A Life Of Hell

By Roy Murch

A Life of Hell is a true story of my life. I am a Vietnam veteran who's trying to conquer the demons that have haunted me for over forty-six years. Now I'm able to write about it. Th is has been therapy for me, and now, the nightmares have stopped.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781635253535

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Roy Murch

A Life of Hell

ISBN 978-1-63525-352-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63525-353-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Roy Murch

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 - My Induction U. S. Army

Chapter 2 - Infantry Training

Chapter 3 - My Wedding

Chapter 4 - My Tour of Duty: Vietnam

Chapter 5 - A Deadly Combat Zone

Chapter 6 - Compassionate Leave

Chapter 7 - Back to this Deadly Combat Zone

Chapter 8 - A Flashback from the Past

Chapter 9 - My Freedom Bird Home

Chapter 10 - New Relationship

Chapter 11 - Marriage Number 3

Chapter 12 - My New Life

Chapter 13 - Unexpected Romance

Chapter 14 - My Silly Little Girl

Chapter 15 - Wendy Said Goodbye

Chapter 16 - My Meltdown (My Apology to Family and Friends)

Chapter 17 - Wendy's Memorial

Chapter 18 - Dedication

Epilogue - One Wish

Volume 2 - My Code of Silence

Chapter 19 - All You Need Is Love

Chapter 20 - Our Government

Chapter 21 - Vietnam, My Code of Silence

Chapter 22 - New Year (TET)

Chapter 23 - POWS

Cambodia

Chapter 24 - Fifteen-Mile Limit

Our Last Mission

Chapter 25 - Laos

A Nightmare

Chapter 26 - My Court-Marshall

Chapter 27 - The Promise I Couldn’t Keep

Chapter 28 - PTSD My Depression

About the Author

This is a special picture of Wendy Hayes and Roy Murch

at our happiest just before Wendy’s passing.

A special thank you to my family for asking me to rewrite this book

And for Robin’s encouragement and help that she gave me

Robin Dee Frost

Wendy Hayes

and

Nick Penera

INTRODUCTION

This book was originally written in part in Vietnam 1969. Completely lost, I rewrote it forty-five years later along with the poems I wrote.

This is my story, my life, from the time I was drafted on May 21, 1969, until Wendy’s death. I share this story to reduce the number of suicides of my fellow veterans, introduce the facts of PTSD, and help veterans to adjust back to civilian life. If in fact I can save one life, this story would be worth my efforts. I poured my heart into this book as a way to tell everyone’s story—the thousands who paid the ultimate sacrifice and not able to continue their young lives. All of them had so much more they could have given.

I tried to attempt suicide, now I know how precious life is. As you read this story, think of the way we Vietnam veterans were treated upon returning home. We were spat on and called baby killers. Our generation did not accept our service or sacrifice. Never allow this to happen again. Our veterans are returning home with lost limbs and some with families that deserted them. Shake their hands and thank them for their service. Remember they do all the fighting and dying for our freedom that we take for granted.

With love,

Sgt. Roy E. Murch

UNITED STATES ARMY

CHAPTER

1

MY INDUCTION U. S. ARMY

The worst day of my life was when my mother called me on the phone and told me I got a letter from the president of the United States. I told her to read it. She read that on the twentieth of May, I had to report to the induction center in Fresno, California, to be drafted in the United States Army. She also read that if I didn’t report to the induction center, it would mean ten years in Leavenworth. The twentieth of May was five days after my twenty-first birthday.

My mom and dad drove me to Fresno on the twentieth of May and dropped me off. When I got there, we had to line up and told every third man was going to be a marine. I was number two; I thanked God. We then went to Fort Ord on a bus then transferred to a cattle truck and was sent to our designated company. When we got to our designated company, we were told to get off the truck. By this time, I had my duffle bag. I was scared. I threw my duffle bag off the truck and jumped. I didn’t realize that my duffle bag hit the drill sergeant, and I also jumped on him as I left the cattle truck. I later found out that the man I accidently jumped on was to be my drill sergeant.

Roll call came the next day, and we were told to say, Here, Drill Sergeant, as he called our name. When he came to the name, Murch, no one responded. I thought to myself, Man, that guy is going to be in a lot of trouble. The drill sergeant stopped in front of me and said, Why didn’t you answer me, trainee? I then remembered that my name was Murch. Prior to the army, I never used the name Murch because my mom gave me and my two sisters our stepfather’s last name, Bullard. Although we were never legally adopted, Bullard was the name I used throughout school and work. I only knew my name as Roy Bullard, so when he called Murch, I didn’t realize he was calling me. The drill sergeant never believed me when I tried to explain. This was a new name to me, and now, I was to pay the price because I didn’t know my own name and didn’t respond when my named was called. For the next three days, I had to do push-ups and low crawling. I also had to talk to a tree and say, My name is Private Murch. I was laughed at by the other trainees, and I also had to peel plenty of potatoes, cleaned the restrooms or latrine, as it was called, with a toothbrush. The next day at formation, the drill sergeant came up to me and said, When I get through with you, you will be wearing [as he pointed at his sleeve] one of these. It was a big, red 1. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I later learned it was the First Infantry, which meant they were the first division to go into combat. Finally, it was time for our first PT (physical training) test. There were different events we had to complete. These events included man carry, mile run, rope climbing, balance beam, and many more. I had a low score on this one. The drill sergeant said he’d buy me a case of beer if I max the PT test by the end of our eight weeks of basic training. Every time we ran, I would have to run past the whole platoon to be a road guard, then once everyone crossed the road, I would have to run to get back in position. Every morning, the wake-up call was 4:00 a.m. We had to line up by the mess hall and do about one hundred monkey bars right into the mess hall. Failure to do this meant you didn’t eat. Well, I didn’t eat much in those eight weeks. After we finished our meal, we would run to the rifle range, about ten miles, with our rifle in our hands. Our arms were stretched out in front of us as we ran. I felt like throwing my rifle down several times. The other trainees offered to carry my rifle for me, but I refused because I knew that in Vietnam, I wouldn’t give my rifle away. I kept running even though my legs and arms were too sore. Once we were at the rifle range, they would yell out police call, which meant we had to pick up all cigarette butts. I hated this. I didn’t even smoke, but I had to pick up someone’s cigarette butts. Then they would call for smoke break by saying, Light ’em up. Light ‘em up meant that the smokers could get three puffs from their cigarette and then they would put them out. The nonsmoking trainees were made to do push-ups while the smokers had their break. I learned real fast that if you smoked, you could have a break, so I decided that if I was going to pick up them nasty cigarette butts, then I was going to help throw them down. Also, if they were going to have a smoke break, then I better start smoking instead of doing push-ups while they smoked. So now I started smoking thanks to the military—I accept no blame.

I remembered learning how to disarm claymore mines. The wrong wire could be your life. All of us trainees were trying to disarm this nasty little burger when all of a sudden, there was an explosion. I just knew blood and guts were everywhere. I looked around hoping it wasn’t me. The sergeant exploded one on the mountainside. No one died that day. Every morning when I tried to get up out of bed, my feet just wouldn’t hold me up. I’d fall flat on my face. Speaking of flat, yes, I had flat feet. I managed to get them working just in time for reveille. Then the day started all over again: monkey bars, no breakfast, running until the drill sergeant got tired. One time, we were running with a ninety-pound pack on our backs. This was to be a three-day trip with CS gas. We had to run twenty miles out of course, running with our rifles out in front of us. We were finally there when we were told to drop our packs. I felt so light-headed; some of the guys fainted from the shock. We set up camp, two to each tent. We adjusted our face mask and set them by our bedroll. In the middle of the night, we were gassed. My mask was taken by mistake by one of the other guys, and I was left with a mask that was too small. Because it was too small, I couldn’t keep the gas mask on my face. I couldn’t breathe, and as I ran up the side of the mountain, the sergeant was right beside me holding the gas in my face. I could not see; my eyes were watering and stinging. I just could not breathe, dammit!

The final PT test was here. Because I was in better shape, I had one of the highest scores. The sergeant kept his word, and a case of beer was mine. I shared it with everyone in the barracks. I got my orders for infantry AIT (advanced infantry training). I thought basic was bad enough I couldn’t imagine how infantry training was going to be. There was one more thing I remembered—the dying cockroach position. I did this a lot. The drill sergeant would say, On your stomach, then on your back, as he would call. Once on your back, you would rock back and forth with your arms and legs held in the air. You would say, I am a dying cockroach, I’m a dying cockroach. Finally, I was so tired that I yelled out, I’m not a dying cockroach, I’m a dead cockroach, with my arms and legs touching the ground. I was out of breath. The drill sergeant was furious; his face was red. I’ve seen this before. I knew I was in trouble. I could not believe that the same drill sergeant gave me my first stripe on my sleeve. I was now a private E-2. Basic training was eight weeks; infantry is ten weeks. Oh God, how much more must we endure?

Graduation was here. All of us were in our dress greens for the parade. I made the old sergeant mad again, so he made me low crawl in my uniform up the company street—knowing that my fiancée and her mother were meeting me at the visitors section. Now I had a ripped pocket and a dusty, dirty uniform. I proceeded to meet my family. I was so angry at him that I went AWOL that night. The guys covered for me that night. They stuffed blankets in my bunk to make it look like I was sleeping. My girl and I rented a hotel room for the night. The next morning, I thought I