Ghosts and Shadows

by Phil Ball

  We all mustered together as the sun was setting and discussed the possibility of skating. If ever there was a time to disobey an order and sandbag a mission, we all agreed this was it. The problem was, where would we go? It was very possible that sometime during the night our own 60-mm mortars might fire a little harassing fire at key areas where the enemy might be probing our position, or artillery from Con Thien could come in on us. If we were any place other than where we were supposed to be, it could be fatal. The very real possibility of an enemy attack was also to be considered, but probably the thing most disturbing to us was being spotted out of place by Fox Company Marines who might think we were gooks. The vote had to be unanimous, but it wasn’t even close. It was decided we had no other choice but to do what we were supposed to do and go where we were supposed to go, no matter how badly we disagreed with the plan.

  It took almost half the night to reach our designated ambush site. Moving slowly and being very cautious, we still wound up tripping over every obstacle there was and making enough noise to be heard halfway to Hanoi. We were lucky that the moon was relatively bright and we did not have to hang onto each other’s coattails to keep from losing the man in front of us, but I thought I would rather have it pitch dark so the enemy couldn’t see us as readily.

  It wasn’t much of an ambush formation when we finally got settled in. We wound up inside an old bomb crater that allowed us a 360-degree perimeter. We set up three watches of four men apiece and tried to get some sleep.

  I hadn’t been sleeping much at all lately so I drifted right off, lying at the rim of the crater next to the gun team. I drew the last watch, which enabled me to sleep until 0545. If everything went smoothly I would wake everyone else up at 0645 and then we would all begin to move out, back to the company position as the sun was coming up.

  At some point during the night, I’m told I caused a disturbance. My personal recollection of the events is very vague and always has been. Even after being woken from a terrifying nightmare, I did not know what really happened. I’m told that I was mumbling in my sleep and then I got up and started walking away. No weapon or helmet, I simply crawled out of the crater and walked straight toward the heavy brush line. The machine gunner standing guard on our side of the crater was the only one who saw me. I didn’t make a sound and if not for him I very well might have slipped unnoticed into the darkness without anyone seeing me at all. God only knows what might have come of me if I had gotten too far away from the squad without waking up.

  After I ignored his attempts to whisper to me, the gunner called out loudly to me to stop. When he yelled, it woke the other grunts and directed their undivided attention to my location, unaware that I was one of them. Every one of them naturally thought I was a gook and prepared to blow me away. Quick thinking by the gunner may very well have saved me from becoming a victim of another friendly fire incident. He informed the others not to shoot, that it was indeed me out there, not a gook, and then he scrambled out to get me.

  I’m told I put up a hell of a fight with the person trying to save me from being killed. Unable to wake up, I was fought to the ground and smacked around a bit. It took two or three grunts altogether to restrain me and get me back to the crater. Needless to say, most everyone involved was pretty mad at me and rightfully so.

  I vaguely remember having that recurring nightmare of being separated from my unit; coincidentally, the nightmare almost made it come true. I’d had it several times before, when I dreamed I was wandering around in the dark alone and was being hunted down by the enemy. It was as if someone was trying to tell me something.

  Fortunately for all of us, we were not detected by the NVA known to be operating in the area. We stayed out there until sunrise and marched back to the company’s hilltop position, 500 meters south. I knew this type of behavior was totally unacceptable in the Marine Corps, and I felt that it just might be my ticket to the rear. But would anyone believe I was really walking in my sleep? I was certain our new platoon commander would think it was just another short-timer trying to skate, and nobody was going to believe I just got up and started walking away in the middle of the night.

  When we returned to the perimeter and went to our individual positions, it seemed that in a matter of minutes the whole company was talking about me and my little escapade. The lieutenant questioned me about it, and he was apparently satisfied that I was telling the truth. The testimony of the other witnesses certainly helped, too. They were still pissed off and upset about the whole affair.

  I did not hear anything more about it that day or the next, but about three days after the event the battalion chief medical officer arrived in the bush to hold sick call. I was summoned to see him and explain what was going on. I showed him the written statements I had collected from the gunner and another NCO who had witnessed the episode, and tried to explain some of the difficulties I was having sleeping and dealing with the last few days of my tour. The high-ranking Navy officer took one look at me and could tell right away that I was not trying to bullshit him. I had some “serious emotional problems” that needed immediate attention, he said, and then he told his subordinate to write up a medevac ticket for me. “I want you to see a doctor in Quang Tri,” he told me kindly. “We’ll see what we can do about getting you some help.”

  Anything else that may have been said after that I did not hear. I was going to the rear, out of the bush; that was all that mattered. I went back to my squad to pack and nobody was mad at me anymore. They all seemed to celebrate with me now. All of my old buddies, Hillbilly, Atwood, Holt, and Chico, were already home by the time I left, but there were still a few I needed to say goodbye to, and I did so in the few minutes I had before the chopper arrived.

  I remember looking down at the rag-tag hilltop position as we pulled up and away leaving the bush behind. A tremendous burden was lifted off my shoulders and I realized it wouldn’t be long before I was finally back home in Cincinnati. During the 30-minute flight back to the battalion rear area at Quang Tri, I experienced an uncomfortable, gnawing feeling in my gut. I should have been overwhelmed with joy, but something was not quite right. I wasn’t sure what it was, exactly.

  Back in the rear I hoped to avoid having to see a “shrink” altogether. I was going to try to keep a low profile and wait for my orders for the world to come through. It was only a matter of days now. As soon as the chopper landed, though, I was whisked right off to the medical facility, and before I knew what was happening I found myself sitting in front of a large mirror in a psychiatrist’s office. It was extremely uncomfortable to look at myself in this huge mirror. I really did not even recognize the ragged, exhausted image of myself looking back at me in that dark little plywood office. I began to wonder if maybe it was one of those two-way mirrors. I wondered if there wasn’t a team of shrinks standing back there watching my every move, analyzing me for some kind of mental disorder.

  It was disturbing for me to look at the aged image of myself; my face was covered with blemishes and my eyes were dark and sunk in their sockets. I hadn’t had a shave or a shower in weeks. I looked like an old bum. When the doctor did finally walk into the room he closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk across from me. He was flipping through some papers—I assumed they were my records—only occasionally looking at me over the top of his glasses. Neither of us spoke; the silence was nerve-racking on me.

  With a troubled expression on his face, the psychiatrist began asking me a few questions. “How long have you been in-country, Marine?”

  My response was barely audible. “Twelve months and 23 days, sir.” He asked me to repeat myself and to please speak up.

  I didn’t know if I was facing disciplinary action for the danger I put myself and my squad in, or if I was going to get some help. I was one, very confused kid at that point of my life. I was well aware that this doctor was going to make that determination right now, so I was certainly hoping to convince him that I was not out to bullshit anyone. It was important that
he believe me right now.

  He asked about the sleepwalking incident as recorded by both the chief medical officer and the witnesses. He wanted to know why I was still in the bush past my 12-and-20.

  After a 15-minute interview, the doctor left the room for a few minutes. When he came back he said he was sending me home. “You’ve been here long enough, don’t you think?” He went on to explain how we are all just “creatures of our environment.” He said that my prolonged exposure to the combat zone had created a lot of stress for me and the best remedy for that was to remove me from this environment immediately. “It’s time, anyway.” He assured me that after a little rest, once I got away from Vietnam, that I was going to be fine, not to worry. “It happens to a lot of people; the symptoms just manifest themselves differently in everyone,” he said. He gave me a few minutes of counseling therapy and told me to report back at the travel office the next morning at 0700. “I want you on a flight to Da Nang and out of Vietnam ASAP.”

  This was it; I was finally going home. I kicked up my heels as I walked over to the Battalion Rear Area. I was feeling pretty good, but the feeling was short-lived.

  Trying to explain why I was going home over at headquarters was a little embarrassing, even though it was only a few days early. Since nobody ever heard of such a thing (going home for walking and talking in your sleep) it was difficult to explain. Some guys seemed to think it was a joke or some kind of a prank I was trying to pull, and there was no changing anyone’s mind. This hurt me deeply. It made me feel like I was a coward who had fallen apart under the pressure of war, a “nonhacker” as we called them. But at least I was going home in one piece. Wasn’t that all that mattered? No, not really.

  I flew to Da Nang the next day and was immediately put on a flight to the United States of America, “the world.” I was told to put on hospital pajamas for the flight, since the plane was not a typical freedom bird. There were no stewardesses this time, no little bottles of whiskey, and no partying. There were hardly even any seats to sit down in. It was strictly a medical flight, loaded to the ceiling with wounded men on stretchers, stacked one on top the other: war heroes going home. I felt terribly out of place with no wounds of my own. I did not belong here at all.

  I felt ashamed of myself, like I had failed somehow. After everything I had been through, for it all to come down to this seemed such a waste. Where was my freedom bird, that glorious day I’d been dreaming about for so long? Where was the camaraderie, the companionship of all my brothers? There was no one to share anything with, no one even to talk to. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, the beginning of a new era, the end of the hellish nightmare that was the Vietnam experience.

  Doctors and nurses rushed around from one patient to the next. After working frantically on one guy for a very long time, they pulled the sheet up over his face and walked away to attend to someone else.

  I did not fully understand what was going on inside my head, or why I was experiencing such confusion and mixed emotions. I tried my best to appear happy, but I couldn’t convince even myself. I felt completely alienated from the rest of the world, all alone at a crucial time when I really needed a friend to talk to more than anything else. Maybe there really was something wrong with my head. All I knew was that I’d never felt this way in my life and I couldn’t ignore it this time.

  I wasn’t sure where in the states I would be going, or what my next duty station would be. I was pretty certain that I would get the customary 30-day leave before I went anywhere, and I still had every reason to believe I would be serving a second tour in Vietnam. I was hoping I could get my MOS changed from grunt to something a little less hazardous to my health, and I thought the sleepwalking incident was going to be the key. There was no way in the world they would ever put me back in the bush, not for long periods of time anyway. Would they?

  Chapter 15

  The World (Epilogue)

  Near the end of May 1969, I found myself sitting on a bed in the middle of a brightly lit hospital ward. The flight home had been excruciatingly long, with several stops and layovers at places like Japan, Alaska, and Maryland. I was now feeling the jet lag on top of all the confusion and depression. The Philadelphia Naval Hospital was only a few hours away from my family and friends in Cincinnati, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. I was told that before I could receive any visitors or be allowed to leave the hospital, I would have to be formally diagnosed and a determination made whether or not I was a danger to myself or anyone else. This could take weeks. It was agonizing for me to be so close, yet so far away, and after 14 months now, I was very anxious to see my folks. I believed that once I could get back home I would be able to find myself again. As it stood then, I didn’t really know who I was. It was as if a very large part of me was left back in the jungle, perhaps my innocence and trusting nature.

  My medical records indicate that no medications were given to me during my stay, but I felt like I was on some sort of heavy sedative. I could not think clearly or keep my mind focused. At times I did not know where I was. I must have been going through something similar to a nervous breakdown as far as I can tell.

  I was asked a lot of questions about my childhood, but very few regarding my experiences in Vietnam. After two weeks of this psychoanalysis the shrinks finally gave the sleep disorder a name, somnambulism. I was told that the reason I was walking and talking in my sleep was because I was not working out or properly facing the problems and difficulties of the day. Thus, I was taking them to bed with me and subconsciously attempting to deal with daily events.

  I continued to contend that the only thing that was wrong with me was that I needed to go home. The things I saw in Vietnam were upsetting to me, and once I could put a little time and space between me and those memories I would be all right. They seemed to agree with me, describing me as being a “socially appropriate, casual-appearing young man without evidence of anxiety, depression, or other noticeable signs of distress.” There was no evidence of psychosis or disabling neurosis. They said, “Patient is aware of his lack of conscience, insight into personality trends was considered to be minimal.” The team of psychiatrists claimed to find “continuing evidence of a personality disorder, but there was no evidence of psychosis or neurosis.” They all agreed that I had “sociopathic personality characteristics of long-standing, but it was considered that these were not of such magnitude as to preclude [me] rendering further useful military service in the USMC.” However, it was considered that the documented diagnosis of somnambulism did render me unsuitable. I was considered to be competent to be discharged into my own custody, not a menace to myself or others, and not likely to become a public charge. An Honorable Discharge was recommended.

  Now all I had to do was wait for the paperwork to come through, but before it did I had a relapse of malaria. I knew what it was right away; nothing else in the world made me that sick. I was lucky and it only lasted one week, but that’s when I learned I could expect this sort of thing to happen most anytime, the rest of my life. Apparently once you contract the disease, you never fully get rid of it. The high fever caused me to become delirious and I was having terrifying flashbacks to my combat days. I did not remember most of it, only that I would sometimes wake up drenched in sweat and scared out of my wits.

  I was discharged on July 16, 1969, the same day astronaut Neil Armstrong was launched to the moon. Television sets in every office were tuned to the live event. I was trying to get paperwork signed so I could catch a bus out of Philly to go home. Nobody paid much attention to me, and I was in such a hurry to leave that I waived the standard hearing test they gave all service personnel when being mustered out. I knew I had a serious hearing loss in both ears and I could probably get disability compensation for it the rest of my life. But at the time, my one and only concern was getting out of the Marine Corps. I was in such distress and I felt such a compelling need to get home that I waived my future rights to benefits and treatment.
/>
  My mom and dad had visited me in the hospital and they knew I was coming home soon. The didn’t know exactly when I would be arriving and I don’t think I even bothered to call and tell them I was on my way. I was so happy to be going home, finally free from the chains of restraint the strict, military life imposed on me the past two years. I just wanted to take my sweet time and sort of drift with the wind. My dad picked me up at the Greyhound station downtown, and I reentered civilian life with great expectations.

  I knew there was something wrong with me besides the sleep disorder, something more serious, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. My lack of ability to concentrate and the ever-present feeling that a part of my life was missing made me feel like damaged goods. In a time when everyone else around me seemed to have grown and prospered, I felt like I had regressed. It angered me that the world had not stood still in my absence and I was supposed to try to catch up. Well, I couldn’t catch up.

  It became obvious to me very quickly that nobody wanted to hear about what was now the most significant 13 months of my life. Nobody wanted to listen to anything about the war unless it was something funny. There were a few assholes who wanted to know, “Did you kill anyone?” and I would get openly embarrassed, unable to answer. Those who were more diplomatic would ask if I saw much action, and it was to them I would reply with my standard answer, “Yeah, a little, I guess.” I really had no idea that I had seen more combat than most, and the 13 months I spent there would become known as the bloodiest year in Vietnam. I really had nothing to compare my experience to because I knew nothing about the war outside my own little group. Most of the time I knew what Fox Company was doing, but other companies in the battalion and other battalions in the regiment were always off somewhere else doing their own thing. It has only been since I began my research for this book that I learned a lot of what is written here.