Frozen In Fear

Going into the field on wheels or tracks was generally safer and a lot less tiring than going on foot. Armored personnel carriers (APCs) and tanks gave us grunts a lot more protection and fire power. Although nobody in their right mind would ever ride inside an APC. Even the tanks were vulnerable to mines and antitank weapons and when a tank broke down in the field, the rule of thumb was to move a safe distance away from it, since enemy mortar men were quick to zero in on such a prize. 

  Our captain commanded a tank squadron before he was transferred to the 1st Battalion. Said his tankers were supporting an infantry unit on a sweep one day, when they got into a firefight with some North Vietnamese regulars, who had come down the Ho Chi Minh trail, into South Vietnam. This was their first combat action and after firing at the tank with their AK-47 rifles to no effect, some of the NVA surrendered.

 Upon close inspection of the American tank they became furious, and one of them kicked the big tread of a tank in anger and disgust. They had been told the American tanks were made of plywood and could be easily defeated. 

  (Choppers) The helicopters in the Nam was really a life saver. What a glorious bird! To say there were a lot of helicopters in Vietnam, is like saying there are a lot of yellow taxis in New York City. It simply understates the case. Helicopters seemed to be everywhere and do everything in the Nam. 

The helicopter was the workhorse and the War-Horse. It took men into combat and brought them out again. It provided firepower, it brought supplies and food. The helicopter carried the wounded to hospitals, brought out the dead, The availability of the helicopters for evacuation of the wounded, meant that most casualties were only minutes away from a well-equipped field hospital, off the coast. Of course, sometimes it took a lot longer. 

On days of heavy fighting, you could scream for a dust-off until you were blue in the face, but a chopper could only be in one place at one time. And there were times when the enemy had a lot to say about the speed and success of a dust-off mission. I had a good friend blasted by a RPG round on a search and destroy mission in the A Shaw valley.

 I mean, I've seen blood and gore before, but when it's someone you've spent a lot of time with, like day in and day out, and he's lying on his back, with an arm and leg missing, and a bone protruding out the top of his body, you want to help him any way you can.

 I offer to help the medic, but he impatiently waves me away. I watch intently as the medic works on my friend. All I could do was hold the plasma bottle. I try to assure Daniel that hes going to be alright, but I think we both know how grim the situation really is. My fatigues are soaked with his blood. Suddenly, his eyes open and roll in their sunken sockets. In an instant, they seem to focus on me. Our eyes meet. Oh God!! I want to run and hide and be sick, but I cannot move. 

Frozen in fear by my friends glaze, I stared back into his glassy eyes. He betrays no emotion, no pain, no real awareness of his condition. The shock and the morphine is keeping him so quiet and still. I steel myself against feeling sorrow or compassion for my friend, who is the same age as myself. Like the rest of the grunts, I know I must stifle my emotions or I may lose control. And losing control is something that must never happen in combat. Inside me, I want to cry, but I suppress the feeling. Finally, I kneel down at Daniels side and force a weak smile. 

He shifts his eyes from mine and, raising his bloody body a little, he looks down and over at where his arm and leg used to be. I look too. At the same time I wish in my heart that my brave friend would die. I am not proud of myself. He looks too mutilated and shattered. He should be dead. So why isn't he dead? I ask myself. He lays his head back down and our eyes meet again. I nod to him. I see no response, but he knows! He has to know! He looks away from me, his unblinking eyes staring at the CH-46's ceiling. 

The visual connection broken, I stand and carefully move backwards a little, away from his penetrating gaze. I am careful not to yank the intravenous needle from his shoulder. I try not to stare, but again and again I am drawn back to my shattered friend. I feel utterly useless. Hopelessness and anger pervade my thoughts. I am terribly uncomfortable. I suddenly hate this war. At this very moment my friend lies on the verge of dying. And for what? He's facing the ultimate reality of war; I want the fight to end quickly so this medic chopper will leave and things will return to normal. 

 Soon they disappear from my sight, but to this day, they linger in my consciousness. The only thing I can do now is pray for my friend, I fall to my knees and pray like I've never prayed before. I ask God to please be with my friend and keep him safe and to please let my friend live! "amen" "amen" and "amen".... 

 It was about three days before I heard a word about Daniel and his condition. I finally asked the company commander if he had heard anything about Daniel. He said the last report he received was that he was in stable condition. Thank God! thank God! Thank you, God, for answering my prayer.

 I left Vietnam a couple months later. I was stationed at Fort Hood Texas. I was there about three weeks when I received a phone call, from guess who.?. Daniel! We talked for hours and I asked him if he would be my best man at my wedding. He said "sure". So now you know the rest of the story....

David Billingsley 

website hit counter