[Congressional Record Volume 167, Number 87 (Wednesday, May 19, 2021)]
[House]
[Pages H2552-H2554]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
HONORING THE SERVICE OF JOHN EADE
The SPEAKER pro tempore. The Chair recognizes the gentlewoman from
Ohio (Ms. Kaptur) for 5 minutes.
Ms. KAPTUR. Madam Speaker, as our Nation approaches Memorial Day
2021, I am deeply privileged to enter into the Congressional Record the
true story of a great soldier and an agonizing battle during the War in
Vietnam.
The story recounts the superhuman valor of a great army soldier named
John Eade, heroic son of my hometown of Toledo, Ohio. John is held in
the highest esteem by all who know him. He is a faithful friend and a
true patriot, a superlatively strong soldier, yet a humble decorated
warrior for liberty. Yes, he is a Purple Heart and more. He has been
tested beyond human limits his entire life. He has triumphed against
overwhelming odds, including lifelong war wounds, time and time again.
In November 1965, Sergeant John Eade, then 21, was deployed in
Vietnam, a fire team leader in the 1st Calvary division and its ill-
fated 2nd Platoon, Alpha Company. On November 14, 1965, Sergeant Eade
and his team were sent to reinforce their sister battalion that was
engaged in very heavy fighting at Landing Zone X-Ray in La Drang
Valley. Two days later, believing the enemy was destroyed and the worst
fighting seemingly over, the 1st and 2nd Platoons Bravo were all
choppered out. But John Eade and his team left Landing Zone X-ray the
morning of November 17, marching 10 kilometers to nearby Landing Zone
Albany. They were the first to arrive.
They established the command post and defense perimeter, and other
companies were still coming up the trail. Sergeant Eade, with Alpha's
2nd Platoon, was sent into the trees to the left while the 1st Platoon
went right. That is when the two much larger North Vietnamese regiments
encamped nearby attacked.
Sergeant Eade's platoon was immediately pinned down in ferocious
hand-to-hand combat as the North Vietnamese swarmed down on them
through the trees. Sergeant Eade reflected, ``it was like a gang fight.
It was small groups of us versus small groups of them. It got down to
knives. It got down to choking people.''
Sergeant Eade and his team, Wilbert Johnson, Barry Burnite, and Oscar
Barker, Jr., tried to outflank the attacking Vietnamese but were badly
outnumbered. Eade recounts: ``Burnite, a machine gunner, was hit in the
chest by shrapnel and his gun was disabled. Johnson, his crewman,
dragged Burnite 30 meters back to a position of cover in an effort to
save him.'' Eade recounted, ``It was the greatest feat of human
strength I have ever witnessed. I don't know if Burnite was still
alive.''
Johnson and Barker holed up amongst some trees and continued to
fight. Johnson was killed and Eade was shot in the gut and the right
shoulder, forcing him to fire his M-16 left-handed. Under RPC fire,
Eade said his legs and boots were sprayed with shrapnel that left a
large piece stuck in his foot, leaving him unable to walk.
Barker tended to Eade's wounds. Everyone else was dead. Eade urged
Barker to flee 50 meters beyond the woods where the command element was
situated. Barker refused. Shortly thereafter, Barker was shot and Eade
attended him as he slowly died. Eade later reflected: ``I don't think
anyone who studies war doesn't get stuck on the Battle of Thermopylae.
It is that thing of standing our ground to the last man. If you had
your chance to cut out or stay, you would have stayed.''
Despite some misgivings, according to official records, the U.S.
Command Post called in a napalm strike on Sergeant Eade's position. As
a result, Sergeant Eade was set on fire and severely burned because of
the air strike. He was further weakened but still alive. He managed to
roll in the dirt to put out the flames.
Sergeant Eade recalled that, among his problems, the napalm proved
inconsequential. In fact, he said, ``the napalm served a purpose by
flushing the enemy out and gave me an opportunity to reduce the
Vietcong numbers.''
Later in the afternoon, still conscious but bleeding, he said he was
surprised by the sudden appearance of three enemy soldiers behind him.
``There were three North Vietnamese looking at me, one with a pistol.''
Eade said he shot and killed two, but was shot in the face by the one
with the pistol.
The small caliber bullet destroyed his right eye socket and shattered
parts of the sinus, making it difficult to breathe. He was knocked
unconscious. When he came to, the third Vietnamese was gone.
Small groups of North Vietnamese continued moving through the area
until about midnight, Eade said. And he stopped using his rifle after
dark so he wouldn't give away his position. He said he managed to crawl
around and throw grenades at some parties he assumed were removing
their dead after midnight. The enemy activity ended. He recalls it was
a struggle to stay awake. He was on his third night without sleep and
believed if he fell asleep, he would be found and killed.
Dawn came. He was still alive, though horribly wounded. Around 9 or
10 in the morning, Infantryman Eade
[[Page H2553]]
said he heard someone moving toward him. He prepared to shoot but held
his fire and then saw the shape of an American helmet.
``I yelled at them, `Give me some water.' I was really thirsty. He
looked at me and said, `You're shot in the stomach. I can't give you
water.' I told him I had been drinking water all night. But the soldier
said `no.' So I asked him for some morphine. I told him I used mine up
on the other wounded. It really hurts. The soldier said: `You are shot
in the head. I can't give you morphine.' So I said, `Well, give me a
cigarette.' They gave me that. And he said he never stopped smoking
after that.''
John Eade was awarded the Purple Heart.
Madam Speaker, I include in the Record the entire story of John Eade,
a great American soldier.
John Eade: ``I Am Going To Die Well''
[From the Boston Herald, Nov. 15, 2010]
(By Jules Crittenden)
There are people who have the ability to surprise you with
the evidence, against long odds, that it is possible to
retain a sense of wonder, some ideals and even wistful
dreams, when cynicism, demons and nightmares should have won
out a long time ago.
John Eade is like that, the kind of person you're always
glad to see. You know you'll walk away with a little of that
energy he barely manages to conceal behind a quiet facade,
still retaining in his 60s--despite severe war wounds--an
infantryman's ability to walk 25 miles on short notice.
And you know Eade will always leave you with something to
think about--like what he had say about the Spartans at
Thermopylae, when the movie ``300'' came out a few years
back.
It came up in one of our late-night phone conversations.
Eade said he had been captivated by the story when he was in
high school in Toledo, Ohio. Forty-odd years later, he was
still.
``I don't think anyone who studies war doesn't get stuck on
Thermopylae. It's that thing of standing your ground to the
last man,'' Eade said. ``Three days of fighting set up the
Persians for their ultimate defeat. It changed history. It
has taken on mythic proportions. You want to be one of the
300. If you had your chance to cut out or stay, you'd have
stayed.''
Eade said it almost casually, like any of us would do that.
Most people can only wonder if they would. But Eade knows
what he is talking about. He's an authority on the subject.
In November 1965, Sgt. John Eade, then 21, was in Vietnam,
among the first American regulars there, a fire-team leader
in 2nd Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion of the
historically ill-fated 7th Cavalry Regiment, 1st Cavalry
Division. They had already seen some combat, and as former
paratroopers turned Air Cav, were a confident, well-trained
and cohesive unit.
Over Nov. 14, 15, and 16, elements of 2/7 Cav were sent in
to reinforce its sister battalion, 1/7 Cav, in the heavy
fight at Landing Zone X-ray in the la Orang valley, where a
reconnaissance in force had encountered a large force of
North Vietnamese regulars. On the 16th, with the enemy at X-
ray destroyed and the worst seemingly over, 1/7 was choppered
out, along with 2/7's Bravo. The rest of 2/7, with a company
of 1/5 Cav, left X-ray the morning of Nov. 17, marching 10
kilometers to Landing Zone Albany. Just short of Albany, the
lead elements captured a couple of North Vietnamese soldiers.
There was debate about whether they were deserters or an
outpost.
Still mulling the implications, they moved on, the
battalion CO calling his company commanders ahead for a
conference. In Albany's clearing of grassland and anthills,
surrounded by forest, 2/7's Alpha Company began establishing
a command post and a defensive perimeter within which the
helicopters could land and take them home. The battalion's
Delta, Charlie and Headquarters companies were still coming
up the trail behind them, with 1/5's Alpha company bringing
up the rear. Eade, with Alpha's 2nd Platoon, was sent into
the trees to the left, while 1st Platoon went right. That's
when the two North Vietnamese regiments encamped nearby
attacked, along the length of the column.
Eade discussed his experience with me five years ago for a
Boston Herald article. It was the first time he had done so
in a public venue. He recalled that his platoon was
immediately pinned down in ferocious fighting as the North
Vietnamese swarmed on them through the trees.
``For the first hour and a half, it was intense hand-to-
hand,'' Eade said. ``It was like a gang fight. It was small
groups of us versus small groups of them. It got down to
knives. It got down to choking people.''
First and 2nd platoons were taking the brunt of the attack
on the landing zone's perimeter. Delta, Charlie, HQ and 1/5
Alpha companies, strung out along the trail, were also under
heavy attack, with similar scenes of desperate combat playing
out as hundreds of men, American and Vietnamese, engaged
among the trees. Meanwhile, the Vietnamese who had cut off
the column were directly assaulting the Alpha's command post
among some anthills in the middle of the clearing.
Eade said he and his fire team, Wilbert Johnson, Barry
Burnite and Oscar Barker Jr., had some freedom of movement
along a line of brush and tried to flank the attacking
Vietnamese.
``We wanted to hunt them down and give the platoon a
chance,'' Eade said. ``We bit off more than we could chew.''
Burnite, a machine gunner, was hit in the chest by shrapnel
and his gun was disabled. Johnson, his crewman, dragged
Burnite 30 meters back to a position of cover in an effort to
save him.
``It was the greatest feat of human strength I have ever
witnessed,'' Eade said. ``I don't know if Burnite was still
alive.''
Eade said he, Johnson and Barker holed up among some trees
and continued to fight. Johnson was killed, and Eade was shot
in the gut and the right shoulder, forcing him to fire his M-
16 left-handed. Under RPG and mortar fire, Eade said his legs
and boots were sprayed with shrapnel that left a large piece
stuck into his foot, so he couldn't walk.
By about 3 p.m., much of the fighting had subsided around
the fire team's two survivors, Barker and Eade. Barker tended
to Eade's wounds in the lull, stuffing one of Eade's dirty
socks into his shoulder wound to stop the bleeding because
they were out of bandages.
``I knew and he knew that everyone else was dead,'' Eade
said. He said he urged Barker to try to save himself and run
for the command post, which Eade estimates was located about
50 meters of open ground beyond the woods, where the command
element and mortars still held a perimeter.
``He refused to go,'' Eade said. Shortly after that, Barker
was shot, and Eade had to watch him die. It was a sucking
chest wound, and it took a long time, Eade said.
After Barker died, Eade was alone.
``My whole life, I've missed the people I was with,'' Eade
said at that point in the conversation. ``I just miss them a
lot.''
I asked him what his thoughts and emotions were at this
time, as the last surviving man in his position with every
expectation that he would be killed as the Vietnamese moved
through the trees finishing off the wounded. I was under the
impression that Eade had played dead to survive, but he said
that wasn't the case.
``Playing dead was a way to die. It made no sense to me.
Our job was to hold that position and kill the enemy,'' Eade
said. ``I had this thing in my mind, part of the U.S. Army's
General Orders and the soldier's code you learn in boot camp:
`I will never forget I am an American fighting man. I will
never surrender of my own free will. I will continue to
resist to the utmost of my ability. I will not leave my post
until properly relieved.' ''
Eade said he kept repeating it himself.
``I don't think it was unique to me,'' Eade said, citing
the actions of men like Barker and Johnson. He said his
seemingly hopeless position was made easier by his belief,
established weeks earlier after several men in the unit were
killed in other actions, that he would not leave Vietnam
alive. What Eade says about that may sound familiar to other
veterans of heavy combat:
``It wasn't a matter of living or dying. It was taking care
of each other and doing your duty. The anticipation of a
future is what you give up. The question was not, `Am I going
to die?' We all know the answer to that. The question was,
'How am I going to die? I am going to die well.' ''
In the command post, Alpha Company's executive officer, Lt.
Larry Gwin, reports they saw large groups of the enemy moving
through 2nd Platoon's area. The command post remained under
assault by waves of Vietnamese, still cut off from what was
left of the rest of the battalion.
A couple of 2nd Platoon soldiers who had made it out of the
woods and across the open grassland to the command post said
they didn't think any Americans were alive in there. Despite
some misgivings on the part of some officers, the decision
was made to thwart a Vietnamese attack on the command post by
calling in a napalm strike on 2nd Platoon's position.
``I think they made the right decision,'' Eade said. He was
on the edge of the A-1 Skyraiders' napalm strike.
``It set me on fire, but I managed to roll in the dirt and
put it out,'' Eade said, adding that among his problems, the
napalm proved inconsequential. In fact, he said, the napalm
served a purpose. ``It flushed them out and gave me an
opportunity to reduce the numbers.''
Later in the afternoon, Eade said he was surprised by the
sudden appearance of three enemy soldiers behind him.
``There were three North Vietnamese looking at me, one with
a pistol.'' Eade said he shot and killed two, but was shot in
the face by the one with the pistol. The small-caliber bullet
destroyed his right eye socket and shattered parts of his
sinuses, making it difficult to breathe. He was knocked
unconscious, and when he came to, the third Vietnamese was
gone.
``I was angry at myself for being shot in the head. I was
angry at myself for being careless. I was really pissed off
at the North Vietnamese. It was probably the most maniacal
moment of my life,'' Eade said. He declined to elaborate.
Small groups of North Vietnamese continued moving through
the area until about midnight, Eade said. He said he stopped
using his rifle after dark so he wouldn't give away his
position. He said he managed to crawl around and throw
grenades at some
[[Page H2554]]
parties he assumes were removing their dead.
``There was no shortage of grenades lying around,'' Eade
said.
After midnight, the enemy activity ended. He recalls that
it was a struggle to stay awake. He was on his third night
without sleep, and believed that if he fell asleep, he would
be found and killed.
Dawn came. He was alive, though severely wounded. Around 9
or 10 in the morning, Eade said he heard someone moving
toward him. He prepared to shoot, but held his fire. Then he
saw the shape of an American helmet.
``I yelled at them, `Give me some water!' '' Eade said. ``I
was really thirsty. He looked at me and said, `You're shot in
the stomach. I can't give you water.' I told him I had been
drinking water all night, but he said no. So I asked him for
some morphine. I told him I had used mine up on the other
wounded. `It really hurts,' I said. He said, `You're shot in
the head. I can't give you morphine.' So I said, `Well, then
give me a cigarette.' They gave me that.''
He said he had never smoked before, but hasn't stopped
since.
Eade's experience was similar to what hundreds of men up
and down the column experienced over the prior afternoon and
night, though many did not survive the first few hours after
the Vietnamese broke through and enveloped them shortly after
1 p.m. on the 17th.
Gwin, who remembers firing at the oncoming Vietnamese, and
firing again to keep them down, has said he is haunted by the
memory of the American dead that he saw strewn across the
grassland and throughout the trees on the morning of the
18th. He reports that the discovery of Eade alive where 2nd
Platoon had been destroyed was a tremendous morale booster
for the survivors. When the battle was over, Gwin said, the
battalion that had marched to LZ Albany could fit into four
deuce and a half trucks. Nearly three-quarters of them had
been killed or wounded in a matter of hours. But he said that
despite the trauma, morale was high and remained so in
following weeks as replacements rotated into nearly empty
platoon tents and the battalion prepared to return to the
field.
``The survivors rallied and cheered the fact that we had
held the ground. We knew that we had killed a lot of them. We
had given as good as we had gotten,'' said Gwin. ``The morale
was very high in a perverse sort of way, because we had
survived it.''
Eade objects to the notion that his platoon, while largely
destroyed, was overrun. He argues that he stayed alive, kept
fighting, and remained in position. His platoon held.
Gwin, noting that 2/7 Cav held its ground in one of the
bloodiest days any battalion has experienced in U.S. military
history, said, ``John's platoon held. If they hadn't done
what they did, we would have been overrun.''
Eade was medevac'd, and none of his comrades saw him again
for decades. Gwin said that years later after they were
reunited, he and other la Orang vets tried to get a combat
award for Eade. Gwin, who earned a Silver Star for his
actions at LZ Albany and completed 45 combat assaults in his
year in Vietnam, said he believes Eade's actions merit a
Distinguished Service Cross. But because there were no living
American witnesses to Eade's actions, Gwin said, the effort
was unsuccessful. Eade himself has said, regarding
decorations, he is satisfied with the Combat Infantryman's
Badge.
Eade spent 1966, the year after the la Drang, in the U.S.
Army hospital at Valley Forge. That's where the mother of his
fire team's machine gunner, Barry Burnite, came to see him.
``I don't know how she found me,'' Eade said. ``She asked
me, how did her son die? I kind of told her the truth and I
kind of didn't. I cleaned it up a bit. The uncontrollable
grief of that woman has stayed with me my whole life. Her
pain and her grief was more than I could bear to look at. I
can never think about it without wanting to cry.''
Eade, though battered and disfigured, recovered and went to
university in the late 1960s. He became an architect. He
pursued a career through what he called ``serial jobs,''
staying only until he became restless or angry, and moving
on. He was largely solitary, and to this day closely guards
his privacy. Eade became chief of inspectional services for
the City of Boston in the 1990s, which is where I first met
him. A lightly built, soft-spoken man with an eyepatch, an
unexpected character in City Hall, a little odd and engaging.
Serious about his work, he had a reputation for toughness and
honesty. I only learned about his history several years
later, and then it was by odd coincidence, through Gwin, our
mutual friend, by then the informal head of a small informal
group of combat veterans, some Boston lawyers and investment
bankers who form a sort of movable VFW down in the businesss
district.
Gwin had seen Eade's name in a local newspaper article and
sought him out. Eade had been out of touch with his fellow la
Drang vets for nearly 40 years, having made no effort to get
in touch.
``You have to understand. All my friends were dead,'' Eade
explained.
It was one of those typical silver-bullet Eade statements.
He has a gift, or maybe the curse for it. Unsentimentally,
matter-of-factly plumbing a terrible depth of human
experience in a few words.
These days, Eade seems to have friends everywhere he goes.
There is always someone who walks up, glad to see him, when
we walk through the city. They say little things about him in
brief asides, something he did one time or another. I don't
know how many of them know that this quiet, gentle man is
still a soldier, prouder of nothing more than to have been an
American combat infantryman who held his ground.
____________________