| It was January 16,
1967, and it was the kind of hot, dry day that makes you think of
beer. Our platoon wasn’t
looking forward to any beer.
No cake, no ice cream, nothing but the ghastly pork and lima
beans we got in our C-rations – battlefield food.
The pork was something practically everybody hated, and the
first and last thing you noticed about the lima beans was that they
were big – real big. It seemed we weren’t going to get back to L.Z.
Virginia for the hot supper they used to airlift in for the troops,
so as far as dinner went, this was it.
It didn’t seem fair to me.
Luckily, our platoon leader must have thought the same thing,
though. He got on the
radio and told them to send those choppers for us. Next thing we
knew, those birds were coming to take us back for the hot meal we
were craving and some well-deserved rest. |
Not so bad
a birthday after all, I decided. After dinner,
I settled back and started a letter to my mother.
I told her all the stuff that sons in a tight place make
up to tell mothers they don’t want to upset:
how nice the weather there was, how quiet things were at
camp, how safe I felt – anything that would make her think I wasn’t
really in harm’s way. Just
as I was writing this, I looked up and saw helicopters in the direction
we had just been brought in from.
They were firing ARA rounds at the target below.
“Saddle up,” we
were told. There was
enemy activity and we’d have to go back out in the field.
The lift choppers arrived.
We were put aboard, four to six per chopper. They took us
back to where we had been that afternoon and put us off near a village.
We were to search out a suspected V.C. camp. The enemy was nowhere to be seen – and that’s the worst kind.
We heard him, though, and pretty soon we were likely to feel
him.
Sporadic automatic
fire broke out whenever a patrol got too near the enemy’s position,
but so far, nothing had really popped.
Fred Booker, our forward observer and a British Army veteran,
was on an embankment. Then
some of us started down the
embankment. Our
platoon leader went
ahead. I stepped aside
to let him pass. Some
of the group followed him, and I wound up picking up the rear.
That was when the grenade
came at us and exploded. I
remember calling out in Spanish, “Oh, my God, Mom, I’ve been shot
in the head,” and thinking
I was going to die. I felt burning sensations in my arms, legs,
groin. Then everything
went from fast to slow motion. I saw Booker tumble down the embankment
to my right, and to me, he looked like a store mannequin floating
in some Twilight Zone. Even the leaves blown off the trees seemed
like they were hovering instead of falling.
I was coughing from the battle smoke, and then it seemed
like I couldn’t move at all.
I suppose my brain had shut down from the concussion – that’s
what they said later. All I know is I was aware of everything, but
my body wasn’t moving or responding at all, and it was only when
I heard the ringing in my ears I realized I was actually coming
back to life.
|
In fact, I could move
now. I managed
to limp out of the crater I was in and I saw a trooper on the
ground taking cover. Then someone came up to me, forced me to
the ground, and called for a medic.
As I was lying on my back being treated, I could see
jets flying overhead and bombing the area near us.
It turned out four of us had been seriously wounded by
shrapnel, and that we had killed four Viet Cong in return, but
I didn’t know that yet.
I don’t remember much about being airlifted out except
that the medivac pilot gave me a thumbs up.
When I woke up, I was at the aid station at LZ Betty.
They were working on wounds to my lower body.
On one of the gurneys near me, I could see our medic,
Robert Martinez. Then,
on another one, I saw Booker, clearly in bad shape.
He was saturated in blood, and they were doing a tracheotomy
on him so he could breathe. Another trooper, George White, was being treated, too, but
he wasn’t as badly wounded.
As soon as they had us stabilized, they flew us to the
field hospital at Nha Trang.
Nha Trang was a terrible
place to be – better than the morgue, but way worse than lima
beans. All around
us, soldiers were wounded, sick, in pain, in different stages
of recovery and mostly not in good spirits.
But we decided to make the best of it. During the time
I was there, I got to know my wounded compatriots well.
I also saw another familiar face.
One of the Viet Cong that had lobbed the grenade at us
got wounded in the blast too, and he was right there with us.
I don’t know what happened to him after he recovered,
but I assume he was sent to a POW stockade.
|
As for the four of
us from my platoon, though, we talked a lot and even exchanged
addresses, in case we got lucky and got sent home.
I don’t believe we were thinking about medals that much,
but they started arriving.
I saw Booker’s Silver Star arrive, all right. It was brought in by a colonel just as Booker was relieving
himself in his bedpan!
Doc Martinez later got a Silver Star, a Bronze Star,
and a Purple Heart, I guess with more decorum.
But one by one, my four buddies were transferred out.
Finally, I was alone in the hospital, getting more and
more depressed and having a Hell of a time dealing with my problems.
Robert Martinez and I kept in touch a while, and then we drifted apart.
It wasn’t until some six years ago that Booker got in touch
with me again, and then we connected with Martinez and White.
Being reunited with these guys is something I celebrate
every day of my life. – just like I celebrate that 20th
birthday for being the first day of the rest of my life; for
if not I would not have had the chance to experience another
combat zone in the asphalt jungle of the Naked City.
|
U.S.
Marine
"Semper Fi"
Retired NYPD Chief of Patrol
Nick Estavillo
Eddie Montalvo
Past to Present
1966 - 2009
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