By Rich Thurmond
No two men fought the same Vietnam War. Each Marine, Soldier, Sailor, or Airman carried his own war on his back, shaped by the ground he walked, the men beside him, the weather that punished him, and the enemy he seldom saw—until it was too late or almost too late. For some, Vietnam was villages, rice paddies, civilians and confusion. For others, it was isolation, mountains, monsoon soaked trails, and a jungle that swallowed men whole. But for all of us, no matter where we were, the mission boiled down to one thing—survival.
I spent thirteen months in Vietnam in 1968 and 1969 as an infantry Marine with India Company, 3rd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment, 3rd Marine Division in I Corps, the northernmost corner of South Vietnam. It was contested real estate close to the DMZ, and far from everything else.
In those thirteen months, I learned almost nothing about Vietnam as a country or the people who lived in it. Our war was too far removed from civilization to learn anything except how to stay alive. We operated so deep in the bush that the world of towns, villages, and families felt like something we had only dreamed once and forgotten.
Our Vietnam was mud that never dried, mountains that took your breath long before the enemy fired a shot, leeches that clung to your blood, and nights where every rustle in the dark could be the last thing you heard. Ambushes came out of nowhere. Incoming artillery arrived without warning. Life became a series of moments, one ridgeline, one patrol, one heartbeat at a time.
Civilians? We rarely saw them. When we did, it was only in passing, thin silhouettes on the trails below us, or the Montagnards, the indigenous highland tribes we met deep in the mountains. They were quiet, cautious, and carried themselves like people who had survived centuries of hardship before Americans ever arrived. Years later I learned from books who they really were. At the time, all we knew was that we were strangers moving through their world.
The only other civilians I saw were in Da Nang, Dong Ha, and Quang Tri and even then, only for minutes, heading in or out of the country. Their faces never had time to become memories. They were like ghosts, figures from a different Vietnam, one that barely touched the one we fought in.
Looking back, I understand now more than ever that every man fought a different Vietnam War. Your war depended on when you arrived, where you were sent, what your job was, and who covered your back when things went bad, and things went bad often.
For me, Vietnam wasn’t villages and rice paddies. My Vietnam War was endless ridgelines, thick brush, heat, the taste of fear, the weight of a pack that never got lighter, and nights under a sky so full of stars you wondered how such beauty could exist over such hell. The only civilians were memories from another life, one we weren’t sure we’d ever see again.
Sgt. Rich Thurmond
I/3/9 3rd Marine Division
Vietnam 4/12/68 – 4/28/69
