thedrifter
05-27-07, 07:21 AM
Reliving Vietnam
Tom Mayer
May 25, 2007 - 2:40PM
A lot can happen during 40 years.
During four decades a young Marine can weather the storm of war and transform himself from an 18-year-old grunt into a seasoned career military officer.
During those years, he can obtain educational degrees in international law and work at the Pentagon under the likes of former Secretary of State Colin Powell.
During that time he can lead in other battles, other wars, retire and find satisfaction with family and career in the civilian world.
Phil Seymour did these things.
Nothing can happen during 40 years.
During four decades a young Marine can gather retching thoughts from a rapid series of firefights in one exacting operation in Vietnam.
During those years, he can harbor those thoughts, rarely speaking of them and then only in the context of a former comrade’s welfare.
During that time he can ignore Vietnam, past and present.
Or try to.
Phil Seymour did these things, too.
For 38 years, Phil Seymour spoke little about the war of his youth.
He spoke even less about one singular series of firefights that in many ways would define his Vietnam.
“I didn’t even read about Vietnam,” Seymour said.
Then, about 18 months ago, brokering his silence to write an article about the four-day Operation Medina in his community’s own publication, the River Bend resident and town councilman told his story.
His silence erupted.
Seymour doesn’t know how, but his story of ambush, overwhelming forces and the triple canopy of a Vietnamese jungle found its way to the Internet — where former 1st Lt. Jack Ruffer was waiting.
In October 1967, Ruffer was the leader of Charlie Company, First Battalion, First Marines, First Marine Division — Seymour’s company. As the events of Oct. 10 to 13 of that year unfolded, Seymour would come to know Ruffer as one of many heroes of the operation designed to destroy enemy forces in the Hai Lang Forest Reserve.
Still, although the then Sgt. Seymour would chose to make the Marines his career, eventually rising to the rank of major, it had been decades since he had had contact with Ruffer.
That contact remained broken until Ruffer found Seymour’s story online.
“That was the first I had talked with him since he was medevaced the night of the 12th,” Seymour said about Ruffer, one of dozens of men wounded or killed during Operation Medina.
Ruffer had news for the former 60mm mortar section leader from Brookline, Mass.
An historian, Doyle Glass, was working on a book about Medina. Intricately researched, the book detailed the operation from dozens of interviews with the Marines and Navy corpsmen who had fought its battles.
Ruffer suggested to Glass that he call his former mortarman.
Until then, Seymour had talked about Medina only in the confines of questioning the health and welfare of former comrades, and then only sparingly — and only with the former captain of the operation.
“I mostly talked with Bill Majors,” Seymour said. “We didn’t discuss Medina. We didn’t talk about how many were killed.
“I wasn’t really looking to reopen old wounds.”
Yet Seymour knew that agreeing to speak with Glass meant reliving Medina.
“The interviews were exhausting,” Seymour said. “There’s a lot that’s not easy to talk about. In 38 years, I hadn’t talked to anyone except Bill Majors, and that was only superficially.”
A review of Glass’s work, “Lions of Medina” (Coleche Press, $24.95) explains why.
Eschewing a “just the facts” history of the events, Glass weaves the experiences of more than 75 Marines into a compelling narrative that personalizes the lives of the young men who fought in that war.
At times, the history reads like a harrowing novel both graphic and bitterly truthful.
The author said the decision to write such a nonfiction story about the war was necessary.
“They say that truth is stranger than fiction lots of times,” Glass said. “This is certainly true here. There’s a negative stereotype about Vietnam, and I wanted to break that stereotype. These men were mostly volunteers. This is letting all Americans know these guys are heroes.”
Like Seymour’s remembrance of Ruffer.
Surrounded four to one by the North Vietnamese Army and beginning to feel demoralized, the American forces had endured a night of firefights, including both concussion and fragmentation grenades and constant AK-47 fire.
The Marines, deep in the triple canopy of the forest — undergrowth, new growth and overgrowth — were almost blind in the black of night.
“I didn’t know what the guy next to me was doing,” Seymour said. “I didn’t know where the guy next to me was. It was dark.
“It was the jungle.”
Dark enough that at one point, according the “Lions of Medina,” “Seymour pulled out a small green notebook that he always carried with him. He scribbled a note to his mother: ‘I’m sorry, I gambled and lost. Love you.’”
Extremely low on ammunition, almost out of water and inflicting but suffering severe casualties, Ruffer “had to do something, anything, to stop the communist onslaught. If he didn’t, all of his men would die,” Glass wrote.
What Ruffer would do, and what men like Seymour remember him most for today, is summon his sole remaining ammunition: “Marine spirit.”
Jumping into the line of fire, he rallied his troops and began to sing the Marine Hymn as loudly as he could. In what many of the men later remember as a “surreal” moment, his Marines followed.
What would ensue would not be a quick and decisive victory. It would be the turning point from despair to hope and allow the soldiers to continue fighting until reinforcements arrived.
Today, Seymour still has difficulty talking about Operation Medina and the Vietnam War, a war he entered at age 18. His voice chokes and his eyes water as he remembers.
Seymour slowly shook his head side to side, combating tears as he told his story to a reporter.
“It was 40 years ago,” he said. Yet not time enough to erase the memories.
Still, Seymour is pleased that “Lions of Medina” is available.
“A lot of kids who did incredible things that night never got recognized,” he said. “It was a privilege to get the opportunity to serve with them.”
And for Seymour, it will always be the men, and not the political battles, that were of top importance.
“Vietnam. It’s not about Vietnam,” Seymour said. “It’s about people. Maybe it had to happen. But 58,000 kids died.”
Ellie
Tom Mayer
May 25, 2007 - 2:40PM
A lot can happen during 40 years.
During four decades a young Marine can weather the storm of war and transform himself from an 18-year-old grunt into a seasoned career military officer.
During those years, he can obtain educational degrees in international law and work at the Pentagon under the likes of former Secretary of State Colin Powell.
During that time he can lead in other battles, other wars, retire and find satisfaction with family and career in the civilian world.
Phil Seymour did these things.
Nothing can happen during 40 years.
During four decades a young Marine can gather retching thoughts from a rapid series of firefights in one exacting operation in Vietnam.
During those years, he can harbor those thoughts, rarely speaking of them and then only in the context of a former comrade’s welfare.
During that time he can ignore Vietnam, past and present.
Or try to.
Phil Seymour did these things, too.
For 38 years, Phil Seymour spoke little about the war of his youth.
He spoke even less about one singular series of firefights that in many ways would define his Vietnam.
“I didn’t even read about Vietnam,” Seymour said.
Then, about 18 months ago, brokering his silence to write an article about the four-day Operation Medina in his community’s own publication, the River Bend resident and town councilman told his story.
His silence erupted.
Seymour doesn’t know how, but his story of ambush, overwhelming forces and the triple canopy of a Vietnamese jungle found its way to the Internet — where former 1st Lt. Jack Ruffer was waiting.
In October 1967, Ruffer was the leader of Charlie Company, First Battalion, First Marines, First Marine Division — Seymour’s company. As the events of Oct. 10 to 13 of that year unfolded, Seymour would come to know Ruffer as one of many heroes of the operation designed to destroy enemy forces in the Hai Lang Forest Reserve.
Still, although the then Sgt. Seymour would chose to make the Marines his career, eventually rising to the rank of major, it had been decades since he had had contact with Ruffer.
That contact remained broken until Ruffer found Seymour’s story online.
“That was the first I had talked with him since he was medevaced the night of the 12th,” Seymour said about Ruffer, one of dozens of men wounded or killed during Operation Medina.
Ruffer had news for the former 60mm mortar section leader from Brookline, Mass.
An historian, Doyle Glass, was working on a book about Medina. Intricately researched, the book detailed the operation from dozens of interviews with the Marines and Navy corpsmen who had fought its battles.
Ruffer suggested to Glass that he call his former mortarman.
Until then, Seymour had talked about Medina only in the confines of questioning the health and welfare of former comrades, and then only sparingly — and only with the former captain of the operation.
“I mostly talked with Bill Majors,” Seymour said. “We didn’t discuss Medina. We didn’t talk about how many were killed.
“I wasn’t really looking to reopen old wounds.”
Yet Seymour knew that agreeing to speak with Glass meant reliving Medina.
“The interviews were exhausting,” Seymour said. “There’s a lot that’s not easy to talk about. In 38 years, I hadn’t talked to anyone except Bill Majors, and that was only superficially.”
A review of Glass’s work, “Lions of Medina” (Coleche Press, $24.95) explains why.
Eschewing a “just the facts” history of the events, Glass weaves the experiences of more than 75 Marines into a compelling narrative that personalizes the lives of the young men who fought in that war.
At times, the history reads like a harrowing novel both graphic and bitterly truthful.
The author said the decision to write such a nonfiction story about the war was necessary.
“They say that truth is stranger than fiction lots of times,” Glass said. “This is certainly true here. There’s a negative stereotype about Vietnam, and I wanted to break that stereotype. These men were mostly volunteers. This is letting all Americans know these guys are heroes.”
Like Seymour’s remembrance of Ruffer.
Surrounded four to one by the North Vietnamese Army and beginning to feel demoralized, the American forces had endured a night of firefights, including both concussion and fragmentation grenades and constant AK-47 fire.
The Marines, deep in the triple canopy of the forest — undergrowth, new growth and overgrowth — were almost blind in the black of night.
“I didn’t know what the guy next to me was doing,” Seymour said. “I didn’t know where the guy next to me was. It was dark.
“It was the jungle.”
Dark enough that at one point, according the “Lions of Medina,” “Seymour pulled out a small green notebook that he always carried with him. He scribbled a note to his mother: ‘I’m sorry, I gambled and lost. Love you.’”
Extremely low on ammunition, almost out of water and inflicting but suffering severe casualties, Ruffer “had to do something, anything, to stop the communist onslaught. If he didn’t, all of his men would die,” Glass wrote.
What Ruffer would do, and what men like Seymour remember him most for today, is summon his sole remaining ammunition: “Marine spirit.”
Jumping into the line of fire, he rallied his troops and began to sing the Marine Hymn as loudly as he could. In what many of the men later remember as a “surreal” moment, his Marines followed.
What would ensue would not be a quick and decisive victory. It would be the turning point from despair to hope and allow the soldiers to continue fighting until reinforcements arrived.
Today, Seymour still has difficulty talking about Operation Medina and the Vietnam War, a war he entered at age 18. His voice chokes and his eyes water as he remembers.
Seymour slowly shook his head side to side, combating tears as he told his story to a reporter.
“It was 40 years ago,” he said. Yet not time enough to erase the memories.
Still, Seymour is pleased that “Lions of Medina” is available.
“A lot of kids who did incredible things that night never got recognized,” he said. “It was a privilege to get the opportunity to serve with them.”
And for Seymour, it will always be the men, and not the political battles, that were of top importance.
“Vietnam. It’s not about Vietnam,” Seymour said. “It’s about people. Maybe it had to happen. But 58,000 kids died.”
Ellie