My Brother, "Bear": by Frank Fox

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

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.

Old Vets: by Michael Lansford

Michael Lansford 

I have asked myself this question many times --  What is an Old Vet?

What is it that actually defines what an Old Vet is? 

Thousands of us began as fairly innocent young kids, (or men, if you prefer), who were sent off to do unknown things in a world few will ever know.

We became Old Vets long before our time, because we survived all the horrors of war in ways I still find hard to think about, let alone try and explain.

Those of us that survived -- and still survive today -- were already old by the time we were 18, (or whatever age fits).

We came back to a changed world from the one we remembered and longed to come back to. It was a world that had become not only tired of war, but tired of us, as well.

The world didn’t know a thing about the who, the what, or the why, of it all, and we couldn't explain it to them for many reasons. Some people had -- and still have -- closed minds to the cold hard truth of war. Some did try to understand, but we as "Old Vets" couldn't tell anyone anything.  We feared the reality of what society already thought of us.

The irony is, the world still thought of as kids, and we weren't allowed to do certain things, because we weren't "OLD" enough, or mature enough, to make decisions that impacted our lives (as well as those of society). In one respect, we were years ahead of the rest of the world. In yet another, we were years behind.

Nothing like being in combat with the permission and ability to take or save a life, call in air strikes, artillery fire, risk our lives in suicide missions, handle explosives and weapons, live like animals, or worse, and yet back in the world, we weren't even old enough to buy beer.

My biggest issue to this day was being told I couldn’t vote -- I wasn't mature enough to make decisions that affected the future of our country? We were sure old enough to go off to war …

So, we did what we had to do to survive. We withdrew and tried living in what the world perceived to be a normal life with all it had to offer. From where we came from, we never quite seemed to fit in, or adapt, to a changed world. From our viewpoint, we only exchanged one evil for another -- one which was much more dangerous.

A song, a picture, nightmares, sounds, or cross words spoken to and about us, all brought back the reality of our war, so we withdrew even more, some to the point of no return and no escape. Some blocked it out completely, but it was still there -- deep inside it still lurks, always.  Even now, as true Old Vets, we constantly live with our demons.

We were a generation that asked nothing for what we did, and we gave all we had to keep us alive and, in our minds, to keep America safe and free. For us, it was a small price to pay for freedom. Whatever it took, we stepped up and paid that debt in full -- some more than others.

We never failed, backed down, ran, or quit. What we were and are will be with us forever. We were willing to give our lives for our country, our comrades, and everything we considered right, and no one will ever take that away either.

We have survived to be where we are now, and we owe so many for the blessings bestowed on us by family and friends who never gave up on us.

For the most part, we as Old Vets have survivor’s guilt.  I do.  We have questions, too.  Why, how, and what were the ultimate reasons we survived?  There are no answers, just more questions.

At times, being old Vets makes us wonder what if?  What if we didn't come home?  What about those that didn't -- how would their lives have turned out? Would any of them have made a real difference back home?

Most of us can’t, nor will we ever, truly come home. Vietnam will be with us forever, like it or not. We lived it, breathed it, and we remember it, regardless. As long as one Vietnam Vet lives, who we were will never die.

We are truly one, no matter what branch, or where, we served. We are a band of brothers and sisters, just like it has always been said about past Old Vets. What we are in life reflects on who we all were and what we believe in, even to this day.

Michael (lying on belly) Awaiting Medivac after Hamburger Hill

How others see and hear us, shows we are many things they never knew about us and it represents us all, in one way or another.

What they see and read speaks volumes about us. We can't change outsiders’ opinions of us, but we can write the truth and hope they will listen to what we have to say. 

We are who we are and if they only knew we would give our life to save them, they might have a different view of us and our war – a war that made us such Old Vets to begin with.

Only we can know what's inside us from where we came. Some things truly can't be explained. Life isn't always fair, it's just life, and we live it every day, each in their own way.

I hope the next generations are, (and will be), learning more about the horror of war and combat, and how it changes someone from day one, for the rest of their life. Fact is, now days, society is seeing the reality of war, thanks to all the tech things out there. Real war comes face to face with them daily. They get a new look at what all wars really are, just sitting on the sidelines watching.

For us, we didn't necessarily have to be in actual combat, but we still had to show up. There were no timeouts, breaks, days off, or holidays. Combat was 24/7. There was no second place in war.

Being Old Vets, we have traveled many roads in our lives, both good and bad. We still feel we are at war, no matter what is going on. We’re still fighting for benefits that shouldn't ever have been questioned in the first place. We paid our dues and stand to this day by the Oath we took long ago.

Through it all, the only thing we ever wanted when we survived and came back to the world was a simple "Thank You". Money doesn't buy what that means to us -- it never will. The people we owe thanks to are fellow Vets, (past, present, and future), family, friends, our Combat Medics, Medevac's, doctors and nurses, as well as the Donut Dollies, who also showed up to give us hope and helped us remember the world we left behind. Even Bob Hope showed up. Now that's courage to boot.

So from one Old Vet to all my brother and sister Old Vets, I say thank you from the bottom of my Heart. It’s been a long and hard road -- but if any of us could do it differently, would we? As we learned from the generation of WWII Vets, let's hope this next generation will also learn from us ...

Remember, always stand up for what you believe in. Never second guess what you believe, or do, in life. Things don't always go as planned, but staying committed to what you believe in, is worth more than winning at something you don’t. Life doesn't always give you a do-over or re-do, whatever you want to call it. For some of us, we have been blessed with second chances. Learn to make life better, whatever you perceive it to be.

From just one of many "Old Vets",
Michael Lansford

Vietnam '68 - '69

Michael Lansford, an "Old Vet"

Other Articles by Michael Lansford:

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 Circle: by Lance Pinamonte

Lance Pinamonte

It was the fall of 1968 when I arrived in country.  I was a kid of barely eighteen.

My new unit was a small slick group of three flight platoons with seven aircraft each. I was assigned a ship within three days of my arrival.

The first thing I noticed was, we were flying a lot more hours than most of the other units around us, over a hundred hours a week on a steady basis. This gave the aircrews very little time off.  We pretty much lived in our aircraft.

I also noticed a group of aircrews that were ... different  They were cooler, kept their aircraft cleaner, took better care of their guns, equipment, and they always volunteered for the dangerous missions. In the early mornings, they would always be on time to the flight line, too.

These guys always wore sunglasses, always spoke with authority, and when everyone did find time off in the evening, they would form their old lawn chairs into a circle in the middle of the field behind the hooches.

I guess the first time I actually met someone from this group, was when he was refusing to fly with a pilot that was clearly still drunk. He did it with all the respect due this pilot's rank. The pilot finally backed down, staggered back to his hooch, and another pilot replaced him.

There was a lot of drinking in off-duty times, and a few of our pilots were flat out drunks. But you didn't see the guys in the circle  staggering back from the EM/NCO club late at night in a drunken state.  It didn't mean that they didn't drink at all, they just didn't care for being out of control.

I had been on my own aircraft for only a week, and the action taken by my door gunner (part of the circle) impressed me. He was full-blooded Indian and he had been in country four tours, three of them as 11B, a grunt.

He outranked me as an E-6, been wounded three times, refused to go back stateside, and he had volunteered to be a Door Gunner. He also called me "Kid".  It wasn't the best of nicknames, but it stuck -- I had been called worse.

Smoking Pot

My curious nature finally peaked.  One night on my way to the EM club, I stopped by the circle and I saw smoke rising from the group.

(Now, I was not ignorant of what was going on -- I knew they were smoking pot).

Everybody in the circle was a little paranoid of my joining this tight-knit group, so the pipes were put out, while they felt me out as either friend, or foe...

Finally, my gunner said, "He's cool guys.  Light up a bowl."

I decided to partake and, as I did, I heard my gunner say, "Now your cool, Kid." and it stuck. From then on, I was known as "Cool Kid" ... and I bought a cheap set of shades the day after.

Fast forward two years ...

I had gotten myself into some pretty big trouble, (another story, for another day), and I was on my way to another unit, up for a undesirable discharge.

So, I was walking through an administration building in DaNang, looking to report to a Captain there. As I walked into his office, I found said Captain wearing ... shades.  Well, he found me a safe haven for my last 90 days, and an honorable discharge ...

Over the years after that, I abused almost every drug their is, I over-drank, over-smoked, and finally, after sixteen years of abuse, I straightened my act out. But many times I think of those days, all the hard work, the danger ... and the guys in The Circle.

"Cool Kid"

Lance L. Pinamonte

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

Other Articles by Lance:

What'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. Only you can write the truth about the Vietnam veteran and Our War -- for America, and for history.

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

Four Months and a Wake Up

Bobby Q

By Bobby Q

(Bobby Quintana-Sena)

This is a short story I wrote when I was in a deep funk and thinking about a couple of guys I saw who were KIA almost 45 years ago in Nam. It happened at Tan Son Nhut on base.

Four Months and a Wake Up

I’ve been here too long and it is time for me to leave – in my mind, at least. I cannot believe I have been here eight months.

I have been here long enough to learn to pray again. I’ve been here long enough to miss my family’s advice, and long enough to know I was not as bright as I thought I was. I always thought knowledge like that was to be acquired when I was in my forties, or even my fifties.

There’s not much here, but close friends, letters from home, care packages, and counting the days … "que lastima".

It had been a cake walk the first two months, just hanging out, getting supplies, doing menial jobs around the base camp, and being a go-for.

The third month, I was assigned to a line unit and I have spent the last two months in the bush. Being scared (terrified) was a daily ritual and I was lucky we were only involved in two firefights.

I got to see my first dead and that is not an experience I would share with anyone, especially when they are American. I never personally met the grunts, but it still hurt, knowing they were as young as I was and that they were going home to unfulfilled dreams and devastated families. That situation is certainly not in my future -- I hope God has better plans for me.

I am from northeast Arizona and we rarely saw rain there. Here, it sees to rain every day. It’s actually quite beautiful and the smell of the trees and plants is real pleasant. The Mekong Delta is actually a beautiful land and the waterways enhance the beauty of it. The only problem is, my feet are always wet and there are not many opportunities to get dry socks to keep your feet dry.

Mekong Delta - Vietnam

The other reality is the constant flares at night and the intermediate mortars, or rockets, that occasionally hit the camp. It makes it hard to sleep when you are not in the field and I have the opportunity to stay in camp for the night.

I usually volunteer for guard duty in the early hours, so I can get some sleep when the sun is coming up. It gives me time to reflect on the world and what I left behind.

Friends I graduated with, went on to college, careers, or they got married and started a family. A few, like me, thought we had a duty to the country and here we are, wishing we were elsewhere.

Today has been just like every other day. We are up for patrol tomorrow and I was thinking about that, when a mortar round went off across the camp. There was no one walking around and only the guard posts were awake, but I got into my bunker, in case the alarm sounded and we got a full-fledged attack.

About twenty minutes later, nothing else happened, so I just sat on the sandbag and waited for the next shoe to fall. It was misty and a little hazy and with the flares in the sky, it almost seemed like I was behind a giant plastic sheet, watching a light show. It was serene and relaxing and, except for my weapon in my hand, I could have been in an auditorium watching a show.

I relaxed and got to thinking about the Fourth of July fireworks at home, when I heard a soft wind and felt a warm breeze across my cheek. Then I heard a soft noise and, at first, I thought maybe a rat had crawled onto the sandbag, but my chest felt wet and so warm.

I started to go into a deep slumber and try as I might, I could not sit up.  As I lay back, I heard some quiet and distant bubbling sounds. The world I was in was such a quiet place; there was no pain, no memories, and just warmness in the air. I just closed my eyes and floated through the scene. God, it was so beautiful.

I knew I was going home. I had an American flag draped on me and I was at peace with myself. I had done my job and I was with my friends.


[This writing was about PTSD and my wish that I would not make it back from my second tour.  It was written during one of my darker periods. No offense meant to any of my brothers and sisters, but post traumatic stress is a real pain.]

 
Regards,
Bobby Q

USAF

Vietnam

Also by Bobby Q

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.

Superior/Subordinate Relationship: by John McClarren

199th LIB

(A Book Excerpt from Military Life – Service or Career:  A Soldier's Perspective, by John McClarren)

The subject at hand is the subordinate-superior relationship, and I cannot help but use a personal example, because it illustrates perfectly what we’re dealing with.

This one begins with an operation initiated by all the activities going on during the Tet ‘68 offensive in South Vietnam with my unit operating in the surrounding areas of Saigon. It is a situation that could occur anywhere at any time, not at all unique to the war in Vietnam.

The mission of my unit, the 199th Light Infantry Brigade (LIB), included guarding the southern approaches to Saigon. My platoon was given an extremely simple and routine mission to patrol and check out activities in the southern outskirts of the city.  We were only to observe what was going on and report what we saw. In that respect, it was more of a reconnaissance mission.

We began our patrol at the southern part of a road leading north into the city. We were to proceed north for a kilometer or so, turn right at a major intersection, continue for approximately another thousand meters and make another right, heading south, and then return to our base of operations. It all sounds pretty simple, right?

I always remember the old Jell-O commercial on television, which ended with, “All that wiggles is not Jell-O.” What a wonderful analogy, the concept of which certainly never occurred to me as a dumb kid.  However, later in life, as a less dumb adult, I have been able to apply that concept to a tremendous number of situations, where things do not turn out how you imagined them to be.

We headed north from our starting point and found that all along the left flank of our designated route, everything seemed quite normal, in that there were normal activities among the people; motor vehicles, mopeds, bicycles and pedestrians all seemed to be moving along and milling about with absolutely nothing interfering with what one might expect on a typical day in Saigon.

We reached the intersection where we were to turn right and head east on the north leg of our route and noticed exactly the same things going on along that segment of the route; nothing out of the ordinary. We were not doing house-to-house searches; we were merely observing all activities along the route, looking for anything that might seem unusual for that area.

We came to the last intersection, where we were to head back south and return to our base camp. After a short distance, it occurred to us that the situation had changed rather remarkably and abruptly. Activity in this area was not only abnormal, but had ceased entirely. All traffic disappeared; no vehicles, no people. There was nothing but an eerie silence.

At this point, I instructed all of my squads to proceed much more slowly and cautiously, looking carefully into every house and building along the way. As we proceeded down the street, we noticed a canal on our left flank.

A hundred meters or so to the south, on the far side of the canal, was a Vietnamese P.F. (Popular Forces) camp. The Popular Forces were similar to our state National Guard forces; citizen soldiers. 

As we continued further, we noticed ahead of us, a barricade across the road. It was composed of a variety of junk, stacked high and wrapped with barbed wire.  We proceeded down the road, closer to the barricade.

The PF soldiers, observing our approach, began to call out to us in broken English from across the canal, “No further, G.I.; beaucoup (always pronounced by the Vietnamese, and American troops bookoo) VC”.  They were giving us warnings that could not have been misunderstood. 

It was very clear to me that there was a whole bunch of bad guys to my front. I had a few options at my disposal, but, silly as it may seem now, I opted for doing things the “right” way.

I brought my company commander up on the radio and requested permission to recon by fire. That merely meant that I wanted to open up with small arms fire, and see what I might receive in return, thereby identifying enemy targets and taking the offensive at that point.

What was the response to my request? “Negative!”

I immediately came back with, “Say again, over.”

“Negative on that request. There may be innocent civilians in the area,” he responded.  

I was dumbfounded. I came back with, “Six (Six being the commander’s designation or call sign), let me make myself perfectly clear. I have friendlies to my left who have told me very clearly that there are Victor Charlies to my front on the other side of the barrier.” (Victor Charlie was the name we always used for Viet Cong or VC).

I continued with my request. “Now, once again, request permission to recon by fire! Over.”

“Three-six, this is six. I say again, Lieutenant, (a very significant breach in communications security) permission denied! Consider this a direct order. Proceed forward until you make contact. Do you roger that?”

“Affirmative, six, but a couple more requests: Have med-evac on-call, as we will take casualties. Also, request that you, too, be on-call, as I am quite sure we will need assistance. Over.”

“Roger that. Will be ready to assist. Out.”

Well, there I was with a “Direct Order” for what I considered a potential suicide mission from a company commander for whom I had little or no respect (and we were both of the same rank, first lieutenants, he ranking me by about three months).

I then initiated “my plan".  

As soon as I had my first three people across the barrier, all hell broke loose with small arms and automatic weapons fire, grenades and RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades). All three men who had maneuvered across the barrier were wounded and needed immediate extraction and medical evacuation.

That, however, did not happen immediately. We were all pinned down with little to no ability to move without being cut to pieces.  Somehow, in the midst of all that chaos, we managed to get the wounded to safety and eventually evacuated.

While all this was going on, I was able to return to my company commander by radio, to inform him of the situation. He assured me that he was on his way with the remainder of the company. I waited for a painfully long time while the situation worsened and became critical.

Although some specific details are hazy, somewhere amid all the confusion, during this rather hellacious firefight, an RPG round quickly caught my eye a second before it exploded only three to four feet from me, sending me ten or fifteen feet through the air.

After recovering myself, taking an inventory of all my arms, legs, fingers, and other body parts, I discovered that I miraculously did not have a drop of blood flowing from my body. I was amazed at being unscathed by that one, and continued the mission.

I thanked the Lord for having my guardian angel looking after me once again, as well as those men who were in close proximity to me. It seems like it must have taken a whole legion of guardian angels to look after me while I was over there. 

I was prone to being in the wrong places at the wrong times. It tended to happen quite regularly. At the same time, I have to remind myself that I was the platoon leader, and, as such was, as my old  OCS instructors used to tell us (students), a prime target for enemy fire.

While all this was going on, and I still had neither seen nor heard from my company commander, I was finally able to bring him back up on the “horn” to find out where he was.  Of course, he was pinned down, having run into the main force of the VC element.

In actuality, these bad boys were no longer Viet Cong, who were mainly local guerillas, sympathetic to the North Vietnamese cause; they were NVA regulars. My rescuers had been ambushed and were now immobile!

Needless to say, (but, of course, I’ll say it anyway), I had mixed emotions on that one. The end result was that a tank company came to our rescue and leveled that part of the town with their main guns and 50-caliber machine guns. I am not at all certain of it, but we may well have lost a few “innocent” civilians during that little skirmish.

I learned later that five or six additional infantry battalions, along with the tank company, came to join in the “fun” that day. All of that, and I was not initially allowed to recon by fire. What more can I say?

Well, I can say one more thing. For what turned into a major battle, my platoon and I just happened to be the unit to initiate that whole mess. I could ask, “Why me, Lord?” Then again, I have already said that I had a bad habit of being in the wrong places at the wrong times.

Hey, apparently, it was another victory for our side; so, who should complain? I still do, however, because some of my guys were hurt, and I always hated that part worse than anything else.

Anyway, so much for the relationship between my commander and me. We did not see eye to eye, but I was forced to take his orders, whether I liked it or not. That is the name of the game.

John McClarren - US Army (Retired)

About the Author

John McClarren was born at the end of World War II in San Diego, California.

He is currently living in northern Michigan and retired from everything except writing and substitute teaching. His wife, Debbie, is an active special education teacher. 

John and Debbie raised three boys, two of whom have been on active duty with the US Army and one is a geologist. 

John's Website
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Also see John's Other Post:

Military Life - Service or Career

His book is currently available in print and e-book formats.

Published: Createspace Publishing

Paperback and Kindle

224 Pages

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John also has a memoir coming out shortly, titled Taking Risks, Defining Life

Besides the first two books, John is working on a humor book that most likely will be titled, Hey, it Wasn't My Fault, and he is also working on a novel.

“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


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