Medal of Honor

“I have a headache this big!” I said as I indicated the length of a Giant Grouper with my arms extended out as far as they could reach. The Marine laughed. “I don’t know how you can stand this,” he added. “We’re staying in the same tent with them and there are 35 Marines who are ready to pound them. They keep us up at night with their noise and they don’t care that we’re even there.”

The last three days have been frustrating and crazy at the same time as troops from one of our Eastern European coalition countries have been lined up four deep to get their hands on our laptop computers. It’s been an endless barrage of Russian as I’ve stood and listened to the same questions over and over again.

“How long for laptop, five minutes?” I’m not able to paint an optimistic picture, I’m afraid. They stand staring at the pile of laptops that are waiting for a charge and occasionally one of them taps his watch with his finger to let me know that they’re still waiting.

“How long?”

“About six hours,” I tell them again, and I’m not kidding.

“Sir I leaving for Afghanistan in 30 minutes. Can I get laptop,” one of them asks with a sad, pleading expression.

“I’m sorry. Everyone is leaving for Afghanistan in 30 minutes. You’ll have to wait your turn.” Of course, not one of them left in 30 minutes, but it was a nice ploy. American troops walked in, scanned the crowded, stinky room as they tried to comprehend the situation, and then walked back out the door just as frustrated as the rest of us had become. The huge crowd of men didn’t just write their names on the list and then sit down to wait, either. They wrote their names down and then stood waiting at the counter, anxiously watching the list as if it would grow shorter just because they were staring.

“Sir, I think I need to throw up.” Elmira was tired of the endless questions, shouts and odors too. “I never thought I would say this, but I miss the Americans.” I just nodded with an understanding, worn-out smile.

At 10:30 I picked up the short Kyrgyz straw broom to sweep the cement around the building for the second time because I was expecting some visitors. I was still sweeping the pads when the van pulled up, half an hour early, and the group began to pour out onto the gravel. “Alfred Rascon, Medal of Honor recipient,” was all he said as he shook my hand. “I’m Jed Clark. It’s my honor, sir.” Mr. Rascon was a large man, rounded and soft with age and wearing a dark blue golf shirt. The Congressional Medal of Honor peeked over the top of his collar at the base of his neck. His still-dark hair was brushed back, exposing the graying edges. His eyes were soft, keeping the secret of his Vietnam nightmare, and the fact that he had served the United States for years after his experience there and retired from the Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. “You hang this thing around your neck and it becomes a burden for the rest of your life,” he told me as we watched the coalition troops playing pool. “I wish I could go back to the Boys’ Club in Jersey and play pool with the boys again. I could probably kick these guys’ butts!”

“Hi, Jed. Don Jenkins.” His greeting was a lot more casual, delivered with a thick Kentucky accent. He was tall and thin, except for the little belly that pushed his army green shirt forward, hiding his belt buckle. He was bald on top and he kept the sides shaved. Loose skin swung down below his chin to expose his age, but his eyes were piercing and his expression focused. The two of them had come to tell their stories to the troops, stories that they don’t share in polite circles, but this is a safe place with an understanding audience of men who have experienced the same horrors of combat first hand.

I was just a Junior in High School when Alfred Rascon faced his life’s worst hell. For the first half of that school year I’d been attending Kearns High School early in the morning as construction crews worked feverishly to get Magna’s Cyprus High School remodeled and ready for students. Around Christmas time the “new” old school opened its doors and we were back at home in our alma mater. I was spending my first year as a school photographer, working for the first time with a 35mm Pentax camera that had interchangeable lenses. That was the year that one of my Magna friends and fellow Boy Scouts, Kenny Maddy, was killed in Vietnam. I think it was my first recognition of just how real combat is. Unfortunately it wouldn’t be my last that year.

The date was March 16, 1966. Rascon, who had been born in Chihuahua, Mexico in 1945, was assigned as a medic to a reconnaissance platoon with the Headquarters Company of the 1^st Battalion or the 503^rd infantry, 173^rd Airborne Brigade. As their platoon moved to reinforce a sister battalion that was under enemy attack the reconnaissance platoon came under heavy enemy fire. They were outnumbered and the bullets and grenades were tearing up the trees and ground around them as several members of the point squad were immediately wounded in the fusillade. Ignoring his sergeant’s instructions to stay behind shelter, Rascon pushed his way through the blaze of hot lead to his fallen brothers, but was driven back several times by withering fire as he tried to reach them on the trail again and again. Finally, without regard to his personal safety, he jumped to his feet and raced through the enemy fire to reach the wounded. He dived next to one fallen soldier and put himself in the way of the enemy’s fire. There he took several hits from grenade shrapnel and was wounded, receiving a very serious wound to his hip. Ignoring his wounds, he dragged the larger soldier from the fire-raked trail.

His story didn’t end there, though. As he dragged the soldier to safety, he heard a yell from a machine gunner crying that he was almost out of ammunition. Rascon ran through the fire again, retrieved a bandolier of ammo from a wounded machine gunner and passed it to the second gunner who was able then to continue his suppressive fire. Later, though, fearing that the abandoned first machine gun along with its ammo and spare barrel would fall into enemy hands, he crawled back to retrieve them, receiving more wounds to his face and torso. He retrieved the gun and ammo and it kept the battle alive, giving another soldier an opportunity to add to the suppressing fire from his pinned down squad.

Rascon continued to search for the wounded and found the point grenadier wounded by enemy fire. Again, without personal regard, he covered the grenadier with his own body and absorbed the full force of exploding grenades, saving the young soldier’s life. He was again critically wounded by shrapnel, but he remained on the battlefield, inspiring his fellow soldiers to continue the battle.

After the enemy finally broke off their contact, he continued to care for the wounded and disregarded his own wounds until everyone was safely on the evacuation helicopter. It was only then that he allowed himself to be cared for.

On January 5^th, 1969 I was working as a missionary in Barquisimeto, Venezuela. Elder Randall Pope was my senior companion and I was just getting the hang of the Spanish language. Vietnam seemed like another planet at the time, but even the people of Venezuela were getting fed up with the continual bad news from that part of Southeast Asia, and my former girlfriend, Becky Blair, had just lost her brand new Marine husband to small arms fire, raising the war high in my mind. I was still nearly a year away from that first draft lottery that would send me into the service upon my return to the United States.

On that particular morning Don Jenkins was standing in front of his First Lieutenant because the night before he’d accepted a bottle of rice wine from a Vietnamese acquaintance and had taken a drink. He didn’t know at the time that a member of the Viet Cong had laced the wine with C-4, a powerful military explosive, and the poisoned drink immediately made Don deathly ill. He told with chagrin how his lieutenant had taken his Staff Sergeant’s stripes and turned him into an “E-zero.” He had walked back to his bunker and was taking a nap when all hell broke loose outside. Some N.V.A. (North Vietnamese Army) soldiers had crawled through the wire and were on the attack within the camp, shooting and throwing grenades everywhere. Don came out of the bunker, bleary-eyed and found an N.V.A. drawing aim on his 1^st Lt. He said the thought flashed through his mind to just let the N.V.A. have a couple of seconds to finish the lieutenant, but he decided to “take care of” the enemy soldier instead. The lieutenant turned around to see who had just saved his life and Don, with a devilish grin on his face said, “I just gave him the bird.”

On January 6^th Don was acting as a machine gunner on a reconnaissance mission when they came under enemy machine gun crossfire from a complex of bunkered positions. Without hesitating, Don moved forward to where he was perilously exposed and began placing fire on one of the enemy positions. When his machine gun jammed, he grabbed a rifle and continued to place accurate suppressive fire on the position until his assistant could get the machine gun operating again. He repeatedly both ran and crawled across open ground to resupply the machine gun and continue his attack on the position. He picked up two antitank weapons and, by himself, maneuvered to within 20 yards of an enemy bunker and destroyed their position. He moved back to his team and picked up a grenade launcher and returned once more to an open position where he continued to place accurate fire on the enemy until all of his ammunition was exhausted. During that time he was seriously wounded by shrapnel, but he continued to move forward another 100 yards to help another squad that was pinned down by fire within only a few yards of the enemy. Three times, hindered by the pain of his wounds, the intense enemy fire and by darkness, he returned to the unit and pulled wounded men to safety.

That afternoon he was visited at the hospital by his lieutenant. “What are you going to take now,” he snarled at the officer. “You’ve already got my rank and my paycheck. What are you going to take now?” The lieutenant simply told him, “I’m giving you back all of your stripes and I’m putting you in for the Medal of Honor.” Jenkins finished his tour in Vietnam and flew home to America where he worked to forget about the war. One day, though, two FBI agents pulled up in front of his house and Don shouted, “What the hell are you guys doing here?” The agent in charge called back, “You need to call the White House. The President wants to talk to you.” Don then invited the agents into his house. “I’ll call him when I’m ready,” he told them as he turned to finish his bowl of chili. Of course, the call was to receive the Medal of Honor for his selfless valor in combat and he laughed as he related, “I think I’m the only person to ever get an Article 15 on one day and the Congressional Medal of Honor the next!”

Rascon came back to the microphone and said, “There are only 91 living recipients of the Medal of Honor. Your chances of being struck by lightning are better than meeting one of us. Today you’ve met two. We thank you warriors from the bottom of our hearts for your service to our great country.” The Wing Commander strengthened Rascon’s perspective when he added, “Rarely have men this brave lived to tell their stories. We’re honored to have them here with us today.”