June 1967 was a great month for me. I graduated from high school with a hockey scholarship to go to the University of Michigan. My life was ahead of me that summer and I planned to enjoy every day before September came. One of my friend’s father, had a boat. So, a few of us got together the first Monday after graduation to go out on Lake St. Clair.

We met at the boat with everything: snacks, chips, subs, pop, but no beer. None of us were old enough to buy it. The last to arrive was my best friend, Jim. He pulled up near the dock, blowing his horn. The guys ran to his car. In the trunk were two cases of Stroh’s. With those we were ready. Our girlfriends had loaded all the snack stuff onboard, and we were ready for a day of fun. We spent the day enjoying the waters off Strawberry Island. My summer had officially started.

As far as work, I went back to my summer job. A golf caddy at Hill Crest Country Club in Mount Clemens. I had caddied there every summer since ninth grade. The members were all business professionals, so tipping was great. With the money I made there plus an after-school job, I had saved enough money for a 1965 black Mustang fastback. I had dreamed of owning one since they came out.

My life was cruising along until the August 15th. I was at the golf course that day with plans to go out with Jim. After finishing I headed to the parking lot. Parked next to my mustang was Jim.

I laughed. “What the hell are you doing here? I was supposed to pick you up.”

“John, your father asked me to get you. He would not say. He just told me to get you home right away. John, I think something happened. My mom got a phone call and headed across the street to your house. It was right after that your father called.”

I jumped in his car, and we headed to my house. As we drove, I tried to think about what could have happened. Richard, my brother?  He was in Vietnam.

Richard had always wanted to be a soldier like our father was in World War II. Military service ran through our family. The Johnsons had fought in every war since the civil war.

Vietnam was no big deal when Richard joined the army in 1962. He made into the elite 101st Airborne, the same as my father. Richard had it all, looks, brains and could talk to anyone. He could have been anything he wanted in life. It was the army he chose. In 1966 he made into the army’s Special Forces. There he was promoted to sergeant.

You would have thought he was president when he came home on leave in his dress uniform and that iconic Green Beret. My dad was so proud of him. He only had seven days with us. I peppered him with questions, which he happily answered. It was easy to tell my brother truly felt this was his calling. As he was the oldest, I had always looked up to Richard. I could not have asked for a better brother. He was always there for me, especially if I had a problem. He would always take the time to listen, no matter what he was doing.

As we drove, I could not think of anything other the Richard.

Jim dropped me off, and I started for the side door. When I got to the side door, my father came out. His face said it all. His eyes were red from crying. I could see the streak of dried tears on his cheeks. It looked like he had aged ten years since I saw him at breakfast.

“John, Richard has been killed. Your mom called me at work hysterical. She was crying so hard. Mrs. Benoit had to take the phone away from her. Betty told me there was a military Chaplin and captain at the house. Richard was killed in action two days ago, somewhere north of Saigon.”

My dad fell into my arms.

“He was part of a medical team helping children in a village get the medical help they needed. God damn it Richard! The Viet Cong attacked them, killing Richard and three other soldiers. Along with a half dozen kids. Before they had to flee.”

When I went back in, my mother was sitting on the living room sofa with a box of tissues on her lap, surrounded by my two sisters. I knelt in front of her.  I can’t remember now what I even said to her that day.

The next two weeks were horrible. My mom seemed to never stop crying. My poor father tried to comfort her. He had seen death, but it had never been his family.

On the day I was supposed to head off to Michigan State, they buried John. At the funeral, my emotions ranged from sadness to anger. Those bastards killed my brother! Hate began to overtake me. The hate turned to thoughts of revenge. All I wanted to do was kill all those little bastards.

The day after the funeral, I went to the Mount Clemens army recruitment office and signed papers joining the army.

When I got home that night, I talked to my father in our basement. I thought he was going to hit me.

“What in the hell were you thinking? You are tossing away a scholarship at a great university. Why?”

Knowing how close my father was with his brothers, I knew he would understand what I was about to say.

“Dad, think if it was Uncle George or Uncle Bud. Tell me you would not do the same thing?”

One thing I loved about my father was his ability to understand us kids.

“I had better be the one to tell your mother. She will not be happy. John, she just buried her oldest boy. The thought of you now. I am not sure she will be able to handle it. Stay down here until I call you upstairs.”

“I will, dad.”

For a few minutes it was quiet, then I could hear my poor mother crying. Shortly, I heard my father call me upstairs.

“John, I did my best to explain your reason”

Mothers are a little different from fathers. Now I know how our grandmother felt about having her three boys in the war. I am not happy with your decision. I just wished you would have waited a few weeks. You might not have made this decision.”

It was a rough night and even worse when it was time for me to leave for basic training.

Throughout the training, my focus was on my brother.

I finished basic training on October 30, 1967. How appropriate my 19th birthday. I had a short leave before Advanced Individual Training (AIT). That was the last stop before being shipped to Vietnam.

My leave went by too fast. I saw Jim and my other friends from high school. Plus, I made sure to spend as much time with my parents and sisters. My last night my mom made an early Thanksgiving dinner. The whole family was there, and I mean everyone, aunts, uncles and cousins. It was a night I would never forget. A night I would think of often in Vietnam.

Before we left for the airport, my grandpa Johnson gave me a 1916 silver dollar. He told me it was his lucky dollar. It got him through some bad days during World War I.

Grandpa hugged me and said,

“Please, don’t do anything careless. We want you to come home.”

“I promise, grandpa.”

We hugged, and I walked to my father’s car. I turned and away, grandpa wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. That was the last time I saw him. Grandpa passed away on Christmas day, 1967.

AIT training was preparing us for what to expect in Vietnam. What I learned at the time made me feel I was ready. Once I came under fire for the first time. I knew they did not teach you what you really needed to survive.

I arrived in Vietnam on March 30, 1968. Landing at Tan Son Nhut Air Base. When the doors of our transport plane opened, we were blasted by heat. It was ninety-three degrees. Back home, it would be in the forties. There was an odd smell to the air.  Our group spent some time there receiving additional training before they assigned us to combat units. My orders were to join the 1st Cavalry Division–Air Mobile.

On April 15th, I was flown out with another trooper to a firebase in northwestern South Vietnam. Before we left, two troopers headed home got off the chopper.

One looked at me and said: “Remember your life depends on this, you will be landing under fire. The chopper will not land. When it is about ten feet off the ground, you two jump out each side and dive into the first hole you find.”

Well, as we approached the base, we both nodded, and when the chopper was about ten feet from the ground jumped. It caused the chopper to rock. We headed in opposite directions.

I saw a large hole and dove in. To my surprise, there was water in it. I had mud all over me, my duffle bag and my M-16.

When I looked up, there was a tall soldier in a green t-shirt, fatigue pants and combat boots staring at me.

“Who in the hell are you?”

“Private Johnson.”

“Son, what are you, a fucking frog?”

“No.” I answered.

He just shook his head.

“Guess what? I am the lucky lieutenant that will be your platoon leader. Now I suggest you look for Sgt. Curry and after he gets done laughing at you. He will get you squared away.”

With that I got out of the hole and looked for Sgt. Curry. As I asked other soldiers where I could find him. I heard them calling me everything from FNG to Cherry. I had no idea what they meant.

Finally, finding Sgt. Curry, before I uttered a word.

“Well, welcome to the 5th Battalion of the 7th Cavalry frog. Lt Meyer told me you story. He said his first thought was of a frog. You in your army green fatigues and in a little pond. So, from now on your name will be frog. You got that!”

“Yes, sir.”

I learned my joining Company D was a blessing. Sgt. Curry was on his second tour, plus a veteran of the Korean War, Lt. Meyer had already done three months in country.

We went inside his tent, and he went over the basics.

“Look it, John, on the 19th, we begin a large-scale operation called Delaware. Unfortunately, you will not have time to adjust. That is good and bad. Good in that you will not have to think, bad in that I do not have the time to give you some advice. Do me a favor? Just look and listen to me and the guys you will be with. The newest guy has been in the field for three months, so we are a veteran company. They will teach you. Please try to stay alive. If you can make it your first month, you might make it the year. The guy you replaced did not listen. Now he’s going home in a silver casket.”

“I understand Sergeant.”

He was not wrong the 19th of April, “Operation Delaware” began. We were in the A Shau Valley in northern South Vietnam. We would fight in flatland with elephant grass and densely forested mountain ridges. It was west of the old city of Huế, and bordering Laos. The valley was a keep point of entry for the Peoples Army of Vietnam (PAVN) using the Ho Chi Minh trail.

 The fighting was vicious from the beginning. When I mentioned to another trooper, “It can’t get worse.”

He laughed, “listen FNG, never ever think that! Thinking like that will get you killed.”

He was right the first day with bad weather and difficult flying. The Cav lost ten choppers with twenty-three damaged. The first day’s fighting was intense sounds, smells, and wounded men crying out in pain. Some cried out for their mothers.

The reality of war quickly brought me back to the reason I signed up. Fighting for my brother now turned to fighting for my life.

After only ten days of very intense fighting, I was quickly learning how to handle myself under fire. Anyone that has never experienced combat has no way of knowing what it is like. There is an adrenal rush. You stop thinking and focus on killing the enemy. Oddly, the longer I was there, I found a sense of pleasure during a firefight. It was the intense adrenal rush. Think of race car drivers. They experience an adrenal rush every time they get behind the wheel. Although it is dangerous, they keep coming back for more. Firefights were like that for me.

One of the most intense days was the 24th of April. As we were pushing the North Vietnamese toward Laos. A Cav platoon was trapped and surrounded by North Vietnamese.

 I was near the lieutenant’s radio man. I could hear the trapped lieutenant screaming for relief. At one point I heard gunshots and the lieutenant shouting; “the bastards are shooting our wounded.”

I turned and walked away I could not listen any longer.

That night, Lt. Meyer asked for twelve volunteers to go at night to rescue the trapped platoon. He had no problem getting his twelve. As he walked away with them to go over his plan. I grabbed by his shirtsleeve.

“Lieutenant, I know I haven’t been here long, but I want to go with you.”

“Look Johnson, you are just too new.”

I kept following him, begged him to take me.

Sgt. Curry was there. “Lieutenant, please take the kid. I do not want to listen to his whining.”

He looked at me. “alright Johnson, you can go but at the rear.”

I just wanted to do something for those guys. What I had heard on the radio pissed me off. My God, shooting our wounded.

The lieutenant went over his plan. How could you not follow him? To show you the type of leader he was, he led the patrol.

At 0100hrs, we set off on a trail heading for the trapped platoon. The cloud covered sky hid any light from the moon. It was total darkness. It took only a few minutes before we came under fire.

Lieutenant Meyer was amazing. Despite total darkness he kept moving, firing his M-16 and tossing hand grenades. The rest of us returned fire at the enemy. With the lieutenant moving so fast we had to almost run to stay up with him. Our only light was using short bursts from our flashlights. We made it to the platoon. At dawn, we were able to get all the living, dead and wounded out. The NVA had withdrawn during the night.

President Nixon would later award Lt. Meyer the Medal of Honor. He stayed in the army until 1988. When he left, he was a Lieutenant Colonel. The medals he won, besides the Medal of Honor, showcased his bravery. The silver star, bronze star, and two purple hearts.

The fighting over the next three weeks was intense. The older guys said it was the worse they had experienced since joining the company.

After a little over a month, I was starting to feel comfortable as a soldier. Most soldiers who served in Vietnam would say that in the first few months, you are scared as hell of dying. Then, in the following months, you adjust to life. In the last two months, you pray to make it out alive.

I eventually fell into that thought. Over the next ten months, I witnessed guys I had known since I arrived die. I remember my father and his brothers tell me about not wanting to know the new guys. The life expectances for them were short. By my third month, I was just like them. I witnessed many newbies come in and get killed days later.

Unless you served in combat. You do not know what it is like to see men dead or what it is like to carry a body bag with a bloody, disfigured dead trooper? Or having to pick up body pieces and toss them into a body bag, then load them onto a chopper?

I tried not to think of their family, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the day my family received the news of my brother’s death.

Some guys are lucky. A bullet hit a magazine, stopping from tearing into his body or grazed off their helmet. Anyone else would not be so fortunate. Well, I was one of the fortunate ones. We were camped one night. I tied my poncho between two trees to make a small hammock. Just as I finished, one of the older guys came up.

He said, “Look, son, this is my spot.”

Well, I found a spot away from him. I laid on some leaves and fell asleep. The sounds of explosions awoke me. We were being mortared. When I looked to where my hammock had been, I saw a burning hole. The guy who had taken it got blown to pieces. That would have been me.

One thing I found in Vietnam was the guys I fought with were my brothers. You are closer to them than your own brothers.  Our lives depended on each other.

One guy I will never forgive myself for what happened was Neil Martin. He was one of my closest friends. We had stopped for a few days to rest and resupply. Neil started out into the bush with his auto magazine. He drove all of us nuts with his car talk. We must have told him to shut up a thousand times.
I yelled out to him to keep going. We did not want to smell his crap. He waved his magazine and laughingly shouted.

“Frog is this far enough for you.”

“Hell no!” I answered.

I watched as he went further out. Before stopping and giving me the finger.

Seconds later, a mortar hit just a few feet from Neil. I started running to him despite the incoming mortars. When I got there, I could not believe what I saw. Neil’s body got shredded by the incoming mortars. There was blood everywhere. His uniform was soaked in blood. The only part of his body not bleeding was his face.

Neil looked at me. “Frog, how am I?”

“Neil, you’re fine. Let me get you out of here.”

I scooped him up and ran back to our position. Our medic took one look and said we need a chopper now. He did the best to stop the bleeding.

All I could do was reassure Neil he was going to be alright. He would be going home and get that 1969 Pontiac GTO he had been talking about.

When the chopper landed, I was one of the guys carrying him and putting him onboard the Huey. I gave him a hug.

Neil looked up at me and smiled. “Frog, that’s the last time I ever listen to your sorry ass.”

Three months later, a Huey flew in with some replacements. I didn’t care until I heard.

“Frog, I am baaaaack!”

I looked, and it was Neil. He came up, and we hugged.

I said, “what in the hell are you doing here? I thought you would be back home with your 69 GTO.”

“I thought so too. No, the fucking army sent me back.”

It did not take long to see he was no longer the soldier he had been. You could tell by his nerves. He needed to get out of the jungle and a safe office job. If they kept him here, he would get killed.”

We had a new sergeant that putting it plainly was a “dick”.

I talked to him about Neil, explaining he needed to be taken out of combat. If he stayed, he would get killed.”

He glared back at me. “Johnson, I need every man,” and walked away. That bastard, Sgt. Curry would have transferred Neil out of the bush. Not this son of a bitch.

Neil had two months to serve, one short of mine. I talked to the other guys in our platoon about keeping an eye on Neil. I made it my duty to protect my best friend. Thankfully, two months later I helped into a Huey. This time, he was not full of holes. We hugged and said our goodbyes.

I told him I wanted to see a picture of his 96 GTO!

 My remaining month was the usual day to day routine. March, rest, camp and firefights.

I will never forget the day the chopper came for me. I did not want to go. How could I leave my guys? My best buds, Jim Langston and Terry O’Hanlon? Those two literally threw me in the chopper. Giving the thumbs up to the chopper pilot they let go, and I was headed home.

I left Vietnam from Tan Son Nhut Air Base. The same airport I had arrived at one year earlier. How ironic?

They issued me a new dress uniform and a duffle bag for my other clothes. I had already turned in my M-16. Thinking about my brothers I was leaving behind bothered me, but thoughts of my family, my town, and country took over. I was ready.

I flew on a Pan Am jet, complete with cute hostesses. It was full of servicemen from every branch of the military. When we took off, there was a tremendous cheer. It was even louder when the pilot announced we were out of Vietnam’s air space.

We flew into Oakland. There I was given an airline ticket back to Detroit. A bus brought a group of us to the airport. There were protestors everywhere, even in the terminal.

I was spat upon, heard shouts of baby killer, Go to hell you pig! Walking through the terminal I got looks. People would change sides when I approached them. Even on the flight back to Michigan, I had to listen to whispers of some passengers. The girl next to me asked the stewardess if she could move. What the hell was happening?

When I landed in Detroit, my sister Jane was waiting at the gate. She told me mom and dad were home setting up for a big welcome home party. She warned me there were some protestors outside of the terminal. We made it through a group of them. They shouted the same crap as the idiots in San Francisco. Apparently, they were not smart enough to think of anything different.

When we pulled into the driveway. Jane honked her horn, and the family spilled out from the backyard, side door and front door. My poor mother was crying just like I left her. My father hugged me so hard I could not breath. I swear I spent the first half hour being hugged and kissed.

When I had a chance to be alone with my father, we talked about grandpa’s passing. Then I showed him the silver dollar grandpa had given me the day I left.

“Dad, I carried this every day I was there. I just knew it was grandpa’s way of protecting me.”

The next day, I drove out to St. Peter’s Cemetery to visit my brother. I spent almost an hour talking and crying over him. As I started walking to my car. I swear I heard his voice saying. “I am proud of you, brother.”

The first few weeks were hard for me. I mean, one moment I was dodging bullets and mortars, then a few days later I was home.

The country I left and fought for had changed, and not for the better. Being a Vietnam veteran was nothing like World War II and Korean War veterans. The World War II veterans returned to welcoming country. We returned to a country that wished we did not exist.

It took me a while to figure out what I wanted to do for work. There was no way I could ever work a nine-to-five desk job. College was an option courtesy of the GI Bill.

I read in the Detroit News about a suburban police chief that gave preferable treatment to Vietnam veterans. He was a Korean War veteran himself. After applying, I underwent a written test and an oral interview, and after passing both, I was sworn in.

I spent the next twenty-five years with them. I had a very good carrier. Working the afternoon shift, I started taking courses at Wayne State in Detroit. It was there I received my bachelor’s degree in business. When I retired, I was a Detective Captain.

My greatest joy was marrying and have six beautiful children. Now, I am a grandfather with ten grandchildren.

Two things, I carried that silver dollar for all those years and I hung a picture of my brother Richard in every office I was assigned.

It has been fifty-six years since I left Vietnam. Not a day goes by that I do not think of those I saw killed.

I would like to finish by saying: God bless all our veteran’s especially those 1st Cavalry troopers

The bonds you make with others last forever. I believe Shakespeare captured it in the Henry the V Band of Brother’s speech.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

PLEASE READ THE FOLLOWING

This story is dedicated to my brother, John. I based the Vietnam EXPERIENCES on his actual stories he told to me. He survived the war but took years to come home. The war engulfed him, and he drank to solve his nightmares.

Thankfully, his “brothers” got him the help he needed. I am so proud to write John is back to being the brother I knew before Vietnam.

I ask a small favor, the next time you see a Vietnam veteran. Please thank him for his service. It will mean the world to him.