A few weeks ago Darold Baum gave me the opportunity to interview him abut his experiences during the Vietnam War. Darold served in Vietnam twice, as a Marine Private First Class in 1965, and then as a Sergeant in 1970. Today he is a retiree of the Marine Corps and lives in Collinsville with his wife Maria. Together they have raised three children, a son and two daughters, and are now proud grandparents of two grandchildren.

I thank Darold for being available not only for our interview but also to answer my additional questions over the phone. From the information he gave me, I was able to write with greater accuracy the following vignette, based on a real event during Darold’s service.

What Boys Knew

Who knew what day it was? They didn’t keep track anymore. And what season, even? There were only two seasons in Vietnam: hot and monsoon. Today it was the hot season. He, and the rest of MIKE 3-9, each fifteen or twenty feet apart so that one grenade wouldn’t get them all, were doing patrol outside Danang. He was somewhere outside Danang in a treeline. That much he knew.

He could see there were geese everywhere. He knew the Vietnamese farmers kept them around in the rice paddies because they ate the leeches. He knew the rice paddies criss-crossed and made an endless matrix of squares. He knew the paddies were full of water and had three or four-foot banks. He didn’t know the banks were harboring Vietnamese guerrilla fighters.

He didn’t know they had tied geese to their heads and were stealing towards his platoon, hidden by the rice paddies’ banks. Even when they began to shoot, he didn’t know who or where the fire was coming from, only instinctively dropped down behind the trees. It was morning, and it was sunny and the visibility was good, and he was sweaty and dirty, and his platoon had been ambushed.

Five feet to his left was Jack. He’d trained with Jack in Okinawa. On Okinawa their platoon had been formed, and they had gone to Vietnam as one unit, all at the same time. Jack was eighteen from Colorado, short and well-built. Not stocky, but well-built. Jack was a real nice guy: likable, always smiling. Jack’s distinguishing trait was his crooked smile; Jack smiled with half his mouth. Jack told stories about deer hunting with his family, about brisk fall mornings when he fingered his gun and knew the enemy couldn’t shoot back.

As MIKE 3-9 was ambushed by Vietnamese guerrillas, Jack Stump was shot in the head. He knew right away that Jack was dead.

Once the fire had ceased he and a few others took Jack to the rear. Someone carried Jack’s pack; someone carried Jack’s ammunition; someone carried Jack’s body. Everybody had to carry something. He carried Jack’s rifle.

Thirty-seven years later he would say, “Tons of villages, and they all had thousands of names that you forgot about.” He’d say you forgot their names, the specifics, but you never forgot that they were there. It was a war; you didn’t get too close, and so you forgot about Jack and you went on fighting the war. But after the war, just as you never forgot about the villages, you never really forgot about Jack.