What follows is in Burch’s own words.
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I hope you will enjoy this story and poem from a combat vet who served in Vietnam.
As a Vietnam combat veteran, I have experienced the carnage and watched the protests of the Vietnam war. War is a sad thing, but sometimes a necessary evil. Unfortunately, for most combat veterans of Vietnam, the protests were a very unfortunate experience.
I was sent to Vietnam in 1969 and during my time in Vietnam, I was a rifleman in the 1st Battalion (Big Red One), Company C, 2d Battalion 28th Infantry.
I was stationed in the region called the Iron Triangle just north of Saigon. While in the field, we would get intofirefights about every day and like most soldiers, I fought just to stay alive, but I was proud to serve my country. I saw both innocent people and soldiers get killed.
One particular day that stands out was when we were patrolling along a road and we had to pull a minivan off the road and it hit a land mine. The van took most of the blast. I saw what looked to be a toy doll flying through the air. It landed about 15-20 feet from me, but it wasn’t a toy. It was a little baby that had both arms and legs blown off.
There were others in the van we couldn’t help. I won’t give any details of their condition, but you can imagine what a blast underneath a vehicle can do.
This was one of the low points of my time in Vietnam. There were other low points where soldiers would get killed with shrapnel or get shot and sometimes both. Today, I still see those sites in my mind and remember the screams of people dying.
On May 3, 1969, at 8 a.m., we were hit with RPG’s while patrolling along Highway 13.
My buddy Garcia was severely wounded in the initial attack. I was also wounded but not as severe as he was. We were pinned down and he was in severe pain. I was trying to keep firing to hold the Viet Cong at bay, but the barrage was fierce, bullets were screaming by just an inch above my head.
Garcia was screaming and struggling and thrashing around in pain and in a little bit he got quiet. I looked over at him and saw he had turned over on his side and caught a bullet in the back.
When things got quiet, the medics got to us and as the medic rolled Garcia over. I saw his eyes glazed over with the glossy, gray look you have as you die with your eyes open.
I was transported to a hospital where the medic said, “You have a million-dollar wound.” I ask what he meant and he answered, “Your wounds will take more than a year to heal.”
After that, I was given medication and went to sleep. I woke up in a body cast.
I was later transferred to Fort Leonard Wood Missouri where I spent 9 ½ to 10 months in the hospital. Then, I was transferred to a medical hold unit where I took physical therapy. I went back in the hospital for another operation in May, and in June, I was discharged from the military.
There were other low points that were not combat-related. While lying in pain and contained to a hospital bed for months, there wasn’t much you could do. I would lay and watch the evening news and see the Vietnam protesters. There would be hippies, college kids, professors and actors, as well as others, in the street protesting. During interviews of the protesters, you could hear the shouting of the protesters in the background calling us baby killers and murderers, as well as other names. They showed protesters in airports spitting at soldiers as they came home from Vietnam.
The actions of the protesters would cause so much anger, disappointment, and hurt but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I would lay there and wonder why this was all happening.
I was just a young kid who was drafted by my government and sent to Vietnam. The years after Vietnam were difficult for several vets because of the memories of war, the protests, and the fact that the nation seemed to shun the Vietnam veterans.
This brings me to why this poem was written.
Last year, while in a coffee shop, I overheard a person talking about a documentary on Vietnam. He said in the same breath, everyone who went to Vietnam were heroes and so were the Vietnam protesters.
This irritated me because most people who went to Vietnam were not heroes, including myself, and in my view of the protesters, there were very few, if any of them, heroes, especially not Hanoi Jane.
I didn’t say anything but it really irritated me a lot. A couple of months later in the coffee shop, this person was talking to another Vietnam vet. I wasn’t paying much attention until I overheard part of the conversation.
The part I heard was him saying was that the protesters were brave, they had to be. This got my attention. He asked this vet if he was ever called a name by the protesters and the vet answered yes. This person asked the vet what name he was called in a tone that seemed like he didn’t believe the vet.
This really irritated me and I tried to hold my temper. All I said to this person was, “You don’t have any idea what heroism or bravery is.” This person was old enough to have seen the newscast during the Vietnam conflict and could have heard us called names. It’s sad that Vietnam vets still have to hear things like that from people like him. This person’s words started all of the emotions, anger and memories of Vietnam all over again. I laid awake for several nights thinking about what was said and reliving those memories and anger of the war and the street protest.
Last Christmas, my son bought me a gift and I was not expecting what he got me. I opened it and inside was a bracelet with inscriptions on it. He asked me if I knew what it was and I said, “Well, I’m not sure.”
He said it was a commemorative bracelet. He said read the inscription and I was trying to hold back the tears and emotions and I told him I couldn’t tell what it was. He read it and it was the name of my buddy “Richard Garcia,” who was killed beside me in Vietnam. He asked if I would wear it and I replied, "I don’t know but it’s something to keep.”
I put the bracelet up and two days later I put it on and the emotions were still just as strong as Christmas day. I wanted to wear it because it was a sincere present from him.
I’m wearing it today and probably will until my death. He called two weeks after Christmas and asked if I was wearing it. The memories and emotions were so overwhelming again.
I felt I had to do something or say something just as an outlet for the feelings I had. I sat down at my computer and in about 20 minutes, I wrote the poem below. I’m not a writer of poetry or anything else but when I sat down and started remembering the day I was drafted and the events after that, the words of the poem just came out.
I had my wife post it on Facebook in January and I received a lot of good comments on it. I had a Vietnam vet tell me in person it was good and what made it so good was it was true. I hope you enjoy it.
This Veterans Day, remember the cost of freedom is bloodshed by both innocent civilians and soldiers who give their lives for us. Be sure to thank a veteran or service member when you see them.
A Soldier’s Past
It was a sad time of long ago
The horrible memories of G.I. Joe
At 19, I was drafted by my Uncle Sam
I was trained and sent to that Asian land
I remember leaving to go to Vietnam
I looked through the window to my homeland
I thought I would never return home alive
I didn’t think I would ever survive
I got to Vietnam and remember the awful smell that night
As I got off the plane, I thought what a terrible sight
I patrolled through the jungle and stepped over tripwires
I got shot at, dodged bullets and returned fire
There were several that were not as lucky as I
The sights of dead babies and others made me cry
I wondered why I am seeing the sad sites of war
And watching the horror of the blood guts and gore
I saw soldiers carrying the body bags to send back home
I wondered how many families would be sad and all alone
But my Good Shepherd guided me through that Valley of death
And as I walked through the horrors, I could almost feel his breath
It was May third of 69, just before my 20th birthday
We were patrolling in the Iron Triangle that day
It was a Saturday morning sunny and very warm
We met our fate on that bloody early morn
I survived but my friend died a death so painful
Those memories will always be with me but I am grateful
I laid many months in a hospital bed with long nights
In pain and nightmares, I would awake in a fright
But the Good Lord would comfort me and the time would soon pass
This is the story of one soldier, a Private First Class
I wish I could erase those memories of long ago
And stop all of the tears that still flow
In memory of Richard C. Garcia KIA 05/03/1969
Written by: Doyle Burch, 01/17/2021