Legend

by Eric Blehm

  Well, yes, we do know. I think we just let it slip our minds for a time. It’s time to show our pride in them and to thank them….

  I have one more Vietnam story, and the individual in this story was brought up on a farm outside of Cuero in De Witt County, Texas, and he is here today…. [His] story, which had been overlooked or buried for several years…has to do with the highest award our nation can give, the Congressional Medal of Honor, given only for service above and beyond the call of duty.

  At this point, Weinberger escorted Roy to the podium to stand beside Reagan.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to have with us today Master Sergeant Roy P. Benavidez, U.S. Army, Retired.” Almost without exception, citations for valor were read by an aide or member of a president’s cabinet, but Reagan himself read the citation—the contents of which he said had been “lost for too long a time”:

  On May 2, 1968, Master Sergeant (then Staff Sergeant) Roy P. Benavidez distinguished himself by a series of daring and extremely valorous actions while assigned to Detachment B-56, 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne), 1st Special Forces, Republic of Vietnam.

  On the morning of May 2, 1968, a 12-man Special Forces Reconnaissance Team was inserted by helicopters in a dense jungle area west of Loc Ninh, Vietnam, to gather intelligence information about confirmed large-scale enemy activity. This area was controlled and routinely patrolled by the North Vietnamese Army. After a short period of time on the ground, the team met heavy enemy resistance, and requested emergency extraction. Three helicopters attempted extraction, but were unable to land due to intense enemy small arms and anti-aircraft fire.

  Sergeant Benavidez was at the Forward Operating Base in Loc Ninh monitoring the operation by radio when these helicopters returned to off-load wounded crew members and to assess aircraft damage. Sergeant Benavidez voluntarily boarded a returning aircraft to assist in another extraction attempt. Realizing that all the team members were either dead or wounded and unable to move to the pickup zone, he directed the aircraft to a nearby clearing where he jumped from the hovering helicopter, and ran approximately 75 meters under withering small arms fire to the crippled team. Prior to reaching the team’s position, he was wounded in his right leg, face, and head.

  Despite these painful injuries, he took charge, repositioning the team members and directing their fire to facilitate the landing of an extraction aircraft, and the loading of wounded and dead team members. He then threw smoke canisters to direct the aircraft to the team’s position. Despite his severe wounds and under intense enemy fire, he carried and dragged half of the wounded team members to the awaiting aircraft. He then provided protective fire by running alongside the aircraft as it moved to pick up the remaining team members. As the enemy’s fire intensified, he hurried to recover the body and the classified documents on the dead team leader. When he reached the team leader’s body, Sergeant Benavidez was severely wounded by small arms fire in the abdomen and grenade fragments in his back. At nearly the same moment, the aircraft pilot was mortally wounded, and his helicopter crashed.

  Although in extremely critical condition due to his multiple wounds, Sergeant Benavidez secured the classified documents and made his way back to the wreckage, where he aided the wounded out of the overturned aircraft, and gathered the stunned survivors into a defensive perimeter. Under increasing enemy automatic-weapons and grenade fire, he moved around the perimeter distributing water and ammunition to his weary men, re-instilling in them a will to live and fight. Facing a build-up of enemy opposition with a beleaguered team, Sergeant Benavidez mustered his strength, and began calling in tactical air strikes and directing the fire from supporting gunships, to suppress the enemy’s fire and so permit another extraction attempt. He was wounded again in his thigh by small arms fire while administering first aid to a wounded team member just before another extraction helicopter was able to land.

  His indomitable spirit kept him going as he began to ferry his comrades to the craft. On his second trip with the wounded, he was clubbed from behind by an enemy soldier. In the ensuing hand-to-hand combat, he sustained additional wounds to his head and arms before killing his adversary. He then continued under devastating fire to carry the wounded to the helicopter. Upon reaching the aircraft, he spotted and killed two enemy soldiers who were rushing the craft from an angle that prevented the aircraft door gunner from firing upon them. With little strength remaining, he made one last trip to the perimeter to ensure that all classified material had been collected or destroyed, and to bring in the remaining wounded.

  Only then, in extremely serious condition from numerous wounds and loss of blood, did he allow himself to be pulled into the extraction aircraft. Sergeant Benavidez’ gallant choice to join voluntarily his comrades who were in critical straits, to expose himself constantly to withering enemy fire, and his refusal to be stopped despite numerous severe wounds, saved the lives of at least eight men. His fearless personal leadership, tenacious devotion to duty, and extremely valorous actions in the face of overwhelming odds were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service, and reflect the utmost credit on him and the United States Army.

  “Sergeant Benavidez,” said President Reagan, turning to Roy, “a nation grateful to you, and to all your comrades living and dead, awards you its highest symbol of gratitude for service above and beyond the call of duty, the Congressional Medal of Honor.”

  EPILOGUE

  EVEN BEFORE ROY and his family returned to El Campo the next day, the phone at the Benavidez home was ringing with requests for interviews and invitations to speak across the nation. Roy told his family what President Reagan had said to him in parting—that it was his duty to share his story, especially with the children. “They need to hear stories like yours,” Reagan said. An Army public affairs officer informed Roy to be prepared for a flurry of media interest in him, that it “would probably last a few months, maybe a year,” says Denise, “and then it would calm down, and everything would get back to normal.”

  The following day, Roy brought the Medal of Honor to the El Campo cemetery, where he stood by the graves of Grandfather Salvador and Uncle Nicholas and thanked them. Next he went to the home of Art Haddock—Roy’s boss at the Firestone tire store and his mentor—and gave him a hug. The following week, he accepted his first speaking invitation at the El Campo junior high school and began to hone the message he would continue to deliver to any school that requested him to speak. “Like a fool,” he would say to audiences, “I dropped out of school. I’m not proud of it. An education is the key to success.” And then he told his story, from the streets of Cuero to the jungles of Vietnam—never mentioning Cambodia.

  “He would always tell me that I should never forget who I am, never forget where I came from,” says Noel, who was in the audience at his own elementary school a few weeks later. “And always give back to the community.”

  Shortly thereafter, Roy drove to Jacinto City to meet with Cecil, Maxine, and Debbie McKibben, thanking them again for the actions of their son and brother. In private, Roy said to Cecil that he felt Larry deserved the Medal of Honor—and he intended to put together the documentation necessary to upgrade the Distinguished Service Cross he had already been awarded.

  Not long after her brother was killed, Debbie, who had been suffering excruciating headaches, underwent exploratory surgery that left her blind for a number of months. With the slow return of her eyesight came the diagnosis of obstructive hydrocephalus: the flow of cerebrospinal fluid to the brain was being obstructed. Three more surgeries eventually repaired the problem, but it had been a difficult time for the McKibben family. Their faith, as well as their memories of Larry, had given them strength. Although Cecil was grateful for Roy’s offer to champion the upgrading of the DSC, he felt that going through the process to see his son’s heroism and courage recognized officially would dredge up too many old memories and pain best left alone. They would rather ho
ld on to the good ones and keep living life, grateful for the freedoms that Larry McKibben and so many others had paid for with their lives.

  In the final tape that Larry sent home to his family, he had talked about the tail rotor blade with the bullet hole that he’d placed above his bunk. Cecil had requested it through Larry’s roommate, Ronn Rosemark, and now it sat in the corner of the McKibbens’ living room as a tribute to Larry’s bravery and service. But it was Larry’s own words from a tape he’d sent from Vietnam that remained indelible in the hearts and minds of the McKibben family:

  “The one good thing about this place, you sure learn not to take anything for granted. Not anything.”

  —

  IN OCTOBER 1981, Roy was invited to address the cadets at West Point, where he spoke about the importance of the relationships between officers and enlisted men. He shared the story of warrant officers William Darling and Thomas Smith, who volunteered to jump on board Greyhound Three, piloted by Roger Waggie and David Hoffman, to man the door gunner positions, generally held by enlisted men, and go into the fire to pull the men on the ground out. It was an example of “officers and NCOs working together,” Roy said. He then talked about seeing the West Point motto for the first time on the plaque behind the desk of the officer he’d had to answer to for striking the drunk lieutenant in Berlin. He had adopted the motto as his own, he said, and it had changed his life.

  Roy had recounted this story to audiences so many times over the previous eight months that it had already made its way to West Point. After his talk the cadets presented him with a coveted West Point saber—the first and only enlisted man ever to receive one—inscribed with the words “MSG Benavidez, we will not only remember you as a great American soldier, but also as the epitome of our motto: Duty, Honor, Country.”

  —

  ON FEBRUARY 22, 1983, Roy received a “Termination of Benefits” letter from the Social Security Administration. He, along with more than three hundred thousand other veterans who had been found permanently disabled, now had to prove their disability for a second time in order to continue to receive benefits.

  Four months later, Roy stood at a hearing before the House of Representatives Select Committee on Aging to testify for all the veterans who had been deprived of their benefits. He explained that he had volunteered to go to Vietnam to serve his country, and that “those men that went along with me, my comrades, their widows, their sons, their daughters right now are being deprived of their disability benefits. People call me a hero. Mr. Chairman, members of the committee, ladies, and gentlemen, I am not a hero. I appreciate the title, but the real heroes are the ones that gave their lives for this country, the ones that are lying disabled for life without limbs, and the ones that are blind, the ones that can’t move at all, in those beds. I’m here to testify because there has been a gross injustice…. We didn’t ask to go and fight a war for this country and we didn’t…fight for luxury, we didn’t…fight for money, we didn’t…fight for popularity. We went in the defense of this country, to live free…and enjoy the freedom that we have right now, all of us.”

  The committee applauded Roy at the conclusion of his testimony, and the following week he was informed personally by committee chairman Edward R. Roybal that all Social Security benefits would be reinstated for him and the three hundred thousand other veterans.

  —

  ROY CONTINUED to juggle his time between his family in El Campo and speaking engagements across the country for years to come, to corporations, military schools and bases, and to his favorite audience—children. He also wrote and published two memoirs over the next decade, Medal of Honor and The Three Wars of Roy Benavidez, dedicating the latter to “Our nation’s young people, tomorrow’s leaders.”

  In 1986, he hand-delivered a copy of his first memoir to Art Haddock, who had recently suffered a massive heart attack and was convalescing at home. Mr. Haddock, whose faith had been his compass in life, had told his daughter as he was being rushed into the operating room the same thing he’d told Roy thirty years before at the Firestone shop: “God makes no mistakes.” With Roy’s book in hand, he said it again.

  On May 26, 1988, Mr. Haddock passed away. Roy walked him to his grave as an honoree pallbearer.

  Fred Barbee passed away on October 2, 2007, at age seventy-eight, and his son, Chris, took over as publisher of the El Campo Leader-News. Barbee—who began his career as a newspaper printer during his teens—considered his journalistic efforts to help Roy earn his Medal of Honor one of his most important achievements in sixty-plus years as a newspaperman.

  —

  IN MAY of 1997, Mad Dog Three crew chief Paul LaChance’s fourteen-year-old son, Mike, joined his parents at the 240th Assault Helicopter Company’s first reunion in Washington, DC. His son didn’t know a lot about the war in Vietnam—there was only a short paragraph in his U.S. history textbook and his father wouldn’t talk about it. Mike knew he was never supposed to wake his dad up without making some noise first, but he didn’t know what PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, was or that his father’s frequent nightmares were rooted in his memories from the war. He didn’t know that Paul LaChance would curse the Bronze Star with Valor he’d received for running through enemy fire to tackle crew chief James Warr and put out the flames that had engulfed him. He didn’t know his father had said he would give the medal back in a second if he could only erase Warr’s screams from his memory.

  Though LaChance wouldn’t talk about the war, he wanted his son to meet some of the men who had been his brothers in arms. In the Sheraton Hotel ballroom, Mike watched his dad shake Pete Gailis’s hand, tears in his eyes. He learned that his father had been a crew chief and door gunner on a gunship, that he was the “line chief” for all the gunships in the 240th, and that he was an “old Mad Dog.”

  Gailis and LaChance stood facing each other, shaking their heads and smiling, as if they couldn’t believe it had been almost thirty years since their tours in Vietnam. They could still feel the grip of their M60s, the pendulum weight of the gun supported by the strap in the doorway; they could still smell the metallic oil and the jet fuel and see the earth rushing beneath them and pick out the blinking lights from the tree line. They could still lead their “targets” in their minds and pull the trigger in memories they both loved and hated and ultimately forgave themselves for. “Leveling the playing field” is how LaChance described going in and providing close air support for teams in contact. “Go in, get them out, and come home alive.”

  And here he was, alive, with his family and his buddies.

  Gailis, after returning from his tour, had joined the U.S. Army Reserve as a helicopter mechanic, got married, divorced, and then met the love of his life, Susan. With five children from both marriages, dogs from the second, and a home with a picket fence, he considers himself “fortunate now and I was lucky then.” His tour ended “just in time,” he says. After hundreds of combat missions, he had become deadly consistent with his M60. He could, 90 percent of the time, judge the airspeed, lead his targets, and squeeze off just a few rounds to knock an enemy runner down, open up his chest or head, and watch the blood spray.

  “There was payback involved,” he says, “after losing so many good friends and seeing so many bodies loaded up. There’d be a farmer on a dike in a rice paddy, and we’d just taken fire, but this guy has no weapon. It was common for them to take a few shots and then toss their AK into the water so it’s a fifty-fifty chance that he’s a VC or a farmer. We’d come around, and he’s just looking up at me, and giving me a terrified ‘Don’t shoot I’m innocent’ look, or is it a ‘Fuck you, I’m not armed, you can’t shoot me’ look? The right thing to do is not shoot.

  “So I played this game where I opened up and walked rounds all the way down the dike, kicking up dust, and he’d stand there, nowhere to go. Right before the bullets got to him, I eased off the trigger…and then started up on the other side of him, and wal
ked the rounds away. I played God. I didn’t kill him, but I wanted to. I really wanted to. And that’s when I knew it was time to go home.”

  Around the banquet room filled with tables and chairs, none of the hundred or so people present sat. Like LaChance and Gailis, there were smiles, tears, handshakes, and hugs among the servicemen in their fifties. Some looked at each other like ghosts. Most had never counted on their buddies surviving their tours, much less seeing them again in the real world. Some had been desperate to put the horrific memories behind them, while others had pined for the brotherhood of war, which they couldn’t find at home. Most had just moved on to the next stage of their lives.

  Very few had kept in touch with each other, so now they shared family photographs and gathered around photo albums—the black-and-white yearbooks commemorating their war. Often their eyes and fingers would stop on the forever-young face of one of the thirty-eight members of the 240th Assault Helicopter Company who were killed in action.

  Two men from the May 2 mission—David Hoffman, who had been Roger Waggie’s copilot on Greyhound Three, and Thomas Smith, who had volunteered to man the door gunner position on Greyhound Three on the final, successful extraction—were among twelve pilots and crew killed in a three-ship midair collision caused by poor visibility less than two months later, on June 25, 1968. Three more men from the May 2 mission—William Fernan, who had been Larry McKibben’s copilot on Greyhound One, and Steven Hastings and Donald Fowler, who had been crew chief and door gunner on Michael Grant’s Mad Dog Two—were in a helicopter crash later that summer, on August 1, while supporting a mission on the Cambodian border. Despite search-and-rescue attempts, none of the crew, including aircraft commander Peter Russell, were recovered. Three years later, the wreckage was discovered; Fernan’s remains were identified and returned to his family, while clues at the site—helmets with undone straps, unbuckled pilot’s restraint straps, and opened C ration tins—suggested the other three Americans had survived the crash. They remain missing in action to this day.