Joe Belardo is my friend. He was an Army Sergeant assigned to the 1st Battalion, 44th Artillery (“Dusters”). His unit was attached to the 3d Marine Division at the height of the Vietnam War and responsible for body recovery under Marine control. This story below is his.
For me, the last Sunday in September always brings back crazy memories. Death begins on the battlefield and sadly someone stateside must tell loved ones of the tragic loss. On the battlefield we get to know the soldiers as friends and brothers but never get to see or attend their funerals. Closure does not exist. In Vietnam, killing NVA and American Body Recovery were my everyday tasks. My five-man Duster Crew recovered wounded and dead after firefights and on combat bases along Route 9 near the DMZ. We fought and recovered bodies from Dong Ha to Khe Sanh. Every day was some kind of ordeal from Hell. I always wondered if the next mission was going to be my last.
To this day I remember the first and last Marines I put to sleep with six shots of morphine. Both were terribly wounded, and our Corpsman gave me the nod to ease their pain and suffering. It was early September 1967, and the first Marine’s name was Jim. I was terrified trying to save him and not put him to permanent sleep. The Corpsman yelled “Joe, you know your job – now do it!” My heart was broken and my soul instantly died. I can’t tell you how many bodies my team recovered or how many we put to sleep. All I know is that it was a heart-breaking job.
I left Vietnam in the second week of August 1968. A week before, I held the last severely wounded Marine. His name was Jimmy. Jimmy made me promise to always help the Marines. I remember his last words, “No Marine should have to die like this.” Then he fell asleep forever in my arms. I gave him my traditional last rites, saying a quick Hail Mary and Our Father with my heart wrenching in my chest. My crew member, Earl “Tex” Holt would stand tall, arms outstretched like a crucifix. Yelling at the top of his lungs, saying one of his solemn prayers that hopefully sent these brave young Americans straight to heaven. Earl was unflinching in his stance as NVA sniper’s bullets hit the ground around him.
The first and last men to die in my arms were both named Jim.
