Maureen

Third platoon was still in the helicopters, in the air, when we got word that first and second platoons were taking mortar rounds in the landing zone. The was not encouraging, but forewarned was at least somewhat forearmed. The pilot said that he would be landing us at abandoned artillery base Maureen. Good; an abandoned fire base was bound to have a perimeter of abandoned foxholes around it where the infantry used to be dug in. The drill was simple: when the helicopter lands, run like a son-of-a-bitch to the nearest hole, jump in, and figure out what to do next. The plan was better than the execution. My hole wasn't an abandoned foxhole; it was an abandoned latrine.

Sometime's a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. I jumped in, got out my entrenching tool, and started to dig. My fire team leader–and then our squad leader–jumped in, got out their E-tools, and started to dig. We made that dirt (so to speak) fly!

WHOPPPP! A mortar round landed ten meters away and blew off the back of my squad leader's left hand. Right then he needed protection more than he needed first aid, so my team leader and I continued to dig. WHOPPPP! This round was only five meters away, and blew a piece of shrapnel through my team leader's right lung. That required immediate first aid, so I gave it to both of them, pulled them in on top of me like two lids on a trash can, and started to think.

There were three choices. Number one was to run screaming into the jungle. This was a non-starter. The dinks would continue to know where I was, but my buddies would no longer be in a position to cover me. Number two was to continue to sit at the bottom of my latrine, with two guys bleeding on me. This also was a non-starter. Eventually a round would land WHOPPPP! on top of my latrine, instead of next to it. Even the shield of two bodies would give insufficient protection. No, somehow my Captain had to be induced to order the entire company off that ridge, which he was not likely to do if that meant leaving casualties behind.

The citation says that at this point "Private Streeter continually subjected himself to enemy fire while maneuvering to aid his fallen comrades." Wrong. Exactly the opposite occurred.

An abandoned fire base has a whole perimeter of foxholes. A Med-Evac helicopter was doing its thing on the far side of the perimeter. Each of the guys was light enough to be carried, one at a time, from hole to hole to hole all the way around the perimeter to the Med-Evac. The holes were only ten seconds apart, and the dinks had only one mortar tube, and it took THUMMPP! a mortar round about eighteen seconds time in flight before WHOPPPP! it landed. That was plenty of time to pull my buddy in on top of me. This time the execution was as good as the plan.

My Captain was no more likely to leave behind materiel than he was men. My team leader's pack and weapon were much lighter than he himself had been. They went out on a regular helicopter, not in an air ambulance; we played by Geneva Convention rules. A fourth round-trip along the perimeter, and my squad leader's pack and weapon were gone. The last trip was for my own pack.

One guy in first platoon did not run like a son-of-a-bitch for the nearest foxhole when he had gotten off his helicopter, and was now dead in the middle of the ridge. He had been in my basic training company, although not in my platoon. Four of us got him: five seconds up, five seconds to grab him and his weapon (he was still wearing his pack), five seconds down, and three seconds to spare. We had to grab him by the cuffs of his uniform rather than by his wrists and ankles because his blood was so slippery. Two more helicopters, and he and his pack and his weapon were off that ridge. That induced my Captain to order the rest of us off, on foot.

Years later, a bunch of ex-GIs staged a protest at the White House gate, throwing their medals back. I did not participate. The heroism alleged in the citation had never occurred, but something greater had: presence of mind. That medal is still on my now moth-holed uniform. You saw it on me this summer when I checked you in at The RG of Aquarius.

November, 1992