Claude Giles of Toccoa, Georgia killed by friendly fire, February 1970
By George McDaniel
War takes a heavy toll on both military and civilian lives, as evidenced by the fate of Claude Giles (a member of my platoon) and his family. Claude was a tall and strong guy from Toccoa, Georgia, near where I’d gone to camp in high school, Athens Y Camp, and knew some of my friends who were from his town. I wasn’t as close with Claude as I was with Stegall and Bray, but we were friends nonetheless.
When Christmas of 1969 rolled around, Claude was smiling as he informed everyone that he and his wife, with whom he’d said he’d had “some troubles” (as young marrieds do) had welcomed a new baby named Claudette after him. He was genuinely pleased and proud and told us that upon his return he was going to be a good father and good husband. He was going to mend his ways. He may have shown us pictures; I don’t remember.
The beginning of 1970 consisted of daytime patrols around a nearby village and setting up ambushes at night for the Viet Cong who came in to collect taxes, intimidate and even murder civilians who “sympathized” with the Saigon government or with us. This shift from the jungle to the village was all part of Nixon’s Vietnamization plan, and now we often operated with South Vietnamese soldiers, who, in my opinion, were not good soldiers because though they technically counted as men, they carried only about six or seven clips of M-16 ammo and one or two grenades and maybe a claymore mine, if that. If an M-16 empties an ammo clip in two seconds, how much firepower does a soldier have? Further, the South Vietnamese departed our ambush site about midnight, made noise, gave our position away, and left us with instead of the 12 or 14 we had initially, only six or seven GIs for the rest of the night. Maybe they knew something we didn’t. Although we did as we were ordered, I did not endorse Nixon's Vietnamization plan since it heightened the risk of our going home in body bags.
Even though Claude wasn’t in my squad, we went out together and then divided several hundred yards apart to form a defensive perimeter around the village with each unit hiding beyond berms in the rice fields, which consisted of brown stubble, this being the dry season. Although this did not happen during our time, we were told that one night the VC had come into the village, gathered the inhabitants in the village center, and the commander put a knife to the village chief’s throat, demanded taxes, and when villagers refused to give enough, slit his throat.
One night a sniper of ours, using his Starlight scope, killed two VCs. As a reward, he received a free Rest and Recuperation vacation (R and R) at Vung Tau, a nice beach resort on the South China Sea near Saigon. In a week or two, he was to enjoy it. The following night Claude’s squad went out, and I may have been in another squad, I don’t remember. Anyway, there was a communication mix-up, so our sniper didn’t know that Claude’s position was friendly. When Claude rose behind a berm to look for VC, our sniper put a pair of M-14 rounds through his chest, killing him instantly. A firefight erupted before battalion headquarters realized what was happening via radio and called a halt.
I did not know our sniper; he was not a part of a regular platoon. I heard he was immediately transferred to another unit. I imagine he is haunted by that mistake to this day — one cannot un-pull a trigger.
Upon my return home, I wanted to call Claude’s widow but did not know what the Army had told her. Had the Army told her that her husband had died a hero’s death and not the result of a mistake? Was I unwittingly to be the messenger of bad (albeit truthful) news? I hesitated.
After my visit to Washington for the inauguration ceremony of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Wall in the early 80s, I summoned up the courage to place a call to Toccoa and managed to reach Claude’s cousin, who explained that Claude’s family had been told the truth. I wrote to Claude’s widow (since remarried) and she replied that she and Claudette were fine. I also called Claude’s mother, a Frenchwoman who had married a GI after World War II.
She was glad to hear from a friend of her son and immediately asked me if Claude’s name was on the Wall. Indeed it was; I’d seen it myself. I answered, “Yes, it is,” and explained that if she went to Washington, she could find it. “Fine,” she answered before asking me again, “Is Claude's name on the Wall?”
“Yes,” I answered again. Weeping, she asked me a third time: “Is Claude’s name on the Wall?” Again, I answered, “Yes.” Perhaps remembering holding Claude as her infant in her arms and smiling as only a new mother can and now weeping a mother's tears, she asked me again and again and again, and I answered, “Yes.”
War takes its toll on both military and civilian lives, and it’s a heavy one paid throughout a lifetime, isn’t it?
