Jimmy Westbrook
by Joe F. Martinez
Memorial Day Observance
Sergeant - JIMMY W WESTBROOK
October 17, 1948, to October 02, 1970
Vietnam Wall at Panel W7, Line 109
Sanford, Colorado
Memorial Day has always been a time of reflection for me and made even more
notable by the tremendous influence of my grandfather and his adherence to the
observance of our dearly departed.
He was so proud of his service to his country and never
forgot his humble background, having grown up in Guadalupe Colorado.
His patriotism led me to join the US Army during the
middle of the Vietnam War, which further cemented my love of God and Country
despite the controversial politics that surrounded the war.
But Memorial Day is not about me, but about the memories
of those that served and who are no longer with us.
I have not shared this story with anyone other than the
family when I got back in 1971 out of respect and privacy.
However, after
almost 50 years, I have come to terms to share this with members of the various
San Luis Valley groups.
I believe you will appreciate the unsung hero of this
narrative, and perhaps help me with my own catharsis.
The episode hit so close to home, that it remains a
memory that to this day I can’t let go.
War is ugly, the military appeals to the ego and sense
of adventure of youngsters, but the true destruction will remain with those that
experienced it for a lifetime.
I was a platoon leader in the III Corp area of Vietnam conducting
search and destroy missions north of Saigon near the City of Xuân Lộc, a
district of Đồng Nai Province, in the Southeast region of the country located on
National Highway 1.
Our mission was to make sure that the Highway was in our
control since it was a major access to Saigon.
We had been on a mission in the muggy triple canopy
jungle in the hill area where intel reported major enemy troop movements.
Our fire support base was located near a rubber
plantation to provide artillery support for the ground troops like my platoon
that were looking to find and destroy ammunition caches along major trails and
bunker complexes used by local Viet Cong insurgents and well trained NVA
regulars.
Not having much food or clean water for about 25 days, we were
flown to Fire Support Base Leopard Main via a series of Helicopter (aka helos)
sorties to take showers, retrofit, and get a hot meal.
After so many days in the field we stunk so showers were
welcome and even Army food was a delicacy.
Under a makeshift tent in a muggy afternoon under 100-degree
temperatures and 90% humidity, our lunch of steak and mash potatoes was
interrupted by the crash of one of our helicopters a few clicks away.
The Colonel’s voice penetrated the confines of the tent
as he bellowed “Martinez get your team fitted, we have a critical mission."
Without hesitation we were ready to go in a matter of minutes,
only equipped with a couple of light M-60 machine guns, our RTO and his radio,
and M-16’s.
The helo pilots that brought us to the base were still there,
having stayed for lunch, so we were dispatched to set up a perimeter around the
fallen helo, and rescue the troops in the chopper.
In addition, we had to find and maintain intel integrity
so the enemy would not get it. For many years I have kept this bottled up and
have only shared scant information.
I will glean over the specifics, but suffice it to say
that it was an unfortunate day for all of us.
As we hit the hot LZ (landing zone), we received heavy
small arms in addition to incoming mortar rounds that hit in a zig-zag fashion.
Unfortunately, everyone on the helo was killed on impact
and we lost some of our guys trying to secure the crash site.
In the cacophony of battle everything was a blur.
I was taken out along with a few other team members.
A few days later I woke up at a hospital in Long Bhin to
the soothing voice of a blond woman dressed in white calling my name.
My eyes were
loosely wrapped in a light gauze that filtered the light so when I saw her
against the backdrop of the well lite hospital, I saw what looked like a halo -
all I could think was – I made it to heaven, and she must be an angel.
I blanked out again and by the time I woke up to music
of the 1960s by Smokey Robinson’s “The Tracks of my Tears”, one of my favorite
songs played by another patient nearby, I was graced by the return of that
fabulous angel asking me how I was feeling.
If this sounds
silly, you must realize that after so many months in-country, there were no
American Women around, so this was not shell shock or silly me with the first
stages of dementia.
It was a logical conclusion that I was in heaven.
After some heavenly reality hit, along with some
nurturing and getting to feel better, I was able to hobble around after a few
days despite a bout of malaria that they discovered when they ran blood tests on
me.
My convalesces was interrupted by the crushing news in The Stars and
Stripes newspaper that one of the guys in the helo was a medic by the name of
Jimmy Westbrook from nearby Sanford Colorado - a short distance from my hometown
in The Valley. What
a small world I thought. But
what could I do? I
existed in a world so far away surrounded by injured soldiers and I felt so
utterly hopeless.
I realized that I could not have done anything for him
because the entire helo had exploded on impact. But I carried my burden with me,
and it bothered me to no end. All
I could do was to write to Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook and express my condolences via
general delivery at the Sanford Post Office, hoping they would get it.
When I got home the summer of 1971, I received a call – “Mr. Martinez,
this is Richard Westbrook, you wrote to us while you were in Vietnam.
I’m on my way
to Conejos Ranch.
Can I stop by and talk with you?”
I responded
that I would very much like to meet with him.
We met for an hour or so and he said, “Jimmy’s mother
would love to hear from you.
Can you join us for dinner?”
With some
trepidation I accepted, wondering what I could say to a grieving mother and how
could I respond. Over
a nicely prepared home-cooked dinner of fresh corn, salad and pot roast (you
must realize I got home weighing all of 120 lbs., my fighting weigh was about
180), we talked about my growing up, what my plans were for my future, and they
shared stories about Jimmy and what a good boy he was growing up and how he had
become a medic in the Army wanting to help our injured band of brothers.
After the fabulous meal, we retired to their nicely
appointed living room neatly adorned in what I believe was a western motive and
prepared to address the elephant in the room - “What Happened to their Jimmy.”
The years have blurred my memory, whether it’s sublimation, PTSD, or
just something you want to bury in the deepest recesses of your mind, or some
other label the psychiatrist's call it these days, but I remember that day like
it was yesterday.
The sorrow that I felt for those folks can never be
explained or measured.
The mother’s trembling hand, her distant gaze trying to
assimilate facts while grimacing on answers to some of her questions while all
through the early evening sharing memories of their beloved son while absorbing
some of the details that I delicately conveyed without too much graphic
depiction of what totally happened.
They both listened, focused on every word; the stoic
father - strong and firm but with a slight mist of tears gleaning around his
blue eyes, me trying to understand the grief that only someone that has lost a
son or daughter can comprehend.
My own eyes water as I recollect that sad-sad
evening and the silence interrupted only by the breeze of the cottonwood trees
nearby and the warble of a Robin in a nearby tree.
In the silence
my own heart pounding like a drum with my fear that they will hear it as clearly
as I can, my rapid breath hoping to conceal my anxiety.
How can someone
that has led men in battle, recovered from injuries, and seen the horrors of war
be so intimidated by the sorrow that these folks have?
I have never
been able to articulate how I felt; I wasn’t sure I should have done this.
Was I violating a confidence?
How do you handle grief when you are the messenger
carrying the details of a loved ones passing.
I was only 21,
about to turn 22 that July, but I felt like an old man trying to reconcile and
understand how to make my piece with the Good Lord and wondering if I should
have been a better man.
The silence was broken by Mr. Westbrook.
He said, “it took a lot of courage for you to write to
us in the first place, additionally it was a given that you were sincere when
you agreed to meet with me, but it took real guts for you to have dinner with
his mother and I and be truthful about what really happened. All we got from the
Army was that he was killed in action. Mom could never rest with just that.
She is a strong woman from pioneer stock, and she wanted
to know the truth, and my friend, you have allowed her to begin to heal.”
He
thanked me for providing some measure of comfort.
He made me feel proud that a simple soldier like me
could provide the start of closure by just being there for them.
I never met Jimmy, but he will remain a brother to me
for as long as I live - almost 50 years later this cathartic moment is still
with me. I
am so sorry that I never saw the Westbrooks again.
I guess life happens.
I went back to college, worked nights at the Grefco
Mine, and went on to graduate school, and on with my life. By now I believe both
Mr. and Mrs. Westbrook have joined Jimmy and are smiling at each other, happy to
be in the heaven all of them deserve.
I fondly remember that night, however, and so
glad that I was able to help in some obscure way.
I still feel the warm hug from Mrs. Westbrook, her timid
but strong grip as she held my hand thanking me.
As for Mr. Westbrook, he was like the father most men
would like to have, ramrod straight, strong, with a vice-like handshake and a
no-nonsense look that clearly said I truly appreciate what you have done for us.
I pray that we don't continue to send our boys and girls to fight a war
without a clearly defined objective. We are proud Americans; we can do anything
we set our minds to; we just have to be unified in our collective pursuits.
Vietnam
Veterans like myself are finally coming out of our shell and admitting that we
have been hurting for a long time, and subliminally staying silent despite our
patriotic beliefs. We
came back to a divided country and were maligned by many for serving in a war
that was ill-conceived. We
never had the hearts and minds of the very people we were trying to protect, yet
we were thrust into the belly of the beast.
Conclusive data
has been found that politicians all along were told by our military commanders
that the war was not winnable.
But the Jimmy’s and other casualties of this war died
fighting for what as kids we were taught to believe in.
I won’t go
beyond that because contrary to what is listed on Facebook postings, we should
not use this forum as political fodder for ideological rants.
My objective is
to bring some things to closure and remember my fallen brothers and sisters who
served and died regardless of the political quagmire we faced.
It means a lot
to me to finally share a moment that has affected me for years and personalize
the agony of loss. I
believe sharing this on Memorial Day is especially poignant and has relevance
and meaning, and all I can say is thank you for letting me share something that
has been very personal for the Westbrook family and served as a catharsis for
me.
Joe Martinez
Irvine, CA