Disorder

You know, I hate the fourth of July because the fireworks make me jump for cover. It's so sad that all those brave soldiers, young, old, black and white, were killed and wounded in Viet Nam. For what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I know that I was exposed to agent orange, but not as bad as some of my buddies. I'm aware that I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) because of my experience in "The Nam". I also know that the very same government who sent me over there does not care one bit about me. It's been 37 years and I have never received a dime from the government. I called their stress hotline one time and told the guy that I was going to kill myself. The bastard actually hung up on me. That is a true story, I swear. Ask my 4th wife. I've always tried to live a normal life in spite of the stress and depression I was going through. I don't talk about what is wrong with me because most people either don't believe me or they just don't care. I may look healthy, but I'm a sick man. Don't get me wrong, I'm not asking for sympathy. A little understanding is all I want or need. It's taken a lot of hard work on my part and a strong faith in God and myself, but I know I will make it. What helps me the most is my kids and grandkids and my 5th (and final) wife, little Deb. Thank God she loves me and understands what I'm going through.  

David Billingsley

ULTIMATE OBSCENITY of WAR!

The kind of war a soldier experienced depended on where in nam he fought it. An Army rifleman's thirteen month tour among the densely settled hamlets around PHU BaI bore few resemblances to that of a reconnaissance scout's twelve month tour in the sparsely populated central highlands around PLEIKU. The kind of war a soldier experienced also depended on what he did in it. A slightly built Army combat engineer, with a flashlight in one hand and a .45 caliber pistol in the other, as he crawled into an enemy bunker complex to install explosives, had a very different view of the war than did the infantry soldier hiking through dense jungle, fighting for his life in close mortal combat on a daily basis. No matter what your MOS, you had job to do and the infantry soldier did it well. 

 

WE GOT THE JOB DONE!!....HOORAH!! DEATH?...What do you know about DEATH?

Well, let me tell you what I know....

DEATH is the ULTIMATE OBSCENITY of WAR!

 

Most American soldiers who fought in Vietnam were of an age when men believe that death to be a long way off. Vietnam quickly taught us otherwise. The average age of the combat soldier was 19, not 26 as in WWII. The inevitability of death was forced upon each and every man who fought in the Nam, to be carried with them from that time on. Of course, we all had seen death in our lives, but it had been death from illness, old age or accident, the kinds of death to which young men feel they are IMMUNE. There was NO such feeling in the Nam. In fact, it sometimes seemed that SURVIVAL was just a matter of CHANCE. 

The Real Culprits

The first world trade center bombing killed only five people and looked more like the work of a bumbling amateur conspiracy, even if perhaps one financed from abroad. But the terrorist dangers in the century ahead are of a different magnitude. Consider for a moment the three most volatile developments in today's world; Nuclear proliferation, know--how, and the upsurge of radical Islam. 

Together they produce the unnerving prospect of, helping Iran with the BOMB! This is no IDLE possibility. It scares me to even think that the leaders of a nation like Iran, are capable of producing a bomb. They smoke so much opium, they feel no pain, they have no conscience, that goes for all the opium smoking fanatics, these people have been doing it for century.  

Iran has already bought three sophisticated submarines, long-range planes and large numbers of missiles and other equipment from RUSSIA. Tehran also shows marked eagerness to acquire nuclear technology. How else could you explain such an oil-rich nation's order of two nuclear power plants from China and Russia? Iranian collaboration on nuclear technology with Pakistan, a country believed on the verge of deploying nuclear weapons. 

Nor has Iran abandoned its sponsorship of international terrorism. It supports with money and training Islamic revolutionaries operating in countries like Egypt and Algeria. Iraq and Libya are two more virulently anti-western nations with nuclear aspirations and terrorist ties. Sooner or later, a determined saboteur will likely lay hands on a truly fearsome weapon.

 Every effort must be made to strengthen the safeguards against such an event, without turning this country into a police state. The World trade center bombing has pointed out the need for more effective border controls; the State department and the immigration and naturalization service simply must do better at screening out illegals and people with terrorist ties. Perfect security is unattainable, but with the stakes of terrorist attack dramatically rising, that is all the more reason to take what precaution we can. This is my view. What's yours? 

David Billingsley

Divine Intervention

" THERE IT IS," they used to say in Vietnam. It was as if an evil spirit were loose, one of the demons, known to the Vietnamese as Ma. Weaving in and out of visible reality, a dancing ghost. It would appear suddenly out of a whirl, shimmer for an instant, and be lost. The grunts came to recognize it. They would say without excitement, "THERE IT IS," with emphasis on the last word, to let their friends know that they had seen it and to be sure their friends had seen it too.

 It was without form itself, but it could assume an infinity of forms. It was as tiny as a lizard's eye and as huge as the big,black sky. It became events, it became things themselves. It had no strength of its own because it used human strength. It had no life of its own because it used human lives with a brave prodigality. Because it used so many young lives it could assume a youthful, frolicsome aspect. Some people called it the GRAY RAT, THIS SHIT, or THE SNOW. Some called it MR. GRAY RAT. 

The union soldiers during the American civil war called it the ELEPHANT. That was what going into combat was called then. Please understand how young a lot of these guys were. Their youth was a factor in how they thought and spoke. We all had one thing in common, we had all caught a glimpse of the Ma. The war's infernal antic spirit. Whether they knew it or not, everyone was looking for a metaphor....  

My personal Divine Intervention began on the morning of August 21, 1970. One month after my 20th birthday. Our company set out from QUANG TRI combat base headed northeast toward the HO CHI MINH TRAIL. I asked the lieutenant if we were going back to KHE SANH, I could ask him questions because I was his personal RTO. I said, Lt. if we were headed back to KHE SANH, could you put me on the next chopper out of here? Because I was a short timer, I've been in the the field or country for eleven months, and I did not want to go back to KHE SANH. He said, don't worry Billingsley, I'll put you on a chopper in a couple of days, besides think of it as just another ordinary patrol, a Sunday walk in the park, a country stroll, just another ordinary hunting trip. I said ok Lt. I get your point, but I knew in my mind that we weren't hunting rabbits, we were hunting CHARLIE, and CHARLIE carried an ak-47, and charlie shoots back and I've had enough of being shot at. 

The last thing I wanted was to get shot up, with less than 30 days left in the NAM. Just another hunting trip my ass. My experience lately was that we only came into contact with the enemy once or twice a week and those encounters were usually brief. It was the 23rd of August when I experienced something that has been with me for over 37 years. And I've never told this to anyone until now. We were working our way up hill 195 when one of our mortar tracks ran over a landmine, and it blew the whole right side completely up, rendering it useless. The lieutenant said to make sure all the mortars, and any live ammo was put into another track, and not to leave anything behind that the gooks could use against us.

I got five or six guys to help get the mortars off the track. I was standing in line waiting to do my part to help, when it came my turn, out of nowhere, I heard this voice say with some authority ,"MY TIME!"-"MY TIME," At first I just looked at him like he had gone crazy. Then with a shove he pushed me out of line and said it again, "MY-TIME,"!!!! I said well hell if you want to help that bad, go ahead, get you some! 

As I watched him, I noticed that he had on new fatigues, and new boots. I thought, "who the hell is this guy and where did he come from" I've never seen this guy before and I've been with this unit longer than anyone. He looked Puerto Rican to me. As he turned to leave with the mortars, I received a call from command that they were sending a shahook chopper to pick up the APC. Just about that time, a very loud explosion rang out. It was so loud it burst both my eardrums. Picked me up and threw me about ten or fifteen feet, where I landed in the bottom of a bomb crater that was about twenty feet deep. 

The guy that demanded it was his time, had stepped on a mine, and it shattered his body from the waist down. I finally regained my composure, as I looked up from the bottom of the crater, the lieutenant was standing there with a mad look on his face. He was trying to tell me something, and I was trying to tell him that I couldn't hear him. At that time, the nva hit us with everything they had. The Lt. took off running, to find another radio. I started crawling my way up to the top of the crater. 

When I reached the top, I started looking around to see what was going on. And the first thing I saw was the Puerto Rican, lying there. A medic had already checked him out and said he was dead. He covered him up with a poncho. I just couldn't get my mind off this guy. Why did he insist on taking my turn in line? A huie chopper came in and was trying to land, when two RPG'S went off just over their heads and they got the hell out of dodge. The chopper pilot left and went around to his left to get out of harms way. When they tried to land, the down force of the chopper blew the poncho off the little man that had stepped on the mine. 

When it did, I was looking him right in the eyes and he blinked his eyes. I was stunned. I just couldn't believe it. I called for a medic to check him again, and they tried to tell me he was dead, but I knew better. I saw him blink his eyes. So the medic did as I asked and called for some help. The little man was still alive. A couple of guys ran over to help get him on a stretcher and I saw that they needed one more to help carry the stretcher around where the chopper was waiting. I came out of that crater like my ass was on fire and grabbed the left side of the stretcher and we took off for the chopper.

 As we made our way to the chopper, I was trying to get the rest of his body parts on the stretcher with my left hand so they wouldn't drag the ground. We finally got him on the chopper, and they took off, headed for the ship. The Lt. told me he died about ten minutes after they left with him. 

We called in artillery on the gooks,and blew them all to hell. The fighting was over. My mind was still on the Puerto Rican guy, I just couldn't seem to figure out what had just taken place. Where did he come from? How did he get there? Why didn't the Lt. or myself hear of his arrival? 

  My father always told me that he was on his knees praying at nine thirty every morning. Well it was about nine or ten when the fire fight took place that day. And I'll tell you right now that I'm a very strong believer in DIVINE INTERVENTION because of what I experienced that day on hill 195.

 I just wish I knew a little more about the guy. I would at least like to know his name and where he came from. I guess if the Good Lord wanted me to know the answers to all my questions He would tell me. It's been thirty seven years and I haven't heard a word. Still waiting...

David Billingsley

Question!! What's all the fuss!!!

Are we fighting a war on terror or aren't we? was it or was it not started by Islamic people who brought it to our shores on September 11, 2001? were people from all over the world, MOSTLY AMERICANS, Not brutally murdered that day, in downtown Manhattan, across the Potomac from our nation's capitol and in a field in Pennsylvania? Did nearly three thousand men, women and children die a horrible, burning or crushing death that day, OR DIDN'T THEY??? AND I'm supposed to care that a copy of the KORAN was "desecrated" when an overworked soildier Kicked it or got it wet, I don't. I don't care at all....
I'll start caring when Osama Bin Laden turns himself in and repents for incinerating all those innocent people on 9/11. I'll start caring when all the fanatics in the middle east start caring about the HOLY BIBLE, The mere possession of which is a crime in Saudi Arabia. I'll care when Abu MUSAB Al-Zarqawi tells the world he is sorry for hacking off Nick Berg's head while Berg screamed through his gurging slashed throat. I'll start when the cowardly so-called "insurgents" in Irag come out and fight like men instead of disrespecting their own religion by hiding in mosques.I'll start caring when the mindless Zealots who blew themselves up in search of Nirvana care about the innocent children within range of their suicide bombs...I'll care when the American media stops pretending that their first Amendment Liberties are somehow derived from international law instead of the United States Constitution's BILL OF RIGHTS....
In the meantime, when I hear a story about a brave marine roughing up an Iraqi terrorist to obtain information, know this:
I DON'T CARE... When I see a fuzzy photo of a pile of naked Iraqi prisoners who have been humiliated in what amounts to college hazing incident,rest assured that I DON'T CARE... When I see a wounded terrorist get shot in the head when he is told not to move because he might be booby-trapped, you can take it to the bank that I DON"T CARE....When I hear that a prisoner, who was issued a Koran and a prayer mat, and fed "special" food that is paid for by my tax dollars, is complaining that his holy book is being "mishandled," you can sbsolutely believe in your heart of hearts that I DON"T CARE....
And oh, by the way, I've noticed that sometimes it's spelled "Koran" and other times "Quran," well JIMMY CRACK CORN
AND....you guessed it... I DON'T CARE!!!!!

DWB

Boonie Rat Song

I landed in this country
one year of life to give
My only friend a weapon
my only prayer, to live
I walked away from freedom
And the life that I had known
I passed the weary faces
of the others going home.
BOONIE RATS, BOONIE RATS
Scared but not alone
300 days more or less
Then I'll be going home
yea I'll be going home
The first few days were hectic
as they psyched my mind for war
I often get the feeling
they're trying to tie the score
The first day with my unit
we climbed a two click hill
to find an enemy soldier
to capture, wound,or kill
BOONIE RATS. BOONIE RATS
scared but not alone.
200 days more or less
then I'm going home
The air was hot and humid
the ground was hard and dry
ten times I cursed my rucksack
and wished that I could die I
learned to look for danger
In the trees and on the ground
I learned to shake with terror
When I hear an A-K round
BOONIE RATS, BOONIE RATS
scared but not alone
100 days more or less
then I'm going home
(Skyhawks) is our motto
(Airborne) is our cry
Freedom is our mission
for this we do or die
Boonie Rats a legend
for now and times to come,
Wherever there are soldiers
they'll talk of what we've done.
BOONIE RATS. BOONIE RATS
scared but not alone
50 days more or less
then I'm going home
They say there'll always be a war
I hope they're very wrong
to the Boonie Rats of Vietnam
I dedicate this song
BOONIE RATS, BOONIE RATS
scared but not alone
today I see my freedom bird
Today, I'm going home

Rules of War

After the battle you wipe away the mud and the blood, took out your dead and wounded. Then the emotions come out and you began to think about the next time. Because combat is the dark and brutal heart of war where soldiers come face to face on the killing grounds. Combat is the maker of heroes and cowards and all colors of characters in between, it has been called mans ultimate experience. It certainly has been an experience that I will never forget. Combat is noisy, confusing, and very scary. If a man says that he's not scared in a combat situation, he's either a fool or a lier. Combat in Vietnam seems to hold an extra measure of fear and confusion because it was so often fought at close quarters in dense vegetation with a frequently invisible enemy. Much has been written about the big battles of the Vietnam war, like the 1968 tet battle of Saigon and Hue, and the siege of Kae-Sanh and the fight for hamburger hill, but those were exceptional in Vietnam. Day to day war was fought by small groups of soldiers in small places, nameless battlegrounds where the fight was very close, intense and deadly. In the military there is a rule to live by especially in a war zone: Never stand when you can sit, Never sit when you can lie down, Never stay awake if you can sleep because you never know when your next chance will come. And the first rule of combat is: "KEEP YOUR ASS DOWN", stay low and get whatever you can between yourself and the guys who are shooting at you. When the enemy rounds are coming in, there no such thing as too much cover. I recall when we came under small arms fire, the lieutenant and I took cover behind some wooden crates, Lt. muttered to me, "you realize of course, that if these crates were filled with corn flakes we would be in a world of trouble, "I replied," At least they're not filled with live explosives! "LT.said "You do have a good point there." Going out into the field in Vietnam could mean a number of things, none of them easy or pleasant. The field was where the war was, where CHARLIE was, and we, the soldiers of the RED DEVIL BRIGADE, went out to find him and fight him. Depending on what kind of outfit you were in, the way to go into the field might be by air, on a boat, in a wheeled or tracked vehicles. We were infantry mechanized, sometimes we road on top of the APC.(armored personnel carriers), but that was a little dangerous, so we used our own two feet to get the job done. We, the grunts, called it humping the boonies. Hauling a heavy combat load through rice fields, across rivers, up steep hills and mountains, through jungles and elephant grass, in mud, sand, or dust, under a cruel sun or in a monsoon rain. Sometimes it was a walk in the sun, a Sunday drive, but no one called it that until the unit was back at base camp, because at any point, any number of bad things could happen. At every step were the myriad dangers of Vietnam, ambush, boobytraps, landmines, snipers. Many combat infantry soldiers like myself were sent into the field on their first day in Vietnam and rarely left it until they went home. We spent virtually our entire tour humping the boonies or setting up night ambushes and could count on our fingers the numbers of nights we slept on something as luxurious as a folding cot. The army brass called us the ultimate weapon. "INFANTRYMAN" The one who does the dirty work of war. The uniforms and the weapons have changed, but the job of the foot soldier has changed hardly at all. We are the ones who have to muck it out with the enemy at close range, the ones who ultimately conquer and hold or lose the real estate. In Vietnam, the foot soldiers picked up a new nickname, (GRUNTS) whether in the field with a squad or a platoon or even a battalion, the combat soldier could feel very much alone in the thick jungle and tall grasses. One of the loneliest and spookiest jobs in the army was walking point in Vietnam. It was a tough job but we are the Infantry, the Grunts, The life line of the army. The job of the infantry is to move forward, to attack, whether it means crossing an open field, inching up a battlescarred hill, or penetrating the thick jungles where visibility was only a yard or two.
CARRY ON!!!!
DWB

Images of War

When I went to Vietnam in 1969, I had already been seeing vivid images of the war for a couple of years, since I knew in my heart that it was just a matter of time before I would be jolnlng the army to help stop the spread of communism. To be honest, the only thing I knew about Vietnam was what I saw on the evening news and what I read in newspapers and magazines. I would watch as McNamara explained the bombings and as Johnson reviewed the troops and visited the wounded, but it was my daily hometown newspaper that showed endless scenes of troops in combat as well as shots of unfortunate civilian victims. l caught glimpses of Iife in the bush, along perimeters, in the rear, in and out of helicopters. I saw soldiers, young,very young, black, white, hispanic, happy, sad, hurt, afraid, laughing, crying, going and coming from Vietnam. When I got to Vietnam, l saw many more images that were not provided through the media or military sources. I still recall clearly my first week in the 'Nam with my new company In Quan Tri Province, No Vietnam. Bravo Company, 1st BDE, 5| INF. DIV.(mech). The battalion was sent on a search and clear mission in enemy held territory|. Our company encountered a formidable mass of enemy scattered among the hedgerows and bamboo thickets. The enemy initiated a massive attack which pinned down most of our unit. In a heroic effort to relieve the pressure, 1st Lt. Abernathy, (never will forget that guy), led the platoon, myself included, in a charge up the steep hill, where we overran three mortar installations. During the assault, Lt. Abernathy personally shot and killed three NVA soldiers at point blank range. What a guy! After reconciling his platoon, he pressed on. We'd covered about 200 meters when all hell broke out. The fire was so severe it deterred our advance. Quick evaluation revealed a single, well camoflauged battlement from which the enemy automatic weapon salves erupted. The Lt. directed the firing of a light anti-tank weapon on the position. Then if that's not enough, braving hazardous barrages of sniper fire, he, myself and two other men assaulted the bunker. Lt. Abe, as he preferred to be called, received the DSC (Distinguished Service Cross), our nations second highest award that day and I received the best damn 1st leiutenant the army had to offer. I knew in some kind of strange way that l would make it through my first tour In Vietnam. Thank you Lt. Abe for all you did for your men and for your country!

The Nam

I went to Viet Nam because my country sent me there. I did the job I was sent there to do. I have to say, I have or still do experience disorders. I saw many of my friends killed in "The Nam". Every time I went on a combat mission with a different platoon, I would make new friends with guys I hadn't seen before. And let me tell you straight up...When you see a friend get shot up, blown up and killed day and night, it does something to your mind. It's like a permanent photo in your head. You never forget the tears, the blood and the horror of seeing your buddy dying right in front of you. And there's nothing you can do about it. Those scenes will live with me forever. I guess that's why it's taken me nearly 37 years to even be able to talk about Viet Nam.
I've never told this to anyone until now. I have an emotional disorder that I cannot control no matter how hard I try. I have nightmares about the war in Viet Nam. I'm always being chased by the VC (Viet Cong).I wake up sometimes sweating and screaming. I have woke up before sitting on a big rock in the middle of the woods waiting for the VC to show up so I could fight and kill them! That was why my 3rd wife divorced me. Bless her heart, she just couldn't take it anymore which I completely understand. My first two wives felt the same way. Hell, I woke up once sitting in our bay window with a rifle in my hands. I go through stages of severe depression. I cry when I see terrible war scenes from Nam or any war. Needles to say, I don't watch them anymore. Hell, I cry sometimes when I see any kind of sad scenes on TV. I've even cried over happy TV or movie scenes.That is messed up, but I just can't help it.
You know, I hate the fourth of July because the fireworks make me jump for cover. It's so sad that all those brave soldiers, young, old, black and white, were killed and wounded in Viet Nam. For what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I know that I was exposed to agent orange, but not as bad as some of my buddies. I'm aware that I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) because of my experience in "The Nam". I also know that the very same government who sent me over there does not care one bit about me. It's been 37 years and I have never received a dime from the government. I called their stress hotline one time and told the guy that I was going to kill myself. The bastard actually hung up on me. That is a true story, I swear. Ask my 4th wife.
I've always tried to live a normal life in spite of the stress and depression I was going through. I don't talk about what is wrong with me because most people either don't believe me or they just don't care. I may look healthy, but I'm a sick man. Don't get me wrong, I'm not asking for sympathy. A little understanding is all I want or need. It's taken a lot of hard work on my part and a strong faith in God and myself, but I know I will make it. What helps me the most is my kids and grandkids and my 5th (and final) wife, little Deb. Thank God she loves me and understands what I'm going through.