Stories from Nam

H Co. 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment-Vietnam | home

The following story was submitted by Lynn Hyland

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You're a tanker in War Zone C for months on end, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Living outside, your roof a tarp, the floor red dirt. Bone tired, living on the edge, death in the next heart beat! Blackness of sleep takes you down. Creeping out of the darkness it comes to you, its touch is warm. It shakes you and in the distance you hear words.

"It's your turn for guard, get up. Come on you're up, lets go."

Sitting up on the cot, waves of sleep and pain come. The driver is already laying down with his boots on.

Pull on and lace jungle boots, no socks, ever. Move out. The jungle night is damp and cool, a million years old. Damn tank is always taller to mount at 0300.

Rearrange weapons on turret deck, climb down in the commanders hatch. Stand, face the M2 HB .50 cal machine gun. Weapon cocked and locked, 50 cal round through the firing butterfly. Ready.

Look out over the wire, try to remember where the logs and stumps are. The moon beams make them move. Killed some myself once!

Detached voice of a too tired radio operator stumbles out of the hand set speaker, "13 Sit Rep." "13 negative," as I punch the button on the stolen MP hand set.

Sit on commanders hatch cover, inhale the night. Damp dust, rotten vegetation, mold, wet steel, shit, and diesel fuel. Become the night, think like the enemy. Night birds, lizards, and a zoo of animal life, nocturnal, all scream and cry. All in the 125 foot tall trees, where the night shows its ancient shapes with the consent of the moon.

Night vision getting better. Claymores still out there. Leave yourself on guard duty, but think of many things. Beauty of the full moon jungle night, life, death, friends, home, tank crew, the enemy.

Watch the Milky Way. Wonder where Apollo 9 landed on the moon last year.

" Time check," some sleepy tanker asks. The radio speaker drones "0345."

Boredom and then sleep attacks. Nod until 0400 when the CP track ghost radios "90 Mike Mike in zero one." Boredom and sleep lose to this one. Check main gun, turn on turret power, move turret with foot on commanders override, flip manual safety off with left hand. Pop up in hatch, put on CVC tankers helmet, turn around and squeeze helmet to shoulder. Wait with manual fire cord in hand.

"FIRE!" Pull hard on the cord, huge nose bleed blast, heat, dust, and large amounts of burnt powder smoke pour out of turret and bore evacuator on the tube. Gun recoils twenty four inches, hot brass spits out and lays smoking on the turret floor.

Same scene played out in every tank. Gun smoke fills your senses. Makes you remember even today.

Wait a few, then crank engine, run ten to fifteen every couple of hours. Shut down V12 engine. Already reloaded fifty four pound canister round in main gun, tossed hot brass.

Every hour brings an M79, 40MM grenade mad minute. Three or four rounds each time, most fired like mortar, butt down on turret.

Forty five minutes between mad minutes is a long time to be at your tired mind's whim.

0515 it's a M60 mad minute which allows blasting at your favorite tree or stump. Machine guns rip the night, tracers bouncing high into the night sky. Stops too soon.

Last hour the worst, the fuzzy half world seems unreal. Then you remember the NVA regiment loves to assault just before day break! Blood now pumps faster. Sun light is slowly mopping up the night. Tree line comes out. Chopper pad appears.

Minutes tick by as the armored city appears. Day dream about todays recon in force mission. Very dangerous, been there before. The last guard cranks up the engine.

Four hours sleep, then three hours guard makes you feel somebody else got your sleep!

0630 chow call, hot food, eggs, toast, Frosted Flakes, dust and milk. Eight thousand miles from home. Mom never cooked like this.

After chow, kick back for ten or fifteen minutes. Think about this crazy war and life. You can piss on Cambodia from here. Who cares, you survived last guard. Now it's another day in the field. But hey that's another story!

The following story was submitted by John Hien

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This is the story of Sgt. John Ortiz. John was one of several tank

commanders I had during my 1-1/2 tours in Vietnam. John commanded H-23, an

M48 tank that took a 'lickin' but kept on 'tickin'. John left a deep

impression on me, as I was all of 19 years old. I recall the end of a day

on a mission in the middle of nowhere in Vietnam. We pushed the jungle all

day, buttoned up and leading the armor column as we searched for the enemy.

As late afternoon approached, we 'circled the wagons' and made camp for the

night. I remember John saying he had to write to his family. I don't know

why, but I can still see John standing near the back of the tank, turning

to walk away, saying he had to write to his family. This occurred a few

months before he died.

I liked John. He was fair, firm, & consistent his crew. More importantly, I

remember him as compassionate, and a man of honor & integrity. I heard him

talk of his family several times. Besides his wife, I he had a little boy &

a little girl back home. His kids are all grown up now. Although I never

met them, I understand his son became a doctor, and his little daughter is

now a mom. I'm certain John is proud of them.

Toward the end of my first 12 months in country, I, along w/the others in

my crew (except for John), extended our tours of duty for six months. We

extended because of the bonds of friendship that formed serving together.

As a tank crew, we were 'tight'. I never had such friends before & haven't

had such friends since. I extended my tour sometime in December '67. While

home, I watched the news on TV, listened to the reports & saw the film

clips from Vietnam. The TET offensive had started and I knew what I was

going back to. When I returned to Vietnam, I learned John dead.

As the years went by, I looked for my fellow crewmates on the wall. They

weren't there, except for John. Finally, in 1990 or so, I learned that one

of them now lives in Texas. I obtained his phone number & called. Although

over 20 years had passed, my friend said he was thinking of me just

yesterday. In one of many conversations I've had with my friend, I asked

what happened to John. Below is what I was told, to the best of my memory??

Johns was in an armor column searching the jungle for the enemy. While not

the lead tank, he was near the front of the column. As the lead tank broke

into a clearing, it was fired on from the other side. The lead tank

returned fire. The vehicles immediately behind the lead tank moved from

their position in the column to the flanks of the lead tank & also returned

fire. John also moved from his position in the column to support the

growing firefight. As he broke into the clearing, he fired a canister round

from the tanks main gun. At almost the same instant, the enemy fired an RPG

at John. The RPG struck Johns vehicle and exploded. It was a glancing blow.

The explosion did no damage to the tank. The blast, however, caught John

full in the upper chest & head. I understand he death was instant. John was

not ordered to do what he did. Like the commanders of the other vehicles,

he took himself in harms way for the sake of his fellow soldiers. I'm sure

his goal was not to kill the enemy, but to do what he could to ensure his

fellow comrades were not injured or killed.

I'm now over 50 years old. Like John, I too had children, two daughters.

Unlike John, I was able to watch them grow up, with all the trials &

tribulations that go with raising babies into adulthood. John did not have

this opportunity. I find I think of John and the people I served with

often. They were (and still are) the best of the best America had to offer.

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Poems by " Beau Richards "

Hello Hco. I was with Hco.2nd/11thACR for seven months 69-70 Cu Chi,Dian Lai Kai, Quan Loi. Hello John we met in Sacremento and Philly at the reunion. My name is George "Beau Richards" Suchorowski. My time with the Cavalry was the memorable to say the least and it's good to see the site.Heres some poetry from my book. Hope you like them.

Who? Will save the medic?

From fruitless years

Lost to horrors within

Who? Will save the Medic?

From soul drifting

Through swords and gauntlets

From parading Ghosts

Ripping any semblance

Medic! Oh Medic!

Let us now help the Medic!

Our Angel of Mercy

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I saw the blood trails

Through the mornings mist

And died a little inside

Before justifying my survival

Sixteen days and a wake-up

I will have beaten the system

That holds this youth hostage

To the horrors ageing me

IÂ’m thirty-seven (37) in the mirror!

Thank Jesus itÂ’s raining

My fears of returning state-side

To Apathetic Americans

I can still see the blood trails

In endless nightmares.

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OK! LetÂ’s talk about them.

Somehow I find it hard to believe,

As if it matters to anyone?

Who is there to sooth me,

As intrusive nightmares,

jolt me in sweat-soaked sheets

As I return to Vietnam horrors

And every night I sit outside,

in my lawn chair with a Jack Daniels & Seven

Light a great cigar,

We all deal with memories

Or we remain as dead as the Brothers & Sisters,

We left behind.....GOD BLESS!

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Contact Beau Richards for more information

about his book of poetry