A BARBED WIRE FENCE surrounded the message center bunker to ensure that no one outside got close enough to see or hear anything inside. The fence also served as a border for the area that the message center troops were responsible for keeping tidy. One day Nick Furgeson was doing his turn at raking leaves. He was a cheerful, helpful sort of guy, and it was a slow day with messages. He had the area inside the fence all tidied up and had raked a large area outside the fence also.

Our base camp was located within an old rubber tree plantation that surrounded the village of Lai Khe. There were always fallen leaves beneath the rubber trees. Raking was not seasonal here; it was a year-round activity.

Nick had raked the leaves into three large piles. He leaned on his rake as we chatted. Nick was from New York City. After he got out of the Army he was planning on going to school to become a stockbroker. He had round cheeks and when he grinned, it looked as though that grin literally went from ear to ear. With that wide grin of his I thought he could easily convince people to buy or sell stocks. Of course, I had never met a stockbroker so I didn't know what they looked like or even if they needed to grin. But that didn't really matter just then. I looked at him standing there shirtless, a bulge starting to hang over the belt of his jungle fatigues, dust and stray leaves swirling around his boots. His days of playing tennis seemed long ago. I squinted my eyes as I tried to visualize him in a blue blazer, creased pants and shiny shoes. It was hard to do.

Nick had just finished sprinkling some flammable liquid on the leaves when I walked up. At a pause in our conversation, he struck a match and casually tossed it on the nearest pile. The leaves ignited with a dramatic FOOMP! We chuckled at the effect. And then the next pile spontaneously went FOOMP! And then the next, FOOMP! We chuckled even louder at the magical self-ignition of the leaves. Nick had poured gasoline instead of the less volatile diesel fuel we normally used. We were still chuckling when we heard a series of loud pops. We looked at each other for a second as we realized that he had raked up some loose ammunition along with the leaves and it was now going off. For some reason that really struck us as funny and our chuckles escalated into outright laughter. I chided him about what a dangerous fellow he was and then turned to go about my errands. There was one more pop, followed by a loud OWW! I turned around and Nick had a sheepish look. He said, "I think I just got shot."

"You are dangerous," I replied.

There was a dark wet spot on his fatigues, on the back of his left calf. We pulled up his pants cuff and saw a small hole oozing blood.

We got him signed off duty so he could leave the message center and I used the jeep to drive him six blocks to the hospital. As he limped through the door I yelled at him to give a call whenever he needed a ride back. He acknowledged with a wave.

A couple of hours later, he returned to the message center with a few stitches, some pills and a supply of clean bandages. He had hitched a ride back. No, he wasn't getting out on a medical. Yes, he was getting light duty. "But being a message center clerk is light duty. You mean you got shot for nothing?" I jabbed.

"I guess so."

Nick healed up just fine as life fell back into routine, operating radios six hours on duty and twelve hours off. The rainy season started, so the nighttime shelling almost totally ceased. The Viet Cong couldn't tote their rockets very well in the rain and through the mud. We started having movies at night again. It got cooler.

A few months later there was a battalion awards ceremony to hand out medals and recognitions to those who had finished their tour and were heading home. Those of us not on duty were required to attend. We stood in a small formation under the shade of the shedding rubber trees and listened to our commander try to sound important. He handed out some Distinguished Service medals, a few Bronze Stars for Service (not Valor) and Republic of Viet Nam Campaign medals. He also said something about being wounded due to enemy action and called Nick Furgeson front and center to receive his Purple Heart. I snapped awake. What enemy action? my brain screamed but I managed to keep my mouth shut. When Nick returned to the formation he had that ear-to-ear grin covering his face.

Back at the message center we pelted him with heroic sound bites about taking on the enemy single-handedly with a rake, dodging a hail of bullets to do his duty, refusing to abandon his post while enduring the excruciating pain of four stitches, et cetera. They were delivered with a mixture of admiration and envy. "How did you get that dumb accident turned into a Purple Heart?" Nick just smiled.

Nick's tour in Viet Nam ended before mine. We didn't stay in contact afterwards and I never found out if he ever did become a stockbroker. But if you happen to meet someone named Nick Furgeson with an ear-to-ear grin and a slight limp after a few sets on the tennis court, tell him I said hello. Tell him I know the real story behind his Purple Heart.


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