Bebop and I were almost out of cigarettes, so we took turns smoking the last couple, passing them back and forth to each other after each drag.
“You were something today,” I said. “I almost wasn’t embarrassed to know you.”
Bebop grinned, since he knew perfectly well that that meant I’d been really proud of him.
“So — was that jazz?” I asked. “It sort of sounded like ‘My Favorite Things.’”
He laughed, exhaled some smoke, and handed the cigarette to me. “Do me a favor, man. Promise me you’ll sit down for a couple hours someday and listen to Mr. John Coltrane.”
Fair enough. “Will do,” I said.
We talked until he fell asleep, too. So I decided to take a few minutes, and write about everything that happened today. It was really peaceful in the tent, and except for snoring, the only sound was the Professor turning pages in his book.
I guess I am a little nervous about where we’re going next. What if it’s even worse than Khe Sanh? Hard to imagine that it could be, but if I’ve learned anything over here, it’s that this is a really bad war. I know all wars are bad, but this one seems — I don’t know. I wish I could sit down and talk to my father, and my uncles, and find out what their wars were really like. This time, I know they’d tell me the truth. The whole story — even the horrible parts. But I bet they’d also tell me about their buddies, and how close they all were, and how after a while, you’d do anything for them.
With all of the bad parts of war — this war — every war? — at least you’re together with a bunch of great, brave guys who you trust more than —
April 21, 1968, 18th Surgical Hospital, Quang Tri, Republic of South Vietnam
When I woke up, I couldn’t figure out where I was. Everything smelled funny, I was thirsty as hell, and some guy was leaning over me. No idea who he was — just a guy. Complete stranger, really blurry.
“Hey, man,” he said. Looked surprised. “You’re back!”
Back? Back where?
“Don’t worry, troop, it’s okay,” he said. “You’re going home.”
Going home? What?
Can’t write anymore now. I can’t think. I don’t want to think.
Later —
I’m going home — and I don’t care. Apparently, I’m all messed up — and I don’t care. The last thing I remember is lying on my rack in the tent, writing. I was having trouble keeping my eyes open, so I was about to put my pen down.
Then, I heard it. The shriek, and the whistle. The sound of a rocket. Everyone woke up instantly, because we knew that sound — and we knew that it was heading straight for us. It must have hit us then, because I don’t remember any of us getting out of the tent in time. The beams came crashing down, guys were screaming, and — that’s all I remember.
I woke up here in the hospital. They had me all hooked up to tubes and needles, and I guess I was pretty critical, because the doctors and everyone seemed sort of shocked that I was conscious. I had a tube in my throat, but I got so upset that they took it out.
The first thing I asked was where the other guys were, and if they were all right, but they either didn’t know — or didn’t want to tell me — because no one would answer me. I guess I took a lot of shrapnel in the chest, because of all the tubes and bandages. In fact, my whole left side looks — and feels — like it got chewed up. They keep putting on fresh bandages, but the red comes staining through in a couple of minutes. One of the corpsman told me that my lung was punctured. Sucking chest wound.
Every few hours, someone comes and shoots me full of morphine. I know I’m in pain, but they have me on so many drugs that I can’t really focus on it. They tried to take this book away from me, but I started yelling and swearing, so they left me alone. I had trouble even finding it at first, and thought it might be lost, but it turned out to be in this little canvas bag hanging next to my bed. It was in my shirt pocket when I got hit, and one of the doctors says that might have saved my life, because there’s shrapnel stuck in the cover which probably would have gone right into my heart. The same doctor also says that my left leg is in really bad shape, but there’s a pretty good chance they might not have to amputate it.
A pretty good chance.
I’m surrounded by guys who are all in critical condition, so I guess this is intensive care. The guy in the bed across from me is in a world of hurt — his head and eyes all covered with bandages, and both legs gone just above the knees. He seems to respond when they talk to him, so I guess he doesn’t have brain damage, but I heard someone saying that he’s going to be completely blind.
Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts a lot. Where’s that son-of-a-bitch with the morphine? I can’t even — I just wish someone would tell me where my buddies are.
I have to stop writing — this is too hard.
April 22, 1968
Rotgut came to see me first thing this morning. He had a bandage wrapped around his hand, but other than that, he was fine. When he saw me, his eyes got all bright and he kept swallowing.
“I’m glad you’re here, man,” I said. “Where is everyone? Are they okay?”
He actually started crying and couldn’t talk for a minute.
So I knew it was bad. I forgot how much everything hurt, because I knew he was going to tell me stuff I didn’t want to hear.
“Did anyone else get hurt?” I asked.
He stared at me, and then pointed across the aisle at the blind guy with the missing legs.
Oh, God. “Who is it?” I asked.
“The Professor,” he said.
I was ten feet away from the Professor — my buddy — and with all of those bandages covering his face and head, I hadn’t even recognized him. Oh, God. I didn’t ask if he was going to be okay, because I could see that he wasn’t.
So I waited to hear the rest.
Our tent took a direct hit from the rocket. A few guys were able to walk away with minor injuries, but the Professor and I were seriously wounded. In fact, neither of us had been expected to survive that first night.
And then, still crying, Rotgut told me the hard part. Six Marines were killed, including Pugsley, Motormouth — and Bebop.
Bebop.
“God, I am really sorry, man,” Rotgut said. “I’m really —” He was having trouble talking, so he just stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry, man, I gotta go,” he said in a really low voice, and walked away, still crying.
Bebop.
Oh, God, not Bebop.
Later —
The Professor was transferred to the U.S.S. Repose, the hospital ship anchored out in the South China Sea. I guess they have some big eye specialist out there. I was able to say good-bye to him, and they even wheeled him close enough so that I could shake his hand. I was scared that he might not know who I was, but he gripped my hand and whispered, “Don’t worry, Mighty Mouse. It’ll be okay.”
Yeah. Sure it will.
They were preparing me to be evacuated out on the next flight to the general hospital in Japan, when the skipper showed up. He looked ten years older than he had the last time I saw him, and I thought for a minute that he might cry, too — especially when he found out that he had just missed the Professor. Apparently, he had come to see us a couple of times before, but we had both been unconscious.
“How you doing, son?” he asked.
“Fine, sir,” I answered. “Thank you, sir.” Once a Marine, always a Marine.
I guess he could tell that I couldn’t really bring myself to talk, because he just sat down next to me, while they were getting me ready to go. Told me how proud he was of me — and all the guys — and what an honor it had been to serve as our commander, and how very sorry he was. I nodded in all the right places, and tried to smile at him.
The corpsmen were transferring me to a gurney now, and the skipper st
ood up.
“Take care of yourself,” he said, and paused. “You’re one fine Marine, Patrick.”
Then they took me away.
On the plane —
Bebop. Why Bebop? Why anyone, but why Bebop? Why not me, instead? I wish it had been me.
I’m going home.
The best friend I’ve ever had isn’t.
What else is there to say?
Officially, the battle of Khe Sanh lasted for seventy-seven long days. More than 100,000 tons of bombs were dropped in the area during this time frame, and at least 150,000 artillery rounds were fired at the enemy. At the time, it was the most intense aerial bombardment in the history of warfare. But within weeks, the main base at Khe Sanh had been completely torn down, and was abandoned by United States forces. The territory the Marines had defended so fiercely, spilling their own blood in the process, was ultimately given up without a fight.
Patrick Flaherty was evacuated from the 18th Surgical Hospital in South Vietnam to a military hospital at Camp Zama, in Japan. Once his condition had stabilized, he was transferred back to the United States, where he spent eight months recuperating at the Philadelphia Naval Hospital. Although his leg was almost amputated on three separate occasions, the doctors managed to save it. And after months of therapy, Patrick was able to get his strength back and learn how to walk again.
His family drove down to Philadelphia to visit him as often as possible, and during her summer break, his friend Audrey Taylor began coming, too. When he was finally released, Patrick returned to Boston. After a few more months of recuperating at home, he enrolled in Boston College for the fall semester in 1969. He was strong enough to play football again — but the game no longer seemed very interesting, or important.
Antiwar protests were everywhere, and even with long hair and a mustache, as an ex-Marine, Patrick did not feel comfortable being on a college campus. So, he dropped out near the end of his freshman year. His family was very supportive, but Patrick spent a lot of time by himself, not sure if he had enough energy to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure if he cared enough to try. But by now, he was dating Audrey seriously, and with her encouragement, his confidence began to come back.
He took the city exam for the Boston Fire Department, and spent months working out so that he would be able to pass the physical examinations and go through the training program. He was hired as a member of the department, passed the academy with flying colors, and was assigned to a ladder company at a busy firehouse in Roxbury. He also asked Audrey to marry him, and she accepted.
Patrick stayed in the Boston Fire Department for more than twenty-five years, rising to the rank of District Chief. He and Audrey had four children, and Patrick was pleased, and a little surprised, when his son — and one of his three daughters — followed him into the Fire Department. They became the fifth generation of Flahertys to serve as members of the BFD. Privately, Patrick has always hoped that, one day, at least one of his grandchildren will continue the tradition.
After he retired from the fire department, and Audrey left her job teaching English at Dorchester High School, they moved to a small town in northern New Hampshire, where they still live today. Patrick is the chief of the local volunteer fire department, and he spends most of his free time hiking and skiing. He rarely discusses his time in Vietnam, but he’s not sorry that he went, and he’s proud to have been a United States Marine.
There is one promise he made in Vietnam which he has always kept — and always will. Ever since he was released from the Philadelphia Naval Hospital, back in 1969, Patrick has made a point of sitting down and listening to some jazz — John Coltrane or one of the other great saxophone players — every single day, without fail.
And every single time, it makes him sad.
The Vietnam War began much earlier than most people realize, and for many Americans, it can be argued that even today, it has never ended. There are different opinions about how and why the United States became involved in the war, and even more opinions about whether this was right or wrong, and how our country’s history was changed as a result. The country was — and is — sharply divided about the war. The bitter and angry feelings which intensified throughout the 1960s continue to simmer decades later, as America tries to come to terms with a war that became a nightmare.
Vietnam has had a long history of fighting for its independence from much larger and more powerful nations. For centuries, the little country struggled against its powerful neighbor to the north, China. Then, by the late 1800s, Vietnam had — against its will — become a colony of France. The entire Vietnam-Laos-Cambodia area was called French Indochina.
During World War II, Japan moved in to occupy Vietnam for geographical and strategic reasons. This concerned the United States a great deal, and for the first time, America began providing financial aid to Indochina (Vietnam).
When World War II came to an end, Vietnam was still considered a French colony, and a determined Vietnamese leader named Ho Chi Minh vowed that Vietnam was going to achieve its independence once and for all. He appealed to then–United States President Harry S Truman for help. Although America did not want to support French colonial rule, encouraging Ho Chi Minh and his Communist beliefs also seemed like a poor policy decision. So, the United States did not respond to Ho Chi Minh’s overtures.
With the help of a young general named Giap, Ho Chi Minh authorized a guerilla military force called the Viet Minh to form. Soon, the French Indochina War had begun. Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Minh were located in the northern part of Vietnam, and they started attacking the less militant, southern half of Vietnam, where many French installations were located.
By now, Dwight D. Eisenhower was the President of the United States. He had very strong negative beliefs about Communism, and felt that America should battle against this political evil in all corners of the world. President Eisenhower and his administration were concerned that the Soviet Union and China were potentially serious threats to American security, and that all forms of Communism should be eliminated. The United States had become involved in what was called the Cold War with the Soviet Union during the early 1950s, and our troops were also fighting in the Korean War during this same time period. Now it seemed as though America would intervene in Vietnam, as well.
Deciding that French colonialism was the lesser of two evils, the United States began sending significant aid, as well as military advisors, to Vietnam. The military advisors were assigned the task of helping develop and train a Southern Vietnamese army. But despite America’s efforts, the Viet Minh were clearly winning the war.
In 1954, General Giap’s troops won a decisive and dramatic battle against France at an isolated outpost called Dien Bien Phu. Later that year, a fragile peace was established at a conference in Switzerland known as the Geneva Accords. Vietnam — no longer known as Indochina — was officially divided into two parts. This division was made at the 17th Parallel. (Years later, this would be called the Demilitarized Zone, or DMZ.) Communist North Vietnam was located above the line, and the more democratic South Vietnam was below the dividing line. On paper, South Vietnam was permitted to seek its own form of government and hold free elections. But Ho Chi Minh and his followers were eager to “reform” their fellow countrymen and women.
The Viet Minh were now called the Vietnamese Communists. This term was shortened to the more familiar phrase Viet Cong, or VC. Communist troops began to infiltrate the South, and guerilla attacks and terrorist acts became common. The United States increased the number of American military advisors, and also sent financial aid to the struggling South Vietnamese citizens. Unfortunately, the South Vietnamese soldiers were not developing into an army capable of defending themselves against North Vietnam.
It seemed inevitable that Vietnam would soon be a completely Communist country. Either the United States could
step back and allow this to happen — or American troops could be sent in. In 1964, President Lyndon B. Johnson and his advisors had decided that it was time for America to take charge.
In August of 1964, there was a confrontation in the Gulf of Tonkin between North Vietnamese patrol boats and a United States Navy ship. At the time, it was interpreted as an attack against American forces, but it may only have been a minor threat. In any case, the United States Senate and House of Representatives signed a Joint Resolution of Congress protesting this event. This Tonkin Gulf Resolution gave President Johnson permission “to take all necessary measures to repel any . . . attacks against . . . the United States . . . including the use of armed force.” President Johnson had vowed not to enlarge the scope of the war, but he ended up ordering bombing missions over North Vietnam and sending large numbers of American troops to South Vietnam. The Vietnam War had begun.
Within a year, there were at least 125,000 American troops in Vietnam, and the numbers just kept growing. North Vietnam, in addition to its Viet Cong guerilla troops, had created a large North Vietnamese Army to confront their new enemy: the United States. President Johnson’s administration and the American military command were planning only to assist their allies, the Army of the Republic of South Vietnam, or ARVN. The United States was planning to help South Vietnam defend itself, without escalating the war by invading North Vietnam, or neighboring Cambodia and Laos.
This strategy made it very easy for the NVA and VC to mount swift “hit-and-run” attacks, and then retreat to safety in areas where American troops could not follow them. These guerilla tactics were difficult to handle. Well aware of typical American strategy, Ho Chi Minh and General Giap decided simply to keep sending in endless numbers of troops, and continue the fight no matter how many casualties they sustained. Therefore, the Vietnam War became known as a war of attrition, or a “body count” war.
Into No Man's Land Page 13