Harvest Platoon

Water

Thirst was always with us; sometimes it was a debilitating and urgent need. A man can only carry so much water.

In my case I think I carried 11 qts. of water that I had to conserve.  I frequently ran out.  When we ran out of water, we had to wait for resupply or drink anything available. 

Running water was great, stagnant water less appealing and a filthy mud puddle the least desirable.  I carried a large abdominal dressing to use as a filter for debris.  Not very sophisticated by today's standards.  I've drunk all of it and am still alive, although dysentery is its own payback.

True thirst is something almost no American knows.  We take for granted clean available water. Thirst like I am talking about is all consuming.  It factors into every moment of the day until finally, you no longer have it in  you to pick up and move out.

That's when we reconsidered drinking from the mud puddle full of insects and god knows what invisible creatures - water so corrupted I used five purification tablets to sterilize a quart.

Generally speaking we would also run low on food every 7 days.  Again there were only two options: wait and hope for resupply or actively forage.  The resupply tended to slow us down because cutting an LZ can be a big effort and it gives your position away.

Of course foraging is also labor intensive, dangerous and can betray your presence but we tended to put off resupply if there was local food to take.  Plainly put, we ate or drank anything we could get our hands on.  Sometimes we just went hungry.  Hunger combined with high levels of activity can quickly become exhaustion.

When we were so inclined, or hungry as it might be, we would harvest edibles like corn and bananas.  We took what we wanted and then moved out while destroying everything left of value .

On one occasion we killed a large sow.  I rescued one of her piglets from the impromptu barbecue. The mother was roasted in a pit fire.  I took some and fed it to the piglet.  He ate it all right up and in fact seemed to really get into it.  I named him Oedipus Rex because he loved his mom.  I carried that little pig in a claymore bag for more than a week. I was determined to make a pet out of him.

Some complaints about him squealing were made, but the Lt. said anyone hearing it would assume we were pigs. I sent him back on a chopper with a man going back to base. Unfortunately he couldn't watch him all the time and the hooch maids ate him.  He was a good pig while he lasted.

Humor is where you find it.

Out on patrol, we would spend up to a month at a time in the bush. The Cav would resupply us about once a week or so. Getting resupplied was a lot of work. Sometimes we would find a satisfactory LZ other times we had to cut an LZ with explosives.

On one such resupply the Cav dropped off more food and ammo than we could carry. Fires were built to destroy the extra supplies and one man was detailed to throw extra frags off of the mountaintop.

We sorted through the cans of C rations to take what we wanted then we poked holes in the rest and tossed it in the fire.Finally we were ready to move out again.

I shouldered my rucksack and got in line. there was the sound of a distant pop and I was struck in the side of the head. Burning pain suddenly hit me and I reached up my hand to feel the side of my head. Hot sticky wetness flowed down my face. A moment of panic hit me and I yelled "I'm hit"
as I pulled my quick release, dropping my rucksack. I dove to the ground, certain I had been shot in the head.

Some fire was returned as the platoon reacted to my cry. That's about the time when I realized that the hot sticky mess on my head was not blood but was hot molten peanut butter.

A can had exploded and spun out of the fire with enough force to hurt me. I still take some ribbing for my error and everyone got a good laugh at my expense. I resumed my position in the line and we all moved out again.

Some time later, still with 2nd. Plt. we were moving in the jungle when a sniper stopped us. Everyone hit the dirt and we were returning fire. A man suddenly yelled out "I am hit." and I moved forward to check him out.

He lay there holding his leg which was drenched in blood. I exposed the wound, which looked like a gunshot wound with no exit. Chunks of flesh mixed with blood flowed down his leg. I used gauze to wipe the wound.

That's when it became obvious that he was not shot; but that when he hit the dirt the largest leech I had ever seen had burst open. Blood poured freely from the area, but it was only a minor problem.

There was a lot of relief as well as a generous measure of humor over the mix up. When the grunt saw the blood he had automatically assumed the worst. Now he had to deal with the rest of us laughing. The sniper ran away and we moved out again.

These were the occasional breaks from the daily and ongoing tedium of pushing through dense jungle in the Central Highlands. Life was hard but humor is where you find it.

Camp Buffalo Deepest Regrets

I was with a platoon pulling duty at Camp Buffalo, an oversize firebase near Ahn Khe, sometime around July-Sept 1971. There was nothing special going down; they just needed some grunts attached for patrols, ambush and straightforward perimeter security work. I'm not sure what Company or platoon I was with.

Ahn Khe was an okay place by our standards: showers that sometimes worked, barracks with honest to god bunks, a short airstrip, and a Battalion Aid Station with a MD all courtesy of the 1st. Cav.

One day the Bn. Aid put out a call for all medics to report. This wouldn't be good. I went with another medic to find out.

I can't remember what I was feeling as we reported in but I'm sure it included a mixture of fear and dread at what I was about to see. I'm sure because I do remember the relief that came over me when I realized that the casualties lying all over the floor were Vietnamese.

At this point in my tour I had changed.  I often felt numb.  We were under constant pressure to dehumanize the Vietnamese.  I no longer cared about things I once felt firmly about.  I was prone to react without thinking things through.

A clerk logged us and our equipment in. He told us that there were no U.S. casualties and the MD wanted any arriving medics to just pick a casualty. He suggested we pick something we were interested in or needed practice on. This was not protocol for handling mass casualties; it was far too casual. Life was cheap in Nam, especially for the Vietnamese.

The clerk volunteered that these dinks were riding on the back of a big truck loaded with logs and trees when they hit a particularly effective N.V.A. ambush. Their truck rolled in the explosion so there were all sorts of wounded.

With that, the clerk wandered off, clipboard in hand. The MD had his hands full and the Bn. Aid medics were all engaged with their casualties. We never spoke to anyone aside from the clerk. I doubt we were even noticed. It was pure chaos.

I turned to the other medic and we decided to work as a team. I expressed an interest in head wounds. We picked our way through the men, some dying and others crying out, looking for an interesting casualty.

This memory always plays silently; I think that it must be that I'm not ready for the truth of what it sounded like. We passed over all those broken bodies, shopping for a good head wound.

I made a selection and we knelt down by a young guy, practically a kid. I could see the fear and panic in his eyes, the helpless look of someone too badly hurt to help themselves. We applied dressings and did a few things to improve his situation.

I lit a couple of cigarettes and gave one to the casualty. I had to hold the kid's smoke while we held a brief discussion on his limited chances of surviving. It's unlikely that he could follow our conversation but there could be no mistaking our casual "don't give a shit" attitudes.

I'm sure he thought we were cold. I'm certain the other casualties were all hoping someone would come to them next.

Instead we stood up and said words to the effect of "fuck this" and walked out of that horrible room. I told the clerk that the kid needed an urgent medivac if he was going to make it.

We just walked out, knowing that no one would get that kid a medivac. We didn't really care either; we just wanted to get away from it. No leader stepped up to stop us. No one cared.

Now I wish I could go back to that day and try to regain some of my humanity. Regrets of this type are difficult to reconcile.

I think about this moment frequently, sometimes I can't get it out of my mind. I feel like my behavior was inexcusable, but I was simply to numb to care and I had become overwhelmed.

Deadly Mistakes

My plt. would sometimes stand down in Tuy Hoa - formerly an AF Base but now the Army ran it.

There was a numbered hospital on the Post.  I would sometimes go there to hang out with medics in the ER when we were on base.  I was also there for a couple of weeks as a patient when I was down with scrub typhus.

This was on or about July 28, 1971.  I was at the hospital for some reason.  I don't remember exactly why - tests, hanging out, I'm not sure.

They brought a GI in from the perimeter. He had tried to take an M-79's HE round apart.  He was in a tower or bunker position on the line. I heard a a few versions of what happened.  In one he was a FNG, a new guy, possibly a clerk who was assigned to augment the grunts. If that's the case he probably didn't know that the round goes live after separating from the brass and rotating about 20 or 30 times

Whatever the case was, he armed and detonated the round while holding it close to his torso.  This was instantly fatal.  Sitting in a corner with sandbags to the front and sides his body absorbed the full blast.

The damage was sickening, as if a flaming chainsaw had bisected his body head to crotch.  Blast damage is horrific.

Somebody put a white sheet over the body and rolled him into the main hall.

I have a vivid memory of the misshapen body under that drape with a perfect red line going down the middle. It looked like a painted stripe but it was blood.

The other man with him survived the explosion.  Sometimes I wonder how he feels about it now.

We usually avoided the new guys and especially rear echelon people.  Mostly I think it was because of stupid things like this mistake.  You just never knew what someone who didn't know what they were doing might do, and as a result get somebody killed. 

Life is Cheap

Early in my tour, I'd say May to July 1971, I was at the hospital when troops brought in a wounded woman from the perimeter. Sometimes the Vietnamese strayed to close to the kill zone, especially by the river where the women liked to wash clothes on a large rock. This was a dangerous place to do laundry; one of the guard posts killed a Viet woman for doing that very thing. In that incident the woman was struck in the head by a M79 gas grenade fired by a guard tower.

This old woman had stepped on a mine, one of the small ones. I think it was a model -14. We just called them poppers. They were designed to blow off feet if you stepped on them. If you crawled over one well that would be a different story. They were a small but nasty high explosive and very hard to see. They were scattered all over the sandy perimeter.

She had stepped on it with no protective foot gear so her foot was completely destroyed. A large gobbet of bloody meat with some toes still showing hung from a long shredded tendon coming out of her calf. She was screaming completely freaked out begging and bleeding out from the stump.

A group of medics was assembling and starting care. Just as I got there a MD took over. He was pissed at the noise and the mess. He ordered everyone back to their work and told someone to get the Red Cross to get her the fuck out his hospital. He bitched out everyone for even allowing her to be brought in.

One of the medics, a male nurse or a 91-C, stood up to him saying "this is an old woman in pain we need to help her". Everyone was looking at him now so he relented and allowed dressings and morphine. He was still angry and insisted they do it in the hall and turn her over to the Red Cross STAT. He left and the medics took care of her.

I'm proud of the medic who stood up for the old woman. Standing up against a doctor took a lot of courage and it goes to show what a crazy place Nam was. Life was cheap and a Vietnamese life was cheaper.

REMF's Gone Wild

Tuy Hoa was a big base with lots of brass, hordes of lifers, and assorted REMFs. It was not uncommon to be harassed by the MP's when we stood down there.

One afternoon, I was with a Sgt. coming back from the PX or the theater when it started raining. We began to jog hoping to get back to the Company Area quicker. A MP Sgt. in a jeep pulled up and ordered us to halt.

He informed me that I had a uniform violation; my trouser legs had come unbloused and were hanging down. No big deal but this was a chance for this REMF to hassle me.

I remember he kept pushing at me calling me stud. This was pissing me off. I told him to call me Specialist, my last name, or just Doc - but not stud. My attitude infuriated him. He went for his stick.

The situation escalated but before he could beat me down I submitted and covered my head. He cuffed me behind my back and shoved me hard into his jeep.

It was a short ride to the PMO, military police station. There I was hustled inside and placed in an interrogation chair in the center of the room. There was no reason for any of this to be happening.

After leaving me to sweat awhile, the MP came back in the room. He held his 45 and just walked up to me and placed the barrel against my forehead. Words were spoken but in my mind it was a blur. He was telling me to pray as he wanted to see me beg and cower. He cocked the 45. My last thoughts were that someone in 2nd. plt. would avenge me. I closed my eyes and he pulled the trigger.

Click. Nothing happened; I was still alive. He had dry fired the weapon. The sensation of almost dying left me speechless, wondering about life, feeling my hands still cuffed tightly and wanting to kill so bad I could taste it in my mouth.

That's when my Plt. Leader showed up with the Plt. Sgt. He asked for my release and pointed out that there were grunts outside with weapons. He told the LT at the PMO it would be best for all concerned if I were released into his custody. That's what they decided to do and once I was back with the Plt. all was well. Sometime later I found a unique way to deal with the MP Sgt.

Episode 7. Ambush

Typically we would spend one month on patrol and ambush and then rotate back to Tuy Hoa for perimeter guard and ambush around the base. A convoy home was a cause for celebration. We would load up in the back of sandbag-lined open trucks for a long ride to Tuy Hoa. Roads were dangerous but we knew that soon we would be in Tuy Hoa with cold beer and a real bed to sleep in.

The following enemy ambush occurred on one such convoy home.

Just as we exited the mountainous trail and the coastline swung into view we came across a small village. Local people with children gathered by the road waving hoping for us to throw c-rations, candy, or cigarettes. It was a great photo op - everyone with a camera tried to get a few shots.

It happened very fast. There were at least 2 incoming explosions. The gun truck in front of ours was hit and I remember seeing a man hanging over his mounted machine gun. These were big explosions. I had always assumed that the rounds were buried HE artillery rounds since that was what I heard first. Other guys in the platoon maintain they were B-40 rockets. I don't know for sure but whatever they were, they messed up the gun truck in front of me.

We were taking small arms fire from up a hill. Part of my platoon dismounted to assault the hill while others, myself included, returned fire from the truck.

There had been a small boy with a bicycle by the side of the road as we approached the village. The next time I saw him the bike and his body were mangled together and, as one guy said, "he was cut in half". I sorta blank out on the rest.

I was firing my weapon up-slope when our truck suddenly lurched into motion, swerving around the disabled gun truck. One of my buddies was running back to the truck as we pulled away. I leaned out and extended the barrel of my rifle to him. He grabbed it and I dragged him out of the ambush.

When we stopped I had only one minor casualty from my plt. That turned out to be a 2nd degree burn from a weapons barrel. He was ok. Then they brought a guy with a bloody head wound. A chopper was already landing for casualties so I left his makeshift bandage in place and deferred to the medivac. I don’t think this man was from my unit; he was probably off the gun truck but I don't know for sure. At this point we had our casualties sorted out, and all were taken care of.

An officer, it might have been my platoon leader, asked if I wanted to go back into the village to help. I said that I wanted to be with my platoon. They were ok with that and we loaded up and moved on. Now I am bothered by knowing we left Vietnamese wounded in that village that I could have treated.

An officer and Iraq war vet I met in a PTSD ward in a VA Hospital, told me it was bullshit for the officer to lay it on me to decide what to do. Of course I wanted to be with my platoon - that was my job, they were my family, my safety net.

If the officer wanted to go back to the village he should have told me to go back. It all depended on the tactical situation. We would have had to go back in force. It wasn't my call. This all made sense when explained to me, and I am grateful to him, for spelling it out. Veterans helping veterans is what it is all about.

Episode 8. On most days nothing significant happened.

We seemed to just wander through the jungle. I treated injuries and sickness as best I could. Jungle rot was a problem for everyone. Even our clothes rotted on our bodies. Hell, everything rotted in the jungle. Fungus grew inside my watch, my camera and on my body. I had numerous medications for fungus but it was a continuous problem for us all. I checked feet whenever we halted. I also ran a continuous sick call for everything from malaria to parasites. I started to feel like a Mom to the guys, always fretting about their health.

I tried hard to fit in and look after the men in my care but the jungle is a fierce environment. There were thorny vines that grabbed us and held us back, scratching us to ribbons that quickly became infected. It is dark under the full canopy. Everything is either alive or rotted.

Every sort of biting blood-sucking creature sought us out. Leeches were the worst. We tied strips of colored cloth around our legs to help prevent them from climbing up and attaching to our crotches. Everyone had a preferred method for removing them. A cigarette placed next to a leech was slow but it worked.

Salt or bug juice applied to the leech killed them but sometimes they had to be carefully pried off. My skills in this were called on all the time. Leeches could be seen stretching their bodies off the leaves towards us as we hiked through their territory. They were unavoidable. At every stop we had to check for them.

There were worms the size of large snakes and all sorts of exotic insects. Snakes, apes, barking deer, and of course the Viet Cong.

We were followed everywhere we went. We climbed steep trails up and down the Central Highlands finding signs of the enemy all around. It was obvious we were being avoided but contact was inevitable. We could only hope that a few guys in the bush were not worth the effort to attack in force. For our part we were not really keen to meet up with an enemy that outnumbered us and knew the terrain better than we did.

Episode 6. Avoiding Our Own Ordinance

There were so many days that just blur into fog.

Only a few days, like this one, stand out.

We moved like a serpent through the bush. I remember how we seemed to be going downhill for a change. Finally we came upon a good night location (November Lima) and the plt deployed in a perimeter.

At night we could hear the dinks whistle to each other, signaling god knows what. Sometimes they tossed a rock into the perimeter. I don't know if it was psychological warfare on their part or just a way of keeping in touch with each other. Probably both.

In the morning the guys showed me an unexploded 500 lb bomb found inside our perimeter. Very freaky. It was an ugly thing and it looked dangerous. I don't think I would have been able to sleep had I known it was there. This was a very bad place to have a firefight. One round in the wrong place could have obliterated us all. We moved out and called the bomb in to HQ for later destruction.

Later we traveled along a dry stream bed. It was full of tumbled rocks and boulders. I was fully loaded down as I stepped over the rocks and followed the man in front of me.

He happened to turn around and suddenly gave me the sign to freeze in place. I was balanced on one foot straddling a large rock. From my vantage I couldn't see the danger. He moved quickly to me and guided my foot to the ground. I looked down and hidden by the rock, only inches from my boot, was a bomb the size of a softball.

We dropped theses things from the air. They are designed to arm themselves after they hit the ground and explode if later disturbed. They were very dangerous and hard to see. I don't remember the name of the guy who saved me but it took a lot of courage and camaraderie for him to move towards it and guide me to safety.

Episode 5 - In the Bush around An Khe

This was one of my early patrols, possibly my first week in the bush.


I started going out on patrols in June of 1971, in support of FSB Action, Schuler, and Buffalo.

We moved along a steep ridge, mostly through dense jungle. There had been no contact yet but there was considerable evidence of enemy presence.

All my energy was being consumed just by humping my ruck. It was hard work and while all I could do was keep my feet moving, the grunts were alert and focused. They were tough and hardened to the bush. It was common sense that if I was going to survive I needed to be like them.

They were keeping a close eye on me. I admit I felt better with my grunt shadow. Knowing there was always someone watching me was very reassuring but I wanted badly to be accepted.

The opportunity to demonstrate my worth came soon enough. Lt. Sifford wanted a quick recon down the ridge, deeper into the jungle. He thought it was a likely avenue of approach and wanted a mechanical ambush planted.

He was explaining what he wanted to a grunt and told him to take one other man. I was standing right there so I said "I'll go". The response was underwhelming at first. They just looked at me. After a moment the grunt said he would take me and the Lt. told us to move out.

It was a lot different out away from the plt. The bush came alive around us. I stepped where he stepped and we moved silently.

There was a sort of a sloping flat spot in a clearing out of which we could see a trail on the far side. The grunt told me to move around to a position where I could cover him as he set the claymores.

I was to be silent and ready to cover him if anything happened. It would take me a few minutes to move where he wanted me to be. As I moved out, the bush became very dense. I got to a point where I could see him checking out the clearing and looking for the best spot for the mechanical ambush.

There was a largish mound near me that I thought would give me a better view into the clearing. As I stepped on the top of the mound the ground gave way beneath me and I plunged into the earth. My arms were pushed above my head and the dirt was tight around me.

It was like I was standing in a vertical tunnel. The opening was 1 & ½ to 2 feet above my up-stretched arms. I was standing on a hard uneven surface. I was afraid to move or even lift my feet but I could flex my knees just a little and it seemed there was a opening somewhere down below. From the hips up I was wedged very tight.

I could see my hands in the light above me and the jungle above that. I knew I needed help to get out but also that I had to be quiet and not move around. I imagined booby traps and punjis or worse all around me.

After some time went by I knew I would be missed and I really hoped the grunt would look for me. I strained to hear a sound but the hole was silent.

It would be real hard to see this hole from outside. You could be next to it and never see it. I tried snapping my fingers. It was a sound that wouldn't carry far but would attract nearby attention. Quite a while went by before I started making slight clicking and "psssstt" sounds. I was thinking that sooner or later I would have to wiggle myself down into the hole and feel around for punjis or wires.

The terror of being trapped threatened to overwhelm me but it was like a switch flipped and I became an observer. Like it was happening to someone else.

Then my hole went dark. I looked up and he was right there. I remember the light was on his face and he said something like "Jesus Doc. Don't fuckin' move. I'm going for some help".

I don't know how long that took but it seemed like quite a while before he was back with the Lt. and 2 more grunts. They held a dry emotionless conversation about my predicament.

The Lt. tried to shine a light around and down but I was packed in tight. They figured that I was in a ventilation tunnel, likely trapped in some way or facing an old booby-trap that wasn't functioning properly. The bush was hard on booby traps.

The Lt. proposed pulling me out with a rope so if there was an explosive no one else would buy it with me. The Sgt. said I was more likely to have punjis around me and dragging me out like that would fuck me up for sure. Two of them said they would reach in and pull me straight up. The Lt told them that he liked the rope idea but that it was up to them if they wanted to pull me out. It was weird hearing them discuss my situation and what might happen.

The Lt. and one guy backed off and 2 grunts crouched over the hole. They reached down and we locked wrists. They pulled me up, and dove to the sides. Just like that and I was out.

The Lt. went back to the hole and shined his light in. He called me over to look. I felt that I had seen enough of the hole but he said I should see it.

My eyes focused into the depth. There was a dead dink in there. It was a fucking grave. I was standing on a dink's busted up ribcage. The Lt. asked me if I wanted to go back in for a souvenir. I declined.

Episode 4 - AN Khe

Preparations for the bush.

Two days later, I landed in AN Khe and took a jeep ride to FSB Action. My new plt was gathered on top of a bunker getting resupplied and checking maps. It was a whirlwind of activity. The Lt. looked me over for the briefest second and then told a Spec. 4, I think it was Louis Duperone, to get me settled in and to check my gear.

My ruck was dumped out and quickly resorted and repacked. A pile of stuff remained. Louie informed me I didn't want to hump any more than I had to. I abandoned the discarded gear and we went to find the LT, who only wanted to know if I had the correct and necessary stuff.

That's when a guy with a sack full of frags came by asking if anyone needed any. It really struck me how I was in the company of unknown men who needed frags. I reached into the sack and took a couple. The Lt. gave me a funny look and Louie grinned real big. We were on our way to being buddies.

My ruck weighed over 80 lbs. Most of the weight was water, medical gear and ammo. Add on the rifle, aid bag, helmet and the frags in my pockets and I was suddenly over 100 lbs heavier. Tomorrow looked like it was going to be a rough day.

That night we went into the bunker to sleep. It was basically a pit dug in and piled with sandbags, there was no light and it was as as dark as a coal mine. Midway through the night a rat ran across my face and I disrupted the tight packed room by jumping up and stepping right on the Lt.'s face. I stumbled out and joined a few others sleeping on the top of the bunker. Rats in Nam were big nasty things. I couldn't understand how anyone could sleep in a hole with rats.

My new bed turned out to be located right under the barrel of a 50 cal. machine gun. I found this out when it opened up during a mad minute, when every weapon on the perimeter was to fire randomly for one minute to discourage enemy infiltration. This of course scared the crap out of me again. I didn't get much sleep that night so I was bone tired when morning finally came.

Shortly after sunrise we loaded up on tracks, mostly APCs, and followed tanks out of the relative safety of the FSB and into the bush. I felt scared, woefully under-trained, and physically unprepared for the extremely difficult and demanding tasks ahead.

After numerous false stops where the tanks worked out on the jungle, we were told to get ready for insertion. The tanks began firing and this time we were to slip out the back and silently hide in the bush. The tanks and APCs moved on and did the stop and fire trick several more times. The idea was to make the enemy think it was just another stupid armor patrol. If they did suspect troops got off they wouldn't know where we were.

The jungle was quiet at first, until we were accepted. As the bush came back to life around us we saddled up and moved out. Since I was so loaded down, it was all I could do to just move forward.

I remember my lunch that day: canned spaghetti eaten off the jungle floor where I had spilled it.

Episode 3 - Next Stop is Vietnam

I changed upon arriving in-country.

My time on the septic surgical ward at Fort Bragg had left me with no illusions about the serious nature of war. The wounded soldiers on the ward had filled me in on the truth as I was about to live it. However, nothing I had seen or heard even from those casualties of war could really prepare me for the actual experience.

I'm not going to kid ya about this, I just don't have too many solid memories. The stuff I relate here will be as accurate as I can make it. Everything is as I remember it today. These memories are stand ins for all the details I've lost. Sometimes I wish I remembered more. Other times I'm glad the fog exists.

At first I was assigned to the Hospital in Tuy Hoa. I was going to be a REMF and a damn lucky thing too. But all things change, like my orders for example. My new orders said HHC 1/22 INF.

I asked the clerk what hospital that was and he started laughing. I was now infantry.

I flew in to Tuy Hoa and was hustled off to my new unit, Headquarters Company. Before they knew anything about me, I was promoted to E-3. This would make grunts more comfortable with me in the bush as they'd assume I had some experience.

I was turned over to a Sp/4 for orientation. He impressed several things on me and gave me good advice. For example, I must always attempt to save a wounded man even if I didn’t know what to do or if he looked dead or dying. He recommended I volunteer for 2nd plt Bravo Co, which I did.

At orientation, I found myself in the company of a few other new medics, all of whom were conscientious objectors drafted for two years to serve as medics.

At some point in our orientation they told us that the conscientious objectors would not have to go to the bush. This of course meant other medics would be assigned extra field duty. I was told I would be leaving HHC for the bush and would stay there constantly rotating to different platoons. This was the worst way to see Nam. Always the new guy. Always alone. I was scared.

The other guys were elated until they realized the seriousness of my situation. After some thoughtful deliberation they decided to take their share of field duty. It was very courageous. They carried weapons but they kept them unloaded.

We were all assigned to different platoons and I went to 2 plt Bravo as I requested. There was still a shortage of medics so when our assigned plt stood down we could be required to go back to the field with a different plt. We were supposed to spend about 1/3 of our time be safely in Tuy Hoa, about 1/3 with our assigned platoon and the remainder anywhere a medic was wanted (usually other infantry platoons).

After orientation, I needed to get my gear. This meant buying some of it off the black market because the supply REMFs sold our equipment when they could. You could buy or sell anything on the black market.

It seemed a disgrace and I was shocked to see it so common.

Back in Supply I asked for a knife and a clerk offered me a selection of blades being stored for the lifers. I took the re-enlistment NCO's personal knife, a Puma model White Hunter, which I still have today.

While in Supply I saw they had a girl in a conex. They offered her to me for some cash. I declined and expressed my dislike for the offer. The clerk said they bring in a hooker but then keep her regardless of her wishes until they are tired of her. Basically they were renting her to anyone." No big deal" in his mind, since she was already a prostitute.

The girl didn't look to good to me, very ragged. They rationalized it to me saying they'd eventually let her go for a new catch. I was freaked out that this was practically in the open and no one cared.

I took my gear and left Supply. The rules were very different in this place and I was clueless about how the game was really played.

Episode 2 - The Decision to Enlist as a Medic

My Dad sat silently beside me; an unexpected support. The retired officer and now draft official in front of us quizzed me on my reasons for refusing. Since I was a selective objector I was not eligible to be considered for a conscientious objectors deferment. A Federal Bench Warrant would be issued and I was only one police shakedown from being caught. However, it was possible to enlist for three years as a medic. The man was satisfied with my answers and my attitude and so I was allowed to swear in.

Just like that, snap, all was forgiven. I gave up and they took control. My life was out of my hands and all the ground rules changed. I've never been quite the same since.

At Ft Ord in California, I was tested and offered OCS. A six month or maybe a year of officer training and then off to Nam as a 2nd. LT. However, that meant serving in armor infantry or artillery. I wouldn't be a medic so I said "no" and stuck to my original contract - 3 years guaranteed medic school. This was my first real clue as to how fucked up the Army was; if they wanted me for an officer they had to be in a bad way.

Off I went to Ft Lewis for basic training. I was assigned to A 21 - the motto was "We are the best! We lead the rest! Raaaaghh!" That was a blur. Everything was new and confusing. I recall how my long and very thick hair jammed the barber's clippers. He angrily cut them free and finished buzzing my head bare. I was faced with all new problems and had to make personal compromise a part of daily life. Shouting "kill! kill!" as a cheer was the smallest of the problems I faced.

Getting ready for Nam turned out to be both a serious and a ridiculous pastime. I was 19, about to turn 20. The Green Machine paid me no never mind. I was just another part, a tool to be fitted in and used hard.

Basic and AIT went exactly as the Army intended. I was now a soldier. My first duty station was at Womack Army Hospital, Ft. Bragg, NC. My assignment was to 91-C school for almost a year of training. While waiting for a class to start I was put in pre C training, working in a septic surgery ward. The ward was mostly full of guys my age with debilitating wounds that were grossly infected. I got a lot of hands on training in wound treatment and I made a new sort of friend, the Army combat soldier.

I kept the ward updated on the anti-war and the Black Power movements. That made me unpopular with the Army. I was called into personnel and told to knock it off and to sign an extension to my service contract.

They basically wanted me to serve a full enlistment after my school. I remember telling the guy I wouldn’t sign an extension to be a doctor. That turned out to be the wrong thing to say to the wrong person. A few days later I got new orders: the next stop is Vietnam.

Episode 1 - Beginning

The first, and one of the hardest things, about writing a personal memoir is to find the beginning.

I've decided to begin at my late teen years and for the moment to make only fleeting references to my childhood. Details will filter in as I think.

My parents divorced when I was 2 years old. He was a brooding violent man with a raging case of undiagnosed PTSD. Mom was a devout Baptist lady with a strong moral compass and a liberal bend.

Children were her passion; she was a natural Mom. She raised me but the 60's shaped me.

I grew up mostly in the desert Southwest. By junior or senior year I was well on the path of a 60's style radical. The war in Vietnam loomed large over everything else. I was opposed to the war but outside of a small group around me I had no strong support. I was just another kid.

Then I graduated and the report for the draft pre-induction physical letters started arriving. Mom was scared and alarmed by my refusal to cooperate. I began to move restlessly - always waiting to the last moment to legally notify the draft Board of my new residence. I used recruiters to keep me off the draft lists by seeming to be an enlistment. I moved again and then the final unavoidable noticed arrived. I was to surrender in the morning or be charged. Quakers offered to chain themselves to me. The underground promised Canada. I decided to refuse induction and make the good fight.

I stood in a room with lines of young men. I alone refused to raise my hand and swear an oath to yield all to the war machine. They noticed me right away and I was hustled away from the others lest I influence some like-minded individual.

The room was somewhat short on individuals. I was taunted and jeered as I was led away. A strong lecture was delivered with a promise of how "this will go on your permanent record". I was told to "yield now" and to "accept the draft" and they would all act like it never happened.

I refused again and they were alarmed. Hippies, possibly some local Yippies, were outside shouting my name. In the interest of avoiding a larger demonstration I was shoved out the front door and told to expect the law to pick me up. That's when I went into hiding and became radical in deed as well as rhetoric.