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


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.

Jim, Frank, and the Snake

by Byron Edgington

King Cobra - Vietnam.  Considered a delicacy.

We were young, foolish men with a case of testosterone poisoning, often bored to distraction. So we used fire in other ways, as well. We used it to amuse ourselves.

I returned from my missions one afternoon to hear two colleagues arguing. Frank and Jim didn’t get along anyway, so it wasn’t unusual to hear them yelling at each other. But this argument seemed different somehow, almost important.

Then the shooting started.

Jim hated snakes. It was common knowledge in the company that he was terrified a snake would somehow slither its way into his hootch. There were indeed cobras in the compound. We left them alone because they kept down the rat population.

Frank was a great judge of character. Whatever his sour relationship with Jim, the reason, the origin of their antipathy, no one knew. But we knew they hated each other. And we knew that someday, somehow, Frank would find a way to have the last word with Jim.

So when I heard shots coming from Jim’s room, my arms chilled. Surely, I thought, those two haven’t actually taken to gunfire? We all had a .38 revolver to carry with us on missions. Those tiny guns would have been almost useless against the enemy.

One of the guys, whether being serious or not, proposed using his pistol on himself if he was captured. He kept two rounds chambered. One for him, he said, and one for anyone else who wanted it. 

I used my pistol as protection for the family jewels. It fit very well in my crotch, holster and all, a dandy piece of armor -- if I ever wanted sex and kids and all that peripheral stuff.

The bottom line is that Frank had a .38; Jim had a .38. Surely, I thought, (as four shots clapped out in the dusky afternoon), surely Frank hasn’t shot...?

I raced into Jim’s hootch, where Frank stood over a dead snake. Adjacent to the carcass, four bullet holes had ruptured the floor around the unscathed serpent. Then Frank’s ploy played out perfectly, as Jim burst into his room, saw the dead snake and lurched back in terror.

Frank waved his empty pistol. “I shot it for you, Jimbo! Killed a snake, right here in your goddam room!”

Jim stared at Frank. At the snake. Back at Frank. “You son of a...”

“Jeez, you ought’a thank me, Jimbo. You could’a been bit. A snake, man. There might be more of ‘em!” Frank grinned like Satan slithering up the apple tree, and left.

It took Jim perhaps eight seconds to sort it out. He saw the .38-size holes in his floor. Saw the snake’s limp, undamaged body and a black rage bloomed on his face. He snorted, left his room, and went to Frank’s. 

Frank was still enjoying his serpentine coup over his hated rival when Jim entered. Jimbo slipped his .38 from its holster, cocked the pistol and fired four rounds through Frank’s floor. "Bam-Bam-Bam-Bam!"

Frank curled up in a corner. When the echo of gunfire died away, Jim did that ‘whiff the smoke from the barrel’ thing you see in western movies after the bad guy drops. 

Then Jim holstered his pistol, swiveled, and left. He and Frank were even again ... for a while.

Byron Edgington/101st Airborne Ret.

[Excerpt from Chapter 11 of "The Sky Behind Me, A Memoir of Flying and Life" ©2012 Byron Edgington] 

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“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

"Warriors Remembered": by Albert Nahas

IBJ Book Publishing
240 pages
Hardcover

A Photo Documentary Book  

100 Memorials from 50 States

It mattered not what politicians argued.
It mattered not what history would reveal.
We had no expectation but to serve where duty called us.
We asked for no reward except a nation’s thanks.

WARRIORS REMEMBERED is a 240-page, 11½” x 11½” hard cover photo documentary of Vietnam Veterans Memorials from all 50 states with stories of their significant features, locations and the motivation and struggle faced by those who built them. It highlights 100 memorials and their creators, and shares some of each memorial’s subtle details. WARRIORS REMEMBERED is both a travel log and a documentary.

Differing from memorials of other wars, here you will find no white granite generals or parade ground uniforms. Rather these memorials include names of the fallen engraved on black granite, dark bronze fighting men, or the wounded and the nurses who cared for them. Often they reflect the anguish of war and its aftermath. The author is eternally grateful to the selfless warriors and families who created these places of recognition, reflection and “welcome home” and who assisted with this book by sharing their stories.

A portion of the proceeds from this book will be donated to the maintenance funds of those memorials still without government sponsorship.

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What Others Are Saying:

"In the 1970s, political condemnations of the Vietnam War too often spilled over onto Vietnam veterans. But as Warriors Remembered vividly tells and shows, the American people have never forgotten the sacrifices made by our men and women in uniform, even in a war so politically unpopular. Truly a splendid book." - Tom Carhart, author of Sacred Ties

“This is a "must purchase" for Vietnam Veterans who came home to an angry, ungrateful nation … It will remind each vet that there was a silent majority …of Americans who did care and who care even more to this very day.

It is a great tribute and in my view, shows the way that a more grateful nation is trying to make up for its past sins. The write ups and the photography are excellent. In short, well done and much appreciated.” ~Tom H.

“This book is a true tribute to Vietnam veterans and if you have family or friends who are Vietnam veterans, I can't recommend enough purchasing this book for them. It is a wonderful compilation of information and photos from the many memorials around the nation.” ~Keith Hemmelman

“The author has done all Vietnam veterans and their loved ones a service with this book's high quality of research and visual presentation. Warriors Remembered has a story to tell that is both illuminating and thoughtful. Well Done.” ~G. E. Morris

“Warriors Remembered is an excellent chronicle of the many Vietnam memorials across the country, many of which would have otherwise remained undiscovered by those of us who care. Thanks to Col. Nahas for his perseverence in bringing this to print and for his fine narration - truly written from the heart.” ~Chris Pollard

“As a Vietnam Veteran I find this book to be very poignant and the quality to be of the highest order. I'm sure in my travels I have passed locations where I would have visited the Memorial had I known of its existence. I highly recommend this publication to all who served in Vietnam and were in the U.S. Military Service during the Vietnam era.” ~B. H. Clark

About The Author:

Albert Nahas was born into an Army family. From his earliest recollection, he was drawn to join the company of soldiers, the brotherhood of arms. 

He joined the Army in June 1967 as a young Lieutenant from West Point and found his way to Vietnam in July 1968. 

Wounded after six weeks at the base of what a year later would be called Hamburger Hill in the A Shau Valley, he worked his way back from a hospital in Japan to his same platoon in C Co, 2nd Bn, 502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. 

He spent eighteen months with that battalion until Feb. 1970, as a platoon leader, reconnaissance platoon leader, company XO and company commander. 

In total, he would spend twenty-six years with soldiers, retiring as a Colonel.

His journey for WARRIORS REMEMBERED began in 2002 as an internet search to locate Vietnam Veterans Memorials. It took nearly six years of travel, research, photography and interviews to complete.

WARRIORS REMEMBERED is dedicated to all American Warriors, both male and female, and to his twenty-nine West Point classmates who made the ultimate sacrifice in Vietnam.

In his travels and research, the author has documented over 1000 Vietnam Veterans Memorials in 50 states, but feels he has missed at least that many more. His list of memorials is now posted under Find Local Memorials. 

Anyone who knows of other Vietnam Veterans Memorials is encouraged to contribute to a complete catalog of U.S. memorials for that war.

Visit Albert's Website

Albert's Blog

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Email Albert


“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

"The Second Tour": by Terry P. Rizzuti

Spinetinglers Publishing
221 Pages
Paper back and Kindle

About the Book:

The Second Tour is a literary novel written in the Modernist tradition that explores the full range of the human condition, from the ultimate altruism (guys charging machine gun nests to save their buddies), to the ultimate evil, (guys killing innocents because they enjoy it).

It's a story about a two or three-year-old Vietnamese girl whose murder haunts the narrator. 

It is also a story about that narrator, a low-level Marine, his descent into spiritual darkness, and his life-long struggle to regain some semblance of a meaningful life.

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Author's Personally Selected Excerpts:

"Hill 602 took three lives the first time. Took Tommy Baker’s lower jaw too. I couldn’t look him in the eyes that saw so clearly through all of us to the horror we saw in his mangled face. No teeth bestowed upon him the look of a man made wizened with age."

********
"It was a round between the eyes, I think, because as I yelled in his face, it disappeared, replaced with a blood geyser and the sound of a .41 millimeter. His legs slid apart slowly at first, then crumbled in the true Cartesian split."

********
"Rootie! Rootie! Come closer Rootie."

"I’m here, Benjie, I’m here," I said, clasping his hand on my arm.

"Help me Rootie, my legs won’t move."

"Aw Benjie, it’ll be okay Benj, I’ll give you mine."

********
"Our voices turned to whispers and our countenances to shame. We left as murderers, our tails between our legs, but it would happen again, inevitably, and each will take his memories to the grave. Life’s a bitch — and then you die."

********
"It was December, and I was thinking about how miserable Christmas was going to be. The air was cold, my teeth were chattering, the chow sucked. Chow? C-ration leftovers from World War II. The issue date on my box was 1944. This was 1966. We were smoking twenty-year-old cigarettes. Eatin’ meals older than we were."

********
"She was stomping her foot, prancing like a white mare. Her mouth was moving. She was saying something urgent, lots of something urgents. I could sense that much. But nothing seemed urgent anymore. You wanna know what it was like? I thought. Huh? I’ll tell you what it was like. Nam wasn’t real. Not when I was there. Now it’s real. Now I can think about things like why we were there, what we were trying to prove to ourselves, why we did some of the things we did. I have time now to sort back through it all: the dead, the dying, the barbarism, the atrocity, through everything I can remember to help make sense of it."

********
"His name was John Blue and he had a chip on his shoulder — in fact, he once told me he’d rather fight than fuck. I believed him, yet there he was looking as though someone had stomped his ass bad. I couldn’t imagine that ever happening. Blue was a twenty-five-year-old full-blood reservation-raised Blackfoot who hated people, but for some reason liked me. All he said, practically without even stopping to say hello, was If you’re ever driving so drunk you see three bridges up ahead, don’t take the one in the middle."
********
"Nine men’s not enough, said Wiskey, never looking up from cleaning the big gun. I looked at him curiously, wondering what motivated him to say that. C-More looked at him funny, too, and sensed he was losing control of the squad. Square away, he said. You dudes call yourselves Marines or Swabbies? We owe ‘em. We owe all the others, like JB and Bursar and Seldom and Benjie and Lugar. Remember Lugar, Rootie, remember man? They blew the back of his goddamn head off. Stuffed his balls in his mouth and then sewed it shut. Remember man? Them muthers hung him by the thumbs from a fuckin’ tree."

********
"C-More screamed CHARGE suddenly and the whole squad moved out quickly, zigging and zagging and diving in holes and behind trees, spraying the area like fire fighters, chunks of lead and M-79 rounds exploding on impact. I leapt up too, then fell back down, jerked by Benjie’s tight hand on my arm. I looked at his swollen face, watched it turn ashen and then bluish purple as he held his breath fighting the pain and the inevitable, his whole head bloating out, then caving in quickly as his breath rushed out loud. Tears shot out my eyes I remember, rocking back on my heels looking straight up. Arrrrrrrr…… I clenched and screamed, but the wind swept the sounds to the mere decibels of silence."

********
"Charles Stricklyn is dead. With him are Watson, Wiskey, and Murphy. Everyone asks “Why Rizzuti? Someone upstairs must like him. But why him?” I don’t know why but I’ve got to know. Something’s got to tell me. I say something cause nothing human can tell me. The guys all think I lead some kind of charmed life. They hang around me like I’m a lucky piece, a Saint Christopher medal or something. Can you believe that? People are dying all around me, and these dudes think I’m lucky. It’s raining outside this leaky tent; artillery is firing and enemy mortar rounds are splashing in the mud. Why don’t I take cover? Cause I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn about anything. It just don’t mean nothin’ no more."

********
"I moved toward the front, one step at a time, slowly past staring eyes as frightened as my own, then froze solid again as Baker’s and mine locked in instantaneous telepathy. I looked away quickly, but not before registering one life-lasting color photo of his mutilated face, torn off from the nose down, shredded flesh oozing blood and saliva, dripping like melting cherry icicles, splattering off his flak jacket and boots, his eyes wild and glossy like someone speaking in tongues, his arms and shoulders limp, his hands wringing frantically at rosary beads, his sunken life’s essence hurling toward total completion — He knew it — I knew it — God knew it — everyone and everything abandoning him on this, the afternoon of his supreme and inevitable day."

********
"McKlusky, plastered, was funnier than shit as usual. Six foot seven, about 240 pounds, he looked like a genetic throwback to more primitive times, the kind of guy who’d wipe his ass on a tree trunk if he didn’t have no toilet paper, just back right up to it and rub up and down on the bark."

Reviews:

"This is truth masquerading as fiction. Viet Nam is the scene. The players are members of Second Battalion of the 26th Marine Regiment. "The Second Tour" is that period time between two realities, the then and the now. The secret is to find a way to accept one reality and live with another. Mr. Rizzuti has described his time in Viet Nam very accurately. It's one hell of a story. I hope he has worked over his First Tour and has it behind him. It is a heavy burden to carry alone. Welcome home!" --Midwest Book Review, Richard Larson, Reviewer

"This book is an essential primer for anyone working therapeutically with veterans and PTSD. This remarkable book raises serious questions, while providing critical catharsis and even more importantly, cogent answers that have given me a new understanding of the plight my patients face." --Darryl Zitzow, [PhD. Clinical Psychologist]

"Rizzuti has unleashed a maelstrom of raw emotions that will haunt you long after you finish The Second Tour. This is vivid blood, guts and scenarios reminiscent of the hell Dante showed us. Real people leap off the pages and their names echo with grief." --Jae

"I did not want to put this book down until completed and then wanted more. Though the picture Terry gives at times can be gruesome, he delivers it with rare sensitivity." --Paula J Fardulis

"...This is a book by a man of courage who understood at last that each and every one of us can break under the scourge of extreme fire, and that forgiveness, both given and received, is our only hope of redemption." --rockymtnbluebird

"This may well be the most harrowing account of modern combat experience written. An engrossing weaving of memoir and fiction, this novel tells a story almost too powerful to be registered by consciousness. I invited three Vietnam combats vets to a graduate English class I taught on this novel. Working through this narrative was a moving, informative, and memorable experience for all of us." --Marshall

"...Rizzuti's story is not an easy read, but it's a damn good one. I hope this book receives the recognition it deserves." --George J. Bryjak

"I enjoyed the story and recommend The Second Tour to anyone who wants to know what these young soldiers had to endure to survive early in the Vietnam War and return home. However, the mental damage had already been done and unlike putting a book down and forgetting about it, this story will continue to play out over and over again in the heads of those men that had experienced it." --John Podlaski [Author of Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel]

"Terry Rizutti pulls no punches in this devastating novel. If you're brave enough to look war dead in the eyes, this book's for you." --Charlene Rubush, [Author]

Other Books by Terry P. Rizzuti:

Heads or Tales

Crap Shoot

Suffering Seacil: For Better or For Worse

About the Author:

Terry P. Rizzuti was born in Oklahoma and spent his early youth in upstate New York. In 1965, he graduated high school, started college that same year at the University of Oklahoma (OU), then dropped out and joined the Marine Corps in early 1966. 

He served a tour in Vietnam as a “grunt” from October 1966 to November 1967, assigned to Golf Company of the 26th Marine Regiment and was wounded in May 1967, which earned him a Purple Heart. 

In December 1969, Terry got out of the Marine Corps and immediately re-enrolled at OU where he graduated with an English Literature degree in 1977. After that, he completed two years of graduate-level literature studies, then went to work at OU until 1996.

Terry's Website

Terry's Blog

“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