Back at Camp Rainier
At base camp, I recall looking at the bottom plate under the driver’s pit in the front of the tank. I believe it was removed or possibly just opened—maybe for air circulation. Who knows why? I just remember thinking it was so freaking dumb to do that. The blast came up through the opening and blew the driver out like a cannon ball. I was thinking of that freaking smoke ring above the tank. What an eerie look it had, rising above the tank. It had such a ghostly look to it and was moving so slow, like it wanted to stay. I hope I’m not the only one who saw it. God I wish I had time for a photo but that one would have been pushing my luck. The smoke ring was created when the blast came out of either the top turret opening or the driver’s port. Like the trick you can do with a pack cigarettes and the cellophane wrapper after you burn a small hole in it and fill it full of smoke. A perfect smoke ring is created out of the hole every time you tap the cellophane.
How could I have not seen the guy lying behind the tank as we came up to the rear? I do not think he was there yet! Since there was no gunfire heard in those few moments after the blast, I kept wondering what was the cause of his demise? If he was there, which I doubt, I’ve got to learn to how to control my senses under stress. Yeah…sure!
I remember that bush that was near the side of the tank. The explosive device that was in it, got at least two men… I was right next to the freaking thing quite a while…it blew shortly after I moved away. Shit, another close call. The booby trap in this bush could have been trip wired or possibly set off by the wind from the chopper shaking the branches. Originally called a cane pressure mine and intended to destroy choppers as they came down to tree top level. The simple physical principle that the blades of the helicopter will create enough down draft to set off a device if the chopper gets close enough to cause the branches to be disturbed. They were extremely effective in the bush as well as in the trees. If Sgt. Draughon hadn’t sent me to secure an area for the chopper, there is absolutely no doubt I would also have been either on that chopper or lying under a poncho too.
Oh! By the way— Merry Christmas! Yeah … sure! Every time I walk by our Christmas tree in the company area, I think of everyone back home enjoying the yuletide festivities. I suppose I should be glad I didn’t make it home for Christmas this year. A photo (see photo 73) shows our tree in the area.
I was talking to Ski, and he told me something about Thunder Road. I just looked at him…I was thinking I heard that somewhere before…Other than saying we had another day on Thunder Road, I don’t remember exactly what else he told me about it. Maybe he told me the company was looking for men to go out on a midnight ambush or something…anyway, I sure heard him say Thunder Road…It sure had a ring to it. Like the words to the song—“and there was thunder-thunder over Thunder Road”—Little did I know the thunder over Thunder Road was going to get louder.
Photo 73. Alpha Company’s Christmas tree
THE LAST DAY
The day was Tuesday, and the date was December 26, 1967. It was the last day of scheduled road clearance and the armored division was on its way towards us. We headed out of base camp with the minesweepers in the lead.
Some guys walked the road and some walked the shoulder. Every step on either path could be your last. The guys were really spreading it out. Not too many walked near each other. I guess each of us had our own little safe zone for each step we took. That safe zone was governed by that voice in your head telling you to step here, don’t step there. Crazy as it sounds, it was working for me, but it wasn’t going to work for everyone.
We weren’t too far out of base camp and there was an explosion up in front on the left side of the road. We weren’t even at the thick foliage yet and most of the company was already stopped and kneeling. When I got closer to the front I was told a command detonated 105 round just killed Sam Buffington. I walked up to Buffington who was lying on the ground. His body had already been partially covered up. His body was all distorted. Shit! I couldn’t even tell if he was face up or face down the way his arms were positioned over his head. I got closer and saw Sam moving.
I continued to see him twitch and move about and I quickly went back a few yards to the medic that was standing on the road. I actually told the medic, …”He’s still alive... He’s still moving… He’s not dead yet, can’t you do something?” The medic told me very calmly, “Johnny, it’s his nerves and his muscles are contracting—he’s gone. Not sure which medic it was but possibly Doc Collins. Just not sure, being so focused on Sam.
As I came back from asking the medic to check him again, I remember feeling foolish or even embarrassed for asking. After seeing Sam moving, I actually thought someone had made a mistake covering him up like that. I thought maybe they didn’t check him thoroughly enough. Maybe I just didn’t want to believe he was dead.
After I got back near Sam’s body, I did something that I thought might appear to be insensitive—or even something I myself shouldn’t do—like it was wrong. I even thought someone was going to say something, but no one said a word. Maybe no one noticed the way I did it with one hand. I took two photos of Sam lying in front of that wood line and slipped the miniature camera back into my top pocket. (Photos 74 and 75)
Photo 74—Sam Buffington Jun 17, 1945—Dec. 26, 1967
I paused in front of Sam’s body and thought about his family and friends back home. Their reaction of horrifying shock to the devastating report he isn’t coming home flashed before me. What a grave thing to bear especially at Christmas time. I became extremely aggravated. I looked up into the woods directly behind him. Inside I was pissed. I didn’t show it but I was pissed. Not one shot was fired into the wood line. I was told then and there it was a command detonated 105 round that killed him. If it was command detonated, why didn’t someone do some recon? I couldn’t understand that. Just line up a few guys in front of that wood line and blast away. It wouldn’t have taken very long. The gook (Viet Cong guerilla) could have still been there. Maybe a lucky round would get revenge. I looked into the trees hoping I would see something. It was fairly well open in there. Well…up to a point. Damn, I didn’t even know if we had flank men in there. As I stood there, I wanted to spit a magazine into the woods so bad. Even if it was a anti-personnel mine or booby trap that killed him, I still would have felt better if I would have popped off a few rounds. I kicked my ass for not asking the Captain for authorization…Shit! —I’m in a freaking war zone and one of us just got killed—I shouldn’t need to ask—I should have had some balls and just done it!
Photo 75. Sam Buffington Jun 17, 1945—Dec. 26, 1967
With my watery eyes still fixed toward the wood line, I slowly walked away giving it one last vengeful look and then returned my focus back to the road. My attention to the road was constantly being interrupted by glimpses of Sam’s body twitching and jerking. I knew at that moment, I would never—ever forget seeing that.
We moved on. We didn’t get too far and had to pause again. We waited at the side of the road for the minesweepers and engineers to examine a section ahead. While waiting there, I took a photo of the Captain and Barney shortly after Sam was killed. They tried to smile but couldn’t. Nobody could. (See photo 76)
Photo 76. Alpha company’s Commanding Officer and artillery RTO, Barney
Some point in time, we took “volunteers” from the Vietnamese village to assist us in finding these mines and booby traps. This was pretty common to take villagers and use them as human mine detectors. You never know if it was one of those same villagers that stayed up all night tiling the whole freaking road with new mines or decorating the bushes with pineapple grenades.
We grabbed some villagers and one of our guys, that was suppose to be an interpreter, did a better job of roughing one up than talking Vietnamese. At first I didn’t approve of our interpreter’s communication skills; he had this villager by the collar of his pajamas, almost picking him up and shaking him around with one hand. I doubt if the villager could keep both of his feet on the ground the way our interpreter was communicating with him. After thinking of all the losses we’ve had, I accepted the reality that this villager may have had more information of where these booby traps really were hidden, and I put my ethics aside. Despite that, our interpreter showed the villagers what to do and they “volunteered” their services. (See photos 77 and 78)
Photo 77. Villagers help check the road for mines.
Photo 78. He’s not playing marbles!
At some point along the road, male villagers seemed to have been scarce so a village woman (see photo 79) volunteered her services and assisted the engineers.
Some place in time on this last day, I followed the Captain out in some field, off the right flank. While he was examining some bushes for booby traps and wires, he was tugging on a bush and heard a metallic click and he ran like hell…and I was close behind. It’s vague what happened but, I remember telling him, “It’s a good thing you got good hearing.”
Photo 79. Engineer probes road with bayonet.
He’s holding a M-79 grenade launcher.
As we proceeded on we were notified there was going to be a delay in our rendezvous with the mechanized units that were headed our way. They ran into trouble when the VC blew up another bridge and it had to be fixed before they could continue. We cautiously headed their way.
When we arrived at their location it didn’t look like they had even started to repair the blown bridge. I don’t know what it looked like a few hours ago, but they weren’t going get over it like it was now. (See photo 80 and 81 – same photo but a lighter view)
Photo 80. Blown bridge
Photo 81. Same photo as number 80, but a lighter view.
I figure they had big trouble—the bridge explosion had killed another engineer. What was left of him could be put in a one-foot square. His ID (identification) card was on the top of the poncho. (See photo 82)
Photo 82. Engineer KIA
While standing there I turned to the right and saw this guy standing on the blown bridge. He was wearing one of those Vietnamese straw pointed hats [non la]. Not too bright to wear that in a free fire zone. I hope he takes it off if the shit hits the fan. I took his picture. (See photo 83)
Photo 83. Out of uniform soldier!
I tagged along with the Captain up this incline. He met up with a commander of the 2/22 mechanized unit that was lined up on the hill. Captain Merrill and the other commander (see photo 84) started talking and I moved away a little so I didn’t crowd their conversation.
Photo 84. Officer of the 2/22 Mech unit and Captain Merrill
I stood behind them and did a couple of three-sixties to get acquainted with the area. I was looking at the row of “tracks” or “APC’s (armored personnel carriers) that were lined up, and I recognized one of the guys that was standing on top of one of them. Without interrupting the Captain’s conversation, I softly called over to the guy, “Hey, don’t I know you?”, and at that time I took his picture (see photo 85) he was bent over. When he heard my voice, he stood up on the track and turned around, and I took another picture. (See photo 86)
Photo 85. I recognized a guy on one of the tracks
Photo 86. He stood up when he heard me call him.
I didn’t move away from the Captain very far, but motioned to the guy and two of them met me half way. Holy cats! …I knew them both from AIT (Advanced Infantry Training) and jungle training! They (see photo 87) seemed to be very excited to see me. The one on the left said, “ Gee Stone, I heard you were dead.” I rolled my eyes and said,” The day ain’t over yet!”
Photo 87. Friends From AIT— Sorry to have forgotten their names.
Photo 88. Mech unit waits for bridge to be repaired
We talked a bit about some of the guys and it turned out that I knew all the guys on that track and some of the others too. It was really nice to see some familiar faces ninety-two hundred miles from East Tujunga. We didn’t talk long. We wished each other the best and said goodbye and I moved back near the Captain. As I stood there, I took a photo of the mechanized unit (see photo 88) while waiting for the bridge repair. I was thinking that it was so cool to run in to these guys. Always enjoyed seeing people I haven’t seen in a while. This was extra special for me.
Shortly, the engineers reported they had the bridge fixed. I gave my buddies from AIT one thumb up as the Captain and I walked over to the repaired bridge crossing to leave. I looked at the bridge as they were working on it. (See photo 89) It looked like an engineering disaster. I wouldn’t even want to drive a jeep over what they fabricated, and they’re planning to drive APC’s and fifty-ton tanks across it? Gee, I wouldn’t even want to walk over the freakin’ thing. I told the Captain that it would never hold. It didn’t. The first track barely made it and the second one almost tipped over.
Photo 89. Engineers repair blown bridge
I took a few more photos (see photos 90, 91,92) and decided it was getting too dark to take any more. After calling for supplies, the engineers continued to work on the bridge, and Alpha Company reformed and headed back down the road towards base camp.
Photo 90. First track makes it across and second one almost slides off into ravine.
Photo 91. Tracks attempt to cross
Photo 92. Second track reaches other side. Additional Bridge repairs were needed.
I don’t remember what time it was but it sure was apparent that our nine to five job had gone well into overtime. Even though moving in the shadows of night wasn’t one of my favorite pastimes, tonight it didn’t bother me at all. I was feeling pretty good. As the CP group was walking down the center of the road, we were just shooting the shit, and the Captain asked us, “How old is your ammo?”
I replied, “My brass isn’t green yet, but it’s been a while since I fired it”.
I guess that’s when the plan to recon by fire began. This free-fire is also known as a “ mad minute” where every body can shoot. It was decided that our company was going to recon, or shoot to the outer flanks as the tanks and tracks came down the center of the road between the moving files. We were going to empty out our magazines containing old ammo which, in time, the brass shells can corrode and turn green. Green corroded ammo can jam your gun. Not a good thing to happen when you need firepower. Shooting your weapon occasionally is a sure-fire way (so to speak) it will work when you need it and always fun when no one is shooting back.
As Alpha Company continued moving down the road, we were finally notified the bridge was fixed. I think we were about half way back to camp when we got the word the tanks, trucks, apc’s, jeeps and whatever were coming. I was specifically told there were one hundred vehicles heading towards us.
Just shortly before, or as the lead vehicles caught up to us, the Command Post Group located a spot to begin our recon fire and we moved down past the shoulder of the road into the foliage on the right side (direction towards base camp) of the road.
We ended up in a very peculiar grouping best described as a letter “T” formation, and we were all facing toward the right side of the “T”. Starting from the left at the top of the “T” was Barney, Swan, and Harvey. They were sort of grouped together on my near left in a staggered line. Captain Merrill was standing to my immediate right. I was told Williamson and Palacio were on the Captain’s right, in that order.
The Captain was going to give the signal for the company to commence firing by firing the first shot. My 16 was on semi (single shot) and I was looking down to my right for the first flash from the Captain’s barrel. He fired off the first shot and I pulled my trigger.
I never heard my second shot! Maybe I never even got the chance to pull the trigger. All I heard was a deafening noise. I turned around and in the darkness behind me, I was looking up at the iridescent blue flashing muzzle of a fifty-caliber machine gun firing 550 rounds per minute directly at us. It was coming from the track on the road—directly behind us! In a fraction of a second, the Captain and I were diving for the ground—
I dropped flat on the ground and melted into the earth below me. I pulled my elbows in close at my sides and tried like hell to make myself as small of a target as possible. My feet were toward the track. Maybe half way through the firing, I drew my feet and legs closer together and pressed my thumbs of my clenched fists tighter to each side of my jaw. There is no doubt I was bracing myself for a hit, but got even smaller as I shrugged my shoulders upward even tighter and driving my body and face deeper into the ground.
That muzzle of that fifty couldn’t have been much more than twenty feet away from us and at that range, it was not only deafening, but the compression on my eardrums was brutally painful. I could feel the pounding percussion of the air that surrounded me and may have been what I felt pushing me down.
I am not sure how long the firing lasted—possibly five long seconds but no less. Maybe even seven seconds or more. Whatever the length of time, it was the longest seconds of my life.
The firing had stopped. It was quiet. Real quiet. Maybe I was momentarily deaf from the noise. Someone from the right was moving towards the CP group yelling, “Cease Fire! Cease Fire!” Maybe he was yelling cease-fire before the firing stopped…who knows? All I know I was glad it was over!
I was actually afraid to relax my tightened body. I thought if I did, I might find out that I’ve been hit…I wasn’t feeling any pain, or burning sensation, but I actually checked anyway. I relaxed my shoulders and my fists. Still nothing. I moved my right arm down to my side to feel my own right leg—still no pain. I was OK and slowly got on my feet. I still wasn’t sure and actually checked my self again. Yes! I was okay!
I saw Captain Merrill on his feet and was thankful those machine gun rounds went over the top of us. Because we were all right, I thought everyone else would be too…I really did! I readjusted my weapon John Wayne style, suspended over my right shoulder with the gun barrel angled down and the pistol grip waist high. I turned back in the direction of the captain.
In the gloom behind Captain Merrill, I saw a beam of light. Someone was coming at a very fast pace and the beam from his flashlight was bouncing and darting left and right with every advancing step. As the light got near, both the Captain and I followed the beam of light as it aimed past us. What I saw at the end of the light beam would be a permanent “visual flashback” for the rest of my life.
I could faintly make out two or three figures down on the left but immediately focused on Harvey, who was obliquely positioned farther right and facing the Captain and I. He was sitting with his legs straight toward us and slightly leaning back on his radio that was resting against some type of foliage or tree. His head was facing toward his right and I heard him making a gurgling noise. Just as the flashlight beam hit Harvey’s face, he abruptly rotated his head to his left, most likely to avoid the brightness—Harvey turned his head so fast, the momentum forced his jaw to swing around and it seemed to disappear somewhere past his left shoulder. Shit! The instant his head suddenly stopped turning, I heard “Ugh!” All that remained attached to his cheekbones were dangling threads of raw flesh—everything else down to his neck appeared to be gone! I was looking at his open esophagus or throat and all I saw was red.
As the guy with the flashlight and others continued to move toward Harvey, Swan and Barney, they blocked out the horrific view of Harvey and I turned back toward the Captain. Ignoring the white spot from the flashlight and what else lingered in my vision, I could make out the Captain was leaning on his cane. He turned toward me and softly said, “John, don’t tell Harvey how bad he is.” I said, “Yes Sir”, but my exact un-said opinion was—I think he knows.
In the shadows behind us, some voice asked, “Are you okay?”
I said, “I’m okay… I think I am?”
I looked toward Captain Merrill. I could see his dark silhouette. As he turned around he appeared to be favoring his leg by resting his weight on his swagger stick. Then I heard the Captain say softly, slowly, and casually “Yeah, I’ve been hit.”
“Son-of-a——!” I stepped to help him and—WHUP—WHUP—WHUP —WHUP—WHUP! Suddenly, I heard the loud thumping blades of a chopper. It sounded so freaking loud I thought this Huey was coming down right on top of us. I turned to follow the sound and the view proved my assessment wasn’t too far-off!
I looked up on a sharp angle to my upper right and really don’t know which I saw first—maybe the chopper or maybe another beam of light. The searchlight on the underside of the chopper was shining down through the trees, and it gave us a spectacular view of how these Medevac (Medical Evacuation) pilots handle these birds in the unknown darkness of night.
The Huey had snuck in at a low altitude of fifteen to twenty feet. Its flight path had passed by the front of the track on the road. It suddenly appeared just above the tree, positioned within twenty-five feet from the right front corner of the track. Its direction was moving from my left to right. The chopper was pitched rearward with the nose slightly up, and the treetops were swaying like in a bad storm. It appeared the pilot was using every bit of downdraft the rotor blades could create, to slow down his descent. As the landing runners raked through the top tree branches, the bird slowed down, leveled out, and hovered above the trees near Barney, Swan, and Harvey.
I couldn’t understand how the dust-off pilot got here so quickly. Only a few minutes had passed since I heard someone yelling ceasefire, and the pilot was looking for a place to land to pick up the wounded, but it wasn’t going to be here — too many trees. The pilot had to reverse his direction.
As the pilot skillfully maneuvered his craft rearward toward the track, the bird shifted left and dropped down and hovered above the Captain and I. It was so freaking close I could see the filament behind the black thing in the center of the spotlight. I tilted my head back—I was looking up at the pilot partially through the lower shin bubble and upper windshield—perhaps ten, maybe twelve feet away and I don’t remember feeling the slightest breeze.
The pilot then raised the bird up and moved it rearward, between two trees, and then over the top of the track, clearing it by only a few feet. As the chopper and the spotlight slowly descended behind the track, it lit up a pyramid shaped area like daylight. I turned back to the Captain, and saw him walking away—and the spotlight disappeared behind the silhouette of the track. That was the last time I saw Captain Merrill.
Not much more than one minute had passed since the chopper arrived and the pilot made touchdown. Within a few more minutes, Swan and Harvey were quickly carried to the waiting bird for evacuation—never to be seen again either.
I was taking a look around the area—kicking the weeds—looking for any unseen equipment and making sure we didn’t miss anyone, and I noticed Lieutenant Harris walking towards me. I said to him “Anything I can do Sir? I’ll grab a radio and come with you, if it’s alright?” He said, “Sure, I’ll need an RTO now.” I never asked, but took his meaning that Ray, his radiotelephone operator, was also hit. I don’t believe I ever saw Ray Palacio again either.
We took one last look around. I then grabbed the radio and walked up the moderate incline to the other side of the track on the road. I wasn’t really aware anything happened on this side of the road yet, but like they say, this kind of news travels fast. While tagging along with the lieutenant I was hearing the firepower on this side of the track was even more devastating. I was hearing five more guys in real bad shape. That’s bad enough. Then it gets more upsetting when you hear the names of these guys, especially if you know them personally. Maybe that’s why I didn’t ask. I didn’t find out their names until later.
I do not remember when the dust-off chopper lifted off. I just remember it only took a few more minutes for the company to reorganize and we were ready to get out of here. I walked with Lieutenant Harris to a jeep and I flung the radio up and over the side rail and climbed in the left rear seat. The rest of the company boarded the vehicles behind us and we headed down the road toward base camp.
The driver was doing pretty well moving this jeep down the road—maybe twenty-five or thirty miles per hour at times. If anyone was talking, I wasn’t listening. Shit, I don’t even remember whom or if there was anyone else on the jeep besides LT. Harris and the driver. Oh yeah, I do recall there was somebody in the right front seat, but my entire focus was on that left flank and looking for any signs of getting ambushed.
I now despised convoys—either as a bystander or passenger. What a shitty hayride this was. Past the shoulders of the road, it was very dark out there. I don’t know if the moon was out, but I couldn’t see a freaking thing. I couldn’t wait till we got inside the base camp perimeter—As the jeep was moving down the road, I didn’t say it out loud, but you can bet your ass, I was mentally saying it…”Get this son-of-a-bitch going”, over and over and over—I kept real low—my 16 was on full auto and the barrel was pointed at the foliage we were passing along the sides of the shoulder. My eyes were wide opened, waiting for another muzzle flash at me, and I was ready to jump off at any second.
One ambush was enough tonight… even if it was caused by “friendly fire”. Who ever named it friendly fire ought to be shot! Yeah! He should take his own freakin’ gun and hand it to his best friend and say, “Shoot me!” You can’t get any friendlier than that! Then let him tell me that’s friendly fire? There’s no such thing as friendly fire. Just ask the guys that got hit. Just ask Harvey. Just ask Swan or the Captain. Shit, I wasn’t even hit and I’ll tell you…. there’s no such thing as friendly fire!
As we traveled toward base camp, maybe my night vision started to kick in. It seemed the dark field was getting brighter. Off in the distance, above the tops of the trees, the sky was getting lighter. I could see the red flashing lights on transmission towers. As we passed the base camp checkpoint, I thought I would feel a little better. I didn’t! I felt like shit! I think I realized we were completely inside the base camp at the staging area when the driver said, “You guys wana get off here? I’ll take you where you want, but first I’ve got to make another stop.”
I cannot be one hundred percent sure, if this night, I got out and walked or rode to the company area. So much for controlling my senses under stress! I just don’t remember carrying that radio the distance to our area. I believe Lt. Harris and I rode to the driver’s area first, stopping behind one of those metal Quonset buildings that looks like half of a sewer pipe on its side. When the driver came out, he drove us to our company area. Maybe I can’t be sure because my mind was on overload.
I guess I had a good excuse for overload. After all, the whole freaking CP group just got wiped out except for Barney and me. I don’t know if ‘s possible to be numb and cold at the same time, but I was. I was numb. I was cold, and I was sick about everyone that got hit. I was just freakin’ sick about Harvey. Shit! I didn’t even know what happened to the other guys yet. The whole freaking thing was stupid and I didn’t really know how such a thing could happen. The only thing I knew was when we started firing, the track or armored personnel carrier (APC) that was directly behind the Command Post Group, opened up on us. …Didn’t those freaking guys know we were there? Maybe that one track …maybe they never got the word we were going to recon by fire…. They must have thought we were the VC and we were ambushing them. Maybe the guy on the gun was trigger-happy…who knows?
I vaguely remember pulling up to the front door of the company office in a jeep— but vividly remember getting out, grabbing the radio and entering the company office door. The clerk was standing in a dim light at his desk—
I said, “ I have a radio…. where do you want it?”
As, he pointed, he said, “Put it over there in the left corner.”
I leaned the radio against wall in the corner and stepped back towards the office doorway to leave.
He said, “Come and get yourself a drink.”
I turned and saw these full paper cups on the counter.
The guy in the office said,” It’s the Captain’s birthday and he was going to have a party.”
“It is? He never said anything to me”, I said.
He replied, “Yeah, it was supposed to be a surprise”
“Just what I need is a another surprise.” I rolled my eyes and asked, “What’s in the cups?”
“Whiskey Sours…go ahead…you look like you could use a couple of drinks and from what I just heard, there’s going to be a lot of extras.”
I grabbed one and downed it…It was warm.
The short conversation I had with the clerk is vague, but for some reason, after the company had faced all that firepower, I believe the Captain had been in contact with the office or como (communications) bunker. It just seemed like the clerk knew more than you get from just monitoring the radio. I thought he said the Captain was going to be okay. Other than that, I didn’t retain much said. I grabbed another drink, thanked the clerk, and drank it as I headed toward my hooch through the company area.
It was unusually quiet. There was no one around. I wondered where everybody was? Needless to say, it sure put me on edge wondering who or how many were actually still with us.
I tossed the soggy empty paper cup in the drum near the hooch and went up the steps.
One guy was sitting on his bunk…
He said, “What happened to you?”
I was thinking to myself…maybe I didn’t look so cool anymore….
I told him, “Nothing compared to the other guys.”
“Are you okay?’
“Yeah I guess so”, I replied.
“Are you sure?”, he said, as he was pointing at me.
“What?”
He pointed at my fatigue trousers.
I bent over and looked down. My fatigues had some openings at the right inside pant leg, near my crotch, and I was hanging out. I felt a peculiar tingling that started at my forehead and continued over the top of my skull to the back of my neck. I slowly looked up and said, “You gotta be shittin` me…I never felt a thing.” I guess I was too numb…. While I explained what must have been the cause, I examined the pants more closely—2 holes, and a long ragged tear. All the edges were lacking the green color as if they were finely frayed like they were “teased”. It’s difficult to believe how those bullets came so freaking close without hitting me. Just unbelievable! He said, “Stoney, It’s a good thing you’re skinny!” That was the first time anyone ever said anything about me being skinny and I didn’t take it as an insult. As the conversation ended, I laid my crap on my footlocker and noticed weapon was already on safe. I remembered!
I went outside the tent and was overwhelmed by this peculiar feeling that the darkness of the night was focused on me—as if the dark sky above the base camp perimeter was closing in on me and my own little world around me was shrinking. I still didn’t see much activity. The company area looked like a ghost town. Maybe the guys went to the EM club (enlisted men’s club) for a beer. I thought about going there just to have some company—didn’t go there very often—not a drinker, but I really didn’t want to be alone either. I remembered one of the few times I went to the club. I just had walked in the door and Ski said, “Hey Johnny, you just missed all the excitement!” He was telling me, “A big freaking snake was crawling around on the floor and cleared the place out.” Although snakes didn’t bother me—just in case the snake returned—I figured I had enough excitement for the day—I decided to go back to my hooch.
I sat on my bunk and lit up a smoke and tried to unwind from what happened tonight and during last few days. Sometimes it helps me cope if I pick up my guitar and pick a little. Not this time. It just wasn’t right or even possible. I just left it in the corner. Shit! I couldn’t even write in my letter. I was just too overwhelmed by the events. I kept thinking of Buffington, Harvey, Swan, the Captain and the rest of the guys and all the crap that happened on this mission. I laid down on the bunk and after blowing a few smoke rings started thinking the damn tank made a better smoke ring than I could. I don’t remember how many times I said, you lucky bastard, silently without moving my lips. Maybe I said it each time I reached down and stuck my fingers into the holes in my fatigues.
Once again, fate smiled on me. I was right in the center of the fire zone and wasn’t hit. Everybody on both sides of me got hit. It’s a miracle to face that much fire power and survive to tell what it looks and feels like. I will remember looking dead center of the barrel of that fifty-caliber machine gun the rest of my life. The baby blue iridescent color of those muzzle flashes started small from the center of the barrel. The flashes instantly expanded outward from the black hole in the center of the muzzle a foot or more, producing sharp jagged random points in multiple layers in all directions. I can remember the brightness of the flashes that illuminated the cloud of smoke billowing around the outside of the barrel. In front of the burst, I can see the silhouette of the branches from the foliage on the right of the small clearing where the fifty-caliber machine gun barrel was actually positioned…and once in a while I could still smell the gunpowder in the air. If fate had not smiled on me while looking up at the barrel center of that blazing gun, I would not be here. Amid thinking of all this stuff and the noise from the outgoing base camp artillery, it all kept me awake a long time…
The next morning upon awaking, I went outside my hooch. Even in the daylight the company area had this weird look to it or should I say weird atmosphere. It’s always like that when we lose guys. I get this feeling that I haven’t figured out how to describe. So many guys I get to know; they're gone and it's a depressing thing for me. No matter how hard it is to loose a buddy, it’s not even close to devastating grief the parents, families and friends of these guys back home will have when they get the sudden news that (some of) these guys aren’t coming back? I'm so sorry they will have to face this. It's happened so much lately it makes me sick.... Why them and not me? I can’t believe I'm still kicking.
I shaved, combed my wet hair, and headed for the mess hall. I didn’t know if I was sick or just hungry. Probably both. I hadn’t eaten since sometime yesterday. On the way, a guy passed me that I didn’t even know. He said, “ Hey Stone, I heard you almost got your balls shot off?” My easy and only answer, “Well one of them anyway!”…I wondered if he understood—pretty close huh?
I entered the mess hall and walked to the serving line. I usually joke with these guys and the cooks, like asking for eggs Benedick or Beef Strokemeoff, Chicken Crotch-a-tori, or some impossible shit like that, but just didn’t feel like talking. I think all they had was scrambled eggs and toast.
As I ate, I was still thinking of Harvey, Swan, Buffington, and everybody else that we lost in the last three days. I still didn’t even know who “everybody else” even was yet, and once again, wasn’t sure that I wanted to. God that is so hard for me to understand. Maybe I just want to avoid that sick feeling I got when I found out who didn’t make it.
I still have about two hundred and thirty five days to go and at the rate that guys are disappearing it sure makes me wonder if I will be here that long. With every passing day, there is always that increasing probability I might not. I’m no mathematician but I’m wondering at what day in this year, does the odds change to my favor? Maybe I shouldn’t even bother to keep track? Now that the CP group, which I felt so comfortable with, had just been eliminated, in the next few days I’ll be with a new crew. I wonder who is going to be in charge? What the hell is going to happen next?
The information received was: The total line up of men, on the left side of the road opposite to me is not totally known, but the section of men on the immediate left side of the track was described to me as follows. From left to right, facing toward the flank from the track were: Estrada, Given, Slick, Mosely, and Hayashida. I added the names of these guys to my growing list of casualties received on this mission.
No time to say good-bye to:
Sam Buffington
Captain Jack Merrill
Carl Swan
Engineer
Engineer
Estrada
Given
Harvey- (Melvin Houk)
Hayashida
Houston Williamson
Morales
Mosely
Palacio
Sgt. Draughon
Slick (Saul Mc Neal)
The tank driver
The tank gunner
David Petry (Petrie) (added to list) Not sure of spelling
Mission Debriefing
My diary continues, but as far as the Thunder Road Mission was concerned, I guess you could say it was over; but it remained in my thoughts all the time. Oh yeah, I had a list of names of the guys injured or lost on this mission, as well as other past missions, but not much information recorded—only what I witnessed. As the days went by I continued to seek information to add to my diary. Once in a while I would hear something and wrote it down. It took a long time to gather data—a very long time! It wasn’t until my final mission I would get some more answers for my incomplete mourning report.