The Sandys came sweeping down the river, obliterating all other sound, the roar of their engines and propellers lifting my spirits in spite of my being trapped at the tank with a dead good kid and a living bad noncom.
I hugged the edge of the tank’s right tread, the metal warmer than the cool water slowly dropping my body temperature into one of discomfort. I knew the intensity of my fear would allow me to function no matter how cold I got. Jurgens had managed to maneuver around me to place my body between him and the crocodile. The reptile hadn’t move a millimeter since the fifty had opened up again. The Sandys hadn’t seemed to bother it a bit when they came over, nor the thunder of their twenty millimeters when they opened up again. The planes gave me hope, particularly when their remaining bombs fell into the nearby jungle again. Maybe they’d get lucky and put a five hundred pounder right on top of the fifty.
And then they were gone. Except for the sound of the water, things got quiet again. My hearing was half way back, because I heard Fusner, from over on the bank, trying to yell and whisper across the water at the same time. I stared into the eyes of the crocodile, pushed up against the track of the tank not six feet away from me. I slowly removed my .45 from my holster, gripping the butt hard for fear of losing my only weapon to the powerful current swirling around us. I could shoot the animal from under the surface. The Colt would function, and not too much energy would be lost by the bullet’s short travel through the water. I could also clear the weapon above the water to fire, but I’d have to make sure some of the water filling its barrel didn’t remain. A partially full barrel would explode, with devastating results for any flesh and bone nearby. I decided to hold the gun under the surface, pointed at the crocodile’s head from below. I stared for a full ten seconds into its unblinking eyes, until I noticed it had a smaller third eye.
“Oh, thank you God,” I whispered, moving a few feet closer to the animal while awkwardly replacing my .45 in the holster, making sure to snap the thin leather thong over the hammer tang. I carefully pushed Barnes’ dangling arm and smiling head back up over the mildly arced edge of the tank’s sagging treads, as I moved, never letting my eyes leave the reptile for more than a second.
The crocodile was dead. It’d taken a single round right between its real eyes. The thing’s eyes never blinked because there was no life left to blink them. Barnes had fired. I hadn’t heard his 16 go off, but the evidence was floating there right in front of me. The hole between the reptile’s eyes was small, about the size a 5.56 or .223 caliber bullet might make. Barnes had gotten one round off, and thereby saved Jurgens and my life, or at least taken one very deadly risk out of our life or death equation.
“Thank you, Barnes,” I said out loud looking upward, before turning to face Jurgens in the dying light. Although the crocodile was out of play, Sergeant Jurgens and I were still stuck in the middle of the river, growing colder by the moment. Had the .50 been silenced for good or would there merely be another momentary respite before the NVA got it up and firing again? The night was on our side. The NVA couldn’t see in the dark, even if their big gun was up and working. First Platoon couldn’t cross the river in the night either, so there would be no reinforcements from our side.
Fusner called out again from the closest part of the river bank in his barely suppressed yell. The team had brought the other end of the rope down river, having no need for the angle necessary when Barnes and I’d gone in.
The sound of the Sandys was dying off in the far distance. They’d been wonderful to have on station, although bombing and shooting down into triple canopy jungle was always a poor toss of the dice when it came to hitting intended targets.
“It’s dead,” I said to Jurgens. “Barnes took it out with one round between its eyes,” I waved at the crock’s body pressed into the side of the tank behind me.
“Thank God,” Jurgens replied, “can we pull it over to the bank so the guys can see it tomorrow?”
I looked up at the outlined form of Barnes’ body, the falling sun glinting off the wet surfaces all around it. I pushed my anger at Jurgens down into the depths of my heart. I knew, in some way, his cold objectivity and total selfishness were advantageous to survival in the circumstances we’d been thrown into. There was no place inside the man for sympathy, compassion or honor at all, but he was alive when many Marines were not.
“Nope, that’s not going to happen,” I said, moving around to the very edge of the tank’s body, where the current angled by most powerfully. I fought to hang onto the rope and the steel track surface, squinting my eyes to see Fusner leaning out from the bank over near the flow of passing water. Zippo and Pilson were barely visible down and behind him at the very edge of the jungle undergrowth.
I couldn’t free up a hand to cup it against the side of my mouth in order to be heard better, so I yelled over to Fusner at the top of my voice.
“When it’s full dark. I’ll shoot the forty-five. Pull us across.”
Fusner waved back in assent. Our best chance would be to make the attempt in the dark, I knew. I wasn’t going to risk being taken apart by the .50 if I could help it.
The image of what had happened to Barnes was so vivid it superimposed itself vaguely over everything I saw, and worse when I closed my eyes. I could only hope the image would fade quickly over time. I didn’t want to think about the night problem ahead. How were we, a very small under-armed patrol, with no supporting fires and cut off until morning, supposed to survive along the edge of the river alone? We also had to be occupying a position known to just about every NVA soldier in the entire area. Every minute that went by made it more likely that some NVA patrol would be dispatched to reconnoiter and report back, or even to simply attack upon contact.
I stared over at the bank and noted that Zippo and Pilson were building some sort of barricade, no doubt to fortify the terribly vulnerable position. Nguyen was nowhere to be seen. I presumed he was somewhere inside the jungle area nearby, probably posted to make sure no one came out of the bracken by surprise.
I turned to see where Jurgens was, as I no longer felt him at my back. I felt the rope, gripped tightly in my left hand, jerk spasmodically.
Barnes’ body fell from the top of the tank into the water between where Jurgens and I cowered, the head of the crocodile bobbing up and down gently just behind Jurgens’ back. Jurgens was bending over, working on the knots I’d used to tie the rope to Barnes’ waist.
It started a heavy rain again. Heavy dense sheets of impacting drops swept from upriver right down into us. I couldn’t see them coming in the near dark, and they came in predictable waves. Fifteen seconds of heavy rain, so dense it was hard to breathe, and then about half a minute of misting blowing light stuff. I watched Jurgens work, Barnes body being jerked around and under the water like it was going to disappear under the tank’s body. Jurgen’s back was to me, as he worked and I noted that his M-16 was nowhere to be seen. Had he lost it somewhere along the way or was it stuffed into some crevice among the tracks?
Another dense wall of the rain came down, obscuring my view, but I didn’t need to see any more. I didn’t have to see to know what Jurgens was doing. In spite of my order, he was detaching Barnes’ body and was no doubt intent on tying the rope either to himself or the crocodile so he’d have a trophy to show his buddies in First Platoon the next morning. I’d told him that that was not going to happen, either event. I waited for a misting wave of rain to follow the thick stuff before carefully taking my .45 out and pointing the slide and barrel downward to get rid of as much river water as possible. It was almost full dark, but I could still see what was going on.
I moved forward two or three feet, having to lean under the taut rope, almost submerging my upper body in the water, but holding the Colt clear. I stood, bent forward and placed the .45 near the left side of Jurgens’ head. I made sure to pull the automatic about six inches back, and then about four inches from his left ear, before I quickly clicked off the safety and squeezed the trigger.
Jurgens leaped upward, left hand instantly clutching his damaged ear.
I waited for him to turn to face me, but something else happened first. The rope pulled, throwing me off kilter so I had to use all the strength of my one hand to hold on. I stuck my .45 into its holster with my right without having time to strap it properly down. I grabbed the rope with both hands, as the rope was pulled away from the tank, dragging me out into the current with Barnes’ body sliding along behind me on the surface. I’d forgotten about my order to Fusner about shooting the gun. The guys at the bank were pulling for all they were worth.
Jurgens screamed from behind me. Without looking back, I figured it was because of the damage the shock wave had done to his eardrum, until he shouted.
“Don’t leave me!”
I looked over my shoulder, but couldn’t see him because of the night, and another dense falling sheet of monsoon rain. I turned my attention forward, realizing what had happened. Jurgens had clutched his ear, and let go of the rope he’d been trying to untie. The guys had pulled at the sound of the Colt going off, and almost instantly Barnes and I had been jerked from behind the tank and out into the current. We were being pulled across the raging current without Jurgens, who was still trapped behind the tank, just like before.
There was really no need for the scout team to pull at all, once our bodies got out into the current. We swept downriver, the other end of the rope acting as a fulcrum to the point where we automatically skated along and then slid right onto the low berm of the river bank.
I laid at the bank, my body rolling slowly back and forth for a few seconds. The Moses plan had gone wrong, just like the one, I’d put together to occupy the downriver side of the hill earlier.
I heard Jurgens’ anguished scream again. In spite of being a perfect asshole, the man was a Marine, a Marine in my company, and a Marine in serious trouble. I crawled up on the bank, as Fusner leaned down and grabbed my upper body to help me to my feet. The mud and sand covering me was cloying, but the rain was coming down so hard I knew if I just stood in one place long enough I’d be clean again. The river had been a wonderful relieving bath, if not a whole lot more.
“Untie Barnes’ body, or cut the rope, and get him situated up to the edge of the jungle. We’re moving upriver so we’re going to have to leave him until morning.”
“What about Sergeant Jurgens?” Fusner asked as Zippo and Pilson worked to free Barnes’ body.
Jurgens screamed his plaintive call once more, as if on cue. “Don’t leave me, Junior. I’m so sorry.”
My first responsibility was to the patrol. Jurgens was going to get a lot more anguished before things changed for him, but that couldn’t be helped. I didn’t think I’d lose much sleep over Jurgen’s demise if that was to be the eventuality of what was happening.
A short period of driving mist replaced the driving rain.
“Give me the Gunny,” I said to Fusner.
“The radio’s under plastic, sir,” he replied. “Come on.”
I followed Fusner in the dark, back to the semi-hooch/barricade area they’d been trying to make something livable out of. We couldn’t stay where we were, however, and live through the night. The weather was awful, but the enemy would be implacably worse.
I stuck my head under the plastic sheet Fusner was using to cover the electronics and held the handset to my ear.
“Gunny, it’s Junior,” I transmitted, holding the little button down before quickly releasing.
Although the advanced Prick 25 was a two channel radio, with the transmissions on the same frequency were separate for sending and receiving. However, if a sender transmitted at the same time the receiver was trying to do so the power of the instrument would blow out the receiving signal. It was still necessary to use the word “over” to effectively and curtly communicate. Not that it mattered when nobody was following such effective procedures.
“Jurgens still out there,” the Gunny came back.
“First attempt failed,” I replied, wondering what else to tell the Gunny, what with the whole of First Platoon probably listening to every word. “Barnes bought it.”
“No shit,” the Gunny replied, his tone indicating sarcasm. Obviously, the entire perimeter had seen everything that transpired behind the tank. Or almost everything.
“We’ve got to reposition for the night,” I said. “I’ll be back for Jurgens in a few hours.”
“Like before, it’s your call, sir,” the Gunny said.
Sir. He’d called me sir. That stopped me for a second or two. And then it came to me. He was laying the responsibility for Jurgens’ likely death at the feet of the conveniently and newly labeled company commander. Me. There was nothing else to be said, so I shoved the handset back toward Fusner.
“You’re coming back?” Fusner whispered, his voice so quiet no one nearby could hear.
I instinctively felt he wasn’t asking the real question on his mind. Was I coming back to save Jurgens or had I lied to the Gunny about that?
“Think it through,” I replied, before going on. “Let’s get our shit together and get out of here. We’re heading up river to just beyond the old airfield. We should be able to find that even in the dark. Unlimber the Starlight scope Zippo, and we’ll stop along the way and see what we can see between the bouts of heavy rain. Where’s Nguyen?”
“Here,” Pilson said, pointing into the jungle.
I looked up, as Nguyen appeared as if summoned by Pilson’s response.
We all got strapped into our packs. I was wet through. I knew I couldn’t move far with my utilities rubbing away my skin, plus the added weight the falling rain added to everything. I walked over to the rushing water, which had to be rising again to higher levels with the return of the rains. Jurgens had to be out of his mind with worry, and he had every right to be.
I cupped my hands to yell toward the tank, which was only visible because the current heaped up and splashed white foam around it a bit…which I knew it hadn’t been doing only moments before.
“Jurgens,” I yelled across the water.
“I know you’re there,” Jurgens yelled back. “Fucking Junior blew off my ear. I can’t hear. Are you coming?”
I wondered how he could hear if he couldn’t hear, but it really made no difference. He was stuck where he was until I got back to get out there and rope him in, again, unless he did something stupid. Or I did. I could have placed the .45 round in a better place, but my own anger at the man had overcome me. I moved upriver to join the team, waiting for me twenty yards away.
When I got to them I motioned for Nguyen to join me. I explained to him what we were looking for. Something close to the old airstrip yet easy to fortify for the night. We couldn’t use flashlights because the enemy had to be about. I knew, without saying anything to the men, that if the enemy was up there ahead of us in force then we were dead men no matter what we did. Our chances were far better if the enemy had to figure out where we were, and then find a way to engage us. The NVA didn’t necessarily know our patrol had no supporting fires of any use.
We moved slowly, walking fast for twenty meters, and then stopping for a full minute or so to wait and listen. It took a good hour and a half, according to my Speedmaster, for us to reach the cleared surface of the airstrip. Once onto the hard flat concrete, there was no point in moving slowly or stopping at all. Nguyen disappeared earlier at a loping run only to reappear once we were halfway across the exposed, but mercifully dark, expanse. The moon was nearing full so shone just enough light through the heavy invisible clouds to see him point back toward the direction he’d come from, which was back from where the river bent around the airstrip. The water went partially under the lip of the overhanging cliff on the far side.
I led the team behind him without checking the Starlight scope. We’d tried to use the scope three times along the way, but the momentary respite of the misting breaks had not been long enough, and I didn’t want to risk the thing shorting out completely. Another ‘layer’ of rain poured down and all moonlight was lost. We bent forward and forced ourselves through the heavy density of pounding water. The concrete under our feet was running two inches deep in water by the time we got across. I noticed that the water coming down was as cold as the river had been. But the air it was coming through was hot. Hot air and cold water together. I’d never have been able to imagine such conditions, much less experience them, back home.
Nguyen led us down a steep defile and into a sort of grotto that had been carved out by the river before it changed its course. The living snake of a river roared a short distance away before it dropped crashing distantly down and under the cliff. Going in the river at that point, I knew, would be almost a certain death sentence. I worried that the river might change course again, but there was little to be done for it. That danger was minimal, I thought, compared to the hunting NVA in the night.
“Stay off the radio,” I ordered Fusner. “I want no chance that the gooks will pick up any traffic. I’m going back with Nguyen for Jurgens. Everyone else stays here. We don’t need to be pulled back over. The rope, secured to a tree, and the heavy current, will take care of that.”
“You’re leaving me here, sir?” Fusner asked, in surprise.
“You’re my radio operator, not my wife,” I replied, wanting to make sure the kid didn’t follow us out of loyalty. “You stay put with Pilson and Zippo, and get some waterproof hooches built so we can get out of this shit.”
Fusner didn’t reply. Instead, he gripped the wrist of my utility jacket and pulled me toward the airstrip we’d just come down off of.
“Your flashlight, sir,” he said, letting go after a few yards.
I dropped my pack and pulled out the little light. I had to take the tape from its lens, as the batteries were all but dead. I pointed it ahead turned it on, and lit up a cave. I marveled, staring. For twenty feet or so, the concrete had been eaten away, forming a perfect cave about six feet in height. The bottom of the man-made cave was rough packed sand. The gaping hole looked to me like a five-star hotel room. I turned the light off and put it back to into my pack.
“Get us situated while I’m gone,” I ordered. I thought of sleep, and almost passed out when an instant wave of fatigue swept over me. I breathed deep and got control. I stripped off everything I had except for my crummy green undershirt, trousers, belt and boots. I kept the morphine, just in case. It was waterproof. Nguyen was at my side when I stood up.
“Nguyen and I are going back to where we left the rope. I’ll go in and he’ll stay on the bank. We’ll pluck Jurgens off the tank, get him in and then get back here.”
“You should take a radio,” Fusner replied, his voice very quiet, as if he was pouting.
“This is a quick one shot deal,” I said. “Either we’ll be back in a couple of hours or we won’t.”
I turned and took off at a run, not waiting for an answer or to see if Nguyen was following. I’d left Jurgens in the middle of the river that ran through the bottom of hell. I was going back for him I knew, not for him but for me, and for Barnes. Barnes had saved the two of us, not just me.
<<<<<< Beginning | Next Chapter >>>>>>
Jim, there may be a missing word here. Welcome home. Dave.
The bottom of the man-made cave was rough packed sand. The gaping () looked to me like a five-star hotel room.
Noted and corrected.
Thanks again, dave
Semper fi,
Jim
Took the family to see the Traveling Vietnam Wall in Bpt.Ct.,one week after reading this.Still cant process the emotions felt that you helped bring out with this account.To hear the losses chapter to chapter doesn’t seem much to the “observers” who watched it from afar,but to stand before that memorial and to try and absorb the loss we faced is truly a shock.God bless every loss,every survivor and every person affected by this insane time.
We went to the little wall they have in
Winfield, Kansas yesterday. Similar experience. Makes it all the more real.
Real boys and men. Thanks for the unspoken compliment about the work. Thanks for writing what you wrote on here…
Semper fi,
Jim
I try not to write here. I know it takes time to answer and your answers come from the bottom. You take time because you know how deep this all goes into our souls. The monster? He will protect you. I don’t think any of us were there alone. Our monster was right there with us. He took no shit and no prisoners.
Don’t know how many of us had a name for him but I think they would be slighting the truth to say he wasn’t there.
The “Trick.” was to get him back in the box. Mine, never, went willingly. I was accused of being Boocoo dinky dau.
You are a blessing to a lot of us. You are a strong willed individual. You and Junior were a tight team. I am glad you had a name for him. And I am glad he was there for you. I don’t know if you have, or not, but even if you don’t like him he had your six and you should at least shake his hand. They did so much to protect us, they really did deserve a name. Shave with out a mirror. Damn. I still do and I didn’t know why. I will check the old fart out the next time I shave. My dog tags and P-38 still hang on my neck. I can’t put them in the box. They have been there since 1962.
I did not name that darker side. The Marines in the company did. I sought to extinguish the name but it followed me to Oakland
Naval Hospital to rather dismal results. I finally got transferred down to Camp Pendleton and was relieved to discover that the
stateside older officers didn’t much believe any of us coming back from the Nam experienced real combat…not that they had.
That they did not believe was a relief… Junior died there, only to be resurfaced here in the story in memory only….
Semper fi,
Jim
Do you know how many or what percent of your casualties were fratricide vs enemy action
There is no real data on friendly fire deaths because the data necessary would have to come
from the unit itself…and most combat units are not going to report friendly fire mortality
inside the unit. Thanks for the intelligent question…
There were no autopsy reports or inquests or any of that in Vietnam that I knew about.
Semper fi,
Jim
Great chapter Jim! What a selfish prick Jurgens is! You have to go back, I get that, tempting though just to leave that asshole. I do think you should’ve taken the radio though.2 hours round trip to Jurgens a lot can happen! I would have proudly served with Junior! Semper Fi Jim!
Thank you Jack. You too! I have met some others like you on here…good for the long haul.
There were some good ones in the company but it sure as hell took some real fishing to get them to surface!
Thanks for your support and writing about it here…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jurgen should have used his m 16 and shot the crock like Barnes did and saved junior and Barnes from having to go out to rescue Jurgen and Barnes would not have died.
Poor old Jurgen’s. LOL.
A .45 by the ear. Oh my goodness that’ll deafen ya for sure. Like a handgun being fired in a car or a shotgun going off next to your head
Then left to hang on the tank in a rising river with crocs. LT, you’re a mean old cuss. LOL
Did your Colt cycle?
Yes, the Colt cycled and worked fine. For some reason it seemed to love that river water bath every once and awhile.
I could not have made it without the Colt and have watched Magnum on the Hawaii show with his…and I wonder about the
background of the real screenwriters for that show. They sure knew something…like me.
Semper fi,
Jim
One of the finest handguns ever made in my opinion. I think the service lost out when the went to the Beretta 9 MM. I don’t know how the Beretta is as far as functionality, but the knockdown of that big .45 would have been worth the fewer rounds in the magazine. Like getting hit by a 900 fps bowling ball 🙂
The .45 was perfect. I was designed for mud jungle and attack warfare at close quarters.
The 9mm, as we used to say in the CIA, is a weapon intended to piss off people who’ve been shot by it rather
than put them down or take them out. But, it’s more of todays genteel weapon of a supposedly more discerning officer and NCO crops. Thanks for the comment and the accurate analysis…
Semper fi,
Jim
Another exciting episode! I can’t wait till the 2nd book comes out so I can read them all on paper! Times change, music changes, different wars for different times, but some things were still the same in 2003 when I (we) invaded Iraq. You had Skyraiders, we had A-10 Warthogs. You had AC-47 Spooky, we had AC-130 Spooky. You had a M1911 Colt, I had a Beretta Model 92. Ya’ll had the M-79, I carried an M203 (same 40mm launcher made so it is mounted under the barrel of the M-16)
I was in the 122nd Combat Engineer Battalion of the South Carolina National Guard. When we deployed in 2003, we were attached to the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment. The average age in the unit was 29, and I was 32(SSG/E-6), so not only young bucks go to war these days…..Also, we had 2 Vietnam Vets in our unit that deployed to Iraq with us. Also Myself and many of the men had served on active duty for years before we joined the Guard.
Shit, I am rambling…. BUT, here is something…those worthless flak vests they gave Ya’ll in Vietnam?? They gave us those same worthless pieces of shit when we went to Iraq in 2003!! We also had alot of other Vietnam vintage equipment.
Anyway, enough of my rambling thoughts, as always I have nothing but respect for you and all the men who came before me. Thank you. Ya’ll deserved better than you got.
Always nice to hear from the veterans of the more recent wars, and how combat is so damned similar when
it comes to really being out in the field. The shit that works and the stuff that does not. Why is the stuff that does not
just passed on down? Unknown. Thanks Andrew, really appreciated the comment and your writing it here…
Semper fi,
Jim
It has slowly dawned on me that what is going on here, in this “totally-read-before-it’s-ever-published-book”, is history in the making. Thousands, yes tens of thousands of books have been painstakingly written, and many of those had to fight tooth and nail to get published. But never, has a book been so thoroughly discussed, analyzed, criticized, praised, and examined by so many before it has ever been off the press. What manner of author subjects him/her self to such scrutiny? Has it happened simply because the technology now exists to allow it to happen? I’m sure there is more to it than that, and I think it’s because this author, you, James Strauss, are indeed, one of a kind. And besides, I feel kind of cool just being able to be a tiny, small part of this historic event.
Write on, you history maker, you!
John, you are right. There is this effect that is going on with the readers and other veterans with
their own experiences effecting the flavor of the story as it comes out. The action is the same but my presentation of
it is entirely effected by what I read every day and and night here. Is this something really special or just another
new electronically allowed occurrence this new technology created? I don’t know. I don’t tend to think of myself as that
special, or than I’ve fucked up in life a whole more than most and also been exposed to parts of the planet and life more than most.
Thanks, as usual, for being on this rather strange Quixotic adventure right with me…
Semper fi,
Jim
well Jim I was going to ask the same thing that j did why you put yourself down but after reading what you wrote I do understand. you had said who would want to go back to Nam I did I have always thought that I could of saved some lives. I lost my a gunner Lyle back here in the states I blamed my self for going to LA with this WM that I met with the idea I was going to get some. anyways when I got back to Oceanside to our apt. their was cops and medics all over the parking lot I parked on the street and went up to the lot and I saw why they where there Lyle was on a stretcher and they were trying to figure what hospital to take him to I said he’s a Marine take to any hospital the Corp will pay he died on the way in. the cops wrote that he was a drunk Marine that commited suaside my spelling isn’t the best what had happened was he went into the bathroom will in their he started having flash back about getting over run by Charlie in Nam he was yelling don’t let them get me and went out the window. they didn’t know about PTSD.i have always said that if I would have been their he would still be here. it still pisses me of about what the cops wrote. so what i’m sayimg is I too have put myself down
That’s a helluva bit of a burden you’ve been hauling around Dave. I sure as hell
understand and sympathize with it, however. How can any of us not? Those who survived have been
given short shrift time and again, plus those of us who really understand are very limited in number and
not homogeneous. In other words the real combat troubled vets are not exposed to others who might have worked
through exactly the same kind of problems. Maybe, because of technological advance, this kind of site, where the vets are lead
through that valley of death…not their own…but like their own…to find being part of the resulting rag tag refuse in company can be damned
curative. I am with you brother in carrying that load this very night. I am thinking about what you wrote and you yourself right this minute
and a lot of others right here are doing so too.
Going it alone is the hardest part. Not anymore…
Semper fi,
Brother,
Jim
Jim I agree with your comment to Dave whole heartily. Your writing has brought so much back to me and others I am sure. Like Dave I don’t know if I help a fellow vet or made him in worse shape by talking to him about VN. All I do know is after talking with him about our time in Nam two weeks latter he took his own life. He told me about killing a boy that was trying to pull a pin on a grenade to throw into his chopper, I knew he was having a hard time telling me about it. Keep up the good work Jim.
Jurgens was definatly a self centered, dangerous asshole. But I understand your risking it all by going back for him. You can look in the mirror when you shave, and not be troubled. You’re a man’s man, Jim!
I shaved without a mirror for quite some time. Now, it’s okay. I did some good things in my time but there always
lurked that fear and knowing I would, and sometimes did, the worst of things at the snap of my fingers or the slightest
provocation. Thanks for that comment Gerry. I would be such a better lieutenant now.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim this far along in our lives we still have so many questions and very few answers
but we made it home brother never to broken to belong ,stay the course my friend.
Semper Fi
Thank you Stephen, I really appreciate the kind words and encouragement.
Semper fi, brother,
Jim
Thanks James for your response. It would appear that your Junior is defined by you, as the ugly side of mankind that resides in all of our species. By now, I am sure that you understand that those who have gone to war, have all met their junior and very few want anything to do with acknowledging, that he lives within the dark crevices of their mind. That would be a prime reason for vets not wishing to discuss the details of their activities while in battle.
In the minds of many, survival instinct becomes your junior, when it is a life or death situation, your life or the other, becomes the choice. Unfortunately in many cases, there are innocent lives involved, especially in war. We have all had to deal with that aspect as well. Perhaps that is one of the most difficult sides of human nature, that mankind must deal with. Killing in self defense is justifiable, killing for pleasure is never acceptable. One seriously doubts, that the majority of soldiers go to war for the pleasure of killing. That is a serious misnomer, emanating from those who have never served in uniform for their country.
Understanding and accepting those facts about the tragedies of war and the survival instincts of man, can be very helpful for those returning from the battlefield, even though the scars of war will always be present when reflected upon. Those who suffer from PTSD have difficulty reaching that point, the safety zone, in their thinking about the horrible actions of mankind. As you have noted, no two people see things the same way. In most cases, they have awakened to the dark side of mankind for the first time and find that it becomes very difficult to accept the reality of it. They often deal with this realization in many different ways, whether through anger, guilt or to just plainly try to escape from all of the demons that have surfaced in their minds.
Bottom line James, if it were not for the survival instinct that resides in the minds of mankind, there would no longer be a human race to deal with.
There are survival instincts and then there are survival instincts. It is the direction and the volume
of action-oriented response that is really in question. And also the capability of some to be diminutive
or excessive…and then have that action reflected back in developed social discourse. As here.
My comments about myself and Junior take me to conclusion, and have for a long time, that I was so over
the top it was astounding. Where did that come from and, although it is now tamped down and diminished to
manageable, why is it still in me and here?
Thanks for your comment in depth, as usual…
Semper fi,
Jim
Why do you still deal with Junior and where do his traits comes from, is a question that would most probably deal from your very foundation as a child? It could be a question of emulation or frustration, from your childhood. Society has a way of suppressing certain instincts and desires, until one is beyond the restrictions of society, such as on a battlefield or living a covert life.
From your discussion about your other escapades after leaving the military, i.e., the CIA, it would appear that Junior was again a driving force within you. Could be the rush you experienced, from being able to escape the bounds of society. Then too, the thrill you seemed to enjoy, when dealing with mental anguish and fear. You claimed to hate the fear factor within you, but continually placed yourself in situations that would create fear. Were you trying to master your fear or where you pushing it to the limit and relishing the high, that some get for taking unusual chances? One cannot dismiss the answer to that question and only you could succinctly answer it.
Growing old and acknowledging less ability to take chances, often brings Junior’s urges into a manageable situation, especially when it is a question of acceptance and survival.
The CIA. I needed the money. I wanted to travel. I wanted to be ‘somebody,’ because I felt like
nobody. I wanted to be in the Marine Corps, of sorts again, that I was no longer deemed fit for.
I don’t seek high risk but it is occasionally there…and I know I deal with it rather well.
Does that mean I seek it because we all like doing those things we are good at?
I can’t answer that, but only speculate. I don’t think so but would not stand against a professional
conclusion that that was, indeed, the case. If I wasn’t some form of a basket case I would not be writing
the story as I am or on here telling the truth. There are safer roads to travel at my age.
Semper fi, and thank you most heartily, as usual.
Jim
James the most successful conclusion that you can draw, would come from you, as you are your own reality. There is no one else exactly like you, therefore you become your own expert in concluding why your life has turned out the way it has. If you were a basket case, you would not be trying to analyze your life, because the reasons for your action’s would not matter to you.
One remembers you stating that when you were in the hospital, you asked God not to let your life be without action and cause. That shows that you thrive on the excitement of life and therefore would naturally seek out more then just a normal existence.
As an author, you are telling a story that has not been fully and accurately described, under the circumstance that you lived it. That is the impetus for many writers. In doing so, you are not only helping yourself work through that experience, but many others who were seriously impacted by it as well. That is a worthy goal!
J. it is hard to gauge the impact on here or in the writing, for me.
It’s just talking to the veterans on here like the kind of veteran that they mostly are.
I don’t have a profile or crib notes. I just write away on here trying to explain life as I’ve
found it to be in my own way and then analyzing the lives of others to try to comprehend and comment.
The book writing is effected because at the writers on here effect my thinking. The occurrences stay the same
as they were but the presentation of them is definitely modified by what infuses me here.
Not the clearest explanation, I know. I’m trying.
Semper fi,
Jim
LT, I accidentally found an article published April 29, 2017 in the Washington Post about a reunion of Marines from the Marine Corps Quantico, Va, Basic OfficerCourse class of 1967. The losses from that class are chronicled with names and events. If you think it ain’t gonna hurt you may see important stuff. Poppa
Link it up Poppa. I cannot believe, for example, that there are active groups of guys who
flew those Sandy’s overhead and I might even end up shaking Cowboy’s hand, or Hobo or Jacko.
If they made it. Now thank God for the Internet and all it has brought us if I get to do that.
Semper fi,
Jim
I am on it, by that I mean, I will try to get it done with limited skills involving hardware and where do I put it. I will return when I figure it out and let you know where I think I posted it. Poppa
We have time! Thanks Poppa Joe. We weren’t born into this shit like the kids today but
at least we don’t deny it’s there like the generations before us.
Thank you,
Semper fi,
Jim
Okay, don’t know how or if it took but I believe I posted it to Janice DeCarlis’ “what’s on your mind” page.
The burdens of command, especially in combat, are heavy indeed aren’t they, Jim. It’s hard to see one of your men die, even if you don’t particularly like them or they you. Stay strong and get the job done, LT!
On another note, those monsoon rains were a real bitch at times, weren’t they?
All of that Jim. Yes, command is so very different in training and back at the barracks.
When I got home and waited for the board to dump me out I had command of a HQ Battery, actually I was
the XO but the commander was much more fucked up than me. I found it almost impossible to command men, half
of whom had come out of the Nam and the other half that had not gone yet. Talk about bifurcated and split!
Thanks for your comment and support…
Semper fi,
Jim
1st day in country you question command and a little later you were on your way to this company. where would you have gone if you had stayed silent James?
I have no idea. My first battery assignment, which I never got to was
very top heavy with company grade officers while the field was denuded of
forward observers. I presume to the battery but who can know now. I have speculated
all my life. I had no contacts, family or Marine history in my background.
I was just a 2nd louie.
Thanks for the penetrating question though…
Semper fi,
Jim
If you get the company to the airstrip you should get at least some re-supply. If choppers can’t or won’t land,C130s might be able to do touch & go pallet drops. Stay clear of the drop zone though, as I once saw a perfectly good Ontos turned into a pile of scrap metal during a touch & go drop at Duc Pho.