A column of 12 Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs) growled, slipped and lurched through the wet slippery clay in the misty early morning rain in the then Republic of South Vietnam on November 25th 1969. This was monsoon season, a period of about 4 months of continual rains which kept the men riding atop these cold, green, monstrous behemoths, wet 90% of the time.

I reached down beside the turret holding the .50 Cal. machinegun next to which I sat on the second track in the column. I broke out a chemical heat tab and dropped it in the steel pot part of my helmet, lit it and tucked it between my legs under the rubber poncho that covered me from head to foot. I put the inner liner back on my head and enjoyed the warmth that began to thaw my tired bones. Steam slowly rising from the surface of my poncho, I began swaying sleepily as the Carrier trundled down the twin tracks and rose and fell as it first climbed a hill and then dipped down the other side to only rise up again, hurtling through brush and thick mud.

I did not seem to be able to remember the last time I was dry… Ahhhhh, it must have been ages ago…I wondered what it was like back then, being dry. Sleeping had become an acquired art in this weather, digging out shallow trenches on lonely cold hilltops and laying down in them wrapped in a poncho and liner… the trickle of water slipping through, settling and finally warming to my body allowed me to drift off, gratefully, and blot out reality just one more time, for just another little while.

This particular mission was a combined Armor and Mechanized Infantry operation in Cam-Lo Valley in Northern I Corps. Four Patton tanks of "A" Company 1/77th Armor; and 12 tracks of "A" Company, 1/61st Mechanized Infantry - 2 tanks taking lead and 2 tanks bringing up the rear. I Corps was the northernmost Region of South Vietnam, bordering to the north with the Demilitarized Zone. It was a No Man's Land between North and South Vietnam, Laos to the west and the South China Sea to the east. On a clear day the communist flag could be seen flying across the Demilitarized Zone.
 

This was a normal “search and destroy” mission, in which we were out there trying to see what we could see. We were looking for evidence of fresh communist ground troop movements, weapons catches, or any other signs pointing to enemy activity in the area. I could no longer count how many of these missions I’d been on; the truth of the matter was that we seldom found the enemy until they were ready to be found. This would probably be another long, cold, wet day spent chasing shadows in hell.

 I looked toward the back of the track and saw that Hector was sitting there wrapped around his M-60 machine gun, probably as sleepy as I was, as we seemed to drift though this dreamy seeming mist of early morning. Riding the rear of the track was not the best spot because it was a rough ride back there, the rise and fall of the track quite accentuated.

I didn't know much about Hector except for the fact that he was from Puerto Rico and fairly new to the company, having arrived out to the field only a week before. Hector was a rather quiet, short, stocky young man. He seemed to have a certain degree of calmness about him, which was a good sign, but as was natural at this stage never mingled much. As was the case more times than not, Hector had still not been accepted by most of the men in the Platoon he was assigned to.

By tradition (and psychological necessity), a new person had to pretty much learn the ropes and prove himself in action before anyone in the unit would take the chance of becoming too close to him. Feeling friendship for another person in combat was both dangerous and not conducive to mental peace. After all, nobody wanted the additional pain of losing a “friend” in combat, or worse yet, get too close to someone who might just cause them to be killed by not making the right decision or freezing up in the middle of an ambush or other firefight. Once you lost a limb or your life out there, it was too late to ask for second chance to do it again. Due to this, being the new kid on the block or as commonly referred to an “FNG” (Fucking New Guy) was not the most enviable position to be in.

I  had spoken briefly with Hector that morning while giving him his daily malaria tab and before mounting up the vehicles prior to moving out on the mission. He enjoyed the short exchange, as he didn’t often have the chance to speak with anyone in Spanish.  I had been raised in Chile and missed the chance to practice the language. As was his habit by now though, he kept the conversation light. 

I had more problems than most of the guys getting too close to people anymore. I had learned quickly that it hurt way too much to lose a friend who it was my duty to keep alive. As a “Medic” he found also that it was almost better for him to maintain a certain distance from his men emotionally. He could function better this way when it came down to having to work on someone who was hurt. It was hard to make life-saving decisions in an emotional state. Emotions were certainly not an asset in my line of work.

As I watched Hector sitting there, my eyes wandered past him through the swirling mist to the line of tracks and tanks following down the trail. The trail: two lines of mud cut though the grass and brush by the vehicles’ tracks on this once beautiful land, scarred now by war and stripped almost bare of vegetation by chemical defoliants.

The vehicles slipping and lurching through the almost oily clay seemed like something out a dream as they passed in and out of the lightly falling rain and rolling mist in the early morning hours. We were moving into a narrow and densely vegetated valley, luscious, green as emeralds in the early rain, dangerous…this was one of the few areas in the unit’s Area of Operation (AO), which had not been regularly defoliated by using Agent Orange or other chemicals.

As we rode along enveloped by the roar of the engines and clank of equipment, each person dwelling on his own private thoughts; watching, waiting on guard but at the time relaxed, each trying to stay warm in his own way, the world abruptly erupted around me and my track suddenly lurched into a maelstrom of mud and fire; the left, or the driver’s side, of the track gave a convulsive shudder, raising up several feet into the air and I felt myself flying though the air upward, sideways and to my right as my ears rang out from the enormous concussion. I hit the ground hard and rolled to a stop, remaining where I had landed for several seconds, amazed that I was seemingly still in one piece.

I lay still, stunned and afraid to move lest I give away my position to any possible enemy observers. As I assessed my situation, the first thing I observed was that I heard no screams for help or “where’s Doc?”.  Good, that was relief number one. “Anybody down?” I yelled hoping against hope.  No answer.  There was only a sudden palpable quietness that I could hear and feel almost as if it were pressing down on everything and everyone around me. The only sounds to be heard were the muted growls and the rumbling of the engines, as they stood still and poised for whatever may happen next. We were in a very bad place. A narrow valley, steep walls on both sides covered with vegetation and the main guns on the tanks could not elevate far enough to reach very high up the valley walls. If we were to get ambushed here, we’d be sitting ducks.

The only thing that I knew for sure was that there’d been an explosion; either under the track I’d been riding on or close enough to cause it to buck up on its side violently enough to toss everyone who had been riding on it off. A couple of different scenarios crossed my mind; first off, the track I had been riding on was the fourth vehicle in the column and had very obviously been disabled. This left the lead vehicles cut off from the rest for all intents and purposes until we cleared the area for mines and traps and dragged the injured vehicle out of the way. If we were attacked by ambush at this stage of the game it could get tricky and the casualties would certainly be high.

Another thought was that from my experience, if an enemy mortar round caused the explosion, it was probably the first of many and everyone should be finding a nice deep hole to hide in. On the other hand, if we had hit an anti-tank mine, chances were that there were more of them to be found in the immediate area.  This could be very bad news in this weather, seeing that if they’d been buried some time back, the detonation mechanisms would be partially rusted, making it very easy to activate with a very small amount of pressure (such as the weight of a person). And of course, the worse thought was that this might just well be a set-up for a well-planned ambush and the North Vietnamese Army troops were getting ready to hit us hard.  In this position of limited maneuverability this was not a comforting thought.

Having remained on the ground for what seemed several minutes and not hearing any additional explosions or gunfire, I noticed several of my men beginning to move cautiously around and setting up a rough defense perimeter while a couple of them walked over to the disabled vehicle to assess the damage and see what had actually caused the explosion.

I quickly checked my Aid-Bag and made sure that everything in it was intact. I had never been able to figure out where the brass got its sense of priorities from; with the state of the art of today’s technology and the trillions of dollars spent on weapons development, they still sent their medics out into combat carrying life saving solutions such as plasma and saline drips in easily breakable glass containers. My guess was that the lives of the American soldiers were not as important a priority as the ability of the equipment to kill the enemy.  By the time I was through checking my equipment, my platoon had finished deploying themselves in a defense posture. The remaining tracks and tanks had taken up a herringbone formation, machine guns had been manned and everyone was at a high state of awareness in preparation for a possible attack.

I moved quickly to check on the driver of the damaged track to make sure he was not injured. He had literally been ejected from the driver’s hatch as if shot out of a cannon by the pressure of the explosion as it breached the hull of the track. Several inches of aluminum armor plating had been instantly split like an eggshell and cracked open, allowing the concussion of the explosion to force its way through. Luckily for the driver, he was none the worse for wear other than some bruising and ringing eardrums.

The men having determined after closer examination that the vehicle had indeed hit what appeared to be a 40 to 60 pound anti-tank mine, a decision was quickly reached.  The officer in charge of the operation decided that the track would be written off as a combat loss and all the ammunition removed from it, following which several thermal grenades would be thrown into it to finish destroying it and the engine One of the first things everyone was taught when arriving in country was to never leave anything behind. The enemy seemed to have an uncanny ability to make good use of almost anything that would go “boom” into very efficient booby traps. Even an empty C-ration or shell casing could, with the right touch, be made into a devastating weapon against American soldiers.

Having decided that the track was a combat loss and was to be abandoned on the spot, it was next necessary to evacuate all the ammo off the mortar track that had been hit before moving on.  One of the guys stood up on the top of the track and received mortar rounds and handed them to me. I then carried them to the track that was sitting directly behind us on the tank trail. I avoided the wet slippery clay left by the churning treads by using a clump of dead grass by the side of the trail as a stepping-stone to jump over to the other side where I could walk on the grass. This way I avoided slipping and sliding all over the place with the heavy ammo in my arms and most important of all, my boots wouldn’t get caked with pounds of the wet sticky clay. This was a red, almost oily clay that would stick to our boots and add about 5 pounds of weight to each foot. Becoming tired after several of these trips, I decided to stand at the back of the track and load up the different guys who came up. They then transferred the ammo to the next track back in the line.

Hector came up and received some rounds from me.  I handed him 6 rounds so as to speed up the process. Every minute we stayed there got us closer and closer to the possibility of getting shot at.  I certainly felt vulnerable standing out there behind the track. After all, a medic was a preferred target for the enemy and second in line after the RTO (Radio Telephone Operator/ Radio Man).  It seems the North Vietnamese Army was trained in the psychological warfare tactic of eliminating the medic so that the rest of the American soldiers, knowing they no longer had a medic would back off an attack, fearing wounded people would be left with no medical help.

Hector took his extra heavy load of ammo and I watched him walk away trying to maintain his footing and balance in the slippery road.  As I turned back to the crippled track for another load, I  again suddenly felt myself lifted high in the air and flung like a rag doll as a deafening roar surrounded me. I felt as if I’d been hit by an enormous boxing glove all over my body. I landed approximately 30 feet away; face down in the bomb crater on the left side of the trail, feet sticking out.  As my mind slowly cleared, my first thought was that maybe the enemy had begun dropping mortars in, in order to home in on us and that this was the first round for effect, trying to find their range. If this was the case, I figured that more rounds would be dropping in to soften us up and inflict as many casualties as possible before a ground assault by ground troops.

I twisted myself around in the crater in the middle of the trail only feet away from where I had been standing just moments before. In a scene which could have very well have been painted by Salvador Dali himself, I beheld tendrils of smoke as they lazily drifted up and away in curls and wisps from the torn ground and clumps of loose earth left in the crater, hugging a stone here, a clump of scorched earth there…

The odors of cordite, singed flesh and what smelled suspiciously like bowels and entrails filled my nose…vying for attention in a sick, sad, morbid way. Beyond this I saw what remained of a human being. From my viewing angle, all I could see was a large mass of dirty, fire-singed raw meat. I also realized at this point that much of what had once been a man was encrusted all over the right side of my body. Slivers of bone and bits of flesh covered my side and my face was sticky with blood…ohh God…and not my own blood. The generally oval shape and simple deduction gave way to the sickening realization that this was what remained of Hector.

I slowly rose out of my crater with a horrible wrenching in my gut. I saw and understood what had happened. The extra weight I had given Hector was just enough to help set off another land mine that had been hidden under the clump of grass we had been using as a stepping-off place earlier.  I went up to see if there was anything I could do to help Hector; deep inside though, I knew it was useless.  I did not believe anyone could have survived a blast such as that one.  I reach his side and saw that Hector's body had evaporated from the waist down; his jaw and forehead had been smashed, his left arm was gone from about 2 inches below the elbow, and all that was left of his right hand was a thumb.

I knelt beside him, realizing then that he was somehow still alive and attempting to speak through his haze.  Hector could only manage to utter guttural groans through his shattered jaw.  I tried fruitlessly to find any kind of artery in which I might insert an intravenous drip of plasma or saline solution to expand his now collapsed circulatory system and hopefully keep him alive just long enough to get him on a Med-Evac helicopter and back to a hospital.  But as in most cases of traumatic amputations of this nature, however, there just was not enough blood pressure left in him to expand his circulatory system. There was nothing, not anything at all I could do to help him and save his life.

As I knelt and I looked down at Hector’s glazed and vacant eyes, ashamed and sad that there was nothing I could do, they suddenly seemed to fill up with intensity…the glaze was gone. It seemed that his very soul was crying out through his eyes, clear and in full control of his faculties as his gaze locked onto my eyes.

At that instant, everything that was not Hector and me ceased to exist. This was a separate moment in time for both of us. Nothing existed except for this bond that was suddenly formed and I suddenly saw/heard through Hector’s eyes what Hector had been trying so hard to tell me through his shattered jaw just moments earlier…

After all, he was a Hispanic man who carried the pride of his race latent in the deepest recesses of his soul.  He did not wish to be returned home in this way, a burden and daily memory and reminder of better times to those he loved, his wife and his children.  He did not want them to carry his burden for life.  The tears streamed down my face, cutting paths through the sticky caked blood upon it as I realized that Hector was begging me for an end to his suffering and that of his family.

I reached inside my Aid-Bag and came up with two syrettes of ¼ grain of morphine tartrate each.  I knew that one would have been more than sufficient.  As the men looked on, I injected one in each side of Hector’s neck hoping to hit the collapsed jugulars and prayed that I had understood Hector’s silent plea and that if not…that I might be forgiven for this taking of a life.

Hector died almost instantly along with a large part of me.  Some of the men who stood by silently watching the unfolding of this undoing of a life, bowed their heads and quietly walked away, one by one…giving me a last moment alone with my charge.

Perhaps some wondered if the moment would come when they might have to make their own decision.

As I sat beside the finally quiet and peaceful body of this American soldier who had given all he had to give for his country, surrounded by the myriad soul-searching questions created by this moment, I came to understand something. Even though Hector and I had never had a chance for friendship, for one instant in time we had become as one in the midst of all this death and confusion neither of us had created or even wanted.

We had shared the most precious thing we had to give in this life. For just this one little instant in time, two souls were able to reach out and touch each other while the rest of the world stood still in silent mourning for another of its children who was leaving home.

© Bruce K. (Doc) Melson