One of my friends from the Marine Corps, Mike Newton, contacted me recently about a fellow we both knew in Vietnam. He was a Navy Hospital Corpsman named Richard "Doc" Pinsonnault and a good guy who didn't make it back from Vietnam.
A Hospital Corpsman or just Corpsman is the Army's version of a Medic. He's the guy who ranges around a battlefield finding wounded men and trying to save their lives. All a Corpsman carries for protection is a .45 caliber pistol and very rarely does he use it because he is too involved in treating stricken Marines. It's hard to imagine the courage it takes to go forward in a hostile environment, with bullets flying all over the place and mortars landing near you to save a buddy. "Doc" was that kind of guy and he did it many times.
Mike had been contacted by a fellow name Ray King who was from "Doc's" home town of North Attleboro, Massachusetts and had grown curious about a World War I monument located in front of St. Mary's Catholic Church. Ray noted the thirteen names and asked around to see if anyone knew who they were. No one did. At that moment Ray, a "mill right" in a local factory who says he is "not a writer", started his quest. After a year he finished his research on who the men were and how they died and arranged with The Free Press, the local paper, to publish the stories. In a letter from Ray he said, "I feel it's a terrible sin to have perished in the service of the country and to be forgotten".
As the stories were published there was a favorable response from the townsfolk and Ray continued his journey through World War II, Korea and then finally reached Vietnam and Hospital Corpsman Third Class Richard Pinsonnault. Apparently Doc's parents are gone but through the internet and some dogged searching Ray King found my friend Mike Newton. Mike came off the chopper on Hill 689 the night of June 6, 1968 was wounded, treated by Doc Pinsonnault and med-evaced shortly after. He wasn't with us the night Doc was killed but he knew I was so now it's my job to remember Doc's sacrifices and make sure he is nover forgotten.
Attached is the letter I sent to Ray King. It and other remembrances of Doc will be published in the North Attleboro Free Press on Veteran's Day 2011.
Dear Ray,
I am Will Lomen and I was with Doc Pinsonnault when he died on Hill 689 July 7, 1968. My great friend Mike Newton forwarded your email to me and asked me to write something for you about Doc. That was a couple of months ago and every time I tried to get started on my reply for some reason I had to stop. My brother Terry, who was also a Marine, was killed in Vietnam close to a year later in June of 1969 and his loss is something I deal with every day of my life. He and three of his best friends joined the Marine Corps because I did and they all made it back and in one piece except Terry. I have sworn I will finish this letter to honor the courage, steadfastness to duty and expertise that Doc exhibited in the field and under fire on many occasions.
I wasn't assigned to Charlie Company's 2nd Platoon until sometime in April of 1968 so I didn't know Doc as well as Mike and the other Marines on Hill 881 South. My memories of him were of a guy who was cocky but professional with his duties. To be a corpsman you had to be supremely confident in your abilities and able to handle the inevitable sarcastic banter lobbed at you daily by equally cocky but respectful Marines. We all knew that it took a special kind of man to range about a battlefield packing only a medical kit and a .45 caliber pistol that most likely would never be fired.
The night of July 6, 1968 Charlie Company of the First Battalion, First Marine Regiment was choppered onto Hill 689 in support of Delta Company who, the night before, had been hit by a fusillade of mortars followed by a suicide ground attack. They were in dire straits and undermanned but they couldn't be pushed off that hill. As soon as we landed we were hit by another mortar barrage resulting in two of my friends, Mike Newton and John Keeling being wounded. Mike with wounds to an arm and both legs; John hit in the face with shrapnel that miraculously curved down his forehead and over his nose, missing both eyes. Doc treated them both, and then in the dead of night and under fire our chopper returned, backed up to the hill, lowered the ramp and rescued all of our wounded.
That night we were re-enforced by Alpha Company then the next day Charlie Company was given the mission of retrieving marines from Delta Company who had been killed outside the perimeter the day before. Shortly after we went through the barbed wire to search for our comrades we were again hit by mortars and a lethal sniper whom we could not pinpoint. When our progress stalled we were ordered to pull back and once again Doc came to the front and treated his troops; specifically Waco Stroud and Sergeant Rowe both of whom died, but not because of Doc's actions. I watched him comfort them in their final moments.
After we returned to the top of the hill and were inside our lines again Doc treated more wounded men; specifically our company commander Captain Trautwein and two other Marines, Pat Caldwell and a fellow named Riley. I can't remember the other names. Once again the gutsy Marine pilots brought their CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters back to the hill and, in the face of nagging mortar attacks that were targeting our landing zone, recovered our casualties.
Suddenly as a former fire team leader I was informed that I was now the commander of second platoon and as darkness fell we came under attack again. Before I could ponder my new responsibilities the new company commander, Lieutenant Perry, ordered our platoon to a position on the west side of the hill. With my radio man Lance Corporal John Antonace and platoon corpsman Richard Pinsonnault following in my footsteps, I lead our small group of Marines out onto a small finger of land and dove into a trench. We tried to make out attacking soldiers in the dark on the other side of the barbed wire but couldn't see anything; our platoon laid down a wall of M-16 rounds anyway.
In the confusion of the moment we assumed another platoon from Charlie Company was to our left with Alpha Company to our right but we were wrong. For some reason I looked to my left and saw a group of men standing on a bunker and firing back inside our lines. They were shouting "We friendlies, we friendlies", but it was in a foreign accent. Before we had time to react two explosions detonated directly behind me, something lit up the area and Antonace landed on top of me, driving me into the bottom of the trench. The explosions turned out to be enemy hand grenades and the bright light was an illumination round that was strapped to the side of Antonace's radio. The illumination round was triggered by the exploding hand grenades and it fluttered into the air, landed on the side of the trench and rolled underneath me. Thinking it was some kind of time bomb I dragged myself out from underneath Antonace and dove out of the trench, falling into a bomb crater.
Not sure what was happening, my platoon regrouped and confirmed that somehow enemy troops were to our left and were attacking our position. We fired back, inside our lines, and eventually took out the men on the bunker. We killed most of them with their wounded succumbing to their wounds the next day. Still not sure about the security of our position we rushed back to the trench to find Antonace and Doc. They were gone. Doc had taken the force of the two exploding hand grenades to his front and John was killed when the igniting illumination round hit him in the side of the head as it detonated.
I am sorry to hear that Doc's parents aren't alive to remember him but maybe you have made contact with the cousin and he will carry on the memories. The important thing is that you are doing what you have set out to do. It is a noble effort and you represent a chosen group who has selflessly taken on the task of making sure nobody forgets the ones who have paid the ultimate price for their country. You say you are not a writer but you are wrong. A writer is someone who sets a goal to tell a story and gets it done. There are a lot of people who may have better writing skills and know how to use fancy words and have big dreams about writing a story but never quite get around to it. That's what separates the talkers from the doers, like you. Congratulations on the dream you have chosen and good luck on your quest.
Semper Fi, Will Lomen
Showing posts with label Mike Newton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mike Newton. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Moment of Truth
At the Marines Corps reunion I attended last August in Philadelphia I was reminiscing with one of my great friends, Mike Newton. Wounded by an exploding mortar round the evening of July 7th 1968, Mike was med-evaced off Hill 689 by helicopter in the dead of night. Miraculously, today he is in fine shape with no lasting effects from his ordeal. One of the first things he said to me during our reunion was, "Remember that time you almost drowned in the Rao Quan River near Hill 558?" In a flash the chilling memory rushed back at me like it had happened yesterday. To this day I shake my head because having survived contact with enemy soldiers, mortars, grenades and bullets, the closest I came to dying was while taking a bath.
In June of 1968 I was a twenty-one year old Marine infantryman with only two months left before getting my flight date back to "the world". My unit, Charlie Company of the First Battalion First Marine Regiment, was occupying hill 558, about two miles from the Khe Sanh Valley in the northern part of South Vietnam. We had been there a month running daily patrols of platoon and company size. At night we ran squad sized patrols around the company perimeter. We had had no enemy contact for a month so we were allowed to relax a little during the days if our platoon was not on patrol. One day after descending a forty foot ravine bordering our position, we discovered a swiftly running river that widened into an idyllic pool of calm, clear water. As we scrubbed weeks worth of dirt off in the river's coolness, time stood still. I looked around and imagined myself only a year before on a family trip swimming with my brother in the Dosewalips River near Hood Canal, in the state of Washington. I laughed as some of the guys, Newton being one of them, scrambled bare-ass up the rocks, then leaped from a twenty foot high cliff, landing with cannonball explosions in the river. Although nagged relentlessly I didn't attempt any of the daredevil antics, saying "I'll stay down here and clean up the mess." I was a better than average swimmer and had developed a healthy respect for the water while learning to swim as a kid.
As I tread water in the peaceful stream I became curious about the loud roar that was coming from around a bend in the river a short distance away. I let the gentle current take me and I drifted to a large rock guarding the narrows. I slid my hands along the rock's surface and with my feet, felt carefully underneath the water for a foothold. Sliding to the edge of the rock, I stopped. The roar of the river was deafening. I braced myself and stretched around the corner of the rock. I knew immediately I had made a serious mistake. All I could see was foaming white water. I remember the mist covering my face like millions of tiny tears. I tried to pull myself back around the corner. I could not move. The river had me in it's grasp. Forcing myself to stay calm I gradually increased the pressure of my grip on the rock and pulled again. I still could not move. To this day I'm not sure why I didn't yell for help. Fifty feet away there were at least twenty strong and quick combat-ready Marines who could have banded together in seconds to get me out of my predicament. Maybe that was it. I was young, confident and fit and this was a situation I felt I could get myself out of. Or maybe I just didn't want to cry out like a wimp. Suddenly my feet slipped off the rock, my right hand followed immediately and I was jerked powerfully around the corner without a whimper. I found myself gripped in a brutal maelstrom of swirling, churning water.
Rocks flashed into my path and the rapids smashed me maliciously into them. I tried to grab on but was going too fast. I forced myself into a sitting position and was immediately slammed into a solid wall of boiling water. Just before being yanked under I took a gulp of air. In less that a second I was shoved into an underwater cavern. I was forced into a crouching position with gallons of water cascading down on me. I pushed myself to my feet. I could see the sunlight. It was a blur. I knew I had to get out of that hole! I reached up with both hands and grabbed onto a rock. Fueled by coursing adrenaline I pulled upward with all my strength. I did not move an inch. Images and thoughts ignited through my mind: "Nobody saw me go!" "I'll never see my mother and brother again!" "There's nothing I can do!" I almost gave up. The water was crashing down on me and I realized there was no way I would ever be able to pull myself out. All I had to do was breathe in and my troubles would be over. But a voice screamed into my brain. "No! Don't give up! Fight back!" I relaxed my body and let the torrent take me back down. I tucked myself into a ball trying to protect my head. The sunlight disappeared and I was driven into the darkness of my worst nightmares. My arms and legs ricocheted off the rocky tunnel. As I somersaulted out of control I was almost ready to black out. Light! It was coming at me fast! I shot out of the underground stream and into a raging pool gasping for breath and disoriented. My mind was devoid of everything but one thought, "Don't let the river take you down again! You won't survive this time!" The current pounded me against a jagged wall. I rebounded off it unable to maintain a grip. The river narrowed again and I realized that this was my last chance. Stroking desperately to guide myself, I used the river's power to catapult me out of the river and onto an outcropping of rocks. I held on. I vowed nothing was going to pull me down again.
I lay there teetering on the edge of consciousness then let the exhaustion take over. When I came to my right cheek was resting against the outcropping's rugged stone surface, my ragged breathing rendered silent by the thunderous sound of the rapids. My eyes began to focus. The first thing I could see was the smashed crystal of my watch. One hand was missing and the other was sticking up from the face, broken in half. Water dripped off my nose, running through my mustache. I licked my lips, savoring the coolness. I realized I was still alive. Elation and relief poured through me. I rolled over slowly and sat up, my body aching. I had abrasions on both knees and both elbows. Blood trickled in little rivers down my arms and legs. The toes on my left foot throbbed dully. The joy of surviving began to wear off. As I wobbled to my feet I started to shiver uncontrollably. I looked around and could see I was at the bottom of a small fissure cut out of the rock. I took a deep breath and began climbing. Reaching the top, I pulled myself out and began limping unsteadily over the rocks, back up the river. I slipped and fell a few times but was numb to any more pain. I just kept moving through the white noise of the river.
Finally I climbed over an enormous rock and into view of the other Marines. They had realized I was missing and were heading down the river to find me. They cupped their hands to their mouths and called to me but I couldn't hear them over the thunder of the roaring river. I gestured with both hands for them to stay where they were as I continued toward them. Exhausted, I collapsed next to my gear. I tried to stop the bleeding on my arms and legs but doc, our Navy corpsman, took over. My buddies gathered around me.
"What happened?" Newton exclaimed.
"I got sucked down the river," was my lame answer, feeling pretty stupid.
"Can you walk?" Newton asked.
"Sure," I said, "piece of cake."
Newton chuckled. "Come on let's get him dressed and up the hill, we're heading back."
That night I was unable to sleep in our underground bunker as the walls began closing in on me like the walls of the subterranean tunnel. In the morning my arms and legs were black and blue and further examination by our corpsman revealed I had broken the big and little toes on my left foot. The bruises would heal and there is no treatment for broken toes except time, so after a few days of rest I was getting around OK. A week later we did make contact with the enemy and I had few close calls, but none as close as the incident at the river. Since that day I've always had the feeling that if I could survive an encounter like that I could survive anything.
In June of 1968 I was a twenty-one year old Marine infantryman with only two months left before getting my flight date back to "the world". My unit, Charlie Company of the First Battalion First Marine Regiment, was occupying hill 558, about two miles from the Khe Sanh Valley in the northern part of South Vietnam. We had been there a month running daily patrols of platoon and company size. At night we ran squad sized patrols around the company perimeter. We had had no enemy contact for a month so we were allowed to relax a little during the days if our platoon was not on patrol. One day after descending a forty foot ravine bordering our position, we discovered a swiftly running river that widened into an idyllic pool of calm, clear water. As we scrubbed weeks worth of dirt off in the river's coolness, time stood still. I looked around and imagined myself only a year before on a family trip swimming with my brother in the Dosewalips River near Hood Canal, in the state of Washington. I laughed as some of the guys, Newton being one of them, scrambled bare-ass up the rocks, then leaped from a twenty foot high cliff, landing with cannonball explosions in the river. Although nagged relentlessly I didn't attempt any of the daredevil antics, saying "I'll stay down here and clean up the mess." I was a better than average swimmer and had developed a healthy respect for the water while learning to swim as a kid.
As I tread water in the peaceful stream I became curious about the loud roar that was coming from around a bend in the river a short distance away. I let the gentle current take me and I drifted to a large rock guarding the narrows. I slid my hands along the rock's surface and with my feet, felt carefully underneath the water for a foothold. Sliding to the edge of the rock, I stopped. The roar of the river was deafening. I braced myself and stretched around the corner of the rock. I knew immediately I had made a serious mistake. All I could see was foaming white water. I remember the mist covering my face like millions of tiny tears. I tried to pull myself back around the corner. I could not move. The river had me in it's grasp. Forcing myself to stay calm I gradually increased the pressure of my grip on the rock and pulled again. I still could not move. To this day I'm not sure why I didn't yell for help. Fifty feet away there were at least twenty strong and quick combat-ready Marines who could have banded together in seconds to get me out of my predicament. Maybe that was it. I was young, confident and fit and this was a situation I felt I could get myself out of. Or maybe I just didn't want to cry out like a wimp. Suddenly my feet slipped off the rock, my right hand followed immediately and I was jerked powerfully around the corner without a whimper. I found myself gripped in a brutal maelstrom of swirling, churning water.
Rocks flashed into my path and the rapids smashed me maliciously into them. I tried to grab on but was going too fast. I forced myself into a sitting position and was immediately slammed into a solid wall of boiling water. Just before being yanked under I took a gulp of air. In less that a second I was shoved into an underwater cavern. I was forced into a crouching position with gallons of water cascading down on me. I pushed myself to my feet. I could see the sunlight. It was a blur. I knew I had to get out of that hole! I reached up with both hands and grabbed onto a rock. Fueled by coursing adrenaline I pulled upward with all my strength. I did not move an inch. Images and thoughts ignited through my mind: "Nobody saw me go!" "I'll never see my mother and brother again!" "There's nothing I can do!" I almost gave up. The water was crashing down on me and I realized there was no way I would ever be able to pull myself out. All I had to do was breathe in and my troubles would be over. But a voice screamed into my brain. "No! Don't give up! Fight back!" I relaxed my body and let the torrent take me back down. I tucked myself into a ball trying to protect my head. The sunlight disappeared and I was driven into the darkness of my worst nightmares. My arms and legs ricocheted off the rocky tunnel. As I somersaulted out of control I was almost ready to black out. Light! It was coming at me fast! I shot out of the underground stream and into a raging pool gasping for breath and disoriented. My mind was devoid of everything but one thought, "Don't let the river take you down again! You won't survive this time!" The current pounded me against a jagged wall. I rebounded off it unable to maintain a grip. The river narrowed again and I realized that this was my last chance. Stroking desperately to guide myself, I used the river's power to catapult me out of the river and onto an outcropping of rocks. I held on. I vowed nothing was going to pull me down again.
I lay there teetering on the edge of consciousness then let the exhaustion take over. When I came to my right cheek was resting against the outcropping's rugged stone surface, my ragged breathing rendered silent by the thunderous sound of the rapids. My eyes began to focus. The first thing I could see was the smashed crystal of my watch. One hand was missing and the other was sticking up from the face, broken in half. Water dripped off my nose, running through my mustache. I licked my lips, savoring the coolness. I realized I was still alive. Elation and relief poured through me. I rolled over slowly and sat up, my body aching. I had abrasions on both knees and both elbows. Blood trickled in little rivers down my arms and legs. The toes on my left foot throbbed dully. The joy of surviving began to wear off. As I wobbled to my feet I started to shiver uncontrollably. I looked around and could see I was at the bottom of a small fissure cut out of the rock. I took a deep breath and began climbing. Reaching the top, I pulled myself out and began limping unsteadily over the rocks, back up the river. I slipped and fell a few times but was numb to any more pain. I just kept moving through the white noise of the river.
Finally I climbed over an enormous rock and into view of the other Marines. They had realized I was missing and were heading down the river to find me. They cupped their hands to their mouths and called to me but I couldn't hear them over the thunder of the roaring river. I gestured with both hands for them to stay where they were as I continued toward them. Exhausted, I collapsed next to my gear. I tried to stop the bleeding on my arms and legs but doc, our Navy corpsman, took over. My buddies gathered around me.
"What happened?" Newton exclaimed.
"I got sucked down the river," was my lame answer, feeling pretty stupid.
"Can you walk?" Newton asked.
"Sure," I said, "piece of cake."
Newton chuckled. "Come on let's get him dressed and up the hill, we're heading back."
That night I was unable to sleep in our underground bunker as the walls began closing in on me like the walls of the subterranean tunnel. In the morning my arms and legs were black and blue and further examination by our corpsman revealed I had broken the big and little toes on my left foot. The bruises would heal and there is no treatment for broken toes except time, so after a few days of rest I was getting around OK. A week later we did make contact with the enemy and I had few close calls, but none as close as the incident at the river. Since that day I've always had the feeling that if I could survive an encounter like that I could survive anything.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Trip: 2009 1st Battalion 1st Marine Regiment Reunion
AUGUST 29, 2009 1:30pm - Because of an amazing coincidence I hit the ground at the Capitol hours before Senator Kennedy's memorial and as I stood at Constitution Avenue there was not a taxi to be found. Having been delayed at the DC airport and since my walk from the Metrorail station to the Wall had taken longer than I had expected I was "under the gun" to get to Union Station in time for my train's departure at 2:20PM. Walking the three miles was not an option as it was already 1:45PM.
Suddenly a taxi passed me on Constitution Avenue heading westbound but the station was due east. I didn't care as I ran into the street and raised my arm. "Taxi", I shouted. The yellow cab continued a few yards then it's brake lights flashed on, the driver flipped a yooey and headed back my way. After popping the door I shoved my bag in and announced "Union Station" to my driver, Muhammad from Ethiopia. I thanked him profusely and he picked up on my urgency in a moment and said I would make my train "with no problem". I breathed easier as I was already ticketed for Philadelphia and didn't want to deal with rescheduling fees, missing my train and not making it to the Reunion on time.
Muhammad was a good guy who was glad to be living in America but traveled back to his homeland yearly to see his family. Arriving at the station I tipped Muhammad well, found the Quik-Trak machine, scanned the bar code on my confirmation form and found the gate for my departure. Standing in line, I met a couple who were traveling home to New York who confirmed that I was waiting for the right train and heading in the right direction. Once aboard the #156 Northeast Regional I figured I would break out my newly purchased neck brace, kick back and snooze for the 2 hour trip to Philly (I've been told it's not presumptuous to use this city nickname). But I was too keyed up and I realized that the emotion of the moment was what was going to get me through the day. I welcomed it and pulled out my reading material: the latest novel from one of my favorite authors Michael Connelly titled: THE SCARECROW.
Before I left Philly I called my nephew Tyler at whose home I would be spending the night. His mom Mary Beth, dad Dale and brother Travis were visiting from Tacoma, WA. and they were all going to the "Jersey shore" for a few days. Another amazing coincidence that we would be "passing ships in the night" the only time I had been on the east coast in thirty years. (I ran the Boston Marathon in 1979 back when you had to qualify by running a sub three hour marathon. Another story.) He confirmed the key was underneath the white pot on the back porch and that his three roommates probably wouldn't be around until the next day. (It WAS Saturday night in Philly and they were all in their mid-twenties.)
I also was in contact with my Marine comrade, Mike Newton, who was going to pick me up at the 30th Street train station in Philly. Conveniently, Tyler's house was north of the city and on the way to King of Prussia Sheraton where the reunion was being held. Mike, when he worked for PBS, visited us in Seattle a couple of times so the girls had met him and he entertained Caitlin and her friend Nicole one night in Boston when he worked for the Boston Ballet. They were having a special performance for some "high rollers" so Mike invited them but didn't require them to make any donations.
Mike said he would meet me at the 30th Street entrance and it was a wonderful surprise to find two other former comrades: John Keeling from Houston and Joe Fulginiti from Fredericksburg, VA. in the car with Mike. All four us had been involved in a memorable battle on Hill 689 on July 6-8 1968 with both Mike and John being wounded and medevaced in a daring helicopter rescue at night and under enemy fire. I hadn't seen John or Joe for a long time and the drive to Tyler's and the hotel gave us time to "hash" over stuff we hadn't dealt with for forty years.
John, Will, Mike & Joe
Unbelievably, I had forgotten John had been wounded and seeing the scar on his cheek that curved down his nose confirmed that good luck is fleeting and unpredictable. He and Mike had been wounded by the same exploding mortar round with me close behind, untouched and suddenly thrust into the role of squad leader. The four of us, with our different perspectives, were able to piece together the events of that chaotic night. With Mike and John gone and after events of the following day and deadly night I found myself as the commander of Charlie Company second platoon. With Joe's recollection of the aborted rescue mission the next day and his revelation that Charlie Company fired over 400 mortar rounds the second night I found a lifetime of questions being answered. I remembered with awe knowing three of my nine lives being used up in less the 48 hours.
With Saturday traffic on Highway 67 backed up like rush hour Joe exited and entered the freeway in what he claimed were short cuts. In fact, like most guys, he would rather be moving in a longer route than crawling along bumper to bumper on a shorter route and taking the same amount of time. If didn't matter as it gave the four of us time to get reacquainted after a forty year separation. Joe is a corporate motivational speaker, married with two beautiful daughters (I know they are beautiful because they were at the reunion dinner), John is a hotel developer with a son and a daughter and a beautiful wife Evelyn (I know she is beautiful because she was also at the reunion) and Mike has a son and a beautiful wife Jenalyn (I know she is beautiful because he told me).
We dropped my gear at Tyler's and after using Mike's room at the hotel, to get squared away, I made it to the pre-function at 6:30PM with a Budweiser in my hand. With a lot of the remaining major breweries located east of the Mississippi micro/macro/specialty beers don't seem to be as prevalent as they are in the West. I settled for a "Bud" because my other choices were Bud lite, Miller lite or an "imported beer" Corona. Lite beer and a beer that can only gagged down with a slice of lemon are pretty sad options but the "King of beers" was cold and I had a designated driver (Mike) so I was a happy boy.
After I met John's wife Evelyn and Joe's two great daughters, George Dougherty Sr. the 2009 Reunion Chairman, sidled up to Joe and said "you're the man". They gave each other a long look and Joe said to our group "he means I'm the master of ceremonies AND the main speaker AND the guest of honor." Apparently because of the current activities in Iraq and Afghanistan our main speaker, a Marine General, had to cancel his speech to our group. We nodded to Joe and said "you are the man!"
Joe was in his element as for the next two hours he told jokes, reminisced about past commanders and cajoled his comrades to the stage to speak. Some of these men had never stood up in front of a group this large (three hundred) but they "spoke from the heart" giving the evening a uniquely personal feel. Sure it would have been informative to get a update on the next "surge" and it is true those are our brothers fighting over there now but it's not our war. Having the mother of Sergeant Alfredo Gonzales, a Medal of Honor recipient from Alpha 1/1, sitting at our table and hearing her speak was an honor and it personalized "our war" and made me proud of having been a Marine and having served with those men.
After the dinner and the speeches I mingled with Marines who had served in Vietnam before me and after me and in the other companies in 1/1 Alpha, Bravo, Delta and Headquarter & Supply while I had been "in country" but I didn't know or recognize any of them. In spite of that we still had at least three things in common; we were Marines, we had served our country when asked and we lived to tell about.
Finally my group ended up back at our table just as a waiter we telling Mike (who doesn't drink) that we were only supposed to have two bottle of wine at a time at our table, not five. Without hesitating, Mike said, "three of them are empty but bring us a couple more when you get a chance." You cracked us all up. What stamina John's wonderful wife Evelyn has! She helped us close the place down and probably listened to a lifetime of boring war stories in on night! She and my wife Gwynne are soul mates. Meeting Joe's terrific daughters, who love their dad so much that they would hang out with a bunch of sixty year olds for one long evening, was a wonderful replacement for missing my two daughters Caitlin and Charlotte. My girls have always been aware of my being in the Marine Corps and my serving in Vietnam and they know they will never meet their uncle Terry so they have been very curious about "dad's trip" and my visit to "The Wall". It took forty-some years to get there but the time was right and I'm glad we all made it. (In more ways the one.)
Suddenly a taxi passed me on Constitution Avenue heading westbound but the station was due east. I didn't care as I ran into the street and raised my arm. "Taxi", I shouted. The yellow cab continued a few yards then it's brake lights flashed on, the driver flipped a yooey and headed back my way. After popping the door I shoved my bag in and announced "Union Station" to my driver, Muhammad from Ethiopia. I thanked him profusely and he picked up on my urgency in a moment and said I would make my train "with no problem". I breathed easier as I was already ticketed for Philadelphia and didn't want to deal with rescheduling fees, missing my train and not making it to the Reunion on time.
Muhammad was a good guy who was glad to be living in America but traveled back to his homeland yearly to see his family. Arriving at the station I tipped Muhammad well, found the Quik-Trak machine, scanned the bar code on my confirmation form and found the gate for my departure. Standing in line, I met a couple who were traveling home to New York who confirmed that I was waiting for the right train and heading in the right direction. Once aboard the #156 Northeast Regional I figured I would break out my newly purchased neck brace, kick back and snooze for the 2 hour trip to Philly (I've been told it's not presumptuous to use this city nickname). But I was too keyed up and I realized that the emotion of the moment was what was going to get me through the day. I welcomed it and pulled out my reading material: the latest novel from one of my favorite authors Michael Connelly titled: THE SCARECROW.
Before I left Philly I called my nephew Tyler at whose home I would be spending the night. His mom Mary Beth, dad Dale and brother Travis were visiting from Tacoma, WA. and they were all going to the "Jersey shore" for a few days. Another amazing coincidence that we would be "passing ships in the night" the only time I had been on the east coast in thirty years. (I ran the Boston Marathon in 1979 back when you had to qualify by running a sub three hour marathon. Another story.) He confirmed the key was underneath the white pot on the back porch and that his three roommates probably wouldn't be around until the next day. (It WAS Saturday night in Philly and they were all in their mid-twenties.)
I also was in contact with my Marine comrade, Mike Newton, who was going to pick me up at the 30th Street train station in Philly. Conveniently, Tyler's house was north of the city and on the way to King of Prussia Sheraton where the reunion was being held. Mike, when he worked for PBS, visited us in Seattle a couple of times so the girls had met him and he entertained Caitlin and her friend Nicole one night in Boston when he worked for the Boston Ballet. They were having a special performance for some "high rollers" so Mike invited them but didn't require them to make any donations.
Mike said he would meet me at the 30th Street entrance and it was a wonderful surprise to find two other former comrades: John Keeling from Houston and Joe Fulginiti from Fredericksburg, VA. in the car with Mike. All four us had been involved in a memorable battle on Hill 689 on July 6-8 1968 with both Mike and John being wounded and medevaced in a daring helicopter rescue at night and under enemy fire. I hadn't seen John or Joe for a long time and the drive to Tyler's and the hotel gave us time to "hash" over stuff we hadn't dealt with for forty years.
Unbelievably, I had forgotten John had been wounded and seeing the scar on his cheek that curved down his nose confirmed that good luck is fleeting and unpredictable. He and Mike had been wounded by the same exploding mortar round with me close behind, untouched and suddenly thrust into the role of squad leader. The four of us, with our different perspectives, were able to piece together the events of that chaotic night. With Mike and John gone and after events of the following day and deadly night I found myself as the commander of Charlie Company second platoon. With Joe's recollection of the aborted rescue mission the next day and his revelation that Charlie Company fired over 400 mortar rounds the second night I found a lifetime of questions being answered. I remembered with awe knowing three of my nine lives being used up in less the 48 hours.
With Saturday traffic on Highway 67 backed up like rush hour Joe exited and entered the freeway in what he claimed were short cuts. In fact, like most guys, he would rather be moving in a longer route than crawling along bumper to bumper on a shorter route and taking the same amount of time. If didn't matter as it gave the four of us time to get reacquainted after a forty year separation. Joe is a corporate motivational speaker, married with two beautiful daughters (I know they are beautiful because they were at the reunion dinner), John is a hotel developer with a son and a daughter and a beautiful wife Evelyn (I know she is beautiful because she was also at the reunion) and Mike has a son and a beautiful wife Jenalyn (I know she is beautiful because he told me).
We dropped my gear at Tyler's and after using Mike's room at the hotel, to get squared away, I made it to the pre-function at 6:30PM with a Budweiser in my hand. With a lot of the remaining major breweries located east of the Mississippi micro/macro/specialty beers don't seem to be as prevalent as they are in the West. I settled for a "Bud" because my other choices were Bud lite, Miller lite or an "imported beer" Corona. Lite beer and a beer that can only gagged down with a slice of lemon are pretty sad options but the "King of beers" was cold and I had a designated driver (Mike) so I was a happy boy.
After I met John's wife Evelyn and Joe's two great daughters, George Dougherty Sr. the 2009 Reunion Chairman, sidled up to Joe and said "you're the man". They gave each other a long look and Joe said to our group "he means I'm the master of ceremonies AND the main speaker AND the guest of honor." Apparently because of the current activities in Iraq and Afghanistan our main speaker, a Marine General, had to cancel his speech to our group. We nodded to Joe and said "you are the man!"
Joe was in his element as for the next two hours he told jokes, reminisced about past commanders and cajoled his comrades to the stage to speak. Some of these men had never stood up in front of a group this large (three hundred) but they "spoke from the heart" giving the evening a uniquely personal feel. Sure it would have been informative to get a update on the next "surge" and it is true those are our brothers fighting over there now but it's not our war. Having the mother of Sergeant Alfredo Gonzales, a Medal of Honor recipient from Alpha 1/1, sitting at our table and hearing her speak was an honor and it personalized "our war" and made me proud of having been a Marine and having served with those men.
After the dinner and the speeches I mingled with Marines who had served in Vietnam before me and after me and in the other companies in 1/1 Alpha, Bravo, Delta and Headquarter & Supply while I had been "in country" but I didn't know or recognize any of them. In spite of that we still had at least three things in common; we were Marines, we had served our country when asked and we lived to tell about.
Finally my group ended up back at our table just as a waiter we telling Mike (who doesn't drink) that we were only supposed to have two bottle of wine at a time at our table, not five. Without hesitating, Mike said, "three of them are empty but bring us a couple more when you get a chance." You cracked us all up. What stamina John's wonderful wife Evelyn has! She helped us close the place down and probably listened to a lifetime of boring war stories in on night! She and my wife Gwynne are soul mates. Meeting Joe's terrific daughters, who love their dad so much that they would hang out with a bunch of sixty year olds for one long evening, was a wonderful replacement for missing my two daughters Caitlin and Charlotte. My girls have always been aware of my being in the Marine Corps and my serving in Vietnam and they know they will never meet their uncle Terry so they have been very curious about "dad's trip" and my visit to "The Wall". It took forty-some years to get there but the time was right and I'm glad we all made it. (In more ways the one.)
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