JACK JACOBS on Military Service

Medal of Honor Recipient

“But the thing about fear in a situation like this is that it’s a galvanizing element. It doesn’t stop you from doing something. It makes you do the things that you need to do.”

In his Gettysburg Address, Lincoln praised the young men buried in the surrounding cemetery for having given “the last full measure of devotion” to their country—i.e., they gave their lives.

While most people are generally prepared to support their country in some way—paying taxes, volunteering, working in government—many fewer are truly willing to die for their country. Yet those who serve in the military, especially in combat roles during times of war, must face the prospect of death every day, if not every hour.

What do they think about the realistic chance they could die as young men and young women? Would they die for anything other than their country—their state, their city or town, their school, their neighborhood? What is it about one’s country that persuades young soldiers that the combat role they are committed to pursuing is worth their lives?

One person in my generation who volunteered for military combat in Vietnam was Jack Jacobs, a Rutgers graduate who shocked his Jewish parents by saying he was going to Vietnam and wanted to be in the infantry. When he was a young and relatively inexperienced soldier in Vietnam at the height of the war in 1969, his military team was ambushed by the Viet Cong, the South Vietnam combat arm of the North Vietnamese. In that battle, he was severely wounded in the head, yet managed to save the lives of many of his fellow soldiers, and to organize their escape through a dangerous helicopter flight.

Eighteen months later, to his surprise, Jack Jacobs was awarded by President Richard Nixon, in a White House ceremony, the nation’s highest military award—the Medal of Honor. Unfortunately, many of the people given this award receive it posthumously. There are now fewer than seventy living recipients. Jack is one of them, and one of the two living Jewish recipients.

I met Jack when I was speaking to a class at West Point, where he has been a lecturer for many years. I thought his story was a compelling one about how young soldiers think about the prospect of dying, and what they do when that prospect arises, alongside the prospect of helping their comrades. So I asked Jack if I could interview him about his experience, which he has also described in an incredibly moving book, If Not Now, When?

The interview, done virtually on September 30, 2020, illustrates a vital and interesting aspect of the American experience: there obviously are people quite prepared to die for this country, and a great many have done so, as the following casualty numbers show:

We honor these individuals, but often do not have a chance to ask them why they were prepared to make this sacrifice. Jack Jacobs provides telling insight into a combatant’s look at potential death.

DAVID M. RUBENSTEIN (DR): As a young man growing up in New Jersey in the 1960s, you were presumably not anxious to go to Vietnam and risk your life in the process. What prompted you to want to join the military and seek an infantry role in Vietnam?

JACK JACOBS (JJ): It all started with my father, who was dragged kicking and screaming into the army during the Second World War. Hated the army, hated being dragged out of college, hated getting shot at, hated the bureaucracy, and he got out of the army as soon as he possibly could, after the war was over.

Yet when he got to be my age, all he would talk about, and all of his friends too, was how proud he was in having saved the world, which that generation did. When I was going to college, I thought then—principally because of my father’s service—and I still think today that everybody who is lucky enough to live in a free country owes it something in the form of service.

So I thought it was my obligation to go into uniform after I graduated from college. My whole objective was to go and do my bit for three years and then get out and go to law school, and instead I stayed for twenty years. The reason I did is because I love the people and I didn’t want to leave them. Today, when people ask me, “What do you miss most about the army?” it’s the people.

DR: What did your parents think of the idea of you, a nice Jewish boy graduating from Rutgers, going to Vietnam?

JJ: They were horrified. They tried to talk me out of it. They tried to talk me out of going into the army in the first place. They said, “That’s not a good place for a nice Jewish boy. You should become a banker or something like that.”

Twenty years later, when I was retiring from the army to go to Wall Street and become a banker, my parents said, “What are you doing that for? You have such a great career in the army.” The lesson here is that you can’t satisfy anybody, particularly your parents.

DR: Did you volunteer to go to Vietnam, or were you forced to go?

JJ: I volunteered. By that time, I thought I was going to be a pretty good soldier if I applied myself. I really thought that since we were in the middle of a war, the place for anybody in uniform was to be at the cutting edge of freedom. And so I volunteered to go to Vietnam. Thoughts about the political vicissitudes of being in Vietnam, the whole idea of a domino theory and all that stuff, when you’re at the bottom of the military food chain, those things don’t cross your mind.

DR: So you get to Vietnam and you realize it’s not a panacea. There are lots of challenges. But you describe in your excellent book, If Not Now, When?, how one time you were in an encampment and all of a sudden you’re attacked by the Viet Cong.

You have a head injury, and then it kind of blurs. But you go save some people, and you escape from what was going to be sure death. When did you realize that you were seriously injured? And what was your thought about self-preservation versus helping other people?

JJ: We had been in contact with a large Viet Cong unit during the Tet Offensive in 1968 for quite some time, and the enemy broke contact. We had an operation to go reestablish contact with the enemy. That included my battalion landing on the north bank of the Mekong River at dawn and moving north to where the intelligence said the enemy might be.

When you’re in a situation like that where you don’t know exactly where the enemy is, you have to apply yourself in the following way. You don’t attack with your main body, because you lose all the optionality if you’re engaged. You send the smallest possible unit forward to contact the enemy, and then you can maneuver around.

In any case, the scout platoon was supposed to be to the front and flanks, and I called back saying they were not to the front. To this day, I don’t know where the scouts were, but they certainly weren’t forward.

We walked into an enormous, L-shaped ambush of more than two hundred enemy soldiers who had had three days to prepare their positions. We got to within about fifty meters before they opened up the ambush. Almost all of the two lead companies I was with were either killed or wounded in the first ten seconds of the engagement.

Your first realization is that you’re hurt but it’s not that bad and that everybody else is hurt more badly. You have a lot of dead or wounded comrades.

And the notion that was expounded by Hillel, the first-century Hebrew scholar, actually came to my mind. It was, “If not you, who? And if not now, when?”

This was a genuine crisis. Something had to be done, had to be done right now, and if it’s not done right now, everything is going down the tubes. And I thought I was the only guy who was in a position to do something to save these buddies of mine and to eliminate the enemy.

Then after a while I realized that I was really badly hurt and I was not going to make it through. Somebody asked me one time about fear in a situation like that, “Were you scared?” Absolutely. I was petrified—well, not petrified, because that suggests I couldn’t move.

But the thing about fear in a situation like this is that it’s a galvanizing element. It doesn’t stop you from doing something. It makes you do the things that you need to do. In this case, fear was a useful emotion to have. But eventually I sat down to catch my breath and I had lost a great deal of blood and realized I couldn’t get up again.

DR: You were injured in the head, is that right?

JJ: Yes, the least significant portion of my body.

DR: You had that injury, and then you realized that you had to save your colleagues. In this kind of situation, is it self-preservation, where you say, “I’m going to do whatever I can to stay alive”? What is the instinct that overcomes you and says, “I don’t worry about myself so much. I want to save my colleagues”? Why would humans do that?

JJ: In retrospect, it didn’t go through my mind at the time. But if you ask anybody who’s been in difficult situations in combat, he would probably say that those things are not mutually exclusive—that saving your buddies, doing something that other people might think is valorous, is not completely different from self-preservation.

You’re in a bad situation. If you don’t do something, everybody is going to die, including you. I think that really is the distinction between something that is a crisis and something that’s just lousy. One of the things that distinguishes good leaders from leaders who are not so good is the capability to distinguish between a situation that’s a crisis and a situation that’s just lousy.

Because you do different things. You commit resources in a crisis you wouldn’t commit otherwise.

That’s something that’s useful to know, not just in combat but in just about every other walk of life. The notion of self-preservation and the notion of doing something for others coalesce, particularly in crisis situations.

DR: You were injured. If you had just stayed there, on the ground, did you think that maybe the Viet Cong would go away thinking you were dead and everybody was dead?

JJ: No, I had already been in combat for six months and I knew that that wasn’t going to happen. The enemy was going to prevail and everybody, all of us who were caught out in the open, were all going to die.

DR: How did you manage to get a helicopter to come and help pick up you and your colleagues?

JJ: My boss, Major John Nolan, and my other NCO [noncommissioned officer], who was with the battalion headquarters, Ainsley Waiwaiole from Maui, came to the rescue. Half of us made it back to a hospital and managed to survive.

Somebody asked a Medal of Honor recipient one time, “What about your valorous acts on that day?” He echoed the feelings of other people who have received any kind of valorous award: “There were lots of brave people on that day, many of whom didn’t come home, and I wear the award for all of them.”

But that’s how I made it out of there—I was rescued by my boss, who called in a helicopter in a hot landing zone. The helicopter was getting all shot up as we were pulling out of there, and I don’t remember much of it until I woke up in the hospital sometime later.

DR: You helped get some of your wounded colleagues onto that helicopter?

JJ: They said I did. I don’t remember it.

DR: You go to the hospital. They try to patch you up. You’ve got some serious wounds. After how many weeks were you able to get out of the hospital?

JJ: It was a couple of weeks. I was supposed to be evacuated, but I escaped and went back to my unit. Not recommended for anybody. My unit was astonished that I showed up.

DR: What about your parents? How did you tell them that you were wounded, almost died, and that you were going back into combat?

JJ: You’ve got to remember that communication wasn’t at all like it is today. I remember not getting paid for months and didn’t realize that I hadn’t been paid for months because I hadn’t received any mail for months, until I finally got a load of mail with my wife telling me, “We’ve got no money. Where is the allotment that’s supposed to be coming?”

I wrote a letter back to my parents from the hospital, saying I’d been wounded but don’t worry about it, it’s just a minor thing and I’m going to be just fine. They never did know the extent of my injuries until I finally got home.

DR: Did you get shrapnel in your head? And do you still carry that with you?

JJ: Yes, I still have shrapnel in my head. My wife tells me what I really should be doing is wearing an armband that says NO MRI because I’ve got so much in there.

DR: Do you go through metal detectors when you go to an airport?

JJ: They’re not as sensitive as they used to be. When they first came out, I’d set them off all the time. Now it’s less of a problem.

DR: You describe in your book how somebody calls you about eighteen months after this event and asks you some questions, and you’re worried that maybe you did something wrong. You had no clue that you were going to get any kind of award?

JJ: I got a call from some colonel in Washington. My company clerk calls into my office, says, “Hey, sir, there’s some colonel on the phone. Wants to talk to you.” Colonels don’t talk to captains. I thought maybe it was a gag call, except back in those days phone calls actually cost money.

Anyway, I pick up the phone and this guy says, “I am Colonel Schmidlapp” or whatever it was. “Were you in the Kien Phong Province on 9 March 1968?” “Yes, sir, I was.” “Is your service number OF108672?” I said, “Yes, sir, it is.” He said, “You’ll be hearing from us,” and hung up the phone.

I was completely nonplussed. I was trying to think about what I had done, what happened, did I do anything wrong? When you’ve got hundreds of people shooting in every direction, just about anything can happen. It’s totally out of control, and I thought perhaps I had done something wrong.

In any case, I didn’t get any sleep for twenty-four or forty-eight hours, and then I got a phone call from a different colonel. He said, “I’m in charge of Army Awards Branch. Congratulations, you’re going to receive the Medal of Honor. You may not tell anybody except your immediate family. One of my people is going to call you up and make arrangements for you and your family to come to Washington for the ceremony at the White House. Congratulations again. Out here.” And hung up the phone.

That was the entirety of the conversation. It was a total surprise to me for sure.

DR: You didn’t think it was a prank or anything?

JJ: It was clearly not a prank when this guy with a sonorous voice identifies himself as head of Army Awards Branch and says you’re going to get the medal. I was shocked.

DR: When you eventually call your parents and tell them this and they go to Washington with you, are you kind of feeling on cloud nine?

JJ: I am indeed. I’m vindicated. I shouldn’t have gone into uniform. I shouldn’t have gone to Vietnam. And something positive has come of it in the end. It’s naches [a proud moment] for them.

For me, it was bittersweet, because I had lost so many friends, both before that battle and in that battle, and a lot of them were killed subsequent to that battle. More bitter than sweet. But I was very proud of having worn the uniform. That’s what I was most proud of.

DR: You had this ceremony at the White House with President Richard Nixon. How was that?

JJ: The most shocking thing about it was I don’t remember much of the ceremony at all, to be honest with you. I remember more about the battle, about which I don’t remember everything, than I do about the ceremony.

We had a reception in the East Room and then we went into the Oval Office with Nixon and Stanley Resor, who was secretary of the army; Melvin Laird, who was secretary of defense; and the president’s aide. Nixon said, “Won’t you sit in my chair, and you can make believe you’re the president.”

It was a beautiful day on the ninth of October 1969. When we came out of the White House, out to the Rose Garden, they had built up a platform. There were four of us from the army, from different actions, who were being decorated in this same ceremony, and we marched up there.

The most shocking thing was the sea of people in front of us. They had opened up the White House grounds for just about anybody who wanted to come watch the ceremony. Government employees, passersby, homeless people, anybody who wanted to walk onto the White House grounds and watch the ceremony could do that. There were people as far as you could see. You couldn’t even see the fence around the White House.

My enduring memory was of that sight—not of the president, of the White House, but of all those people.

DR: What rights does one have as a Medal of Honor recipient?

JJ: A small stipend from the Veterans Administration, which at the time was $100 a month. That’s basically it. You go back to whatever you were doing.

DR: When you’re the Medal of Honor recipient, how does one let people know that without appearing to be bragging about it? Do you just drop it in conversations?

JJ: No, I don’t tell it to anybody. I think most recipients do the same thing. The only reason people would know is if someone were billed as the attraction at some charitable or other kind of event as a Medal of Honor recipient.

My wife was the British exchange officer to the Seventh Infantry Division at Fort Ord, California, when I was a battalion executive officer there. We met and I asked her out. We’d gone out a number of times before one of our other colleagues told her that I was a Medal of Honor recipient. I hadn’t told her. I didn’t tell anybody.

DR: If I had been the recipient of a Medal of Honor, it would probably take me about two seconds to tell somebody.

JJ: I bet you wouldn’t. The first event I ever attended with other Medal of Honor recipients was in Houston right after the award ceremony. At that time there were more than 350 recipients, and probably 300 of them or more were there at the dinner, including recipients from the First World War.

At the end of the dinner, Jimmy Doolittle [a Medal of Honor recipient from World War II who led bombing missions over Japan] came up to me and put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Young man, come with me,” and he took me to a corner of the ballroom. I’m a newly minted Medal of Honor recipient. This is Jimmy Doolittle.

And he put his arm around me and he said sternly, “Young man, let me explain something to you. You’re no longer Jack Jacobs. You’re Jack Jacobs, Medal of Honor recipient, and you’d better comport yourself accordingly. Do you understand what I am telling you?” I said, “Yes, sir, I sure do.”

DR: Here’s a question I’ve thought about for a long time. Nobody ever says, “I’m prepared to die for my neighborhood. I’m prepared to die for my high school. I’m prepared to die for my state. I’m prepared to die for my fraternity.” Why is it that people are prepared to die for their country, whereas they’re not prepared to die for virtually anything else?

JJ: First, I think it’s commensurate with wearing the uniform in the first place, performing any kind of community service. The motivator is being part of something bigger than you are.

The second thing, I think, is optimism that it isn’t going to happen to you. I’m prepared to die for my country. I’m prepared to die for my colleagues. They’re also prepared to die for their country. They’re also prepared to die for me. But it isn’t going to happen. The perception that it’s not going to happen figures heavily.

The third thing that motivates people to do things they otherwise wouldn’t do is the notion that the other guy would do it for you. And he would, too. I’ve seen it time and time again. You don’t think you’re going to die. You are part of something bigger than you, and somebody else would do it for you too.