I Remember Willie, by John Magnarelli

 I just got off the phone after talking with Ricky Johnson for an hour and a half about his dad, Willie.  

Willie was a 35 year old African American from South Carolina, with a wife and six kids.  What did I, a 20-year-old single white kid from Quincy, Massachusetts have in common with him, other than being stationed in Viet Nam with the 11^th Armored Cavalry Regiment?  

Well, living with someone in an Armored Cavalry Assault Vehicle (ACAV) for six months will make for close relationships. 

Willie was a career military soldier, our First Sergeant, a leader, advisor,              confessor, and friend.  He was firm but fair and full of life.  He even taught me to play pinochle, a card game I had never played before meeting him and have never played since.  Also, I never called him Willie, it was always “Top”.  Top is a standard term of affection for a First Sergeant.  

He was killed by a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) just a few feet from me.  One thing about combat is that there is no rhyme or reason why some men survive and others don’t.

 March 5, 1970, was much like any other day in Viet Nam as we moved from a location near the Cambodian border to another just four or five miles away.  The rolling hill terrain with the thick forest was always a challenge for our 20-ton armored vehicles.  It didn’t help that the temperature was constantly in the 90’s with similar humidity and mosquitos swarming around your head.  

We arrived at our night defensive position a little before dusk and deployed our 20 ACAV’s similar to the way covered wagons would circle up in western movies.   The track commander was Captain Max Bailey who sat on the top of our vehicle behind a 50 caliber machine gun, the driver was Don whose last name I forget, and Top and I were the rear gunners behind M-60 machine guns.  I dismounted our track, set up trip flares covering our part of the perimeter, and positioned claymore mines in front of our vehicle.  We had been in constant contact with the enemy for the previous three or four months and were always prepared for battle.  

I cleaned my weapons, an M-16 automatic rifle and the M-60 machine gun, daily.  We knew our job and were always ready for action.  Our enemy was not the Viet Cong, but the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) a highly trained and well-equipped fighting group and we never knew where or when they would hit us.

I was still awake, probably around 10:00 pm, when I heard the distinctive thump of a mortar tube being fired.  Seconds later the first rounds hit in and around our perimeter.  This is when I can use the old cliché “that all hell broke loose.” The mortar rounds were followed immediately by a barrage of enemy AK-47 and RPG fire and we responded in kind with our own volleys of machine gun and tank cannon fire.  

With 20 vehicles firing at once, the sound was deafening, and the smell of cordite filled the air.  We knew we were in for a tough battle as even with our superior firepower the enemy kept up their attack.  Ground and aerial flares lit the night sky and claymore mines exploded all around the perimeter as the enemy closed in.

As in most combat situations the actual battle seems longer than it really is.  With our superior weapons and withering firepower, the enemy attack had finally died down after about 30 or 40 minutes.  But this is when you worry the most.  You have been on an adrenaline high during the battle and now you come back down to earth and reassess. 

 Captain Bailey dismounted our vehicle and walked the perimeter to check on damage and the wounded.  Willie, Don, and I pulled up more ammunition for our weapons and waited for the next anticipated attack.  A while later Top received a call from Captain Bailey that some wounded enemy had been spotted in a bomb crater a few ACAV’s down from us.  

We had a directive from our headquarters G-2 Intelligence that if we had the opportunity we should try to take prisoners for interrogation.  Top was one of those soldiers that would never order someone to do something that he wouldn’t do himself.  So he jumped off our vehicle and told Don and me to follow him down our perimeter to get more information.  When we got to where the enemy was sighted, Captain Bailey confirmed that he was pretty sure there were two or three wounded NVA about 30-40 meters from our perimeter.  Without blinking, Top said, “let’s go get them.”  

So Top, Don, Captain Bailey and I lined up about five meters apart and headed for the bomb crater. 

 Because I respected Top as a soldier I had no problem following his lead.  We made it about halfway to the crater when a figure jumped up with an RPG and fired at us. The rocket landed between Top and Don who were at the end of our line.  With that “all hell broke loose” again.  

We received more incoming mortar and RPG rounds that were soon followed by enemy small arms fire.  I hit the dirt and returned fire at the shadowy figure.  Unfortunately, I was now caught about 20 meters outside of our perimeter.  I lost sight of the other three as bullets whistled above me.  Just as concerned about the friendly fire from behind as the enemy fire in front, I gathered my wits and slowly crawled back to our perimeter.  

Back inside the perimeter I looked for Top, Don, and Captain Bailey, but couldn’t find them.  As the battle raged on I returned to my ACAV, took up my position, and continued to return fire.  When the other three hadn’t returned I just assumed they jumped on other ACAV’s to continue the battle.  

Eventually, things quieted down and this time we were sure the enemy had retreated.  Sometime later Captain Bailey returned to our vehicle and that is when he told me that Willie was killed by the RPG round and Don was wounded.  I was stunned.  I had been in the country for 10 months and through a lot. Although other men in my unit had paid the ultimate sacrifice; this was different.  

Because I was so close to Top it hit me hard. It was made worse because I had to stay alert and man my vehicle in case there was another attack.  I had to wait until morning and there was nothing I could do except live with whatever thoughts were going through my head.  It was no consolation that later on I found out the two enemy soldiers were killed. 

 You don’t plan for someone to get killed so you don’t know how to react.  At first light, I went over to the medical area and saw Top’s body on the ground covered with a rubber poncho.  I can’t remember if I cried, but I was in a state of disbelief.  Here was a person I truly respected, who I confided in, told stories with, and a few short hours before had been laughing and joking with, and now he was gone. 

I am at my computer about 33 years later, Viet Nam a memory long in the past, but with me every day.  Viet Nam not only defined a generation, but it also defines you personally.  It is hard not to often think about something that unique.  I am on the 11^th Armored Cavalry website that provides a wealth of information about our time in the country.  One of the data points is a list of the 700 11^th Cav Troopers who were killed in Viet Nam.  I go to the list and scroll to Top’s name.  Over the years I had thought about him many times and often wondered how the family he left behind fared.  The Web page includes a message board that anyone can access.  I scroll down past some of the messages and freeze when I see one signed by Ricky Johnson who wants to hear from anyone who had served with his dad Willie who died on March 5, 1970.

 After a few deep breathes and a couple of stiff drinks I summon the courage to give Ricky a call.  It was extremely emotional and I have all I can do to keep it together.  Ricky was 11 years old when Willie was killed, leaving his wife Lillie to raise Ricky and his five siblings.  It is heartwarming to learn that all six children had graduated from college, married, and had families of their own.  Ricky has two children close in ages to mine and his mother is doing well still living in South Carolina.  A disconcerting part of the call is learning that the Army never told the family how Willie had died.  It is very difficult as I re-count the events of that night, but it is a step closer to the closure that neither of us will probably ever achieve. 

 For a year in Viet Nam you are thrown into a situation where your life depends on the actions of men you have just recently met.  You become as close to them as you would a brother.  You are with them 24/7 eating, talking, laughing, and trying to stay alive.  Then your tour of duty is over, you return to your hometown and begin a new life.  As time goes by your memories start to fade about certain events, and even the names of the comrades you were so close to are forgotten.  

But for the rest of my life, I will remember Willie and all that he taught me, but mostly I will remember him as a friend.  

 To all the Willie Johnsons who never came home may you always be remembered.

John Magnarelli grew up in North Quincy, MA, and after his stint in the Amy went on to graduate from Suffolk University with an MBA.  He spent 36 years with the USDA, the last 25 as the Regional Director of the National School Lunch Program for New England and New York.  A longtime resident of Duxbury he now lives in Plymouth with his wife Pam.  They have two sons, Christopher who lives in Somerville, and Patrick and his wife Brogan who live in Chicago.