08/24/2025
On Birthdays, Anniversaries, and Baptism by Fire
August 22, 2025, my 76th Birthday.
On August 21, 1969, I was a Platoon Combat Medic with Delta Company, 5th of the 46th Battalion, 198th Light Infantry Brigade, engaged in Field Operations in I CORPS, Vietnam. I CORPS was the Northernmost American Armed Forces War Theater, adjacent to the DMZ, North Vietnam, and Laos. My unit's Mission was to stop the infiltration of Military Personnel and weapons from North Vietnam through the Ho Chi Min Trail system into our theater of operations. I was assigned to Landing Zone Gator, a Forward Fire Support Base with an artillery unit, field kitchen, helicopter pad, and battalion medical unit. Although I was assigned there, I was there very few times: before my insertion into a hot combat zone in the field, and during a medical emergency when all our troops became infected with Amebic Dysentery and had to be treated there. Field operations consisted of Reconnaissance, Long-Range Patrols, Search and Destroy Missions, Aerial Combat Assaults, and an occasional Med Cap Mission that provided goodwill medical help to isolated Montagnard populations high in the jungle.
During one such Long Range Patrol, our column of two Platoons stopped for the night on a rocky plot of land that had been recently harvested for corn. We were assigned our night perimeter positions and told to dig our foxholes. The ground was hard and rocky, so digging any more than three to four inches was impossible. Most of our bodies would be exposed. I wondered if I would have my 20th Birthday the next morning. We all knew with certainty that there was a better than 51% chance that we would be killed.
That day, at around 6:00 PM, a small Viet Cong unit engaged us in a small arms firefight. I took cover behind a cut log of a tree and noticed what looked like toothpicks dancing about 10 to 11 inches in front of my eyes and sight line. I was mesmerized by the phenomenon. They were popping three to four inches from my face when I realized that these were wood splinters resulting from a sniper firing to calibrate his aim and putting a bullet in my head. My thought, “Why is he trying to kill me? I haven’t done anything to him…” Immediately followed by, “I have a weapon and can fight back.” I grabbed my M-16 rifle and looked for the VC’s firing location. I could not see the person, but I saw the white smoke flashes of his weapon coming from inside the foliage of an almond tree. I fired my weapon on full automatic towards the white muzzle flashes. He kept firing at me in semi-automatic, and I emptied my six M-16 round cartridges on the tree to kill him. I saw a black mass falling from the tree where he had been firing and knew I had killed him. -I was raised Catholic and vowed to God that I’d be an agent of good –(perhaps that’s why I was chosen to be a Combat Medic), who had committed the worst Capital Sin, I killed another human being. Something broke inside of me. I was relieved that I had stopped the guy who was trying to kill me. -But I felt the gravity of violating my deeply engraved moral code. But I didn’t have time to sort the seed of my moral injury. Within seconds, another soldier called me with a shout of, “ MEDIC !”.
Combat Medic Actions Under Fire
When the call for help rang out, I immediately ran across our perimeter to stabilize and treat other wounded soldiers lying on the ground. My focus was on keeping them alive, performing triage to assess the severity of their injuries, administering appropriate medical care for each wound, and planning their evacuation for further treatment. Each step required unwavering resolve and quick decision-making, as the urgency of the battle left little room for hesitation. The responsibility of managing multiple casualties under fire weighed heavily on me, and every action was directed toward ensuring that as many of my fellow soldiers as possible could be safely evacuated from the combat zone. I counted severely wounded soldiers to determine how many MediVac helicopters were required, since each could carry only four wounded soldiers on the rear bay floor.
Around 7:00 PM, the fight intensified as a second enemy position started firing at us. Focused on treating my wounded soldier and following protocol, I pushed aside thoughts of protecting myself from direct enemy fire and grenades.
Perimeter Defense Under Fire
The urgency of the situation was palpable as my riflemen provided me with covering fire while I worked to save the wounded. The enemy had closed in to within hand-throwing distance from our night perimeter, making the threat immediate and all too real. Every action was taken under the constant risk of enemy fire, with the opposing force so close that every movement felt exposed. The intensity of those moments, marked by unwavering focus and the coordinated efforts of the platoon, underscored the gravity and chaos of frontline combat.
I had to concentrate on reviewing the various protocols for treating different combat injuries, in my mind, to be prepared to follow them on each of my wounded soldiers, who thus became my combat arms brothers.
By 8:00 PM, we started receiving even more intense fire from a third position. We called that Triangulation of Fire, and it’s almost always lethal. Three against One. We got: AK-47 and M-30 rounds (bullets), RPGs, Mortars, Rockets, and more Chi-com grenades. Not only were they close to our night perimeter, but they also had their own cover fire over their position, protecting their forward fighters. The fighting was super intense. Every one of us was fighting from their position, except me, to stop the attackers from breaking our perimeter.
Around 11:00 PM, my Machine Gunner, “Polson,” whose position was above mine to my left, got hit with an AK-47 round on the inside of his right leg, close to the hip. Someone shouted -“MEDIC,” and I ran from the opposite corner of our perimeter, crossing tracer lines towards Polson’s position. He was slumped over himself, bleeding in big squirts, so I had to find the artery, tie it, or hemostat it to stop the bleeding. “Please, no shots, Doc” he said to me. That was his fear. I could not find the artery, so I applied a tourniquet, bandaged his wounds, and left to attend to another wounded soldier in another position. As I was running through the crossfire in our perimeter, I thought I had been bitten by a mosquito on the back of my left hand above my left index finger. I scratched it and felt thick blood. I knew it wasn’t a mosquito bite.
We held the perimeter intact, at a cost. Finally, the fighting slowed down gradually around 2:00 AM. There was absolute silence and listening. No one slept, expecting a fresh restart of the fighting, which didn’t happen.
With daylight, I saw multiple Mortar holes in the ground as well as twenty to twenty-five unexploded Chi-com grenades lying on the ground inside our perimeter, next to wounded and exhausted soldiers. I had to plan my walking path so I wouldn’t step on them or kick them with my boots and cause them to explode. I started triage and counted the number of severely wounded soldiers to figure out how many helicopters were needed for their evacuation. Polson’s wound was worse than I had imagined in the darkness of night and was already infected, discharging pus through the entry and exit sites. My mosquito bite was also infected and full of pus. I felt something hard inside my small wound and confirmed it was not a mosquito bite, but a small piece of shrapnel. In comparison to others, my wound was insignificant. I grabbed my forceps and dug in until I grabbed and pulled out the shiny piece of metal. I bandaged my wound and continued working, telling a sergeant which patients needed foot tags describing their wounds and their anatomical location for future Triage at the Field Surgical Hospital, and for issuing them the Purple Heart medal. Considering the severe wounds I treated, I could not bring myself to put myself up for a Purple Heart. And I didn’t. But my scar still bears witness to my story, to this day.
In the middle of the day (August 22, 1969), my 20th Birthday, I felt Blessed by God that I hadn’t been killed or wounded fatally. I felt alive and reborn. Around two PM, we got new orders and abandoned our perimeter to move on foot to another location.
The Lingering Weight of my Combat Experience
Each year, as the anniversary of my Baptism by Fire approaches, I am reminded of the profound impact that my experiences as a Platoon Combat Medic have had on me. The memory of my "Baptism by Fire," and the succession of intense combat encounters that followed, continue to shape my life. Engaging in every patrol, firefight, ambush, and special operation, I bore witness to the relentless reality of war. Each situation left an indelible mark on my mental state—a weight carried forward long after the fighting ceased.
Every year around this time, I become anxious, emotional, sad, and upset. I cry spontaneously. My wife understands it, but most others wouldn’t. Only other combat veterans understand. Americans don’t know what it’s like to be a combat veteran, to be hunted like an animal, and to take other human lives. They don’t understand how moral injury, its emotional and mental effects, change the brain. And they didn’t appreciate our service and sacrifice. That hurt and angered me. Fifty years after the fact, their “Thank you for your service” greeting is too late, insincere, and hypocritical. Sometimes it feels like Gaslighting and insulting.
The Lasting Impact of Combat
Decades after their service , studies such as the National Vietnam Veterans Readjustment Study reveal that a significant portion of Vietnam veterans continue to live with the effects of PTSD—15.2% of men and 8.1% of women meet diagnostic criteria. The National Center for PTSD has found that PTSD rates among Vietnam veterans are even higher than for other war veterans, with estimates ranging from 26.9% to 30.9%. These psychological wounds are deeply tied to the harsh realities of war: persistent exposure to violence, killing, mortal danger, and traumatic loss.
Throughout their tours, veterans faced continuous threats, witnessed casualties, and mistreatment of non-combatant natives, and endured extreme trauma. Many of my fellow combat veterans have sought to cope with these burdens through alcohol, drugs, or by gravitating toward violent groups as an outlet for their unresolved anger. My own path was different. Despite two failed marriages and a series of lost jobs, I eventually sought support at a VA Hospital. There, I learned to navigate life with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder through medication, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, yoga, meditation, and breathing techniques.
For many Vietnam veterans, the hardships didn’t end with psychological scars. Prolonged exposure to Agent Orange, a defoliant containing Dioxin, led to a host of cancers. In 2017, four years after believing I had escaped its effects, I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. Yet, I remain “On Mission,” determined to be the last voice standing for my lost generation of Vietnam Veterans. This purpose fuels my work with Compassionate Warrior Yoga For Combat Veterans and my presence on social media—to share, support, and honor the journey of those who served. “To Pay it Forward.”
I say, “May God bless our children who inherited the effects of our combat service burden.”
Dedicated to my son, Ito.
