50 Years ago today

On May 13th, 1967, I was shot through my upper right thigh, shattering my femur and almost severing my leg. I celebrate this day every year because it was the day I almost died but through God’s grace, I have lived this half century more.

I was a twenty-one year old Lance Corporal (E-3) in the Marines serving as an Artillery Scout (an enlisted Forward Observer) with Golf Company 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines (2/1) about 16 kilometers Southwest of Danang, Vietnam. Our company was on a local sweep a little north of Hill 55, following the edge of the Song Yen river that bounded ours and the 7th Marines’ Tactical Area of Responsibilities (TAOR). We headed slowly south, searching for the enemy, as always. At first light, I heard a sudden burst of gunfire and saw several Marines firing at a VC that was running away in the open and getting away pretty quickly. We had just gotten the M-16 and even though several hundred rounds were fired in those few seconds, that guy kept running. I aimed carefully with my M-14 and shot him (I had the last M-14 anywhere around; I was an artilleryman and I claimed that “we didn’t have M16s yet” and got away with keeping it). We ran up to get him and found that I had hit him in his right hand, chopping off the edge of his hand, taking his little finger with it. He was an older VC – 40 or so – and I could see he was in a lot of pain, so I bandaged his hand with one of my own bandages and gave him a cigarette. He calmed down, since you don’t bother bandaging somebody or giving somebody a cigarette if you’re just going to kill him. We found out through our Chieu Hoi scout (a former VC that had surrendered and now worked to help guide us and interpret) that he was an outpost for an enemy company just ahead of us, so we deployed to meet them, one platoon working around behind the enemy to block them and two platoons to begin the approach to where we thought they were.

We caught up with them near Dien Xuan village at the edge of a large open and dry rice paddy that had been recently plowed. We passed through one treeline and we were starting to cross the wide open area of that plowed-up paddy, the enemy opened fire. Firefights always started with a couple of quick shots and then very quickly developed into a stuttering, shattering roar, with hundreds of weapons – ours and theirs - being fired, all full-auto, all at once. We were experienced, so we were all flat on the ground and we were initially unscathed. We started firing 60mm mortars and some LAW rockets and the enemy, unusually for them, stood their ground and started firing rockets back at us. I detected two machine guns straight across from us, between 150 and 200m away. I started working up an artillery fire mission to hit those positions with 105mm fire. As I waited for the mission to be cleared and to start sending rounds, I saw dust coming up from the window of a house directly across from me - someone was firing from that window. I fired a raking burst just under the window, from right to left and the house began to smolder and burn.

My artillery fire mission was cancelled because we started to get some wounded and a “Sav-A-Plane” was put into effect – so artillery and mortar missions were stopped to allow medevac helicopters to come in without being hit by our own stuff. The platoon to my left started assaulting across the open rice paddy towards the enemy but several of them were hit all at once, five that I could see. I could also see that the enemy was still shooting at the wounded men by the dust kicking up around them. I was only about 50-60m away and in pretty good cover, so with very great reluctance I realized that I was the closest guy to them and I’d have to go out there and try get them to safety. During those seconds while I was spooling up my nerve, my first-day-in-combat FO Lieutenant, Hank Graves plopped down next to me and said “I’ll cover you”, holding a single-shot M79 40mm grenade launcher. I could see that his safety was on, so I said “the safety comes off by pushing it forward, Sir” and then I got up and ran for the first guy I could reach.

I left my rifle behind because I’d need both hands and it wouldn’t have done me any good to carry a rifle anyway. That plowed paddy was rough and difficult to run on because it was so jumbled up and hard. My ankles twisted and I stumbled steadily ahead towards the nearest guy I could reach. I was sure that I was as good as dead, that the next shot would hit me between the eyes. Everybody was shooting and bullets cracked all around me. The Marine I reached had been shot sideways through the hips and his guts were protruding. He was struggling and thrashing around with pain and I tried to carry him but he was too tall and too broken to move that way. I tried lifting him and pulling him by lifting under his arms but that didn’t work either. His hips were broken and it hurt him too much. A Marine ran towards us from our treeline, a guy we called “Big John” (I never found out his real name – he was known as our “duty hero” and he had been wounded at least twice before), and he grabbed the wounded guy’s feet while I lifted him under his armpits and then we ran towards cover with him between us. Before we got very far, Big John ran out of breath and couldn’t go anymore so I had us all lay flat, as low as we could get and told Big John to take deep breaths. After a few seconds, we got up again and ran some more, finally reaching the inside edge of our treeline. The wounded Marine – LCpl Dave Johnson – was turning blue and I was afraid that he was going to die, so I leaned over him and told him that he “was on the way home”. I knew that there were more wounded men out there and I couldn’t stall anymore, so I started to stand again to get moving back out into that field when I heard a loud bang and fell immediately next to Dave.

The bullet hit me on the inside left of my thigh and blew through the outside right of my leg and I just collapsed. I said something like “Unhh, I’m hit” and felt intense, stunning pain. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my leg and crushed it, which was a fairly accurate analysis. There was no feeling of impact at all when the bullet hit me. My femur was shattered into bits and I was bleeding a lot and the open hole in my greatly expanded leg was too large to cover with my bandages. I grabbed an empty cloth bandoleer and tied it around my upper right thigh next to my crotch and used my Kabar knife to tighten it down to close off the artery and the bleeding. By this time, I felt my blood pool up to my neck while I laid there. A corpsman reached me and tried to get bandages on me but the holes were just too wide, bigger than my spread-out hand. Big John had also been hit (possibly the same bullet that hit me), so the three of us just lay there, waiting until we got help. I remember feeling guilty that I couldn’t just get up and continue helping to get the wounded but there wasn’t any way I was going to be able do it. I also remember being very surprised that I had been hit, even though I had seen people hit all around me for months and I had just finished being near-missed by hundreds of rounds. It’s funny how our young minds work.

Lt. Graves crawled up next to me and said “I’m really sorry you’re hurt Rick, but can I have your rifle?” I told him that it was “all his”. I called in my own Medevac (“Button Vermillion”) – and while I was on the radio, one of the guys from my artillery battery asked which one of us was wounded and using radio jargon I said “Chinstrap Bravo 61 Alpha, Actual” which meant “me”. The voice on the radio said that he was sorry that I was hurt and wished me well. Red-headed Lt Joiner, one of the platoon commanders, came by and treated us to a show of bravado to entertain us by firing offhand with his .45 at the enemy while bullets crackled all around him. I said “Sir, get down, please, you’re drawing fire”. I was fading from loss of blood, so I don’t remember when Dave and Big John were carried to the medevac helicopter but I remember watching that big Sikorsky UH-34 land in that open paddy while everyone was still shooting. I remember really wanting to be on that plane when I felt a tug on my shoulder and it was my VC prisoner from that morning. He pointed at the helicopter and I nodded and he helped pull me up and he helped carry me to the open door of that bird. I remember watching him waving at me with his bandaged hand as the plane lifted us up and on to Charlie Med in Danang.

When I got to Charlie Med, I was completely naked – they cut your clothes off in preparation for triage – but I still had a frag grenade in my hand in case the helicopter went down. Nobody wanted to be taken prisoner in that neck of the woods. There were about a dozen wounded arriving at the same time we did, so there were a lot of men on stretchers lined up on the ground outside the field hospital, waiting to be treated. The corpsmen saw the grenade I had and freaked, which I thought was funny because grenades are just paperweights until you pull the pin. We had a lot of very badly wounded men there and I remember one who had been horrifically burned by a white phosphorus booby trap and was bleeding all over from his burns. The other thing I noticed was how quiet we all were; we were all in almost unimaginable pain but none of us made any noises at all. I was very surprised when they moved me in for treatment first because I thought many were worse off than I was. I was brought into a room, up onto a table and I was bent forward at the waist and a corpsman stuck a long needle into my lower back and then moved in front of me and apologized because his first attempt at a spinal missed. I told him that it’s fine, go ahead a try again. He tried again and then there was the most blessed relief you can imagine when that pain finally stopped.

I was put into something they called the “spider”, a frame to hold me and my limbs in position and a short curtain was put up at my waist between me and the work they were doing on my leg. From my angle, I was looking up at a large circular reflector around a lamp above us and I could see some of what the surgeons were doing with my leg. The lead surgeon looked at me and said “we may have to take your leg off – are you OK with this?” I told him to “do what he had to do”. He asked me to try to wiggle my toes, which I did, I think - since I couldn’t really see what was happening. I talked to the anesthetist while they were working and I said that I looked like an el Greco painting, with all the color of yellow and green in my skin as shown by that reflector. The surgeon turned to him and said “shut him up!” so he stuck some morphine in my I.V. and I was out.

When I woke, I had a plaster cast going from the upper chest, all the way down both legs which were spread in about a 20 degree angle. I had a steel pin transversely through my shin just below the knee and I had tubes all over the place, with freezing cold blood coming through an I.V. in my left arm and I could feel chill blains all the way to my heart. My First Sergeant visited me to see how I was doing and to see if I could still make it back to combat duty but I think even he was convinced that I wasn’t going to be much use for a while and that I should head home.

It was a long process of recovery, taking years, but Dave and I both made it. Dave went back to Vietnam about a year later and was wounded again, same place in his body and was discharged as disabled after that. Dave was a true character and married his sweetheart while he was in Unauthorized Absence (AWOL) from the hospital, concealing his colostomy bag in his tuxedo. There was some discussion whether I would keep my leg but thanks to the grace of God and the skill of my doctors, I kept it and learned to walk again after several grafts and 7 months in traction. I got out of the Marine Corps after a tour with the Air Wing as a machine gun instructor, then returned to the Marine Corps 3 1/2 years later to serve another 24 years, retiring in 1996.

50 years is a long time ago, yet it feels like it was almost last week. I know that I was one of many tens of thousands who went through experiences like this, a river of wounded, flowing through the Philippines, Japan and then hospitals in the States to finish our recoveries. I am deeply grateful to my Maker for letting me live for all these years and for all of His gifts. I remember my fellow Marines and our Corpsmen and that incredibly brave medevac pilot, and those skilled surgeons with warmth and I’ll always be thankful that I could be there with them and that I didn’t let them down.

Thank you for your service and your story. Too many of our generation were oblivious to the reality of what was happening in Vietnam Nam. We need more stories from those who served, as a reminder of our complacency at home, in the face of Communist aggression. Our political leaders failed us and our Media manipulated the masses into abandoning one of the most respected goals of our country, freedom. Again, thank you, Sir. I humbly apologize for any mistreatment you may have received at the hands of the ‘snowflakes’ of the past.

Tremendous account of combat, up-front and personal! Its amazing how combat will change a Man’s outlook on life! Everyday battles are Chronicles of Heroics, Loss and Camaraderie! Always, the ending is the same: “I’m sure glad I survived” and “I’d give anything to serve with those brave Men again”!

I found, most comforting, the description of your captured, wounded, enemy assisting in your evacuation. I”ll bet you would love to know what happened to him.

Thanks!

Terry L Walker
CWO5
Marine Gunner
USMC Retired
1974-2008

Viet Nam vets are surviving just so they can pi$$ on Jane Fonda’s grave?
While I wouldn't pass on an opportunity to "salute" Fonda, I'd wait in a long line to pi$$ on LBJ's grave.
That MFer is directly responsible for killing over 58,000 brave men; brought unbelievable pain and suffering to untold millions of American familes; unleashed the "great society" crime spree that still rages today; suckered Americans into gubmint h/c - Medicare and Medicaid, and on and on and ...
P.S. And probably shot JFK too.

Still have it - it has hurt to some degree for the 50 years and about 30 years ago I had a large blood vessel blow out in the wound site - but I still made it through 24 years more of the Marines, including lots and lots of 3 mile runs.

Have to be stubborn, I guess...

Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.

Thank you for your service and sacrifices Marine. Welcome home.

Thank you for posting your story, Chainmail...Semper Fi.

I celebrated my birthday this week, and the 40th anniversary of my first ARTEP as a Chaparral Platoon Leader.

"Celebrate" might seem an odd adjective, considering I flunked it. However, it was a defining experience in my life. The morning of the ARTEP, I was installed as the platoon leader, in addition to the platoon I had led for four months.

For weeks afterward, the fecal matter rolled down on my head. Finally, I got irritated enough to tell my BC, I get it, but if it's all on me, then stay the hell out of my way and let me do my job.

Over the next 18 months, I took 3 more platoons successfully through their ARTEPS, including one with 3 "Acting Jack" squad leaders.

It wasn't unusual for me to get off on the wrong foot with my superiors. However, once they saw how I applied myself and how I worked with my NCOs, we usually got along great. I really got off to a rocky start with my last Battalion Cdr in Germany...lol. However, we ended up getting along so well that I went to work for him back at Fort Bliss as his Operations Officer.

Unlike you, my stories are interesting only to me, but the lessons I learned from them have enriched my life.

Doesn't matter luvbach...we all served.

I never saw combat, either. Closest I got to it was as an Augmentation Reserve Force commander for a local Nike Hercules site. Basically, it consisted of taking 40 air defenders who hadn't undertaken small arms tactics since Basic Training, issuing live ammo to them, and conducting an exercise inside the security perimeter where nuclear weapons were stored.

In addition to that, it was observed by evaluation teams from USAREUR or Department of the Army.

During my last of 6, I got into it with the team chief, a Lt Colonel. Once notified, we had four hours to assemble, train, and move the 40 men with two towed Vulcans to the site. I felt pretty good, we got there 30 minutes early. The team chief disagreed with me, and I was incredulous. He didn't like my explanation, that I held them back for extra training. I think my reasoning was logical and understandable.

At the outbriefing for this nuclear surety inspection, the Nike Herc battery's entire chain of command was there, all the way to the Deputy CG of 32nd AADCOM. The team chief made one last comment about my ARF's "late" arrival, which elicited muffled laughter from the officers of the NH battery: i.e. if that's all he had, everything was golden...for them.

When the team left, BG Archie Cannon went up to the podium, looked directly at me and said, "Lieutenant, I'll take that hit for you. Anytime you want to give your soldiers extra training, you have my permission."

That made everything...golden...lol.

Recalling all the things that could have gone wrong during those six missions, I'm exceedingly grateful, no one was ever injured, nor was a round ever discharged.

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