After a while, senseless brutality became little more than a mere spectator sport.  We found this young woman--in her  early 20s at most-- lying on the road as we swept it for mines.  It was the first thing in the morning, barely after sunup, but a group of South Vietnamese soldiers and a few civilians had already gathered around.  She had been shot at point blank range sometime during the night.  It was alleged that she was a Viet Cong sympathizer and had been stripped of her clothing as a further embarrassment to her family.  Someone else had covered her over in plastic but as we arrived, the soldiers had removed part of it and were having a good laugh.  It was hard to believe someone as young and innocent looking as she could be the enemy but we soon learned that we could never be sure who to trust.

 She was the first dead person I had ever seen in my life--but there would be many more.   Of all the death and injury that I witnessed while I was in Vietnam, the most painful for me was a group of dead Marines that had been caught in a horseshoe ambush.  There were probably fifteen or twenty killed--one of them was my buddy.   He was walking point on one of the patrols returning to the rear after an uneventful night in the bush.  It was a pleasant Sunday morning and I was eating a leisurely breakfast having been given the morning off.  I had recently been transferred to a secure area in the rear and I felt no immediate threat of danger.  As I was eating, I heard the distinctive sound of enemy AK-47 shots being fired.  A lot of them and a lot of M-16 shots as well—and very close.  A big firefight had erupted just outside the tree line.  A couple of response teams were quickly organized and I was on the one that found his body.  It was my first encounter with the death of a friend.  When we got to where he was lying,  his face was such a mess we didn’t know who it was.  I was hoping to figure it out by checking his medevac number that all of us had written across the butt of our trousers—the first four letters of our last name and last four of our service numbers.  I almost passed out when I read it: the medevac number I was looking at was mine.  Although I quickly realized that the body was that of my buddy to whom I had loaned a pair of trousers a day earlier, my mind instantly became a mass of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Was this supposed to be me, the Almighty confused by the wrong numbers?  Or had I witnessed my own death and was already on the way to the hereafter?  Was this an omen?  What was the message?  I was badly shaken and could not get the image of that horribly destroyed body wearing my trousers out of my mind. I would still not get the image out of my mind over twenty years later when it continued to appear late at night and disturb my sleep.

Fortunately, we had to move quickly and I didn’t have time to let my mind further self-destruct.  As we went to pick up his body, I could see that he had only been wounded initially but then a V.C. had run up and shot him in the head at point blank range—he had been executed.  I can only imagine the terror he felt during those last few moments of  life.  His name was Glen.  He was twenty years old and had been in country four months.

When we returned to the rear with his body, he was placed on top of perhaps ten other dead Marines stacked like firewood: three across, three on end and so on.  I was numbed by the experience and being a photographer, my natural instinct was to take a photo.  Immediately, I was harshly reprimanded by a number of those in charge but no one took my film or camera.  I was shooting Kodachrome and sent the film to Eastman Kodak for processing but it was never returned to me.  I have often wondered what happened to that film.  Many have suggested that it was confiscated but I don’t think the military was that organized.  Most likely, someone at Eastman with anti-war sentiments either kept it or destroyed it.

But back to my dead buddy, Glen.  Our Commanding Officer asked that I write a letter on his behalf to my friend’s mother.  He wanted the usual Marine Corps type thing with plenty of flag-waving phrases: "devotion to his country", "good Marine", "bravery and valor."  In just a few days she replied with the saddest letter I have ever read.  She said that he had been a devoted son and was the only member of  her family who still stayed in touch.  She went on to say that although she didn't know where she was going to find the strength to continue living, it was a great comfort for her to know that he died defending his country.  I almost threw up.  I remember reading about a Vietnamese general who said that for every soldier that dies, a mother also dies.  In her letter, his mother further went on to say that she had already mailed a box of homemade cookies and rather than send them back, would they please be divided among his friends.  When they arrived, nobody wanted to eat them except one fat puke that we all disliked.  He ate them all.  In her letter, she also asked to hear from any of us that knew him.  She wanted to know how he had died.  No one else seemed to take the request seriously, but I did.  What was I to tell her?  Another B.S, story like the one I had written for the C.O.?  Or should I tell her the truth?  That he was always trying to be the hero, in this case, insisting on walking point—the most dangerous position.  Should I tell her that many of us had felt for some time that he was asking for it?   I could not bear the thought of writing to her and I didn't. 

Some six months later, for some unknown reason, I decided to read through a copy of the official Marine Corps magazine "Leatherneck"--probably the first time since boot camp when we were forced to read it.  I had hardly opened the magazine when there was a letter to the readership from her requesting to hear from anyone who had known her son.  Again, I could not bear the thought of writing to her so I took the easy way out and never did.  To this day, this has been one of my biggest regrets of my entire Vietnam experience: that I could not find the courage to write to that heartbroken woman whose only request was to know something about the death of her son. I can only hope that in whatever place she is now that she is at peace with the events of thirty years ago.

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