The Smorgasbord Patrol

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.

The Round Trip: by Lance Pinamonte

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.

War Reinvents You: by Jeff Yarger

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"

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

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.

Sharing the Burden, Vet to Vet

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"

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.

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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


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

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.

Christmas Past, Loc Ninh '69

Nurse on C-141 Med-Evac Flight

by Lt. David Avery

AUTHOR'S NOTE: In late '69 I was wounded in the chest, arm, and back when a kid with an AK-47 rifle popped out of a spider hole I had overlooked while clearing a bunker complex near Loc Ninh. 

Christmas eve found me strapped to a stretcher and wearing an oxygen mask on a C-141 starlifter bound for Walter Reed.  

If I just breathe slowly and don't panic, I can do this. It's only a few hours, just concentrate on breathing. The oxygen mask makes my face itch and the oxygen feels cold and tastes metallic. Breath IN slowly: 1, 2, 3; Let it out. 

The plane is full, with stretchers stacked four high in four long rows down the length of the aircraft; two inboard and two outboard, like four sticks of jumpers. 

There are maybe a dozen flight nurses -- it's hard to tell, since I can't turn my head. Breath IN 1, 2, 3; Out 1, 2, 3 -- Just keep breathing slowly. If you let yourself get short of breath you'll never catch up. 

It would be silly to die here on the evac plane after surviving medivac from the field and surgery at the 96th. The sun sure seemed bright when they carried me onto the plane at BOA. And hot after days in an air conditioned ward at the evac hospital. 

Even on the taxi way, the green smell of the jungle cuts through the odor of burned jet fuel. It must have been a hundred degrees lying on the tarmac while the load master and the nurses shuffled slot assignments for the stretchers on the flight. Then dark as a cave in the cargo bay of the plane. 

I half expected guys to cheer when the wheels came off the ground in Vietnam, but no one did. Wonder how long the flight to Andrews will take? Let's see, it's twelve thousand miles and a C-141 cruises at what 450 mph? Hard to do the division - my mind is fuzzy. Wonder if I can stay calm that long? 

Just breath slowwwly and stay awake. One breath at a time. At least the nurses are all clustered around the stretcher two spaces aft -- kid there doesn't sound too good. As long as no one is fussing with me I must be OK. Breathe. Breathe. 

Plane seems warm. I wonder if they have the cabin heater set higher for these evac flights. I don't remember ever being warm in a C-141 when we jumped from them at Benning. Breathe slowllly.

Nurse in a flight suit touches my good arm. "How you doing LT?" I nod, having no breath to speak. She probably couldn't hear me over the engine noise anyway. I point at my mouth, asking for water. She shakes her head and moves on to the next stretcher above me. Same singsong tone, "How you doing sergeant?" 

Despite my intent to concentrate and stay awake, I find myself dozing off. Must be the morphine. Just breathe! I come fully awake when I hear the change in flight noise as the flaps come down. Are we are Andrews -- how long was I asleep? 

"This is your pilot speaking. We will be landing at Anchorage for refueling. Flight nurses take your arrival stations." Anchorage. I always wanted to visit Alaska. Hope he puts this thing down smoothly; I'm not up to a crash. 

We land and taxi for what seems like a long time. The engines are shutdown and the plane is very warm and quiet. Then I hear the hydraulics of the rear ramp and a gust of Alaskan winter blows through the cargo bay. 

Turning my head, I can just see the terminal building through the snow, and a big lighted Christmas wreath. It is 3 AM local time. 

Up the ramp walk a half dozen middle-aged women in civilian clothing with cardboard trays of coffee in Styrofoam cups, chattering and greeting the guys on the stretchers near the ramp. They sound like my mom and her sisters. Finally, one gets to me, smiles and says "Merry Christmas, Lieutenant! Welcome Home." 

It is Christmas 1969, and I'm going to live ...

Lt. David Avery

[Written especially for my wife, Hebe Quinton].  

“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.

Christmas in Khe Sanh

Christmas in Khe Sanh

by Bill Cowan

When Christmas Day finally arrived, the division headquarters sent cases of hardboiled eggs and eggnog to our battalion.

Our glee at these unexpected delicacies was almost childlike.  Even so far away from home, Christmas again seemed quite real. A few of us were even prepared to successfully debate the existence of Santa Claus.

As the day went on, some of us sang along with the Christmas carols beaming over AFVN. Others broke out pictures of their families or loved ones and talked about home. Nearly all of us ate eggs and drank eggnog until we were sick.

As was customary, a holiday truce had been called between warring factions. Although neither side was known to be meticulous about honoring such truces, each of us shared a slight sense of relief in believing that we weren’t at risk for at least one special day.

Amidst our joy, however, and unbeknownst to us, the enemy was amassing thousands of troops for an attack on our base and the small company outposts on the outlying hills. 

Even as we sang, talked, and drank eggnog, North Vietnamese scouts were peering down at us from the looming hills to the north and planning their strategy for attack. Within less than a month, the biggest battle of the Vietnam war commenced — the siege of Khe Sanh, our small mountain base.

For many servicemen at Khe Sanh, that Christmas was their last. It was also the last for thousands of North Vietnamese troops who, like us, were away from home serving their country.

Today, 46 years after that Christmas and as if it happened only yesterday, I can still see the smiling faces of my Marine friends, hear the holiday music of AFVN, and taste the eggnog.

This small story of mine can be echoed a thousand times over by other veterans who have served through World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Beirut, Iraq, Afghanistan, and a hundred other places where men and women stood in harm’s way in service of their country. The particular place, time, faces, and events may be different, but the memories and feelings down inside won’t be.

If you know a veteran, you might want to ask about one of his or her Christmases past. There’s probably a story waiting to be told.

[Bill Cowan is a retired USMC Lieutenant Colonel. He is also a contributor for the Fox News Channel.]


“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.

One Christmas in Vietnam 1969

Lee "Bad Bascom" Pearson, Jim Schueckler, Dave Lissow

A True Story 

by Jim Schueckler 

It was Christmas Eve, but didn't feel like it in Vietnam.

The mess hall had been unusually quiet. Although Christmas music was playing, nobody was talking. 

Later, in the first platoon pilot's hooch, the mood was the same.

The recent deaths of four pilots and four crewmen seemed to overshadow any chance of holiday spirit. 

Several pilots were sitting together, and one finally piped up, "We have to do something happy to get out of this mood." Another offered that we should sing Christmas Carols, but nobody would start the singing. 

I announced that, after almost a year of flying in Vietnam, I was not going to sit around there on Christmas Day watching twenty long faces; I had to fly tomorrow. 

After more silence, someone blurted out, "Let's take up a collection for the hospital at Dam Pao!" The thought was met with excited approval.

I suggested that I would ask to fly the Da Lat MACV mission tomorrow to take the money that we could collect tonight. Mike volunteered to fly with me.

First stop: the crew chiefs' hooch. I asked Bascom if he would like to fly the Da Lat MACV mission. He and Dave quickly agreed, to also escape the prevailing sad mood.

The company commander was in the operations bunker. I explained our plan but he answered: "We don't have the Da Lat MACV mission.  In fact, we don't have any missions tomorrow. There is a cease-fire on."

I decided to beg: "Please, Sir, could you call battalion and see if some other company has Da Lat MACV?"

The CO picked up the phone and then started writing on a mission sheet form. He handed it to me and said, "Da Lat MACV helipad, oh seven thirty. We took the mission from the 92nd." He took out his wallet, and handed me some money. "Here's something for your collection."

When we reached the gunship platoon hooch, three pilots looked on sadly as one man raked a pile of money from the center of a table towards himself. We made our sales pitch about the hospital. The generous gambler pushed the pile toward me and said: "I would just end up losing it all back to these guys anyway."

In one hooch, we were given a gift package of cheeses.

We decided to make another pass through the company area, asking for cookies, candy, and other foods.

As we left one hooch, the men inside started singing "Deck the Halls," and soon those in other buildings were competing. It wasn't clear whether the competition was for the best, worst, or just loudest singing; but it was easy to see that the mood of the company had changed for the better.

We next went to the mess hall. The mess sergeant and cooks were still there, preparing for Christmas Day. The sergeant replied: "Do you have a truck with you? We have too much food right now because of all the guys who went home early. And we have some canned foods about to expire." One pilot went to get the maintenance truck while the rest of us checked dates on cans and cartons of food.

An infantry unit mess hall was not far away, so we went there next. We accepted several cases of freeze-dried foods.

At the dispensary the medic gave us bandages and dressings. We tied down the pile of goods in the Huey.

After dropping off the truck the four pilots walked back to our hooch. One pilot looked at his watch and said, "Hey guys! It's midnight, Merry Christmas!"

My alarm clock startled me out of a deep sleep. A check with my wristwatch verified the time, but something was wrong. Mornings were usually bustling with the sounds of aircraft, trucks, and men preparing for the daily business of war. Today there were no such sounds. Is this what peace sounds like?

In the shower building, Mike and I talked about what our families would be doing today, half a world away. I reminded Mike that my wife promised me another Christmas celebration, with decorated tree and wrapped presents, in just two weeks. I would be meeting another Mike, my four-month-old son. 

After breakfast, the others went to the flight line while I called for a weather briefing.

When I got to the helicopter, Mike was doing the preflight inspection and had just climbed up to the top of the Huey. Together, we checked the main rotor hub and the "Jesus nut," named because, if it came off, "only Jesus could help you." Everything was fine; we were ready to fly.

We took off and headed for the mountains. It felt good to fly with this crew; we were a finely-tuned team. Lee, who preferred the nickname "Bad Bascom," was the crew chief of this Huey; he did all the daily maintenance on it and flew every mission. With Mike as co-pilot and Dave as door gunner, we had taken that helicopter into and out of a lot of difficult situations.

Our company radio call sign was Polecat; we were Polecat three five six. I decided to climb higher than usual in the smooth morning air. As we left the jungle plains along the coast, the green mountains of the Central Highlands rose up to meet us. Fog on the plateau spilled over between the peaks, looking like slow, misty, waterfalls. In the rising sunlight the mountain peaks cast long shadows on the fog. The beauty and serenity of the scene was dazzling.

The mess hall had been quiet. The airfield was quiet. The radios were quiet. We weren't even chattering on the intercom as we usually did. Our minds were all with different families, somewhere back home, half a world away. Everything was quiet and peaceful; it felt very, very, strange.

We landed at Da Lat, shut down the Huey, and walked into the bunker. The new MACV senior advisor, a lieutenant colonel, agreed that we could stop at the hospital at Dam Pao after we finished his planned route of stopping at every one of his outposts. But we first had to meet a truck at Phan Rang Air Base.

Donut Dollies - Polecat 356

When we got close to Phan Rang, the whole crew listened as the colonel talked by radio with his contact on the ground.

Not only was there food and mail to pick up, but the colonel was asked if we also wanted to fly some Donut Dollies around! The helicopter was filled with young men eagerly nodding their heads and flight helmets, "YES."

Donut Dollies were American Red Cross volunteers, college graduates in their early twenties.

Although no longer distributing donuts like their namesakes of World War I, they were still in the service of helping the morale of the troops. At large bases, they managed recreation centers; but they also traveled to the smaller units in the field for short visits. For millions of GIs, they represented the girlfriend, sister, or wife back home.

Soon we were heading back to the mountains with a Huey full of mail, fuel, food, Christmas cargo, and two American young women.

We had sliced hot turkey and pumpkin pies for the men who had been living off Vietnamese food and canned Army-issue rations at the outposts.

When we got near the first outpost, the colonel, by radio, told the men on the ground that we were going to make it snow. The Donut Dollies sprinkled laundry soap flakes out of the Huey as we flew directly over a small group of American and Vietnamese soldiers who must have thought we were crazy. Several of them were rubbing their eyes as we came back to land. I'll never be sure if it was emotion or if they just got soap flakes in their eyes.

The three Americans came over to the Huey as the rotor was slowing down. One Donut Dolly gave each of them a package from the Red Cross and the other called out names to distribute the mail. 

After about 15 minutes of small talk between the Donut Dollies, the five MACV soldiers, and the crew of 356, the colonel said, "We have a lot more stops to make" and got back into the Huey. The soldiers stood there motionless, staring at us as we started up, hovered, and then flew away.

At the next outpost, the colonel left us to talk privately with the local officials. The crew and I didn't mind having the task of escorting the Donut Dollies. It was easy to see how happy the soldiers were to talk with them. I wondered how they were feeling. Their job was to cheer up other people on what may have been their own first Christmas away from home; if they were lonely or sad, they never let it show.

Throughout the day, the same scene was repeated at a number of other small outposts. Finally, when the official MACV work was done, we were above the hospital at Dam Pao. Mike landed us a few hundred feet from the main building.

Several American-looking men and women came out, carrying folding stretchers. They first showed surprise that we were not bringing an injured new patient, and then joy as we showed them the food, money, and medical supplies.

One woman began to cry when she saw the price tag on a cheese gift pack. She explained that twenty dollars could provide a Montagnard family with nutritious food for more than a month.

One of the doctors asked if we would like to see the hospital. He talked as we carried the goods from the Huey to the single-floor, tin-roof hospital building. "Project Concern now has volunteer doctors and nurses from England, Australia, and the USA. We provide health services to civilians and train medical assistants to do the same in their own villages. In order to stay here we have to remain neutral. Both sides respect our work, and leave us alone."

One of the women described a recent event. Two nurses and a medical assistant student were returning from a remote clinic in the jungle when their jeep became mired in mud. Many miles from even the smallest village, they knew that they would not be able to walk to civilization before dark. A Viet Cong foot patrol came upon them, pulled the jeep out of the mud, and sent them on their way.  

There were homemade Christmas decorations everywhere; most had been made on the spot by patients or their families. Inside, the hospital reminded me of pictures of Civil War hospitals. There were only a few pieces of modern equipment but the hospital was very clean. The staff's living quarters were very meager.

 As we moved into one ward, a nurse gently lifted a very small baby from its bed; and before I could stop her, she placed him in my arms. He was born that morning. Although complications had been expected, the mother and baby were perfectly healthy! As I held the tiny infant, I couldn't help but wonder how I would feel in just two weeks, when I would hold my own four-month-old son for the first time.

The staff invited us to stay for supper with them, and I could tell the invitation was sincere. But the sun was getting low, and I didn't want to fly us home over one hundred miles of mountainous jungle in the dark. I also would have felt guilty to take any of their food, no matter how graciously offered. 

As we started the Huey the colonel was still about fifty feet away talking to the doctors and nurses. He took something out of his wallet and pressed it into the hand of one of the doctors with a double-hand handshake, then quietly climbed on board.

There was no chatter on the intercom as we flew back to Da Lat. Mike set the Huey down softly. The colonel extended his hand towards me to shake hands. "Thanks for taking us to that hospital, and Merry Christmas."

"Yes, sir, thank you, Merry Christmas."

The flights to Phan Rang and then back to Phan Thiet were also marked with silence. I thought of my family that I would be with in just twelve days, good friends I would soon be leaving behind, and good friends who would never go home. I realized the unusual nature of that day.

In the midst of trouble and strife, I would remember that one Christmas Day in Vietnam as a time of sharing, happiness, love -- and peace.

EPILOG:

At the 1993 dedication of the Vietnam Women's Memorial, I had forgotten the Donut Dollies' names. Showing around a picture of them next to Polecat 356, I found Ann and talked with Sue by telephone a few days later. That Christmas Day was also special to them.

Project Concern International, 3550 Afton Road San Diego, CA 92123 is still doing similar humanitarian work in Asia and several US cities.

Copyright 1993, by Jim Schueckler



“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.

1967 Bob Hope Christmas Show: by Robert L. Bellville

Robert L. Bellville

Well CJ, the Bob Hope Show I saw was held on the 24th of December 1967 in Lai Khe, Vietnam.

 
It was a real treat for us to see Bob Hope along with all the other entertainers he brought with him.

I remember one of the first things that came to my mind was memories of watching this great American on television as a kid, as he put on Christmas shows for our troops all around the world.

Now here I was, a part of one of those shows.

Bob Hope - Raquel Welch

Some of the guests he had with him were:

Raquel Welch
Miss World
Phil Crosby
Les Brown with his Band of Renown

I know there were many more, (especially a lot of good looking girls), but I don't remember who else now. I do know that myself and all the troops just loved them.

As always, Bob made many jokes, one of them being: 

“I hope Charlie knows there is a cease fire on and he doesn't send any rockets our way.”

I sat there remembering all the Christmases past and thinking, “Now here I am, 12,000 miles from home.” It was different, but Bob brought part of the world with him that day for the 1st Infantry and the show was great.

To me Bob Hope was and will always be one of the greatest Americans ever.

Robert L. Bellville

U.S. Army - ’66 - ‘67
Vietnam

“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 with other vets.  Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history ...