February 2, 1966 (some twenty-three years ago) seems so distant in the past. Yet, the events of that day live in my mind as if it were yesterday. While serving as a medic on a long range recon patrol in Tuy Hoa, Republic of Viet Nam, myself and the eight men with me walked directly onto an ambush set by the N.V.A. (North Vietnamese Regulars) We spent over five hours in a rice paddy pinned down by heavy rifle fire. During that time we were all wounded at least once, yet, somehow we all survived. Over one hundred men were killed or wounded in the ensuing battle that lasted almost a week.
Why they didn't mount a full scale attack and over run us, that afternoon, I'll never know. I do know, however, that at times like this strange things happen, often making people suddenly turn to their, sometimes long forgotten, creators for help. I clearly remember asking mine for help and forgiveness that afternoon.
Return with me to a sunny spring afternoon in 1966 to a rice paddy somewhere in the province of Tuy Hoa, Viet Nam. We have just come to the edge of a tree line and before us lies a trail along the top of a dike which divides the rice paddy lengthwise. It is about 1500 yards to the opposite tree line and about 600 yards to the tree lines on each side of the trail. A small oriental foot bridge arches an irrigation canal that intersects the trail about 50 yards in front of us. As soon as we cross the bridge the patrol leader signals that it is time for a smoke break. Putting down my pack, I dig out my c-ration cigarettes, light up and begin chatting idly about my upcoming R & R with the radio operator. The break passes quickly and the patrol leader signals that it is time to move out. Suddenly, off in the distance in front of us we hear gunfire. It is too far away to be aimed at us and our first thought is that one of the other patrols may be in trouble. The two point men quickly take their place some 50 yards in front of the patrol and we proceed cautiously forward towards where the gunfire seems to be coming from.
The quietness of the afternoon is suddenly shattered by automatic rifle fire. The air becomes alive with bullets, cracking like bull whips as they pass within inches of my head. All conscious thought ceases. I dive headfirst for the ground and even before I land in the foot deep water behind the dike I have disengaged the safety of my M-16. I lift my body slightly so that I can see over the dike. This is not going to be a good afternoon. N.V.A. are coming at us in swarms, like bees disturbed from their hives. I hold my M-16 over the dike and squeeze the trigger. It jams on the first round. I don't have a cleaning rod to extract the shell so I remove the clip and toss the M-16 behind me into the mud. "Damn, just my luck."
"Medic !" "Medic !" I hear that familiar cry coming from somewhere in front of me. Without thinking I jump up and begin running toward where the cry has come from. My patrol leader is lying in a pool of blood, with a neat round hole in each cheek from which blood is pouring. A bullet has passed completely through his face. I know what has to be done. "Stop the bleeding--bandage the wound--check pulse and blood pressure--watch for signs of shock." The words of the instructors at medical school echo through my mind. While remaining as close to the ground as possible, to present the least possible target, I begin applying pressure to the wound.
I shout to the radio operator, who is about fifteen feet from me, " Get us some help." I am sure that he has heard me, yet, he makes no move to respond. He is lying pressed as flat as a leaf to the ground and all efforts to get him to move are useless. Our survival depends on how fast we can get help. There are only nine of us and from what I can see there are at least ten times that many N.V.A. I dive from my position behind the dike and land next to the radio operator. I grab the microphone from the radio. "Grey Ghost, this is Lone Ranger," I scream, trying to make myself heard above the roar of gunfire. Seconds seem like hours and the radio only replies with static. Again I shout into the mike, this time trying to add a lot more urgency to my voice, as if this would make a difference. "Grey Ghost, this is Lone Ranger." Why is no one answering my call? I wonder if the damn radio is working? My heart is pounding so loudly that my eardrums feel as if they will burst at any second. Still I get no reply, just more static.
Eternal seconds pass before a much welcome voice finally emits from the radio answering my call for help. "Lone Ranger, this is Grey Ghost," the voice replies.
"Grey Ghost we have heavy N.V.A. contact. Coordinates 47-november, 31-whiskey. We need artillery and aircover now! We've got one W.I.A.'s (wounded) and we're taking heavy machine gun and mortar fire. Lone Ranger, out." As I put down the mike I pray that they will hurry. I am not sure how long we can hold off this many N.V.A.
I return to where the patrol leader is lying. He is losing a lot of blood and I see signs of shock beginning. I rummage through my medical aid bag and find a bottle of plasma. Crack. Crack--crack. The incoming rifle fire is getting heavier. I attach the needles to the ends of the rubber surgical tube through which the thick plasma will flow. Crack. " Damn, that one was close," I mutter to myself. I puncture the longest needle through the top of the bottle and then tie a tourniquet on the patrol leaders arm. I locate a vein, inject the needle into it and hold up the bottle of plasma. Immediately bullets begin whizzing around me. Suddenly, I realize that they are trying to hit the bottle of plasma and I lower it as much as possible. Simultaneously I have another grim realization. The thick plasma is not flowing through the rubber tube. "Damn, why didn't I pay closer attention during classes at medical school," I exclaim to no one in particular. I fight to get the plasma started without success. In the next instant, with a loud crash, the bottle explodes into a million pieces, some of which make large cuts in my right hand. Pieces of glass and plasma mix with the blood that lies in pools on the ground around me.
Whoompf. A large explosion, about ten feet away, showers us with mud and water. I hear someone cry out in pain. Shrapnel, I think to myself. A few seconds later he shouts that he is all right and doesn't need a medic. Where the hell is all the help, I wonder?
There is a lull in the fighting and I take advantage of it to crawl to the side of the radioman. I shout at him that all our lives depend upon his helping us and finally, I get him to move. I give him instructions on applying pressure to the patrol leaders wounds. Just as I finish I again hear the cry for a medic.
I am up and running. I see a soldier lying on his back in the mud, twisting and turning in agony. His left arm lays grotesquely in the mud at his side. Bullets have ripped off most of his upper arm muscle. He grabs my hand and begs me to stop his pain. I reach into my aid bag and extract a syringe of morphine, break off the plastic needle cover, and inject it into his leg. I insert the empty syringe into his collar, to alert the doctors at the aid station that he has already been given morphine. I apply a pressure bandage to his arm to help control the bleeding and to cover the wound. Then, I am off again.
One minute I am running. The next I am flying through the air, landing face first in the mud. The pain is excruciating. My ears are ringing. I can't feel my legs. Oh, God, I've stepped on a land mine is my first thought. I raise my head, look over my shoulder and see that my boots are still at the end of my legs and I feel a slight sensation of relief. At least I still have legs. I roll over, look down and see that my pant legs covered with blood.
For the first time this afternoon I feel fear. There is a gaping hole in my right thigh, about two inches from my crotch, from which a steady stream of blood is pumping. Seeing my blood pumping from my body like this almost makes me panic. I rip frantically at my medical bag trying to find scissors and a bandage. I find the bandage. "Where are the damn scissors?" I shout to the soldier next to me, "Take your knife and cut off my pant leg so I can get at the wound." I have no feeling, nor can I move from the waist down. I quickly check the wound. The femoral artery (one of the largest in the body) has not punctured (if it had I most likely would have bled to death). Also, I still have my manhood.
I grab handfuls of mud and pack them into the hole to help stop the bleeding. Once I have the wound full, I bandage it. I pull the bandage as tight as possible trying to stop the flow of blood into my leg. I hear a scream of pain and turn to my right. I see that the soldier next to me has been hit and part of his right kneecap is missing. I roll over next to him and begin bandaging his wound. He is trying to fire an M-60 machine gun and the rounds keep getting jammed. I tighten the bandage on his knee, then while applying pressure to his wound with one hand, I feed rounds into the machine gun with the other.
I raise myself slightly and peek over the dike. It seems as if there are more of them now than there were the last time I looked. Also, they are much closer. They are now within fifty feet of the dike. I grab a couple of hand grenades and one by one I pull the pins and throw them. No matter how easy this may look in the movies, I find that while lying on my side and using all my strength, I cannot throw the grenades fifty feet. The explosions do however, drive them back.
Suddenly a roar overpowers the noise of the gunfire. I look up and see F-104 jet fighters streak, from their perch high in the sky, to tree top level. With each pass they release their pods of napalm, often so close that the fiery explosions sucked the air from our lungs. Rockets streak from their wingtips exploding a few yards in front of us. I wonder if the pilots have any idea where we are? Then come the propeller driven Corsairs dropping their 500 pound bombs, this time a little further away from us. With each pass they strafe the ground directly in front of us with their machine guns, driving the enemy back toward the safety of the tree line and giving us a little breathing room. I cannot remember ever being happier to see the Navy.
I hear a familiar whop-whop sound behind me. Far off across the rice paddy I see the unmistakable silhouette of a Heuy. Finally, help is on the way. The helicopter flies directly over us and straight into the midst of the enemy's position. Rockets streak to the ground leaving behind thin ribbons of smoke. Some of the rockets land so close that we are showered with mud and water from the explosions. We can hear the dull smacking sounds of bullets hitting against the side of the helicopters fuselage and we watch helplessly as smoke begins billowing from the engine. The helicopter is having difficulty staying airborne and is maneuvering crazily. In the next instant a gigantic explosion rips through the air. The helicopter bursts into flames and crashes. My heart sinks and I know that our chances have just taken a real turn for the worse.
Crack. Another bullet passes close to my ear and returns me quickly to reality. Crack-crack. The gunfire is becoming heavy again and I don't have time to worry about anything except keeping my butt down and feeding ammo into the machine gun.
I hear another Huey coming. This one stops before it reaches us and starts to descend. When it is about ten feet off the rice paddy I see men start jumping from the doors. They land in the rice paddy and in a split second they become almost invisible as they flatten themselves to the ground. The helicopter unloads its cargo of men without ever completely landing and as the last man jumps the helicopter begins to climb skyward. Within the next five minutes two more Hueys arrive, bringing more soldiers who take up positions at our flanks and also in a small group of trees, about fifty yards, to our rear.
The radio suddenly blares commands from the company executive officer to begin withdrawing to that small group of trees behind us. Two men drag the patrol leader back to the rear while the rest of us provide cover fire. Another Heuy arrives and I can see the bright red cross of the tail as it turns to the right and lands in the rice paddy behind us. The next second it is nothing but a ball of flames as another explosion shakes the ground and the helicopter crashes. Within a few minutes another arrives to take its place.
All the others have withdrawn to the rear and now only the machine gunner and myself remain in the original position. It is our turn to begin our crawl to the rear. Neither of my legs will work so I try pulling myself along using only the strength of my arms. I cannot move very quickly and I have to stop often to rest. After a few minutes of this, I suddenly realize that I have inadvertently left what little protection that the dike had offered. I am wide open to the enemy's rifle fire. The N.V.A. realize this also and the ground around me sprouts tiny volcanic craters as bullets smack into the mud.
I have made what may be a fatal mistake. I am caught in the open and it will only be a matter of minutes before the N.V.A. zero in on me. Over my shoulder I see what appears to be at least a hundred N.V.A. rapidly advancing toward our position. They are not going to give us up easily. I strain even harder now, for I know that my life depends on it. They are advancing a lot faster than I can crawl. In the next few minutes they will overtake me, and I will either be killed or taken prisoner. I am on my last clip of 45 caliber cartridges and squeeze off all but one shot in the direction of the oncoming N.V.A. I save the last bullet--for myself. I have seen what happens to prisoners captured by the N.V.A. and no way will I let myself be taken alive. Suddenly, from the small group of trees that I am so desperately trying to crawl to, I see a G.I. emerge and begin running toward me. Without stopping he grabs me, tosses me over his shoulders as if I were weightless and runs back to the group of trees where the rest of the rifle company waits. How he managed to carry me that fifty or so yards, through all that gunfire, without either of us being hit I will never know.
I find myself in a small clump of trees surrounded by members of another rifle company and for the first time, I feel as if I might make it out of here alive. The initial shock of my wound is beginning to wear off and I feel a sudden and severe pain in my right leg. I fumble through my medical bag and find my last syringe of morphine. I inject it into my left leg and throw away the syringe. Hopefully, the first medic or doctor that sees me will give me another shot of morphine. What the hell? After an afternoon like this I can surely use it.
I have purposely left out the names of the soldiers involved. However, I do want to salute the men who were on that LRRP (Colonel Henry Emerson's Hatchet Patrol) with me and all the men of the 2nd./502nd. Infantry, 101st. Airborne Division. Above all else, I want to express my undying gratitude to the soldier who risked his life to carry me to safety that afternoon. Without hesitation, I say that these are some of the bravest men that I have ever known.
ETA - 60 seconds from your LZ!