Dawn was breaking somewhere over the high parapet beyond the hill to my back, although the jungle down in the valley only glowed slightly with the coming of the light. The rain was gone. There would be sun.
The radio handset hung down from my right hand, the dangling cut cord swinging gently in the early morning breeze. I knew it was Pilson’s handset and I knew what that had to mean. What kind of mission had I sent Nguyen on with just a word and the nod of my head in the dark? What had made Casey move out toward the river bed without proper flank security or support when incoming fire had been taken just moments before? Was the man completely crazy or possessed of a courage I knew I lacked? And, what could possibly have been accomplished, even if it proved that my artillery strike hadn’t killed every member of his scouting party?
I crouched against the trunk of some unknown jungle tree spreading out above me. The gentle breeze, impossibly making itself so deep down near the jungle floor, shook large droplets of the night rain loose from the leaves. They came down singly, making it seem like God was selecting small certain targets for his own artillery. I bent my head back and waited. It took only a few seconds for a big drop to smack me right between the eyes. First Platoon had established a perimeter while Second had gone through to head west toward the river and find out what had happened to Casey and the men with him.
As the light slowly improved I could see the Marines around me not looking at me, as if by looking they might cause fire to be rained down on their heads too. The Gunny came out of the jungle, up from the point of the company established not far from where I was. I had more questions than I could think to express but I said nothing. After setting Pilson’s handset on my pack I detached my canteen and poured the holder half full. I used the bottom of the cover to smooth a spot on a small area of uncommonly bare mud. Several leeches stuck up out of the mud like flowers waving back at me. I took a chunk of the composition B, stuck it next to the little creatures and lit it. The leeches retreated back into the wet ground. I wondered where they came from and how they could possibly be so numerous where I was when I’d never seen one in my entire life before.
“I didn’t know they went out there in time,” the Gunny said, squatting in from of me.
“Must have been some reason,” I answered, the water in my holder starting to boil.
The Gunny produced a package of the coffee and tossed onto the mud in front of me.
“Three KIA and one wounded,” he said, finally getting out his own canteen holder.
I had a million questions but I didn’t want to ask him any of them. Where had he been? Why was there so little radio traffic on the command net about anything and everything they were doing? Who were the dead and wounded? Was Casey one of them, and how did the Gunny know? Dread of knowing who was hit overwhelmed me.
My hand holding the heating water shook. I willed it to stop but that didn’t work. I knew the Gunny was noticing but there was nothing to be done about that.
I didn’t feel afraid. I just felt like I was at the end of some emotional line and would not be able to cope with any of what was going on.
“No incoming,” I finally said, pouring in the coffee mix and stirring the near boiling water with my right index finger. The pain actually felt good, and I knew that wasn’t right either. And what was a bit more dirt in my coffee, anyway.
“No,” the Gunny replied. “That zone you dropped straddled the river and probably took out a good many more of the gooks than our own Marines. They’re trying to get their act together. Should have been an attack following the rocket attack but nothing. They’re scared shitless of the artillery you can bring in, and you better get ready to call some more.”
“When’s Second Platoon coming back in?” I asked, sipping my coffee but not enjoying it.
The Gunny waved Fusner over to him and then spoke into the handset. Seconds later he handed it back. The speaker on the radio was on, so I didn’t have to inquire about what was going on with the recovery.
Casey was missing and Rittenhouse was dying. The dead were from First Platoon’s squad. A Second Platoon squad was staying with Rittenhouse, with a perimeter set up to wait for Casey to show up. The platoon was returning with the bodies in ponchos and the living remainder of Casey’s squad.
“Casey’s dead out there somewhere and Rittenhouse’s dying?” I said, more to myself than to the Gunny. The simple battery of six artillery mission had turned out to be the most disastrous I’d ever called. And nobody had said anything about Nguyen. Where was Nguyen?
“Not dead yet. We need to move the company out there to provide security and cover until we know what the hell’s going on,” the Gunny said, which surprised me.
“What do you think?” he continued, which surprised me even more.
I stared at him over the lip of my canteen-holder, with raised eyebrows.
“You’re the company commander again,” he finished, looking away.
I’d been company commander before but that hadn’t seemed to matter back then. Now, here I was, in command again, and not really knowing what to do. I stared down at the burning explosive under my cup, and then at the little holes, the leeches had left in their downward retreat. The NVA needed to be kept in their holes, like the leeches.
“No, the company’s going to accomplish Casey’s mission,” I finally said. “I’ll take the scout team out to Second Platoon’s squad and bring Rittenhouse’s body upriver to the objective. We’ll meet you there. Call in a medevac and resupply. If we’re going to be at the site for any time I want a 106 recoilless, and plenty of ammo. Direct fire across that river will stop anything on the other side. The recoilless rifle rounds weighed just a bit less than 105 howitzer rounds and could reach out almost three miles. Five hundred pounds was too much for the company to move around in the field, however. The gun would have to be evacuated or destroyed if the company had to move.
“The objective’s not going anywhere,” the Gunny replied, disagreeing with my plan, but not saying so directly for some reason or other I couldn’t quite fathom.
“The riverbed is flat and open,” I said. “If they get that fifty set back up they might take out the whole company before I could get a single round on target.”
“You don’t think your place is with the company?” he replied.
“I called that strike myself and Nguyen led them out there. I’m going. I don’t have a place in this company and we both know it. Take them to the objective, secure it and get resupplied. We’ll be along or we won’t.”
“We’re pretty secure right here,” the Gunny said, sipping his own coffee, his eyes finally meeting my own. “If they’re waiting for us I don’t have a plan and I can’t call in your kind of artillery. We both know that too. We’ll wait here, so we can go in whole and not leaving anyone behind. The objective will still be there, and nobody back at battalion gives the slightest shit.”
“I presume that’s at on my command?” I replied, putting an edge to my words.
“Why are you going out there?” the Gunny countered.
“You know damned well why ” I replied.
“I’m going with you,” he said, surprising me once again. “Sugar Daddy and Jurgens can hold the perimeter without my help.” He poured the remains of his coffee onto the fire we both used to heat our drinks. I followed suit. There was really nothing else to be said that either of us wanted saying.
The leading elements of Second Platoon moved back through the perimeter and into the broken jungle and mud area that had become the company position. After watching the men come through carrying the silently swinging black bags of the dead, I got my stuff together and moved toward the rough edge of the clearing made by the retreating river. The sound of river’s passing was still a low rushing thunder in the distance. The river had become our friend because it was apparent, even without seeing it, that nobody was going to cross it without special engineering equipment not available to anyone deep down in our part of the valley.
I started out with Zippo, Stevens, and Fusner spreading out behind me, the Gunny following in trace twenty meters back, or so, with another enlisted Marine right behind him. From somewhere in the company the Gunny had glommed onto a Prick 25 and someone to carry it.
It took only a few minutes to cross through the broken bracken of the light jungle density to move out onto the flat sand where the river had once run across. The sand was dense, but not hard and it was runneled through with ribbons of green fronds and small broken branches. Sprinkled around were varying sizes of rocks, some as small as a thimble and others as large as bowling balls. I followed the tracks Second Platoon had pressed into the sand in making the recovery effort. It took another five minutes to reach a position not far from the river’s rushing waters. Just before the fast-moving rapids was a stand of bamboo stalks and a mass of trees that must have served as a small narrow island when the river ran less powerfully on both sides. I saw a slight tangle of poncho covers with a pair of boots sticking out.
Dawn had arrived and the light was increasing all the time, as the sun rose to the point where it would soon appear over the lip of the eastern canyon. The squad left with Rittenhouse was spread out with the Marines lined up facing toward the river, all peering through the slight brush at the far shore. I knew immediately that we had to move off the exposed former island as quickly as we could. There was nothing that served as cover from a fifty-caliber heavy machine gun if the NVA got it back into action.
A corpsman came up to his knees and waved me toward him. He was kneeling next to a mass that didn’t look like it was human at all. I leaned down before going to my own knees. I stared into Rittenhouse’s weakly blinking eyes.
His body was such a chopped mess that I could not look at it.
“Can you help me, sir?” Rittenhouse squeaked out, bubbly red saliva dripping from his mouth. He coughed, but not hard, as if any further effort would kill him.
The corpsman shook his head from a position just beyond Rittenhouse’s head. I could tell the corpsman was wrapping up and getting his kit together.
I wanted to talk to him but I was frozen in place by Rittenhouse’s pleading eyes. In seconds the corpsman was gone, leaving only Fusner the Gunny and I at the company clerk’s side.
“I shouldn’t have listened to Jurgens,” Rittenhouse gasped out. “I can’t take this pain, sir. I just can’t do it.” Tears flowed down both sides of his skull. “Will you help me, sir?”
“Gunny, take the men and get them ready to move out,” I ordered, without my eyes leaving those of Rittenhouse.
I wanted to tell the corporal that I hadn’t called in the artillery to get even or kill him. I wanted to lie and say I hadn’t sent Nguyen to somehow entice him out to expose him, but I knew it was pointless. The only thing that was important was the present, his pain and getting the unit out of the line of fire as quickly as possible.
I removed the morphine I kept in my right thigh pocket. I wanted to call the corpsman back to administer the dosage but I knew he’d left because he either didn’t want to do it or wouldn’t do it. I was the company commander and it was my call, for whatever unjust and strange reason.
“Where’s Casey?” I asked, my voice a whisper as I gently removed three morphine syrettes from my small case.
What was left of Rittenhouse would certainly require norhing more. The shrapnel effect of the 105s was evident. Rittenhouse had been carved nearly to pieces by razor-sharp shards of sharpened metal traveling at twenty-two thousand feet per second. His body had been as nothing against their onslaught. That he was alive at all was a miracle or a curse, depending on perspective.
“He said he was going on a walkabout, sir,” Rittenhouse said, his voice almost too soft to hear. “He wasn’t hit but he wasn’t right in the head either.”
I knew Rittenhouse would die if I knelt there and waited long enough, but every second I waited risked my life and those with me. I punched in the three syrettes, one after another, taking less than ten seconds for the entire operation.
“The pain’s going to be gone in a minute,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I know, I know,” I said, meaning it, knowing I should be crying, or reacting in some emotional way, but unable to do anything but wait impatiently for the boy to die.
“Thank you, sir,” were his final words, and they went into me like three hot knives.
It took nearly five minutes. His frightened eyes finally closed on their own, and his breathing became labored until it was gone. I counted. Twenty-seven breaths from his eyes closing until his breathing stopped. I knew there was no point in counting but I couldn’t help it. Twenty-seven breaths. Less than two minutes.
I got up and walked to where the corpsman had disappeared in the brush. He was no more than ten feet away. I tossed the three empty syrettes to him.
“He’s gone,” I said, coldly, even though I knew the course of events wasn’t the corpsman’s fault. “Bag him and let’s get back to the company.”
I breathed in and out deeply and worked to shed whatever emotions were rising up inside me. We were all trying to stay alive and doing only those things that might enhance that effort. The corpsman was trying to save lives and it wasn’t fair to put him into a position where he had to take lives.
I moved to where the Gunny crouched with Zippo, Stevens and the two RTOs. I’d thought to bring my binoculars. I swung them up to take in the empty river bed from our position north and then downriver in the south.
“He’s not out there, sir,” Fusner said. “We’ve been looking.”
“What’s a walkabout?” I asked, never having heard the phrase before.
“Australian,” the Gunny said. “Means walking around for a while, usually getting dead drunk for weeks, and then heading home like you’ve never been gone.”
“He went south,” I said, pointing. “I can see his footprints, so we go south down the river.”
“How far?” Fusner asked.
“As far as it takes,” the Gunny responded, coming up behind me. “We’re not leaving him behind. I’ll call Jurgens and fill him in.”
“Let’s settle in for a few minutes,” I said, sitting down on some jungle bracken and taking out my map.
My mind wasn’t really on setting defensive fires I already had the coordinates for in my head. The mention of Jurgens took my thoughts to other places, like my Colt. It’d been over a week since I’d cleaned it. Would it even function without a teardown and cleaning? I pulled it out and checked the action, ejecting the magazine and looking down the barrel. The .45 seemed okay. I knew it would fire under the direst of dirty circumstance, as it was built for rough combat conditions. I wasn’t worried about functioning nearly as much as I was worried about whether the action would work if the slightest rust sealed the slide or barrel to the receiver. I might need more than one shot for Jurgens when I next ran into him. And then there was Stevens. He was Nguyen’s translator. Why had he gone forward physically in the company when it would have been much quicker to call on the radio? What had he told Nguyen and what had Nguyen’s role been? My trust in everything had been shaken and my hands were reflecting that knowing fear. I had killed Rittenhouse first with artillery and then again with the morphine.
“There,” Zippo exclaimed, pointing toward a distant stand of jungle downriver.
I stood and brought up my Japanese binoculars. I instantly fixed them on the darker objects approaching. I adjusted the focus carefully. I didn’t have to adjust both lenses to see that it was Nguyen, Pilson and the captain approaching. Nguyen gripped Casey’s right bicep with his left hand and led him slowly toward us.
I brought the glasses back down and went back down to the debris-covered jungle floor. I noticed while I waited, that the entire stand of trees, bamboo and jungle bracken looked like it’d been through a vegetable chopper. The high explosive shells had left the little island intact from a distance but cut the heart of the place to pieces with giant shrapnel razor blades.
“Corpsman up,” I said, over my shoulder. The captain’s helmet, the one that had created the nickname of Captain Crunch for him, had added damage. I wondered if the piece of shrapnel sticking out the other side of the helmet had penetrated to his skull below. The corpsman raced down to the approaching men. The rest of the detail lay in prone position remaining undercover and ready to provide as much covering fire as possible if the exposed men needed it.
The four came in together, with Pilson peeling off to stand with the Gunny and his newfound radio operator. Pilson’s radio was still on his back, although I knew the handset was back laying on top of my pack at the company. Nguyen looked over at me in a meaningful way, but I could get nothing from his impassive expression. The corpsman sat the captain down where I’d laid out my poncho cover in expectation of his arrival. Casey’s helmet was off, and he appeared outwardly undamaged. Physically.
“How are you, sir?” I asked.
He turned his head to face me. “I’m not going,” he said, flatly.
“Going where?” I asked, a bit befuddled by his comment.
“I’m not going to get the Silver Star,” he said. “I’ve always wanted a Silver Star, but I’m not going. It’s your Silver Star, anyway. I just wanted it.”
“What?” was all I could say, in shock.
“I killed Rittenhouse,” Casey said, his voice quiet and listless. “I killed him for sure. I should have known you’d drop that crap on us before I could get him out of here. I was trying to get him to the objective before you figured it out.”
The Gunny tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to get up. I did so, my expression one of a question.
“Wait with the men,” he said, very softly.
I shook my head, but gathered the scout team and moved back into the cover provided by the chopped bracken island. We waited while the Gunny talked to Casey, and he talked back. Nobody could hear what was being said. Ten minutes later, the Gunny left the captain’s side and came over to us.
“He’s not right,” the Gunny said, squatting down among us. “He doesn’t want to go anywhere, or be here anymore, or be company commander. He says, anyway.”
“Well, no shit, Gunny,” Stevens said. “Who in the hell wants to be here?”
“No, it’s a bit more than that,” the Gunny replied. “He’s lost it and we’ve got to get him to the rear before he gets himself and everyone else killed.”
I sat silently, trying to figure out what Casey was talking about. He was trying to get Rittenhouse out so I couldn’t get to him, and what was I supposed to figure out? That Rittenhouse had tried to frag me? That was it? Only that? I wasn’t buying it. And where had the Gunny and Jurgens disappeared to when Casey was out gallivanting around in a free fire zone right after a rocket attack? And finally, what was Pilson’s role in the whole thing?
The Gunny carefully put Casey’s helmet back on the captain’s head, and then turned and waved for me to approach.
I sat on the outer edge of the poncho cover, trying not to show my distrust.
“You need to convince him to get back and get the medal,” the Gunny unaccountably said, before standing and walking over to the rest of the scout team.
Casey stared at me. The scene was funny. I knew it was funny, and I knew one day I might laugh. Casey’s eyes were almost rolling; he was so out of it. His helmet was bashed in on one side and had a piece of shiny shrapnel sticking straight out of the other. Captain Crunch wasn’t a close descriptor anymore for the tattered damaged mess he’d become. I thought about his situation and our own, before speaking.
“Yes, you’re going to the rear to get the medal, and it’s not my medal,” I began. “It’s the company’s medal. You have to go to represent your company, your first command. Your men need you. It doesn’t matter who the medal should go to. It’s yours now and I think that’s great. For me it was just doing my job.”
I wondered if I was making any sense at all, as his expression didn’t change.
“Did you know I was there when you called that artillery in?” he said, his eyes suddenly focusing and staring into my own.
“I didn’t know any of you were there,” I replied.
“I don’t have to believe that, do I, Junior?” he asked.
“No, you just have to go to the rear and take care of your men.”
The captain sat there, looking down at his hands for a couple of minutes. I didn’t say anything, taking the time to think about the four ounce can of mineral oil, maintenance, I had in my pack. I’d get the oil out before we moved and pour it over the action of the .45. I didn’t need a long-term fix. I just needed to have the thing work when I met Jurgens later in the day.
“You don’t like me, do you, Junior?” Casey asked.
I was getting frustrated and the man was scaring me. Was he truly crazy or simply a little crazy?
“I don’t know you, sir,” I replied, knowing it was a weak reply but not knowing what else to say without sending him right off the deep end.
“Well, I know you, Junior,” he replied, “and nobody likes you except maybe that whacked out Montagnard native person, and you’re going to find that out.”
Casey got to his feet. “Let’s go,” he said, surprising the hell out of me.
I wanted to ask him at least one more question but he immediately started off walking toward where the company was still waiting for us.
The Gunny asked me if Casey would go back on the coming chopper and I told him I believed so, but that was all we said before following Casey back into the jungle and through the perimeter.
Sugar Daddy appeared near the point of our arrival back behind the line.
“There’s no landing zone left there,” he said. “Sent a point locating party out to scout our route. They came back. No booby traps, no enemy, and no landing zone, new or old. Where the hell’s the objective?”
I looked at the Gunny but he merely shrugged.
“I don’t know where the objective’s gone,” I replied. “Where’s Jurgens?”
I knelt down and opened my pack. The light maintenance oil was right there. I pulled it out and went to work on the Colt, working the action time after time. It was a great weapon, and I smiled to myself over its functioning. One round into the chamber and five in the magazine. No stress on the magazine tang.
“What you want Jurgens for?” the Gunny asked.
I looked up. Everyone was staring down at me with strange expressions.
The sun shone behind them, making the Gunny and my scout team into dark statue-like silhouettes.
“What?” I said to the Gunny, getting to my feet while shoving the .45 into my holster. “It’s morning. Jurgens and I need to have a brief discussion about the coming move over breakfast.”
Hey James,
I’m not an artillery guy, but a velocity of 22,000fps is over 4 miles per second. Does shrapnel from an exploded artillery shell really travel at that velocity??
“Rittenhouse had been carved nearly to pieces by razor sharp shards of sharpened metal traveling at twenty-two thousand feet per second.”
Depending upon the explosive used to drive the charge in the warhead…yes.
It can vary with TNT ‘burning’ at about fifteen thousand.
That’s considered a soft explosive, like diesel fuel and fertilizer.
You use TNT or Fugas when you want to ‘push’ something.
Comp B and C-4 are up in the 22 to 24 thousand ‘burning’ speed.
At the very point of the explosion anything adjacent will be accelerated to
that speed (like shell casings and stuff) and then move through the atmosphere slowing
with resistance to the air or unless striking something.
The smallest fragment traveling close to where the explosion took place can be frightfully damaging.
Had a tiny fragment go right through the metal barrel of an M-16. Just a pinhole but the power was sure there to see.
We carried that rifle around as a souvenir for some time.
Semper fi,
Jim
Lt. I read this segment with both trepidation and suspense. I am not disappointed.
A suggestion if you are open to it. Please consider a publication of your works complete with the associated comments from us your fans. I do not know if you would need releases from each person. But if you do, mine at least would be granted gladly.
God bless you.
Glenn.
Yes, you are correct about that Gleen. We’ve reached out for permission from some of the guys already and will seek more.
The comments are special and the people who write in have been so damned genuine and well spoken. Shockingly so, really.
Thanks for your own permission!
Semper fi,
Jim
Great idea to include comments for others to know that had similar experiences. Great read ,can smell the sticky mud and the humidity that is as close as a tick. Keep them days coming . Thanks
Thank you William. I am not sure what the comments mean but I think they are truly
wonderful and probably better than the book itself! I have read things in these last 5286 comments that have
literally reached in and touched and then changed my way of thinking. It has been a shocking and very different experience
to read, reread and then carefully answer them. Whatever the books may or may not do or sell, it is the comments that will
always remain with me.
Semper fi,
Jim
James-I read this one last Saturday. I was at a conference and started reading during the break. Needless to say, I was late coming back to my conference because I had to read your episode to the end. What a crazy time at that point in A Shau. I just reread it again much slower, can’t wait to buy the book and read the entire story again.
I also enjoy reading all the comments and replies after each one.
Thanks,
The comments are so damned special on here. I try to get the ‘flavor’ of each one
so I can appreciate the experience of others. My own was pretty bizarre, but now not so bizarre as I used to think it was.
Thanks to those of your who read and the comment, just like you…
Semper fi,
Jim
When Casey came back w/his anointed headgear , you used the name Captain CRUSH , rather than Crunch !! Intentionally?? As baby-San would say-“#10,000 GI !! I think he was crazier than a runover dog and that dog be me !! Thanks for all you do & did !!
thanks Tex. Unintentional. Just a technical brain thing with me. Thanks for the help and I will
get right to it…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, Amazing writing about the horrors of combat. Read the chapter of Job in the Bible. God never gauranteed an easy passage through life or hell or what ever path you walk, you just have to walk through it to find the other side. Many didn’t make it, your story is riveting. Semper Ubi Sub Ubi, and most of all from an old Army guy! Semper Fi!
Thanks for the tough but very logical words in your comment Al.
I think about those things all the time too. Walking the walk is different back
here but similar when you apply what was learned over there. It simply took many years
to realize that it was an education I was going through instead of simply a hellish purgatory.
Semper fi,
Jim
I thank God that I didn’t have to go over to the Nam! Good Lord Man, you had no one to trust except your native scout. I don’t know where you got the intestinal fortitude to handle yourself but wherever you got it from it made you into a warrior!!! You are a rare breed of soldier. Chaos at every turn yet you kept yourself on the spot of instant retaliation. Don’t Fuck With Junior!!!!
Do not forget that I am writing this and although I am trying to get it right and let
every one know what happened as best I can…I also tend to make myself look a little better, I think,
than I really was. Appreciate the kind words and your support.
Semper fi,
Jim
Somehow your writing has appeared on my facebook page. I’m kinda at a loss as to what is going on. Are posting the story as you write it? How can I read it from the start. I read in one of the comments that someone, maybe it was you, said he wanted to be an Iraq or Afghanistan veteran since they are the real deal. I can just say this about that…I gave up a hell of a long time ago worrying about being the real deal. I was with the 11th Light Infantry Brigade at Duc Pho from Dec 67 to July 69. I do love your writing style.
Yes, I am posting as I write. All the older segments are available at jamesstrauss.com if
you click on Thirty Days Has September button when you get there. The first book should be out in
hardcover and electronic next week on Amazon…
Thanks for bothering to check this out…
Semper fi,
Jim
Come to think about it, this descent that we are talking about, was very much a part of the Vietnam war. Perhaps that was the reason that I responded the way I did. By the way James, the descent we faced when coming home, was from the very same liberal faction that started the descent against that war and it is also the same that we face today!
I want to share something personal that happened to me, when I attended my mother’s funeral in upstate New York, a mecca for flaming liberals and off shoot of the hippie generation.
To briefly set the stage, I was very angry with our government for the way they were handling the Vietnam war and the way they chose to end it. Not only that, those damn liberals had partially taken over our government and had turned a major portion of our population against the troops rather then the government. Our CO’s in the CONUS, had advised us not to wear our uniforms when off base, fearing physical confrontations with the radical long hairs. In other words, we Vets were to be ashamed of our service, rather then to fight the liberal idiots on our streets.
Well it took me twenty-five years to get over that anger and I decided to wear my Vietnam hat in public and yes, even to flaunt it. I wore that hat to my mother’s funeral, this in the early 2000’s. Guess what James, if looks could kill I would have never left that part of N.Y. alive. Do you get the message?
Well, I understand J, and I am sorry that your feelings are so raw about those who support the things
you believe in and also the things you do not. But there comes a time when we try to put it to bed.
I still have trouble looking at Vietnamese women on television, or even Korean. I just go right back
and then have resurface myself. There are so many belief systems out there with so much validity in
perspective. I have to give more merit to those I don’t agree with.
Thank you for making me think of that here.
Semper fi,
Jim
James I know this was a tough one for you ,thank you my friend!From those of us that have our own ghosts we talk to stay strong .
Yes, the last two have been difficult but necessary to the story.
There are some bitter days ahead yet but I think I can work through them
and stay whole and sane. Lots of years to get ready.
Semper fi,
Jim
PS thanks for being here for me…
Damn it. Helluva way to start your day. Rittenhouse certainly paid the ultimate price of being a pawn in a deadly game of chess. His final words add volumes to the depth of the story. As bad as this development is I have a gut feeling it ain’t nothing compared to what comes next. Shit’s about to get serious. Take your time writing Jim. You are the best. Semper fi
I am Waltzing Matilda through that bottom of a deep valley made up of red mud, clean sand
and implacable enemies. thanks for your support and for finding the story worthwhile…
Semper fi,
Jim
LT, as I began following this series, I found that I had a lot to say about each installment. Many memories were evoked and sometimes it was like I was there in the Valley with you. Now I’m more like stunned speechless each time. I wonder if I’m not going back to the ol’ Nam Vet cover up: Don’t mean a thing. But I’ll keep following until there is nothing left to read.
Thanks Andrew, I am hard at it and “it don’t mean nuthin” still means a ton to those of us
who lived it and said it…and still I’ve it and say it…
Thanks for the complimentary comment and your loyalty and interest in the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
This so much reminds me of my Saturday serial shows that always left us ‘cliff hanging’. Next Saturday couldn’t get here fast enough. Find myself checking your webpage several times a day hoping to learn what happened next. Mostly as a former Survival Instructor I am enthralled watching you survive and learn.
As for editing assist: “Just before the fast-moving rapids was a stand of bamboo stalks and a mass of trees that must have served as a small narrow island when the river ran less powerfully on body sides.” Possibly “BOTH” SIDES?
Also Jim, I notice that chapter one of the First Ten Days has 39 shares on FB, This chapter has 481. Great testament to your work Sir.
I thought someone else had spotted this already, ““Corpsman up,” I said, over my shoulder. The captain’s helmet, the one that had created the nickname of Captain Crush for him, had been added to.”” Crush = Crunch? Possibly reword ending to “had additions” or ‘added damage’
Thank you again for your support.
Suggestions noted and corrected.
Smper fi,
Jim
Hell of a track record, the shares, I mean. Yes, come a long way from the start
and had no idea where I was going…hell, still don’t!
Thanks for the support and the comment here.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks, as usual SSGT. I need all the help I can get. And thanks for the Saturday Serial compliment.
When I was a kid I just loved that stuff and now I’m the guy writing it.
Amazing. Thank you!!!
Semper fi,
Jim
You are right, this is not a forum for discussion on descent, but you brought up some comments that warranted a response. I will leave it at that.
J, I hope you understand the message in my last comment. I do not necessarily disagree with
you. It is more a matter of the nuance of details in the discussion. There’s a lot of emotion laying
there like the sand at the bottom of the Bong Song. Never goes away, just moves around.
Thanks for commenting on the site and thank you sincerely for understanding.
Semepr fi,
Jim
Agree, but as you say, those feelings run deeply and will continue to do so as long as rebels continue to try to overthrow our Republic. We have a lot of political problems with our form of government but then, so do all other forms of manmade governments. When comparing ours to that of the rest of the nations, we have got one of the best.
Too true J, and I’m a patriot from beginning to end.
These battles among men to survive the most with the best have
been going on forever. Thanks for the straight from the shoulder stuff you
write on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
James.,
I don’t read a lot of Nam stories, but your story and your writings has me hooked. I wait patiently for your next chapter. Then I reread your past chapters. I served in Nam in 1968-69 in the army. Just a spc-4 draftee and was in logistics up at An Khe for 5 months and Bong Son for 7 months. We all have our own stories and ghosts. It is all yesterday.
For me I hid from it for years. No one wanted to hear anything anyway.
Thank you for telling your story.
I returned to Vietnam by myself last year and ventured around up around Quy Nhon and made it up to Bong Son where I had been in 1969. It had all changed, but when I stood down by the Bong Son River and closed my eyes I could see it all just like it was.
I was not in the bush, just logistics. We still had our crap. Friends died and bad things happened. When I returned home I realized the Nam had become my home without me knowing it. I wasn’t welcome back here.
Thanks again for sharing your story and insights in your other writings.
Hal
The Bong Song. Misnamed, of course, but what wasn’t to and buy us when we were there?
To know it’s the Bong Song was to have been there for certain. I’ve wondered what it would be like
to stand by that river again…like you, with my eyes closed. I’ve wondered just how welcome I’d be back there too.
It’s so hard to imagine that the Vietnamese would really want to welcome somebody like me back. But I’ve heard of
reconciliations among the Japanese, Germans and guys from WWII on our side. I never walked among the Montagnards so I know
nothing of their village life. Only Nguyen, who was so fucking impressive as a human being.
Tbanks for picking my story to take to and then to tell some of your own right here.
None of us were really welcome back here. Hell, we’re still mostly not welcome at the VA. I want to be a Desert Storm
or Afghan veteran. They are considered the real deal today. Which is okay. I don’t go there anyway.
thanks, my friend.
You are always welcome here.
Semper fi,
Jim
A song came to mind during Rittenhouse’s last minutes, “Ain’t No Sunshine” Bill Withers. He said he didn’t mean it and you replied “I know, I know”, Bill repeats that phrase 27 times in the song, the same amount of breaths Rittenhouse had left in him.
Thank you for sharing the thought and song, Thomas
Semper fi,
Jim
I remember that song from years ago in high school. I had an architect/engineering drafting teacher by the name of Mr. Edwards. He apparently had been in the army and at the end of every school year he would make us all watch the French Documentary “The Anderson Platoon” so that the seniors would have an idea of how the combat world worked. He never made any political commentary so I never had any idea if he was trying to recruit or deter would be enlistees! Anyways if I remember right one of the platoon members is shown singing that song while being flown out of an LZ at the end of a mission. It’s been 30+ years ago but I remember it as being quite eerie as they fly off at dusk.
I saw the Anderson Platoon. Didn’t really understand it but the feel was all there.
The looks, the misery of dirt and crud everywhere. Thanks for reminding me.
It was an eerie scene, like most of the muss was over there…although sometimes it was
light and entertaining if conditions were just right. And home, of course.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow. So many questions (and thoughts) swirling in your head about the immediate past, the present and the immediate future. Powerful writing, LT. I was wondering at the end of the last episode if the LZ upriver was close enough to the river that the floodwaters might have taken it out. I am reading another book about Vietnam war (not nearly as good as your writings) and specifically read the portions dealing with the A Shau and military actions. Every one of the engagements mentioned there spoke of air support that was called in. That often resulted in a sad recounting of the number of U.S. casualties caused by friendly air fire that happens in the confusion and fog of an hot engagement with troops on both sides in movement. Am surprised that no air support was brought in to help you guys yet when faced with a much larger force of determined enemy massed against you. Of course probably every engaged unit was trying to call in air and they cannot be everywhere all the time…But if the brass sent your unit in there, they sure as hell should have some help ready to fly in to tip the scales your way. Except for ground directed but heaven sent artillery (from just one artillery battery), I am amazed that you guys were so “on your own”. Thank you for sharing what it was really like there…God Bless.
Air support is weather and time dependent. Daytime and clean clear air are the basic
requirements. Then there’s the type of air. F-4s and the fighter bombers missed more than hit.
B-52s were scary but too far away to do much good. Naval gun fire was simply scary and you needed a Navy
F.O. to call it in. Mostly, the Marines were scared shitless of air and artillery. My art and science applications to calling
artillery kept me alive more with my men then the enemy. Good accurate air and artillery support was uncommon.
Air did not talk to the ground a whole lot either, unless it was a SkyRaider or Puff or one of those great Intruders.
Thanks for the comment and your deep reading of the story.
Semper fi
Jim
Jim…such excellent writing again…didn’t see a lot of that coming…can’t see how Casey and Pilson came away without a scratch but I have a feeling there is more to that story too…and giving Rittenhouse the morphine…that’s the thing most people don’t understand about command…you have to live with decisions that you make that take lives, whether intentional or not…you were a hero whether you realize it or not…I have a 94 year old WWII vet friend that received 2 bronze stars, a silver star, and a medal of valor, but he summed it up pretty well when he said “we were all scared as hell during combat…the only difference between a hero and a coward is which direction you run…I just ran the right way a few times”…his humility always struck me but what he said he true…and your writing is bringing some of that experience into the light from the dark shadows where it has lurked for too long…I didn’t mean to ramble here and like the man said last segment…you could write this with a crayon on a brown paper bag and people would read it by candlelight if they had to…you truly have a gift…