The Stuff of Heroes, Lost and Found

The Stuff of Heroes, Lost and Found

Da Nang Air Base, South Vietnam, September 1970. While stationed in Da Nang, a large US military base a few miles south of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), my squadron commander told me to take one of the squadron jeeps to the China Beach Base Exchange (BX) to do some light shopping for an upcoming squadron party. He had traded some long distance calls to home for steaks and beer and was attempting to boost morale and create some interracial peace. Things had been tense lately. He asked me to take a newly assigned young officer, 2nd Lt. John Franks, with me, and to help him become familiar with the in-country facilities available for our use. Franks had only been in country for 3 days.

The BX at China Beach was like a little slice of home, much like a small department store. They had stereo equipments, camera equipment, watches and jewelry at great prices. They carried some civilian clothing and most of the necessary uniform clothing. They carried a selection of personal care items, magazines, books, records, and booze. One could order a car or truck that would be waiting in the States or one could order custom made clothing from Hong Kong. The Class 6 store (liquor store) carried a fairly broad selection of beer, wine, and liquor at ridiculously cheap prices.

I had heard stories of guys surfing at China Beach, so I was quite interested to see the “breaks”…only to find out that deadly sea snakes were not uncommon and surfing could be a fatal risk, particularly during the mating season, when there can be hundreds in the calmer waters of the bay. China Beach was also the home of a USO club. Cute little Vietnamese waitresses scurried about serving drinks and food to visiting soldiers seeking a respite from the war and the atrocities surrounding them. In the evenings, they might even have a Vietnamese or Phillipino band doing their best to reproduce American Top 40 hits and oldies.

So, that fine Monday morning, Lt. Franks and I set out for China Beach. We were issued “traveling weapons” for the short trip. Each of us was issued a .45 caliber pistol and 2 clips. We were also issued only one AR16 and four clips of ammo in a belt.. He and I were about the same age; but, despite his youth, Franks’ conversation led me to believe he was quite a developing power monger. He seemed to have little respect for enlisted folks unless they were doing something he wanted them to do, particularly something that might make him look good. As we drove along, I spotted a lone figure emerging from the bush about 300 yards ahead. My eyes were much better then. Immediately, the hair on my neck stood up. I became very nervous and slowed the jeep, started reaching for our lone AR16. As we got closer, about 150 yards or so, I noticed he was wearing American-style camouflage fatigues, albeit pretty rough. His arm was extended and his thumb was out, attempting to hitch a ride. That made me a great deal more comfortable, although still leery. Why was he alone? I told Lt. Franks that I was going to pull over and give him a lift. Lieutenant Franks quickly responded in fine military fashion, "F### him. Keep going, Sergeant! We have things to do." By this time, we were about 50 yards away and I could see that the guy had a full-face beard, although roughly trimmed short. He was wearing very dark sunglasses...RayBans, I believe. I could see a rough hair braid that was almost hidden by his soft camo hat and backpack. He also appeared to be very heavily armed. I turned to the Lt. and said, "Sir, if we don't stop and offer him a ride, I suspect he will drive this jeep where ever he wants to go and, someday soon, someone will find our bodies hidden in the bush." As I brought the jeep to a stop, Franks asked in an apprehensive whisper, "You really think so?" While I did not really believe that, I nodded, turned to the soldier and asked, "Wanna ride? We're goin' to China Beach." The soldier nodded, but did not speak.

The soldier's RayBan sunglasses were so dark I could not see his eyes. He bore no visible identity, no name tag, no rank, no unit identification. He was more than heavily armed. He was carrying a U.S. army issue rifle, an AR16. On his right side, in a makeshift sort of tear-away holster, he had a very ‘sawed-off’ 12 gauge riot gun. Immediately behind that weapon was an army issue .45 caliber pistol. On his left side, he had what appeared to be a .357 magnum. He had a string of grenades over his shoulders and 2 bandoleers of ammo clips. Behind his small back pack, he had a much larger-than-normal machete, more akin to a scimitar. On his belt he also had a large "Bowie" knife. I did not understand how a guy about 5'10" tall, weighing only 150 pounds or so, could carry all this weaponry. Even in the movies, they don’t carry so much weaponry. I was supposing all the non-issue weaponry had been “salvaged” from others no longer able to put them to use, but a .357? As he grabbed the jeep's roll bar to climb in, he somehow activated some kind of hidden, spring loaded "wrist stiletto", whose blade was about 4” long. It nicked his palm slightly as he climbed in and he uttered his first word to us, "Shit". He licked the little dab of blood away and climbed in. As he did so, I saw another smaller pistol strapped to his inside lower left leg and another knife strapped to his outside lower right leg. He said nothing, but handed me a small piece of paper. It was a shopping list. There were only seven items on the list: a box of baking soda, an ace bandage, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, dental floss, strike-anywhere matches, a candle and a toothbrush, firm. Necessities, I supposed, for a guy in the field. Strange. He said nothing as we continued toward China Beach. Neither Franks nor I asked questions. Privacy was obviously very important to the soldier. Franks and I both wondered to ourselves, "Is he a long range reconnaissance patrol (LRRP) or some Special Forces guy or what?"

We arrived at the China Beach BX around 9:15 am. There was a long, multi-compartmented "weapons check" box In front of the BX guarded on one end by an Army 2nd Lt,, commonly known as a "butter bar" because of their single gold bar rank designation. Franks was also a "butter bar." Usually, the box was guarded by an Army corporal on each end; but today, for some reason, there was the "butter bar" at one end and a corporal at the other end. Perhaps, he too was being “familiarized” with the duties of his station. As we approached the BX entry, Franks and I placed our weapons in a vacant compartment. I took the numbered claim chit. The soldier we had picked up was making no effort to check his weapons; but then, he wasn't planning on going inside the BX. The Army 2nd Lt. approached and with great authority, gruffly said to our anonymous rider, "Check your weapons, grunt." With no display of emotion whatsoever, without lowering his eyes from those of the 2nd Lt., the soldier reached down and chambered a round into his AR16. Immediately, I started to panic inside, thinking, "Oh my God. He's crazy as Hell and he's going to kill an officer… and I brought him. This can't be happening. I only have 22 days left." Lieutenant Franks and I were quite nervous, beside ourselves with apprehension, just waiting for the "snake to strike". Then, in a show of the poorest judgment, the Army Lt. got right into the soldier's "personal space", nose-to-nose so to speak, and said, "Did you copy me, grunt? You'll have to check your weapons." The soldier calmly placed the muzzle of his rifle just under the chin of the Army Lt. and pushed upward slightly, lifting the Lt.'s head. The soldier lifted his dark sunglasses to his forehead and stared at the Army Lt. He didn't stare him in the eyes. Instead, he stared into his mind. Never in my life have I seen colder, bluer, more intense eyes. They were scary as Hell. As the Army Lt. quite literally wet in his pants from abject fear, he managed to stutter, "Well, er, you, uh, could wait out here". The soldier nodded and, with a slight smirk, lowered his weapon and his sunglasses, and stepped back. Still, all we had heard the soldier say was, "Shit". Almost as relieved as the Army Lt. who was now hustling off to "clean up", Franks and I went into the BX, purchased the things our boss had requested and the few items the soldier had written on his list. Then, we went to the Class 6 (liquor) store. Franks said he was a scotch drinker and I was indifferent, so we purchased 2 quarts of Johnny Walker Black Label on my ration card and left the BX.

Arriving back outside, we approached our rider. I gave him his little bag of "goodies". He glanced into the bag and nodded gratefully. He offered money, but I smiled and said, “It’s on me, soldier.” He nodded, but no smile…and still not a word. I said, "Listen, we have to wait for them to load our jeep. The lieutenant and I bought two bottles of scotch. We're going across the street to the USO and have some of drinks. Would you like to join us? You won't have to check your weapons. We're going to sit on the open-air veranda. We can look out over the bay and relax." He smiled the faintest of smiles and nodded. He followed us across the heavily rutted dirt and gravel street to the USO, continuously glancing all around...ready to respond. Franks found us a nice little table that looked out over the bay while I went inside and rounded up 3 glasses and a small bucket of ice. When I came back, Franks was attempting to converse with the soldier. Franks spoke of home a bit; and, then, asked the soldier where he was from. There was no response forthcoming. I could tell Franks was very nervous about the soldier, so I opened one of the bottles and poured each of us a very stiff drink. Before Franks and I could finish our first drink, the soldier had finished 3 without even a wince…and he wasn't shy about pouring his own. Each time he did, he looked at me and nodded...a "thank you", I suppose. As I reflect on it now, perhaps he was used to that nasty rice wine that was so available. Franks and I spoke about home and girlfriends and where we had attended college. Franks was a Texas graduate, although he'd been born and raised in College Station, Texas, the home of the Texas Aggies. Since I had attended Oklahoma University for a couple of years, we swapped Aggie jokes. Franks had never realized that "Aggies", to a guy from Oklahoma, are Oklahoma State University players and fans. He found fine humor in that realization. So, he did have a lighter side...somewhere.

Deep into the first bottle of scotch, the soldier finally smiled. Actually, it was a grin,having found some humor in one of our jokes. It was an Aggie joke. "How many Aggies does it take to replace a light bulb? Three....one to hold the bulb and two to turn the chair" Just then, a young Vietnamese girl whose job it was to take pictures of visiting GIs, approached our table. She pleasantly smiled and said, "Smile!" and snapped a picture of the three of us with her Polaroid Land Camera. In a heartbeat, the soldier was up, had her by the hair with the "Bowie" knife at her throat. She was shrieking wildly. I quickly jumped up and intervened with screaming pleas. "It's her job, man! It's her job! Don’t kill her! You can have the picture! You can have the picture"! I grabbed the picture that had partially ejected and gave it to the soldier. He released her, but held her arm. She was still crying, visibly shaken. They looked at each other and, for all of us to see, his eyes became soft, pleading. I gave the girl $10 in MPC, far more than her normal price. I tried to comfort her and offer some assurances that everything was okay. She left quickly; but, before she walked into the building, she turned, looked straight at the soldier, wiped her eyes and nodded. He looked at me and uttered his second word, "Thanks"; then placed the picture immediately in front of himself on the table. Later, when he was a little drunk and not paying attention, I palmed the picture and put it in my pocket. I later had the distinct feeling he knew what I had done.

Only after a few more drinks, did the alcohol loosen up the soldier’s tongue. He begin to talk. He was from Wisconsin. He said he had been an All-State wrestler in high school. He showed us several reduced-size card-type certificates that indicated he had earned a "black belt", of one advanced degree or another, in 3 different martial arts. Two were considered "killing arts." He was also a qualified Army sniper. I caught a glimpse of his driver's license as well. Then it occurred to me that nothing he'd shown us had his name or numbers on it…of any kind. In each case, the name and numbers had been scratched off. I had to wonder why, but didn't ask. “I had a girl,” he said, ”but I doubt if she's waited for me.” He showed us a tattered picture. She was awfully cute and very wholesome looking. The corner where he held it between his thumb and forefinger was worn badly. He had looked at this picture a lot. “Sure she’s waited” I said. He said, “No, it’s been too long.”

Then the bombshell hit. He told us that he had been drafted five years earlier, in early 1965! He also said his entire unit had been wiped out in a fire fight in very late 1965, that he was the only survivor. He had been severely wounded; but, apparently, had been left for dead and somehow "doctored" himself. He showed us two hideous scars remaining from his “self-surgeries.” Franks was in absolute awe, ashen and shaken somewhat; but then, so was I. Franks managed to ask, "What outfit are you assigned to now"? The soldier glared at him and quietly said, "I'm takin' care of business." It was increasingly apparent that he was no longer "assigned", that he was on his own, and that he'd been there for over 5 years - alone. After all, the draft only obligated a soldier to 2 years, not 5!

The drunker he got, the more he talked. Horror stories were pouring out…absolute horror stories...and all about his survival. He was shedding tears, altho' I wouldn't call it crying. He was weeping. He had killed three entire small villages of people because they were NVA/Cong sympathizers and one of them had seen him. He had killed a little old man, a little boy and a teenage girl fishing in a stream - silently cut their throats - because they were sympathizers and had seen him. And there were several other mind-boggling atrocities of which he spoke. He described killing untold numbers of NVA and Viet Cong at locations all over Southeast Asia, not just Vietnam or Laos. It was like something out of an over-dramatized war movie. Suddenly, he seemed to sober up a bit. He realized he had been weeping and, as he wiped his eyes, said, “I’m so sorry. You didn't want to hear all that. Listen, I gotta go. Can I have a ride back?" I said, "Sure. Where to?" About two-thirds of the second bottle of scotch was left. I looked at it for a moment, then handed it to him. He smiled big, wiped his eyes again and nodded. He checked the cap, then stuck it in his backpack. I knew I should contact the Military Police before we left, but I didn't. I was a little afraid. No, I was a lot afraid.

We drove back toward Da Nang. When he asked me to stop and let him out, we were probably within 15 yards of where we picked him up. He got out of the jeep, turned, and with a most genuine smile asked, "Buzz?" I said, "Yeah, I'm Buzz." He looked at Franks with a smile and said, "Butter bar." Franks rebuffed him with some aggravation, "I have a damn name. I'm John Franks from the great state of Texas!"…then smiled big. The soldier looked at him and smiled, almost a grin, nodded and said, "Butter bar. Thanks." He turned and disappeared into the bush.

Just before I left Vietnam, I went to Army Personnel in Long Bihn. There I saw a friend I had met at OU from Shawnee, Oklahoma. Apparently, he didn’t make his grades either. I told him my story about the soldier and gave him the picture I had "palmed" at the USO. I asked, "If you can find out anything about this guy, tell me when you get back to the States." I gave him my parent's phone number.

Reflecting on the photo now, I believe he did know I palmed it and that he wanted someone to know of his presence. That little gesture was a plea for help from a man of honor and fortitude driven to avenge his unit and do a warrior's duty.

Four months later and back in Oklahoma in late January 1971, my father said I received a call from my friend. We met at a small bar in Midwest City, just outside of Tinker Air Force Base. He said they had figured out who he was - not by name, but by appearance. The story about his unit was probably true, but uncorroborated, since we could not identify what his unit had been. And, apparently, he had been in Vietnam for over 5 years. He said the soldier had been put in for a Medal of Honor in 1967 by some Army Major who credited him with saving his entire fire base from being overrun by the NVA.

The Major's personnel were in dire straits, all but out of ammunition, out of sanitary water and food. Helicopter support had been thwarted by the NVA. His troops were doomed, would all die. Suddenly, there was fire being laid down against the NVA troops. They were becoming chaotic. Apparently, for lack of binoculars, the Major had grabbed a camera with a telephoto lens to determine who was firing on the surrounding NVA troops. He had taken pictures of the very same soldier running around using the NVA's own mortar positions and other weaponry against the NVA that had surrounded the Major's fire base. The lone soldier had caused so much confusion and chaos among the NVA troops, they pulled back, allowing helicopters to bring needed supplies and vacate the wounded. The lone soldier whose picture he'd taken had "saved every man-jack at my fire base," according to the Major's award submission. Still they did not know his name or his whereabouts. I listened intently, completely amazed….and with a feeling of deep respect for the stranger we had met. The guy telling me the story grabbed my forearm and asserted, "You met a hero...man...a real hero."

That would be the end of the story - until April of 1984 - almost 14 years later. I was going to my girlfriend’s apartment for dinner and entertainment. I stopped to get some barbecued ribs at Buchanan’s IGA. As I passed in front of the automatic exit doors, a guy about my age and his son or grandson were coming out with a full cart. I stopped to let them pass. The man suddenly stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. He was wearing very dark sunglasses, RayBans I believe, so I could not see his eyes; but it was not altogether a pleasant look the stranger was wearing. Then, I looked around and timidly asked, "Is something wrong?" He lifted his sunglasses and stared even harder. Suddenly, I saw a light in the stranger's intensely cold, blue eyes. His lips began to quiver, as did his whole face. You could almost see his mind trying to grasp something, a shred of a memory, when he apprehensively asked, "Bud?" I said, "No, my name is Buzz." I saw tears were welling up in his eyes when his quivering voice asked, "China Beach?" Suddenly, it hit me. I was dumfounded. I looked hard at him. Now, I was shaking all over and had goose bumps. Hair was standing up all over my body. I said, "My God…My God..it's you." With tears rolling down his face, he smiled a big smile and managed to say, "Yeah, man, it’s me. I made it. I made it." We hugged each other hard, even tho' we really didn't know one another. I was crying too. People were looking and, when we realized it, we began to laugh. His 8 year old son asked, “Daddy, why were you crying?” He looked at his son and said, “Son, Buzz is a very old friend from far away.” I met his wife when he took the groceries home. He and I went to a nearby bar, had a few beers and talked. I mostly listened. He told me that he finally "came in" early in 1972. So, he had spent six and a half years in Vietnam... unassigned. He was 19 when he left for Vietnam and almost 26 when he came back. Then, he said he had spent extensive time in military and civilian hospitals, getting his “soul restored,” as he put it. I remembered he was from Wisconsin and asked him how he managed to be in Oklahoma now. After all, what are the odds I would have ever seen that particular soldier again? He said when his trials and tribulations were over, when he'd regained his sanity and his soul, he'd gone back home. He enrolled in the University of Wisconsin. There he met a girl from Oklahoma. He smiled and said, “I kinda robbed the cradle, I guess. She was only 19.” Eventually, they married. He said she was kind of "momma's girl", so they moved back to Oklahoma. He lived about a mile and a half from me and is a successful software engineer. Oh, yes. He asked about the “butter bar” and laughed. “How many Aggies does it take to put in a light bulb?” Funny….the things a person remembers after seeing and being part of such stark violence and atrocities.

I later was told by Brown, the Army personnel guy from Shawnee, that our guy had quietly and graciously refused a Medal of Honor. The Army Major who had submitted his name and actions for the medal had since made Colonel and was told of the modest and respectful refusal. Apparently, he understood and was allowed to discreetly withdraw the nomination. Instead, he was able to gather eighteen of the survivors from his fire base and they visited their benefactor as a group while he was in the hospital getting his "soul restored." The Colonel reported that “the honoree was overcome with emotion and openly wept while the men shook his hands, hugged him and thanked him in earnest.”

I don't see him anymore. I don't even get Christmas cards. He's since moved for a promotion to another city. We used to play golf a couple times a year. I remember reminding him one day that he was a hero. He said, “No...just a guy who snapped. Hit the damn ball." A few years ago, while we were loading our clubs into our cars after a round of golf, he told me he was moving. As he was pulling away, he stopped and said, “I knew you stole the picture.”

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