Written in Manila in 1993, on the 25th anniversary of the Tet General Offensive of 1968
Music from the theme of the old M*A*S*H 4077 television series flows like blood from an open wound. This time, the pain is in my head—a hangover from last night’s excess of San Miguel beer—accompanying an uncertain emptiness I attempt unsuccessfully to fill this time every year.
This year the taste is especially sweet, spiked by memories of my first stop in the Philippine Islands. The old song from the M*A*S*H classic returns in January each year like a warm monsoon in winter, and I foolishly try to discover whether suicide is indeed painless.
Each year I make it a point to have an extra drink on January 30, as I did in 1968. The resulting hangover is self-inflicted punishment I willingly bear for having survived. I nurture my own private hell on these special occasions. My annual observance is a ritual of honor.
In 1968, I was a twenty-three-year-old first lieutenant who had been in the army all of eighteen months, four of them spent in Vietnam’s Mekong River delta. Cloaked in the ideals of John Kennedy, I was responsible for advising South Vietnamese Army officers in the defense of their own country against the rebellious Ho Chi Minh. I was a bit short on experience but I hoped, at least, that I could be a positive influence. Let’s not kid ourselves—I was the conduit for an arsenal of American firepower directed toward an enemy, intent to kill him before he killed us.
My anguish began on a patrol in the Plain of Reeds, where we discovered large caches of weapons and ammunition—staggering in their volume. Even at that time it seemed strange to me that the Viet Cong would leave so much material buried in large bunkers that far south after humping it all the way down the Ho Chi Minh Trail—but what did I know of grand strategy? I was only a green lieutenant. Later, the answer to that riddle would be made abundantly clear to the world.
The Chinese New Year was upon us. The opposing forces agreed to a ceasefire so the Vietnamese on both sides could spend this traditional period celebrating their ancestors with their families. Many would travel about the country to do that—just like in the United States, which we thought of as the “real world.” Our battalion was reduced to about twenty-five percent of its normal strength. Even the battalion’s senior American advisor decided to visit friends in the northern provinces of Vietnam during that holiday season. After all, it was the season to be jolly. Only Master Sergeant Mendenhall and I were left to advise our Vietnamese in the event the unthinkable happened. I was confined to the Catholic seminary in My Tho, keeping a bullet wound clean to avoid infection. Mendenhall’s instructions were to call me if anything unusual happened.
It was January 29. With the war zone quiet and no fighting anywhere, I went to the team bar to celebrate the Tet holidays and to lick my wounds over having been shot by “friendly fire.” I knew how to celebrate well in those days.
About midnight I drifted off to sleep, if you can call it that, in a barracks-type room with eight other rear-echelon warriors.I was abruptly awakened by the noise of a B-40 rocket erupting through the wall over my head, the impact sending plaster over us like hailstones in a storm. Following a moment of stunned silence, the sounds of yelling men running to battle positions erupted like another explosion. Other real bursts joined the cacophony as outgoing fire rose to equal the noise of incoming.
The next morning, January 30,1968, I staggered out into the bright light of the hallway looking for breakfast, only to discover everyone lined up in battle positions wearing helmets and flack jackets, pointing rifles in self-defense. The sounds of rifle fire, which replaced holiday firecrackers, came from the direction of the city of My Tho. I wished it would stop. It did not.
Someone grabbed my arm and informed me I was wanted in the radio room. My Vietnamese battalion was on the march, and Master Sergeant Mendenhall was trying to reach me. The battalion was marching down the road toward the sound of gunfire and an American officer was needed to accompany it. I didn’t see any other volunteers, but I didn’t expect to. Everyone I saw was wide-eyed and pale-faced.
I stood beside the seminary gate and watched and waited while the battalion marched past; the troops had the most fearful expressions on their faces I had ever seen. I held my position until a single, taller American with a radio approached. I walked into the road, fell alongside Master Sergeant Mendenhall, and asked for an update. He was happy to have company but could not tell me much. I sensed his alarm at the situation. His unspoken concern caused my own to escalate with each step.
Approaching My Tho, the sounds of gunfire grew closer and more distinct. We left the paved road and had advanced two blocks when intense machine gun fire ripped through our ranks at close range. After a few moments to regroup we resumed our advance into the hellish fires of war.
At that moment both life and death began for me. I would never again be the person I was before, and the trials I faced would remain permanently etched into my self-definition. I’ll never forget them. I don’t want to forget them, because thus began my most private and defining experience—and not an experience that I enjoyed. I was afraid of dying at any moment. Sometimes we were close to death, or perhaps we did die in some measurable way. On the other hand, one never lives as fully as when facing death—and we witnessed both in their most graphic terms.
The roller coaster of the Tet Offensive proceeded on a grand scale, larger than any arena in the world—gladiators fighting to the death while the world witnessed the events in daily edited, abbreviated, and exaggerated news clips.
But survival can be bittersweet. Every year, right after the rejoicing of Christmas, as serious attempts at New Year resolves fade into dreams, the prodigals of a January past return to cloud my view. I hope others understand that a little too much to drink on this occasion is a private celebration of life, as well as another escape from death.
Suicide is not painless.
— Richard Taylor