HW Hughes

 

Reflections on my time at Cua Viet Vietnam, April 1968 to July 1968

 

I served as Intelligence Officer for Task Force Clearwater, a security force on the Cua Viet and Perfume rivers.  My base was at the mouth of the Cua Viet River, which ran from the West and emptied into the ocean five miles south of the Demilitarized Zone.  The mission of Task Force Clearwater was to provide security for the boats transshipping cargo up to Dong Ha and Hue on the two rivers in our area of responsibility.  We ran a variety of boats including the PBR, a fast attack small boat made of wood and fiberglass with no armor.

 

As Intelligence Officer my responsibilities included collecting and analyzing data on enemy activity on and near the river, advising our task force commander and reporting to headquarters in Saigon. That, however, did not exempt me from experiencing the horrors of war first hand. During my time at Cua Viet I witnessed things I sincerely hope never to see again in my lifetime. 

 

During my 90 days at Cua Viet, our little base came under regular attack from light to heavy artillery by the North Vietnamese Army positioned within firing range in the Demilitarized Zone as well as enemy ground forces.  Buildings were destroyed and men were killed and wounded.  One building that was damaged by artillery was right next to my sleeping hut.  Another was our new mess hall about 50 yards away.  The ammunition dump directly across the river just about 100 yards away was hit and cooked off for three days.  The explosions were loud and constant.  I could feel the concussion from the explosions on my face.

 

I became so accustomed to the sound of incoming rounds that when an attack occurred at night I would be awakened by the whistling of the incoming shells and run for cover in our little makeshift bunkers, holes in the sand reinforced with sandbags.  The tension from the constant danger became so intense that sometimes I would go out with a relatively less dangerous river patrol or a sweep overland with the Marines just to get some relief from the constant fear of being blown away by exploding artillery rounds.

 

 

The most emotionally devastating experience I can recall was when one of the small cargo boats was hit by a rocket propelled grenade.  I got word that the attack had occurred and that the boat was headed for our base.  When it ran aground at the loading ramp I ran onboard and assisted the one crew member who remained alive to exit the boat and get aboard a Med-Evac helicopter.  All the other crew members were killed.  The deck of the boat was covered with the blood and dismembered body parts of the men.  It was a horrible sight that I cannot erase from my memory.

 

Although I saw many dead bodies of NVA soldiers and Viet Cong guerilla fighters, particularly after the Battle of Dai Do village which took place on north bank of the Cua Viet river about five miles upstream from our base during the first week of May 1968 that I became innured to the sight of bloated and mutilated bodies of the “enemy.”   The only emotion I felt when walking among them on the battlefield was disgust and remorse for my part in the devastation.  

 

Yet, one sight still gives me chills to this day.  As I was going upriver after the fighting died down, I spotted a flat bottomed boat loaded with the bodies of dead US Marines being removed from the battlefield.  They were stacked up like so many logs, so many bodies that the boat was in danger of capsizing.  Those kids, most of whom were the same age as the high school students I had taught before entering the Navy, died while keeping the rest of us safe.  Such a waste of precious youth and potential.

 

As a former English teacher I used my writing skill to help me cope with my experiences in Vietnam.  I kept a daily journal and wrote poetry to express my feelings.  Examples of my poetry follow:

 

 

 

Things I’ve Seen

 

During these few months I’ve been

In this war ravaged land, I’ve seen

A lot of things.  Some have made me glad

I’m here and some have left me sad.

Some have made me mighty proud

Of who I am and for some I’ve bowed

My head in shame and felt somehow unclean.

 

I can’t recall how many times I’ve seen men,

Who just yesterday were boys and then

Were asked to pay the dreadful cost

Of keeping this land from being lost,

Show courage unsurpassed in the face

Of certain death in some God-forsaken place

To take a hill or help a friend.

 

Yes, and I’ve seen grown men crying,

Unashamed, when they see a buddy lying

In their arms, their furtive efforts all in vain

To save his life or even ease his pain.

I’ve seen strong men paralyzed by fear

When enemy shells have landed near

And they were so afraid of dying.

 

I’ve seen some lend a helping hand

To cure the sick and rid this land

Of dread disease, while others give

Much of their time to help men live

A better life than they have ever known.

By these deeds these men have shown

That they truly love their fellow man.

 

Then, too, I’ve seen the awful pain

That warfare brings and ask again,

“Why must it be?  Why must men kill

And scourge the land?  Is man still

So uncivilized and savage?”  And then I pray

To God that I’ll live to see the day

When war shall end and peace shall reign.

 

Herman W. Hughes, LT, USN

Republic of Vietnam

July 1968

 

 

Incongruous Vietnam

 

Well kept parks with lovely trees;

Frightened, homeless refugees.

Stately villas of the rich;

Starving orphans in a ditch.

 

Crowded shops and stalls in rows;

Forlorn waifs in tattered clothes.

Hondas roaring through the street;

Weary, trudging, unshod feet.

 

 

Friendly stars and pale moonlight;

Scream of rockets in the night.

Monsoon time; life-giving rain;

People dying; fear and pain.

 

Palm fronds sighing in the breeze;

Snipers lurking in the trees.

Tranquil, golden Viet dawn;

Savage, cruel Viet Cong.

 

Herman W. Hughes, LT, USN

Republic of Vietnam

July 1968

 

 

During the French-Indochina War, the stretch of Highway 1 from Dong Ha to Hue, Vietnam was the site of such horror and devastation that it came to be called “The Street Without Joy.”   I borrowed that for the title of the following poem.

 

Street Without Joy

 

Verdant fields like manicured gardens,

Laced delicately with blue and

Starkly contrasted against barren

Dunes and rust hills, flash by

As cool monsoon rains pepper

The windows of the Huey

That carries me high above

The Street Without Joy.

 

Far below me unimposing.

Ancestral homes are carelessly

Sprinkled across a patchwork of

Rice paddies and stately hedgerows.

Majestic churches lift their

Spires in silent prayer as

Children tend water buffalo on

The Street Without Joy.

 

Peace and tranquility seem to

Pervade this pastoral scene,

The pain and ravages of war

Long past and almost forgotten.

But, alas, it’s only a sad

And transitory illusion, for

I know that Charlie still walks

The Street Without Joy.

 

Herman W. Hughes, LT, USN

Republic of Vietnam

November 1968