24 hours- A Prisoner of War 1972

 We were finishing up 1344 hours of Warrior training under the Famed watch of MG Moore—a soldier's soldier- when all Hell broke loose. We had no idea of what was to happen. We were grunts—the lowest of the low, the spear of the javelin. This is my story. Perhaps you can understand why your grandfather failed to share his stories with you. All is true, to the best of my recall. It started like a typical day on the front lines. We were sleep deprived and shaken by a lack of food and a grueling schedule that even a prince would not be able to keep up with. I was being gassed before I could put my mask on properly, despite having received expert training just weeks prior. The shock and awe of War is not to be underestimated, regardless of why you are there. Even pointing loaded weapons on full auto at college-aged students in the railway yard later could not compare. After the snott and teras cleared away, I was shocked by an automatic weapon going off so close to my right ear. I would later discover gunpowder on the side of my head. A fellow soldier, panicking, shot rounds upfield to put down cover fire for himself. I would learn the hard way that in War, it's mostly you against the world. I later learned that this is always true, even outside of war zones. It is just you and everyone else. Then you add a wife and later kids to your pack. Then it is you and them against the world. Always on watch, always ready to put up a fight. After being abused by the other soldiers, I ran for my life. I knew I needed a friend and ran into Reco Hystin, a fellow Hoosier and trainee from my unit. We decided instantly who was to be in charge of our two-person outfit. He then led the way. Later, he would go on to be a recruiter in the all-volunteer U.S. Army. We both graduated from High School. He is from Ben Davis. I am from Manuel, in Indianapolis. We knew each other and had respect for one another enough to trust our lives with each other. It had suddenly gotten dark. We ran amok and got lost. Then I realized I was alone. I later recalled what had happened in the interim. The veit cong had captured us. They were now prisoners of War. I was unnighted with a dozen or so other soldiers. We were soon taken to a POW camp. I was told to hold out my hands, and the soldier dumped a spoonful of rice into my cupped hands. I eat it as commanded. Then we were being moved to a bigger camp when I escaped and met up with Reco. Somehow, I had gotten myself lost. I was a barrel up ahead and wondered if this was a sign. It was cold. I looked at the night sky. I was a Universe full of Ca. Stars. I realized someone was behind me. I was terrified. Would it be hand to hand combat or shot I shot one ones son or there brother right there. I ran as fast as

I could, even with a backpack weighing over 80 pounds. I saw a small bush and slid under it. I hide like a terrified little child. Would I die? Would I know if I died? Was I already dead? Nothing seemed to make sense. Where Was Reco? The person chasing me stopped, and I could feel his combat boots touching, not pushing my right shoulder. He was right over me. I expected a bayaneet coming my way. It was too close to shoot that I had decided. As I lay in wait for what seemed like hours, a Rat climbed across and up my left leg. I was not afraid of the Rat, but I was fearful of what might be tracking it. So after it jumped off my leg, I moved—the thought of a Ca. Rattlesnake biting me was unacceptable, even with the idea of a bayonet to the belly. I looked around to see what I had to fight, and there I was, stars and all alone. I feel right and foolish at the same time. I looked and realized I was under a bush at the edge of a cliff. If I had moved forward one more step, I would have been killed. But that was only info now. I ran back the way I had just come from. I went to the Barrel and double-checked to be sure it did not have a fire in it. It was still cold.

I began to panic. I ran like an Indian. I may have even flown down a Road to Nowhere. Then I hear the most incredible sound I have ever heard in my entire life. It was my Black Platoon Sergeant yelling, 'Is that you, Harris?' I was so overjoyed I began to cry. He said he had been looking for me the whole night. He told the entire squad that they had spent hours looking for me. I jumped into the back of a truck and drove back to the lights of the base. I was safe. I was home. I was soon in my bed. I had been to Disneyland and back. Being a fully trained Infantryman was not for the weak-minded. It changed who I had been. Years later, I would be labeled Severe PTSD. I had never left the safety of Fort Ord, CA. Yet in my mind, I fought a whole War. Donni Harold Haris

War Zones