War Story 17: War, Emotions, Hope, Purpose

It was the most tumultuous year in memory, 1968.  It seemed everything was going wrong in America.

Race riots, assassinations, cities on fire, crime, political upheaval, and, oh, yes, war.  I was appalled at the university sit-ins and protest parades, student suicides, and kids escaping to Canada or the Peace Corps.  It was also the time of the “Tet Offensive,” when hundreds of U.S. soldiers were dying each week.  Death and mayhem were everywhere.

It was also the year I graduated from college in May after working nights for four years.  On June 12, I enlisted in the Army.

Who the hell volunteers for this?  Well, I did.  It was my commitment to my country and to saving American lives.  Yep, it sounds too magnanimous.  I was young and naïve.  I also thought I could be a good soldier.  I did not care about the political details of the Vietnam War, and it did not matter to me.  I could not change what was happening but I could join the fight.  I was hopeful to see an end to the war.  I also never believed I would die, or maybe I was just really hopeful.

But I wasn’t foolish.

I volunteered for all the training I could get.  When I signed up, I asked for OCS to be an Infantry officer.  I thought about Armor.  Heck, I thought about being a pilot.  But I wanted to be on the ground, in the front.  Not to be suicidal, but to win.  Again, I was young and full of energy and desire for adventure.

So, in the summer of ’68, I spent time training at Fort Dix, NJ, and Fort Polk, LA, before going to Ft Benning, GA, for Airborne School.  Yeah, I wanted to be a paratrooper.  By December of ’68, I got my jump wings; all the while, I continued to court my college girlfriend and came home for Christmas to marry her in a very spartan wedding – we were broke.  Our honeymoon was the drive from Boston back to Fort Benning.

In early ’69, I started officer candidate school or OCS – six months of grueling training.  My wife lived in an off-base trailer by the railroad tracks, in conditions we want to forget.  But we shut out the rest of the world.  We were so in love.

After graduation, I was assigned to brigade training operations.  Three months before getting orders to leave for Fort Sherman, Panama Canal Zone, for Jungle School, our son was born at Martin Army Hospital.

It was a serious responsibility.  I was an infantry officer, married, father, and going to war when so many were rioting against the war while others were starting their careers and making real money.  It was all about either stepping up and joining the military or ignoring, hiding, or escaping from the draft in any way possible.  I know it sounds crazy, but when given a choice over the next two years to go to Korea or Germany, I chose Vietnam each time - three times.   

I was a contrarian.

My parents had no connections, and I would not try to use it anyway.  Conversely, my happy-go-lucky, guitar-playing brother-in-law used political pull to get stationed in Kentucky for the full time of his draft enlistment.

As for making money, I felt I could wait and leverage my military experience when I returned to get a good job.  Of course, I never expected the negative backlash we received from so many Americans who did not have to fight in Vietnam.  Of course, we were labeled baby killers. Massachusetts was anti-war and radically liberal.

Arriving in Vietnam in March ‘70, after two years of training, I got two more weeks of training in Chu Lai at the Americal Division headquarters.  I was apprehensive as I studied local enemy tactics and how to conduct operations in the “bush.”  Yes, it was hot and humid.  The longer I spent in training, the greater my anxiety.  I believed I had to get this over with – let me put in my time and go home to my wife and son.

They were the inspiration for me to stay alive.  Yes, like the song by the group, “Blood, Sweat and Tears, I had one child born in this world to carry on…” My anxiety was for both my wife and son, and it strengthened my resolve to survive.  I needed to carry on.

Simply said, I had purpose.

Finally, getting on the Huey to fly me to Hill 251 in the middle of rice paddies was a relief to me at the time.  There was no more downtime to think about what was to come.  I was now in the shit.  Time to focus, think, act.  But overall, I was excited and filled with hope.

My first mission was to look, listen, and learn.  My orders:  just follow the third platoon’s lieutenant on his patrol.  I had a tremendous sense of adventure, with new sights and sounds lighting up all my brain cells.

Then, the explosion, the lost limbs, and near death for two soldiers directly in front of me stepping on a mine and the Medivac that took them away in minutes – including the lieutenant.  I was now in charge.  It was just two hours into my first patrol.  I felt so lucky to survive, and then all else was dismissed as I was now the leader.  But the thought that I would not survive for another 50 weeks was now more real than ever.  This was on my first combat patrol with an explosion that changed everything.

Villages had distinctive smells.  Fish were drying in the heat/sun on racks out in the open.  The smell was putrid to me, and cooking fires with large pots glowed under straw grass roofs.  The animals looked dirty and smelled awful.  I Corps, or the northern area of South Vietnam, was a land of poverty but, amazingly, with kids smiling.  Adults were expressionless.  I can’t imagine any of them attending school.  They hardly had clothes to cover their bodies.  

I felt sympathetic yet was trained to be on guard and move forward without delay.  We were hunting the enemy.

Setting up ambushes with Claymore mines was routine.  Soon, we caught some NVAs (North Vietnamese Army) traveling in the early morning hours before dawn.  Their bodies were blown apart.  The first sight of such devastation to the human body had little effect on me other than satisfaction.  I can’t explain it other than I felt it was better for them than one of my soldiers.

Weeks went by with patrolling in disgusting, leech-filled rice paddies.  The smell of the water was just awful, knowing it included all kinds of excrement from humans to water buffalo and dogs.

I was angry at the bugs, leeches, and jungle rot on my feet, legs, and arms.  I did not mind sleeping on the ground as it was dry.  Sleeping in the jungles was different – I hated being on the ground with all that creeps around and over me.

I learned how little food one needs, even as we were humping through muddy paddies and mountain jungles with 60-80 lbs. rucksacks, weapons and ammo.  I quickly lost weight in the heat, dropping 40 lbs. in 4 months.  I could hardly hold up my pants without belts and web gear.  My ribs showed plainly.

We endured no hot food or showers for months.   We wore the same jungle fatigue pants and shirt for weeks in the hot, humid weather.  The old ones would surely be burned when finally replaced by used, clean fatigues.

In the rice paddies, the war was cat and mouse searching and making contact with the enemy infrequently while sustaining booby trap injuries, many severe, some deadly.  It was excruciatingly frustrating.  But soon, we were on Huey’s again for airmobile combat assaults into enemy-infested territory in the mountains along the Laotian border.  The physical strain was terrible, but the mental strain for me was worse.  Navigating inside the jungles with only a map and a lensatic compass was brutal.  We had no GPS, electronics, satellite uplinks, or other devices, and there were no landmarks to use in the jungle to confirm locations.  At the same time, you were always worried about getting ambushed.

Getting from point A to B miles away was demanding of a lieutenant, and I appreciated all the land navigation training I had received, especially in the Panamanian jungles.  

Getting wounded twice was also a wake-up call.  Having lost several members of my platoon to gunshots and booby traps, it was a reminder that one mistake, my fault or not, could instantly change everything.

After several months, in my first frontal assault, where we were on the attack to take a small but fortified hill held by a squad of dug-in NVA, I called for Cobra gunships first to rake the hill with grenades and cannon fire.  We quickly attacked on their second and last pass, shooting and throwing grenades.  Afterward, I could see the dead enemy bodies in and around their foxholes.  I was yelling at them.  Yes, YELLING at them at the top of my lungs.  F…You!…No F..g  Way… We Got YOU, you F…ks!

My sergeant came up to me to calm me down.  He grabbed me and said, “Sir, it’s OK, relax!”  I was both hyper-emotional and exhausted.  I lost no soldiers and was so relieved.  We pushed the dead bodies down the hill.  The stench of death was penetrating.  However, I did not sleep that night for fear of counterattack.

And so it went.  Week after week, 24 X 7, months would pass.  The activity was incredible.  Always something.  Always moving.  Always on alert.

After a disastrous attack with the loss of 31 Americans and my platoon’s medic shot and killed by a sniper, I was picked up for assignment to Battalion headquarters on a forward firebase to be the company commander to guard the sprawling Hawkhill complex and provide support for field combat companies.

It was a time of rest, recovery from dehydration, jungle rot,  and a new mission that did not mean contact with the enemy at any given second.

It was also a time when my anxiety slowly grew over the next few months until my last day.  It was always a time to be alert.  I always thought about how the enemy could attack, where they would come from, and how I would respond.  All this on my mind while listening to the sounds of war: helicopters on constant missions in and out of the firebase, huge 155 mm Howitzer artillery firing night and day, jets flying overhead, big Army trucks carrying troops and weapons in constant movement.  

As my days wound down, thoughts of dying got to me.  I was close to getting out alive.  I had a purpose, and I did not want to be denied.   I wanted to end the anxiety and have hope and faith in God to deliver me for another purpose in life.

I must admit that while I had more than two years of training, there is nothing like actual combat operations to demonstrate what you don’t know.  The first few weeks were all about luck and circumstance.  It was up to you to step up to the demands and answer to yourself – not others.  It was a time to learn fast or die.  

When I got on the commercial airliner in Danang to return to the U.S., my fears were hyper-exaggerated.  I worried that the plane would be shot down while trying to take off.  Yep, they might be able to do it when I have no control.

Minutes passed like hours, and finally, the pilot announced we had left Vietnam airspace.

I had made it.  Now for the next chapter in life.  I felt a sense of calm and profound accomplishment.  I was proud.  I had taken the risk, paid my dues, and earned my way as an American.  

I was at peace with myself.  God, Mom, Dad, Wife, and Son all blessed me.

In a moment of complete surrender, I passed out for hours of sleep on a very long flight.

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John Shoemaker was a First Lieutenant and both an infantry platoon leader and company commander for the 3rd Platoon, Bravo Company, and HHQ CO for the 2nd Battalion, 1st Infantry, 196th Light Infantry Brigade, of the Americal Division. He was 23 years old. At this writing, 54 years later in March of 2024, he is retired and living in Florida with his wife, Paula, whom he married on December 21, 1968.