It had taken a long time. Fourteen years had passed since I first heard that “still small voice of the Holy Spirit” say I would go back to Vietnam. It didn’t seem possible; Vietnam had been shut off from the outside world ever since the communists rolled into Saigon on April 30, 1975. The “Bamboo Curtain” of oppression sealed off Vietnam, much as Mao Zedong had closed off China.
Communist leaders prefer to do their dirty deeds without outside witnesses. China, Vietnam, and Cambodia murdered tens of millions. The tragedy that the Left and the media denied would happen did: out of sight, out of mind.
In 1988, an opportunity to go to Vietnam with other Christian veterans opened up. In January 1989, I landed in Saigon — 23 years after I first stepped on Vietnamese soil. So much had changed. I was 41 now, not that 18-year-old Marine. The guns were silent, the skies clear of fighter jets and bombers, but the oppression was real.
To get to the city of Hue, we had to pass through a village I once lived in with 11 other Marines and a Navy Corpsman. We lived among the people to win their hearts and minds and train the militia to fight the communists in their backyard.
I lived in this village for months, learning the language, the people, and the countryside. As the squad point man, we patrolled jungle trails and crossed through rivers, rice paddies, and mountains daily. We knew the countryside as well or better than our enemy. We knew they were there, watching our every move, waiting for us to make a mistake they could take advantage of. That mistake was made one night in early March 1966. This night, I was not the point man.
Ten of my fellow Marines died in a hail of gunfire and grenade explosions on a jungle trail. I was thrown off the trail along with two other Marines by an exploding booby-trapped artillery round behind us. Lying in the muddy rice paddy water, I watched helplessly as the phantom Viet Cong appeared out of the jungle. They grabbed up all the weapons of my squad, ensured no one was still alive, and disappeared into the jungle like ghosts. The two Marines blown off the trail behind me died in the helicopter before getting to the field hospital in Da Nang.
I relived that night for nearly five years until God’s grace and mercy took the nightmares away. Still, standing at the spot where this took place 23 years ago was an emotional roller coaster. For years, I asked God why I had lived when better men had not. The only answer was much like what my publisher, Mark Alexander, says when profiling a veteran’s story: “Live your life worthy of their sacrifice.”
Standing as if on holy ground, I thought about those 12 families who endured such great loss. To my knowledge, neither of those men killed was married, but all of them had families who would never see them live a long life. There would be no children to watch grow up and get married. They would never walk a daughter down the aisle or hold a grandchild. So much loss, such a great sacrifice that only their families will know.
America should never take for granted the tremendous price paid for our freedom. This coming Veterans Day, take the time to find someone who served and let them know you’re grateful for their sacrifice.
“To those who fought for it, freedom has a flavor the protected will never know.”
Semper Fidelis
