wanted to do good. Deep inside he worried that the real reason might be that he truly liked combat and the excitement that attended it. This day they had been called on to pluck a severely wounded man out of the rugged jungle near Fire Base Ripcord, a 1,000 meter high peak that dominated the Coc Muen massif. Ripcord had been a hot spot for over a week now. This morning, just an hour or two ago, one of the rifle companies working around the base had run into heavy enemy contact. One man had been killed and three wounded, one badly enough to warrant evacuation. "We'll get you out, pardner," he thought to himself, "that's what we do, get you out." The medevac chopper pilot was in contact with the company commander on the ground. Slowly they orbited the jungle, looking for the telltale smoke that would mark the company's position. "I've got goofy grape," the pilot finally radioed. "That's affirm," the company RTO replied. There was no landing zone, no place to set down to easily take the wounded man aboard. They would have to use a jungle penetrator--a metal cone with extending legs that served as seats to evacuate one or two GIs from the jungle. The medevac chopper came to a hover 300 feet above the company location. "That's pretty thick stuff down there," he thought, as he guided the penetrator and its tethering cable down into the jungle. But he knew what he was doing. He knew from experience what those on the other end had gone through. "Hang on," he whispered silently, "we'll get'cha out." The penetrator lowered, it slid through the thick tree branches and foliage and came to rest on the ground below. He couldn't see clearly, but knew what was going on. The wounded man was placed on the seat of the penetrator, then strapped to it, then the company RTO radioed to haul the wounded soldier up. The winch began to wine. Cable was taken up. The penetrator and its load of wounded human cargo left the jungle floor. "We got'cha," he said to himself, "we're gonna get ya up here and back to the aid station." The cable tightened, strained, wound upward toward the medevac. Time passed in great slow motion chunks. Without warning, enemy fire erupted from the surrounding hilltops. Small arms fire peppered the hovering medevac, slicing through its thin metal skin. The penetrator cable kept winding upward. "C'mon baby, we got you now," his mind urged, "C'mon, c'mon, just a few more feet. Then we're outta here." The pilot was talking on the intercom now, "Doc, you got him yet? We're going to have to get out of here ricky tic." He was focused on the man in the penetrator below, willing the winch to wind faster. "He's almost here, capt'n," he said into the mike, "Just another 20 feet." The enemy fire increased. "I am going to pull up now!" the pilot hollered, "we can get him in on the fly." The chopper surged upward. An enemy rocket propelled grenade flashed skyward, struck the helicopter's engine, burst with a thundering explosion. Doc was thrown to the floor of the chopper, losing sight of his wounded patient at the end of the steel tether. Instantly, the medevac began to sag toward the ground, and started to roll over. "We're going down," the pilot yelled. In split seconds ... Doc scrambled back to the winch and cable. The wounded soldier was just a few feet away ... the man's eyes looked at him, pleading, "Don't let me die!" "Not today, old son," Doc thought, "not today." And he punched the cable release and let the wounded man fall to the ground as the chopper keeled over in its death roll. The wounded soldier survived the fall and was later medevaced. The medevac chopper and all its crew perished on impact. This is what heroes are made of.
Infantry Assault Violence moving up a hill.
Short dashes across light years of jungle.
Bits of angry split the air, and kill,
Leaving lonely. If you could see them as I have,
(And some of you know what I'm saying.)
If you could look deep into their hearts,
You would see -- no, you would feel
Their fear and their love,
Binding them tightly to each other
In an unbreakable bond. No one wants to be here
In this hour before the assault.
But none will leave now,
For they will not forsake each other.
Soon there will be another test,
Another trial of body and spirit.
For some, it will be their first time,
For others, their last. If you could hear them as I have,
(And you old hands know this.)
You would hear only silent whispers,
The soft clink of ammunition,
And a rustle of gear being made ready.
Most of their time here is silent time,
But soon that silence will be shattered
By horrible war. There is a casual way men have of relaxing,
Yet full of tension, wound tight
Like a coiled spring, full of unleashed energy.
My job (one of many),
Is to release that terrible, lethal energy
At the right place and at just the right time.
Then, they will do the work of demons,
And I the same -- just another soldier. Stealth now, as we move forward
Treading on cat feet, looking with cat eyes.
We spread out, by platoons, and then squads
To the release points, to the jump off positions.
That old, familiar feeling washes down our spines
And settles in a tight knot in our guts.
Impatient now, we wait for the artillery to fire.
Then we will plunge into Hell. Violence moving up a hill. The coiled spring is released,
Adrenaline floods the body.
God, we are in Your hands now. Short dashes across light years of jungle. Feet and legs churning, lungs heaving.
Hot fragments shred brush and shatter trees.
A three-second rush forward is an eternity. Bits of angry split the air, and kill. We chase our exploding grenades into the maw of the Devil.
His hot, sulphurous breath consumes friend and foe alike.
This day we are successful -- mostly, that is. Leaving lonely. One man is down, a hole through his heart.
One more shattered life that doc can not save.
And one more widow, one more fatherless child, at home. ------------------------------------- Think about that. It is pure insanity. No sane person does such a thing. And no person who has done such a thing remains sane. Trav, 101st, 2/506, 1970 -71
OL' DOC AND THE POKER GAME Your deal, Lord, My last hand was a bust. An' the one before that. I done sat around this table all night, an' not one card could I play. C'mon, Lord. Deal me somethin'. Anythin'. Gimme a chance to break even. You at least owe me that, Lord. Are You listenin'? I got stuck with really bad hands, Lord, while the North Vietnamese have taken practically ever' pot on the table. I been good, Lord, mostly. Went to Basic an' AIT, like You said to do. Even went to Chapel, once or twice. I've tried, Lord. Got sent to Nam, an' didn't gripe. Got sent to the airborne, an' then out here in the mountains next to the A Shau Valley, an' all the time I tried to do what's right. Ya see, Lord, fer two weeks now we've been in constant contact with the enemy. Steady, gut-wrenching contact. An' this mornin' we took a bad lickin'. We was outnumbered, Lord, a lot to a little. An' they hit us with ever'lovin' thing they had--mortars, rockets, satchel charges, grenades, an' a lot of machine gun an' small arms fire. An', so help me Lord, they come at us in a massed attack. We fought back like devils, Lord ('scuse the word), an' gave a good account of ourselves. You'd'a been proud--that is, if anyone can be proud of men killin' and woundin' each other. But that's not my point, Lord. We're all just tryin' to do our jobs--them as well as us. Thing is, Lord, I got this small problem that, mebbe, only You can help fix. Y'see, Lord, I'm a medic by trainin'. Ol' Doc they call me. An' Ol' Doc fixes their hurts, an' gives 'em malaria pills, an' cleans jungle rot, an' picks out shell fragments, an' puts on field dressin's, an' ties tourniquets, an' gets 'em on medevacs, an' listens to 'em gripe 'bout ever'thin' there is to gripe about. That's me--Ol' Doc. An' so, Lord ... about this here problem. We come outta' this thing a bit worse than we went in. Got 14 dead an' 56 wounded outta' 76 grunts altogether. Fifty-six wounded men, Lord! But that's not the problem, Lord, I believe most of 'em are gonna' make it, 'cept for mebbe one guy. He's my problem, Lord. Got him set up in the corner of two tree roots, You know, the big ironwoods they got over here in Nam. Half his face is gone, an' I've got that bandaged. His right arm is burned, bad, and that's wrapped up. He took mebbe four AK rounds in the gut--guys say he charged a machine gun position--but I've stopped most of the bleeding, an' got my last IV pumpin' into him. But he's gut-shot, Lord. Right through to the back, an' I think he's gonna' die. I don't even know his name. But you cain't never tell, Lord. Some men were meant to die before we figure it's time, an' others not. But as many as I've seen go, Lord, I reckon this one's goin' rather than stayin'. An' that's the thing, Lord. I don't want him to go. There's somethin' about him, somethin' that needs to live. An' I need Your help. So, if You could just deal me one more hand, Lord. One more hand. An' if You ever had a mind to cheat at cards, or anythin' else, this'd be the time to do it. I need some aces, Lord, an' I'm prayin' You'll oblige me, an' him in particular. Well, You got the picture, Lord. Whatever You can do, we'd appreciate. Amen. --------------------------------------------------------------------- That next day, choppers lifted 76 men out of the rocky jungle near the A Shau Valley. Fourteen in body bags, only six unwounded, and the others were alive, as if by a miracle--or a winning hand. Trav
IMAGES Rain. Wet, but not real wet. Steady, more-than-a-drizzle. The sheen of tree trunks, marbled by rivulets. The patter-plop of drops-on-leaves. A thousand jungle timpani beating in time to no-time. A platoon on patrol. Ponchos glistening. Helmet covers soaked to the steel. Moving carefully from hill-top to valley, and back again. Just a walk in the rain. "Just a'walking in the rain." Who was it? Danny Kaye? Yeah. That's the dude. Leaches. Ten hundred million slimy, wet, blood sucking, [expletive]. Squirt a little bug-juice on 'em, and watch 'em squirm. Mud. Two steps forward, one step back. Progress. Muttered curses. Pity the man walking drag. Where to now, LT? "Goin' home in a body-bag. Doodah. Doodah." Play it, Sam. Rest halt. Wet cigs. Pull out ten spongy fags to find one half dry, then light it with dishwater hands squirking the rasp on a Zippo lighter. Good shee-it. John Wayne ought'a see me now. Shred the cigs too wet to light in the arcane belief that the North Vietnamese really care what you smoke. C-ration ham'n eggs. They always taste better when they're wet. Effing gourmet meal. Where's the hot sauce? A beer and a hot fire would go good right about now. Yeah, right. You don't think about it long. Rest halt's over. C'mon feet. Do your thing. The squish of water in-and-out of your jungle boots. Dry socks in your rucksack. Maybe. Yeah. Hope Doc remembered the foot powder. Then, just when you think you're about to get used to the wet, someone steps on a landmine. It's not the point team. They're too lucky for that to happen. It ain't the LT, he's never where he's supposed to be. It ain't the LT's RTO. RTOs are protected by the All Mighty. It ain't none of the above. It's your buddy, Thump Gunner. You rush to help him. Oh, sweet ever-lovin' Jesus. One foot is gone. Gone. No boot, no nothin'. Just white leg-bone stickin' out. And, he's moaning, tryin' hard not to scream and give away your location. Though, God knows, the explosion must have been heard as far away as Fire Base Ripcord. His free-flowing blood mingles with the rain, and pools on the leafy jungle floor. He's got fragments up his legs and in his crotch. Never mind that you picked up a piece or two in your arm. You fumble for his first aid pack and fish out the field dressing--all in slow motion. This can't be happening. You try to scream; for him and for yourself, but words won't come. He's dying. Somebody, please! Help Thump Gunner!!! You try to scream again ... and wake up. It's raining. The plop-patter of drops-hitting-leaves brings you back home. The screened-in porch provides shelter, but you can feel the hard damp. The Sunday paper lies scattered next to your lounge chair. Half an Irish whiskey sits on a small table. The supper dishes are still in the sink in the kitchen. The Sonora chimes strike midnight. Slowly, you move to the porch door and look out at the dark. Tears stream down your cheeks. So long ago. So many years. Gotta' go to bed. Tomorrow's another day. Best wife is in bed. Asleep. Has been for hours. Beautiful; all naked shadows and blond hair. She stirs. "Mfff. You okay, honey?" "Yeah, babe. I'm okay." "You've been crying, darling. What is it? Another bad dream?" "Yeah, just a bad dream." "Come to bed, honey. It's okay now." "Sure, babe. Lemme hit the can first." But, it's not okay--and never will be. You stand, straddling the commode, and try to relax. The warm stream finally comes. Bad aim. You feel the splatter-splash of pee hitting your leg. Piss on it. Piss on all of it. Trav
NIGHT CONTACT Harvest Moon Silver moonlight, Flickering wraithlike among the night shadows, Shines grimly on our harvest--death. Harvest Moon. No cornfields here. The melody of song is lost In the chatter of M-16 rifle fire And the answering bark of AK-47s. Shine on; shine on Harvest Moon. Shadows die in darkness, Silhouetted in the red agony of bursting grenades. Moonlight bathes us in the aftermath Of night contact, bringing order Out of chaos. Moonlight, healer of fragile minds And frightened soldiers. The Harvest Moon, of course, shines best When you are the reaper. Trav, 101st, 2/506, 1970-71
FOR GABE Drink, I'll tell you what it's like To be friends with a man. We've fought together Side by side, in Hell And other places. I call one man my brother And my friend. By God, He gave a damn. We'll sit together drinking whiskey Laughing, drinking, remembering Those who did the dying. Pour another, we were bleeding Still each other we were needing. Damn. Drink, I'll tell you what it's like To be friends with a man. Trav, Dec. 1970 Gabe and his company saved my life and the lives of my men on July 23, 1970. Gabe passed away on October 4, 2000. I was able to visit him in September before he died
MY COBBLER: COMBAT CUISINE I've learned to cook a little bit in this far and foreign land. Mine ain't the best as some can cook, but you need to understand That here it's quite a ritual when we stop the war to eat. The worst we do is make it hot, and the best is quite a treat. Now the best meal I have eaten, and the best that I can make Is a c-ration can of peaches and a can of white pound cake. I mix them in a canteen cup with sugar and powdered cream, Then place it on a good hot fire, for my "Cobbler Supreme." One day when we were on patrol, we took a mid-day break, And I got a can of peaches and a can of white pound cake. Security was tight and the men were all alert, And oh, how I was looking forward to eating my desert. No sooner was it ready, the first spoonful to my mouth, Then the enemy made a ground attack, from the north and from the south. Shocked was I, and quite upset, at the enemy's choice of time. It took some gall to start a fight when most men like to dine! I hit the dirt beside a tree, and placed the cobbler there, Then scrambled off to join the fight, still thinking, "It ain't fair." The fight was quickly over, almost as soon as it'd begun, And I checked around for injured men and we hadn't lost a one. Then I turned back to my cobbler -- the canteen cup was on its side! An AK round had struck it, and at my feet the cobbler died. Oh, irony or ironies, I thought with mounting dread. The shell that took my cobbler's life had been meant for me instead! I picked it up so tenderly, placed it in a plastic bag, And laid it in a shallow grave, with a tiny U.S. Flag. Someone had a Purple Heart, and pinned it to a cross, And from somewhere a man hummed taps, while I thought about my loss. The war still rages 'round this land, and it is filled with strife, And I still rue that awful day when my cobbler lost its life. Deep within the jungle, in a shallow unmarked grave, There lies an unknown cobbler, unknown but very brave. Cheers, Trav, P.S. I wrote this 31 years ago, in the bush, after a similar event actually happened. We all need a little comic relief from time to time, then and now.
NOT A NORMAL PLACE TO BE Dirt, dust, windswept mountain top. Hueys come and go, Chinooks drop heavy loads Of ammo, wire, blivets of water, fuel oil for the generators. We labor under the sun and wind, Stringing barbed wire and concertina And digging holes in the ground. Holes for our protection. Something nags at us, Something inhuman floats above our labors And tugs at our souls. This is not a normal place to be. Denny Heinz digs, and digs, Lifting dirt from a place he will call home For the time we are here. Shovel-full after shovel-full he digs. He does not know, can not know That where he digs has been dug before. Metal strkes metal, but he feels it not, And lifts another shovel-full of earth. The grenade explodes. Lifted to face level, It blasts Denny Heinz with the force of demons. How could he know it had been there Since the last occupants buried it? Doc is there immediately, So is Foret, the sergeant, I am close behind. Heinz is shattered, dying. Gasping, Doc gives CPR, A medevac is called ... anxious moments. The clatter of rotors slap the air, Heinz will be saved. I remember this as clearly as if it were yesterday. The medevac hovered over our position. We loaded Heinz on the chopper, fixed to a stretcher. The transfer from one medic to another took place. The medevac huey lifted off, and Doc began to cry, "Give him CPR, give him breath!" But it didn't happen. The chopper medic was too new, a cherry, and was shocked by the sight of his first casualty. Doc was inconsolable, and for good reason. In a few minutes we knew. Heinz had died in route to the aid station in the rear. There's a Wall now, in D.C. A place we go to remember heroes like Denny, A place we go to remember all those who died, Serving their country in a dirty little war. The Wall, too, is not a normal place to be. Trav (2001)
RIGHT 12....DROP 2 Mid-July 1970 when FSB Ripcord was under siege, I monitored an exchange between our FAC (Bilk 43) and the CO of B/2-319 Arty (our 105mm direct support battery on the base). The FAC had just expended a set of fast-movers on a .51 cal position in a cave down low on a small ridge, with no apparent effect, since green tracers kept popping past the FAC's cockpit. In frustration, he called the TOC and asked if there was any way to shoot the target with a 105. Quicker'n you can say "this ol' Army is alllright" the battery CO had a 105 moved to the log pad, propped up the trails on ammo boxes, and pointed the snout down the mountain side toward the offending North Vietnamese machine gunners. He fired a round for the FAC to adjust--shot, out--and here is the abridged version of what happened. FAC: That's good, that's good. Move it right about 100 yards and down about 50. The battery CO didn't bat an eye that the FAC didn't know the correct Army terminology for adjusting fire. A few seconds later another 105 round slammed into the jungle. Shot, out. FAC: That's close, really close. Adjust right 25 yards and drop 10 yards. Hell, the closest change the arty make on adjustments is 25 meters x 25 meters. The CO didn't hesitate, and another 105 round burst near the enemy position. Shot, out. FAC: [Very excited voice now.] We're really close. Right 12 feet and drop 2 feet. Arty CO: Roger, wait ... shot, out. FAC: [Jumping up and down in his cockpit.] You got 'em! Right into the mouth of the cave. Nothing but smoke and flame coming out. You got 'em! Now, how the heck can you put an adjustment of right 12 feet, drop 2 feet on a 105 howitzer propped up on ammo boxes, and which isn't even surveyed in? Sometime later, after the siege ended and my redleg friend recovered from wounds and returned to duty, I met him in the rear during a standdown. I asked him the question. His reply: "Just piss down the bore and lean against the tube." That's good enough for me.
DEATH Breathe your hot breath on my neck You demon, Death I care not. Your presence is no more than a reminder Of the meager price that all men must pay For living. Be not kind, it would be a waste Of your fine talents. You are but a penny in a rich man's coffer. And let me tell you one thing, Friend, Though you strike at the spirit You will never smite my soul. Come closer you bastard. Every man is your father, Yet none will name you. You have cost me, Death. Good men and friends Belong to you now. But come closer Death come next to me and watch me kill
MISSING SOMETHING Dear Mrs. and Mr. Smith, It is with the sincerest regret that I write this letter. Your son was a valuable member of our team.......... I left Marcia last week. She just didn't seem to understand That there's more to life Than just wading through The misery of living it. I'm going back to 'Nam. It's something that I know, Or at least I understand it better Than Marcia. Why, God, do You make it harder to love than to kill? Last week my point man stepped on a booby trap And lost his foot. He didn't even know it was missing Until he got to the hospital. I wonder if I'm missing something that I don't know about. Dear Marcia, It is with the sincerest regret that we write this letter. Your husband was a valuable member of our team.........
CROPS We'd wait until autumn brought the crisp chill of winter Before we harvested the potatos. It was good to feel the loose loam As we gathered our summer's labors. Gunny sack full with the weight of future suppers, My brother and I would wrest them into the root cellar And smile, because it was good To sweat honestly. Later we would sit stocking footed by the fire And read the future by its flames. It's autumn again But hot this time With the promise of rain. The crop is different now, And the harvest more difficult. It's still good to sweat honestly, But the smile is gone. Trav, written sometime in late 1970 or early 1971
FROM: World War ll To Vietnam My father was my friend. He passed on in April 1990. He served in the 10th Mountain Division in Italy in World War II. There was no generation gap between us. I have often compared my service in Vietnam to his service in Italy. Interestingly, we both had the same infantry assigments and earned the same awards. I take comfort in occasionally reading the things he wrote. Here is one of them. In a way, it is a timeless eulogy for all those who have fallen in war. Trav
COMMUNICATION Torrie Ieussi, April, 1945 Who can know The lonliness of men About to enter into battle. They are lonely As the stars are lonely Recognizing comrades Across the light years of space But unable To communicate That which is Within the heart. How can you know -- You Who have not seen Death rear up Among the springtime blossoms To shatter men With steel. We Who cannot speak Sprawl upon the April grass Warmed by the springtime sun. Peaceful flies Buzzing Over broken helmets. We who cannot speak Cry out With twisted bodies Upon the April grass.
FROM: Friendly Commander to Enemy Commander I wrote this little piece back in the fall of 1970 while in the rain forested mountains of Thua Thien.
I'm really sorry that you're the enemy. It's very sad we have to fight and kill each other. Do you love your soldiers as much as I love mine? I think you do. Your men fight well and die bravely. Our countries can both claim victory, But we are both losers, you and I. We hate ourselves too much. I used to think I hated you, But that's not so anymore. I just hate me, and what I've become. I killed two of your men yesterday. They were careless. We'll get careless too, someday And Death will finally win -- the only victor.
We ain't gonna win .. what I learned from the troops .. On July 30, 1970, First Sergeant John Ross and I reviewed what could only be described as the "new Alpha Company." Just nine veterans of Ripcord were fit for field duty, and 30 new guys, "cherries," peopled the ranks. "I wonder who's more nervous, Top," I said to John Ross, "me, for all the new men we have, or them for knowing what the company has just been through?" We chuckled at the thought, then Ross turned serious, "Just stay tight," he told me. "You and your old-timers have your work cut out for you." And that's how we went back into combat: A 39-man company, with squad-sized platoons and a command post of seven. By mid-August our strength would grow to close to 100 men, from returning wounded and new replacements, and I later added a squad-sized 4th Platoon to perform reconnaissance missions for the company. Although the NVA didn't challenge us in any great strength, there was still plenty of action. Efforts by the Viet Cong to supply NVA forces deep in the jungle from the fertile lowlands continued, and interdicting rice-carrying parties remained an important mission. Too, the regular North Vietnamese often sent platoons and companies, to work in smaller groups, to disrupt our activity, provide security for rice-carriers, and maintain or build bunker facilities for unspecified future operations; and the ubiquitous trail watcher remained a fixture. I groomed my new charges carefully, and employed the company aggressively. No one in the battalion worked harder to ensure a combat edge, so necessary to survival--to winning every little engagement against our foe. But if I desired pay-back for the hurt of Ripcord, it came only piecemeal, a little bit at a time. Obsessed with the dual and seemingly contradictory missions of taking care of my men and killing the enemy, I planned operations that were designed to cause maximum confusion and disruption to the North Vietnamese. We disdained typical "ridge running" tactics, forewent regular resupply (we carried extra rations--rice, like our foe--and extra munitions) and pursued the enemy on "hunting trips," in valleys and along streams. The easy, less secure way was rejected, the tougher the hump, the less likely the enemy would be aware of our presence. Ruse and deception became the rule. The war, my war, became increasingly personal. As long as I could command Alpha Company, every hour of every day would be spent trying to kill and damage the bad guys. "We were still winning," I thought, "Vietnamization could work." The thought that America might lose the war did not exist for me, but the corollary thought, that America did not want to win the war, was made graphically clear one day in September. It was resupply day. We were securing a perimeter by an LZ deep in the jungle on some nameless ridge. Four of my men approached, all hardened Ripcord jungle fighters. They were short-timers, tours almost over, they would leave with the log bird, due momentarily. They had come to pay their respects, and say "good bye." "Currahee, sir," they said quietly, "Currahee, Charlie Oscar." "Currahee, men," I said back. There was a moment of awkward silence, of downward-looking at jungle-booted feet, then the self-appointed spokesman for the group, Sergeant Buster Harrison spoke. "It's been good having you for a captain, Charlie Oscar," Harrison said, "We're real proud to have been with you and Alpha." The obligatory comport out of the way, Harrison continued, "Sir," he said formally, his voice determined, "if we thought we were going to win this mutherfucker, we'd stay." He paused, gathered his words, and said, "If you told us we were going to combat assault into Hanoi tomorrow, we'd volunteer to be on the first bird in the lift." He paused again and looked me square in the eyes ("We really mean this, captain," he was telling me, "This is from our hearts.") Then, he finished: "We ain't gonna' win, so we're goin' home." And when the resupply chopper came, they got on it and left. "These are the American boys," I thought, "who would have won this war for their country and for the South Vietnamese allies they so valiantly supported. Savvy, battle-hardened troops, whose tour was over and who were now going home to friends and family, these men would have stayed, and fought and died if America had told them they were going to win, and had let them do it." The man who carried a machine gun with 3d Platoon, who had helped avenge Doc Draper's death, said it all: "If we thought we were going to win ... we'd stay." These are the kind of men America sent to Vietnam, indeed, has sent to all its wars. Men like those of Alpha Company, 2d Battalion, 506th Infantry, were men who embodied America's spirit of freedom, who embraced the soldier's precept of self-sacrifice, who left Vietnam's bloody killing fields unbowed and unbroken, who would have stayed in order to win. General Sid Berry wrote to me years later that "it is unworthy of a country to send soldiers to a war they may not win." He's right.
It Don't Mean Nothin', It Don't Mean a Thing We all cope in some way, then and now. Trav
Machine Gunner The trail meandered along the side of a ridge to a stream below. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. Sam was to his left, a thump gunner. "What the hell good is a grenade launcher going to do in this thick stuff," he wondered? But they both had claymores to their front along the trail. That would be enough, if they did it correctly. To his right was the new guy, Tiny they called him because he stood over six feet. On the far right was Sarge. There were just four of them, lying flat in the dense brush, waiting. He fingered the cover on the feed mechanism to his M-60 machine gun. He had a teaser belt of 30 rounds fed into the gun with a round locked into the chamber. It, too, would be enough, unless he screwed up. "How long we gotta be here," he thought to himself? "Until they come," a Little Voice flickered in the back of his mind. "Until they come." Besides, where else was he going to go? Back to the World? What a joke. "Ain't going nowhere but here," he thought, "and it don't mean a thing. Just doin' my time." High above the sun beat down on the triple canopy rain forest, turning the jungle into a steam cooker. What light that filtered through the leaves gave the terrain an eerie, primeval feeling. A rivulet of sweat ran down his nose and plopped onto the "sixty." He thought about what they were supposed to do. Last evening when they discovered the trail, it had been recently used. Quietly, the captain had sent out two small ambushes to catch who ever else might come along. The other ambush was off to the left a hundred meters or so. If the enemy came from the left, that ambush would get them, if the enemy came from the right, it was their show. The rest of the company was behind them a few hundred meters, dug in on a small knoll. He felt very alone for a moment, then pushed the thought aside. "Waiting is the hard part," he thought. There was no rush of adrenaline, nothing to keep his body tense, his mind alert, just his self-discipline. The heavy stillness of the air and the sound of insects buzzing about made him drowsy. He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the wall of green directly to his front. "The Old Man will call it off at noon if we don't get any action," he thought. He looked at his watch. The hands pointed to 1030 hours. "Nobody's gonna come by here," he argued to himself, "they already used the trail, yesterday. Ain't no enemy gonna be stupid enough to use it again so soon." Still, he kept focused on the green tangle to his front. Suddenly, he felt a presence to his front. Something was out there, moving ever so cautiously. Something dangerous. The hairs on the nape of his neck raised, sending a chill through his body. His gut tightened. Now his mind was racing, thinking, remembering, flushing all thoughts away except for those things he would have to do in the next few moments. Then he saw it. A dull flash of khaki blending in with the green foliage. "It's them," his mind screamed, "they're directly in front of me." "Patience," his Little Voice said, "Sarge will initiate contact." The enemy presence multiplied. Now there were two of them, now four. Their point team poking into the dense underbrush along the trail, suspicious, looking, searching. Warily they continued, AK-47s at the ready. His whole body tensed, "It's gotta be now," he thought, "C'mon Sarge, do it!" At the far right of the kill zone, Sarge squeezed the clacker to his claymore. It erupted with a terrifying blast. Instantly the other three members of the team squeezed their clackers. The rippling explosions swept along the trail, spewing thousands of double-ought steel pellets ankle to waist high across the trail, shredding leaves and brush and human flesh and bone. Before the reverberation of the explosions had time to die down he found himself clawing his way forward, stepping into the kill zone, firing the "sixty" at human shapes still dazed and standing. Short, six round bursts coughed out of the barrel of the machine gun. He heard the clinking sound of expended casings and ammo links falling to the ground. More firing from his left and right. Sam had buckshot in his thump gun. "Crazy," he said to himself as he fired, "I didn't think of that." Sarge was hollering now, "Secure the trail! Secure the trail." Tiny lumbered to the right, sighing his M-16 down the trail, looking for more enemy. Sam was doing the same on the left. "Gunner," Sarge yelled, "cover me while I check the bodies." It seemed surreal. He looked up and down the kill zone. There were six dead North Vietnamese soldiers. Three had weapons, three had packs full of supplies. They were all dead. Some of the bodies had legs missing. All were shot through with bullets from head to toe. One's torso had been ripped in half. "I did that," he thought, "I did that with the gun." Sarge was on the radio now, calling the Old Man, giving a SITREP. Shortly, the Old Man and the rest of their platoon would come to join them. He looked back at the bodies in the kill zone. He breathed heavily, the adrenaline rush subsiding now. "That was quick," he thought, "very quick." "Good job, Gunner," Sarge was saying, smiling. "Good job. We did a damn-damn on 'em." He looked at Sarge, thought, "This was plain murder, pure and simple." "Yeah," Little Voice said, "And they would have done the same to us." Aloud he said to Sarge, "Yeah, the Old Man's dick is gonna get hard when he sees this." He sat down, then, next to one of the men he had helped to kill. He fingered the feed tray cover on the M-60, popped it open and inserted a new teaser belt of ammo, then slammed the cover shut. He looked away into the jungle, tears welling up in his eyes, mingling with the salt-taste of his sweat. Drops fell from his face and landed on his machine gun. "Why," his mind screamed at him, "why does it have to be like this? These men had families! They had a home! They had people who loved them! Why?" "Easy, man," Little Voice whispered in the back of his head, "It don't mean nothin'. It don't mean a thing."
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