The Patriot Post® · Etched in Our Hearts
It was pitch-dark as we walked along the rice paddy dike. It was overcast, no moon or stars to illuminate the path, which was good for us. We knew the lay of the land; we had walked this path many times before. It made it harder for the enemy to see us until we were on top of them.
Our new squad leader took point that night. During our briefing, we had an argument about the mission, and instead of walking point, I was moved back towards the end of the squad. I can only assume he wanted us all to know he was now the squad leader. He led us into the village where all of us, except him, had been many times.
As we entered the village, suddenly the hair on the back of my neck and arms stood up. Something wasn’t right. Before I could even think to shout anything, the enemy opened fire on the squad. An explosion behind me sent my body flying off the trail into the rice paddy. The events of that night are still carved into my mind 56 years later.
When the firing stopped, an eerie quietness settled over the trail. Suddenly, ghostly images emerged from the jungle. They moved quickly, quietly, grabbing weapons of the dead and disappearing into the night. I lay in the foot-deep water, still stunned by the concussion of the explosion.
Every man in front of me died that night. Our squad leader was hit 27 times. Two Marines walking behind me took the full force of the explosion instead of me. When our “react platoon” arrived, the wounded were medevaced to Da Nang. I was told the next day they didn’t make it to the hospital. I never knew for sure if that was true. I was the only survivor of 12 Marines and a Navy Corpsman. I was assigned to another squad, trying to put those memories behind me, unsuccessfully.
Twenty-three years later, with my wife and children under a grueling midday sun, I walked down the same long rice paddy dike towards the same village. Before we got to the village, a crowd had gathered on the trail. No Americans had been there for over 19 years. A handful of veterans from our tour group encouraged me to make this journey.
We had a brief “memorial service” on the spot where the ambush took place. Our interpreter explained to the villagers why we were there. I told them my friends had died there. An elderly woman holding a small child came up to me, laid her head against my chest, and wept. I was not the only one here who had lost someone.
As we held our brief moment of silence, I prayed, “Lord, why was I the one who survived?” I carried the guilt of surviving that night for 23 years. There was no voice from Heaven but a strong impression: “I have a purpose for your life. Make it count!”
The way I want to make it count is to challenge Americans of all walks of life to not forget those who paid the ultimate cost for our freedom. Memorial Day has passed. Let’s always remember what the weekend truly stands for.
Something to pray about.