Three months in-country, he found himself on a ridgeline in the Ashau Valley in the northern highlands of Vietnam, in terrain once thickly forested but now partly denuded after a day of battle. His platoon, on its way to relieve another that was pinned down, found itself forced to its belly by heavy enemy fire.
Pvt. Roberts crawled over ground more than an ocean away from the familiar landscape of his home in Lebanon, Ohio, where the winds of the anti-war movement barely blew.
He crawled, then lifted himself to his feet that July day in 1969. He carried an M-16 rifle, had 600 rounds of ammunition strapped to his body and six to 10 grenades hooked to his uniform, and wore a helmet.
Four soldiers behind him had been wounded and fallen. He sprinted for the bunker, with two North Vietnamese soldiers in it, firing his weapon, finally knocking it out. That's when enemy soldiers in a second bunker nearby opened fire on him.
''I describe him as a national treasure,'' U.S. Army Col. Kevin Swenie, deputy commander, 44th Medical Brigade, Ft. Bragg, N.C., said of Gordon Roberts. ''I asked him one time how he could have won the Medal of Honor and never have been wounded.
''He said, 'I listened very, very closely when I was a private to my sergeants. When we were in that battle, I just did what they told me to do.' This guy must have been a good infantryman is all I can say.''
Just a week before men for the first time touched feet on the powdery, barren landscape of the moon, Pvt. Roberts raced across a forest floor in Vietnam and headed inexorably into history.
For his actions on July 11, 1969, then-private and now Maj. Gordon Roberts earned the Medal of Honor, the highest award given for valor in this country.
He was cited for ''extraordinary heroism'' for his ''gallant and selfless actions'' on that day, done ''at the risk of his life'' and contributing ''directly to saving the lives of his comrades.''
Today, at 47, he is the youngest living Medal of Honor recipient, one of only two recipients still on active duty in the military and one of only a few, if any, who was not wounded earning it.
As Veterans Day approaches Tuesday and the country prepares to commemorate the 15th anniversary of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., Maj. Roberts attends a prestigious military school in Fort Leavenworth, Kan.
He is one of the nearly 9 million who served in Vietnam in the 10 years American troops fought there. He is one of 239 from that war awarded a Medal of Honor, one of but 89 who were not awarded the medal posthumously.
He grew up in Lebanon and attended Lebanon High School, where he was a track star and participated in cross-country. Though his grades were average, he intended to go to college. But that would wait.
''The answer goes to my roots in Lebanon,'' Maj. Roberts said. Both his father and stepfather served in World War II, though war stories were not told, and his brothers had recently enlisted. The heady idealism of President Kennedy and the New Frontier with its calls of service to country had an effect.
''The citizen-soldier concept was very strong,'' said the major. ''Lebanon was a smaller community then, a very patriotic community, typical rural, southern Ohio. Hot dogs, Mom, apple pie. It just seemed a smarter idea to do service to country first rather than pursue a college education.''
His mother, Charlotte Russell, who lives in Lebanon, said he was a quiet boy, small - skinny even - but athletically inclined. He was a picky eater who liked hamburgers and macaroni and cheese. He played well with his two brothers in a neighborhood of older people who doted on the boys.
There wasn't much money for toys when they were growing up, said Ms. Russell. A toy gun and holster for each. ''We just didn't have a lot of money for things like that.''
Under fire, Pvt. Roberts headed for the second bunker, halted momentarily as enemy fire tore his weapon from his hands and destroyed it. He retrieved a weapon from a fallen comrade and continued.
He took out the second bunker, then pushed on to a third bunker. He felt as if he was set in fast motion, for what seemed so fast and so long that it was like driving a car at a fast speed. Time slowed even as the car didn't.
''You get adjusted,'' he said. ''I really thought I was finished after the first one.''
Even as a hopeless feeling settled in - ''You think it's the end of something,'' he said - Pvt. Roberts tossed hand grenades at the third bunker. It fell silent. Now he faced a fourth emplacement; again he attacked, pressing his assault before he was united with another unit.
''No one enjoys the thought of having to cause harm to anyone,'' Maj. Roberts said. ''It's a factor of war that you don't want to live with. I felt like I was just doing my job. I was doing what I was taught to do. Closing with the enemy and destroying them. It just happens to be an ugly part of war.''
Others from the Tristate have been awarded the Medal of Honor, but they died earning it.
William Baugh of Harrison threw himself on a grenade on Nov. 29, 1950, saving the lives of a truckload of Marines during the Korean War.
John R. Fox, who attended Wyoming High School, directed artillery fire on a forward position on Dec. 26, 1944. When American soldiers reached his position, they found him and about two dozen German soldiers dead.
Ronald Dake, executive director of the Congressional Medal of Honor Society in Mount Pleasant, S.C., said there are 167 living medal recipients. There are no real common threads, certainly not demographically, running among them. There have been generals and privates, rich and poor.
''They came from all walks of life, all stations of life,'' said Mr. Dake. ''It's very diverse. We don't even try to keep records on the diversity.''
Maj. Roberts came home from Vietnam in 1970, and was spared the ignominy that so many others faced from those who had opposed the war. Lebanon had not changed in that year, and he was welcomed back. But Maj. Roberts had changed.
''You age very considerably,'' he said. ''You grow a lot; you mature a lot. It takes awhile to adjust back to the norms of your community. It took me awhile. But I guess my saving grace was coming back to a place like Lebanon. A small town, a lot of welcome back.''
Still, talking about the war and what he had seen and done was difficult. His mother knew he didn't want to talk about it, and she didn't pry.
''You could come downstairs (in the middle of the night) and there he'd be sitting down in the family room, and you could always see that little red light where he smoked a cigarette,'' said Ms. Russell. ''I'm sure he had to think about it.''
That no one really pried helped, Maj. Roberts said. ''It gave all of us an opportunity to resettle,'' he said. ''I needed, and I think most of us needed, a time to sit back and think a little bit.'' He attended college, earning both an undergraduate and master's degree. He worked for the juvenile court in Warren County, worked in drug and alcohol counseling, and ran for Congress and lost.
For the better part of two decades, he remained in the area before getting back into active Army duty six years ago. He was stationed at Fort Bragg, promoted to major this summer, then headed to the elite military college - the Army Command and General Staff College - at Fort Leavenworth.
''I can't say enough about him,'' said Col. Swenie. ''He's a top-flight soldier, first rate. He's getting a great education out there. That's where they train officers to work on higher-level staffs and command positions.'' Were it not for his age, the colonel said, he'd be the All-American kid.
''I guess serving my country has always been my ideal,'' Maj. Roberts said. ''I have always loved the Army and service to my country.''
