Friendly Fire
May, 1969
by Maurice Harrington
May, 1969
by Maurice Harrington
As we finished our evening meal, the conversation drifted into small talk. Jack Lanzer looked across at Maurice Harrington and said, "Hey, Maurice—tell the squad how you got that scar on your nose."
Maurice was from North Carolina, twenty years old, not much taller than me but sturdier built. He had a good sense of humor and was the only platoon member we called by his first name—everyone else went by nickname or last name. I'd never heard his story, so my attention sharpened. Maurice hesitated, but after some prodding and ribbing from the rest of us, he relented.
It was December 1968, Maurice began. A pleasant morning, same as any other. The platoon was getting breakfast ready, preparing for the day. I was working through my C-rations when the medic walked up to the squad. He shrugged off his rucksack, dropped it to the ground, and sat down next to his gear. He pulled out his cleaning kit and got ready to clean his M-16. Started breaking down the weapon for a good cleaning."
Maurice paused, and the lightness left his voice.
Then the rifle discharged.
First squad hit the dirt—hearing that M-16 go off, not knowing what the hell had happened. The round went clean through the tip of my nose and kept going, and hit the guy sitting next to me square in the throat.
The medic just froze.
Stared at me without moving, didn't do a damn thing. Some of the other guys jumped in, started working on both of us, trying to stop the bleeding. The platoon leader got on the horn and called for a dust-off.
He touched the scar briefly, unconsciously.
The platoon secured a perimeter. The squad leader popped smoke to bring in the bird. Once it touched down, they loaded us both aboard, and that Huey lifted off hard, headed straight for the Division hospital at Chu Lai. The crew worked on the other guy the whole flight, but... Maurice's voice went flat.
"He died before we made it in."
The silence around our circle deepened.
Later, they sent me to Japan for surgery, and I spent a few months there getting my nose put back together. Then they shipped me back here to the platoon.
He looked around at us and shrugged. "So here I am."
Nobody said anything for a moment. Then someone changed the subject, and the conversation moved on.
Maurice was from North Carolina, twenty years old, not much taller than me but sturdier built. He had a good sense of humor and was the only platoon member we called by his first name—everyone else went by nickname or last name. I'd never heard his story, so my attention sharpened. Maurice hesitated, but after some prodding and ribbing from the rest of us, he relented.
It was December 1968, Maurice began. A pleasant morning, same as any other. The platoon was getting breakfast ready, preparing for the day. I was working through my C-rations when the medic walked up to the squad. He shrugged off his rucksack, dropped it to the ground, and sat down next to his gear. He pulled out his cleaning kit and got ready to clean his M-16. Started breaking down the weapon for a good cleaning."
Maurice paused, and the lightness left his voice.
Then the rifle discharged.
First squad hit the dirt—hearing that M-16 go off, not knowing what the hell had happened. The round went clean through the tip of my nose and kept going, and hit the guy sitting next to me square in the throat.
The medic just froze.
Stared at me without moving, didn't do a damn thing. Some of the other guys jumped in, started working on both of us, trying to stop the bleeding. The platoon leader got on the horn and called for a dust-off.
He touched the scar briefly, unconsciously.
The platoon secured a perimeter. The squad leader popped smoke to bring in the bird. Once it touched down, they loaded us both aboard, and that Huey lifted off hard, headed straight for the Division hospital at Chu Lai. The crew worked on the other guy the whole flight, but... Maurice's voice went flat.
"He died before we made it in."
The silence around our circle deepened.
Later, they sent me to Japan for surgery, and I spent a few months there getting my nose put back together. Then they shipped me back here to the platoon.
He looked around at us and shrugged. "So here I am."
Nobody said anything for a moment. Then someone changed the subject, and the conversation moved on.