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| ARTICLES by Tim Lickness C/2/502 68/69 |
| By Tim Lickness October, 1997 It seems like yesterday that I was graduating from the Infantry Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia. Just a year earlier my friend Don and I were walking down the street checking out girls and cars like we did everyday after junior college classes. A little over a year later, I was a 21-year-old infantry platoon leader, part of the famous 101st Airborne Screaming Eagles, and Don was back home dying from the effects of that same place. Don would be forever assigned his destiny as a casualty of war. I was not a very impressive Officer Candidate having the command appearance of a Boy Scout and the command voice of a Girl Scout. Nevertheless I was determined to be the best Lieutenant I could, including in combat if that came to be. After jump school that is exactly where I ended up. Being in the infantry is always difficult and the Vietnam War was as bad as any. At best we were uncomfortable, and at worst our lives threatened. Mostly we did what we had to and hoping just to get home some day. But once in a while something would happen that you sense would change you forever. For me, that was the rescue of Dustoff 65. It was a rainy, foggy night on April 3, 1968, when my platoon came under attack. A savage firefight followed, which lasted most of the night. Two of the several men who got hit were critically wounded. We needed a medivac if their lives were to be saved. With no place to land a helicopter, it was necessary to use a device called a "jungle penetrator" to lift the injured men through the triple canopy jungle. That was a dangerous mission as the aircraft needed to hover for several minutes as the evacuation took place. Pilots, First Lieutenants Mike Meyers and Ben Knisely, crew-chief James Richardson and medic Bruce Knipe of the 498th Medical Company accepted the assignment. At first light they headed for us. Using radio contact, Meyers and Knisely got close and identified the purple smoke we had put out to help locate our position. Coming in at treetop level and just before they got to us they were hit by a North Vietnamese Army rocket, which blew away their tail section. They managed a controlled crash some distance away from us. We quickly put together a search party and set off to, at least, find and secure their bodies. With a little help from God, we might even find survivors. Finally, we smelled smoke and knew we must be close. We were in a race with the enemy to get there first. The terrain was rugged and hostile. It took four hours, including a brief firefight, but we were successful. We found three of the four crewmembers alive. The crew chief had been killed and it would be weeks before another unit is able to find and recover his body. It took the rest of the day to move the injured back to our company's position, and another three days to secure an area suitable to carve out an LZ (landing zone) large enough for another medivac to land. It was three days of being constantly wet, covered with muck, eating cold C-rations, unable to sleep. We were unable to move to a more secure position due to the need to protect the wounded. We used plastic explosives to blow trees for an LZ. The hole we created in the jungle was barely large enough for the rescue helicopter and we marveled at the skill and courage of that crew. Eventually we were all taken out to safety. The entire mission took five days. It is now difficult to explain those five days. They were not the most remarkable of my Vietnam tour. That mission won't be mentioned when great books of the era are written. Few will know the lousy food, lack of sleep, being scared or being brave. Most of the world will never know what happened on that mountain. The one thing that cannot be changed is that three brave men were saved because a band of mostly teenage soldiers persisted in a dangerous jungle search just to find them. This Veteran's Day, I placed the American flag in front of my house in honor of my friend Don and the crew chief who died in that crash. The apologists for that war can say what they want, but I will never forget the sacrifice these men made to the cause of freedom we enjoy. I am proud to have served with them Used by permission of Tim Lickness |
| Rescue of Dustoff 65 |
| PERSPECTIVE ON VIETNAM |
| Tim Lickness 1998 From time to time it is good to reflect upon the blessings we have as citizens of this great nation. Last Veterans Day I attended a ceremony at the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington DC. The Pledge of Atlegiance was presided over by U.S. Marine Corp Major Qnang X, Pham, a native of Vietnam. I was struck by the freedom now enjoyed by Major Pham which are not shared by those he left behind. I could not help in reflecting upon my own experience during the Vietnam War. Thirty some years ago I lay in a hospital bed in Yokohama, Japan recovery from infections that were the result of otherwise minor war wounds. I had spent the first part of the year in Vietnam, where I had little time to think about what I was doing in the war. But, as I stared at the ceiling of my hospital room, I thought about what I had been through. It had been tough, but I know that I had done what other soldiers had done in other wars: my best to do my duty under harsh circumstances. Three months later, I went back to 'the world', back to the United States, where, to my surprise, I was not welcomed home like other soldiers of other wars. Most people did not want to hear my story. So for nearly thirty years I have kept quiet. Except for other veterans of this war, few would know what I had seen and what I had felt. The impact of our experience has profoundly influenced us. I am not sure I can adequately describe my experience, but I owe to myself, my children and to my country to try. I arrived in South Vietnam in February 1968. I was assigned as an Infantry Platoon Leader in the 1O1st Airborne "Screaming Eagles" Division. The communist North Vietnamese Army and the Vietcong had launched the now infamous Tet Offensive, a countrywide assault upon the major population centers and much of the countryside. The US military went on a counter offensive, which in hindsight was largely a military success. There was intense fighting through much of the rest of 1968. Reading now about the war in 1968 you would think we bad been defeated. The truth is that we were successful on the battlefield but the counteroffensive was a public relations disaster back home. At the time all I could see was what one infantry platoon was doing in a very small part of a very large jungle. Most of what Americans know about our national experience in Vietnam has to do with war crimes like Mai Lai, or of gruesome depictions of civilian casualties such as the famous photo of that naked 12 year old girl fleeing her village aflame or of the VC being executed with a bullet to the head. People remember Agent Orange or drug abuse or post-stress syndrome. Or they still argue about how and why we got there and why we didn't leave sooner. Incredibly most do not know of the honorable, hard service by most of us who served. Most Americans do not want to know and most veterans do not want to talk about what it was like. We did not always know what was going on. Sometimes we sat for hours or days waiting for orders. Sometimes it was even boring. We dreamt of home- of American girls, of cars and of hamburgers. We lived for letters from home. We counted the days until we would return. We also fought fierce battles for small amounts of ground or to just tally a body count. The food was lousy. The bugs were everywhere. Your clothes were soaked. There was nowhere to be comfortable. You could not even relieve yourself in private. A sound nights sleep was impossible. Death was always close Some days, we would be called on to cradle a soldier in our arms, both of you knowing he would soon be dead. You will never forget the plaintiff sound of his voice asking for morphine, or the warmth of his intestines on your hand as we tried pressing them back into his body, or his final fixed stare at you - one moment alive the next dead. It is impossible now to explain why you kept blowing air in the mouth of a friend even after he threw up in yours, even after you knew he was dead. You just wanted to yell at him for dying, but you couldn't. The way we fell exhausted unable even to cry and a moment later, were rocked back into fighting by a shot overhead. Or how explosions would cause us to lose control of our bladders or suck the wind out of us. The smells made us gag. The sights caused us to tremble. But still, like soldiers in every war, we had a job to do. And, finally, some of us went home. But there were no parades. We had no Ernie Pyle to record our battles or "Saving Private Ryan" to tell about our heroics. We have been looked upon as kooks or crazies or, by some, as victims. But that is not who we are. We are your neighbors. your stockbrokers, your lawyers, your handymen, your child's teachers. It was hard service in a difficult and unpopular war. But we served out of a sense of duty. We were forever changed, physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. We learned about sacrifice, courage, determination and the honor of duty well performed. Most of us never asked for a hero's welcome, as most of us were not heroes. But we want you to know what we went through and to be welcomed home like soldiers from America's other wars. But most of all, we want you to appreciate the freedoms and liberties we all enjoy in this country and the part men and women veterans have done to insure them. Used by permission of Tim Lickness |
| Remembering Vietnam |
| 1968 By Tim Lickness The Communists Offensive during Tet in 1968 was fully engaged when I arrived for my tour of duty, during the Vietnam War. We could hear incoming mortar rounds exploding and our artillery answering back, even as we left the airplance that had brought us from the U.S. There was little time to acclimate and most of us were assigned quickly to our units. I was assigned to the elite 101st Airborne Division "Screaming Eagles", of World War II fame. I was immediately given orders to lead a platoon of infantry paratroopers, whose assignment was to clear the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) from the jungle, to the west of the ancient capital city of Hue. Two weeks after arriving I turned 21. Most of those in my platoon were younger than I was. We were in combat within days and found ourselves depending on each other to survive. My platoon sergeant made it clear that anyone using drugs would not need to worry about being killed by the enemy, he would do it himself. Firefights were furious, fierce and frightening. We discovered we were up against a well-trained, disciplined and determined enemy. Unlike us, they would continue to fight until they were casualties or the war was over. Strangely you appreciated what the individual soldier on the other end of your rifle was going through. We understood the terror in the eyes of those we captured. We were moved by the personal tragedy upon seeing the picture of a wife or girlfriend, in the wallet retrieved from the body of an enemy soldier. You thought of your own wallet and what they might think if they looked through it. The counter-offensive launched by the U.S. and South Vietnamese Army left little time for contemplation or rest. The use of helicopters, to transport the infantry, saw to it that we went quickly from one battle to another. Nothing prepares you for the lighting quick touch down in a hot (under fire from the enemy) landing zone (LZ). The convulsion of a rocket hitting near you leaves you momentarily stunned. It will be several more minutes before you realize why the front of your fatigues is wet. Some things, you discover, are instinctive. You yell for a medic to help, while you frantically blow air into the mouth of a comrade, lying near you, unconscious and not breathing. Your mind races trying to remember what to do. What's the right cadence? Where do I push? How Long? Where's the medic? Finally you stop. It's a death kiss and you know it. Few will ever know that you tried and failed. Fewer still will ever know what it was like to have to pause and spit out his last meal, before you can take another breath. Another explosion and the time to reflect, on the insanity of it all, is gone. You just roll over and rejoin the fight. We win more battles than we lose. We are well trained. We are superbly armed. Our air cover is the best in the history of warfare. By the summer of 1968 we had chased the NVA to the border. We grieved for our losses and we were tired. But we knew we were successful. You could travel from the east coast of northern South Vietnam through the A Shau Valley and look into Laos and seldom see the enemy. It wasn't until we returned home and read about 1968 that we learned that we lost, and that the Tet Offensive was the turning point in the first war that the United States had not won. Looking back now, on the thirtieth anniversary of these events, I don't know how we, the individual soldier, could have done more or done better. To this day I am not sorry I was there. I learned a lot about courage, leadership, fortitude and about myself. There are those who tell us that war was wrong. They tell us that those of us who fought that war were dupes, wackos, murders or, sometimes charitably, victims. I don't believe that. We were citizen soldiers, fighting a hard war and fighting it honorably. I'm proud of what we did and I'm proud of what we stood for. Used by permission of Tim Lickness |
| VIETNAM 1968 |
| By Tim Lickness copyright 1996 I arrived in Vietnam in February 1968. American's counteroffensive to the infamous Tet offensive was fully engaged. I was assigned to the mostly volunteer 101st Airborne Division's Screaming Eagles as an infantry platoon leader. Reading about this time, you find little about the war other than the communist offensive. Yet although poorly chronicled, the fighting in 1968 was substantial. I turned 21 a month after arriving and found myself leading a platoon of mostly younger men through the jungle 12,000 miles from my home. This how it looked to us. We thought constantly about "the world," calculated daily our "Deros" (date eligible to return overseas) and dreamed of the girls back home. There were two seasons-rainy and dry. During the rainy seasons we were always wet; during the dry season we were always thirsty. The insects were incredible. Bombarding flies, swarming mosquitoes, leeches everywhere, and two-foot-long centipedes. The jungle was beautiful, but at times you couldn't see 10 feet in any direction. We encountered what we called "wait-a-minute" vines, which would grab you and could suspend you in the air. We became accomplished cooks, combining C-rations and LRRP-rations (long-range reconnaissance patrol) with sauces sent from home. We sealed envelopes, whose glue had become useless from dampness, with peach jam. We warmed our meals with fuel made by combining peanut butter with insect repellent. Our faces were an unpleasant combination of whisker stubble, insect repellent, sweat and grime. We buoyed our morale by describing our favorite meal or our favorite car back home, and always talking about our favorite girl. We lived for letters and "care packages" from the U.S. Fire fights were intense, horrific and terrifying-explosions so close you would lose your wind or water. The sights and smells would make you retch. Within hours a dead body would be crawling with maggots, and a day later it would be black, bloated and unrecognizable. Your body rebelled under the weight of a 40-pound rucksack, eight canteens of water, ammunition, a weapon, helmet and other equipment necessary to survive. Comfort, privacy and security were nonexistent. A sound night's sleep was only a memory, a dry pair of socks a luxury. We matured quickly even as our youth allowed us to carry on. Images became seared into the mind for life as the names of fallen comrades were to be engraved forever on a wall in our nation's capital. The sight of a tank commander machine-gunned to death as he surveyed the area, partially exposing his body out of the protection of his turret. The image of a tall Louisianan dying in your arms, his stomach blown away. The look of horror on the face of an enemy soldier as he is confronted at a bend in the trail, realizing he did not have his weapon ready. Seeing a terrified soldier propped up on his remaining arm, having lost the other and both legs. Time and relationships would help, but still the inexplicable fall into the wracking sea of numbing images occurs with warning. You understood the speechlessness; the emotional paralysis was incomprehensible. We chased the North Vietnamese army from the outskirts of Hue, through the jungles of northern South Vietnam, through the A Shau Valley and into Laos. We stopped at the border waiting for the order to continue fighting. The order never came. We knew we were winning our battles against those with names like Daun, Thanh, Giap and Bui Tin. We did not know we were losing the war to those with names like Jane, Tom, Bill and Ramsey. Our leaders in the field fought side by side with us. We talked tough. Conversations were laced with terms like "widow maker," "strike force" and "reconnaissance in force." "Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death..." the little ditty would begin. But God knew the truth, because it was to him we talked praying with each breath. We had not heard of male bonding but survived because of espirit de corps. We trusted each other with our lives. We needed to be alert, so we did not take drugs, saving our intemperance for beer in the rear area. It has been said that there are no atheists in foxholes. We discovered there were no racists there either. We were surprised by our bravery and equally surprised by how scared we were. We were profoundly changed. Some of us were changed by torn bodies, crushed psyches and broken spirits. Some of us were changed by what we learned. We learned about courage, determination, camaraderie, selflessness and an appreciation for living. Returning home brought another, disappointing lesson. We were, it seemed, not welcome. In college a fellow student told me she did not date Vietnam War veterans. I did not expect a hero's welcome, as I was not a hero. I did expect an appreciation for the willingness to endure the ordeal of combat. Rightly or wrongly I believe we were in a mortal fight against the world-wide threat of communism. The "domino" theory made sense to me, and if I hadn't been willing to fight, millions of people might fall under the domain of what Ronald Reagan would later call the "evil empire." I left Vietnam 28 years ago and still doubt that most Americans understand what we went through. I pray that my children will never have to take up arms to protect the liberties they and I cherish. But if they do, I hope they will be welcomed home with respect. Used by permission of Tim Lickness |
| REUNION |
| By Tim Lickness November 1997 I attended a reunion recently. It was a military reunion with all the ceremonial pomp that goes with these occasions - the spit-shined shoes, the formal dress, everyone's medals displayed. I had not worn my Dress Blue uniform with all my medals in nearly thirty years. I can't remember standing that straight since I left the Army. Even after all these years my salute was crisp with military precision. There were eight others attending this reunion. We had served together in Vietnam in 1968, part of the elite Screaming Eagles of the 101st Airborne Division. We were all paratroopers who were part of America's most unpopular war. I was their platoon leader. We had a ceremony where I approached each one of them and hung a Purple Heart and a medal for bravery on his chest. I looked at each with pride, and remembered what he had done to earn his medals. There were all heroes without a doubt, but most people would never know of their heroism. They were very young men at the time, some just teenagers, who were serving their country out of a sense of duty. They were scared, but served with bravery. The one thing these eight had in common was that I saw each of them die. Hecter died from a bullet through his heart while setting up a perimeter defense. Mac was shot walking point. Gene, Les and Frank were killed during a fierce night firefight that lasted until sun up. Sarge, I can't remember his name, our platoon sergeant, was killed by a 60 millimeter mortar round that just landed to close to where he was positioned. Jack and Kenny died as we attacked a fortified rocket-launching position. They were from New York, Pennsylvania, Louisiana, Texas, Puerto Rico, Mississippi and other places I now can't remember. They returned my salute and graciously accepted their medals. Then they seemed to disappear, having left without speaking. I don't know when I'll see them again, but if there is place in heaven for soldiers killed in action that is where they will be. My salutes turn out to be nothing more than me wiping my eyes and my audience are seatmates on a cross-country flight. This reunion takes place entirely in my mind. I come close to making a spectacle of myself and I'm saved from such a scene when a flight attendant asks if I'm okay. I excuse myself and seek the privacy of the airplane's lavatory where I break down and cry. It is one of those uncontrollable cries where your whole body shakes. I don't know why it took me nearly three decades to cry for these guys, as hardly a week goes by that I don't think of them. Maybe I've seen too much since we were last together. Maybe I wasn't crying for them alone. Maybe I was crying for myself, or for what's become of the America they gave their lives to defend. Thankfully, they would not return home to the taunts and glares that greeted so many of us. Every Memorial Day and Veteran's Day I will again salute them when I see the flag that they served. The revisionists of that war would like to minimize or otherwise distort the contributions of those brave heroes to the freedoms we now enjoy. I will work hard to keep that from happening. When the time comes for history - and finally God Himself - to judge our actions, I will choose to stand with the courageous men in my dream. I am proud of them and I am proud of what we did and what we stood for. Used by permission of Tim Lickness |