Echoes from the Halls: Short Stories of Marines and Navy Corps from Who Served from Wwii Through the Modern Day.

By Gregg Stoner

MMarines and Navy Corpsmen tell their unique stories about experiences they had during their careers. Many of their careers were brought short by debilitating wounds received during battles or from land mines. Some have received Purple Hearts for injuries, and many had to return to battle after healing. The stories are about daily life in the Marines and Navythe unique and little things that make life interesting to men who at any moment could be called to action to hot-zone somewhere in the world.

Most of the stories in this book come from the web site The Halls of Montezuma, a site designed as a meeting place for Marines and Navy Corpsmen. The stories reflect their feelings about what they did and how it impacted their lives. The stories range from serious to humorous. All wrote from the heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 18, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440169564

Gregg Stoner

Gregg Stoner is a veteran Marine Corps drill instructor that served in the Vietnam War Era. He spent 32 years in the mortgage industry before retiring. Gregg next became a Retired Senior Volunteer Program officer with his wife Melody. They spent the next five years breaking records in all measurable categories for volunteers.

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Copyright © 2009 by Gregg Stoner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6957-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6956-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 06/30/2015

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One Rick Mack (SixTGunr)

Chapter Two Doug Kirk (CaptainKirk)

Chapter Three Sergeant Major Bill Ooorah Paxton

Chapter Four Mick Woolford (Mick0369)

Chapter Five John L. Stoner

Chapter Six Johnny Stapleton (Chicken)

Chapter Seven Roger Kolling (M79Grunt)

Chapter Eight David Wylie (Grumpy)

Chapter Nine William Moeler (AmTrac—Gator)

Chapter Ten Wayne Strittmater (Tracker)

Chapter Eleven John Willey (Doc Willey)

Chapter Twelve Ben Psencik (Psencik1950)

Chapter Thirteen Joseph Williams (Jray61)

Chapter Fourteen Leanna Miller-Ferguson (Dragon Lady)

Chapter Fifteen John Watson (Namgrunt)

Chapter Sixteen Anthony Pagley (AJ Squaredaway)

Chapter Seventeen Kim Foreman (MtnGoat)

Chapter Eighteen Paul Moore (PM42)

Chapter Nineteen Barney Barnes (Barnsgolf)

Chapter Twenty John McNamee (Intruder)

Chapter Twenty-One Grandle Starling

Chapter Twenty-Two Jack O’Brien (Seasoldier)

Chapter Twenty-Three Larry Pagley (Smoke)

Chapter Twenty-Four William Tipton (Tip)

Chapter Twenty-Five Ray Merrell

Chapter Twenty-Six William Wright (SgtCowboy)

Chapter Twenty-Seven Richard Boyd (RadioRelay)

Chapter Twenty-Eight Harris Mathis (Papataz)

Chapter Twenty-Nine Patty Schau (Patti Belle)

Chapter Thirty Richard Deiters (devildog64012)

Chapter Thirty-One William White (WhiteWO)

Chapter Thirty-Two Cecil Pickler (USMarine1316)

Chapter Thirty-Three Steven Bosworth (Boz)

Chapter Thirty-Four Wayne Kemp

Chapter Thirty-Five Gerry Haas

Chapter Thirty-Six Paul Hickman (Axegrinder)

Chapter Thirty-Seven Dawn Ackley (FryPatty)

Chapter Thirty-Eight Terry Womack (GunnyMack)

Chapter Thirty-Nine Donald Heck

Chapter Forty Sarah Wherland

Chapter Forty-One Bob Fowles

Chapter Forty-Two Gregg Stoner

Chapter Forty-Three Ron Moreno (anglico2024)

Chapter Forty-Four Jeff Smith (9th US ArmyEngineer)

Chapter Forty-Five Unknown Author

GLOSSARY

I dedicate this book to my younger brother, David Michael Stoner, who was unable to join the military due to a childhood medical condition, and my older brother, Randy Stoner, who was an Air Force veteran who lost his life at an early age due to cancer.

INTRODUCTION

In June, 2008, a new web site Halls of Montezuma was created by Rick Mack. Rick created the site to provide an array of forums for members, primarily made up of Marine veterans, to speak openly about a variety of subjects. Specifically it aims at providing Vietnam veterans or Vietnam era veterans a place to gather to share memories, experiences, and in some cases seek help from one another for issues they have. I joined the web site membership shortly after it was created.

Having already published one book about my Marine Corps experiences as a drill instructor, and writing another book about an icon Marine sergeant major, the posts and stories I was finding in the Halls of Montezuma started to make me realize there was a vast number of stories-of-interest within. I spent a lot of hours getting to know the many characters within the Halls. Some of those members are Marines and Navy Corpsman who have had spectacular events occur to them in combat or other experiences while in the Marine Corps or Navy. It occurred to me that most of those men’s and women’s stories were worthy of publishing in a book so that their stories could reach a vast audience of readers—but most of the writers of those posts and stories were not experienced writers or authors resulting in their stories remaining doomed to small audiences.

Having become very familiar with the various personalities of the Hall’s members I realized also that they were a collection of special people that would be of interest to a large audience of readers as well. So I began to collect their stories, with their permission, with the intent of putting it together into this book. I decided that I would give each person their very own chapter with no limit on how large or small their contributions had to be. I was surprised at how eager most of these men and women were to have their stories put together in a book. Many of them went to a lot of trouble to spruce up their stories or submit additional materials about other experiences they had while in the Marine Corps or other services.

Most of the chapter authors are from the Vietnam War era. The Vietnam War was extremely unpopular with the American public, and the news media made hay out of the war and portrayed the American military men and women as something less than human. The public was hostile to returning veterans and it was not uncommon for servicemen to be cursed at, spit on, or called baby killers, murderers, as well as other hideous things. Many of our Vietnam veterans withdrew from social activity, choosing to keep their stories within and avoid the wrath of the public. They were made to feel guilty as though they were responsible for the war. I was originally going to limit the stories to Vietnam combat stories—my thought was to allow some of the combat veterans an avenue of venting frustrations or speaking out on subjects they have held within themselves over the many years. The more I reviewed their posts and stories, the more I came to realize that we had just too many interesting stories from a broad time-frame—as early as World War II, and everything after that, so I decided to just open it up to all Marines, Navy Corpsman, and any other serviceman or woman who had an interesting story.

The book contains two chapters from non-military people. They had family members that were either killed, or wounded in combat actions. They wanted to give tribute to their family members and share their stories too.

Many of the chapter authors had no combat experiences. Their stories involve things they did in boot camp, or places they were stationed at. The web site often has a theme for some of its threads such as, Where were you when President Kennedy was killed?, or Did you ever get caught by your DI with an unlocked rifle or foot locker?—so the posts within here are sometimes their answers to those questions. Often they have elaborate stories to add as well.

The most compelling stories in this book come from the vivid experiences that these veterans were placed in at some point in combat situations. It is difficult to fathom the intestinal fortitude they had that allowed them to endure what they did and come home to tell about it. Some of the stories are by Marine grunts in front-line battle situations. Other stories are by Navy Corpsmen assigned to Marine combat units—they sometimes had the hardest job of dealing with the traumas that were common to war.

Some of their stories are vivid accounts of war atrocities. The chapter authors are simply conveying the stories as straightforward as they can without holding back. The readers will be amazed at some of the events and harrowing experiences. I found myself sometimes having to stand back for a moment to reflect on what I had read—the stories are that compelling. Many of these Marines and Corpsman have suffered from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder)—a debilitating stressed-caused disorder that affects its victims for decades. PTSD was not even a term during the Vietnam War as it was not known to exist. Some of our authors are currently disabled as a result of PTSD and had to receive treatment and medications. But for years after they came back from Vietnam they were not being treated for their illness—all they knew was that something was terribly wrong and it was ruining their lives. They wrote about dealing with PTSD and how it has affected their lives. Writing their stories has helped some of those veterans with pent-up issues. Just getting their stories out has helped most of them.

Rick Mack is a very talented man. He was the recipient of three Purple Heart medals for wounds suffered in Vietnam. He knows first-hand how combat affects men and he has dedicated himself to providing an open-forum site for Marines, Corpsmen, and other interested people to view or participate in the many different subjects that the Halls of Montezuma provides. Rick is also the web master of many other sites that he has created for different organizations, including the web site for the West Coast Drill Instructor Association, www.westcoastdi.com, which he made specifically for drill instructors, and is the best site about Marine Corps drill instructors in the United States. Due to Rick’s fluency with computer graphics and photography he designed the cover for this book. In addition to being a talented man he is the lead-off chapter where he tells of his experiences in Vietnam, some of which are extremely vivid and not for the weak-of-heart.

Most of the stories required some minor editing to make sure that proper spelling, grammar, and syntax were used to make the stories a good read. But I was careful not to change any of their stories by restructuring. In some cases I felt that the way that the author had written the story was best left alone in order to preserve the flavor of the story, even if it had spelling or other errors. One of the authors known as Chicken has his own forum in the Halls—he writes posts in Chicken dialect. I chose to totally preserve his work as-written to keep the author’s intent intact. When the reader reads Chickens’ writings they will actually picture that they are listening to a big rooster chicken persona.

I was careful to edit curse words—not to eliminate them, but rather to camouflage them with a little careful editing of some of the letters so that the flavor of the writing is left intact, but not offensive as a fully spelled out curse word would be. Military jargon and acronyms were given an explanation for readers so they will have some clue about what these military people were talking about. There is a glossary at the back of the book to help as well.

I have provided a brief description of each author at the chapter beginnings so that the reader will know a little about the person whose stories they are reading. My descriptions are far from being complete biographies, but rather a brief based on information they have provided in the web site. Readers who want more information from the authors can simply join the web site and communicate directly with them through personal messages.

One thing that rings loud and true throughout the chapters: there is no such thing as and ex-Marine or a former Marine—"Once a Marine, always a Marine" is not just a marketing slogan, but a matter-of-fact. All Marines will always be Marines no matter how long or short their time spent on active duty. That fact becomes very apparent in their stories as the pride of being a Marine is etched into their brains. An interesting note: the Navy Corpsmen who served with the Marines actually identify more with the Marines than their own Navy peers. The Marines hold the Navy Corpsmen very dear as they are the life-blood of the battlefield when a wounded Marine goes down. The cry, Corpsman up! brings a chill to all Marines as they know a Brother has gone down—but they also know that the Marine will get the best medical aid possible from the Corpsman attending. The Marines go out of their way to cover the Corpsmen when they put themselves in harms way to go to the aid of a fallen Marine. It is a unique brotherhood that will be clear to readers.

Semper Fidelis is Latin for always faithful and is a trademark of the Marine Corps. Marines often just say, Semper Fi or end correspondence with S/F. This book is about Semper Fi.

CHAPTER ONE

RICK MACK (SIXTGUNR)

Richard J. Rick Mack is the creator and owner of the web site Halls of Montezuma and the web-master of the web site WestCoastDI.com. He is a veteran Marine who served from 1966 until 1970 and was awarded three Purple Heart medals as a result of wounds suffered during the Vietnam War. His primary MOS (military occupational specialty) was 0331 which made him a machine gunner—hence the name SixTGunr, or Six for short, which stemmed from his M60 machine gun experience. Rick was in the thick of the battles in Vietnam having spent 1967 and 1968 in the Republic of Vietnam (RVN) serving with Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment (2/5). Rick was right in the middle of the Tet Offensive. His stories reflect the irony of the humor and horror that Marines faced in the Vietnam War. Rick got out of the Marine Corps when his enlistment was up, and then went into law enforcement. Rick is very artistic and uses his art abilities in graphic designs. He is highly sought-after to create web sites for fellow Marines in their endeavors.

THROW THIS ASSHOLE OUT

This true story I relate here references my very first night with the 5th Marine Regiment down at An Hoa:

True story—I ought to know because it was me they threw out. I remember it almost as if it was yesterday. My arrival in-country at Da Nang was in the early evening. It was dark and the commercial aircraft that flew us in dropped into Da Nang like a rock. I didn’t realize why they did that at the time, but after the sun arose the next morning I would understand as they didn’t want us getting clobbered with any small arms fire from the surrounding hillsides before we even got a chance to fight. Some pissed their trousers and some of us (me included) cleared the gonads (at that time I had two of them) out of our throats after such a sudden descent.

I remember getting blasted in the face by the hot, humid air as soon as the door opened—no more air conditioning for sure. We were herded off the aircraft like cattle rather quickly, as if prodded by one of those electric cattle prods. We got all the stares from the short-timers (Marines just about to go home soon) as we made our way to a staging area. We would sleep outside in the hot night air on those olive drab cots. Damn, it was humid and all the sounds added to the uncertainty, and yet there was a feeling of anxiety and excitement. We were finally here … This was where it’s at—the ‘Nam.

I didn’t get much sleep at all that night, and the noise from the F-4 Phantoms running all night out of Da Nang airfield really made us perk up when they kicked in the after-burners. With sunrise not quite arriving, we were directed to a mess tent for breakfast—if that’s what they want to call it. We just milled around all day in the hot sun at that staging area awaiting orders while they figured out where each of us were to be assigned.

Out of the entire aircraft of Marine 03’s (infantry men) I was the only one who drew the 5th Marine Regiment based at An Hoa approximately thirty miles south of where I was at. By the time all that was figured out I was taken to a C-130 and ordered to strap in while sitting on those red colored webbing benches along the inside walls of the aircraft. I watched as they hurriedly loaded other crated equipment while I kept looking around with my eyes wide open. I could hear the occasional comments about the FNG (f*cking new guy). It didn’t take me long to figure out what FNG meant and who they were yapping about—me!

By the time we got off the ground it was dusk. I kept kinking my neck as I attempted to look out the little bitty windows at the landscape below while there was still just a wee bit of light left. I tried to figure out which way I was a headed. As we touched down on the portable airstrip (in place compliments of the Seabees) I almost crapped in my drawers from the noise it produced through the vibration of the tires on the steel plating that had holes in it—I started a few Hail Mary’s as I thought we were destined for the ultimate. I may have even thrown in a few Our Fathers when he threw the flaps down and slammed on the brakes.

I was advised to sit quietly as they scurried to get the equipment unloaded. I stared to the rear of the aircraft’s downed ramp and out into the darkness. I couldn’t see a damn thing until they got the goodies unloaded, and then I saw a Marine standing there wearing his helmet and flak gear and holding an M-14 rifle. He motioned for me to come along quickly, so I snatched up my sea bag and headed down the ramp. He must have been a clerk of some kind and he merely welcomed me aboard while motioning for me to follow him. He escorted me to an un-Godly looking mini-barracks—commonly referred to as a hootch. As we entered the door I could see in a the very dim light the cots against the sides with various piles of gear and what-not on them, and I knew right then that the hootch was where my new home was going to be for a while. The gang must have been out on ambush, perimeter, or in the bushes somewhere because I was the only one occupying that strange place. I was told by the Marine that the empty spot was mine. Have a seat Marine and I’ll be back in a bit, he said.

So I dropped my gear and I was sitting there on the olive drab cot and just kind of in limbo, so-to-speak. I couldn’t see much because of the low light and I could hear all kinds of sounds outside that were rather new to me—naturally, I was the FNG so it only went to reason that I didn’t know sh*t from Shinola!

There were all kinds of bangs and booms off in the distance. All-of-a-sudden I heard: wham—wham—wham all around the base-camp area in general. Like a dumb-ass I was still sitting there, but I have got to tell you that I was getting a little antsy as I was hearing footsteps running all over outside as the whams were hammering the ground around me.

About that time the plywood door flew open and some guy (to this day I don’t know who he was) yelled out, Short-timers follow me!

Now we have to keep in mind that I was without-a-doubt a FNG, and I didn’t know my right from my left at that particular time. I figured that the guy must have been talking about me because I had only been there a short time … right? It seemed sensible to me! So I hauled-ass with that guy at a full gallop, running through the compound while trying not to fall in the trenches that were lined with sandbags along the edges, the whole while he was screaming for all short-timers to make tracks to the bunker. We could hardly see each other, let alone where the hell we were running through the dust and noise. The booms were all over the place. I knew what incoming was because I was hearing that too—I might be dumb, but I sure ain’t stupid.

What little I could see we had finally made it to a dark spot in the ground and we dove into the darkness. I was bumping into everything and everybody in that black hole-in-the ground that was shaking like there was going to be no tomorrow.

Get to the back … to the back! Huddle up … huddle up! was what I heard as I was trying to figure out just exactly what the hell I’d gotten myself into there in the darkness. The ground continued to shake as rounds were hitting all over the place, and I was wondering just when it was going to stop because we had all been in that dark hole for quite a bit of time, or at least it seemed that way.

I could hear guys coughing from the dust falling in on us as the rounds shook the ground. There was an occasional grunt or groan now and then in the silence and the darkness where I was huddled together with those guys.

One guy asked, Anybody got a light?

A few guys broke out the famous Zippos and lit up. When they lit the Zippos there was enough light to see what the hell was going on in there. I saw those hardened combat vets in full gear that assuredly looked as though they definitely needed some time away from all the sh*t. Not only could I see them—but they also could see me.

They looked at me, and they all looked at each other with one of them asking: Who the f#@k is this asshole?

Though they were wearing the Vietnam BDUs (battle dress uniforms) that were no longer the color of olive green but rather that of faded and torn clothing that had occasional blood spots here and there—while I was decked out in the freshest of new olive colored utilities.

Well it didn’t take long at all for one great big grunt to see my new uniform and he yelled my way, Hey Shithead—are you a short-timer, because I ain’t never seen your ass before?

All I could think of at that time was to tell him what I thought was the truth—and it was to me, the FNG. I had only been there a short time and that was what I honestly thought was meant by the guy that threw open the door and yelled out for all short-timers to haul-ass to the bunker. So … being the dumb-ass FNG that I was I followed that guy to the dark hole in the ground with all those seasoned combat vets who were just trying to survive another night in hell before they were go home in a short time—their time was almost up and they were about to go home.

I hadn’t even been outside the perimeter yet, but it didn’t take long for that great big ol’ grunt to yell out to his comrades, Somebody, get this shit-for-brains out of our bunker! Throw this asshole out!

And they did too—literally, right out in the middle of where the mortars were dropping all over the f*cking place. I ran my ass off back to the hootch and crawled under it, laying there till the mortars stopped. It lasted for what seemed to be hours.

Later that day, after the sun came up, I ran into a few of those short-timers and got the stare after which they then just kind of grinned and said, Sorry about last night Junior, but you ain’t walked the walk yet!

After eventually becoming one of the guys I learned all about what the term short-timer meant and I started counting the days myself as we all did) on my own way to becoming a short-timer. I understood the reasoning behind why those guys did what they did. I did not deserve to be in their company at that particular time in a dark hole in the ground, with the ground shaking all around us in a little place called An Hoa, Vietnam in June of 1967. They had done their time and now it was my turn to do mine. I respect them for that and did all I could throughout my tour to carry on the tradition of the Fighting 5th.

What more can I say—I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and I didn’t know my ass from a hole-in-the-ground!

WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

This took place the night before I got my ass really waxed …

Picture it: Hue City, February 18, 1967. The gloomy gray skies were slowly drifting away and it was beginning to get dark. Word from the top had it that the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) were going to attempt an assault on our position from the other side of the Phu Cat Canal which branched off of the Perfume River. We’d been popping caps (bullets) at each other all day long and taking casualties. We were hungry, tired, soaking wet, miserable and just plain pissed. "Ain’t nothin’ but a thing," we used to say.

The canal was lined with buildings of many different shapes and sizes, and of course they all had the infamous corrugated tin roofs. From all the destruction that had gone about there was not much left—but enough for cover should the need arise. Small yards lined the canal banks as well, and that was where we were told to dig in and get ready. There had already been numerous holes and craters all over from previous shelling so we all just kind of slithered into the holes and got comfy (yeah, right!) and began the wait.

It was bad enough that it was pitch black out, but it had gotten a wee bit foggy with a very slight drizzle—after all, it was monsoon season! Not long into the night it started: kabooms all over the place, and all around us. It was time to get down very low because that was to be the enemy barrage prior to their assault. Naturally we wanted to be up for the charge, so during the initial barrage we just kind of hunkered down in our holes as best we could ‘till the shelling stopped just long enough for us to take a peek. In any case, I was laying on my back at the bottom of that hole and looking up into the darkness and just wondering to myself if that was going to be the time or not. Just giving it some thought, but still had my wits about me because I knew that soon they would be upon us so we didn’t want to drift off too far into la-la land.

The kabooms had been going on then for quite some time and the ground was shaking so hard that dirt clods were occasionally falling on top of me—no biggy. I just didn’t want one of those rounds to fall directly on top of me … but they were close—real close! Since we slithered into those holes during the darkness (and I mean it was black) we didn’t really get much time to glance things over. It just so happened that right on the edge of my particular hole was one of the Chicom grenades that had been left behind by an apparent NVA soldier who had once occupied that very same hole. He must have had to boogie in a hurry because he didn’t pick up all of his goodies. I mean to say that thing was right on the very edge of the hole, just sitting there. Naturally when I slithered into that divot I did so in such a manner as not to disturb it. I didn’t even see it due to the extreme darkness.

So I was laying there gazing upward, unable to see diddly squat, and listening to all that constant shelling. The ground was shaking so bad, we would have thought a D-9 Caterpillar bulldozer was right outside our door. As if you haven’t already figured out what happened next—the extreme shaking of good ol’ mother earth caused by man-made objects (extreme explosive devices) caused that Chicom to eventually jar itself from the edge of my hole falling in a downward direction, caught the edge of my helmet and continued on until it stopped right smack dab on the middle of my chest. Clutching it I immediately knew what it was and my brain went into high gear. Knowing that I had but seconds to spare the only thought that came to my mind was: I figured the assault was taking place and that a little guy just snuck up under his own guns and dropped that grenade in the hole. Now, here was the fun part of the quiz: assuming that was the case that meant that little feller was just outside my hole.

I thought, Do I un-ass myself from this hole and get shot in the head as soon as it pops up, or do I take the frag in the chest?

My heart was pounding so loud I almost couldn’t think straight. Although it had only been a few seconds it seemed like an eternity. So I came to a conclusion real quick: I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of popping a cap in my forehead, so I simply laid there and started counting what seconds I had left. Those seconds were the longest of my life, and yet a short time that I will never forget.

Needless to say, the Chicom had not been armed so God had been on my side that night. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized that I should have already been approaching the pearly gates by then. Sometimes it’s necessary to react, and react quickly. However, that was one time that I chose to simply take what I had coming and so be it. In any case I was not about to give that slope the satisfaction of denting my forehead with an AK-47 round.

We made it through the night but the morning brought death and destruction. That, my friends, was yet another story.

THE CO

Nope … I’m not speaking of the old man or the Commanding Officer. This is a true story of a young FNG (f*cking new guy) that suddenly decided to turn into a CO: aka: conscientious objector. Anyway, this is exactly the way it went down:

Never under estimate the imagination of a platoon leader. I remember one day we were being briefed prior to going out on a search-and-destroy patrol in the Phu Loc area. We were in the rear where it was safe (at times) to be huddled together, and the platoon sergeant was laying out all the details of what was going to be taking place for the next several days. We never went outside the perimeter until we were all exactly sure what was going to go down and what each and everyone’s primary and secondary functions were to be.

The platoon sergeant was going through his routine We’re going to kick some ass today speech when suddenly one of those itty-bitty guys (that we had recently acquired into our outfit) in the back row raised his hand in a gesture so as to gain the platoon sergeant’s attention so that he could ask a question.

Sarge yelled out Go ahead son.

That little turd, in a squeaky little voice (don’t ask me how in the world he made it through boot camp), drew the attention of the entire gathering as he began explaining that he was a CO (conscientious objector), and that he did not believe in the taking of lives.

I honestly don’t remember what his exact reasons were at the time—it may have had something to do with his religious beliefs, but in any case he began emphasizing that he simply could not go out with us and take part in a search-and-destroy mission of any kind, and that he emphasized he could not take another human’s life. Needless to say we were all somewhat dumbfounded and were trying to figure out how he had made it half-way around the world and ended-up in this sh*t-hole if he was in fact one of those non-believers. Now don’t get me wrong here because I don’t have anything against any man or woman who stands up for what they believe in, whether it be religious in nature, or whatever, and neither did the platoon sergeant.

Anyhow, the little guy spoke and there was complete silence amongst the crowd as we all looked to our leader to see what was going to come next. I remember him standing there with his hands on his hips, and his head cocked to one side as he stared at that little feller for a few minutes before he spoke.

He said, Private, I want you to take your little ass down to supply and tell then to issue you about five hundred rounds of blank ammo and some extra mags (magazines).

The little private was looking at him with one of those dumbfounded looks on his face. During a few more seconds of silence the platoon leader continued with, These brave men are about to disembark on a mission and you, young man, will be right along their side. If you feel that strongly about not being able to take another’s life then you will not be burdened with the thought of killing another human being because you will be firing blanks. If you do not wish to kill the enemy then you will at least be beside your brothers in the heat of battle and you can at the very least scare the f*cking sh*t out of them with gunfire.

What a plan! The little guy just stood silent for a moment without moving.

After a bit the platoon leader looked at him and said, Well—get moving private!

Shorty replied with, If it’s all the same to you Sarge, I’ll stay with what I have. The platoon leader continued with his briefing.

Yep! That’s exactly the way the case of the CO went down that day, and it was never brought up again. Because of that however, he was not to be completely trusted in combat and without that trust he was one that we could never fully depend on. He was KIA (killed in action) at a later date.

FRAGS IN BRAILLE

I actually saw this occur several times during combat in the darkness of the night:

They got their hole dug and they’re all set for those little people in the black pajamas (No—not the kind with the little footsies in them either) to come a sneaking through the bushes. Just before nightfall they got their gear ready, and like an armchair quarterback, they have everything within reach and they’re settled in and waiting. But it wasn’t a