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I fought in a different war--in Vietnam. I was a draftee at the age of 18. I was gung-ho, but I called up my draft board and asked them to take me, rather than enlisting, because being drafted meant serving only two years in case I didn't like the military. I was, admittedly, naive. I believed what my government told me about why it was necessary to fight this war. And I had my own ideas about how resisting communist wars of liberation, about making them unprofitable, would lead to a more peaceful world.
I volunteered for infantry, OCS, Vietnam, and combat assignment. I fought in the jungles of I Corps, in northern South Vietnam, with the 101st Airborne Division, until I was wounded by AK fire to the face and shoulder. I spent 18 months in the hospital before being retired from the army for partial disability.
I knew more than 60 guys who died in Vietnam. Two were my roommates, and one of them was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. But the death that affected me most was a guy named Joe Rufty. Joe was an infantry platoon leader from Salisbury, NC. I'd met him but we didn't spend any time together until Christmas day, 1969. There was a Christmas truce, so we spent the day on an unknown hill out in the jungle (dubbed "Christmas Hill" by us), playing cards. When the re-supply chopper came in, Joe got a package from home with a bottle of whiskey, chocolate chip cookies, and a laugh box--a novelty item that played taped laughter when its button was pressed.
Joe shared the cookies, and the whiskey--making sure everybody got a taste, but only a taste--in case we got some action. As we played cards, every so often someone would hit the button on the laugh box, and we'd all crack up.
Christmas was otherwise uneventful, though we had numerous engagements in the following weeks. During that time, Joe and I had to coordinate by radio, and he would often activate the laugh box over the radio, giving all of us a laugh and a brief respite from the war.
We hit nothing really heavy until January 29, when Joe and his platoon were operating not far from me. I got a radio call that Joe's platoon was in heavy contact, and they had a WIA who had taken machine gun fire to the chest and needed immediate Medevac. But the Medevac chopper could not get in due to heavy enemy fire. The WIA was identified with Joe's callsign.
I never volunteered my platoon, so I relayed the information. My platoon sergeant came back and told me he'd canvassed the platoon, and the 36 men we had in the field at that time voted unanimously to combat assault by chopper into the firefight to suppress enemy fire so the Medevac could get in. HQ approved that plan, but just when the choppers came into view, we saw them turn back (HQ said there was no effective landing zone). My platoon sergeant came back to tell me the men took another vote, again unanimous, to rappel from choppers into the firefight so the Medevac could get in. HQ considered the plan and turned it down, because we would take too many casualties. A short time later we heard the radio report changing the reported casualty status from "WIA to "KIA". Joe had not survived.
I'm aware that Joe's death affected me profoundly not because he was so unique or special (though he was), but because of the laugh box, and the circumstances the day he died (being so close-by and not being able to save him, wwhen I knew Joe would have been there for me), and the actions of my men, who were willing to risk their lives to save a wounded man--an officer yet!
It was some years later, at a party, when suddenly, from behind me, I heard a laugh box. Tears started pouring down my face, and I had no idea why. It scared the hell out of me. When I slipped into the bathroom, it all came back to me.
A couple years ago, I met a VN vet who'd been at My Lai. He was one who gunned down civilians, though he never says that outright. When he refused to participate in the shooting, he was told that if he didn't shoot, he would be shot and reported as a KIA from enemy fire. So this kid (and he was a kid at the time) made the wrong choice, and when I met him it was obvious that he'd been paying the price ever since (when we met, it was the first time he'd ever talked about it). Today, he's doing what might be called "good works," perhaps in an attempt to redeem himself. I doubt he will ever feel "redeemed," but he continues in his work.
I returned to Vietnam three times in the 90's. On one occasion, I was invited to a coffee plantation where I had lunch with with a group that included former Viet Cong, North Vietnamese Army vets, and ARVN (South Vietnamese Army) vets. We also had one guy whom the others laughingly referred to as "the monk." To avoid being grabbed (drafted) by by the NVA/Viet Cong or the ARVN's, he had hid out at a Buddhist monastery during the war, pretending to be a monk. At he end of the meal, I expressed the wish that all those years ago, we could have been sharing a meal together, and conversation, and laughter, instead of killing each other. Everyone agreed, and at that point we were all in tears.
Pardon my rambling account here. There are, understandably, many emotions involved. As I said, I'm writing to offer a different perspective. Not so much to disagree with the narrator in the OP, as he's entitled to his own feelings, and you can't argue with feelings.
Mine was another ill-begotten war, but I don't feel like a terrorist, nor would I refer to my brothers-in-arms that way. Those who committed war crimes deserve to be prosecuted--including my friend from My Lai (who, like countless others, escaped prosecution). But to think of all the troops as murderous villains is, I think, a big mistake.
Governments and their leaders convince people (especially the young) to go to fight in their wars for their grand causes. Those who do the "grunt-work" of war don't do it for evil purposes. They suffer and sacrifice for others, whether or not the cause may be regarded as "just."
It's not a mistake to "Support the Troops"--(God knows, they need the support). If you want to point the fingers of blame, that's the last place to focus.
As for the "Anarchy" salutation, that's ridiculous on its face. At a time when we're having a great national debate about the role of government,, anarchy seems to me the worst possible answer.
In Memory of Joe Rufty
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