The Little Farmer: The Story of SP4 John Eugene Leis, 1st Battalion, 77th Armor

John Eugene Leis: “The Little Farmer” Who Rode Steel into Vietnam

There are some stories that begin in quiet places—where the hum of tractors replaces the roar of city streets, and where boys grow up knowing the rhythm of soil, sun, and seasons long before they ever hear the cadence of marching boots. One such story begins on the rolling hills of Middle Ridge, Wisconsin, a small farming community outside La Crosse. It’s where John Eugene Leis was born, where he worked the land, and where his roots ran deep into the American heartland.

His friends would later call him “the little farmer,” a nickname given affectionately by his Army buddies who came from cities and suburbs, who laughed when John could fix almost anything with baling wire and grit. Beneath the teasing, though, there was respect—because they all knew that kind of steadiness couldn’t be taught in boot camp. It came from the farm.

Born on Veterans Day

John entered the world on November 11, 1950—Veterans Day, a date that, in hindsight, feels almost prophetic. He was the third of six children, a middle son in a big, hardworking family. Life on the Leis farm was built on values that would define him all his days: humility, responsibility, faith, and an unwavering sense of duty.

Those who knew him remember a quiet boy with a ready smile, quick to lend a hand and slow to complain. Whether milking cows before sunrise or fixing machinery in the fading light of day, John carried himself with the calm patience of someone who understood that good work takes time. He loved the open fields, the smell of cut hay, and the community that gathered for Mass on Sundays at the small country church overlooking the Ridge.

But like so many young men of his generation, his world would grow larger—suddenly and violently—when the war in Vietnam began to call boys from every small town and city block across America.

Answering the Call

In February 1970, just three months after turning nineteen, John was drafted into the United States Army. For a farm boy who had rarely been far from Wisconsin, basic training was a shock—but one he handled with quiet resolve. “He never complained,” recalled one of his training classmates. “He just did the work, and did it right. You could count on him.”

Following his training as an Armor Crewman, John was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 77th Armor Regiment, part of the 5th Infantry Division (Mechanized). His home would soon become the M48A3 Patton tank, a hulking, diesel-belching beast that rumbled through the jungles and red dirt roads of Vietnam. He arrived in-country in July 1970, joining A Company, which operated primarily in Quang Tri Province, not far from the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) that separated North and South Vietnam.

It was a tough, unforgiving place—arguably one of the most dangerous in the entire war.

Quang Tri: The Iron Triangle

The northern provinces of South Vietnam were a crucible of mud, mines, and relentless contact with the enemy. For tankers like John, the terrain itself was often as deadly as the fighting. The heavy Pattons slogged through monsoon rains, bogged in rice paddies, and crept down narrow roads laced with hidden explosives.

A Company’s mission was to provide armored support for infantry operations—clearing ambushes, protecting convoys, and striking at enemy positions that threatened the key supply routes leading toward Dong Ha and Khe Sanh. It was dangerous work. Tanks drew fire like magnets, and the men inside lived with the constant knowledge that a single buried charge or rocket could end everything in an instant.

Still, John carried on. Letters home spoke little of the hardship and danger. Instead, he asked about the farm, the weather, and his siblings. He sent small gifts when he could and joked about “the dust that sticks to you forever.” His focus remained on his crew—his brothers-in-arms—and on doing his job the best way he knew how.

The Tanker’s World

Inside the belly of a Patton, life was hot, cramped, and deafening. The M48A3’s massive 90mm gun could punch through bunkers, but it also made the crew a priority target for North Vietnamese ambush teams armed with RPGs and mines.

John served as one of the Armor Crewmen, often riding as a loader or driver. His days began before dawn, checking fuel and ammunition, and ended only when the last perimeter guard rotation was complete. Between missions, he’d clean his weapon, write letters, and sometimes pull maintenance in the sticky heat, stripped to the waist, covered in grease and sweat.

Those who rode with him remembered that he brought a certain steadiness to the crew—never panicked, never angry. When tempers flared, John’s dry humor diffused it. When the tank hit rough ground or when a mission stretched into the night, he kept the rhythm. That farm-born patience, the same quiet resolve that had guided him through long days in the fields of Wisconsin, served him equally well on the killing fields of Quang Tri.

Father’s Day, 1971

By the summer of 1971, John was just weeks from completing his tour. His parents, Eugene and Lucille, were already talking about his homecoming. There was even talk of buying a Chevelle 396, his dream car—a sleek symbol of freedom and youth waiting for him back on American roads.

But fate had other plans.

On June 20, 1971—Father’s Day—Specialist Four John E. Leis was killed in action when his tank was struck by an explosive device during operations in Quang Tri Province. The details remain sparse, but the result was painfully clear. In an instant, the “little farmer” who had carried his quiet courage from the fields of Wisconsin to the jungles of Vietnam was gone. He was 20 years old.

For his family, the telegram came like a thunderclap. The news rippled through Middle Ridge—neighbors, church friends, classmates—all struck silent. In a community where everyone knew everyone, the loss was personal. Flags flew at half-mast. Church bells tolled. And in the Leis farmhouse, the hum of daily work gave way to stillness.

Home to the Ridge

John’s body was returned home to Wisconsin, escorted by fellow soldiers who had seen too much loss already. The local funeral was standing-room only—farmers in their Sunday clothes, veterans in uniform, children watching solemnly from the pews. As the casket was lowered into the soft, green earth of the Ridge, the wind moved gently through the fields he once worked. The echo of the rifle salute rolled across the hills, followed by the haunting notes of “Taps.”

There is something uniquely American in moments like this—when a small-town boy, born among the furrows of corn and alfalfa, goes to war for people he’s never met and returns home draped in the flag he fought for. His resting place became a quiet landmark on the Ridge, a reminder that even in peaceful places, the cost of freedom is never abstract.

The Legacy of the 77th Armor

The 1st Battalion, 77th Armor Regiment carries a proud lineage stretching back to World War II, but in Vietnam its mission was among the most dangerous. The men operated in the northernmost provinces, where enemy infiltration from North Vietnam was constant. Tanks and mechanized infantry units often fought side by side in brutal, close-range engagements—ambushes in the thick jungle, convoy escorts through mined roads, and the defense of firebases under siege.

In the months surrounding John’s death, A Company saw repeated combat in the area known as the “Leatherneck Square”—the deadly quadrangle between Con Thien, Cam Lo, Gio Linh, and Dong Ha. It was here that the 77th Armor’s tanks bore the brunt of some of the heaviest fighting, often serving as both spearhead and shield for the infantry they supported.

Their unofficial motto, spoken among the men, was simple: “Move forward, no matter what.”

John embodied that. He wasn’t the loudest, the most decorated, or the most visible—but he was reliable. The kind of man you wanted on your crew when the hatch slammed shut and the engine roared to life.

A Chevelle Never Bought

There’s a particular ache in stories that end before they should. In his final letters, John spoke often about home—the farm, his siblings, and the things he wanted to do when he got back. He planned to help his father with the harvest, maybe buy that Chevelle 396 he’d been dreaming of. He wanted to find a piece of land of his own someday, to raise a family and pass down the same values that had shaped him.

Those dreams never left the Ridge. They stayed behind in the hearts of those who remembered him—not as a soldier in a distant war, but as the smiling young man who once threw hay bales into the wagon under a blazing summer sun.

From Wisconsin to Vietnam—And Back Again

Every town in America has names etched on its memorials, but behind each one is a life like John’s—filled with ordinary moments that became extraordinary through sacrifice. In Middle Ridge, his story is still told, not with bitterness, but with pride. When the local veterans gather on Memorial Day, his name is read with the same reverence as those who fought in older wars. The younger generations may not remember his face, but the older ones do—the farm boy with the easy laugh who went off to war and never came home.

Today, his memory lives on through organizations like Ghosts of the Battlefield, which work to preserve not just the artifacts of war, but the human stories that give them meaning. A uniform, a photograph, a letter—all become bridges between the past and present, reminders that history is not only written in books, but carried in hearts.

“He Did What Needed to Be Done”

Perhaps the best epitaph for John comes from one of his old crewmen, who years later summed him up simply:
“He did what needed to be done. He didn’t make a fuss about it. He just showed up, every day, and gave everything he had.”

That’s the spirit of the “little farmer.”
The boy from Middle Ridge who traded tractor tracks for tank treads, who faced war’s chaos with the same calm perseverance that once guided him through a muddy Wisconsin field.

And though his story ended too soon, it endures—in the soil he left behind, in the freedom he helped defend, and in the hearts of all who continue to tell it.

Epilogue: The Ridge Remembers

If you ever find yourself driving the backroads of La Crosse County, you’ll see it—the green folds of Middle Ridge rising gently against the horizon. Somewhere among those hills lies the resting place of SP4 John Eugene Leis, son of the Ridge, soldier of the 77th Armor, and forever twenty.

The fields still grow. The seasons still turn. And every November 11, as the flags wave in the cold Wisconsin wind, one can’t help but think of the boy who was born on Veterans Day—who lived humbly, served honorably, and rests eternally beneath the same sky he once looked up at from the seat of a tractor.

His story, like the land he loved, remains timeless.
And in that quiet corner of America, the Ridge still remembers