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RECOLLECTIONS: Finding Joe's Name On The Wall

By John Zutz

This is the story about how a man died. But, more than that, it is the story about why a man died.

It's one of those stores that even my wife didn't hear until last year when we traveled to DC to see the Wall. She understood my wanting to see the Wall, but when I started looking for one particular name, she got very quiet. I knew it was time to tell her this story.

When I got to Vietnam in early December of 1969, I had only been in the Army since mid June, with 60 days of that time on leave. So I arrived, young and superbly trained, and knew that in-country orientation sessions were only preludes to work details. By skipping out on them I found myself riding down a road (as "shotgun") holding an M-16, which I knew nothing about. That was when the truck driver told me we were entering the stretch of road they called "ambush alley."

I was assigned to one of the two dump truck companies in the country, and soon the platoon sergeant had assigned me to my own dump truck. But not until I had promised to return it in the same condition I got it in. So, I became the pilot of a five-ton dump truck, about which I knew only slightly more than I knew about my M-16 (they did make sure I knew how to shift).

This particular truck (DT 40) was the only diesel I saw in the Army with the exhaust low near the rear wheels. From that exhaust came a constant, thick, oily, black cloud that got worse when I accelerated. The engine also had a deficiency, which nobody ever figured out—it had no power. It would go, but it took a long to get there.

After I had been in country for six or seven months I hadn't seen much combat, but then why should the enemy bother with a dump truck company? We were no threat to them (We weren't actively looking for them), we were building roads which they used as much as we did, we supported the local economy, and we tore up those trucks faster than they ever could have hoped to match.

Being in a truck I was mobile so I probably got around more than a grunt. But I was still on the ground so I feel I actually saw more things than someone in the air. I started asking myself questions about what we were doing, and if it was accomplishing anything. I didn't come up with any answers but I kept seeing all that waste. I went from being a fair trooper to being a malcontent.

In a series of disciplinary actions I was demoted to E-1 (the rank I came back to the States with) and my military driver's license was taken away. I was relegated to fixing flat ties.

DT 40 was still in much the same shape as when I got it. The engine had been rebuilt, and I had talked to mechanics all the way to the battalion level, but the truck still emitted that distinctive smoke screen, and it was still a dog. I have even tried to junk it, but that would have 'jeopardized our mission." It was assigned to another member of my squad—I'll call him Joe.

I told Joe of the problems with the truck and what I had tried to do to rectify them. He would just do the best he could, he said.

Time passed, we moved a number of times, our platoon was TDY living in a small compound called Hot Rocks at the top of the pass between Na Trang and Ban me Thout.

We were mainly hauling asphalt toward Ban Me Thout but occasionally would bring supplies up the pass from Na Trang. The platoon always traveled in convoy, and since it was the slowest, DT 40 (and Joe) was always the lead truck.

And Joe was the lead driver the day he died. The platoon was hauling concrete blocks up the pass. I had been left in the compound to do my thing, so I never saw the rocket that punched a fist-sized hole through the heavy metal of the dump box right behind Joe's head.

We didn't know until the next day about the piece of shrapnel that passed above his flak jacket and below his steal pot and penetrated into his brain. The doctors couldn't do a thing for him.

I contend to this day that the truck should not have been on the road. It was hit by a rocket notorious for inaccuracy while moving. If it had been able to go one mile an hour faster perhaps the hit wouldn't have been fatal.

At his memorial service the Chaplin talked about how Joe was a good soldier, and how he died in a good cause. I was one of the few who knew that his death was just another example of the rampant waste that surrounded us. Though the enemy pulled the trigger, Joe was killed by an army system that put mission before men.

As I tried to explain all these things to my wife and myself, she began to understand more about the war and why I was reluctant to talk about it. And she understood why I had to find Joe's name on the Wall. She knew that if I had been a better soldier, kept my mouth shut, and behaved myself, that space on the Wall could be holding my name.

John Zutz
Milwaukee