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THE QUILTMAKER
By Charles “Chuck” Cammack
31 January 2008
Some say stories truly worth their telling have both a title and a hero. The title and hero of
this story are one and the same.
Shortly after turning 16, I finally mustered enough courage to ask a girl out for a date. Much
to my surprise, she said “yes”. I arrived at her home in the country on a warm, late summer’s
evening at the appointed hour wearing thin trousers without a tear or stain, and we went out
on a date. Later that night at the hour her mother and father appointed, we returned to her
home. I don’t recall if there was any small talk in the car or on the short walk to the doorway
of her home. However, this question bore on my mind: Would there be a first kiss?
Upon reaching her doorway, I turned to face her, then extended my arms to embrace her. She
startled me when she grasped my arms just above my elbows and greatly impressed me with
the strength of her grip – yet somehow our lips met. Now you know that, with our marvelous
brains and five senses, we can sense pleasure or pain. You may not know that we sense only
confusion when we experience pleasure and pain at the same time. Confusion was my state of
mind the entire time (snap of fingers) that our lips were pressed together. Finally, I could
tolerate the confusion no longer and jumped backwards out of her grasp. Both hands flew
down to a point just below my left knee where they fell upon the shoulders of a young cat.
Pulling on that tabby just caused it to sink its claws deeper into my skin. Relaxing my grip, I
wondered to myself: “Now how do I get this cat off my leg without it ripping my new trousers
to shreds?” About that time, my date realized what was going on and cried out: “Oh, no!”
Reaching down with one hand, she grabbed the cat around its middle, ripped the animal off
my leg, and hurled it into the middle of the yard. The cat performed a perfect pirouette in
midair before landing safely on all four paws, then looked about at its new surroundings. We
were both very startled and confused. Reluctantly, and with a great deal of embarrassment, I
turned once again to face my date, but mercifully, she was gone.
It is now time for you to meet Rose Dreyer, 80 years old, white-haired, still hard working,
very funny, and a great sport, person, Christian, mom, and cook. Rose is also a mean card
player (“Chuck, I didn’t really mean to set you.”), a vintner of a nice elderberry wine, my
mother in law, and a maker of patchwork quilts. Rose cuts small patches of cloth from
garments that were once new but are now about to be discarded. She places these patches in a
paper bag where they accumulate until she has enough to make an entire patchwork quilt.
When quilt making time comes, Rose carefully measures out enough plain, featureless base
cloth to make the patchwork quilt she has in mind. Rose can later shorten the quilt, but
cannot lengthen it.
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Rose fastens the short base cloth edges to two wooden bars that are each supported on an
upright, rigid, wooden frame. The bar on the left frame does not rotate and the attached base
cloth edge always remains visible. The right frame is like the left but the bar is free to rotate
except as limited by an escapement mechanism, a cog and a toothed wheel like those used in
clocks, that holds the cloth tightly, then meters it out inch by inch. Rose then rolls up the base
cloth on the rotatable bar until only a little base cloth remains exposed before starting her
work. The right base cloth edge remains hidden from view until the quilt is finished.
I have not asked Rose what rules she follows in assembling her pattern but surmise that she
follows the Patchwork Quilt Rules of Not:
1. Do not place patches cut from the same garment side-by-side.
2. Do not place patches of the same color, hue, or texture side-by-side.
3. Do not accept any patch that is torn or stained.
Rose generally secures the patches one-at-a-time to the base cloth using threads of cotton, and
her needle then penetrates only a single patch. Occasionally, Rose overlaps the edges of two
patches and uses just a single thread to join them to the base cloth. In this case, her needle
penetrates both patches, and her thread of cotton becomes common to both. Rose displays the
finished quilt and all its patches for everyone to see.
My family and I visited my hometown of Radcliffe, Iowa on a Memorial Day weekend about
- 25 years after the “first kiss”. I placed a telephone call to another Rose, my classmate, in
hopes of learning news about other classmates. Rose told me that two classmates, Kris and
Phyllis, had both suffered near-fatal medical conditions in the past year. Both traveled by
ambulance to hospitals under very grave conditions. As Rose spoke, the thought of possibly
losing these two marvelous people made me light-headed, and I slumped into a chair.
Fortunately, both girls have made full recoveries.
Later that day, my mind returned to my classmates as I drove home and my family slept.
Memories of moments in youthful events, great and small, fell upon me like small patches cut
from garments. It is now apparent that I am merely a plain, featureless base cloth devoid of
any interest except for these small patches that have been applied to me. I find myself
stretched taut between two rigid frames. My left edge is fastened to a fixed bar on an upright,
rigid frame that is now far from me, yet is clearly visible - it is my birth. The right frame is
also plainly visible and nearby. It has a moveable bar and an escapement mechanism just like
that on Rose’s frame. However, this escapement mechanism does not meter out time secondby-
second as clocks do, or base cloth inch-by-inch as quilters do. Rather, it measures out life
memory-by-memory, and moment-by-moment. My right edge is wrapped up inside me and
hidden from view - it is my death. Yet, death is surely there because I feel it through the
tension in the fabric of my life. I cannot yet tell when my right edge will become visible.
My maker, the Quiltmaker, seems to follow many of the same rules that Rose Dreyer follows,
for patches cut from the same garment, the same period or incident are placed apart from each
other on me. Likewise, patches of the same color, hue and texture do not rest side-by-side on
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me. Indeed, rough patches lay next to the smooth and bright and beautiful patches lay next to
the drab and ugly. However, the Quiltmaker does accept those patches that are torn and
stained, and He does not use threads of cotton. Instead, He generally uses threads of emotion
that can be felt but not seen or cut. These threads come in many different colors: happiness,
sorrow, longing, love, mourning, joy, humiliation, triumph, appalling fear, and jubilation to
name a few. These threads of emotion generally pass through only a single patch. The most
interesting patches have overlapping edges joined by the thread of a common event.
Not yet aware of how quilts are made, I studied each patch as it emerged from the bag as we
traveled down the highway. Some patches were quite familiar while others had not been seen
in many years. When the kiss patch emerged from the bottom of the bag, I was surprised to
see that it was nearly perfectly white though it was utterly soiled and stained when stowed
away. No lasting consequences from that evening were apparent, and I saw that this patch
was a nearly perfect memory. However, sunlight soon revealed a small stain that time had not
removed. Looking more carefully at the stain, I saw it was truly deep, dark and ugly.
I began to laugh very soon after leaving my date’s doorway that night. Despite the
embarrassment, I realized that this “first kiss” was a truly funny event. However, if limited to
a one word descriptor, I must choose “incredible” rather than “funny” because the timing of
the event was so incredible. There was no instant of time when there was only kiss and no
cat. I spoke to myself while sitting in the car near her doorway: “Chuck, this is the most
incredible event you will ever experience in your life - you have topped out at sixteen years of
age.” There is nothing wrong with saying that, or thinking that. The problem is that I first
stained the cloth by speaking the name of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Looking back on
my life, it is clear that the Quiltmaker has gone out of His way to involve me in events, or
make me a witness of events, that would show me what the word “incredible” really means.
These thoughts had just come to mind when another patch fell into place beside the kiss patch.
Their edges overlapped slightly and the thread of a common event quickly stitched both
patches into place, for at another time and place, I received a small tear in my trousers and a
small scratch on my leg just below my left knee. The place was the Batangan Peninsula, a bit
of land that juts out into the South China Sea from the coast of Vietnam and the day was
31 January 1969. I was serving as forward observer (FO) for 81mm mortars with Kilo
Company, 3rd Battalion, 26th Marine Regiment, and my call sign was Whiskey Kilo. I
normally walked with the CP, or control party group. However, Captain Fred Fox, our
Skipper, ordered that my radio operator, Larry Bousman, and I go on patrol with 2nd Lt. John
Joyce’s platoon. I did not relish the order. We had moved just a few hundred meters away
when we heard an explosion from the area we had just left, and then a much larger explosion
about 10 minutes later. We returned to the CP area as quickly as we could. Two tandemrotor
CH-46 helicopters had already landed and had begun to take on our dead and wounded
when we arrived. I threw off my pack and rifle and came up behind a group of Marines
carrying “Tiny” Wymer aboard one of the ‘46’s. Tiny was lean and wiry and stood about
6’-4” in his stocking feet. He was so tall that his feet and head stuck out beyond the edges of
his litter, his poncho. Placing my hands beneath his head to give support I realized that his
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body was completely rigid in pain. Despite this, Tiny told us that we were the poor
sonsabitches that had to stay, fight, and perhaps die, while he was going home alive. He said
this despite knowing that he had lost his foot1. We took Tiny aboard the ’46 and laid him
down amongst the carnage there.
Exiting the ’46, I saw another group of Marines carrying 2nd Lt. Jim Bligh aboard using his
poncho as a litter. Quickening my steps, I took up a post beside the ramp and to the left of
Gunnery Sergeant Walter Kennedy. Jim’s legs were spread-eagled so that his feet stuck out
above the two edges of the poncho. His feet still retained their shape but it appeared as if all
the flesh had been stripped away. Jim called out to Gunny Kennedy, not by name, but by rank
only. It was a plea. Gunny Kennedy turned his head to the side, spat out his excess tobacco
juice, then turned his gaze back upon Lt. Bligh and said: “I’m sorry son, there’s nothing
more I can do for you now.” I realize now that this was merely a conversation among
Professionals.
I did not really know “Corky” Johnson, one of our Navy FMS (Field Medical School)
Corpsmen. I saw Corky for the first time just before we left Da Nang by boat and boarded an
aircraft carrier, the USS Ogden, at sea. Someone said that Corky had finished one tour of
duty, then returned to serve with us after a month or so of rest in the US. He did not have to
come back to us – he apparently felt that we might have need of him. After Lt. Bligh was
carried aboard the ‘46, I moved away and saw Corky resting on the ground sitting with his
back against the trunk of a small tree. There was no sign of pain on his face - only a look of
utter sadness and forlornness. Corky was gazing at the ground in front of him. When I did
the same, I realized that both of Corky’s legs had been blown neatly and cleanly off between
his knees and his hips. I understand that Corky had previously directed the treatment of
others (a triage) despite his own grievous wounds, and then administered a shot of morphine
to himself. Other Marines placed Corky on the helicopter. We have not yet learned Corky’s
real name or his fate.
LCpl Tony Cusumano of New York, New York was a machine gunner with 1st Platoon. I
probably did not know Tony very well, if at all, and do not remember him. The sad truth is
that I actually remember only a few. I presume it comes from our trying to “put the war
behind us”. Tony died the following day aboard the USS Sanctuary and his body is buried in
the Long Island National Cemetery.
LCpl Bobby Dale Rogers of Pasadena, Maryland was a fire team leader who died at the scene
of the explosion. Again, I have to confess that I don’t remember and probably did not know
Bobby Dale Rogers.
Pfc William “Robby” Roberson of Abilene, Texas was a fine Marine and Skipper’s senior
radio operator. I came to know Robby only a little in the 45 or so days we were together yet
remember him today. However, I did not learn his real name until a few years ago. It was a
casual acquaintance. Robby always seemed to have a slight smirk on his face revealing a
keen sense of humor and intellect. Robby was a no-nonsense Marine when it came to his
1 Italicized statements were recounted to me by another Marine.
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duties and was very skilled at his craft. Robby was just a really neat guy to be around. I did
not see Robby after the explosion, and presume that he was taken aboard the second
helicopter. I understand from Skipper that Robby died immediately. I can’t explain my
remorse over Robby given the short time we served together. Today, I miss and mourn
Robby in the same way I mourn for my own brother and best friend ever, Kevin Cammack.
We still had a mission to complete after the two helicopters left us. We gathered our senses
and then sat down to eat something before saddling up and moving out. I ate some C-rations
while sitting on the ground with my knees raised up and my heels on the ground in front of
me. After finishing one can and executing a half-roll to my left to reach another can in my
pack, I felt a slight pain on my left leg. Looking at the point of sensation, I was surprised to
see that something had ripped my trousers and scratched my leg just below my left knee.
Sitting in two-inch tall grass much like a lawn, I wondered to myself: “Now what could rip
these trousers and scratch me like that when I’m sitting in grass?” I saw nothing but grass
when I looked closer at the ground near where my knee must have pressed against it. Shifting
my head sideways, a bit of light come back to my eyes from within the grass. Looking closer
yet, I saw that the light came from the end of a 1/16th inch diameter steel rod that had been
squarely and cleanly sheared. Looking near that rod, two other rods appeared within the grass
that emanated from the same point and reached towards the sky at about a 60° angle. I
realized that this was the actuating device of a “bouncing Betty”, a landmine developed by the
Germans in WWII. A bouncing Betty is also a World War II term for a whore. Bouncing
Bettys include a tiny charge beneath a larger charge, a detonator, and an actuating device.
When a man steps on a Betty he depresses the actuating device and initiates the detonation
procedure. After a small delay (during which time the foot is typically removed) the tiny
charge detonates lofting the larger charge about 3 to 5 feet into the air where it detonates. A
bouncing Betty takes off the ass of the man that stepped on the mine, the genitals off the man
following in line, and deprives both men of life. Hence, the fitting term “bouncing Betty”.
I hailed an engineer and pointed out the Betty to him. He pulled back my arm and pointed
finger as if the Betty was a live, poisonous snake. The engineer had us all move away, then
set a small charge near the Betty. I sat down on a fallen tree limb about 40 feet from the
Betty. Facing away from the Betty I began to scratch in the dirt in front of me with a small
stick. I turned halfway around when the engineer called out “Fire in the Hole!” just in time to
see one puff of smoke on the ground and another about 4 feet in the air. I turned my gaze
once more to the front and resumed scratching in the dirt with my stick. Just then, someone
slapped my leg and I looked up into the eyes of Staff Sergeant McCabe who said: “I hope that
you appreciate what God has done for you today”. Looking into his eyes, I said, “Yes, I do.”
I realize now that I did not really appreciate this gift. Twenty and more years had to pass
before I began to appreciate what He did for me. I am fearful of learning why He has done so
much with me and yet believe that He would not have bothered had He not cared. He
certainly plays “hardball” in trying to save our souls.
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EPILOGUE
My primary purpose in writing this story is to confess that I should never have taken God’s
name in vain. I have committed worse sins, but have decided that it necessary to publically
confess this sin. Threads of common events no less incredible than those described in The
Quiltmaker join three other pairs of patches attached to me. Two pairs involve the same kind
of carnage described in The Quiltmaker - the third involves another kind of carnage. My hope
is that no more patches like these will fall on me.
Secondly, I wish to introduce my classmates, a few friends, and my family to some great men
that you can only come to know through such a story. Though brief, this introduction may
permit you to know a little of their character, courage, and sacrifice. Thirdly, I hope that this
story will help heal some hurts that afflict nearly everyone who experienced the explosions.
The second and third goals are pursued in the remainder of this epilogue.
Another disaster occurred five days earlier on 26 January 1969 when a large track-mounted
armored vehicle, an LTV, equipped with landmine clearing equipment was destroyed with the
loss of seven Marines on the same operation, Bold Mariner. The LTV contained a long,
heavy coil of line charge. A small rocket attached to the line charge normally pulls it fully out
of a LTV before the charge is detonated. However, in this instance, the line charge detonated
very prematurely killing all seven Marines instantly. Their bodies lie together in one grave at
Arlington National Cemetery: http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/012669.htm
That web site is not mine. Text at the top of the web page originally suggested that the LTV
was destroyed by a landmine. I sent an email message to the webmaster asking him/her to
correct the text. The webmaster extracted a portion of my email message and posted it at the
top of the Arlington web site.
The 26 and 31 January 1969 events described in The Quiltmaker are controversial because of
the large loss of life (10 KIA), the large number of WIA’s (20+), and the removal of armored
vehicles from the field a few days prior to the 31st. Four line companies, Kilo included,
continued their advance to close off the peninsula and sweep through it despite the removal of
armored vehicles from the operation. Other complaints have been heard as well, but this
information is not provided in an effort to fan the flames of this controversy. Indeed, I would
be greatly disappointed if anyone tries to turn this story in that direction. Rather, this
information is presented to show the bravery of those Marines and FMS Corpsmen who
sacrificed so much in those days. Nothing more can be gained, but much can be lost by trying
to search out the person(s) within the Marine Corps who may, or may not, be responsible for
these large losses. I am not trying to whitewash the issue. I have chosen to put the issue in
God’s hands and move on. As an example of loss, I cite the members of Kilo/3/26 who do
not attend reunions because of this controversy. Secondly, we seem to lack diligence in
locating those who were badly injured and taken from the field. The worst insult we can
render them and their families is to ignore them.
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The village of My Lai is located at the southern end of the peninsula, and was the scene of
Army Captain William Calley’s massacre of a large number of civilians in March 1967. In
addition, 31 January 1969 was the one-year anniversary of the NVA invasion of the City of
Hue and its Citadel that resulted in the loss of so many members of the 5th Marine Regiment,
with whom I served three months after first arriving in Vietnam (Mike/3/5).
Captain Fred L. Fox II, our Skipper, though badly wounded, survived and is a judge in West
Virginia (see http://www.state.wv.us/WVSCA/courthouses/judges/Fox_bio.htm).
I have not yet located Tiny Wymer. Here is a photograph (on the left) of Tiny Wymer cutting
Nick Kusturos’s hair in Vietnam.
Bobby Dale Rogers’ photograph is on the right. I don’t remember Bobby, but Mark Smith,
who was himself badly injured on 31 January 1969, does remember Bobby.
“Whisky Kilo, Bobby Dale Rogers 2nd Platoon 3rd fire team leader. Bobby was
an Army draftee that got picked out of line by the Marine Corps. Bobby came out
of boot with a motor transport MOS. Like the rest of his bad luck when he got to
Viet Nam they sent him to Kilo. He was from Pasidena, Maryland, and was a great
guy with a quick since of humor everyone in the platoon liked him very much. I
have tried several times to locate family survivors with no success.”
I can’t explain my poor memory of Bobby Dale Rogers and Tony Cusumano other than I
probably did not actually know them. We started Operation Bold Mariner with well over
200 men, and I was with them only about 45 days before the explosion. However, many have
expressed fond remembrances of Tony and Bobby.
http://www.virtualwall.org/dc/CusumanoAM01a.htm
http://kilo326marinesreunions.homestead.com/NEVERFORGOTTEN.html
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Jim Bligh lost one leg and walks with a very pronounced limp. He worked “on the docks”
with UPS between college and the Marine Corps’ Basic School. After the war, he spent a
year at a military hospital where he was fitted with a prosthetic leg. About a year after his
injury someone from UPS called Jim and asked him to come back to work. Jim explained
that he could no longer work at UPS because he had lost his leg. They said they had a
position in mind where he could work even with his prosthetic leg. He started out doing time
efficiency studies and then migrated further into management. Jim is retired now and lives in
Dunwoody, Georgia with his wife. His children are grown. Jim and I closed down a
bar/restaurant in Atlanta, Georgia one night talking about those days. It was a great evening
and so good to talk with him again. However, I am sad about the extent of his injuries.
Ted Turner, of all people, asked veterans of all wars to submit brief messages and
photographs that could be shown on the TNT network during commercial breaks in war
movies on Veterans’ Day and Memorial Day. Jim’s submittal was accepted and appears
regularly prompting calls from other veterans. The video includes this photograph –
First row, L-R: 2nd Lt. Jim Bligh, 2nd Lt. John Joyce, and 2nd Lt. Drew James Barrett III,
platoon commanders. Second row, L-R: 2nd Lt. Carson (Arty FO), 1st Lt. Peter B. Foor (XO),
and 2nd Lt. Tromenski (weapons platoon commander). 1st Lt. Foor’s hands rest on the two
Marine officers who died in separate incidents while serving with Kilo/3/26 later in 1969.
The other four officers were all severely wounded on 31 January 1969.
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W.E.B Griffon is a prolific fiction writer and many of his books involve members of the
Marine Corps. You can generally find his books at the large book stores. All books involving
Marines are dedicated to Drew James Barrett III (DJ), shown in the above photograph. The
author and DJ’s father, a Marine General now deceased, were neighbors. DJ was struck down
in an ambush out in the Arizona by automatic weapons fire (probably 12.7 mm) on
27 February 1969 and he died on 9 March 1969 of his wounds. Here is a link to a web page
for DJ. http://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/djbarrett3.htm
Work took me to Minot, ND some years ago giving me the opportunity to call on the family
of 1st Lt. John Joyce. I approached the opportunity with no little fear. Ron Evans, another
Kilo/3/26 Marine, told me that he knew the family and had arranged to have flowers placed
on John’s grave on the 20th or 21st anniversary of his death. The ribbon on the flowers read
“From the Men of Kilo/3/26”. Ron said that John’s father, Lawrence, had never reconciled
himself to John’s death because he feared that we, rather than the NVA, had taken John’s life.
Ron said that Lawrence visited John’s grave that day, saw the flowers and read the ribbon,
then died the following day. Knowing this, I was fearful of visiting John’s family.
Finding two listings for “Joyce” in the phone book I called the one thought to be a more
distant relative. The lady said that they were not related to John’s family and did not
personally know them, however, they had spoken about John Joyce just the day before.
Phyllis Joyce, John’s mother, answered when I called the second number. We made
arrangements for me to visit her and her daughter, Julie. Phyllis said that Lawrence told his
family this after seeing the ribbon and returning from the cemetery: “Well, I can die and go to
heaven now as my son has finally been remembered”. Phyllis said Lawrence slept fitfully
that night, and then died suddenly the following morning of a heart attack. Julie said that her
father literally died of a broken heart.
Phyllis has since passed away. Julie and her husband, Brian Hoeffer, are members of our
Kilo/3/26 brotherhood, and regularly attend our reunions. I believe that John Joyce was
posthumously promoted to 1st Lt. and was certainly the finest Marine Corps officer I was
privileged to know and serve with in Vietnam. John was also an exceptional baseball player
at the college level. John died from small arms fire inside an NVA base camp in the Que Son
Mountains on Operation Oklahoma Hills. As for me, any family member of one our fallen
Marines is welcome to be a part of our brotherhood.
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Skipper writes that he learned the hard way that Robby did not know how to drive a stick-shift
jeep: “It was the worst, and most comical, 20 mile trip I had ever suffered through.” Skipper
took over as driver, but Robby later pushed Skipper back to riding shotgun after the Gunny
taught Robby how to operate a stick-shift. Skipper also wrote that Robby never bragged
about anything except being from Texas. William (Robby) Roberson lived for only 18 years,
4 months, and 19 days. His body is buried in Abilene, Texas. A picture of his grave marker
and high school graduation photograph appear below:
Certainly not every recollection given in The Quiltmaker is 100 percent accurate. However,
to the best of my knowledge and belief, each recollection is 100 percent truthful.
Each Marine injured or killed in these incidents or mentioned in this story or epilogue has his
own story that is yet to be told and appreciated. Their stories and lives are incredible in their
own right. This effort of remembrance does not do justice to them.
Semper Fidelis
Charles “Chuck” Cammack
Whiskey Kilo
Tiny Wymer cutting Nick Kosturos's hair.
