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.
