Brooklyn Street Fighter: Surviving the War Zones

By Richie Q

These stories are real.

Growing up in a predator society, the book explores the causes and effects due to lack of justice, the street violence, and the lack of any virtues. The good were the victims, and the politicians lacked moral courage. I refused to lie down. In a small way, I always believed in the integrity of man-to-man justice. I worked at the basic tools to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524599065

Richie Q

In his autobiographical book, Richie Q describes himself as a Brooklyn street fighter and his exploits on the mean streets of East New York, Brooklyn. The book is an honest account of how his life turned around since his young days as a gang member. Getting drafted and his unforgettable experience of serving with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam War. Wounded three times and the recipient of three Purple Hearts.

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Copyright © 2017 by Richard G. Quarantello.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2017904268

ISBN:                   Hardcover                           978-1-5245-9908-9

                            Softcover                             978-1-5245-9907-2

                            eBook                                   978-1-5245-9906-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 03/29/2017

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Contents

Chapter 1 Going Home First

Chapter 2 Saint Albans

Chapter 3 Fort Dix

Chapter 4 Ninety-Second Street, Ozone Park

Chapter 5 Impact

Chapter 6 Lindenwood Diner

Chapter 7 Greek Wars

Chapter 8 Predator Society

Chapter 9 First Home

Chapter 10 The Loan

Chapter 11 Broken

I dedicate this book to : My Dogs, Flag, Kahn, Pete and all my many animals from Fla to Costa Rica. They rescued me from myself with their loyalty, comfort and unconditional love. And to my wife, Wendy, for overcoming her dysfunctional family life and the companionate way she took care of our animals.

Love Q.

CHAPTER 1

Going Home First

The Vietnam Memorial! Listed on the shiny black granite wall in Washington, DC, are 58,267 soldiers. Thirty-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-six soldiers were twenty-two or younger. Thirty-one sets of brothers are on the wall. Thirty-one sets of parents lost two of their sons. The political cowards left the battlefield—derelict in their duty. Do you grieve as I do?

It was January 9, 1967. I was with the 101st Airborne Division 2/502, in the highlands of Kontum, Vietnam. The main battle that took place in the movie Hamburger Hill was in Kontum Province.

That night was extraordinarily dark, between the cover of the jungle canopy and cloud cover. I was point man for a recon team. There were nine of us. We set up a night ambush—three three-man positions. I was at the far-right position. I had put a trip-wired grenade on the path in front of us. On a three-man position, each of us had to take our turn on watch for an hour and a half, sleep for three hours and repeat watch through the night.

The Vietcong tripped my grenade and all hell broke loose.

I was asleep. I jumped up on one knee and got shot in my upper left thigh and went down low to the ground. I had three grenades left. I found myself looking right at them. When we would set up a night ambush, I would set up a trip wire, and the other three grenades, I would sleep next to, with the cotter pins pulled straight to make for quick release.

The third position farthest to my left was receiving intense enemy firepower.

We had the higher ground. It was 2:30 a.m. I lifted myself on one knee and opened up on their muzzle flash. The Vietcong turned and opened up on my position. The enemy fire was so intense I had to bury myself tight to the ground; I could smell the moisture coming up from the ground.

I was half blinded by twigs and dirt flying in my face. I reached down, saw my three grenades, and threw them out. They lit up the area. Our forward observer called in artillery just over our position. It got real quiet. The only thing you could hear was men dying.

Before it was over, all three of us were hit on my position. I was shot clean through the left thigh.

Earlier that day, I had been talking to a black kid from Oakland, California. He had told me his name was Vincent Anthony Smith. He was a handsome, quiet young man.

It was the first time I had ever talked to him. I didn’t know him well until that day. I knew instinctively I could trust him, by the quality of his character.

Smithy was shot in the chest that night. I could hear him desperately gasping for air. He was on the position to my left, and I couldn’t see him in the pitch-black night, under the dense tree canopy. I could hear he was very close. I reached out and felt his arm. I pulled myself over to him; he was still trying to catch his breath. I held him in my arms and grabbed his chest so air wouldn’t escape. Within seconds, he died in my arms. I could feel the life go out of him. I laid him down and took his first-aid pack. I took out my pack and tied two tourniquets to my left leg: one pressure bandage on the entry wound and the other bandage on the exit wound. This kid Joneses came up to me and asked, What are we going to do?

I said, I need some water. I took a drink and then took Smithy’s grenades. I straightened the cotter pins and set them down. I told Joneses, I can’t move, and if they come up here, I’m taking them with me.

I opened up at every sound in front of me. I had eighteen twenty-round magazines. I used up about ten. Then I heard the 105 artillery shells breezing through the jungle canopy. We were hit at 2:30 a.m. The medevac choppers didn’t come to get us until 9:30 a.m. The war was over for me. I don’t remember feeling pain or being afraid. All I remember is thinking about my mother.

I thought I would die that night, and I thought of her pain. Guys like Smithy set the standard for the world to follow, not by dying, but by the desire to do right. (Soldiers don’t lose wars. Governments do and simply employ them to do the dying.)

As soon as it was daybreak, the rest of our platoon came down from the top of the mountain. They blew a landing zone for the Hughie medevac choppers to land.

I’m not sure how many of our guys were killed or wounded that night. I did see a couple of body bags. Two medics climbed up to my position with a stretcher. I didn’t think I needed the stretcher and told the medics I was okay, just pick me up. When they stood me up, I passed out, apparently from the loss of blood, lying in the jungle for seven and a half hours. Next thing I knew, I was lying on an outside skid of one of the choppers. You could still smell the burned gunpowder in the air.

A new young trooper to our platoon, Ray Piano, came running up to me as I lay on the chopper skid. He told me, Man, it sounded like all hell broke loose from the top of the mountain.

I said, It did.

Our recon platoon was twenty-seven troopers strong. Eighteen of our guys were at the top of the mountain we were on and couldn’t get to us in the dark of night. They had to wait for daybreak before climbing down to our position.

I always carried a dagger with me. I took it out of its sheath, stuck it in the ground, and told Ray, It’s yours. I’m out of here. I also told Ray