Into the Storm: On the Ground in Iraq

Going into Cambodia made sense. If Vietnamization was to work, then the United States had to buy time for the South Vietnamese, so they could grow stronger and take over the war. General Creighton Abrams, MACV commander, planned the spoiling attack into Cambodia to give them that time. The NVA sanctuary there had to be destroyed — up to now, it had been off limits — the enormous stores of arms and supplies and all the other NVA infrastructure near the border had to be captured or eliminated; and the NVA themselves had to be killed or taken prisoner, or else pushed back and kept back.

When Brookshire learned they were to go in, he and Franks put a plan together in less than forty-eight hours—far less time than the weeks it took to plan VII Corps's attack into Iraq twenty years later. There were other differences.

The squadron had about 900 soldiers and maybe 200 vehicles in a zone about fifteen kilometers wide. VII Corps had 146,000 soldiers and close to 50,000 vehicles in a sector 120 kilometers wide and over 250 kilometers deep. Both missions were force-oriented, with terrain as a guide, and for both, the mission was to destroy the enemy in zone. In Iraq, however, they had better intelligence about specific enemy locations — Franks does not recall any intelligence that was accurate in pinning down enemy locations in Cambodia, except around Snoul. But they knew their enemy well when they went into Cambodia. They had fought him for a long time. Their enemy knew them as well. It was not like that in Iraq at the beginning.

The squadron mission was straightforward: 2nd Squadron would lead the 11th Cavalry units, as part of Task Force Shoemaker, and formed of units of the 1st CAV Division and the 11th ACR. They would attack into the Fishhook (just north of War Zone C) and move quickly to Cambodian Highway 7, and on the third day, the plan was to attack up the highway to the town of Snoul, a rubber plantation town and provincial capital of a size and importance comparable to An Loc, on the Vietnamese side of the border. Along the way they would seek out and destroy North Vietnamese supplies and units, and especially the large cache that was thought to be near Snoul. Intelligence additionally believed that a major NVA headquarters was located in the area.

In technical Army talk, this was to be a tactical reconnaissance in force, with some meeting engagements toward a specific terrain and enemy at some distance, all within the larger operational framework of a spoiling attack. By contrast, the mission in War Zone C had been a security and interdict operation over a specific piece of terrain. In War Zone C, the mission was similar to the 11th CAV's role in Germany facing the Warsaw Pact: to screen the border and barrier interdiction, a traditional cavalry operation. The operation into Cambodia was no less traditional: to penetrate quick and hard.

The territory between War Zone C and Snoul was a mixture of grassy savanna-like lowlands and somewhat higher ridgelines of iron-rich, clayey soil along which the rubber plantations were situated. One of these ridges ran from Snoul through Loc Ninh to An Loc. Highway 7 ran along another extension of this ridge. The tactical problem was this: if you wanted to attack toward Snoul, you couldn't move through the savannas; they were too boggy. You had to follow the ridgeline, and thus were forced into a predictable corridor where setting up defenses and ambushes was much easier for the North Vietnamese.

The other planning problems were more immediate. War Zone C was vastly different from the part of Cambodia they were entering. War Zone C was mostly empty of people, and except for the areas defoliated by Agent Orange, it was heavily covered by tall, triple-canopy rain forest. In Cambodia, once the squadron reached Highway 7, they would run into a large number of civilians and all the infrastructure of civilian life: villages, poles and wires for phones and electricity, trucks, cars, buses, bicycles, normal commerce — none of which they had seen much since they were near An Loc or Loc Ninh. For the past weeks, they had been operating under rules of engagement that did not take into account the presence of civilians. Cambodia was different. As it happened, Cambodian civilians proved to be naturally friendly and helpful to Americans. The North Vietnamese had been there for some time now, and the Cambodians seemed glad to see our soldiers coming in and running the NVA out.

Logistics was going to have to involve helicopters. The regiment had many gas- and diesel-guzzling vehicles to be fed. Fuel and supply trucks could come up from C on a few roads and trails, but it made more sense to bring in most of what they needed by air. Typically, the squadron would operate during the day and draw up into semi-defensive laagers at night. Helicopters would bring in large fuel bladders and drop these down near the laagers. The tanks and other vehicles would then line up to refuel just like at a filling station. There was never a scarcity of fuel during the Cambodian invasion.

With these elements under control, the rest of the planning was relatively straightforward. Devising an operation for a squadron does not take long, and they were a veteran team. It was a matter of asking and answering questions such as "How are we going to attack? What kind of alignment are we getting into? How do we arrange the corridors for moving the squadron from their interdiction mission in C to their attack positions for driving into Cambodia?" And: "Will our fire support keep up with us? Or will we outrun it?" On the plus side, they would have far more indirect fires available than they were used to, both from artillery and from TAC air. They even got some naval air, flying off carriers. In consequence, Franks had to devote serious planning to managing the amount of close air support available.

On April 30, just south of the Cambodian border, Brookshire called in the troop commanders to brief them about the structure of the mission and the tactics of their attack across the border. It was a simple scheme of maneuver. They would initially go in column, then spread the three cavalry troops across the sector, each with its own zone, to move toward Highway 7. Once there, they would advance on the road, with cavalry troops on either side of the road heading toward Snoul. When they got to Snoul, they would decide how to attack from there. Second Squadron, with Brookshire commanding and Franks as S-3, was the lead squadron.

By then, all the troop commanders were veterans. The squadron's string of tactical successes had driven morale high and confidence even higher. They were good, and the troops knew it. So did the NVA, Franks suspected. By this time, he had been the S-3 for more than eight months. Brookshire had stayed in command longer than the normal six months' tour. Some of the troop commanders also had been there longer than the normal six months. Starry encouraged that. Franks suspected it was because he disagreed with the six-month-and-out policy for commanders and others in key positions, because it broke the teamwork so necessary in combat. Their senior NCOs were strong. Teamwork in the squadron was almost automatic, without a lot of talk. The squadron command radio frequency was incredibly crisp and free of any useless chatter. Everyone realized the importance in battle of a disciplined radio frequency. Franks had never felt as close to any organization or group of soldiers as he was then. It was real family.

It was also intensely personal by that time. His driver, Specialist Ray Williams, had been killed in action on April 8 while going back to help a fellow soldier, CSM Burkett. Franks had written in a letter to Denise, "The real blow of the whole action was that my driver was killed… " Burkett lost an arm. Earlier in the month, First Sergeant Willie Johnson of Troop F also had been killed in action.

During the squadron's final preparations, Donn Starry showed up at the squadron command post and announced that he wanted to go in with them — the lead squadron — and that he needed a vehicle. They found him a command ACAV. But the vehicle they found for him immediately threw a track, so he had to get off that and climb aboard Fred Franks's vehicle. Franks stayed in his ACAV the first two days of the operation.

On 1 May, at 0730, they moved into Cambodia through a marsh they called the Pig Path. Because the weather had been dry recently, the marsh didn't prove to be as difficult a passage as the leaders thought. In fact, the skies remained clear throughout the Cambodia operation.

During the next four days, there were several heated incidents, but they did not make major contact with the enemy until they reached Snoul. The NVA, knocked off balance by the invasion, were not eager to make a stand until they could pull themselves together. Time and again on the way to Snoul, troops came across abandoned NVA positions and caches. The attack had yielded sizable results toward its spoiling attack objective.

Second Squadron pushed on, rapidly improvising crossings over bridges the NVA had destroyed, until they reached the neighborhood of Snoul. On the evening of 4 May, they were in a laager five kilometers from the town. It was clear that evening that the NVA had stopped running. Snoul was for them a vital supply area and force concentration. They would make their stand there. They'd fight there, no matter what it cost them.

SNOUL

The next morning, 5 May, Major Franks and Lieutenant Colonel Brookshire were hunched over a map, planning the attack they would launch in less than an hour. They knew they were in for some serious action. They were going to fight at least one NVA regiment, maybe two. The enemy knew the territory, they were expecting Americans, and they'd had time to prepare. The first days in Cambodia had gone relatively smoothly, with running actions and hasty attacks. This day called for more detailed orders and a full squadron attack.

As they huddled over the map, these questions remained in the back of their minds: "How do we find the enemy? How do we smoke them out? How do we hit them the way we want to hit them, and not let them hit us the way they want to hit us?"

They would put 2nd Squadron into what the Army calls a reconnaissance in force. When they located the enemy, they would isolate and fix them in position with air and artillery, then maneuver the ground units in for the kill. As always, they would use maximum force and try to win at the least cost.

If they were lucky, they would be able to interrogate some captured NVA, to learn from them the locations of the enemy forces. If they were to lessen the chances of harming civilians and damaging Snoul — if they were to increase their own chances for success while minimizing their own losses — it was absolutely critical to find an NVA prisoner who would talk.

They looked at their options: To attack directly into town up Route 7? Or to maneuver through the rubber plantation toward the plantation airstrip?

A large number of refugees were fleeing Snoul. The locals weren't blind to what was going on around them. They knew that luck would more likely flow to those out of town when the Blackhorse arrived than those who stayed at home. Some of these civilians reported the NVA were setting up an ambush in the rubber trees along the highway — bringing back memories of other ambushes in other rubber plantations: Echo Troop in August, Fox Troop near Bu Dop.

Attacking into an ambush had little appeal to Fred Franks and Grail Brookshire. They did not want to get tangled up with enemy RPGs and small arms on the road with little room to maneuver. The civilians were friendly, even helpful. They wanted the NVA out more than the Americans did. All that came down to: "If we can stay out of Snoul, we will."

"What do you think, Three?" Brookshire asked Franks. "Three" was Franks's radio call sign.[6]

"Intel plus some locals say some NVA are waiting for us up Highway 7 in the rubber," Franks answered. "I recommend we go around them to the east and approach the airfield and their major positions from the south."

"I agree. Get the commanders huddled over here ASAP."

Brookshire gave the order quickly. He was precise and direct about what he wanted done, as always. There was no doubt who was to do what.

"When we get there, four-six [our tank company] and three-six [Troop G] will break out and start down this way. And I don't think that going down the redball [Highway 7] is necessarily the way we want to go. Work your way through the rubber [trees]. One-six [Troop E], you'll start here and move on up into the town…

"Now if you take fire, return it…

"This is a reconnaissance in force to find out what's in there and also, if possible, to take the town — without destroying it… and when you take fire, shoot. Try to avoid shooting into crowds of civilians…

"Now, if we can get around these f'ers, we might have them bottled up down in this end of the rubber. They figure us to come right up Highway 7. Villagers between here and there told us they have broken the highway, and they undoubtedly have. We'll have to find a way around it. We can always come up through the rubber through this draw.

"Three, I'll be on the ground with Blackhorse 6 [Colonel Starry] with the lead troop. You get airborne."

"Wilco."

In Southeast Asia, rubber plantation towns all look pretty much alike. Because it was a provincial capital on a major crossroads, Snoul was a little larger than some. But aside from that, if you've seen An Loc, you've seen Snoul. If you've seen Snoul, you've seen Loc Ninh — the same red, clayey soil; the same ranks of rubber trees at various stages of growth; the same manor house, with surrounding veranda, and maybe a pool; the same grassy airstrip nearby, so the French managers could fly over to Phnom Penh or Saigon for business or shopping. Rubber trees grow moderately high, up to fifty feet or so, and the mature ones are fifteen or eighteen inches wide at the base. So you couldn't easily bull your way through a rubber plantation with tanks. On the other hand, the ranks of rubber trees were wide enough to create lanes Sheridans and ACAVs could pass through. Maneuvering through the rubber was bold, but it was not impossible, and they hoped it would catch the NVA by surprise.

Once they committed to that action, Franks knew, it was essential that they keep moving without interruption to sustain the momentum of the attack. Once they showed their hand and turned east, that would be apparent to the NVA. So there could be no poking around to give them time to adjust. Surprise lasts only as long as it takes the enemy to adjust. Tactically, you have to continue to give the enemy more and more situations to adjust to, thus maintaining and keeping the initiative and, at the same time, keeping him off balance.

For the record, the halt on the night of the fourth did not count as an interruption of momentum. As long as they had the option of going either up Highway 7 or east toward the airfield, the enemy had no way to adjust until 2nd Squadron had committed to one way or the other. In other words, the elements of momentum and surprise were completely under 2nd Squadron's control.

There was one other advantage to taking the airfield. The airstrip at Snoul was long enough to handle C-130s, and C-130s could bring in far more supplies than the trucks driving overland or the helicopters coming in from An Loc. They also could base their attack helicopters out of there, rather than have them go through the long turnaround at An Loc.

In that event, the choice of the airport over the town was the right one. The NVA were dug in around the strip, and they'd placed three 12.7-mm antiaircraft machine guns in doughnut-shaped gun pits on the southern end of the runway. It seems they expected the Americans to make an air assault on the airfield by elements of the 1st Cavalry Division, followed by linkup with the Blackhorse. So they set up their ambush on Highway 7 to stop the Blackhorse, and they placed their antiaircraft on the south side of the airstrip to face the direction of approach of the American air-assault helicopters.

When the Americans came in on the ground, they weren't ready for that. Meanwhile, the American helicopters that were in the air stayed low and far enough to the east to avoid giving away the ground attack.

Warrant Officer John Mallette and Specialist Terzala were Fred Franks's crew that morning. Mallette already had the Loach running when Franks stepped up to board it. Before he climbed in, Terzala grabbed him. "Major," he said, "today you need to wear your chicken plate. You are not getting on this helo until you put it on."

Franks didn't usually wear the chicken plate, but he took Terzala's advice and put it on.

The chicken plate was a steel vest that protected the chest and back from shrapnel and direct-fire weapons such as the AK-47. Because it was hot and heavy (when you wore it, you were even more bent over after a day of flying), the chicken plate wasn't always worn. But in the helicopter, Franks and his crews had come to trust and look out for one another, and Terzala knew that they were going into a situation that was likely to be more heated than normal. No sense messing around with fate.

They took off.

On the OH-6, you sit side by side, with the Plexiglas bubble in front of you. The pilot, Mallette, was in the right-hand seat; Fred Franks was in the left; and Terzala, the crew chief/gunner, was in the back, sitting on the floor, with an M-60 machine gun cradled in his lap. Mallette was as skillful a Loach pilot as you're likely to find; he and Franks had been together for nearly ten straight months of tough flying. They'd taken some hits, but had avoided most. Franks trusted his life with John Mallette and Terzala, without question.

Whap!

They were hung up on a telephone wire. It was stretched across the front of the bubble, just at eye level.

Helicopters striking wires happens on occasion. And it is frequently fatal, especially when your ship is just taking off and full of fuel. If you're a pilot, you try to look where you're going — obviously. But wires are thin and hard to see against a background of trees. And in their case, they had been operating for several weeks in an area where there weren't any wires to worry about. Now here they were, hanging thirty feet in the air, with a phone wire ready to slip one way or the other, up or down their bubble. If it slipped up, it would likely tangle around the rotor head, and down they would go… almost instantly to be engulfed in quick, consuming flames. If it slipped down, it would likely hit the skids, catch, and they would flip over. Down they would go into quick, consuming flames.

"Oh, shit!" Franks blurted out.

Mallette put the Loach into full power. The wire slipped down. Caught in the skids. Franks braced himself for the Loach to pitch over.

The line snapped.

And they lurched up toward the sky.

Moments later, the Loach peeled off toward the east to take up station just above the canopy top, ready to help Brookshire and the squadron navigate through the lanes of rubber trees. They stayed low so as to avoid hostile fire, and also to keep out of sight of the NVA so that they would not give away their advancing troop positions.

Franks didn't have much time to reflect on their good luck. He had a mission to continue. M48s, Sheridans, and ACAVs were already in the rubber. But he did have time to think, "That's it for us today. We've had our close call. Everything from here on out will be OK."

A few minutes later, Franks's Loach was over the airstrip, while H Company (the tanks) and Troop G were maneuvering toward the strip on the ground. Troop E, together with Brookshire and Starry in their command tracks, was less than a kilometer away, and also approaching. Off to the west, up on a little rise, was the town of Snoul.

If they wanted a meeting engagement, they had it.

Meanwhile, staring at Franks's Loach was a North Vietnamese manning a.51-caliber AA weapon, his shoulder against the stock, and ammunition clearly fed into it. If he had had it pointed up toward the Loach and pulled the trigger, he would have blown them out of the sky. But luck was with them a second time that morning. When the Loach appeared, the crew was frantically trying to depress the weapon so that they could fire at the unexpected oncoming armor.

The squadron had achieved the element of surprise. Now they had to maintain the momentum surprise had created and keep the NVA off balance. Now more than ever, speed was crucial. The squadron was committed. They had to move quickly. Franks's immediate job was staring him in the face. There were two NVA down there with that AA gun. Normally the antiaircraft people were aware of the disposition of the rest of their forces, because they all would be mutually supporting. So if one of them could provide useful information about further defensive NVA locations, that would refine the intel picture, help the squadron keep up its momentum — and save American lives. There were also a lot of civilians in the area. If they could better pinpoint the NVA, they could then avoid civilian damage and civilian casualties.

When Franks wanted to mark a position where they had taken fire for gunships or TAC air to attack, he would drop a smoke grenade nearby and talk the fires in. They had devised a scheme where they would pull the pin from a smoke grenade, then shove the grenade back inside the cardboard canister it was packaged in. The only thing holding the handle was pressure inside the canister. That way, you could kick the canister out of the Loach when the enemy fired. The grenade would then come free of the canister, ignite, and smoke the area you wanted to mark while you were getting the hell out of there and calling in fire.

Franks kicked a grenade free to mark the AA, and then got on the radio to Brookshire. "Battle Six, this is Three. NVA.51-cal by the smoke."

"Roger, Three."

Brookshire ordered Troop E, commanded by Captain Fred Kyle, plus parts of H Company, commanded by Captain Miles Sisson, to move quickly to capture the position and get ready to continue the attack around the Snoul airstrip (used by the rubber plantation owners, but not that day). Brookshire and the squadron command section was with Troop E, as was Colonel Donn Starry.

Since nobody else was around, Starry grabbed his M-16, some NCOs, and soldiers and charged up toward the gun pit. A moment later, they'd captured the gun and two of the crew, and they were unloading the weapon. But two men from the crew made a run for it — the lieutenant and a soldier — and dived into a bunker a few meters away… really just a hole in the ground covered by logs and grassy sod. They probably slept there, or kept ammo there; no one ever found out.

While that was going on, Franks's Loach set down, and he jumped out to see what info they could pull out of the prisoners. Mallette and Terzala stayed behind in the OH-6, with the engine running, so that they could lift back up fast with whatever new intel they had. Franks, moving fast, didn't grab his steel pot or the CAR 15 he carried in the Loach, though he did have his.45-cal pistol on his belt. And he was wearing the chicken plate. He didn't have much time. By then the unit was pretty exposed to the NVA. The enemy knew there wasn't going to be an air assault and that the squadron had slipped their ambush. They would adjust to this new situation. But how fast? Franks knew they would not run away, but would move to a different position and set up again for them there. So the surprise they were working with now was rapidly fading. He hurried over to the pit.

The squadron had a Vietnamese interpreter and scout (they called them Kit Carsons; this one they'd nicknamed "Rocky") who was trying to coax information out of the NVA who didn't dive into the bunker. No luck; the men kept silent. Then the Kit Carson went over to the bunker and tried to talk the other two out. In Vietnam, they would have called in once for their surrender, paused a few seconds for a response, and then blown the bunker. Here was different. They badly needed the intel these men could give them.

Franks, by this time convinced the NVA weren't going to do him any good, was on his way back to the helicopter. "Hey, Major," someone called, "we got two more in a bunker over here."

So Franks changed his mind about taking off. He pulled out his pistol and raced over to the bunker. When he got there, the Kit Carson was crouched over the hole, trying to get the NVA to surrender.

"Let's dig them out," Franks called out. "Let's get him out of there." And he started pulling and dragging at the logs over the bunker to try to open it up. He wanted that intel. Battle is full of split-second judgments, and that was a big one for Franks. The NVA threw a Chicom grenade that he never saw.

Colonel Starry was just then talking to Sergeant Major Horn, the regimental command sergeant major. As he did so, he glanced over at Franks. Out of the corner of his eye, Starry noticed the NVA grenade lying in front of the bunker, fuse lit, next to Franks. It was called a potato masher, because that's what it looked like. They were made by the Chicoms, but they were based on the old German designs everyone has seen in World War II movies — tin cans with handles stuck in them and a cord out the bottom. You pull the cord and that lights the fuse… maybe half the time. This time it lit. Starry could see it burning.

Five or six thoughts ran through his head, all in the moment he stood there watching, for the space of a breath or two, paralyzed.

And Starry thought, Oh, Jesus, what about Fred? If somebody doesn't do something about Fred, he's going to get hurt bad.

So Starry burst into motion. He actually dove into Franks… trying to knock him out of the way of the blast.

There was an ice-white flash. Then a harsh, head-filling, bone-jarring crack.

The next thing Donn Starry remembered is that he was backed up against his command track. The next thing Fred Franks remembered, he was lying flat on the ground. He was knocked unconscious by the blast.

"Jesus… oh, my God… The major, the major's hit… Get down. There's another one in there… The colonel's hit… What'd he throw?… Grenade… Is that son of a — still in there? Yeah… get a frag… Get a god-damn frag. We'll blow that bastard outa there…

"One-six [Troop E] has got contact, heavy shit. Where's that other f'er? I'll kill that bastard. Man, the major's really f'ed up… The major's the worst."[7]

Franks's left foot was a total mess; it was as though some giant had taken a monstrous boulder and smashed it into the foot and leg. When he regained consciousness, the pain was intense. There was also head pain, hard ringing in the ears, and stinging pains in his hand, arm, and side. He moved his head from side to side and simultaneously pulled clumps of ground and grass up, as though that would ease the pain. He said nothing. Then he lifted his eyes and saw the soldiers standing around him. Their faces, and his own pain, told him all he needed to know.

A medic gave him a shot of morphine, and that gave him a little ease.

Seven Americans had been standing around when the grenade blew. All of them suffered frag wounds, though none was as bad as Franks's.

Contrary to his own orders, Donn Starry hadn't worn his chicken plate that day. If he had, he would have only been scratched. Fred Franks's chicken plate saved his life, thanks to Terzala. It was in shreds. As it was, Starry got ten or fifteen holes of various sizes in his face and down the front part of his body. The worst of these was in the stomach; a frag had taken a long strip of flesh out of there. Though there was a lot of blood, this was basically a surface wound, and he was able to walk around on his own after he'd had a chance to pull himself together.

Meanwhile, Master Sergeant Bob Bolan, acting squadron command sergeant major, who had been Franks's operations sergeant and a great coach for him when he had been new to Vietnam, took his.45-caliber pistol and directed the action that destroyed the bunker and killed the two NVA soldiers. Specialists Gus Christian and Dave Kravick in E-18, a Sheridan, were there, providing cover. MSG Bolan was himself killed in action in July 1970 and remains to this day one of Franks's personal heroes.

"Medevac on the way!"

They set up an LZ with colored smoke. But it turned out the medevac wasn't the first ship down. Colonel Starry's command-and-control Huey came in ahead of it.

Somebody helped Colonel Starry aboard. Then others lifted in Fred Franks's litter. He was feeling dry in the mouth, from the morphine. And he would fade in and out, from the pain in his crushed foot and from the drug. The other troops who were hit in the incident also were aboard.

One of the other AA positions was still operating. When Starry's Huey took off, it put serious fire in their direction. With tracers flaming close… erupting all around them… the pilot took the ship down low, skimming over treetops. As out of it as he was by then, Franks could hear the popping sounds from the AA.

It was less than fifteen minutes after the grenade blew.

Later that day, the battle that started near the airstrip expanded and intensified. Though they tried to avoid it, the Blackhorse had to take the fight into the town of Snoul. When it was all over, they had dealt the NVA a defeat, but at the cost of serious collateral damage to the town. If they had managed to obtain the intel Fred Franks wanted from the NVA at the AA site, all that might have been avoided.

Thirty minutes after Franks was lifted out of Snoul, he was at the aid station at Quan Loi, near the 11th ACR base camp. The aid station was a triage area. They decided which of the wounded they could fix up there and which had to be medevaced back to Long Binh. Franks was clearly evacuation material.

When the doctor at Quan Loi looked him over, Franks asked him, "Am I going to lose my foot?"

"Nah," he said. "You'll be OK. Don't worry about it."

They always underestimate combat wounds…

A medevac took him to the 93rd Evacuation Hospital at Long Binh. When he arrived, they rushed him into surgery. And during the next two days, he was in surgery again, more than once. How many operations he had then, he doesn't know. He was pretty much out of it during that time.

He asked a doctor at Long Binh: "Doc, am I going to lose my foot?"

"Nah," he said. "Six months and you'll be up and around doing duty."

On 7 May, they flew him to Camp Zama Hospital in Japan. He was there for a week.

He asked a doctor at Zama, Dr. Jeff Malke, "Doc, am I going to lose my foot?"

"You don't want to hear this," Malke answered, "but six months from now, you're going to decide you'd be better off without that foot. But you're probably going to have to go through a battle to decide that yourself. You're not going to get around well on that leg. Major, that is just not a good-looking leg and foot."

Dr. Malke was a wise man, but Fred Franks did not want to hear such wisdom just then.

He said to himself, The hell with that. He doesn't know what he's talking about. I'm going to beat this thing. I haven't met a hurdle yet I can't get over.

It was not, in truth, a good-looking leg and foot. The entire ankle was shattered, dislocated. The bones of the ankle and foot were splintered or crushed, and part of the lower leg had serious damage.

The war was over for Franks. Little did he realize that his, and the Army's, biggest battles lay ahead.

Fred Franks tells what happened next.