The Lord Is My Savior: My Life and Memoirs of Vietnam

By Kenneth R. (Bunkie) Rose

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 6, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450088589

Kenneth R. (Bunkie) Rose

Ken (Bunkie) Rose grew up with two brothers in a small Washington state farming town. Shortly after high school graduation, he served as a Marine Corps infantryman in Vietnam, facing death daily. His opinions, shaped by this conflict, are different from opinions of those who haven't been in battle. He knows Heavenly Father lives and hears and answers prayers. He knows Jesus Christ is our Savior, who sacrificed himself for our sins. Today Ken is retired and lives with his wife in Yakima, Washington. His five children live nearby. He holds U.S. servicemen and women in the highest esteem.

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Copyright © 2010 by Kenneth R. (Bunkie) Rose.

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1:    THE BEGINNING

Chapter 2:    THE DRAFT AND BOOT CAMP

Chapter 3:    INFANTRY TRAINING REGIMENT AND STAGING BATTALION

Chapter 4:    VIETNAM: THE BEGINNING AND HILL 22

Chapter 5:    VIETNAM: HILL 69 AND FOLLOWING OPERATIONS

Chapter 6:    VIETNAM: THE NIGHT I THOUGHT I WOULD DIE

Chapter 7:    VIETNAM: THE BATTLE IN THE VILLAGE AND THE RICE PADDY

Chapter 8:    VIETNAM: OUR LAST REBUILDING AND FINAL ON CALL

Chapter 9:    COMING BACK TO THE WORLD

Chapter 10:  CIVILIAN LIFE

Chapter 11:  COMMENTARY AND REFLECTION

Afterword:  TESTIMONY

Dedication

The things I have written here are those I have chosen to tell about. I dedicate this to those who served during Vietnam (and to their families and friends, to those who mourn). It was an honor and privilege to serve with them.

Introduction

In the past, when I have told people about my tour of duty in Vietnam, several have said You should write a book. Because I discovered that I feel better when I tell about what I experienced, and also because I want something of a record for my family, I decided to write this book. In it, I tell what I saw and what my feelings and opinions were at the time and also now. Some things I remember like they happened yesterday; some are fuzzy; and some I have forgotten. I know now I should have recorded these things forty years ago, but I didn’t, so some things are not as clear as I would want. What I have said is the best I can remember. I hope Oprah doesn’t get a hold of me.

However, during the two years I was in the service, I sent my parents 74 letters. That averages out to one about every ten days. My mom and dad sent me pens and paper, which were sometimes hard to get and hard to hang on to, especially when we were living in foxholes. Several times my writing paper got rained on. Nevertheless, I got 74 letters home, and my mom kept them all. Some of the letters are short, only a half a dozen sentences or so. I sent those just to let my parents know I was still alive. Others give dates, places and things that happened. All of them have helped me remember better. Nevertheless, it’s taken me about three years to put my thoughts on paper.

Thanks, Mom, for all the letters and packages. They kept me going. Thanks, Dad, for the one time you wrote a few lines. I treasure those words. Thanks to all the friends and relatives who wrote, especially those who said Thanks for serving.’ Those words meant a lot. Most of all, thanks, Mom and Dad, for giving me a home to come home to.

The things I have written here are those I have chosen to tell about.

Chapter 1

THE BEGINNING

I will start at the beginning as I know it. My name is Kenneth Rodney Rose, and I was born June 21, 1947. Because my dad’s auto repair shop in Preston, Idaho, had caught fire and burned shortly before my birth, my dad had lost his tools and his business. Being down and out, dad took our family to stay with his brother Wendell in Hermiston, Oregon, while he sought work. My dad eventually found a job in Dayton, Washington, and moved there and started work. Meanwhile, my mom and my two brothers stayed in Hermiston waiting for me to be born.

I was born in Pendleton, Oregon, where the closest hospital was. Our family already had two boys and no girls. Everyone wanted me to be a girl. When they told my dad he had another son, he said Awe Bunk! and that became my name to my family and friends—Bunkie. When I was old enough to go to school, I had to get another name. I remember telling my mom that I liked "Ken,’ and so they made my official name Kenneth Rodney. My brother Frank is the only one of my close relatives still alive, he, his family, and all my closest friends still call me Bunkie.

My dad was 5’9 tall, came from a family of four brothers and four sisters, weighed about one hundred sixty-five pounds and had a stocky build. He was very strong physically and very stubborn. My family told me they lived in a small town that had a fire truck with a hand crank starter and that my dad and another guy were the only ones strong enough to start it. I don’t know where the strength came from, but the stubbornness came from being a Rose. As my cousin once said, You can tell a Rose,—but you can’t tell him much."

I don’t know everything about Dad’s life, but he apparently had some very interesting times. For example, one day my dad and I were watching CHIPS (a program about California Highway Patrol officers) on TV. Paunch and John (the lead characters) went to an airport, and as they were walking through a hanger talking to a guy, they passed an antique plane. One of the officers commented about the plane, and the guy said I got it from my old friend Oscar Davis out in Burns, Oregon. My dad said That’s the plane (Eagle Rock) Oscar taught me how to fly in. What a small world!

Now, Burns, Oregon is out in the Oregon desert. It must be a hundred miles to a city of any size. My parents had lived there for some time, including 1938 when my brothers were born. Oscar Davis ran a flying service there. He and Dad would hunt coyote from the air and sell the skins for bounty. Dad said Oscar would fly out and sometimes not make it back before dark. When that happened, Oscar would fly over the house, and Mom and Dad would take cars out to the air strip and turn on the lights to show him where to land.

My dad was an alcoholic; he never could lick the bottle. When he was sober, he was as good as any man you could find, but we all suffered because of his drinking. When he became drunk, he became abusive, and homelife became difficult.

Here’s a story about my dad I must tell. When my dad was a young man, he had had a job breaking horses. When I was maybe six or seven years old, we (my family) were at Dayton Days, the Columbia County Fair and Rodeo, sitting in the grandstands watching the saddle bronc riding. Almost every rider coming out of the chute was getting bucked off. Every time a rider was thrown, my dad, who was drunk and nipping on a bottle, would say, If I couldn’t do any better than that, I’d quit. Finally, he had had enough and got up to go enter himself in the competition as a rider. He was so drunk he could hardly walk. I was afraid he would fall down the steep stairs of the old wooden stands and get hurt as he went, but he didn’t. He paid the entry fee and climbed on a horse. It came out of the chute, then made a hard left, and ran straight into the fence. Dad made the ride and won four or five dollars. His leg was cut on the fence, and he had to pay to have it stitched up. Furthermore, he couldn’t find the guy he had asked to hold his glasses, so he had to buy new ones. Whenever I hear someone say, A drink or two never hurt anyone. I cringe. I know better. But, anyway, I love you, Dad.

My mom was a very loving person, who came from a family of six brothers and one sister. Her maiden name was Schofield. She worked very hard for her family. She would iron everything—dish cloths, wash cloths, sheets, even underwear. If it got washed, it got ironed. We always had meals prepared for us