To say the least, a tour of duty in Vietnam (Nov. '67 - Dec. '68) as a CH-46 helicopter crew chief, has left a lasting impression.  As I follow the narratives on the Purple Fox website I am filled with pride at our  history and am honored to have played a part in that history.  But, I have always thought I really didn't fight the war.  I served in a support capacity to those "magnificent grunts" who did fight the war.

It was a typical day (sometime in 1968) and we were assigned a medical evacuation mission.  The first casualty was being carried aboard and the rotor wash blew the poncho aside that was covering the Marines lower body.  I saw what was left of his legs.  Must have stepped on a land mine.  Had seen it  many times before.  The man was conscious and grimaced in pain.  He was laid up front in the cabin and the "Doc" told me to try and keep him quiet and not let him see his legs.  The rest of the casualties were loaded aboard and we headed out to a medical center.  I huddled over the wounded Marine using my body to block his view of his lower extremities and assured him we were just a few moments from the medical center.  He kept trying to raise up and was hollering that he wanted to see his legs.  The more I tried to assure him things would be OK the more agitated he become.  I glanced at the "Doc", who was working on some of the other casualties and he nodded an "OK".  I moved to the side and pulled back the poncho covering his legs.  He raised himself up on his elbows and stared at his legs for a moment.  He motioned he wanted to tell me something.  I removed my flight helmet so I could hear his comments. He said, "I bet I get home before you do."  He gave me a weak smile, laid back down and closed his eyes.

I'm fairly certain he made it.  Over the years I have thought of him countless times.  In that moment I sensed he accepted his plight.  This was his ticket home.  He had survived.   He would never again have to huddle in a hole as the shells exploded around him.  No more patrols or listening posts.  No more wondering if it was safe to take the next step.  What horrors had he witnessed?  How much death had he seen?  Such was and is the life of the "grunt."  Those unsung heroes who are the real warriors.  They do not receive the well earned recognition they should justly receive.  I stand in awe of their tenacity and their endurance.  There is no other group I have greater respect for than those  "magnificent grunts."