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Homey

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Larry "Sonny" Pryor and I became good friends in Vietnam. I began this story 30 years ago as South Vietnam fell to the communists of North Vietnam

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"Homey" By Terry L. Toenges Copyright, 2000 - U.S.A. First written - April, 1975 Reedited - Sept. 13, 1990 Third reedit - June, 1992 Fourth reedit - November, 1993 Fifth reedit - 2000 The following story is a true story to the best of my recollection. I first wrote it down in April of 1975 after the fall of Saigon and the end of South Vietnam as a separate country. When I heard the news, all I could think about was Sonny. In the late 80's, I got a computer and in 1990, I was finally able to put this story in the computer. It wasn't so much the physical act of entering it into the computer that took me so long to get around to doing it. It was my frame of mind and the reliving of the war over again, in my head. In 1992, I was able to get copies of my battalion reports for that time period. This enabled me to verify some of the dates and incidents that I wasn't absolutely sure about. In November, 1993, I added the part about my experiences since returning home from Vietnam. In 2000, I made a couple of minor changes after talking to some of the other guys who knew Sonny. "HOMEY" In April, 1969, I was a Private First Class in the Marine Corps, with orders to Vietnam as a "grunt" or infantryman. I left aboard a commercial airliner from the Marine air base at El Toro, California. After stops in Hawaii for an hour to refuel, and Okinawa, for two days for processing, I arrived at the First Marine Division headquarters in Danang, South Vietnam. From there, I was flown by CH-46 helicopter to An Hoa Combat Base, about 25 miles southwest of Danang. An Hoa is, or rather was at that time, a small, dusty industrial community located to the South of the Thu Bon river. Its primitive industry consisted of a coal mine, a fertilizer plant, and a hydroelectric power plant. It also played host to the 5th Marine Regiment. After checking in with regimental headquarters, I was taken by truck to the southwestern end of the base, to "H" Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment of the First Marine Division. This was to be my home for about the next long 11 months. When I arrived at the company, after the normal processing and picking up equipment, I spent a couple weeks at the company headquarters, or "the rear", as it was commonly known, before being sent out to the bush (in the field). This was to get adjusted to the environment, get acquainted with some of the people, and learn some of the habits and customs. One of these customs was to identify your "homeys" - people from your own hometown or state. When you met new people, it was standard practice to ask where they were from in the States. Whenever asked, everyone took pride in sounding off their hometowns. I was no different. It was always good to find a "homey", because then I had someone from home with whom I could share stateside memories of people, places, and experiences. It boosted my morale and helped to ease the loneliness of being in a strange land, so far away from home. I was from the St. Louis area. I say area, because, except for a three year period from 1958 to 1960, my family lived in South St. Louis up until 1963. I went to Froebel Grade School, on the corner of Nebraska and Winnebago, from kindergarten through third grade. Then my family moved to Kansas City in 1958. My father was a truck driver and worked for quite a few companies while I was growing up. I was one of five children, so my dad always seemed to be trying to find a better job to support mom and us. When we left Kansas City, we (mom and us) stayed with my grandparents in Fredericktown for a few months until Dad could get us set up in St. Louis. Once he found work again, we moved back to the same general area we had left. I went to Froebel again for 7th and 8th grade. In the fall of 1963, we moved to South St. Louis County where I finished 8th grade at Mehlville Junior High and then went on to Mehlville Senior High, graduating in 1967. Had my family stayed in the city, I would have gone to either Roosevelt or Cleveland High School. When I started telling the guys where I was from, they would start naming off others in the company from St. Louis. One of those names was Sonny Pryor, who had just gotten to Vietnam about three weeks before I did. In the following days, I was to hear quite a bit about Sonny - What a good singer he was, how well he played the guitar, and what a great guy he was. One of those days, I especially remember picking up a "Sea Tiger" newspaper and reading about Sonny having a close call with a Viet Cong. He was carrying a bandolier of captured AK-47 rifle magazines he took from a North Vietnamese pack he had found while on patrol. He got permission to keep the bandolier as a souvenir and slung it across his chest. Later in the day, the patrol encountered an enemy bunker complex and a Viet Cong grenade was thrown in his direction. Pieces of the fiery hot shrapnel from the enemy grenade pierced three of the six magazines he was carrying. Two of the shrapnel holes were perilously close to his heart. Had he not strapped the bandolier across his chest, the shrapnel, almost certainly, would have killed him. On May 10, I finally went out to the bush (in the field), to join the rest of the company in a place named "Arizona Territory". (Some areas of Vietnam were nicknamed after the more infamous places of the wild west - Arizona Territory, Dodge City, Death Valley, etc., reflecting the violence and the bloodshed that was commonplace for these areas). I was put in the first platoon, in "One Bravo". Each Marine rifle company of 150 to 200 men was divided into three rifle platoons, a headquarters platoon, and a weapons platoon. The rifle platoons, composed of about 50 men when they were at full strength, were subdivided into three rifle squads, a weapons squad, and a headquarters section. The rifle squads were designated A, B, and C or Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Thus, One Bravo meant first platoon, second squad. It wasn't until about a month or two later that I actually met Sonny. He was in the third platoon and I was in the first. It took me that long to get to know everyone in my platoon, much less the whole company. As it happened, Sonny and I were back in the rear for something, but I don't recall why. I was walking over to the armorer, when I saw this guy walking in front of me. On the back of his flak jacket was an ink pen drawing of a rebel flag. Right above it were the words, "Sonny and the Country Aces". I thought to myself, this must be my homey I've heard so much about. I quickened my pace until I was abreast of him. He looked at me and I said, "You must be Sonny Pryor, right?" "Yeah." he replied. "My name's Terry. You're my homey." "Wow! How'd you know?" "I've heard a lot about you. When I saw the name and the flag on your jacket, I knew you must be the one from St. Louis." "Yeah." he said, 'What part of St. Louis you from?" "South County," I replied. "I know some people in South County." he said. That was the start of a really deep friendship. A lot of times we'd get together and talk about people we knew and places in St. Louis where we used to hang around. We found out that we had a lot in common. Sonny had gone to Cleveland High School in South St. Louis, which wasn't very far from where I lived in the city. (If my parents had stayed in the city, I might have gotten to know him sooner.) In the days during, and just after high school, everyone used to cruise the hamburger joints. Back then, cruising was all a part of growing up. We'd make the rounds of the favorite spots - the Steak and Shake's, the McDonald's, the Chuck-A-Burger's, the Burger King's, etc. Each place was identified by the street or area followed by the name. We'd go to Lemay Steak', Chippewa Steak', Gravois McDonalds, Affton Chuck-A-Burger, etc. When Sonny and I used to talk, we would both name off the same spots where we cruised and the mutual friends we had from some of these spots. A lot of these cruises turned into impromptu parties at someone's house or some other location. In reminiscing about some of the more memorable parties, we discovered that we were both at some of the same ones without ever knowing one another. Back to Vietnam - There were times when the whole company would go to the rear to regroup or prepare for an operation. When we had some down time there, Sonny would break out his guitar and start playing. Sometimes he'd sing alone. Other times we'd all sing along with him. And, if he didn't know a song, it didn't take him long to learn it. It seems like no matter what he played, he always had an enthusiastic audience. More often than not, guys from other companies in the battalion would drift in and join the group. It wasn't just enlisted men, either. Some of the officers joined in, too. Sonny had a way of playing and singing that made you forget all about the war. Whether it was "Green, Green Grass of Home" or "Leavin' On A Jet Plane", when he played, Vietnam was the farthest thing away in the minds of many men. You could just close your eyes and actually see your sweetheart or home or whatever he happened to be singing about. I guess you could say he turned me on to country and western music. Before listening to him, country and western never really appealed to me. While he preferred C & W, he would try to play anything that anyone requested as well as some originals that he had written. I can remember singing along with him to such songs as Creedence Clearwater's "Bad Moon Rising", Zager and Evans' "2525" and Simon and Garfunkel's "Homeward Bound". He used to tell me about playing with Buck Owens. He said he had toured Germany with Buck. He always carried a picture of him and Buck together. He was really proud of that picture. In my opinion, his talents ranked right up there with Buck's. It wasn't too long after we first met that he went to the rear to be a cook in the battalion messhall. (I always suspected that the "lifers" wanted him in the rear, just so they could listen to his music when he wasn't working the chowline.) I heard that they used to open up the messhall some nights and a lot of those in the rear at the time would go and listen to him play. I think he even went to Danang for some talent show one time. He told me he was going, but whether he ever got to go, I don't remember. Since most of my time was spent out in the bush, I didn't get to see much of him during this period. Whenever I did make it to the rear, I always went to see him. I do know that whenever Sonny was serving on the chowline, he always took real good care of the guys who were in from the bush. After a steady diet of C-rations, anyone coming in from the bush always looked forward to the hot chow. Sure, it wasn't the greatest food, but Sonny always made sure that the men from the bush got extra helpings. Even at night, after the messhall had closed, he would sneak food out to the guys standing lines (perimeter watch). After a time, Sonny left the messhall and came back out to the bush. This time, to the first platoon. I was happy about that, because I was able to spend more time with him. We'd spend many hours rapping about home. A lot of times, at night, when we were supposed to be sleeping, we'd sit and talk and talk. One night, we were rapping about different towns in Missouri where we had been. I mentioned Fredericktown, where my grandparents owned a bar called "Lorraine's". Sonny said, "Yeah, one time, before I joined the Corps, I was going to Cape Gireadeau with a couple friends to play, and we stopped at a bar in Fredericktown. It was Saturday night and there was a guy there with a guitar. We started talking about music and I asked if I could sing a song. Then the owners asked if we'd like to play so we brought our instruments in and played for quite a while." I told him to describe the bar and the location. He said it was right next to funeral parlor and as he described the inside of the bar, sure enough, it was Lorraine's he was describing. The bartender, (That would have been my grandpa.), asked them if they wanted to come back and play again, but they were all booked up at the time. I told him, "When we get back to the states, I'm sure my grandparents would be happy to have you play there again." "Great!" he replied. "We'll have to get together and go down there and have a hell of a party." Some nights, while we rapped, he talked about different places he had played and was going to play. He asked me if I'd like to come along on some of his gigs. "Yeah!" I to1d him, "That would be really great." We were making all kinds of plans for things to do and places to party when we got home. Sonny said he got to Vietnam 22 days before I did, so he should get home about 22 days ahead of me. I told him to ice up the beer when he got home, because I would be right behind him. In January, our platoon had observation posts set up for road security, along the road from Liberty Bridge to An Hoa. One morning, Sonny was standing by the road waiting for the convoy and I went over to talk to him. I asked, "What are you going in for?" He just kind of laughed and said, "Well, do you remember that Vietnamese guy on the motorbike that's been riding up and down the road with a girl on the back? Well, when I woke up and went to pee, I felt this burning." He didn't have to say anymore. I knew exactly what he meant, because a couple mornings later, I awoke and felt the same burning sensation when I went to the "john." I knew it could only be the result of the Vietnamese girl. After a visit with the corpsman, I found myself standing along the road, waiting for a ride to An Hoa. While Sonny and I were in the rear, we spent a lot of time getting shots at the Battalion Aid Station, filling sandbags on working parties, and standing lines at night. Around the middle of January, the company moved from the observation posts to Liberty Bridge. The company relieved one of the other companies in the battalion that had been on bridge security. With our medical problems resolved, Sonny and I left the rear and rejoined the company at the bridge shortly after that. Liberty Bridge was a vital position because it was the only bridge spanning the Vu Gia river between Danang and An Hoa. Without the bridge, the convoys couldn't keep the supplies coming to An Hoa. An Hoa did have an air strip, but that was constantly being rocketed and the resupply choppers were kept busy getiing the beans and bullets to the troops in the bush. Our platoon set up on the north side of the bridge and second and third platoons were on the south side. On this side, we at least had wooden bunkers to sleep in, when we weren't standing watch. It sure beat sleeping out under a poncho. By now, Sonny was a corporal and he took over as squad leader of One Charlie. I was still the main point man for One Bravo, which I had been for the majority of the past seven months. During the days at the bridge, the squads from each platoon rotated jobs within the platoon; one squad on patrol, one squad standing watch, and one squad on working details, stringing barbed wire. At night it was usually two squads standing watch and one squad on an ambush. During the nights when One Charlie and One Bravo had the perimeter watch, Sonny and I would get together and rap. I began to sense that something was really troubling him. To this day, I'm not sure exactly what it was. Maybe it was a premonition he felt, but he wouldn't talk about it. He started to become very distant at times. On the outside, he was the same happy Sonny. But, on the inside, I knew something was really bothering him. I think part of it was woman problems back home, but I can't say for sure. Some nights, he and I and a couple of the guys would sit in a bunker rapping and he would get deeply into religion. This was something I hadn't heard him talk much about before. On February 9, Sonny, two other guys, and I went into the ammo bunker late at night to get into some music. Sonny took his guitar and I took a cassette recorder I had been carrying in my pack. We used to use the "ammo" bunker so the guitar couldn't be heard outside the perimeter. We all talked a while, then Sonny started playing. One of the other guys turned over an empty ammo box and used it as a drum. I turned on my recorder, because there was a song he used to sing a lot that I wanted to tape. It was one that he wrote and he always talked about recording it when he got back home. He called it "The Lonely Rebel" and it goes like this: "There's a lonely rebel heading South, 'A weary from the war. He's so tired of fighting, He don't wanna kill no more. He thinks about his wife and son, He left so long ago. To see their faces one more time, Will set his heart aglow. (Chorus) He's traveling down a dusty road, 'A feelin' all alone. He longs to see the folks he left. Will he ever make it home? He figures maybe one more day, He'll be in Tennessee. His thoughts are on a little farm, Where he often longs to be. But the shot from a Northern rifle, Quickly changed his plans. When he hit the ground, he raised his eyes, To where there stood a man. (Chorus) As he lay there on the cold hard ground, His life was slipping fast. He felt the bullet In his back, And he knew he couldn't last. The Reb's last words were ancient heard, As his eyes turned gray as stone. The war's been over 3 days, Yank, And I was going home. (Chorus) He traveled down a dusty road, 'A feelin' all alone. He longed to see the folks he left, But he never made it home." The words themselves can't begin to have the same effect as hearing Sonny sing them. The song always touched me down deep inside. I also taped two more songs that he sang that night. One of them was another original, "The Red Light Of Cindy Greer" and the other one was "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry". Unfortunately, I didn't get the whole song taped for "Red Light" On the morning of February 12, One Charlie started getting their gear together. It was their turn for first platoon's patrol that day. A few days earlier, they had three WIA's (wounded in action) as a result of booby traps encountered on a patrol, so they were short a few men. T.J. Kirk from One Alpha and Bobbitt "Butterbrain" Schwintz from One Bravo volunteered for the patrol to compensate for One Charlie's shortage of manpower. They were also taking an extra machine-gun team. I found out that battalion intelligence had reported that 40 Viet Cong were spotted in the area the day before, by an aerial observer. When I learned this, I volunteered to go, too, because it was almost certain that there would be fighting. I wanted to walk point, because I felt I could do the best job. I took pride in the fact that no one had ever gotten killed with me walking point on a patrol. The platoon commander denied my request, saying they had enough men going, especially with the extra machine-gun team. He told me he wanted me to catch the morning convoy to An Hoa to pick up an M-79 grenade launcher from the armorer. When One Charlie's men hit the booby traps a few days earlier, one of the guys got medevaced with his M-79. That left the platoon short one M-79 and we needed it replaced. Once I got the M-79, I was to catch the evening convoy back out to the bridge. One Charlie got their gear on, and as they started out of the perimeter, I wished Sonny "good hunting". After they left, I caught the convoy to An Hoa about 10 a.m. I got to the rear and picked up the M-79 at the armorer. Since it was still early, and I didn't have to catch the return convoy for another few hours, I decided to listen to the company's various patrols' progress over one of the company radios. I knew that third platoon also had a patrol going out. I went into one of the tents in the company area, sat down on a cot, and with a couple of guys, listened to the radio. Physically, I was at An Hoa, but my heart and soul were with One Charlie on that patrol. I just knew something was going to happen. I was worried for them. The reports coming in from the patrols, amongst the crackling and static on the radio, were all routine for a while. "Checkpoint 1... Checkpoint 2... Checkpoint 3... etc." Then, about 1 p.m., the radio came alive with a frantic voice from One Charlie's radio operator, requesting a priority medevac. (There were three types of medevacs or medical evacuations: emergency, priority and routine. Emergency meant life threatening, priority meant serious but not life threatening yet, and routine meant dead or very minor injury.) The line number and initial that were radioed were Sonny's. (For radio security purposes, every man in the company has a number called a line number. This is so peoples names don't have to be used over the radio, in case the enemy is monitoring it. When medevacs were called in, the line number and the first initial of the person's last name were used.) From the first word of a medevac, my ears were literally glued to the radio. A few minutes later, One Charlie was on the air again. This time changing the medevac to two emergencies and two routines and one man, MIA (missing in action). Very shortly after that, the radio crackled with the sound of One Charlie again revising the medevac. This time, it was two emergencies and three routines. I was completely shocked. The line number for one of the KIA's (killed in action) was Sonny's. The other two line numbers were for Schwintz and "Doc" McIntosh, the corpsman. The two emergencies were for Kirk and Diamond, One Charlie's radio operator. I couldn't believe it. Less than a month to go and Sonny would have been on a "Freedom Bird", stateside bound. Alive! I still couldn't bring myself to grasp what I'd heard. All three killed by booby traps. After the medevac chopper got to the scene and got the guys out, the radio died down. I sat there on the cot, numb and in disbelief. There wasn't a voice to be heard among the four or five of us in the tent. Everybody liked Sonny. One of the company clerks came to the tent, where we had been listening to the radio. He asked who knew Sonny and the others. I told him I did and so did Hayden, another guy in the tent. He told us to get our gear together and get out to catch the afternoon convoy to Danang, because we were going to graves registration to identify the bodies. The whole 25 mile ride to Danang, I kept telling myself it wasn't true. I just knew that when I got there, none of the bodies I was to identify would be Sonny's. It couldn't be. When we arrived in Danang, it was late, so we had to spend the night at the First Marine Division rear. I couldn't sleep at all. I tossed and turned and fought back the tears all night. My mind was clouded with visions of Sonny - Seeing him laughing and singing - Watching him as he walked out of the perimeter that morning - Wishing him good hunting - Sitting in the ammo bunker rapping. The next morning we went to the Graves registration office. The attendant checked our papers and then took us into a cool, dark hallway with two big freezer doors on each side. He opened the heavy, green door to one of the freezers on the left and motioned us inside. Pulling out a long rack away from the wall, he slowly unzipped a green body bag lying on the rack. When he got the metal zipper halfway down, he pulled the two sides of the bag apart to expose a head and upper torso. There lay Larry "Sonny" Pryor. I stared at the stiff, lifeless body. There were no visible wounds, other than a small shrapnel hole in his neck. The hole looked so small and insignificant. I kept asking myself, how could such a small hole do so much damage? Enough to kill a person? It's just not right. My knees got shaky and my head started spinning. I kept waiting for Sonny to move or say something. Neither Hayden, nor I could speak. The attendant said, "Is this Larry Pryor?" All I could do was nod my head. My only thoughts were, "Why him? Why couldn't it have been me instead of him? Please God - Let him say something - Please don't let him be dead - please! It can't happen just like that. He had so much to live for - so much to give." As the attendant matter of factly, all in a day's work, grasped the zipper and begin pulling it up, I felt paralyzed. A part of me was being zipped up inside that bag. A part of me that would forever haunt me. I barely remember looking at "Butterbrain" Schwintz and "Doc" McIntosh, because I felt like I was going to pass out at any time. Then I got hit with the second "bombshell." The attendant opened up another bag and said is this Percill Batts? I didn't even know that "Brother" Batts had gotten killed. I found out that he was on the patrol that went out from third platoon the day before. In my confusion and grief over Sonny, Doc, and Butterbrain the day before, I had forgotten about third platoon's patrol. Percill Batts was my homey, too. He was from North St. Louis and had gone to Soldan High School. When he had first arrived in Vietnam, he was assigned to the Third Marine Division, up by the demilitarized zone (DMZ). The Marine Corps started pulling the Third Division out of Vietnam, so anyone who still had more than a couple months left on their tour of duty got sent to the First Division. This was the case with Percy Batts. While I didn't know him that well, it hit me even harder that I lost two homeys that day. As the cold freezer door slammed shut, I knew that I would never again be the same person. The things I had seen in the previous couple minutes would be forever embedded in my mind. We were taken back to the office to sign the official identification papers. I felt so guilty signing these papers, like, if I didn't sign, they wouldn't really be dead. If I did sign, they were officially declared dead. I thought, this is too great a burden to bear. I'm only 20 years old. These were my friends. How can I justify this to them? They are laying in there, lifeless, on those cold, hard slabs and I'm in here, alive. How can they forgive me? I was shaken back to the hard reality of it all by the attendant, who said, "Bobbitt Schwintz was in possession of three marijuana cigarettes and that will be included in the death report." I lost it then. All of these confusing feelings were welling up inside me and I blew up at him. Wailing at the attendant, who was only doing his job, I shouted, "Jesus Christ, man! The guy is dead! Can't you let him die in peace? Just what the hell difference does it make, what he had? He's dead! Dead!" "Regulations say it has to be reported." he calmly replied. "Screw the regulations! You're one cold hearted dude!" I shot back as I stomped out the office. After we spent some more time at 1st Division rear, Hayden and I headed to 11th Motors (the motor transportation battalion) to catch the convoy back to An Hoa. There was this dark, invisible shadow cast over the entire company area when I returned. There were no smiles, there were no happy faces nor the usual laughing and joking. Everyone missed Sonny and the others. The official account of that ill fated patrol that I heard was that; Sonny had tripped a booby trapped grenade and was wounded, but not seriously. The medevac was called and Sonny was placed in a poncho to be carried to the medevac chopper when it arrived. As "Doc", "Butterbrain', Kirk, and Diamond were carrying the poncho to the chopper, one of them tripped another booby trap which was much larger than the first. The force of the explosion blew "Butterbrain" off into the weeds, (which explained the initial MIA report) killing him. It also killed Sonny and Doc. Kirk lost his right leg from the knee down and his left hand and Diamond had multiple shrapnel wounds. Some people say that it wasn't a booby trap that Sonny tripped first. That version is that Sonny threw a "frag" and some of the schrapnel got him and wounded him. Then they tripped a real booby trap carrying him to the chopper. I can't say for sure because I wasn't there. Of those who were there, different guys remember it differently. For the next month, until I left Vietnam on March 11, I remained in a state of semi-shock. That was the longest month of my life. I kept telling myself - If I had gone on that patrol, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I could have prevented those deaths. Maybe I would have discovered the booby trap before it was tripped. It's something I'll never know. After that, when I would stand lines at night, I would sit there and think about all the good times Sonny and I were going to have when we got home. When I would listen to the radio, I would hear the songs that he used to play and imagine it was him singing and playing. Right after I got back to the bridge and joined the platoon, I had to stand lines in the hole right next to ammo bunker where we used rap and sing and party. Just before it got dark, I was listening to the radio and the Supreme's "Someday, We'll Be Together" came on. The song sent goose bumps through me. I kept telling myself - Someday we'll all be together. I don't even know what the rest of the words are, but every time I've heard the song since then, I've thought about Sonny, Butterbrain, Doc, and Brother Batts. Sonny - Who gave so many people so much pleasure with his playing and singing and made the war more bearable for everyone who heard him. Butterbrain - The hippy from Washington who referred to his parents as "the fossils." Doc - The mild mannered, meek little guy with a wife and child who had studied religion in college and was fascinated by Buddhism. Percy Batts - If he would have had less time left in Vietnam, he would have gone home with the Third Division. When I got home from Vietnam, I went to see Sonny's parents and gave them a copy of the tape I made. My visit was very hard for all of us, so I couldn't bring myself to go back and see them again. I feel very bad about that. Sonny's mom gave me a couple of copies of a 45 rpm record that Sonny had made before he went to Vietnam. Who knows where life would have taken him. In 1985, I made my first visit to The Wall (the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C.). And, for the first time, we were all together again, if only in spirit. It was very hard for me to look at the names of my friends etched in the shiny black granite. There are 24 of my friends and guys that I knew from my company on The Wall, and those are just the ones that I know about. I often wonder about the rest of the guys in my company - Who made it home and who didn't. Some of them I knew only by nicknames, so I will never know for sure. In February, 1993, I was finally able to get up the courage to go visit Sonny's grave. He is buried in a little cemetery in Boss, Missouri, about 120 miles south of St. Louis. All of these years had gone by, and I wanted to go there, but I couldn't bring myself to make the trip. I felt so guilty all of this time about not going that I knew I had to do it. When I got there, the temperature was in the twenties and the ground was cold and frozen. After what seemed like an eternity of searching, I located his grave. He is buried in a double plot, alongside his brother, who died as an infant. (I didn't know he had had a brother. I only knew that he had a sister.) I grieved for his family because I now knew that they had experienced this double tragedy - the loss of two sons, not one. The two side by side markers each had a picture, one of Sonny and the other of his infant brother. At the foot of Sonny's grave, there was a flat metal marker with his name, rank, and branch of service that had been provided by the government. I sat down in front of the marker and got out my little tape player. I played the tape I had made of Sonny singing in the ammo bunker and felt so overcome with grief that I thought my head would explode. All I could think about was Sonny and the others who never made it home. I talked to Sonny and apologized for not coming sooner. I thought he would really be mad at me for taking this long to come to his grave. As I sat there and talked for a few minutes, a worm crawled out from under the metal marker. I couldn't believe what I was seeing because the ground was frozen hard. The worm raised up his body, and then crawled onto the marker and just laid there, as if watching me. I'm normally skeptical about supernatural things, but I just knew then that this worm lying there had to be Sonny. It was as if he had been waiting for me to show up. It was as if he was wondering what the hell took me so long. I felt again like I had let him down. Just like I should have been on that patrol. It devastated me. I wanted to pick him up and bring him home with me, but I couldn't. I felt responsible for his death the first time. I thought that if I took him home now and he died again, it would be my fault for not leaving him there. I couldn't bear that. After a few minutes, he slid off the marker and crawled back under it. I was too stunned to move. As I slowly drifted back to reality, I took off my hat, which said, "Vietnam Veteran And Proud Of It", and placed it near the headstone. I haven't been the same since. There must have been a reason why they were chosen to pay that ultimate price, but I'll never understand what it was. I still have the tape I made that night in the ammo bunker and I play it over and over. The words are as chilling today as they were back then - "He traveled down a dusty road, but he never made it home."

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