CHAPTER SEVEN - PAUL MORGAN - 1968 - The Jungle

“The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you. He will never leave you or forsake you. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged.” Deu.31:8

It was still. Quiet. Unlike Louisiana, the humidity here had an airless quality, making it hard to breathe. Sgt. Paul Morgan kept his eyes focused on the black jungle. No green, no brown. It was totally black. It was amazing how dark the jungle could be without the lights of a city to reflect against the night clouds. Even the moon could not penetrate the thick foliage. 

Bryant had died a few hours ago. Gonzalez hadn’t said anything since sunset. Jersey lay under a blanket, moaning softly.

Paul’s eyes zeroed in on a movement in the dark. Dark moving on dark. It was a theme from art. A black painting. What was it that was moving out there? A leafy branch maybe? There was no breeze. A human hand had moved the branch. Paul’s finger tensed on the trigger of his M-16. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breathe. Could they have heard Jersey moaning? Even the dead bodies around him seemed to make sounds. Parley had been sawed in half by a Claymore. Just before dark, he thought he saw Parley waving his arms. Paul knew that his imagination was on over time, but he swore to himself that he heard the dead muttering… “Get out…get out while there’s still time.”

How did he end up here? How did he end up halfway around the world in a burned out village waiting to die? Vietnam was everything people said it was. When he was back in the states, he watched the Vietnam War on TV. CBS News reported fatalities, but they never mentioned the fire ants. They were tormenting him under his shirt and on his legs. Paul tried to pinch the ants through his fatigues. A big movement could give their position away. A slight movement could do just the same. Not that it mattered. The enemy was creeping up around the perimeter of the village. Their position was probably already known. The Cong were biding their time.

If the last info he had from the radio was correct, there were other Marine units in the area. Captain Davenport had a platoon just north of the village. Paul’s unit was about to meet up with them when the shooting started.

Paul shifted his eyes over to the five men still able to fight. They too, were suffering the fire ants silently. What was the old saying? There are no atheists in foxholes? Boy, was that ever true. Paul had shunned organized religion, and he had a hazy vision of who or what God was. But he knew there was something up there. And he sent up a clumsy prayer as a rustling nearby sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The ammunition was low. Sometime during the night, he’d taken Jersey and Bryant’s packs and grenades. Just before the firefight, when their radio still worked, they heard the frantic cries of the Eagle Company lieutenant.

“They’re over running us! We cannot hold our position! Repeat! We cannot hold our position!”

After that, there was a loud shriek from the radio. Then, silence. Their own radio had been knocked out along with the corpsman and Lt. Walls when Paul’s platoon crossed the ridge near the village. There was lots of noise and panic as they dug in and gave back what they were getting. Happy Tet, thought Paul. We should be back at base camp, sipping beer and feasting on barbecued water buffalo. He hoped they weren’t the only survivors. Surely there were pieces of the Marine unit scattered about.

The rustling leaves were getting louder, but Paul couldn’t see anything worth shooting at. Besides, he would give away his position. And he had to save ammunition. He’d give his soul for one more belt of ammo. A belt of ammo seemed like a king’s ransom. His mind made an inventory of the decimated platoon’s arsenal. That was a laugh. There was no arsenal. And who was there to use their limited ammunition? Slovinski, Brown, Bobby, Cline and me. It’s just us now. Jersey was no help. Earlier, about twenty feet to his left, he’d heard crying in the trench. Was that Watson? Maybe Daniels. It didn’t matter. The crying had stopped some time ago. He wondered if Watson/Daniels or whoever it was, still had a rifle? Was it worth a leap towards the trench?

According to his calculations, and from what he could remember from the last radio transmission, they were caught between two large NVA units. If that were true, their chances of survival were slim to none.

Paul had seen six firefights since he arrived in country nine months before. Nine months. He’d done a lot of growing up, both mentally and personally.

After eight weeks of basic training and nine months of jungle survival, his body had filled out and hardened. Paul gave another mental laugh. He thought he’d had a tough life before this. After joining up, he didn’t think it could get worse. How did I get here? He thought hopelessly. His life back home was a different world entirely. He remembered his roommate Allan, giving him a fond farewell in the school parking lot. It seemed like twenty years ago.

Allan shook his hand as Paul put his lone suitcase in the beat up Volkswagen Bug.

“Call me if you need anything brother.”

“Thanks Bigfoot. I’ll write.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

 Paul gave him a wry smile. “Don’t have much of a choice. Mom accumulated a lot of bills.  Selling the property took care of most of that.”

Allan shook his head sadly. He had hoped that God was providing a way for Paul to stay in school. Through the tragedy of his mother’s death, Paul inherited the property and the old shack on the bayou. At least he could sell it and have enough money to stay in school. Paul had thought the same thing until he met with the lawyer.

“Mr. Morgan, I realize you have been financially strapped for some time. I have some papers here that you need to sign. Maybe it will help.”

“What papers, Mr. Johnson?”

 The old lawyer handed over a short stack of documents. “Your property on the bayou covers two acres. It won’t bring much, but according to your father’s will, it’s all yours upon the death of your mother.”

Paul looked over the deed. Over the years, he and his mother had just enough to eat. It never occurred to him that his father had put any money he had into buying the land.

“I never really paid attention to family business,” said Paul. “This was something I did not expect.”

 Mr. Johnson folded his hands and squinted at him through thick bifocals. “The sale of this property will take care of my expenses and perhaps buy you the rest of your schooling. You’re a senior, right?”

“Yes sir,” Paul said quietly.

He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A senior. He could start his senior year in the fall. Then he was brought back to earth sharply.

“Of course your mother owes a lot of money for medical bills,” said Johnson. “And there’s money she owes the Arcadian Loan Company.”

Paul looked out the window and saw his battered blue Volkswagen. It had been a Christmas present that his mother surprised him with two years before. He wondered how she’d been able to pay for it. Now he knew. The Arcadian Loan Company.

“How much does she owe, Mr. Johnson?”

It was a long list of medications, hospital stays and of course, the payments on the car. When all was said and done, Paul had a little over five hundred dollars in the bank. That was all. He’d hit a financial dead end. As soon as the business was taken care of, he walked over to West Street where the Marine recruiter was.

He drove back to Sparta to spend a week with Allan and the guys. Allan, who had half a semester before earning a Bible degree, had a pending mission assignment in Taiwan.

“If you go to Vietnam, we’ll almost be neighbors,” he joked. Paul stamped the cigarette out at Allan’s shoe. “Hey! These loafers cost me ten bucks at Shop-Mart.”

“Yeah, we’ll be neighbors, Bigfoot. Maybe we can switch places. My rifle for your Bible.”

“You’d make a good missionary Paul. You’re likable, you have a working knowledge of the Bible despite your agnosticism, and you have clean fingernails.” 

Paul chucked his pudgy friend on the arm. “Maybe I’ll get some R&R and visit you. Have Theresa set up an extra cot for me.”

Allan’s fiancée, Theresa, had applied for mission studies too. Paul thought they were an unbeatable team. Allan was peppy, energetic, full of optimism. Theresa was practical, smart and had a true love for God. She was a natural teacher and Paul knew that Allan was in good hands.

When Paul said his good-byes, Allan stopped him before he got to his Volkswagen. “Here’s the dollar I owe you.” Allan handed him a crisp, new bill.

“What’s this for?”

“You paid for Theresa’s burger and fries that time I was short.”

“Burgers don’t cost that much, even with a large drink and fries.”

“Interest,” explained Allan.

“Interest,” Paul laughed softly. Then he looked at Allan. “You’re so scared of going to hell, you wouldn’t lie about anything.”

“See ya, brother,” said Allan as he turned and trotted back towards the dorm. He didn’t want Paul to see his tears.

During basic training, Paul was buying cigarettes at the PX. He found the crisp dollar bill Allan had given him and was about to hand it to the lady at the counter. Then he saw the message written in blue ink across the “ONE” on the bill. “KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU” was scribbled under the heading, “IN GOD WE TRUST”. He stuffed the bill in his boot. He planned on paying that dollar back to Allan in person after his tour of duty.

Now, in the night with an unseen enemy slowly creeping towards him, Paul thought about that dollar bill and the message on it. It was still stuffed in his boot. Keep Christ Near You, he thought. With all of the Bible courses he’d been forced to take, with all the mandatory chapel services he’d endured, Paul Morgan still couldn’t accept Jesus as his savior. To him, God existed, but in what form? Exactly how did God work through His human creations?

The answers did not come. He could only sit there in the dark little village, waiting for the onslaught.

Even though it wasn’t unexpected, Paul’s heart was in his throat when the flare lit up the night.

“In coming!” screamed a voice to his right. It was Slovinksi. There were bursts of gunfire coming from the dense jungle. I can hear them, he thought, but I’ll never see it coming. As the flare lit up the sky, Slovinski screamed, “Over there!”

Straight ahead were about twenty of the enemy charging their position. Paul held in the panic and carefully aimed at a black clad figure. Make every shot count.

With each recoil of his M-16, he tried to breathe and stay in a cadence. One down, two down, they were coming fast!

“I’m out!” cried Bobby. A chill ran down Paul’s back. Bobby was out of ammo.

“Me too!” echoed Cline.

Just as the flare died, Paul thought he spotted two dead bodies on the other side of the crumbling wall that protected him. They were from his platoon and had ammo on them. Paul tossed his ammo belt to Bobby. “Cover me!” Without waiting, Bobby sprayed the area while Paul scrambled over the wall.

Now that he was exposed, Paul worked quickly, grabbing bandoleers and grenades off the dead. He heard a couple of bullets thump into the body he was working on.

“Heads up!”  Brown and Slovinsky yelled simultaneously. Paul looked up and saw a figure rushing up to him. He frantically reached for a grenade and pivoted to the right. The Viet Cong soldier stumbled and Paul whacked him on the back of the neck with the grenade. A knife slashed back at him, catching him on the brow. The Asian’s face was young and full of hatred as he jabbed the crude knife at Paul’s stomach. Then the enemy combatant’s head exploded.

“Got him!” yelled Bobby. 

Paul skittered back to the wall. He couldn’t feel the cut on his brow, but blood was blinding his right eye. He tossed a pack to Cline.

“We’ve got to hold them off!” 

Another flare went up. Paul felt like he was in a fish bowl. Another torrent of chills ran down his back when he saw about a hundred VC charging towards the wall.

There was a bone-shattering roar. A bullet knocked Paul on his back. He felt a hot poker jabbing deep into his shoulder. He looked up at the moon. He felt he could reach up and touch it.

Everything went white and Paul felt two iron spikes behind his eyeballs, stabbing to get out.

The medical unit was a disaster scene. Every able-bodied man was moving gurneys in and out, depending on the state of the victim. Among the screaming and moaning, nurses and other personnel tried to cope with the onslaught of the wounded and dying. The smell of blood was everywhere.

Over in the corner was a young Marine with blood coming out of his ear. A grenade had exploded near him, sending his body into a tree. The brain damage had regressed him to another time and place as he cried out, “Momma!”

Paul Morgan lay on a cot, his body riddled with shrapnel. A shard of wood from a Banyan tree protruded out of his stomach. A bullet was buried in his shoulder. His uniform was soaked in blood. His skin was seared and blackened by a large dose of napalm.

The medics had not gotten to him yet. They were working double time to stop the blood spurting out of a soldier’s chest. On a cot next to him, a priest stood over Bobby, administering last rites.

“We need more morphine over here!” someone shouted.

“I’ve got a chest wound, I need a hand here!” shouted someone else.

The Captain with his arm in a sling entered the tent, shaking his head. “What a mess. This is insanity.” 

A lieutenant followed him into the tent. “We have heavy casualties sir.”

“Any word on who gave the order?”

“No sir. When they called it in, they didn’t know we had friendlies in the area.” 

The Captain gave a bitter laugh. “Probably saved some lives in the bargain. They should probably give the stupid fool a medal.” He gave the lieutenant a look between humor and anguish. “Full of irony in a lot of napalm.” The lieutenant nodded, not taking his eyes off the chaos in the tent. The Captain motioned with his good arm.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. Let the doctors do their job.” They left.

Phen Ho was an intern in Long Binh. His own heart problems had kept him out of the South Vietnamese Army, but as a patriot, he wanted to serve. He was glad he didn’t have to kill men, and working in the field to save lives was “right up his alley” as the American doctor told him.

The short, pudgy Phen walked up to the cot that held Sgt. Paul Morgan. The soldier had deep punctures through his body. A bullet wound seeped from his shoulder. Half his face had been burnt to a crisp.  Paul’s’eyelids were trying to flutter open.

“Ah, this one’s still alive,” he said to no one in particular. It’s not likely that anyone who heard him would have understood him. The young intern’s French was far superior to his English. In flowing Vietnamese, he ordered a medic over for an IV set up. When the Asian medic saw Paul, he shook his head. In equal fluid Vietnamese, he spoke to Phen.

“We’ll waste precious drugs on this one. He’ll die soon.”

“He’s waking up. I need morphine now. He’s going to be in great pain.” The medic reluctantly handed Phen some morphine and started setting up an IV unit. “We must relieve all of the suffering that we can.” A corporal was brought in with a bullet next to his spine. He was screaming God’s name, but it was lost among the frantic voices of medics and victims alike in the noisy tent.

Phen touched Paul’s forehead. He continued to speak in Vietnamese. “Be still my friend. Be at peace.” There was a low hum in the darkness. Paul could hear voices that seemed far away. Where was he?

A cool hand was touching his brow. While he knew a few words in Vietnamese, Paul couldn’t speak it or understand it. Yet, the words came to him as clear as water.

“Be at peace.”

Like a train coming out of a tunnel toward the light, Paul opened his eyes. There was movement in his blurred vision.

Phen stood over the dying soldier. He continued to speak to him softly in Vietnamese.

“I’ve administered morphine. You will feel no pain.” As Phen spoke, Paul was hearing a different voice, speaking to him in English. “Don’t be afraid, Paul. I am near.” Paul’s eyes focused on the figure standing over him as the blur melted away. The face he saw wasn’t Phen Ho. It was…

“Save me,” Paul whispered. 

Phen motioned to the medic with the IV. He put a stethoscope on Paul’s chest and listened.

“I can save him,” said Phen.

Paul was not aware of the medical attention he was getting. He didn’t feel the IV or the fire balm being applied. He didn’t realize that skillful hands now used a scalpel to cut the shrapnel embedded in his body. All he saw was the face of Jesus. All he heard was the voice that seemed to come from a deep well in the sky.

“Be at peace, Paul. I am here. I am always with you.”

Instantly, the face of Christ disappeared and the low hum exploded into the wailing in the tent and the doctor standing over him, shouting instructions in Vietnamese to the nurse.

“He’s going to live! Yes, we’re going to save a life today! Phen was jubilant. As he worked quietly on the soldier on the cot, part of him was speaking to God…Thank you Lord, for giving me the skills and working through my hands to save this life.

Phen, a former Buddhist, had accepted Jesus two years before when his sister took him to her missionary friends. Phen’s sister taught Sunday school at a church in Saigon and he was grateful that she had led him to God. This was one of those defining moments for him. He felt a connection to this bleeding Marine. It was like a voice was somewhere behind him saying, “Save him, save him.” And Phen’s skillful hands were doing just that.