REMF's: by Tom Peck

105mm casings during second battle for Khe Sanh

We had REMF's (Rear Echelon Mother F**kers) that had no clue what it was like in the bush.

If you look at a few of the pictures on Facebook, you will see that the rear bases and cities were in no way like what a lot of us had to put up with.

We didn't have hot food every day, or showers, clean clothes, USO shows, mail, movies, BX, alcohol, soda, or candy. We were lucky to get once a week, once a month, depending on the Branch of Service, Army, or Marines (which I was).

We were almost always on the move looking for the VC, or stock piles, or rocket launch sites, or pushing them into a blocking force, after clearing village after village, or hamlet, mile after mile daily. Rarely did we see what they called the rear. We called it the Battalion Area. I can only remember being in the rear two times, possibly three, in seven months.

One time proved fatal for guys in a tent barracks two down from us. They were collecting all the ammunition from the time in the bush: grenades, claymores, bullets, laws (rockets), everything. Someone triggered something and killed and wounded a lot of guys. It was a mess outside. The tent was almost gone.

These are the things you remember, not the things like showers, shows, and BXs. You remember all the lives lost due to accidental discharge, because it could have been your own on one or two occasions. It was only for the fact that I moved, that another's life was lost instead.

You remember your own artillery coming in short and almost killing you, but not any VIP, for there weren't any. You remember inept officers and the stupid actions of those around you and wonder how you remained alive.

You read about the horrors others faced and you asked yourself, "Why was I so lucky?" and I was compared to thousands of others, compared to 58,000 plus, compared to MIAs, and compared to POWs.

Was it Worth it?

My wounds in no way were as serious, or traumatic, as those who fought in Hue, La Drang, Khe Shan, Hamburger Hill, or the LLRPs, or Snipers, or Huey Pilots. My wounds were from a booby trap, not by a bullet, or firefight, or ambush.

There are so many brave warriors that went unrecognized, due to bureaucratic jealousy, vindictiveness, revenge, false bravery on the part of those handling the paperwork, even Superiors who knew no combat at all. Bravery was denied on many, many, many occasions, falsely claimed by those who showed none.

I don't know how this all will be interpreted, but these are my opinions, my views, my thoughts about those who were short-changed so long ago, who died to prove a point that proved fruitless and meanless.

It was strategy for a future battle that ended up costing lives and wounded, and for what? To just give back the ground soaked in blood, sweat, tears, and lives? Not just once, but several times? This, by those disassociated with the Realities of Combat and the Sacrifices We Made Daily, following asinine orders by REMFs, who looked at a map, listened to a Radio, but couldn't face Reality,

They were there in the rear, not being shot at, not sacrificing anything, but words. What is their futility, their death wish, their epitaph? It wasn't their family's door that would be knocked on. What decoration would they award to themselves for the sacrifices they didn't make? Can you understand how some will perceive my views?

I don't believe it's time to move on. There are still between 1500 to 2300 -- if not more -- unaccounted for MIAs ...

Tom Peck
USMC Vietnam
January-August '69
WIA 28 July "69



“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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Proud American

by Jerome Cleveland
Pierre, SD

In the 1960s, many young people were called to serve their country. Many of our parents had been veterans of WWII and their patriotism was reflected in the family values and carried over in our thinking.

The idea that if our country called us to serve, it was prevalent and unquestioned—and we answered the call.

I remember being a college student 18 years old, and reading in the newspaper that my high school neighbor and friend, Roger Jensen, had been killed in Vietnam. That is when I felt the call to duty, and volunteered for the draft, late in 1968.

As the Vietnam War lingered on, and the media exposure, political skepticism, and rallies for peace impacted the soldiers and their thinking, it became difficult to remain focused on duty and mission. Yet, we were soldiers, young, and dedicated to serve.

We saw a lot and learned a lot, and I for one feel good that I served my country, and saddened that the outcome was what it was. I am proud to have served, and I remain a patriotic and proud American.

We don’t always agree with decisions our leaders make, but we do have an obligation, again today, to defend our country when called upon, without question. Everyone, who has served in Vietnam, or any other war, deserves the respect of all citizens for putting their life on the line for freedom. 

Let no person ever take for granted what we have here in America, and don’t forget that many have paid the ultimate price in the past and many more continue to do so today. Celebrate and appreciate your veterans, who gave what they had to give for your freedom and the United States of America.

Lastly, don’t ever let anyone like Jane Fonda, influence your thinking with her distorted and wicked views and unpatriotic thinking. People like her are as responsible for lost lives as the enemy themselves. 

As Americans, when called to serve, we do so, and are proud of it. We all would prefer peace to war, but there is a price for peace, and it needs to be protected.

“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

Tears of a Warrior

by John Norwood

Retired USAF CM Sgt.

Aircraft Flight Engineer

A man of eighteen years, barely dry behind the ears, hears Uncle Sam’s call.  In eight short weeks, the change is as radical as a caterpillar becoming a butterfly -- only this change has no beauty to it. The young boy is transformed into a soldier, an instrument of war.

The days of taking his girl to lover’s leap and skipping class to go fishing are all gone. He is thrust into a world of violence against his fellow man. He begins to see the ravages of war. He learns to kill, not for sport or food, but for territory and ideals. He learns these skills with dedication and without question, because he is doing what he is ordered to do.

Suddenly he is thrust into a world of pain, death, blood and pure fear. He sees things that no amount of education, or training, prepared him for. 

His friends are now few and close, yet distant, because getting too close will cause pain when that friend is no longer there. The cold, damp, heat, and loneliness become his constant companion. At times he tries to deaden the pain with booze. He fights with himself, trying to bury what he sees. He does his job without emotion, knowing if he feels, he’ll go nuts.

Then suddenly it’s all over.  He sheds his uniform and finds himself back on Main Street USA. When he sees his old schoolmates, he finds he no longer has anything in common with them. He cannot talk about his experiences because they won’t understand. His youth was robbed from him and he no longer trusts those around him with the ease he once did.

He has wounds you cannot see; not wounds of the body, but wounds of the soul, mind and spirit.  No one can see them. No one can see the scars. 

He drifts back to a time when he felt the pain for real. He seeks out answers he cannot find. At times he feels out of control and tries to find anything he believes will give him control, like booze and drugs, or he buries himself in work to the point of exhaustion.

He withdraws from relationships for fear of loss. He rejects authority for authority brought him harm in the past. He feels alone in a world that doesn’t seem to care. He hurts, but no one can see the wounds; no one hears his cries for help. He is judged by what others can only see on the surface. 

They don’t see the Unseen Wounds. They don’t hear his silent cries.  All he can do is ask, “Why can’t you see what this has done to me?”


“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

Healing Old Wounds

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To all Vietnam and other veterans, their families and friends:  Sharing can be a way of healing. Grief and loss can isolate, anger even alienate. Shared with others, our emotions unite us, as we see we aren't alone.  We realize others weep with us.

[Douglas Scott Kempf - KIA September 5, 1969]

As a (1969) Vietnam War widow, it is my wish to provide a healing place where you can write about anything you want. You have the truths America should hear.  The “Memoirs From Nam” blog was created for that very purpose. 

Come and visit.  Read what so many others have already shared.  I encourage you to share your own stories and email them to me with “Stories from Nam” in the subject line:   cjheck60porsche@gmail.com.   

I'll be waiting to hear from you.   Memoirs From Nam 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