I was drafted on October 17, 1968, and discharged May 22, 1970. I was in Viet Nam from April 14 1969 until early December 1969. I was 20 years old, as was typical of the members of the platoon. Our unit was stationed in the Mekong delta south of Saigon when I joined it. This was an area of rice paddies and waterways. The most common injuries were from booby traps, now known as IED's, one of which I hit on May 20 while I was the RTO for Lieutenant Pierce. I spent a week in a hospital in Saigon, then a long time in a hospital in Cam Rahn Bay. During that time, one of the squads "visited' me courtesy of them having been on an armored personnel carrier that was blown up by an IED. They stayed about a week, except for the guy from Minnesota who came in-country with me and who was, it turns out, was hurt badly in his back. I returned to our platoon 59 days after I hit the booby trap. Sometime in June or early July, while I was still in the hospital, we were moved north east of Saigon in triple-canopy jungle terrain. No booby traps, but more firefights. We usually humped 3-5 weeks at a time in the jungle, carrying everything we owned on our backs. We would then return to Firebase Libby and pull guard duty for a few days, get clean uniforms, get a cold-water shower, and sometimes mail. Libby got mortared only once during that time, so was really what we considered pretty safe. I was shot in the chest on November 28 and spent most of my remaining time in Walter Reed Army Hospital. The good news there was that meant I wasn't with the platoon when they were sent into Cambodia, where they had a pretty rough time, it seems.

These pictures were gathered after our platoon had a reunion in 2007. Our platoon had three squads, usually between six and ten guys per squad. Our company had three platoons in the field and one mortar platoon that didn't hump. The company had 95 men when I joined. Most of the time, we operated as a platoon, sending squads out for cloverleaf recons and ambushes as we moved through the jungle. Only a few times did we operate as a whole company.

If you were not wounded bad enough to be sent home, or were not killed, you left Viet Nam after 365 days. If you were lucky, you might not spend all of your time in the field. As jobs opened up in the rear, such as driving a staff officer around, or working in supply, the guy with the most seniority in the field got to take it (usually). Or, if you got wounded twice, they moved you to the rear.  Or, you could always re-enlist for a new three-year hitch and get out of the field.

Curtis Dewitt and me (Driskill). Curtis was (and is now) from a farm in South Carolina, and came into country about the same time I did. We were in the same squad. Curtis has always entertained us with stories about his relationships with farm animals.

Jesse Rabenda, another squad member, and me. We were ambushed Thanksgiving day, 1969, and Jesse was wounded in the abdomen. The wound sent him back to the world. He became a Chicago cop.

Top row (left to right): Sixkiller (his real name, he is a Sioux), Sargent Larry Lewis, Dewitt, Morehead Sam (Jerry Morehead) Bottom Row: Stinger (real name Nelson Bunch), ?, Tiny Glinka. We are still in the Delta, because we are wearing flak jackets. Stinger and I came into country at the same time. He was from Harlem. He got the M60 and I got the radio, aka Prick25. When Pierce joined us, that meant I was his (Pierce's) RTO. Stinger got the best of that deal. He re-enlisted to get out of the field, as did Tiny and Sixkiller. When Richnell, Sixkiller's buddy, got shot, Sixkiller re-enlisted to become a helicopter door-gunner-he was always a little nuts. Sargent Lewis was a "shake-and-bake" NCO but turned out to be a terrific leader, and eventually led the platoon after Pierce self-inflicted a cut on his leg to get out of the field. Jerry Morehead lied like a cheap suit when I hit a booby trap May 21, telling me I would be sent home! Jerry was (and is) from Nebraska, and helped me out as a know-nothing new guy, and twice made sure I got safely on a medevac. Over the course of his time in the field, he saw more action than anyone I know who never got hit.

Jackson (left), Driskill, and Dixon (right). Jackson was also from a farm in South Carolina, and Dixon was from Southern California. Both were in my squad. Dixon was wounded Thanksgiving Day 1969, along with Jesse Rabenda, and two FNG's. That left me and Lloyd Cook, who carried the M60, in our squad in the field. Cook and I were wounded the next day, the day after Thanksgiving, and Jackson was wounded the following day! Jackson was on R and R when we were ambushed Thanksgiving day, but obviously didn't miss all the fun of that time. Dixon spent over a year in the hospital and eventually lost his leg. He later died in an accident when his artificial foot didn't work the controls properly on his specially-built motorcycle.

Our medic attends to a wounded VC.

Dewitt, me, and our fearless squad leader Gallion. Gallion was from the Ozarks and a good squad leader.

Again, we provide humanitarian aid to a wounded captured VC.  He was so grateful to Doc that he revealed where he had stashed his weapons cache.

Woody and me. Woody was just another FNG to me at the time, but also lived to tell about Cambodia. 

Reid Mendenhall, Bill Preston, Doc Clary, Dan Weireich, and me after a memorial service for Clarkson in 2007 in his home county of Lafayette Georgia. Clarkson was from Trion Georgia, a small town in northwest Georgia.

Graham, Clarkson, the Jack Mormon, and Peterson. Graham was also from South Carolina, and a very laid-back guy. Clarkson was a wonderful guy and was KIA 2 days after Thanksgiving. The Jack Mormon was, well, a Jack Mormon-drank and smoked, all around good guy. Peterson was close to Ferrell.

Clark Ferrell and Peterson. Ferrell was shot when he walked point into an NVA bunker complex. He had a sucking chest wound that got him back to the World. Ferrell also had a college degree at the time and seemed much older-and more cynical-than me. He was right behind me when I hit a booby trap and later told me what it looked like: I was blown straight up in the air high enough that when I came down I knocked myself out.

Me, Jackson and Jesse Rabenda; my one and only stand down.

Platoon Leader (leader?) Lt. Jack Pierce;
Anybody got a frag left?

Doc (Pat Clary). Doc crawled alone, without support, up to attend to Ferrell's chest wound, because Lt. Pierce wouldn't release anyone from a tight perimeter around himself.  Doc is now a physician and poet. http://www.lostborderspress.com/authors/index.cfm#17. He and I shared the good sense to be scared shitless when we went on helicopter assaults, where they drop you off in a clearing-which meant no cover-surrounded by tree lines where the NVA could conceal themselves and shoot you. Luckily, we never hit a hot LZ.

Doc and I have met across the years. When I was in grad school in Baltimore, he was a med student in Georgetown. I discovered this when I saw a flyer in Baltimore advertising that Pat Clary was reading poetry-he was already a bit of a big shot in the poetry field. I attended, met up with Doc, was amazed to see that chics dig poets, and we have kept in touch off and on ever since.

Doc also grew up in Davis, CA, where I eventually taught and where he visited me and introduced me to gin and tonics. And the year I taught at Yale, he was a doctor in NYC, so we met a few times and drank a lot of alcohol.

Dapplin' Dan and Igor: the sniper squad. Dan Weirich was a college graduate and seemed very mature to me at the time. Igor grew up on the lower East Side of NYC as the child of Ukrainian immigrants.  After the war, he was a cabbie in New York City, and has great stories about New York.

Reid Mendenhall. Reid was by my standards a pretty new guy when I got shot. He later joined the sniper squad, and lived to tell about Cambodia.

Michael Gross: the skinny guy on the right. Michael and his entire squad were riding an APC when the VC detonated a land mine and blew them all off. They joined me at the hospital at Cam Rahn Bay for a few weeks. Purple Heart number one for Michael.   Pat Patterson is kneeling in front and Martin Clay is in the very back with the Prick 25 and his ever-present grenade on his flak jacket.  Clay was (and is now) from Redkeye Indiana.  What I remember that is most unusual about Clay is that, during my one-and-only stand-down, he played basketball.  Despite appearances (sorry Clay, you just didn't look very athletic) he was terrific.  I guess there really is almost nothing else to do growing up in Indiana.

Lt. Dull & Michael Gross: Gross got his second Purple Heart when Ferrell was shot.  We were doing cloverleafs when Ferrell, walking point, ran into an NVA basecamp.  Michael was squad leader, and got hit with some shrapnel from a claymore.  It sounded like WWIII to me when the shooting started, and a round went over my head and I scrambled back to our RTO, where I heard, over the radio, Mike as cool as if he was talking about the weather call in that he had a "whiskey India alpha" and what the situation was.  I would have been screaming like a girl.  After that, Mike got a deserved job as a REMF. 

Thomas Cuffey: Along with Jerry Morehead, life savers for me as an "FNG". Cuffey was from Virginia Beach, strong as an ox, and was always willing to take more than his share of the load.

I zigged when I should have zagged on November 28. We ambushed a platoon of NVA in a coffee plantation-probably the same NVA platoon that ambushed us the day before. Cook and I were the bottom of an "L" ambush, and Cook opened up with his M60 as a line of NVA came down the road. I caught a round in the chest, and then an rpg got both Cook and myself with shrapnel. This wound did get me home, and got me enough disability for me to get the schooling to get my Ph.D.  This picture is when I was still in Viet Nam, before they sent me to Japan and then on to Walter Reed.

Steve Ferragamo and me in the hospital at Cam Rahn Bay. He had shrapnel in his back from a firefight in the Delta where he was with the Ninth Division, I had shrapnel from a grenade used in a booby trap I tripped on May 20. We were both from Baltimore, hence the flag in the background, and our connection.  After the war, Steve and I happened across each other in a Little Italy restaurant in Baltimore.  He told me he got out of the field after his wound, and had become a Baltimore fireman.

Bill Preston is in front, and Herman Buete is giving the peace sign.  Bill was very "short' and expecting to get the next job in the rear when we were sent on a big operation as a company.  Lots of NVA, Richnell was wounded, two KIA's, and two guys having an "accident" that shot off their fingers. Clay, who was not as short, got a job in the rear, and Bill got mad and re-upped.  As he tells it, he insisted on going back on the re-supply chopper, walked in the office to re-enlist, and when asked what MOS he wanted, looked at the office guys' shiny boots, and said, "whatever it is that you guys have."  He retired as a Sargent-Major.  I personally think (look at the picture) he knew he was too ugly for civilian life.

Mike Gross coming in off night patrol-notice the wet pants.  This was in the delta, where there was water, water everywhere.  Sgt (Dave) Hunger is the shirtless guy in the background.

Mike Gross again, carrying the Prick 25 (my first job as well). Twenty-five extra pounds, and you are stuck with an officer!

Michael again, with Mike Fields.  Fields was from Cleveland, and was my squad leader for a short time.  During this time, I was walking point and saw a slit trench, signifying we were close to a base camp.  We called in for a gunship, but the Colonel flew over in a loach, said he saw nothing, refused to give us a gunship, and ordered us to walk in.  So, we continued on, and I got to the edge of clearing, and we could see the bunkers.  There was maybe five yards of clear space between the edge and any cover-a big termite hill, maybe two feet high.  Mike offered to walk point at this time.  He didn't have to, but that was the kind of guy he was-- willing to do anything he would ask you to do.  I told him no, and broke across the clearing towards the anthill.  An AK opened up from the closest bunker, but missed me.  It cut down a little sapling growing out of the top of the anthill, and kicked up dirt around my legs, and dinted my helmet (which was attached to my web gear, not my head).  I returned fire (without raising my head above the anthill, the rest of the squad moved up and opened up, and the shooters di-di-maued.

Stupid Colonels in Loaches, is my view.  Fields went on to sniper school, came back to the 199th as a sniper.

I think this is Dan Lewis and Jerry Juri with the "most popular magazine in Nam (see also the earlier airbrushed picture of me, Dewitt, and Gallion).  I did not know this until recently, but Dan was Larry Lewis's brother.

Little Jimmy West and a mortar tube.  Jimmy (and Dan, I think) were not in third platoon, but I got to know Jimmy because we went on R and R together in Bangkok.

Again, from Dan, a picture of first squad taking a break during a search and destroy mission.

Again from Dan, a picture of guys at the corner bunker at Fishnet.  Mike Gross is stuffing the underwear his girl sent him into his pants (this must have been just after mail came).

Fergusen, the company clerk.  If only I had known how to type, I might have been a clerk, sleeping on a cot, going to the EM club, ...