On Cinco de Mayo my leave was about done, but before heading back to Camp Pendleton I traveled down to Nogales, Mexico, with friends, and we attended a bullfight. There was a lot of hoopla at the arena: folks all dressed up, the men in suits and the women in fancy dresses. I recall the men wearing fedoras that matched the hues of their outfits, white and tan and other tints of light brown. The ladies looked to me like they should be going to Mass instead of to a bullfight.

The fancy red and black advertising bills that hung all over the walls of the city announced three matadors who would kill three bulls as part of a wider celebration to observe the holiday which commemorates the Mexican Army’s defeat of a French army at the Mexican city of Puebla in 1862.

The white walls of the arena reflected the bright light. It’s warm that time of year on the Arizona-Mexican border and besides the weather, the beer, Modelo, was warm and something that I’d prefer not to consume but I did. Every time I took a swallow it caught in the back of my throat and I wasn’t sure if it would go down and stay down or rocket out through my nose and my mouth all over my lap and the people sitting in front of me.

The Kill

The bullfights seemed steeped in a tradition I didn’t really understand; the honoring of the bulls as if they were heroes, the formal entrance into the ring by the participants that reminded me of Marine Corps ceremonies I’d been a part of. The matadors and picadors reminded me of ancient warriors, and the horses protected by what looked like quilted armor hinted at a more martial tone to the event. Bugles blew at what seemed like critical moments in the performance and I thought of bugle calls we answered to in the Corps: Taps, Reveille, Assembly.

And then the torment and killing of the bulls began. The toreros—bull fighters—stabbed the bulls with sharp, short spears called banderillas and men on horses stabbed the bulls with long spears and the matador used a cape to tire out the animal and to create a kind of performance art before killing the bull with one clean thrust of a sword that punctured his tortured and weakened heart through a soft spot behind its lowered head.

What bothered me was how the crowd loved the action and cheered at the torture the bulls were put through, the stabbing and the capes the matadors used to entice and lead the bulls around the bullring.

The first two matadors failed to kill the bulls cleanly and the crowds did not like that, hissing and acting like the bull had more of their respect than the men who were supposed to kill the animals.

The third matador, who was the star of the whole day’s shebang, did manage to kill the bull with some panache and I had to admire his apparent physical skills, even though the repeated stabbing of the bull on the neck and shoulders beforehand tipped the odds in the matador’s favor.

Watching the bulls stagger around made me dizzy and the beer turned pretty damned bitter and the crowd’s thirst for the savagery of it all surprised me. It seemed a metaphor for what I’d seen at Khe Sanh. Brutal battles, bayonets grinding into bone, death-maimed men, and all of us, on both sides—NVA and Yanks—debauched with savagery.

The bloody images of Khe Sanh, that bull fight, the cheering Mexican crowd rejoicing in the chaos, visions of dead men lying in the dust, the incompetent matadors down in the ring, the bulls staggering around the sandy arena with hearts as big as the State of Sonora were all mixed up in my mind. Ole! Dios mio!

I couldn’t get out of that place fast enough, almost knocking several men down as they stood on the steps in the aisle as I charged out of the bullring. I knew enough border lingo to understand the names they called me but instead of punching someone in the nose, I had to escape the scenes of the bulls being dragged from the sandy arena floor, the bouquets of red flowers and fedoras tossed into the ring. The scarlet of the flowers highlighting the burgundy tint of the blood on the ground.

Author Ken Rodgers at Khe Sanh. Photo courtesy of Michael O’Hara.

Outside, I squatted in the shade up against the walls of the arena and waited for my friends to come out. They thought it was glorious and a righteous example of culture and history and the influence of Spain’s glory days upon the world.

That memory is clear in my mind and I have gone back to it many times, me sitting on my haunches looking up at them as they talked excitedly about the action in the ring, their smiles, me seeing the blood red mud of Khe Sanh, dead men dragged down the dusty road.

Dios Mio! The savagery.

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NEWS!

BRAVO! is now available in digital form on Amazon Prime.

This link will take you directly to BRAVO!’s Amazon Prime site where you can take a look at the options for streaming: https://amzn.to/2Hzf6In.

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ON THE SCREENING FRONT:

At 3:00 PM on May 27, 2018, BRAVO! will be shown in Paris, TN at the Krider Performing Arts Center. You can find out more about this event and the Krider Performance Art Center here.

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If you or your organization would like to host a screening of BRAVO! in your town, please contact us immediately.

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DVDs of BRAVO! are available. Please consider gifting copies to a veteran, a teacher, a history buff, a library, a friend or family member. For more information, go to https://bravotheproject.com/store/.

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Guest blogger Ron Reyes’ continuing story of his search to discover more about his father who was killed in action at Khe Sanh on March 30, 1968.

“We weren’t in Khe Sanh.” I am wondering what he is talking about. “We were overlooking it on a hill. Well, Ron, it was a bad day; there were a lot of bad days. We were sharing the first beer we had had in a month. The beer was warm, but it might as well have been the finest wine. Tommy had just gotten up out of the trench to grab an ammo box when BAM, incoming. Tommy goes down and it is not good.”

Pete skips through the next sequence of events. I find out later that Pete jumped out of the trench to grab Tommy as mortar rounds were splashing all over the place. He carries Tommy and BOOM gets knocked down, picks up Tommy and, BAM, down again. One more time, and WHAM. This time he makes it to the trench. Those few yards must have seemed like a football field. Pete gets to the edge and my dad is the first one there to help out. They grab a stretcher, put Tommy in it, and away they go. The group gets moving, BOOM, they drop Tommy. This is not Tommy’s day. Get going again, and BLAM. Silence, or so it seemed. Everyone was hit. My dad was killed and Pete was hit badly. I talked to Pete for about an hour. “He was a good Marine,” he said. Wow, this has really come together. Pete gave me a phone number for a Bill Cassell and told me to call. I called as soon as I hung up.

The answering machine picks up. I figure I had better leave a message. “Hi, this is Ron Reyes. I am Ronnie Reyes’ son. Pete gave me your number.” The phone picks up, “Hello,” silence, Bill was trying to get over the shock. He didn’t go to the reunion and hadn’t talked to Eddie or Pete. He said he was staring at the answering machine while his wife was telling him to pick up the phone. Bill watched everything happen that day. He knew my dad was killed. He knew my dad was going to have a child. He knew he was from La Puente, California. For the next 30 years Bill would wonder what happened to me. Was I a boy or a girl? He would drive to La Puente a couple of times and try to find our family, but no luck, and now here I am on the phone. We talked for about an hour. “Your dad was a good Marine.”

Ron “Baby Sanh” Reyes posing in a mortar emplacement with a 60 mm mortar tube. Photo courtesy of Ron Reyes.

At this point, I am still not sure what to tell my grandparents. I talk to my mother after each phone call. She is happy, sad, excited, and scared, not really sure what to do, except let me figure it out. I should explain a little about my mom. She raised me on her own, made sure I had everything I needed and just about everything I wanted. My mother made sure that I never lost contact with my grandparents and that I spent a lot of time with them.

Thursday night the phone rings.

This time I answer the phone. “Hello, I’m looking for Ronnie Reyes.” “This is Ron.” Silence. I am getting used to this now. “My name is Tommy, and I knew your Dad.” I can’t wait for the rest of the story, and then I get thrown for a loop. “It was a bad day, and I don’t remember much of it. I was hit and your dad was one of the guys who helped me.” I had just assumed that Tommy “T” Wallis had been killed. This was great news. It was in this moment that I realized that my father didn’t die in vain, but for a fellow Marine, a 1/9er, and a brother. We spoke for about an hour.

Now I have to tell my grandparents. I make the call. I start talking really fast. My grandparents aren’t sure what I am trying to say. I finally stop and say, “I just talked to some men who were with my father in Vietnam.” I can tell they don’t know what to do. “Grandma, would you like to talk to them?” She doesn’t hesitate and says, “Yes.” I think I gave her Pete’s number. They spoke to a couple of 1/9ers over the next few days. They were happy I made contact.

Ron “Baby Sanh” Reyes holding a M1911A1 .45 caliber pistol while relaxing in a bunker. Photo courtesy of Ron Reyes.

On October 25th, 1998, my own son Ronnie was born. It is fun listening to my mom say, “Aye, Ronnie, you’re just like your dad.”

January of 2000, Tommy calls and wants to know if I would like to get together with him and Pete and go fishing some time later in the year. I have to go. This is the moment I have been waiting for. “One last thing, don’t tell Pete.” What? “It is a surprise. I’m going to tell Pete we are going to drive out to California after the fishing trip and meet you for a day.” I talk with Pete on and off and arrange a date and time to meet him. I fly to Tommy’s hometown to meet Tommy at the airport. We stop in the bar to break the ice and have a beer. Ok, maybe a couple. We pick Pete up and I introduce myself as Eddie Martinez.

Tommy explains how he is going to drop me off on the way to their fishing trip. We drive for about an hour and a half and stop at a gas station. I have been having a conversation with Pete about how he is going to meet his friend’s son, Ron. He tells me he is about my age. We stop at a gas station to take a break, and Tommy says he wants to take a picture. “Hey, Eddie, hand him your card.” Ok, I hand Pete my business card, he looks at it and smiles, and turns back to the camera. “Read it, Pete.” Ok, Citibank. He turns back to the camera. “Read the whole thing!” Why is it such a big deal? He reads it out loud, “Ron Reyes,” turns back to the camera, pauses, then he turns back to me. “I am Ronnie Reyes’ son.” After we have a moment, we are on our way. We proceed to badger and laugh at Pete for a while.

We spent a few days in Mexico. Then we drove to MCRD San Diego for graduation. We saw the last of the Quonset huts. Then we drove up towards LA. We stopped by the cemetery where my father is buried. Then we met with my Mom and had dinner. The next day my grandparents and my aunt arrived, and we spent all day together.

This is where my story ends…or so I think…

Next week, Ron continues with his story about searching for clues about who his father was and his resultant journey.

Ron Reyes lives in Moorpark, California. He has been married to his wife Lori for 23 years and is the father of 2. His son Ronnie is a junior in high school. His daughter Danielle is a junior in college and lives just 2 blocks north of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, DC.

Ron “Baby Sanh” Reyes on the left. Unknown on the right. Relaxing. Photo courtesy of Ron Reyes.

If you or your organization would like to host a screening of BRAVO! in your town this coming spring, summer, fall or next winter please contact us immediately.

DVDs of BRAVO! are available. Please consider gifting copies to a veteran, a history buff, a library, a friend or family member. For more information, go to https://bravotheproject.com/buy-the-dvd/.

BRAVO! has a page on Facebook. Please “like” us and “share” the page at https://www.facebook.com/Bravotheproject?ref=hl.

Bravo! Common Men, Uncommon Valor is a documentary film about the Siege of Khe Sanh, a seventy-seven day period in a war that went on in excess of eight years. Thinking about those eight years, I often ponder what my old unit was doing in Vietnam while I as home in the United States.

Today is May First, 2012. What was Bravo Company doing on various May Firsts while the battalion, my battalion…First Battalion, 26th Marines…was in Vietnam?

On May 1, 1966, neither the battalion nor Bravo had yet been in the Vietnam area of operations. They were on their way and soon would function as a battalion landing team up and down the coast of Vietnam.

I was in my second semester of college at Arizona State University studying Business Administration and as far as I can recollect, had no intention of joining the United States Marine Corps, or the service, or of ever venturing to Vietnam.

After a chain of events that saw me enlist and ship out for Vietnam, by May 1, 1967 I was already in the field with Bravo Company. First and Second Platoons were dug in at an old ville south of Hill 55, which was southwest of Danang in I Corps in the northern part of Vietnam. Third Platoon was dug in on a river crossing further south. Alpha Company of the battalion had already left the Hill 55 area for Phu Bai on the battalion’s journey that eventually led us to Khe Sanh where elements of the Third and Ninth Marine Regiments had been and were then locked in vicious fights for Hills 861, 881 South and 881 North.

On May 1, 1967, on patrol south of Hill 55, elements of Bravo Company found a 60MM mortar employed as an antipersonnel mine which they destroyed with a pound of TNT. They also found a Punji stake which was taken back to the company CP for examination.

On May 1, 1968, I had been home from Khe Sanh, the siege and Vietnam for over two weeks, and had been drinking, partying and pondering a trip with friends to Nogales, Mexico, for margaritas, street tacos and bullfights to celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

Bravo Company, gone from Khe Sanh, was defending Wonder Beach on May 1, 1968. First Platoon ran an ambush the night of April 30 and returned into the perimeter early on the morning of May 1. During the day, 9 rounds of incoming mortar fire were received and one Marine was wounded. The company also took incoming machine gun fire.

On May 1, 1969, I was deployed at Marine Barracks, 36th Street Naval Station in San Diego, California, where I worked in the Navy Brig Base Parolee dorms, harassing prisoners, holding snap inspections and throwing improperly arranged footlockers out the windows three stories down into the yard.

Bravo Company was part of a battalion landing team and took part in a heliborne and seaborne assault rehearsal north of the NamO Bridge near Danang in anticipation of more rambunctious action in the days to come.

On May 1, 1970, I was out of the Marine Corps attending a local junior college in Central Arizona and working as a sheetrock humper on the construction of some high schools in the Phoenix area.

Bravo Company and the 26th Marines no longer existed in terms of a combat unit in Vietnam on May 1, 1970. Their last activities in-country were in March of that year and Bravo Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Marine Regiment now exists in the history of the Corps and the hearts and memories of the Marines and Corpsmen who served.