Gordon Forgey

(This column was previously published in the Gazette and is run again by request.)

In 1968, an American infantry company was patrolling along a stream in thick triple canopy jungle. It was one of the countless operations that promised to make little difference in the Vietnam War.

The soldiers were strung out along the stream, moving slowly and bunching up when those in front were slowed by the rocky stream bed. The soldier walking point left the stream to avoid some obstacles, followed a narrow animal path above it for few yards and turned back to the stream where the going looked easier.

Something caught his eye.

He turned toward the opposite bank, shotgun ready. He fired into the thick undergrowth. Suddenly, he was thrown backwards by the blast of a claymore mine. Three mines exploded into the men following him. Many more exploded harmlessly downstream.

The pointman was gravely wounded. The premature ambush wounded four others. One American was killed outright. They all felt the searing burn of a wound for the first time.

The rear elements of the company crossed the stream and swept the ambush area. Artillery was called in. Air support worked the area.

When it was considered safe, the wounded were escorted to a partial clearing for evacuation. The pointman was gently carried.

The dust-off helicopter arrived quickly, but could not land in the clearing. The casualties were lifted the fifty feet by rope and pulled into the helicopter by the crew. The last and least seriously wounded had his canteen catch on the side of the chopper as he was grabbed by the crew. They could not pull him aboard, so they swung him out in mid-air to clear his belt and yanked him into the chopper by his arms. He landed on the pointman.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The pointman did not answer. He was already dead. He had suffered all the hurt his body could bear.

The ambush was well planned and would have caught the company stretched out in front of a wall of claymore mines if the pointman had not been doing his job. Had he not been alert, he would have been well beyond the ambush when it was sprung and may have even survived the war. As it was, he lost his life, but his sacrifice saved others.

Nothing that happened that day made the slightest difference in the war. The pointman’s sacrifice only affected individuals. He saved many from certain death and injury and spared many families from grief and anguish.

It may not have been bravery that prompted the pointman to put himself in danger. He may have only thought he was doing his job. He may have been motivated by a concern for those who trustingly followed behind him. Only he knew the answer. He died without sharing it.

The answer is not that important. For whatever reason, he gave up his young life for the safety of those who depended and relied upon him.

There were no speeches for him. In life he would have been embarrassed by them anyway. His memorial was those of his friends he gave another sunrise and another chance to get home safely. In life, he would have taken great pride in this.

Again, my friend, I’m sorry . . . and thank you.

Gordon Forgey

Publisher