Memoirs From Nam

The Young Dead Soldiers: by Archibald MacLeish

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 06 Jan 2022 22:51:00 +0000

Remembering at The Wall

THE YOUNG DEAD SOLDIERS

by Archibald MacLeish

They say:

our deaths are not ours.

They are yours.

They will mean what you make them.

They say:

whether our lives and our deaths

were for peace and a new hope,

or nothing,

we cannot say.

It is you who must say this.

They say:

we leave you our deaths.

Give them their meaning.

We were young.

They say:

we have died.

REMEMBER US.

Archibald MacLeish

"There are those, I know, who will reply that the liberation of humanity, the freedom of man and mind, is nothing but a dream. They are right. It is. It is the American Dream."

--Archibald MacLeish

"There is only one thing more painful than learning from experience and that is not learning from experience."

--Archibald MacLeish

About the Author:

(1892-1982) Archibald MacLeish was an American poet, writer, and the Librarian of Congress. He is associated with the Modernist school of poetry. He received three Pulitzer Prizes for his work.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Add your opinion, thought, or comment, about this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Send it to me in an e-mail and I will be proud to post it for you.

Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog.

Operation Bolo: The "Special Mission"

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 06 Jan 2022 22:49:00 +0000

C-130A-II spy plane, similar to the Silver Dawn C-130B-IIs

Kevin Critzer: CJ, I just got this forwarded to me from a service friend. Pretty unusual and very classified operation with a very high rate of success.

[As published in "War is Boring"]

"Spies Helped the USAF Shoot Down a Third of North Vietnam’s MiG-21s. The American pilots had to keep the NSA in the dark."

On Jan. 2, 1967, around 30 U.S. Air Force F-4 Phantom fighter jets flying from Ubon in Thailand shot down a full third of North Vietnam’s MiG-21s—for a loss of just one of their own.
It was a strategic victory in an air war that had been going poorly for American forces.

And now newly-declassified documents reveal that this complex mission—Operation Bolo—couldn’t have succeeded without significant help from the signal-snooping Air Force Security Service.

And to avoid a squabbles over scarce intel resources, the Op Bolo units had to keep the National Security Agency in the dark.

The operation—originally known simply as the “special mission”—had a hard time getting approved in the first place. By the end of 1966, both sides in the bitter war had lost just a few aircraft in air-to-air combat over North Vietnam, rendering a dramatic aerial sweep unnecessary.

In almost two years of air strikes, the Pentagon had lost only 10 planes to enemy MiGs. American fliers had themselves scored fewer than 30 aerial kills.

On top of this, Washington was worried about drawing countries including the Soviet Union and China into the conflict—a distinct possibility considering that Soviet and Chinese advisers were working with Hanoi’s air force.

The rules of engagement forbade American pilots from attacking Hanoi’s airfields for fear of killing foreign advisers.

Knowing all of this, the Vietnamese People’s Air Force adopted new tactics for harassing its larger and vastly more powerful American enemy.

The MiGs would zip through flights of less nimble fighter-bombers just long enough to scare American crews into ditching their bombs or extra fuel tanks. Afterwards, the North Vietnamese pilots would often speed back to their bases—safe from their opponents—without even firing a shot.

The U.S. Air Force’s Seventh Air Force, which controlled most of the service’s operations in Southeast Asia, was soon fed up with this dynamic. So the unit’s commanders proposed an elaborate ambush aimed at whittling down Hanoi’s fighter jets.

Col. Robin Olds & his F-4C Phantom fighter jet.

Seventh Air Force chose the famous Robin Olds—then a colonel in charge of the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing in Thailand—to lead the American strike force.

To lure out the North Vietnamese, American F-4s would fly the same routes into the country as the heavyset F-105 bombers—and at the same altitudes and speeds while using the same radio call signs.

But another key—and previously unknown—element of the top secret plan involved deploying signal-snooping aircraft to keep track of the MiGs. The special C-130B-IIs would listen in on enemy radio chatter and feed information straight to American pilots throughout the mission, according to a just-released historical study.

Olds wanted to be alerted if things weren’t working out so he could “turn around and lead the force home rather than expose it for no purpose,” the official document explains.

With timely information, the task force could also try to cut off the MiGs from their bases if “the North Vietnamese suddenly figured out what was going on and wanted no part of it.”

But the secret spy planes in question were tangled up in a serious bureaucratic mess. While technically Air Force property, the special C-130s fell under the control of the National Security Agency, which could refuse to loan them out for the mission.

NSA officials had objected to sending the aerial spooks—which flew under the codename Silver Dawn—on regular military operations. With fewer than 20 modified Hercules flying worldwide, the NSA probably worried these sort of day-to-day requirements would impede its own intelligence-gathering.

To alleviate these concerns, Pacific Air Forces tacitly approved a novel idea. Up and down the chain of command, everyone would simply cut the NSA out of the loop.

In any event, the flying branch’s commanders in the Pacific felt that the existing Silver Dawn mandate justified sending the C-130s to help out with Operation Bolo, anyway.

Intelligence specialists were already using radio chatter that the Silver Dawn planes scooped up to figure out how many fighter jets Hanoi had on hand and where the aircraft were located, according to separate documents the NSA released recently.

The Air Force’s Pacific headquarters “seemed to feel that [Seventh Air Force] was responsible for fighting the war in whatever way was necessary.” But if the spy agency did find out, PACAF would “play down any prior knowledge of Silver Dawn involvement or deviation from normal operation,” the special history notes.

The 6922nd Security Wing, which provided the intelligence personnel to operate the C-130s’ special gear, also refused to be a part the final planning process—in order to shield itself from any repercussions.

Maj. John Chaueteur, who acted as a go-between for the Seventh Air Force and the Air Force Security Service, was most concerned about going behind the NSA’s back. Chaueteur was in the uncomfortable position of effectively being ordered not to do his job.

“Chaueteur gets ‘clobbered’ every time he uses NSA as a reason for not doing something that [Seventh Air Force] wants done,” the Air Force monograph quotes another official as saying.

Chaueteur was so worried about being reprimanded or relieved that he ordered the head of the Silver Dawn project to destroy evidence of any messages concerning Operation Bolo.

To help keep up this ruse-within-a-ruse, the bulk of the task force was told that normal EC-121 radar planes were supplying updates on the MiGs during the operation. This misinformation would also prevent the North Vietnamese pilots from thinking anything was amiss.

When Operation Bolo finally kicked off, two Silver Dawn C-130s were already orbiting in the Gulf of Tonkin, scanning the airwaves. Vietnamese, Russian, Chinese and Korean linguists were all at their posts.

These specialized personnel not only made sure the Vietnamese were responding as expected, but also kept watch in case Chinese jets decided to join the battle. Olds wanted to know if Russian or North Korean advisers were actually in the cockpits when the fighting started.

The operation turned out to be a major success for the U.S. Hanoi’s pilots were caught completely off guard.

When Olds’ strike team started its attack, the C-130s picked up enemy pilots shocked to find that “the sky is full of F-4s,” according to the declassified report. “Where are the F-105s? You briefed us to expect F-105s!”

“I’d like to come down now,” another Vietnamese pilot reportedly declared.

Seven MiG-21s fell to Earth. The Pentagon had estimated Hanoi possessed between 20 and 25 of the jet interceptors before the secret op.

The NSA doesn’t appear to have been aware, at the time, that the Air Force had appropriated its aircraft. We couldn’t find out what happened to Chaueteur, but Olds earned a promotion to brigadier general the following year.

After a series of additional aerial ambushes, the Vietnamese People’s Air Force grounded its MiGs and completely revised its procedures. At the end of the year, Washington approved strikes on Hanoi’s air bases.

By 1973, American airmen had scored 137 confirmed air-to-air kills against their North Vietnamese adversaries.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Vietnam 40+ Years Later

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Mon, 27 Dec 2021 13:56:00 +0000

by Frank Fox

I find it difficult that some people find it easy to recommend that we forget about the Vietnam Conflict and embrace the new Vietnam.

I am not a rocket scientist, but the country is still in control of its population by the same people who forced the ‘Fall of Saigon’ and who waged war against our young men and women, until we were forced to withdraw from Vietnam all together.

It appears there was no way for us to win that conflict, playing by the rules. If it had been a declared war, by definition, we would not have been limited to the levels of our aggression which was afforded us by our military technology and the Geneva Convention.

It mostly was a case of, “We are taking fire! Do we have permission to fire back?”

“Wait one minute, and we will get back to you.”

That lag in time was costly to U.S. troops. We lost 58,000+ Americans. The Vietnamese lost 3,000,000.

We were very good at our jobs, but time and space took its toll. There were many front lines, and at times, it was easy to get surrounded.

After a while, we even had enemies back at home, as it became an unpopular war. Young men who avoided the draft, had their own demons as they got older, and were feeling empty about not serving.

There is a gentlemen that is putting out a book on the new Vietnam, titled Vietnam 40 Years Later. I have included a link to his plead for money to help him make a profit off of the country where so many young Americans have lost their dreams and futures.

Vietnam 40 Years Later

I think there is something very wrong with this. He was old enough to have gone, but he avoided having to go. Now it’s okay and safe for him to go and we should embrace Vietnam’s future?

It is not that easy to let these things go and embrace the future, after having your future so painfully changed.

Veterans from WW2, and Korea still have their scars and bitterness, when it gets quiet enough, cold enough, or dark enough. There are men today that can’t even do sport shooting, because of the smell of fresh fired ammunition.

To embrace their future is almost another slap in the face. So why didn’t we just step aside and let nature take its course? Fewer men, women, and children would have died, and we could be just tickled pink for them.

We owe respect to those who died for their country, not for the cause, but for the history of defending the Democracy of the free people of the United States. Our troops in all wars have defended an ideal. It shows the world what we are capable of doing to protect this nation.

Polemology pertains to the study of war (we have studied that well). Something new on campuses is Irenology, Peace and Conflict studies. We need to work harder at preventing going to war.

Truman and LBJ committed us to aggression, without the consent of Congress. Then when Nixon stepped up the bombing over North Vietnam, again without permission from Congress, it got us the War Powers Act in 1973. It stated the rules of going to war so as to have the approval of more than one man. It was George W. Bush who made it possible to put us in the Middle East, without notifying Congress.

It is human nature to war from one society to another. In cost of human life, WW2 cost between 85 to 90,000,000 people. The Mongol invasions in Europe, hundreds of years before, without accurate records, took many more lives. They conquered most all of Europe, Asia, and Russia. The only people they let live were slaves, for whatever reason.

The world is shrinking, my friends, with more issues. We have to think smarter -- the oceans are only so wide. If we were sitting in the middle of Europe, things would be a little different.

Frank Fox

Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)

More Articles by Frank Fox:

Old School Patriotism is Still Alive
Veterans Sharing Recipes
The White House Christmas Card
War: Some Are Better Prepared
Our Generation
The Marine and the Cure
More Thoughts on War and Youth
Opinions, Thoughts and Feelings
A Different PerspectiveA Worthy Rebuttal to Mr. Garrison

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Send it to me in an e-mail and I will be proud to post it for you.

Fire Base Kathryn: RVN April 1970

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Mon, 27 Dec 2021 13:53:00 +0000

Fire Base Kathryn, Vietnam War

by Byron Edgington

I’ll never forget my first girl. I’ll never forget Kathryn, either. Kathryn—the name of a fire base in northern I-Corps in the Republic of Vietnam.

The stated mission that day was to put troops on her mountaintop crag. The real mission was to educate me, a brand new Warrant Officer pilot, on the professionalism and capability of my ‘enemy,’ the North Vietnamese.

April 10th 1970. Chief Warrant Officer Ray Woods was company flight lead that day. I was a new guy, “Still pissing stateside water,” as John Lipski, my left seater, said.

Our string of Hueys laced across the sky in a circle, like charms on a bracelet. We were waiting for the artillery prep to end, so we could land on LZ Kathryn, dump our grunts, and go home.

In the twenty-four ship formation, I tried to ignore my place in the lineup. I was right-seater in bird number thirteen. Lipski and I followed the twelve Hueys in front of us like so many sheep in a line. Careful to avoid the artillery trajectory, the GT line, Woody kept his flight a mile north of Kathryn.

Round after heavy artillery round pummeled the fire base. Its cratered surface, mangled tree stumps, and arid ground resembled a brown blister festering atop the mountain. Artillery had pounded the fire base all night, before the mission.

It was nine a.m., and still we circled, twenty-four Hueys cutting holes in the sky, turning jet fuel into noise over northern I-Corps.

We were waiting for Willie Pete, two final rounds of White Phosphorus. When the twin marking rounds of WP popped above the fire base, their presence marked the end of the artillery prep. Only then could we land.

Minutes dragged on. We circled. Radio silence. Watching shell after shell explode atop that ridge, I couldn’t imagine anything alive up there. I almost felt sorry for the bad guys, the ones the intel people told us were there waiting for us to land. Surely, I thought, they’d all be killed, or run off. Nobody could survive that massive bombardment.

But, I was a rookie, about to learn an important lesson. I was about to see how resilient the enemy was ...

At nine-ten a.m., only a few minutes late, two ghostly clouds appeared a hundred feet above LZ Kathryn like twin thought balloons. Willie Pete; the arty prep was done. John slid his visor down and locked his shoulder harness. “Okay, guys,” he said. “Let’s go to work.”

In the rear of the cabin, the crew chief and door gunner sat up, alert. Crew chief on the left, door gunner right, they cinched their monkey straps tight and swiveled the business end of their .30 cals up.

“Ready in the rear, sir,” they said in unison.

As the gunners’ weapons came up and their charging rods clattered, the grunts stirred. Five GIs flicked cigarettes out. Their M-16s banged against the floor of the Huey as they adjusted their backpacks. Time for them to go to work, too.

Woody’s ship angled off, aiming toward Kathryn, and lined up for landing. Two Cobra gunships slid into position near the lead Huey, one left; one right. The Cobras would escort Woody, as he neared the LZ, then they’d break off. Together, the three aircraft flew toward Kathryn’s ragged shell-shot surface.

Woody called his approach. “Thirty seconds out,” he said.

I watched from my aircraft, a mile behind, twelve UH-1's ahead of me.

“Short final,” Woody said, the rattle and pop of Cobra suppressive fire and his crew’s sixties barking in his radio call.

Woody’s Huey touched down on Kathryn and men streamed onto the fire base. Then a radio call that chilled my arms. Woody screamed into the ether. “Taking fire,” he yelled. “On the fire base. My gunner’s hit. He may be dead.”

John looked across the cockpit, and shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”

After an all-night bombardment, a pummeling no one could possibly have survived, an enemy soldier had leapt into the open on Kathryn and shot Woody’s door gunner. And the man was indeed dead, killed instantly.

It’s gonna be a long year, I thought.

Our turn. John steered the Huey toward Kathryn’s landing spot. I watched the gauges, called out readings. “Torque’s good; rpm’s good.” I focused inside the cockpit, from fright, or denial, I’m not sure.

I’ll never forget my first girl. But I don’t remember landing on Kathryn. Before I knew it, the Huey was empty and John had lifted off.

We took no fire, no hits. Still, what I’d seen gave me a lot of respect for the enemy. That respect helped keep me alive in Vietnam, that and a simple rule: never underestimate the North Vietnamese.

Byron Edgington

The SkyWriter

Website
Blog
Byron's Book

Other Articles by Byron Edgington:

Bob Hope: Christmas 1970, Camp Eagle
History/Archival Sites for Vietnam Vets
Vietnam: Arriving at the Truth
Do Guns Equal Safety?
Laotian Rescue Mission
Ho Chi Minh
Terror and Hilarity
A Return to Vietnam
The War That Will Not Let Us Rest
War: A Waste of Youth
The Right Seat is the Wrong Seat
Jim, Frank, and The Snake
Smokey, The Alcoholic Pup

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The War Within

noreply@blogger.com (Robert Cosmar - Astrologer) — Mon, 27 Dec 2021 13:50:00 +0000

The War Within

by Robert Cosmar

War places us in contact with our darker nature and the alternate reality of our existence. It goes far beyond religion, morals, training, combat, and what is considered normal to most folks.

Each of us has the capacity for great awareness, great enlightenment, and great love and truth, but we also have the capacity for great destruction, anger, pain, fear, and even madness, if we become lost to our darker nature.

It isn't a matter of right, or wrong in war, only an acceptance of what is and following orders. In combat, almost anything goes and our moral teachings have to be set aside.

Guilt is the consequence, as well as an underlying fear that we may experience this part of ourselves again, even in less dangerous circumstances.

It's normal to suppress our dark nature and fear its presence, as long as we remember, at the other end of it, is great light, knowledge, and healing.

We are not our darkness. We are a consciousness that observes the darkness and, at times, for self-preservation, we are forced to identify with it, like in combat. When we are in darkness, there is a freedom that didn't exist in our normal daily lives.

This same freedom is experienced by those who seek enlightenment. It is a place where we become free of the teachings of mankind, and potentially aware that we and life are much more than we originally thought.

This freedom can give us the power to choose and create an authentic life built on love, healing, and serving others, or on a life that embraces judgment, guilt, and unbelievable emotional pain.

The warrior can face their pain and break free from the shackles of mankind, or they can give in to their unconscious guilt and shame and be tortured by it.

Acceptance is the key to healing and non-judgment. In reality, no one punishes us but ourselves. We all have the key to acceptance -- but will we open the door and walk inside to go beyond the fear and guilt within us?

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Smorgasbord Patrol

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:51:00 +0000

The Jungle of Vietnam

by Bobby Q

(Bobby Quintana-Sena)

“Older men declare war, but it is the youth that must fight and die." -- Herbert Hoover

The word "tired" didn't do justice to the amount of pain in our bodies, especially our legs, from the constant marching for two days.

We tried to sleep during the day, but the strain of trying to stay awake at night and the constant adrenaline rush awaiting an attack had us on pins and needles.

We had been deep in the jungles, canopied with trees, vines, and other vegetation, making walking an effort in itself. We ran across trails, but did not encounter any VC, however, it was very obvious they had been around. Luckily we weren't engaged and didn't suffer any casualties. That was the only bright spot in the march.

All we looked forward to was getting back to the base camp in one piece. We knew a shower and fresh food would work wonders in rejuvenating us and making us whole again -- until we had to go out again. It was a vicious circle one could not get used to.

Word came through the line that we were to start walking down the mountainside and find the extraction point a few hours from us.

As we started off, we were a little upbeat. Since we were going back to base camp, we could take a break for awhile. One of the guys, Specialist Four Martinez, was talking to a man behind him and he tripped on a vine. With the slight incline, he almost fell forward, (which would have been a lot less painful), but he tried to use his rifle as a crutch to hold him up.

Try as he might, he couldn't get his balance and ran smack into a tree with his head. The only reason he didn't get a cracked skull was because he chose to wear a helmet, instead of the boonie hat most of us wore. It was actually quite funny and we all started laughing, which brought the Lieutenant back as the column stopped. He also laughed, when we told him what happened.

The Lieutenant was just as tired as we were and he said since we had to wait until Martinez got his head cleared, we might as well take some time to eat and relax for the final leg down the hill.

As Doc was working on Martinez, he found him to be somewhat disorientated, but otherwise in good health. The laughter started again, when Doc showed us the helmet with the dent.

At this point, Martinez got mad and started cussing. One of the guys who was eating a pound cake, slung a piece of cake with a bendable spoon at Martinez, hitting him again in the head. Pieces of the dry pound cake were stuck in his hair and the whole gang went wild.

Before Martinez could get up and retaliate, one of the guys who knew I despised ham and lima beans, hit me square in the chest with a big glob of it. That was the start of one great food fight.

Beanie weenies, ham and eggs, (you name the food), was slung all over the whole patrol, as we lay on the ground. We had tears in our eyes from the event and all our cares and stress went out the window.

It was like a great wave of relief went through the whole group. We vented our feelings, flushed them out of our system, and enjoyed ourselves without a care in the world. We felt like we could march for another week.

We were all laying around, still laughing occasionally, as we made our preparations to get moving again. Suddenly, one of the guys jumped up in the air about two feet and commenced to slap himself, making pinching motions all over his body.

Pretty soon, another guy started and finally, we were all trying to disrobe. It seemed that in our glee of slinging food all over the place, we invited an army of red ants and other creepy-crawly critters to our festival.

There were some serious ant bites among us and we almost had to undress to get all off them off. It didn't take us long to gather our belongings and move to a different area so we could clean ourselves us as best we could. The lack of water didn't help the situation and we didn't want to use up all of our drinking water.

Specialist Martinez's amazing recovery occurred during our hysteria and we were surprised when we noticed he was the first one out of the area.

I couldn't wait to see how this was all fabricated, once we got back to base camp and the drinking started. I was sure there would be several variations of the tale, none of which anyone would ever believe.

Bobby Q

USAF

Vietnam

Bobby Q

Other Articles by Bobby Q:

Four Months and a Wake Up
That's the Air Force For You ...

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Recognition Delayed for Many Vietnam Vets

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:48:00 +0000

Unofficial Self-Designed Insignia

by Frank Fox

Most military veterans were aware of covert activities of special units of American military, but they never knew the details.

These special units were chosen because of special skills and abilities.

Many veterans of the aggression in South Vietnam (really Laos and Cambodia as well) were servicemen from various U.S. Forces. They unofficially belonged to a group designated MACV-SOG (Military Assistance Command Vietnam-Studies and Observation Group).

Because we had a Hanoi agreement, we were not supposed to venture into the countries on Vietnam's Western border. The area was sanctuary for PAVN (People’s Army of Vietnam) and NVA (North Vietnamese Army).

It was necessary to keep tabs on the movements of the enemy, and at times bring the wrath of hell deservedly upon them.

The many brave troops could not be recognized, until years after the war, and the truth be known about KIA’s, MIA’s, and WIA’s. Twenty three Veterans had to wait until 2001 to receive the DSC (Distinguished Service Cross, the nation’s second highest award).

Because the details were classified, many families only received generic reports on their KIA’s and MIA’s. Most soldiers were instructed and sworn to secrecy.

Many of these soldiers had special skill sets. Please use the link to see another facet of Vietnam that was ongoing for years, before the start of aggression, until the U.S. pulled out.

Sometimes we forget all those who covertly did tasks and assignments, and lost their lives, to keep American forces as safe as they could.

To the difference they and their comrades made ... hand salute ... two.

Military Assistance Command, Vietnam - Studies and Observations Group

Frank Fox

Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you are comfortable with sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Vietnam Vet Recipes: Eggplant Lasagna

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:43:00 +0000

Eggplant Lasagna

by Frank Fox

This is a great dish and made without pasta (those pesky carbs).

Eggplant is also known as Aubergine, Melongene, Garden Egg, or Guinea Squash.

Go to your market, or grocery, and select two medium-sized eggplants that are smooth to the touch and firm, under a little pressure.

Also while you're at the grocery make sure you pick up the following ingredients:

What You Will Need:

· Eggplant (2 medium)

· A blister pack of your favorite mushrooms

· Bell Pepper of choice (I like red)

· Jar of minced garlic (or you can cut up your own)

· A sweet yellow onion

· A jar of your choice of seasoned red pasta sauce (I use garlic/basil). You know, the stuff like Prego.

· Box of yellow corn meal

· Package of shredded Italian cheese, or whatever cheese suits you

· Oil for frying. I use peanut oil. It delivers taste and can take the heat (it's best for fish and oysters, too). Or you can use whatever oil you prefer.

Get home and start cutting things up ...

· Peel the eggplants and trim ends off of both eggplants. Using a large knife, cut each eggplant into ¼ inch thick slices lengthwise.

· Do a coarse dice on half of the onion, also about half of the red bell pepper (again, you can use whatever kind of pepper you prefer).

· Trim off the dry stem parts of five medium-sized mushrooms and then slice the mushroom heads crosswise into about ¼ inch pieces.

Mix together well, about 1-1/2 cups of milk and one large egg to dip the eggplant in.

Dry Ingredients for Coating the Eggplant Slices:

In a large zip lock bag, pour in about half of the box of corn meal.

Add about 1 teaspoon of black pepper and any other dry spices, such as salt, basil, oregano, etc., whatever you like is fine.

If you are a garlic person, add some garlic powder.

Optional: add about 1/2 cup of seasoned bread crumbs.

Zip bag up and shake well.

Step-by-Step Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Lightly spray a casserole dish (mine is 12 inches x 7 ½ inches) with a product like PAM on the bottom (not yours, the dish).

Dip each piece of eggplant into the milk and egg mixture.

Place each piece, one at a time, into the dry mixture in the zip lock bag and shake until the slice is completely covered.

Place the coated piece of eggplant on a plate, then finish coating the rest of the pieces the same way.

Using a large skillet, pour enough oil into the skillet to just about cover each piece.

When oil is hot enough, (Test it by putting a small piece in. It should sizzle nicely). Depending on how large each piece is, just fry all of the slices until they're rigid, with a nice browned appearance. (It goes pretty quick).

Take each piece out, holding it over the skillet to drain off the excess oil. Then place it on a double layer of paper towels.

In another skillet, put your chopped up vegetables, dry (no oil). After frying the eggplant slices, pour a little of the hot oil from that frying pan into the vegetables over the heat and stir until the vegetables soften. When they're done (not burnt), turn the heat off.

Take a jar of your choice of red pasta sauce and pour some in the bottom of the Pam-sprayed casserole dish and spread it around to coat the dish.

Now start layering. First, the fried eggplant slices go in the casserole. It won’t be a perfect fit, but it will be fine.

Sprinkle some of your shredded cheese on the eggplant layer.

Then spread some of your vegetables over the cheese layer.

Then start the layering again in the same order. Lay the rest of eggplant slices over the previous vegetable layer, then the cheese, followed by the vegetables. This should be enough. Of course, if you use a larger dish, it will require more of everything.

Pour the remainder of the red pasta sauce over the top, and spread it evenly. Then sprinkle more cheese over the top of the red pasta sauce.

The oven should already be preheated by now. Put the casserole into the oven and let it bake for about 30 minutes.

You can sprinkle more cheese over the top just before removing it from oven.

When it's done baking, take it out and let it rest for a couple of minutes, then serve.

Sometimes I will slice up a skinless, boneless chicken breast into ¼ inch pieces, soak in milk, and dip each piece in same corn meal in zip lock, then fry in the Peanut oil, pretty quick. Is optional, but one may want some meat with it.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Inner Battle of War

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:41:00 +0000

by CJ Heck

The following question has brought a mountain of varied responses since its April 3, 2016 posting on Memoirs From Nam: "Do You Still Think About Vietnam?

The article has now received several thousand responses from Vietnam Veteran groups in LinkedIn, Facebook, and Google+. Those comments have run the gamut, from outright indignation, to soulful thoughts of helping others.

The original article was written by a Vietnam veteran, who chose to remain anonymous. He felt it was important for people to understand why he cannot, NOT think about Vietnam. He will always think about Vietnam -- and the war.

For a soldier, war wounds. It wounds the body. It wounds the mind. It also wounds the soul, but the soul does not condemn, or judge us. It is only our own ego which judges and condemns. Our soul becomes wounded anytime we are called on to do things that go against our natural conscience, which is our soul's sense of right and wrong.

We also have our unnatural conscience. This comes from mom and dad, schools, society, and in the case of the soldier, the government and military. When we go against our unnatural conscience, we learn there are consequences. It starts in childhood and follows us through life: if we lie, mom and dad will ground us; if we cheat on a test, we will fail the course; if we steal, we will go to jail. For the soldier, if you don't shoot the enemy first, you will be killed.

These learned consequences are paid through those who taught them to us: mom and dad, school, society, and the government and military. They do not damn the soul; however, they do wound the soul
through our natural conscience, our soul's sense of right and wrong. When this happens, the ego strives to make us pay, and it does this by using guilt.

The soldier is called on to do things that go against his natural conscience, which is the soul's sense of right and wrong. the ego takes control. It tries to make him pay by using guilt over a long period of time, sometimes for an entire lifetime.

When our body has a wound, it heals itself. The soul is much the same. When we do things to help others heal their soul, we also slowly heal ours, as well. We are taking the attention off of our individual judgment, or the judgment of our ego, and we begin to open our hearts by service to another.

We are meant to serve one another. We are all one soul, all Brothers and Sisters, worldwide.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Suicides Among Veterans on the Rise

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:33:00 +0000

Depression and Suicide ...

by Byron Edgington

To my fellow veterans, their spouses, friends, family and those who care for us.

Here are a few words about the appalling number of suicides in our ranks. If the latest report is to be trusted, there are 22 suicides every day among military veterans.

Though the Department of Defense statistics make it appear that suicide rates are declining to match the general population, a bit of interpretation of those numbers reveals a stark reality.

Older vets, and especially National Guard and Reserve troops seem to be particularly vulnerable to suicidal ideations, and they (we) often succeed.

There are many reasons, and I claim no expertise, but among them are alcohol and drug-related addictions, family conflict upon return from a theater of war, PTSD, loss of career and/or military-oriented purpose, (see underline below) and a host of other issues.

Michael Schindler is a Navy veteran, and president of Edmonds-based Operation Military Family. Writing on Edmonds Military Wire, Schindler, an author and frequent lecturer, had this to say about military suicides:

“Suicides among veterans over the past five years climbed from 18 a day to 22 a day. Bottom line: Those who serve and have served continue to fight the emotional battles, only to lose the war.

One of the keys to overcoming the issue of suicide is helping transitioning service members find a new sense of mission. In doing so, a new purpose is born. From this, one can design an action plan and build a support network.” (http://myedmondsnews.com)

If you're a veteran struggling with emotional issues, or know of a vet who needs help, please get involved and extend whatever assistance you can, even if it means just listening to their concerns, and taking them seriously.

There is help out there. No veteran needs to suffer in silence.

Here are some resources:

http://www.armyg1.army.mil/HR/SUICIDE/DEFAULT.ASP

http://www.suicide.org/suicide-prevention-in-the-military.html http://www.militaryonesource.mil/http://www.ptsd.va.gov/public/PTSD-overview/reintegration/index.asp

(For good fiction and non-fiction accounts of the emotional perils associated with returning from war, read "Johnny Don't March" by Timothy Hurley, or "They Were Soldiers", by Ann Jones.)

Byron Edgington

The SkyWriter

Website
Blog
Byron's Book

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

"Home. It's not far away.": by John Puzzo

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:30:00 +0000

Home. It's not far away
by John Puzzo

The shadows are lengthening for me.
I listen with thirsty ear

for days gone past,

where faint bugles sound Reveille

over the cold, damp marsh
And call the Last Post

over the mournful sounds

of battlefields grown distant.
I'm just going home.

It's not far, just close by...
my friends are there,

mother and father, too.
Jesus is the door.
Don't be sad...that's not me,

lying there. I am already gone.
At the shore of the river

the boatman waits for his coin.
I shall not disappoint him.
Across the other side

Sentinels watch for to welcome me,
and as they all were called, beckon
“Brother, home my brother.

The load you bore is left

for others to carry, yet over there…
So hang your cap upon this tree
and wait not long, You Sentinel.
In time you, too will see
another coming to these gates…
That others will be free.”

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Bean Dip Incident: by Lance Pinamonte

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 23 Dec 2021 04:25:00 +0000

This is not your typical war story, as it starts on a bright sunny morning in a land far, far away, where the wind was blowing the billowing smoke from the burning shit cans into the clapboard hooch's, causing many a night flight crew to awaken earlier than planned.

The smell of JP-4 and feces would somehow penetrate all of your senses and leave one with a positive outlook for the daily events planned by much better men than yourself. This was just one of those days, where you knew your day would be special ...

At least we got to sleep a couple of hours and the chow line was short, the pickings slim. A glass of OJ and a couple of slices of stale toast, it did not matter, it all tasted like those burning shit cans. I made my way out to the flight line and decided to do my intermediate inspection, since it was only an hour away from being due.

So, stealing a maintenance stand from a PE crew, I slowly pushed the awkward stand down the pot-marked flightline only to lose control of it at the drainage ditch. Trying my best to keep it upright, I decided to hold on for dear life to the side of it, which caused me, and the stand, to end up in the mud at the bottom of the ditch.

Now, understand, this mud was special. It had hydraulic fluid, JP-4, urine, and engine oil, along with the run off from the wash rack close by, all mixed together in it. I was lucky. I landed on my head, so I would not break anything... it was at this point that the PE crew noticed I had stolen their stand, so out they came, all four of them, to retrieve it.

After they thanked me for finding their stolen stand, they pulled it from the ditch, had a good laugh at my demise, and wheeled it back to the PE hanger. I decided I had better clean up, so I went over to the wash rack, grabbed the hose from the overhead water tank, and turned it on over my head... the previous operator of the wash rack had filled the tank with detergent, instead of spraying it on with a pressure can. So, off I went to the hooches to shower and change clothes.

At this point, I thought things had to get better as I walked towards my hooch. But, no, it was about to get so much worse ... my pilots and gunner met me halfway back and informed me we had a mission -- no time to change, or shower -- so changing course, we all headed to my ship.

The first mission was a simple taxi job. Pick up passengers in Saigon and take them to Lai Khe. As we took off, I noticed I was itching a little. The detergent was working at removing my first layer of skin.

By the time we got to Saigon, I was a bright shade of red and even my gunner was feeling sorry for me. The pilots told me there was a garden hose to the side of a building near the landing pad, so while we were waiting for our passengers. I ran over to the hose and undressed to rinse off the detergent.

As I was standing there in my birthday suit, our passengers arrived. As if I wasn't already red enough, I was even a darker red when I saw our passengers were Donut Dollies.

An old saying from one of my high school friends came to mind, "If they haven't seen it already, they will never see it again." Now, I knew it wasn't the best saying in the world, but as I finished putting on my wet fatigues, I knew it couldn't get much worse, right?

I dropped my head and headed for the ship like a scolded dog, bright red, and still itching. I just couldn't make eye contact with these ladies. The ONLY round eyes within 100 miles and I had to make a fool of myself in front of them ...

I just about got to the ship and was headed for the main rotor tie down, and "WHAM", I ran into
the stinger of the aircraft with my forehead -- sometimes, its best to look up when walking around large objects. Luckily, it didn't knock me out, but I knew it was going to leave a mark -- it turned into a nice goose egg, right in the middle of my forehead.. So much for any vanity around the ladies ...

The Donut Dollies had already sat down and the pilot started the ship. My gunner had helped them with their seat belts, I donned my helmet, and dropped the face shield in shame. Of course, the helmet didn't feel real good on my goose egg, so I sat dejected in my gunwell, trying to sit still with my lower half itching like hell, and my head starting to throb.

We landed in Lai Khe shortly after and our pretty cargo departed, with a giggle and a wave. We had some time to wait for our next mission, so the pilots left for the local mess hall and I again tried to start my intermediate inspection. My Gunner was helping, which usually made it a little faster, although he had a strange sense of humor, being a grunt for six years.

Of course there was no maintenance stand, so I had to crawl up on the stinger and balance there to take my tail rotor oil sample. So, I was standing on a 1-inch rod, balancing a wrench in one hand,
and a oil sample bottle in the other -- what could go wrong?

Well the sample draw plug was stuck, so I pulled a little harder on the wrench, and "POW" it came loose all at once, with oil hitting the top of my head. As I panicked and tried to pull the wrench to shut it, I lost my balance and fell off the skid, landing on my butt. Hey, the good thing was, I filled the sample bottle! The bad thing was, I now had oil dripping off my nose... We finally finished the inspection and the pilots showed up to take off for our next mission... We got a can of C's for lunch...

Our next mission was unplanned, as we left for a simple resupply we got a call for a medivac, we flew to an area near Quan Loi and contacted the ground troops, we headed into popped smoke, then realized it was not the right popped smoke.. The enemy opened up, and our ship shuttered, we could not return fire because of close proximity of our troops, so I made myself a small itchy crotched, oily, bumpy headed person, so they couldn't see me...

The pilots were screaming as they pulled hard on the old bird to clear the trees, we gained altitude and it got real silent, then we all realized we were still alive.. The ship was doing well and another ship had arrived on scene to do the medivac, we were making a beeline to Quan Loi with my bird making a whistling noise, losing power, and the pilots calling altitude and RPM's.. They got the bird down safely, although it wouldn't fly again for many months.. It had thirty four counted holes in it, including a few in the main rotor blade, but none of us had a scratch........

We were emptying the ship of our gear, waiting for one of our ships to take us back home when a bunch of bad humored NVA decided to fire a few rockets at the flightline of Quan Loi.. Now some people run
for the nearest cover, but being veterans of many rocket attacks we knew the best action was to hit the deck in place, and become flat as hell... The odds of them hitting us was very slim, the odds of us having to lay down in leaking JP-4 from our ship was high...

So after the all clear was sounded my crotch had another reason to itch and now a steady burn was over coming the itch.. The good thing was that now I had company, my Gunner... One of our ships landed shortly after, and my Gunner and I were forced to sit on the floor of the ship, the CE of that bird did not want JP-4 on his seats...

Now I bet you are wondering where the Bean Dip is going to come in? Well, my day had to have a bright spot right? By the time we got back to base it was dark, all I wanted was a shower and a cot to sleep away this bad dream of a day.. I got back to my hooch and found a care package from home sitting on my bunk.. My parents would send me KIT wax, chips and,,,, you guessed it, BEAN DIP... so I decided instead of going to the Mess hall for something to eat I would have a feast on bean dip and chips, the shower could wait a little longer..

I opened the package and there it was four cans of bean dip, ripping open the chips, and grabbing a Pepsi from the mini-fridge, I started to open the bean dip can by pulling the tab and promptly slicing my thumb wide open.... It started to bleed and I grabbed my clean towel I was going to use for a shower, wrapping my thumb up, then peeking at the wound I decided I had better head for the medic's, as I had very little holding my thumb on...

The medic started on it as soon as I arrived, no one else was there at that hour, and as he stitched he asked if I wanted a Purple Heart.. I said "For what, a Bean Dip Mortar?" .. He looked at me strange and said "I thought you got this outside of Quan Loi?" , I simply replied "Its a long story and a bad day."..

Just think, I could be telling my Grandkids about my Purple Heart right now, instead I tell them about a Bean Dip can...

Lance Pinamonte

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

In Remembrance of Hamburger Hill: by Michael Lansford

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 10 May 2018 11:03:00 +0000

“CJ, please post this like you do on your Blog. I only hope I honored them well.

Sometimes as I write, I get to thinking I could use better wording, but I write what I feel and it wouldn't be the same any other way.

This is the most difficult time of my life every year and it seems to affect me more and more. If people only knew how hard it was up there and they knew the guys, maybe they would see our world differently and know real American Heroes did serve in our war.

We paid a costly price for that piece of ground and, right or wrong, we stood up for what we believed in --each other and our country.

Thanks again for doing this.
Michael Lansford”

For Michael Lansford, in honor of his service on Hill 937, “Hamburger Hill”, May 10 to May 20, 1969. ~CJ Heck

Michael (Surfer) Lansford

On this day, I pay my respects to comrades who fought, died, and survived Hill 937 --or as it was better known, "Hamburger Hill", 10 May 1969 -- 20 May 1969.

Reflections and Remembrances:

We Vietnam vets have come far, some much farther than others, yet we’ve traveled many of the same journeys and paths.

I wonder myself as I reflect and remember. What could we have been in our lives? What might we have become? How have we turned out? Did those of us who survived make a difference in our world?

What if the ones we lost had survived? How different might the world have been for so many more? There are so many questions and so few answers.

There were battles won, yet lost --in the end, no one wins battles, or wars. We just survived. The sign at the top of the hill asks, "Was it worth it?" I ponder that question to this day. We will never truly know the answer.

Those of us who were there have strong opinions about all of it, but through time, those opinions only fall on deaf ears. We are almost forgotten, except WE remember and we always will in our own ways.

A lot of lives paid for that hill. They gave their lives for it and for us, too, for reasons no one will truly understand --it’s hard to explain the change that comes over you in combat when fellow comrades are being killed.

Each of us had different feelings, yet there was always one common goal. Survive and save as many as you could. That's all we could do. We fought on, knowing the outcome looked bleak, with fear so strong we were numb to it, so we fought even harder --all to an end that had no end.

A noted author once wrote about our war, "Some lived, some died, some lived to tell the story." We lived it for ten brutal days and nights, never knowing which one of those we would end up being. In many ways, we will continue to live all of this, no matter what. It never leaves us, ever.

It was always said, "You can leave the Nam, but the Nam will never leave you." They were right. No one ever really comes home. There’s always something somewhere that takes us back, like it or not. It will only end when we pass through the wall and there are no Vietnam vets left, because we are all together again on the other side.

I wonder what an old vet thinks as he sits up on a knoll looking across at The Wall, alone and scared, his wise eyes staring into the past. Can we even imagine what he is thinking, feeling, and knowing? If we could look in his eyes, we would know. From that distance, he can't read the names, but he doesn't have to read them. He can still see their faces, because he will never forget them.

So I end this page of my journey with a promise I made. I will never forget my comrades from Hill 937. For forty-nine years, I have kept my word, and my journey continues. I hope in their eyes I have lived up to my promise.

To this day, I am humbled and honored to have been with them through the good and the bad. I will never forget. Promise made. Promise kept.

God bless and God speed,

Michael (Surfer) Lansford

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

A Soldier's Poems: by Mihanel Pabon

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Wed, 18 Feb 2015 10:21:00 +0000

Mihanel Pabon

Intrusive Thoughts

by Mihanel Pabon

It's a memory embedded

in your brain

that's not so much a memory

as it is a stain.

No matter how long ago it was

when most will say, let it pass

You are not trying to remember it

you're trying to dismember it.

Normalcy becomes an illusion

for when everything seems to be all right,

when it appears you're winning the fight,

BOOM, a trigger appears.

Unfortunately, you never know

when,

where,

or what

a trigger could be,

a smell,

a sound,

or something you see.

I could go on writing for untold pages

and write a manifesto for the ages,

but I just want you to understand

that I'm really trying

against this intrusion

to take a stand.

I'm going to go straight to the core.

You see, I want to enjoy

this precious moment of normalcy.

It was all caused

by war.

Why I Am

Mihanel Pabon

I Am, so you can be

What you choose to be

I am, so no one in your way can get

And in comfort, your roots you may set

I am forever in your service

Sometimes I do get nervous

But that's part of who I am

That's my humanity

Which does not include vanity

I will do everything I've learned

To stop inhumanity

It's not in vain

To be proud of who you are

And from where you came

To always be true to the cause

Never ever seeking, or wanting applause

It's who I am

So you can be

Above all things, happy and free

My family I love very much

But as a human being

In one way, or another, everyone's life we touch

Thank God

They understand who I am

So the old can be happy and free

And the same way the young grow older

Is why I fulfill my destiny

I am

Soldier

About the Author:

Mihanel Pabon was 11 Bravo (grunt) and in Vietnam from January 27 to December 20, 1970.

He lives in Brooklyn, New York, with Elaine, his wife of forty years. As he says, "Talk about deserving a medal -- I mean Congressional -- I was fortunate to find someone so strong."

Mihanel and Elaine have two daughters, Mandy and Tara, and a four month-old granddaughter, Lei-Lani Olivia.

A lot of Mihanel's writings were the direct result of requests, which he customized. If you need the right words for anyone, or any situation, feel free to leave him a comment with your email address, so he can contact you. He will be happy to try and help.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Round Trip: by Lance Pinamonte

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Tue, 17 Feb 2015 12:29:00 +0000

Some things stick with you longer than needed...

Recently, I found myself wondering why I am filled with a deep dread whenever I think of a "Round trip Ticket".

The reason finally dawned on me the other day when I was discussing prices for round trip packages with a friend.

In other posts, I have told the world what a normal day was for a flight crew in the RVN. We started our days before daylight with pre-flight, our mission, or missions, fairly set before takeoff. On many days, our mission would change as the day went on, by changing courses, or schedules, as needed to support, or lift, troops and supplies.

This is an example of one of those days ...

It was a simple day. We were taking off from our revetment with a "Clear Left, Clear Right" from the Gunner, and Crew Chief, hovering to the main strip, calling for clearance, and quickly going into transitional lift, then climbing to 1500'.

Our day was set: lift an LLRP team into an area near Nui Ba Ra, then fly some resupply to various units in the field. So we flew into Lai Khe to pickup the LRRP's and dropped them without problems. We then went back to Lai Khe, and loaded C's and water for the first resupply run.

After a couple of sorties, we got a call for an emergency Medivac. We were in the area, so we turned around, turned on the speed, contacted the unit, and realized it was the LRRP's we had dropped earlier.

We came in high and they popped smoke, then dropped down to the tree tops and came in hot to the small clearing. We picked up a few tracers as we cleared the trees, but nothing heavy.

Carrying an Injured LRRP

The LRRP's had two wounded. One was serious, with a sucking chest wound. Another had schrapnel in his leg.

I helped load them up and gave the pilots a green light to DiDiMoa!

We cleared the LZ and climbed quickly to 1500', heading at top speed to the Lai Khe Medivac pad.

My gunner and I swung around and checked our passengers. Both were fairly stable and it looked like they would make it home.

We landed shortly, and the medics came out to the pad to help evac our passengers. I was most worried about the guy with the chest wound as his pulse was not very stable.

I then told the pilots I wanted to check the ship out, before we started back to the resupply pad, so they hovered off the pad and set down on the ready pad nearby.

After going over the ship, I found no holes, and we took off to finish our missions for the day.

The rest of the day went smooth, except for a short message from our headquarters, saying we had night On Call, so we came in. I finished my daily inspection, and we settled into a night in our hammocks on the ship.

It was about midnight when the pilots woke us up. We had a Black Cross mission, Black Cross from Lai Khe to Bein Hoa. Black Cross meant transporting our dead, and it was done at night.

We landed on the Black Cross pad in Lai Khe and helped the guys load up the body bags. I could see the tags under the marker lights of the ship. One of them was the LRRP we had Medivac'd earlier that day...

As I sat down in the gun well, my Gunner said, "He has gotten a round trip ticket today, God Damn It!" It is the simple statements that stick with people sometimes ...

We can watch a politician spout paragraphs of hyperbole, and maybe one sentence will hit us as meaningful. Or as my old gunner would say, "They don't pay us enough to give a shit, but many a shit has been given!"

"Cool Kid"

Lance L. Pinamonte

U.S. Army - 1967 to 1970
67N30
Crew Chief/Door Gunner
Helicopter Mech.
Champagne Flight

Other Articles by Lance:

The CircleWhat's Wrong with Being Wrong?
Crew Chief's Memory of Thanksgiving '68
Enough
A Fearful America

A Nation Unwilling to Change

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Agent Orange: The Whole Story

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Mon, 16 Feb 2015 15:06:00 +0000

Barrels of Agent Orange

by Frank Fox

After I came home from Vietnam, I worked for many years in the Environmental Health and Safety field.

While I was there, the puzzle finally came together ...

Back in the 60’s, companies made some fairly potent chemicals.

That being said, what was lacking at these production sites was any documentation about it’s effects on humans -- by that, I mean there was no information available to give to workers who handled the chemicals, or for the public who sold them.

That was pretty much the state of Safety in those days -- make it and then sell it. Once sold, it was up to the purchaser to use it as he wished.

The company I worked for made the Herbicide 2,4,5-T, which was also known as Agent Orange. Monsanto and Dow originally made these herbicides (weed killers) for agricultural weed control and sold it around the world. It was a great herbicide -- and it was very effective.

During the Vietnam War, the DoD put the word out that it would be great if there was something available to defoliate the thick canopied jungles of Vietnam.

Dow and Monsanto were looking for sales, so they said, "We have something." There was a demand and they made it. There were no questions asked, as to how it would be used. They just filled the shipments for their newest customer -- Uncle Sam.

Agent Orange (Herbicide Orange) was only one of the herbicides and defoliants used by the U.S. military as part of its herbicidal warfare program, Operation Ranch Hand, during the Vietnam War from 1961 to 1967. For that, a mixture of equal parts of two herbicides, 2,4,5-T and 2,4-D was used.

The 2,4,5-T was shipped in bulk containers (55 gallon orange-striped drums, hence the name agent orange). The drums had no hazard handling labels, nor did the military train anyone on it’s safe handling, cautions, and proper use of PPE (personal protective equipment) while handling it. Back then, there were no cautionary measures taken, because it was not known that any were necessary.

As to the application of the chemicals, the military leadership was not yet aware of the environmental impact. To them, if a little worked good, then lets slap it on really thick to work even better. Uncle Sam wasn’t in the chemical business and they didn’t know.

It was probably one of those good ideas likely thought up by McNamara’s think tank. Down the line, there was an order from above to handle, load, and disperse it until it could be seen as working in the jungles.

Applying Agent Orange

The pictures you may have seen of the military loading planes, or helicopters, with 2,4,5-T always showed G.I's stripped to the waist with no safety equipment, (suits, masks, or rubber gloves), and many were smoking cigarettes.

They got it all over them and on their smokes and they just puffed away as usual.

There were no mandatory showers taken after handling the herbicide -- they may not have showered for days after.

The stuff is still toxic in the soil today.

Impatient military leadership probably thought the action would be instant, but when it didn’t defoliate overnight, they likely hit it again and all the while, with unsafe handling.

Because it was happening in a land far away from the U.S., there was no alarm, nor monitoring. They just kept painting the jungle with it -- as well as animals, U.S. troops, and civilians.

Now, of course, anything sold commercially has to have MSDS (material safety data sheets) that go along with every phase of handling it, for employees and for the public. There also must be documented training for employees in handling the material safely, as well as the use of PPE (personal protective equipment). This must go along with the shipped bulk materials and it must also have warning labels.

I would like to think that these days, any company would require and document the training and safe handling of such toxic material. At least I hope we handle toxic materials better today. Sadly, it came too late for many who were exposed to Agent Orange, or any other chemicals.

Just like anything else, AO affected everyone differently. Onset can be soon after exposure, or like what we're seeing now. After lying dormant for decades, it is suddenly triggered by health, or immune system weakening, or maybe time itself brings it on.

Personally, I think the U.S. military leadership was only interested in the application of AO, not any lingering health issues. The DoD should be the donkey on this -- they were in love with destroying the jungle canopy at any cost. It was effective, but the casualties are still mounting up all these years later.

Frank Fox

Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)

More Articles by Frank Fox:

My Brother "Bear"
Vets Sharing Recipes: Breakfast Pizza
Old School Patriotism is Still Alive
Vets Sharing Recipes: Southwest Chicken
The White House Christmas Card
War: Some Are Better Prepared
Our Generation
The Marine and the Cure
More Thoughts on War and Youth
Opinions, Thoughts and Feelings
A Different Perspective
A Worthy Rebuttal to Mr. Garrison

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

War Reinvents You: by Jeff Yarger

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Fri, 13 Feb 2015 15:00:00 +0000

Jeff Yarger

Michael Lansford's The Demons From War was very well written. There were lots of thoughts and memories evoked and revived in my mind.

When l first got in country, a few days after turning eighteen, l realized that those l'd been thrown in with were ... well, crazy ... sort of immoral, compared to how l'd been raised.

That scared me bad, because l'd come up a little different ... harder, more street wise, and maybe just a little tougher than most.

Then as days turned to weeks, l emulated and copied those around me, trying to learn everything they'd learned.

Soon l also realized that if l wanted to survive, l was going to have to become just like them. That realization scared me even more.

One had to forsake the teaching and values of their youth, become tougher, meaner, and more cunning than those trying to kill you. All for the sake of survival, you quit thinking as you once had.

Many things in your life lost their meaning. You became hard and, in ways, insolent and uncaring. You learned to become as devoid of normal feelings as possible, (or tried to, anyway). You wanted to care, but you couldn't allow yourself that luxury. You learned that man was no more than an intelligent species of animal and, like all animals, willing to do most anything to survive.

As weeks turned to months, those who'd been killed, wounded, or left, were replaced with new guys that were as dumb as you'd once been.

Soon, every firefight, ambush, and operation became blurred in your mind and all of it blended into one nebulous event. Most things became so obscured, to the point that you weren't even sure they'd happened, yet when you looked around for those once there, you knew that it was all too real.

Actually, if you were single, it was a very simple way of life. You carried most everything you owned and lived wherever you were. Your clothes, food, medicine ... everything needed to survive was provided. You had nothing to worry about, except staying alive. If you failed at that, all the other things didn't matter anyway. Then, what you had never allowed yourself to believe in, became real.

In twenty-four hours, or less, you were home, but home wasn't there for you. Home, was as maddening as the war once had been. Everything and everybody had changed so much. In time, you came to realize that everything was the same, but you had changed. You wanted even some small semblance of your old life back, but it always seemed just out of reach.

To worsen matters, you realized that in an insane way, you missed the war that you'd hated so much. At the same time, those around you tried to make you feel guilty for where you'd been and what you'd done, when they didn't even know what you'd done.

In actuality, you did feel guilty, but not for the same reasons. You felt as though you deserted the friends you'd left behind, and felt even worse when you realized that you had liked the adrenaline rush of combat and the camaraderie of war.

Then you go to your next duty station, hoping it will be better. Once again, you were back to weekly hair cuts, shined boots, starched uniforms and war games. It was different, but still not right. It was as if you would never fit in anywhere.

Many of those with you had no idea what you had been through and didn't care. You talk to others just returning and band with them. But they have no answers, because they all felt the same as you.

Finally, in desperation I came to a decision. I just couldn't handle the world around me and I knew what I had to do (at least in my case). After putting in the paperwork, (DD Form 1049), l waited. Weeks later, l was feeling somewhat normal ... back in Nam and starting all over again!

Sorry the above comment turned out to be so long. As is often the case when l write, the thoughts just keep coming ...

Jeff Yarger

United States Army, Retired

Disabled Vietnam Veteran

1969 to 1972

[Jeff has written an historical novel about a two-year period during the Vietnam War, which he hopes will be published this year.

Chronologically accurate, it covers the major operations of that period, as seen through one man's eyes. It is the story of his time in Vietnam, along with the experiences of others he knew, all woven into one character, who went to Vietnam a few days after turning eighteen and was used up and discharged before ever turning twenty-one.]

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Book: "Tiger Papa Three"

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Thu, 12 Feb 2015 12:58:00 +0000

The Illustrated Confessions

of a Simple Working-Class Lad
from New Castle, Delaware

by Edward Palm

Publisher: CreateSpace
Pages: 264
Formats: Paperback and Kindle

Paperback Edition
Kindle Edition

About the Book:

The Combined Action Program (CAP) in Vietnam was an enlightened gesture of dissent on the part of the Marine Corps.

The Corps recognized that our search-and-destroy strategy was immoral and self-defeating and that the war could only be won by winning those elusive hearts and minds out in the countryside.

Toward that end, the Corps stationed squads of enlisted Marines, augmented by Navy Corpsmen, in villages to train and patrol alongside village Popular Force units.

Through a combination of chance and circumstance, in 1967, I became a CAP Marine. This is my account of that experience, including how I readjusted to life back here in "the World" and the circumstances that prompted me to join the Marine Corps in the first place.

As a one-time aspiring photojournalist, I have also included a gallery of the photographs I took during my time in Vietnam. --Ed Palm

Paperback Edition

Kindle Edition

Review:

"This book is outstanding. Ed tells what it was like to live during that era, growing up under the shadow of WWII, the attraction to the Marine Corps for many young men, and the closeness that developed between Marines serving in a very perplexing war that was not popularly supported by those back home.

I have known Ed for some time. We went through Officer Candidate School, the Basic School, and Communications Officer School together. We lived close and our wives became good friends.

I of course have a signed copy of his book which he gave me several weeks ago during a visit. Ed writes extremely well – English is an art form for him. He is not afraid of controversy and his book represents the feelings of many who served through this era.

The men he talks about remain friends and maintain a lively discussion through emails. I am fortunate to be included. I strongly recommend this book to those who served, or are interested, in this era. For anyone interested in a good read, this is it!" --Ed Meyer, Major, USMC Retired

About the Author

Ed Palm

A native of New Castle, Delaware, Edward F. Palm served in Vietnam as an enlisted man with the Marine Corps’ Combined Action Program.

He earned his Ph.D. at the University of Pennsylvania with a dissertation on the moral vision of selected Vietnam novels and has since published and presented on various aspects of American culture as well as imaginative representations of the American experience in Vietnam.

Returning to the Marine Corps in later life, Palm became an officer and taught military affairs at the University of California, Berkeley, and English at the United States Naval Academy before retiring as a major in 1993.

He went on to serve as a tenured professor and division chair at Glenville State College (in West Virginia) and has held dean appointments at Maryville University of St. Louis and Olympic College, in Bremerton, Washington. He has also taught full-time online for Strayer University.

Now retired, Palm devotes his time to photography and writing, including a regular opinion column for his local newspaper, the Kitsap Sun. His full CV is available at www.EdwardFPalm.com.

Through no fault of his own, Palm now makes his home about as far from Delaware as one can get and still be in the contiguous United States—in Bremerton, Washington.

Another Blog Post About Ed and his Books

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Inner Demons From War

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Wed, 11 Feb 2015 13:23:00 +0000

Inner Demons from War

by Michael Lansford

Strangely enough, nowadays, as I lay in bed at night, I think of a few more insights about our war and our time there.

I have learned to write those thoughts down.

For those of us who came home, we were, and are, faced with inner demons from the evil we saw, were involved in, and had to do -- inner demons that endure, even now.

We still fight a war with our inner selves and it's something I can't explain.

In combat, we lived and fought with the Angel of Death on one side of us and our Guardian Angels on the other side -- I can't even imagine the battles they waged over us and our fates – who would live, who would not. The reasons were unknown to any of us, but their decisions always became known, and they were final.

We had to learn early on to save life and to take life, without hesitation, feelings, emotion, and completely devoid of self-worth -- ours, or anything else.

It’s hard to empty your soul of everything you were raised up to believe in before your lives changed from war. Our values about life and the outside world were taken from us, and like it or not, we either adapted, changed, or we were gone.

Amazing, how young kids/men had to transform into what we still feel and endure inside us, to this day -- things we can't explain in mere words. Only another Combat Vet truly understands our inner souls.

Even our minds were emptied. No thoughts, except for how to survive just one more day, every day. Our single-most important thought was to live one day longer.

Now, years later, we still suffer and fight our demons. Some handle it better than others. Some never can and never will. It's hard to turn off war and combat, and just be home again, like nothing ever happened, yet it had and in such horrible ways. War scarred all of us inside forever.

One minute we were there, the next, we were home, and just trying to figure out who we were and had become. We didn’t know how we would deal with it, much less tell anyone else -- but no one was listening anyway.

We came home to a society that called us bad things, spit on us, threatened us, even hated us. They had no clue about who we were, or what we held inside. They didn't ask, because they didn't want to know.

However society thinks -- whether we won, or lost -- isn’t something we can control, or explain. However, we were looked on as losers who fought an unpopular war with no clear objective and no desire to win. If that was true, then we paid dearly for a lost cause.

If society has any doubts about what we vets gave in Our War to their "lost cause", they should all go to D.C. and visit The Wall. It has been paid for in full -- and then some.

Through every battle, mission, assault, conflict, contact, or whatever we had been involved in, we never backed down, never ran away, failed, or quit. We won at everything we had to do, no matter what the cost – even when the cost seemed too high at times. It was a high price we paid towards an end that ultimately had no end -- and at least for us, it will never end.

What we as innocent naive kids became defies description. We can never go back and start over, or be the innocents we once were. There is no on-off switch. War changes a person and it’s embedded in our beings forever.

We live war’s horrors day and night. Some days are better than others, some are not. The nights are the hardest. Sometimes, it seems the demons are more real now, than when we faced them in combat and yet there’s no way to defeat them. We will just fight them until our time runs out and, for what it's worth, we will never lose to them – we’ll just run out of time to finish the mission.

We came home physically, yet we never really came "home" and we never will. Little things remind us of war. A song, a movie, a saying, the sounds of choppers flying over, or close by (we feel them even before they can be heard). And then there’s the 1,000-yard stare. That's something that stays with us always.

No one can truly understand our hearts and minds. Society couldn't handle it, but that's not their fault -- at times, neither do we.

Sometimes, I envy those that never went. They should count their blessings, because they have inside them what we as Combat Vets wish for -- Inner Peace. I can't help but wonder what it would be like to feel genuinely safe and unafraid of the dark. Most vets still fear crowds and being closed in -- there's a paranoia about most everything.

Our souls cry out for help and yet there is no sound, or anyone to hear, or know those fears. We have only each other and the ones we lost -- they will always know and watch over us.

When we left for war, none of us knew, or thought, would we be heroes and warriors, scared and remorseful, angry and revengeful, religious and sad, hateful and every other feeling a human can have, or imagine. Combat has a dramatic and immediate effect on you and your life, no matter what you may think you can, or cannot, do.

In an instant, the will to live makes your decisions for you -- there's no going back. You get cold and indifferent and all that matters is seeing the sun come up one more day and know you lived to see it.

So how will we be remembered from our war? Good, bad, evil, hurt, heartless, cowards, or even losers? Truth is, we have no say in what will be thought of us.

What we do have is our soul, heart, mind, and the knowledge that we did what we had to do -- like it or not -- just to come home again.

We will always seem different from others. How could we not? We walked a whole different path when we were young and it changed us, inside and out. Sadly, it turned out to be a one-way street …

Michael Lansford

Vietnam '68 - '69

Michael Lansford,

Other Articles by Michael Lansford:

Old Vets
Loved Ones We Left Behind
Combat Memories Last Forever
Life Changed Forever

Reflections

Promises Made, Promises Kept

Pilots and POW's

Remembering Comrades

The Last Firebase

Sayings and Poems

A Couple of Stories

The Last Road: A Vietnam Vet's Perspective

Holidays in The Nam

Dear Civilians

FNG Initiation and Humor

Life Prepared Me for Vietnam

Leavings at The Wall

Coming Home

Honoring The Wall

Life in the Jungle

In My Own Words: Part 1

In My Own Words: Part 2

Part 3: The KIA

Hill 937: Part 4

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Sentinel at the Gates: by John Puzzo

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Tue, 10 Feb 2015 12:39:00 +0000

The Sentinel at the Gates

The Sentinel At the Gates

as ever must they be,
not one American would be free.

I know they're all still out there,

together evermore,
From the Continental Army

or maybe long before

When the 1st American casualty fell,

on these now ancient shores.

They wear tri corner hats,

coonskin caps and kepis,
wide-brimmed Western cowboy hats,

helmets and berets.

But no matter what they wear,
They belong to us.
It is from us they came
Through distant mists of time and place.

They’ve come and gone to stand and wait

and come they will,

To the Sentinels at the gates.

Father, son, husband, brother,
Important things these are,
But to stand with men of honor,
Is a better thing by far.

For without such men of honor,
ready to give their most,
what father, son, or brother,
would be left with any hope,

That there would be tomorrow

for this Nation proud?
Lest men as these we find,

fit America for a shroud.

Yes there they all are waiting,

they’re all together now.
From every war and conflict,

shot and shell they found.

At peace, eternal wait they now,
On holy, hallowed ground.

How can we ever thank them,

these selfless angels past?

Thanks are but such trifling things

Instead we must dedicate
our every waking moment

…To the Sentinels at the gate,

For there they all stand waiting,
watching how well we do.

Will we let slip away,
That which they loved so well?

Their full measured honored duty,
Will we so cheaply sell?

Yes there they all stand waiting,
All together now,

They know some soldier stands at ready.
He will show them how.

Then they’ll welcome him

as they once all were called:

“Brother, home my brother,

See your name upon this wall?

You have done what was your duty.

The load you proudly carried

is left for them to bear,
those others over there.

“So take your place beside us,

hang your cap upon this tree.
And wait not long, you Sentinel.

In time you too will see
others coming to these gates,

That America will be…free.”

[Written for the Memorial Day Project,

National Cemetery at Arlington, in 2003]

John Puzzo

John J. Puzzo
K Company (Ranger)
75th Infantry (Airborne)
United States Army 1968 - 1971

Other Articles by John Puzzo:

Poem, "Waves"
Humor in Vietnam
The Lantern

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Sharing the Burden, Vet to Vet

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Mon, 09 Feb 2015 13:01:00 +0000

Travesty of the Vietnam War

by Doyle Watters

It makes me quite sad, when I talk to other Vietnam Veterans. What burdens their souls, the average person could never understand.

If someone were to ask me to describe the price of freedom, I would have to say, "Those white crosses on foreign soils and the sick and dying in Veteran Hospitals -- that's what the price is and it's what the price looks like."

Vietnam Veterans are now sixty plus years-old, with worries of health, and left with that age-old question, "Did I do all I could have done?"

"Hero" is not how they want to be labeled, and "Thank you for your service", comes too damn late, to have any healing power.

When they returned home, the haters and peace demonstrators met them at the airports. Called baby killers, while often being physically and/or verbally abused, many have never fully recovered.

Jane Fonda betrayed them and they will never forget, nor will they forgive her, regardless of her youth. The grudge they hold has kept them prisoners in its very tight grip.

Haters and Peace Demonstrators

Sure, they have been known to say, "58,222 names are written on a black granite wall in our nation's capital". Yet, those numbers are small, compared to the vast numbers of American youth that went away whole and returned so much less than whole.

More labels were placed on them, after they decided to trade their military uniforms and weapons for a chance to compete in a civilian society.

Senior citizens now, they are gray, balding, wrinkled, with numerous ailments, divorces, and the deaths of their moms and dads have left them struggling, knowing that death is just on the other side of the horizon for them, as well.

Taking all types of pills, to include group therapy sessions, Vietnam Veterans continue to ask, "For what do I have to live?"

Putting a Bandaid on the Problem ...

Needing to talk, their frustration kicks in, because there is always a lack of trust. I have heard so many times, "I can talk to you, but not to them, because they wouldn't understand." Their follow-up phrase is, "They haven't been where I've been."

Yes, there were those that fell into a bottle and never managed to climb out. There were those that pretended drugs were the answer to everything -- and they are no longer with us.

For those who got out and become successful in work, family, and community, you will never receive due credit, nor an apology from any president. What I can proudly say is, "I am one of you."

After having said that, the nightmares and dreams continue to haunt my soul. I know I will never be free from the screams of pain, the smell of flesh, and the words, "Please, help me", and knowing there was nothing that I could do, except watch helplessly ... and punish myself from that day forward.

CSM Doyle Watters

Vietnam Veteran
US Army Retired

Other Articles by Doyle Watters

A Flag's Declaration

Saving Tears

The Defender

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Book: "Content With My Wages"

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Fri, 06 Feb 2015 12:22:00 +0000

A Sergeant's Story

Book I-Vietnam

by Gregory H. Murry

Publisher: No End To Publishing Company
382 Pages
Format: Paperback and Kindle
Release Date: January 6, 2015

About the Book:

This is a history, memoir, and a critique of certain combat actions of the 1st Infantry Division during the years 1966 and 1967 in Vietnam.

Growing up in California with an intense interest in military history and surfing, the author joined the National Guard in 1963. In 1965, he joined the Regular Army and was assigned to the 4th Armored Division in West Germany. In 1966, he requested a transfer from the 2nd Battalion, 54th Infantry to the 1st Battalion, 16th Infantry, 1st Infantry Division in Vietnam.

Arriving shortly after the disastrous battle of August 25th, 1966, at Bong Trang, he joined a rifle company that was being rebuilt by a Special Forces captain who had replaced the former company commander, KIA in that battle.

He describes the battle in detail by blending official history with the recollections of two of his comrades who were there. He then returns to the battle and dissects it, using personal accounts and official interviews of many of the participants, to include MG William DePuy.

Assigned as a machine gunner, the author began to learn the ways of a combat infantryman in a jungle war. Three months later he was given more responsibilities and began serving in leadership positions as an acting sergeant, until he was promoted to sergeant.

He recounts a number of road clearing operations, ambush patrols, and search and destroy missions, which took place shortly before his battalion’s participation in the largest operations of the Vietnam War: Operations Attleboro, Cedar Falls, and Junction City.

During Junction City, he participated in the battles of Prek Klok I and Ap Gu, one of the most lopsided victories of the war. Between operations, are descriptions of medical evacuations, hospitals, base camp amusements, rest and recuperation (R+R), and more.

In June of 1967, the 1st Battalion, 16th Infantry and the 2d Battalion, 28th Infantry fought the 271st VC Regiment in the battles of Xom Bo I-II during Operation Billings. During Xom Bo II, on June 17th, the author’s platoon was at the center of the main enemy assault.

Out of forty-three men, he was one of eight who walked away. Once again, blending his own narrative with those of his company commander, an RTO, and one of his machine gunners, he presents a grim picture of close quarters infantry combat against a determined enemy.

He describes the battle of Onh Thanh in October, 1967, which took place shortly after he left. There, the 2nd Battalion, 28th Infantry was almost completely destroyed by the 271st. Using published accounts, documentaries, and official histories, he shows how soldiers react to leadership that attempts to paint a rosy picture of a disaster.

Returning to the chaos of American society in 1968, where he was assigned for a short time to the 1st Battalion, 3d Infantry (The Old Guard) in Washington, D.C., he finished his enlistment at in California at Fort MacArthur, near Los Angeles.

Finally, he relates his own struggles with the memories of the war after he returned home and tells how he found peace by overcoming PTSD.

A professional soldier, the author used official after-action reports, histories, studies, and recently released information, to paint a more accurate picture of the successes and failures of the leadership, tactics, techniques, and procedures of the U.S. Army and Generals William Westmoreland, William DePuy, and John Hay.

He also describes the lessons learned at the squad, platoon, and company levels. These are timeless and should be of great interest to anyone considering serving, or a making career, in the armed forces. At the same time, he warns us of the pitfalls that will be encountered when studying military history.

Buy Paperback at Amazon

Buy Kindle at Amazon

Review:

"A revealing account of the Vietnam war as seen through the eyes of a young infantryman.

This is the real-life version of “Platoon” with all of the naïve expectations, confusion, fear, camaraderie, and the courage many young American solders experienced in the fog of war.

The Author writes, not just to tell his story, but to pass on “lessons learned”, in hopes that future generations of soldiers will benefit from his experience.

I enjoyed it immensely and look forward to the next two books on the Drug War and Afghanistan." -- Tabbed783 (January 9, 2015)

About the Author:

Greg and Wife, Faith

Greg Murry retired from the Texas Army National Guard in 2005, after returning from Afghanistan, where he served as an Intelligence Advisor to the Afghanistan National Army.

After his discharge from the Regular Army in 1969, he returned to the surfing beaches of Southern California, before drifting down to Mexico, Central and South America for several years.

Back in the states, he moved to Texas, where he worked on a drilling rig and on a road construction crew. In 1985 he became a police officer in Austin, and four years later, he re-enlisted in the National Guard. There, he co-founded an ad hoc special operations unit that supported law enforcement agencies, by conducting low-visibility surveillance operations in the War on Drugs.

He also served as the operations sergeant in a Long Range Surveillance unit, as an intelligence analyst with G2, and as a BNCOC and ANCOC instructor/small group leader. He has written memoirs of his service in Vietnam, the Drug War, and Afghanistan.

Greg Murry is married with children and grandchildren. He lives in Austin, TX, where he continues to read and write about military history and the situation in Afghanistan.

Buy Paperback at Amazon

Buy Kindle at Amazon

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Black Velvet: by Jeanette Zobjeck

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Wed, 04 Feb 2015 10:58:00 +0000

Black Velvet - The Wall

BLACK VELVET

(Written in 1987)

IWVPA Double Tap Award for War Poetry: August 22, 2004 Awarded: August 22, 2004

What did I know? 21 years old, mostly a dreamer, filled with visions of moving and doing things to make a better, kinder world.

A believer, I was taught by loved and respected family members that the greatest good I could do in this world would be to fight with my every resource to make this a world where people are respected and treated with dignity.

Vietnam was a controversial topic, depending on where you were and who you listened to. It was anything from an outrage – to the devils work – to a great altruistic undertaking, and there were even people who paid no attention to it at all. I fell somewhere in the middle.

I think John F. Kennedy’s line about what we could do for our country, what I might be able to contribute, had been guiding me for years and I just never realized that fact.

I knew there was a war; I knew people were dying; I was no stranger to death. When you have a big family, you attend lots of funerals as older relatives die off. The difference is that they were just that, old people who had been suffering for years with most of the afflictions of old age. It was a release for them from the pain of living, a kindness, because at last they had rest; at last they had no pain.

I’ve already said I studied a lot of history. I knew about wars, from inside books, all the way back to the crusades. Nothing in books can prepare someone when it comes down to being in a war.

Being in Vietnam was worse. There was not even the preparation of association with previous wars. This was a war with no lines and you could not identify the enemy by looking at him. There were no “safe areas” and only some grease pencil marks on a plastic map showed where "the war” was going on.

The fact that those marks changed often, sometimes in the course of a day, was not a piece of information widely shared. I was unprepared for the intensity, not only of the conflict, but of my reactions to it.

You have already read my baptism of fire. Draw in your mind, if you can, the picture of this young kid fired up, not just with the wish to prove that he was as good as grandfather and father, not just with a love of country that told him that his country could do no wrong, but with the fires built and banked by army training, just waiting for a chance to flare up. All that was needed was the fuel.

It wasn’t just the nightly harassment by Charlie that became a game, after a while. He’d drop a few mortar – enough to get us out of bed – and then stop and move on somewhere else, or just sit back and wait till the next night.

It even got to where we would set up a pool, with each of us drawing a time of day when the first round would land, because they rarely did any real damage. He just wanted to yank our chains and, like a nest of ants suddenly kicked open, watch us scurry around in useless circles.

For me, it was the times he’d only drop one or two. I’d sit there sweating and waiting for the next one to come, praying, “Please God let me live through this just one more time”, knowing that the spot I sat in was probably as well sighted-in, as if I had been sitting on Charlie’s sighting range.

Knowing he could drop a round on the thin sheet metal of the guard post, or into one of the sandbagged pits as easily as if he were standing there tossing it in as part of a game of horseshoes. Day in, day out, although usually daytime was better, but then we made better targets as individuals during the day, so it’s hard to say.

In 1967, even the end of ‘67, things were, according to the media, all going our way. So much so, the US Army had decided that in a gesture of good will based on the power of being ahead in the game, they would allow the celebration of the TET holiday for 1968, complete with fireworks.

This was like giving Charlie a safe conduct pass to the places he most wanted to be, no questions asked. We used to joke about it, but at the 1st signal compound on plantation road in Saigon, we kept a field telephone on a post outside the compound hooked into the Army/ARVN switchboard. We knew Charlie used that phone, and we listened in. Of course Charlie never said anything that was important, but it was there all the same.

Each day brought new tensions. After TET, it seemed like all hell fell through the bottom of the basket and ended up lying in our front yard, like something the neighbor’s dog left waiting for you to step into.

I had friends who were wounded, or killed, just like a thousand others, or more. I spent 8 hours on the order line with our compound at Hue, while half the operation’s building was gone from mortar and rocket fire. The only line they had to the rest of the world was the direct tie line between us that no one else could get onto.

The radio hop was Hue to Da Nang to Chu Lai, but the control circuits never broke out in Da Nang and they didn’t have the equipment to spare for repairs; I was already there, so I fed the information via teletype back to Washington through DCA Arlington. From there, it was sent back to Saigon and to wherever it was needed.

Because our compound was inside the walls of the city, it wasn’t as well revetted as those at Chu Lai who were more or less in the open and easy targets.

I think each day I aged a month; each time I went to Quang Nghi and didn’t lose a guard, or didn’t get hit, was more a miracle than normal. It almost seemed that at times Charlie left me alone on purpose, just to make me crazy; when would the second shoe fall? After a while. I began to think it was personal, but that’s the way the screwy situation was.

On the days when nothing happened, I still couldn’t breathe easy, because it wasn’t until the day was passed that the unbroken day counted. In the end, when I had a chance to leave, I took it without a second thought (at the time) and now I will never know if I did the right thing or not.

What if I had stayed that extra few days? Who else would I have known that died? Would I maybe have found my plot of ground somewhere on that road, or maybe in a downed 117 in the jungle between Chu Lai and Da Nang? I will never know.

But inside my head today, still the jungles of Vietnam and the fear chitter at me daily, telling me what I don’t know and just making noises in the night; noises that still frighten a little girl who never had a chance to grow up like other little girls because she got caught in a grinding mill with a war on one side and a deep dark hole on the other.

In the confusion of youth, I was torn on one hand by a part of me I really didn’t understand, and on the other, by a belief and a desire to serve my country, strong enough to take me into a war we could not win. The evidence was there, if I had known where to look and what questions to ask.

But I couldn’t and wouldn’t, because I was naive and idealistic and when you come right down to it, not very bright. Oh I’m smart enough, but I have a blind side (like a lot of other people – I have no corner on that market) when it came to my country. I hadn’t reached the point where I could admit that we could, as a country, make mistakes, make bad judgments, and kill thousands of our own troops, because of stupidity in the management department.

I’m older now. I know that we can and do make mistakes. We’ve still got the best game in town, but it’s not perfect, yet, and I pay a price each day. I share a load with thousands of others, knowing that there is no cure for the pain in my heart, an echo of those days of fear and stress and horror.

I am not special, but if my words are, then perhaps it is because it is somewhere written in some book that it is left for me to be a voice for those who cannot speak up; who cannot talk of their pain and how they feel and how they felt, and if I can say anything, if what I say can be placed against that wall of silence which holds so many others and keeps their souls from crying out and being heard and perhaps act as a listening post for them, perhaps it will do me some good, as well.

For 20 years now, more than that, but round numbers work, I have been alone. Oh, I have friends -- one yesterday told me that what I was feeling was all in the past and I should stop dwelling on the past and move ahead. After all, Vietnam was 30 years ago for me and I’m not there anymore.

Of affection, love, and support, I can’t speak from firsthand knowledge, because I don’t have any – only the remembered echoes of a damaged 10 years after I returned; damaged by what I carried inside me and a fear that I would do untold harm to the very people I loved the most.

I think I may have used the wrong word: intense is a weak, watered down, politically-correct word for what Vietnam was to me. Hell would be the proper word.

Even that sounds insufficient, inadequate, as if there were a word which would, by its utterance, bring forth for any mind a picture of fear, a picture of destruction, a picture of death up on its hind legs and pawing at us, dragging us into the sticking, cloying, red mud of Vietnam – trying to bury us in blood and mud.

There is no one word strong enough, not in the American language, nor in any other that I have heard of, because words are woefully weak in describing the stronger emotions, good or bad. It is equally hard to describe love, but people are content in that, because this is an enjoyable emotion, one that every last one of us seeks in one way, or another.

No one, if they are sane, actively seeks out the experience I and others had, in Vietnam. It remains difficult for me now, to use a singular in talking about the after-effects of Vietnam. I may be one person, my experiences were my own. The legacy of Vietnam is a shared commodity, shared by all the men and women who served there. I am not just one, I am part of the many and using a singular makes it sound as if I was the only one who suffered and the only one damaged.

I know that is not true. I cannot, in honest discussion, exclude those others, because they aren’t there to speak for themselves – but they need to be heard. Heard here, heard everywhere; yelled from steeples and towers and carved in six -foot letters on the sides of tall buildings for the entire world to see and to know and for those who don’t care to read and maybe feel a stirring of guilt in their souls for their indifference.

I went to war for you; I went through things which would make you sick and which you might discuss (but never over dinner or cocktails). I put my life on the line so that some stupid b3&#@*% somewhere could have a nice comfortable life, free from the raw details of death and mayhem.

I and a hundred, 500 thousand, 2 and a half million others, fought, sweated, cried; some died, not to protect a high ideal – the ones we took with us. We fought and cried and died so politicians could beat their drums, ring their welkins and point with pride at the generous and wonderful things the government of the united states (note the lack of caps) was doing for its beleaguered brothers in Vietnam.

Black Velvet - The Wall

The list of names on “The Wall” is longer than the population of many American towns. The number of those who served there could easily overfill many cities.

I grew up in a city whose population was 500 thousand. There were fewer people who died on the highways of the United States in all of 1968, than arrived in country in the month of January of the same year.

Even after “The Wall” was a reality, it was years before any monument was even thought of to honor the women who died in that war, and years more, before one was finally placed. Fittingly enough, since most of them were nurses, they were placed near the wall of names of the ones they were there to care for, the ones they had to hold, and smile at, as they watched them die.

I carry on as best I can today. Sometimes I feel I take more backward steps than forward, but I have never given up, although there have been times I wanted to. I get older and it gets more difficult to face each new day with a cheerful face, and many days see my tears.

Who am I that I should still be here? A question I have asked and heard asked for 30+ years. And I still am no closer to an answer. I only now begin to admit there is no answer.

In the eyes of one person, this one person, Vietnam was a terrifying experience. In the soul of this one person, Vietnam was a tearing, destroying beast which devoured much of the person I once was and most of the ideals I started out with.

Do I feel robbed? Yes. We all, somewhere in our lives, find that some of the things we believe in are unreal, unattainable, and unrealistic, and we discard them as useless baggage and find new goals to strive for. That is living, that is as it should be, to have them ripped away, stripped off, and then the remnant left exposed to senseless death of innocents as a mere tool to trap the unwary.

The constant knowledge that violent death laid a stone’s throw away and that at any given moment you could be greeted by a smiling person who, at that moment, the next, or perhaps that night, might be actively working to end your life.

I left home with a nicely inscribed book of rules for living. While I was there, I learned a new set of rules, hoping that when I returned home, I would be able to unlearn those and be able to fit back in where I came from.

While I was gone, somebody re-wrote the rule book. I could not use the old rules; they were lost to me forever. I could not use the rules I had lived by for most of a year -- they didn’t fit in a peaceful society; I didn’t know the new rules. I didn’t have a chance to learn them, so I wrote my own, again. I never have fit back into place.

I can’t walk away again. There were good things, even in war; you make friends who don’t die. Even in war, you have days when good things happen. If I strip away all of Vietnam, (if I could), I would lose those memories as well, and the memories which are all that remain of some who did not come back and I am the only one who remembers their last minutes – a legacy I cannot just throw away, because as long as one person remembers, they aren’t gone for nothing, they weren’t wasted. I know their courage and I know that they died with honor and I was the last person they saw before they died. I had to tell them they were going to make it and … I CARRIED THEM BACK WITH ME!

Live in the present, they say. My life, my world, is very much the present. Put Vietnam behind me and get on with my life! I cannot. It is not a thing you can put behind you.

Vietnam is, and remains, a living place which travels the roads with me, inside me. For good, or bad, it is there and while I would control my memories so that they do not run my life, I will not shed them, for I earned them, and for all the damage that they have done to me, they are also my testament of dignity and bravery for those whose memory I honor.

Thirty years have passed. Some have been happy, some sad, all growing, learning, maturing, so today I look back at Vietnam with different eyes. I see that kid climbing into that plane on a cold Chicago night, a plane load of strangers who would travel half way around the world together; play cards, get drunk, sleep, tell tall stories, or talk about their families. Some would even admit that they were afraid.

For 18 hours, they flew westward to Hawaii and the Philippines to Vietnam where, for the most part, they went their separate ways; most never saw each other again. Many never knew the names of the ones around them on that plane. It never occurred to anyone to ask. Brave, eager kids who had no idea what they were walking into.

A year later, in ones and twos, they trickled back home, the lucky ones, but they weren’t kids anymore and many times they proved their bravery during that year. The eagerness was gone and from inside, through their eyes, a different light shown out – older, changed, no longer the simple teenager who had left family, friends, or maybe a girlfriend, or a wife; someone different, but not different.

I didn’t see it in myself, but I could see the difference as I traveled home and came across those who were on their way to hell. You could tell by looking which direction they were going. It was in their eyes, in the way they walked, even in the way they talked.

The eyes are supposed to be the windows of the soul. Most of those eyes were empty, but in a few, a terrible light showed through, as if the gates of hell had been opened and the fires flared out through those eyes. Eventually, that light would break out from all too many, as we fell victim to our ghosts, some sooner than others, some lucky enough to conquer most of the ghosts and find some peace, others to survive for many years, before being struck down by Vietnam, but all casualties of the same war.

I can go no further. The thirty years have never passed. But I am not the one who went to Vietnam; I am the one who returned. The young kid with a life and a world in front of him never made it. I cannot bring him back and he could not exist long in the struggle within me.

©Copyright August 2004 by Jeanette Zobjeck
Vietnam - Dec. '67 - Nov. 1968

Author’s Note:

I volunteered for the Army and for signal corps training but, as things would be, I was also trained in 32d, (fixed station facilities control), originally 32C, (fixed Station Transmitter repair) Chu Lai.

U.S.Army Signal Corps 1st Signal Battalion North Danang 32d 20 f8. The F8 for presidential communications was earned in 1969, when President Nixon went to Hawaii. I was the NCOIC in charge of facilities mainainence.

Years ago, when I was just beginning to open up enough so that I could talk to other vets and friends of veterans, I was writing to a very wise woman about how I felt about Vietnam. The above narrative is the end product of some of my thoughts.

Since then, I have met many people, veterans, families of veterans, people who are trying, today, to understand the Vietnam experience. I have tried many ways to answer their questions, but in the end, I return to these thoughts, presented for your own quest to understand and live with Vietnam.

To clear any confusion, I was born Transgendered and I tried so very very hard to be "normal" for the era. It just didn't work, and in the late 1970's, I went through transition to female.

Visit Jeanette's Website

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

My Brother, "Bear": by Frank Fox

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Tue, 03 Feb 2015 15:31:00 +0000

Dale Allen Fox - "Bear"

My brother, Dale, spent two years in Vietnam with the 1st Air Cav., as a crew chief and door gunner.

He was a very good door gunner/crew chief, well-respected, and the guys all called him "Bear".

In spite of being on helicopters day in and day out, he never even got a scratch -- I was stunned he was not wounded, or killed.

One thing he constantly did was keep his M-60 on either side cleaned and operational, and he always loaded his feed belts with tracers every third round, instead of every fifth round.

When asked why, he said he wanted to better see where his rounds were going.

There are many vets alive today, thanks to the cover and protection he gave to ground troops in an LZ. We will never know how many got to be grandfathers, play baseball with their sons, or give their daughters away in marriage because of him.

One time, there were some Army troops pinned down and they couldn’t get picked up right away. They were running out of ammo, so he was firing very close to their position. The way he loaded the tracers every third round, afforded him more accurate fire power, because the tracers were just like drawing a straight line.

The pinned down Captain said over the radio, “I don’t know who’s doing the shooting up there, but if you send him down here, I'll kiss him!”

Once, he sent home some black VC pajamas that he harvested after some fighting. Dale loved the army and he loved what he did -- he is also my hero for his service.

He joined the Army in late 1966, and was on his second enlistment. They discharged him in '71 or '72. He was going to go yet a third time, but the mother of the baby he is holding (photo below) talked him into staying home and getting married.

The Army agreed. Twice was enough, and he went to Fort Benning, Georgia.

By the age of nineteen, he had four rows of ribbons and several air medals and he was an E-5 in rank. We're talking career material here. He could have been a poster child for the Army.

How Vietnam took its toll on Dale was through exposure to Agent Orange and giving him a drug habit ... one marijuana smoke when he got back to the States took that all away.

His habit started in country, because it was readily available. Officers knew how invasive it was, but the troops did better when using marijuana. Trouble was, one day you were there, the next you were home – and your habit went with you.

He was found with one (1) joint on his person and was subsequently kicked out of the Army that he loved so much. His exemplary service made no difference. Uncle Sam tolerated it in Vietnam, but once you were home it was a no-no.

He has long since finished the use of recreational drugs, but he was left with the gut-wrenching humility of being booted from the military.

I tried writing to our Texas congressman in Washington to have the blemish struck from his record, but it fell on deaf ears.

Of course, now, we have high ranking politicians and even Commander and Chiefs saying they smoked pot, or like G.W., they also did cocaine ... but hey, that was okay ...

Dale and daughter, Stephanie

The photo on the right was taken not long after the Army gave him the boot. The baby is his first daughter, Stephanie.

Dale with lower left amputation

The more recent photo on the left is what two years in Vietnam, exposure to untold quantities of Agent Orange, and two bad marriages can do to a person.

Dale said the VA hospital in Houston told him his amputation was a direct result of his exposure to Agent Orange. It did something to the circulation in his foot.

As you know, there are many more of the same kind of stories out there. That’s why, since Vietnam, I am against aggression, unless we absolutely have to and then we should be in it to win. We have to stop having images like the one above be the result for so many.

Dale Allen Fox - "Bear"

This photo was taken during a peaceful protest by members of the local chapter of The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws (NORML) Saturday, along North Street near the Stephen F. Austin State Campus in Nacogdoches TX.

The group came out in support of Texas House Bill 507, calling for the decriminalization of the possession of one ounce, or less, of marijuana, as well as legalizing whole plant medical marijuana in the state.

More on Medical Marijuana

Frank Fox

Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)

More Articles by Frank Fox:

Vets Sharing Recipes: Breakfast Pizza
Old School Patriotism is Still Alive
Vets Sharing Recipes: Southwest Chicken
The White House Christmas Card
War: Some Are Better Prepared
Our Generation
The Marine and the Cure
More Thoughts on War and Youth
Opinions, Thoughts and Feelings
A Different Perspective
A Worthy Rebuttal to Mr. Garrison

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Navy EM Club and the Cattle Car

noreply@blogger.com (CJ Heck) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 14:52:00 +0000

One Version of a Cattle Car

by Douglas Johnson

There were some moments in the Nam experience that can be reflected on with amusement and most of those moments were tolerated only because we were 19 or 20 and extremely resilient.

When I came down from the Cua Viet and Dong Ha area, we would go to the EM Club run by the Navy. (If you remember, Da Nang was a close city, unlike Saigon).

Most of us were not old enough to vote, and since we were under 21, we had to sit on the near beer side of the EM Club. It was the only alcoholic beverage we were allowed to drink. Only if we were 21 and over could we drink regular beer, or hard liquor. (I’m not sure, but I believe the Army regs were different in I Corp and their EM Clubs).

That just didn’t make sense ... only two days before, we were behind a 50, or tossing grenades. Now we were sitting in the only club we were allowed to go to, sipping on near beer, because the Navy decided we were not old enough to handle hard liquor ….

To liven up the story, when the club closed at 9 p.m., a cattle car was backed up to the door of the EM Club. They ordered everybody out of the club and we left via the door, walked up a ramp, and then they packed us into the cattle car. We had to stand the entire time, since there weren’t any seats in the cattle car.

Now, what you’ve got is a full load of men from age 19 to approximately 22 or 23, who are completely wasted and weaving and bobbing, since the road had numerous curves. (I still believe the driver made the trip even worse by his driving style, just to have his jollies).

Anyway, we had guys who were sick from the motion, occasional fights breaking out, and everyone packed in so tight that the 2 SP's couldn’t even push the crowd out of the way for any crowd control. Now top that off with the heat index making it stifling in there ...

When we woke up the next morning, we swore we would never go back to the Club again. But it was the only game in town, so we were back the next night, but only if we were still in Da Nang.

Another episode about the Navy EM Club in Da Nang and the cattle car express.

I was sleeping on the deck of my boat on the on the Marble Mountain side of Da Nang Bay. We had just come back from the Perfume River/Hue area and we were due to go back up North the next day to Dong Ha.

As I said, I was sleeping on the deck with a poncho liner as my blanket, when I heard a loud scream, "Look out! He has a frozen stick of Bologna!"

I jumped up from my sleeping position to see our Gunner's Mate, a scrapper from some unheard of parish in Louisiana, just as he was delivering a forceful upper cut to the crewman swinging the frozen bologna stick like a club.

The guy’s behavior while swinging the frozen stick of bologna was like a Berserker leading a frontal attack for the Vikings, thus the need of such a forceful action. He went down hard with one punch.

When we went up to him, not only was his mouth bleeding from the punch, but we noticed he had numerous cuts and abrasions on both arms, his legs, torso, and his clothing was torn and tattered.

The next morning when he woke up from his drunken stupor, he was moaning and unable to get up. We had to get him Medevac’d off the boat. He had a fracture of one leg.

One of the crew went over to the hospital in Camp Tien Sha to visit our bologna-wielding attacker later and he got the full story: the attacker was from Iowa and this was his seventh year in the Navy. While he was stationed in Thailand, (I never knew the reason why), he married a Thai woman.

We learned that on the night of the attack, he had just found out that afternoon via a Dear John letter from his wife that she was already married to a Bangkok policeman. She had only married him (our sailor), so she could get extra money. The letter also stated that her Policeman husband wanted an end to this arrangement.

So, to seek cathartic relief from the news, he went to the EM Club and got wasted. Since he was over 21, he could drink hard liquor.

Seems the club had a policy that from 8:00 p.m. until closing time, they would hit a bell and from that point until closing time, all shots were 10 cents. Those over 21 could pull out a one dollar MPC note and have ten shots put in front of them. Now you can understand why the cattle car was like a vomit comet when we were all loaded into it!

In leaving the EM Club, the Iowan bologna-wielding Viking sailor was totally wasted. Now, there were openings on each side of the cattle car and the truck pulling it would only slow down and discharge its passengers at six designated stops along the route.

Our shipmate got in the cattle car and he decided he was going to get off when HE wanted to get off -- and where he wanted to get off was at HIS own designated stop. (God only knows what his thought processes were in that condition), but he stepped off the car while it was still in motion.

When he hit the ground, the speed propelled him off the road and down over a hill, thus the mystery of why he was covered with cuts and abrasions over his entire body was solved. The fracture probably came from the impact of hitting the road when he exited the cattle car.

He never returned to the boat, because his leg was casted. None of us ever heard from him again, except for the one crewman who visited him in the hospital and solved the mystery of his injuries and actions.

I went through small arms fire, rocket attacks, and numerous mine explosions on the Rivers, but that was my first and only attack by a frozen stick of bologna while in Nam ...

Douglas Johnson, M.B.A.
Vietnam 1969 to 1970 - I Corp
Engineman Third Class: U.S. Navy
Navy Boats and Front Gunner

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

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