Grenade

With the bunker incident over, we were happy to set up our NDP (night defensive position) at last.

An FNG from our platoon went for a shit in the jungle. He thought he was doing a good deed, picking up a grenade. He must have missed that lecture. When he set it down, it blew his hand off! Most people would have passed out but instead he came screaming back to our perimeter for Doc Walsh.

[The grenade was probably a dud dropped by a Loach (a small helicopter with a pilot and a guy with an M60 on his lap whose job was to scout by flying low.)]

I was supposed to get married! What am I going to do now?

If you're both in love and it's meant to be, don't worry about it. Take care of yourself first.

We felt terrible.

Somebody went out and brought his hand back in a box, like a reliquary.

It was getting dark and we’d had no enemy contact that day so we radioed for a MEDEVAC. We waited on pins and needles. A chopper landing at night, broadcasting our position was not part of our regular routine. As it approached, we set a strobe light at the landing site. The bird picked up the wounded man and his hand and disappeared into the night sky.

We triple-checked our position. Everyone reminded everyone else,

Don't pick up anything! 

No one did.

Doc continued to check on the man by radio after he left and they stayed in touch after he returned to the States.

The rest of the night was uneventful. In the morning, we moved on. We had learned to detach, the medics will take care of him.