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The 7th Marine Regiment

The briefing officer erased the numbers on the large map and wrote six KIA (killed in action), adding fifteen WIA (wounded in action). An enlisted Marine came in with more information. The briefer again erased his numbers replacing them with eight KIA and seventeen WIA.

The officers with me must have been thinking, “Man, you are really in for it.” I had just been assigned to the 7Th Marine Regiment, the unit taking the casualties recorded on the briefer’s map. The other officers were assigned to other units: Graff to the 1st Marines, Erins to the 5th Marines, and Hodgins to the 26th Marines. We were in the 1st Marine Division headquarters, receiving our intelligence briefing prior to being sent to our units. Despite the numbers, I was more excited than scared—no doubt a reflection of my naivety. I had yet to work out that none of us were immune from being recorded as one of those casualty figures inscribed on the briefer’s map.

In August 1969, I left for Vietnam, one of six from my basic school company to go directly to Vietnam. My parents and my wife, Red, saw me off at the airport. I will say that until I later saw my son, Lt. Adam Curry, an infantry officer with the 82nd Airborne Division, off to Iraq, I had no appreciation for how they must have felt. I was superstitious enough not to want anyone to wish me good luck or any of that stuff. No melodrama. Just goodbye. I’ll see you in a year.

August 19, 1969

We landed at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. A typhoon prevented us from going directly to Okinawa. Clark Air Force Base is a well-kept base with lots of mowed lawns and a busy officers’ club. The bachelor officers quarters on base was full, so we were billeted off base at a hotel.

The most notable thing about the trip to our hotel was the machine gun post in the middle of the town square. Apparently, it was there to deter any action from the Philippines’ long running insurgency. At some point well before we got there, the heads of two guards from Clark Air force Base had been found in a dumpster.

August 20, 1969

I am in a hot little hotel room near Clark Air Force Base. My feet are raw and sore from my shoes, and my uniform is filthy. I should have brought some civilian clothes along, but who can foresee a typhoon? I spotted my uncle, Mike Patterson, an Air Force pilot I had last seen in Virginia where he is stationed. He was walking across the road while I was in a jeep on the way to the hotel. What a coincidence! I got the driver to stop while I hopped out to say hello. Unfortunately, I only talked to him a little because I was dead tired. My hard-core basic school buddies in the jeep gave me a hard time because I did not salute him, he being a major, and I a lowly second lieutenant.

I left Sunday and arrived here Wednesday. I missed Tuesday altogether, or maybe I missed Monday, one of the two. I felt crummy the whole trip, the usual headache. I got to my humble hotel room in The Oasis, took a shower, and had to drip dry. There were no towels.

August 21, 1969

We had to stay here another day, so we rented a car and went to Manila, a really interesting city! Whenever we stopped, a chattering group of kids surrounded us, asking for handouts. I didn’t know how to respond. Mike Hodgins, from my basic school company, threw the kids a handful of American coins. That created a mad scramble. The Philippine peso is worth about twenty-five cents.

Our visit to the main market, if nothing else, was instructional, having never been exposed to anything like it. It was a cacophony of sounds and a malodorous symphony of smells, for which I had no appreciation. It got to the point where I had to hold my nose and breathe through my mouth.

The Philippines was beautiful, filled with vibrant colors and an array of brilliant green foliage. I am glad I live in America though. The poverty was obvious. They don’t even use outhouses. I guess they just use the bushes or fields. In the Philippines, armed guards appeared everywhere. That didn’t make one feel very secure, considering the war was supposed to be in Vietnam.

August 22, 1969

At last, I am here in Okinawa at Camp Hanson. What a hole! Clark AFB was a paradise, a big country club. The Air Force certainly doesn’t rough it. It looks as if I won’t be going to the 3rd Marine Division, maybe the 1st Marine Division. I find out later today. Apparently, we will sit around here for a couple of days. I hope not too long because it is such a hole.

August 24, 1969

I have been reassigned from the 3rd Marine Division to the 1st Marine Division, and I leave Okinawa the twenty-seventh. I don’t know if I can stand three more days of this place. There is absolutely nothing to do but hang around the officers club and drink. Our rooms are real sweatboxes, and the water is turned off half the time. We have to muster twice a day, so we can’t go anywhere, as if there is anywhere to go.

We store all of the uniforms and luggage we brought in Okinawa. I have no idea why we were told to bring all of our uniforms. They will just sit in storage. We also get the remainder of our shots here. Some of those really hurt! The gamma globulin shot can make even a battle-hardened gunnery sergeant tear up. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the line while waiting to get our shots. A number of us were sitting very gingerly the next day.

Of the five of us that came together, John Erins and Mike Hodgins leave tonight for Da Nang. Jim House, John Graff, and I follow on the twenty-seventh unless we are moved up on the list.

August 25, 1969

I am slowly going stir crazy. There is absolutely nothing to do but hang around the Officers’ Club. At least there they have the air-conditioning working. Sleep is hard to come by because our rooms are so hot!

August 27, 1969

Arriving in Vietnam I was little nervous. I halfway expected to get off of the plane in the middle of an attack with mortar shells bursting around me. We had flown in a commercial aircraft with civilian stewardesses and arrived at a big busy airport, operating with business as usual. Much to my disappointment, I wasn’t handed a helmet and flak jacket and pointed to the nearest bunker but directed to the area where I was supposed to report with my orders for transportation to my unit. It was all very businesslike, not the least dramatic. There was even a barracks for those who had to wait overnight.

One thing that literally hit me with a wallop when I got off the plane was the heat! It was like being enveloped by a suffocating blanket. The heat drained the energy and sucked the breath right out of me. My uniform instantly became a perspiration sodden mess. There was no way to be adequately prepared for Vietnam’s heat.

August 29, 1969

Right now, I am at the 1st Marine Division headquarters, awaiting transportation to the 7th Marine Regiment. The 1st Marine Division headquarters is built on a hillside ringed on three sides by mountains and on the fourth side by Da Nang and the sea. It is impossible to hit with mortars or rockets.

There is nothing private about going to the head (toilet) here. I was coming out of the shower with my towel just as all the Vietnamese women came to work. That wasn’t too bad. After all, I had my towel. However, I downright resent tipping my hat to them while sitting on the head. The toilets are a series of seats built over cut-off barrels in a wooden enclosure screened in front by wire mesh and situated next to a path. Using them can turn into a social occasion, particularly if people parade by while you or whoever else is sitting there. It was very awkward, to say the least, to be occupying the head as the officers club workers filed by at their shift change. They must have become used to it because it didn’t seem to faze them.

August 30, 1969

I am still at the 1st Marine Division headquarters. What a mess! I wonder how the Marine Corps ever win any wars. Yesterday evening, they gave my orders to a lieutenant going to amtracs. I spent all day today waiting for my orders to be sent back. Personnel called amtracs several times, and they were told each time that my orders were about to leave. Well, it is now 4 p.m., and I am still waiting. I have been doing a slow burn. The unit I am going to has been in contact the last two or three days, and I would like to get down there before everyone packs up and goes home. Famous last words!

Everyone around here has a flak jacket and helmet but me. That makes me feel very insecure. They also have pistols. However, a pistol wouldn’t do me any good anyway because the best I could hope for with a pistol is to scare someone with the noise.

September 3, 1969

I got to the 7th Marine Regiment at landing zone (LZ) Baldy and received the runaround for a couple of days. The division likes to give new people a week to acclimatize (no way) so that the new guy won’t get killed the first week. At any rate, I didn’t know if I was coming or going. The ending was spectacular though! I was rushed over to my battalion at LZ Ross the minute it came in from the field, given my gear and my platoon, and left that night on an operation. Wow! What a rush.

The company came in to Fire Base Ross for a hot meal. After the meal, they immediately left the base to begin another operation. As the company lined up to receive their meals, one Marine had an accidental discharge (all rifles were supposed to have been cleared upon entering the base). That created quite a stir! It would have been a heck of a note to get shot while getting my meal before even going to the field!

When I picked up my platoon, it was a dark, rainy night. I was introduced to my platoon sergeant and, of course, promptly forgot his name. The platoon sergeant introduced me to my squad leaders and the platoon guide. Naturally, I immediately forgot their names too. In the dark, they all looked alike. Fortunately, I soon met my radioman called Bo. That name I could remember, and with him having the radio, I could always recognize him.

We marched most of the night to our starting point and collapsed toward morning alongside the road. Though drenched clear through, we wrapped ourselves in our poncho and poncho liner, lay down in the mud, and slipped into an exhausted sleep. We dug no holes, posted no sentries, nothing. We all could have had our throats cut and would never have known the difference.

The next morning, we started a sweep. I was loaded down with equipment: helmet, flak jacket, pack, M16, web gear, canteens, ammo pouches, first-aid pouch, grenades, the works. The gear I was issued at battalion was very worn. I would swear my flak jacket had bloodstains from its previous owner, though that may have been my imagination. The suspenders holding up my pistol belt definitely were of WWII vintage as was my backpack. I might add that there weren’t enough compasses for everyone, so the only guy in the platoon with a compass was a squad leader. Fortunately, I brought my own jungle boots because jungle boots were not part of the issue either.

I was covered in every piece of armor I could wear. Being new and having heard all the gory stories, my main fear was that I would trigger a booby trap. In wet terrain and unbearable heat, we walked up and over paddy dikes through tree lines and hedgerows. We changed direction several times as someone higher up changed the plan. By afternoon, with all the weight of my equipment and the heat and humidity, I was staggering along just trying to keep up. I definitely was not acclimatized!

We finally stopped. I immediately dumped all of my gear, rifle, helmet, and flak jacket included. Our commanding officer (CO), Captain Stanat, called for the platoon commanders. We were deployed in a line across a series of rice paddies. Captain Stanat was holding his conference on a raised mound, probably an old grave. He was near the front of the column, and I was at the back with the Third Platoon, my platoon.

My platoon sergeant and I made our way to Captain Stanat’s position. We no sooner arrived than the enemy opened up on us with automatic weapons. Everyone was hugging the ground. My platoon sergeant was shaking (it was near the end of his second tour), and my adrenalin was soaring. Lying prone on the ground, Captain Stanat turned to me. “Lieutenant, take Third Platoon and envelop that tree line.” He indicated the area from which we were taking fire. That meant crawling back across all the paddies separating me from my platoon with bullets flying. No helmet, flak jacket, or rifle.

Passing a wounded Marine receiving aid from the corpsman, I crawled back, scrunching up and lunging head and shoulders, then rear end over the paddy dikes in a caterpillar-like movement. I was operating under the theory that if I got shot, it would be in the rear end since that was the last part over the dike.

I got back to my platoon and yelled, “Guns up!” I set up a base of fire and swept the area with my machine guns. The shooting stopped, but I was reluctant to have my platoon get on line and walk across the open rice paddy. If the enemy were still there, we would take far too many casualties. I looked to my platoon sergeant, tapping his experience. He said, “Lieutenant, why don’t you send a couple of scouts across before sending the platoon.” I did. Two Marines got up and cautiously walked across the open ground. The enemy was gone. We swept the area but found nothing.

Watching those two Marines get up and walk across those wide-open rice paddies, it really hit me how important it was to make good decisions. A decision I made could literally mean life or death. It was an awesome responsibility for anyone, much less a young, inexperienced second lieutenant. The fact that those two Marines would get up and walk across an open field demonstrates the discipline instilled by the Marine Corps as well as the courage of those young Marines.

After sweeping the paddies, we moved up into the mountains for the night. I set up in my platoon headquarters and began to clean my rifle. Unfortunately, we had been trained with the M14 rifle, and I had to suffer the indignity of having the corpsman show me how to break down my M16 so I could clean it. I was glad none of my Marine Corps buddies were there to see the Navy showing me how to clean my rifle. I would never have lived it down! That night, I slept right next to my hole with my rifle in one hand and helmet in the other. If you want to call it sleep.

September 5, 1969

I led my first platoon patrol. We were sent to explore the surrounding foothills for trails. After a short walk, we came to a trail that branched off in three directions. I set up a patrol base with my platoon sergeant and radio operator and sent a squad up each branch. Within a few minutes, bursts of automatic fire broke out down one of the trail branches. We all hit the deck. The squad leader radioed, “One confirmed enemy KIA (killed in action) and one enemy WIA (wounded in action).” There was a moment of silence, then a single gunshot. The squad leader radioed back, “We now have two enemy KIAs.”

When the squad leader got back, we got all the gory details, including brains being splattered. I sort of lost interest in the meatballs and beans I was eating at the time. Everybody seemed to think that it was pretty good, two kills for the new lieutenant, but I couldn’t see how I had much to do with it.

September 8, 1969

After two days and about five changes in plans, we continued to move into the mountains. At times, we had to hack our way through the undergrowth. It wasn’t really jungle, more like high, thick bushes. Captain Stanat became very agitated over our slow progress and ordered me to get up to the front of my platoon, as we were the lead platoon, and bust my way through. Since the longevity of the people up front is not great, in The Basic School, we were taught to stay right behind the lead squad. I wasn’t overly eager to be up there. But my CO was right behind me, so I didn’t have much choice. I positioned myself right behind the point as he, using a machete, broke brush, forcing his way through the heavy growth. I rotated the point as each became exhausted with the exertion. We were all bathed in sweat. Finally, we found a trail leading to the top of the mountain, our objective.

My platoon had been on the trail awhile when I stopped them so I could find our position on the map. By this time, I was in my usual position behind the point squad, and the CO had gone elsewhere. It occurred to me that I ought to put out security while we were stopped. I was just telling the platoon sergeant to do it when bullets started flying. Everyone hit the deck. I thought my goose was cooked since we were sitting in a line on the trail. We had been told hair-raising stories in The Basic School of entire units being wiped out in ambushes.

I immediately began yelling for the machine guns, “Guns up!” “Get the grenade launcher working!” “Squads on line!” We put out a lot of suppressing firepower. Fortunately, the enemy, there were only three as it turned out, showed their poor marksmanship, or at the least were as startled as we were.

The only casualty we took was a man with a small fragment in his heel. That probably was caused by one of our own M79 rounds exploding prematurely. We were lucky. The point man had seen the three enemy soldiers walking toward him on the trail. He tried to shoot them but had forgotten to chamber a round. By the time he did, the enemy saw him, and everyone started shooting.

We could tell from a heavy blood trail that one of the enemy was badly wounded. We followed his blood trail for a short distance and then were ordered to wait for one of the other platoons to catch up with us. They had taken four prisoners that day, one a lieutenant colonel as we later found out. We spent the night there on a plateau we had used as a landing zone to get out the prisoners, my casualty, and some sick Marines.

Several small plateaus were stair-stepped up the mountainside, probably abandoned fields. Our trail ran along one side of the plateaus, and a stream bordered the other side. Foliage and large rocks surrounded the trail and plateaus. The platoon sergeant took me aside. “Lieutenant, tone down the yelling. It is a good way to get shot. With all that noise, you draw attention to yourself.” I took his advice to heart.

The next day, the CO had my platoon come to his position, which was near a stream. We were to clean up before going out on a patrol. I set my platoon in a perimeter on a plateau below the captain’s and went up to see him. I no sooner got to his position, then he said, “Lieutenant Curry, what’s the deal on the prisoner?”

“What prisoner, sir?” I had no idea what he was talking about. Apparently, while I was on my way to see the CO, some Marines had walked over to the stream and caught an enemy soldier standing in the stream right in front of our perimeter.

On the trail between our perimeter and the stream lay the body of a dead enemy soldier. Whenever we went to wash or fill our canteens, we would gingerly step over him. This was the first dead person I had really seen up close and personal. I wasn’t quite sure how to handle the situation. On the one hand, I wanted to look like a veteran. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look at him and get sick. That would have been a little hard to explain. One thing about which there was no doubt, I didn’t breath through my nose at any time while in his vicinity! As it turned out, he looked just like a wax dummy, so it was no big thing, at least until he started to swell, and his skin began to peel. One of the troops remarked that he couldn’t help but think of the dead soldier every time a fly landed in his food. After that, I couldn’t either.

After my platoon had washed and eaten, we were sent out on a patrol. Within a short walk, we came upon an empty enemy base camp, actually two camps. In the first, the largest, we found all sorts of gear. The base camp was tucked into a formation of rocks. A sleeping platform in the middle had an earthen oven off to one side. The rocks formed all sorts of little caves and nooks and crannies. Hidden in these places we found a ton of rice, mortars, machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades (RPG), and a lot of other gear. The more stuff we found, the more nervous I got. I figured the enemy wouldn’t leave something behind as important to them as mortars.

I took my first serious casualty here. Three Marines were together, looking for more equipment. One of them got in front of the other two without them knowing it. He popped up in front of the two Marines, and one of them, mistaking him for the enemy, shot him. He was hit in the side. We stopped the bleeding and medevaced him immediately. He was conscious and talking. Hopefully, he will be all right.

A little later in the day, I did a very stupid thing. I sent two of my squad leaders along with two other men to check out the area and look for ambush sites. The stupid part was sending the squad leaders where they both could be hit at the same time.

A short time after the fire team left, the enemy opened up on us. The bullets were going high, but I was ducking anyway. I could hear them cracking overhead. At about the same time, my fire team ran into trouble. I got a frantic radio call saying they were pinned down by many NVA and that all four Marines were wounded. I quickly got my platoon together and started off in the direction of the shooting. I was expecting to get shot every time I crossed a little open ground.

We didn’t end up finding any enemy. Only one Marine was seriously wounded, the same man who had shot his friend earlier in the day. He was hit just above the groin. As he observed while we were carrying him to the LZ, he’d had a very bad day.

We stayed in the base camp for a couple of days along with the CP group and another platoon. It rained. Everyone was sick including me. The place stank of rotting rice, human feces, vomit, stagnant water, and garbage. On top of that, it didn’t seem to me a very good defensive position. I was expecting the NVA to try to take their mortars back.

Throughout the night, I could hear explosions as someone on watch would hear a noise, get nervous, and throw a grenade. One of those nights, I could not have cared less. I was so sick, I literally couldn’t move. I lay on the muddy ground in the rain, in the middle of the base camp, wracked with spasms of vomiting and diarrhea. I was filthy. Fortunately by morning, I felt okay. I made use of the small stream running through the base camp to thoroughly scrub my clothes and myself.

The CO finally told me to take my platoon back to the stream where we had bathed a few days before. By this time, the dead enemy soldier who had been on the trail near the stream was quite ripe. I thought it prudent to send a squad ahead to bury him. The selected squad really sent up some moaning and wailing when I told them. It was the ultimate blow to their ego to have to bury an enemy soldier. One they hadn’t even killed, at that. It took some time afterward for them to regain their composure. One sniff, and anyone within two hundred yards could tell that he did need burying.

We stayed by the stream that night. The next morning, the rest of the company moved out of the base camp and blew it up. Later, Captain Stanat told me to send someone back to the base camp to make sure it had been destroyed. I sent a fire team. They walked right up on three NVA looking through the camp. The fire team killed two of them and wounded another who later died while waiting to be medevaced.

That evening we started an arduous all night march back to LZ Baldy for a 24-hour rest period. It was very confusing. Part of the time the company was lost. My platoon, in the rear of the column, constantly scrambling to keep up with the rest as the column expanded and contracted. I was worried we would lose someone in the pitch-black night. While the other platoons stopped for rest breaks, my platoon spent the time closing up and counting off to make sure everyone was accounted for. Rumor had it that on a previous all-night march, a Marine who had fallen asleep during a rest stop had been left. His mutilated body was found the next day. It wasn’t just a rumor, it happened. It was a corpsman, I think. I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen to one of us. By the time we arrived at LZ Baldy, I was exhausted. I would have much preferred to remain in the mountains.

September 11, 1969

After a twenty-four-hour rest period, we were alerted for another mission. This involved being lifted by helicopter from LZ Ross into an area where we were to set up a blocking force. Another unit was detailed to sweep the enemy toward us.

We moved by truck from LZ Baldy to LZ Ross, which was smaller than LZ Baldy. The Marines had occupied it after the Army left. The 7th Marines patrolled aggressively around LZ Ross, which resulted in numerous enemy contacts. Actually, those were the casualties I saw posted on the board at 1st Marines Division headquarters when I arrived in the country.

I was in the back of a truck with other members of my platoon in a convoy, speeding toward LZ Ross. Horn blowing, we were flying down a narrow road lined with foot traffic, bicycles, motorbikes, and vehicles going in the other direction. I don’t know how we avoided hitting one of them.

A truck somewhere ahead hit a mine. I could see pillars of smoke and flames from the crippled vehicles. Medevac choppers (helicopters) with casualties were zinging by us heading for First Med (hospital). As we passed the burned-out trucks, I sat anxiously expecting another mine to blow at any time. The anxiety added to the general discomfort of riding in the back of the truck and wondering which part of my anatomy would be most impacted by an explosion coming through the bed of the truck. I removed my flak jacket and sat on it.

The air assault was a new experience. It all seemed to happen in a rush. There was no opportunity to plan. As the birds (helicopters) came in, I was trying to divide the leadership of my platoon into different groups. That was what we were taught to do at The Basic School. The whole leadership wouldn’t all be killed at once if a bird crashed. Captain Stanat was in too much of a hurry for that to be relevant. He shoved us all onto the same bird. Luckily, it was not a contested landing. I got my platoon out of the helicopter and set up a perimeter. We were the first platoon into the LZ; hence, my concern with dividing the leadership. As the rest of the company landed, we consolidated the perimeter and then moved to our assigned areas.

September 13, 1969

So far, this week has been easy. My platoon is set up around the company CP. We run a patrol in the morning and a squad ambush at night. A little river flows near us. Everyone strips and lies in it during the heat of the day. It is hot! Good thing we have the stream because the area is mostly sandy soil and low scrub brush. There are no shade trees, and the ponchos the men have rigged up to provide some shade trap the heat. Sitting under the poncho feels like being in an oven.

The Vietnamese countryside is beautiful. Rice paddies with the occasional water buffalo set against a verdant background. It certainly belies the violence. So far, the regiment has been keeping us clear away from any civilization. We are a couple of miles southeast of the Song Thu Bon River.

The Marines over here, mainly nineteen- to twenty-year-olds, are amazing, smart, brave, and extremely mature. I don’t believe the critics of our youth could ever have seen these young men. I don’t think our college hippy or frat rats can compare. They are all children in comparison. War will quickly turn a boy into a man.

Presweetened Kool-Aid and candy are hot items from home. The Kool-Aid flavors our canteen water. Between the taste of the plastic canteen and the purifying Halazone tablets, the water tastes terrible. It needs a little flavor.

It seems to me that this war is a big waste. People are being killed, and nothing is being accomplished. I suppose that can be said for a lot in life. No one can say this is a civilized world because people are fighting each other all over it and for the damnedest reasons.

Boy, I became a veteran fast. I got shot at the first day, jungle rot the second day, and the runs on the third day. What a record!

September 14, 1969

I just got back from my first-night ambush. It was a can of worms! The first thing that went wrong was when I tried to register firing points for the artillery. The mortar squad said we were one place on the map, and I said we were another. I tried to call a fire mission using mills, as we were taught. The mortar squad had no idea what I was talking about. Consequently, when they fired for us to register a target, we couldn’t see where the rounds were landing. Not knowing where a round would land made me increasingly reluctant to call for more rounds. As it continued to get darker, I told the mortars they were close enough and let it go at that.

Next, I waited till it got too dark to move into the ambush site. We went right past it and had to turn around and backtrack. By then, it was really dark, so everyone jumped into the weeds, not knowing where everyone else was. I wasn’t going to get up and go wandering around in the dark to find out.

To top it off, we ended up on the wrong side of about a thirty-degree slope. We spent the whole night slipping down and crawling back up again. I don’t know how that happened because we were supposed to be lying above the trail instead of below it.

The mosquitoes provided the finishing touch. I swear they rode horses and traveled in herds. They were unrelentingly vicious.

From the noise level, I thought I was in the Los Angeles Airport. Marines snored on my left and right. The guy next to me rattled the bushes all night, swatting mosquitoes and cussing. Every three minutes someone on the radio asked, “Mike three, are you secure?” which I am sure could be heard for miles. I felt like telling him we would be more secure if he would just shut up. Then, of course, the rains came amidst a chorus of curses from everyone.

The ambush was back from the trail and in the weeds far enough so that had the enemy come, we would have never known it. The enemy had to have been deaf, dumb, blind, and half dead not to know we were there. It wasn’t one of my finer operations!

September 16, 1969

We set up an ambush last night that was perfect in all respects, except no one walked into it, and I got hurt moving into the ambush site.

That afternoon, I got with a departing Marine and swapped my WWII Marine Corps issue pack for a rucksack, the kind carried by the Army and South Vietnamese soldiers. The advantage of the rucksack was it could hold more gear than the small one I had, a two-edged sword because more gear meant more weight. When we moved out to our ambush site, I was wearing all of my gear: helmet, flak jacket, cartridge belt, four canteens, rifle, ammunition, and my pack.

The ambush site was on elevated ground alongside a trail. We found some food containers that led us to believe the enemy was using the trail. I set everybody into position, climbing, directing, and harassing. As I moved up on some large rocks to my place in the ambush, my knee gave way. I couldn’t straighten it. I had torn a cartilage wrestling before I joined the Marine Corps and that was the knee that collapsed. Throughout the night I kept hoping the knee would straighten itself out, which it had done before. Unfortunately, it didn’t, and ultimately, I called it in to the company commander. He sounded very skeptical when I told him.

However, when morning came and the knee still didn’t work, he called a medevac helicopter. It was rather humiliating to be carried on a poncho liner to the helicopter. Even worse, one of the Marines carrying me collapsed due to the heat and had to be medevaced as well.

I was flown to LZ Baldy, then to a triage facility in Da Nang. There, they make life-and-death decisions on the priority of treatment of the badly wounded—who can be saved and who cannot. Fortunately, none of it applied to me. I was flown from there to the hospital ship USS Sanctuary.

We landed on the ship’s helicopter pad. Corpsmen rushed me on a litter to a receiving room and cut off all of my clothes, including my precious jungle boots. They made a diagnosis and sent me into the bowels of the ship for treatment.