BackToVietnam.net - 1969: ARVN Truck Story

1969: ARVN Truck Story

Driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike one year in college, traffic slowed and halted. I was in my 1965 VW beetle with a crank-back sunroof, and when stuck I tended to open it up and sit on the roof to survey what was happening, sometimes reporting to others around me about what I saw. Usually all I could do was confirm stopped traffic, but this time, about 200 yards ahead, I saw a car on fire with flames jumping and dancing energetically and dramatically into the air. The sounds of emergency vehicles began to creep in from indeterminate directions. When I started to wonder about the people in the burning car, the memory that returned and stabbed me, after being buried and hidden for three years, made me slide down into the driver's seat and stare without vision at the windshield.

On the roads around Buon Ma Thuot one day in 1968, heading back to our base, the way was blocked by an ARVN -- South Vietnamese Army -- truck stopped at an odd angle. At first all we could see was a handful of ARVN soldiers scattered on the pavement and off the shoulders like birds that had fallen from the sky. Some were moving without discernible purpose. A few Australian soldiers ran up to our truck and started screaming at us. “OFF the bloody truck! NOW!!! MOVE YOUR ASS!! NOW!!”

One of the Australians was a medic and they were trying to take care of the ARVN soldiers, who had been packed in the back of their truck when one of their hand grenades accidentally detonated in the midst of them. We were needed to help tend the wounded. The Australians could see that we were inexperienced and knew they had to push us through the experience rather than lead us through it. I was grabbed roughly by one of the Australians and led to an ARVN soldier lying in the road. He had a bandage around his head, and another on his right thigh that was not stopping enough blood. The Australian quickly hooked up a plasma bottle and handed it to me. He grabbed my shirt and yelled into my face, “Keep this bottle two feet high and “DON’T FUCKING LET HIM MOVE! Keep his bandages tight!”. Then he left.

The soldier was clearly in shock and at first lay quietly. Soon, though, his eyes started moving around as if searching, but it was clear he wasn’t seeing anything and his eyes never met mine. Then he was moaning, and his wounded leg and head both began rocking motions. With one hand holding the plasma bottle, I couldn’t hold both his leg and his head still. His movements increased spasmodically, and for a while I sometimes couldn’t even reach his wounds. He started to calm, and the leg wasn’t bleeding so much, and it looked better. His eyes finally did find mine, but then he stopped moving completely and his eyes held nothing. I kept the bandage on his leg and held the plasma bottle for a while, until one of the Australians came over and knelt down, peeked inside his head bandage, felt for a pulse, and muttered, “Shit. He’s gone.” By that time some American medics had arrived and they took over. We waited to help load the dead and wounded into vehicles, then got back in our truck and continued on to our base for supper.

It was an hour before the New Jersey Turnpike traffic could move again, which was good, as I needed most of that time to put myself back together. I was wrenched back and forth -- I wrenched myself back and forth -- in a way that felt almost violent. It's my fault that he died. No, it's not my fault that he died. Yes, it IS my fault, NO, goddammit, it is NOT. Oh, you bet it is. Back and forth, back and forth, with the truth, or the lack of a truth, teasing me but also leading me.