A Ghost Story
Posted: Wed Jan 11, 2023 7:47 pm
I had been in-country maybe 10 or 11 months in the American War, as the Vietnamese called it. I had encountered pressure-release devices and land mines before, but never any direct contact with an enemy combatant before the ghost incident.
In fact, my first casualty in-county had been the victim of a pressure-release device that caught him during chow time. It had been a rare feast when the REMF mess hall had sent us an actual meal from the rear with plates and spoons and creamed corn and mashed potatoes and ice cream for dessert. I was cherry and under the guidance of the senior aid man from Bravo in preparation for my own assignment.
The grunt took an unbelievably unfortunate step onto a land mine that threw him and his chow into the air and landed him onto his back. His legs were chewed up pretty bad and one was missing. We rolled him over and found a small shrapnel hole on his back. Senior took care of his limbs and I bandaged the wounded kid’s back. The RTO called over the radio for a medevac. The chopper was there faster than we could get the dressings tied down, so we had to just load him up and turn his care over to the chopper crew, who continued his treatment in flight.
3 days later I learned that he died of that little back wound. You see, the shrapnel had shredded a renal artery and he bled to death on the operating room table. But there was no time to grieve or reflect even briefly over the young man. The infantry doesn’t quit and I had to be ready for the next hit. That’s how you get PTSD.
The ghost that almost was, was an NVA that I encountered in a near deadly incident much later in my tour.
That was when 2 infantry squads melded to go on ambush in dense jungle. The FNG and me, the medic, were left behind to watch their equipment. Theoretically someone could come up the ridge line between us.
This FNG was a little bit spooked, having witnessed 3 kills in his first 21 days in-country, the first 14 of which he had spent in REMF-land preparing for the real war, the one that boony rats fought under circumstances of heat and exhaustion, monsoons and starvation.
“I shot him I shot him I shot him!”, the new guy went berserk.
“CONTACT! CONTACT!”, came alive over the radio. At that point, physical deprivation and boredom were over. It was the real war now.
“What’ve u got?”, the teams crackled back. Then they ran back in the same way they had gone out, only straight through the brush this time instead of taking the trail.
The new guy was no longer a cherry but he was out. If it was possible to be the young guy among 18 - 19 year-olds, then he was the young innocent guy who had seen more action than most of the veterans. And scared out of his mind.
I knew where he had been positioned—and I thought he had just gone over the edge anyway—so I took the 2 squads of boony-rat infantrymen uphill to the area where the new guy had been firing.
Then I saw him. He looked like a 14 year-old kid in an NVA uniform, not the black pajamas favored by the Viet Cong. He was propped up against a tree, unarmed. He had probably been left for dead by his companions. He was moaning, probably trying to say, “Cheu hoi (I surrender).”
He had a sucking chest wound. His war days were over.
I yelled at him to move. “I want to see if you have a grenade behind your back or under your butt,” I said. Motioning with the point of a barrel was an effective and universal symbol to move where you’re told.
I commanded the scene, telling infantry to get down or take a knee to avoid silhouetting. I said that this enemy’s shooting days were over and maybe we could use him for “military intelligence”.
I told my patient, “I can’t use my supplies on you; they’re for American soldiers .” But he had pack of cigarettes on him, probably taken out of an American scarf pack. I used the plastic wrap to dress his chest wound and secured it by using his belt.
The RTO called for an interpreter or a Kit Carson to come out and collect him on a Huey. Gingerly we helped him onto the medevac chopper. We sent him in and he was treated at a field hosp and held captive until the North won the war.
Nearly 50 years later, Tahn Nguyen found me in retirement. He showed me pictures of 18 great-grandchildren children and thanked me profusely. That was the ghost who almost was.
But that’s not how it happened.
The FNG and I were guarding the equipment. Our teams had gone out on the ridge for ambush. An NVA cell had come upon our position, between us and the teams.
The FNG came unglued after firing off a few rounds at an enemy soldier. He was out, so I walked point for the 2 squads, leading the way up the trail and around a corner.
Then I saw him. The one who would become my ghost. He looked like a kid, 14, maybe 19 years old at the most. He was wounded and unarmed, moaning, “Cheu hoi,” or something like that.
Fear took control of my actions. Instead of heeding my training by squeezing off 2 or 3 rounds at a time on automatic, I emptied my 20-round magazine at a rate of about 350 rounds per minute. I fired him up big time.
I signaled for infantry to step in front of me and made my way back to the equipment. Infantry shot the enemy in the head, finishing what I had started with spraying him from right foot to left shoulder.
I don’t know what happened to him next. As for me, I had to subjugate any feelings I might have had about the incident and continue humping the boonies like a camel that has no need for stopping. That’s another example of how to come down with PTSD.
I’ve never told this story to any civilians before. Thanks. I feel better.
PFC Richard Brandt
Call Sign “MICKEY
HHC, 2nd Battalion, 506th Infantry, 101st Airborne, RVN ‘69 - 70
In fact, my first casualty in-county had been the victim of a pressure-release device that caught him during chow time. It had been a rare feast when the REMF mess hall had sent us an actual meal from the rear with plates and spoons and creamed corn and mashed potatoes and ice cream for dessert. I was cherry and under the guidance of the senior aid man from Bravo in preparation for my own assignment.
The grunt took an unbelievably unfortunate step onto a land mine that threw him and his chow into the air and landed him onto his back. His legs were chewed up pretty bad and one was missing. We rolled him over and found a small shrapnel hole on his back. Senior took care of his limbs and I bandaged the wounded kid’s back. The RTO called over the radio for a medevac. The chopper was there faster than we could get the dressings tied down, so we had to just load him up and turn his care over to the chopper crew, who continued his treatment in flight.
3 days later I learned that he died of that little back wound. You see, the shrapnel had shredded a renal artery and he bled to death on the operating room table. But there was no time to grieve or reflect even briefly over the young man. The infantry doesn’t quit and I had to be ready for the next hit. That’s how you get PTSD.
The ghost that almost was, was an NVA that I encountered in a near deadly incident much later in my tour.
That was when 2 infantry squads melded to go on ambush in dense jungle. The FNG and me, the medic, were left behind to watch their equipment. Theoretically someone could come up the ridge line between us.
This FNG was a little bit spooked, having witnessed 3 kills in his first 21 days in-country, the first 14 of which he had spent in REMF-land preparing for the real war, the one that boony rats fought under circumstances of heat and exhaustion, monsoons and starvation.
“I shot him I shot him I shot him!”, the new guy went berserk.
“CONTACT! CONTACT!”, came alive over the radio. At that point, physical deprivation and boredom were over. It was the real war now.
“What’ve u got?”, the teams crackled back. Then they ran back in the same way they had gone out, only straight through the brush this time instead of taking the trail.
The new guy was no longer a cherry but he was out. If it was possible to be the young guy among 18 - 19 year-olds, then he was the young innocent guy who had seen more action than most of the veterans. And scared out of his mind.
I knew where he had been positioned—and I thought he had just gone over the edge anyway—so I took the 2 squads of boony-rat infantrymen uphill to the area where the new guy had been firing.
Then I saw him. He looked like a 14 year-old kid in an NVA uniform, not the black pajamas favored by the Viet Cong. He was propped up against a tree, unarmed. He had probably been left for dead by his companions. He was moaning, probably trying to say, “Cheu hoi (I surrender).”
He had a sucking chest wound. His war days were over.
I yelled at him to move. “I want to see if you have a grenade behind your back or under your butt,” I said. Motioning with the point of a barrel was an effective and universal symbol to move where you’re told.
I commanded the scene, telling infantry to get down or take a knee to avoid silhouetting. I said that this enemy’s shooting days were over and maybe we could use him for “military intelligence”.
I told my patient, “I can’t use my supplies on you; they’re for American soldiers .” But he had pack of cigarettes on him, probably taken out of an American scarf pack. I used the plastic wrap to dress his chest wound and secured it by using his belt.
The RTO called for an interpreter or a Kit Carson to come out and collect him on a Huey. Gingerly we helped him onto the medevac chopper. We sent him in and he was treated at a field hosp and held captive until the North won the war.
Nearly 50 years later, Tahn Nguyen found me in retirement. He showed me pictures of 18 great-grandchildren children and thanked me profusely. That was the ghost who almost was.
But that’s not how it happened.
The FNG and I were guarding the equipment. Our teams had gone out on the ridge for ambush. An NVA cell had come upon our position, between us and the teams.
The FNG came unglued after firing off a few rounds at an enemy soldier. He was out, so I walked point for the 2 squads, leading the way up the trail and around a corner.
Then I saw him. The one who would become my ghost. He looked like a kid, 14, maybe 19 years old at the most. He was wounded and unarmed, moaning, “Cheu hoi,” or something like that.
Fear took control of my actions. Instead of heeding my training by squeezing off 2 or 3 rounds at a time on automatic, I emptied my 20-round magazine at a rate of about 350 rounds per minute. I fired him up big time.
I signaled for infantry to step in front of me and made my way back to the equipment. Infantry shot the enemy in the head, finishing what I had started with spraying him from right foot to left shoulder.
I don’t know what happened to him next. As for me, I had to subjugate any feelings I might have had about the incident and continue humping the boonies like a camel that has no need for stopping. That’s another example of how to come down with PTSD.
I’ve never told this story to any civilians before. Thanks. I feel better.
PFC Richard Brandt
Call Sign “MICKEY
HHC, 2nd Battalion, 506th Infantry, 101st Airborne, RVN ‘69 - 70