Cliff Treese

              "Reflections of Khe Sanh"

                  and, my life after...

Revision pending...

I was wounded twice on 11 March 1968; It all began while taking a picture during the shelling of Khe Sanh by NVA artillery. Standing near my bunker, I was photographing the incoming when suddenly there was a noise near my head.  Turning, I saw a large piece of red-hot shrapnel sticking out of a sand bag, one of many that surrounded my bunker; needless to say, it was my last picture.

The first wound happened about 0900H (9am) during a counter-battery exchange with NVA artillery units.  I received about a dozen small pieces of metal (shrapnel) up and down my left side.  I was taken to Charlie-Med where they removed the shrapnel, filled the holes with methialade, taped them shut, and declared me "fit" for duty.

Returning to my area, I was informed we were expecting a big attack that day; I was told to quickly get some C-Rats, (C-Rations)  eat, then take my truck to the ammo dump, loading it with ordinance for Bravo Battery.  After arriving, I "stacked" my deuce-and-a-half with more than seven tons of 105 ammo; it totaled eight pallets, each weighing about 1,700 pounds. My vehicle was loaded beyond it's maximum with high explosive artillery rounds.

Returning to the battery area, I climbed on top of my truck so I could begin distributing the ammunition to our howitzers.  After breaking the metal bands on the first pallet, somebody suddenly yelled “INCOMING.” Before I could move a muscle, one of many incoming rockets hit, exploding in the driver's compartment of my vehicle.  The ordinance on my truck instantly started detonating; the force of the explosions threw me about 50 feet from the vehicle! 

Flying through the air I thought "this is it, I am going to die"...The ground rushed up; I hit hard, knocking the wind out of me. I fought to regain my breath; as I struggled to get up I felt something was terribly wrong with my right arm. I tried to use the arm but it would not respond. Looking down it was almost surrealistic, it was blown off at the elbow.  I felt like I was caught in a nightmare, I reached for what was left of my arm, at the same time I attempted to get up. The pain in my right side snapped me back from the edge of shock; forcing me to the ground. I had to let go of my amputated arm so I could feel what was wrong with my side. I quickly realized my flak jacket was almost completely gone; I found a hole big enough to put my fist in.  I picked up my arm then laid completely down, hoping a corpsman would find me.

I laid on the ground helpless; time was like the morning fog at Khe Sanh. Still under artillery attack two corpsmen reached me; they attended to my wounds ignoring the conditions. As  two additional Marines arrived to carry me; I was loaded onto a stretcher. I asked one of the stretcher-bearers to pick up my glasses; at the same moment, I saw my arm about 6 feet from me lying on the ground.  I asked if they would pick it up and give it to me; one of the Marines responded, placing the arm on top of my body. As I looked down at my leg I noticed my fatigues were torn open revealing several needle marks from morphine battlefield syringes. I hadn't realized the corpsmen had injected me; I was quickly taken to Charlie-Med for the second time that day.

The medical staff at Charlie-Med chose not to sedate me with anesthesia; I was given "local pain intervention" remaining conscious during the re-attachment of my arm.  I remained alert, talking to the doctor until they started an incision down the center of my chest; that's the last I remember.  Waking up, I was being loaded aboard a medi-vac chopper; it's destination was Dong Ha. There, I was facing for more surgery; after healing and stabilizing for a few days, I was sent to Da Nang via C-130. I was still in "critical condition" with a poor survival prognosis; I was placed in the “death ward” as some called it. There, I would find the will to live or succumb to my wounds; I saw many Marines die while I laid in that ward; I remained there for almost four weeks.

Three days after being moved into the "death ward," a Red Cross woman came to my bedside telling me a phone call home had been arranged.  I was moved near a phone; picking it up, I remember an operator telling my mom she had a long distance call from “Cliff Treese” in Vietnam.  My mom had been notified I was killed in action because they didn't expect me to live past the first day.  She told the operator, "Who is the practical joker; my son was killed three days ago.”  I yelled, "Mom, it's me; I'm alive.”  I remember her crying as we first started talking! I think that call helped me survive the "ward."

While in Da Nang, Brigadier General Kern came to my bedside presenting me the Purple Heart Medal with a gold star, the “star” recognizing my multiple wounds.  When I left Da Nang, I was flown to Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines.  There, I spent three weeks; after more surgeries, I was finally flown back to the states.

My flight went to Japan, then Alaska, and ended up at Andrews Air Force Base near Washington, D.C.  I finally was able to visit with my family who all drove to see me.  I spent two days then, I was flown to Fort Dix, New Jersey, which was an Army Base.  From there I was taken by bus to "Philadelphia Naval Hospital." I remained there nine months then was sent to Wilkes-Barre Veterans Administration Hospital where I spent fourteen months; after many more surgeries and a discharge from the Marine Corps, I was transferred to the Philadelphia Veterans Administration Hospital.

I spent more than a year at the Philadelphia VA; after getting tired of being used as a “guinea pig” for every new doctor that came down the road, I decided not returning was my best choice. I had spent almost three years in the hospital; after a week home for Christmas I started my own rehabilitation on my arm, doing anything the doctors told me I wouldn't be able too do.  I worked at everything from pumping gas to driving trucks, including heavy equipment.

I recently retired; I had been working as a “Correctional Officer” in a maximum-security prison.  I have raced motorcycles, drag cars, and stock cars.  I was a certified EMT, a deep rescue scuba diver, auto rescue, repelling and pompering.  When anybody told me there is no way I could do it, I said "watch me."

When I was wounded, I had lost all my addresses; I had no way of contacting anyone from my past. In October of 1999, I received a phone call from a woman who asked me if I was the same Cliff Treese who, in 1967 was stationed at Monterey, California.  Answering "yes," she told me her mom was my old girlfriend. She asked if I would call and surprise her; she was living in Alabama, working in the hospital at Fort Benning, Georgia. I called and “surprised her.”

In December of 1999, I flew to Georgia, reuniting with her. In July of 2000 we returned to Pennsylvania; we were married in Gatlinburg, Tennessee and now live in Allentown, Pennsylvania, we are very happy...

Semper Fi,

Cliff

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