Paul O'Connell's Letters from Vietnam

The following two letters from 1969 and the author's recent additions to them are taken from the extensive collection of letters home from Vietnam made available by Paul O'Connell.  When I first read his letters on the internet I knew that I wanted to use them for the course but given the extensive collection I was not certain which would be best.  I decided to ask Paul himself and he very kindly sent me the following reply:

Dear Stephen

Thank you for your email and taking the time to read my letters.  You have my permission to use any or all of my letters.  I put them on the internet so others might experience to some sort what myself and others experienced in Vietnam.

As for which letter might be best, I'm not sure, but the letters written about when I got hit in March 1969 and how I reacted are interesting.  But probably the letter I wrote just after a friend of mine, John Kirschner, stepped on a booby trap on May 27, 1969 is probably the most stirring.  Even today, I sometimes survive by thinking my letters are about someone else.

Please write back if you like, or have some students write if they like too.

Paul E. O'Connell

I would strongly suggest that you take the time to read more of the letters at the main site linked above.  As Paul had kindly indicated, you may if you wish  correspond with him about his letters or experiences.  It is a unique opportunity for us as historians to interact with our sources.  Paul O'Connell can be contacted at Us0311mc@aol.com

5 Mar 69

Dear family!!!

Well things in Vietnam are hell. I might as well tell ya the news now. Two nights ago, at about 6:00 a.m., two gooks started towards our position. Me and Reed from Iowa forced the first one back down the mountain; but, by the time the second one went back down, he had thrown a chicom, and I just got a small piece of shrapnel in my left side. Lucky it went in and out. But there's no worry, as I didn't even have to be medevaced. The corpsman put in a few stitches and put me on light duty. I at least got a purple heart for it. But I don't want you to worry because it ain't a bad wound. I'll still be in Hawaii from the 25-31 of March.

Actually, I'm pretty lucky being on Hill 1081, as two days ago Mike Company moved off of Hill 508 to Hill 315; and, so far, they have lost 5 people plus a scout dog and have 10 wounded that can't get out because the gooks have guns firing every time a medevac chopper tries to come in. One of the dead was a Lieutenant who had been in country 3 weeks. So, as you can see, Tet is really bad over here.

Well, got to go for now but will write later. Please don't worry about me because I'm actually lucky not being with the main body of Mike Company.

Call Sharon for me, and tell her the news, and tell her I'm still in fine condition. I hope I'm doing the right thing by telling you I got hit; but I guess if you found out by other sources, you'd be worried and mad.

Well, got to sign off for now.

Love, Paul

PS 20 days before I talk to you all again.

*******************************************************************

Looking back:

One never knew how he would react to getting hit until it happened. I thought I might be a John Wayne but found out different.

This is a longer story than what the letter makes it seem like. The NVA actually attacked us first on Hill 1081 on the early hours of March 2nd. Two sappers scaled the side of Hill 1081 and threw a few satchel charges into a couple of bunkers on the other end of the perimeter from where my fighting position was. The initial explosions woke those of us up on the hill.

The explosions were quickly followed by M16 fire and more explosions. Most of us, who were away from the immediate action, were lost for what was happening. We listened to the radio to find out what was going on; and, after some time, heard that there were, in fact, enemy troops inside our perimeter and for everyone to stay in their fighting holes and shoot anything that moved. We also heard, over the radio, that a Marine had been wounded and that we had confirmed enemy killed.

We stayed in our fighting holes with our eyes wide open with fear until daybreak. We then began to move about the hilltop, being very careful because it was thought that the enemy had infiltrated our lines. I remember after patrolling the hilltop and finding no sign of the enemy there, we went over to where the action had taken place. Just outside the entrance to one of the bunkers, two Vietnamese males were lying dead.

One was much larger in size than the other, which had some Marines saying that maybe the large one was Chinese. The two of them had been shot up something fierce. I then saw the Marine who had been wounded. He was from Las Vegas, I remember. He had his shirt off and was showing everyone his back peppered with shrapnel. I remember he said it stung when he first got hit but didn't feel too bad now.

The dead bodies were checked for papers and identification, but none were found. All they had on were black shorts and rubber sandals. They had no weapons other than a small bamboo basket of chicoms. We were astonished at the sight of their clothing or lack of clothing and the fact they carried no rifles. We began to sense that the two of them had been on some sort of suicide mission.

After some time passed, we dragged the dead bodies to a small clearing. One of the corpsman asked for permission to do a sort of autopsy on one of the dead. He said he wanted to go to medical school when he got out of the service and that this autopsy thing would give him a taste of what it might be like to be a surgeon. I remember standing over them actually dying of curiosity while watching the corpsman open the stomach area with a scalpel as he began to explain the anatomy coming into view.

And then the corpsman stopped at a point when he came to something that he said was cancer and said, "There you have it. This gook was going to die anyway. See that. That's cancer."

I've never forgotten those words or this scene.

Next, dead tree limbs and trunks were piled in the clearing and the bodies dragged up on to the pile. Then diesel fuel was spread over the wood and bodies, and a fire was started. It took all day to cremate the bodies. I remember several times during the day, going down to where the fire was burning and watching the fire. At times, we had to throw more wood on the fire. It took some time before the bodies disappeared from sight.

The stench of the burning bodies, after the diesel fuel burnt off, was at times so powerful that we thought we might have to leave the hilltop; but we toughed it out by breathing through our shirts, held against our noses. When the fire burnt out near the end of the day, all that was left were the pelvic bones of the two enemy soldiers.

It was the next morning, March 3rd, that I got wounded. We were still jumpy from the morning before. It was just before light, when I was on watch. Someone opened fire down the perimeter from my fighting hole. Everyone scrambled to their holes. The radio came to life. The word was being passed that there had been movement inside the perimeter and that sappers possibly were among us.

I remember illumination being fired up over our heads so we could see, but all that did was invade us with moving shadows all about that appeared to be the enemy. I opened fire at what, even to this day, I don't know -- whether it was an enemy soldier or a shadow.

I worked myself into a frenzy, getting up out of the hole to charge towards what I had been firing at. At the same time, a hand held pop-up flare was fired from our fighting hole; but, before it ignited, it hit the trees overhead and was knocked back to the ground. With all this going on, my squad leader was yelling at me to stop. Then, all at once, the pop-up flare ignited; and I saw sparks coming near me. I heard the crack of what I thought was M16 fire, heard an explosion, and then felt something like a sharp knife slash my left side, followed by what felt like someone holding a lit cigar up against my side.

I yelled out, "Ma! Ma!"

I knew now I had been hit and thought for sure I was going die. People were yelling at me to get down, but all that ran trough my mind was to run for my mother; and so I ran for the next best thing -- I ran for the corpsman.

I was close to being hysterical when I got to him. In the dark, he got out a flashlight and looked at my side. He said it wasn't bad, just a graze. And I said, "I'm not going to die?"

"No."

And with that, as calm as ever, I returned to my fighting hole with the other guys; but inside me, I knew I was no John Wayne, for John Wayne never yelled out "Ma!" and ran for his mother.

Even to this day, I don't know if there were ever any enemy soldiers on Hill 1081 the morning I was wounded. None were found on this morning like they had been the morning before. I don't know what wounded me, whether it was the pop-up flare or maybe there was actually an exploding chicom or maybe I was even shot by my own guys. I don't know; but I still carry a visible scar of this wound to my side and proudly claim a purple heart, even if I'm not John Wayne (but, I still wish I had never yelled out to my mother).

As for Hill 315 and Mike Company... Things were bad. Men had been killed, but we didn't know who yet; we didn't know the names. It would be another day before we would find out that those of us up on Hill 1081 would be all that was left of our original squad. Again, being sent to Hill 1081, being separated from the rest of the company, had saved us from dying in Vietnam with the rest...

Paul O'Connell January 1997

Letter #52

28 May 69

Dear family!!!

How's everything going back at home? Good I hope. I'm not going to be able to write too often as we are now on Operation Pipestone Canyon. I think that's what they are calling it.

Right now, we've been sweeping Go Noi Island and have taken many casualties; but I haven't even got scratched. Not bad. Our lieutenant got hit yesterday and so did my buddy, who was going to write Marsha; but he'll be back. He gave me his radio and camera.

Well, I got a letter from Steve Coates; and he sounds like he is doing okay.

I was going to write longer, but the chopper will be down in a minute. Will write later. I'm hurried.

Love, Paul

*******************************************************************

Looking back:

My refusal to go back out to the field only lasted an hour or so from when I had woke with a big head from all the beer and whatever it was the corpsman had injected me with. I had gone down to the lake behind the compound and was swimming with other Marines; but, at the same time, I was staying to myself, when the Lieutenant came to me. When he walked up to me, even before he said anything, I said, "I'm not going to the bush, sir. I'm not changing my mind."

He told me to think it out real good. He said the Captain would have me sent to the brig in Da Nang if I refused to go to the bush. I said I didn't care. I'd rather stay in the brig where no one was shooting at you than take the chance of dying. Plus, I said, I couldn't see what the war was all about anyway. And again, I talked about Sergeant Thompson, Merriweather, and Christianson lying dead back up in the mountains.

I remember, during this conversation, being able to see behind the Lieutenant, the mountain range where they were lying dead, on the horizon.

But somehow, the Lieutenant reached something inside me that changed my mind. He probably pushed a button planted there when I was on Parris Island; because, in a short time, I found myself telling the Lieutenant that I had changed my mind and would go to the field with the company.

He told me that was the right decision. He said I was needed to help the other Marines. He told me we were going to Go Noi Island. He said we would come upon many booby traps and hard core NVA. I already knew this from stories I heard from other Marines who had been on Go Noi Island the summer before.

Go Noi Island had a bad reputation. The area in the dry season, the summer, wasn't really an Island, but a piece of high ground surrounded Son Thu Bon to the east and a dry river bed to the west. The area was populated with farmers sympathetic to the Viet Cong. The farmers by day, VC at night.

I think it was May 26, 1969, that we moved towards Go Noi Island in the middle of the night. We had been trucked from the compound outside of An Hoa to Liberty Bridge during the late afternoon. We then got some rest along the Son Thu Bon before we moved east under the cover of darkness.

We moved single file in the dark towards Go Noi Island. As we approached the area, the man on the point hit a booby trap. This would signal to the VC that we had arrived. AK fire broke out in a quick burst, sending us all flat on our bellies; but the fire was no more than an attempt to slow us down. It did.

We set up a hasty defense and waited for the medevac to come and get the wounded point man. While in this defense, it was hard to keep our eyes open. It was three or four in the morning; and we had been on the move for five or six hours, carrying heavy packs loaded with C-rations and ammo, including more than our share of grenades and full canteens of water.

When the medevac had arrived and departed with the wounded Marine, we got moving again or we thought everyone started moving again. But this wasn't true.

In the morning, it was discovered that the combat engineer attached to Mike Company was missing. No one could account for him, other than he was with us when we had set up the defense in the night. No one could say that he moved out with us when we got on the move again. For a day or two, we would patrol back to where he was last accounted for.

On May 28, two days after his disappearance, his mutilated body would be found in the bottom of a bomb crater. Rumors would pass around that he had been skinned alive some and scalped and that his eyes had been poked out. These rumors festered anger and at the same time, fear inside me.

We moved no where on Go Noi Island without first napalming the tree lines and villages before us. Sporadic AK fire was a common occurrence. We constantly had shadows moving about in the tree lines before us. On the morning of May 27, we began to move into a tree line which camouflaged a small village. Off to the right, without warning, came an enormous explosion, a flash... BOOM!

Dirt and dust and screaming and whistling sounds of shrapnel filled the air; and in the dust, I saw something thrown into the air and fall back to earth. It was the body of one of my squad members, John Kirchner from Wisconsin. I yelled out to him but knew inside he was gone.

To my left, I saw a friend of mine, Dewey from Pennsylvania, bleeding from the jaw. A stream of blood was flowing under great pressure, and he was staring at me in disbelief. He walked towards me; and in his shock said, "Did you just sucker punch me?"

I was shaking inside at the sight of what I thought was a Marine bleeding to death; and I managed to say, "No, I didn't hit you. But you are hit. Corpsman up!"

And the corpsman came; and with ease, saved Dewey's life by simply putting a battle dressing against the heavy bleeding and holding it there. The whole time, Dewey had been spitting out blood, teeth, and bone from his mouth. Somehow he even managed a smile through his pain.

As for John Kirchner, he was gone beyond. We would put his body in a green rubber poncho and begin our walk with our dead and wounded towards the village in the tree line. To insure our safety, we would grab a villager, a female teenager, and have her walk point for us, as we believed she knew where other booby traps would be.

And we were right; but what happened was that when she came upon one, she didn't have it inside her to die for her cause. Instead of stepping on the booby traps, she side stepped some and missed the booby traps; but the Lieutenant didn't understand what she had done. Instead of following in her foot steps, he walked straight ahead, even as I yelled out to him to stop; and, boom, another booby trap was blown.

The Lieutenant was lucky, damn lucky. The booby trap was more sound than shrapnel, yet he and his radioman would be peppered with hot burning metal and also need to be medevaced.

I would come to grab the teenage villager by the hair and throw her forward, then stick the muzzle of my M-16 between her shoulder blades and push her along. Without a word, I wanted her to understand that if we hit another booby trap, she'd be killed; and there was no doubt in my mind that I wouldn't have pulled the trigger. In fact, it took all I had inside to keep from killing her right then and there in revenge for John Kirchner's death, in revenge for my friends still dead in the mountains.

As we passed through the village, I heard women and children crying in that singy-song, high-pitched Vietnamese language that no one, no Marine, that is, could understand. They wanted us to think they cared for us, for our dead; but I thought different.

I moved inside one of the huts and stood locked and loaded above women and children down on their haunches. I pitied the filthy sight before me. I screamed inside for revenge. I was never so angry and yet so sad in my life. I just wanted to blow away all that had happened before me.

And, if I thought by killing these people it would bring life back to John Kirchner, back to Sergeant Thompson, Merriweather, Christianson, Freeman, Johnston, and even myself, then I would have just squeezed the trigger and had them appear. But, deep inside my mind, deep inside the core of who I am, I knew this couldn't happen.

I turned away from the women and children and cried enormous tears for my dead friends. And I remember wiping these tears with my hands, mixing the dirt on my face with my tears, and feeling relieved for not adding to the carnage before me.

Strange as it may seem, even to this day, sometimes I wish I had killed all the women and children; and other times, I am so grateful for whoever or whatever it is that brings a sense of sanity to us during an insane time.

(A corpsman, Doc Pyle, would die as he ran to the call of "Corpsman up!" as he ran to help wounded Marines maimed by a booby trap. As always, booby traps came in twos and threes so as to kill and wound others coming to the aide of those taken down by the initial blast.)

In Memory:

PFC JOHN W. KIRCHNER, 25 Sep 49 - 27 May 69 PFC CALVIN E. COOPER, 18 Sep 48 - 28 May 69 HM2 CHRIS M. PYLE, 05 Apr 48 - 28 May 69

Paul O'Connell March 1998