STACKED UP

                                                      STACKED UP

These stories aren't going to be pretty.  They 'are' going to be real and about real people.
Young men, who months before, were considered and treated like boys. Some stories most folks would not want to read, but they are true. Real people die in combat. Young men died in that combat. They bled real blood. There was no 'catsup', no colored water, phony screams or cries for Mom, but the real things. The things my Brothers and me saw were real. Truth is stranger than fiction and there just isn't any way this fecal matter could be made up. It just wouldn't fly.

 The day after the "Tet Holiday" of 30 January, in 1968, the bodies of the enemy were laying on a lot of street corners.  Many were laid four or five bodies across.  Then they were turned 90 degrees and four or five more bodies were laid across. Sometimes they were laid five or six bodies high. Like stacks of chord wood laid up to dry. And they stayed that way. The putrid sweet, sickly smell just didn't wander off on a breeze. It was registered in our brains. Like the bloody gore in the games our children play, there was blood and corruption everywhere.

A day or two later, after it was supposedly safe, a couple of us went back to one of the houses we had assaulted. We went back to see where we had spent hours exchanging rifle fire and grenades.  To see the aftermath of what had been for us the culmination of a series of house to house and street to street searches and fire fights.

That day, when we came up to an M.P. compound.  After a few laughably exchanged epithets, were told there was a sniper inside a house across the street.  We really had no idea what was there.  We had been moving through the city since about 2:30 in the morning.  It was nearly 6 A.M. when all three of us decided to hit that house and take out the "sniper".  It had been one small incident after another until we got to that house.  We started across and down the street toward the house. There was a gated, 10 to 12 inch wall around the house.  Sam started moving forward on point.  When he stepped into that opening, all hell broke loose.

Now, we had come back to this place to see just what was left.

That house was pretty torn up. In a square foot of the front outside wall there were more bullet holes than could be counted.  Many, one on top of another, and another. We fought those Viet Cong until reinforcements came.  We had asked for a couple of M-79 grenade launchers, which we called 'Bloopers'.  When the requested support got there, it was about 11:00 and a whole new atmosphere commenced.  We had been there for hours and the 'Butter Bar' that brought the relief wasn't too interested in anything we had to say.  He just started barking out his textbook spiel.  We decided to blow that 'pop stand'; to move along, leaving as quietly as we had come in.  We got the impression they didn't need or want us any more. We headed out to our headquarters and to check in.   

So, on this day we were back trying to look at the scene where we had spent so many hours.  When we went inside, there was so much damage and everywhere there were brown streaks and splotches on the walls and stairs.  We just stood there, not saying a word.  We looked down.  There was a thick layer of brown goo on the deck. We were standing in it. We see it.  We feel it on our shoes.  We smell it every day we draw breath. These words don't make people heroes. It makes them alive and just a little dead inside. And we hurt from wounds that can't be seen and will never heal. This is what needs to be told.

When we got back to our HQ that morning, our C.O chewed us out for doing what we had been trained to do.  After that and for about 5 or 6 days, we were told to take a position on top of the BOQ and to run patrols throughout the adjacent area, all at night.  I guess our Naval Officer wanted to make sure we were safe.  In about 2 to three weeks they split us up: I went south to Phan Thiet; Jerry went to Ninh Hoa; and Sam, he went to Tuy Hoa.  We were never together again except for one operation.  We still stayed in touch and got to see each other about every 6 to 8 weeks at our II Corps headquarters.  We would fly, drive or hitch a ride in to pick up our paychecks.  Later, Sam and Jerry transferred out.  One went to 3d Force Recon and the other, 3rd Recon.  But we still toast each other at reunions and on "TET", the "Vietnamese Lunar New Year".  We weren't special.  We were just Marines doing their jobs, who could have been , I suppose, reprimanded worse than we were.