Conference repair::reserve_forces

80.0. "Ode to Nam Grunts" by WJOUSM::TOOHEY () Mon Mar 26 1990 22:00

                            
The following was written by a chaplain assigned to the 2nd 
Brigade 25th Infantry Division, Cambodia, June, 1970.  I found this as
I was going through the archives this past weekend. 


Don                                                            
2/12th Inf.  25th Inf. Div  

                                 "THE GRUNT"



  I am a man of few heroes.  I put very few individuals on a pedestal.
And even of the few idols I have worshipped at one time or another,
most have crumbled or dissolved into dust.  At times it seems I have no 
one left on a pedestal except, Snoopy, of course.  However, recently
I've come to worship another hero, a man I've come to know during these
past 16 months.

  His name?  I've never learned it.  There's never any insignia on his
uniform, and if there is you can be sure it's not his name, for after
all, he grabbed the shirt from a common pool of clean laundry.

  Even among his buddies, he has no last name.  At best he's Bill, but
more often he's simply "Brooklyn", "Short Round", "Cool Breeze", "Pappy",
or "Lurch".  He's of varied background.  He's the freckled face kid
from Chicago.  He's the black kid from L.A. He's the kid who can speak
two languages fluently from Puerto Rico.

  In a word, he's the PFC, Spec 4, and Sgt, the unsung hero of Viet Nam.

  Appearance wise, he doesn't show too much.  Despite all the SOP's and
AR's and personal admonitions from his CDR's, he doesn't shave
absolutely every day, but why should he when he can bearly scrounge
up enough water for a morning cup of coffee, should he waste half of it
on his chin?  His fatigues are torn and tattered, his boots have never
felt the touch of polish, but they have soaked in the puddles of the 
monsoon and the dry dust, and the bare the scares of numerous unbroken
humps through the jungles.

  His helmet is his diary, it announces each of his FSB's, Cambodia,
Jamie, Lynch, Warrior, Barbara, Beverly, Leopard, the Big "O", it
advertises his loved ones, Joan and Marie.  It clicks off his months
in country, June is about to be crossed off and it reaffirms his
faith in God, "God is my point man".

  Not hat he wears the helmet all the time, because despite all
the SOP's, when nobody is looking away it goes and out comes the
booney hat.

  A battered rope rosary often dangles from his neck and at times a
peace symbol is prominently displayed, a symbol fashioned from
shrapnel removed from his leg.  In his pockets there is a P-38, a
church key, and a small pocket Bible.

  On his back is a rucksack that weighs twice as much as him but
which he carries gladly, because in that ruck is all the ammo and
food that will keep him alive.  His language when he's angry would 
make a water buffalo blush, yet he can be most tender, even with 
words.  His letter to his wife always bears the reminder SWAk.  And
he can find just the right words to keep his buddy smiling while
they wait for a dustoff, joking about his "million-dollar" wound.
His compound is overflowing with dogs, all mighty popular because 
pets are the only civilians allowed on post housing.  In his wallet 
is always a photo of his wife or girl, and he has a way with 
children.  language is no problem when he works a Medcap in the vil.
   
  He has a vocalbulary all his own.  "Higher, Higher" "Celestial
Six" "Birds inbound""Redlegs" "There it is" "I've got my sierra 
in line".  His hospitality knows no bounds, there always room
for one more in the bunker.  he never hesitates to open another
cases of "C's" for a friend.  He'll always share even his last cold 
beer with a visitor.  And when a package arrives from the "World"
everyone shares in it.

  He yearns passionately for peace, for he and his buddies must
bear the brunt of war, in a fierce contact recently as bullets,
mortars, and B-40's were popping in every direction, he shook
his head and said to me, "this is a hell of a way to settle an
argument.  When he sees his buddies wounded or killed
around him, he can become gripped by a blind irrational hatred.
Sometimes he will take it out on the enemy, on occasions he will
rage momentarily against the whole system.  But generally he has 
a deep respect for his commanders, he knows they've been shot at
as many times as he, that they've put their lives on the line to,
and when the chips are down his Cdr's he knows will back him with
every thing they've got.  He even has a grudging respect for the
enemy, what else can he feel when 3 NVA have set up a bush and 
taken on a whole company.  He rejoices over Vietnamization for
he feels now is the time for our ARVN comrades to prove by their
courage on the battlefield that they appreciate all the sacrifices 
that the Americans have made for them.

  Since he is the low man in a big organization, he doesn't
often get preferential treatment.  In fact, often he feels he
is getting the raw end of the deal.  Unpleasant incidents often
stick in his mind.  The day he waited hours in line for the big
sale on tape recorders at the PX only to see senior men or REMF's
walk ahead without waiting for a second.  The afternoon he 
returned from the 93rd EVAC still limping from the shrapnel in
his leg only to find himself pulling guard that evening so a REMF
could go to the movies.  But usually its not the dramatic crises,
just the every day living at the bottom of the heap, He gets the
ice when its melted, he receives the Stars and Stripes when
they're three days old, even his copy of Playboy arrived with
the centerfold missing.  Its he who stands outside and shakes
Miss Glamour Girl's hand after she's lunched at the Officer's
club.

  His job doesn't seem so special to him though he does it
well, yet sometimes he feels he is the only indispensable man
as he works all day and pulls half the night on guard while he
here's of REMF's  who lock there doors at 5:30 every evening.

  And truly he is the indispensable man.  More senior men draw
up the strategy and issue the orders and supervise the "OP",
but its he who gets the job done.  It is he who drives the trucks, 
loads the choppers, mans the tanks.  It's he who CA's into hot
LZ's,  marches down hostile trails, sets up ambushes, traces
blood trials, searches out the enemy bunkers, it's he who
pulls LRRP's, rappels from choppers.  And ultimately it's he
who shoots and gets shot, who kills and gets killed.  Without
him there would be no Army and for that matter no America.

  He has been eulogized by Gen. Douglas MacArthur.  He has been
praised by Gen. Westmoreland as the finest fighting man ever
to march on the battlefield.

  Time magazine, speaking of him recently, grudgingly admitted
his acts of heroism are not extraordinary but the ordinary
the everyday occurrence in Viet Nam.

  As for myself, who have served with him these past 16 months
in the field, recently a friend remarked, if Snoopy is your 
hero and the Packers are your hero's, then Snoopy in a Packers
uniform would be your greatest hero.

Not quite, he's second to the American fighting man:

11 Bravo, 11 Charlie, 11 Foxtrot, ON THE LINE.

    Re .0:
    
    Excellent.....like stepping back 20 years.
    
    Where has the time gone...
    
    Mark
    RMC USNR

    I agree it is nearly 20 years since I saw that ODE TO THE GRUNT. I
    believe there is a version floating around here in Australia also.
    
    Sapper