VietNow National Magazine

The Heroes Among Us
The Medal of Honor is our highest military award. Our writer tells about meeting three recipients – a man who not only saved her brother's life, but saved her life too.

Soldiers of the 1/7th Cavalry disembark from a UH-1 Huey at LZ X-Ray during the battle of Ia Drang. Photo courtesy of U.S. Army Center of Military History.

By Karen St. John

It was November 11, 2005, and I was in Washington, DC, with my brother attending a special kind of reunion. Not only was it a reunion of veterans, it was a reunion of specific veterans:
the survivors of the Vietnam Ia Drang Valley Ambush of November, 1965. It was their fortieth anniversary.

Ia Drang was the first major battle of the Vietnam War, and was later chronicled in the book and movie, We Were Soldiers Once…and Young, written by (Ret.) Lt. Gen. Hal Moore and Joe Galloway, who was a war correspondent covering the operation for UPI.

Elements of the 1st Air Cavalry Division, including the 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment, commanded by Moore (a Lt. Col. at the time), were ordered into the valley to engage a large enemy force. Within twenty-four hours, the enemy had almost surrounded the battalion, and Moore called for reinforcements. By the end of the battle, almost two hundred and fifty Americans had been killed, with a similar number wounded.

Medal of Honor Recipients

Among the survivors attending the 2005 reunion were my brother – and three recipients of the Congressional Medal of Honor – Joe Marm, Ed "Too Tall" Freeman, and Bruce "Snake" Crandall." Those who did not make it back are listed on Panel 3 East of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall.

Joe Marm

I would not have guessed that Joe Marm was a Medal of Honor recipient when my brother introduced me to him. All I noticed was his quick smile, kind manner, and pleasant disposition. If someone had predicted that as a 2nd Lt., Marm would draw enemy fire toward himself to save his platoon, charge thirty meters across open ground to hurl grenades, and then keep firing from his rifle while suffering severe wounds, I would have said, "What? Joe? He's too nice, too mild mannered to try such a thing." He is a very humble, sweet man.

"Too Tall"

After talking with Joe, another survivor led me to a guy on the other side of the room. Towering over everyone, he was entertaining the group with jokes, talking animatedly, gesturing wildly, and laughing loudly after he delivered his punch line, right along with his friends. When I had to look way up to meet Ed "Too Tall" Freeman, my first thought was, "How can such a teddy bear be such a big guy?" Ed was as gracious as a knight, easy-going, and in great demand by the crowd. "Too Tall" had been a captain in Vietnam, piloting an assault helicopter.

When the ambush started, he flew in under heavy fire, delivering critically needed ammunition, water, and medical supplies. He did this repeatedly, with little rest. When the fighting got too intense for the medical evacuation helicopters to fly in for the wounded, "Too Tall" hopped into his chopper and flew back into the fighting to evacuate the seriously wounded soldiers. He flew in not once, but fourteen times, each time within one hundred to two hundred meters of the defensive perimeter.

"Snake"

Another veteran grabbed my arm and told me there was someone else I should meet. He walked me into the middle of the room right next to a pleasant man with a quick grin. I had to wait a few minutes to meet this man, as there was a steady stream of veterans coming up and giving him big handshakes. Who was this quiet, yet cheerful man? "That's Bruce Crandall,"
someone whispered.

I suddenly felt as if somebody had slapped me. I knew all about Bruce Crandall. He didn't know me – I had not been there in the valley ­– but I was one of the lives he had saved in 1965.

Like "Too Tall," Major Crandall was an assault-helicopter pilot, flying in ammunition and medical supplies to the troops. He was between runs when he heard the medical pilots' rapid and traumatized talk about how the fighting made it impossible for them to go back in and pick up our wounded. It angered Bruce. When our boys were in there dying, there was no such word as "couldn't." He yelled at the medical pilots to get back in there and pick up our boys. But they stood firm and refused. They couldn't risk getting their chopper shot down with wounded inside. He turned aside and made for his chopper.

On the same day Bruce was arguing with the medical pilots – Bob, a slightly built, 23-year-old 2nd Lt. from a small town in Iowa – lay on the ground, near-fatally wounded by mortar shelling, and bleeding to death. Four of Bob's platoon members rolled him onto his poncho and carried him through enemy fire to Landing Zone X-Ray, where the medical helicopters would pick him up.

Explosions were bursting all around the LZ when the four dropped the wounded lieutenant at the pickup site and headed back toward their perimeter. Soaking in his own blood, Bob was afraid of dying alone in a hostile country, with no family to comfort him. His thoughts turned to the brutal enemy, and how it might be better to die rather than be found and tortured. He prayed for help to come before it was too late.

When evening darkened the sky, and with explosions still bursting around the LZ, Bob began to lose hope. The young lieutenant reached for the hand of the wounded man on the poncho next to his – and there they lay, mustering their courage to die. Suddenly, above the chaos of battle, the two heard the familiar whomp whomp whomp of a chopper – Bruce was coming in. Bob turned to his partner and croaked, "We're gonna make it! We're gonna make it!" and then burst into tears.

Bruce flew twenty-two missions throughout that day and well into the evening, all under continuous enemy fire, rescuing our wounded boys. Bob was picked up on Bruce's twenty-first mission.

That Iowa boy was my big brother, Bob, a lifelong hero to me. We had a special bond that connected us, and made him more a father to me than a brother. At fifteen, I would not have been equipped to deal with the desolation and depression that would have consumed me upon news of Bob's death in combat.

I had no skills to handle such overwhelming grief. I would have chosen a path of self-destruction rather than live without him. With the wisdom of hindsight, I know that when Bruce saved Bob's life, he saved mine, too. Now in 2005, looking at the man who saved so many soldiers' lives, I wondered if he had any idea of how many other lives – relatives, friends, and future children – he saved that day, too?

As the evening reception wore on, something began changing the mood in the room. The laughs got less frequent, and the chattering started nose-diving into quiet. Whisps of "died on the jungle floor," "still in country," "on the river bed with only one machine gun," flew between "so my kid wouldn't have to fight," and "still can't sleep." Low voices spoke of names on The Wall. The multiple conversations created a tapestry of such pain and suffering that it twisted my stomach and heart into knots.

A hurried movement to my left startled me. Joe Marm was leaving, and quickly. His face had lost all its peace. His shoulders slumped. He looked to be in pain.

Footsteps sounded to my right, and I turned to see "Too Tall" walking slowly out of the room, head down, and a shuffle to his feet. His group stood where they had gathered, silent. All eyes were to the floor.

I sought out Bruce who was turning around, and I caught the look in his eyes. It choked off my air. His eyes were haunted. They glittered with sharp fragments of intense pain. Suffering was spread all across his face. He turned back and the look was hidden once more.

Meeting "my" three recipients of the Congressional Medal of Honor was a great privilege. Yet it was not discovering how different they were that impressed me. It was learning how similar they are to other combat veterans, including those of Iraq and Afghanistan. The eyes of combat veterans are all the same. That haunted look is always there.

Thank you to "my" three, for what you did, and all the lives you saved. Thank you, especially, Bruce. I am glad you all made it back.

In celebrating the awarding of the Congressional Medal of Honor, we also applaud that high level of sacrifice itself; the commitment to duty, and the raw courage of all who served their country in combat, and now live quietly among us. They are the ones who must face each day with a special kind of bravery unique to all combat veterans – to greet each day with a will to live as honorably as they can, with their hearts open and kind, in spite of the homecoming parades they did not get, and the nightmares they did get. They are truly among the bravest of the brave.

From those of us who were left behind, thank you for your service. We are glad you made it back, too.

Read part 1 of this article.

Karen St. John is a freelance writer, whose brother is a Vietnam veteran. Visit her web site at www.stjohnjournals.com.

Watch for part two in our next issue.

Web sites and locations of Medal of Honor Memorials

Indianapolis, Indiana
www.medalofhonormemorial.com/

Riverside, California: www.rncsc.org/

Mount Pleasant, South Carolina:
www.patriotspoint.org/exhibits/medal_honor/

Pueblo, Colorado:
www.pueblomohfoundation.com/

Legion of Valor History:
www.legionofvalor.com/history.php

Preserving the History of the Recipients of the Medal of Honor: www.homeofheroes.com

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