I
took this photo of my partner and myself at my first
duty station to keep my mind from dwelling on all the
fears I had that evening. This was a command bunker
on the Quang Tri airport perimeter and I had an eerie
feeling something was going to happen that night, and
it did—about an hour after this was taken. It
was during the beginning of the infamous Tet
offensive of 1968 and only my first week in
country--I was more than a little nervous. Less than
thirty miles south of us in the city of Hue, some of
the fiercest and bloodiest fighting of the entire war
was taking place. Intelligence reports had come in to
us that morning warning of substantial enemy buildup
in our area and of a very good chance we would be
hit. Our lines were weak and we were considerably
undermanned. Most of the experienced
"grunts" (infantry) had been sent up to
defend against the surprise attack on Khe Sanh two
weeks earlier leaving the perimeter security to
mostly new arrivals like myself. We had spent the
daylight hours frantically strengthening our
positions as best we could and now as the darkness of
the evening engulfed us, on full alert, we waited.
It
was an incredibly dark night and a heavy fog had
rolled in off the South China sea adding a
claustrophobic effect to an already nightmarish
situation. About midnight, our worst fears were
confirmed when a call came in to us at the command
bunker that communications with bunker 4 had been
lost--an ominous sign. Neither adjacent bunker had a
man it could spare to investigate. It would have to
be someone from command. I volunteered.
Not
until I was outside alone in that suffocating
darkness did the enormity of what could well be in
store for me begin to register. The use of even the
smallest flashlight was suicide so I started my way
up the riverbank with my only guide in the
nothingness around me being the wires connecting the
radios between bunkers which I let slide through my
free hand. As I worked my way along, pausing every
few feet to listen carefully for anything unusual,
the buildup of terror at times seemed as if it were
going to completely incapacitate me. By the time I
finally got within close proximity of the disabled
bunker, I had to strain to hear above my furiously
beating heart and I was so lightheaded that at times
I had to pause to steady myself.
Just
as I was sure that I could stand no more, it
happened. The radio wires which I had clung to so
tenaciously were suddenly jerked right out of my
hand. I was certain only another human being within
very close proximity tripping over them could exert
that kind of force. To further confirm my fears, the
loudly chirping crickets and croaking frogs were
suddenly quiet. No question, there was movement and
it was close--possibly within a matter of feet. The
first thought that came to mind was if I was to be
the next victim of the Vietcong’s uncanny
ability to penetrate our lines, to end my days in a
foreign land with my throat slashed from ear to ear
as had happened just days earlier to some other
Marines close by. None of my military training or
anything else in my life for that matter had prepared
me for what I was now experiencing. I wanted to yell,
to scream, to cry or at least do something. It seemed
as if I were going to completely lose control of my
body and my mind.
Surprisingly,
these feelings were momentary and soon displaced by
something much larger, deeper and absolutely
profound. I first noticed it in my body as I realized
my heart was no longer pounding furiously. Suddenly,
my mind became amazingly clear and my terrible fear,
although still present and undiminished in its
intensity, became manageable--in fact an ally.
As
I crouched there in that small ravine, my M-16 on
full automatic, I got in touch with the enormous
investment the primal human spirit places on
survival. I knew that whatever was necessary to live,
I could and would do. There were no "thou shalt
nots" or even "what ifs", only a
fierce and clearly focused determination to survive
at any cost. I had never experienced such a degree of
aliveness. In the long seconds that passed as every
cell in my body was euphorically committed to my
survival, my ears listened with unprecedented acuity,
my eyes unable to see my hand in front of my nose
only moments earlier could now see the ground below
me.
The
wires tugged again but my mind was in complete
control now. I didn’t move a muscle, I
didn’t make a sound. I thought I heard a
whisper. The adrenaline was surging through my body
unlike anything I had ever experienced. I felt
invincible. My thoughts were racing. How many were
there? What direction were they going? Again I heard
what sounded like a whisper. How close were they?
What if they were so close they walked right into me?
I no longer had a death grip on my M-16; I held it
effortlessly as if it were an extension of my own
body. I knew something of a magnitude I had never
before experienced was about to happen at any moment
and I was ready—in fact wishing it would just
hurry up. Suddenly, although ever so faint, I heard a
strange noise. Again there was movement of some sort
very close by. I strained to listen. In my heightened
state of awareness, I could hear more whispers--but
they were not those of the enemy but those of my
fellow Marines in bunker 4. The relief I felt was
overwhelming: I tingled from head to toe and I just
wanted to laugh. They were unshaken as I whispered
out to them, unaware that communication with them had
been lost. The three of us laughed nervously as they
explained that the tug I had felt was from a new
puppy that one of the "zoomies" in the air
wing had given them pulling and chewing on the wires.
Another round of nervous laughs greeted my attempt to
recount to them my earlier experience and how
frightened I had been; me unable to sufficiently
verbalize and they unable to comprehend the
transformation that I had undergone only moments
earlier.
My
return to the command bunker was on the order of a
religious experience. I felt god-like as I
effortlessly glided through the same foggy darkness
that had caused me so many cuts and falls earlier, my
mind intuitively knowing the direction and my feet
seeming to know exactly where to land. It was an
overwhelming reaffirmation of my own right to live,
that I had just as much a right to life as any of
God’s creatures and equally as great a right to
protect it at whatever means necessary. But above
all, I had the distinct feeling that some greater
force had been at work testing me and that I had
passed.
