Roy Benavidez

Frankly, I don't believe in luck. Everything happens for some purpose. To begin with, I'm alive. I shouldn't be; I should have been dead many times over. No, I can't walk too well, I'm missing one lung, and I lock up like an old rusty gate if I sit too long, but I am alive.

Master Sergeant Raul Perez "Roy" Benavidez (August 5, 1935 – November 29, 1998) was a United States Army master sergeant who was awarded the Medal of Honor for his valorous actions in combat near Lộc Ninh, South Vietnam on May 2, 1968, while serving as a member of the United States Army Special Forces during the Vietnam War.

When President Reagan placed the Congressional Medal of Honor around my neck, it all came racing back to me. The blood flooding the floor of the helicopter and gushing out of the doors as we banked and ran from that Cambodian jungle. The sights and sounds of my six hours in hell. The agony of the wounded and dying kept repetitively flashing through my mind while I watched the honor guard and heard the president, my commander-in-chief, read the details of the award. I was not ashamed of the tears that blinded my eyes.

I can't tell everybody's story. I can only tell mine. This is not a story about war. It's a story about freedom and its cost.

Serving in Korea was not all misery for me. I felt more a part of something than I ever had in my life. I was a U.S. soldier. Maybe I was a little shorter, or a little darker, or had a different-sounding name from some, but to the other troops I was just one of them. A poor dogface freezing his butt off, too. It did me good.

Quotes

Medal of Honor: A Vietnam Warrior's Story (1995)

Washington, D.C.: Brassey's. Written by Roy Benavidez with John R. Craig. Hardcover.

• Frankly, I don't believe in luck. Everything happens for some purpose. To begin with, I'm alive. I shouldn't be; I should have been dead many times over. No, I can't walk too well, I'm missing one lung, and I lock up like an old rusty gate if I sit too long, but I am alive. Most of my buddies aren't; almost all of them are gone. Over fifty-eight thousand other guys that I didn't know died with them, but I'm alive, and I'm here, and I owe them the telling of this story. Every one of them had his own story. Maybe he just stepped off a plane one day and got it from a misplaced mortar round. Maybe he was walking back from the latrine when a sniper got him. Maybe he's a bigger "hero" than I'm supposed to be, but few are alive to tell the tale. Every one of those guys sacrificed his life, or his limbs, or his humanity, or his youth, or his mind, and I'm alive to tell about it. Up until now, nobody has really cared too much about hearing our side of it, our stories. Maybe it's different now. But I can't tell everybody's story. I can only tell mine. This is not a story about war. It's a story about freedom and its cost.
  • xvi

• When President Reagan placed the Congressional Medal of Honor around my neck, it all came racing back to me. The blood flooding the floor of the helicopter and gushing out of the doors as we banked and ran from that Cambodian jungle. The sights and sounds of my six hours in hell. The agony of the wounded and dying kept repetitively flashing through my mind while I watched the honor guard and heard the president, my commander-in-chief, read the details of the award. I was not ashamed of the tears that blinded my eyes.
  • p. xv

• Korea was becoming somewhat civilized, at least for the commissioned officers stationed there. An officers' club had been established near the artillery company's camp, and a three-quarter-ton truck was en route to it carrying a supply of liquor. The truck broke down, and foolishly the driver decided to go for help. I was told that a GI named Gotch-Eye Ireland happened on that truck while the driver was away from it, examined it, and discovered its contents. Gotch-Eye hurried back to his battery, then went to the motor pool to obtain a three-quarter-ton vehicle and some help in order that he might "liberate" that whiskey. The people in the motor pool, of course, had to be involved, for the motor pool sergeant had to sign off on the truck.
  The soldiers "liberated" the bourbon, scotch, gin, and vodka, leaving sissy liquor such as creme de menthe and sherry for the officers. They hid the truck, and when night fell they removed the bottles from it and took them into the hills. At daylight, MPs conducted a tent-to-tent search but found no trace of the liquor. The captain who commanded the battery called a meeting of all the noncoms. "I am upset," he said, "but I will be even more upset if I do not have periodically in my tent a bottle of bourbon. If I do not, I will take further action. I will see that another search is conducted and that the perpetrators of this incident are court-martialed."
  Needless to say, the captain got his bourbon. Apparently, he thought as the dogfaces, who could only get three-two beer, did- that the liquor would be wasted on some of the shavetail second lieutenants who drank at the officers' club. The enlisted men used to say of the second lieutenants that their motto was, "We're gentlemen because we're officers." The GI's response was, "Yeah, but it took an Act of Congress to make you one."
  • p. 45-46

• Serving in Korea was not all misery for me. I felt more a part of something than I ever had in my life. I was a U.S. soldier. Maybe I was a little shorter, or a little darker, or had a different-sounding name from some, but to the other troops I was just one of them. A poor dogface freezing his butt off, too. It did me good. The Army had always separated me a little bit as a Hispanic, and I had always separated myself, too. Now they didn't have a choice and neither did I.
  • p. 46

• The Koreans treated us all the same, too. A lot of them liked us, or tried to. Most Koreans really appreciated the American blood that was spilled on their soil to help maintain their freedom. Some didn't. To some few, a distinct minority, we were just another group of invaders, like the Japanese in the last war and the Chinese before them. They could hardly be blamed for feeling that way after living for so many years with foreigners in their land.
  Getting to know the Koreans helped me to begin to develop an understanding about the cost of freedom. Not all of the Koreans were Slicky Boys. The Korean soldiers I worked with were excellent. The ROK Army soldiers and Marines were much less well equipped, fed, and paid than we were, but they were committed to doing what they could to preserve their five-thousand-year-old culture. They had an intense hatred for communism that I would see again when some of them fought in Vietnam.
  • p. 47

• Our men developed strong compassion for the plight of these proud, independent people. The desire to be free from oppression seemed to extend to the last man, woman, and child. The greatest tragedy of war could be seen in the children, and they touched everyone. We were soldiers, but we were human beings, too. Our toughest, meanest sergeant often visited the kids in the orphanages to take them gifts and to clown around with them. If a word was ever said to him about this contrast in his behavior, he would give a look so mean and threatening as to make anyone shut up fast.
  Some guys adopted kids and sent them home, and some married Korean women who had borne their children. Some claimed their Korean children and had them, shipped back to the States when their tour ended. The children left behind by American soldiers were a horrible reminder of the price paid for occupying foreign lands. Many soldiers never considered the consequences of fathering these children, who were left to a life of despair. They were abandoned by their fathers and scorned by the people of their mothers' culture. I had never been an orphan in the sense that those kids were.
  • p. 47

• I sort of adopted a young orphan by the name of Kim. I have him little assignments and paid him with scrip and food. Once when we had an inspection coming up, I was sent with a squad to police the area and get rid of all the trash. By the time we were done we had a couple of truck loads of junk, and we hauled it back to the big garbage pit a few klicks down the road. We dumped it, then sent Kim out with a five-gallon can of gasoline to set it on fire.
  Maybe my instructions to Kim got lost in translation. What I told him to do was to sprinkle a little here and a little there, not to throw it all on one spot. The next we saw he was on the opposite side of the pit from us, and he was lighting a match.
  He must have dumped the whole can in one place because when he dropped that match, it looked like he'd been consumed by the fires of hell. We went running toward the plume of fire and smoke and all I could hear was Kim yelling, "Benavito, Benavito." (He couldn't pronounce my name very well.) We ran to him and put out the flames by rolling him on the ground. When we could examine him we saw that he had lost his hair and eyebrows, most of his clothes, and was completely black from the soot. That boy was a pure mess, but fortunately, he wasn't seriously hurt.
  • p. 47-48

• Okay, I thought, we're stateside, I'll try to look like it. I started looking for the post barbershop. Man, I couldn't even get near it. Some guy by the name of Elvis Presley had just been drafted, and he was at the barbershop getting all his hair chopped off. There were more people and cameras than I had ever seen in my life. None of us knew much about this Presley kid. When we asked, someone told us that he was some kind of blues or rock-and-roll singer. From the look of the crowd around the barbershop, I thought the President of the United States was inside.
  • p. 51

• The name Tango Mike/Mike had become synonymous with my given name, Roy P. Benavidez. Apparently it was much easier to pronounce and remember than the name Benavidez. The name definitely had become my alter ego. Our alphabetical code names, which we called our Alpha names, were used exclusively on all radio transmissions to confuse the enemy who were monitoring us. If you were captured the enemy wouldn't know that Benavidez, R.P., was also Tango Mike/Mike.
  • p. 133

• I know the content of my heart. I am a good soldier. I go where I am ordered. That kind of loyalty, at least, is noble and vital for the preservation of freedom. When I am asked if it is worth it to lose a loved one in military service I answer "Yes." Our duty as survivors is to pass on the pride in the noble service made by our child, parent, spouse, or buddy. The reason that he or she served, the reason that all American men and women serve, is best expressed in that portion of the West Point motto: "Duty, Honor, Country."
  • p. 173

Quotes about Benavidez

• Like Doss and Inouye, Staff Sgt. Roy Benavidez embarked on a journey from poverty and prejudice to receive the highest accolades of a grateful nation. Born on Aug. 5, 1935, near Cuero, Texas, Benavidez’s given name at birth was Raul Perez Benavidez. He changed “Raul” to “Roy” when he joined the Army in 1955.
  The son of a Mexican farmer and a Yaqui Indian mother, Benavidez was a high school dropout and a troubled youth until he joined the Texas National Guard in 1952. Seven years later and after multiple overseas tours, Benavidez graduated from Airborne School at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. The school transformed Benavidez’s life. In his words, “Until I became Airborne, I had often allowed my temper and my insecurities to control the direction of my life.”
  • Colonel Cole C. Kingseed, U.S. Army, Retired, Medal of Honor Recipients Beat Prejudice, The Enemy, Association of the United States Army, 1 April 2022

• From 1959 to 1965, Benavidez served with the 82nd Airborne Division, and in 1965, he deployed to the Republic of Vietnam as an adviser to a South Vietnamese infantry unit. His tenure as an adviser was short-lived after he stepped on a land mine. Evacuated to the U.S., Benavidez was told he would never walk again.
  Benavidez proved the doctors wrong, undertaking a severe physical regimen and cramming 18 months of healing and therapy into six months.
  By 1966, he volunteered for Special Forces and received the coveted Green Beret the following year. In January 1968, Benavidez received orders to deploy to South Vietnam for his second tour.
  On May 2, 1968, a 12-man Special Forces reconnaissance team was inserted by helicopters into a dense jungle to gather intelligence about confirmed large-scale enemy activity. Under heavy enemy fire, the team requested extraction. Three helicopters attempted to extract the team and were all shot down. Benavidez, who was monitoring the operation by radio, voluntarily boarded another aircraft to assist in another extraction attempt.
  Unable to land at the designated pickup zone, he jumped from his aircraft and ran approximately 75 yards under withering small-arms fire to the crippled team. Despite multiple wounds in the abdomen and grenade fragments in his back, he repositioned the team members and directed their fire to facilitate the landing of an extraction aircraft. Despite his wounds, Benavidez gathered sensitive documents from the downed aircraft. Directing aerial and artillery fire against the enemy, Benavidez refused extraction until every surviving team member was safely aboard an aircraft.
  • Colonel Cole C. Kingseed, U.S. Army, Retired, Medal of Honor Recipients Beat Prejudice, The Enemy, Association of the United States Army, 1 April 2022

• By the time he returned to base camp, Benavidez was convinced he was dying. “My eyes were blinded. My jaws were broken, I had over thirty-seven puncture wounds. My intestines were exposed,” Benavidez wrote in his book with John Craig, Medal of Honor: One Man’s Journey From Poverty and Prejudice. For his actions on May 2, Benavidez received the Distinguished Service Cross.
  Following a year of recovery, Benavidez returned to active duty. He retired as a master sergeant with a total disability in 1976 and returned to Texas. After years of bureaucratic machinations to gather pertinent information surrounding Benavidez’s heroic actions in the war, President Ronald Reagan presented Benavidez with the Medal of Honor on Feb. 24, 1981. Benavidez died in 1998 and is buried at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery in San Antonio.
  Because the Medal of Honor is presented “in the name of the Congress of the United States,” it is frequently called the Congressional Medal of Honor. The terms are used interchangeably, but regardless of designation, the Medal of Honor remains the most prestigious and treasured of all decorations in the armed services.
  Doss, Inouye and Benavidez are typical of the Medal of Honor recipients who have received the coveted award on behalf of their fallen comrades. May their shadows loom large and serve as a beacon to every soldier who wears the uniform of the U.S. Army.
  • Colonel Cole C. Kingseed, U.S. Army, Retired, Medal of Honor Recipients Beat Prejudice, The Enemy, Association of the United States Army, 1 April 2022

• February 24, 1981, was a special day in the life of Master Sergeant Roy Benavidez. On that day, the nation watched proudly as this brave soldier was awarded the Medal of Honor by President Ronald Reagan, a recognition given only to very special service members who have displayed courage well beyond that expected of our citizens. I find Roy's life one with which I can empathize and one that should make all Americans proud of the opportunities America offers to those strong enough to seize the chance. Roy's is a classic study of success in America- born poor in South Texas, an orphan harassed for his Mexican-Indian ancestry. As a boy, Roy was helped by his relatives and his community. As a young man, he found the U.S. Army the perfect place to exhibit his burning desire to contribute to the country he loved despite his difficult beginning. Sent to Vietnam as an adviser, he became known as "Tango Mike/Mike," a radio call sign his fellow soldiers made up for "That mean Mexican." He was mean in the best sense: tough and burning to fight America's and his unit's designated enemies. Roy soon earned a reputation for courage that bordered on recklessness, and he was wounded so badly that army doctors said he would be paralyzed for life. They didn't reckon with Tango Mike/Mike.
  • Ross Perot, Foreword to Medal of Honor: A Vietnam Warrior's Story (Washington: Brassey's, 1995), p. vii

• After months of grueling and determined rehabilitation, Roy Benavidez not only could walk, but qualified for the elite Army Special Forces- the Green Berets. He was soon back in action in Southeast Asia, on the Vietnam-Cambodian border. It was here that he rose to the challenge that made him a respected member of a very special group of heroes. On the morning of May 2, 1968, twelve soldiers from his unit became trapped during a special reconnaissance mission in Cambodia that had been authorized under special presidential orders. This time, the troops were surrounded by a North Vietnamese regiment. Three helicopters tried to get them out but were met with such heavy fire that they were unable to land. It appeared we would lose those brave soldiers- Roy's friends. Guess who volunteered to climb into a helicopter to go help them? Tango Mike/Mike was on the way.
  The rest is American history. Sergeant Benavidez and a small band of heroes came to the rescue. Despite numerous wounds- he was shot five times, riddled with shrapnel, and bayoneted and clubbed during hand-to-hand combat- Roy returned again and again to lead the wounded survivors to the rescue chopper and retrieve the bodies of his dead comrades. In a final act of patriotism, he pushed his bullet-ridden body back to the ambushed soldiers' highly classified documents and electronic gear and destroyed them to keep them out of enemy hands. Only then did he allow himself to be pulled into the helicopter.
  • Ross Perot, Foreword to Medal of Honor: A Vietnam Warrior's Story (Washington: Brassey's, 1995), p. vii

• The U.S. military does not just pin Medals of Honor on its heroes. Their actions have to be written up, documented, and passed through an appropriately difficult and skeptical review process. Because of the sensitive nature of the Green Berets' reconnaissance mission in Cambodia, Roy's medal did not come quickly, and as a result he became the last warrior of the Vietnam era to receive this great honor. That gave many of us the opportunity to enjoy an especially memorable day when President Reagan hung the medal around the neck of this great Mexican-Indian-American hero. As a fellow Texan, I have known about and admired Roy's courage and his fulfillment of the American dream. I was delighted to be asked to write the foreword for his inspirational, truly American story. It is one he tells to groups around the country- to veterans, to the military, and especially to future Medal of Honor recipients in the ranks of the less fortunate children of America. We remain very proud of him and his devotion to our country and his fellow soldiers. I am pleased to salute him as an American.
  • Ross Perot, Foreword to Medal of Honor: A Vietnam Warrior's Story (Washington: Brassey's, 1995), p. viii