Kill or Be Killed

I graduated from college with a commission in the US Army, a Second Lieutenant, a single gold bar and the contempt of most enlisted men. No one liked Second Lieutenants, but time would fix that when you eventually became a First Lieutenant. Another thing that would fix it was Ranger School and Jump School, Airborne. I did both. Why? I don’t think I will ever understand. I was in Army Intelligence, counter-intelligence and had no need to go to Ranger School. Still, I wrote an impassioned letter to a three star general asking him to intervene and recommend me for Ranger School. After that, getting into Jump School was easy. 

But, why did I do that? I was not a gung-ho military man. My brass was seldom shiny and my shoes were generally scuffed. “Lieutenant, those shoes are a disgrace,” yelled the Major. “I expressed my lack of concern and he got even madder.

Rangers were elite soldiers in the Army. “No stranger to danger, an Airborne Ranger”,“Ranger, Airborne, trained to kill!” I was not interested in killing people. Ranger School was physically demanding, extreme. It wore hard on you and was rife with many simulated life threatening scenarios. Still, they were simulated and, for me, it was like a really rugged outdoor camp—super long hikes in the mountains and swamps, carrying a machine gun for fifty miles, mountain climbing, rappelling, map reading, sliding on ropes across canyons and rivers, dropping fifty feet into lakes, trying to catch onto a landing craft surviving in February in the Gulf of Mexico, sleeping in the snow in January—all fun things.

After Ranger School and Jump School, I went to Intelligence School—some claim it’s an oxymoron in the Army. Afterwards, I drove across America from Baltimore to my first assignment in Los Angeles. Somewhere in the middle of Texas, I listened on the car radio as Lyndon Johnson declared war on North Vietnam. I had no idea what a fraud it was and felt patriotically inspired. 

I ran around Los Angeles as the Special Agent in Charge of an Army counter-intelligence office in southern LA, San Pedro, and lived in a beach town. There have been more dedicated officers serving in the US Army. I carried a pistol, a badge, an id and wore suits. I drove an unmarked car which was obvious to everybody and I had a good time living on the beach two blocks from a world famous jazz club. Life was actually pretty good. I was in charge of an outpost during the Watts Riots.

But, the Vietnam War was ratcheting up. My commanding officer who worked in Pasadena had just returned from a tour in Saigon. I liked him and he had an influence on me. He planned to return to Vietnam for a second tour and he felt strongly that I should do a tour in Saigon as well. My time in the Army was almost complete based on my Reserved Officers Training Corps commitment, so to go to Vietnam, I would have to voluntarily extend my tour of duty.

It was a hard decision actually and part of it related to my decision about Ranger school and my manliness. “A real man goes to war for his country as his patriotic duty.” (The universal betrayal of young men.) Anyway, I struggled with it and my commanding officer convinced me that I would actually enjoy duty in Saigon with the intelligence headquarters. Sounded right to me.

The Pentagon had other ideas. Here is a young officer, Ranger/Airborne volunteering to go to Vietnam. He belongs in combat duty not in some posh life in Saigon. First Cav material. Send him to the First Cavalry Division in the Central Highlands, the most successful fighting unit we have. So, they did. Nuts.

On a DC-10 out of California, full of young men like myself, it was off to Saigon with stops in Wake Island and Guam. On Wake Island, we witnessed a U2 doing its near vertical take off which was just amazing. It was sort of transition to war. When we landed at Ban Me Thout in Saigon, we thought we heard gunfire, the enemy shooting at our airplane. Imagination working overtime.

I took a off a couple days in Saigon visiting the intelligence headquarters trying to change my orders and get assigned to Saigon. It was quite a culture shock for me to see men and women and children peeing and defecating in public in little roped off areas along the streets of Saigon. My attempt to change ny assignment was unsuccessful and it was off to An Khe, headquarters for the First Cav Division.

When I deplaned in An Khe, an brigade of men were loading up on small, combat transport planes heading out on a mission. It was another shock to see men fully dressed for combat and meaning it. We dressed for combat in training but never meant it. “Hey, Lieutenant,” called another Lieutenant. It was a friend of mine from my first infantry school at Ft. Benning, Georgia, who I liked very much. I was surprised, of course to see him. We started talking and he told me about his experience two months earlier in the Battle of Ia Drag, the first major battle between the United States Army and the People’s Army of Vietnam. There were actually two battles and he was in the second one where the US suffered over 50% casualties. He told me the harrowing story about his platoon being totally wiped out, about him lying on the ground wounded as North Vietnamese soldiers walked around the battlefield shooting American bodies lying on the ground to make sure the men were dead. He saw a pair of boots standing very close to him and knew he was about to die. Something distracted the NVA soldier and he moved on without shooting my friend. He was lucky, grateful, and back at war, the recipient of a Purple Heart. He could have returned stateside but wanted to fight like any brave young man dedicated to his country.

So, here I was. Not where I wanted to be. This was my reward for being a brave young man dedicated to his country. I was assigned to a tent, issued an armored vest, a helmet and an AR-15 (M16). What more could I ask for? My tent was just a little ways in front of a 155mm howitzer, a very big piece of artillery. At night, I slept on my right side with my back toward the howitzer to try to reduce the effect of the gun firing right over my head. The sound of it rang my ears and stopped my heart. The gun was engaged in H&I fire, harassment and interdictment, all night long. My nights were painful and I had to will myself to sleep. I constantly reminded myself that the fire was outbound, until one night when it wasn’t.

On the fourth night in my tent, I was lying on my cot, saying to myself, ‘outbound, outbound,’ when a young enlisted man came running into my tent, “Lieutenant, lieutenant, get up. We are being attacked. Those are inbound mortar shells.” I jumped up and found myself in emotional quicksand. Nothing made sense. I couldn’t find my pants, my vest, my helmet or my gun. I could barely move and the kid kept yelling at me. He had risked his life to get me out and he was in a bit of a hurry to get out himself. At least he was conscious. I could barely think straight.

Finally, I got it all together—-pants, shirt, boots, vest, helmet and gun. Time to leave. We ran out of the tent and jumped into the nearest sandbag “foxhole” or bunker. It was rectangular in dimensions. I moved to the front. The young specialist had a South Vietnamese soldier with him and he shoved the soldier to my end and settle in the back of the bunker. I peered over the edge of the sandbags to see what was happening and was just amazed. The perimeter was flooded with light and quickly after we arrived, a helicopter positioned itself right above us. I don’t remember a lot. I think it launched a couple of missiles. I do remember the fire from its gatling machine gun. These were just incredible weapons that fired at a maximum rate of 6000 rounds per minute and when firing, using tracer ammunition, they formed a solid ray of fire that really did look like a ray gun. It was terrifying and comforting. 

What I saw was an open battlefield where the enemy forces were going to attack. My weapon was cocked and ready to fire, but me? Not so much. I cannot adequately describe the plethora and depth of feelings I experienced. But, there were two that I will never, not ever, ever forget. First, was the self hatred, the incrimination directed at myself for putting myself in this position. I drove a dagger into my heart, into my very soul. I am not sure what my rationale was, but it was deadly. It was almost like I wanted to kill myself as punishment. But, then came the surprise. As I looked over the bunker, watching the perimeter fence for the rushing enemy, I pictured an enemy solder charging my bunker wide open I would have to shoot him to defend myself. I would have to kill this man. I suddenly had an intense feeling that I was going to kill another human being. I was going to fire at least one, probably several bullets into him and watch him die. I truly went into shock. I was trembling with fear. I could not do that and if I didn’t do that, I would die. My mind was consumed with the question, “Can I really kill another human being, shoot him point blank. Well, it’s going to be that or die, which do you want?”

Then I heard the gun of the young man behind me lock and load. I was shocked, I thought “oh, no, this guy is going to shoot me because I am a lieutenant. That’s what happens in wars. Now what? I amazed myself with what I think was a calm voice and I then wondered if I could kill him to protect myself as well. “Soldier, what are you doing?”

“Lieutenant, this asshole was the only South Vietnamese soldier left in their tent of 50 translators. They all knew the attack was coming and fled early. This guy didn’t get the word and if those Viet Cong get anywhere near us, he dies.”

“OMG, I am an officer, I can’t let him kill this man. Now what, indeed? In front of me, behind me, am I about to die? I can’t kill anybody. My mental state was in total chaos and not just fear. Self-hatred and moral issues were overwhelming me and the self-hatred just accelerated.

What I didn’t realize, of course, was that the Viet Cong was not about to rush across that field of light and gunfire. It would have been suicidal. Finally, the lights went out, the helicopters flew away and the attack was over. I let the soldier take the South Vietnamese guy back to his tent and rough him up a bit. I found my way up to the command bunker for my unit and found the other officers deep inside a larger bunker drinking Jim Beam out of the bottle. They offered me some, my first straight whiskey. 

Eventually, I went back to my tent and discovered a small hole in the side of the tent over my cot and was immediately grateful, again, to the young soldier for dragging me out. Naturally, I could not go to sleep. For days, I wondered “would I kill or be killed.” 

I was in Vietnam of almost one year and didn’t kill anybody. But after awhile, I knew the answer to my question. I was trained to kill and I had the reflexes to do so. I talked to a lot of other guys about the question and talked to guys who had killed. It turned out to be a very traumatic occasion to kill someone, at least for normal young men but they got used to it--- somewhat. I would not have allowed that unknown Vietnamese man to kill me, but the situation branded me for life and if I had killed someone, it would have been worse. 

War is about killing. Older, greedy and political men send idealistic young men off to kill and be killed. It’s truly puzzling in many, many aspects but it’s happened since the beginning of time and I am convinced it will happen until the end of time. Until the day, the time that I die, I will pay the price for that moment facing the thought of “kill or be killed.”