It’s 4:30 in the morning and he is sitting at his dining room table with a cup of coffee. A couple of birds have begun singing as it’s beginning to get light out. He is up at this hour because he was awakened by a heavy rainstorm. Storms always do that, bringing to mind the past he cannot escape from.
When he was in high school, the Vietnam War was raging. Walter Cronkite updated the nation each week on the cost of dead and wounded. The ominous cloud of the draft hung over young males especially the seniors in their final year. Choices were few: try and get into college full-time and gain a deferment; dodge the draft and risk imprisonment, potentially shaming yourself and your family; flee to Canada or Sweden; wait to be drafted or join up and become a soldier.
He was brought up in a 7th Day Adventist family. The SDA historically advised against bearing arms and urged members to seek noncombatant roles, a stance maintained since 1864. They viewed human life as a sacred gift from God who directed in the sixth commandment “Thou shall not kill.”
By early spring in his senior year, he felt himself in a quandary. Many of his closest buddies had made their minds up: those whose families could afford it were going to college; those less fortunate were going to enlist. He didn’t want to look like a coward or un-American or a sissy to his friends. The solution came during a meeting for young men at the church. It was suggested that for those who wanted to serve, but not take part in the killing, register as a conscientious objector non-combatant. Those applying could work in clerical or supply or train as medics in a war zone. The last choice appealed to him. He was from farm stock, used to hard, heavy work and he wanted to prove himself. He was a quiet lad, introverted, kept to himself, never dated but was viewed by adults as a good kid. He wasn’t into sports or hunting, which had brought years of derision by his male peers. Sports bored him, and because he had consistently made A’s in class, his nickname in high school was Brilliant Boy.
The summer he graduated, the war had intensified. He decided to become a medic in the Marines which are part of the Navy. He explained his religious situation and the Navy had no problem with it. They needed replacements asap and it would take him 26 weeks to be fully trained. And so it was, he arrived in Vietnam just after New Year’s. Training had not prepared him for what he was to experience. How could it? The jungle climate was unlike anything he had seen back in Iowa. And there was combat, with all the noise, chaos and death. He figured out quickly that in order to survive, he had to toughen up, to still function while witnessing the horror of war. He was good at his job, earning praise from his buddies and officers. In the middle of a fight, they were happy to see him.
About 6 months into his tour, his company was part of a large search-and-destroy sweep of a sector known for heavy Viet Cong activity. The yearly monsoon season had begun, adding to the misery of the troops. Endless rains, constant problems with trench foot, tropical diseases, lousy chow, poor sleep were rampant all the while going on patrol and engaging a determined enemy. The days ran together and everyone were waiting and hoping to become short and finally receiving the wake-call to go home.
In the late morning during a heavy rainstorm, they were ambushed by the Cong and there were immediate casualties. With the help of his buddies, they moved the seriously wounded to a clearing that would act as triage space, while waiting for helicopters that were arriving to drop off reinforcements and take the wounded to hospital. The clearing was filled with elephant grass which reached a good 6 feet in some places. He was tending to 6 men with more coming as the action had ramped up. The choppers were 15 minutes out so he hunkered down and tended to the wounded.
One was an old gunny sergeant whose kneecap was blown apart. The bleeding was under control and his status was considered stabilized. As the medic went up and down the triage, he was grabbed by the gunny. Son, you’d better watch that tree line on our right. They like to send a couple of guys around back and kill the wounded. The medic was shocked. He had never heard of this happening and thought it was the morphine talking. But the sergeant persisted. Here’s my .45. When they come, stand up and shoot them. I know your beliefs but it’s come down to this, son: kill or be killed. The medic looked at him in disbelief. You’ve gone through basic, you know what to do. He handed his sidearm and placed into the medic’s hand. Next to the gunny was a close buddy of the medic and their eyes met, his buddy’s eyes imploring him for Christssakes man, do it. Save us. The rain had eased and the medic rose up a bit from his crouch and scanned the tree line. Visibility was poor and he had to keep wiping his eyes from all the rain. His heart sank as he spotted movement coming out of the trees. Two Cong and they were moving stealthily towards them. Oh God he said out loud. The gunny grabbed his arm again. Keep low and keep tracking them. Are they doing a pattern or straight line? They were doing a fairly straight line. Ok, that’s good. How far apart are they? Looks to be 5 meters answered the medic. When they are about 6 meters away, stand up and shoot. You got 7 in that clip. Put 2 in each chest saving the rest just in case. You can do this. As the Cong drew closer, the rain picked up, there was thunder, and weirdly, the sun came out for a few seconds. When they were very close, the medic stood up and did as instructed. In that instant, he clearly saw the expression in their eyes-surprise, astonishment before they fell. Go check them said the gunny. The medic made his way through the grass—both were on their backs, eyes open. They looked young, about his age. He checked for a pulse which neither had. He had killed them. He stood there over the bodies, the gun still in his hand. Time stood still until finally he realized he was hearing the choppers coming in. There was work to do.
The medic had a nervous breakdown after he returned to base. I cannot do this anymore he told his commanding officer. He was fortunate in having a compassionate veteran commander who had seen men break down for a variety of reasons. He was re-assigned to an evac hospital where he could help with wounded arriving from the battlefield. He also received counseling both from shrinks and chaplains, but they were of little help. He had committed a grievous sin and felt he had been a total failure despite how the Corps felt about him. He had been recommended for a medal which he declined. How could he? He had failed in comparison to one of SDA’s greatest heroes and his own: Desmond Doss. Doss was a U.S. Army medic and Seventh-day Adventist who, as a conscientious objector, famously saved approximately 75 wounded men during the Battle of Okinawa in World War II without carrying a weapon. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for his bravery at Hacksaw Ridge. On so many levels, the medic was a complete mess.
When his tour finished and he returned to the States, he did not go home. He couldn’t face his family, SDA community or friends. What had happened in that clearing did not make the national news so no one outside of his company knew of it. He wrote his folks a letter saying that he was going to travel for a bit, that he needed some time to deal with it all. His family were disappointed but non-SDA friends who had been in combat understood and gently explained it to them. He wandered the country picking up odd jobs. He didn’t sleep well and rainstorms triggered memories he couldn’t get rid of. He never went back to church and, like many men, self-medicated with alcohol.
He hit rock bottom in a small town in West Texas, being found unconscious in the street during a rainstorm. He had lucked out: those who found him took him to a group who helped veterans with PTSD. While under treatment he had another stroke of luck: a former SDA minister who had left the church but still administered those in need in the spirit of Jesus. It was a long, agonizing process but it worked. He stopped drinking, found work, made friends. But more important, managed to move beyond the guilt and shame which so many never did. He also fell in love and married.
Rainstorms, especially during sleep, still send him back to that jungle clearing years before. They are not the screaming nightmares of the past. He doesn’t see their eyes anymore. Now, he would awaken with a start, realize it had been a dream and get up quietly so not to disturb his beloved. As in this particular morning, he would make some coffee, and sit at the dining room table, gazing out onto the backyard. He doesn’t ruminate like he used to, having finally come to grips with what had happened. He had made a choice: he took the lives of an enemy to save the lives of his buddies. But there’s always a price to pay in one form or another and you had to live with that. He wishes that he could tell this to his younger self.
He wonders about the sergeant who warned him: was this an expression of one of the deepest fears of a warrior? Throughout history, the killing of an enemy's wounded was a common practice. The Geneva Conventions from the modern era forbade it but of course it still happened. Was this a case of morphine-induced prescience? Or, was it some form of Divine intervention? This idea was put forth by the former SDA minister who helped him during rehab and continues to intrigue him after the shock had subsided. The God who forbade the taking of human life, intervened via the sergeant to motivate him to take the lives of the Cong in order to save his comrades? He has thought about this for years, finally chalking this up as an example of God working in mysterious ways.
The sun was nearly up by the time he had finished his coffee, and a pair of redbirds had flown up to the feeder in the back yard. He smiled as the male cocked his head and fed his mate. His beloved would be up soon so he thought he would do the same and make her some breakfast. It was another new day and it was worth celebrating.
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| Army paratroopers in elephant grass, 1965 AP file photo |
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