HEY DAD, IT'S NOT ME

Some months after the sapper attack on Nui Ba Den, June 16, 1969, a friend of my father’s saw a photo on TV. A soldier. Upright in a hospital bed in Japan. He was sure it was me. He called my dad.

My father saw the same photo the next day. Convinced it was his son. Convinced the Army was hiding something. He called Senator Charley Sandman in Washington. A family friend. Sandman looked at the photo. Agreed. That’s Carl.

Sandman called the Pentagon. Demanded an investigation.

The Army built a team to find me. Nobody could. Days passed. No word from the Army. No word from me. My family started planning for the worst.

I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t even in Vietnam. I was on R&R in Hong Kong.

When I got back to Nui Ba Den, Lt. General Williamson’s helicopter landed. Red Cross officials aboard. I walked down to greet the general. Got my ass reamed for not contacting my family in two weeks.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

The Red Cross explained. They’d combed III Corps looking for me. Somebody snapped a photo of the general and me together. Proof of life. Sent home to end the search.

The soldier in that Japan hospital bed wasn’t me. It was Rocky. Wounded August 20, 1969.

Years later, I met him for the first time, in Las Vegas. Told him the story. He loved it.

Apologized for getting wounded.