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Borrowed Time: A Medic's View of the Vietnam War

by Charles M. Kinney; Edited by Pamela Gillis Watson

164 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0673; ISBN 1-4120-0304-0; US$18.00, C$20.33, EUR15.00, £10.50

After LZ X-Ray and Albany came LZ-4, Operation Masher/White Wing, Operation Davy Crocket, and a place called Tuy Hoa. The gripping memoir of a medic with the renowned 7th Cavalry.

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about the book      about the author      about the editor      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book In Borrowed Time decorated Vietnam veteran Charles Kinney picks up where We Were Soldiers leaves off. He tells the compelling story of his year as a combat medic with the renowned 7th Cavalry of the US Army, focusing on C Company of the 2nd Battalion of the 7th. After the Ia Drang campaign of We Were Soldiers fame, which took place in the Central Highlands of Vietnam in 1965, came the Bong Son I and II campaigns in the coastal plains of South Vietnam in 1966. Kinney gives riveting firsthand accounts of the devastating battle at Landing Zone 4 (rated by the US Army as the 2nd bloodiest battle of the war from 1965- 1972), the triumphant wipeout of an entire North Vietnamese Army battalion at Than Son II, and the tragic ambush of C Company at Tuy Hoa. In 1970, Kinney volunteered for another tour of duty in Vietnam, returning to work for a year as a senior clinical technician at the 3rd Surgical Hospital at Binh Tuy south of Saigon. There he became the assistant chief wardmaster and oversaw creation of the Army's first drug rehabilitation and detoxification center. Rather than focusing on facts and figures, body counts, weapons specifications and the like, Kinney's narrative concentrates on the people- the men he lived with, fought with, loved as brothers and lost, those who survived , and those who remain his cherished friends to this day. In doing so, Kinney teaches us unforgettable lessons about courage, fear, love and the human cost of war. These lessons are just as valuable in understanding the world's current armed conflicts as they are in understanding the war in Vietnam.

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About the Author After a distinguished 20-year career in the Army, author Charles Kinney retired to Orange, Texas. Subsequently he worked in security for an art museum for 9 years, and then he decided to obtain a college degree. Upon graduation from college, he worked for 2 years as a Registered Respiratory Therapist in nearby Beaumont, Texas. In the early 1990s, Mr. Kinney and his wife, Linda, decided to open an animal care and boarding facility called Peaceful Acres. Clients drive all the way from Houston to board their pets with the Kinneys. Mr. Kinney is active in the community, volunteering his time and services for a variety of causes, including performing military funerals as part of a burial team with the Southeast Texas Veterans Service Group headed by Rev. Marv Howland. A trustee of the 7th Cavalry Association, Mr. Kinney was one of a select group invited to attend the Fort Hood, Texas, premiere of the recent movie We Were Soldiers, which was about the battle at LZ X-Ray fought by 7th Cavalry units in Vietnam. Recently Mr. Kinney was selected as the Vietnam Veteran of the Year for southeast Texas. Beloved by friends and family alike, he is a favorite of the local news media. About the Editor Herself a veteran who volunteered for duty in the Air Force right out of her Georgia high school in 1978, editor Pamela Gillis Watson later became a Phi Beta Kappa, summa cum laude graduate of the University of Tennessee with a degree in writing. While in college she was in the Navy Reserve but was discharged due to a hearing loss she had sustained in the Air Force. She attended college on a full academic scholarship. In spite of being no longer physically qualified for military duty, after college Ms. Watson found a way to continue to serve her country as a technical writer-editor. She worked for U.S. Department of Energy contractors in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, for more than 11 years before she and her husband decided to relocate to Roswell, Georgia, in February 2001 with their three children. Today Ms. Watson works as a technical writer-editor at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) in Atlanta. She received two awards for her writing and editing in 2002 and has received one award already in 2003. Additionally, she serves on the CDC web publishing team, maintains the website of the CDC Communicators Roundtable, and is currently involved in the CDC mentorship program. She is active in the community as well, helping maintain a website for her children's elementary school, doing volunteer work for a Tennessee-based environmental group, designing and maintaining a website for a local church, and editing various writing projects for friends. Sample Excerpts Foreword I met Doc Kinney, who was a senior combat medic in Vietnam from 1965 to 1966 and returned to Vietnam for another year in 1970, through Byron Scogins, a long-time friend of my family in Georgia. Byron was a platoon leader in the same infantry company where Doc was a medic during his first Vietnam tour of duty. I had been talking to the Monroe News Star, Byron's hometown newspaper, about doing a story on Byron, and I thought the reporter assigned to the story might like to talk to someone who had served with him. Doc said he would be glad to fill the reporter in. Initially I offered to help Doc write his book, which he said would be about his service in Vietnam, as a gesture of goodwill such as I frequently extend to my friends and family. When he quickly took me up on my offer, I was a little worried about what I had gotten myself into, what with a full-time job and three elementary aged children to raise. And in spite of the fact that the book would help me satisfy a personal need to stay involved in military matters even though I*m no longer on active duty, I was not particularly inspired by the idea of idea of editing and helping write some dry military tome. Then I began to receive page after page of Doc's story, and as I read, I started to get excited. Sure, I could see that the work was going to be a challenge, but nearly every page contained some unforgettable image or tale. Doc, I realized, was a great storyteller. Gradually the story took hold of my mind. I fancied that like Michelangelo, I could see the angel in the rock, and I knew I could chisel to set him free. "But why write another book about Vietnam?" one family member asked me. "Hasn't that story been told over and over these last few years?" "Many stories about Vietnam have been told," I replied, "but Doc Kinney's story hasn't been told yet." There were other skeptics: "I just don't see what good could come of it," one retired soldier said. What good, indeed? And what could I really contribute? I was in kindergarten when Doc Kinney arrived in Vietnam in 1965. When he returned for a second tour, I was 10 years old. When Saigon fell in 1975, I had just completed my freshman year in high school. All I knew of the war was what I saw on the six o'clock news. The antiwar protests never reached sleepy little Millen, Georgia, where I grew up. The only opinion I remember forming about the war was a dimly conceived belief that "we just shouldn't be there." More than 25 years later, when Byron Scogins came back into my life and I met Doc Kinney, it was far too late for confetti, fireworks, marching bands, and patriotic parades to welcome home the Vietnam veterans. Those who lived through the Vietnam War had come home to be greeted by being spit upon and reviled, refused service at business establishments, and generally treated shamefully, like the dirty secret of a nation that had lost its innocence and had finally had its fall. Some have suggested that our fall was like a Biblical fall from grace, or that it bore similarities to the fall of the Roman Empire. One thing I'm certain of is that though the soldiers in the ditches and foxholes were fighting their guts out, failures of the highest-level leadership, both political and military, were at the roots of the turbulent events, sense of betrayal, and disillusionment that Americans both at home and abroad experienced during the 60s and 70s. I'm reminded of a scene near the end of the movie Gladiator, when the faithful Roman warrior Maximus summoned the last bit of life in his body to kill the corrupt and evil emperor Commodus in the Coliseum, and then died in the sand. The emperor's sister Lucilla, who had loved Maximus, ran onto the field along with Senator Gracchus and others. With tears running down her face, Lucilla said to Gracchus and the others gazing on the body of Maximus, "Is Rome worth the life of one good man? We believed it once. Make us believe it again." Gesturing toward Maximus, she urged the onlookers, "He was a soldier of Rome. Honor him!" Gracchus and the others seized the body of Maximus and hoisted him high above their heads, carrying him off the field and, we assume, away to be given the funeral of a great hero. The men who died in Vietnam were not carried off in glory and given lavish funerals. When their bodies, or the parts of their bodies, could be recovered, they were wrapped in their own rubber ponchos and dragged through the sands, grasses, and jungles of Vietnam. Many of them came home in caskets that wouldn't be opened because the contents were too mutilated or decomposed. Yes, I can understand why my soldier friend would wonder what good could come from helping Doc Kinney write his book. But yet, maybe there is something I can do. I can hear the voices of the men who served in Vietnam, speaking to me through space and time and from beyond the grave. I can read Doc Kinney's words with the eyes of my soul, which is able to understand the language of the warrior's heart. I can feel God's power flash through me like lightning, giving me the strength and the talent to tell a story begging to be told. I can ask, "Is America worth the lives of these good men and women?" And I can tell the world, "I believe it. They were soldiers of the USA. Honor them!" ‹Pamela Gillis Watson Preface From 21 November 1965 to 11 November 1966, I was a Senior Company Aidman (medic) assigned to the U.S. Army's 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) in the Republic of Vietnam. This book is my testimonial of that year of war‹what I saw, learned, experienced, gained, and lost "over there" during my year of combat service; what I perceived of others I knew; and how the Vietnam War affected all our lives. One thing is certain: all who served in Vietnam in a combat role were permanently changed by their experience, and whether they admit it or not, it has had an impact on their lives and those of their families and friends as well. During that year, I was one of many men who participated in combat as part of Operation Masher/White Wing in the Bong Son plains of Vietnam and in numerous subsequent battles and campaigns. Those of us who survived our combat experience did so by assuming what I would call a combat persona, a frame of mind and sensibility that enable one to function well in situations and circumstances where death is an everyday companion. Whether it was the death of a friend, an enemy, or a noncombatant, our survival depended on being able to adjust our thinking in such a way as to solve the immediate problem or task that confronted us, accomplish our mission, eliminate our enemies, and save as many of our own as possible in the process. If this adjustment in thinking was to be successful in ensuring both our short-term survival and our long-term mental, emotional, and spiritual well being, four tenets had to be involved: (1) Never hesitate to do what is necessary to defeat your enemy‹whether it be capturing or killing him‹and never give an armed opponent a second chance, not because you hate or fear him, but because you respect his ability to kill you if you don't kill him first. Once he is dead or securely in your hands, he can kill no more, and there is one less enemy to worry about. Armies are built one person at a time and can be eliminated in the same manner. (2) You must learn to accept the deaths of friends, subordinates, and superiors. Life to the combat soldier is truly a reverse lottery, in that when his number comes up, he loses by being wounded or killed. If he is wounded, he's given a second chance. If he is killed, his life is history and there is nothing you can do for him. No matter how much you love him and treasure his friendship, he's gone from this earth and you remain there fighting for your life and the lives of others as well. To survive you must save the sorrow and tears for later. Expressed pain and torment now will only cloud your judgment and cause the loss of more life, quite possibly your own. And so you continue, day after day, battle after battle, gathering and tucking these memories away in a secure place where you can revisit them at a later date when you feel it's safe to let yourself go. This method will serve you well in combat; later, however, the memories become the baggage you will carry with you the rest of your life. (3) Control the anger created by your mistakes and the mistakes of others that cause the death or injury of your fellow soldiers or noncombatants. We are all only human, and in the heat of battle, with incoming fire cracking nearby and casualties being inflicted, mistakes are sometimes made. Getting angry only exacerbates the problem. It's best to save your criticism for the after-action meetings and reports. Keep your cool, and things will work themselves out. (4) Forgiving yourself is necessary for your redemption. This is the most difficult concept, because combat begets death, and death begets feelings of guilt. But without forgiveness, what you've fought for and witnessed others die for‹"Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness"‹can still be lost. Although your mind is troubled, and you are haunted by flashbacks to battles where death took away those you loved, you must remember always their sacrifice. You must try as best you can to savor what you now have, in memory of those heroes who answered our country's call and gave their all. Honor their sacrifice and live this life of "borrowed time" to its fullest, for it has been prepaid in full, their gift of life in your place. After my first tour of duty in Vietnam, I arrived at Fort Ord, California, where I was fitted for and issued a fine new Class A uniform and adorned with all the decorations I had won. How I wish that when I left Fort Ord, I could have left with a new heart and mind as well, and a totally clear conscience. I can't help thinking that there should have been chaplains of all denominations there, before we departed for home, friends, and family, to give us their blessing and absolution for all we had to do and endure in the name of War. Introduction This is a story of the War in Vietnam. It is written by one of its heroes, although he makes no such claim. In the 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry, in the Third Brigade, the "Garry Owen Brigade" of the First Air Cavalry Division in 1966, most combat medics did not survive a one year tour with a line company. Virtually all the survivors were wounded, many of them several times. The storyteller survived, although twice wounded, both times in the thickest part of the fight, both times while caring for and protecting other wounded under fire. What he did was in the tradition of the outnumbered Roman Legionnaire rushing with his short sword into a thicket of spears, of the Civil War soldier facing massed rifle and cannon fire in the charge, of the World War One Infantryman going "over the top" into murderous machine gun fire. Like these men, his warrior brethren, he knew instinctively that his time had come, but he went directly into the face of fire anyway to rescue his comrades, compelled by a sense of duty and loyalty. To these wounded he brought superb training and skill to preserve the flicker of life. He did this unhesitatingly and under the most dangerous and appalling of conditions. He moved toward the sound of the guns. He always moved toward the sound of the guns, even when others attempted to keep him from harm's way. This is, however, more than his story. What he did is representative of what so many other young men did, and so he is really telling their story while he tells his own. What he has to say is particularly important. Doc Kinney reveres life, all life, did so then, in the heat of battle, still does. Those who fight wars do not leap into the cauldron all unaware. They detest war and killing. War represents political failure, and is a last resort. And it is just because there are so many courageous heroes to become that it is important to hear his message. It is the stay-athomes that decide for war. It is those-who-never-serve, and those who-avoid-service that make go-to-war decisions. It is those that serve without really ever hearing gunfire (and they carefully plan it that way) who send the young sons and daughters of farmers and truck drivers, ghetto kids and Appalachian youngsters off to become heroes. And these young people never fail them. It seems always to be old men who send the Vikings-to-be off to battle. So this book is also for them, to advise them, to make them wise‹because life, all life, is precious. -Garry Owen Col. Lyman C. Duryea, USA Retired Commanding Officer, Company C, 2nd Bn., 7th Cav. 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile), RVN 66-67 Excerpts from Chapter Two I leaped off the chopper and instinctively ran north, which represented the shortest distance to foliage and palm trees that could provide cover and concealment. I noticed that this LZ was seemingly a wasteland consisting only of sand, mounds of which marked Vietnamese grave sites. As I watched tracers and heard the sonic crack of enemy small arms fire flying by me, missing by mere inches, I somehow made it to within about 30 yards of the foliated area. It was then that I noticed scores of NVA running to their designated predug positions among the many coconut and palm trees ahead of me. I dropped behind a mound of sand and began firing my weapon on automatic in three-round bursts. At that distance (about 30 yards), it was hard not to hit at least some of the numerous targets presented to me, but I have no idea how many of the enemy I wounded or killed. They just kept coming laterally across my front weapon sight, and I kept firing and reloading. About the time I had expended approximately four or five magazines (80 rounds), I was hit with a two- or three-round burst myself, one round hitting and shattering the front stock of my M-16. The shards from the stock hit me full in the face, and the round lodged itself somehow into the metallic stock retaining ring of my M-16, driving the weapon into my shoulder and flipping me over. At the same time I was also wounded in both of my hands: the ring finger and the pinky finger of my right hand were ripped open from their inner base to their tips by a round that also hit me on the back of my left hand, shooting off my watch and leaving a deep wound the size of a silver dollar where my watch had been. As I simultaneously sustained all of these wounds, I must have appeared to be hit in the head, because I grabbed my face as I was flipped over on my back. I was knocked senseless for a few seconds, and when I came to I could hear Roy Duthu, who was about 15 yards to my west and 20 yards to my rear, yelling, "The Doc got it right in the head!" I yelled back to him that I was okay and was only hit in the hands. Checking my weapon, I noticed the spent enemy round still lodged in the front stock retainer ring. I also noticed that my weapon was still operational, since the gas operating rod had not been damaged. When my head popped up again from behind that grave mound, I'm sure the NVA soldier who shot me was thinking, "Damn, I could have sworn I killed that one!" I could see the NVA soldiers still milling around not more than 30 yards away, but Duthu couldn't see them. Though Duthu was out in the open, some mounded graves around him were obstructing his view of the enemy's location, so I told him where to direct his M-79 fire. I kept firing, also. Between us we were bringing smoke on them. Then Duthu got hit by enemy fire in the right ankle. "Doc," he yelled, "I'm hit and I'm bleeding bad!" Because I was triangulated and totally pinned down by enemy fire, however, I could not have survived making it to where he was, so I told him to wedge and work his foot and ankle into the soft sand, letting the sand and nature provide a pressure dressing. He did, and we continued pouring it on the NVA, with me spotting and Duthu placing M-79 fire on the NVA, for about the next 10 minutes or so. Then Duthu was shot again, in the upper chest and shoulder area, and was killed. At about that time I noticed Joe Condroski about 10 yards west of Duthu, firing his M-16, and yelled to him to get his head down. As I yelled, I watched as machine gun fire walked its way right to him and appeared to hit him in the head. Thinking that Condroski was now dead as well, I believed I was the only one still alive in this area of the LZ, which worried me a lot! I hunkered down for a while, and every time I poked my head up, I drew machine gun fire. Unbeknownst to me at this time, while I, Duthu, and Condroski were fighting for our lives, about 80 yards away from us SSG Guyer, Ed Domian, and a few other mortar platoon men were desperately trying to set up and bring mortar fire on the machine gun positions that were pinning them down. SSG Guyer fired off two mortar rounds that missed the target, but firing the last round he had, he knocked out the main machine gunner. Unfortunately, that machine gun was quickly taken over by someone else, who then killed both Guyer and Domian. Less than a second later, the machine gun's crew was blown to hell by Sgt. Rivera, who had dug in well somewhere nearby. The sandy soil gave Rivera optimum protection from small arms fire, but not long after he took out the machine gun crew, a well-aimed enemy 60-mm mortar round hit his foxhole dead center, blowing his body in half and killing him instantly. Elsewhere on the LZ, along with some other men from the mortar platoon, PFC Richard Bearden saw a wounded comrade writhing in pain out in the open. Bearden made a brave dash to rescue him, and both Bearden and his wounded friend were killed. Also killed was SSgt LaGrand, another mortar platoon NCO. In the meantime, Lt Scogins and his group were taking casualties as they valiantly fought their way back to the LZ to attempt to link up with the company Command Post and Cpt Fesmire. Lt Scogins was slightly wounded himself. Sgt Charlie Williams, who was with Scogins, was wounded in the right leg just below the knee. Tom Cole, Scogins' Platoon Aidman, was also wounded, an enemy round leaving a gash 6 inches long from the corner of his left eye to the top of his left ear. By this time we had been pinned down for more than an hour and still had received no supporting artillery fire, which if brought to the north of us could have eased our situation. A while later, from a distance I saw Cpt Fesmire dash about 150 yards from east to west, courageously running a gauntlet of automatic weapons fire to try to link up with the mortar platoon. Right after Fesmire came PFC Skelly (Legs), loaded down with field gear, his weapon, and his radio. Legs ran the same gauntlet to reach Fesmire's side. After that we all just lay low for a while, occasionally trading fire with the NVA. A couple of hours later I heard Cpt Fesmire yell, "C Company, rally on me!" and soon afterward he made another 150-yard dash back to his Command Post. Again, Skelly jumped up right after Cpt Fesmire and also ran the gauntlet. As bullets trailed Skelly's fast-moving legs and feet, I could hear the guys yelling, "Go, Legs, go!" until he married up once more with Cpt Fesmire. Pretty soon I had the notion that the NVA were taking their lunch break. I wasn't hungry at all, but I was very thirsty. Knowing that I had just two canteens of water, I drank only small amounts. I nonetheless found myself needing to urinate frequently. Because I couldn't risk standing or even kneeling, I turned on my side and dug little cat holes in the soft sand with my hand, urinating in them and covering it afterward like a cat would. The sand had proved to be a blessing for us in more than one way, because its texture easily absorbed all the small arms fire and anything else the NVA threw at us, from hand grenades to 60-mm mortar rounds. Later - much later - it absorbed our own munitions as well. I was beginning to notice that every now and then when I popped my head up, I was no longer being fired at. Soon afterward, I heard moaning and crawling noises nearby, and looked out to see what at first I thought was an NVA soldier crawling toward me. I almost instinctively shot him before I saw he had on U.S. Army green, and then I realized it was PFC Snodgrass. He was badly wounded. I pulled him into the foxhole, which I had enlarged quite a bit, and checked him over. He had been shot in the back and in both legs. I dressed Snodgrass's wounds and gave him morphine IM for pain, and he soon dropped off to a coma-like sleep. I wondered if there were others out there who were wounded like Snodgrass, and made a visual search of the area around my foxhole to try to find them. My search confirmed that Duthu was dead, but Condroski - who I had thought was dead - moved, lifted his head, and nodded when I waved to him. About this time, two men from the mortar platoon called out to me to come to their location, which was about 20 yards to the south of me, not far from where we had dismounted our choppers. One of them hollered, "Doc, how bad are you hit?" and I yelled back, "Not too bad - in both hands, but I can still use them." They both called out to me again to come back to where they were, and I replied that I couldn't because I had Snodgrass with me and he was badly wounded. We ended the exchange by trading encouragement: "Hang in there, man!" one of them yelled, and I responded, "Yep, help should be coming soon!" With night fast approaching, a light rain was falling, as it had all day. Just before it got completely dark, Condroski low-crawled to my foxhole and climbed in. We enlarged the foxhole so it would hold another man. Not long after that, PFC Brasher suddenly jumped in with us. He had lain out there in the open all day playing dead, about 15 feet from my foxhole, and had decided the time was right to make a mad dash for it. Now we had four men in the foxhole, three of us still able and one (Snodgrass) intermittently comatose. Now that it was dark, I started thinking about the near proximity of the enemy. Knowing that the NVA knew where we were and would be probing our position soon, I decided to collect and consolidate all our hand grenades. We each had four, for a total of 16. I loosened the pins on all of them so that I could easily pull the pins out when necessary with my injured hands. Catalogue Information Canada • USA • UK • Europe Contact Us | Privacy Policy | Terms of use | Author Login URL http://www.trafford.com © 1995-2007 Trafford Publishing, a division of Trafford Holdings Ltd.