PFC Robert John “Clutch” Schares: A Cavalryman’s Courage on the Laotian Border

PFC ROBERT JOHN “CLUTCH” SCHARES
C Co., 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry – 1st Cavalry Division
Jesup, Iowa
Born: June 5, 1948
KIA: November 18, 1969, Bien Hoa Province, South Vietnam

The men who served alongside him in Vietnam called him “Clutch.” At first glance, you might assume it meant he froze under pressure or hesitated in a firefight. But in the strange, dry humor that soldiers cultivate in the worst places on earth, the nickname meant exactly the opposite. It came from the way he handled a worn-out Jeep back at the fire base—a broken transmission that gave him more of a fight than the enemy most days. Every time he tried to shift, the gears let out a mechanical scream that sent the whole squad laughing and shaking their heads. After a while, the name stuck. It became a term of affection, a reminder that even in a warzone, there were moments when you could still laugh at something harmless.

Behind the nickname, however, was a young man of quiet determination, deep loyalty, and a courage that revealed itself every time the Vietnam War became its most deadly and chaotic. In the few months he served in Vietnam, PFC Robert John “Clutch” Schares earned the kind of decorations that most soldiers never see in a full career. These weren’t medals given for time served or presence on the battlefield. They were earned the hardest way possible—through repeated acts of valor in close combat.

Among his decorations were the Silver Star for gallantry in action, multiple Bronze Stars for heroism, the Air Medal for service during helicopter operations, and two Purple Hearts for wounds sustained under fire. The second Purple Heart was awarded for the wounds that ultimately claimed his life.

Yet these medals, impressive as they are, only offer a glimpse of who he was and what he meant to the people who served with him. To understand the man behind the uniform, you have to look at the way his fellow soldiers remember him—not as a name on a wall, but as a brother who earned their trust in a place where trust was the only currency that mattered.

Robert John Schares was born on June 5, 1948, in Jesup, Iowa—a small, tight-knit community surrounded by farmland and long horizons. Like many young men of his generation, he grew up with a sense of responsibility shaped by family, faith, and the simple expectation that when duty called, you answered. After finishing school, he entered the United States Army through regular enlistment, volunteering for service rather than waiting for the draft to reach his number. It was a decision that revealed a lot about his character. He didn’t wait for anyone to push him forward. He stepped up on his own.

He deployed to Vietnam on July 3, 1969, assigned to Company C, 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry, part of the storied 1st Cavalry Division—the unit known for its mobility, its helicopter cavalry, and its heavy involvement in some of the most intense fighting of the war. For Schares, the war was no longer something he read about in newspapers. It was a daily reality of jungle heat, sudden ambushes, mud, exhaustion, and the constant presence of danger.

As an Infantry Indirect Fire Crewman, his job placed him in the thick of combat. Mortar crews were essential but vulnerable—always close enough to the fight to support the infantry, and frequently targeted by enemy forces who knew how critical their firepower was. The men who worked these weapons had to be fast, precise, and steady under pressure. Robert was all of those things, and more.

His courage surfaced again and again during operations near the Laotian border—rugged terrain marked by steep ridgelines, hidden enemy bunker systems, and a determined opposing force that moved silently through the highlands. The fighting in this region was relentless, and the enemy was experienced, dug-in, and willing to fight at close quarters.

On November 8, 1969, during one of these engagements, the position held by Schares and his comrades took a direct hit from enemy artillery. The blast tore through the area with devastating force. Many were wounded. Robert was among them. Medics fought to stabilize him long enough for evacuation, and he was airlifted from the battlefield to a hospital near Bien Hoa. His injuries were severe—so severe, in fact, that no one expected him to survive the first night.

But “Clutch” was nothing if not stubborn. Even gravely wounded, he fought the way he had always fought—quietly, steadily, refusing to quit. In the days that followed, he rallied enough to speak with hospital staff and even dictate a letter home. Those who saw him during this time later said they were amazed at his resolve. The same toughness that had carried him through firefights and forced marches was now carrying him through the aftermath of an artillery blast. He simply refused to give up.

Meanwhile, thousands of meters away, fighting continued in the jungles and mountains. Soldiers rotated in and out of contact, and among them was Robert’s closest friend, David Andrews. When word reached David that his friend had been wounded badly, he made a decision that few would have dared: he went AWOL.

He risked arrest, court martial, prison, and dishonorable discharge—all to find the friend who had become like a brother. For days he walked through hospitals and medical stations with no orders, no permission, no paperwork—only determination. He checked ward after ward, scanning faces, asking questions, hoping desperately for good news.

By the tenth day, exhausted and emotionally worn down, he prepared to return to his unit. As he was walking back, he encountered a soldier passing through who recognized the name he was asking about.

“Clutch didn’t make it,” the man said quietly.

There was nothing left to search for.

PFC Robert John Schares died on November 18, 1969, ten days after the shelling that wounded him. He was twenty-one years old.

To lose a soldier in battle is devastating, but to lose a friend in this way—after that long fight to survive, after that long search to find him—is a pain that lingers for a lifetime. Veterans who served with Robert carried the weight of his memory long after they came home. They told their families about him. They honored him at reunions. They remembered the courage he had shown, and the way he treated everyone in the unit with respect and quiet kindness.

The Army later confirmed the distinctions he earned in his short time in-country: the Silver Star for gallantry in action, Bronze Stars for heroism, an Air Medal for aerial operations, and two Purple Hearts. These were not given lightly. They reflected a young man who consistently put the mission, and his brothers, before himself.

Today, Jesup, Iowa remembers him. The 1st Cavalry Division remembers him. His friends, his family, and the men who survived the war because soldiers like Robert were there beside them remember him. At Ghosts of the Battlefield, we remember him too.

His story is part of the greater history of Vietnam—a war not defined by politics or headlines, but by young Americans who fought for each other in the mud and chaos of an unforgiving land. He was one of them. And even though he never made it home, the legacy he left behind echoes through every life he touched.

In the end, “Clutch” was more than a nickname. It was the name of a man who showed relentless determination, calm under fire, and a loyalty that inspired those around him. It represented the grit of a soldier who never backed down, even when the odds were impossible. And for the friends who survived him, it was a reminder of the way he lived—never giving up, never letting go, always holding on tight to the mission and to the people who depended on him.

Robert John Schares lived only twenty-one years, but in that short time he showed the kind of courage that defines the best of us. For four months in Vietnam, he walked through fire again and again, earning the respect of every soldier on his flank. His medals tell the story of what he did. His brothers in arms tell the story of who he was.

And we remember him.