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MY JOURNEY By Wayne Dale Matthysse
I was about 4 years old and had only one good friend to play with in our small Dutch community. The fact that he was over twice my size and was not of Dutch heritage made little difference to me and in fact I was happy to play with him because he was not like the other kids. He seemed more genuine and even protective of me and at four years of age, who doesn’t want Goliath on their side.
One afternoon during play I threw a rock at Gordy, he threw one back at me. I don’t think he threw it that hard but it happened to hit a small artery in my forehead and blood began squirting out. A neighbor lady saw the blood and within minuets the whole community was around me. There was a lot of discussion about “Pollock’s” and “Retarded kids” and than someone suggested calling the Police. It was unanimous, except for me and I began to cry. I was coached not to say anything about throwing the first rock, only to say Gordy threw one at me. I became nauseated when the police arrived. I didn’t need to say anything, everyone told the story they had agreed on and the only thing the policeman asked of me is, “Tell me son, is all of what these people said true?” I wanted to say NO, but nodded my head in agreement hoping it wouldn’t count. I went home feeling ashamed and went straight to my room wishing the day had never happened.
The following morning I had forgotten all about the near death experience and as I ran out the door with the intentions of playing with Gordy again I was told that I could not go over to his house anymore. I sat on our front porch and watched as a large truck pulled up to Gordy’s house and began putting up a large chain linked fence around it. Although Gordy and his family continued to live in our community, Gordy was never again allowed out of the cage and I was never allowed in it. I bore the weight of Gordy’ s imprisonment every time I passed the fence and obviously still do. Gordy was sent to an institution when he was 18 years old and I never saw him again. I don’t think it was coincidental that after graduation from High School, several years later, I took my first job working in an institution for retarded people. That one incident has probably influenced my life more than any other and I think I began pulling away from society at that point.
School was a nightmare for me, from the first day of First Grade to the last day of Twelfth Grade. I made a horrible miscalculation in jumping a mud puddle on the first day of school and was reminded of that humiliating experience by my classmates for the next two years. Fortunately for me, my status was upgraded when Stevie was thrown through the windshield of the family car in an accident and returned a few months later not quite the same. He never fully recovered from the head injury and became the object of everyone’s ridicule, taking some of the pressure off of me. I remained friends with Steven throughout High School but lost track of him once we graduated. He committed suicide at the age of 25 I was told, several years later.
I graduated from High School in 1963 and got my first job as an orderly in a Psychiatric Hospital a few months later. I was fascinated by Psychology and decided to take a one-year nursing course to determine if I wanted to pursue a college degree in the field. During training however, the Viet Nam War began to escalate and just before graduation a reoccurring dream told me I would be going to Viet Nam. In June of 1966 I enlisted in the Navy with the intention of becoming a Marine Corps Medic. The recruiter smiled and said “No Problem son, I can guarantee you an assignment in Viet Nam if that is what you want.” It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, however and so, just after the TET Offensive of 1968, I traded orders with another Corpsman who didn’t want to go, to finally get my wish. Several years later I wrote this account. For those war buffs that would like to follow the military account you can look it up on the internet under Operation Allen Brooke in which there is mentioned a short unnamed operation, which we were told was Operation Mallard Duck, but evidently it did not get recorded as such.
NO HEROES MEMOIRS OF VIET NAM Wayne Dale Matthysse
“Mallard Duck? Hell! We’re more like Sitting Duck!” the Sergeant swore as he threw down the receiver of the field radio. “We’ve been set up guys,” he said almost tearfully, “promise me, if any of you guys survive this, that you will tell someone about what happened here today!”
There were no heroes in Alpha Company, no “Rambo’s” to lead or encourage us, and if the truth were known, most of us really did not want to be there. It was to late to change our situation however; responsibility for our lives was now in the hands of our Company Commander who sat somewhere safely back in Command Headquarters strategically mapping out our destinies over a hot cup of coffee or more likely a cold beer.
Most of us were new to Viet Nam, replacements for the many soldiers killed in the TET Offensive of 1968. I was a Navy Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class assigned to the 7th Marines, somewhere around Da Nang. A short time after my arrival in country, I was ordered to pack my gear and head out to Hill 10. I was to replace a fellow Corpsman who had just broken both of his legs in a fall. I had no idea what to expect as the jeep dropped me off in front of the medical tent of Alpha Company. I noticed a Confederate Flag flying beneath the American flag, but gave it little thought as I entered the tent.
Two hours after reporting in, to the head Corpsman, I found myself leaving the compound for an overnight reconnaissance patrol with a sloppily dressed squad of Black Marines. The Sergeant’s only instructions to me were, “Stay 15 feet behind me and don’t do anything stupid!” and than he mumbled to his buddies, “I’m a short timer and don’t need some fool white guy messing me up now.” They all laughed as we headed out across the rice fields to a small village a mile or so down the trail. There was some discussion with the village chief before continuing our hike to a small river several yards down the trail, where the men dropped their gear and made themselves comfortable.
I sat down on a log in a shady spot near he rivers edge. I was feeling a bit uneasy but tried not to show it. Eventually the Sergeant came over and sat down beside me. He informed me that we would be staying for a while so I might as well make myself comfortable. His next question explained why I was feeling so uneasy.
“You from the South, Doc?” he inquired, looking me straight in the eyes.
“No Sarge, I’m from Michigan.” I responded, as the sight of the Confederate Flag in front of the medical tent flashed into my head.
“You got anything against Niggers?”
“No, I don’t.” I responded and than told him briefly about my participating in a Sunday afternoon Freedom Walk in Grand Rapids, led by Martin Luther King. Ironically, Martin Luther King was assassinated a few days later.
Apparently satisfied with my answer, he began telling me about some of the problems they were having in the company. He said that most of the recent Corpsman in the company had come from the South and this had created problems because no one would go out with them. Then he pointed to two logs a short distance from me and explained that the last time a Corpsman came out with them he had refused to go any further than this point and so after some heated argument he and the squad stretched him over to the two logs and than jumped on him, breaking both of his legs. They than called for a medivac helicopter and airlifted him out before continuing their patrol.
By this time several of the other men had come over and began telling their stories. They had little good to say about the CO who limited them to only two beers a day and expected them to cover long distances on patrol. “All he is interested in is enemy kills.” they complained and told me about times they had faked firefights and than reported several enemy dead just to please him. They also told me that they seldom covered their assigned patrols but would instead set up in some secure place, like the one we were at, and simply call in their check points.
About an hour before dark we were told to gear up and than we walked about twenty-five minuets to a rocky slope, overlooking a large valley. The Sergeant instructed me on how to use the field radio and told me to wake him up in a few hours unless I saw something suspicious. Than he lit up a non-filtered cigarette, took a drag and handed it to the guy next to them, and that guy did the same. Feeling a bit sorry for them, I offered my new pack of Winston’s but they only laughed and continued the one they had. In a short time they were all sleeping soundly.
It didn’t take long for me to master the radio, clicking the receiver twice whenever they called to acknowledge that we were not in any trouble and we were not asleep. I was really enjoying the night vision binoculars but after a couple of hours grew tired and woke the Sarge up and handed him the radio and binoculars. I tried to sleep but couldn’t get comfortable. The mosquitoes were huge and very annoying. I heard the radio come on but the Sarge did not respond so I grabbed the receiver and clicked it two times.
“Wake up you guys!” the voice whispered over the radio. “The other patrol just spotted over 100 gooks coming your way. Do you copy?”
My heart was pounding as I clicked twice on the receiver to acknowledgement that I had heard him. I wanted to ask him for his advice on what I should do but the radio went dead and there was nothing but silence all around. Frantic, I shook the Sarge and told him what I had just heard. He sat up and thought about it and than responded, “We’re not where they think we are so don’t worry about it doc. If you see anything however let me know.”
In the following weeks, I became acquainted with most of the men in the company. I felt accepted on both sides of the racial barrier and was beginning to feel like I belonged. Only one thing was missing, I had yet to prove myself under fire. Some of the patrols had seen action, but never when I was with them. Most of the action was along the trail known as “Booby Trap Alley”. One of the Corpsman had been through it three times in one week and on each occasion his squad had been hit. The next time he drew the assignment he refused to go and I was asked to exchange my easy riverboat outing for his patrol. We were half way through the Alley when we picked up the distress call from the ambushed riverboat patrol. There were several casualties and the Corpsman suffered a mental breakdown. We however completed our patrol without an incident.
Upon returning to the compound one afternoon, we noticed a lot of commotion around the canteen. The bar had been closed and a note on the door explained the problem. Our Captain had volunteered us to be a Roving Company. In three days, we would be moving to Command Headquarters on Hill 55, where we would be on call to fight wherever there was action. Some of the short timers knew exactly what that meant and were not too happy about it. One soldier walked in to the medical unit and asked if it were true that if he were missing his trigger finger he would get out of combat duty. When we confirmed it, he put his finger on top of his gun barrel and fired it. When we finished bandaging the hand, the MP’s came in and arrested him for destruction of military property. On the following day the Sergeant, I had met on my first day with the company, was mysteriously wounded in the buttocks and had to be airlifted from the field. The Captain was irate and demanded a full explanation but no one seemed to know anything about it. I found out later that the squad had piled their fragment jackets around him, leaving one small area exposed. A grenade was than thrown behind him. It took three attempts before a piece of shrapnel finally hit its mark. The Sarge made a quick recovery but never returned to the field because his combat time was nearly up.
The move to Hill 55 was completed in just one day and to me it seemed like an improvement. Warm showers, good food, and the canteen was opened all day long with entertainment in the evenings. We had only two patrols in the daytime and an occasional night patrol. We also had to guard part of the perimeter in front of our tents. I had still not seen any real action and in fact the only blood I saw was from a head wound that one of the black perimeter guards received when a white Marine threw a rock at him. It was part of the ongoing racial disputes that intensified after the assassination of Martin Luther King.
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