The Grunt Padre
The sun was rising on Firebase Ross as 1st Lt. Father Vincent Capodanno dismissed the men of the 5th Marines from morning church. The base was located in the central Vietnamese highlands, south of the ancient capital of Hue and north of the Que Son Valley where Viet Cong guerrillas had been darting about between rural hamlets. Known more formally on US command maps as Hill 51, the firebase was a hodgepodge of improvised defenses and buildings, including Capodanno’s humble chapel. Capodanno had scraped the structure together in his spare time with the help of the grunts–held together with nothing but rope, bamboo, and Marine elbow grease, it was nothing compared to the churches back in the States, but neither Capodanno or his men were picky.
THUTHUTHUTHUTHU. Machine gun fire sent splinters and dirt flying. Weapons of this caliber signaled that M company was engaging the trained North Vietnam army regulars, not just Viet Cong guerillas. More mortar rounds impacted the perimeter, shaking the ground. Marines hugged the ground among the trees, as Capodanno finished a man’s last rites. M Company had been sent to rescue several pinned units, but now they were the ones who needed rescuing.
Capodanno darted to yet another foxhole filled with anguished cries, rising from a dive to see the bloody results of shrapnel: one dead, two more dying, as a corpsman treated one Marine’s shredded arm. The priest held the man's hand. There was no way a corpsman could help him now, and only a few last things a priest could do.
Dozens of fatigued men filed out the chapel, some splitting to the mess, others to ramshackle barracks. They were young boys, but without the usual carefreeness of their age–they weren't concerned with girls, or exams, or the big game. Vietnam had taught them that happiness was waking up alive, receiving the cigarette ration, and most of all, experiencing the blessing of clean socks. Capodanno shook each Marine’s hands on the way out. He always washed before Mass, but it hadn’t taken long for his leathery hands to become caked with the dirt and mud synonymous with base life.
THUNK. BOOOOM. THUNK. BOOOM. The mortar fire was getting closer to M company. Men struggled to dig in, as more shrapnel filled the air. In a momentary respite of fire, Capodanno heard a cry from the fighting position to his left: “Corpsman! We need a corpsman!” He bolted for the voice. An explosion sent him to the ground, his right side stinging. Scrambling to his feet, Capodanno made his way to the position with renewed determination. The men looked less like soldiers and more like corpses with bandages dangling off bloody limbs. An artillery observer shouted with a grimy map in one hand and a clunky handheld radio in the other, “Chu Lai battery, this is M company, repeat, M company, grid 20, direction 35°, over. Adjust fire up 50, danger close! Repeat, danger close! Over!” Capodanno began attending to the men as best he could. One kid, who looked fresh from basic training, murmured “Father,” staring bug-eyed at the priest.
Capodanno smiled at him. “Don't worry, son– you’re going to be alright.”
“It’s not that, Father…it’s…it’s…your hand’s gone.”
He looked down. His right arm ended in a mangled stump. Simultaneously, he noticed the right side of his body was pincushioned with shrapnel. “So it is.” He gritted his teeth and continued aiding the men.
The hum of rotors filled the sky as a helicopter circled the camp, heading towards the jungle. Seeing the door gunner cross himself, Capodanno held out his crucifix in return, though noticing that the man's other hand never left his gun. Pre-mission blessings were a common part of his work, and he always obliged requests, praying for protection and forgiveness for the soldiers, who were by definition both the perpetrators and victims of violence. As Christ himself held company with the greatest sinners, so, like pastors before him, Capodanno went where the souls are in the greatest danger: Marines, Catholic or not, were facing their longest nights in Vietnam, and the depravity of war was precisely why he must stay with his flock.
Reflecting on this, Capodanno made his way to the mess, passing a boisterous infantry team rotating out. The group met him with enthusiasm. “Grunt Padre! Settle a bet–was Jesus an only son?” The priest grinned before he began a short explanation. Though Catholic himself, he served Marines of all traditions, and ecumenicalism among denominations was an everyday thing–it was not uncommon for him to field questions and requests for prayer from Christians of all sorts, from Southern Baptists to New England Episcopalians. Even the few Jewish or agnostics among the company came to him for advice. After some more questions and ribbing, the Marines went on their way, and Capodanno continued into the building.
The lost hand was a painful impediment, but Capodanno carried on. The observer kept calling in an evacuation order, but the priest refused; he would not leave his company in the field. The harsh fumes of burning flesh and sulfuric munitions filled every nose, as if Hell itself was among the company. Now was not the time for a chaplain to leave. Under the streams of tracer shells ending in flares of apocalyptic napalm, there was more work to do. His mouth voiced only prayers, his face radiated only calm. Absorbed in prayer, the Father couldn't judge just how close the sound of machine gun fire had gotten…
Moving between the corrugated tin roofs of Firebase Ross, the chaplain entered the mess, chatting with the men of 5th Marines– a joke here, pastoral advice there, and a request for confession he swore he would get around to after breakfast. The hall was more empty than normal. Several officers called out for their units, including M company–those under his battalion. Walking back to the chapel, he passed by the command center bunker, which was overflowing with men. Approaching the mass of officers, he heard shouts and yelling on the radio. Then, all at once, his ears caught the sound of intensified barrages coming from the base artillery. Something was very wrong.
Capodanno had been engaged for hours now. He patched up those he could, comforted those he couldn't, and encouraged everyone, even as his voice grew hoarser with each last rite given. His fatigues and priestly stole were covered in dried blood: his and others. As he treated the Marine grunting in pain beneath him, he said softly, “Stay quiet, Marine–you will be ok. Someone will be here to help you soon. God is with us all this day.”*
Then, seeing a corpsman crouching with two wounded soldiers in a forward foxhole, dangerously close to the camouflaged enemy, Capodanno sprinted toward them. He dashed forward through the noise and fire–dozens of yards, then feet, then inches from his objective.
Above the hole in the trees, a Vietnamese soldier saw the sudden movement of the unarmed priest. His machine gun opened fire, sending Capodanno to the ground with a volley of rounds. Saying a last prayer, Capodanno fell to his knees for a final time in the jungle of Vietnam.
“Colonel, is something wrong here?” Capodanno addressed the ranking officer in the command center.
The colonel was visibly agitated by the Queson valley map in front of him, but replied with eerily complete composure: “A patrol was ambushed this morning in Thang Binh. We sent another company, but the fighting is just ramping up– 26 confirmed KIA.”
“1st battalion, sir?”
“Yup. Seems they ran into a contingent of full blown north army. Initial reports are saying maybe 1 or 2,000 enemy combatants. I doubt that. Draftees see a few guerillas and think Ho Chi Minh himself is leading a million man march. Should just need a few companies to relieve the pressure and get our guys out.” His attention turned to a typed mission briefing on his desk, titled Operation Swift. After thumbing through the brief, he handed it over to an aide. Without looking up, he spoke again. “Chaplain?”
“Yes sir?”
“The Third are your boys, right? You should be at the camp triage–expect casualties. I'm deploying M company.”
“Nonsense. I’ll stay with my boys–nothing I haven't done before.”
The colonel paused, considering, then grumbled, “Alright, Chaplain, your funeral. But this division does not need another hero: don't get yourself killed out there."
*actual last words of Father Vincent Capadonno, September 4th, 1967