Chapter
5 The Boy Dies
A few days later, while operation Cedar Falls
was still going on, I remember the 1/18th filing across a large expanse
of rice fields, while the battalion commander was up ahead herding the
front part of the line into a jungle thicket, with me in the middle
somewhere, still in the rice field about a quarter mile away from the
thicket. Interestingly enough, to my remembrance, I never knew the
commander's name until I did the research to write this book. In my
peripheral vision I noticed a black speck in the brilliant blue morning
sky. It was moving very fast but I kept my focus on where I was stepping
next in the muddy rice field and also on the men who were in front of me
moving to meet up with the colonel. As the line approached the edge of
the rice fields, our men were slowly congregating at the bottom of a
slight rise of land which was covered in secondary jungle growth. I
could see several radio antennas bobbling in the air as two or three
radio operators moved back and forth among this little cluster of
headquarters people. Back then I had excellent eye sight and it was to
serve me well in the coming months. Other radio chatter had intensified
behind me and in front of me on several of the platoon leader radios.
However, it was just chatter to my ears and not recognizable as anything
I could understand because I was too far away.
Now, to let the reader know what that
order was, which made me and anyone else who had “half a brain” feel
this way, let me explain. We had just been given the order to
assault the bunkers although there was no indication that they had been
damaged at all by the bombing. To seal my platoon’s fate, we were being
summoned to lead the advance without the support of armor or artillery.
Again, there is just no other way to say it. This was undeniable proof to us grunts (true or not) that our battalion commander cared
nothing for the lives of his men. It also showed that he didn’t have the
basic tactical skills necessary for a battalion commander to possess in
order to perform their duties successfully in a theater of war like
this one. We were now being cavalierly thrust into a suicide mission where
many of us would probably never live to see the sun go down. Many more
would have their lives shortened by the grievous wounds which they would
soon receive. All this would surely happen, but what wouldn’t happen is
the destruction of the bunkers, because we were only armed with rifles,
a few M79 grenade launchers and two light machine guns which would be
going up against an objective that was still well hidden by thick jungle
foliage and also very well protected against our light weapons, by their
thick walls, small gun ports which faced out to create enfilading fields of fire and underground munitions storage chambers as
well as connecting tunnels between bunkers. Patton once said, “No
b*****d ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making
some other poor dumb b*****d die for his country”. Had "Duchess 6" never
heard that speech? If he had, he was definitely getting the roles
reversed because he was having us play the role of the "poor dumb b*****d.
At some point Sgt. Rook tried to explain the situation again to us
in the most concerned and comforting tone of voice that I had ever heard
him use. In fact, it was the most comforting tone I had heard anyone use
since stepping off the plane onto the soil of this “God forsaken
country”. He spoke almost in a whisper, with a softness I never dreamed
he possessed. As he talked, he looked directly at our little group and
said nothing that we didn’t already know. “The bombs have probably not
destroyed the bunkers” and then, he went on to say, "It is impossible to
know for sure whether they have or not because the jungle is so thick in
there. Now, the Colonel wants us to take those bunkers and wipe them out
ourselves". We had already been told this by the platoon sergeant so
this wasn’t new news to us. His words were redundant and certainly
not noteworthy enough to be
remembered over the last 50 years except for one thing and that was the
way he said those words. His demeanor and the tone of his voice had completely changed.
Instead of talking to us
like a drill sergeant he was talking to us for the very first time like
one of "the boys". Now, I realize that there is a simple answer for why he would
talk to us so differently but it was
one which I did not readily realize at the time. It was years later when
that realization finally came to me and that realization was this. The
realization of one's impending death
tends to make equals of us all. When I looked at Sgt. Rook's face, as he was talking to us, I could tell by his tortured expression that he knew this was a suicide mission. “Shouldn’t we drop more bombs on the area to make sure that the bunkers are destroyed?” someone ask. That question was met with a moment of silence. Then our new 2nd. Lieutenant platoon leader spoke up and said one more time, bluntly, that the Colonel was giving us a direct order to assault the bunkers and that was it. Things got quiet again and then the “absolutely crazy” thoughts started running wild in my head, non-stop, along with what I thought would be the last question that I would ever ask myself or anyone else. That question was, “Why, in the world, would any experienced commander knowingly be so willing to cast our lives away in such a foolish maneuver. I am just as sure now as I was then that there wasn't a junior officer or N.C.O. in the entire unit who thought this was a good tactical decision. We had these bunkers completely surrounded and isolated from any reinforcements or avenues of escape. If the Air Force couldn't see to get the job done, why not at least drop napalm and move artillery into support positions to shell the area. If napalm did not asphyxiate the enemy soldiers nor the artillery destroy the bunkers at least this would clear away enough of the jungle foliage to allow us to get a better view of what we were up against. “For heaven’s sake”, I had saw the war films of Hiroshima and the bombers and Naval guns had done that much for the Marines.
We had advanced in 2 columns abreast
with each column 3 or 4 meters apart which I can remember thinking was
very strange because it meant that only the two men in the front could
actually deliver fire on the approach to the bunkers. I was one of those
first few men leading the approach but my platoon’s advance was suddenly
halted. We were now no more than 40 meters from the enemy bankers
although I wouldn’t know that until the shooting started. I was in the
lead in the right hand column. One of our N.C.O.’s ordered us to halt.
Immediately, everyone in my platoon in both columns kneeled down to make
a smaller target of ourselves. It was a very tense moment, waiting to
receive the order to make the final advance. Suddenly, however, 1st
platoon (radio call sign “Lima”) which had originally lined up somewhere
behind us came bursting through our ranks, in single file, between our 2
columns. As I watched in horror, they continued on at a very fast pace
led by a staff sergeant in the lead. This was strange too because staff
sergeants usually had better things to do then be the first man to get
himself killed. Within seconds we heard several explosions and started
receiving heavy fire coming from the direction of Lima platoon. All we
could see was thick jungle to the front and bullets shredding jungle
foliage all around us while we hunkered down unable to return fire
because “Lima” platoon was now between us and the enemy. To this day I
have no idea why my platoon was halted and “Lima” platoon was chosen as
the sacrificial lamb to move through our lines and make this suicidal
assault. Did Duchess 6 intentionally choose to do it this way, using his
men to draw fire which would have exposed the location of the enemy so
we could get an accurate bombing coordinate? Maybe, but I may never know
the answer to that question. Even so, that still doesn’t explain why
“Lima” was ordered to file past us and take the lead.
The explosions we heard were probably claymore antipersonnel mines
which would have been detonated by the enemy soldiers manning the
bunkers and they would most definitely have killed or badly wounded the
first several guys in the lead. If we had continued on instead of Lima
platoon there is a very high probability that I would have been one of
those guys. Although the jungle was too thick for me to observe a single
downed soldier, I could hear the Med Evac Hueys (Dust-Offs) landing on
the far side of the rise opposite the bunker complex. They arrived very
quickly after the shooting started and continued coming in for some
time. Because they got there so quickly, I believe that they had
probably already been on standby or maybe even in route before the
assault began because there could have been no doubt in anyone’s mind
that there were surely going to be American casualties, simply by the
way this assault was being executed. Now, however, at least the exact
position of the bunkers was known and within an hour or so the air force
was finally able to destroy them while everyone in our Company watched
and listened to the bombing after withdrawing to the relative safety of
our original staging area.
Before dark my platoon along with the entire company was again
ordered to make an on line sweep of the entire area where the bombing
took place. I remember approaching the bunkers or what was left of them.
The first thought that came into my head as I clawed my way in and
around this tangled mess was how well constructed they were. They had
connecting tunnels between them which had been partially unearthed and I
am sure that they had underground chambers to store all kinds of
weapons, equipment, ammunition and food. The overhead cover was made of
several layers of large bamboo logs with earth packed between each layer
of logs. Had we not withdrawn after locating them there is no doubt in
my mind that my entire company would have been wiped out trying to take
them man to man. This was the first time for me and the other new guys in my squad to see dead enemy soldiers, except for the two I saw shot down in cold blood.
Shortly after surveying the destruction caused by the bombing we
moved to a clearing which was close by and there we set up a night
defensive position. The next day tanks and armored personnel carriers
(APC) met up with us in a nearby village on what looked like a main
road. We were loaded onto the APC’s which then headed north further into
the Iron Triangle. I now believe that we were on highway 13 which was
better known by its nickname, “Thunder Road”. During my time in Vietnam,
I would spend a lot of time on and near this road where we would run
security patrols and do company sized sweeps in the jungle on both sides
of it. It ran about 80 kilometers north from Di An to Loch Ninh, a small
village very close to the Cambodian border. This red dirt highway also
ran parallel to the eastern leg of the Iron Triangle whose southern-most
tip was maybe 20 kilometers northwest of our base camp at Di An. Now, that I have given the reader a little 1967 Vietnam geography lesson it’s time to move on by updating the reader on some other particulars as I and the rest of the new guys in my platoon progressed in our status from new guys to full-fledged Vietnam combat grunts, after receiving our CIB (Combat Infantryman Badge). The federal code for issuing a CIB says, “a soldier must be personally present and under fire while serving in an infantry or Special Forces unit as their primary duty assignment, during the time period in which that unit is engaged in active ground combat, to close with and destroy the enemy with direct fire”. We certainly satisfied those conditions. This federal code doesn’t say anything about having to shoot back at the enemy. So, my military records show that Walker, myself and the other new guys in our platoon received a “Combat Infantryman Badge” on January 28, 1967, the same day that Operation Cedar Falls came to an end. I believe sergeant Rook was the one who passed on the news to us. No, we would no longer be considered “new guys” but that didn’t seem to matter much to sergeant Rook. He had miraculously gotten his voice back and he was once again treating us like raw recruits although I must admit that I didn't feel the same toward him as I had before and I don't believe the other guys did either. One may even venture to say that every member of his squad, including me, now looked at him with just a little brighter flicker of respect. Personally, I definitely thought, for the first time, that he had something going on in the inside which made him a little more human than the rest of those "Neanderthals".
Now, the CIB is the most coveted medal in the entire United States
Army and one that is pinned on a soldier’s dress uniform above every
other medal a soldier will ever receive, including “The Medal of Honor”.
However, something else needs to be mentioned here concerning my
receiving a CIB. That something exposes a very profound truth which
applies to every Holy Spirit anointed believer like myself. Although
receiving that medal was a very honorable and upright happening in my
life, it was earned through carnal choices made by me instead of the
leading of the Holy Spirit. As I have already mentioned, the Holy Spirit
had opened the door for me to become the company clerk but fear of man
kept me from listening to Him. If I had become company clerk then I
would never have received this prestigious medal but I would have no
doubt reaped much greater benefits by being in a position to add glory
to the Kingdom of God as I followed the leading of the Holy
Spirit instead of my own carnal feelings. Now, let me say something
which will explain this profound truth in more detail. When a Holy
Spirit anointed believer makes a willful decision to reject God’s
guidance and begins to live life on their own terms, they cease adding
to their divine legacy and nothing good becomes of it until he or she repents and
again starts listening to the Holy Spirit. Here is the irony of refusing to listen. A believer can
live a very upright and accomplished life
but somewhere along the way the tide will always turn leaving them “high and dry”.
No matter how wonderful the results of carnal choices may seem, in time
the results of those choices will always
become vain works devoid of the eternal fruits which God has planned for
each one of us to produce.
Romans 8:6, “For
to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and
peace.” Solomon
expounds on this principle in the book of Ecclesiastes. Indeed, this
rule applies to all carnal decisions in life whether those carnal
decisions lead one to become the most decorated soldier in the entire
world or the recipient of the most prestigious degree that has ever been
given in the most acclaimed school in the world. Proverbs
14:12 “There is a way that seems right to a man but its end is the way
of death.” My
life had been on this path of death from the very first moment when I
decided to reject my God's guidance and start living my life as I saw fit. Earning a
prestigious medal was not going to change that path for me any more than
staying in college and working on my degree would have changed things.
Either choice when made with my present mindset still meant that I was a
dead man walking, who would leave nothing behind but vanity with no
chance of creating the eternal legacy which God had intended.
However, this particular CIB incident did have a very interesting
twist. I couldn’t shoot back because my own guys would have been caught
in the crossfire. Here comes the twist. Shooting back would have done
nothing but reinforce the “blood lust” I carried inside me! I find that
little “coincidence” which helped prevent that from happening to be very
fascinating and it wouldn’t be the only time that these types of
“coincidences” would happen to me while serving in a combat unit and
also later while just living everyday life. One of the least understood
works of the Holy Spirit is how He protects believers from themselves. We stayed on what I now believe was highway 13 for several days while being accompanied by the mechanized unit which had transported us there. During the day we pulled road guard while engineers cleared swaths of jungle on both sides of the road. I also remember watching large Rome plow bull dozers cutting down large trees throughout this area which had already been cleared of small jungle foliage. It was a terrible waste of natural resources because as I remember these large trees were dismembered, pushed into piles and burned.
I had nothing else to do but watch as I sat there all day staring
at the jungle and the bull dozers, with the road behind me and the jungle to my front.
Also, there was a lot of road traffic during the day, both civilian and
military. I now believe we were located just a little south of a place
called Lai Khe on highway 13 about 50 kilometers or so north of our base
camp at Di An. We were here several days and we were spread out thinly.
I remember having a very lonely feeling and I still remember that
feeling 50 years later. It seemed as though I had been detached from my
unit. I felt quite abandoned. I believe one reason this feeling of
abandonment still lingers in my memory is because I was temporarily
assigned to a position which had a 50 caliber machine gun. That fact
alone made me feel sort of out of place. An infantry battalion like mine had no heavy machine guns like this, but
mechanized units did. Could it be possible that I had been pulled away
from my own platoon and temporarily assigned to a mechanized unit just
for the purpose of guarding that road? I didn't know the answer to that
question nor did I know how long I was going to be there. I have since learned that infantry units were used alongside mechanized
units in these types of Rome plow operations to protect the engineers
doing the work. A likely scenario is that my platoon members were all
scattered amongst the members of this mechanized unit operating with us
and also with the engineers who were clearing the jungle up and down the
road. The other two guys stationed with me on
this position were strangers to me. That wasn’t a good feeling either
and was probably
another reason why I felt abandoned. All grunts in Vietnam had one
thing in common. They never wanted to be separated from the other
members of their unit while on an operation. Another factor which I personally found disconcerting was the condition of this machine gun position which I was manning. It only had a few sandbags stacked up in front of it with no bunker emplacement whatsoever. It was also out in the open and could easily be taken out from an enemy hiding within the wood line. Years later I learned that mechanized units were usually stationed inside that wood line to protect the Rome plows but at the time I didn’t see any evidence of them being deployed there on this particular day. However, the reader must keep in mind that there was a lot going on around the average grunt in this war that he wasn’t aware of. It is also possible that the other 2 strangers with me that day were part of the engineering crew. A clue that reinforces this thought is how very quickly the responsibility fell on my shoulders to man the 50 caliber machine gun which I was qualified to do. If these guys had been with the mechanized unit they would have been qualified also and would not have turned the gun over to a stranger. Engineers, on the other hand, would have definitely wanted a grunt like me to handle this gun, leaving them free to do their engineering duties as they arose. You would think that I would have ask questions of these guys to try to better understand my present circumstance, but I didn’t. I had been raised to withdraw into myself when I felt uncomfortable and I had been conditioned to respond that way by being met with nothing but angry criticism from my father in response to virtually any question I ask as a child. Now, amongst these two strangers, who were assigned to my position, I was feeling very uncomfortable so I withdrew from them as much as possible. How? Well, for one, withdrawing is not always synonymous with "Clamming up". Here, I exhibited another form of withdrawal which most people never recognize as withdrawing. I made worthless small talk instead of asking them substantive questions, which could have benefited all three of us. This withdrawal mode continued to greatly hinder the development of my interpersonal skills until much later in life, when I became able to let the Holy Spirit point out this short coming to me. In general, my parent’s false perceptions, stemming from the psychological damage they had received growing up, themselves, caused them in turn to do great damage to all their children's psychological development, myself included. Besides actually physically abusing one of my sisters outright, they made many subtle parental choices which did nothing but add fuel to the works that the devil was already doing in the family. Stifling opportunities for the development of interpersonal skills in their 5 children was just one example of this. As I have already mentioned, I had been encouraged to spend my summers in isolation on my grandfather’s farm, which I dearly loved being able to do, and I have, to this day, retained many fond memories of the time spent there. However, I must also admit that the time spent there in itself was not the best thing for an already withdrawn young man to do, who needed desperately to be learning how to make his way in a 20th century world. On the other hand, had those times spent on the farm been complimented with a school year participation in team sports, school clubs and a part time job, they would have been transformed into a great developmental experience. But my parents saw no value in allowing me to do any of that. Any sprouting opportunities in those basic social training grounds were very subtly and very quickly squashed by my mother’s controlling spirit before they had a chance to bud and my father always went along with my mother’s wishes on these matters. Besides, he had his own antiqued ideas about what skills would be good for me to master. Not one of them had anything to do with developing my abilities to deal with the rest of the modern world. Quite frankly he did more than his part to turn me, his eldest son, into a throwback from another era. I believe historians call it the era of the American Frontier". He had started teaching me not only to shoot straight but to hunt beginning at the age of 7. He taught me not to be afraid to hike for miles in the vast expanses of the George Washington National Forest in the dark while following game trails through thickets in rough terrain. He also taught me to navigate that darkness with nothing but a compass, while paying close attention to every sound and movement around me. How many people do you suppose were able to put that on their resume during the later part of the 20th century? Can the reader say, "Kit Carson"? He also taught me that a fist was "just as good an answer" as words were, if you didn't like the comment or the question being asked by the other person. Can the reader say, "John Wayne"? Simply put, both my parents taught the wrong lessons to all their children on how to live a successful life in the 20th century, and of all their 5 children I was the star pupil. To a large degree that is why I didn't have a clue about how to interact in any meaningful way with these two strangers by asking pertinent questions of them instead of rambling on about how I fantasied things to be. Worse yet, since I largely lived in my own little fantasy world, I didn't see the need to learn anything from them. To make matters worse, in my twisted mind, especially in uncomfortable conditions like this, I felt as though I had to continually explain my right to exist to almost every person whom I came in contact with. I would then get mad if they didn't accept my preemptive answers to anticipated questions which I thought they would ask. Questions, which many times they may not have been thinking about asking in the first place. I know I never ask what M.O.S. (job description) these guys were assigned, which is a question almost any other grunt would have asked in a similar situation. However, there was just too much worrying to be done in this short time about how to convince these two guys that I was a worthy human being. The Devil's shame does that to people, especially Holy Spirit anointed believers like me who have no idea who they are in Christ and have had to standby and watch their beloved sister be abused since she was a baby and unable to do a single thing about it. No, there just would have been no time left for my scrambled brain to think of questions to ask them. Of course my whole life had become nothing more than a demoniac show on display. Why should time spent with two strangers on Thunder Road be any different?
As a side note, interestingly enough, my father
had taught me exactly the kinds of skills that would help to not only
save my life but the lives of others as well in this most dangerous
year, but he had also done his part to reinforce what my demon mentors
were doing in my life, which was to always put me at odds with
leadership and even the other grunts around me because of the false
signals which continually bombarded my brain. Before moving on, let me
be quick to say that I do understand that I was not the only grunt in
Vietnam who had problems communicating other others. Indeed, most young
people of
my generation lacked communication skills which they really needed to
get along in this world for many different reasons. However, on a scale of 1 to 10
with 1 being the most lacking, my score would never have made it
past a 2.
So,
no it wasn’t unusual for me not to ask questions of these guys that day
and to top things off there was also another much more recent reason for me to withdraw
from trying to have meaningful conversations with anyone, even the guys
in my own unit. I was still reeling emotionally from
the close call which my platoon had had at the enemy bunkers.
After-thoughts about this botch-up job was subconsciously helping close my mind down to the outside world around me even more. People had
died that day and I was almost one of them and for what? (More cows for
Lyndon?) I may have been
psychologically impaired but I wasn’t stupid. The command decisions made to
needlessly mount an assault on heavily fortified bunkers with no
artillery support and misapplied air strikes
kept screaming to me that the life of a grunt meant nothing to our
present commander. This demoralizing message kept repeating itself continually
and not only could I not stop it from playing in my head, but another
verse had been added which repeatedly whispered something even more
demoralizing. It said that it was just a matter of time before another
life threatening situation would arise and again our callused commander
would see no problem commanding us to face it without a thought of
providing us the readily available assets (artillery and the US Air
Force) needed to save our lives, because that was his bent. He had been
the victim of horribly callus command decisions on "Pork Chop Hill" and
instead of learning from that, Denton's self absorbed mind turned him
into the same type of callused leader. He was so callused in fact, that
he was unable to see that the biggest problem in the unit was not the
enemy but him. The men of the 1/18th were dealing with damaged goods and
we had another four months to go to survive this guy. (Officers spent
six months in the field) I just couldn't shake this dreaded thought. To put it
bluntly, I now saw this man, not as a god but as a killing machine. Only
it wasn't the enemy he was killing. It was us. I would like to let the reader
know that I am not judging "Duchess 6" here. Only God can do that. What
I am doing is telling the world how his actions affected the morale of
myself and I believe the entire unit at the time. I personally felt as
though I had
lost all control over whether I would live or die in any future
engagement. That was
a thought which I just couldn’t tolerate. Like most people, my life was all
about me and no one else but me. However, this wasn't just about me. It was
about what I believed was a form of suicide being forced upon each man
in my unit. Free men
should never be asked to commit suicide. Never!
They may be commanded to put their lives at great risk for their country,
but they should never be commanded to commit suicide and our
banzai attack on fortified bunkers was nothing more than a form of
suicide. I believed that then and I believe that now. The close call with the enemy bunkers consumed 80% of my thoughts now and I just couldn't seem to put it out of my mind. The first question which I kept asking myself was, "How in the world am I going to stay alive for the rest of the year?" Yes, I realize my demon tormentors had already said that I would be the first of my Grandfather's sons to die in a war but something from deep within my spirit man said that was a lie. Secondly, "What could I do to regain some sense of control over the next near death experience because there would most certainly be a next time. To top things off, leaving this world without the slightest possibility of taking a few "Commie B*****ds with me was a final degradation to my demoniac ego which I just couldn't stomach. Since I had been "in country" I felt that the Army had already stolen away most of the self respect which I had been able to somewhat maintain in basic training. I had made very high scores in every physical and mental test that the Army had given me and also been selected to attend O.C.S. This helped buoy my self respect then but nothing I had done since stepping off the plane in this place had gotten so much as an approving nod from anyone. Looking back, I can definitely say for sure that at this point my self respect was getting close to hitting rock bottom. Well the reader may be surprised at my next step, after I got tired of rolling all this horrible stuff around in my head. It was the type of step many people take when faced with an insurmountable problem but it was also the very first combat related endeavor that I would take of my own volition. Though, it was an almost instinctive, mindless and mundane type of action, which would do little to solve the real problem, I started working on it anyway. At least this would keep me from torturing myself by thinking about the real problem so much. I have since learned over the years that reacting this way is pretty much basic human behavior. Here is what I did. The 50 cal. machine gun was filthy. So, shortly after dawn I started breaking it apart and discovered that it was not only dirty on the outside but there was burnt powder residue everywhere inside too. I found some old rags and made do with the rifle cleaning stuff which I had in my ruck sack. I always carried gun cleaning solvent and a ram rod in that ruck sack, which wasn't the right size, but I used it anyway to clean the inside of the barrel. After about 30 minutes I had cleaned the entire gun and had its “action” working as “slick as a whistle”. My father had taught me the rudiments of gun cleaning and also stressed how important it was to keep a fire arm clean at all times. I had been cleaning guns since the age of seven, long before the Army got hold of me. So, it was a very deeply religious part of my nature to want to tackle this chore. I knew to prevent jamming, it was important to only lightly coat the moving parts of a fire arm with gun oil after cleaning off any gun powder residue with solvent, but the outside parts, like the outside of the barrel could have heavier coatings of oil applied to them which would actually better protect those surfaces against rust and the environment. At the same time, this would not gum up the moving parts of the weapon's action causing it to jam. So, this is exactly what I did. Now, the road behind me was a dirt road with a lot of traffic going past during the day. It was the height of the dry season and the thick layers of dust on the road were continually being kicked up into the air which created such heavy dust clouds that we were forced to wear a bandana over our nose and mouth while manning this position in the middle of the day, when traffic was heaviest. Quite frankly, this was some of the most miserable road guard duty that I can remember pulling the entire time I was in Vietnam for more than one reason but the dusty road was definitely high on that list. With that being said, I knew that my little gun cleaning project needed to be completed before the traffic got too heavy. So I did just that. After a not-so-fine C-ration breakfast, I started cleaning the 50 cal. machine gun and by mid morning, the heavily oiled barrel as well as any other external parts had collected a fairly thick coating of dust on them coming from the clouds of dust being continually created by the big trucks passing by. This dust readily adhered to the freshly oiled surface, but I didn't care. I didn't care because it didn't matter. That gun was now capable of killing things and it would not stop killing things until I ran out of ammo or died. One thing for sure though, I would not die because the gun jammed. End of story!
Remarkably, I started feeling
somewhat better now after I finished cleaning the .50 Cal. Machine gun
and was especially glad that I had been able to break it down so
successfully and reassemble it which worked to refresh my training on
the particulars of the weapon since we didn’t get to handle one of these
“babies” very much, if ever, in an infantry unit. I was also starting to
hope that we would stay long enough, so I could chop down some jungle
with it, if command decided to have a “mad minute” which was usually
held just as the sun was going down and after the road was closed to
traffic. However, if I was starting to feel better about myself and
proud of the self initiative I had just taken, not to worry, the devil
wouldn’t let that last long. Life is full of people who climb it's latter by surviving the blunders made by their past leaders and then go on to make the same types of mistakes themselves when they gain positions of leadership. However, only the souls of those who have been imprinted by the Holy Spirit have the ability to make the unique and righteous decisions which in times of trouble will inspire others to follow them even to the gates of hell. Though these spiritual concepts were too deep for my adolescent mind to comprehend back then, if someone had ask me whether I believed that there was one field officer in the entire First Division that was trustworthy to successfully lead us against the enemy we now faced, I had already observed enough to know my answer would have been, "No".
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