THE COWARDLY LION
Chapter Five
There was night and day in the I.C.U., only the night was brought about by merely dimming the existent lighting enough so that the pain drug clock could barely be seen. Visitors did not come at night. Doctors only came if emergency care was necessary. Kathy, or dim replacements for her, came with the syringes, which never hurt since the needles were always injected straight into the plastic piping running to the needle already in my body.
The pump never slept. The morphine waves could be ridden into a state of near-sleep, while the first hour of their effectiveness was in full bloom, but the pump was ceaseless in its unpredictable efforts to make sleep its fiercest enemy. The tube they ran into another drain hole was called a shunt, I learned, although the doctors never spoke to me unless it was to ask a question about some move or reaction they’d done. and then wanted direct feedback. The shunt had gone in without pain but its insertion all the way to the end, my end, had been very slow and labored. My bowels were all stitched back together, Shoot had informed me earlier, and the inserters didn’t want to risk tearing any of them apart. Once the tube was fully through me the saline flowed, not in bottles per shift or even hour, but for each half an hour. They called it the ‘sippy’ time because, when and if I ever became capable of eating again the diet would start out as one ounce of some magnesium alloyed milk on the half-hour and one ounce of water on the hour. That start, even when it converted to one ounce of Gerber baby pudding and one ounce of real milk, was referred to as the sippy diet by everyone.
The bottles came and went on the sippy schedule, providing even less incentive to sleep. There had seemed no escape from the A Shau, only days before, but here I was, trapped again, I thought. There seemed no escape from the pump but there had to be some small corner of probability that would finally rise up to release me, even if that was a terminal release.
“You sound like my mother’s Singer sewing machine,” Masters said, “what are you making?”
I turned my head to look at him but his features were hidden behind a towel draped over some guard they’d put around him to keep him from falling out of his bed.
“Cookies,” I replied, my drug-addled mind not putting two and two together.
“You can’t sew cookies,” Master’s replied, almost a laugh in his tonal inflection.
“Sure, you can,” Puller chimed in, “you just have to do it very very carefully.”
“Yeah,” I said, “you have to work carefully around the chocolate chips.”
Kathy walked in, the two doors swinging widely behind her.
The pump came on for a few seconds.
“You did that on purpose,” Masters said, “to win the argument.”
“What’s going on?” Kathy asked, standing at the foot of my bed.
The pump shut off.
“The sewing machine is afraid of her,” Puller said, an actual laugh coming out only a few seconds after his comment.
I watched Kathy’s eyes get just a little larger, as she stared over to where the lieutenant lay, his bed not more than ten feet from my own. She glanced back down at me, a warmth in her eyes I hadn’t noticed before.
“You two get your shot in two hours and ten minutes,” she said to me.
I knew that, of course, as the clock never left my hawk-eyed visual field. Two hours and ten minutes and forty seconds, to be exact, I thought but didn’t say anything.
“You two are on almost the same schedule, Q4H, just like him, except about an hour later,” she said to Puller and Masters.
We were all getting morphine every four hours. I wondered why she’d come in to tell us something all of us had to know.
“You want your next shot along with them?” she asked, looking deep into my eyes.
I was already beginning to sink into the valley of pain, where the agony would increase incrementally with each passing minute for the remainder of my time. Kathy was asking me to take another hour of raw agony. I waited to see if she’d provide some reason for her question but she said nothing, merely waiting with patience only a nurse of her caliber could muster up.
I got it, suddenly, just as my pump came on again. Kathy was asking me to make a sacrifice to be riding the waves with my two new lieutenant friends. She wanted me to be right there with them, at least for the first two hours when communication among us was possible. I knew she could give me extra morphine if she judged that to be necessary, but she didn’t want to do it for the purpose she had in mind. Her eyes continued to stare into my own. They needed me. The company had needed me. Kilo had needed me. They’re needing me had been as powerful a survival tool for me as it had been for some of them.
“I can do it,” I finally replied, the pump turning off as if to add an exclamation point to my statement. I swallowed without liquid, and then breathed in and out deeply a few times. I glanced over at the clock. Three hours and three minutes to go. I could do it, but it was going to be a very rough ride. Kathy wanted me to help Puller and Masters through, which I had no problem with. Secretly, as the pain began to replace whatever normality tried to sustain me, I also understood that it also meant I was not likely without body parts I could not examine myself to determine I either had or might be missing. Both Puller and Masters seemed like much more ‘worth it’ as officers and gentlemen than I could ever hope to be. I could do the time.
I rode the remainder of my last withdrawn drug hour in deep breathing silence. I was back in the A Shau. I felt the water dripping down my face from the monsoon mist, and the bugs and leeches were back, as my skin seemed to itch, crawl, and then flutter with light pain. I rode the waves my mind created to ‘surf’ me through without a board. The wave of pain came at me and I breathed in. The wave grew higher, but I held my breath against the onslaught, and then slowly let the air out of my lungs. The wave passed and the pain wore slowly down, ever lower in intensity lower. Like the real ocean, itself imagined and out in its element, it never truly went away. The cycle, as I watched the hazy clock on the wall, took forty-four seconds. My artillery mind calculated. 44 seconds came down to 81.818181…forever, times a minute. Four thousand, nine hundred and eight waves later I was through, even though I was not through the ordeal on into the future.
Kathy walked through the doors, moved quickly to the I.V., and ended the nightmare. Her presence alone ended the surfing competition, her smile down at me so real and genuine that I responded, even though I knew my own was more a grimace than a true smile. She moved first to Puller’s side and then to Masters before leaving. She didn’t speak, so I knew she’d be returning soon.
The shot hit with its expected warm and smoothly explosive relief. Coming from so far down and so tightly held to such relief was beyond describable. I’d heard an expression many years earlier about the fact that pain had no memory. It had a memory all right, I knew. How long the memory of such agony would last I had no idea, but I also knew, down to almost a genetic level, that I would never ever forget either the enormity of it or the detail in which it came at me.
Kathy re-entered the I.C.U. through the double doors, but the doors didn’t swing shut, instead, they were held open by Shoot, for the Navy Captain’s wife to enter. It wasn’t time for a shot I knew, although I couldn’t help but glance at the face of the big clock. Then I noted that Kathy’s eyes were wet. She was crying. I caught my breath, not knowing what to expect, but expecting the worst.
“I have a reply to the telegram you sent to your parents,” Kathy said, holding out a piece of yellow paper before her.
My breath rushed out. My parents. I had so feared for my wife and daughter but it was only my parents. Shoot had sent the telegram.
“Your arms are in too bad a shape to hold this, so I’ll read it to you, but it’s very difficult,” Kathy began, the telegram in her shaking hand.
“Hang tough,” Masters said, from my left.
I sensed that the letter she was holding was from my father.
“It’s from my father, I know, and I understand,” I said to Kathy. “It’s okay, whatever it says, that’s the way he is.”
I looked into Kathy’s eyes and saw a certain relief, but also a hint of criticism. I knew I was right, about my father being the author, and I felt better.
“Okay,” she replied, hesitantly beginning to read the salutation and date before she got to the message. When that was done, she began:
“Don’t bother with sending any more of the wounded war hero letters home. Whatever you’re doing over there, if you are over there, isn’t something we want to know anything about. We have our own problems.”
Kathy stopped reading, the unfolded letter hanging from her right hand, her eyes moist and red from the tears.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” I replied, no feeling of grief, anger, or even emotional upset evident in my words or expression.
“He’s been dealing with this all his life,” the Captain’s wife, our volunteer, said, from behind Kathy, “and those hurtful words, intended to cause pain, won’t in this case.”
“That’s the way he is, and my mom goes along with it,” I said, Kathy’s sympathy and tears bothering me more than any message from my father.
“You joined the Marines because of him,” the volunteer went on, taking the letter from Kathy’s hand and reading it for herself.
“You too?” Puller asked, making everyone in the room look over at him where he lay.
“All of us,” Masters added, his voice soft but firm.
“So, you’re in good company,” the volunteer said, looking up over her glasses at me.
I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing. I much appreciated the support and comradery of both Puller and Masters, but my relationship with my parents was a whole lot more complex than could be explained by my joining the Marines to get away from them or because they wanted me to. It was true that I had been raised in Marine messes and singing the Marine Corps Hymn from an early age. My dad had wanted to be a Marine but been forced to join the Coast Guard when the Marines inexplicably turned him down in 1940. My father had so resented my success at getting through Marine OCS that he’d failed to show up to pin my gold bars on when I was commissioned. His resentment of my service had come all the way through to make its way to me in Yokosuka, generated by Shoots, no doubt, glowing somewhat heroic message that had gone to him.
“Do you want me to write something back?” Kathy asked, slowly recovering herself.
“He does not,” the volunteer, Barbara, said, reading that message straight from my stare back, and my facial expression. I’d done my part in getting messages back to both my parents and my wife. My mission now was to survive, and that was it.
Kathy, Barbara, and Shoot departed, as they’d come, the volunteer taking a brief moment to approach the red trash bin Kathy used as a receptacle for old syringes. She curled up and tossed my father’s letter into the container without a glance or comment, before following the other two out through the swinging doors.
“Man, Junior,” Puller laughed out, in his broken way. “No wonder you have this tough hombre reputation. My father’s strict but he’s not like your dad at all. He’s proud that I made it through the Basic School and got my butter bars, although it was no fun having him at the commissioning ceremony.”
“My dad’s great,” Masters said, from the other side of my bed.
“Yeah, I met him while you were out,” I replied to Masters. “He’s a class act, not like a general at all.”
“You met him as my dad, not as a general, but as my dad, so don’t forget that or it may cause you more pain,” Masters replied.
“More pain,” Puller tried to laugh out. “I like that. More pain,” he repeated.
It had to be the drugs circulating in my system that made me sleepy, as well as being able to understand what Masters and Puller were saying less and less. The pain, I knew, was out there on the threshold, like a large wave set way offshore, heading in but taking its ponderous time. I wanted to sleep but I didn’t want to waste whatever rational time I had until the set arrived. When it came in I would not be able to sleep.
My pump came on, and caught me by surprise, as my stomach vibrated away for many seconds.
“Ah, the Singer is at work once more,” Masters said, but I was beyond replying.
Two days and nights went by, slowly and painfully. The moments of clarity and marginal peace, with the pain held back, made living almost worth it. I could not write home because both of my wrists were still fastened down, one for the I.V. and the other for the drawing of blood and the transfusions of occasional pints of blood. That I was AB positive was bothersome to the staff because only two percent of humans have that particular blood type. It’s the universal receptor blood type because only AB positive people can receive any other blood and survive, however, the medical staff preferred to match the same type with the same type, for never discussed reasons.
“You’re not going to need any more blood after this,” Kathy said on the third morning following my dad’s fateful letter.
She punched the needle into my elbow vein and let the metal clamp loose. The blood flowed through the tube, looking like liquid ketchup. As soon as it began to flow into my bloodstream I felt better, with more energy. Beefsteak, Puller called fresh blood transfusions, and he had a point.
“What about the pump?” I asked.
“Yeah, what about the damned pump?” Masters asked. “How in hell are we supposed to sleep with that thing going off and on all the time?”
“I thought you said you weren’t sleeping, anyway,” Kathy shot back. “Dr. Ahtai makes that decision, and I think he has. Your white blood count is just over four thousand now,” she said to me. “That can be normal for most people, although you’re far from fitting that description. I think the pump will come out tomorrow. It won’t hurt a bit.”
“I wish nobody would ever say that,” I replied. “Everything here hurts in some way or another.”
“You go, Junior,” Puller added.
“See?” I replied, nodding at Kathy’s back.
“Your brother’s coming,” Kathy replied, clearing my mind of all thoughts about the pump or anything else.
“He’s coming where?” I asked, in mild shock.
“He’s coming to Yokosuka from Yokohama before he ships home,” Kathy said, matter-of-factly, like she was talking about the weather.
“How’s he going to get here?” I wondered, out loud, having no idea where Yokosuka was in Japan, much less where Yokohama was in relation to it.
“I imagine he’ll catch a ride in somebody’s car or maybe take a bus or train,” Kathy replied. “It’s only twenty-five miles from here, or so.”
Kathy exited the room, while I watched the doors slowly stop swinging behind her. I realized, for the first time, that I’d lost track of when my next shot was due. My brother. We’d only become close in the last year before ending up in Vietnam. Having bad parents didn’t mean that the siblings banded together to fight or resist them. It had been just the opposite, with me, my brother, and sister going totally independent. It had been ‘every man for himself’ since I could remember, until the last year. I wanted to see my brother badly, I realized. If I didn’t make it then he was all Mary and Julie would have.
“Your brother?” Puller asked. “What’s your brother doing in Yokohama?”
“Wounded,” I replied. “Army hospital there. He was with the Big Red One at Bien Hoa, but he’s okay now, I guess. I don’t know anything for certain because I wasn’t notified until right before I got hit.”
“Bien Hoa,” Puller whispered. “We were out of An Hoa. Life is so strange.”
“Wow,” Masters piped in. “Your family’s taken quite a hit from this war.”
I knew my brother had been wounded, but the severity of his injuries hadn’t been a part of the telegram I’d gotten. If he was being discharged from the Army hospital, however, and being allowed to travel on his own to visit me, then he couldn’t have been hit too badly, I knew. Masters was very badly injured and likely to lose his right leg, while Puller was missing both legs and part of his right hand. My family hadn’t paid nearly the price that the two men’s families had who were right in the same room with me. I said nothing, however.
Kathy was as good as her word. Dr. Ahtai returned but did not perform the simple procedure. He merely made a few notes after examining the entry vent he’d used days before to insert the tubing for the pump. The tubes and bottles were quickly removed, and there was no pain. Without a word, Dr. Ahtai and his assistants left the room. Kathy reappeared. Obviously, she’d been waiting until they were done. Dr. Ahtai was obviously an important member of the medical staff.
The timing had been a bit off, as all three of us in the I.C.U. were at the very end of our four-hour period. Neither Puller nor Masters were able to remain completely silent in their suffering. I understood. I had a few more days on them and I, although grievously wounded, didn’t have the severity of the damage to my body as they had to theirs. I’d moaned for hours only days and nights before. It was almost impossible, under intense pain, to make no noise at all.
Kathy brought the syringes and very quickly injected all of our I.V. tubes.
In minutes, while Kathy disposed of her equipment, the relief in the room became palpable, and the moaning stopped completely.
“When’s he coming?” I asked, knowing Kathy would understand immediately who I was talking about. I was so relieved that the pump was gone. I hadn’t wanted my brother to see it or be there when the thing went on.
“He’s here,” Kathy said. “I just wanted to give you a few minutes to accommodate the medication. “I’ll get him.”
Kathy walked out and I breathed deeply in and out, forgetting I had very conscious and cogent roommates.
“You’ll be fine,” Puller said. “He’s your brother, after all, not your father.”
“Too true,” Masters added, “and you can make believe we’re not even here.”
I knew Masters was kidding and I enjoyed that fact. Both lieutenants were responding to real conversation and there was some humor buried inside them that was surfacing.
“I wish one of you was my brother,” I gushed out, not fully understanding where the comment had come from.
“We’re both your brothers, or haven’t you guessed that by now?” Puller said.
My brother walked slowly through the double doors, slipping through between them rather than pushing them aside, as Kathy and Shoot did. He moved like a prowling, feral cat. I knew he’d been in the bush for a long time, just by the way he moved. He was wearing his full Class A green uniform. I noted that he already displayed his purple heart on his chest, along with his National Defense and Vietnam campaign ribbons. His face was one welcoming smile as he walked to the right side of my bed and turned to look down upon me. His smile disappeared, as Kathy had not replaced the sheet over my wounds following the procedure.
My brother took two steps back, almost contacting Masters’ bed before quickly leaning over and throwing up onto the floor.
It took about 10 days to read this chapter a 2nd time. Your injuries were far greater than mine. I too sent letters from the hospital after the staff said if I didn’t they would. Doing it myself would hopefully cause less concern at home. Unlike you, I had very concerned parents. When I was shipped back to the states they arrived to see me quickly. No response from one letter but understood why when mail sent to me in Nam finally caught up to me, it started Dear John and well it was one!
Sorry to hear about your letter, JRW.
I hope all turned out well.
Semper fi,
Jim
My uncle Wilbur was with the Army in the Pacific during WWII, island hopping, coming in after the Marines all the way to Iwo Jima. He was wounded several times and kept going back – refusing purple heart awards from four Presidents. After he died a few years ago, my brother saw him at the mortuary before embalming and said his body looked like a jigsaw puzzle.
I was in the Army, spent a year in Viet Nam (Jan ’68 – Jan ’69) with about three weeks on hill 1473 (1453 after the AF blew the top off for us). We lost six who were with the infantry and engineers that were protecting us Signal guys, and I came home without a scratch.
I’ve followed your ordeal from The First Ten Days, and have read all of your published works, sharing them with family and friends and looking forward to more. Met you at Winfield, KS.
Thank you for your service and your tremendous courage in recalling it for us.
Always good to hear from, you Mike.
Thanks for your support.
Jim
Hi, Jim. I guess the illustration was your brother’s blouse, right? I am so blessed to have served without having to be in combat! You have a gift! Tom Thorkelson
The list is short of the men I would have been proud to serve with and have flying support over me. You are one of those men.
You are so mission oriented it is staggering. Thanks for the compliment and for being a great boss from so long ago.
Semper fi, my friend,
Jim
Visceral, agonizing. I can almost smell the pain you heros experienced. To say respect is not enough.
Funny that word ‘heroes.’ So used today. So many who get to live
in its shadow who’ve never done a thing. That’s okay though. The bad part
is how do you get heroes when you need them when everyone is one. Why bother?
Semper fi,
Jim
My brother was buried at Arlington closed casket. I tried to see the body but the doctor there said that
in his 22 years as a physician he could swear to me that I did not, in reality want to see the remains.
He gave me a sterilized quarter, bent in half and my brothers class ring, smashed completely flat. I
did not view the remains. His uniforms were a big part of all that was left.
Semper fi,
Jim
I repeat: I have never read anything like this…
Thanks for that great compliment Jim, as I have no other barometer for how I am
doing than you and the others on this site.
Semper fi,
Jim
Nothing but respect for you James as well as everyone who served in Southeast Asia.
Semper fi,
Sean
Thanks a lot Sean, respect seems to run in short supply these days, although, for vets of
the war it changed a lot with Iraq and Afghanistan. Those guys made it better back home for us.
Appreciate the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim you and I followed much the same path. I worked out of An Hoa, (1968), medevac’d to NSA Da Nang, transferred to Yokosuka, then to Travis AFB, and finally to Long Beach Naval Hospital. I found your writing about time in the valley right on, and healing for some of us that had worked hard to push the memories out of our consciousness. While the first part of my journey home is pretty fuzzy, as I became more aware of where I was and what I and those around me were doing, I found everyone to be compassionate, caring, and so patient. My ward mates were a main contributor to keeping all of us strong. Losses on the homeward bound journey seemed more tragic than those in the field. I’m hoping that the healing you’ve brought to so many of us continues. Thanks
Semper fi
Bob
Yes, Bob, I went from the A Shau straight to the First Med and then to Yokosuka (with a weird short stop at Tachikawa) and then on to Travis and eventually out of hospital to Treasure Island before
being reassigned to Camp Pendleton. The care if Japan was fantastic. The lackadaisical treatment at Tachikawa not so good and the care in Oakland fair to poor. Japan saved my life, and the guys and gals there
too. I could do Oakland, as I’d done the valley. Thanks for the great comment and running in parallel to me way back then…brother.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was fortunate enough to receive great care every where I went. Like you, TDA to treasure Island on discharge from LBNH, then on to Edson Range until promotion to civilian. One visit to VA in long Beach convinced me to never return, however was lucky to have great medical insurance from work. Upon retirement to Boise ID was convinced by my wife and her “gang of 8” to try Boise VA. Fantastic place with staff and care unmatched anywhere. All in all have lived a magically lucky life!
Semper fi,
Bob
I wonder how many of us went TDA to Treasure Island? Gone now.
Neat little base it was, although after the Nam and still all shot up I only lasted four days
before my C.O. couldn’t take it anymore and I got transferred to Pendleton.
Semper fi,
Jim
As a DUSTOFF medic I only saw raw wounds on soldiers that we picked up in the field and most of them were bandaged. I’m glad I never had to work in a hospital caring for the wounded. We’d typically had 15-30 minutes to keep the wounded alive before they were dropped off at a MASH unit. I’m on the edge of my seat reading each episode. Thank you for sharing. 🇺🇸🚁
I don’t remember the treatment I must have received when they found me on the ground and then on the chopper.
I’ve reported only what I can remember and, as you know with that kind of shock, memory is not always accurate under such
conditions. Thanks for commenting on here and fore having been a Dustoff media.
Semper fi,
Jim
Instead of “He moved like a cat-like animal.” Perhaps “He moved like a feral, feline animal”, or “He move with a feral, feline grace.” My 7 family siblings sound much like yours, all these decades later. My brother was gut shot in a bar fight in 83 outside a Tulsa biker bar while that squat ex-wrestler was beating a man’s brains out against a concrete wall. One of the man’s relatives put a .38 against his side and pulled the trigger. Fortunate, or my brother would have had a M charge. Due to the extreme angle the bullet perforated his larger and small intestines in 64 places, busted his solar plexus (he went down hard & could not breathe quickly falling unconscious), nicked a lung, nicked his liver, and took a rib on the way out. The crowd ran and left him for dead. Some girl called a step-brother who raced, found him barely clinging to life & called 911. Matt spent less than 2 months in the VA, signing out AMA. A few days later, his 170 rock solid pounds reduced to 130, bowed like like a 90 year old man, colostomy bag flopping under his tee shirt, he ran about a 9 minute mile with me. Yeah, he was crazy and one of the toughest men I know except for my hillbilly daddy. He had tubes in him also and raw stomach muscles showing plainly through several open holes in his skin for a long time – probably the result of signing out AMA. Violent and dangerous, he turned his life around a year later, went back to work as a plumber, married his old biker babe, had 5 kids, & still runs a very successful plumbing business owning 14 classic motorcycles. Like yourself, this horrible event changed the course of his life. I will buy him the book when you publish it. It sounds like what he described to me.
I so appreciate your support, SSG Thompson.
Your suggestion was noted and corrected.
I really appreciate your sharing your family’s experiences also.
Semper fi,
Jim
God Bless you LT
Wow! So incredibly powerful. Reading Thirty Days I felt it in my solar plexus and stomach. This touches my heart in a big way. Great to hear Masters and Puller rejoining the world. Kudos to Kathy, Barbara, Shoot, and the rest of the medical staff. Angels abiding on Earth.
One slight editing suggestion:
My brother walked slowly through the double doors, slipping through between them rather than pushing them asked as Kathy and Shoot did.
Instead of “asked” maybe “aside” or “askew”
“through” and “between” seem redundant.
My brother walked slowly through the double doors, slipping between them rather than pushing them aside as Kathy and Shoot did.
OR
My brother walked slowly through the double doors, slipping through them rather than pushing them askew as Kathy and Shoot did.
We, your readers, will be sticking with you on your long road to recovery and the adventures and experiences that follow. Blessings & Be Well. Stay Safe.
Thank you, again, Dan for your sharp eyes and support.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim,
Wow…!
For THIS reader, this chapter had a number of unexpected swift kicks to my gut.
God bless you…You are one hellava man, sir.
Thanks for each chapter you bring us.
Your comments and support are so appreciated, Walter.
Semper fi,
jim
last para, extraneous word? …”slipping through between them rather than pushing them asked as Kathy and Shoot did. ” drop “asked?”
Damn tough days no doubt. Your old man sounds like mine. Would never compliment me no matter what I did. Never told me he loved me once in his life. He had no idea who I truly was as a person. Lucky for me I learned early on never to expect anything from him. Sorry I’m rambling on. FUBAR.
I kept expecting JT and it was painful, until he got to be ninety years old and everyone was gone in his life
except for me. Then, and only then, did he change and I basked in that warmth, artificial or otherwise, for two years
until he died. He never did or would hear the story of what had happened to me over there, however.
Semper fi,
Jim
We are Brothers
Nothing like have brothers of the hospital and then your flesh and blood brother show up. Despite the initial shock of seeing your wounds, He’ll be with you!
Our visit was brief…
It was the last time we enjoyed our ability to bond.
I shared this several years ago.
Thank the Living Christ
Semper fi,
Jim
You have an inner strength that most of us would like to think we have but probably don’t.
My Dad was a lot like your. When I come home he had given all of my things a way. He said that I wasn’t coming home. We made it home James we had no one to welcome us
The human condition is all about competition, most of it unspoken and unadmitted. Its a shame but very true.
That effects father son relationships too. At least, in my case, I had a textbook about how not to be a dad
like him and I have two great kids and two grand kids that think the world of me. I work at it although it’s mostly
a labor of love.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow Jim, that brought some tears.
Another great read! Thank you.
You are most welcome Ray…
Semper fi, and thanks for the compliment.
Jim
Wow! Very emotional for me, I cried when your dads letter was read and your brothers reaction surprised me. Although I’ve been there done that myself when I visited a friend near deaths door and he told me I ain’t dead yet, I was mortified. I’ve experienced my share of morphine level pain, nothing on your level, so it’s gut wrenching for me as you describe your riding the pain and watching the clock till the next shot. I salute you my brother Vietnam Vet, your one tough man with a very strong desire to live!
Thanks so much for this comment and for the compliment, as well.
I don’t think of myself as tough. I never did. Yes, I’ve done
some really tough things but that is the man of action, as required,
not as truly chosen. life comes at us, usually with little understanding on
our part about what that life coming at us really is. By the time we figure it
out were are in it.
Really appreciate that comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
God bless you james.I’m glad you made it through.
I have no words , but I have tears…..
Thanks Charley, that’s truly a compliment from you and I feel the angst and share a good bit of it with you.
Semper fi,
Jim
We need to talk about our fathers someday
that will be a day indeed! You are, after all, the Rich Brayer, and I am impressed.
One day soon, we will meet, indeed….
Semper fi,
Jim
As a father myself Im blown away by the coldness your father showed towards you. I dont want to say anything more bad about him so I’ll let this lay. I guess I might forgive but I’d never forget. It must have been tough to keep on going or maybe you did it out of spite.
Nah, no spite. I’d already gone through the grief process of knowing I didn’t have a real living
father. It is a gift to some, but by no means not all of us. From the scattered and tattered remains
of that relationship I was able to be a good dad and grand dad. My dad taught me in reverse. I’d just
think about what my dad would do and then I did the opposite.
Semper fi,
Jim
Sorry Sir, but you have me totally lost for words after reading this chapter.
Semper Fi
Thanks Paul, really appreciate the comment and compliment inherent in its words.
Semper fi,
Jim
Too much pain in this one
It was not fun bringing to the NOW
Thanks for your continued support, Chuck
Semper fi,
Jim
Stunning, emotional and one of the most moving of all the chapters of 30 Days Has September
I wonder how many books Thirty Days will entail in the end.
I don’t know, there’s so much yet ahead, and most all of it truly
uncommon but common to all of us on here in many ways.
Thanks for the insightful comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, been visiting daily in hopes of a new chapter, and was blessed today to see this Chapter 5.
Been in a lot of Navy hospitals, like Balboa and Bethesda, a few in the PI that are no longer ours. Seems like you had a great staff, which is one commonality between most of them.
Family is family, ain’t got no choice other than take them or leave them.
It will be good to finally read this whole story of what makes you be you.
Thanks Craig for the truly insightful comment. Yes, I guess if someone reads all this they will really know me, inside and out.
I hadn’t thought of that when I began this odyssey.
Semper fi,
Jim
WOW!!!!!!
i enjoy reading your story. It must have been somewhat helpful having two other guys in the room with you that were going through similar experiences. look forward to the next chapter.
Army, 67-68. My only injuries are cancer from Agent Orange and some PTSD that I take a drug to keep under control.
Thanks for your service hero.
Thanks Ron and I’m sorry about the huge mental burden having cancer puts down around the head and shoulders of those
who get it. A lot of unspoken fear there and I share a bit of your pain, although I have yet to get cancer.
I was exposed to tons of Agent Orange but it, so far, has not reached out to touch me.
I wish you well and appreciate the compliment of your enjoying the reading of the story, and writing about it on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow JAMES
This is a facet of war that isn’t brought out in such detail
You sure do uncover the bandages of the results of being badly wounded
I hope that it makes an impression for the uninformed
Once again, as with Thirty Days, I have no idea of the effect of the writing except what you tell me here.
It is a pleasure to read about your feelings about the work.
I don’t imagine that the work will reach the heights like Born on the 4th of July or one of those, but what the hell, at least
it appears to be affecting and helping a few.
Semper fi,
Jim
Very poignant scene James. Although I have been reading all your posts from the Ten Days, and now The Cowardly Lion, this is my first post. I was at Danang in ‘65, but went through nothing to compare what you did. Thank you for sharing your story. It serves, not only as a relief for you in being able to talk and write about it, but also let’s others see the effect of war on those who endure the fight and bolsters the morale for those who shared the fight with you. Thank you again and God bless you. I intend to purchase the Ten Days set, as well the Cowardly Lion set.
Thanks so much James for finally coming in on the conversation.
Da Nang in 65 must have been quite something, before it was converted to a quasi military base.
Thanks for the comment on your own experience and compliment to me.
Semper fi,
Jim
Another riveting chapter. The pain is palpable. One minor comment: In the last paragraph it reads “rather than pushing them asked as Kathy” Should the word asked actually be aside?
Thank you for your support, Robert.
Correction has been made.
Semper fi,
Jim
DAMN !!
This is an important addition to the other books. Grateful you’re writing it.
Your comments are always so welcomed.
Thanks, Arnie
Semper fi,
Jim
This is the most moving and painful chapter you have written and that’s saying something. Why did they even read that letter from home to you, I say that as a statement not a question. Thank God for your roommates,Cathy and Shoot.
They had to read it. They don’t get to choose what mail to read, not matter what.
At least they didn’t back then. And the pain was much greater for the staff than
it was for me. It was just more of the same from my father. Thanks for caring and being
the chuck Grigus I will get to meet one day.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, thanks for another great chapter!
You are most welcome Michael, and I’m sorry I have not replied sooner.
Semper fi,
Jim
“My brother walked slowly through the double doors, slipping through between them rather than pushing them ASKED as Kathy and Shoot did.” Delete asked.
Thanks for your sharp eyes and support, Steven.
We corrected.
Share with your friends.
Semper fi,
Jim
“we’re both your brothers….” Powerful!
God, I hope you finally got the book! Man oh man that was an adventure of mailing SNAFUs.
Thanks for the compliment and writing it on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
so powerful. After reading so much drivel for so long I forget just how powerful the written word can be. As always, James is exemplary.
Great compliment Tom, and I much appreciate it. Yes, there is so much crap out here and on T.V. and even the movies.
I saw the Greyhound movie with Tom Hanks and I was taken with how formulaic it was. They Hollywood mythology that was nothing
like the real thing whatever. I can’t write that. I know the military will never accept what I’ve written. They can’t and still
teach the mythology.
Semper fi,
Jim
I do not know why, but I think this is the best chapter you have ever written. Every word was perfect.
Thanks John, editing is a bit easier because I have readers on here helping me out.
I much appreciate the compliment and didn’t miss how much you like the work.
Semper fi,
Jim
‘Hi brother, ralph, ralph,,,,,,,, great to see ya”, at least it hit the floor and not on you, Back in 1970 I had been in the hospital for over a month and 1/2 from back injury. Just 2 days post op for a fix my girl friend at the time came to visit me, no one told her I had lost over30+ pounds and had all kinds of tube in me, like you. Doesn’t she faint and flop on my lap, I went into a convulsion and remember an orderly taking her from the room as I got a shot of morphine. Keep it coming LT. I’m sure it’s a little better now than back then!
Yes, it is much much better than it was. Those were close moments, life and death all around, and the wonder if
I’d be joining the dead real soon. waking up from surgeries was always a wonder too. Am I really here? Is all
this real or am I imagining it from a place of the dead. Interesting but tough times.
Thanks for the great contribution of your comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Damm Jim, how much does a person have to take, you have taken so much shit , nothing but respect for you
My impression is…it is a good thing they did not have all the step up drug as today to provide longer peace. Also, so far I have not seen any cowards….
S/F
The drugs were great, although coming down from them was tough.
The drugs, the staff in Japan, and the surge toward my family waiting
got me through, plus a few great surgeons.
Semper fi, your friend,
Jim
Last paragraph first sentence, …than pushing them asked as Kathy… asked may have been an autocorrect or something I’m not sure.
Great read again!
Thank for your support and noticing the mistake, Dustin.
Semper fi,
Jim
This section was really difficult to get through ,as it is the same exact reason and family problems that caused me to enlist in the USMC . Like you Lt. it did not change when I returned home either . I at Khe Sanh , you at A Shau Valley , I have so much respect for your ability and effort to share your life story with the rest of us , who have walked the walk and survived . B1/9
We truly are brothers of the jungle, as The Sanh was a true hell pit all of its own.
Thanks for writing, as I know many of the guys who were really in the shit have a tough time
with that, and for your own experience, as well. It don’t mean nuthin’
Semper fi,
Jim
Nice to see you too, Bro! You must have been a sight. Good hook. Time to compare scars later, huh?
Thanks Mike, not that I do much sharing of the scarred torso. I know I will remain a mess that way until it’s over
but I don’t flaunt it at all. We’ll share some great memories though, much greater now than they were to live!
Semper fi, brother,
Jim