New Guy
by Glyn Haynie
by Glyn Haynie
Tommy Thompson
Early morning, August 8, 1969. The Hueys came in low over the treetops, rotors thumping against the humid air. We were bound for the Horseshoe, an area northwest of Hill 4-11, west of the river. Intelligence warned us to expect resistance, so we locked and loaded before the skids even touched down.
The moment we hit ground, the platoon scattered from the helicopters, boots pounding toward the thicker vegetation where we could find cover and concealment. Behind us, the Hueys lifted off in a storm of dust and prop wash, banking hard toward Duc Pho.
That first day, we moved through the area toward the river. No contact. No sign of the NVA. Just heat, humidity, and the weight of our gear.
By evening, when the supply chopper came in, we'd already established our perimeter for the night. An FNG jumped off the bird and jogged toward the Command Post, his fresh jungle fatigues still the wrong shade of green. Lieutenant Baxter walked him over to Jerry Ofstedahl, our second squad leader.
"This is Tommy Thompson," Baxter said. "He's from Oklahoma."
Jerry nodded and turned to the squad. "Listen up. We got a new guy."
A few of us glanced up from cleaning weapons or heating C-rats. Made eye contact. Nodded. A couple of guys stood and shook Thompson's hand, offering half-smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Then we went back to what we were doing.
It wasn't personal. It was survival. You didn't invest in FNGs—not until they'd been out long enough to prove they'd make it.
Tommy Thompson lasted seven days.
He was hit on August 15, 1969, and medevaced stateside. We never saw him again.
The moment we hit ground, the platoon scattered from the helicopters, boots pounding toward the thicker vegetation where we could find cover and concealment. Behind us, the Hueys lifted off in a storm of dust and prop wash, banking hard toward Duc Pho.
That first day, we moved through the area toward the river. No contact. No sign of the NVA. Just heat, humidity, and the weight of our gear.
By evening, when the supply chopper came in, we'd already established our perimeter for the night. An FNG jumped off the bird and jogged toward the Command Post, his fresh jungle fatigues still the wrong shade of green. Lieutenant Baxter walked him over to Jerry Ofstedahl, our second squad leader.
"This is Tommy Thompson," Baxter said. "He's from Oklahoma."
Jerry nodded and turned to the squad. "Listen up. We got a new guy."
A few of us glanced up from cleaning weapons or heating C-rats. Made eye contact. Nodded. A couple of guys stood and shook Thompson's hand, offering half-smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Then we went back to what we were doing.
It wasn't personal. It was survival. You didn't invest in FNGs—not until they'd been out long enough to prove they'd make it.
Tommy Thompson lasted seven days.
He was hit on August 15, 1969, and medevaced stateside. We never saw him again.