Medic first met Larry Roy on LZ Compton in late 1969 or early 1970. At seventeen, bright, cheerful, confident, not more than 5′ 8″/130 pounds, in high school he played golf, and played well, he said.
That same day, in a bomb crater, I helped Larry assemble the things he would carry in his new Alice pack: canteens of water, C-rations, ammo. Not long afterward, Larry Roy became point, and excelled at that too.
Point: on an infantry patrol every grunt has his job, regular grunts, their packs freighted with food, water, ammo, walk with their M16s at the ready. The machine gunner, spangled with cartridge belts, braces the 26lb weapon across his shoulders. The RTO lugs the equally heavy PRC-25 field radio on his back. The medic carries his aid bag of bandages, and first aid supplies in his pack. The M79 man’s multi-pocketed vest holds the fist-sized shells for the stout shotgun-like weapon which fires one round at a time. Each job is a waking nightmare, but the point man—who walks first in line, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his straining face, his five senses hyper alert to any hint of an ambush—the point man’s job is worst of all.
One day, after Larry Roy, Bieck, Rudy, and Mike set a half-dozen rotted logs lengthwise, as I was settling down to a C-ration can of tropical fruit, Joe Dorio came running into the perimeter. “Gooks! Gooks!” he shouted, and dove behind the logs. I saw a running blur and shouted, “Is that one of ours?” “No, you idiot,” said Joe, and I shot at it, likely missed, and they started shooting back.
From behind the mud thick roots of an upturned tree I watched the five grunts, laying prone, repeatedly raise up, fire their M16s, duck down; Rudy firing bursts from the 60. Suddenly Mike yelled, “Doc, look to the left, they’ll try to outflank us.” A brief lull, then came the dread click of a Chicom activated. Mike shouted “Grenade!” as a wood handled Chicom sailed through the air, exploded, twisting the machine gun barrel in half. The AKs erupted; the grunts, cursing the enemy, firing back.
“Doc,” shouted Larry Roy, “toss me a grenade!” I chucked him one, he pulled the pin, counted three, threw it, and BOOM, we thought they were dead. But then came the mechanical snap of a second Chicom, this one landing between the grunts, who scuttled to where I crouched, and threw themselves upon me. The blast seemed to lift us up, throw us down. Mike, last on the pile, getting it worst. After the medevacs carried the wounded away and Larry Roy reconned a blood trail. “We found a GI helmet, and human meat,” he said.
And once, after a long patrol I nearly killed Larry Roy. He was sick, and asked me to treat his sore throat, his headache and bellyache. Nearly killed him with care.
Fast forward fifty years. Larry Roy has done well in life, with a satisfying career as a PGA pro and sought after golf coach. When we spoke by phone in ’98 he’d found God; these days he helps men in prison. He is as bright, cheerful and confident in 2019 as when we first met quite some time ago.
Larry Roy on Point
That same day, in a bomb crater, I helped Larry assemble the things he would carry in his new Alice pack: canteens of water, C-rations, ammo. Not long afterward, Larry Roy became point, and excelled at that too.
Point: on an infantry patrol every grunt has his job, regular grunts, their packs freighted with food, water, ammo, walk with their M16s at the ready. The machine gunner, spangled with cartridge belts, braces the 26lb weapon across his shoulders. The RTO lugs the equally heavy PRC-25 field radio on his back. The medic carries his aid bag of bandages, and first aid supplies in his pack. The M79 man’s multi-pocketed vest holds the fist-sized shells for the stout shotgun-like weapon which fires one round at a time. Each job is a waking nightmare, but the point man—who walks first in line, his heart pounding, sweat pouring down his straining face, his five senses hyper alert to any hint of an ambush—the point man’s job is worst of all.
One day, after Larry Roy, Bieck, Rudy, and Mike set a half-dozen rotted logs
lengthwise, as I was settling down to a C-ration can of tropical fruit, Joe Dorio came running into the perimeter. “Gooks! Gooks!” he shouted, and dove behind the logs. I saw a running blur and shouted, “Is that one of ours?” “No, you idiot,” said Joe, and I shot at it, likely missed, and they started shooting back.
From behind the mud thick roots of an upturned tree I watched the five grunts, laying prone, repeatedly raise up, fire their M16s, duck down; Rudy firing bursts from the 60. Suddenly Mike yelled, “Doc, look to the left, they’ll try to outflank us.” A brief lull, then came the dread click of a Chicom activated. Mike shouted “Grenade!” as a wood handled Chicom sailed through the air, exploded, twisting the machine gun barrel in half. The AKs erupted; the grunts, cursing the enemy, firing back.
“Doc,” shouted Larry Roy, “toss me a grenade!” I chucked him one, he pulled the pin, counted three, threw it, and BOOM, we thought they were dead. But then came the mechanical snap of a second Chicom, this one landing between the grunts, who scuttled to where I crouched, and threw themselves upon me. The blast seemed to lift us up, throw us down. Mike, last on the pile, getting it worst. After the medevacs carried the wounded away and Larry Roy reconned a blood trail. “We found a GI helmet, and human meat,” he said.
And once, after a long patrol I nearly killed Larry Roy. He was sick, and asked me to treat his sore throat, his headache and bellyache. Nearly killed him with care.