John ‘Mississippi’ DELOACH
August 13, 1969
told by Glyn Haynie
August 13, 1969
told by Glyn Haynie
John DeLoach with an ARVN Soldier
August 13, 1969
During a firefight with the NVA, I moved toward the squad's position as APCs reversed away from the front line, withdrawing under heavy automatic weapons fire and incoming RPGs. Thirty meters ahead, Mississippi lay prone in the grass between me and the armored vehicles, facing the enemy.
I watched in horror as an APC, moving backward at speed, rolled directly over him. I was certain the track had crushed him. But the moment the vehicle cleared his position, Mississippi sat bolt upright, screaming curses at the driver.
August 14, 1969—The Morning After
As sunlight broke across the horizon, we felt the relief of having survived the night. We gathered around a berm, sorting through scattered rucksacks to claim our own gear and heat breakfast rations.
Someone told Mississippi to freeze.
An unexploded RPG round protruded from the rucksack he'd grabbed in the darkness. Everyone instinctively stepped back. Mississippi sat motionless, sweat beading on his face and dripping into the dirt. Finally, someone crept forward and carefully extracted the round—a dud.
We tossed it aside.
Mississippi had survived two charmed days.
During a firefight with the NVA, I moved toward the squad's position as APCs reversed away from the front line, withdrawing under heavy automatic weapons fire and incoming RPGs. Thirty meters ahead, Mississippi lay prone in the grass between me and the armored vehicles, facing the enemy.
I watched in horror as an APC, moving backward at speed, rolled directly over him. I was certain the track had crushed him. But the moment the vehicle cleared his position, Mississippi sat bolt upright, screaming curses at the driver.
August 14, 1969—The Morning After
As sunlight broke across the horizon, we felt the relief of having survived the night. We gathered around a berm, sorting through scattered rucksacks to claim our own gear and heat breakfast rations.
Someone told Mississippi to freeze.
An unexploded RPG round protruded from the rucksack he'd grabbed in the darkness. Everyone instinctively stepped back. Mississippi sat motionless, sweat beading on his face and dripping into the dirt. Finally, someone crept forward and carefully extracted the round—a dud.
We tossed it aside.
Mississippi had survived two charmed days.