Guard

Photo from Politico

A guest column by Mike Peters, Vietnam Veteran

Edited by William Boylan

Days on missions were spent searching for the enemy in what the army labeled, “Search and Destroy” missions; fairly basic terminology, really, and self-descriptive.  There was no mistaking what the army expected of us.  We were given an objective for the day and if in the process of reaching that objective we encountered the enemy, engaged them and got a body count, then it was a successful day.  If we didn’t reach the objective because of engaging the enemy and in the process lost some of our own men as well, then that’s just the way it went.

The days were long, arduous, and full of angst as peril was always just a step away.  Whether it was the rainy season or the dry season, the heat was oppressive and unrelenting in its design. We would sweat until it seemed like we could sweat no more.  Water was the key to our survival and we had to caution ourselves not to drink too much at any one time.  Although we were supposed to get re-supplied every two to three days, it didn’t always happen and we had to ration water until we did get re-supplied, adding additional stress to our already overly stressed bodies.  Our fatigues, once olive drab in color, would turn to rags and transform to a sandy tan color from the sweat and dirt of our daily toil.  Ultimately, they were destined for the fire pit on our return to the firebase.  At the end of each day, we would set up in an ambush perimeter, putting out trip flares and claymore mines around our position and wait for the enemy to come to us.  Each flank of the four sides of the perimeter had a guard on duty all night long and we would all share in the guard in two-hour increments throughout the night. If we were lucky, we might get 4 to 5 hours sleep per night.

Most nights on guard were uneventful and welcomed breaks from the discord of the day.  However, guard duty could be an intensely lonely time, as well, since almost everyone was asleep.  There was no one to talk to except for God and I must admit I talked to him many a night.  The only other being about was Death, lurking in the jungle, sprawling before us.  He was there; he was always there.

PTSD - The Beast

Image from Fireengineering.com

A guest column by Mike Peters, Vietnam Veteran

Edited by William Boylan

It’s August, 1974 and we’re walking through a large open field of deep grass that is being utilized as a parking lot for the Canfield Fair in Youngstown, Ohio.  There are quite a number of people heading toward the fairgrounds.  Not too far in front of us, some kids set off some firecrackers and the smell of gun powder permeates the air.  The grass is thick, long and somewhat moist from a thunder storm that had passed through the area in the early morning hours.

With each step, the grass rolls over my shoes and rustles beneath my feet; a hauntingly familiar sound that begins to trigger something in my psyche.  The odor emanating from the combination of wet earth, grass and gun powder further stir my senses and heighten the angst I am now feeling.

I have been here before, not here; not Youngstown, but on this walk and I desperately want to be away from it; to be as far away from this field and this smell as I can get!  But, I cannot leave, not without having my fiancé and my friends think I’m crazy.  So I continue on, and once inside the fairgrounds, the feeling subsides.  I realize what it is and try to shrug it off, telling myself that perhaps it was something I ate for breakfast and had a reaction to.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t; “It” was back. That same feeling I experienced every day some five years prior, in the jungles of Vietnam.  It was supposed to stay there in those jungles, in that horrid war torn country.  Everything after that year of hell was supposed to be gravy.  That’s what the lieutenant said one day as we waited on the choppers to pick us up for what was to be a long and dangerous mission; “All gravy!”

Now it was back. The Beast was back.  In reflection, I now knew what it was that rousted my father from sleep those years I was growing up.  He was an infantryman with the 26^th Infantry Division in the Battle of the Bulge, in World War II.