to mind a bit. It was a painful ticket out of Vietnam. I felt a bit of envy. I started daydreaming of ticker-tape parades and a hero’s homecoming.
“Hey, John! That’s a hard-Corps way to lighten your load!” I turned away from the bleeding Marine to seewho was calling me. It was Red. He was holding something up and laughing.
“What is it?” I moved closer to inspect the object of his laughter.
“I think you need a new pack.” Red tried to restrain the laughing when he saw that I didn’t think it was all that funny.
My pack was in shreds. A direct hit. My writing gear, food, and my little Instamatic camera—gone. Red gave my helmet a couple of pats.
“Don’t worry about it. You better thank God you didn’t have it on. Marine Corps packs aren’t worth crap anyway. We’ll get you an NVA pack like mine.” I looked at Red’s pack. I had admired it since I first saw it. It was bigger than ours. The straps were made of a much softer canvas, more comfortable. Only an old salt would have a pack like that; Chan and I knew that the first day we saw it.
“Where did you get it?”
“Hue City. It’s in good shape, too, except for this one M60 hole here.”
Red was still looking for the hole when I spotted a piece of my own pack twenty meters down the side of the hill. As I started toward the remnants, a sharp burning pain high on my right thigh stung me so badly that I bent over.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Red.
“I don’t know.” I felt the warm slow trickle of blood running down my leg. Two small holes in my trousers near the groin were the only evidence I needed.
“Red! I’m wounded. I’ve been hit!”
“What? Where?” Red dropped his pack. In a flash he was kneeling on one knee in front of me.
“Unbutton your pants, stupid! Let’s see how bad it is.”
“I wonder why I didn’t feel it sooner?”
“It just happens that way sometimes.”
“Wow! My own little red badge of courage!”
“This could have been real tough on your love life. Are you hit anywhere else?”
“Will I get a Purple Heart, Red?”
“Are you sure you aren’t hit anywhere else? What’s this?” He pointed to a tear in my left chest pocket. “What’s in that pocket?”
“My Bible.”
“Pull it out.”
I unbuttoned the flap over my pocket and pulled the small Gideon Bible out. A hole right under the word “Holy” sent a stream of goose bumps down to my toes. The hole went three-quarters of the way through the little book. A splinter-sharp piece of shrapnel one-quarter inch long had made it all the way to the book of Hebrews.
“Could that have killed me?”
“It took us an hour to find out what killed my last A-gunner. A tiny sliver of shrapnel went under the back of his helmet and into his brain. It was in his hair, so we couldn’t even find any blood, but it killed him.”
“Will they medevac me?”
“No way. Not for those two little holes. Go see the doc. Tell him to put something on it before it gets infected.”
I did what Red told me to do. The doc, our corpsman, tweezered out two splinters of shrapnel while I looked through my little wounded Bible. On the inside cover someone had written a long passage in red ink. It was Chan’s handwriting; I didn’t know anyone else who could print that small. I wondered when he had written it. I started reading it, and each line made me feel a little better.
Romans 8:35–39
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
Just as it is written, “FOR THY SAKE WE ARE BEING PUT TO DEATH ALL DAY LONG;WE WERE CONSIDERED AS SHEEP TO BE SLAUGHTERED.”
But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us
.
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love
“Hey, John! That’s a hard-Corps way to lighten your load!” I turned away from the bleeding Marine to seewho was calling me. It was Red. He was holding something up and laughing.
“What is it?” I moved closer to inspect the object of his laughter.
“I think you need a new pack.” Red tried to restrain the laughing when he saw that I didn’t think it was all that funny.
My pack was in shreds. A direct hit. My writing gear, food, and my little Instamatic camera—gone. Red gave my helmet a couple of pats.
“Don’t worry about it. You better thank God you didn’t have it on. Marine Corps packs aren’t worth crap anyway. We’ll get you an NVA pack like mine.” I looked at Red’s pack. I had admired it since I first saw it. It was bigger than ours. The straps were made of a much softer canvas, more comfortable. Only an old salt would have a pack like that; Chan and I knew that the first day we saw it.
“Where did you get it?”
“Hue City. It’s in good shape, too, except for this one M60 hole here.”
Red was still looking for the hole when I spotted a piece of my own pack twenty meters down the side of the hill. As I started toward the remnants, a sharp burning pain high on my right thigh stung me so badly that I bent over.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked Red.
“I don’t know.” I felt the warm slow trickle of blood running down my leg. Two small holes in my trousers near the groin were the only evidence I needed.
“Red! I’m wounded. I’ve been hit!”
“What? Where?” Red dropped his pack. In a flash he was kneeling on one knee in front of me.
“Unbutton your pants, stupid! Let’s see how bad it is.”
“I wonder why I didn’t feel it sooner?”
“It just happens that way sometimes.”
“Wow! My own little red badge of courage!”
“This could have been real tough on your love life. Are you hit anywhere else?”
“Will I get a Purple Heart, Red?”
“Are you sure you aren’t hit anywhere else? What’s this?” He pointed to a tear in my left chest pocket. “What’s in that pocket?”
“My Bible.”
“Pull it out.”
I unbuttoned the flap over my pocket and pulled the small Gideon Bible out. A hole right under the word “Holy” sent a stream of goose bumps down to my toes. The hole went three-quarters of the way through the little book. A splinter-sharp piece of shrapnel one-quarter inch long had made it all the way to the book of Hebrews.
“Could that have killed me?”
“It took us an hour to find out what killed my last A-gunner. A tiny sliver of shrapnel went under the back of his helmet and into his brain. It was in his hair, so we couldn’t even find any blood, but it killed him.”
“Will they medevac me?”
“No way. Not for those two little holes. Go see the doc. Tell him to put something on it before it gets infected.”
I did what Red told me to do. The doc, our corpsman, tweezered out two splinters of shrapnel while I looked through my little wounded Bible. On the inside cover someone had written a long passage in red ink. It was Chan’s handwriting; I didn’t know anyone else who could print that small. I wondered when he had written it. I started reading it, and each line made me feel a little better.
Romans 8:35–39
Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?
Just as it is written, “FOR THY SAKE WE ARE BEING PUT TO DEATH ALL DAY LONG;WE WERE CONSIDERED AS SHEEP TO BE SLAUGHTERED.”
But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us
.
For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love
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