Deep Dive
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This episode is brought to you by The Hartford, a leading provider of employee benefits and income protection products that is dedicated to standing behind U.S. workers to help them pursue their goals and get through tough times. For more information about The Hartford, visit thehartford.com slash employee benefits.
We've also got a link in our show notes. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.
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I spent my childhood adoring and despising my father. My father was mercurial. Warm and hilarious one moment, ice cold and angry the next. My three siblings and I never knew when something we did or said would make him laugh or make him explode. But I loved my dad, even if he wasn't exactly the dad I wanted. I wanted a dad who would cry seeing me dressed up for my first high school dance.
Not one who would keep watching TV as I asked how I looked and reply without even looking. He looked like a freak. But when my date showed up in sneakers and a polo instead of semi-formal attire, my dad went upstairs, grabbed a shirt, a tie, and proper shoes, and tried to force my date to wear his clothes. After I graduated from college, I was back home for a few weeks before moving to New York. My dad had been a storm cloud all day.
stalking around the house in a foul mood, ignoring me, his precious daughter, who was about to leave for the big city. And on this day, I had had enough. And I told him that. I told him I was sick of him being like this. He was ruining my time at home. I wanted him to snap out of it. I'd done this before when he was in one of his moods. And he'd usually ignore me or say something funny to diffuse the situation. And we'd move on. But this time...
He got up from his chair on the sun porch, grabbed me by the shoulder, and marched me into his office. He pointed at a photo of him and a group of young Marines posing in fatigues in Vietnam. This boy, he shouted at me, this boy died today, 37 years ago. It was September. I went upstairs to cry, and we never spoke of it again. I'm Nora McInerney.
And this is Terrible, Thanks for Asking, a show that encourages us to talk about how we're really doing. When you lose someone you love, you lose everything you never knew about them. You lose the things you thought you knew about them, the stories you thought you'd have them repeat for you, the ones you swore you'd remember. They're gone. That afternoon with my dad explained some of my dad's darkness, some of his coldness,
But I never asked him more about it, and now I can't. When my dad died in October 2014, he took that story, all of his stories, with him. My siblings and mother and I can talk about what we think he felt about his time in Vietnam, but it all feels like emotional speculation. We weren't there. When he knew he was dying, my dad connected with two of the boys, now men, who he served with. They hadn't spoken in nearly 50 years.
One of them, Curtis Gritzmacher, nicknamed Gritz, had been looking for my dad for decades. They'd talked on the phone a few times, and Curtis had invited my father to the yearly Marine Corps reunion that he coordinated. My father died before that reunion, but Curtis invited my mother, who invited me, which meant I had a chance to talk to men who were there with my dad, who might have some of those stories I could no longer get from my father. I was going to take it.
I asked Curtis if it was okay for me to bring my producer Hans and some recording equipment, and I did have to explain what a podcast is. And he said, of course I should come. And Hans was welcome, but to keep our expectations low. These men didn't want to talk about stuff with people who weren't in Vietnam. They didn't open up to just anybody. Before we leave, Hans does something very professional and Googles my dad. And something interesting pops up.
It's a post on the Vietnam Memorial website, which is basically a virtual version of the Vietnam Wall in Washington, D.C. The people whose names are on that monument in D.C., the U.S. military personnel who were killed during the Vietnam War, they also have a page on this website where mourners can read about them and if they'd like to, leave a comment, which is what my father did. On a page for a man, or a boy really,
named Felipe Herrera. I was with Felipe the day he died. This is my brother Patrick reading what my dad posted on Felipe's wall, because his voice sounds more like our father's than mine does. Felipe Herrera was always smiling, always positive, and always ready to go out on another mission. Not a day of my life has passed since that September, and I do not think of him and pray for him. Great guy. Best Marine I ever knew. Semper Fi.
Accompanying the story is a grainy, sepia-toned photo of a handsome boy in a Marine Corps dress cap, the sailor-y one. And it's the same guy, the one from the picture in my dad's office, and the date on the memorial when he died, September 20th, 1968, 37 years before I told my dad to lighten up. Suddenly I knew what I needed to ask these men who knew my father, what I wanted from this trip to the reunion in Houston.
I wanted to know what happened that day that he would carry it so close for so many years. And how did that day shape the father I lived with? I don't want these men to die with pieces of my dad that I haven't gotten to find yet, if they even have them. So off we go to a hotel in Houston. Oh, I'm way taller than my dad. How you doing? Good. I'm Gritz Curtis. I'm Nora McInerney. I'm Nora McInerney. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, let's go sit down. Okay. Yeah.
I'd been looking forward to this trip, this mega meaningful quest. And right away, I wanted to go home. It was immediately clear that Hans and I had walked into a setting that was not for us. It was a hotel lobby filled with men who looked and walked like they were decades older than my father, who were there to reconnect over a shared experience. An experience that I, with my cute little Semper Fi memorial tattoo on my wrist and a war-free life, didn't share with them.
These men were a part of the U.S. Marine Corps 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, 1st Marine Division. We'll call them Recon, because that's what they say. Recon is an elite reconnaissance team, groups of six to ten really young guys who go out in search of the enemy for days at a time. There's a small phrase on the buttons they wore, something I hadn't seen before.
They made my dad's time in Vietnam feel more real to me than any story on the internet ever could. Three words to describe their unit: swift, silent, deadly. They kill the enemy. They capture them. I'd never had to think about what my father did in Vietnam, not deeply at least, but there it is. That was his job. Standing in that lobby, I felt like an emotional interloper.
I was telling myself I was there on my father's behalf, but was I? I couldn't imagine my father here. My father was proud of being in the U.S. Marine Corps, but he wasn't the kind of man whose service was obvious. Not like the men in this lobby in their Marine Corps hats and jackets, their tattoos and leather vests with medals. These men sitting quietly at tables, crying and talking, or laughing raucously over beers.
I didn't know these men. I didn't feel like I deserved any of their stories. But Curtis was all smiles and hugs and teary eyes right from the beginning. He didn't even wait for us to get checked in. We literally got as far as the front desk before he just started opening up. And it wasn't small talk about the drive to Houston or the weather or how our flight went. This man, who had told us not to get our hopes up,
he was getting into it. My very first patrol was a firefight with the enemy. And we ended up running from them for several hours and we couldn't get away. And me and another buddy of mine that was Felipe Herrera. Wait, Felipe Herrera? Felipe is the man whose memorial my father wrote on.
I honestly didn't register any more of Curtis' story. As soon as he paused, I jumped in and asked about Felipe. This was amazing, because I wasn't sure that anyone would know Felipe or remember him.
And because it made me feel better. Like I wasn't just some outsider here to extract pieces of my father from strangers. And then, suddenly, while Curtis is describing his friendship with Felipe, he drops this. How I lost it over there and when he got killed and this and that. I lost it over there when he got killed. I, uh...
was took out of the bush for a period of time because I literally, I cracked up over there. What does cracking up mean? Well, losing it, couldn't handle it, you know. It was just like a nervous breakdown, you know. And I think, if I remember right, I'm not sure, but I have some patrol reports with me that your dad was on, and I think he could have been on that same patrol. ♪♪
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This was another man for whom September 20th, 1968, was an important day. Please keep in mind this all happened five minutes into our trip to Houston. We spent the next three days with Curtis and with a lot of other Marines. They came to a small hotel room and sat two feet away from me while Hans sat on a small stool and balanced a giant microphone above his head for hours. And they told us more about Felipe and Vietnam and their own experiences.
But Curtis was there on that patrol in 1968, with my dad, with Felipe, and with this man. I've been trying to remember as best I can so I can give an accurate rendition, filtered through, what, 48 years of time. That's Phil Errett. He didn't go to the reunion, so we got in touch with him once we got back to Minnesota to help fill in some of the story.
He was the lieutenant in charge on that day in 1968. What Curtis and Phil and all the other men told us is subjective. It's versions of the truth of what happened that day or what they heard happened that day. Everyone we talked to carried their own. Patrol records, commendations, and other government documents helped fill in some data points. They told us the latitude, the longitude, terrain, weather, and who exactly was out on patrol when Felipe died on September 20, 1968.
But these men had the details, and they all told us their truth as best they could remember. We're going to take a little break here, and when we get back, we find out what happened on September 20th, 1968. And we're back. It's September 18th, 1968, at 8.30 a.m.
Felipe, Curtis, and my dad left their barracks at Camp Reisner, the first recon headquarters in Quang Nam province in Vietnam, and boarded a helicopter with seven other men. It veered into the jungle and descended towards a marked landing zone in the trees. The ten men did what all recon teams did. They jumped out of a helicopter wearing 65 pounds of gear that they'd need for the next three days, and the helicopter left.
Their job was to patrol around an area of about one and a half square miles of thick jungle and see who, or what, was there. And that's what they did. For 55 hours, things went according to plan. Better than planned. They made great time and got to their extraction zone a day early. And when they arrived, there was something already there. A North Vietnamese encampment had been built on the crest of a big hill. No one had known it would be there. Here's Lieutenant Phil Erritt again.
The triple canopy jungle had blocked any view of it from above, but there were little trenches and foxholes or whatever. And it had a pretty large area. Certainly would accommodate a couple hundred people. And so it was very eerie. It was almost like walking into a house that no one was home. And it was a very spooky, eerie feeling.
You know, I was originally a Telly and Charlie man, and I think at that time they wanted to break McInerney in as a future Telly and Charlie. And what is, just for other people who don't know, also me, what does that mean? Telly and Charlie is the man that is the last man in a patrol, and he covers up all signs and evidence of us being out there as best he can.
and guards the rear. He stays all something like, I don't know, 20 meters behind and makes sure that the team is secure and none of the enemy are sneaking up on us. So my dad is tail end Charlie. His job is to make sure the team is secure, that nobody is sneaking up on them, but somebody was. The Marines were coming down the hill from the encampment they had discovered,
and a North Vietnamese Army soldier suddenly appeared at the rear of their formation, where my dad was. Here's what my dad wrote on Felipe's wall online. We were just crossing below the ridge of a hill when I turned and saw an NVA regular crossing the trail behind us. Neither of us fired. He moved back the way he came. I had actually heard this story as a kid, that he and the boy just looked at each other and turned away, but I had no idea that it had happened on this patrol.
on this day. I signaled the team to stop. Felipe came up when I told him what I saw. He went off in the direction of the enemy with Lance Corporal Koontz. The rest of us followed. And suddenly, 30 North Vietnamese Army soldiers moved into the rear of the recon marines. We were just fanning out when the shooting started.
But Lieutenant Arrett and the rest of the team had ground to make up. They had been caught by surprise. My dad, Felipe, and Lance Corporal Kuntz were holding down what had become the front line.
The North Vietnamese outnumbered the exposed Marines three to one, and they were laying down intense fire. Shortly after the fight initiated... The strangest thing happened. Felipe went right after the enemy. He received no command to do that. He got up from his position and started at a trot, firing towards the enemy. So he was attacking that position to kill this enemy...
with the M60 machine gun. He maybe got half a dozen steps at the most. And at that time, the M60 jammed on him after several rounds. And it was hit multiple times. He caught several bullets in his body.
And he was still alive enough where he reached, dropped to 60, reached in his holster and pulled his 45 out and he got a few rounds off. And then he took the initial round during that time that hit him in the head. So obviously down he went. Then Felipe went down and died.
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It was just what stayed in my mind, and I'm sure all the guys, was he had been hit in his upper torso. His breathing is a sound that you never want to hear. The rattling and this called a sucking chest wound, and it was just horrible as we could do nothing but listen to him die.
According to the Silver Star Commendation report that Felipe Herrera received for his actions, his charge was instrumental in enabling his comrades to gain fire superiority and deploy into advantageous defensive positions. As my dad put it, I'm convinced that he and his M60 machine kept us from being overrun in the initial minutes of the fight. But the fight wasn't over. And in talking to these men, I learned that the story wasn't over either.
For my dad, Felipe's death may have been the biggest thing that happened that day. But for some of the other men, including Curtis and Phil, the biggest moment was still to come.
After Felipe's charge and death, the recon team was still under heavy small arms fire from the North Vietnamese, who were still very close, hidden in the trees. There were enough depressions that we could take cover. And we had gotten in our defensive positions. We were exchanging fire. I remember at one point, I was firing an M79 grenade launcher almost straight up in the air. This was actual war. It was terror and chaos.
They'd just seen one of their closest friends die in front of them, and now they had to get his body. Once we got him back undercover, we had another man got wounded. Immediately, Sergeant Larry Johnson left his protective position and ran across 15 meters of fire-swept terrain. He took up the radio and simultaneously administered first aid while calling for air support.
Helicopters blasted the area with machine guns, and then planes flew over and dropped bombs. The recon marines and the North Vietnamese were so close to each other that it nearly took out everyone. We thought, well, we're gone too, you know. And once the dust had settled, it looked like they'd broken up the North Vietnamese attack. Sergeant Johnson radioed for evacuation.
Soon after, a helicopter arrived at the landing zone. Lieutenant Arrett remembers being one of the men to grab Felipe's body. And we were carrying him back to the helicopter. So by this time, everyone on the team was in the helicopter waiting for us to get on board with the body.
Curtis was covering their retreat, looking out for the enemy. And for some reason, when I looked back at them, you know, to make sure everything was secure for them, I only seen one recon Marine trying to get Flippy Herrera on it. My dad stepped in to help. And I threw my 14 down. I went over to help Stephen get Flippy's body on the helicopter.
And then once we got the body on there, I turned around and went back off to CH-46 to retrieve my M14 rifle because I wasn't going to leave that there for the enemy. And headed back for the CH-46, and it was already taken off with the tail ramp still down. So...
I bailed on, just jumped on and grabbed the hold the best I could to get on the helicopter instead of being left behind. Right at the ramp of the helicopter. I heard a round snap like a sniper round.
And when I looked up, Sergeant Johnson was standing there. And Sergeant Johnson was shot right below his eye. And we had our heads almost touching. And I'll never forget the...
The look that... I'm sorry. It's hard because you can say it in your mind, but it's hard to say it. Okay. Okay. I'm okay. Okay.
Was that the first time that you'd lost men? Oh, sure. Oh, sure. Yeah, I think it was my third patrol. There was no reason that bullet couldn't have hit me. That stays with you. And you say, wow. I was very, very, very, very fortunate, and he was very, very unfortunate. I completely lost it after that.
All I could do is I seen the men in the helicopter and they were all looking back, you know, so I just, I literally cracked up. So not knowing it was my fault or what it was. You felt like it was your fault? Well, yes, I did. Because the Sergeant Johnson had got killed because of me going back off the helicopter to retrieve my M14. So I didn't know.
You know, I felt, you know, I felt really guilty in my heart, you know, because he got killed by a sniper. And if I would have just let the helicopter take off and leave me behind, at least maybe he wouldn't have got killed. You'd have felt better risking yourself than somebody else. Right. Definitely. Phil, Curtis and my father had their own version of these events. And the ripple effects from this war look different for each of them, too.
It's evident in the ways they limped, and the cancers so many of them now have, and the way their lives unfolded after the war. Some, like my father, stuffed the hurt down far enough to build an average-looking American life. And some fell into substance abuse, addiction, domestic violence, depression. We heard a lot of stories.
It's not all because of what happened with Felipe and Sergeant Johnson. I know that. There were other patrols for all of these men, other losses, other kills. This one day didn't make my father who he was or Curtis who he is or Phil who he is. But if you're going to point to one day and say there, there is a prominent example of trauma shaping a boy and the man he would become. If you're going to point to one day for my father...
September 20th, 1968 would be that day. As far as we know, that was one of his first patrols. I talked with my mom about this, and she brought out a letter that my dad had sent her at one point and read it to me. Whenever someone was hurt or killed in my unit, I was the one who showed the least feelings or even thought on the subject. My whole being was dedicated to survival, personal survival,
survival of the functioning, this is so Steve, the functioning biological unit known as Stephen McInerney, and to hatred of anyone who attempted to get near me. There are many methods and areas in which an individual can be killed. And so I closed myself to all but the most superficial relations with others. When I returned home, I was shocked by the world around me,
I journeyed from a barbaric zone of controlled brutality to a world that functioned with no real idea or concern for others. I was a superficial man thrust back into a superficial society, and it was at that point that I met you. He buried his heart. I mean, I think he had to do that. And, yeah, so... That's, like, really hard for a kid to understand, right?
I think it's impossible. You know, when he had Ralph, I remember he was holding Ralph when we were in his house and I said, oh my God, you loved me when I was little. He was like, well, no shit. I was like, no, dude. It's more like, oh shit. Like the only way that I could like see that is through like old pictures or like through him interacting with my child and me imagining myself. Yeah, that's Ralph. Yeah. Yeah.
It's too much, Steve. You're supposed to touch it to your lip. Baby's first solid foods administered by his grandfather against his parents' will. Ooh! A little back spit there. Open up. You're jamming too much in his mouth. Come on, Steve. He's never eaten before. Give him a break. You know what? It's called tough love. Oh, come on. Open up. Open up. I think he loved...
He loved innocence. You knew that that soft, marshmallow-y inside was there deep down. Yeah, I think it came out more like when he was older. There were obvious moments. It's not like I thought my dad didn't love me, but, you know, I just wanted him to be an 80s movie dad. Yeah.
Sorry you got cheated on today. I'm like, in high school, I was like, just be this kind of dad. Yeah, you always tried to sit down and have these little heart-to-heart talks with him, and he'd like, golf is on. I don't know if I should, I don't know, should I have sex before I'm married? I feel like I shouldn't. He's like, Jesus Christ. I'm like, okay, well, I'm just letting you know the pressures of being a teen. It's like, nope, unsubscribe. I was a part of that superficial world that didn't understand my father.
It wasn't my fault I was a child, but I was a child who didn't, and couldn't, know what he had been through. My father did the best with what he had, and he did have bright, gooey, happy moments with us. He wasn't always a storm cloud, but storms are easier to remember than sunny days. They're louder. They're scarier. My dad's love wasn't always the love I wanted, but it was steady and faithful. Like his love for these men.
who he didn't see or speak to for decades, but needed to talk to before he died. And maybe that's why my dad reached out to them. He needed to. Maybe they all do. Maybe that's why they all show up year after year in different generic hotel meeting spaces, with old flags and maps pinned to the walls. Because they were all thrust back into this superficial world. And being with each other reminds them that the things they saw and did were real, even if they aren't real to anybody else.
The Marine Corps motto is Semper Fi, ever faithful. Like my father was to me and my siblings and my mother, and all these men are to one another, even after decades apart. Their faith in each other is what remains, and so does the darkness, and so does the guilt. I do think my father felt guilty. Everyone we talked to mentioned guilt, for being inches to the side, for taking precious seconds to retrieve a gun, for coming home.
I wanted my father to feel forgiven. I wanted all of these men to feel forgiven. I wanted to lift these invisible weights from them, but it wasn't my place to do it. They weren't asking me to. I'm Nora McInerney, and this is Terrible. Thanks for asking. Our producer is Hans Butow. He does all of the work. You guys have no idea how hard he works. I don't even think his dog knows who he is anymore.
Thank you, Curtis Gritzmacher, Pete Martinez, Henry Cobarubias, Margaret McInerney, Phil Arrett, Felipe Herrera, Larry Johnson, and my dad, Steve McInerney. Semper Fi. We guarantee you that you have a vet in your life. They might be your dad or your grandpa or your nephew. There's been a lot of fighting in the last hundred years.
You should talk to them and you should document it. The Library of Congress has a Veterans Oral History Project and you can get info at loc.gov slash vets. We also recommend checking out the StoryCorps project. They have an app that gives you everything you need to conduct and submit your own oral history interview. You can find them at storycorps.org. This is our last episode of season one. We have had an amazing time making it. I'm going to cry.
I can't believe I get to do this. This is so cool that this is my job. So thank you for listening. We are going to spend the next couple months working on season two. I think Hans is going to take a 48-hour vacation. I mean, you worked hard, but how hard did you work? You can get updates on our progress on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook at ttfapodcast, or you can go to ttfa.org, and we have a newsletter sign up there. We will be publishing some extra things during the off-season.
Our theme song is by Joffrey Wilson. Terrible Thanks for Asking is produced by American Public Media, APM. Ladies and gentlemen, if you've stuck around this long, you deserve to hear this. This is the beautiful voice of Henry Coparubias. He also was in Recon with my father and Curtis. He's a sweet, gentle man. I think I cried the entire time he was talking and I wanted to just hug him forever because
We couldn't make this piece fit into the story, but it was beautiful and powerful. So we want to give the last word to Henry. I heard about the ambush and everything else. Todd Barker, our first sergeant, came to me and said, you were close to Phillip. I said, yes, I am. He said, I need for you to go with me to the morgue and identify the body. They opened up the plastic bag. It wasn't pretty.
How come some made it, some didn't? It hurts. It really does. Is there anything that makes that go away at all? No, ma'am. Not at all.
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