Letters - REPOSTED for Veterans Day

This is a repost in honor of all of our veterans.  Thank you each and every one of you. 

He was young and newly married. By all accounts his bride was sweet, funny and beautiful and I'm sure they were starting their new life with a lot of hopeful expectations.

The letter was not in the plans.

But it came anyway. It looked alot like this:

In 1969, the number of troop levels in Vietnam had only slightly declined from the peak established two years previously.

The young marriage never stood a chance and was over before the end of his Basic Training.

Testing at the end of the Basic and Advanced Infantry Training indicated he was eligible for NCO Training school. Knowing that the odds were high that every draftee would be sent to Vietnam, he surmised that the 16 weeks of training would be 16 weeks less he would be in the middle of a nasty war.

They called guys like him "Shake n Bakes". They threw them into 16 weeks of training, shipped them off to Vietnam and called them Sarge. He was 20 years old.

His brother-in-law drove him to the airport. He was the only one in the family that he would tell even the date of his departure. He did not want any "goodbyes". It was likely a combination of not wanting to have a dreadfully emotional family departure, not tempting fate with a goodbye that could be forever and not wanting to lose control of his own emotions.

So he went off the "serve his country" for the next year. He still has the calendar where he marked off each day one by one. Was he afraid? Oh yeah, I would bet he was. Only someone mentally unstable could not be afraid.

Reality struck hard as the night flight was arriving in the midst of the war. Below you could see the rounds of the enemy fire. The pilot explained they would be turning off all of the outside lights of the aircraft while they landed in order to keep the enemy from shooting the plane or the young soldiers as they departed. Upon landing the guys literally had to run to a bunker while the bullets rained around them.

Most of the year he spent in a fox hole or beside one in his personnel carrier. There was little time in base camp. His mother sent a "care package" every three weeks or so. He still remembers them "saving" him from starving from the C rations. If you think those thoughts fade over time, you're wrong. Yesterday, without any discussion whatsoever that would trigger that memory he repeated those words. It was resurrected because he had taken a can of Vienna Sausages to work, thinking those tasted so good back then. I guess they did if you lived on C rations for nearly a year. Yesterday's lunch made him gag after forcing down three sausages. He recalled the guys practically fought over Beanie Weenies C rations . He shared the care packages with his troop, well at least some of them. He still recalls how they were estatic when there would be a drop of a pallet of warm beer.

War was different then. The Vietnam war cost 55,000 American lives. It was not waged smart. It was not waged to win. I'm reminded of a quote by General Schwarzkopf during Desert Storm, "when you go to war, you go to WIN." The general learned that lesson in Vietnam, where we sent our boys in trickles. Kill enough of them and then just send in a few more. It was not strategic. If was not even labeled a war, it was a "police action". There were no battle lines as in past wars. It was bloody and there was no way to accurately distinquish your enemy from your ally. By all accounts, American involvement lasted close to 20 years.

He would tell you there wasn't alot of sympathy of the deaths of 12-year-olds, because they were the ones who would walk up next to your buddy and casually put down a "satchel charge", a bomb hidden within an inconspicous satchel. Even young kids were your enemy and would kill you if given the chance.

Christmas Eve 1969: At night, the armored vehicles would form a parameter, much like a wagon circle of the olden days. His personnel carrier ended up just in front of a previously created bomb crater. This was one time his size was on his side. At 5'5, he could fit inside the crater unlike his fellow troops. He went to sleep that night lying in the crater.

At 1:00 a.m. Christmas morning, the night sky lit up like the 4th of July. The Viet Cong went on full attack. The other guys in the armor vehicles next to him were in the line of fire. The crater was small so he scrambled to get up to get to the personnel carrier and the machine gun. But he couldn't.

Only 6 months ago did he finally tell the following part of the story.

He felt as if something was physically pushing him back down. Confused, he tried again. And again, he was "shoved" back down. It was not fear, it was not a lack of courage, he had been tested for those too many times before and had "passed". When he was finally able to tell this part of the story it was because he could finally admit that he believed that night a force greater than himself actually forced him back. He never told that story because he didn't think anyone would believe him and he was simply overwhelmed by the feeling that it was only because it was simply not 'his time". A few minutes later he tried again, finally managing to scramble out of the crater and climbing up to the machine gun where he began firing the clips.

After a prolonged fight, he said the guns would get so hot that when you stopped firing they would continue firing rounds all on their own. They called that problem "cooking off". The guns were cooking and fired on their own until they cooled off.

Forty years later, Christmas Eve still brings back memories of that night. Two of the men were shot beside him. It was not a quick death. He heard their screams continue all night. The battle was too intense for the medics to arrive or for anyone else to help them. The men screamed through the wee hours of Christmas morning until they finally died from their injuries. Their screams finally ceased, well, except where they continue in his head to this day.

A few months later he would temporarily lose his hearing when a missle hit the side of his personnel carrier. It was supposed to have exploded on impact. If it had, he would have lost more than his hearing, he would have been dead. But again, it was not "his time".

Each night while the armored vehicles rounded up in their circle, one of the vehicle's crew would stand watch. They would station themselves on foot about 1/4 of a mile beyond the parameter of those sleeping. Back at the parameter every 15 minutes or so, they would request you to "break squelch" three times, which meant all was clear. Break squelch is silently hitting the transmit button on your field radio without speaking. It was a silent way to let the troops at the parameter know all was well. If you didn't respond or didn't break squelch three times, then the guys at the parameter knew there was a problem.

He talks of the night where he could hear the enemy walk right past him. It's moments like these where you learn to be stealthly quiet. He had to wait. He had to let them get past him before he could radio back to fire a round of illumination in order for them not to hear his transmission. Firing an illumination round would tell him where the artillery was pointed and then he could tell them where to adjust the rounds to ensure they were aiming toward the enemy and not the guys on watch. If he was off on his coordinates, it would have been very very bad.

Requesting an illumination round also carried a great risk. Firing it also warned the enemy. Once they spotted the illumination, they would run like hell. Which meant they could run right back into you if they scattered back in your direction.

Again, it was not his time. His coordinates were accurate and the enemy did not run in his direction.
An entire year spent in his young life. He tells of the plane ride home. All lights were out during take off and all was silent within the cabin. Any light or noise could let the enemy know a plane was leaving and it would be shot down, killing the soldiers who, up until then had been lucky enough to survive their tour of duty.

Upon reaching the proper altitude, spontaneously all of the men let out a deafening cheer. They had made it.

They were going home.

Except for very few men in his family, he never spoke of his time in Vietnam. It took 30 years when he finally began to tell the stories. Things like how the Koreans would go up into the mountains at night and brag to the Americans how many VC they had killed. The soldiers didn't believe them until one morning they brought back four severed heads of the enemy. Some men held the heads up by the hair for pictures. He refused claiming he never wanted his mother to ever find a picture of him in such a pose. He had sent the pictures to his step father, swearing him never to share them with anyone. Years later, they were returned to him and lay today among the other pictures that were taken at that time.

He harbors no ill for the guys that split to Canada. It was what it was. He never used a "Vietnam excuse" for anything in his life although now he wonders if it didn't harden his emotions, making him less open to expressing his feelings towards those he has loved throughout the years since.

He fought for his country. Every time, and I do mean EVERY TIME the National Anthem is sung, he stands still and if you look at his forearms you can see the goosebumps rise. The same is true for Lee Greenwood's Proud to be an American.

The day after 9-11 he adamantly stated that if the military would take someone his age he would enlist, he would go and fight and die for his country if need be. This time it would be his own choice. But of course, the military would enlist only men and women half his age.

He's not particularly political, nor does he keep firm tabs on world events. But he firmly believes in defending this country and keeping a strong military defense. To do otherwise invites the evil in this world to overtake the very freedoms that he and thousands before and after him have fought for.

America "appreciated" his efforts along with thousands of other young Vietnam soldiers by calling them baby killers and condemning them for being drafted into a war and serving their country. Only now do most Americans realize how badly the soldiers were treated.

Occasionally he would come across some of the things he had from the war and his service. About five years ago he wrote to the Army to get some of the medals from his service which were now missing, either from being lost or having never received. He wanted to make sure he could "pass them on" later.

The process was to write a letter to the Army. They would research your records and send you a notice of the medals you should have received and then you could request any missing medals.

The letter arrived while he was working a side job and his wife opened it, curious as to which ones he didn't have. They had been married for 15 years and when they met, enough time had passed so that he had told her nearly all of the stories that he had been hesitant to tell over the years.

Reading the listing of medals, she was confused. He had repeated over the years which ones he had and which ones were missing. She didn't remember all of the names, some were for the units in which he served, some of his rank and some of merit. But she was sure she never heard him mention one she saw on the list the Army sent.

She called him at work and asked him which medals should be on the list. He recited them off from memory and did not mention one of them that was on the list. The same one she had never heard him speak of.

He had served his country. He didn't do it by choice, but he had done it willingly and proudly.

He had not been awarded the missing medal in a ceremony nor even told of it in 35 years.

Weeks after receiving the offical letter from the Army, 35 years after his discharge, a goverment employee delivered the missing medal.

There between the electric bill and a sale catalog for Macys, the postal worker casually tossed a small package that contained his long-ago earned Bronze Star into the rural mailbox.

Please, if you have former war vets in your family, ask for a time when you can sit with them and find out all of their stories. I have Uncles who were in WWII and the Korean War. All of them are now gone. When my Uncle Bob passed away he had medals with the scription of "The Last Man" There was more than one. He fought in Sicily (if I remember correctly). I cannot imagine what must have happened to have "earned" that medal. I wished I had asked him to tell me about his war medals.

These stories should not be buried with our heroes. Ask someone you know, write it down and save history for our grandchildren.