There was no recoil as the Browning fired. The recoil was absorbed by the fixed tripod attached to the top of the Ontos. I’d never fired such a weapon. In training I’d fired a short burst of an M-60 but it had been a stuttering jerky experience fired standing in the offhand position. I eased back on the trigger, as the tracers bit into the mid-part of the jungle running along the base of the hill. The gun was smooth, the explosions multiplying upon one another from the barrel, more pleasing than loud.
For some reason I had not expected the operating handle to cycle back with each shot, but it did. Somehow it was an odd but strangely reassuring series of movements. I looked down into the ammo box the fabric belt was feeding rounds up out of. I paused for a few seconds, wondering if Jurgens, Fusner and the others knew enough to make their break under the cover of my fire. I waited a few seconds before pulling on the little trigger that stuck out of the back of the gun’s receiver. I smoothly guided the line of yellow tracer lights up the side of the hill, again letting the bullets pour out in short but consistent bursts.
I had to pay close attention to the end of the belt, as it pulled from the can and dangled up the left side of the gun. I’d have to open another can, quickly flip open the lid on the top of the gun and then feed another hundred and fifty round fabric belt across the receiver, right behind the entrance to the barrel’s chamber. I understood why it took more than one man to crew a machine gun effectively. I glanced toward the black tendrils of smoke rising from where Tex’s truck had to be. I saw figures running. It had to be Jurgens and the rest of them.
I used up the remainder of the belt and rushed to drag a second box up, open it and then lay another belt across the open gun. I flipped the hinged top of the receiver down, clicked it into place, pulled back twice on the operating lever and opened up again. How long would it take to run the several hundred meters across the open ground? I had no idea. The Browning was beginning to smoke a bit, as I laid fire up and down the side of the hill. I weaved the snake like fire back and forth from end to end. The Browning ate bullets like mad, but I didn’t have to reach down and bring up another box. Tex climbed up, inserted himself into the turret of the Ontos, turned, and then pushed a box up to me. In seconds I was back at it, stitching the jungle with everything the Browning would put out until the turret of the Ontos moved.
“I think I’ve got it,” Tex yelled up out from the machine’s interior.
I only heard part of what he said, between bursts from the gun and my diminished hearing. Thank goodness I plugged my ears as the 30.06 rounds were louder than 7.62, or the sharp cracks of M-16 fire.
The turret rotated under me. I stopped firing to keep the barrel from swinging violently about. I was shocked. I hadn’t realized that the strange ‘pyramid’ shape of the turret would allow it to turn. I looked up again to see my mixed together team run across the concrete. Jurgens led, with Fusner, Zippo, Pilson and Nguyen not far behind. Abraham Lincoln Jones loped behind the group, constantly looking back and obviously providing what he could in lone rifleman security, as he was bringing up the rear with his chest high M-16. For some reason, I’d expected to see Stevens, but then remembered that he’d stayed back with the Gunny and the rest of the company.
I reloaded the Browning. I felt the comforting pack of morphine, what I had left of it, in my pocket. Then I laid another band of ammo across the breech of the gun. If we had any 106 rounds in our guns, and if Tex got them working, I didn’t want to be deaf for days. In training, the sergeant instructor of the tripod mounted gun set it off with a laugh in front of a whole class of officer candidates, while he had ear protectors on. The external explosion of hot gases that drove the recoilless round blew out with incredible noise and flame. I wasn’t even sure my position, a bit forward of the gun’s exploding vents, was angled far enough away to keep me safe. But I had no choice. I pulled the operating lever back twice and aimed at the side of the hill again.
“Fire in the hole,” Tex yelled through my earplugs. Before I could pull the trigger on the machine gun my little world atop the Ontos blew up. Hot gas sprayed across me on the left side and a great billow of hot air billowed all around me, and then was gone. I rocked back.
“Did you fire all six?” I yelled downward through the back hatch.
“Nah, that was just one,” Tex shot back. “Pretty loud. I think we’ve got five more. Can you see where it went? I don’t know how to aim the fifties, but I can aim the guns.”
I looked up at the hill, my finger itching to pull back on the Browning’s strange, seemingly hand-made, trigger. I saw a wispy plume of smoke rising up from the center of the hill’s elevation out about one-third of its length.
Jurgens and my scout team rushed around the Ontos and clustered around the rear of it just below where I and the machine stood facing the hill. And just as the enemy fifty caliber opened up again. I saw the tracers reach out for me, but there was no time to squat down or duck before they came screaming in just a little high, but dead on in deflection.
“Shit,” Tex yelled. “Is that their stuff?”
“Fucking ‘A,’” I replied, yelling back. I knew Tex was having trouble hearing me too.
“Can you spot for me?” Tex asked.
I thought for a few quick seconds, knowing another spray from the fifty would be coming and probably better aimed. Tex wasn’t artillery. He’d never been through Sill and he’d never been in combat. I couldn’t spot for the Ontos like I would for a well trained and equipped battery.
“Give me a little to the left and a little bit higher,” I said, crouching down away from where I thought Tex might fire the next round.
Tex fired one of the guns on the other side, having made the slight changes in gun elevation and turret deflection I’d asked for almost instantly.
I stuck my head up. The second 106 round went home with a bigger explosion, followed by two smaller ones.
“Supplementary hits, Tex,” I yelled, wanting to pump my fist but not doing it. “Give me the rest,” I ordered. “One up a little, one down a little and then back and forth on each side.”
My spotting orders were so simple as to appear ridiculous, but with Tex’s untrained mind and a bit of raw talent it was working. The four rounds left the barrels one after another. A small area of the jungle blew itself into the sky. I thought I saw a long black object spinning with it but wasn’t certain. We could do nothing as long as the fifty stayed in play at the higher elevation. The Ontos could endure fifty caliber rounds, as long as they weren’t of the armor piercing variety, but we could not recover the company and get it across the river with a heavy machine gun targeting the entire area all around us.
I went back up to the Browning and aimed it at the hill. I realized that I liked shooting the gun but I had no real target. The smoke from the 106 rounds was clearing.
Except for the ceaseless sounds of the moving water in the swollen river, and the faint whisper of valley bottom wind there was nothing.
Two Skyraiders came out of nowhere to overfly us. I looked up behind me at the waning sun and knew we had to get to work if the whole company going to get across. I jumped down from the Ontos to join the men. Immediately I went into to a squat and motioned them down and around me.
“Jurgens, you take Jones and get the rope,” I said, forming a rough diagram of our position in the mud before me with my right index fingernail, which was too long, but I had no clippers.
“Where’s the bridge now?” I asked Tex, my finger still in the mud after tracing the course of the river and planting a small rock to indicate where the tank was located.
“That’s the tank,” I said, hoping he’d heard about our run in with that tracked vehicle.
Tex stuck one finger into my mud map and ran it across the river. “Here’s the airfield we’re at and here’s the bridge,” he said, tracing both in. “There’s no cover or concealment on the other side but where I drove it in, bogged down as it is, our end’s protected by a good elevation of the berm and some bamboo and jungle growth.”
I ducked down, as the Sandys came in low for another pass, not firing but definitely looking for prey.
“Let’s move,” I said, pointing at Jurgens’ chest. “We need the rope now. Can you throw far enough to clear the gap, because I think the current’s too great to cross that distance and swim it in.”
I knew I could make the swim, but I hadn’t forgotten the crocodile or any of the other exotic fauna the valley floor provided. Once again it was hot enough to make the idea of going back into the cooler waters of the river attractive, but I knew we had to act fast and then get under cover for the night. The cave we’d found wasn’t big enough for a full complement of men.
“Fusner,” I motioned, “find out if resupply is coming and where they’re going to land. You reported in yet?” I asked pointing over at Tex.
The big man looked down at the diagram I’d drawn in the mud for a few seconds. “I lost my men,” he whispered.
“You didn’t lose shit, Tex,” I replied, taking the handset Fusner was about to use and holding it out to Tex. “The A Shau took your men and everybody in the rear knows that. That’s why we’re alone down here if you haven’t noticed. In fact, why are you here?”
“Advance party for the ARVN firebase,” Tex answered, waiting for Fusner to dial the radio knobs to reach Army engineering command.
“Advance party,” I whispered to myself, more than the men around me. “Without infantry? Did they just send a few guys with a bridge, an Ontos, and a truck? Who the hell did you piss off?”
Tex stood up without answering my question. He talked into the Prick 25 handset and began his report, walking back and forth behind the cover the Ontos provided, Fusner following, connected to the man by the long curly cord.
I got up and moved toward the river. I eased my .45 out while I walked, bending slightly to stay as low as possible in the river grass that was only about thigh high. It wasn’t high enough to provide concealment without crawling but even that was all but useless with an enemy occupying the high ground of the hill up behind us. My .45 action seemed in good shape, which made me feel better. Jurgens’ presence nearby without the Gunny around still made me uncomfortable. I didn’t trust him, no matter how sincere he’d seemed after the loss of Barnes and my rescue of him from the middle of the raging river.
I laid down across the top of the berm, nestling under a broken layer of jungle floor. The position was close enough for me to see the bridge. The whole thing was visible out in the water. The extended fork, or whatever they called the bridge part, was fully out, although the rig was slightly canted away from the current. The slant gave me a bad feeling. If the thing went over with half the company crawling across it, then our losses would be huge. The Marines who could float or barely swim certainly couldn’t do that loaded down with equipment, even if they were light of supplies. I brought up my binoculars and examined the river and both banks.
“I think he can make the throw,” I said to nobody in particular, as Tex was still some distance away talking to his command and Jurgens was off getting the rope with Jones.
The Skyraiders came in low again, waggling their wings. I had to talk to Jacko and see how long they were going to remain on station. In spite of the quiet and gentle-seeming afternoon without much rain or mist, I knew we had to move lightning fast to get the company across.
Tex came back to lay beside me, as Jurgens showed up with Jones and the coiled rope. When I’d first looked at the bridge scene I’d known that getting the company across was going to take longer than I’d hoped, simply because the water crossing would take time and then running the Marines over the bridge in fire team size only would add to that. But it was possible, and not that difficult. Hard work and time-consuming work, something almost all Marines understood as a matter of normality. Jurgens came panting up with the coil of rope. Jones was wet, like the rope, so I presumed that Jurgens only carried if for the last few meters.
The rope was totally water-logged. I picked up one end. The thing weighed about a pound a foot. I knew immediately that nobody was going to throw the thing across the open water. It was a hemp braided rope, not made of polypropylene or any modern substance. The distance between the canted end of the bridge and the soft bank on the other side looked more to me like it was thirty feet, and then there was the extra rope needed on both ends to consider. The rope was long enough but it was also too heavy to throw it the distance we needed to get it.
We’d have to find another way, and quick, I realized. I examined the Ontos.
“Will this thing make it across?” I asked. “Not like we have any more ammo for it, anyway.”
Tex looked at his rig and thought for a few seconds. “Nope,” he finally said. “Maybe, but look what that water did to the bridging vehicle, and it weighs ten times what this thing does, not that we know how to drive it. Those guys are dead.”
Nguyen went to work on the rope. He sat with his bare feet holding one end while he worked away taking the rope apart. In seconds the Montagnard had ten feet of the rope broken down into three strands. I asked him what he was doing but he ignored me and kept on working. He took one strand, separated it from the other two, wrapped it three times around, then three times perpendicular to the first three, and then carefully threaded the end three times through those last three. He took out his vicious looking curved knife and cut off the remaining bit of strand sticking out. He held out a knot, almost perfectly round and the size of a large orange. I balanced it in my hand. I’d seen the knot somewhere in my background but couldn’t remember what it was called.
“Monkey fist,” Pilson said, pointing. “It’s an ancient knot for throwing lines. You throw the knot attached to a smaller lighter line and then thread the big one over after.”
Nguyen held out a section of the rope he hadn’t work on toward me, both arms spread. He waited.
I realized that the solution to our problem was right in front of me. The rope was ten times stronger than what we’d need to guide men across. I nodded at Nguyen, looking into his inscrutable eyes. Without hesitation, he went to work breaking the rest of the rope down into three strands.
I backed up to where Fusner lay, nearby.
“Get me the Gunny,” I said, watching the Sandys sweep up from another run. “Then call Cowboy and find out how long we’ve got them for.”
The Gunny came right up on the radio. I was relieved to hear his voice. In spite of my plans, calling artillery and being gifted in map-reading, I knew I lacked the Gunny’s savvy and experience at surviving what we were going through. I couldn’t wait to get him back, and wondered what he’d say to my appointment of Tex as company XO.
The Gunny and the company were ready. Fusner handed me the AN323 headset, with Jacko already on the line. I went back and forth on the two radios for five minutes, trying to get our air cover coordinated with resupply that had to be on the way, and then there was the river crossing. I finally set the radios aside and looked at the dying embers of the sun, getting ready to slip down below the eastern ridge that rose up to contain our part of the A Shau on the near side. That’s when I saw Tex and Nguyen on the bridge. I brought my binoculars up.
“Oh no,” I said, not even knowing that I’d spoken until Fusner asked me what I was talking about.
“What in hell are they doing?” I asked. “Where’s Jurgens? He’s supposed to be throwing the rope across.” I looked around but Jurgens was nowhere to be seen.
Tex stood balanced at the end of his bridge. Nguyen was laying flat, half-hidden in a crease of the thing’s construction with the pile of rope coiled next to his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ,” I cursed, my breathing coming in gasps.
Tex stood like a big cowboy, rotating the monkey fist knot in a great circle over his head, like it was a lasso. I dropped my glasses and ran back toward the Ontos. The belt I’d laid atop the Browning was still as I’d left it, with the bolt cleared home. The weapon was ready to fire. Before beginning to fire I dragged another box of ammo from inside the Ontos and quickly opened it.
I aimed the gun at the hill. A single shot rang out, and then I began firing. I used up the whole belt, firing in twenty to thirty round bursts. I opened the hot breach, cleared the weapon and laid another cloth band of ammo down. I pulled the charging handle back twice and got ready to fire again, when the Sandys came in low and began spraying the hill with their twenty millimeters. My little .30 caliber was like nothing. I jumped down from the Ontos and ran toward where my team was half-hidden, but only partially covered at the berm.
“He got it across,” Jurgens turned and said, lying next to Fusner, exactly where I’d been before running to the Ontos.
“Thank God,” I breathed out, falling to the ground next to Fusner. He handed me my binoculars without saying anything. I took them but caught his expression. I looked at the other men. They all wore the same expression, and it was a bad expression I’d seen so many times before.
I stared out at the bridge. There was no one on it. I could see the rope tied off on the far shore, the rushing water of the river causing it to buck and heave as it was bounced about.
“Nguyen is one clever son-of-a-bitch, I’ll give him that,” Jurgens said. “He made it out of there like a snake crossing a hot frying pan.”
I wanted to ask where Tex was but I couldn’t. I kept looking.
Nobody said anything as I looked.
“It was just like Barnes,” Jurgens said. “Perfect sniper shot at that distance.”
I dropped my binoculars in front of me, rose to my feet and took out my Colt. I didn’t point it at Jurgens. I thumbed off the safety, hearing its strange mechanical click like it was the single chime of a distant church bell.
“Get up,” I said softly to Jurgens, “We’re going for a walk.”
I took in everyone around me, as Jurgens slowly rose to his feet. His face showed no expression. He made no move to pick up his rifle.
I was among Marines. Marines I’d sought to join, be a part of, and work closely with. But I was alone among them. Once again.
Jim! been a bit since I wrote but I have to catch my breath being a citizen of many named valleys of RVN. One thing that caught my eye and I did not know, was the gifting of the Ontos to the Army when the Marines were pulling out. My dear friend Bruce Morton commanded them in their glory days in Hue in 68, good Lord they saved a lot of us. I must say this is the most riveting collection of combat recollections that I have ever read. To those of us who humped the A shau and so many other hills and valleys looking for Sir Charles this is the story of ouryouth. See you soon Semper Fi
I much appreciate those words Capt. Yes, that valley was something, indeed.
Maybe I should have used the name in the title but I decided to be more general about the experience
rather than the place. The place could be anywhere in combat, the rules, or the lack of them, are the same.
It’s simply in the renditions and telling of them that mythology and fable are generally
sought out as places to hide what really goes on.
Until Vietnam I thought Goldman’s about those children on that island (Lord of the Flies)
was a flight of the purest fantasy.
Only in Vietnam did I figure out the only fable part of it was the Navy Officer showing up in the end
to save the kids that were left. Thanks for the comment and your support.
Semper fi,
Jim
James I have a short story for you that I think you will like. It is about what happened when I went to put flags on veterans graves at the cemetery last Monday. But I would like to put it in an email. But I don’t know your email address. Can you send it to me?
My email is antaresproductions@charter.net and my phone is 2625815300. Thanks for whatever you send.
I will read and get back to you. That’s a nice and trusting thing to do and I thank you.
Semper fi,
Jim
I think I’d like to buy the whole book, or books at one time. I would even order in advance. S/F JP
I am writing the segments that make up the novels as fast as I can. The next book should be out
in August and then the third in December. The first is on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. I have no ‘real’ publisher so I am banned from
being on book shelves or in regular book stores or even grocery stores or airports. Just the way it is.
Thanks for wanting the books.
Semper fi,
Jim
I read the first book, and now I’m afraid to read these segments, for fear of ruining the book. When can we expect the next book, the second 10 days?
August 1 is the target date, Roy. And thank you for that compliment…
Semper fi
Jim
Will you finish the last five days online?
I am on the 15th night. I will finish the reaming days of both books online, unless some big
publisher swoops in and won’t let me. I doubt that, so I intend to keep on going just like I have been.
Besides, what would I do without my traveling salvation army of commenters here. Better than Facebook friends!
Semper fi,
Jim
With you on thoughts of a movie being made Lt. Rule number 1 in this land of silly asses we share is “If it thinks it stinks”.
I truly doubt anyone who hasn’t partaken of the commingled aroma of piss, shit and charcoal can ever understand that peninsula. For those who partook this book is a definitive text. Mr Charles and I long ago made peace, he was doing his thing I was doing mine, and it came out as it came out. My problems are not with Mr Charles, they are with US politicians and citizens. I could and did respect Mr Charles, I have no respect for the scum I came back to. They doubtless shared that feeling.
My email from 40 year old men I’ve introduced your book to currently runs 3.7 emails a day asking “Is this shit really true?”.
For those who understand, no explanation is needed.
For those who don’t, none is possible.
My mind and my memories wander as I read your words. We are today what and where we are. We gave no quarter and we owe nothing. Scanning the tree line is perfectly normal while riding the lawn mower.
Thanks a ton SCPO. You are so right about that tree line thing….and fields of fire, of course.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
Well said. People in general don’t understand the military and political leaders have screwed with it trying to change the mission to one of PC.
The military was and remains out there. Placed by people who have never and will never fight.
Even future leadership remains woefully ignorant of actual combat and conflict. The nation will
not elect real veterans because the regular population does not want to know.
There it is…did Bob Dole win? McCain? Kerry? Not a chance. They were not beaten by men
who simply hadn’t served. They were beaten by men who’d avoided service or combat. And the public was well
aware of that fact.
Semper fi,
Jim
Dole was a leader of the good ole boys, McCain and Kerry traitors and idiots in that order. Thank God none of them ever became president of this country.
Evening Jim, 48 years and some, The things that are still ready to bleed again, I am hoping against hope, That Jurgens is the screw up that He really is and missed Nguyen, Jurgens is the kind of bully that needs underlings to do his dirty work, You know the type, they never really have the gut to carry out the really dirty work, They are mean and nasty, but never seem to want the blood in their hands, and when they do try and do the deed, They really don’t have the skills…… May be 48 years to late, But I am praying against the odds for Nguyen, and hope that Murphy decided to stick his finger in Jurgen eye when He pulled the trigger. If not, You need to make that walk, Jurgens is to stupid to be left running around loose, Didn’t he have the brains to see how critical Nguyen was to keep Him alive, along with the rest of the company? But them venial leaches like Jurgans never had a long view in the game, Yep, 2 to the nuts one between the eyes, and feed the carcass to the gators…… The Humong dod not give their loyalty lightly, But when they did, Nguyen would have kept that word to the end.
My prayers for the Man, Even 48 years late, May God Watch Over Him.
Semper fi/This We Defend Bob.
Thanks Robert, your intensity is wonderful and you care even more appreciated.
It was a tough expensive time when it came to Marines over there.
Semper fi,
Jim
If one really wants to be truthful, there was no need for marines or any of our other troops, to be in Vietnam to begin with and therein lies a multitude of sins that our troops have been forced to bare.
The Military Industrial Complex was, at that time, in search of a small theater wherein they could
test all these new-fangled weapons that were being invented and also get rid of old equipment and inventory
so they could replace it with new stuff.
I now have come to believe that that was the truth about the war there,
that and letting the communist nations know that the U.S. was not a paper tiger.
And everyone was sent by people who did not have to, did not want to go
and everyone in combat was sent out there from those in the rear who did not have to
or want to go out there to the field. You ended up dead, badly wounded or
simply screwed up mentally if you pulled the short straw….
but you don’t get to know that until much later…
if you lived.
Thanks for the comment, as usual.
Semper fi,
Jim
Yes, it is a shame that our people and legislators, did not heed the warning of Gen. Eisenhower about the military complex.
We never seem to learn though, look at us now over in the M.E. and Afghanistan. Every one of those wars have been fought over time immemorial and nothing was ever resolved except the deaths they perpetuated. I guess that is the way mankind handles population control.
Stuff. It’s all about stuff. Genetic stuff.
We are driven as human beings to maximize our own survival and comfort
to propagate and then favor the progeny that result from that propagation.
Deception is our main tool in dealing with the universe and our fellow humans.
Hence, war after war after war….
Life is not fair because we cannot genetically
allow it to be fair, while we lie about that simple obvious fact.
Thanks for writing such cogent stuff, as usual, my friend.
Semper fi,
Jim
I have struggled with the thought of contacting you. It may be moot… maybe not. There is a Nam Vet who wanted his project secret so no one would disrespect it. So, I have volleyed the pros and cons of announcing it to others, to you. Yet his project is to honor all our Vietnam Veterans and he wanted to publically illustrate that respect somehow… so maybe he really wanted people to find out in the end. I do not know. Thus my quandary. The battle from within… silence fuels all lies. Thanks for Your honesty.
This is not a lie but was to originally remain silent by the author…maybe. There is a secret shrine hidden near the Continental Divide, in the mountains of Colorado, dedicated to all Vietnam Veterans… all Vietnam Veterans. It was intended to be kept secret (by the author) but recently someone accidentally found it and now it’s existence is slipping out to the public. Maybe you already know of it, maybe you think I should keep my mouth shut. That quandary again. I respect your decision on how you will address this issue, you have earned the right.
Healing too battles with silence, so I feel compelled to lance the wound and allow the possibility for recovery. The Vietnam Vets deserve the risk.
The shrine dedicated to all Vietnam Vets is called “Soldierstone”. You can find it on the web now, just Google it. It is a blessing to me and brings comfort. I work at a VA Clinic and have disclosed the secret to some Vietnam Vets, hopefully bringing them some comfort. I do not tell all vets only the ones who displace the remnant energies of Vietnam. I apologize if I have failed the Lt. Colonial’s wishes… the possibility of healing always trumps silence. I hope you are not displeased with my post. The secret is now yours.
Well, interesting. I nave no idea why any monument to those lost and to that war wuuld
be secret from anyone. How do monuments honor anyone or anything? They can be a place where
similar minded vets can get together but I am not aware they do at such places.
Thank you for the confidence and for the name of the place. You are right, the location is on
Google for those choosing to look it up. Maybe the secret part will attract some guys and gals to the location.
Be interesting to find out…
Thank you most sincerely,
Semper fi,
Jim
http://hiddencolorado.kunc.org/soldierstone/
Thanks Clair. Appreciate the link…
Semper fi,
Jim
Black Pony Home Page
To Honor the Forgotten
• SOLDIERSTONE •
• In Memory Of Long Wars Lost And The Soldiers Of •
• VIETNAM • LAOS • CAMBODIA •
• Like The Fallen Leaves Of Autumn In Unregimented Ranks
Unremembered Soldiers Rest Eternally •
• “If By Weeping I Could Change The Course Of Events, My Tears
Would Pour Down Ceaselessly For A Thousand Autumns.” •
• The Appointed Time To Be Born To Die, To Love,
To Hate Of WAR For PEACE •
• Still In Death Lies Everyone, And The Battle’s Lost •
• SACRIFICE • COURAGE • VALOR • HONOR •
In an unpublished book meant to accompany SOLDIERSTONE called Leaves of Stone, He wrote that one purpose is to “serve as a poignant reminder of our battlefield allies. It also asks of America the maturity to honor the defiant stands of soldiers in their seasons of death.” Monuments rarely change, but the people and circumstances surrounding them do.
Rest in peace Lieutenant Colonel
thanks for putting that up here Stephen. I am sure a lot of the guys, like me, really care…and appreciate..
Semper fi,
Jim
I cannot be sure why the Lt. Col. located this Memorial in a secret spot however these are my thoughts.
Soldierstone is in a faraway forgotten, difficult place, just like Nam was.
Soldierstone is on the high ground of the Continental Divide, in Nam the high ground was usually the safer place to gather.
The general public probably would not put out the required effort to get there, Nam vets have the resolve to go most anywhere. Especially to honor their brothers.
Therefore, I believe the Lt. Col. planned Soldierstone to be a shrine dedicated to Vietnam Veterans exclusively so they could find peace, seclusion and healing. I believe Soldierstone is being used by Vietnam Vets because of the attractiveness of the solitude. Who needs the general public at this very personal shrine.
I encourage vets to view the video shot by the young lady who found Soldierstone. It depicts a beautiful and heartfelt dedication to all Vietnam Veterans including the Kit Carson’s, the Hmong and all of our allies. I also suggest everyone read about the Lt. Col. who designed and built Soldierstone (all at his own expense), then you may get a feel for his determination to honor all Vietnam Veterans.
I could not agree or support you more in the words you’ve laid down here. Thank’s so much Pop!
Semper fi,
Jim
Well I know that 15 days in a bad situation can feel like a life time !! With that being said you sure can get yourself in a world of shit in a short amount of time ! I’m so glad you decided to share your story. I feel it’s helpful to alot of ppl in some many different ways . Thank you Sir
It was quite a run and the activity level alone was astounding. From the moment that door opened until the choppers flew out.
All the way all the time…
Thank you for writing a comment here about your own thoughts.
Semper fi,
Jim
We destroyed our FSB in QueSon Valley SW of DaNang. Came north and worked as a reactionary force in May of 68 for the assault into A Shau Valley. Lots of encounters with regulars. As senior medic of an infantry I even lost a couple of my medics. I finish each chapter quivering, adrenaline ready for the next ambush or whatever. You have zeroed in on the raw emotion that those of us who lived it and feel it again as we read. Thank you for telling the story so eloquently that we were unable to tell to those who do not know or understand. God Bless, Doc
Yes, Roland. To tell the true story is to have some indicate that it cannot be true.
That such awful stuff would not have been supported or tolerated and, after all, the reports of combat are
so much different. The movies cannot all lie….even if they do.
Thanks for your support, brother,
Semper fi,
Jim
I’m not exactly sure where to start. I have – in my mind – written as many comments as there are chapters to date in this story. I tripped over the Ninth Day in a FB post (direct marketing I think they call it). I read forward to Day 14, then like others that have commented, I backtracked and started at Day 1. I thought “Holy crap, Batman” before someone else wrote it in the comments a few weeks ago. I have pushed the link to many friends, dad-veterans thereof, and bought two of the First Ten. I gave one to a Marine buddy with all appropriate endorsements.
First, Jim, you and yours are larger than life, then not, as you are humbled with the reality of your situation. Basically, in 2 weeks, you have experienced a level of adrenaline, relational intimacy, sadness and physical exertion that most men would not experience in a lifetime. And you were what, 23 at the time? I’m 53, so sort of that “tweener generation” whose grandparents shouldered the load during WWII and Korea, dads served in Vietnam (college kept my dad out), and now a younger generation fights “in the sandbox.”
But I am intrigued with the human dynamic of that sort of mess, having grown up in the romanticized world of honor, courage and valor without really knowing what it looks like when you’re ass deep in crocodiles. Literally. So I’ve read a lot of novels and some are good at explaining the human dimension; you are truly gifted in that regard. Your writing reminds me of The 13th Valley by John DelVecchio (I think; he was also there), only your first person “so I shot him in the ass” spares no margin for how things are going to go if you have the stick.
Like so many others, I check often for the next installment but I don’t want you to rush it – for your sake as much as mine. Good story telling takes time, even when it’s true story-no lie kind of stuff. I thoroughly enjoy the comments and your responses as you and your brothers/sisters wend your way through the electrified cobwebs of the attic trunk you never wanted to open again, buried in a forgotten corner of your collective brain. I, for one, am glad you chose to take that risk.
In this post-Memorial Day week, my heart is notched for you guys that endured for each other as much or more as for country and apple pie. To all the veterans on this page and the ones lurking in the background, thank you – a thousand thousand times.
Thanks Daddy. I don’t know what to say about such a well written heartfelt comment.
You are a class act and you are also very accurate. This all could have simply gone by the boards.
Not like I don’t have enough going on.
But starting and running my own little controversial newspaper helped
me get ready for the heat I knew I would take.
You cannot tell the truth about what we went through and not take heat.
Those that were close in the rear but not in the shit don’t much care for these revelations.
Many came home undamaged and wanting to be the combat veterans without any
comprehension that the combat veterans did not want to be that at all.
And then there’s all the rest who don’t have a clue.
thanks for your support and writ5ing like you do on here….
I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it…
Semper fi,
Jim
When you wrote about the rope, “It was a hemp braided rope, not made of polypropylene or any modern substance,” I wondered if you were comparing it to something that had not yet been invented. But a little online research showed me that polypropylene fibers were being produced in industrial quantities in the US and Europe in the late 1950s. Still, the comment seemed a little “out of time.”
I worked two summers in the merchant marines and on pusher tug boats
during college before the Nam. I was quite used to the poly lines
for the barges and for tying up the big ore boats.
Thanks for the conjecture and the comment…
Semper fi,
Jim
Have been following the Jergens saga, in my mind, but it is still hard for me to grasp how twisted the mind of a man can become whatever the circumstance. Egotism, conceit and extreme jealously must surely go hand in hand at times. Take care Lt. you have stepped on the tail of the snake.
Jurgens was not a snake. He was quicker than that. More like an unprincipled Mongoose.
Thanks for the analysis and the recognition of my portrayal of another complex character of the combat.
They were real men and real Marines, as flawed as they were lethal…all of us…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jurgens didn’t chunk the rope to the bank as instructed!! He conned a rookie into doing it & Tex didn’t know not to continue standing up !! I hope that Jurgens didn’t shoot him , but don’t look good & if so , why ?? Tag & bag him !! Keep on keeping on !!
It was a hand. The company was a hand where the dealer in the rear with the gear kept sending in new
cards. You had to play what was dealt and that meant good cards as well as bad. Thanks for the analysis
and your conclusion, and writing it on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
Love that response, you have to play the hand you are dealt. The story of life.
Yes, it is a truism of life that has remained with me through time. We are seldom in as much
control of the hands we must play on the table. We just think we are. And yet we must play them,
and later rationalize how we dealt the hand in the first place.
Thanks for the depth of your short comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
I as a retired Lieutenant of the NYC Police Department proudly wear a Marine Corps Field Cover with the USMC emblem. My Dad and my father in law both were former Marines who never would talk about their experiences in the Pacific Theatre.
Now I know why they would not speak. I proudly wear that tattered and frayed USMC cover and everywhere I go I run across gents who proudly hail me “Semper Fi”.
I do not feel ashamed as I served 20 years on the mean streets of NYC. I have stared down the barrel of a weapon aimed at me and I survived. Again and again.
And again and again former Marines stood alongside me and we also survived.
I only had probably 30 minutes out of 20 years where I was in a firefight. It rocked me then and it still haunts me. The taking of a human life is a terrible thing even though it was necessary, justified and required so I could go home to my family. I still have nightmares where my revolver would not fire or I was out of ammo and then I wake up before the end……It sucks! Here I sit in an airconditioned home in the nosebleed area of Sun City in Las Vegas over 30 years later and I still have those damned dreams….They do not stop…..
I wonder how you make it every day cuz you have to have nasty dreams also.
Well, Dan, you get older and the repetitive nature of dreams and aromas and songs and all of it
repeats so many times that it all becomes one kind of familiar symphony…either that or you don’t
survive it at all. I suppose. Thanks for the heartfelt comment and the expression of some deep thinking.
Hope you like the Las Vegas living…a little too fast for me, but I can sure understand.
Semper fi,
Jim
Nothing fast here in Viagra Falls. This is a seniors only residential community built on Howard Hughes land by Del Webb. Very quiet neighborhood. Average age in the 70’s and somewhat active. I have and ride a ’07 Triumph Speedmaster motorcycle and I have two neighbors no more than 500 feet away also with bikes. They are always inviting me on their rides. Great fun and decent people. I am an active target shooter and I regularly participate in matches at a local outdoor range utilizing my pair of M 1’s, Winchester 94 30-30, Marlin 38-55 Winchester, Winchester Model 1885 50-90 Sharps and a half dozen handguns in steel and sillouette style contests. No big prizes but a lot of fun.
I also cast my own bullets from alloy I smelt and reload all my 25 firearms except for the .22’s and shotguns. I have active all around me and I always am packing as I have a CCW and I feel naked without a decent autoloader or a revolver on my person. I hardly every go into a casino as I do not gamble at all. You can be a hermit or be active as there is an activity for everybody if you want to make the effort.
Life is good here except from now til October as it gets and stays hot here for about 4 and half months. WE have had snow on the ground here exactly 3 times in the past 22 years and it was gone the next day.
Glad you found a place that makes you happy. The riding and shooting sound like
a lot of fun. You have to have the people and facilities around for that and I’m glad you found them. The
heat sucks but then you might just get on that bike and head north too…
Semper fi, if you get this far north…
Jim
Damn! Fucking A Shau was relentless! Another good soldier down. Jurgens on the other hand? We’ll see I guess if he gets a dose of reality, before during or after you take your little stroll. I would bet he does. I get caught up in the terrible losses occurring with each episode and go back and reread them to make sure I understand all the details. Great read as always Jim! Hope you had a peaceful Memorial Day! SemperFi!
Thanks Jack, appreciate the support and yes, we lost a ton in that valley. So did they but they had many more to lose.
Semper fi,
Jim
This episode reminded me of the sniper mortar fire at Kham Duc around this time fifty years ago. One round here or there on Sat. then walking their fire through the Arty. pit and ammo dump the next morning. A lot of memories.
A small correction, after Tex fired his rounds from the recoilless, you went back (to) the 60, etc.
Thanks Jerome, for the editing help.
Working away on the next segment. Maybe I will turn out one that is clean, finally!
Appreciate the association and the support too…
Semper fi,
Jim
Just wanted to say it reads fine. Why does that guy have to keep correcting your spelling? If he was in country he must have been a REMF.
Well, Daniel, the guys correcting the spelling are actually helping me out because you cannot
go to final print with a lot of clerical errors and be taken seriously in the literary world.
So, thanks for your comment but correct me where you can. You are the only editors I have!
Semper fi,
Jim
“I finally set the radios aside and looked at the dying embers of the sun, getting ready to slip down below the eastern ridge that rose up to contain our part of the A Shau on the near side.” I think you mean the “western” rather than “eastern”.
Yes, of course, and thank you Terry. My mind got turned around along with what is left of my intellect!
Thanks for the help.
Semper fi,
Jim
No offense meant LT. One of the many jobs I’ve had was working on a land survey crew. Keeping directions straight becomes second nature very quickly. When you are in the midst of writing it is easy to turn little things around. I like reading Louis L’amour westerns because he researched his locations and what he described was what was actually there. Your writing has that same feel. I can keep where you are at because your descriptions are that accurate. Keep up the good work.