A collection of photo illustrated war and post war vignettes, short stories, war nightmares, war poetry and travel writing by a Vietnam combat medic. Site includes war related videos and documents. There is some harsh language.
A Frag in the Bush is Worth Two in the Hand—by Jack Parente
Boz. That’s what they called me. In May 1969, during an ambush off LZ Phyllis I threw a frag that landed on the rucksack of my platoon leader, Lt. Karl Swenson which should have killed him. It happened like this:
We’d set up an ambush with multiple lines of fire along a well used trail. Just before midnight around twenty NVA walked past, neither us or them aware of it, one enemy solider no more than a yard from me. When another NVA stepped on a grunts foot both sides opened up. In the confusion the enemy pushed through, running around, shouting orders; they seemed to be setting up a defence. Unfortunately for them, they’d set up along the kill zone.
I blew five Claymores. The screams of their wounded and dying were horrific. Somehow a few NVA survived. One of them threw a grenade that exploded right near me. Pieces of shrap tore into my shoulder. My ears still ring with a high-pitch noise caused by the blast. I don’t know how, but I managed to throw a few more frags.
After the Claymores exploded Karl moved from where he was, rose into a crouch, turned and shot a staggering NVA, who stumbled, then fell to the ground dead. Still dazed and partly deafened, I did not see this happen. I heard it. When the NVA fell near Karl I threw my last frag at what I thought was the biggest gook I ever saw.
Karl heard the frag coming. He dived for cover just before it passed through the branches and exploded as he was midair. His legs, the stock of his rifle, the soles of his boots, were peppered with shrapnel. Luckily the steel plates embedded in the thick rubber soles stopped the white hot shards from wounding his feet, but the boots were ruined. His rucksack had been vaporized, along with all his field gear and personal effects.
Bleeding and badly concussed, Karl had miraculously escaped death by a perfectly thrown grenade. PFC Blakely, the RTO, thought he was dead, but when he rolled him over, Karl was alive, still clinging to his damaged AR15. And despite his blood loss and smouldering boots, still in command.
After clearing his mind, checking his body parts, “Count the enemy dead. Collect the intel. Secure the weapons, and pull back to the NDP. Boz,” he said to me, “on point. ASAP.”
This took me by surprise. Every grunt knows point is the worst job in a platoon. Besides, I was an old timer, the kind of guy who says, “I’m too old for this shit. Get an FNG.” And I thought of myself as one of Karl’s key grunts. I hated point. I was directionally handicapped. I’d do anything to avoid point and Karl kept me off it. In fact, he tried to get his old timers less dangerous jobs. After what happened on Hill 54—we’d been overrun, taken heavy casualties—I’d nearly given up hope of surviving Vietnam. Lately I was starting to feel I just might get home.
Half way through my tour, for six months I’d been carrying an M79, forty HE rounds, a couple of shotgun, smoke and CS rounds, 3 or 4 grenades, a few extra mags. My ruck filled with C-rations, canteens, trips and Claymore’s, C4, detonators, det cord, crimping tool, a strobe light, bayonet. And sometimes, mind you, an ax, shovel, entrenching took, 200 rounds of 60 ammo, and 1 or 2 LAWs. Humping heavy, as they say.
Six down. Six to go. Karl knew that. Yet after that busted up ambush here I was, walking point on a black moonless night, leading a damaged platoon back to the NDP with only a vague idea where it was. What exactly had just happened? Why was the lieutenant so pissed off?
Karl didn’t say a word until we set down for the night. He limped over to my fire team, and while staring at me said “Which one of you fucking idiots fucked up big time and threw that last fucking frag?” That’s when I realized that me, Boz, a stand up, dependable old timer, was the fucking idiot he had in mind.
In the chaos it seemed no one noticed what had happened. No one except me. I kept quiet even now, hoping everyone would assume enemy fire hit Karl. But for not speaking up, for nearly killing Karl, I felt terrible guilt. This was one more Nam thing to keep quiet about. Kick dirt over. Pretend it didn’t happen. Just one more thing to bury and forget.
After the ambush Karl was medevacked to Quan Loi. A couple of days later he was back, and with all new gear and a new pair of boots. I was much relieved, but at the same time still ashamed of what I’d done. For the rest of my tour I never admitted to what really happened. Never mentioned it. Not a single word. Not for the next forty years. As time passed I felt increasingly guilty about that ferocious night in Vietnam. Call it what you like: An accident. Fratricide. Friendly fire. It doesn’t matter. That sort of shame grinds on you; slowly grinds away.
I didn’t start dealing with Vietnam until 1998, when I began researching the battle of Hill 54. I reached out to a bunch of Echo 1/7 Cav vets, mostly from the Hill, and gradually found my way to Karl Swenson. By that time it was 2011 and I really needed to get that monkey off my back. At our first reunion, after introducing ourselves, I took Karl aside and asked if he remembered that ambush outside LZ Phyllis. He did. I asked him if he recalled how crazy it was. He said yes. I asked if he remembered the grenade that nearly killed him. He said sure, how could he not? I told him I threw that frag. Karl put his arm around my neck and told me he always knew it was me. Knew it was an accident.
Karl put me on point that night because he was bleeding, in pain, all his gear shredded, scattered in the jungle, and he knew damn well it was a GI frag, likely thrown by me.
“No sense in having your dumb ass locked up when I needed every good grunt in the field,” he said.
How many men would have been so kind?
A month after the ambush Karl sent me to Phouc Vinh for a coveted rear job. Getting out of the bush probably saved my life. Maybe a part of my sanity too. Nowadays I am proud to have former Lieutenant Karl Swenson as my friend and brother. He never mentions the night I almost killed him. Well… almost never. ___________________
Jack Parente served with Echo Recon 1-7 First Cavalry Division in 68-70. He was awarded the Combat Infantry Badge, the Bronze Star, the Air Medal, and twice received the Purple Heart. He retired from the video/film production field as a producer/director in 2014. He writes the 1/7 Cav column for the First Cavalry Association paper The Saber.
Karl Swenson video interview by Prof Preston Jones on The Battle of Hill 54. Video interview by Indiana school children.
A Frag in the Bush is Worth Two in the Hand—by Jack Parente
We’d set up an ambush with multiple lines of fire along a well used trail. Just before midnight around twenty NVA walked past, neither us or them aware of it, one enemy solider no more than a yard from me. When another NVA stepped on a grunts foot both sides opened up. In the confusion the enemy pushed through, running around, shouting orders; they seemed to be setting up a defence. Unfortunately for them, they’d set up along the kill zone.
I blew five Claymores. The screams of their wounded and dying were horrific. Somehow a few NVA survived. One of them threw a grenade that exploded right near me. Pieces of shrap tore into my shoulder. My ears still ring with a high-pitch noise caused by the blast. I don’t know how, but I managed to throw a few more frags.
After the Claymores exploded Karl moved from where he was, rose into a crouch, turned and shot a staggering NVA, who stumbled, then fell to the ground dead. Still dazed and partly deafened, I did not see this happen. I heard it. When the NVA fell near Karl I threw my last frag at what I thought was the biggest gook I ever saw.
Karl heard the frag coming. He dived for cover just before it passed through the branches and exploded as he was midair. His legs, the stock of his rifle, the soles of his boots, were peppered with shrapnel. Luckily the steel plates embedded in the thick rubber soles stopped the white hot shards from wounding his feet, but the boots were ruined. His rucksack had been vaporized, along with all his field gear and personal effects.
Bleeding and badly concussed, Karl had miraculously escaped death by a perfectly thrown grenade. PFC Blakely, the RTO, thought he was dead, but when he rolled him over, Karl was alive, still clinging to his damaged AR15. And despite his blood loss and smouldering boots, still in command.
After clearing his mind, checking his body parts, “Count the enemy dead. Collect the intel. Secure the weapons, and pull back to the NDP. Boz,” he said to me, “on point. ASAP.”
This took me by surprise. Every grunt knows point is the worst job in a platoon. Besides, I was an old timer, the kind of guy who says, “I’m too
old for this shit. Get an FNG.” And I thought of myself as one of Karl’s key grunts. I hated point. I was directionally handicapped. I’d do anything to avoid point and Karl kept me off it. In fact, he tried to get his old timers less dangerous jobs. After what happened on Hill 54—we’d been overrun, taken heavy casualties—I’d nearly given up hope of surviving Vietnam. Lately I was starting to feel I just might get home.
Half way through my tour, for six months I’d been carrying an M79, forty HE rounds, a couple of shotgun, smoke and CS rounds, 3 or 4 grenades, a few extra mags. My ruck filled with C-rations, canteens, trips and Claymore’s, C4, detonators, det cord, crimping tool, a strobe light, bayonet. And sometimes, mind you, an ax, shovel, entrenching took, 200 rounds of 60 ammo, and 1 or 2 LAWs. Humping heavy, as they say.
Six down. Six to go. Karl knew that. Yet after that busted up ambush here I was, walking point on a black moonless night, leading a damaged platoon back to the NDP with only a vague idea where it was. What exactly had just happened? Why was the lieutenant so pissed off?
Karl didn’t say a word until we set down for the night. He limped over to my fire team, and while staring at me said “Which one of you fucking idiots fucked up big time and threw that last fucking frag?” That’s when I realized that me, Boz, a stand up, dependable old timer, was the
fucking idiot he had in mind.
In the chaos it seemed no one noticed what had happened. No one except me. I kept quiet even now, hoping everyone would assume enemy fire hit Karl. But for not speaking up, for nearly killing Karl, I felt terrible guilt. This was one more Nam thing to keep quiet about. Kick dirt over. Pretend it didn’t happen. Just one more thing to bury and forget.
After the ambush Karl was medevacked to Quan Loi. A couple of days later he was back, and with all new gear and a new pair of boots. I was much relieved, but at the same time still ashamed of what I’d done. For the rest of my tour I never admitted to what really happened. Never mentioned it. Not a single word. Not for the next forty years. As time passed I felt increasingly guilty about that ferocious night in Vietnam. Call it what you like: An accident. Fratricide. Friendly fire. It doesn’t matter. That sort of shame grinds on you; slowly grinds away.
I didn’t start dealing with Vietnam until 1998, when I began researching the battle of Hill 54. I reached out to a bunch of Echo 1/7 Cav vets, mostly from the Hill, and gradually found my way to Karl Swenson. By that time it was 2011 and I really needed to get that monkey off my back. At our first reunion, after introducing ourselves, I took Karl aside and asked if he remembered that ambush outside LZ Phyllis. He did. I asked him if he recalled how crazy it was. He said yes. I asked if he remembered the grenade that nearly killed him. He said sure, how could he not? I told him I threw that frag. Karl put his arm around my neck and told me he always knew it was me. Knew it was an accident.
Karl put me on point that night because he was bleeding, in pain, all his gear shredded, scattered in the jungle, and he knew damn well it was a GI frag, likely thrown by me.
“No sense in having your dumb ass locked up when I needed every good grunt in the field,” he said.
How many men would have been so kind?
A month after the ambush Karl sent me to Phouc Vinh for a coveted rear job. Getting out of the bush probably saved my life. Maybe a part of my sanity too. Nowadays I am proud to have former Lieutenant Karl Swenson as my friend and brother. He never mentions the night I almost killed him. Well… almost never.
___________________
Jack Parente served with Echo Recon 1-7 First Cavalry Division in 68-70. He was awarded the Combat Infantry Badge, the Bronze Star, the Air Medal, and twice received the Purple Heart. He retired from the video/film production field as a producer/director in 2014. He writes the 1/7 Cav column for the First Cavalry Association paper The Saber.
Karl Swenson video interview by Prof Preston Jones on The Battle of Hill 54. Video interview by Indiana school children.