Not many people know that I have an older brother named Joe. You might find this strange and you would be right, but I didn’t know I had an older brother myself until I arrived in Vietnam in July of ‘67. We don’t look like brothers, but we think the same way about most things and we make snap decisions about almost everyone we meet, sort of sizing them up I guess. That doesn’t mean we let the world know about the way we think, we’re careful that way. Between the two of us we’re a mixture of things that are identical and opposite at the same time, just like most brothers.

      Joe Cowthran was born in Louisiana in 1946. Joe’s parents emigrated north from Louisiana to Kansas City, Missouri when Joe was very young, part of the great wave of African Americans that sought to better themselves and their children by migrating north to better jobs, and marginally better lifestyles. Each year they would return to Louisiana in the summer, visiting family and friends. Some of Joe’s earliest memories are tied to the farm where his grandparents scraped out a living. Joe and I both were indifferent students in school, he was a highschool basketball star while the best I ever did was sandlot football. We both started working in small grocery stores while in school, played pick up games of our respective sports, discovered girls at about the same time, and we both ended up in Troop A, Third Squadron, Fourth US Cavalry in July of 1967.

      We started out on different tracks, went through the same fears and terrors that all new guys go through, and shared the wonders of an Asian country that was a hundred times older than ours. In October, Joe and I came under the expert teachings, stern guidance, and heavy hand of Luther Page, a career army Staff Sergeant that liked to be called Pop. At first, Pop acted like he was the wily old vet and we were the new guys, but he soon settled down. Looking back, it seems to me that Joe was very fortunate that Pop settled down so quickly. He had his hands full just looking after me. I wouldn’t say that I was dumb; but Joe could go on for hours on the subject and end up insisting that calling me dumb was a gross insult to any other mentally challenged individual.

     The first time that I became aware of Joe’s babysitting duties was a night in November of ‘67. We had pulled into the fire support base on the outskirts of Go Da Ha and since we were inside of the bunker line, we didn’t have to pull guard duty and could sleep the night through. I found a nice, comfortable bunker and made a bed on top of it. My long and refreshing nights sleep was rudely interrupted by Joe around six the next morning. He was on the makeshift ladder that I used to access my sleeping quarters and was shouting my name out repeatedly until I stirred awake. It seems that we had suffered a mortar attack during the night and because he couldn’t find me, he thought I’d been killed. It puzzled me that he wasn’t filled with joy over my good fortune, he even knocked down the ladder forcing me to climb down part way and then jump. I thought about giving him a few sharp words about the incident, but could plainly see that he was over wrought and I thought that it would be better to let him simmer down.

      A few weeks later we were back at Cu Chi resting up and pulling vehicle maintenance. One late afternoon we were in the scout hooch with a bunch of other guys when Joe almost fainted. One of the fellows from the infantry track by the name of Terry Boynton was at the rear of the hooch cleaning his rifle while the rest of us were either playing a card game called ‘tonk’, or watching it. Joe suddenly leaped to his feet and screamed out a string of invective that would make an old sailor blush. It seems that after cleaning his rifle, Boynton was sighting in along its length and the rifle crossed Joe’s path. Terry Boynton was an unusually silent man with both a peaceful face and evil reputation. Most of us thought of him as a stone cold killer and feared him. Joe’s tirade was about pointing a weapon at someone and how he could have been killed in an accident. Terry’s face never lost it calm arrangement, he appeared to be as peaceful as a sleeping baby. Joe’s screeching was finally winding down with the shouted question about weather the gun was loaded, when Terry slowly pointed the rifle towards the roof and pulled the trigger.

      We helped Joe to his feet as the echo of the shot died. Terry Boynton put his rifle under his bed and lay down for a late afternoon nap while we helped Joe out of the hooch. I was surprised he didn’t see the humor in the situation but thought better of trying to reason with him. He was mumbling to himself, his eyes protruding a bit and I figured that I’d wait awhile before offering my sage advice. After all, what’s a brother for?

      Some time in December we spent about a week posting the road. This meant that during the day, several strong points were set up along the road as the convoys to and from Tay Nin and Saigon went by. Usually, a strong point was either two tracks or a tank and a track. The kids selling beer and sodas and the momma sans selling trinkets appeared as if by magic as soon as we set up. The officers patrolled up and down the road telling us to chase away the civilians but they soon were back. Along with the kids and momma sans, young ladies would appear and offer a few moments of ‘comfort’ to us war weary GI’s. Joe and I always tried to both spend time and dollars on these young ladies. We were after all ambassadors of a sort, aiding a poor third world country and its citizens. Unfortunately, one of the young ladies left me with an embarrassing medical condition that Joe used in describing me in a decidedly negative fashion. To this very day, when I allow my sunny disposition to affect my judgment, Joe still tells me that, "You a dumb SOB!"

      Too soon, the Tet Offensive broke out all over the country. I had been moved to the second platoon and didn’t see Joe for about two weeks. On the morning of St. Valentines day, I had to go into Cu Chi for a medical test, and didn’t see Joe again for about five years. I never saw Pop again.

      The Troop had run into the whirlwind that was Ap Cho. As I listened to the big radio in the orderly room with many other guys, Captain Coomer’s voice boomed out calling the Troop to move back for air strikes, or calling out to remount to hit them again. One of the guys who had been dusted off with shrapnel wounds returned from the hospital and told me that Pop and Joe had been killed in action.

      A guy from the third platoon, Grimes settled me down and helped me to get myself under control. I have no memory of what I did but Grimes told me that I attacked the poor kid who told me that they were both killed. I flew out to the Troop and my sorrow was eased by the guys from the first platoon telling me that Pop had been killed but Joe was alive when he was dusted off. There were several stories about how things happened, but the confusion that is part of any fire fight led to several different versions. When I later asked Joe, he couldn’t help much; a lot of men that were as badly wounded as Joe suffer a merciful amnesia about the events that happened to them. Joe had been hit in the neck and suffered a spinal cord injury.

      Joe and I re-united in the middle nineties. It was then that I learned what had happened during the long years of his recovery. Joe’s first memory was coming back to consciousness as a medical orderly was cutting away his fatigues. The man looked at Joe with distaste and complained about his odor. Joe has always claimed that the young man was fortunate that Joe didn’t have his rifle. He next recalls being in a hospital in Japan for a series of operations, I don’t know what they did, but Joe spent the next several years either on his back or propped up in a wheelchair. Over the next several years Joe went from the US Army and Air Force hospital in Denver to a VA hospital in Memphis. A breakthrough of sorts was reached when Joe started to complain of the pain that the catheter was causing. The Doctors told Joe it was ‘phantom’ pain, and nothing could be done for it. Joe told them that they better find something to do about it or he’d start screaming and wouldn’t stop until they did. After several test, the Doctors concluded that Joe did have some sensation below the waist and started him on the long therapy that eventually freed him from his wheelchair.

       Over the many long years that Joe spent in therapy, he learned how to walk again. He needs a cane and has to sort of shuffle along, but he says it’s like running for him compared to a wheelchair. Joe met his wife Marilyn after he learned to walk again, they raised a beautiful daughter named Michelle and a handsome young man named Jonathon who presented Joe with his first granddaughter last year. Little Jaylinn has completely captivated Joe and that’s as it should be. I met her on my way to Tucson for last years re-union and thought her the second most beautiful little girl I’d ever met. You see, I have an eight year old granddaughter myself.

      Over the years, Joe has served as both a role model for me and an inspiration for all. He is a deeply religious man, serves as a Deacon in his church, does quite a bit of volunteer work, and still meets with his VA Doctor in a group therapy session that he brought me to once. He spent over thirty years in the US Department of Labor as a councilor to young men teaching them about the mechanics of the job application process and then placing them in suitable jobs.

      Joe has shared both with me and all the young men that he’s helped over the years his remarkable story. Joe has told me that he kneels and prays every day, thanking God for his terrible wounds. He tells me that his ordeal has brought him into a closer relationship with the good Lord and that his wounds have made him the man he is today. He is the finest man I’ve ever known. I admire him greatly and love him deeply. And that’s the way it should be; he’s my big brother.

John G. Jerdon
Earleville, Maryland.

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