http://sdcitybeat.com/article.php?id=2521The Tribune article talked of Feb. 28, 1969, as a day of adherence to procedure and a quiet type of bravery and valor—one that the men of the River Patrol showed at all times. It also treated the events surrounding Kerry’s shooting of an armed Vietcong soldier immediately after one of the day’s ambushes—calling the incident necessary and life-saving.
Cueva’s memories are consistent with Rood’s. He remembers the ambushes—and the boats charging directly into them. He says the tactic worked well. Every man survived that day.
He speaks of Kerry as a man of honor, integrity and quick decision—a natural leader who earned the respect of his men. The outfit, he says, was both family-like and serious.
“We were all from good families. We all had good foundations,” he says. “We were successful people over there and we’ve been successful over here.”
The men got along and worked well together, he says, but the weight of the danger they faced everyday was always on their shoulders. It was an ever-present anxiety, a pressure that never went away.
“The next firefight could come at any second,” he says. “We were always expecting it. The worrying only stops once the firing starts. Then you just shoot it out—you don’t have time to worry about anything; you’re too busy. You do whatever you have to do to suppress enemy fire or get out of there.”
And enemy aggression was ever present.
Firefights were a daily occurrence, Cueva says. With loud and powerful twin 12-cylinder engines, the boats were prime targets for Vietcong fighters. The sound of the engines announced their presence well in advance, and the 5,000 miles of river they patrolled were lined with thick vegetation, ideal cover for snipers and ambushers. What’s more, many of their missions took them into hostile and enemy-controlled territory. Carrying ground troops, Special Forces and mercenaries upstream, Cueva says, they often didn’t know where they were going or why they were going there.
And down time wasn’t always a reprieve.
“On the days we saw combat, the anxiety was worse when we got off the river” and threat levels diminished, Cueva says. “Then you had time to think about all that happened, and about guys who’d been hit and got Medivaced out, or the guys who died. A cool breeze would come by and you’d get goose bumps. Then you’d think about Joe, who wouldn’t be going home and you’d wonder, ‘Why him? Why am I still here?’ The chaplain would just tell us they’d taken the next step to a place we’re all going.”
This past summer Cueva received a phone call from another vet who convinced him to speak about events as he’d seen them. He later agreed to go on air with San Diego radio personality and Latino activist Enrique Morones. A day after that he met with reporters from Mexico City’s La Jornada newspaper and CityBeat.
“His other medals, I don’t know, I can’t talk about them,” Cueva says of Kerry. “I only served with him for four months. But I was there on Feb. 28, 1969, and I know it was a bad day; and that we all deserve the
we got.”
Cueva talks of friends who died during his time in Vietnam, and others who were badly wounded, with a calm and even voice. He becomes emotional only when asked about those questioning Kerry’s actions—and by extension the actions of the other 17 men aboard PCFs 23, 43 and 94.
“After we gave so much over there,” he says, “how could they question us? People that weren’t even there.”
The political controversy over Kerry’s service and his subsequent protests of what he says were American war crimes have driven an uneasy tension between swift boat vets who until now have shared the bond of combat survival. Cueva is acutely aware of the experiences and sensibilities of other vets and respects every man’s opinion. He pains himself to avoid statements that might offend those who served with him, but is transparent about his admiration for Kerry.
“I want to be clear about one thing,” he says. “I volunteered for military service. I did not volunteer to go to Vietnam. My country called and I answered the call—I went and did my duty, without asking questions. But John Kerry did volunteer to go to Vietnam. He had a good education; he could’ve avoided going, but still he went.”
When asked about revelations that senior U.S. officials knew before 1970 that Vietnam was not a winnable war, Cueva shrugs his shoulders.
“I did what I was asked to do,” he says. “I did my duty. that’s all I can say.”
He says he was aware of Kerry’s work with Vietnam Veterans Against the War and that Kerry’s protest work didn’t bother him.
“What I ask is this,” Cueva says. “How many more people would have died if people like him didn’t speak up?”
As the death count continues to mount in Iraq, Cueva says he sees eerie parallels to the country’s posture in Vietnam—namely that young men and women may be dying for what will eventually be deemed a mistake, while politicians look for a way out.
“I’m very patriotic,” Cueva says. “I’m proud of serving my country. I don’t regret any of it. And I support our troops 100 percent. I’m so proud of all the young men and women in Iraq. But I don’t support the war…. I don’t think it’s unpatriotic to question something you don’t agree with.
Printer-friendly format
Email this thread to a friend
Bookmark this thread
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
