A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away, a young American soldier lay bleeding on the battlefield of a small Southeast Asian country. At that very moment, halfway around the world, his mother awoke from a dream in which she had been watching the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. In the dream, she witnessed details of the battle in which her son was wounded and later told family members of her dream, including her own mother who lay dying of cancer in a hospital in Louisiana. A series of incredible events would follow the dream, and within 48 hours of being wounded the young soldier had left the steamy jungle behind and stood at the bedside of his beloved granny as she took her last breath.
Thirty-two years ago, I was that young soldier. Today, I still have difficulty telling the story of my Granny and my mother’s dream. But the recent tragic death of an old friend in the cold waters of an Alaskan bay has prompted me to recall the story of my grandmother and my friend, the Eskimo, who lay beside me in the heat of battle on that day, long ago. Granny and the Eskimo were guardian angels, and they saved my life that day in Vietnam.
In Granny and the Eskimo: Angels in Vietnam, I attempt to tell my children about a part of their father’s life during the Vietnam War which had intentionally been kept from them. Although the story was written for young adults, people of all ages and walks of life will find themselves on an emotional roller coaster. Indeed, the reader will find Granny and the Eskimo: Angels in Vietnam a hard book to put down until the last page is turned and the last tear is wiped.
I looked up at the Eskimo who was rubbing that little wooded figurine again as he talked with the lieutenant. I had learned to trust the Eskimo's judgement, and if he said he smelled gooks, then you could safely bet the bad guys were in the area.
As the Eskimo turned around and started back to his place in the formation, he tapped me on my boots and pointed to his nose. I nodded that I understood and he smiled.
"Saddle up," came the word from up front. I hoisted my rucksack onto my back and got in front of the top sergeant at the head of the CP group.
The column moved out slowly, like a snake approaching a frog caught in its death gaze. I adjusted the radio on my back and cursed the heat as I wiped the sweat from my face. I looked around and noted again that it was too quiet. The only sound I heard was from the moaning of the men in the slow moving column. It was about that time that I noticed a bird perched on a limb of a tree overhanging the trail. It was as though the bird were frozen to the limb. It wasn't moving, chirping or doing any of the things a bird is supposed to do. As I got closer, I noticed the feathers of the bird were grey and white in color. It reminded me of a mockingbird, and for a moment I thought of my ailing grandmother. But mockingbirds were found only in the southern United States. Were there mockingbirds in South Vietnam? I looked toward the rear and caught the Eskimo's stare. He was shaking his head as if to say, "there's trouble ahead."
Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck bristled as the radio crackled and I was brought back to reality. Blackfoot Six, the lieutenant of Blackfoot platoon, was calling the company commander, Captain O’Brien, or Ranger Six. Blackfoot, the lead platoon had reached the river and was advising that they were going to deploy to the right and left to cover the rest of the company as it crossed. Positioned directly to the rear of the last man in line from Blackfoot platoon, I led our group in the CP to the crest of a small embankment and the rest of the company followed. The bamboo bridge was there as intelligence had told us it would be. This was great, I thought, because we would be taking another break while some of the men attempted to destroy the bridge again.
I looked at my watch. It was exactly 12 noon. Suddenly, the silence of the jungle was abruptly shattered by the distinct sound of an AK-47 assault rifle. The unique popping sound came from across the river. We had walked into an ambush. As I dove to bury my nose in the sandy riverbank, I watched the man in front of me twist, then stumble and fall back, moaning as he hit the ground. I felt a round tear into my upper right arm and the rucksack was torn off my back. I cursed as I saw my precious writing material go flying in the air. As I brought my rifle up to my shoulder, I noticed blood soaking my shirtsleeve. Flipping the switch on my M-16 to fully automatic, I let loose a burst of rounds toward the sound of the enemy fire coming from the opposite side of the river. I grabbed the leg of the fallen man and dragged him back over the crest to where the captain and top sergeant were taking cover.
A medic was crawling toward us, and I told him to help the wounded man who was groaning with pain. Miraculously, my radio still clung to my back, and I realized Blackfoot Six was advising the captain that he was pinned down and had one Zulu (killed in action). I handed the entire radio to my captain and grabbed his CAR-15, a shortened version of the M-16 rifle. My own weapon was now empty and my extra clips lay several feet away on my rucksack. I began firing small bursts toward what appeared to be a foxhole on the other side of the riverbank. I could clearly see the muzzle flashes coming from that area. Captain O’Brien called for a medivac helicopter and then called for artillery rounds to impact on the other side of the river. "Azimuth, Charlie Alpha, three-oh-seven, northeast, over."
