Custom guided tour of Vietnam with More Fun Travel
April 25 – May 10, 2008
42 years ago, on a hill top 11,000 miles from home, a group of U.S. Marines engaged in a ferocious fight. Ragged, with clothes literally falling off them, extremely low on ammunition, with no food and very little water, India Company, 3rd Battalion 5th Marines, (I 3/5), hacked their way through the dense jungle near the North Vietnam border, along the DMZ, or Demilitarized Zone.
They had just survived a classic ambush by elements of the 324B Division of the North Vietnamese Army two nights previously, in a stream bed near the Cam Lo River, close to what were called The Rockpile and Razorback Ridge.
The DMZ, which lay along the 17th parallel, was a no fire zone and technically there should have been no troop movement through this area. Reconnaissance showed, however, that the North Vietnamese were amassing a huge force precisely in this DMZ. The question was: why?
Some U.S. Marine commanders thought the reason was to lure security troops away from the centers of Hue and DaNang. General Westmoreland did not agree and very much wanted to go after this large group and stop them in their tracks before they made their way south, which is what he thought was their objective.
Since Westmoreland led the Vietnam engagement on the military side, the decision was made to go after these NVA troops and ultimately, Operation Hastings was born. This was to be one of the largest operations in the history of the U.S. Marine Corps. It proved to be one of the deadliest.
9:11 pm, June 25, 2007
John Olsen called and asked if I would like to return to Vietnam to help place a memorial plaque on Hill 362. This is like a bolt from the sky and I’m momentarily speechless. Finally, I say I will need to discuss it with my wife but I absolutely want to go. My wife, Colette, thinks about it for about two minutes and says “You have to go”. I walk around in a daze for the next four weeks as I find out all the particulars.
There was some talk about this kind of a trip at our last reunion. A number of us discussed what a good idea it was. John has asked 8 men from India Company to return. One is given the task of making/finding a fitting memorial to leave behind. One is asked to document our trip for future showing or other causes. I am the only corpsman in the group and I assume a medical role and outline for all what immunizations are needed and what dangers we will face from flora and fauna.
The thought of going back up that hill after all these years is daunting. There are many ghosts roaming that jungle forest. Will we raise their souls?
John contacted many different people and tour agencies, trying to find the best combination for what we want. Our goals are to do a lot of boots on the ground kind of touring, using vehicle transportation as little as possible, as well as to climb up Hill 362 one more time, for a memorial service.
The developing plan is to spend a few days in the Chu Lai area looking for places we spent time back in ‘66, then move farther up the coast to DaNang and west to DongHa and finally into the jungle to climb the hill and spend one or two days on top. Possibly three. We would reverse the order on the way home with two days in SaiGon in lieu of ChuLai for rest and relaxation. All of us communicated with ex-pats who live there and many others who have visited recently. Most of us are getting all kinds of conflicting reports on what to expect from the people and the government.
We finally decide on using a tour agency. A guide by the name of Ngoc has outlined a very detailed trip for us. There are multiple e-mail communications between John and Ngoc which he shares with all of us. She says that there may be some difficulties about getting us to our hill 362, but she will do the best she can. The trip may include taking motor scooters from DongHa as far into the jungle as possible and then walking the remainder of the way. She will be teamed with another guide by the name of Thuong, who was somehow involved in the war.
I have emailed all the guys with the CDC recommendations for vaccinations, Malaria prophylaxis and what other health related items we need to be concerned about. Looks like all things are falling in place and we are just waiting for our time to go. To a man, we are anxious, excited, counting the days.
April 25, 2008
I cannot believe it’s time to go already. I bought several new items to take. Clothes for hiking in hot weather, some camping supplies, including a hammock to suspend between trees for sleeping. Some packaged food and a fair amount of endurance food such as Cliff Bars and Power Bars. I borrowed a great back pack from my nephew and a fine stock of Dominican cigars. None of us know what cigars will be available once we are in country.
I have packed and repacked so many times I don’t know what I should be taking any more. I am more nervous about this than I was willing to admit. My schedule is: Friday: Detroit to LA, where most of us will meet up. Saturday: LA to Hong Kong, switch planes and then on to SaiGon, arriving Sunday night. Monday: Early flight from SaiGon to ChuLai where we are slated to spend a few days. From there on up the coast to DaNang and then into the jungle by ground. John has collected all monies and booked all flights and guide expenses. He has done just a ton of leg work for this trip.
Our guide, Ngoc, has been in near constant contact with John and has reworked our itinerary many times to accommodate us.
It is a relatively short flight to Saigon from Hong Kong, about an hour and a half. On the notoriously rough tarmac at Tan Son Nhat Airport in Saigon, we have the smoothest landing I have ever experienced. Not even a ripple. After we land in HCMCity, the hosts/stewardesses want pictures with us before we leave the plane. It makes me feel like we are on a special mission.
When we leave the airport and hit the street, looking for our guide and the bus to our hotel, we are struck with the intensity of the heat and humidity. It is all consuming. It immediately slows you and weighs on you like a hot, wet blanket. It’s one of those things about Vietnam I had forgotten.
Once settled at the hotel, we go downstairs to the lobby to meet up for a drink some where. The flight crew is standing in the lobby waiting for us!!! Pilot, copilot and hosts!! They take us to the top of The Hotel Rex, maybe the most famous social spot in SaiGon. I can’t believe I went there!!
On our way to the hotel, we walk past the old SaiGon Opera House, now the Ho Chi Minh City Municipal Theatre. At one time this held the Vietnamese House of Parliament after the ouster of the French. It is on the west side of Lam Son Square where the famous picture was taken of the SaiGon Chief of Police executing a Viet Cong officer with his pistol.
The opera house is a magnificent gothic-style French structure, painted brilliant red along its borders and on the upper level facade and stands in sharp contrast to the new steel and glass high rises that are going up every where in the city.
At the large rooftop bar at the top of the hotel, we find out that the pilot flew C-140’s here many years ago and the co-pilot is a retired Navy jet fighter pilot. They are quite the pair and true to their calling. The ex-Navy fighter jock is young, animated, excited and full of energy. He is all over the place. The C-140 pilot is calm, slow and deliberate, a very easy going guy. No wonder we had such a perfect landing. He has landed big planes on the tarmac here hundreds of times.
Our flight to Chu Lai is on a Vietnam Airlines dual prop job and we fly low enough to get good views of the northern delta area around Saigon. The Mekong River flows southeast, into Vietnam out of Laos, west of the Annamese Cordillera range and spreads out into nine different branches as it approaches Saigon and the Pacific Ocean. The Annamese range has gently descending slopes on the east and precipitous slopes off the western ridges, contributing greatly to the flow of the Mekong. The Vietnamese call these river branches “The Nine Tongues of the Dragon”.
We land at ChuLai without problems and we are the only aircraft on the tarmac. One of the reasons we wanted to land here is that we guarded this air strip as one of our duties for a while back in ’66. There is much about ChuLai that seems like home.
It is Monday morning, and I have been flying off and on for approximately 23 hours since Friday afternoon with another 6 or 7 hours of waiting in airports. Our butts are weary. Here is where we first meet Ngoc and Thuong. They are waiting outside of the terminal at ChuLai holding a very large, red banner that reads “Welcome Back”. We are all excited to meet. Ngoc is talkative and has a great smile and wants to tell us all her plans. This is the most hands-on, boots on the ground type of request she has ever had from American vets or any one. She is very excited to meet us and can’t wait to get us started on our journey.
It’s a short ride to our hotel. Pretty nice place. The new, modern design looks very out of place directly across the street from the more traditional tin roofed shanties that are typical of the country. Of course the beds are box springs only, no mattresses and only a box spring cover without sheets but I don’t think I’m going to mind so much. It’s off the floor and it looks clean. I’m in Chu Lai, Vietnam. How much can I ask for, anyway?
Someone quickly arranges for us all to get blankets and a pillow. I wonder what the heck I’m going to do with a blanket in 90 plus degrees and 90 plus humidity.
During the afternoon we sit across the street near the beach under a thatched roof, open air cafe with a concrete slab floor and drink Vietnamese beer and smoke Stan’s cigars. They don’t have cold beer but start putting some on ice for us. I have decided that I will eat/drink anything they give me regardless of temp. Nor, will I try not to care about heat/humidity or how tired I am or how far we walk. We’ll try to accept this country and its people as is. We are here in friendship and deep humility and I am here for a single purpose.
About 2 pm we bus out to a remote area to find hill 66 and some other areas. We get off the bus and trek through back roads and trails. An old man comes out of his house and hands Gary Campbell an American dog tag. We pass an elementary school and the children inside are practicing an alphabet or numbers or something, in unison. Soon, they become aware that we are outside and they all come out to see us. Laughing and nearly all waving the peace sign at us, shouting in English “Hello! How are you?” Every one here now is taught English as second language. Years ago it was Russian. Before that, French.
We take many pictures of the children and to a man we are impressed with their mere presence and energy. What amazing smiles these children have. The fact that the school compound is ringed with barbed wire is puzzling to us. Later on we decide that we will make a monetary gift to them/the school. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day.
Walking through small vills and hamlets give us a sense of remembrance. Flashes of time gone by. Not all of it is bad, but the memories surface with a heightened sense of awareness that comes from having been in a life and death struggle – a lesson that never leaves. We remember hedge lines of cacti, palm and betel nut trees, walking along the elevated paths between rice paddies, and feeling over exposed and vulnerable.
As we walk from hamlet to hamlet, the word gets passed around about a group of Americans, and many of the villagers try to sneak peeks at us. The children collect in groups of 5 or 6 and giggle at us. This is a shy culture. They have little expectation other than daily needs. There are few demands on them. Their civility is so deep, so basic. It could not exist in the western world. I can’t help but wonder how they can be so calm, so open, and so polite after 100 years of war.
We’ll spend another day or two here in Chu Lai looking for some old haunts and that will be the last of life on the coast for us as we head in toward the jungle and our goal.
Lots of walking today in deeper and deeper countryside and rice paddies. I am now getting many flashes of past images and I’m amazed that I am here. Already my western world seems a distant memory. This is a remarkable bookend to my last adventure in this land.
Everyone finds us curious. Every one is friendly and helpful. Late in the afternoon we are trying to find a way to get across a small river that we thought would be dried up at this time. An older man in camos appears out of nowhere and tells us exactly how and where to cross. He has a look in his eyes that very clearly tells me he has seen many of us before long ago on a very different mission. He is friendly but aloof until he gives Stan a big high five when Stan asks to take his picture.
We are very unsure that we’ve found hill 22 and Red Hill and the sun is starting to get lower in the sky. On our way back to the main road, another man who followed us for about 1/2 hour from afar, approaches us and informs our guide that he was Viet Cong and that he worked this area from 1960 to 1975. We have struck gold!!
We all talk, hold hands and hug until dark and then decide to see if we can find him again tomorrow because he tells us we are not on Red Hill. It occurs to us that he could probably tell us exactly where each of our bunkers were those 40-odd years ago.
The longer I sit here, the more young children stop to ask if I will buy one of their coconuts. I know they do not expect me to buy. They want to get as close as they can to see my features, maybe talk and touch me. They write their names and ages in my journal and we try to speak to each other in what few words we know of each other’s language.
ChuLai is a cross roads of city and country on the central coast, south of DaNang. I see nothing here taller than two stories with one exception. The local bank has a tower, three stories. Money is the same every where. Modernity will find its way here, but not because they are looking, pressing for it but because it’s inexorable creep will find them. I am not altogether happy with that thought.
Tomorrow we head out for a stop over in DaNang, then on to DongHa and into the weeds. To a man, we are sorry to leave ChuLai. It feels so much a part of us. Again, like home. This will be the heart of the trip now.
Wow! DaNang has changed. What a huge city this is: masses of people, traffic jams, huge hotels and banks, and construction is every where. It gives every impression of a modern city hustle and bustle.
DaNang is built on the beach of a long, narrow inlet, part of which is called China Beach. There was a TV show about it and the war. Pretty well known. The sand is so light, soft and almost white. No huge waves or undercurrents. What a place for resorts/hotels.
Our destination is the Furama Resort. We’re told it is the only 5 star hotel we will get on this trip, and it meets the criteria. Built on China Beach, with new resorts being built both north and south, it is a gorgeous place. Our passports are taken as we enter, we are offered drinks and asked to sit while our stay is arranged. Soon, we are escorted to our rooms where our luggage is already delivered and there are more free drinks, all sorts of fresh fruits and other foods for our enjoyment. Huge bath room with separate shower, Jacuzzi, tub, large sink, toilet.
There are arrays of robes we can wear and sandal type footwear that are ours to keep. Between the main building and the beach there is a large wading/swimming pool that looks like it’s lined with the deepest green jade I have ever seen. The shoreline is another 50-60 yards. The Pacific is cool, not cold, and very calm. It is, after all, an inlet, or bay. The grounds are just covered with all sorts of flowery and colorful plants. There are little alcoves and gardens around every corner, some that you can’t figure out how to get to and all constantly being attended to by a myriad of people. Every plant has a different type and color of flower.
We are much farther inland now. Vietnam is less than 50 miles wide here, near the old DMZ. Looking out the window of the train as we leave the coastal area and head inland toward the gentle eastern slopes of the Annamese range and the jungle, I get to watch the slow change of vegetation and elevation. It is an interesting mix of sand, swamp and lush vegetation rising to low mountain jungles. This is such a beautiful country. It feels so rich and deep. It has kept a missing part of my soul for over 40 years.
My aim over the next few days is to retrieve that soul and rid myself of an old and deep wound. A patch work soul is better than none. I peer out of the window and into the eyes of every rice, and manioc worker we pass. Do they know that I am here? Do they know what I am after? What I long to steal back from them? Will I be able to recognize that part of myself that I left here so long ago? I am certain of where to look. Absolutely certain. And we are getting closer to that very spot with every clickety-clack of this slow moving train.
We all meet up at the train station in DongHa. The others arrived by bus a while ago. The DongHa market is in the same area and we take some time to check out the scenery. I am a wandering fool and am soon lost in this huge indoor/outdoor market. I buy a bottle of some sort of liquor that has a cobra snake in it, hood expanded, with the tail of yet another cobra in its teeth. Wild, weird, whacky. Just what I need to take home.
I have some money set aside for trinkets for every one at home but I want to buy on the down swing of our trip. Not before we get into the jungle. I have only so much room in my backpack. By the time I get back to the bus every one is yelling at me for taking so long. I am getting a reputation for wandering off.
The Dong Truong Son Hotel is quite a bit nicer than we expected for the little town of DongHa. This place was nearly obliterated back in ‘66/’67 as was most every place here in QuangTri Province. Heavy fighting, heavy bombing, heavy casualties took place here. It is still the poorest province in Vietnam. It may always be so.
You can hear the jungle before you enter. In Southeast Asia the Cicadas and birds and other insects combine to make a high pitched whine not unlike using a circular saw. You almost don’t notice it at first and it builds and builds until you are asking yourself where the saw mill is and when you realize it is everywhere, the immensity and completeness of it is staggering. It’s almost like a warning sign.
Now, we’re very close to the Lao border and the 17th parallel. It’s amazing that it seems like familiar territory. As we leave Hwy 9 and start down a dirt road, we approach The Rockpile and Razor Back Ridge. This is it. The reason we are here is to climb over Razorback one more time and attempt a climb onto what we call 362.
We have asked them to stop the bus so we can get pictures of these two mountain structures, not thinking that we will be almost on top of them in another day. We are struck by the feeling of Dejavu. We’ve traveled this valley, these mountains. Flashes of memory come in waves. I don’t know about the other guys, but I have goose bumps.
Finally, we leave the bus and start walking. We are walking into the jungle and we’re told that once again plans have changed. We are to spend the next two nights near a minority village. These are Lao mountain people who were relocated here in 1975 to have better conditions. After a short trek, we enter the village and see that all the houses are on stilts and have thatched roofs. There is no electricity, no through road. The men are standing in front of their houses, most of the women and children are indoors or standing far back and sneaking peeks at us out of the window openings and around corners. We’re told they are extremely shy and that we cannot take pictures at this time. When we turn to face them they run or hide.
This is a patriarchal society. The men do not work. The women wear sarongs and work in the fields growing rice, corn and tapioca. They catch fish in a nearby river and grow chickens for meat and eggs. There are chickens everywhere around the village. Pigs are too expensive. There is a small school for primary education built 4 years ago where they learn the three R’s. Most teenagers get married by 15 or 16 and so do not attend much high school, where English is taught. To attend high school would be a long trek to another village. They speak two languages, their own mountain dialect and Vietnamese.
On our first day, we plant new trees along the main path/road way and at the school. Very exciting for them and the children begin to get closer. At first when we turned to face them, they would run away very quickly, but eventually, they stay and stare at us, clinging to each other for comfort. I try to be as respectful as possible, addressing each person straight forward saying “xin chao”, or hello in Vietnamese. The children yell after me with a traditional greeting for a respected elder, “chao bac”, and it gives me a very deep sense of comfort and immediate respect for this mountain culture.
Later in the day as our tents were being set up, I walk back into the village with Ngoc and talk with some of the women and children. I took off my hat and sunglasses and many of the children went wide eyed. Some of them had not seen a blue eyed person before. The women all talked at once to Ngoc, asking how that could be. They are told it is because of my hair color. (OK, those of you from the old days know I’m a redhead.) Later we make a gift to the village of books for the school, a soccer ball, a volley ball and net and some toys for the children. The young men immediately take to the volley ball and it’s obvious they have played this before.
The children are taking interest in me because I was introduced as “bac si” or doctor. Perhaps the blue eyes also had something to do with it. The children are following us everywhere now, and I am getting some great pictures. They ask if any one would like to spend the night in the village. I immediately agree. I want to completely immerse myself in this culture. They have prepared a house for me and after the ceremony I grab my hammock and head to the house. The custom is that the home owners clean the house out and find another place to sleep to allow the guest privacy. So I sleep in this house in the middle of the village, alone. Of course when I get up to leave in the morning, about 5am, every one is watching me.
I forgot about the sky at night here. Out in the boonies, with no electricity for miles there is no competition for light and the sky is ablaze with brilliance. I am far enough south that I can see the North Star and the Southern Cross in the same sky along with big and little dippers, Orion, Scorpio………..yeesh, I wish I could recognize more. You can see shooting stars every few minutes. The planets look like full moons back home on a Saturday night and you become acutely aware of how massive the universe is and how very small we are. Study the stars, my friends.
The villagers had 4 of the young adults stay out near our camp for us. They said there were occasionally wild animals and wanted to protect us. The guys told me that these young men got up every couple of hours and walked around the tents. They also had some herbs that we spread around our tents as repellents for the snakes. During the war years, the elephant and tiger population receded into Laos and Cambodia. Over the past few years they are beginning to expand their territories and are coming back into Vietnam. The villagers have reported seeing tigers they estimated at 3 meters in length. I am so glad I slept in the village.
9 Good Men – May 4th, 6:30AM in front of Razor Back Ridge
We head out on the bus onto a two track road and go as far as the vehicle will allow. It’s now time to saddle up and get on with it. We are all very excited about getting to the hill and planting our shrines. Joe Holt has a marble plaque that he wanted to bury and of course we have the stones with the names of those who died on the hill. We also have stones for those who lost their lives in the stream bed the two nights before and are hoping we can reach both spots, but 362 is our main goal. The excitement is palpable.
Joe tells us early in the morning that he has decided not to go. He doesn’t think he can make it. I know this was a difficult decision for him. He will stay back with the bus and wait for us. I immediately approach Manuel, hoping that news will give him second thoughts as well. Since learning about his health issues, I fear for his well-being. However, he is adamant about going.
About 6:30 am we begin the climb around the Rockpile and over Razor Back. I am in the middle, 5th, as always. Manuel is in front of Don Eberle who is in front of me. This is good; I can keep a close eye on Manny. Every one is chipper and excited. Ngoc has brought along a local guide who says he knows where we are going. We’re still very unsure about our coordinates. We are warned several times by our guides and the locals about unexploded ordinance and not to wander off the trail. Explosives of every description, hand grenades, booby traps, land mines, cannon shells and aircraft bombs from 250 to 1000 lbs, are said to be every where. It is a major concern.
On the very first hill I see Manuel take his hat off and use his hands to push on his knees as we climb. I now begin to fear that we will not make it. Stan, Don and sarge are all already sweating buckets. Don and sarge are both dressed in heavy cotton. Manny’s clothes look heavy, too, and he has on heavy leather boots. This hiking wear, while similar to government-issue 42 years ago, is not practical today. I realize that I did not adequately prepare them about this aspect and the need for high-tech, breathable light-weight clothes.
By the third hill I start asking Manny if I can take his pack. I am already carrying four 1.5 liter bottles of water and my Nalgene bottle. I finally wrestle two waters from him and now have six in my pack.
By 8 am our pace has slowed to a crawl, and I am again after Manny’s pack. He is stubborn. He thinks that if he can’t make it, he will just turn around and go back. Alone. Amid the heat and humidity, the snakes, and the unexploded ordinance. The absurdity of that is mind-boggling. This is not a Boy Scout hike.
10 am: Stan, Don and Sarge are okay, but Sarge is struggling a bit. We have covered perhaps a quarter of our distance to the top and we are going very slow. If we spend the night on the mountain we would cause a nasty little political incident and besides, we brought nothing to sleep on/in and the snake and unexploded ordinance situation would be just too dangerous. Especially up there. I take the last bottle out of Manny’s pack. He’s not happy but I don’t care. I now have seven bottles. John Olsen takes the pack and says he will carry it. As I talk with Manny he does not look at me.
Finally, at 10:30am, I talk with Major Carey and John Olsen about my concern for Manuel’s condition. I tell Manuel that he should go back, that I can’t let him go any further. Don says he doesn’t think he can continue and volunteers to go back with Manny. Tom Gainer also accepts going back to assist Manny. Stan is wavering. He’s already lost a lot of fluid. We are drinking water but the electrolytes we are losing at a rapid pace is putting people in danger.
This is not a good situation. Not everyone in the group has the physical conditioning to make our goal. Perhaps 4 of us can. We have a long discussion about getting the coordinates precise and how we split up the party. GPS is not working like we had hoped.
We are alone in the jungle mountain region of the Lao/Vietnam border. There is no authority here but ourselves. Ngoc and our guide want to go on, knowing this is our only shot at making the hill. We can’t come back. John also wants to go on as does Mike, Capt Crowell and myself. But I am in a difficult position. How do I go on with the healthy people and leave the others behind to return. The heat and humidity is so oppressive already. At this point I’m not sure Manny can even get back. We have no cell phone contact. We cannot get a vehicle up here and we cannot hire a helicopter.
Major Carey and Captain Crowell finally decide that we will all turn around and go back. Mike says that 42 years ago he did not have a choice. This time he does, and he is not going to lose another man to that hill. I am fuming inside but trying to keep my composure. Gary Crowell calms me down by saying simply: “Unit loyalty, Doc. You can’t buy it.” Only about 8 miles into our quest, we now will do the 8 miles back. We’re only about three miles from the stream bed. So close to one of our goals.
As everyone begins to head back down toward the road, I take a last, long look up the trail. This hill no longer owns me. I want to bare my chest and proclaim it and want to scream. I am so close. My world is changing. A bizarre combined sense of loss and new found power. For now, I must turn back and help my mates get safely down this trail.
As we start out again, Stan begins to get sick and vomits several times. Everyone gets some of the salt tablets that John brought. Sarge is hangin’ in pretty good but he looks shaky to me. We are stopping about every 3 minutes for Manuel to catch his breath. I am scared, deeply worried about him. His color is not good and I feel he may arrest on me. I ask the group for a 15 minute rest and get Manny to a small patch of shade. Heat and humidity continue to rise.
Finally we push on and I am running back and forth between Manny and Stan who is showing symptoms of heat stroke. Manny continues to appear dissociated from us all. Eberle is beginning to lag. Tom Gainer drops back to see if he can help. I am realizing we’ve made a mistake. We are not well prepared to do this. As deeply disappointing as it is, the best thing at this point is to get everyone home in one piece and upright. I have to decide who I stick closest to, Manny or Stan. Mike has given me free reign to dictate pace and when to stop and start.
I’m walking mostly with Stan now; I have the back of his belt in my grasp, walking, as he is basically staggering. We stop again so that he can vomit. I’m amazed he can continue like this. Manuel seems to be recovering a bit but still needs to stop every few minutes. We convince Stan that he should not continue to carry the heavy marble plaque that we intended to plant on the hill. I take it from his pack and Gary Campbell asks me to let him carry it. Stan is white as a sheet and soaking wet. At least he is still sweating. If that stops he will be in dire straights. I fan him and pour water over him each time we stop. I can waste my water now.
It is an agonizingly slow walk back in rising temperatures. No matter where the path leads, everything radiates heat. Not even the Elephant grass offers respite. After many stops, Tom is exhausted but still volunteers to take Manny’s pack from John and John takes the heavy plaque from Gary. Major Carey takes two bottles out of my pack.
Finally, we spot the road and soon after, the bus. Private Holt, who stayed back with the bus says in all honesty that he was very worried. He did not expect us all to make it back. He is a happy man and greets us like long lost friends. Eberle cannot take his pack off and needs help getting aboard. Stan is going to be ok but he’s weak as a kitten, as is Sarge, who proved himself pretty well for an old guy. Manuel will be okay as long as he doesn’t do anything with exertion. We are all in a kind of daze. There is no talking on the ride back toward the campgrounds.
Instead of spending another night outside of the village we decide to go back to DongHa. Don is getting sicker by the minute and I’m wondering if he drank out of one of the streams we crossed. He is vomiting far too frequently.
We break camp and pack our gear quickly. On our way back to the highway we plant/bury the stones in a field at the base of The Rockpile. Not altogether unfitting. This is the spot we were extracted from long ago. This is where we got our last glimpse of an area none of us ever wanted to come back to, let alone remember.
I have a very hard time keeping my emotions in check when I place Frank’s stone in the hole. This is not how I wanted it to be. Not on July 24, 1966, and not on May 4, 2008.
Read the second chapter of this story: A Trip Forward Into the Past (Part 2)
