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While walking past another seldom used bunker I noticed a group of soldiers, and recognized some of Bravo battery’s FDC crewmembers. I detoured over to greet them with a hearty hello, asking who was manning the FDC. I received a glum acknowledgement, with a formal response: “Lieutenant”. I asked why they were all here. Looking to one another and back to me, nobody wanted to answer. Captain Schaefer, who was also serving at battalion HQ came up behind me. I asked what was wrong. One of the guys finally spoke up and said “we’ve lost Mickey”.

We all make mistakes in life; nobody being perfect, but this would lead to probably my worst mistake in Vietnam. I was still a go-getter, can-do person and dense as all get-out. I responded to this information by asking where was he lost, I’d get an airplane and find him, don’t worry. He then told me “Ralph, Mickey’s dead, we’re here for the memorial service”. In shock, I asked how this happened. “We were on a convoy, Mickey left the 577 track that was riding on a tractor trailer to say something to the driver and slipped or something, falling down between the double axle wheels, and he died instantly”.

One would expect after near a year and a half at war I’d be a bit hardened. Instead, responsibility builds upon itself. Success breeds expectation for more success. The frustration of loss is real. So is the delusion of control in a dangerous situation. My mind goes into stupid mode, being overwhelmed by this sense of responsibility. I probably would have been flying convoy cover if I hadn’t been goofing off in Australia. I remembered the conversation with Mickey when I told him my goal was to get him and all the other guys home safe, this was evidently my failure.

How could I explain this to his family? Could I have prevented him from taking those fatal steps? Another death on a convoy, a year apart, could I have prevented the first one by slowing the pace down? With those thoughts, the process took a very bad turn. My mind took me straight down. I started yelling mindless depravities, most I don’t even remember. I aggrieved the grief-stricken. My comments weren’t directed at them, or weren’t intended to be, but the reaction wasn’t right. Fortunately, Captain Shaefer was still there, he grabbed me and gave me a good shake, then instructed me to take a walk. I wasn’t making any sense. Logic wasn’t playing a role, my emotions ruled and I again failed some guys I thought very highly of. Mickey Wilson died on May 10th 1971. Captain Shaefer later explained he had been looking for me to give me the bad news. He counseled that it was the BC’s responsibility to write the family and under the circumstances I should leave it be.

I knew I was remembering the two accidents together. I needed to consciously separate the incidents. There was no evidence that we were traveling too fast for conditions the year earlier. I had been on many convoys, and had flown cover for many more, observing the natural accordion effect these moves create. A few miles per hour can make a big difference to the spacing and gaps. The drivers try to speed up too much to maintain their distance. This can be dangerous with heavy equipment and war machines on the battered roads we were traveling. More than once I had counseled a Commander to slow the pace for the conditions on the road. I had to accept that sometimes accidents can be accidents.

During my walk along the perimeter road, I realized that Mickey’s faith and personality would take him right to heaven. God needed good soldiers too. I found some comfort in hoping that Mickey would put a good word in for me when my time comes. I realize that most religions don’t recognize a lobbying effort in Heaven, but I’m from D.C. and nobody can guarantee me that it wouldn’t help. Since then, I’ve lost my grandparents and mother and I think they will also put a good word in for me. I do believe that Jesus loves us all, even old warriors with a destructive bent.

Ralph Porter    Then  and  Now
A, B & HHQ 6/27th Arty
Dec 69 to Jun 71