by Gary Jacobson

North Vietnamese spewed rockets all over the place,
As the helicopter rotors race
Quickly in haste
Dee-deeing the Marines Khe Sahn firebase.
I'm filled with consuming terror,
Abject horror
That would not soon pass,
Sitting on my helmet so I wouldnít get a round
Up my a..,
Uh, stern.

Dreaming dreams from far away,
The center of this grisly fireworks display,
Watching hot colored tracers
Around our Chinook sashay.
I canít help but wonder,
Is this judgment day?

As I sat with deadened feeling
Numbly watching
Insensible horror around me unfolding
500 thousand North Vietnamese regulars hardcore,
Flashed lazers of light past our helicopter door
Putting my brain into overload,
About to explode.

Machine gun shell casings from our doorgunner
Bounce off my boot
As I set here numbly mute,
Looking out the Chopper door,
Quickly receding from the war.
A hot round my hand stinged.
I stared blankly as it blistered,
As the war outside raged...
A war for so long had held me captive,
Astonished Iím still alive.

The North Vietnamese Army's bulls eye
For three weeks of living hell,
NVA loomed so close I could hear them well,
Taste their sweet and sour smell,
Hear them moving,
Hear them talking,
Feel searing hatred in their hearts burning,
Weapons of my destruction readying,
Brazenly laughing,
Preparing almost casually,
In utter disdain to viciously
Dispatch me.

Most assuredly,
Their agenda I could clearly see,
To come pouring over that wire between them and me,
And without hesitation kill me,
Put an end to what was me,
Put me out of my suffering misery,
End three weeks of violent dreaming
Still to this day haunting.

Our ďHookĒ dropped us nonchalantly
Almost casually,
Settling down in its own dust storm without care.

I stared listlessly into nothing,
From the shade of an oil drum finding,
Ears and nerves and every fiber still shaking,
Still hearing the erstwhile bullets of combat whistling,
Still ringing,
Around my ears still singing...

Sweat from every orifice was draining,
My rifle, my sole reality, clutching,
Filthy and dirty and staring,
Bored and disgusting
Out into nothingness from hollow eyes unseeing,

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Khe Sanh Pass
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This is a report by Marshall Darling, of Andover, Maryland, concerning his experiences during The Vietnamese New Year, "Tet."

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"City Dump!" - I keyed the mike and spewed the inanity into the quiet January night over the First Air Cavalryís artillery Fire Direction Network. We were disgusted and bored. Christmas was past and we were in a cease-fire for the 1968 TET holiday. The radio chatter was reduced to inanities, unneeded communication checks and requests for flares from the infantry as they imagined moving shadows outside the wire. Dan and I had pulled the 11 to 7 AM shift on Shooter Radar. Our job was to locate the occasional incoming VC mortar rounds that were lobbed into LZs English and Dog in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. It was a very quite night; no snipers, no normal "Whump! Whumpís!" of artillery impacts in the hills-only bugs, bad jokes and the monotony of staring at the clutter on the radar screen. The only action was the stream of tracers that streaked skyward from the drunken South Vietnamese troops who were bivouacked about a mile away.
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Suddenly the radio screamed, "Shooter, this is Thunder 1 Alpha! We have impacts inside the wire! Where the hell is it coming from? Over --- Shooter, come back! Over---Are you guys awake over there? Give us a location, NOW! Over"
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Dan grabbed the radio and yelled, " We donít show any incoming! I donít know where itís coming from, over!" I frantically swung the machine in an arch, trying to find the mortars that were pasting their position. Nothing showed on my screen! It wasnít rocket fire. (We later learned that it was Viet Cong suicide squads who had tunneled into our LZ and were throwing satchel charge explosives into the bunkers.) The 1967-1968 TET offensive had begun.
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We grabbed our M-16 rifles and woke up the rest of the unit. They fanned out into a perimeter around the radar to repel any attackers but luckily the action was concentrated on the big artillery guns far away from our position. The Viet Cong had breached our wire through the floors of the shops and whorehouses that had grown up around that side of the base. So much for the "friendly" Mama-sans with their toothless grins!
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The night finally turned into dawn and the firing stopped--the entire enemies force either dead or melted back into the village population. The wire around the artillery positions was littered with dead VC, some in pieces. The dirt road that passed by the base had the "leftovers" of the nightís firefight. Everywhere there were scattered dead children and other civilians, blooded faces, severed arms, all strewed in the dirt like unloved and discarded dolls. The dogs licked those broken faces, disturbing the flies. People walked by, afraid and unseeing, and to the eyes of this fresh-faced American "boy", uncaring. In time the carnage slowly disappeared from the road but I will never forget that child that lay frozen in her death scene for three days. I wanted to stop and...but I drove on by like the rest of the world, afraid to do any thing in that hostile environment.
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My war took on a radically different direction after that day. I had spoken with my family a few months earlier on Thanksgiving and my younger brother, David, had asked me if I had seen any action? "Have you killed anyone?" he asked? I had told him "No" because my area was considered "pacified" that fall of Ď67. Except for a sniper or those occasional mortar rounds, it was mostly quite--but TET changed that forever.
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Within a week after the start of that cross-country offensive we were told that we would be pulling out--destination unknown. Our crew was ordered to "button" up the radar and transfer all equipment to the temporary runway on LZ English to sit and wait. To move an Army division containing thousands of men is a major undertaking, even for the 1st Air Cavalry, Airmobile. The only picture that I can conjure up to illustrate this experience is a multi legged, belly crawling slug that flails all its legs around but really moves on its gut in a "hunching along" series of motions. The head moves by stretching its self out to its maximum where itís forced to stop while waiting for the tail to catch up. The "dance" is then repeated until achieving its destination. Anyone who has been in the military is ever so familiar with the slogan "Hurry up and wait!" The night that we got our orders to move our section was spent on a rainy runway, under our two-ton radar, after being "Hurry Upped" for the prior two days. Finally, at first light, a wave of what seemed like 150 "Hooks" (Chinook twin bladed cargo-carrying helicopters) settled down amongst us. The waterlogged warriors ducked under the whirling blades, scrambled up the rear cargo ramps and were lurched into the clouds.
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I was the last person on our "bird" because I had pulled the short straw that trip. The effect of this draw placed me on top of the radar while 20 tons of helicopter hovered above me on a hurricane-force column of air. From that position I had to attach the radarís sling cables to the hook under the belly of the helicopter (one of the origins of the nickname "Shit Hook"). Now came the fun part--climbing through the moving hatchway above me and past that damn hook. Every "slinger" knew that as soon as you touched that hook you became the ground for the static electricity generated by the two whirling blades. The resulting megajolt that passed through you made your legs buckle but there was no way of avoiding it. It was the only way in. (You can see why we drew straws for the job.) I could smell scorched hair for days.
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On the flight we learned that we were on the way to a ominous place called Khe Sanh, an infamous on-going battle that had become the obsession of LBJ, the Brass and the world wide media. The actions of North Vietnamese Army had convinced the generals that this battle could be THE major turning point in the war and that we must win it at all costs, (which include sacrificing my ass!). The NVA were pounding a Marine combat base located in a mountainous region at the extreme northwestern corner of the country. This was the Ho Chi Min Trailís entry to South Vietnam and the main route that they used to infiltrate troops and supplies. The ensuing battle had become one of the fiercest of the war so the 1st Cav was sent in, of course.
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I donít remember how long we flew with our radar slung under our "Hook" but we put down once, spent the night, rehooked and roared back into the sky the next morning. This time it was for real. Within an hour I saw the column of Hooks ahead of us lining up on a hillside, quickly liberating their cargoes and spewing troops out of every door. The surrounding hillsides arched out bursts of tracer fire, spewing out death wishes at our choppers while rocket impacts tore at my future home with regularity. My "bird" finally flared out over the hill as the crew chief guided the pilots as they lowered the radar into position. The chopper jerked upward as it released its load and our million-dollar machine hit the ground, hard. Now it was our turn. Bullets were coming through the floor and the Chief lowered the aft ramp while yelling "Get the hell out of here! We are taking hits!"
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I looked down into the area that he was pointing and I saw a 50ft drop into waves of elephant grass. (The pilots in the nose of the chopper might have been close to the ground but the tail was hanging its ass over a nasty cliff.) "Bull shit!" I yelled back. "Iím not going out that way!" and pushed him aside as I drove my way to the front and over to the side of the door gunner. There was space to exit behind his bucking machine gun position and I looked down into my immediate future with a fatalistic mental shrug. My mouth was dry with dread but it was my reality of that day and I dove out, praying that the bullets wouldnít cut me in half before I hit the ground. I pushed off and fell the 15-ft. towards the awaiting arms of the razor sharp grass--and into what ever was hidden within.
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My anticipation of that 5-second drop was the purest terror I had ever experienced. I envisioned either being killed by the enemy machine gunners or the explosion of a buried land mine if I made it to the ground at all. Even if I did make it down, I would still be directly under that multi-ton helicopter that could drop out of the sky at any second as a fireball. I held my breath, hugged my M-16 to my flack jacket and fell. My feet hit. I rolled onto my back and dug in my boots so I wouldnít go over the cliff and finally came to a full stop. To my surprise I was looking back up into a surrealistic movie.
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The madly whipping grass that surrounded me blocked everything out but the underbelly of that huge twin bladed green "grasshopper" that was suspended over me. I could see orange tracers coming from my exit door. The green tracers of the NVA fire made deadly Xís in the sky against them with some disappearing into the chopper. The prop wash from the Hook was hitting me and flattening out my grass wall of subjective security that surrounded me. I was down! I was alive! -- And very relived.
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The illusion of safety made me want to not move, just lay there, quietly, snuggling my rifle as if it were a favorite toy and maybe everything would just disappear. Suddenly out of that "movie" appeared a very real pair of Dan McCrackenís boots as he followed me to the ground--missing me by inches and rolling back on top of me. My moment of relief was quickly shattered as I untangled from the terrified hug of that Oregon lumberjack and we pushed as fast as we could up and over the crest of the hill.
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This put some heavy dirt between the green and orange firefight and us. Momentarily we were safe from harm as the last of our crew hit the ground and the Hook banked left and roared out of the area as quickly as it could. (They were back the next day dropping supplies so I guess they were none the worse for the holes that had been punched into them.)
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We were down! --- But on a hill in the center of untold thousands of NVA troops. The stories of their ferocity and dedication to Papa Ho Chi Min were legendary and here was Marshall, The Wasp, in their world with a gun in my hands and they were dedicated to kill me. Unbelievable! The whoosh of a rocket roared just inches over our heads. We could feel the heat of its engine but it shimmed over us and landed in the valley below with a major but wasted explosion. It scarred the shit out of me. The damn things kept coming at us all day and night. Your survival instincts kept you constantly looking for a hole to roll into and cover you head. (That reaction to loud and sudden noises is still with me almost 30 years later, especially when Iím stressed out.)
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We were all accounted for and we bent to our job of getting the radar operational so we could locate those damn rockets were coming from. Only then did we start building a shelter with an equally furious dedication. Our activities alternated between digging the hole and diving into it as the Whine!/ Roar!/ Wham! of the rockets screamed down on us like Hell Fire Banshees. We were terrified but we had to keep working. This became a routine very quickly - dig/dive - dig/dive but during one dive I caught a boot on something and heard the cartilage in my knee tare as I went in ahead of my legs. The sharp pain was temporarily intense but I had to keep on "digging and diving" until the hole was deep enough to almost stand in when we surrounded it by sandbags. The infantry strung barbed wire, set out their Claymore mines and machine gun positions while the artillerymen, the "Gun Bunnies", loaded walls of sandbags around their "tubes" and ammunition stockpiles. Supply choppers buzzed in and out with everything from steel plating for bunker roofs to hot chow and Life Magazine photographers.
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The entire LZ was in a fever pitch of survival activity because we knew what was coming any moment. I envisioned a swarm of little yellow men in a human wave attack clenching bayonets in their teeth as if in a John Wayne movie. I made sure that I had enough ammo clips and hand grenades while loosening my own bayonet in its scabbard. Was I really going to have to shove that unholy piece of steel into somebody that night or would I never see the rising sun? Could I kill somebody with my bare hands? If I died that night would it hurt or would it be quick? I tried to keep busy and not think about it too much.
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As the daylight deteriorated we prepared our equipment for the pure hell that awaited us. (The initial "gifts" that we had been given were only the NVA "Gun Bunnies" getting their range on our position. We awaited their onslaught knowing full well what was instore for us.) The other men on the LZ knew that Shooter Radar could locate the enemy firing positions and then our big guns would knock Ďem out, as usual. What they didnít know was the radar was not designed to track flat trajectory ordinance like those damn 122mm rockets. We had to attempt it anyway. The sun faded out, casting a warm glow over the once beautiful valley that was now pounded into a moonscape by the incessant tonnage of B-52 bombs. A high-tension calm flooded the area the darker it got. Even Larry Burrows, the legendary and, I noticed, fearless Life photographer, finally stopped pushing his Leicas in our faces and found a personal hole. My six-man unit jammed into our hooch, along with our radarís control unit, and went into our regular two-man screen watching rituals. Tony, the Hawaiian, and I were on the first shift with me on the radio and he on the screen. Everyone else tried to get some sleep in the spooky silence. He swung the machine back and forth looking for the origin of the hell that was about to descend upon us. We knew that the attempt was futile but it was the only defensive weapon that we had. Maybe weíd get lucky, find one of the bastards and be able to give our artillery a "knockout" location. The LZ was in a totally dug in condition, awaiting the inevitable and all praying that we would all be there in the morning--and the next--and the next. The waiting was horrible.
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It finally started with a vengeance about two hours later as the rockets came at us in pairs. They had perfected their aim during the day because more were now landing within our perimeter wire -- within feet of our small bunker!! They kept coming -- pair after pair, "walking" up and down through the LZ. We could hear the screams outside as someone got torn apart by the hot metal. "Medic! Medic!!" My leg is gone!! Medic, help me!!" I desperately wanted to go out and help but I couldnít disengage myself from my helmet. The fear, the unmitigated terror, of being the target for those 6 ft. flying bombs propels your mind to the brink of insanity. Every time one came over we all would coil into as small of a fetal position as possible and attempt to get inside our helmets. The perpetual panic of eminent death or dismemberment puts you into an out-of-body experience just to hold on to some sort of sanity. I actually felt that I was a few feet above myself watching as the explosions ripped jagged hot steel into the sandbags over my head. They kept missing but they kept coming. My body was jammed into the corner of the hole where the slide-way opened out to the night sky and I could see the fire trail of the rockets as they kept missing us over and over again.
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Suddenly, for some reason, there was a lull. We tried to convince ourselves that the attack was over for the night but we knew it wasnít. It was my turn to operate the radar so I switched places with Tony and he became vulnerable at the opening to the bunker. The only light in the hole was the green radar screen, orange cigarette tips and starlight. There were no bad jokes or "City Dump" on the radio now. This was war!
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This was reality! Our radar was part of an artillery unit and saw the daily death that our big guns could dispatch. Now we were on the receiving end. Sand was pouring down my neck from a torn bag. I tried to move away from its irritating drizzle but to no avail. It came straight into my flack jacket and down my back as I swung the radar, hoping to pick up the next group as they came roaring down on us. My heart, beating in my temples, was the loudest noise in the bunker.
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"Holy shit! Here comes two more!" crackled the radio and the night turned orange with a deafening roar. The old adage is true. We never heard it coming! Suddenly the world exploded and the hole collapsed around us, half burying me in now useless sandbags and jagged steel. I was stunned and deafened by the blast. It was strange to be able to feel noise but not to be able to hear it. Sounds came back slowly and were distant, like the noises in a dream---but this was no dream!!
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"My balls! My balls!" came a scream faintly heard somewhere behind me. "They shot off my balls!" yelled Neuy who had also been in line with the open door slide behind Tony. I lit a flashlight and, pushing the debris aside, crawled over to his side. There was blood gushing out between his legs and from his fingers as he covered the wound, screaming about his manhood. Someone tore open a gauze patch and tied it in the area as we tried to make him as comfortable as possible while the rockets kept pounding and pounding. I helped to push up our sandbag roof a bit so we could look at everyone else and swung the flashlight around to count heads. It was then that I saw Tony. He was sitting blankly in the spot that I had vacated just 30 seconds before, blood oozing from every orifice on his head. He was bent over forward and on his side at the bottom of the slide and I pushed my way over to him yelling "Tony! Tony!" and touched his arm. He moved lethargically, looking up at me with a quizzical expression. "What happened? I canít hear anything," he said. The blood was dripping from his ears and I knew that the explosion and the flying shrapnel must have blown out both his drums. I pulled him back over to "my" side of the hole and away from the door / slide to protect us both from the next rocket which skimmed over our heads with the now all too familiar roar. Neuy was moaning and I could tell he was about to go into shock from loss of blood. Everyone else in the unit seemed to be OK but we could not move to get him any help while the tempest roared outside. The radar had been blown off the air and there was nothing to do but climb into our helmets and hopefully survive the night. We yelled for medics but they werenít moving either.
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With every screeching rocket came a wave of total and hysterical panic that that almost ripped your soul out the top of your head. "Please God, make them stop! Make it stop! Iím going to go insane if this doesnít stop! Why canít we knock them out?" kept screaming inside my head. It just went on and on, tearing and clawing and slashing wide avenues of death into our exposed and defenseless hilltop. The 1st Air Cavalry was naked and impotent. (We were all so used to demolishing anyone in our way by our ability to launch waves of helicopter gun ships and scorching artillery fire that the helplessness was doubly terrifying.) The rocket launchers were dug deeply into caves on the surrounding Laotian hills and could be protected at will. I flashed on the jets earlier that day as they attempted to lay bombs and Napalm "eggs" into those positions but obviously they had not been successful as wave after wave kept shredding and maiming our location. Whump! Whump! Whump! ...Whump! Whump! A face appeared at our slide/door yelling, "Stop them! Stop them! I canít take it any more!" Whump! Whump!.. "You have the radar--where are they coming from?.. Whump!. Stop them!! Stop them!!"
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Someone tried to pull him inside yelling, "What are you doing out there, man? Youíll get killed! Go back to your hole!" ...Whump!.. but he shook off the outstretched hands and disappeared , screaming. "Stop them! Stop them! Stop --" ...Whump! We found out the next day that he never made it but we had our own problems.
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Somehow I had to get out of that hole and get help for Tony and Neuy or one of them was going to die. The rocket barrage slackened down to a trickle and a medicís head appeared at our slide/door. "You guys OK in there? That 122 really messed up your hooch, man!" A bank of flares burst into their ghostly yellow/white glare over the LZ. I first thought that it was crazy to light us up like that but I soon realized that the rockets had stopped and the infantry on the perimeter were seeing movement outside the wire. "They wouldnít be laying rockets in on an area that their own troops are in, would they?" I started to think. "Was this the lull before the NVA came storming across our wire? Was this the night that I was going to kill someone or...". I had to stop thinking about it! I grabbed an extra bandoleer of clips with my M-16, checked my 45 pistol and that awful bayonet that I had been contemplating -- was it only 5 hours ago? -- and crawled out of the hole, helping to pull Neuy out of the collapsed bunker. I knew I couldnít fixate on my fear of a ground attack because I had to focus on the reality of getting the wounded to an aid station. I got on the front end of the stretcher and stood up, hefting the 200 lbs. of my moaning friend and stepped into The Twilight Zone.
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I flashed again on being in a movie--our only frame of reference for this war. The hill was illuminated by a never-ending line of flares that were marching across the sky held aloft under little white parachutes and trailing thick clouds of white smoke. Their light was dazzling but cast constantly moving shadows under my feet as each flare passed over me.
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As I struggled with the stretcher across the hill the shadows kept swinging wildly as each flare popped into life high up in its arc. It would then settle into a searing white burn under its little parachute and, as the wind saw fit, slowly drift off the hilltop, instantly being replaced by another of its kind to repeat the process, over and over. I stumbled through the still smoking craters towards the aid station, unable to get a good orientation on the uneven ground and the moving light.
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Tony was at my side being guided along, holding the blood into his head wounds with his brown and now badly lacerated hands. Our small band of wounded and bearers crested the hill when Neuy was unceremoniously dumped to the ground as a rocket screeched down on us trying to add to the American body count. It came in too high this time and hooked two of the flares as it roared over our heads, landing in the valley below with the now too familiar thunder. We bent down and hefted Neuy back onto the stretcher but had to hit the dirt again because from behind us came a flurry of explosions and machine gun fire. "Shit," I thought. "Oh no, here they come over the wire!" My worst nightmare was about to be fulfilled and I rolled away from the stretcher and brought my M-16 into fully automatic firing position. The bayonet was already loose and ready to be bloodied as we had been taught in Basic Training. The infantry on the perimeter were launching grenades and setting off their Claymore Mines as they lay down a withering field of fire into the closest flat spot outside the wire.
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Over the din I heard a voice yelling, "Thereís one--behind that rock--" and the machine guns started in earnest, spitting rocks and bouncing tracers all over the place.
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I had mixed feeling about the flares that made us sitting ducks but they also robbed the shadowy hiding places from the advancing NVA. This was our first direct contact that I had experienced (except for the rockets). Suddenly small arm fire erupted out of the darkness from two sides and the stretcher and Neuy had to be forgotten for a moment as I took up a defensive position inside a crater.
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The whistle of big incoming shells went over us and I thought that the barrage had started all over again but then I realized it was coming from the wrong direction. Someone had called in artillery fire from the Marines.
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The incoming was friendly fire, finally. Whump! Whump! Whump! The gunners and the spotters walked the rounds along the ridgeline that was less then 100 yards away from our wire. I could hear the screams of the Vietnamese as the impacts tore up the NVA positions, causing secondary blasts from the explosives that they carried. As the enemy fire slowed down I hefted the stretcher again and yelled to someone "Grab it! We have to get these guys to the medic now and out of this fire fight."
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NVA tracers zipped through the night around my ears and our machine guns answered in kind, hopefully spewing death to anyone in front of them. We couldnít stay out in that "weather" Ďcuz all of us might be cut in half by a well-placed rocket or barrage of bullets. So, keeping as low a profile as possible, we stumbled around the shell casings and boxes of ammunition that surrounded our big artillery guns and into a bunker that housed the medical crew. It was another surreal place. Other stretchers -- all filled with bloody and moaning soldiers were jammed into every available space.
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The medics were working like MASH, going from man to man with a serious but lighthearted attitude trying to keep everyoneís spirits up. Our big guns were shaking the bunker with each round that they pumped out into the night and NVA small arms fire tore at the sand bags over our heads. Each concussion caused moans of agony and fear from the men on and off the stretchers.
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I huddled next to Neuy and Tony to wait it out with my useless bayonet and 45 pistol jamming into my back. I think we were there for about a half-hour when abruptly it became totally silent. It was almost as if a movie director had yelled "Cut!" and everything went into an eerie suspended moment of paralysis---our guns as well as the enemyís. Everyone remained tense-- anticipating the next incoming rocket or a rush of screaming crazes at the wire but the silence lasted and lasted until we all believed that it really was finally over.
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The medics continued on their rounds, looking again at Neuy and adjusting the bandages around Tonyís head and triaging the new arrivals. I was in the way and so I moved outside, constantly being aware of the nearest hole to dive into when the next rocket arrived. The flares were still floating overhead as I headed back to our collapsed bunker, dazed and shivering from the now cold early morning air and the constant pounding we had taken.
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As I got closer to "home" I tripped on what was left of the two inch cable that connected the radar itself to the control unit in our bunker, sprawling into the still warm hole left by the rocket that had come so close to ending my life. The cable was tattered from the direct hit and clusters of wires stuck out in multiple directions in jagged clusters of reds and greens.
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The rocket had missed us by less then 6 feet!
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The dawn was just starting to brighten the sky over the Marine base out in the valley and a stillness had enveloped our hilltop like a layer of cotton wool, disturbed only by the hum of generators and insects that were impervious to the carnage around them. My adrenaline level must have abruptly dropped at that moment because suddenly I began to shake and a wave of hysterical tears racked my body as I lay curled up into that smoky / earthy / damp smelling crater.
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I cried for Tony and Neuy, for my own reality, and for the fear of things to come. All the fears and horrors and regrets in my life just oozed out of me there --temporarily flushing away the immediate terror of the moment.
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I couldnít have been in that state for more then a few minutes when the sounds of cameras slammed me back to the present. A hand was touching my shoulder and someone was saying "Are you OK?" while a gaggle of press photographers were recording my micro drama. "Yeah, Yeah, Iím OK." I said and, embarrassed, grabbed my M-16 and stood up trying to regain my macho composure.
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The photogs immediately lost interest and went off to record someone elseís pain while I went over to the radar to check it out. I wiped off the muddy tears, lowered the radarís now Swiss cheese looking reflector screen to minimize it as a target and silenced the generator that was pumping electricity to nowhere.
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That completed any immediate duty requirements so I just stood there, watching the sunrise over the battlefield and the valley below, breathing the lingering cordite smoke of the gunpowder.
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I was numb, just being and trying to come to terms with the experiences of the night and the certainty of a repeat performance that would come at any moment.
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"Why was I unhurt? Why had I moved out of that slideway at that exact moment prior to the impact?" If I hadnít, then I would now be in the medical bunker instead of Tony. I felt terrible guilt -- the shakes and tears returned -- wave after wave hysterically racking my body - until I was drained and exhausted.
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The sun boiled back into the sky and the final flares burned out while floating off into no-manís land. My legs just gave out and I plopped down, leaning against my mortally wounded radar.
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I had a revelation that morning that has stayed with me for the rest of my life. My fear of dying had left me. I had come out of that night with minimal physical damage because God had decreed that it was not my time.
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No, there was no loosing the dread of hot metal exploding into your body or the ensuing agony that would follow if you didnít die instantly but the actual act of dying no longer held itís familiar panic. I knew I was spared for some other purpose--either that or it was "--the luck of the draw" as Tony said to me 20+ years later when I was reliving it and crying with him over the phone. Many people said that there is no reason or order to the universe but from my little spot on that "blasted heath" in Vietnam I couldnít believe that.
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I still had about six months to go but Iíd make it through -- and stay alive somehow. I would take every day one at a time, mark off everyone on my helmet and complete this ordeal. Afterwards I would try to savor each day and do with it the most that I could.
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Click the Combat Infantry Badge
Combat Infantry Badge
to go to my Vietnam Poetry index, each poem
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VIETNAM PICTURE TOUR from the lens of a combat infantryman
from the lens and poet's pen of a combat infantryman!
to leave the sweet and sour taste of "the Nam"
pungent in your nostrils, as though you walked besied me in combat.