| The Vietnam Quatrain copyright©2002-2011 Terry Scott Presgrove All Rights Reserved |
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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 Some of the included information below is sole- ly for historical reference.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 Edited 10/12/11 |
| 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. |
Email: press_ie@yahoo.com
| 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 |
| ~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 blood-brother'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." |
| 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 |
| 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! |
| 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 |
| 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: Mom & Dad watch each evening tally, Just for the offhand chance of a frozen glance. There's 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, A thick fog of war enshrouds the yearned for evidence, And though more than four decades have 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. |
| The Stone's Face Back in the world, watching a round-eyed girl, Dreaming of flinging her across the floor in a whirl, And thrilled to be kissing the precious red earth, But the Warriors return as the media's dessert. Family and friends notice jumpiness at first, And they attribute it to us being hurt, But for those who were burnt, It is the nature of the lessons we 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 reaps: noise no longer bullies us to leap; The amazing wonders of a good night's sleep; Moonlight frolicking, skinny-dipp'n in the deep; And a wild ride that 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 a solemn stare. Some find their answer in the destructive dare, Thinking Humpty Dumpty 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 - they will fade, But all the blood brothers met at the Stone's Face, And are forever engraved in that watershed place. |
| 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 |
| 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. |
| Page Links |
| ~Firefight Chat~ The sound of a raging firefight is like your head being stuck underneath a metal wash tub, and a hundred evil elves, simultaneously, beating on it with ball-peen hammers. In the midst of the foremost intensive- sentient experience anyone can possibly encounter, the eerie quiver of the Siren's romance, lures the mega-senses to a sadistic dance: The five are magnified to the umpteenth glorified, Then mortified to blind, numb, deaf and dumb. Volcanic combatant-eruptions whipsaw emotions, propelling fear to storm the citadel of reason, while duty defends and then counter-attacks, In a Kamikaze repeating nightmare-affect. There is the ever-present: Life and Death, Heaven and Hell in the teetering balance. Decisions of historic proportion are made by young warriors in milliseconds. Forever is measured in quickened 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 eternity and earth, are well aware that the ultimate price paid, demands from us (the ones who survived), our utmost attention to live all our sacred days, moment by moment – engorged to the fullest: Squeezing every ounce of precious life, that is humanly possible, out of each breath that remains for us. Carpe diem! |
| 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 |
| Dave Penn and I - Vietnam 1969 |
| Flesh and Blood |
| Storyline |
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. |
| ~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. |
Related links:
| Click on the underlined name below for details |
| 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.
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.
Inspiration Poetry
| ~ Fear Not! ~ Jehovah sits on the most high throne, Our shelter in every storm that has blown, Hearing all petitions and the slightest groan, And there is never a time that He leaves us alone. If God be for us, who can stand against the known? What enemy would dare cast a stone Against the Almighty's own, under His shadow zone? Only fools would come against His atoned. Though predators attack their prey all around, There is nothing for us to fear from the sound. We shall trample on the bones of beasts that surround When His holy angels grind them into the ground. Though divisions fall to our front and to the flanks, Thousands upon thousands in our very own ranks, And the enemy is dug in with armor and heavy tanks, Yet not a penny is stolen from our allotted time banks. So give it to the one that is in charge of the hour, He triumphs with omnipotent awesome power, Easily toppling the foe's stronghold towers, And the enemy runs away in fear and cowers. The Lord laughs at the traps of His foe, With incredible power he pulls back His sovereign bow, The missile flies straight to the invader's soul, And evil purposes are demolished by the fatal blow. The Ancient of Days carries a mighty powerful sword, And He is the one that has established this accord, When trouble advances, simply call out to the Lord And you will live a long life and receive your reward. God knows those that love Him, And in times of peril He rescues them. His salvation promises not to condemn; This comes from the word of the great I Am. |
| Psalm 91 has always been a stalwart chapter of inspiration to lean on for men at war. Here is my meager attempt at putting its principles to rhyme. |
| The Walking Dead Story Excerpt from "The Walking Dead" by Randell Widner: In 1966 the first battalion ninth marines was sent into a valley 15 miles south of Danang. Neither the Japanese nor the French could ever establish a garrison in that valley. There efforts always ended up a disaster. But Charlie found out soon enough that the 1/9 marines were not the Japanese or French. They were out matched and could not hold up in tactical combat. So they resorted to new tactics of setting boby-traps, mines and sporadic sniper fire attempting to thwart the hundreds of company operations in that first year in country. The events in that valley did not escape Hanoi's attention. During a speech in early 1966, HO Chi Minh said the phrase "Di bo chet" (The Walking Dead ) to describe the Marines in the Valley. He was claiming that the Marines were already dead and they just didn't know it. During the same program, General Vo Nguyen Giap promised president Ho and the Vietnamese people that he would liberate the valley as a birthday present to HO. Within a few weeks of the speeches, on May 12th, Bravo, with support from Alpha and Charlie, engaged and defeated General Giaps forces in a heated and fierce four day battle. On Ho's birthday all that remained of the Giap's promised liberation was smoke and mirrors. That failed promise to wipe out the 1st Bn. 9th Marines ended up becoming the trademark banner "Di bo chet", "The Walking Dead." Though the Bn. was dsibanded in 1995, the banner is proudly waved to this day by those of us who fought there. 1st Battalion 9thMarines Firebase link |
| ~Introduction~ |
| Continued See one of the most controversial wars in American history through the eyes of one who fought there. Any suggestions or com-ments are appreciated. Currently all the poetry on this site is the copy-right of yours truly. The following poems are dedicated to those who fought in the Vietnam War, and to life and liberty. The Vietnam Quatrain includes, The Revolving Door ( see Prefix Door & Forward Door ), The Morning After, The Stolen Key and Et tu, Brute. |
| Personal Note: For over 30 years after the Vietnam War I tried to bury that experience as best I could, never making any attempt to contact any 1/9 buddies or deal with anything that had to do with the war. But after I was injured in 2001, and the horrible attacks on 9/11, I began to deal with that overwhelming emotional period in my life. And to make a long story short: I went to my first 1/9 reunion in August of 2004. I had a very good time visiting with some of the men that I hadn't seen or talked to in well over 30 years. At the dinner they asked for anyone to stand that hadn't been wounded, I thought that odd until only two stood from over a hundred attending. Such was the nature of serving with “Di Bo Chet,� the Walking Dead.� During operation Dewey Canyon ( Jan.-march 69 ) alone, Alpha Company lost 30 Marines Killed and 127 wounded. The names of 737 Marines are etched on the black marble face ( The Vietnam war Memorial) in Washinton DC. All the brothers served in the 1st Bn. 9th Marine Regiment, 3rd marine Div. Semper Fi Terry Presgrove |
| ~ The Sentinels ~ Twenty-four seven Are the standing orders Delivered from heaven Whether sunshine or rain Duty is to honor the name Solemnly, they march in view Twenty-one steps to the halt Then a click from spit-shined shoes Twenty-one seconds without fault Saluting freedom's treasure vault Sleep brothers sleep Rest, do not weep Each day we shall greet And keep guard of your dreams Til the day we shall meet |
| ~ Mephistopheles ~ In the thick fog of war There is always horror Knocking at virtue's door Entreating as a whore Teasing the highest honor To lie prostrate on the floor Commit adultery with the gore And cause a child to be bore The demon eats at the whole Seeking those he can control Praising terror in the soul Is he the sire or the foal? |
| 1/9 Casualty Statistics During Service in the Vietnam War, the 1st Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division, 3rd Marine Amphibious Force; The Battalion endured the Longest Sustained Combat and suffered the Highest Killed In Action (KIA) rate in USMC history. The Battalion was engaged in combat for 48 months, from June 16, 1965 to July 14, 1969. The Battalion sustained KIA 48 of the 48 months of its Vietnam service. Frozen on the black marble wall in Washington, D.C., are the most sacred carvings of those who made the supreme sacrifice for this nation we call home. Among those etched will be found the names of *737 Marines from the 1st Battalion 9th Marine Regiment 3rd Marine Division. *Thanks to Dan Beckham's research 116 more names have been be added to the 1/9 Casualty roster. |
| ~ Finally ~ Back in the world The most beloved land Taps had become The familiar hand Four long years Their banner waves And each full moon Salutes fresh graves The war drums beat Their country called They did their duty But souls were mauled Seven thirty-seven Are etched in stone Once fair young men Are long dry bone The graying old men That wear Harley beards They shed kindred tears Toast and make cheers And amazingly Millions flock to see Names that no longer be Finally |
| Page Updated - 11/13/11 Latest Revision: Firefight Chat |
Reflections in the Vietnam Wall War Memorial
| The Revolving Door is broken up into 12 segments titled: 1. The Water Run 2. Firefight Begins 3. The Charge 4. Heavenly Dream 5. Sobering Reality 6. Tending The Wounded 7. Realization That I'm Hit 8. Tim's Resolve 9. Firefight Rages On 10. Delta's Arrival 11. Saying Goodbye 12. Retrospection |
| ~The Revolving Door ~ The Vietnam Quatrain - Part II The Water Run The day begins before dawn, Ninety-some odd warrior pawns, South to a stream on a water draw. Only five hundred meters, that's all! No sweat! Nice little trip going down, Picking souvenirs up off the ground, As a lighthearted air abounds; It was hard to find any frowns. Finished gathering the last canteen, From the shore of a shallow pristine, When the first rounds clipped the battle scene, Bursting out with that ricochet beat; Climbing the rocky bank back up from the creek, Hustling toward the sound of that perilous greet. Just past six A.M. as Ashau starts to chime, Two slain and one of ours stretched out in the grime; Rummaging through the pack of an enemy - bloodied, Joking around with a pimple face buddy; Carrying on like before as if we didn't care, But my thin dime said that he was really scared. It's a prophetic glimpse and already combat bled, But neither had an inkling of the ruffling ahead; Merely youthful teenagers who would instead, Become grey-haired old men in a single day's span, Then suddenly the horrible nightmare began. Firefight Begins Small arms are loudly crackling, officers shout'n! Moving forward at a quick pace on the scout'n, Then sprawling, crawling, every inch a contested bout. Looking up, a LAW fires! Back-blast, inside-out turnabout, My eyes, my face, the burning! I need a cigarette! Al shrieks "You're okay. Stop the goofy Russian roulette." Recon thankfully verifies that my eyes are commissioning, And the mouth and nose still remain in the proper positioning. I was tickled pink that nothing was leaking, But shaky nerves were on the verge of freaking. The noise! My God! The noise! Ringing a tell! A never ending, high-pitched barrage from hell! I must be inside the ball of the bell! Outrageous fear screaming above the yells, Greenery raining from the flying shells; To only get beneath the slightest swell. Who is that Leatherneck over there that fell? Pressing forward with resounding emotion, In video, freeze-frame, slow motion, Then fast-forward, grinding, locomotion, Generating a whipsawed notion. The senses magnified beyond amplified To the incalculable, umpteenth-glorified! And then back to horrified! "The Gooks are on top of us !" What an adrenalin rush! Nature takes a deep breath, and shudders her head in disgust, As banana trees fall in a hail of projectile gusts. Lead in sheets, swimming, streaming everywhere, Wondering what the hell am I doing here? Compass, map, weird-leeriness, Fruit juice, sprinkling, mistiness, "Oh Lord, please don't leave me hanging here without hope;" Still prostrate creeping up the grassy tree thick slope. The Charge Not a single man misunderstood When the skipper yelled: "Get 'em like they did at Belleau Wood!" This was the warrior's battle-cheer, Eyes meet head on with piercing fear. And any sympathetic ideas of dying, Were playing second fiddle to duty crying. Conveying without saying in that gazing glare, Anxious, fearful men rally each other to bear, Rising together despite the scare, Then without warning our lots are cast By the incoming, life-thieving, blast! Heavenly Dream Restfully sleeping a minute or four, Ordered by superiors to report, Far and away to that precious home port; Lying on top of the bunk bed, Cozy blanket over his head. It was such a wonderful place where he fled, A sniff of mama's home made cinnamon bread; No one could ever discover dread, With this heavenly dream that he wed. Sobering Reality But warm and snugly turns to flat out ugly, The next breath held on destiny's scale smugly. The earth is charred and the maimed are tread; Eyes lock on a boot lying there with the heel shred, My head propped up above grassless rivers of red. The hungry, ravaging, predator rages, and must be fed. Boom! Boom! Swimming in thin air! Levitation, gravity looms! Zoom! Zoom! Zeroing in, the dust and debris cover our tombs. Tending The Wounded "My God! He is ripped from head to the heel!" Sheared like a razor slit. This is surreal. Can't stop the bleeding from legs, hip and side. Blood is squirting and the guy is wide-eyed; Has to be scared shitless and terrified! Someone else is there tangled, and mangled beneath; Gut shot injury tended while grinding my teeth, With the wrappings resembling a colorful wreath; Trying to peel off the smell of singeing skin; How could any nation ask more of its kin? It was a mortar round that tore our hurt soul, Hit right in the thick, tightly blinding the whole. Driven into the mouth of sheol Where many will say their farewell. We were funneled directly to the adversary's lap; Triple canopy adorned in a speckled crimson wrap, Thanks to a thick splattering from the sacrificial lambs; Looking up at elms that tower above the dueling rams, Mythological silhouettes that eulogize and clap, Doing the wave, as one by one the combatants are zapped. "God, it's my boot now!" Cowardly peeking. "The toes, I can see the toes, they're wiggling." Lily-livered thinking as the eyes ease Slowly around the eclipse of the knees. "My foot! My foot! It's covered in debris. I am okay. I'm okay, just bleeding." But there are so many injured pleading. Did what I could with battle dress-tweaking. Realization That I'm Hit Liquid warmth. Something wet oozing inside. Surely fate is just teasing on my side? "Oh my God! I'm hit! I'm gonna die!" "Corpsman! Corpsman! My bandage is spent!" Frightened even more by the Doc's apparent intent Of picking your's truly over others in lament. I was terror-stricken as he wrapped my chest. He said, "You'll be okay," a pat on the crest, And off he went to answer some other request, Which was an awesome, mind boggling selfless bequest. Then the shock started to set in, A queasy feeling, sick within. AL's voice, "Get on the damn radio. I'll try to scrounge a working 16." "But can't you see the antenna's blown to smithereens?" "There is no way to get through to the arty Marines." Fumbling, bumbling, frigging shot to hell Prick Twenty-Five, "I've got a fire mission and this piece of shit won't jive;" Wishing I didn't have to give a damn, Over and over - cyclical mayhem. Tim's Resolve Above the uproar profanity was the norm, That was echoing throughout the blistering storm. Three times he sat up, three times the lead hit him square, Each rising, shaking his fist wildly in the air, Ranting and raving, continuing the loud swear. Listening to his hollering above the relentless thunder, "Shut up, Fool!" I thought. "Simply knuckle under." Each recurring Deja vu made me wonder. The revolving door of time and space did plunder. But this case was battlefield weird comic sunder. The cycle ended and my friend did not incite The enemy or raise his voice again this fight. Firefight Rages On Skipper is yelling, "Bring that arty in close!" My reply, "Can't you hear? My radio's broke!" Trying to get through time and time again until I choke. "I got a fire mission. Can you copy?" But no one spoke. Except an echoing voice "I'm hit! I'm hit!" Then there was nothing in air but ghostly smoke. The portal again spun open, eagerly it devours, As the countless rumble of furor continued for hours. Then I had this prophetic premonition, And rolled over as the AK rounds kick dirt! "That was close-knit!" Zipped my right hip. "I see the little bastard squirt." Forty Five jammed. Murphy's Law. I bit my lip. "Shit! That hurt!" There was hand to hand in front and to the flank, Wounded piled up like money bags at the bank, Fifty calibers blaze from their U-shaped ranks. The snipers in the trees, exhale and then squeeze. Their machine guns on the opposite ridge tease, Taking dead aim at a mouse sniffing the cheese. Young sheep are led to the butchering slaughter; Now it is only a matter of the seize. Lieutenant C was hit and Crack Shot is dead, XO too! So many more riddled with lead. All around is death and the smell of munitions. There is always the roaring of the engines, And the deafening assault of retributions. The frenzy boils. They're closing in for the spoil. Finally, that moment of truth when the toil Cannot be forestalled, the hand is extended. This day's chore seems to have finally ended. Delta's Arrival And then, it was eerily quiet. Silent like a graveyard at midnight. Only it was broad daylight. My ears hurt from silent fright. I was stunned and startled thinking, "Am I really dead or alright?" Heaven, hell, or a last reprieve? Relaxed my head next to a tree, Nose flush with the turf, prostrate still. Delta company had arrived! Thank the good Lord! I had survived! Agonizingly, it began again. Closed my eyes, Head drives back into the tree, expecting the demise. Fingernails plowing the battlefield, weeping inside. Knowing that this had to be the final scheduled flight. Envying those who had perished early in the fight And had already taken last rites. A quick prayer to join the deceased, But as it started without notice, it too did cease. The dug-in attackers had curtsied in retreat As Delta's advent encouraged them to beat-feet. Saying Goodbye Frozen in time around the six mark, With my face buried near a slight mound, Praying solemnly, I gingerly rolled a half round, Took the blood stained picture from a pocket I had found, And reverently placed it on the hallowed ground; Silently whispering a final good-bye, Then slowly with help from branches of a tree, Wobbled to a knee, and staggered to my feet. Looked at the carnage and thrilled to be alive, Yet sickened by so many bludgeoned, Wondering how I had possibly revived? Retrospection Though I be many years removed from that horror, What remains is devotion as an honorer, And each day since offers praise as a borrower. The eerie, mysterious, angelic sway Can still be seen in my mind's visual display, Offering that shadowy hand straightaway. The wounded part of me lies there to this day, In that distant land, glancing down on Ashau, That sanctified tree-lined knoll, Beside my sweetheart's picture: Alpha 1/9 forever locked in a turnaround climb, Suspended in a revolving door of space and time. |
| Unit Honors Awarded to 1st Battalion, 9th Marines (1968-69) Presidential Unit Citation (Army) Streamer Vietnam 1969 Navy Unit Commendation Streamer w/ 1 Bronze Star Vietnam 1968 Meritorious Unit Commendation Streamer w/ 2 Bronze Stars Vietnam 1968 Vietnam Service Streamer w/ 2 Silver Stars Vietnam Cross of Gallantry with Palm Streamer Vietnam Civil Actions/First Class with Palm Streamer |
| Terry Presgrove is a marine combat veteran, and published poet. Strangely, he did not begin writing poetry until after 9/11/01, at the age of 52. The surprise attack on America jolted him to the depths of his soul. After a near decade long spiritual struggle, the prodigal son returned to his spiritual roots, and began to write poetry for the first time. Since December of 2001 he has written over one hundred and eighty poems. - (There is an earlier version of The Vietnam Quatrain that is published by "Combat, the Literary Expression of Battlefield Touchstones" in its winter, 2004 edition.) |
| Et tu, Brute 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!" |
| ~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. |
| ~ The Walking Dead ~ Walking a tight rope and unsure of the next breath, Marines were suspended between life and death; Only in dreams did they sleep calmly in their bed, For they dangled from a cleft hanging by a thread. Duty and country called so they forged ahead Through perilous rivers that flowed precious red; Cast into the breech of fire and despite the dread, Steadfastly advancing into the teeth of the lead. All the blood brothers partake of the broken bread, Many 1/9 'ers are numbered among the dead; A troubled nation questions those who have bled, But few have journeyed where they have tread. The patriots that hung between heaven and earth, Are a spectacle for others to contemplate worth; The Fourth Horseman rode in, but he lost his girth, And the future marvels at The Walking Dead's berth. |
| This poem was written after watching the cere- mony at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. I had attended my first 1/9 reunion in August 2004. |
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