[During a family dinner, my husband’s uncle Ernie told us his story of survival. I had to write it down and share it.]
Ernie was a Forward Officer in Vietnam.
During an operation to lead his platoon into the jungles, he and two radiomen scouted ahead of the group. That day, they were met with an ambush. His two radiomen were killed in the ensuing attack, leaving him unable to communicate back to the rest of the platoon about the ambush. He fought off the enemy until his platoon arrived to fight with him. By the time the platoon came upon him, he’d killed more than a dozen of the enemy attackers and held off the rest.
It wasn’t long after that heroic jungle day that he was taken as a prisoner of war. He was kept imprisoned for nine days, his legs and arms bound tightly behind him while he lay on the floor in a dark, damp hole. His feet were beaten with sticks to prevent his escape. He was made to defecate and urinate on himself. Food was a handful of rice, thrown with accuracy on the dirty, piss-covered floor. He had to move to the rice, lick it up with his tongue.
He was starving.
The physical damage was minimal compared to the lasting, destructive psychological trauma he endured each day. He didn’t know where he was, how long he would be kept a prisoner, or what would become of him after that. Every minute of every day was spent in agony, in dread of the next minute. His fear of death gave way to a fear of life in the dark cell.
But, no matter what they did to him, no matter the beatings and starvation, he wouldn’t talk. There was nothing his enemy could do to make him tell them what they most wanted to know. They would have to kill him. He would give them nothing.
Nine days he spent in this mental limbo. Nine days, in hindsight, was a short time to spend as a POW. But nine days, when he lay on the floor of his cell at the fifth day, and the sixth day, may as well have been a lifetime. The pain came with not knowing when it would end. He had no way of knowing, while imprisoned, whether he would be there for nine days or for one hundred; whether or not he would die there. The paranoia of the unknown is what drove some POWs to madness.
On the ninth day, he was released. He returned to the United States, a recipient of the Bronze Star for his heroism and endurance.
Before the war, Ernie had been offered a football scholarship to Marshall University. His dream of football stardom was dashed when he received his papers to serve in Vietnam. After the war, with his new accolades and experience, he was again offered a place on Marshall’s football team. This time, he was still unable to accept because his POW foot injuries were too extensive for his athleticism to overcome. He had to turn down the scholarship for a second time.
He was bitter and angry. His dream again thwarted by his own bad luck in life. He brooded about it. Lament and regret threatened to topple any sanity he may have salvaged from war….
Until November 14, 1970, the night that the Marshall University football team went down in an airplane crash that killed everyone on board.
Ernie then understood that he had been spared. Although he had horrible memories of his nine POW days, at least he had memories.
He would have been on that Marshall football team. He would have been on that plane.
Had it not been for his call to war, he would be dead.
Ironic.
Vietnam saved his life.
.JPG)
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