Unreasonable Behavior: An Autobiography by Don McCullin

Author:Don McCullin [McCullin, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Artists, Autobiography, Biography, Journalism, Language Arts & Disciplines, Non-Fiction, Photographers
ISBN: 9780802126962
Google: XapTvgAACAAJ
Amazon: B01N6IMYJG
Publisher: Grove Press
Published: 2017-04-14T23:00:00+00:00

Don (on left) and Michael Nicholson with wounded men, Quang Tri Road, 1972

The answer was not a lot, because my rifle had no magazine. We managed to manhandle the wounded men on to the bonnet of Mike’s car and drove very slowly to the nearest casualty station. Both soldiers died the next day.

At that time, in the early summer of 1972, another two dead in Vietnam meant little to anyone in Britain. Vietnam had become the forgotten war. The rage exhibited in the demos of the Sixties seemed to have been replaced by indifference. Because the Americans under President Nixon had greatly reduced their combat presence in Vietnam, it was assumed that the war had lost its ferocity. Nothing was further from the truth.

I went to Vietnam again with James Fox, the magazine correspondent, and William Shawcross, who was then writing for the news pages. There was a wide choice of battle zones to visit, and everywhere the North Vietnamese seemed to be on the advance. I decided to concentrate first on one of the more southerly theatres, on An Loc and Highway 13, where the close combat seemed to be at its bloodiest.

I had Alan Hart of BBC television to thank for getting me within range. I found him at a staging-area, with a helicopter organised and a full film crew, but minus the eyepiece for the camera. For the want of a little eyepiece they were all grounded, so I had the use of the helicopter.

On the approach to An Loc, the fire was so intense that the pilot decided to set me down on a position behind a ridge about two miles from the town. As I got out an American adviser told me, ‘You’ve come to the wrong place. This is a very bad place. We’re taking a lot of rounds.’

It was already getting dark and I decided to dig in. I offered a sip from my brandy flask to a passing American soldier, who declined. Seconds later we found ourselves on the receiving end of the night’s first incoming shells and I had this big soldier on top of me in my pathetic little hole, almost crushing the life out of me.

‘You know what?’ he said when there was a pause in the shelling. ‘I could sure use some of that brandy now.’

It was an appalling night under shell fire. Next morning I heard automatic gunfire and got out my field glasses. I could see men all over the landscape, running through paddy fields and down hedgerows. They were coming in our direction, South Vietnamese paratroopers in full flight, many of them carrying heavy red wounds.

A helicopter came down by the ridge and I persuaded the pilot to take me out. Then a party of wounded arrived, and they were all loaded in around me. We flew back to my original staging-area, which looked somehow different. Something was missing. While I was away overnight, VC sappers had crept in and blown 800 tons of ammunition sky high.

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