A FRIEND REMEMBERED

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by Doug Moniaci

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His name was Steven Kenoffel. He was a tall, freckle-faced, 20-year old with a quick wit and a friendly smile that always seemed to appear at the slightest prodding. He looked and he was the proverbial All-American boy. Having apparently survived his one year tour of duty in Vietnam as an infantry `grunt' of the 101st Airborne Division, he was imbued with that elated feeling you get when they know you are going home. With only four weeks left to his tour, he thought he was "home free", and he should have been. He was not supposed to be going back to the field.

Seeing his name on the wall in Washington DC this past summer while on vacation with my family had a certain uneasy quality to it. After an aide helped us locate his name, we came face to face: Steven Michael Kenoffel. My reaction was not what I expected. I experienced a kind of disassociated feeling seeing his name etched in the black marble. I'm not sure what I was expecting really, but the black marble did not seem enough I guess.

Even though 29 years had passed, I still hadn't parted with my recollections of him as a living, breathing human being. I have often thought about Steve, and the circumstances of his death and how it has changed my view of the world since. His death in Vietnam affected me as no other. I personally knew 20 or so guys who did not survive their tours of duty in Vietnam, but nonbody's death had the impact on me that Steven's did. He was one of very few people I came to know on a really personal level..

It was common to have hunches about who you thought was not going to make it home, but I certainly thought Steve would. In retrospect, the reality about this is that these hunches were almost always wrong. For me, there is a certain and lasting truth to the adage "the good die young". Whenever I hear those words I aleays think of Steven Kenoffel.

He hailed from Glenwood, California and like me had volunteered for the draft in 1969 after an uninspired college stint. I met him soon after being assigned to the 101st Airborne Division. He had already served six months in the field with the Division, which at that time was situated just south of the DMZ, which the northern most boundary of South Vietnam. The policy in the 101st was that if you survived six months in the field, you would usually be given a cushy job in the rear, out of harm's way for the duration of your tour. Steven had achieved this status when I joined him at Headquarters Company, 1st of the 506th Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. He was `safely' serving out his remaining six months in the rear.

We worked together in an underground bunker set up to run field operations for the 1st Battalion of the 506th Infantry. It was called the Battalion 'TOC', which stood for 'Tactical Operations Center', and was situated in a large fortified camp known as Camp Evans. Working as radio operators, we called in air and artillery support for the troops, arranged for medivac airlifts of the dead and wounded, kept them supplied, and tracked their positions in the field. We were their `lifeline' to the rear, and in many situations, our performance meant the difference between life or death for them. Unlike Steve and most of the other ex-grunts I worked the radios with, I was officially trained as a radio operator, and fully expected to complete my tour in Vietnam at this job.

A couple of months after my arrival though, the high command decided that everyone serving in an infantry battalion should have a minimum of six months field experience, which I did not. What this meant was that I would be humping the bush with a radio on my back (as Steve had) instead of sitting in front of one. This would be for an indefinite period of time, but certainly not longer than the eight months remaining in my tour. With trepidation I bid farewell to Steve and my other acquaintances and joined Charley Company, 1st of the 506th Infantry, 101st Airborne Division for my first tour of field duty.

After spending four to six weeks in the field, we usually came back to Camp Evans for `standowns', which were like mini vacations for rest and relaxation lasting 3 or 4 days, after which time we would mount up go back to the field and start the cycle over again. It was on one of these standowns, about four months after I had started my field duty that I paid my usual visit to Steven and the guys at Battalion TOC to catch up on the latest and also say my good-byes to him before he left for home.

When I arrived at his hooch, (living quarters), I found Steve in a state of panic. He had just been told that he was to report to the helicopter pad to be flown out to a firebase called Granite. It was a nasty mountain-top that had just been overrun a few nights before, suffering heavy casualties. It seems they needed radio operators on the hill as temporary replacements for the ones that had been killed or wounded. They didn't tell him how long he would be needed there, but a single day in the field was too long as far as he was concerned. With only two weeks to go before his tour was finished, he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks at that point and I fully understood his concern.

He was not angry about his predicament, just scared. I tried my best to assuage his fears, telling him the odds that something might happen out there on the same hill, again, were very slim. I told him the enemy would never hit the same hill twice within such a short period of time. I had seen the same fear in other `short timers' who were again thrust into harm's way, but everything usually turned out okay. I truly felt that his luck would hold another for just another few weeks. The odd were certainly in his favor.

Another friend and I walked with him to the helicopter pad to see him off and to offer moral support. After getting on the large double-bladed Chinook helicopter with twelve or so other GI's, the crew chief directed the loading of what seemed to be a huge amount ammunition and supplies into the belly of the ship. The pilot kept testing the lift ability of the helicopter while the crew chief continued to load the bird with more and more ammunition and supplies. (My friend and I were talking back and forth about how we thought they must be overloading it, but of course that was just our unqualified opinion.).After loading and testing the lift three or four times, they finally decided the it was near the maximum limit and they decided take off. After revving the engine for take off, the ship definitely seemed to labor for a while before finally lifting off.

We watched as it gained altitude and advance down the field toward the edge of Camp Evans, heading west to go into the mountains to Firebase Granite. After it had flown about a hundred yards at an altitude of no more then thirty feet, my friend said he thought he saw flames coming from the engine. I dismissed this at first because I didn't see anything wrong and thought it was probably just the heat that can usually be seen rising from a helicopter's engines. A few seconds later though it became apparent he was right. Fire and smoke could now clearly be seen coming from the engine cowling and we ran down the pad chasing after it.

After flying perhaps 300 yards downfield, it slowly descended, tilting head first onto the tarmac at what seemed to me to be a moderate rate. Nonetheless, upon impact it split straight across the middle like an eggshell, spilling out it's full fuel load and erupting into a raging inferno within seconds. Flames soon circled the stricken craft, fanning out into a great circle perhaps fifty feet across and reaching great heights. As we approached, as before the inferno had completely developed we could see people running from the fallen bird in all directions. As we neared we were hoping that everyone had escaped before the immense holocaust had ensued?and everyone had except for Steven.

Later, someone at the crash site told us that he had watched the whole event unfold right directly in front of him. He said that immediately after the Chinook crashed he saw a dozen or so people flee the wreckage, immediately. He then saw Steve peering out a port-side window as the flames began engulfing it. He said it was obvious Steve was pondering exactly what to do. He trying to figure his options. One can only imagine the tortured thoughts that must have been going through his mind. I can only imagine what must have been going through his mind. He knew if he stayed with the ship he would soon be dead, either by the already exploding ammunition or by the flames. He also most certainly must have realized that any attempt to jump out and run through the wall of flames would surely mean certain death. He decided (as I am sure we all would) to try to save himself. Why he had not gotten out of the ship earlier will always be a mystery. Most likely he was trapped under falling debris shortly after it came down, preventing him from making an early escape.

As we arrived on the scene, we found Steven. He was severely burned, lying on the tarmac just beyond the wall of flames, about 100 feet from the wreckage. He was naked except for the burnt remnants of a green towel still wrapped around his neck (infantrymen often wrapped towels around their necks and shoulders to act as an additional cushion from the straps of their rucksacks) and what was left of his underwear. The rest of his clothes had been burned away except for an occasional piece here and there. He had large gaping, blood-red third degree wounds, mostly on his legs and torso. They had the appearance of deep craters that had been carved from his flesh by some devilish, sharp-toothed monster. I had never seen a person with severe burns and I was very shocked by his appearance. We wrapped him in a blanket and shielded his body as best we could from the debris coming from the nearby wreckage as ammunition began exploding in earnest. A medic finally arrived on the scene and we put him on a stretcher and carried him to a nearby field ambulance. As we put him in, what was left of his clothes were still smoldering from under the blanket.

The thought had not even crossed my mind that it was Steve we had just put on in an ambulance. The difficulty of recognizing him lay partly in the fact that all of the hair had been burned off his head and face, including his eyebrows and eyelashes, and his usual glasses were gone, making him unrecognizable. As we walked back to the Company area I thought he had surely gotten out safely and was probably already back in the company area. When we arrived , we inquired as to who it was we had helped, and were told that it was Steve. I immediately ran to the nearby aid station where he had been taken, but was told he had already been airlifted to a critical-care ship known as the `Hope', anchored in the China Sea. The medic who tended to him told me that Steven was conscious and lucid when he was brought in and had answered all of the questions asked of him regarding his name and unit information and such. This gave me some hope for his survival hearing that he at least conscious and able to do that.

Within the next few days my stand-down ended and I headed back to the field. Before I left, I got word that Steve was being flown to a hospital in Japan, a much shorter flight than to the US, which his condition would not have allowed. As luck would have it, two weeks later I was wounded while out on patrol, and after spending three or four days in a hospital in Vietnam, I too was flown to Japan and admitted to a hospital there. Shortly after arriving, I immediately asked a visiting Red Cross nurse if she could find anything out about Steve for me.

Four days after my arrival and after inquiring daily about Steve, she finally told me that she had some information about him. She said she was very sorry to have to tell me that Steve had in fact died the day before I had arrived. I was overcome with grief and at once set out to write his parents a long letter (Steve and I had earlier exchanged home addresses because I had planned to come to visit California after leaving the service) to explain the circumstances of Steve's death and to tell them how much of a friend he had become me and how they must be great parents to have had such a special son. Tears stained the pages as I wrote.

Approximately two weeks later I was flown home to a hospital in Pennsylvania. And after a couple of weeks there, I finally arrived back home in Michigan. Waiting for me was a letter in which was enclosed letters from both of Steve's parents. As I read them the story they told of Steve's death was very poignant. The circumstances of his death in Japan are best told by actually reading of these letters, the first of which his father wrote:

"First of all I want to thank you so very much taking the time to write us. We appreciate knowing of the circumstances surrounding Steven's injury.

Steve lived for about two weeks after he was burned. We were in constant contact with the doctors after he was evacuated to Japan. We were told that he had burns over 78% of his entire body surface and the chances of his recovery were very slim indeed. However on April 1, we flew to Japan and arrived there about 5:30 PM on April 2, Japan time. We were met at the airport by the Army and taken by car to the 106th General Hospital where Steven was being cared for. The traffic was terrible and it took us two hours to get there. After being prepared for what we were about to see by the doctor, we saw our dear son. He was semi-comatose, but after a few minutes he saw us and we believe, as does the doctor, that he recognized us. Although he could not speak due to his condition we did get to see him alive.

Within the hour he died and subsequently we returned and his body was sent home. On Sunday, April 12th, we buried our dear son with the Army providing full military honors, which included reading of the citations he received for saving a man's life in combat, a feat that earned him the Bronze Star with V for Valor.

We are honored to know that you and your friends had such a high opinion of our son. This is something we have always had naturally, but it is nice to know that his wonderful qualities were recognized by others as well.

If you are ever in California please look us up. We have read and re-read your letter many times and it does mean so very much to us. God bless you Douglas and all the other fine young men that were there with Steve and got to be so close. If you care to write again we would appreciate hearing from you. Any reflections or memories of Steve are very precious to us and we shall cherish your kind letter always."

And his mother's note:

Dear Doug,

"Just a few lines to add to my husband's letter. First of all, I hope your leg injury is not too severe. This war as all wars are, is pretty miserable. Too many of our brave young men have been killed or crippled by it. We will be forever grateful to you for writing to us. Needless to say, we are heart-broken over losing Steven. It's hard to believe that we'll never see his smile again or hear him laugh. Yes, he was a pretty fine guy, and we are so proud of him, I just wish he would be coming home alive. I hope you have some pictures of Steve to send us, please send us one of yourself. Our home is always open to you. Do you have a family? Take care of yourself, and I pray that this miserable situation will end soon. We will keep your letter always. I'm afraid we're not half as good as Steve was, but we sure loved him. God bless you Douglas."

After reading these letters it struck me that after being told by his doctors that his parents were coming to Japan to see him, Steve obviously held on long enough to see them one last time.

I never visited California or met Steve's parents, as I said I might in my letter to them. I now wish I had. I am also grateful for their letters to me and that I also hold them dear. Many years after coming home, I remembered something Steve had said to me. It came into my consciousness one day out of the blue, and I don't really know why. It was something he had said when we were at the Headquarters Company office for the 1st of the 506th Infantry. It was a few weeks or so before he was supposed to be going home and he was there to get things in order to leave. While there, he said it reminded him of the day he had signed into Company, almost a year prior. He said that of the twelve people he had signed into the Battalion with that day, he was the only one that would be going home alive.

I wish it were so.

Moniaci
C/1/506