Year of Survival - Intro - 07:2018

YEAR OF SURVIVAL - INTRODUCTION
I didn’t know what fear and darkness were until I arrived in Vietnam in
1970, and I mean that both literally and figuratively. I was assigned to a
Combined Action Platoon (CAP Unit), which meant living in primitive procommunist
villages and hamlets off the Red Line (Highway #1 was called
the Red Line because that's how it appeared on the map) approximately
20 miles south of DaNang, Vietnam. This was a 24/7 survival challenge.
We weren’t sent out into the jungle for missions. We lived in the jungle.
Our mission was to survive. I still remember my first night.
The sheer weight of the gear and ammunition I carried was overwhelming;
my legs trembled when I walked. I struggled to keep my balance in the
pitch black of night. I worried about being ambushed and not able to
disentangle myself from the straitjacket of weapons and gear strapped to
my sweat drenched body. There was a moment when I held my hand up
to flick sweat from my brow, and I could not see it. It was like being
completely blind. There were no lights in the bush. No stars. No
reflection. It was just pitch black darkness, and man let me tell you…” it
was a real bummer.” We knew we were surrounded by the enemy. In
fact, there were VC residing in the villages where we lived. I recall a time
when Doc Coonfield provided the village chief with medical attention for a
laceration on his leg. A couple of nights later we ambushed and killed 2
VC. One of them was the village chief. He still had the bandages that Doc
wrapped his wound with on his leg.
Within one month in the bush CAP 10 had engaged in several firefights,
had suffered 3 Marines wounded in action (WIA) and 1 killed in action (KIA)
as well as numerous PFs and civilians killed or wounded and we even
exposed an enemy soldier embedded within our ranks. This happened
before my first letter home even got back to Lorain, Ohio. At age 21 I was
struggling with emotions tied to my family’s low-income status, staying in
college and chasing girls. By 22 I was struggling with the emotions tied to
a war I couldn’t run and hide from: losing fellow Marines in my arms,
witnessing charred bodies riddled by shrapnel, killing in order to avoid
being killed myself.
On one occasion, we went on patrol and against tactical basics returned
using the same path because the patrol leader wanted to use a plank the
villagers had laid out as a bridge to cross an irrigation canal. When we

eturned to the canal Gary, BooBoo, and Dakota, who was carrying the
PRIC 25 radio, started across the plank. Little did we know that while we
were out blowing empty bunkers, the VC had hidden a rigged command
detonated 105mm artillery round under the far end of the plank. In
addition, they had set a kerosene-soaked command detonated claymore
mine in the bushes on a rice paddy dike in front of us. They waited for
Dakota to walk over the 105 round when it was detonated. Frenchy,
carrying the M-79 was about 5 feet behind him so they were able to knock
out our communications and grenade launcher at the same time. I was on
the plank behind Frenchy when the force of the detonation catapulted us
skyward and we splashed into the canal.
I panicked when I realized that I had dropped my rifle which I spotted in
the murky bottom of the channel. But, each time I tried to reach it I
needed to do an underwater dog paddle in order to stay erect. I had tied
my k-bar knife sheath to my right thigh and as I went into the water
somehow the rope slipped under my knee so that I couldn’t straighten my
leg to stand. Desperate to surface for air I was able to use the knife to cut
the rope and I was able to reach my rifle. I could hear gunfire on the
surface so I stayed underwater as long as I could. Gasping for air, I
surfaced and despite the dinning sound in my ears, I could hear the guys
yelling, “GET FRENCHY! GET FRENCHY!” and pointing behind me.
When I looked back I saw Frenchy floating face down, arms stretched out
as if on a cross and blood saturating the water around his head. The
sensation of rushing through the water to save Frenchy was like the inertia
in a slow-moving nightmare as I fought to free each leg from the muck that
sucked at my boots. When I reached his unconscious body I turned him
over and blood squirted from his left upper lip with every heartbeat so I
pinched it tightly. In a half-conscious state, he murmured, “Ah It hurts” so I
let go and was surprised that the bleeding had stopped. I pulled him
toward the edge of the canal where Caiado, our dog handler, jumped in.
The react team from our day-haven had arrived by then and they gave us a
hand in lifting him up onto the bank. As I pulled myself out of the canal I
saw Dakota leaning against a dike smoking a cigarette as he was being
attended to by Doc Coonfield. Doc Coonfield ran over to give Frenchy first
aid and in the commotion, I could see Gary excitedly talking on the radio
calling for a medevac helicopter. While we waited in a defensive perimeter
Boosinger spotted a kerosene-soaked claymore mine that had been aimed
at us. It had malfunctioned when detonated and broke in half. Had it not

malfunctioned it would have fired 600 steel bearings into our column.
Both men survived and Frenchy was ordered back into the bush a few
weeks later when discharged from the 95th Evacuation Hospital in
DaNang.
I also experienced the heartbreak of not being able to save the life of a
fellow Marine charred and riddled by the shrapnel of a grenade booby trap
in the middle of the night. The Russian roulette nature of war and the
hatred that motivated revenge instilled a “don’t mean nothin'” devil may
care attitude. Except for Dan Gallagher, the CAP Marines I knew that were
killed in action, Glen Fiester, J.J. Arteaga, Rae Rippetoe, Robert Gaffigan
and Ronnie Ross lost their lives before they could celebrate their 21st
birthday. Rippetoe, Gaffigan and Ross were killed by PFs our “allies.”
Even though some have passed, this book could not have been
undertaken without the support of 7th Company members that lived the
nightmare life of a CAP Marine and made it back to the world (United
States). They are Paul “Tex” Hernandez, Steve “Booboo” Boosinger,
Michel “Frenchy” Wilson, Bill “Doc” Coonfield, John “Paladin” Shockley,
Greg “Chief” Fragua, Frank Hutson, Juan “Doc” Sanchez, Eddie “Chipper”
Caiado, Jim Wallace, Ed Nunez, Rene Torres, Al Singleton, Mike “Seadog”
Wright, Al “Hofacker” Ryan, Ernie Soliz, Neil “Bama” Cooper, Mike Burns,
Channing “Blinky” Prothro, Terry Westbrooks, Terry “Stretch”
Straavaldsen, David Stevens, Everett O. Cooper, Prentiss Waltman, William
“Doc” Donoghue, Arthur “Brother Chubby” Yelder, Ken Duncan, Roch
Thornton, Glen Trimble, James “JimRudey” Vollberg, Nathan “Willie” Fulfer,
Mike Harper, Nelson Kilmister, Guy Melton, Dennis “Hucklebuck” Prock,
Scottie Shirley, Al Simmons, and others that are mentioned in this book.
We survived horrors that no human being should ever face, but we made
it. Some of us crippled. All of us traumatized. So when I say that I came
to know the darkness in Vietnam, I mean complete and utter mental and
physical darkness. I consider this memoir the first ray of light to shed light
on those memories. My hope is that it can attest to the insanity of war and
honor the heroism of the Patriots asked to fight it. All incidents and
accounts are true stories based on my diary and the recollection of other
2nd CAG, 7th Company, CAP Marines. The photographs and interactive
media used in this book were either captured personally or by CAP
Marines that have graciously shared them with me.