A Soldier's Story
Vietnam; February, 1969.
We had just arrived in country, green as the fatigues we were wearing, and scared to death. Any one who says they weren't,
are liars. That's right , liar, with a capital 'L', or crazy as hell. We all have stories to tell, but in most cases, we'd
rather not. There is one I'd like to share with you. It's about a young man whom I can remember only as 'Red.'
Red and I met in Cu Chi,
home of the 25th Inf. Div., while waiting for orders to our respective units. We were there about a month, mostly ridin' shotgun
on supply convoys. We came to know one another fairly well during that time. Being the 'new kids on the block,' we had all
things common; fear, anxiety, and all the above. Together day and night, we shared a lot about ourselves and our roots. Mostly,
we talked about the girl we left behind. If you've been there you know what I'm talking about.
Red was not well educated.
Back then you didn't have to be to serve in the military. The draft was not biased. His reading and writing ability was
limited to the point that I had to do it for him. I shouldn't say I had to..., it was my pleasure. He would
tell me what to write and I would write it. The letters to the folks were okay, but those to his girl friend, well..., you
get the picture. It was a little awkward for me. It didn't seem to bother him, but, then again he wasn't thinking about
me. His mind and his heart was in Alabama. He'd say it, I'd write. He'd laugh, I'd laugh. He'd cry...
It wasn't long before we
received our orders to join our unit. Wouldn't you know, we both went to the same place. You might say we moved up in the
world..., literally. We were sent to an infantry company providing perimeter protection for an engineering unit thirty-six
hundred feet high on top of a mountain called Nui Ba Dien, or as it was more commonly called, 'Black Virgin' mountain. It
was common knowledge to all that the entire mountain was infested with NVA and VC. The enemy's objective was to keep
communications from being built. You know ours. And so it goes.
The perimeter was set with
about 12 to 16 bunkers; one squad per bunker, 3, 4, squads per platoon, 3, 4, platoons. I can't really recall. It's been awhile.
Any way, the bunkers were about 30 to 35 yards apart. Each squad guarded to the left and to the right of their respective
bunker for possible infiltration from the enemy, especially at night. It got very hot during the day and downright chilly
after dark, with a lot of moisture. After a few months of that I was ready for the flatlands, a welcomed sight for a mountain
man.
But, that's another story..., not here, not now,
maybe never.
Red and I were air lifted
up by chopper; the only means of transportation to and from the top. One way in..., one way out. They brought all your supplies
to you periodically, mail included, usually about once a week. The guys in each respective platoon would take turns going
down to the flatlands. You might get to go once a month for an overnight stay. It was better than nothing. It gave you a chance
to go to the PX, EM club, or maybe just a hot shower, clean bed, and a decent nights sleep without pulling guard in the middle
of the night. Anyway, we landed and reported to the 1st. Sgt. immediately. Actually, he was there to greet us. Replacements
were a welcomed sight. He looked at us as we stood side by side and matter-of-factly said, "You go here and you go there."
That was it. Case closed. Could have went the other way. Read on..., you'll understand what I just said.
Red and I were sent to
different platoons, almost a 180 across the top of the mount from one another. We got pretty busy right off the bat and didn't
see much of each other at first except chow time. As time rocked along we saw more of one another during free time. What do
you think we did? That's right; he'd say it, I'd write it. He'd laugh, I'd laugh. He'd cry... Red couldn't talk about
his girl without crying. I'm not much of a writer, but I know one thing, I didn't write the words he was telling me to with
anything near the emotion he was saying them. I hope she got the message; he loves you baby.
It's getting a little hard
for me to write this any further...
I think it was somewhere
in July..., I don't really remember. We got hit one night by a small group of VC. My buddy Bob and I were the only ones
on our bunker, we were that short of help. I think maybe one of our squad members might have been down on the flatlands
that night, and another was in the mess hall. He was a cook and it was the wee hours of the morning. He was , along with
the other cooks, preparing breakfast. So, it was just me and Bob. But , we didn't think it to be any different than any other
night. It had been quite awhile since Charlie had hit the mountain. Not since we'd been there anyway. This night was different.
You could feel it. I can't explain it..., you just knew.
I was up on top pulling
my guard while Bob was trying to get some sleep, when all hell broke loose. The horn rang. It was LT. saying get
everybody up, we're getting hit. I ran down inside and told everybody, Bob, to get on top. I manned the M60 machine
gun while Bob scanned the area around our bunker. The sky, what you could see of it, was lit up like the 4th of July. You
see, being so high up, you were in the clouds at times. Especially when it stormed. Lightning would set off trip flares and
claymores like firecrackers in a barbecue pit. All you could hear was a lot of yelling surrounded by fire; M16s, 60s, fraggs,
and all the above. Then, the chilling distinctive sound of an AK47. Once you've heard it..., you'll never forget it.
Suddenly, after about 15 or 20 minutes..., an eerie dead calm. The horn rang. LT. again (platoon leader) wanting a sit. rep.
(situation report). We told him all was well on our end. From the back of us and down in the vicinity of 3rd platoon, we could
hear cries for help. We were told to stand down while others answered their call. It would be dawn before we could leave our
bunker and survey the damage Charlie had done.
There was a huge gap between
2nd and 3rd platoons. Charlie had taken out the last bunker of 2nd platoon with an RPG, (rocket propelled grenade) killing
one and infiltrated to the top where the engineers were bunked, leaving two dead and one wounded. Bob was the first to
go while I watched the area we were responsible for. He came back and told me what had happened and that we had also lost
a member of the 3rd platoon. He said, when the bunker in 2nd platoon that had been taken out did not respond to a sit. rep.,
3rd platoon sent a man over to check it out and he was killed. I asked him who..., he didn't know.
As the sun began to peek
through the overcast sky, I made my way up and over to where Bob said he lay. All I could think of was Red. Red was in the
3rd platoon. It wasn't uncommon for a squad to have the new guy put himself out 'till he had earned their respect. I thought
about a lot of things, but especially..., don't let it be Red.
As I drew near to the body,
all I could see was a grayish, almost paper white corpse with a red circle on his forehead. When I knelt to see...
When I came home from Nam
and held my wife, I thought about it. When I held each of my three children in my arms, I thought about it. When I hold my
grandchildren, I think about it. I think about that day, over 37 years ago, when Red and I stood before the 1st. Sgt. and
he said, "You go here, and you go there." Do I have to explain?
I think about Red a lot
since then. Mostly I think about a man that the world will never know. A red headed hillbilly from Alabama who could barely
read and write, but had enough pride, courage, and love in his six foot lanky frame to win that war and save a multitude
of lives if only he could have had the chance. He'd say it, I'd write it. He'd laugh, I'd laugh. He died..., I cried.
His name is Red.
