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One cannot attend one of our reunions without being aware of being with very special people. I have told anyone who would listen that as a group, I have never been with men who exhibited greater humanity, greater caring for others, greater dedication, greater moral fiber, than those I knew at Khe Sanh.

Share your stories. Share your life. Write down your experiences. Get it out of your system. Your children and others will be happy you did so. This will also help to provide a more accurate historical accounting about what it was really like there. Like the controversial Civil War, Vietnam will be studied for centuries. Help future historians understand what our experience really was by writing down your story or stories. We can never forget our past -- we are unable to do so. actually. The well wishers, those who tell us to, just don't understand. How could they?

Chaplain Ray W. Stubbe

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Names Remembered

I want to tell you about the wonderful Marines who kept the faith with my son. I now know them after wondering for 30 years if they had all been killed. They love him still in their precious memories.

On Easter Sunday, a soft southern voice on my phone asked if my name was Bugger. I hesitatingly answered "yes" and he continued, "Did you have a son named Curtis?" I wonderingly said, "Yes, he was killed in Viet Nam 30 years ago." This soft southern voice began to cry and chokingly said, "I was in his Battery when he died and so were some others. My name is Willie Roe Yates." My heart stood still. He was crying and trying to tell me about a reunion in July and would it be all right if he sent some papers about it and also an article from a newspaper. He kept saying that he hoped that he had not upset me but that it was very important to him that he had found me. I told him that I would be very pleased to read about the reunion, as I didn't know that there even was one. I also told him that I really didn't know if I could come or not as I had recently remodeled my home and used up most of my money doing so. I was also wondering why it took so long to find someone. I was getting emotional. He apologized again and he assured me that I would hear from him again. We said goodbye.

After we hung up I cried so hard my 92-year-old Mother was concerned that someone in the family had died. Eventually I reassured her and told her of the strange phone call. From then on I was beginning to live in a world of hope. I had not heard from anyone since Curtis died when 3 people wrote scarce details immediately after his death. Their names were Gabrys, Kendall and Hulbert. I think I was so traumatized that I could not think of anything or anyone. Just that I could not let that happen to any of my other children. And so the years passed.

Within a very few days of Willie's call I had a letter and the papers from him. I really couldn't consider going to the reunion. I knew that I had spent most of my savings and knew that I could not get that many funds in such a short time to make the trip. I wrote Willie Roe back declining the invitation and sent some pictures of my family and a little family information. I heard from Willie Roe again and also from Ray Moffatt who was with Curtis when he died. I talked to both of them declining the offer. Then I heard from Billie Joe Hill. He too was crying and so happy to talk to me and he said, "There is no excuse good enough. You will be coming. I will send your flight tickets and your room will be paid for and waiting." I couldn't believe there was such kindness and love in the world. I have always been loved by my family and church but for total strangers to do this for me after 30 years was more than I could have imagined.

My daughter was anxious to come also and when we arrived four big Marines were there waiting at the airport. I gained four sons right there in five minutes and as the reunion proceeded I gained at least four more sons and many beautiful faithful friends that will make my heart sing forever. I would like to pay tribute to these good and faithful men and their wives who once more served beyond the call of duty. Their names are: Willie Roe Yates, Billie Ray Moffatt, Billie Joe Hill, Ken Penn, John Wright, Howard Whitaker, Virgil Porter, Bob Bates.

I can assure you that I will never be lost again. I congratulate you on a very successful reunion. And to all those that were there, I thank you for your love and friendship. You are my Pride and Joy forever. God bless you all.

Semper Fi,

Wilma "Willie" Bugger

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You asked me to write about the belt I sent to David Buffalo and the incident leading up to it. As I remember, David Buffalo joined the 26th Marines when they were reactivated in April of 1966. I did not meet David until we were in country in October. When we relieved the 9th Marines on Hill 55, they left us with very few defensive positions or anything else. I had Staff Duty and was checking the lines, such as they were. I was stumbling around when this Marine came out of his defensive position with his weapon at the ready and pointed at me. I pulled my .45 and announced who I was. We exchanged a few words and went our separate ways. That was my first and last meeting with David until he was on a medevac helicopter out after he was shot and bayoneted on Hill 950.

After we evacuated our wounded, they brought the dead and wounded NVA down to the aid station. One of the dead NVA had a nice belt on. For some reason I took it off of him. Why, I have no idea.

Thirty years later, I signed a guest book from a guy who was looking for Plank holders from the 26th Marines. Somehow, I got the address of one of the mailmen from 1/26. I wrote him and asked him about David Buffalo. He wrote back and informed me that, in fact, Buffalo was his name and gave me his home address and phone number.

I called David and we had a long conversation. We emailed back and forth and I am glad he is still alive, even if he did almost shoot me. We laughed about that. He told me about his three years of convalescing. I was setting up my Marine Room when I found the belt I had taken from the dead NVA soldier and realized why I had taken it. I called David and told him that I had it and that it was his if he wanted it. He said he would like it very much. I mailed it the next day.

Semper Fi, stay off the sky line,

Russell H. Evans
S/Sgt. USMC (RET)   

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My current dilemma is caused by a long turbulent past and hard knocks taken dead on. You play. You pay. I am becoming increasingly nostalgic in my waning years. My always restless, wandering mind repeatedly lobs me back to our Officer Club at Khe Sanh. Jim our CO, Ken with Bravo, Mike our Communications Officer and I. We stand close to one another in a gentleman's semi-circle just outside the club's entrance. The sun is going down over Laos. A radiant-red sky lights the dusty, red dirt beneath our nylon sided boots. We are laughing and downing the latest Marine Corps-issued grog.

It was so easy and natural being macho, then. Those days of October and November 1967. Before the Furies came. Unquestionably, they were the most memorable and exciting times of my life. I was confident and comfortable in my job. I worshiped my company and loved my battalion. My childhood dream had come true. I was twenty four.

You bet your sweet petunia I exceeded the daily allotment of two beers, on occasion. I justified my behavior by averaging. I never drank out on the hills or in the bush. Delta spent most of its time outside the base. So...whenever I'd get stuck at the base overnight, with my company out on one of the hills, I'd let my hair down a notch. Ken, Mike or some other brother 1/26 officer would always prevent me from making a complete fool of myself and embarrassing the regiment.

That old tape played again during our last reunion in St. Louis. I'm going up the stairs just off the main lobby. Backwards. Hal's got me in a headlock. Ken's got me under an arm. My feet are bouncing off the steps. I'm going: "Whud I do, huh? Just tell me, whud I say?"

"Shut-up," Ken says matter of factly. "You're going to bed. Right now." My problem is I've got a 24-year-old spirit in a 56-year-old, long ago burned-out, gunfighter's body.

Ernie Spencer

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With anxiety and reserved feelings, I went to the first ever reunion for the unit I served with in Vietnam. VO-67. I wasn't sure what to expect and didn't understand what might happen. It had been 31 years since most of us had seen or talked, due to the secrecy of our unit.

Upon seeing some of the members of my squadron, there were smiles and tears of joy. We realized that only time had passed. As members of the families of shipmates that had been KIA or MIA started showing up, feelings of sadness began to engulf me. It brought back many memories of camaraderie, good times, and sad times. This was one of the fears that I had. That I wouldn't know how to cope with these feelings. But I think that between all of us, we managed to find some sort of closure and understanding.

At the dinner banquet I was afforded a very great honor. I was asked to give the invocation. I had asked Chaplain Ray Stubbe to write one specifically for us since he had extensive knowledge of who and what VO-67 is. He did so graciously. I was very nervous, being an E5 enlisted man, to stand before everyone and give the invocation. As I started to speak, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked over and no one was there. I knew that the Good Lord was telling me that everything was alright. Later in the dinner I was called up to the podium. This time I was to receive an Air Medal for the combat missions I had flown, dropping sensors to help track NVA movements around Khe Sanh in Nov 1967-June 1968. This medal should have been awarded 31 years ago but I felt very proud to receive it now. We also had a bell tolling ceremony to honor our KIA and W1A crew members. We lost 20 crew members, 25% of our combat air crews.

I am proud to be a life member of the Khe Sanh Veterans Association. I have become very good friends with Ted Szczesniak who served with COMM 1/13. I am looking forward to going to the Khe Sanh Veterans reunion in the year 2000.

Semper Fi,

Kerry Bignail VO-67 Navy 1967-1968

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Sgt. George William Storz, 1st Bat. 9th Marines, H&S Co., Platoon 106 arrived in Vietnam about November 22, 1967 at Camp Evans where he was stationed on Hill 51 until 1/9 was sent to Khe Sanh in late January, 1968. There, he was stationed at an outpost on the Rock Quarry, one-half mile northwest of Khe Sanh base. A conscientious Marine, George had written in a letter to his family, "My main job now is to save my men's lives no matter how much they dislike it." He was cautious, also, writing, "I take good care of myself, always in my hole and I'm armed to the teeth, knives, pistol, rifle, grenades, everything." One day, the top bed, made of 300 pounds of dirt weakened by tunneling ants, fell down on him as he lay on the bottom bunk. He wasn't hurt because he was wearing his armored vest and helmet. He wrote, "So there I was on the floor with big chunks of dirt pinning me down and about a million ants crawling all over me. All we could do was laugh."

George and Jim, a corporal in his unit, were bunker mates and shared many night watches, talking through the hours. They talked about new recipes for c-rats, cars, and family. George had his eye on a new Bonneville when he got home. He was excited about the new baby expected in May and couldn't make up his mind if he wanted a boy or girl. "I'd like a boy," he said, "to carry on the family name. But, if it's a girl, she'd be beautiful and she'd never have to go to war." Scheduled to be discharged from the Marine Corps on May 15, he was to leave Khe Sanh for the rear on March 8. On that Friday morning, Jim took him around in the supply vehicle to say goodbye to his men at their positions and then down to the helicopter at C-Med.

Able-bodied men served as stretcher bearers to load wounded onto the aircraft, so George and Jim were pressed into service. At about 10:30 a.m., as they were carrying a stretcher, the airstrip came under heavy mixed artillery, rocket, mortar and machinegun fire. George was hit, suffering penetrating wounds to his head and left arm. He died without regaining consciousness, although Jim said George knew he was there. I am thankful to Jim for having been with him and to the corpsmen who tried to save his life. The helicopter received 50 shrapnel holes, causing minor injuries to two crew members and substantial damage to the aircraft although it was able to take off later.

His body arrived in the U.S. on March 25 and he was buried at Tamalpais Cemetery in San Rafael, California on March 29, 1968. He is survived by his wife, Kitty (Carla); children George Brian, Ursula, and John, born seven weeks after his death; parents George and Betty; brother John; and sister Ellen.

George had written about the time at Khe Sanh when a buddy had shared his bottle of wine with him. He wanted so badly to reciprocate, asking at the end of every letter, "Where's my wine?" His wife was afraid to send it for fear he would get tipsy and get hurt, and I knew it was illegal to send anything alcoholic through the mail. Finally, she bought the wine (Paul Masson Burgundy, I remember) and gave it to me to mail. It was very late at night when I popped some popcorn to cushion the bottle, so I went to bed intending to finish the package in the morning. That night I woke up about 12:30 and tossed and turned the rest of the night. I felt terrible in the morning, put some cheese and crackers in with the wine and took the unsealed package with me when I left to go to my teaching job. As I was driving to work, I listened to the radio as the announcer told about the fierce shelling that had gone on at Khe Sanh during the night. I was overcome with emotion and, crying, pulled over and waited until I could continue.

When I got to the classroom, I put the package on my desk and left the room for a minute. I returned to find that kids had gotten into the popcorn. I rescued the package and hid it until after school, when I sealed it and mailed it on the way home. Not wanting the package traced to me, I did not include a return address. The next day, I wrote to George telling him I had sent the wine on March g. On the 26th, we got the word that George had been killed on March 8 at about 10:30 A.M. Vietnam time, 12:30 California time.

Betty Storz

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Last year I was assessing a new patient for a vascular problem. The patient was male, early 70's and of Oriental persuasion. I'll call him Nguyen X. In listening to his account and by the spelling of his name it became obvious that he was Vietnamese. During the exam, he cautiously raised the right sleeve of my scrub top, just enough to expose the USMC tattoo. I raised the sleeve up further to sate his curiosity and allowed him to see the Bulldog with the WWI style helmet. He stated "Marines, huh?"

"Yes sir, a long time ago."

"Did you have to be sent to Vietnam?" I replied in the affirmative and told him when and where I had served or seen action. He smiled up at me and said, "Very strange that we meet like this. I was a Medical Officer in the North Vietnam Army" He went on to tell me his outfit and how he ended up here. He made a point about how "bothered" the NVA soldiers he knew would get when they had to move out against Marines. "We were told many things about you Marines and about your history and especially how stubborn you would fight. We weren't so worried about the Army soldiers, but we were very respectful of you Marines."

"We knew we could win our war against America by just wearing the soldiers down, but we sometimes made jokes about maybe not being able to hold out too long if all Marines were in Vietnam. This was a very unhappy thing to think of. We did not like to have to fight Marines. Marines don't run, America is very honored to have Marines."

I thanked him and continued with his assessment. He shook my hand and said, 'Tm very sorry Marines had to die for Vietnam. All Marines are good and honorable. All Marines are heroes. Marines made my job very difficult."

Semper Fi

Ambulatory Care Coordinator (name withheld for patient confidentiality purposes.)

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