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| In January of this year (2002), I sat down and over the course of some 40 hours*, with very little sleep, wrote a poetic short story (The Revolving Door) of that day, I will never forget. It is not a political state- ment or military treatise on warfare. It is rather the feelings and experiences of the then 19 year old Forward Observer from Oklahoma, as seen through his narrow view of the battlefield, written almost 33 years removed from the event itself -February 22, 1969. My apologies to all the combat Veterans for even attempting to express the inexpressible, to those particularly who served that day along side me, and to the fallen dead and wounded both physical and spiritual. Few notes here for those not familiar with military terminology, I have made every effort to limit the use of military jargon and excessive profanity, but it is a war story and as such found it impossible to relate what happened that day without some use thereof. Some of the included information below is sole- ly for historical reference. * There have been a number of revisions since the original writing and several hundred hours invested in the Vietnam Quatrain. Note: Everything underlined may be clicked on for further links and information. Skipper: Company Commander (Wesley L. Fox); received Medal of Honor. XO : Company Second in command (Lee Herron); posthumously awarded Navy Cross; age 23 Lieutenant C : Platoon Commander (William J. Christman III); posthumously awarded Navy Cross; age 23 Lieutenant Malone : Platoon Commander (George M. Malone); awarded Navy Cross Corpsman : Doc Hudson - see Vietnam picture. MOS : Military occupational status; in my case 0846; Forward Artillery Scout Observer. PRC 25: Radio used by commanders, squad leaders and FO's (pronounced prick-25). LAW : Similar to a bazooka, except it telescopes out, deposable; backblast can severely injure, kill. Al : My radio operator, Albertina - see Vietnam picture. Delta : Delta Company 1/9 Ashau : A valley region in northwestern South Vietnam where operation Dewey Canyon occurred. 16 : M 16 standard issue rifle 45 : Model 1911A1 automatic pistol; I did not carry a M 16 AK : AK 47 rifle, the weapon of choice of the North Vietnamese and many countries to this day Firemission : My job as a FO was to direct artillery fire onto the enemy. A firemission was the communication link to the firing battery and coordination of fire. Click here to see actual firemission notes for February 22,1969. Click here to see FO school graduation picture - thanks to Tom Turnberger. Dewey Canyon : Between January 20 and March 31, 1969 during Operation Dewey Canyon, 1st battalion 9th Marine Regiment lost 70 killed and 351 wounded, for a total of 421 casualties, or about half the Battalion. Alpha 1/9, on February 22 lost 11 killed and 72* wounded. More than 100 enemy soldiers were killed. Click here for march 1969 newspaper article. The letter : This letter was written & sent to my parents on February 17, 1969. NVA : North Vietnamese Army. Click here to see NVA pay officer writing tablet. Sweetheart : My fiancee - Marty. After nearly a quarter century she and I were reunited for a wonderful reunion in which she shared a letter that she had written, sealed and stamped in 1969, but never mailed. In 1994 I read that letter for the first time. Marty and I continue to speak by phone on occasion and remain friends. *WIA reports that I have seen for Alpha vary Besides the Medal of Honor and three Navy Crosses ( second highest award ), the Marine Corps awarded six Silver Stars to the following A 1/9 Marines for valor on February 22, 1969 : LCPL John R. Baird * SGT David Beyerlein LCPL David A.Chacon * ; age 20 LCPL Darrell H. Chapman SSGT Robert R. Jensen LCPL William C. Northington* ; age 20; Citation * Posthumous : John R. Baird and David A. Chacon were killed in action on February 22, 1969. William Clyde Northington was killed on March 4th, 1969 as operation Dewey Canyon continued. The descriptions are PG from a combat military perspective. I have made every effort so that the initiated and non -military could get something out of this story, time will tell. Seldom have I dealt with this issue, and have not kept up with any Marine buddies, nor the military per se in many years. It was a flood of emotion to address, hopefully therapeutic and the demons are gone. Any combat veterans who have any thoughts, suggestions or corrections would be greatly appreciated. The work will never be finished, and may be modified from time to time, but at the urging of others, here it is. For more references and Vietnam pictures click here: The Good the Bad and the Ugly In his name , Terry Presgrove First posting : 01/23/02 Updated : 01/01/04 Revised: 12/29/06 Revised: 01/05/07 Edited 10/18/07 |
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| Prefix Door |
| ~ The Stolen Key ~ The Vietnam Quatrain – Part I A young man's heart is a fragile essence, With fears and joyous acquiescence, Many paths to choose as fate would beckon, Such potential to ensemble and reckon, Turn the world into a paradise of celebrations, Plateaus of life giving and beautiful creations. But the powers that be, he hath no control whatever, They determine his destiny on this endeavor. The marching orders in this rendition Are dire enlightenment beyond any text book's cognition, Or university curriculum to determine the right direction For all to ponder concerning the selection. His native land called, so the youngster made of clay, With ardour and naivete, did not betray. From innocence he sojourned far away To serve his country well, he thought with sail. But experience spoke quite a contrary tale, As the horror of hell would prevail, Mar his youth and scar his soul to no avail. The damage done, he struggled through the bleakness, When she cried, he laughed to hide the weakness, Neither he nor she had a clue to the deepness; Forbidden entrance into that most holy fortress, For fear had barred the Ark of his youthful plea, And the ticking clock appeared to forever hold the key. |
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| Forward - The Morning After The setting is the Vietnam war memorial and a Walking Dead reunion is in progress. The teller of the tale is looking through the Wall, back more than three decades to February 23, 1969. My sincere desire is that these meager words spoken, somehow give honor and pay tribute to those eleven fallen marines that died on February 22, 1969. And a special tribute to The Walking Dead ( Di bo chet ), the famed 1st Bn. 9th Marine Regiment. Hopefully, it will be a reminder to all of us who survived, to carry the banner of the fallen high, never allowing their memory to diminish while we live. Thirdly, it speaks to all Americans about sending their sons and daughters to war and the importance of the many (our nation) supporting this country's fighting men and women through thick or thin and not forgetting the sacrifice they have made. And lastly and perhaps most important it is a strong reminder that the ultimate price our friends paid demands from us who survived our utmost attention to live each day, each moment to the fullest, squeezing every ounce of life that is humanly possible out of each breath that remains for us. In his name, Terry Presgrove First posting : 08/01/02 Updated : 04/24/04 Edited : 10/19/06 Updated: 11/16/06 Updated 11/21/06 Edited 10/23/07 |
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| ~The Morning After~ The Vietnam Quatrain – Part III Applause breaks out at the dawning start from deep within the many beating hearts; some are anxiously- contorting to see the yellow orb, twinkling, through the dense triple canopy. Yesterday's chilling screams, and the smell of burnt flesh, sizzling, has subsided. Men rousing, C-rat browsing, blood soaked gauze, with no mention of any cause; above essence of self, what glares from the Wall: are those eleven ponchos that lie in plain view; bathing with the morning dew; silently whispering a language that only they knew. Arouse, pausing for them to awaken; surely they are just sleeping, eerily surreal waiting for the prank and leaping, but they remain quietly still, lined up properly in formation - even keel. The covering remains inert, a snapshot that lingers, the shutter frozen, with the trickling fingers succumbing to gravity's entice; the tiny puddles racing, merging and colliding, vanishing into the thirsty soil, filtering through the dry, crimson stain, alongside future descendants: forever in vain. Fighting back cares, as the Huey vibrates above the trees, creating a hurricane size breeze; time to say good bye and promises to seize: "When I glimpse the angelic silhouettes cutting my, frazzled, rotten fa- tigues, feel the soft, clean, snow white linen, and the virgin smell of those divine, pearly sheets, that wrap my filthy torso: I'll doff to your valor with a tear my brother, then the magical thief will cradle me home, where childhood joy still clings to innocent dreams." Over seventy wounded, that boarded the choppers, saluting those brave young men cut down. Though they be forgotten by the many, even before they lay beneath the shroud; gnawing echo's of "Di bo chet," stir deep within the bowels, rallying the spirits of the warriors, who lived and fought with them that bout. Our souls in unison burst out with a shout: "That the very atoms will split, if we should fail, exploding right- eous truth about those loyal, trusted pals, judging us that day, when every comrade's knee shall bow." Laughing grandchildren commemorating your cour- age, redirect focus back to the names on the black rock's face. 'The Walking Dead' belated reunion of hand shakes and hugs, one of the highest forms of human communion, declares to all around: "that your lives are forever etched into our conscious crown, as much a part of us, as the blood that fills our veins; flowing as a mighty river until the last drop is drain- ed. You shall never be forgotten as long as there is breath contained. We honor and pay tribute to your ultimate sacrifice arranged, and glory in the celebra- tions of life that you claimed for us in the exchange." |
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| Forward - The Stolen Key This is a poem which deals with the destructive nature of war and particularly one where the returning fighting men are held in such low regard. It is also is a glimpse into the writers psyche, one peek behind the veil into the perceived results of this emotionally very charged experience of Vietnam and it's aftermath. -TP |
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~Et tu, Brute ~ The Vietnam Quatrain - Part IV Brave young men were keeping cadence to a tune, Paying the fiddler his due, while serving in a platoon; Through March and summer, then the monsoons, Humping ammo with thick mud glued to their boots. Young lads fighting for a country turned on its own, Like a sick bitch devouring her pups as if unknown; Giving deferments to the rich sons of congressmen From both ends of Washington's hypocritical glen: Politicians used the system to protect their own kid, While continuing to vote for the Vietnam War bid. These kind of acts can lead to freedom's extinction, The hypocrisy of it all, talk about class distinction! We fought a revolution to avoid this incrimination, Supposedly ridding ourselves of such abomination. Collegiate fledglings, without displaying discretion, Cursed and slandered a countries finest possession; A chicken-livered, self-centered type of obsession, Brought on by an educated watered down profession. Beating their own war drums of outright aggression, Making a bunch of racket, begging for the attention. This shame remains and strains the sundered lands; And to this very day, the republic for which it stands. Jane the vain, went to Hanoi and ridiculed the boys. She should have been shot for those traitoress ploys, But America, instead, allowed for her twisted noise, Blaspheming the very shed blood that won her right To spit on our beloved flag, when only for the spite. Right or wrong the cause, the country had set its jaw, Our fighting men did their duty and gave their all; They answered the bell, and did not run up to Ottawa. Carter pardoned the draft-dodgers, ignoring the law, A perversely ironic decision that was full of flaw; Rubbing sea salt into the wounds of those mauled, The ones who had anted up when our nation called. The president and general lied to the true believers, The ones watching TV who were weeping grievers, Concerned and frightened for their son's very soul; And the pundits, analyzing, seem to never grow old: Was the war justified, or simply a violation of law? But the question that gnaws at the heart of us all, Is: why were so many driven into the shadowland, Physically and emotionally marked with a brand, Fleeing to the fringes of this nation's melting pot, Unable to cope with what had become scalding hot? The very ones who had sacrificed and survived, Were stripped of their dignity when they arrived. Belief in a system, established through great pain, Had become the question mark, "was it in vain?" The honor within the culture is forever stained With the brains of Vets etched on bloody walls, And plastered bathroom rafters above the stalls. There's perplexity over the professor's assertions? Isn't it crystal clear, taking only the simplest ear To comprehend that when a country's defenders Are defeated by their own nation's elite pretenders, A minority of its own people, presidential pious ego, And a general's self delusion: there's absolutely no Excuse to ask any US fighting man to lay his life On the line, defending their ego driven sorry asses For a second time. Who will fight for the protesters, That curse the very same ones, Who fight for us? Oxymoronic envisioning, "Quot capita, to sensus," It is a tragic-perception how those towers that fell, Woke up many, who had buried their heads deeply Into university quagmires of moonbeam reasoning. Most Vietnam Vets that I know, don't give a hoot about some belated parade. It is too late to save The faith of most of these brave sages that fade, But for those, who now serve, there is the hope of lessons learned. God bless our fighting men, And may this nation, once again, be true it's kin, Never causing that awful pain in any future trend. I doff the cover to those loyal friends, both alive, And dead, who stood with us in that foreign land, Marking history as we tread, undergoing the toil, Shedding blood on that soil; no one could ever be trusted to do more, or to be anymore Corps loyal, Yet the country became in shame, "Et tu, Brute!" |
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| Forward - Et tu, Brute Many Vietnam veterans suffered much psychological harm as a result of this war. Any war is destructive to the human heart. But returning to the homeland and being spit at by protesters and lambasted in the media as baby killers is beyond what any group of faithful fighting men should have to endure. The following poem is dedicated to my Vietnam comrades, many of which have long ago passed on and it is also a warning to a nation that committed such a grievous sin. Semper Fi, Terry Presgrove First posting : 09/12/02 Updated : 09/10/04 Updated: 01/05/07 |
| FORWARD By Colonel Wesley L. Fox Medal of Honor Recipient Many sons and daughters of our great nation have served in combat zones during our several wars, both declared and otherwise. However, only something like 20% of that number have served at the cutting edge, the fighters, the ones who make a difference. Terry Presgrove was one of those fighters. He was my rifle company's Artillery Forward Observer (FO) in Vietnam: that was Company A, 1st Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division. The Marine Corps is great in getting more bang for the buck and Terry is a good example. The Table of Organization list a rifle company FO as a lieutenant. My Alpha Company FO was Private First Class Presgrove, and neither I nor any of my platoon commanders ever needed more than what he gave us in artillery support. "ROUNDS ON THE WAY, SKIPPER!" And, he was always on target; (how could anyone do that in that triple canopy jungle). He did not stay a Private First Class long, however, I promoted him to lance corporal. A month later I found two stripes for him. The 9th Marines went into the A Shau Valley on Operation Dewey Canyon knowing that we were in for a fight. We were going into our enemy's back yard; he would have to confront us. Throughout the early part, I always had artillery on target, on time, and in sufficient amounts. Then on 22 February 1969 my company located the enemy force sought; I launched my assault against them only to learn quickly that it was a bigger force than expected. The situation became somewhat uncertain for us, especially after a mortar round hit among my command group. Terry was wounded by that round along with several others and MedEvaced to the field hospital the following day. We could not get him out earlier due to no-flying weather. ....... he expresses in personal depth the feelings we all know during those moments of trauma with death all around us. He does it well in poetic fashion; fear of loss of life, limb, and buddies rush through and cloud his mind. Throughout it all is the constant though: are we winning? What can I do to help? That last thought is typical of Terry: what can I do to help! |
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| The Vietnam Quatrain by Terry S. Presgrove |
| The Revolving Door (original version) was written in January, 2002. This was nearly thirty three years removed from the actual event itself. The four original parts of The Vietnam Quatrain included , The Revolving Door, The Morning After, Locked In Stone and What A Shame. Over the course of the last five years, there have been many revisions to this work. In January of 2004, Combat, the Literary Expression of Battlefield Touchstones published The Vietnam Quatrain. The four parts have went through considerable editing, and a number of revisions since that publishing. What A Shame's title has been changed to Et tu, Brute. Locked In Stone is now The Stolen Key and the origin- al order has also been toggled as shown below. Part I - The Stolen Key (formerly Locked In Stone) is a glimpse into the writers psyche, one peek behind the veil into his views on the war and it's very personal effect on his own soul. Part II - The Revolving Door is a poetic short story which focuses on February 22, 1969, the most gruesome day I have ever experienced. Part III - The Morning After. The setting is the Vietnam war memorial and a Walking Dead reunion is in progress. The teller of the tale is looking through the Wall, back more than three decades to February 23, 1969 Part IV - Et tu, Brute (formerly What A Shame) is dedicated to my Marine comrades, of which quite a number have already passed on. It is also a warning to a nation that committed a grievous sin. More Poetry True Love is dedicated to the families of the men who lost their lives in Vietnam. The Stone's Face is a poem that is dedicated to all those who served in Vietnam. The Prodigal Sons is a panoramic view that stretches from February 22, 1969 to the present. It begins with a specific firefight and then it moves to the stress on a nation that divided it, concluding with the duty of a country to its fighting men. A Warrior's Prayer was written after reflecting on the picture of our XO Lee Herron and the church service at Fire Base Shiloh. There is an intense debate, struggle within this author on the Vietnam War and it's aftermath, which can be seen within The Vietnam Quatrain. So many conflicting views, emotions and the perceptions that persist to this day are reflected to one degree or another in this work. Semper Fi Terry Presgrove |
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| The following is an adaptation of Charles M. Province's poem Freedom. Freedom Ringing It is not the lawyer, But the soldier, Blood spattered, Who delivers freedom of speech. It is not the reporter, But the soldier, Alive or dead, Who brings freedom to the press. It is not the professor, But the soldier, Who gives freedom to the demonstrator. It is not the preacher, But the soldier, That releases religious freedom. It is the soldier saluting, Serving under the flag, Six feet beneath freedom's path, Where protesters are allowed to freely burn the flag, That echoes freedom triumphantly ringing. |
| This poem is dedicated to the families of the men who lost their lives in Vietnam. Special thanks and tribute to the Lee Herron family, David Nelson and the Edward Powers family. Original Post 12/07/02 Revised 07/31/06 |
| ~ True Love ~ Loved by the family far beyond memory, So young a man to meet manifest destiny, Handsomely attired, proud in those dress blues, Joining a unique band of brothers in cahoots. The soul journey leads to the Ashau Valley, Worried sick they watch each evening tally, Just for the offhand chance of a frozen glance. No cell phoning home, but he was never alone, Through faith and duty he walked far beyond the call. How could any mortal man ever - stand quite so tall? His courage cannot be revealed in poetic pretense, The angelic bugler trumped precedence, The thick fog of war enshrouds the yearned for evidence, And more than three decades elapsed, We're still cherishing his past With an ageless final snapshot memorialized by theft. Reflections remain for those who are left, His youthful laughter may flee, But that smile shall never cease, As long as the good Lord allows our heart to beat. |
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| The Stone's Face Back in the world, watching a round-eyed girl, Ready to fling her across this dream in a whorl, Thrilled to be kissing the precious red earth, Warriors returning as the media's dessert. Family and friends notice jumpiness at first, They attribute it to our being hurt, But for those of us who were burnt, It is the nature of lesson's learnt. The sudden life changing transactions Bring about strange rapid reactions, Alien detachment to common everyday actions, Making it impossible to have normal interactions. Time creeps, noise no longer bullies to a leap, The amazing wonder of a good night's sleep, Moonlight frolicking, skinny-dippin in the deep, A wild ride that should have landed us in a heap. Weird emotional responses to those who care, Intellectual interrogation only prompts despair, After reflecting on friends who departed there, Remembrances etched, relived in that solemn stare. Some find their answer in the destructive dare, Thinking Humpty Dumpy could never be repaired, Others imagine they have already been squared, Appearing fine, but inwardly they remain impaired. The remnant are ground to a rounded smooth grade, Life is short and the memories will fade, But all the blood brothers met at the stone's face, Forever engraved in that watershed place. |
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| This poem is dedicated to all those who served in Vietnam. Those memorialized at the Wall, survivors who had their lives shattered by the war and never recovered. Some who have healed outwardly, but find that the inward wounds remain and finally the remainder who have had their square corners rounded, catapulted to heights they would never have achieved had it not been for enduring that watershed place.We stand together as one, all blood brothers, those who have met at the Stone's Face. Revised : 10/16/03 |
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| A Warrior's Prayer In the eye of the storm they gathered with sword, Quietly seated, heads bowed in reverent accord, Ironic peaceful calm, surrounded by the reality of war, An " into thy hands," brings the soul a reward, A few words of encouragement blessed by the Lord, Combat armed and trained to bring the foe utmost sorrow, Acknowledging who has the final say on tomorrow. Make our aim straight to shorten this struggle, May we always keep the faith through every tussle, Give us strength and courage when our hearts sink to fail, Lift us up as a sail, catching the wind of your divine will, Guarantee our faithfulness, anointing with the promised seal, Hope of eternal victory lifts our spirits with the desired zeal. Neither can the pendulum swings of height or depth, Profound philosophical questions of life and death, Nations with enmity determining borders or tracts, Rob us in this realm or the next of this certainty of fact, That If the Almighty be for us, who can stand against this act? Amen. |
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| ~Firefight Chat~ The sound of a raging firefight, is like, having your head stuck underneath a metal wash tub, and a hundred elves, simultaneously, beating on it with ballpin hammers. In the midst of the foremost intensive - sentient experience that anyone can possibly encounter: The eerie quiver of the Siren's romance, lures the quantum senses to a dance. There is Life and death, heaven and hell in the balance. Decisions of historic proportion, are made by young marines in milliseconds. Existence is measured in heart beats. Time is trapped in a revolving door of illusion, mixed in, with the most sobering final reality. Sorting out the two, will mean the difference between telling heroic stories to grandchildren, and decades of family heartache, brought on by missing-link sorrow. We of all people, having walked that tight rope suspended between heaven and earth, are so well aware, that the ultimate price paid, demands from us - who survived, our utmost attention to live each day, moment by moment to the fullest: Carpe diem! Squeezing every ounce of life that is humanly possible out of each breath that remains for us.. |
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~Medusa Stones~ The painstakingly carved inner sanctuary Of the heart's devotion, Where horrendous torturous hours Are compressed into tolerable emotion, In the remembrances of warriors, Who souljourned to that far away commotion, A place of nightmarish hellish fears, And occasional ghost-like heroic cheers; Desperately grasping for reality to take hold, As if a missing ship into the space time fold, Had suddenly appeared, returning friends back home. They carry on with an unusually aging tone, But they are not the ones that should be old, And their nature was certainly never that cold, Seemingly different folks, but they have the same bones; No matter how many surround them they remain alone, Field stripped souls that have become Medusa Stones. |
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| ~Relief~ There is hope and life Beyond this sad state, Actually thinking That some day It won't relate, That is, with the help of God's grace, And the memories of a better day Without the bitter taste. Surgically removing the festering ache That has brought so much distaste, Cutting through to the sealed stain With a razor sharp blade, Bringing the relief That has begged for release, Since the dawn of the hate. |
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| Greetings, My name is Terry Presgrove and I welcome you into my home. The poetic short story and poems that you will read today are as real to those of us who fought there, as in many respects they were more than three decades ago. It is my hope that some of you may also be able to join us in making that trip across time and space to a battle-field long forgotten by the many, so that you too might taste the reality of the Viet-nam war. Experiencing the overwhelming amplification of the senses, immersion in-to fear, exhilaration beyond comparison, and learn the true definition of courage. Continued top right above |
| Miscellaneous Poetry |
| The Vietnam Quatrain |
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| Dave Penn and I - Vietnam 1969 |
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| Flesh and Blood |
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| More Vietnam Poetry |
| This poem is a panoramic view that stretches from February 22, 1969 to the present. It begins with a specific firefight and then it moves to the stress on a nation that divided it, concluding with the duty of a country to its fighting men. |
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| ~The Prodigal Sons~ Into the breech marched the near one hundred, To the eleven this day will have plundered. The body count casts a shadow, then it thundered, Causing a significant part of the better half to have wondered, Wreaking havoc on a nation that many thought blundered, The Second Civil War that had sundered. While the debate raged on the merits of the struggle, The prodigal sons were frugally smuggled, Causing dissension that is to this day juggled. America's sin was never just the contend, Nearly so much as the spurning of her own kin, Nevertheless many are content on continuing to pretend. The debate over the right or wrong of going to Vietnam, Will never be resolved this side of the bomb. Talking heads love the sound of their own voice, Creating a never ending litany of possible choice, But the tick toc of the clock can't be dumbed down, Decisions are made in the now and nations must stand bound. |
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~Sink or Swim~ Down but not out Take an eight count Talk about drought Every time is a rout Never say die This ain't no bye No time for questioning why Come on now give it a try Don't look back The future is down the track Can't be slack Keep reaching for the sack No guts no glory What you are made of is the story Nobody wants to hear the gory Everyone must face memento mori Cowards and heroes are kin Separated only by the very thin Being afraid isn't a sin Might as well smile and lift your chin You can huddle in fright Stand up with all your might Take off running in full flight Or hold your ground and fight Life is like a flower Whether you cower Or stand up to a tower Doesn't change the hour In the end can you face the twin That resides within your own skin Can you live with him Sink or swim |
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| Click on the underlined name below for details |
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| Medals Awarded (A 1/9 - February 22, 1969) Medal of Honor Captain Wesley L. Fox Navy Cross Lieutenant Lee Herron * 2nd Lieutenant William J. Christman III * 2nd Lieutenant George W. Malone Silver Star LCPL John R. Baird * SGT David Beyerlein LCPL David A.Chacon * LCPL Darrell H. Chapman SSGT Robert R. Jensen LCPL William C. Northington * Bronze Star Undetermined number |
| * Posthumously awarded |
| War, A Mother's Perspective currently published by "Combat," in its Spring, 2004 edition. This poem is written by my mother, Janell Presgrove. Note: Mother passed away, as a result of a tragic accident, on October 13, 2005. We miss her dearly. |
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