Thank you and God bless, all Veterans

I want to say a huge THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS to all veterans. Thank you so much for doing what you did.

My friend Leslie is the only Veteran that I knowpersonally. Well, the only one who actually was in a war. I have two brothers who were in the Army. One, Wayne, was in Germany most all of his tour and the other Bobby Joe was in Germany, France and spent a year as a clerk in Viet Nam. He told me that he spent all his time in Saigon and did not see any fighting. Still, I thank them and honor them for their service.

Leslie is unique to say the least. Some people do not approve of the way his life has progressed, but that is not what this post is about. This is about how he, as and eighteen-year-old boy, joined the 101st Airborne and was sent to Viet Nam. He got there just in time for the TET Offensive in 68. I had planned on writing about him, but he has done it so much better than I can so,I am going to copy what he has said about that time from his diary, because there is no way that I can tell his story any better than he can. So, here it is.........

3/3/2000

It was my job to be scared. Barely eighteen, I had almost no idea of what was going on. I didn’t know where we were or why. All I had to hold on to was my training, my leaders and my friend, Craig. At twenty, he was practically middle aged…. But every bit as scared as I was. I don’t know how to explain how close two men can get in some circumstances. All I can say is that we knew each other. We had trained together in Kentucky before coming to the blistering jungle of Vietnam. We had been in our first firefight together. Seen our first killed soldiers together, and we had agreed together very matter-of-factly that we would not survive a year here.

In the first week of February 1968, our company was in Quang Tri province, not far from Hue, when the famous Tet offensive broke out across the country. We were members of the 101st Airborne Division. I guess you could think of them as the Marines of the Army. We were, in fact working jointly with the Marines in that area. I don’t know for sure what we were trying to accomplish on the fourth of February. All I know is that nightfall found us in a clearing, setting out claymore mines and organizing a night perimeter. It would be another night of sleeping on the ground in the rains that were just shaping up into the monsoon season.

Sleeping isn’t the right word for how we spent these nights though. Sleeping is something you do when you feel warm and safe. Something you do when you can let go of your mind for a few hours and let your body rebuild.

What we were getting ready to do was spend two hours shivering in the mud, wrapped in a thin poncho to try to cut the chill night breeze while we relied on our buddies to keep a sharp eye on the surrounding shadows. After two hours, we would change places and spend two hours trying to keep exhausted eyes open so our buddies could take their places on the ground. I was always tired in Vietnam. It’s the single thing I remember most.

But no one would get any sleep on this night. It was already nearly dark as we dug holes to try to improve our position. The unlucky ones had already been chosen to go out into the trees in front of our hasty perimeter. There they would lie motionless all night, waiting and listening to the jungle noises with their claymore detonators in their hands, ready to blow those anti personnel mines and run back to the perimeter at the first signs of trouble. I can’t think of anything more dangerous than running right up the barrels of the guns of a bunch of exhausted and jumpy soldiers. It was a terrible job.

By eight o’clock, we had been supplied with C-rations and extra ammunition by helicopter. Our area was still alive with the clinks of shovels and scraping of empty C-Ration cans. Some of the guys were finished, and the sweet smoke from cigarettes was hanging in the air. Squad leaders were moving around in the darkness, checking on their men and their preparations. We were looking forward to the quiet. Then the first mortar rounds landed in our midst.

Suddenly, our little hole was in no way deep enough or wide enough for both Craig and I. In the panic of the first moment, we rolled in and tried to weasel under each other. The air was filled with shouting. Someone was hurt. The cries of ‘medic’ rising above the shouted orders from the sergeants. It was all punctuated by the sharp thump and deadly blue flash of mortar shells pacing back and forth across our area. Then we heard the claymores fire and heard the LPs screaming as they ran, facing fear from all directions. They were screaming "Hold Your Fire!! Hold Your Fire!!" until they reached our perimeter. Then the hot popping corn sound of small arms fire broke out and seemed to spread like a cancer until it engulfed us. We were being attacked.

(to be continued)

There are some big holes in my memory. Things I can remember everything before and everything after. But, in between, it’s as if aliens abducted me. The attack of 2/4/68 is one of those things. I know it happened. I remember the LPs coming in, and the mortar attack. I can only guess at the events after that. I know it happened though, because last year I obtained a copy of our Battalion logs and the attack is mentioned there. According to the log, our company was ‘credited’ (gotta love that word) with 250 confirmed kills of North Vietnamese Army troops. The battle went on until 0300 the next morning before the NVA broke contact and withdrew.

But even though my mind won’t remember, my body remembers everything. It remembers an electric fear… so intense; it feels like being shocked. And the feeling of time slowing down, so you can’t move fast enough. Heart pounding like it’s going to explode. The blood roaring in your ears until the other sounds are all but wiped out. Today, my therapist would call that a panic attack, but I don’t care for the word and refuse to apply it to myself. It’s panic under wraps. Controlled panic. I think it must be something most people never experience.

So whatever happened that night was bad. My guess is that it was what I had feared in other firefights coming true. I think we must have come very close to being overrun that night. Outnumbered and with limited ammunition.

My memory sneaks back to me on the following morning. It’s daylight. There are a couple of mules there, the little flatbed four wheel drive platforms they used then. We were loading equipment onto the mules. Packs, canteens, guns. I remember getting a rifle from one of the mules. I couldn’t find my own. I still don’t know where mine went. I got one of the new-style bladder canteens too. It was a lot lighter than my old one and it held more water. The stuff we were loading onto the mules was what had been left behind when the dead and wounded soldiers were flown out of there.

Before long, we were back on the trail. I didn’t know it at the time, be we were engaged in a recon in force. That means we were out looking for the NVA forces we had fought the previous night. My platoon Sergeant, a stocky red-head by the name of Hicks assigned me to walk left flank for our unit. I’d been there before. I think he liked me there. While the rest of the platoon, even the point man, would be walking along a trail or road, the flank men had to scramble through the brush, trying to keep up with the group and acting as a sort of sideways point man. I had been on left flank when I killed my first Viet cong face to face.

So, off we went through the jungle towards a village named An Lo. The trees were tall and the jungle floor was cool and quiet. The trail we followed was little more than a footpath. I was used to sweating as I labored to squirm my way with a fifty-pound pack through heavy undergrowth, but this was different. Either it was easy going or I was becoming an expert. In a few places, I could even catch a glimpse of the cloudy sky through the tops of the trees.

It seemed a short distance, maybe two miles, before we came out of the trees to a river that flowed across our path. On the other side of the river were rich green rice paddies, and a village beyond. I didn’t know the name of it at the time, but it was An Lo. Off to our left was a two-lane road, which went across the river on a steel bridge. On the far side of the bridge was a round concrete structure that looked like an old French pillbox bunker, long since abandoned.

In another universe, our platoon might have crossed the river using that bridge, but we got the order to wade the river. Its brown, muddy water was slow moving and only came about chest-high, but I hated getting in it. Getting wet wasn’t so bad, but I didn’t like leeches. On the other bank, there was a small embankment, about three feet high. We spread out along that embankment and got a short break while everybody got across and got organized again. I was the furthest person to the left along the embankment. Craig was right there next to me and we took advantage of the halt to drop our packs and smoke. We weren’t talking a lot that day. I think we both were just too tired. But it was comforting just to sit there for a minute.

Too soon, we were told to get ready to move again. We put on our packs and climbed the embankment to start across the rice paddies. We only got a few yards though, before we heard gunfire coming from the village. I could hear the rounds snapping and buzzing as they flew by. It was heavy gunfire. Lots of it. Without waiting to be told, everyone just knew to get back to the embankment. It was the only cover between the village and us. I remember this firefight very well. Everyone was returning fire. We had two M-60 machine guns with us, and those guys got set up pretty quick. Even though the bullets were flying just over my head, I wasn’t as scared. I felt good behind the embankment, firing my rifle into the village along with the rest of the platoon.

Then, as I was getting another clip of ammunition, I noticed the mud kicking up behind me…. Behind the embankment. In the chaos and confusion, I had completely ignored my assignment to watch our left side. There was an automatic weapon inside that concrete bunker and they were firing on us too! There was no safe place to be.

I grabbed Craig and showed him what was going on. My pack was already on the ground as I told him to fire over my head into one of the peepholes in the bunker. Now I was scared silly, but all I could think of was that I didn’t dare let my sergeant down. Didn’t dare let my platoon down. I thought it was up to me to do something. With Craig targeting the peepholes, I had a chance to sprint over to the bunker. I would have been cut down otherwise, but he made those guys keep their heads down until I got right up against the rough concrete wall under one of those little windows.

Craig had stopped shooting then, for fear of hitting me, and I heard the automatic rifle open up again. I pulled the pin on a frag grenade and let the handle go. The fuse on a grenade has a five-second delay. I counted to three as slow as I dared and then just reached up and dropped it through the window. God! it was just like John Wayne! I only heard a little scuffling inside before the grenade went off, shooting a puff of dust, smoke and concrete chips out of the window.

We were still under fire as I ran back to my position, but I felt a lot safer again… and satisfied somehow. Craig was very impressed. He slapped my back and told me how cool it was. I thought so too. But only seconds later, we heard our sergeant hollering to move out. Unbelievably, we were about to assault the village. I was back to scared again. There are things you just don’t want to do, and this one of them.

What I wanted or didn't want didn't really count for much out there. Our platoon was going to assault the village. For our part, craig and I would work together. He would fire on the village while I ran ahead to whatever little cover I could find and threw myself down on the ground. Then I would fire while he ran up to me and beyond to the next spot. Assuming one of us didn't get killed, we would just kind of leapfrog this way until we got to our objective. I didn't have a good feeling about leaving the safety of the embankment. But then I never had a good feeling about exposing myself to gunfire.

Mankind has created some wonderful sounds. Music, mostly. But there's a sound that's more wonderful to me than and symphony. It's the life-giving sound of the main blades of a UH1E 'Huey' helicopter as they whop-whop through the air. Although there are far fewer of them flying today, I can still identify a huey from the sound alone. As we heard the order to move out on our assault, I could hear the hueys coming up from behind us. I knew then that we would have a chance of success. The helicopters would fire rockets and miniguns while we made our assault. That was good.... but it was bad too. We had obviously discovered more than a few VC in a remote village. We were attacking an NVA stronghold. That's why the helicopters were there.

But as it turned out, none of this mattered a bit. I had just adjusted my pack and topped the embankment while Craig was firing when I felt someone hit me right across the back of the knees with a baseball bat. At least, that's the impression I had. It knocked my legs right out from under me and threw my onto my back. It was disorienting and maddening. I couldn't understand who would play such a trick while we were in the middle of a serious business. I sat and looked around but no one was close. No one was laughing. I laid back again, thinking... trying to figure out this puzzle. Suddenly, it occured to me that I may have been shot. I sat up again and looked at my legs. How had I missed it the first time? My left leg was at an odd angle and there was a huge bloody hole in the thigh of my pant leg. That's when the pain began.

Women bear children through pain, and there are just a few who never tire of telling men that they don't know pain until they have a child. I guess I can understand that but, with all due respect, I think I know a little bit about pain. As the shock of the round passing through my muscle, bone and nerves began to subside, the pain came over me in waves that simply took my breath away. I had to scream something, so I started screaming 'medic!'. I was enveloped in a cocoon of pain; my mind turning inward upon it. It just hurt real bad.

Craig was there. Every time he touched me it seemed the hurting kept on doubling. It never got smaller, only bigger. But he touched me anyway. He tore the compress bandage from the strap on my field gear and pressed it onto my wound. It felt like a lightning bolt was striking me over and over. Then a medic appeared kind of miraculously out of the dark fog around my eyes. I heard him telling me it was OK, that I would be OK. I didn't believe him for a second. I know he gave me a shot of morphine, but I didn't feel it go in. And it didn't stop the hurting. At best, it semed to clear my head a little bit, becasue I could hear the medic shouting to someone that we had to get these men out of here.

Suddenly, I realized that there was no way out. I imagined myself, in this condition, being drug back through the filth and mud of the river behind us. I knew it would kill me. And I knew I was bleeding to death on the spot where I lay. I understood in a very calm and convicted way that I was dying. It helped me lose any fear of death I had left. I wasn't scared. I only felt a great sadness as I realized I had had only eighteen short years to bring me to this place. I was sorry for the things I was going to miss.

But it seems like there was little time for this kind of thinking. The medic vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, but a couple of other guys came and helped Craig manhandle me onto my poncho. I was in a very bad mood and had no patience at all about this. I screamed in pain and begged them not to take me across that river. That seems like the only thing I could think of.

Apparantly, the assault had failed. There was a lot going on, all up and down the embankment. A lot of shooting. A lot of shouting. It seemed mostly unimportant to me. Like a dream from which I would soon awaken. Maybe the morphine kicked in, because laying there on my back, I could see the huey gunships as they made their turns, circling around for another run on the village. I was getting dreamier.

My dreaming came to an abrupt end. When I felt the four corners of my poncho grabbed by four men. They yanked me off of the ground and ran with me. It hurt too bad to even to scream. I was blacking out, but I felt them throw me onto the embankment, climb up and then grab me again. Half carrying, half dragging, they hustled me to a helicopter that had landed there on the flat ground. THe doors on both sides were open, or had been removed. In one of the doors, facing the village, was a gunner, firing a machine gun non-stop. The floor of the chopper was already greasy with blood. My tormentors threw me into the huey so hard that I slid across the floor and halfway out the other side. The gunner grabbed me and was still struggling to haul me back in as the pilot lifted off and sped out of there.

Halfway upside down, my head hanging out the door, I turned to see Craig standing alone as the other guys ran back to the riverbank. He was just standing there, watching me go. It was the last time I would see battle and the last time I ever saw Craig.


So, now, anyone who disapproves of how Leslie is living life, well, you are sad and small-minded. If anyone has earned the right to be who and what he.....she.....wants to be, it is Leslie Smith.

And, anyone who wants to get into how wrong Viet Nam was can do so, that is not the point of this post. And, if you do not know what the point of this is, then I am sorry for you.

Thank you Veterans. We, as a nation, cannot thank you enough. God bless you all.