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, while being attached to the blue helmet squads of the United Nations during a student uprising in Seoul, Korea, could not compare. Then I only had to make one decision. Did I shoot them or did I shoot over their Heads? I realized no one except my sergeant would know for sure if I shot over their heads. So that was my decision. Unlike the student massacre months earlier at Kent State, Ohio. I would shoot over their heads. Just as fast as we were helicoptered there, we flew away. After the smoke and tears cleared away, I was shocked by an automatic weapon going off so close to my right ear. I thought I was being ambushed. 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 Hyston, 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 in Indy. 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. We were now prisoners of War. I was reunited 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. I had not eaten since breakfast. Then we were being moved to a bigger camp, when I escaped and met up with Reco. Somehow, I had gotten myself lost and ran into him. 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 a shot? I shot one of at someone else's son or their sons or their brother right there. It was too much, too fast for me to think through. 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? Someone was chasing me. I could hear them. 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. He was too close for me to shoot, I had decided. Hand-to-hand action? I recalled a fight as a young boy in which an older teenage cousin saved me. 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. I instantly recalled a Rat incident with my dad's mom in her two-room shack where I woke up in the middle of the night with her over top of me with a broom. She instructed me to go back to sleep, saying it was only a rat in my pallet on the floor. She was a poor, sad woman. Living in a shack with my cousin and her two children was my daughter. She was checking for a snake.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. Later in Korea, I would do an eye dance with a poisonous mamosi snake that was crawling over my radio as I leaned back on my pack, waiting for my company. I was the radio operator for whom. I got fired by the battalion commander himself, a light colonel. Later, that mission was to disrupt the message. 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 again and double-checked to be sure it did not have a fire in it. It was still cold. I began to panic. The Barrel was our outer limit line. The cliff was a no-no.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. He said I was the last soldier from the entire brigade to come in. He had stayed until all his men were accounted for. It was starting to get daylight. I stood in that truck in the cold and froze almost to death on the drive back to base.I was safe. My chest was solid and hard to breathe. 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. Donnie Harold Harris. What is he saying?

In the piece titled "24 hours- A Prisoner of War 1972," Donnie Harold Harris shares his intense and personal account of a military training exercise that escalated into chaos. He describes the physical and psychological challenges faced during training, including feelings of fear, confusion, and the urge to survive. Harris recounts specific moments, such as being gassed and experiencing panic, as well as the camaraderie with fellow soldiers. Ultimately, he reflects on the lasting impact of these experiences, including the development of PTSD and the realization that the struggles of War extend beyond the battlefield.