THE
GODBEHERE

PATROL

Firsthand Account

 

by JERE A. BEERY, JR.

United States Navy Retired

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            There was no such thing as “just another day” in Viet Nam.  Every day was a new experience to be dealt with as it happened.  All the preparation in the world couldn’t prepare you for survival in a war zone where the enemy had no rules, maintained no constants, and wore no uniform.   Anything was possible.  Therefore, everything was probable.  For some of us, the ability to survive depended entirely on one’s will to live, one’s belief in God, and the “Above and Beyond” capabilities of one’s fellow shipmates.  The following true story reflects the epitome of what can happen when these three elements merge in a combat zone. . .

  

            Friday 1 March 1968.  Payday at the United States Navy’s River Patrol base, River Section 511, Task Force 116 at Binh Thuy, South Viet Nam.  Earlier that day I got paid, and Otto and I had gone by Morley’s (an off-base, East India Tailor) to pick up my new pair of custom-made fatigues.  They were made out of a camouflage poncho liner.  The outfit looked a little strange, but I had it made for warmth, not as a fashion statement. I had decided to wear them for the first time on that night’s patrol.

 

            When I showed up at the dock wearing my new uniform, the rest of the crew began teasing me about my new look.  “Hey, Beery, where are you?  I can’t see you with those camos on,” Otto said.  Sherman called me “a walking tree.”  Even Lieutenant Godbehere got into the act by saying, “If Beery doesn’t show up for patrol, he’s going on report.”  The teasing didn’t last long, as we had a 12 hour patrol to get ready for.

 

            Bravo Patrol was preparing for another night patrol on the Bassac River.  Bravo and Bravo One were both 31-foot, Mark-1 PBR’s (Patrol Boat, River).  The two high-speed patrol boats were being checked out and loaded by their crews.  Bravo boat always operated with the same crewmembers.  Bailey, Otto, Sherman, and I had been together since December of 1967.  We were one of the very few crews that had not suffered any personnel losses since the start of the Tet Offensive.  Sherman and I were both E-3, seamen.  We were the lowest in rank aboard Bravo boat.  In January we both had taken our test for third class Petty Officer.  However, we had not received the test results as yet. We were both looking forward to the advance in pay and rank to E-4.  In his early twenties, Sherman was one of the very few black men to volunteer for the river patrol force.  He was a rather quiet man, but you always felt knew he was there.  He stood about six-foot-two, and weighed in somewhere around 235 pounds.  He definitely could intimidate the Vietnamese with his presence, which came in handy on occasion when searching suspected V.C. sampans.  Sherman was quite effective with the M-60 machine gun as well.

 

            This night was to be Sherman’s last patrol with Bravo, as he had been reassigned to duty in the front office of River Section 511 starting the following day.  We always looked for excuses to have a party, therefore, it was agreed we’d all meet at the base bar after our patrol to give Sherman a proper send-off.

 

            Otto and I provided the wit and humor aboard Bravo.  Our exchange of one-liners and puns were never ending, and on occasion even clever.  This in itself was a very valuable contribution to the morale of the crew.  If it were ever to be said that I had a good time while serving in Viet Nam, it had to have been with Otto.

 

            Our Boat Captain, Bailey, was probably our best audience.  The 26-year-old First Class Boatswain Mate was senior man aboard Bravo when we weren’t carrying a Patrol Officer.  He knew the river like the back of his hand.  He could handle a boat as well, if not better than, anyone in our river section.  This night was about our sixtieth patrol together for the crew of Bravo.

 

            Our Patrol Officers would rotate.  Every time we went out, a different Patrol Officer would command our two boat patrols.  Some officers we preferred over others.  Tonight we were under the command of one of our favorite officers, Lieutenant Richard Godbehere.  The Lieutenant was in his early thirties and had been with River Section 511 for about eight months.  During the period of time, the Lieutenant had encountered the Viet Cong many times, including having one boat shot-out from under him, sunk!  Because he was a “Mustang,” we all felt a little closer to him than some of the other officers.

 

            A “Mustang” means Godbehere worked his way up through the ranks to become an officer.  In other words, he once was, as we were, an enlisted man.  We had been out many times with Lieutenant Godbehere and had survived quite a few tight spots under his leadership.  He always took great care in not putting his men, or the boats, in unnecessary danger, and he was well respected by all the crews.  In addition, because of his name, God-be-here, he was considered somewhat of a “good luck charm”, or "Blessing" to the patrols he commanded.  The running-line around the dock was, “I rather have God-be-here, than anyone.”  We all echoed that sentiment. . .

 

            We tried to take the same boat out on every patrol, but that was not always possable.  The #60 boat was the fastest boat in the river section, but we had to share it with other patrols.  Otto, 21, was a third class gunner’s mate, and was very meticulous about our boat and his forward guns, the “twins.”  The “twins” were a pair of .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the bow of the boat.  Together with the .50-caliber machine gun I manned on the stern, these guns were the heaviest standard fire power on a PBR.  This day Otto was pretty upset about the fact that the “twins” had been left dirty, and Otto knows how to cuss.

 

            Bailey was checking out the engines, and Sherman and I went to get C-rations and ammo.  Lieutenant Godbehere looked over his map planning our patrol.  After we were all loaded, we had a brief meeting with both boat crews conducted by Lieutenant Godbehere. 

 

            During our briefing, Lieutenant Godbehere informed us that we would be transporting two sailors to an LST (Landing Ship, Tank) located about a mile down river.  Then he shared the latest military intelligence with both boat crews.  He told us to be on our toes at all times, as “Charlie” was still taking this “Tet thing” very seriously.  He said the number of night river crossings was on the increase, and reminded us that the V.C. depended heavily on the waterways to transport arms and supplies.

 

            He also reminded us the other patrols had been taking a lot of hits, and we were losing men every week.  When he had completed his briefing, we cast off and pulled away from the dock.  Otto loaded the forward “twins.”  Sherman set up and loaded the M-60.  I loaded the after 50, and put C-rations on the engine covers, so we would have hot food for later.  Bravo boat was to operate as lead boat, and Bravo One as cover boat.  Lieutenant Godbehere would be using his personal radio identification name, “Handlash Delta,” to communicate with the base back at Binh Thuy and the cover boat.

 

            Once we had cleared the base and were in the middle of the river, we opened the boats up to full boar.  This seemed to impress our two passengers, the “T” sailors.  However, the crew of Bravo was looking forward to dropping off the excess weight, and getting the boat up on-step.  This is the point when a boat achieves minimum draft, or drag, and maximum speed.  When a boat reaches this point, you feel like you are skimming across the top of the water, occasionally even feeling airborne.  No one talks, you just hold on and enjoy the ride.

 

U.S.S. WESTCHESTER COUNTY, Landing Ship, Tank (LST)-1167

 

            The LST was one of the smaller 542-class landing ships used in Viet Nam.  The sight of the LST reminded me of my previous two years of duty aboard the U.S.S. Westchester County, LST-1167, in the waters of Viet Nam.  The Westchester County, an 1156-calss LST, was somewhat larger than this one.  Their operating capabilities, however, were virtually the same.  I couldn’t help but think about my former shipmates, and wondered where they and the ship were now.

Seaman, Jere Beery mans 50 caliber machinegun aboard LST-1167 (1966)

 

            The words of my former Commanding Officer, Cdr. Norman T. Hansen, were always echoing through my head.  “Beery, I strongly recommend you retract your request for duty with the River Patrol.  This is very dangerous duty, and you’re just going to get yourself hurt or killed.”  Other members of the crew suggested I extend for another two years aboard the Westchester County, as this was considered “safe” Viet Nam duty.  I had carefully considered all my options before making my final decision.  It had made me feel pretty damn good to know of their concerns though.

 

            When you live aboard a ship for two years, you become attached not only to the crew, but to the ship as well.  A lot of fond memories of my time aboard the “Wesco” were going through my head as we approached the LST’s port beam.  A ladder was dropped over the side, and without mooring we came alongside, discharged our two passengers, and cast off.  Once we had cleared the “T,” both boats were opened up and Bravo boat jumped up on-step.  Things were pretty relaxed at this point, as we were on our way to our assigned patrol area, and the sunset was incredible.

 

            In a short while, radar had picked up two contacts headed straight for us.  Although we had a good idea what the two contacts were, we stood close to our battle stations anyway.  As we suspected, it was just the patrol we were relieving.  They were on their way back to the base.  The two patrols acknowledged each other’s presence by flashlight, and then proceeded on their way.

 

            After dark, both boats of Bravo Patrol were operating with no running lights to avoid visual detection.  The boats were traveling at full bore, 25 knots, and 100 yards apart.  After another 15 minutes or so, we were coming up on Cu Lao May Island, dead ahead.  Cu Lao May was approximately 10 nautical miles long, and about two miles across at its widest point.  It was located about 25 miles inland from the mouth of the Bassac River.

 

Seaman, Jere Beery at the helm of a MK-I PBR (1967)

 

            When coming up on Cu Lao May, we had the option of passing to the right or left of the island.  This time we chose a course to port, our left.  The river bottle-necked at this point, making the distance between the two banks about 125 yards.  Because a large sandbar was located between us and the mainland, we always had to pass close to the north end of the island.  Three weeks earlier, the crew of Bravo had spent eight tense hours grounded on this particular sandbar.

 

            The northern tip of the island was about 1,000 yards off our starboard stern, when suddenly, without warning; we began taking rocket fire from the tree line on the island.  We all scrambled for our flak jackets and helmets.  I jacked back my 50 and looked forward to Lieutenant Godbehere for permission to return fire.  All guns were manned and ready.  The lieutenant was on the radio, “Bravo One, this is Bravo!  Receiving rocket fire from Cu Lao May Island!  Reduce speed to half-throttle and hold your fire!  We don’t want to give away our position until we know what we are up against!”  “Bravo One at the ready and standing by,” came the reply.

 

            The Lieutenant sensed “Charlie” was holding something back.  We slowly approached the island in the darkness, being careful not to give away our exact position.  For the next two minutes or so, rockets were launched blindly in our direction.  Several struck the water and exploded just short, and on the other side of our boat.  “Charlie” then confirmed Lieutenant Godbehere’s suspicions by opening fire with at least four to six positions of .30-caliber machine guns, and an undermined number of rifles.  Their fire was accurate, hitting both boats.

 

            Lieutenant Godbehere ordered the two boats to open fire.  The darkness erupted in a barrage of red and green tracer fire.  There were many positions of heavy automatic weapons fire.  Rocket Propelled Grenades were coming out of the tree line and two and three at a time.  I didn’t know which way to aim!  There were more targets than I could shoot.  I could literally see tracers whizzing by me in the dark. The tree line was riddled with enemy muzzle flashes.  Sherman was lighting up the night with his M-60, and Lieutenant Godbehere was dropping M-79 grenades into the tree line on the island.  Otto began having trouble with the “twins".  I thought he was hit at first, but then I saw his silhouette frantically trying to get the “twins” to fire straight. Apparently, both barrels of his 50s were burnt out and Otto's rounds were going all over the place.

 

            It became obvious very rapidly these were not your run-of-the-mill V.C. dirt farmers.  We were up against an undetermined number of heavily armed main-force Viet Cong regulars, and there was no turning back.  Because of the sandbar to our port, we had to maintain a distance of only 40 to 50 yards from the island.  It was as if the VC knew this little fact.

 

       The events were unfolding so rapidly there was no time to call for additional support.  I had just emptied my first canister of ammo, when I saw two reddish orange fireballs leave the island.  Because of our speed, and the darkness, I thought the chances of a direct hit were slim.  I started to reach down to pick up another canister of ammo. Before I had a chance to pick one up, I realized one rocket had my name on it.  I reached up as fast as I could and grabbed hold of my gun.  Just as I did, the RPG hit the starboard side of the boat right in front of me.  In a split second I saw the rocket come through the side of the boat, explode, and I was engulfed in flame.  The heat and brightness of the explosion were overwhelming, and the impact knocked the breath out of me as red-hot pieces of the RPG ripped into my body.  The concussion sent my head spinning, and I was totally disoriented.  I held onto my gun for dear life, as one of our greatest fears was to be wounded and blown overboard at night.

 

            I lost all sense of direction.  The only way I knew which way was up was because I assumed my gun was still standing upright.  I was night-blind from the blast and unable to see anything.  My ears were ringing, and what sounds I could hear were muffled and distorted.  After a few moments, my sight began coming back slowly.  Although I was unable to focus, I could tell we were still under fire.

 

            I tried to remember if I had been successful in re-loading my gun.  I pushed the trigger, but nothing happened. I tried to jack it back, but didn’t have the strength.  I realized I was standing on my left leg, as I couldn’t put any weight on my right one.  At first I thought my leg had been blown off.  It was if it weren’t there.  I ran my hand down my right side and felt it was all wet.  Then I had a sickening sensation that I had never felt before. It was like I was touching something that was suppose to be inside my body, not outside. It was a very nauseating sensation, and I withdrew my hand and grabbed the gun again. I knew I was hit bad, but all I could do is stand on one leg at my gun.

 

            Lieutenant Godbehere was hit by shrapnel in the right arm and right leg and was blown to the deck by the first RPG.  He quickly recovered and returned to the fight.  When the lieutenant didn’t see Sherman beside him anymore, he was sure the seaman had been blown out of the boat. 

 

            Bailey was hit in the right hand, but still maintained control of the boat.  The Lieutenant looked back at me and assumed I was okay because I was still standing up at my gun.  Otto finally got the “twins” working again, and even though his rounds were the only Bravo boat was putting out, for a period of time he was the only firepower the boat had.

 

            Then, a second RPG slammed into the starboard side of the boat, right in our grenade locker.  This second explosion set off several grenades and started a fire.

 

            I was hit again. This time I was hit with hot shrapnel just under my left eye and to my left leg.  The left side of my face felt like it had been hit with a hammer, and I could feel blood running down my face and neck.  Somehow, again I managed to hang on to my gun and remain standing.  But that’s all I could do. I was just along for the ride at that point.

 

            Lieutenant Godbehere was blown to the deck for a second time, this time receiving serious wounds to his knees.  The lieutenant pulled himself back up, and looked around to assess the situation.  The illumination provided by the fire in the grenade locker enabled Lieutenant Godbehere to relocate Seaman Sherman.  The seaman was obviously in a great deal of pain, as he struggled to get to his feet.  The force of the first explosion had blown Sherman across the boat and to the deck on the port side, behind Bailey’s position.  The seaman reappeared covered in blood with a large piece of metal sticking all the way through his right foot and a big chunk missing out of his left arm above the elbow.

 

            Unexploded grenades were visible in the flames in the grenade locker, and the possibility of additional explosions was imminent.  Sherman, without hesitation, and in spite of his wounds, somehow managed to beat the fire out with his bare hands.  He threw all the hot unexploded grenades over the side, and completely extinguished the fire before picking up his M60 and rejoin the battle.

 

            The second RPG also knocked out the starboard engine, and Bailey was trying frantically to get it started.  Lieutenant Godbehere looked back at me, and again assumed I was okay because I was still standing up at my gun, but he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t firing.  The Lieutenant instructed Sherman to make his way aft to check on me.  When Sherman returned, he told the Lieutenant I was hurt bad.  Lieutenant Godbehere ordered the boat to continue south, clearing the immediate area in order to assess damages and evaluate the wounded.  The entire firefight lasted all of eight or ten minutes.  

 

Once Bravo boat was clear of the fire-zone, Lieutenant Godbehere and Sherman made their way back to my position.  I was still standing up with a “death-grip” on my gun when Lieutenant Godbehere and Sherman got to me.  The Lieutenant asked me where I was hit.  I could barely get it out, “in the gut.”  That’s when Lieutenant Godbehere saw how bad I was hurt.  My stomach had been ripped open and my intestines were hanging all the way to the deck.  A large piece of the RPG was sticking out the right side of my back, and my left eye appeared to be hanging out of it's socket. Lieutenant Godbehere grabbed me by the shoulders.  “Let go of the gun, Beery!  We’ve got you!  Let go of the gun!” I couldn't let go. I was scared I would fall.

 

            When I finally turned loose, the lieutenant and Sherman laid me down on the deck.  Lieutenant Godbehere began placing my guts on top of my stomach.  He told Sherman to get one of those big battle dressings out of the first aid kit.  He instructed Bailey to head for the U.S. Army outpost at Tra On.  Lieutenant Godbehere then placed the battle dressing over my belly and tried to keep the blood inside.  In an effort to suppress bleeding, Godbehere placed his hand around the big piece of shrapnel that was sticking out my back to keep the blood from coming out. 

 

Lieutenant Godbehere instructed Bailey to get on the radio and call for “Pedro” (U.S. Air Force Medical Evacuation Helicopter).  “Have them meet us at Tra On with blood plasma standing by,” Bailey radioed.  Otto kept watch in the forward guns while nursing a minor wound to his right hand.  Shrapnel holes the size of baseballs had penetrated the forward gun turret missing Otto by fractions of an inch. 

 

            My new camouflage fatigues were full of holes from the many shrapnel wounds that covered both of my legs, arms, face and stomach.  Lieutenant Godbehere handed Sherman his personal hunting knife and instructed him to cut away my pants away to assess my many wounds.  There was no doubt in my mind that I was dying.  The pain was becoming very intense, and dying seemed like an acceptable option.  I could feel myself getting weaker by the second, as the blood was leaving my body.

 

            I knew we were a long way from help, and my only chance of surviving was not to panic.  I had to stay calm.  If I let myself get upset, my pulse would increase, and I would bleed faster.  I tried to relax as much as I could.  This wasn’t easy, but I had no choice.  I figured as long as I was aware of what was going on around me, I could make a contribution toward whether or not I died.  Lieutenant Godbehere kept talking to me, encouraging me to fight the urge to go to sleep. Everything had become very seriously real. 

 

            A lot of things were going through my head.  I remember thinking about my upcoming birthday in twelve days, and how I wasn’t going to live to see twenty.  My main concern was getting a message to my parents.  I tried to talk, but didn’t have sufficient breath to be heard over the sound of our one remaining engine. In an act of desperation, I grabbed Lieutenant Godbehere by his flak jacket and pulled him down to me.  I whispered in his ear, “If I don’t make it, tell Mom and Dad what happened and I love them.”  The Lieutenant seemed to get upset.  “Now you listen to me, Beery!  You’re going to be all right!  You aren’t missing anything!  Your intestines just fell out.  They can put them back in.  They do it all the time!  Goddammit, Beery, you’re going to be alright!”

 

            In an effort to make me more comfortable, and at my request, Lieutenant Godbehere and Sherman picked up my shattered right leg, and moved it to the other side of the gun mount.  This seemed to ease the pain somewhat.

 

            I was still very aware of what was going on around me, even though I was on the brink of passing out from the loss of blood.  “Stay awake Beery!  Don’t go to sleep!  It won’t be long now!  We’re almost there,” said the Lieutenant as he shook me.

 

            I remember looking up at the Lieutenant and Sherman as they worked on me, and seeing the amount of concern in their faces.  I remember seeing both men covered with blood as they bent down over me, totally unconcerned with their own wounds.  I remember thinking how ironic it was to have a man named “God-be-here” at my side when I was dying.  I was having the ultimate religious experience, as I prayed to God for my very existence. I remember watching our boats flag flying over the canopy behind the lieutenant and Sherman, and I could tell the boat was not going very fast.

       

            It seemed like it would take us forever to get to Tra On, as we were still operating with one engine, and could only obtain less than half-speed.  Tra On was about five miles down river on the mainland side. It took the better part of an hour for us to get to Tra On.  Another half hour to forty-five minutes to reach a field hospital by “chopper.”  We were looking at least an hour before any of us could get medical attention other than first aid.  Lieutenant Godbehere was worried about the amount of blood I had lost. 

 

            Bravo boat limped its way toward Tra On.  Lieutenant Godbehere or Sherman never left my side. 

 

            After about twenty minutes, Bravo boat arrived at the U.S. Army outpost at Tra On.  U.S. soldiers came aboard the boat and started blood plasma going into my arm.  I’m sure I was in shock by this time, but I was still very aware of what was happening around me.  A couple more soldiers then came aboard the boat with a stretcher for me.  One of my legs was on one side of the gun mount, and one was on the other side.  In order to get me onto the stretcher, they had to move my wounded leg around the gun mount.  This was very painful.  Once this was accomplished, I was taken off the boat.

 

            Nobody was saying much of anything.  So, I tried to break the silence by cracking a joke.  “I don’t know how they hit me.  I look like a tree,” I said.  No one laughed.  Lieutenant Godbehere and Sherman were unable to stand on their own and had to be helped off the boat.  Both men were in a great deal of pain from their wounds.  As I was loaded onto the back of a jeep, Lieutenant Godbehere and Sherman were placed on the hood.  Bailey was transferred to Bravo cover boat where first aid was administered to a deep wound in his right hand.

 

            The Lieutenant, Sherman, and I were driven about a quarter mile outside the outpost to a rice paddy where a helicopter landed to take us aboard.  Lieutenant Godbehere and Sherman put their arms around each other, and by using their better legs, were able to hop the short distance to the chopper from the jeep.  From there we were flown about 45 miles to the U.S. Army’s 3^rd Surgical (Mobile) Hospital at Dong Tam.  .

 

            Otto stayed with Bravo boat at Tra On.  Later that night, he had the depressing duty of nursing the crippled #60 boat back to the base at Binh They, alone. . .

After Action Report:

            Patrol Officer Lieutenant Richard Godbehere reported the size of the opposing forces to be approximately 100 men, six to eight positions of heavy automatic weapons, two or three positions of RPG-2/B-40 and RPG-7/B50 rocket launchers, 25 to 35 positions of rifle/light automatic weapons.  Estimated combat ratio:  >11:1.

 

            Of the nine men on Bravo Patrol, eight were wounded:  four minor, three seriously, one severely.  Four medivaced:  Godbehere, Beery, Sherman.  No fatalities.  Two PBRs seriously damaged.  Enemy KIAs unknown - damage to enemy positions unknown.

 

            Recommendations were made by Lt. Godbehere to Lt. Carl Kollmeyer, Officer-in-Charge of River Section 511, that the four crew members of Bravo be recognized for their individual contributions of heroism and bravery on the night of 1 March 1968.

 

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On 5 May 1968, Lt. Carl Kollmeyer was killed in action.  He lived for about two hours before dying from injuries incurred as a result of a direct hit from an RPG-2 rocket.  At the time of his death, Lt. Kollmeyer had only processed one of Lt. Godbehere’s recommendations, Seaman Sherman’s.

 

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Lieutenant Richard G. Godbehere never saw combat in Viet Nam again.  He was awarded his second Purple Heart Medal for wounds incurred on 1 March 1968. 

 

In early 1969, Lieutenant Godbehere and his family visited Jere Beery and his parents at their home in Jacksonville, Florida.  Mr. and Mrs. Jere Beery, Sr. were very grateful for the opportunity to meet and thank the Lieutenant for his successful efforts to save their son’s life.  The Beerys and Godbeheres promised to keep in touch.

 

After twenty years of service in the U.S. Navy, Godbehere retired as Lieutenant Commander.

 

In 1984 he was elected to the Office of Sheriff of Maricopa County in Arizona, the seventh largest county and the third largest Sheriff’s Department in the U.S.A. Sheriff Godbehere retired in 1988.

Godbehere now lives in Hawaii with his wife Vernette, and three sons: Richard Jr., Justin, and Brent.  The Godbeheres spend a great deal of their time on the waters of the islands deep-sea fishing. (Origin of the name GODBEHERE, Old English)

 

Petty Officer First Class Dallam Bailey recovered from his wounds and remained in the Navy.  He was awarded his second Purple Heart Medal for wounds incurred on 1 March 1968. In 1988, after 28 years of service, Lieutenant Commander, Dallam Bailey retired from the Navy.  His last duty assignment was as Commanding Officer of the San Diego Brig in San Diego, California. Bailey’s military record reflects seven military campaigns of Viet Nam service. 

            Petty Officer Third Class, David G. Otto remained in the Navy, and completed his second tour of combat duty in Viet Nam.  Although wounded in the firefight of 1 March 1968, he did not seek medical attention when he returned to the base, and was not awarded the Purple Heart Medal.  Otto spent the remainder of his four-year hitch stateside, and was honorably discharged from the Navy as Gunners Mate Second Class. GM2 David G. Otto’s military record reflects four military campaigns of Viet Nam Service.

 

            Seaman Harold W. Sherman, Sr. recovered from his wounds and remained in the Navy.  He was awarded the “Silver Star Medal” for his actions on the night of 1 March 1968.  He was credited with not only helping to save the life of his fellow shipmate, but also saving the boat from further damage and possible loss by extinguishing the fire that enveloped the grenade locker.  He also was awarded his second Purple Heart Medal.  Both awards were presented to him aboard his next duty station, U.S.S. Dewey, DLG-14.  In addition, Sherman received his advancement to Third Class Petty Officer. In January of 1970, Sherman volunteered and returned for another 12 months of duty in Viet Nam.  He served with base security at U.S. Naval Hospital, Da Nang, and then with Naval Support Activity at Binh Thuy.  After 20 years of service in the U.S. Navy, Sherman retired as Boatswain’s Mate First Class. Harold W. Sherman passed away in 2003. BM1 Sherman was buried wearing his most prized possession, his Black Beret from his service with the river patrol forces in Vietnam. Harold Sherman is survived by his wife, Stella and four children: Anthony, Kimberly, Pauletta, and Harold, Jr.

 

            Seaman Jere A. Beery, Jr. never saw combat in Viet Nam again.  He spent the next year and a half hospitalized undergoing numerous operations.  While in the hospital, Beery received his advancement to Third Class Petty Officer.  He also was awarded his third Purple Heart Medal. SM3 Jere A. Beery’s military record reflects five military campaigns of service in Viet Nam.

 

            On 14 May 1969, Signalman Third Class Petty Officer Beery was medically retired from the United States Navy.  The Veterans Administration rated Beery totally and permanently disabled.  Beery spent the next ten years in and out of rehabilitations programs. 

 

            In 1987, Beery and his wife traveled across country in an effort to locate and thank the men that saved his life.  Remembering Otto was from Ashtabula area in Ohio, he called every Otto in the phone book.  No one seemed to know Dave Otto, but promised to put the word out that Jere Beery was looking for him.  Beery then visited Dallam Bailey in San Diego and Sheriff Richard Godbehere in Arizona.  Both reunions were very emotional.

 

            In December of 1988, Beery received a phone call from Dave Otto.  They met face-to-face a short time later.  Up until that time, Otto thought Beery was dead. . .

 

            After five years of looking for Sherman, Beery finally located the last man responsible for saving his life.  On 31 January 1991, Beery talked to Harold Sherman by phone.  This phone call came about as the result of a tip given to Beery by a friend at the U.S. Navy’s Awards Branch, Washington, D.C.

 

            On 21 April 1991, Beery and his family visited with Sherman and his family in Tyler, Texas.  The two men had not seen each other since that night in Viet Nam twenty-three years earlier.  The reunion was very emotional, as Jere Beery had completed his quest to locate and personally thank each of the four men responsible for saving his life in Viet Nam. . .  

 

SM3 Jere A. Beery, Jr., three weeks and two operations after the firefight of 1 March 1968. This photo was taken at the U.S. Naval Hospital in Yokosuka, Japan.

 

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