This article is from the January 1999 issue of
LEATHERNECK
with the very kind permission of the
Marine Corps Association.
The original is posted in the
Leatherneck Archives
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Putting Ghosts to Rest In Vietnam, War Widow Exorcises Three Decades of Guilt Story by R. R. Keene |
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Dong Koi Mountain is one of those places where the Vietnamese do not go. It does not appear any more or less foreboding than neighboring Dong Ha Mountain and the surrounding hills of what was once Northern I Corps along the old Demilitarized Zone. But the local inhabitants believe it is haunted with the souls of unrested spirits. As a rule, combat veterans don't put much stock in ghost stories, usually dismissing such tales as products of overactive imaginations. But every once in a while, someone will tell them of something unusual which causes them to pause. Dong Koi is one such exception. Twenty-five years after Reserve Second Lieutenant James Glenn "Jimmy" Upchurch made the ultimate sacrifice on that mountain, his widow, Kathy, stood at its foot, trying unsuccessfully to find someone to take her up on a tour. With her was Ed Henry, a former Navy corpsman who served with the Seventh Marine Regiment at Chu Lai and who is now a guide in Vietnam with Military Historical Tours of Alexandria, Va. "We're not allowed in that area," he told her gently, as they looked up the ridge line. "It's an ancestral area the Vietnamese don't want disturbed." Their Vietnamese guide was less tactful. When he was asked to lead them up the ridge, his reply was a firm, "No!" So Kathy Upchurch stood at the foot of Dong Koi Mountain and prayed. She had been an 18-year-old college freshman when, on a blind date, she met her future husband, an upperclassman who played football for East Central State University in Ada, Okla. Jim Upchurch looked like the all-conference tackle that he was: broad-shouldered, full of youthful power and confidence and well-liked, but also a natural leader. "He had a boy's sense of humor, direct with an easy laugh. And we became best friends," she said. "He was the first person in my life to ever fight for me," she added softly, without elaborating. He proposed on St. Valentine's Day 1965, and they were married in June. Not quite two years later, he received his draft notice on Jan. 28, 1967, his 23rd birthday. "Things were such then that he could have gotten a waiver, but he wasn't going to do that. His grandfather had been a Marine," Kathy said. She remembers the day when Jim and his friend, Larry Beck, came through the door and said in unison, "Guess what we did today?" They had signed up for Officer Candidates School. She still can hear that refrain today, tolling like a prophetic chorus, for both would die in Vietnam. "Guess what we did today?" Second Lieutenant Upchurch's Basic School class graduated in August 1968, and by September he had orders to the Republic of South Vietnam. The couple had a month's leave to prepare for the separation. Kathy had been teaching school while Jim attended OCS and TBS at Quantico, Va. They returned to his father's resort in Graford, Texas, where she would work as a back-up fry cook, cabin cleaner, boat worker and wait while Jim did his 13-month tour. He wanted to make the Corps a career, and she really wanted to have children. But decisions on both would have to wait. After Vietnam, there would be plenty of time for such things. "I want to be buried in Lubbock, and here's who I want as pallbearers," Jim said out of the blue one night. He had pulled the car over to the side of the road and was calm when he spoke, but his statement had come without preamble. It was two days before he was to leave, and they were returning home from a party. It was too dark in the car for Kathy to see his face, but as he talked, she felt herself flush with fear, anger and confusion. "Jim, why are you saying this?" She could feel tears welling up. "You're not going to be a hero or do anything to get hurt?" "Kathy, you're a Marine officer's wife. You will always hold that chin up. And if anything happens, you're going to have to do it all," he said. "There'll be no tears in front of the family." She thought about that as their car's headlights guided the way down a lonely ribbon of Texas road. She remembered it again when he left for Vietnam. On the war front Maybe, but there was still a lot of killing to be done. Second Lieutenant Upchurch found himself commanding 2d Platoon of "Echo" Company, 2d Battalion, Ninth Marine Regiment, 3dMarDiv, in what was then Quang Tri Province. He considered himself lucky, as his platoon sergeant, Douglas "Mack" McConnell, was considered to be one of the best. They hit it off and became friends in a situation where friendship is not easily earned nor quickly given. Kathy recalled Jim's letters speaking in glowing terms of Mack. In fact, the whole platoon seemed to take to their new lieutenant. Kathy received a Christmas letter from an anonymous member of his platoon, that read, in part: "We feel he is one of the best lieutenants ever.... He works with and for us. He takes great interest in our personal health and welfare. We are fortunate in having such a good lieutenant. On the other hand, he is fortunate in having a thoughtful wife who remembers us peons at Christmas." (The latter is a reference to Christmas and other care packages she regularly sent to the platoon with notes of encouragement.) More importantly, Lt Upchurch proved to be a quick study and fast learner, essential traits in combat. In five months, he participated in eight major combat operations including Dewey Canyon. Operation Dewey Canyon took place in January 1969 in the Ashau Valley, an infamous North Vietnamese Army supply route. With the slap of AK47 bullets overhead and the "krumph" of incoming mortar rounds forcing 2d Plt to hunker down into the red clay, Lt Upchurch coordinated supporting-arms fire with cool skill and quiet confidence. He ordered a counterattack toward the heaviest point of contact, suffering casualties. The enemy soon took flight. The young platoon commander was proving to be as tenacious as he was courageous. Later in February, one of his squads sprung a nasty ambush that killed those unlucky enough to be walking point for a large NVA force. Pressing his advantage, Lt Upchurch and a fire team reinforced the ambush squad, and then he led the combined group in a vigorous assault. He was out front throwing grenades and firing his .45-caliber pistol. The NVA, bloodied and surprised, fell back. Later in February, Echo Co took on an NVA unit that was heavily armed with automatic weapons and rocket-propelled grenades. Upchurch deployed his platoon to ensure that all avenues of approach to their position were covered. When the shooting became heavy and the confusion of combat ensued, he stood exposed to heavy hostile fire and pointed out targets to his machine-gun squad. Nobody in the platoon doubted their lieutenant's courage. Yet he confided in his letters to Kathy, "I'm scared every day." He also wrote of his concern for his fellow Marines and the fact that there were so many 18-year-olds. In one of his last letters, he wrote: "I really do believe there is a God, and I'm not afraid to die." On the home front They came to her door at 8 a.m., March 27. One was a Marine captain who was the recruiting officer out of Fort Worth. He was wearing the yellow-and-green and white-and-green ribbons that told her that he was also a Vietnam veteran. Kathy saw them, and though she knew why they had come, she asked: "Is he a prisoner of war or missing in action?" The Marine captain with the ribbons from Vietnam said, "No." She told them, "You'd better come inside." I was in jeans when they told me. I remember that and remember saying to them: 'But he wasn't supposed to be there! We have our R&R planned. This can't be. This is not happening. This couldn't have happened to Jim. God wouldn't do this.' " In a flush of painful emotion, it all ran in her mind. Their times together, his face, snapshot memories, trying to picture him again. Things only they knew. Then she remembered his words: "Kathy, you're a Marine officer's wife. If anything happens, you're going to have to do it all." She began to regain her control. Picking up the pieces And, certainly, nothing that followed seemed right. Kathy had become close to Jim's father (his mother was deceased), and she called him first. "I lost Jim," she said. His father fell apart. As time went by, they drifted apart. The elder Mr. Upchurch became passive, then bitter and threw himself into his work. She would see him only a few more times before he died in 1988. For Kathy, Jim's death initially was met with denial. But there was another setback. Four days after his death, Jim's last letter to her arrived. In it he expressed disappointment with her for wanting to move their planned R&R dates back. "Is teaching more important than me?" he'd asked. She was devastated by yet another powerful emotion: guilt. At the funeral she remembered his admonition: "There'll be no tears in front of the family." And there were none. But there was no closure either, she said, explaining that it was, of course, a closed-casket funeral. "If I could have just seen a hand or something." Kathy later learned the details of how her husband died in a letter from Sgt Mack, written May 1, 1969, at Quang Tri. "Dear Mrs. Upchurch, I'm sorry I've been so long in answering the letter you addressed to our platoon. I was your husband's platoon sergeant, and I like to consider myself also as one of his friends.... I'm sure I can speak for all of the platoon when I say we share your loss of not only a damn good platoon commander, but also a fine human being. The rapport he established was one of the finest I've seen in my career. She never heard from Sgt Mack again. For the next few weeks and months, she listened to people offering sympathy as she wrapped things up. She had come to the conclusion that the Marines had handled things badly, from sending an officer who was inexperienced in casualty assistance to shipping her husband's body in what she believed was a less-than-timely fashion. "Jim's death and what was happening to me: It all just wasn't real. "It came home to me when his personal effects arrived. His wedding ring and a crucifix were the first things I saw, and I knew it was final." She wept alone. She had their wedding bands made into a ring which she kept and made a scrapbook for Jim's father that included his Purple Heart and two Bronze Star citations. "I threw away Jim's letters because I didn't have a child to pass them off to." Then, she tried to start over. However, one thought lingered. "Is teaching more important than me?" And each time she heard his words, she always answered, "If I hadn't asked for the R&R date to change, he'd still be alive." It haunted her. She went back to school and earned a master's degree in physical education. Then she wanted to be a nurse, but ended up teaching public school in Springfield, Va. She dated a few military men and four years later remarried. That marriage lasted six years. "If I hadn't asked for the R&R date to change, he'd still be alive," she kept thinking. Looking back, Kathy said that it was that thought, more often than not, that sabotaged her relationships with others. Depression set in. "I was becoming an A-number-1 b----, who needed to see a shrink." She did, and he suggested that she visit Vietnam. She also discovered the Gold Star Wives of America Inc., a nonprofit national military widows' service organization that took its name from an old custom in World War II. Families of those serving in the military back then were issued "Blue Star" flags, which were proudly displayed in their windows while they waited for a loved one to return from the war. Sometimes the wait was in vain, and the family replaced the blue flag with a Gold Star flag signifying a member of their family had been killed in action. In this group, Kathy found others who understood how she felt. It was a combination of friends, old and new, who encouraged her to bring things to closure in a journey to Vietnam. In 1994, on what would have been Kathy and Jim Upchurch's 29th wedding anniversary, she arrived in Hanoi. A few days later, with maps provided by Marines who had known her husband, she was near the 17th Parallel at the foot of Dong Koi Mountain, looking up toward where her husband had been killed. Kathy chose a sapling and hung a small wooden folk angel on it to approbate the spirits and in remembrance of not only Jim, but of all who fought and died there. "I really believe that I heard Jim's voice, and he told me: 'I am at peace. We all are at peace. I knew you would come, for God and I have been guiding you.... It is now time for you to be at peace.' " "I didn't hear anything," said guide Ed Henry, "but I'll tell you what. It was like being in a bad place. The Vietnamese guides just left. While we were there, I got a feeling of something not being right, sort of like just before an ambush we once walked into near Chu Lai. It was like we were surrounded by people watching us. It was just spooky." Whether or not Jim spoke to her does not really matter to anyone but Kathy Upchurch. For her, the trip was a catharsis, purging most of her emotional demons. "I thank God for letting me go to Vietnam. The pain which had been deeply buried all came to the surface. "I realized that Jim died doing what he wanted to do. He wanted to go serve and be who he was. I had to face up to that," she said. She also came to grips with her feelings about the Corps. "I had a love-hate relationship with the Marine Corps. You love the strength and leadership and the good it instills in Marines. I hated it because back then, it didn't seem to value the family enough. But there isn't a Marine I've ever met who wasn't protective of me." She returned to Vietnam again in March of 1998 because she discovered that she liked the country and its people. While there, the mayor of Dong Ha, hearing that she was a war widow, told her, "I am sorry about your husband. I served in Dong Ha. I wish you happiness, long life and good health." A teacher, Mrs. Ng Thi Cam Hong, also asked her, "Do you hate us?" The question brought Kathy Upchurch to tears. "Hate had never entered my heart concerning the Vietnamese people. I was raised in the Christian belief that unconditional love was a better method of solving problems. Anger, yes; hatred, no." She looked in the direction of the mountain where her husband had been killed so many years ago. "Climbing that mountain isn't important anymore," she said. "I've learned that life is an ongoing process, and you have to roll with it, and maybe I'm supposed to help someone else get through hard times." While she still thinks now and then of the man she has loved for so long, she admitted that it is sometimes difficult to remember Jim's smile, laughter and brown eyes. "How dark brown they were," she whispered and wished she had never thrown his letters away. |
This article is from the January 1999 issue of
LEATHERNECK
with the very kind permission of the
Marine Corps Association.
The original is posted in the
Leatherneck Archives
Visit the Leatherneck Magazine Site.