She walked between them. They strode a path that cut through a field. He walked in front.
This was no stroll, no. He and Reed were returning her to a village after questioning the woman about enemy movements. It was getting dark; they needed to hurry.
Three figures crossed in front of them. Even in the twilight, he saw the conical hats, the dark clothing, and knew: Viet Cong. He snapped off several shots. Two fell. For a moment, he congratulated himself — two KIA, even as night closed on the highlands of Vietnam.
Then he heard shots — lots of them, from somewhere close. Bullets shredded foliage on either side of the path. He hit the ground, rolled into a ditch. Reed, in the rear, did the same. Reed scrabbled at his radio, a ponderous machine on his back, and keyed the mike. The woman took off, sprinting into the darkness. Neither he nor Reed tried to stop her.
He listened to the gunfire. The soldier in him recognized the type weapon — M-16s, the same firearm he held. Maybe they’d been taken off dead Americans? Maybe his would be taken next.
Lying in the ditch, Army Sgt. Larry England of Dalton prepared to die. He was 22, and never imagined death would find him hiding in a ditch.
When he recalls this story, England pauses. For a moment, he’s back in that ditch, a scared Georgia boy who left school and joined the Army just as the war in Vietnam was reaching a boiling point. Then the moment passes, and England, 67, is back in his living room. Just another guy.
It’s for guys like him that this day exists. Today is Veterans Day, an annual recognition of Americans who’ve served our country in the military. Unlike some holidays, whose observances may be moved to create long weekends, this day is fixed to recall Nov. 11, 1918, when combatants signed the Armistice ending World War I.
In Georgia, Veterans Day is a big deal. The state is home to more than 750,000 veterans.
To recognize those who served, Boy Scouts will place flags on graves; aging warriors will gather to remember fallen comrades; people will line streets to watch bands oom-pah and ka-lang past; and families will look at old photos, remembering.
England remembers, too.
A soldier’s education
Young Larry England left Georgia Southern University in his senior year. In summer 1968, at a recruiter’s office in Dalton, he joined the Army. “I was really tired of school and the draft hanging over me.”
There was another reason: His great-grandfather had fought in the Civil War, getting captured twice and wounded once. His father carried a rifle across Europe in World War II. England, who’d collected toy soldiers when he was a boy, knew his turn had come.
“In a sense, I was curious about the war — naive, I know.”
He trained to jump out of airplanes, learned to shoot and was schooled in other bloody aspects of war. By mid-December that year, he was in Vietnam, attached to the 173 Airborne Brigade. Stepping off the plane, he was stunned at the heat, the humidity, so different than the hills around Dalton. The air was as damp as just-washed sheets on a clothesline.
They went on patrols, night and day. They were especially careful on the nights when the moon was full; its silver light could easily illuminate groups of men skulking through rice paddies. The soldiers made it a habit to jump up and down several times before heading on patrol. A rattle of dog tags, the slosh of water in a canteen: Even the smallest sound could carry on a quiet night.
But nothing prepared him for the bullets in the field.
The barrage increased. In moments, the VC would be on them. Reed, whose first name England cannot recall, grabbed the radio mike. He was on his third tour, a hardened soldier, and wasted no time explaining their predicament. Enemy fire. Pinned down.
Moments later, the Viet Cong’s gunfire faltered, then suddenly ended. Help, England knew, was on the way. The enemy faded into the gloom, Americans hard on their trail.
England would later discover that the fleeing fighters led some soldiers into a dreaded booby trap — punji sticks, sharpened stakes whose ends sometimes were treated with dung to infect anyone unlucky enough to impale himself. He and Reed got back to their camp. They were stunned to be alive.
Other patrols followed, but England never got so close to death as he did that January night. After six months in the jungle, he was tapped as a brigade liaison, moving from the highlands to a base behind the battle front. He remained there for the rest of his tour, grateful for good fortune — for getting a safer assignment, certainly, but also for making it out of the jungle alive. Other guys in his platoon did not.
He returned to Georgia, got that degree and found a job as a railroad conductor. He held it for 35 years. These days, he lives quietly in a small house in Druid Hills. Ann, his wife, and their dogs keep him company. Life, he said, is good. He’s been lucky.
Today is his day.
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