Cpl. Richard Paul Houston: A Marine’s Courage on the Edge of the DMZ

Corporal Richard Paul Houston: A Marine’s Courage in the Firefields of Quang Tri
United States Marine Corps • A Company, 1/1 Marines • 1st Marine Division
KIA – November 26, 1967 • Quang Tri Province, Republic of Vietnam

Richard Paul Houston was born on May 27, 1944, in Eastlake, Ohio, a Lake County community full of hard-working families, steel mill shift changes, and young men who grew up learning the value of grit long before they ever handled a rifle. His was a childhood shaped by the rhythms of a post-war nation—baseball in the yard, school days that came too early and summer nights that ended too late, and the quiet expectation that eventually, every young man would find his place in the world.

For Richard, that place was the United States Marine Corps.

He enlisted in the Regular Marine Corps, not under obligation but by choice—an important distinction among Marines who wore the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor with pride. On January 8, 1967, he deployed to Vietnam, joining one of the most battle-tested units in the entire Corps: the 1st Battalion, 1st Marines (1/1), operating in the northernmost reaches of South Vietnam, along the violent stretch of land that bordered the DMZ.

This was not the Vietnam of distant patrols and sporadic engagements. This was the ground where the war burned hottest.

The men of 1/1 were sent into Quang Tri Province, an unforgiving landscape that Marine veterans would later describe as one of the most dangerous assignments of the war. The terrain alternated between flooded rice paddies, shattered treelines, abandoned hamlets, and red-dirt ridgelines crowned with bunkers and spider holes. Every step risked a booby trap. Every village could be an ambush. Every night was spent listening for footsteps in the darkness.

In this crucible, Houston served as an Assaultman—one of the most demanding and deadly jobs in the rifle company. Assaultmen were the “breachers,” the Marines who carried rocket launchers, high-explosive charges, and the specialized tools needed to take down enemy bunkers, tunnels, and fortified positions. They fought in the front line of the front line. When other Marines hit a fortified point, the call went out: “Assault in!” And men like Houston, carrying the heaviest load, moved forward.

Assaultmen were known for a certain attitude—steady under pressure, calm in close contact, and fiercely protective of the Marines around them. They lived closer to danger than most, and Richard carried that burden with the quiet determination his platoon came to rely on.

Throughout 1967, 1/1 Marines faced increasingly aggressive North Vietnamese Army (NVA) forces pushing down from the north. The region around Con Thien, Gio Linh, and the approaches to the DMZ became killing fields where artillery, mortars, snipers, and infantry assaults blended into a daily rhythm of combat. Marines sometimes fought battles that never made the news, engagements measured not in captured ground but in the number of men able to walk back to the perimeter at nightfall.

By late November 1967, A Company had already endured months of brutal fighting—patrols through mined terrain, night engagements, perimeter attacks, and relentless mortar and small-arms fire. The men were young, but they were no longer inexperienced. They were veterans hardened by the reality that every day in Quang Tri was a gift not promised.

On November 26, 1967, A Company moved through the difficult terrain of Con Thien’s outer approaches. What happened next was typical of the fighting along the DMZ: sudden, violent, and deadly.

Without warning, North Vietnamese troops opened fire from well-prepared and camouflaged positions. Automatic weapons swept the Marines, cutting through the thick air with the harsh rhythm of war. Mortars began to fall, sending dirt, rice paddy water, and shrapnel spraying across the line. Marines were hit in the opening seconds—because the NVA aimed for the squad leaders, the radio operators, and the men carrying specialized weapons.

Assaultmen like Houston were always priority targets.

Pinned down under intense small-arms fire, A Company fought to return fire and gain a foothold. In that chaos, Cpl. Richard Paul Houston was struck and killed by enemy fire. He was 23 years old.

The firefight eventually ended, but not without cost. For the Marines who survived the ambush, the memory of November 26 stayed with them forever. In the letters home, in the quiet moments between battles, in reunions decades later, the name “Houston” came up with reverence. The Marines remembered him not only for the way he fought, but for the way he lived—solid, dependable, and brave in the places where bravery mattered most.

When word reached Eastlake, a chair at the family table was empty forever. His parents and siblings were left to endure the kind of loss thousands of American families faced during the war—a grief made heavier by the fact that Vietnam was far away, its battles hidden behind unfamiliar names like Con Thien, Thon Cam Son, and Hill 158.

But Richard Houston’s story did not disappear. It lives on in the unit histories of 1/1 Marines, in the memories of his brothers-in-arms, and now, through the efforts of Ghosts of the Battlefield, his face, name, and story are restored for future generations.

At Ghosts of the Battlefield, we believe the dead deserve more than a line on a memorial wall—they deserve to be known. That is why we preserve the images and stories of men like Cpl. Houston, ensuring they are never lost to time. His restored photograph now stands as a testament to the young Marine behind the uniform: his humanity, his courage, and the future he never had the chance to live.

Today, more than fifty years after he fell, we speak his name with honor.

Richard Paul Houston.
Marine.
Assaultman.
Brother.
American.

He lived with courage.
He fought with honor.
He died so others might live.

His story endures—because we choose to remember.

Semper Fidelis, Marine.
We have the watch now.