119 lines
7.1 KiB
Plaintext
119 lines
7.1 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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War is Hell
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During my "tour of duty" in Vietnam, which lasted for 364
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days - 14 hours - and 7 minutes, I lived a lifetime. So much
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happened in that short period of time that sometimes, it becomes
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mind boggling. Going to Vietnam at 18 years old was a
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tremendous culture shock. The acclimation and adaptation process
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was so swift that a young man could literally go from his room
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at home to a "fire-fight" in the bush, in less than 24 hours.
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The culture shock was complicated by the nature of the
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circumstances upon their arrival. For the guys assigned to
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combat units in the field, their introduction to Vietnam was
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the most traumatic. Often thrust into an area of V.C. and or
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N.V.A. activity. They were literally forced to assimilate the
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multitude of nuances as a requiem for survival. Your prior
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training was essentially useless. Jungle life and guerrilla
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warfare were primitive, barbaric, and the antithesis of American
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lifestyles and culture. A F.N.G. didn't lose that label until
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they earned their worth. The unwritten rule was, a new guy's
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life wasn't worth as much as a combat vet. To gain your comrades
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respect, you had to be "baptized under fire". In the bush,
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your "buddies" were your key to survival. Everyone needed to
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know that their "backs were covered" at all times. Therefore,
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trust was a key ingredient. How you handled the "small stuff"
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(the heat, rain, mud, bugs, rats, snakes, bad food and water)
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and how you responded in a "fire-fight" were the prevailing
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criteria.
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My "baptism by fire" occurred on my second day in the Nam.
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When you first arrive, you count the days "in". Towards the
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end of your "tour", you count backwards. How many days are
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left. After experiencing and surviving my "initiation", it
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was decided that I would be groomed to "walk point". Perhaps
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because of my size, and athletic abilities, I was chosen. In
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reality, it was because I was an F.N.G.. The man that walks
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point is the one that is at the highest risk. They are vulnerable
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to snipers, ambushes, trip-wires, and booby traps. Their primary
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function is to lead the troops through the jungle with the least
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amount of losses. The pressure on the point man was incredible
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and the responsibility was to your buddies. If they were wounded
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in action (W.I.A.) or killed in action (K.I.A.), subconsciously,
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it became your burden. A point man needed total control,
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concentration, good instincts, and a lot of luck. This was
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strictly an on-the-job, learn as-you-go process, mistakes were
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always costly. A point man had to develop a "skill" and a "sixth
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sense" for the jungle, an "intimate relationship", if you will.
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My first "op" (operation or mission) was a basic "search and
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destroy" mission. We were to "hump" the bush in a pre-designated
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area of operations (A.O.) to find the elusive V.C.. We
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transversed several "klicks" (kilometers), through thick, hot,
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wet, steamy, triple canopy jungle. Dealing with the elements
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would in time become the "small stuff" you learned to disregard.
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I was walking right behind the point man. My heart was
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in my mouth. I didn't know where we were going, or what (who?)
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we were looking for. The jungle was hot and my ruck sack was
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heavy and digging the straps into my shoulder blades. Suddenly,
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shots rang out and all hell broke loose. We walked into an
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ambush. This was my first experience in a fire-fight, what
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grunts called a "mad-minute". Everything was happening so fast,
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time was a blur. Bullets were coming out of the jungle at such
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an intense rate, I thought we would all die. After a while,
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we received orders to "hold our positions" until the size and
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extent of the fortifications of the enemy had been accessed.
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There was a temporary lull in the fighting, and we were ordered
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to move ahead while additional units were called in to "flank
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our positions". The strategy was simple. We were to force
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the enemy out of their bunkers and as they began our retreat,
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our artillery (from base camp) or assault choppers would "finish
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the job". Simple strategy theoretically, but realistically,
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we had tremendous difficulty. As soon as we began to advance,
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they began to intensify the assault. Guys were getting hit,
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screaming for a medic, while others walked into booby traps
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and anti-personnel mines. The carnage was mounting and there
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I was, praying real hard. It's amazing how close one gets to
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God when your life is on the line. Suddenly, one of our guys
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near me jumps up to throw a "frag" (fragmentation grenade).
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He takes several hits to his chest and stomach and goes down,
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near me. He's alive, but just barely. I know I've got to save
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him. I crawl over to him, take off my ruck and begin to apply
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compression bandages to his wounds, all the while, screaming
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for the medic. But there would be no medic, too much "incoming"
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fire and too many wounded. Eventually, the fighting slowed
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down and the wounded were tended to. And eventually, evac'd
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out (medical evacuation by chopper). I never knew who he was
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or if he ever survived. The ground where he laid was saturated
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with his blood. I was covered with mud, blood, and his "guts".
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My baptism by fire was etched into my brain forever. It is
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as vivid today as it was on that day. It was common to hear
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the Vets say that "survival" was the only thing you had to
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do in Nam. I was beginning to understand what they meant.
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Brooklyn of AoC
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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