I have just learned that Colonel William E. Riley, Jr., USMC reported to Marine Barracks, Heaven earlier this summer. Colonel Riley was my battalion commander in Vietnam about whom I have written here, here, here, here, and here.
The Colonel was a tremendous combat leader, having served in Korea as a lieutenant and then in Vietnam, as Commanding Officer, 1st Battalion, Fifth Marines, 1st Marine Division. It seemed to the junior officers of the battalion that he never forgot what it was like to be a small unit leader. He trusted his subordinates and it showed. He was one of those men who other men eagerly follow, no matter how unpleasant the trip might be. Acts such as the implicit trust he placed in a 19 year old squad leader to adjust a supporting arm that could have killed us all earned him our undying trust, respect, and devotion.
Semper Fidelis.
Showing posts with label Vietnam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vietnam. Show all posts
30 October 2011
10 June 2011
DÉJÀ VU ALL OVER AGAIN
This morning, I had the honor to welcome home a neighbor who just returned from his sixth or seventh deployment to the Iraq-Afghan theater of operations. After reintroducing him to the concept of “green” as an actual color, we spoke for just a few minutes.
He noted that Afghanistan had changed remarkably since his last deployment. Much of the urban scene is electrified now. (“Urban” is a relative term; he was referring to the cities and major villages, all of which had been at a 19th century level under the Taliban.) The attacks we read about are sporadic and random, rather than a rolling wave of resistance.
When I asked him about troop morale, he replied, “It’s really pretty good. The thing that gets to them is that the American press is ignoring all the good that we are doing and harp only on the bad stuff.”
Now, ask the average Vietnam vet, at least the grunt, about his feelings for the press, and you would get a very similar answer. It is, indeed, "déjà vu all over again". [Lawrence Peter Berra (American philosopher, commentator and Hall of Fame catcher and manager).]
My friend went on to say that the talk of deadlines for withdrawal is unsettling. Our troops are working hard to train a viable Afghan army and national police force, but the recruits they are getting need more work than do their American counterparts arriving at American boot camps. Most cannot read and have little or no concept of what is a law. To think that a four month boot camp can prepare a man to start performing as a police officer is absurd. Given the time, we could field a viable national peace keeping and law enforcement body, but we would need time.
But Congress, which cannot perform its assigned task of, e.g., adopting an annual budget, seems to be sure that it is qualified to direct an army in the field. It didn’t work for the Continental Congress, it was ineptly handled by the Civil war congresses, and the meddling in the details of war-fighting by the congresses of 1968-1975 bordered on criminal negligence.
The problem is that we have barely 300 years of history as a distinct people and just over 200 as a nation. We are incapable, it seems, of taking the long view. For us, ten years is a long time; for our adversaries, something that happened in the 14th Century is yesterday’s news. For so long as that mental historic discipline fails us, it will continue to be déjà vu all over again.
He noted that Afghanistan had changed remarkably since his last deployment. Much of the urban scene is electrified now. (“Urban” is a relative term; he was referring to the cities and major villages, all of which had been at a 19th century level under the Taliban.) The attacks we read about are sporadic and random, rather than a rolling wave of resistance.
When I asked him about troop morale, he replied, “It’s really pretty good. The thing that gets to them is that the American press is ignoring all the good that we are doing and harp only on the bad stuff.”
Now, ask the average Vietnam vet, at least the grunt, about his feelings for the press, and you would get a very similar answer. It is, indeed, "déjà vu all over again". [Lawrence Peter Berra (American philosopher, commentator and Hall of Fame catcher and manager).]
My friend went on to say that the talk of deadlines for withdrawal is unsettling. Our troops are working hard to train a viable Afghan army and national police force, but the recruits they are getting need more work than do their American counterparts arriving at American boot camps. Most cannot read and have little or no concept of what is a law. To think that a four month boot camp can prepare a man to start performing as a police officer is absurd. Given the time, we could field a viable national peace keeping and law enforcement body, but we would need time.
But Congress, which cannot perform its assigned task of, e.g., adopting an annual budget, seems to be sure that it is qualified to direct an army in the field. It didn’t work for the Continental Congress, it was ineptly handled by the Civil war congresses, and the meddling in the details of war-fighting by the congresses of 1968-1975 bordered on criminal negligence.
The problem is that we have barely 300 years of history as a distinct people and just over 200 as a nation. We are incapable, it seems, of taking the long view. For us, ten years is a long time; for our adversaries, something that happened in the 14th Century is yesterday’s news. For so long as that mental historic discipline fails us, it will continue to be déjà vu all over again.
27 May 2011
42 YEARS AGO TODAY
The President of the United States
in the name of
The Congress
takes pride in presenting the
Medal of Honor (posthumously)
to
JIMMY WAYNE PHIPPS
Private First Class
United States Marine Corps
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty, as set forth in the following
Citation:
While serving as a combat engineer with Company B, 1st Engineer Battalion, 1st Marine Division on 27 May 1969 in connection with combat operations against the enemy, PFC Phipps was a member of a 2-man combat engineer demolition team assigned to locate and destroy enemy artillery ordnance and concealed firing devices. After he had expended all of his explosives and blasting caps, PFC Phipps discovered a 175mm high explosive artillery round in a rice paddy. Suspecting that the enemy had attached the artillery round to a secondary explosive device, he warned other Marines in the area to move to covered positions and prepared to destroy the round with a hand grenade. As he was attaching the hand grenade to a stake beside the artillery round, the fuse of the enemy's secondary explosive device ignited. Realizing that his assistant and the platoon commander were both within a few meters of him and that the imminent explosion could kill all 3 men, PFC Phipps grasped the hand grenade to his chest and dived forward to cover the enemy's explosive and the artillery round with his body, thereby shielding his companions from the detonation while absorbing the full and tremendous impact with his body. PFC Phipps' indomitable courage, inspiring initiative, and selfless devotion to duty saved the lives of 2 Marines and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.
in the name of
The Congress
takes pride in presenting the
Medal of Honor (posthumously)
to
JIMMY WAYNE PHIPPS
Private First Class
United States Marine Corps
For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty, as set forth in the following
Citation:
While serving as a combat engineer with Company B, 1st Engineer Battalion, 1st Marine Division on 27 May 1969 in connection with combat operations against the enemy, PFC Phipps was a member of a 2-man combat engineer demolition team assigned to locate and destroy enemy artillery ordnance and concealed firing devices. After he had expended all of his explosives and blasting caps, PFC Phipps discovered a 175mm high explosive artillery round in a rice paddy. Suspecting that the enemy had attached the artillery round to a secondary explosive device, he warned other Marines in the area to move to covered positions and prepared to destroy the round with a hand grenade. As he was attaching the hand grenade to a stake beside the artillery round, the fuse of the enemy's secondary explosive device ignited. Realizing that his assistant and the platoon commander were both within a few meters of him and that the imminent explosion could kill all 3 men, PFC Phipps grasped the hand grenade to his chest and dived forward to cover the enemy's explosive and the artillery round with his body, thereby shielding his companions from the detonation while absorbing the full and tremendous impact with his body. PFC Phipps' indomitable courage, inspiring initiative, and selfless devotion to duty saved the lives of 2 Marines and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life for his country.
10 April 2010
HOME IS THE SAILOR, HOME FROM THE SEA. . .
The plane landed in St. Louis at about 0600. I quickly collected my gear and grabbed a cab. The driver quoted a fare across the river and we were off. He was a 1/5 vet of Korea, who kept up a running commentary about his experiences in “a real war.” When we arrived, I threw my sea bag over my shoulder and walked up the drive to the front door. It was about 0645. On a whim, I knocked and stood there. Mom opened the door having apparently just gotten out of bed. She did not have her glasses on.
“Merry Christmas, lady.”
“Oh, just a minute let me get my glasses.” She turned to go back into the house.
Well, this isn’t what I expected. “Uh, Mom?”
She spun, screamed “Michael?” and then started yelling “Mary. Mary. Michael’s home.” Turning to me, she said “Oh, my. I thought you were the mailman.” (For our younger readers who are about to face Saturdays without home delivery—as if the generation of twitter and texting and e-mail will even notice—there was a time when, during the Christmas holidays, mail was regularly delivered twice a day.)
I was still standing on the porch. My Sister came running into the room and ushered me into the house . We had a quick breakfast as Mom and Sis readied to go to school. After they left, I showered and shaved and hit the rack, with the two cats nestled together on my chest. I slept the clock around.
The next day, I borrowed a car and drove up to ISU to see Maryann. I had talked to her and knew that she was in class until 2:00 pm. We planned to meet at the University Union.
I parked and walked across the campus. I was in uniform, and began to get a lot of looks—curious, then cautious, then disdainful. Suddenly, a scruffy looking co-ed stepped into my path. She grabbed me by the lapels, and screamed “How many innocent people did you kill, you mother f-----g pig ? You should rot in Hell!” The only reaction from the students was smirks and laughter.
I took her wrists and pulled them away. She laughed in my face.
When I finally met Maryann, and after a warm reception, she said, “Oh, I should have warned you not to wear your Marine costume. It’s best not to let anyone know what you do for a living.”
Costume? The Service is “what I do for a living?”
I drove her to Chicago the next afternoon for a reunion with her family. She did some last minute shopping for the wedding and I tried to ease back into life in the World. But I felt out of place. No one asked about my year in Vietnam or even alluded to the fact that less than a week before, I had been at An Hoa. I drove her back to the University on Sunday and then on to Granite City.
The next morning, I went downtown to shop for a car. I knew what I wanted and within 15 minutes had ordered a brand spanking new 1970 Chevrolet Nova, to be picked up the next morning. It cost me $1,978. 62, including tax, title and tags. Those were the days, my friends.
I next headed to the credit union to arrange for an auto loan. My folks had been members for years and I had gotten a loan two years before when I bought my VW Beetle. The President of the credit union, who was also our insurance agent, worked through the paperwork.
“Now, your Mother will need to co-sign this loan.”
“Really? She didn’t co-sign the last time.”
“Yes, but now you’re in the Army. We need a guarantee on the loan.” I bristled.
His son (and the VP of both the credit union and the insurance agency) looked up. “He’s a Marine, Dad. They don’t like being mistaken for the Army.”
“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Well, in any case, we need a co-signor when one of them wants a loan.”
One of them? “Really? Even though the last time I was just a college student and now I am a career officer?”
“You’re not a ‘career officer’ until you have 15 years in the service.”
His son, who had just gotten out of the Army, looked up again. “I know that is what the credit union has decided, Dad, but I don’t want to be here the day you tell some Major that he is not a career soldier.”
I had had enough. “Look, forget it. Just get the insurance papers put together. I’m picking up the car tomorrow.” He agreed.
I quickly drove out to the Granite City Army Engineer Depot and headed for the disbursing office. Luckily, I had brought my pay records with me, assuming I would need them at the credit union. I had already gotten cash back at An Hoa for my leave, including the honeymoon, but now I needed to buy a car.
A civilian disbursing clerk saw me coming. I handed her my ID card and pay record and said “I need to get some of the cash I have on the books.”
“No problem, Sir. How much?”
“$1,978. 62.” She looked up with a quizzical smile. “I’m buying a car,” I explained.
Ten minutes later, she was back. I signed for the cash and she handed me my pay jacket. “Do you have anything to carry your money in?” Damn. She saw my face and smiled again. “Here, I have my lunch bag. Will that do?” I walked out with the cash in a mayonnaise-stained brown paper bag.
I was really unsettled by this time. That night, I decided to take care of one other little piece of business. I drove to the local American Legion Post. It was Monday night and I suspected that the weekly ham and beans dinner would soon be underway. One of the Legionnaires at the front desk looked up. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just home from Vietnam. Thought I’d join up,” I replied.
He looked at another guy at the desk, turned back to me, and snorted. “Another one of them, eh. Look, Sonny, why don’t you come back when you’ve won a goddam war?” They both laughed.
I spun on my heel and marched out. “How many innocent people did you kill?” Marine “costume?” One of them? Come back when you’ve won one? It dawned on me that no one—no one—had said “Welcome Home.”
Am I welcome? I had the strangest longing to be back with 1/5, in a place that I understood.
That was 40 years ago. Since then we, as a Nation, have had our ups and downs.
We've gone through the terrible years of the early 70s when we almost tore the Country apart and planted the seeds of political polarization that are still bearing fruit today. We have seen bad presidents—Nixon and the worst of all, Jimmy Carter(who delayed the raid to bring our hostages home until he could be assured that no Iranians would be hurt!), and a great president, Ronald Reagan. We have elected a draft dodger, who protested on foreign soil while my Marines were taking the battle to the enemy, and the first black American who is still writing his record on the slate of history.
We have fought and won one war using tactics based on the lessons of Vietnam. In General Powell's words when he spoke to the Naval Institute, we learned that when we go to war, we need to "gang up." But we are also in danger of forgetting that lesson of the need for overwhelming force as a new generation tries to ignore a war that is being fought by its best.
The Veteran’s Administration of the 1970s, with its hell hole hospitals and inadequate budgets, has been replaced by a VA that is a refuge to those of us who are still dealing with Vietnam, the gift that keeps on giving.
It was not until the 1980s that the American Legion really began to reach out to Vietnam vets—and then, mainly, as a matter of survival. The Vietnam War Memorial, a black hole in the ground designed by a college kid from an Ivy League college that did not want the ROTC on its campus, has now become the most visited site in Washington, DC. With the flag and statues that Jim Webb and others demanded and received, it is now a place of honor. I go there every time I am in the Capital, to talk with the names on Panels 35 W to 22 W.
We go to reunions, we Marines of Charlie 1/5, where we are fast becoming the old men of the 1st Marine Division. In 2007, I introduced Mike Tonkyn to the Division Commander as a Navy Cross recipient. The General shook Mike’s hand and said, “It is a real honor to meet you, Sir.”
Later, Mike said to me, “You know, Mac, never in this Lance Corporal’s wildest imagination did the Division Commander call me, ‘Sir.’”
“Ah, that’s all right,” I responded. “ He’s younger than you.” We both almost fell to the ground laughing.
The first time I was welcomed home as a Vietnam vet was in the parking lot of the Spectrum before a Philadelphia Wings game in December 1988, 19 years later! The local Vietnam Veterans of America unit was handing out little paper American flags and asking for donations as a fundraiser for their scholarship fund. The vet saw my Marine Corps decal on my car and asked “When did you serve.” I told him. He shook my hand and said, “Welcome Home, brother.”
I broke down and started crying. He just held me, and kept saying, “It’s OK, buddy. You’re home now. It’s OK. Welcome home. Welcome home.”
But in the dark hours of the night, I am still there. As I walk my dog in a foggy park, the tree line across the field is not in Pennsylvania--it is in the Arizona Territory. I wake up, checking lines or listening for mortars in the distance. Many nights--most nights--are in part or in whole just another re-telling of "that night."
And always they are with me. "At the going down of the sun and in the morning, I remember them:" Lucas and Zimmerman, Tews and Phipps and Unfried, and always, Chip and Jimmy Wandro.
I think often of Robert Louis Stevenson's Requiem. "Here he is where he longs to be. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill."
I'm still not really home, but I long to be. It has been a long voyage. Maybe we'll dock tonight.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
“Merry Christmas, lady.”
“Oh, just a minute let me get my glasses.” She turned to go back into the house.
Well, this isn’t what I expected. “Uh, Mom?”
She spun, screamed “Michael?” and then started yelling “Mary. Mary. Michael’s home.” Turning to me, she said “Oh, my. I thought you were the mailman.” (For our younger readers who are about to face Saturdays without home delivery—as if the generation of twitter and texting and e-mail will even notice—there was a time when, during the Christmas holidays, mail was regularly delivered twice a day.)
I was still standing on the porch. My Sister came running into the room and ushered me into the house . We had a quick breakfast as Mom and Sis readied to go to school. After they left, I showered and shaved and hit the rack, with the two cats nestled together on my chest. I slept the clock around.
The next day, I borrowed a car and drove up to ISU to see Maryann. I had talked to her and knew that she was in class until 2:00 pm. We planned to meet at the University Union.
I parked and walked across the campus. I was in uniform, and began to get a lot of looks—curious, then cautious, then disdainful. Suddenly, a scruffy looking co-ed stepped into my path. She grabbed me by the lapels, and screamed “How many innocent people did you kill, you mother f-----g pig ? You should rot in Hell!” The only reaction from the students was smirks and laughter.
I took her wrists and pulled them away. She laughed in my face.
When I finally met Maryann, and after a warm reception, she said, “Oh, I should have warned you not to wear your Marine costume. It’s best not to let anyone know what you do for a living.”
Costume? The Service is “what I do for a living?”
I drove her to Chicago the next afternoon for a reunion with her family. She did some last minute shopping for the wedding and I tried to ease back into life in the World. But I felt out of place. No one asked about my year in Vietnam or even alluded to the fact that less than a week before, I had been at An Hoa. I drove her back to the University on Sunday and then on to Granite City.
The next morning, I went downtown to shop for a car. I knew what I wanted and within 15 minutes had ordered a brand spanking new 1970 Chevrolet Nova, to be picked up the next morning. It cost me $1,978. 62, including tax, title and tags. Those were the days, my friends.
I next headed to the credit union to arrange for an auto loan. My folks had been members for years and I had gotten a loan two years before when I bought my VW Beetle. The President of the credit union, who was also our insurance agent, worked through the paperwork.
“Now, your Mother will need to co-sign this loan.”
“Really? She didn’t co-sign the last time.”
“Yes, but now you’re in the Army. We need a guarantee on the loan.” I bristled.
His son (and the VP of both the credit union and the insurance agency) looked up. “He’s a Marine, Dad. They don’t like being mistaken for the Army.”
“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Well, in any case, we need a co-signor when one of them wants a loan.”
One of them? “Really? Even though the last time I was just a college student and now I am a career officer?”
“You’re not a ‘career officer’ until you have 15 years in the service.”
His son, who had just gotten out of the Army, looked up again. “I know that is what the credit union has decided, Dad, but I don’t want to be here the day you tell some Major that he is not a career soldier.”
I had had enough. “Look, forget it. Just get the insurance papers put together. I’m picking up the car tomorrow.” He agreed.
I quickly drove out to the Granite City Army Engineer Depot and headed for the disbursing office. Luckily, I had brought my pay records with me, assuming I would need them at the credit union. I had already gotten cash back at An Hoa for my leave, including the honeymoon, but now I needed to buy a car.
A civilian disbursing clerk saw me coming. I handed her my ID card and pay record and said “I need to get some of the cash I have on the books.”
“No problem, Sir. How much?”
“$1,978. 62.” She looked up with a quizzical smile. “I’m buying a car,” I explained.
Ten minutes later, she was back. I signed for the cash and she handed me my pay jacket. “Do you have anything to carry your money in?” Damn. She saw my face and smiled again. “Here, I have my lunch bag. Will that do?” I walked out with the cash in a mayonnaise-stained brown paper bag.
I was really unsettled by this time. That night, I decided to take care of one other little piece of business. I drove to the local American Legion Post. It was Monday night and I suspected that the weekly ham and beans dinner would soon be underway. One of the Legionnaires at the front desk looked up. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just home from Vietnam. Thought I’d join up,” I replied.
He looked at another guy at the desk, turned back to me, and snorted. “Another one of them, eh. Look, Sonny, why don’t you come back when you’ve won a goddam war?” They both laughed.
I spun on my heel and marched out. “How many innocent people did you kill?” Marine “costume?” One of them? Come back when you’ve won one? It dawned on me that no one—no one—had said “Welcome Home.”
Am I welcome? I had the strangest longing to be back with 1/5, in a place that I understood.
That was 40 years ago. Since then we, as a Nation, have had our ups and downs.
We've gone through the terrible years of the early 70s when we almost tore the Country apart and planted the seeds of political polarization that are still bearing fruit today. We have seen bad presidents—Nixon and the worst of all, Jimmy Carter(who delayed the raid to bring our hostages home until he could be assured that no Iranians would be hurt!), and a great president, Ronald Reagan. We have elected a draft dodger, who protested on foreign soil while my Marines were taking the battle to the enemy, and the first black American who is still writing his record on the slate of history.
We have fought and won one war using tactics based on the lessons of Vietnam. In General Powell's words when he spoke to the Naval Institute, we learned that when we go to war, we need to "gang up." But we are also in danger of forgetting that lesson of the need for overwhelming force as a new generation tries to ignore a war that is being fought by its best.
The Veteran’s Administration of the 1970s, with its hell hole hospitals and inadequate budgets, has been replaced by a VA that is a refuge to those of us who are still dealing with Vietnam, the gift that keeps on giving.
It was not until the 1980s that the American Legion really began to reach out to Vietnam vets—and then, mainly, as a matter of survival. The Vietnam War Memorial, a black hole in the ground designed by a college kid from an Ivy League college that did not want the ROTC on its campus, has now become the most visited site in Washington, DC. With the flag and statues that Jim Webb and others demanded and received, it is now a place of honor. I go there every time I am in the Capital, to talk with the names on Panels 35 W to 22 W.
We go to reunions, we Marines of Charlie 1/5, where we are fast becoming the old men of the 1st Marine Division. In 2007, I introduced Mike Tonkyn to the Division Commander as a Navy Cross recipient. The General shook Mike’s hand and said, “It is a real honor to meet you, Sir.”
Later, Mike said to me, “You know, Mac, never in this Lance Corporal’s wildest imagination did the Division Commander call me, ‘Sir.’”
“Ah, that’s all right,” I responded. “ He’s younger than you.” We both almost fell to the ground laughing.
The first time I was welcomed home as a Vietnam vet was in the parking lot of the Spectrum before a Philadelphia Wings game in December 1988, 19 years later! The local Vietnam Veterans of America unit was handing out little paper American flags and asking for donations as a fundraiser for their scholarship fund. The vet saw my Marine Corps decal on my car and asked “When did you serve.” I told him. He shook my hand and said, “Welcome Home, brother.”
I broke down and started crying. He just held me, and kept saying, “It’s OK, buddy. You’re home now. It’s OK. Welcome home. Welcome home.”
But in the dark hours of the night, I am still there. As I walk my dog in a foggy park, the tree line across the field is not in Pennsylvania--it is in the Arizona Territory. I wake up, checking lines or listening for mortars in the distance. Many nights--most nights--are in part or in whole just another re-telling of "that night."
And always they are with me. "At the going down of the sun and in the morning, I remember them:" Lucas and Zimmerman, Tews and Phipps and Unfried, and always, Chip and Jimmy Wandro.
I think often of Robert Louis Stevenson's Requiem. "Here he is where he longs to be. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill."
I'm still not really home, but I long to be. It has been a long voyage. Maybe we'll dock tonight.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
09 April 2010
A CALIFORNIA GODDESS AWAITS
The next day, Thursday, 11 December, we reported to the Transient Facility at Danang Air base to begin processing for our trip home. After the fun that we had had at the DOOM Club, I hit the rack early. This was one flight that I did not want to miss.
On Friday morning, we mustered. About 150 of us then moved to a C-130 for the trip to Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa. Take off was routine, and about 10 minutes later, the crew chief announced that we had just left Vietnamese air space. There was a cheer, but it was almost anticlimactic. The aircraft was a standard C-130, with canvas bench seats along each side of the aircraft and a back-to-back arrangement of canvas bench seats down the centerline of the aircraft. I dozed for most of the trip.
We landed at Kadena in early afternoon and were trucked to Camp Hague to be processed. Our orders were collected and stamped and busses ran us over to 3d Force Service Regiment to collect the baggage we had stored the year before. We were billeted in Quonset hut barracks for the night.
A few of our TBS classmates who were still on Okinawa formed up with us and led us to a genuine Kobi beef restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, we decided to visit a steam bath. The guys who had been on Oki knew just where to take us.
It was a little hole in the wall place. We paid our tab and were ushered into a locker room and handed towels. After stripping down, we were led into a room holding perhaps a dozen old-fashioned steam cabinets. After being locked in, the steam was turned on and we sat for 15 or 20 minutes. When the cabinets were opened, we were streaked with dirt that had been steamed out of our pores. We were then led into a Japanese style bath and soaked for another 20 minutes or so.
Next came the massage tables—in private rooms. The masseuse initially gave me a rub down and ended with the traditional walk on my back. Then she asked if I was interested in the “special.” When it dawned on me just what the “special” entailed, I declined. I was getting married in two weeks, for crying out loud!
On Saturday, I went to the barbershop to get a haircut, to the MCX to get the proper ribbons, pressed out the uniform I would wear to California, polished leather and brass, and just relaxed. We were wearing the Winter Service “A” uniform: green blouse and trousers with khaki shirt and field scarf. We were also wearing the fourragère earned by the Fifth Marines in France in WWI. It was our only opportunity to wear it, and it was a big deal.
We ate off base that night, but ended up in the Officers Club for a late night. The next morning, I got up early to go to Mass and then packed away my utilities and waited for the time to return to Kadena. Finally, we were on the bus and heading home.
At Kadena, we checked in and at about 2200 on Sunday night. We mustered and then walked out to the plane that would take us home, taking off at 2300. I sat with Tom Pottenger and Mike and Jerry were across the aisle from us. The flight was uneventful. Because we were headed east, we had the advantage of the jet stream and the earth’s rotation working for us. We flew non-stop from Kadena to Travis Air Force Base outside of San Francisco. There the plane refueled and flew on down to Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, where we landed at about 1800 on Sunday. Thanks to the International Date Line, we landed about five hours before we left Okinawa!
Tom walked out onto the aircraft steps in front of me. Suddenly, he stopped.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Where are the bands? Where are the flags?”
“Not that kind of war, Tommy,” I replied. “Let’s go home.”
We picked up our bags and headed into the terminal at El Toro. A Lance Corporal was waiting for us. He collected our orders, officers, then Staff NCOs, then NCOs, then non-rated men. A few minutes later, my orders were returned and I was directed to pass through customs. A PFC was the Customs inspector.
“You got anything to declare, Lieutenant,” he asked?
“I do declare I am glad to be home in one piece!”
“Yessir. See you next time.”
I headed through a glass door into a lobby which was dominated by a ticket office. Mike, Tom, and Jerry were already inside. I found a ticket agent and bought a ticket from LA to Saint Louis. I had two choices: there was a TWA flight to St. Louis that left at 2230 and another to Cincinnati via St. Louis that left at 2245. I knew that Tom would be on the Cincinnati flight, but I wasn’t going to “waste” 15 minutes waiting for him.
It was now 1845. As I came out of the ticket office, Tom, Mike, and Jerry were headed out the door to the taxi stand. Pot waved for me to doubletime. “Jerry has a flight out of LA in an hour. Last one until tomorrow morning. We gotta move.”
Jerry and Mike were at the curb. The taxi driver was a grizzled old gal.
“Can you get us to the Northwest Air Lines terminal at LA by 7:45,” Jerry asked?
“Fifty bucks a head,” she replied. We paid up.
“Well, get in. Get in. What are we waiting for? Time’s a-wasting,” she shouted. We dumped our bags in the trunk, jumped in the cab, and took off. I don’t think we ever flew more than 5 feet above the roadway, but it was scary. For the second time in three days, I feared that I was going to die in an accident before I got home. We got to LAX at 7:42 pm.
Jerry grabbed his bags, shook our hands and ran for his 8:10 flight. (He made it.) Tom, Mike and I took our bags and stood there in the street looking at one another.
“I’m on United to Chicago, over there,” Mike said. Tom and I were headed for the TWA terminal, so once again we shook hands. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Mac.” And he was gone.
Tom and I grabbed our gear and headed to the TWA building. As we entered, we were greeted by a golden California goddess, dressed in a bright red TWA uniform. She had long legs that stretched from the floor all the way to….., well, let’s just say she was exquisite.
“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you this evening?” Her smile was dazzling.
“Oh, my dear, so many things,” Pot replied. "But I just don’t have the time.” The goddess blushed!
“Please pardon the lieutenant,” I interjected. “Is there a bar in the airport?”
She gave us directions and I led Pot towards the TWA check in counter where we dropped our bags. Then we found the bar. It being Sunday, we took our anti-malaria horse pills as we would have to do for six weeks. They went down a lot easier with cold draft beer.
We headed for our respective gates at about 9:30. Tom’s was right next to mine. I boarded at about 10:00 pm, and had just settled in when the Captain spoke over the PA system. “We’ve had a little problem with the plane and we are going to have to shift you to another aircraft that is also headed for St. Louis. The good news is that it is parked at the very next gate.”
We disembarked and moved to the next gate. When I boarded the airplane, I was looking for Pot. (These were the days before boarding passes and assigned seating.) I spotted him in a window seat, already asleep. His seat mate was a little old lady. The aisle seat across from her was empty and I dropped my awol bag on it.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I have been sitting next to the Lieutenant all the way from Vietnam. Is there any chance we could swap seats?”
“Of course, Dear.” She moved into the new seat.
I sat down and smacked Pot on top of the head. “Sorry, Leatherneck, but you’re still stuck with me.”
The aircraft took a long roll down the runway and we were headed home.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
On Friday morning, we mustered. About 150 of us then moved to a C-130 for the trip to Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa. Take off was routine, and about 10 minutes later, the crew chief announced that we had just left Vietnamese air space. There was a cheer, but it was almost anticlimactic. The aircraft was a standard C-130, with canvas bench seats along each side of the aircraft and a back-to-back arrangement of canvas bench seats down the centerline of the aircraft. I dozed for most of the trip.
We landed at Kadena in early afternoon and were trucked to Camp Hague to be processed. Our orders were collected and stamped and busses ran us over to 3d Force Service Regiment to collect the baggage we had stored the year before. We were billeted in Quonset hut barracks for the night.
A few of our TBS classmates who were still on Okinawa formed up with us and led us to a genuine Kobi beef restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, we decided to visit a steam bath. The guys who had been on Oki knew just where to take us.
It was a little hole in the wall place. We paid our tab and were ushered into a locker room and handed towels. After stripping down, we were led into a room holding perhaps a dozen old-fashioned steam cabinets. After being locked in, the steam was turned on and we sat for 15 or 20 minutes. When the cabinets were opened, we were streaked with dirt that had been steamed out of our pores. We were then led into a Japanese style bath and soaked for another 20 minutes or so.
Next came the massage tables—in private rooms. The masseuse initially gave me a rub down and ended with the traditional walk on my back. Then she asked if I was interested in the “special.” When it dawned on me just what the “special” entailed, I declined. I was getting married in two weeks, for crying out loud!
On Saturday, I went to the barbershop to get a haircut, to the MCX to get the proper ribbons, pressed out the uniform I would wear to California, polished leather and brass, and just relaxed. We were wearing the Winter Service “A” uniform: green blouse and trousers with khaki shirt and field scarf. We were also wearing the fourragère earned by the Fifth Marines in France in WWI. It was our only opportunity to wear it, and it was a big deal.
We ate off base that night, but ended up in the Officers Club for a late night. The next morning, I got up early to go to Mass and then packed away my utilities and waited for the time to return to Kadena. Finally, we were on the bus and heading home.
At Kadena, we checked in and at about 2200 on Sunday night. We mustered and then walked out to the plane that would take us home, taking off at 2300. I sat with Tom Pottenger and Mike and Jerry were across the aisle from us. The flight was uneventful. Because we were headed east, we had the advantage of the jet stream and the earth’s rotation working for us. We flew non-stop from Kadena to Travis Air Force Base outside of San Francisco. There the plane refueled and flew on down to Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, where we landed at about 1800 on Sunday. Thanks to the International Date Line, we landed about five hours before we left Okinawa!
Tom walked out onto the aircraft steps in front of me. Suddenly, he stopped.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Where are the bands? Where are the flags?”
“Not that kind of war, Tommy,” I replied. “Let’s go home.”
We picked up our bags and headed into the terminal at El Toro. A Lance Corporal was waiting for us. He collected our orders, officers, then Staff NCOs, then NCOs, then non-rated men. A few minutes later, my orders were returned and I was directed to pass through customs. A PFC was the Customs inspector.
“You got anything to declare, Lieutenant,” he asked?
“I do declare I am glad to be home in one piece!”
“Yessir. See you next time.”
I headed through a glass door into a lobby which was dominated by a ticket office. Mike, Tom, and Jerry were already inside. I found a ticket agent and bought a ticket from LA to Saint Louis. I had two choices: there was a TWA flight to St. Louis that left at 2230 and another to Cincinnati via St. Louis that left at 2245. I knew that Tom would be on the Cincinnati flight, but I wasn’t going to “waste” 15 minutes waiting for him.
It was now 1845. As I came out of the ticket office, Tom, Mike, and Jerry were headed out the door to the taxi stand. Pot waved for me to doubletime. “Jerry has a flight out of LA in an hour. Last one until tomorrow morning. We gotta move.”
Jerry and Mike were at the curb. The taxi driver was a grizzled old gal.
“Can you get us to the Northwest Air Lines terminal at LA by 7:45,” Jerry asked?
“Fifty bucks a head,” she replied. We paid up.
“Well, get in. Get in. What are we waiting for? Time’s a-wasting,” she shouted. We dumped our bags in the trunk, jumped in the cab, and took off. I don’t think we ever flew more than 5 feet above the roadway, but it was scary. For the second time in three days, I feared that I was going to die in an accident before I got home. We got to LAX at 7:42 pm.
Jerry grabbed his bags, shook our hands and ran for his 8:10 flight. (He made it.) Tom, Mike and I took our bags and stood there in the street looking at one another.
“I’m on United to Chicago, over there,” Mike said. Tom and I were headed for the TWA terminal, so once again we shook hands. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Mac.” And he was gone.
Tom and I grabbed our gear and headed to the TWA building. As we entered, we were greeted by a golden California goddess, dressed in a bright red TWA uniform. She had long legs that stretched from the floor all the way to….., well, let’s just say she was exquisite.
“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you this evening?” Her smile was dazzling.
“Oh, my dear, so many things,” Pot replied. "But I just don’t have the time.” The goddess blushed!
“Please pardon the lieutenant,” I interjected. “Is there a bar in the airport?”
She gave us directions and I led Pot towards the TWA check in counter where we dropped our bags. Then we found the bar. It being Sunday, we took our anti-malaria horse pills as we would have to do for six weeks. They went down a lot easier with cold draft beer.
We headed for our respective gates at about 9:30. Tom’s was right next to mine. I boarded at about 10:00 pm, and had just settled in when the Captain spoke over the PA system. “We’ve had a little problem with the plane and we are going to have to shift you to another aircraft that is also headed for St. Louis. The good news is that it is parked at the very next gate.”
We disembarked and moved to the next gate. When I boarded the airplane, I was looking for Pot. (These were the days before boarding passes and assigned seating.) I spotted him in a window seat, already asleep. His seat mate was a little old lady. The aisle seat across from her was empty and I dropped my awol bag on it.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I have been sitting next to the Lieutenant all the way from Vietnam. Is there any chance we could swap seats?”
“Of course, Dear.” She moved into the new seat.
I sat down and smacked Pot on top of the head. “Sorry, Leatherneck, but you’re still stuck with me.”
The aircraft took a long roll down the runway and we were headed home.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
08 April 2010
“I LIKE MARINES,” THE AIRDALE SAID.
And finally the orders came. Our flight date was Friday, 12 December 1969. On that date, I was to “proceed and report to Commanding General, 2d Marine Division, FMF, Camp Lejeune, NC for duty.” On Wednesday morning, 10 December, Pottenger came running into the S-4 bunker. “Hey, Mac, Ayers has the Regimental Commander’s Huey (UH-1 helicopter) that can take us to Danang, but we have to go right now.”
I grabbed my sea bag and headed for the LZ. Mike and Jerry were already there, appearing like wraiths in the mist and fog. We boarded the chopper and were on our way. I was sitting in the middle of the bench seat on the after bulkhead, looking forward between the Aircraft Commander and the co-pilot. Suddenly, a CH-53 materialized in front of us.
“[Universal modifier] me.” The words came through our headsets loud and clear. We banked hard left and climbed, as the 53 banked to our right and dove. The rest of the short trip was completed in absolute silence.
We were dropped at the LZ at 11th Motors/5th Marines (rear) where we turned in our weapons, helmets and flak jackets. To be walking around outside with no weapon or protective gear was eerie. We contacted the Lieutenant who was the Division Special Services Officer, a 1/5 alumni, who offered us a place to bunk that night. (The Special Services Office was also at 11th Motors. We could not report in to the Transient Center until the day before our flight.)
Mark was a good guy who had been injured while serving with Tom in Bravo Company. Any time one of us was a pay officer, we usually stopped by to see him. Among the items he had in stock were cartons of paperback books. He would let us take our pick and then take a couple of cartons back to the battalion.
We decided to walk up to the Division Command Post at Hill 327 and hitch a ride over to Danang Air Force Base. Mark declined our offer to join us. The famous DOOM Club (Danang Officers Open Mess) was said to have a really great menu, and we intended to sample it at least once.
As we walked up the road in our scruffy utilities, a couple of officers crossed the road in front of us. They were wearing green gym shorts and white tee shirts, both bearing the Division patch, and gym shoes. They were carrying racketball rackets.“Boys,” Mike muttered. “I have a feeling that some of us were invited to a different war than others of us.”
We caught a ride to the air base, arriving at about 1700. As we entered the DOOM Club, we saw numerous men leaving air-conditioned trailers dressed in polo shirts and khaki slacks heading for the mess. Our dress caught more than a few eyes.
At the entrance to the dining room, the Vietnamese maitre de informed us that our attire did not conform to Air Force standards for the main dining room. We could see tables set with linen, china and silver. A five piece orchestra was playing and a Filipina singer was belting out a tune. We were about as welcome as a goat at a wedding.
“But you can get something to eat in the informal bar, if you wish,” he offered.
We headed for the bar and started drinking. I think we ate something, but we were pretty hacked about our treatment by our airdale brethren.
A friend later told me that he was treated the same way on Guam. He had been wounded and evacuated to Naval Hospital, Guam. When he was well enough to do so, he and a couple of other Marine officers were given liberty. They headed for Andersen Air Force Base and its officers club.
Andersen was a Strategic Air Command base during the Vietnam War. Operation Arc Light, in which B-52s dropped bombs on North and South Vietnam, was an Andersen operation. The crews would tuck their kids in bed, kiss their wives, go to the office, fly to Vietnam and blow the stuffing out of someone or something, and be back home for breakfast with the family.
The Andersen club had a tradition in which the crews that had flown in combat that day were paraded into the bar. At the command, “Make way for the combat crews,” all persons at the bar were expected to move away.
The three Marines walked into the club and up to the bar and ordered their drinks. Suddenly, the command was given. “Make way for the combat crews.” The Air Force personnel at the bar quickly moved away. Our three hearties turned, leaned against the bar, drinks in hand, and watched a column of twos enter the bar and march towards them. The airdales were clad in blue flight suits with silk scarves knotted around their necks. None of the Marines moved.
A Major shouted again, “Make Way For The Combat Crews!” The column of twos was getting nearer. The Marines stood fast. The bar was deathly silent.
His face a scarlet red, the Major (who was the Club Officer) raced up and put his face just inches from my friend’s. MAKE WAY FOR THE COMBAT CREWS!!”
My friend, who had been wounded about 40 miles from anywhere out on the Lao border while leading a patrol from First Force Reconnaissance Company looked the Major in the eye. “[Universal modifier] the combat crews. What are you gonna do if I don’t? Shave my head and send me to Vietnam?”
The pilot leading the column, a colonel, heard that and doubled over, laughing.
“Never mind, Major. They are M.A.R.I.N.E.S. We’ll be glad to drink with them.”
Back at the DOOM Club, we were still drinking at about 2300. There were a few Air Force types in the bar who started ragging on us. A lieutenant colonel, dressed in a flight suit, shushed them. He came over to us.
“You’re Marines. I like Marines. Let me buy you a drink.” Agreeing that we had something in common (“We like Marines, too.”) we invited him to sit down. Our drinks arrived and we toasted the Corps.
“What do you do around here, Colonel,” Tom asked?
“I command one of the Spooky gunship squadrons.” We then allowed as how we liked Spook and bought the Colonel a drink. By midnight, Pot was asleep at the table, Mike and Jerry were leaning back in their chairs quite relaxed, and the Colonel and I were still enjoying our drinks. The bartender came over to announce that the bar was closing.
“Where are you boys billeted,” our host asked?
“Over at 11th Motors, Sir.”
“Great. You get your buddies outside. I’ll get a truck and take you back there.” He left.
I got my three shipmates to the front door just as a grey Air Force pick up truck pulled up. The Colonel jumped out and helped me pour the guys into the bed of the truck.
“You navigate,” the Colonel commanded. I got in the truck and off we went. As we passed through the main gate, a thought popped into my head.
“Colonel, you command a Spooky squadron, right.”
“Yup.”
“Well, how come this truck says ‘15th Aeromedical Evacuation Squadron’ on the door?”
“Hell, son. I said I’d get a truck. I didn’t say from where.” I wondered if he and Sergeant Henderson were related. Then I spent the rest of the trip worrying that on my next to last night in country I would be nabbed for grand theft auto!
The trip was interesting. I sort of knew where we were going, but after midnight, the ARVN set up checkpoints on the road. That didn‘t faze the Colonel. He blew right through them. We finally got to 11th Motors and headed for the rack. I convinced the Colonel that he should spend the night with us.
About 0400, we were awakened by small arms fire and rounds flying through our hooch. We bailed out and spent the rest of the night, unarmed, hiding under the hooch. Apparently, a couple of ARVN patrols got into an intramural firefight out in the paddy, so we were relatively safe.
Thus ended my last firefight. No runs, no hits, no errors, four men left on base, waiting to go home.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
I grabbed my sea bag and headed for the LZ. Mike and Jerry were already there, appearing like wraiths in the mist and fog. We boarded the chopper and were on our way. I was sitting in the middle of the bench seat on the after bulkhead, looking forward between the Aircraft Commander and the co-pilot. Suddenly, a CH-53 materialized in front of us.
“[Universal modifier] me.” The words came through our headsets loud and clear. We banked hard left and climbed, as the 53 banked to our right and dove. The rest of the short trip was completed in absolute silence.
We were dropped at the LZ at 11th Motors/5th Marines (rear) where we turned in our weapons, helmets and flak jackets. To be walking around outside with no weapon or protective gear was eerie. We contacted the Lieutenant who was the Division Special Services Officer, a 1/5 alumni, who offered us a place to bunk that night. (The Special Services Office was also at 11th Motors. We could not report in to the Transient Center until the day before our flight.)
Mark was a good guy who had been injured while serving with Tom in Bravo Company. Any time one of us was a pay officer, we usually stopped by to see him. Among the items he had in stock were cartons of paperback books. He would let us take our pick and then take a couple of cartons back to the battalion.
We decided to walk up to the Division Command Post at Hill 327 and hitch a ride over to Danang Air Force Base. Mark declined our offer to join us. The famous DOOM Club (Danang Officers Open Mess) was said to have a really great menu, and we intended to sample it at least once.
As we walked up the road in our scruffy utilities, a couple of officers crossed the road in front of us. They were wearing green gym shorts and white tee shirts, both bearing the Division patch, and gym shoes. They were carrying racketball rackets.“Boys,” Mike muttered. “I have a feeling that some of us were invited to a different war than others of us.”
We caught a ride to the air base, arriving at about 1700. As we entered the DOOM Club, we saw numerous men leaving air-conditioned trailers dressed in polo shirts and khaki slacks heading for the mess. Our dress caught more than a few eyes.
At the entrance to the dining room, the Vietnamese maitre de informed us that our attire did not conform to Air Force standards for the main dining room. We could see tables set with linen, china and silver. A five piece orchestra was playing and a Filipina singer was belting out a tune. We were about as welcome as a goat at a wedding.
“But you can get something to eat in the informal bar, if you wish,” he offered.
We headed for the bar and started drinking. I think we ate something, but we were pretty hacked about our treatment by our airdale brethren.
A friend later told me that he was treated the same way on Guam. He had been wounded and evacuated to Naval Hospital, Guam. When he was well enough to do so, he and a couple of other Marine officers were given liberty. They headed for Andersen Air Force Base and its officers club.
Andersen was a Strategic Air Command base during the Vietnam War. Operation Arc Light, in which B-52s dropped bombs on North and South Vietnam, was an Andersen operation. The crews would tuck their kids in bed, kiss their wives, go to the office, fly to Vietnam and blow the stuffing out of someone or something, and be back home for breakfast with the family.
The Andersen club had a tradition in which the crews that had flown in combat that day were paraded into the bar. At the command, “Make way for the combat crews,” all persons at the bar were expected to move away.
The three Marines walked into the club and up to the bar and ordered their drinks. Suddenly, the command was given. “Make way for the combat crews.” The Air Force personnel at the bar quickly moved away. Our three hearties turned, leaned against the bar, drinks in hand, and watched a column of twos enter the bar and march towards them. The airdales were clad in blue flight suits with silk scarves knotted around their necks. None of the Marines moved.
A Major shouted again, “Make Way For The Combat Crews!” The column of twos was getting nearer. The Marines stood fast. The bar was deathly silent.
His face a scarlet red, the Major (who was the Club Officer) raced up and put his face just inches from my friend’s. MAKE WAY FOR THE COMBAT CREWS!!”
My friend, who had been wounded about 40 miles from anywhere out on the Lao border while leading a patrol from First Force Reconnaissance Company looked the Major in the eye. “[Universal modifier] the combat crews. What are you gonna do if I don’t? Shave my head and send me to Vietnam?”
The pilot leading the column, a colonel, heard that and doubled over, laughing.
“Never mind, Major. They are M.A.R.I.N.E.S. We’ll be glad to drink with them.”
Back at the DOOM Club, we were still drinking at about 2300. There were a few Air Force types in the bar who started ragging on us. A lieutenant colonel, dressed in a flight suit, shushed them. He came over to us.
“You’re Marines. I like Marines. Let me buy you a drink.” Agreeing that we had something in common (“We like Marines, too.”) we invited him to sit down. Our drinks arrived and we toasted the Corps.
“What do you do around here, Colonel,” Tom asked?
“I command one of the Spooky gunship squadrons.” We then allowed as how we liked Spook and bought the Colonel a drink. By midnight, Pot was asleep at the table, Mike and Jerry were leaning back in their chairs quite relaxed, and the Colonel and I were still enjoying our drinks. The bartender came over to announce that the bar was closing.
“Where are you boys billeted,” our host asked?
“Over at 11th Motors, Sir.”
“Great. You get your buddies outside. I’ll get a truck and take you back there.” He left.
I got my three shipmates to the front door just as a grey Air Force pick up truck pulled up. The Colonel jumped out and helped me pour the guys into the bed of the truck.
“You navigate,” the Colonel commanded. I got in the truck and off we went. As we passed through the main gate, a thought popped into my head.
“Colonel, you command a Spooky squadron, right.”
“Yup.”
“Well, how come this truck says ‘15th Aeromedical Evacuation Squadron’ on the door?”
“Hell, son. I said I’d get a truck. I didn’t say from where.” I wondered if he and Sergeant Henderson were related. Then I spent the rest of the trip worrying that on my next to last night in country I would be nabbed for grand theft auto!
The trip was interesting. I sort of knew where we were going, but after midnight, the ARVN set up checkpoints on the road. That didn‘t faze the Colonel. He blew right through them. We finally got to 11th Motors and headed for the rack. I convinced the Colonel that he should spend the night with us.
About 0400, we were awakened by small arms fire and rounds flying through our hooch. We bailed out and spent the rest of the night, unarmed, hiding under the hooch. Apparently, a couple of ARVN patrols got into an intramural firefight out in the paddy, so we were relatively safe.
Thus ended my last firefight. No runs, no hits, no errors, four men left on base, waiting to go home.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
07 April 2010
THE END IS IN SIGHT
Mike, Tom, Jerry Ayers and I finally got our orders to depart Vietnam “on or about 12 December 1969.” As near as we could determine, we were the last to leave country of the 142 lieutenants who arrived on 20 December 1968. Then, about 1 December, my relief came aboard. Tom Pottenger and Mike Koch also had reliefs who were anxious to get to work in their new assignments. That worked for us.
The next night, I sent Sayne and another Marine down to the LZ to guard the pre-staged supplies for the battalion. We had been getting reports that the supplies were being “rat-f_____d” by the LZ personnel, i.e., someone was opening cases of C-rats and removing the more desirable meals and taking other goodies, such as SPs.
We were hit at about 2100. I grabbed my rifle and headed for the LZ to make sure my Marines were OK. They were, but I was dinged in the helmet and flak jacket by some shrapnel.
When I got back, my relief, a Captain, dressed me down but good. He reminded me that I had only a week and a half to go and that he would have to write the letter if I did something stupid and got myself killed. I was ordered to stand down.
One of the advantages of being assigned as a pay officer was the opportunity to go to Danang to pay hospitalized troops. Among the “sights” in Danang was the Freedom Hill Post Exchange, which rivaled many PX’s then extant in the US. Having a captive audience (no malls in Danang, boys and girls), many merchants opened “stores” in Vietnam.
The Big Three auto makers had kiosks outside the Exchange where a Marine could purchase a car to be picked up at home on his return. They hired “round eyes” to man the sales booths—young American women who, back home, might not have gotten a casual glance from a hormoned up teenager, but who, in Vietnam, were goddesses. I suspect that the sales in a week paid for one of the girls for a couple of months.
Every soldier, sailor, airman and Marine was issued a “ration card” which had to be presented at the time of purchase. Rationing was designed to slow down resales to the black market. Among other things, officers and Staff NCOs were allowed a ration of six quarts of alcohol per month. Of course, those in the bush were not buying or using alcohol, but the folks back at An Hoa did occasionally consume adult beverages.
Before heading to Danang, pay officers would collect ration cards and take orders. The prices were incredible, even in those days. As I recall, a quart of Chivas Regal went for three bucks. It was not uncommon for a pay officer to return from Danang with 18 to 24 bottles of hooch.
So, after my tail chewing by the Captain, I began to join Mike and Tom in a nightly “celebration.”
Our routine was to eat supper at the mess hall and then retire down to the Charlie Company sea bag tent for the evening. The sea bag tent was the storage point for the sea bags that the troops had brought in country—holding their stateside utilities, leather boots, summer service C uniform (for R & R) and other sundry clothing and equipment they did not want or could not use in the field. There were probably 200 sea bags stacked in the tent.
We would begin drinking shortly after 1800 and would continue until sleep overtook us. We would either sleep on top of the stacked sea bags, or we would stumble back to our respective bunkers. One "morning after," Mike showed up with cuts all over his arms. He had gotten a little off course on his walk back to his hooch and had fallen into some concertina barbed wire. Tom and I were sympathetic and supportive. Yes we were!
One night, I got back to the S-4 bunker in time to catch the end of the night’s cockroach races. The cockroaches in that part of the world grow to over an inch in length. The interior wooden walls of our bunker were streaked with spray painted trails resulting from our efforts to corral champion roaches. Someone would spot a roach crawling across the wall. He would grab a can of spray paint from the paint locker and begin to paint the bug. Roaches do not like to be painted, and they would scurry across the walls, leaving a winding path that Bil Keane would have been proud of.
We also had a large circle painted on the deck. Different colored roaches would be dropped at the center and the race would begin. The first to leave the circle was the winner and got to race again. The losers were squashed. As I write this, it sounds gross and not particularly exciting, but in country, it was the acme of sport. I had a yellow roach that won 10 straight races. I was sorry to step on him when he finally lost, but rules are rules.
One night just three or four days before we left, I returned to the S-4 bunker from our cocktail hour. It was about 2200 and it was raining. My boots were muddy and I was a bit unsteady. Suddenly, a large, pregnant rat scurried across the deck.
Someone called “Rat,” and I whipped out my K-Bar combat knife and dove for the beast. I missed, but managed to cut deep into my left wrist. Someone put a battle dressing on the wound and I was driven down to Battalion Aid Station 1/5. The duty Corpsman had been with Charlie Company and had given me my shots earlier that day. He looked at the cut and announced that it would take a couple of stitches to close it up. “I can give you something to numb it, Lieutenant, but it will be four sticks to deaden it and four sticks to sew it. What do you want?”
“Aw, hell, Doc, I’m already a little numb. Just sew the damn’d thing up.” Big mistake on my part.
The first stitch went in just fine. So did the first half of the second, but on the way out, the needle hit a nerve. My penance, I presume.
The rat was not seen again—probably off telling all the other rats about the idiot with the knife.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
The next night, I sent Sayne and another Marine down to the LZ to guard the pre-staged supplies for the battalion. We had been getting reports that the supplies were being “rat-f_____d” by the LZ personnel, i.e., someone was opening cases of C-rats and removing the more desirable meals and taking other goodies, such as SPs.
We were hit at about 2100. I grabbed my rifle and headed for the LZ to make sure my Marines were OK. They were, but I was dinged in the helmet and flak jacket by some shrapnel.
When I got back, my relief, a Captain, dressed me down but good. He reminded me that I had only a week and a half to go and that he would have to write the letter if I did something stupid and got myself killed. I was ordered to stand down.
One of the advantages of being assigned as a pay officer was the opportunity to go to Danang to pay hospitalized troops. Among the “sights” in Danang was the Freedom Hill Post Exchange, which rivaled many PX’s then extant in the US. Having a captive audience (no malls in Danang, boys and girls), many merchants opened “stores” in Vietnam.
The Big Three auto makers had kiosks outside the Exchange where a Marine could purchase a car to be picked up at home on his return. They hired “round eyes” to man the sales booths—young American women who, back home, might not have gotten a casual glance from a hormoned up teenager, but who, in Vietnam, were goddesses. I suspect that the sales in a week paid for one of the girls for a couple of months.
Every soldier, sailor, airman and Marine was issued a “ration card” which had to be presented at the time of purchase. Rationing was designed to slow down resales to the black market. Among other things, officers and Staff NCOs were allowed a ration of six quarts of alcohol per month. Of course, those in the bush were not buying or using alcohol, but the folks back at An Hoa did occasionally consume adult beverages.
Before heading to Danang, pay officers would collect ration cards and take orders. The prices were incredible, even in those days. As I recall, a quart of Chivas Regal went for three bucks. It was not uncommon for a pay officer to return from Danang with 18 to 24 bottles of hooch.
So, after my tail chewing by the Captain, I began to join Mike and Tom in a nightly “celebration.”
Our routine was to eat supper at the mess hall and then retire down to the Charlie Company sea bag tent for the evening. The sea bag tent was the storage point for the sea bags that the troops had brought in country—holding their stateside utilities, leather boots, summer service C uniform (for R & R) and other sundry clothing and equipment they did not want or could not use in the field. There were probably 200 sea bags stacked in the tent.
We would begin drinking shortly after 1800 and would continue until sleep overtook us. We would either sleep on top of the stacked sea bags, or we would stumble back to our respective bunkers. One "morning after," Mike showed up with cuts all over his arms. He had gotten a little off course on his walk back to his hooch and had fallen into some concertina barbed wire. Tom and I were sympathetic and supportive. Yes we were!
One night, I got back to the S-4 bunker in time to catch the end of the night’s cockroach races. The cockroaches in that part of the world grow to over an inch in length. The interior wooden walls of our bunker were streaked with spray painted trails resulting from our efforts to corral champion roaches. Someone would spot a roach crawling across the wall. He would grab a can of spray paint from the paint locker and begin to paint the bug. Roaches do not like to be painted, and they would scurry across the walls, leaving a winding path that Bil Keane would have been proud of.
We also had a large circle painted on the deck. Different colored roaches would be dropped at the center and the race would begin. The first to leave the circle was the winner and got to race again. The losers were squashed. As I write this, it sounds gross and not particularly exciting, but in country, it was the acme of sport. I had a yellow roach that won 10 straight races. I was sorry to step on him when he finally lost, but rules are rules.
One night just three or four days before we left, I returned to the S-4 bunker from our cocktail hour. It was about 2200 and it was raining. My boots were muddy and I was a bit unsteady. Suddenly, a large, pregnant rat scurried across the deck.
Someone called “Rat,” and I whipped out my K-Bar combat knife and dove for the beast. I missed, but managed to cut deep into my left wrist. Someone put a battle dressing on the wound and I was driven down to Battalion Aid Station 1/5. The duty Corpsman had been with Charlie Company and had given me my shots earlier that day. He looked at the cut and announced that it would take a couple of stitches to close it up. “I can give you something to numb it, Lieutenant, but it will be four sticks to deaden it and four sticks to sew it. What do you want?”
“Aw, hell, Doc, I’m already a little numb. Just sew the damn’d thing up.” Big mistake on my part.
The first stitch went in just fine. So did the first half of the second, but on the way out, the needle hit a nerve. My penance, I presume.
The rat was not seen again—probably off telling all the other rats about the idiot with the knife.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
03 April 2010
SOUVENIRS
During all of our wars, at least through WWII in Europe, one problem facing commanders has been looting. Grant’s staff picked Mr. Mc Lean’s parlor clean after Lee’s surrender. Many officers and men in the American armies in Europe sent home German silver, art, and other artifacts that they had taken from private homes as well as German offices.
Looting while hostilities are still underway, is a serious problem. In addition to giving the enemy additional cause to fight to the end, troops who abandon the fight to loot seriously impede the war effort. Thus, under military law, a commander can establish or issue a “safeguard” with respect to enemy or neutral property. The Manual for Courts-Martial defines a safeguard thusly: “ A safeguard is a detachment, guard, or detail posted by a commander for the protection of persons, places, or property of the enemy, or of a neutral affected by the relationship of belligerent forces in their prosecution of war or during circumstances amounting to a state of belligerency. The term also includes a written order left by a commander with an enemy subject or posted upon enemy property for the protection of that person or property.” So serious is this matter that when Congress adopted Article 102, UCMJ “forcing a safeguard,” it was adopted as a capital offense.
“Article 102. Any person subject to this chapter who forces a safeguard shall suffer death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct.”
Article 103 makes criminal any failure to “secure all public property taken from the enemy for the service of the United States, and [to] give notice and turn over to the proper authority without delay all captured or abandoned property in their possession, custody, or control. This article has a different motive—protection of Uncle Sam’s pocketbook. By definition, captured enemy property becomes the property of the United States. And it leads to a major leadership balancing act.
Looting was not a problem in the largely rural wars in Korea and Vietnam, but retention by troops of “war souvenirs” is an ancient tradition. The Marine who has taken a weapon or other article of military equipment from an enemy he has killed or captured ought not be punished for failing to turn it over to some REMF bean counter. (Under international law, certain items cannot be taken from captured troops: money, personal photos, and their personal clothing and protective gear, i.e., cold weather clothing and helmets so long as they are still subject to hostile fire. Diaries and papers that are of intelligence value may be taken.)
Accordingly, in all of our modern wars, procedures have been established to help troops account for, but retain, bona fide war souvenirs.
My first exposure to the issue of war souvenirs came shortly after I got to Vietnam. While searching a ville, I found a SKS rifle. The SKS is a Russian-designed semiautomatic rifle that fires the 7.62x39 caliber round, the same round fired by the AK-47 and the RPK light machinegun, both of which were in wide use by both the VC and the NVA.
Unlike the AK-47, the SKS was semiautomatic and thus could be lawfully possessed without a Federal firearms license, making it a very popular souvenir. It was, I was to learn, also rare, because the AK-47 was the primary weapon of the NVA and the VC.
One of my troops, a Tet survivor who was only a couple of weeks away from going home, admired my find. In a fit of generosity, I handed it to him and said, “Here, you take this one. I’ll keep the next one.”
I never captured another, and finally got my SKS from our Clerk of Session who was selling one his two rifles. (As we exchanged rifle and check in the church parking lot after services, the Pastor walked out, took one look, shook his head, and walked back into the church.)
I only saw one NVA pistol, a Russian Makarov PM, with red-star hand grips.It went to the Marine who found its previous owner, either the CO or the Political Officer of 2/90 NVA) dead in a bunker when we recovered the downed medevac bird in the Arizona.
Other popular souvenirs were cap badges (a red enamel star), belts (made of leather or the hide of the endangered “nauga”) with belt plate, canteens, and Soviet compasses which were better than ours. The Soviet compass had a small wheel in the base that was marked for various map scales (1:50,000, 1:25,000, 1:12,500). Running the wheel along a route gave you a pretty accurate measure of distance.
Another popular item, especially for Marines with small feet, were Ho Chi Minh sandals. These were rubber sandals made from old truck tires. The tread was the outer face of the sole. It was easier to get Marines to air their feet—as a preventative for warm water immersion foot—if they had sandals.
I still have the NVA belt and hammock I took from a NVA soldier who would never again need either. He was also carrying a set of US wire cutters, still in the original canvas belt pouch, which he had probably taken from a dead ARVN (South Vietnamese) soldier. I still use those.
Other than weapons, we rarely bothered to send the small stuff back for accounting. There was a major problem with pilferage—REMFs would take weapons or other equipment as their own souvenirs. I had personal knowledge of one such instance.
A couple of weeks after I became the S-4, a Marine reported to me as the S-4 clerk. He was actually an honest-to-goodness school-trained 0431 Logistics Clerk.
He joined the rest of the rear echelon as a candidate for the regimental reaction force. Each night, the various units at An Hoa would provide Marines to serve in a reaction force of platoon strength. In essence, the reaction force was the regimental reserve. Many nights, the duty was no more onerous than having to sleep in fighting gear in a bunker in the CP area. But if one of the combat base sectors was penetrated or, heaven forbid, overrun, the reaction force was the outfit that got to do something about it.
Sane was tagged for the reaction force his very first night at An Hoa. It was the night of the final game of the 1969 World Series of which I have already written. One of the Sergeants from S-1 was also on the reaction force that night, and I asked him to keep an eye on my new Marine. Then I headed for Alpha Sector.
When Sane got to Regiment, he was assigned to a squad for the night. The Squad Leader, an experienced Sergeant, told him “You stick with me. kid.”
When Echo Sector was attacked later that night (interrupting the ball game, I might add), Sane's squad was sent down to the line to help push the enemy back. The attack was by a force of NVA sappers (engineers/demolition men), apparently intent upon destroying the guns and ammo supply of Battery E, 11th Marines.
As Sane and his Sergeant moved down to the wire, a chicom grenade exploded between Sane and the Sergeant. Both were knocked from their feet, and the Sergeant suffered some shrapnel wounds to the head.
As Sane regained his feet, a flare popped overhead. There, standing in the wire, wire cutters at the ready, was an NVA soldier.
“Sergeant,” Sane yelled. “There’s a gook in the wire. What should I do?”
“Kill him.” He did.
The Sergeant then regained his feet and the two of them cleared the wire, taking a couple of satchel charges and the NVA’s weapon. Sane took a really nice bone-handled knife from the dead NVA’s belt.
The next morning, as the troops were being formed to be dismissed and sent back to their commands, a Lieutenant spotted the knife. He took it and walked into the Regimental Commander’s Office where he gave it to the CO, “as a souvenir.”
Fortunately, the Gunny who had been the platoon commander saw what happened. He immediately informed the Sergeant Major.
The Sergeant Major walked right in to the CO’s office, as it was his privilege to do.
“Look, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant ____ gave me this NVA knife. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir, it surely is. Except it ain’t the Lieutenant’s to give. There’s a young PFC out there who killed the gook that was carrying it. May I return it to him?”
They said you could hear the ass-chewing the Colonel gave that Lieutenant all the way to Hawaii. I don’t remember seeing his sorry ass around the CP after that.
But I know of an even better instance of souvenir retribution.
In early 1969, about the time President Nixon announced his policy of “vietnamization,” a rumor began to spread, and it was apparently also rampant on the other side. The gist of the rumor was that on a particular date, a cease fire would be announced and whichever side’s flag, either Republic of Vietnam or National Liberation Front, flew over a particular ville or hamlet that morning could claim it as theirs.
Tom Peachey told me that shortly thereafter, his company overran a VC flag factory. There were literally hundreds of finished VC flags, and hundreds more that were in various states of completion. After giving each Marine in the Company two completed flags and two unfinished flags, the rest were sent back to Regiment. Now, these were obviously very desirable souvenirs. When Regiment learned that the troops (who had captured them) had been given “first dibs,” Tom was hauled on the carpet. The Regimental S-2 informed him in no uncertain terms that henceforth, any captured “enemy items” would be sent to S-2.
A few days later, one of his patrols captured a small bobcat. It was obviously a belligerent. Recalling the explicit instructions of the S-2, Peaches had the wriggling, spitting, clawing beastie put into a wooden grenade crate and returned to the S-2.
That afternoon, word went out that company commanders could exercise discretion in returning captured materiel to the rear.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Looting while hostilities are still underway, is a serious problem. In addition to giving the enemy additional cause to fight to the end, troops who abandon the fight to loot seriously impede the war effort. Thus, under military law, a commander can establish or issue a “safeguard” with respect to enemy or neutral property. The Manual for Courts-Martial defines a safeguard thusly: “ A safeguard is a detachment, guard, or detail posted by a commander for the protection of persons, places, or property of the enemy, or of a neutral affected by the relationship of belligerent forces in their prosecution of war or during circumstances amounting to a state of belligerency. The term also includes a written order left by a commander with an enemy subject or posted upon enemy property for the protection of that person or property.” So serious is this matter that when Congress adopted Article 102, UCMJ “forcing a safeguard,” it was adopted as a capital offense.
“Article 102. Any person subject to this chapter who forces a safeguard shall suffer death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct.”
Article 103 makes criminal any failure to “secure all public property taken from the enemy for the service of the United States, and [to] give notice and turn over to the proper authority without delay all captured or abandoned property in their possession, custody, or control. This article has a different motive—protection of Uncle Sam’s pocketbook. By definition, captured enemy property becomes the property of the United States. And it leads to a major leadership balancing act.
Looting was not a problem in the largely rural wars in Korea and Vietnam, but retention by troops of “war souvenirs” is an ancient tradition. The Marine who has taken a weapon or other article of military equipment from an enemy he has killed or captured ought not be punished for failing to turn it over to some REMF bean counter. (Under international law, certain items cannot be taken from captured troops: money, personal photos, and their personal clothing and protective gear, i.e., cold weather clothing and helmets so long as they are still subject to hostile fire. Diaries and papers that are of intelligence value may be taken.)
Accordingly, in all of our modern wars, procedures have been established to help troops account for, but retain, bona fide war souvenirs.
My first exposure to the issue of war souvenirs came shortly after I got to Vietnam. While searching a ville, I found a SKS rifle. The SKS is a Russian-designed semiautomatic rifle that fires the 7.62x39 caliber round, the same round fired by the AK-47 and the RPK light machinegun, both of which were in wide use by both the VC and the NVA.
Unlike the AK-47, the SKS was semiautomatic and thus could be lawfully possessed without a Federal firearms license, making it a very popular souvenir. It was, I was to learn, also rare, because the AK-47 was the primary weapon of the NVA and the VC.
One of my troops, a Tet survivor who was only a couple of weeks away from going home, admired my find. In a fit of generosity, I handed it to him and said, “Here, you take this one. I’ll keep the next one.”
I never captured another, and finally got my SKS from our Clerk of Session who was selling one his two rifles. (As we exchanged rifle and check in the church parking lot after services, the Pastor walked out, took one look, shook his head, and walked back into the church.)
I only saw one NVA pistol, a Russian Makarov PM, with red-star hand grips.It went to the Marine who found its previous owner, either the CO or the Political Officer of 2/90 NVA) dead in a bunker when we recovered the downed medevac bird in the Arizona.
Other popular souvenirs were cap badges (a red enamel star), belts (made of leather or the hide of the endangered “nauga”) with belt plate, canteens, and Soviet compasses which were better than ours. The Soviet compass had a small wheel in the base that was marked for various map scales (1:50,000, 1:25,000, 1:12,500). Running the wheel along a route gave you a pretty accurate measure of distance.
Another popular item, especially for Marines with small feet, were Ho Chi Minh sandals. These were rubber sandals made from old truck tires. The tread was the outer face of the sole. It was easier to get Marines to air their feet—as a preventative for warm water immersion foot—if they had sandals.
I still have the NVA belt and hammock I took from a NVA soldier who would never again need either. He was also carrying a set of US wire cutters, still in the original canvas belt pouch, which he had probably taken from a dead ARVN (South Vietnamese) soldier. I still use those.
Other than weapons, we rarely bothered to send the small stuff back for accounting. There was a major problem with pilferage—REMFs would take weapons or other equipment as their own souvenirs. I had personal knowledge of one such instance.
A couple of weeks after I became the S-4, a Marine reported to me as the S-4 clerk. He was actually an honest-to-goodness school-trained 0431 Logistics Clerk.
He joined the rest of the rear echelon as a candidate for the regimental reaction force. Each night, the various units at An Hoa would provide Marines to serve in a reaction force of platoon strength. In essence, the reaction force was the regimental reserve. Many nights, the duty was no more onerous than having to sleep in fighting gear in a bunker in the CP area. But if one of the combat base sectors was penetrated or, heaven forbid, overrun, the reaction force was the outfit that got to do something about it.
Sane was tagged for the reaction force his very first night at An Hoa. It was the night of the final game of the 1969 World Series of which I have already written. One of the Sergeants from S-1 was also on the reaction force that night, and I asked him to keep an eye on my new Marine. Then I headed for Alpha Sector.
When Sane got to Regiment, he was assigned to a squad for the night. The Squad Leader, an experienced Sergeant, told him “You stick with me. kid.”
When Echo Sector was attacked later that night (interrupting the ball game, I might add), Sane's squad was sent down to the line to help push the enemy back. The attack was by a force of NVA sappers (engineers/demolition men), apparently intent upon destroying the guns and ammo supply of Battery E, 11th Marines.
As Sane and his Sergeant moved down to the wire, a chicom grenade exploded between Sane and the Sergeant. Both were knocked from their feet, and the Sergeant suffered some shrapnel wounds to the head.
As Sane regained his feet, a flare popped overhead. There, standing in the wire, wire cutters at the ready, was an NVA soldier.
“Sergeant,” Sane yelled. “There’s a gook in the wire. What should I do?”
“Kill him.” He did.
The Sergeant then regained his feet and the two of them cleared the wire, taking a couple of satchel charges and the NVA’s weapon. Sane took a really nice bone-handled knife from the dead NVA’s belt.
The next morning, as the troops were being formed to be dismissed and sent back to their commands, a Lieutenant spotted the knife. He took it and walked into the Regimental Commander’s Office where he gave it to the CO, “as a souvenir.”
Fortunately, the Gunny who had been the platoon commander saw what happened. He immediately informed the Sergeant Major.
The Sergeant Major walked right in to the CO’s office, as it was his privilege to do.
“Look, Sergeant Major. Lieutenant ____ gave me this NVA knife. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Sir, it surely is. Except it ain’t the Lieutenant’s to give. There’s a young PFC out there who killed the gook that was carrying it. May I return it to him?”
They said you could hear the ass-chewing the Colonel gave that Lieutenant all the way to Hawaii. I don’t remember seeing his sorry ass around the CP after that.
But I know of an even better instance of souvenir retribution.
In early 1969, about the time President Nixon announced his policy of “vietnamization,” a rumor began to spread, and it was apparently also rampant on the other side. The gist of the rumor was that on a particular date, a cease fire would be announced and whichever side’s flag, either Republic of Vietnam or National Liberation Front, flew over a particular ville or hamlet that morning could claim it as theirs.
Tom Peachey told me that shortly thereafter, his company overran a VC flag factory. There were literally hundreds of finished VC flags, and hundreds more that were in various states of completion. After giving each Marine in the Company two completed flags and two unfinished flags, the rest were sent back to Regiment. Now, these were obviously very desirable souvenirs. When Regiment learned that the troops (who had captured them) had been given “first dibs,” Tom was hauled on the carpet. The Regimental S-2 informed him in no uncertain terms that henceforth, any captured “enemy items” would be sent to S-2.
A few days later, one of his patrols captured a small bobcat. It was obviously a belligerent. Recalling the explicit instructions of the S-2, Peaches had the wriggling, spitting, clawing beastie put into a wooden grenade crate and returned to the S-2.
That afternoon, word went out that company commanders could exercise discretion in returning captured materiel to the rear.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
02 April 2010
SPOT, THE INVISIBLE DOG
Beginning in the late 1990’s, in the afterglow of the celebration of the 50th anniversary of the landings in Normandy, the American people re-awakened to the valor of the American fighting man. The motion picture, Saving Private Ryan, with its savagely accurate, bloody 20 minute opening depiction of the landings on Omaha Beach, was a turning point. World War II veterans who had remained silent for decades were finally encouraged to speak about their experiences in what Studs Terkel christened The Good War.
For some time before that, author Steven Ambrose had been collecting oral histories from WWII vets of Company D, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Regiment (Ox and Bucks) and E/506/101 Airborne, which he then converted into Pegasus Bridge and Band of Brothers .
[Some interesting trivia: On 6 June 1944, Captain Richard Todd, 7th (Light Infantry) Parachute Battalion, dropped in after glider-borne Company D/Ox and Bucks, had landed and captured Pegasus Bridge. In 1962, he appeared in the movie The Longest Day as Major John Howard, Officer Commanding, Company D. Talk about art imitating life.]
After the success of Saving Private Ryan, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg collaborated to bring Band of Brothers ("BOB") to television with a ten-hour adaptation that aired beginning on September 9, 2001. Unlike “popular” movies about the Vietnam War, including Platoon and Full Metal Jacket, which portrayed the fighting men as either cartoon characters or as stoned murderers and misfits, BOB and Ryan depicted honorable men who did their duty with class. In particular, the dialog in both WWII films caught the native wit and wisdom of the American soldier at war.
After the success of Ryan and BOB, two additional war films were made and distributed that capture the essence of the American warrior: We Were Soldiers (2002), about 1/7/1 Cav in the Battle of the Ia Drang in 1965 and Flags of Our Fathers (2006) about the Battle of Iwo Jima, focusing on the men who were involved in the iconic flag raising on Mount Suribachi. Once again, the writers captured the feel of how soldiers and Marines in combat think and talk to one another.
Finally, in 2010, Spielberg and Hanks produced The Pacific for HBO. This time the focus is the ground war in the Pacific in WWII. Spielberg frankly admits that the impetus for The Pacific was the post-BOB requests from vets of “that other little fracas” on the other side of the globe from France and Germany. And again, the writers have done a good job.
Marines in combat are still young men, young American men, with the wit and repartee that makes them Americans. The dialog in all of the positive films I mention above captures the men I know and served with.
In the second or third episode of BOB (I have loaned out my copy and cannot check), Lieutenant Winters mentions to a fellow platoon commander that “General Taylor is pleased with Easy Company’s performance yesterday.”
His exhausted comrade, leaning against a door frame, mutters sleepily, “That’s why I came to France—to please General Taylor.”
More recently, in The Pacific, on Guadalcanal, after experiencing intense combat and suffering significant casualties, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines has finally gotten mail. Robert Leckie reads a letter from home to his shipmates, including a post script from his father: “Your Mother wants to know if we should send you your dress blue uniform.”
Leckies says, “I guess she thinks we are having a lot of fancy dress balls out here.”
Another Marine says, “If we do, ‘Lucky,’ will you ask me?”
“Nah, you’re too ugly. I’ll ask Hoosier.”
Without missing a beat, Hoosier, who is cleaning his rifle, in a droll drawl says “Take a number.” He never stops working on his weapon.
And that led me to think of some of my Marines.
John Gibson, my radio operator, was a poet and a philosopher—at 18. A radio operator and his officer are inseparable, never further apart than two arms lengths, so that the radio handset can be passed from one to another. They share a fighting hole, chow, and time.
Once, we were discussing our favorite cold beverages, how many we would down when we got “back to the World,” and the relative value of ice.
“You know, Lieutenant, this war is gonna turn out a whole generation of Americans who will go to a backyard barbeque and if somebody drops a ice cube, he’ll pick it up, pop it in his mouth, and never even look to see if anybody’s watching.”
When I was teaching the Law of War at TBS in 1983-85, one teaching point was that the lieutenant must be on the lookout for Marines who are in danger of going over the edge emotionally. I called it “terminal weirdness.”
All Marines in combat are weird. But when someone is terminally weird—cutting ears off bodies or extracting gold teeth from corpses—you need to get him out of their before he does something so seriously wrong that he can end up in the brig.”
To differentiate between weird and terminally weird, I told them about Gibson and Spot.
As I mentioned earlier, the Skipper had a standing order that we were not to adopt dogs as pets, or even play with them. It was an appropriate order; any Marine bitten by a local dog would be evacuated for an obligatory 14 day series of anti-rabies shots.
When we were in the Arizona, and morale was low, Gibby turned to me one afternoon and said, “You know what would perk the guys up, Sir?”
"Please, Gibby, inform me.”
“A dog, Lieutenant. We need a dog.”
“Well, that’s not a bad idea, except that the Skipper has said ‘No.’”
“Oh, I got a way to fix that, Sir. We’ll get an invisible dog that only Charlie 3 can see.”
For the next couple of hours, he walked around the perimeter, taking “Spot” for a walk. Most of the troops from Third Platoon played along. Then a runner came from the CP. “Skipper wants you, Sir.”
I reported to the Company Commander. He was stirring a can of C-rats over a home-made C-4 stove.
“What the hell is with your radio operator?”
“Sir?”
“The Gunny is ready to kill him. He was talking to my radio operator and all of a sudden he yells ‘Gunny, look out!’ The Gunny almost broke his neck taking cover. Gibson says, ‘You almost stepped on Spot, Gunny.’ I don’t think the Gunny caught him yet, but you better keep him out of sight for a day or two. Fix this!”
I walked back to my hole. Gibson was in the hole, laying low so to speak.
“We got to get rid of Spot.”
“Why, Sir? The guys like him.”
What now, Lieutenant? “Ah, the Skipper is worried that because no one else can see him, he might get hurt.” That ought to do it.
“Oh, I can fix that.” He jumped up and headed for the bomb crater that we were using as a trash pit. A few minutes later, he returned holding what appeared to be a leash. He had scrounged some parachute cord and then stiffened it with baling wire from a couple of C-ration cases. There was a loop for a collar and another as a handle.
“Now that I got him under control, he’ll be safe!”
At TBS, I would end the story by saying, “Gibson was weird, but not terminally weird. See the difference?”
It was a popular parable, but the class that took it most to heart was the last group I taught, Warrant Officer Basic Course 1-85. Warrant Officers are enlisted men who have been selected by a board convened by the Commandant. They tend to have some technical specialty and are appointed to fill the need for officers in that specialty without using up a slot for a commissioned officer. (Warrant Officers in the grade of W-1 are “appointed" officers; Chief Warrant Officers 2 through 5 are commissioned.)
When they were about to graduate, they presented me with a photograph taken during one of my last classes with them. As I was about to finish, the classroom became exceptionally tense. Suddenly there was movement to my left rear. I spun, to see a Warrant Officer, wearing “bug-eyed” glasses and carrying a very reasonable facsimile of Spot’s leash. The rest of the class was on its feet, cheering.
I still have and treasure that photo.
2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
For some time before that, author Steven Ambrose had been collecting oral histories from WWII vets of Company D, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Regiment (Ox and Bucks) and E/506/101 Airborne, which he then converted into Pegasus Bridge and Band of Brothers .
[Some interesting trivia: On 6 June 1944, Captain Richard Todd, 7th (Light Infantry) Parachute Battalion, dropped in after glider-borne Company D/Ox and Bucks, had landed and captured Pegasus Bridge. In 1962, he appeared in the movie The Longest Day as Major John Howard, Officer Commanding, Company D. Talk about art imitating life.]
After the success of Saving Private Ryan, Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg collaborated to bring Band of Brothers ("BOB") to television with a ten-hour adaptation that aired beginning on September 9, 2001. Unlike “popular” movies about the Vietnam War, including Platoon and Full Metal Jacket, which portrayed the fighting men as either cartoon characters or as stoned murderers and misfits, BOB and Ryan depicted honorable men who did their duty with class. In particular, the dialog in both WWII films caught the native wit and wisdom of the American soldier at war.
After the success of Ryan and BOB, two additional war films were made and distributed that capture the essence of the American warrior: We Were Soldiers (2002), about 1/7/1 Cav in the Battle of the Ia Drang in 1965 and Flags of Our Fathers (2006) about the Battle of Iwo Jima, focusing on the men who were involved in the iconic flag raising on Mount Suribachi. Once again, the writers captured the feel of how soldiers and Marines in combat think and talk to one another.
Finally, in 2010, Spielberg and Hanks produced The Pacific for HBO. This time the focus is the ground war in the Pacific in WWII. Spielberg frankly admits that the impetus for The Pacific was the post-BOB requests from vets of “that other little fracas” on the other side of the globe from France and Germany. And again, the writers have done a good job.
Marines in combat are still young men, young American men, with the wit and repartee that makes them Americans. The dialog in all of the positive films I mention above captures the men I know and served with.
In the second or third episode of BOB (I have loaned out my copy and cannot check), Lieutenant Winters mentions to a fellow platoon commander that “General Taylor is pleased with Easy Company’s performance yesterday.”
His exhausted comrade, leaning against a door frame, mutters sleepily, “That’s why I came to France—to please General Taylor.”
More recently, in The Pacific, on Guadalcanal, after experiencing intense combat and suffering significant casualties, 1st Battalion, 1st Marines has finally gotten mail. Robert Leckie reads a letter from home to his shipmates, including a post script from his father: “Your Mother wants to know if we should send you your dress blue uniform.”
Leckies says, “I guess she thinks we are having a lot of fancy dress balls out here.”
Another Marine says, “If we do, ‘Lucky,’ will you ask me?”
“Nah, you’re too ugly. I’ll ask Hoosier.”
Without missing a beat, Hoosier, who is cleaning his rifle, in a droll drawl says “Take a number.” He never stops working on his weapon.
And that led me to think of some of my Marines.
John Gibson, my radio operator, was a poet and a philosopher—at 18. A radio operator and his officer are inseparable, never further apart than two arms lengths, so that the radio handset can be passed from one to another. They share a fighting hole, chow, and time.
Once, we were discussing our favorite cold beverages, how many we would down when we got “back to the World,” and the relative value of ice.
“You know, Lieutenant, this war is gonna turn out a whole generation of Americans who will go to a backyard barbeque and if somebody drops a ice cube, he’ll pick it up, pop it in his mouth, and never even look to see if anybody’s watching.”
When I was teaching the Law of War at TBS in 1983-85, one teaching point was that the lieutenant must be on the lookout for Marines who are in danger of going over the edge emotionally. I called it “terminal weirdness.”
All Marines in combat are weird. But when someone is terminally weird—cutting ears off bodies or extracting gold teeth from corpses—you need to get him out of their before he does something so seriously wrong that he can end up in the brig.”
To differentiate between weird and terminally weird, I told them about Gibson and Spot.
As I mentioned earlier, the Skipper had a standing order that we were not to adopt dogs as pets, or even play with them. It was an appropriate order; any Marine bitten by a local dog would be evacuated for an obligatory 14 day series of anti-rabies shots.
When we were in the Arizona, and morale was low, Gibby turned to me one afternoon and said, “You know what would perk the guys up, Sir?”
"Please, Gibby, inform me.”
“A dog, Lieutenant. We need a dog.”
“Well, that’s not a bad idea, except that the Skipper has said ‘No.’”
“Oh, I got a way to fix that, Sir. We’ll get an invisible dog that only Charlie 3 can see.”
For the next couple of hours, he walked around the perimeter, taking “Spot” for a walk. Most of the troops from Third Platoon played along. Then a runner came from the CP. “Skipper wants you, Sir.”
I reported to the Company Commander. He was stirring a can of C-rats over a home-made C-4 stove.
“What the hell is with your radio operator?”
“Sir?”
“The Gunny is ready to kill him. He was talking to my radio operator and all of a sudden he yells ‘Gunny, look out!’ The Gunny almost broke his neck taking cover. Gibson says, ‘You almost stepped on Spot, Gunny.’ I don’t think the Gunny caught him yet, but you better keep him out of sight for a day or two. Fix this!”
I walked back to my hole. Gibson was in the hole, laying low so to speak.
“We got to get rid of Spot.”
“Why, Sir? The guys like him.”
What now, Lieutenant? “Ah, the Skipper is worried that because no one else can see him, he might get hurt.” That ought to do it.
“Oh, I can fix that.” He jumped up and headed for the bomb crater that we were using as a trash pit. A few minutes later, he returned holding what appeared to be a leash. He had scrounged some parachute cord and then stiffened it with baling wire from a couple of C-ration cases. There was a loop for a collar and another as a handle.
“Now that I got him under control, he’ll be safe!”
At TBS, I would end the story by saying, “Gibson was weird, but not terminally weird. See the difference?”
It was a popular parable, but the class that took it most to heart was the last group I taught, Warrant Officer Basic Course 1-85. Warrant Officers are enlisted men who have been selected by a board convened by the Commandant. They tend to have some technical specialty and are appointed to fill the need for officers in that specialty without using up a slot for a commissioned officer. (Warrant Officers in the grade of W-1 are “appointed" officers; Chief Warrant Officers 2 through 5 are commissioned.)
When they were about to graduate, they presented me with a photograph taken during one of my last classes with them. As I was about to finish, the classroom became exceptionally tense. Suddenly there was movement to my left rear. I spun, to see a Warrant Officer, wearing “bug-eyed” glasses and carrying a very reasonable facsimile of Spot’s leash. The rest of the class was on its feet, cheering.
I still have and treasure that photo.
2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
31 March 2010
“I’M CLEAN, I’M CLEAN.”
The S-4 shop was located in a prefabricated bunker at the top of the battalion street, where it joined the regimental street. Prefab bunkers were designed to be erected quickly. They were above ground, a real benefit in the rainy seasons. The standard prefab bunker was made of 12 x12 posts and beams, sheathed in 2 x 12 boards on the walls and roof. The floor was plywood. The bunker was 12 feet by 20 feet. Ours was a double wide (24 x 20), which we shared with the S-3 shop. It was then protected by a wall of sandbags that was 6 feet thick on the sides. At the roof level, there were three layers of sand bags, a layer of steel runway matting, another 3 layers of sandbags, another layer of matting and a final 3 layers of sand bags. I was told that there were some 25,000 sandbags on and around this one bunker.
We felt that we were fairly secure from mortars and rockets.
One afternoon, a couple of Marines from Bravo Company walked in. “Sir, our CO told us to bring this to you.”
He proffered a steel tube that looked strangely familiar. “What is that?”
“It’s a blooper barrel, Sir.”
Oh, yeah. The M-79 40mm grenade launcher was one of the weapons carried by a rifle squad. It was nick-named “the blooper” because of the sound it made when fired. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“He says it needs to be cleared, Lieutenant.”
I looked down the muzzle, expecting to see light. Nope! There was a high explosive round stuck half way down the barrel. “Clear the bunker, dammit! Call EOD.” I very gently put the barrel on the deck and beat a hasty retreat. All I could think of was the terrible effect an explosion would have had confined inside our little fortress.
The EOD techs arrived and nonchalantly took the tube away. (Because the round would not arm until it had spun a significant number of times, it was probably safe, but I was short.)
Marines. Ya gotta love ‘em.
As vietnamization continued, it was becoming clear that the leadership of the Marine Corps was looking to the day when we would all be out of country.
General Leonard F. Chapman, USMC, had assumed the Commandancy in 1968. Among the many things this great leader of Marines did in his tenure was to prepare the Corps for the end of the war. Having served in WWII and Korea, he was familiar with the pains of a post-war reduction in personnel and funding. As a result of plans and policies he put into place, the Marine Corps did not suffer the Army’s angst in the mid-70s when it forced officers to resign or retire as part of a reduction in force.
Even in 1969, it was apparent that we were returning to a peace-time mentality—at least in the area of logistics. The embarkation conference in Danang in August was but one harbinger of new times. We began to see requirements that we account for the equipment that had been sent to the battalion.
Now, I do not mean to suggest that there was any malfeasance involved. It is just that in wartime, supply accounting can get a little loose. When a man is killed or wounded, his shattered helmet or torn flak jacket may be discarded and never returned to supply for proper accounting. Things get blown up or are lost in the confusion of battle, or just wear out. Very understandable.
Of course, rifles were another matter. A Marine’s rifle either went on the med-evac bird with him, for collection at the receiving medical facility, or it stayed with the unit and was returned to the armory. Even so, rifles were sometimes informally exchanged in the field, and the paperwork might not catch up. When I checked out of the battalion, I turned in the pistol that I had been issued in December 1968.
“Uh, Lieutenant, there’s a problem with your pistol,” the Armorer said.
“Really? What’s wrong?”
“Well, Sir. It’s got the same serial number as the one you checked out. That just don’t happen much, ya know?”
At any rate, word filtered down from Division G-4 that we should begin looking at our supply accounts and getting them into some semblance of order and accuracy. You can imagine how that might go over in a rifle company in the field. Here you are, a Company Commander, in contact with the enemy, trying to accomplish your mission and keep your troops alive, and some REMF wants a list of the serial numbers of all of your weapons. More than once I was told to “be fruitful and multiply.” Or words to that effect.
Two particular incidents stand out.
During the eight days in the rain, the company providing the palace guard was attempting to move. As part of a field test of equipment, the battalion had been assigned a small tracked vehicle that was being considered as a replacement for the mule. Approaching a stream that was now a surging river, the company commander halted.
“Musk ox, this is Charlie 6, over.”
“Musk ox Charlie 6, Musk ox.”
“Musk ox, I need to speak to the 3, over.”
“Charlie 6, this is Musk ox 3, over.”
“Three, this is Charlie 6. We are at the west bank of the stream. The vehicle commander does not think he can cross the stream. He says the banks are too steep.”
“Charlie 6, this is Musk ox 3. Nonsense. He can make it. Now cross that stream.”
There was a pause of about two minutes. “Musk ox 3, this is Charlie 6. At this point, the stream is 18 feet deep. I can tell that because the vehicle’s antenna is 20 feet tall, and I can see about two feet of it above water.”
“Charlie 6, this is Musk ox 3. Damn!” No one was hurt, but the vehicle was gone.
But that is not the end of the story. A couple of weeks later, the officer assigned to do the JAG Manual investigation into the loss—a routine affair that every lieutenant has performed at one time or another—came to see me.
“I know why the vehicle sank,” he proudly announced.
“Hell, we all know that. The banks were too steep and when it hit the water, it just kept going.”
“Nah, Mac, there’s more. It was overloaded.”
“Oh, yeah? By how much?”
“Well, as near as I can tell, by about 70,000 pounds!”
Thirty-five tons? Not bad for a vehicle with a capacity of three-quarters of a ton. It seems that every piece of gear assigned to Charlie Company and the Command Post group that could not be accounted for “must have gone down on that vehicle.” And who could argue?
A couple of days later, at about 1645, I was preparing to go over to the mess hall for supper. It had been dry and windy for a couple of days, and the regimental street was already dusty. Suddenly, in the distance, I heard a familiar ker-ruuump of a mortar round detonating. One of the batteries must be adjusting its pre-planned fires.
Ker-ruuuump. KER-rummmp. KER-RUUUUMP. WHAMMM. BLANG. I was huddled on the deck in the bunker as five more 120mm mortar rounds walked across An Hoa. The fifth round sounded as if it exploded right outside the bunker and the last was behind us.
I ran to the back entrance of the bunker that led to our police shed and paint locker. There was a towering plume of smoke just beyond the police shed. Two Marines were standing on the sandbagged roof of the police shed, taking pictures. I could hear smalls arm ammunition cooking off and an occasional round passing overhead.
“Get down , you damn fools, before you get shot.” They did. “Now, get some buckets from the police shed and follow me.”
We moved cautiously over to 3/5’s area. The battalion armory, located in a strong-back tent, had taken a direct hit and was now a raging inferno. The battalion Supply Chief, who I knew, was shouting for people to stand clear.
“They are all OK. They went to early chow. I was covering the armory. There’s no one inside.” He was discouraging anyone from taking unnecessary risks by trying to rescue the armorers. We had lucked out.
Just then, 3/5’s Supply Officer came running up. He was a mustang First Lieutenant (an officer commissioned from the enlisted ranks). He took one look and then turned and ran into his office. A minute or two later, he came back out carrying a drawer from a filing cabinet.
A couple of his clerks followed, similarly laden.
He ran over and tossed the complete drawer into the blazing armory. Turning, he took another drawer from a Marine’s arms and sent him back for more. Into the fire went drawer after drawer of records, followed by the empty file cabinets.
All the while, I could hear him gleefully shouting “I’m clean! I’m clean!”
Happily, no one was killed or wounded by the mortar attack. Three-five’s armory was the only structure hit and was, of course, a total loss, but the fire did not spread. After the “tragic” loss of all of 3/5’s supply records which, as the JAG Manual investigation revealed, “were stored in the armory for security,” 3/5 did a wall-to-wall inventory and reconstructed its records to reflect only the supplies and equipment that were then on hand.
Clean as a whistle. “Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.” Henry VI, Pt. 3, act II, sc 5.
The Bard must have been a logistician.
We felt that we were fairly secure from mortars and rockets.
One afternoon, a couple of Marines from Bravo Company walked in. “Sir, our CO told us to bring this to you.”
He proffered a steel tube that looked strangely familiar. “What is that?”
“It’s a blooper barrel, Sir.”
Oh, yeah. The M-79 40mm grenade launcher was one of the weapons carried by a rifle squad. It was nick-named “the blooper” because of the sound it made when fired. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“He says it needs to be cleared, Lieutenant.”
I looked down the muzzle, expecting to see light. Nope! There was a high explosive round stuck half way down the barrel. “Clear the bunker, dammit! Call EOD.” I very gently put the barrel on the deck and beat a hasty retreat. All I could think of was the terrible effect an explosion would have had confined inside our little fortress.
The EOD techs arrived and nonchalantly took the tube away. (Because the round would not arm until it had spun a significant number of times, it was probably safe, but I was short.)
Marines. Ya gotta love ‘em.
As vietnamization continued, it was becoming clear that the leadership of the Marine Corps was looking to the day when we would all be out of country.
General Leonard F. Chapman, USMC, had assumed the Commandancy in 1968. Among the many things this great leader of Marines did in his tenure was to prepare the Corps for the end of the war. Having served in WWII and Korea, he was familiar with the pains of a post-war reduction in personnel and funding. As a result of plans and policies he put into place, the Marine Corps did not suffer the Army’s angst in the mid-70s when it forced officers to resign or retire as part of a reduction in force.
Even in 1969, it was apparent that we were returning to a peace-time mentality—at least in the area of logistics. The embarkation conference in Danang in August was but one harbinger of new times. We began to see requirements that we account for the equipment that had been sent to the battalion.
Now, I do not mean to suggest that there was any malfeasance involved. It is just that in wartime, supply accounting can get a little loose. When a man is killed or wounded, his shattered helmet or torn flak jacket may be discarded and never returned to supply for proper accounting. Things get blown up or are lost in the confusion of battle, or just wear out. Very understandable.
Of course, rifles were another matter. A Marine’s rifle either went on the med-evac bird with him, for collection at the receiving medical facility, or it stayed with the unit and was returned to the armory. Even so, rifles were sometimes informally exchanged in the field, and the paperwork might not catch up. When I checked out of the battalion, I turned in the pistol that I had been issued in December 1968.
“Uh, Lieutenant, there’s a problem with your pistol,” the Armorer said.
“Really? What’s wrong?”
“Well, Sir. It’s got the same serial number as the one you checked out. That just don’t happen much, ya know?”
At any rate, word filtered down from Division G-4 that we should begin looking at our supply accounts and getting them into some semblance of order and accuracy. You can imagine how that might go over in a rifle company in the field. Here you are, a Company Commander, in contact with the enemy, trying to accomplish your mission and keep your troops alive, and some REMF wants a list of the serial numbers of all of your weapons. More than once I was told to “be fruitful and multiply.” Or words to that effect.
Two particular incidents stand out.
During the eight days in the rain, the company providing the palace guard was attempting to move. As part of a field test of equipment, the battalion had been assigned a small tracked vehicle that was being considered as a replacement for the mule. Approaching a stream that was now a surging river, the company commander halted.
“Musk ox, this is Charlie 6, over.”
“Musk ox Charlie 6, Musk ox.”
“Musk ox, I need to speak to the 3, over.”
“Charlie 6, this is Musk ox 3, over.”
“Three, this is Charlie 6. We are at the west bank of the stream. The vehicle commander does not think he can cross the stream. He says the banks are too steep.”
“Charlie 6, this is Musk ox 3. Nonsense. He can make it. Now cross that stream.”
There was a pause of about two minutes. “Musk ox 3, this is Charlie 6. At this point, the stream is 18 feet deep. I can tell that because the vehicle’s antenna is 20 feet tall, and I can see about two feet of it above water.”
“Charlie 6, this is Musk ox 3. Damn!” No one was hurt, but the vehicle was gone.
But that is not the end of the story. A couple of weeks later, the officer assigned to do the JAG Manual investigation into the loss—a routine affair that every lieutenant has performed at one time or another—came to see me.
“I know why the vehicle sank,” he proudly announced.
“Hell, we all know that. The banks were too steep and when it hit the water, it just kept going.”
“Nah, Mac, there’s more. It was overloaded.”
“Oh, yeah? By how much?”
“Well, as near as I can tell, by about 70,000 pounds!”
Thirty-five tons? Not bad for a vehicle with a capacity of three-quarters of a ton. It seems that every piece of gear assigned to Charlie Company and the Command Post group that could not be accounted for “must have gone down on that vehicle.” And who could argue?
A couple of days later, at about 1645, I was preparing to go over to the mess hall for supper. It had been dry and windy for a couple of days, and the regimental street was already dusty. Suddenly, in the distance, I heard a familiar ker-ruuump of a mortar round detonating. One of the batteries must be adjusting its pre-planned fires.
Ker-ruuuump. KER-rummmp. KER-RUUUUMP. WHAMMM. BLANG. I was huddled on the deck in the bunker as five more 120mm mortar rounds walked across An Hoa. The fifth round sounded as if it exploded right outside the bunker and the last was behind us.
I ran to the back entrance of the bunker that led to our police shed and paint locker. There was a towering plume of smoke just beyond the police shed. Two Marines were standing on the sandbagged roof of the police shed, taking pictures. I could hear smalls arm ammunition cooking off and an occasional round passing overhead.
“Get down , you damn fools, before you get shot.” They did. “Now, get some buckets from the police shed and follow me.”
We moved cautiously over to 3/5’s area. The battalion armory, located in a strong-back tent, had taken a direct hit and was now a raging inferno. The battalion Supply Chief, who I knew, was shouting for people to stand clear.
“They are all OK. They went to early chow. I was covering the armory. There’s no one inside.” He was discouraging anyone from taking unnecessary risks by trying to rescue the armorers. We had lucked out.
Just then, 3/5’s Supply Officer came running up. He was a mustang First Lieutenant (an officer commissioned from the enlisted ranks). He took one look and then turned and ran into his office. A minute or two later, he came back out carrying a drawer from a filing cabinet.
A couple of his clerks followed, similarly laden.
He ran over and tossed the complete drawer into the blazing armory. Turning, he took another drawer from a Marine’s arms and sent him back for more. Into the fire went drawer after drawer of records, followed by the empty file cabinets.
All the while, I could hear him gleefully shouting “I’m clean! I’m clean!”
Happily, no one was killed or wounded by the mortar attack. Three-five’s armory was the only structure hit and was, of course, a total loss, but the fire did not spread. After the “tragic” loss of all of 3/5’s supply records which, as the JAG Manual investigation revealed, “were stored in the armory for security,” 3/5 did a wall-to-wall inventory and reconstructed its records to reflect only the supplies and equipment that were then on hand.
Clean as a whistle. “Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.” Henry VI, Pt. 3, act II, sc 5.
The Bard must have been a logistician.
30 March 2010
A SINNER SAVED BY GRACE
One of the functions that came under the purview of the S-4 was supply and armory. By Table of Organization, we were supposed to have a Supply Officer (MOS 3002), but we did not. Eventually, Mike Koch took over as Supply Officer until our rotation, but for most of my tour as S-4, the Supply Chief was acting Supply Officer and I signed any returns that required the signature of an officer.
The next senior NCO in the supply section was Sergeant Henderson. He had 19 years in the Corps and had just been promoted to Sergeant when he joined us. Sergeant Henderson was a very good sergeant, having been promoted to that rank six or seven times in his career! He was a sinner saved by Grace. . . or Susie, or Sally, or, in a Staff Sergeant Winston classic phrasing, “Scuzzy Maryann.”
The high point of the day was the arrival of the morning supply convoy from Danang. (When we heard the trucks of the convoy pull up, I always thought of “The Wells Fargo Wagon Is A-comin’” from The Music Man. Maybe they’ll have something for me!)
A word about supply. In addition to being the site of the Division Headquarters, Danang also hosted Headquarters, III Marine Amphibious Force (the senior Marine Corps Command in Vietnam , consisting of 1st Marine Division, 3d Marine Division, 1st Marine Aircraft Wing, and Force Logistics Command), Danang Air Force Base (a huge Air Force complex), Marine Corps Air Station Marble Mountain, Naval Support Activity, and a number of Army logistics units.
Force Logistics Command (FLC) was based at Camp Brooks located on the South China Sea at Red Beach just outside of Danang proper. It was a massive base, providing any logistics requirement of the III MAF and, for a time, major Army units operating in I Corps. A list of its subordinate units gives a broad example of its capabilities: 1st and 3d Military Police Battalions, 7th Motor Transport Battalion, 5th Communications Battalion, 1st and 3d Service Battalions, 1st and 3d Shore Party Battalions, 1st Supply Battalion, 1st Medical Battalion, 1st Hospital Company, 1st Force Service Regiment (Maintenance Battalion, Supply Battalion), and H&S Battalion.
Maintenance Battalion, 1st FSR had several maintenance companies, including Motor Transport Maintenance, Ordnance Maintenance, Engineer Maintenance, Communications/Electronic Maintenance, and Supply Maintenance companies. Supply Battalion also had several companies organized by commodity: 7th Separate Bulk Fuel Company, Ration Company, Ammunition Company, and the Force Bakery.
If you needed something or needed something fixed—from a typewriter or a torn canvas tent to a complex piece of electronics—FLC could provide it or fix it.
The first time I visited Red Beach, I was stunned. There were miles and miles of warehouses, repair shops, strong-back barracks, and open supply storage lots. The centerpiece of FLC was the “RUC” line.
A “RUC” is a five digit “reporting unit code” assigned to each company, battalion, and Division in the Corps. For instance (as I recall) 15130 was Charlie Company. “1” (1stMarDiv) “5” (5th Marines) “1” (1/5) “3” (Company C) and “0” as a place holder. Battalion was 15100. Supply Section of H&S Company would use that place holder (15101) while Comm Platoon might be 15102. The RUC was used for personnel reporting and also for supply accounting.
At Red Beach, the RUC line was made up of several long rows of open platforms covered by a roof. Each row might be 300 meters long (3 football fields), for there were lots of supplies going to lots of units. Supplies and equipment which arrived had been marked with the requesting unit’s RUC when they were shipped from the US. Upon arrival, they were moved to the RUC line. At regular intervals, a sign was hung with each unit’s RUC painted on it, and newly received supplies were placed under the appropriate sign. When convoys were formed to move supplies, anything that had come in for a unit at the convoy destination was moved from the RUC line to the truck.
One morning,Sergeant Henderson came into my office. “I’m heading up to Danang, Lieutenant.”
“Danang? What are you doing up there?”
“Doncha remember, Sir? This afternoon is my court-martial.” I did remember. On a recent supply run to Danang he had made what was euphemistically called a “skivvy run” to an off-limits house of ill-repute. He had been picked up by the MPs and charges were filed and referred to a Summary Court-Martial.
A summary court was a one-officer court which tried offenses that were deemed minor, but which might warrant confinement or a greater reduction in rank than could be imposed by a company commander or battalion commander at non-judicial punishment under Article 15, UCMJ. In this case, the Sergeant was facing the possibility of reduction to Corporal, 30 days confinement at hard labor, and forfeiture of two-thirds of one month’s pay.
I wished him good luck.
Late that afternoon, he called. “Hi, Lieutenant, it’s me, Corporal Henderson.” He reported that his only punishment was reduction to Corporal. “It’s too late to get back tonight. Tomorrow,I'm going over to FLC to check out the RUC line and then I’ll come down on the convoy.”
About 1400 the next day, the convoy arrived. Trucks turned out of the line to their unit destinations, and one pulled up right outside the S-4 bunker. In came our newest corporal.
“Hey, Sir. C’mon out. We got some good stuff today.”
As I walked out through the six-foot thick layer of sandbags that surrounded our bunker, I could hear the sounds of boxes, crates and bags being off-loaded. One man in the working party was opening several wooden crates. Corporal Henderson walked over to one and pulled off the lid.
“Happy Birthday, Lieutenant!” It was a brand new 60 mm mortar, complete. We had been begging for several and now here one was. He pointed to three other boxes—three more 60 mm mortars, one for each rifle company. Godallmightydamn!
Then I noticed the crate lid. The RUC stenciled on the wood was 17200, 2/7’s RUC. I checked—nowhere did I find a 1/5 RUC. I called this minor discrepancy to the Corporal’s attention.
“Well, hell, Lieutenant.” He was exasperated. “ I said I was gonna check out the RUC line. I never said I was gonna limit myself to ours!”
The Old Man signed his meritorious promotion to Sergeant that afternoon. Grace is a good ol’ gal she is.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
The next senior NCO in the supply section was Sergeant Henderson. He had 19 years in the Corps and had just been promoted to Sergeant when he joined us. Sergeant Henderson was a very good sergeant, having been promoted to that rank six or seven times in his career! He was a sinner saved by Grace. . . or Susie, or Sally, or, in a Staff Sergeant Winston classic phrasing, “Scuzzy Maryann.”
The high point of the day was the arrival of the morning supply convoy from Danang. (When we heard the trucks of the convoy pull up, I always thought of “The Wells Fargo Wagon Is A-comin’” from The Music Man. Maybe they’ll have something for me!)
A word about supply. In addition to being the site of the Division Headquarters, Danang also hosted Headquarters, III Marine Amphibious Force (the senior Marine Corps Command in Vietnam , consisting of 1st Marine Division, 3d Marine Division, 1st Marine Aircraft Wing, and Force Logistics Command), Danang Air Force Base (a huge Air Force complex), Marine Corps Air Station Marble Mountain, Naval Support Activity, and a number of Army logistics units.
Force Logistics Command (FLC) was based at Camp Brooks located on the South China Sea at Red Beach just outside of Danang proper. It was a massive base, providing any logistics requirement of the III MAF and, for a time, major Army units operating in I Corps. A list of its subordinate units gives a broad example of its capabilities: 1st and 3d Military Police Battalions, 7th Motor Transport Battalion, 5th Communications Battalion, 1st and 3d Service Battalions, 1st and 3d Shore Party Battalions, 1st Supply Battalion, 1st Medical Battalion, 1st Hospital Company, 1st Force Service Regiment (Maintenance Battalion, Supply Battalion), and H&S Battalion.
Maintenance Battalion, 1st FSR had several maintenance companies, including Motor Transport Maintenance, Ordnance Maintenance, Engineer Maintenance, Communications/Electronic Maintenance, and Supply Maintenance companies. Supply Battalion also had several companies organized by commodity: 7th Separate Bulk Fuel Company, Ration Company, Ammunition Company, and the Force Bakery.
If you needed something or needed something fixed—from a typewriter or a torn canvas tent to a complex piece of electronics—FLC could provide it or fix it.
The first time I visited Red Beach, I was stunned. There were miles and miles of warehouses, repair shops, strong-back barracks, and open supply storage lots. The centerpiece of FLC was the “RUC” line.
A “RUC” is a five digit “reporting unit code” assigned to each company, battalion, and Division in the Corps. For instance (as I recall) 15130 was Charlie Company. “1” (1stMarDiv) “5” (5th Marines) “1” (1/5) “3” (Company C) and “0” as a place holder. Battalion was 15100. Supply Section of H&S Company would use that place holder (15101) while Comm Platoon might be 15102. The RUC was used for personnel reporting and also for supply accounting.
At Red Beach, the RUC line was made up of several long rows of open platforms covered by a roof. Each row might be 300 meters long (3 football fields), for there were lots of supplies going to lots of units. Supplies and equipment which arrived had been marked with the requesting unit’s RUC when they were shipped from the US. Upon arrival, they were moved to the RUC line. At regular intervals, a sign was hung with each unit’s RUC painted on it, and newly received supplies were placed under the appropriate sign. When convoys were formed to move supplies, anything that had come in for a unit at the convoy destination was moved from the RUC line to the truck.
One morning,Sergeant Henderson came into my office. “I’m heading up to Danang, Lieutenant.”
“Danang? What are you doing up there?”
“Doncha remember, Sir? This afternoon is my court-martial.” I did remember. On a recent supply run to Danang he had made what was euphemistically called a “skivvy run” to an off-limits house of ill-repute. He had been picked up by the MPs and charges were filed and referred to a Summary Court-Martial.
A summary court was a one-officer court which tried offenses that were deemed minor, but which might warrant confinement or a greater reduction in rank than could be imposed by a company commander or battalion commander at non-judicial punishment under Article 15, UCMJ. In this case, the Sergeant was facing the possibility of reduction to Corporal, 30 days confinement at hard labor, and forfeiture of two-thirds of one month’s pay.
I wished him good luck.
Late that afternoon, he called. “Hi, Lieutenant, it’s me, Corporal Henderson.” He reported that his only punishment was reduction to Corporal. “It’s too late to get back tonight. Tomorrow,I'm going over to FLC to check out the RUC line and then I’ll come down on the convoy.”
About 1400 the next day, the convoy arrived. Trucks turned out of the line to their unit destinations, and one pulled up right outside the S-4 bunker. In came our newest corporal.
“Hey, Sir. C’mon out. We got some good stuff today.”
As I walked out through the six-foot thick layer of sandbags that surrounded our bunker, I could hear the sounds of boxes, crates and bags being off-loaded. One man in the working party was opening several wooden crates. Corporal Henderson walked over to one and pulled off the lid.
“Happy Birthday, Lieutenant!” It was a brand new 60 mm mortar, complete. We had been begging for several and now here one was. He pointed to three other boxes—three more 60 mm mortars, one for each rifle company. Godallmightydamn!
Then I noticed the crate lid. The RUC stenciled on the wood was 17200, 2/7’s RUC. I checked—nowhere did I find a 1/5 RUC. I called this minor discrepancy to the Corporal’s attention.
“Well, hell, Lieutenant.” He was exasperated. “ I said I was gonna check out the RUC line. I never said I was gonna limit myself to ours!”
The Old Man signed his meritorious promotion to Sergeant that afternoon. Grace is a good ol’ gal she is.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
29 March 2010
SCENES ON THE REGIMENTAL STREET: Mud, Mirth, and A Vision Of Grace
By now, the Autumn rains had really set in and An Hoa was a sea of mud. For those of us who used the Vietnamese laundry on base, we noticed that our “clean” clothing came back with the unique odor that came from being dried over a water buffalo dung fire.
Knee-high rubber boots, just like my Dad and Granddad had worn in the feed lot on the farm, were the footwear of choice. The mud was often so deep that it nearly topped the boots.
The shower point continued to operate, opening from 1900 to 2000 each night. To keep our clothing clean and dry, it was not uncommon to see Marines walking to the shower point clad only in rubber boots, flak jacket, and helmet, carrying a towel in one hand and a rifle in the other.
And it was cold. Now, that means that the temperatures had plummeted into the low 70s, but that was a 20 to 30 degree drop. One Marine in the Comm Platoon wrote home to tell his Mom that he was cold. She immediately sent him a ski jacket. He wore it everywhere.
The problem was that it was an electric, almost fluorescent, blue. Now, An Hoa and its environs was done in shades of green, reddish brown and grey. That electric blue jacket was visible for miles! You could always tell where that Marine was because there was a big empty circle around him. If he wanted to be a target, no one wanted to be close.
* * * * *
The Regimental Sergeant Major hated the “bush cover,” an item that tended to replace the standard utility cover. The utility cover had been Marine Corps issue since at least WWII. It was cut very similarly to a railroad engineer’s cap. The bush cover, on the other hand, was a floppy hat that had a 360° degree brim. It could be turned up on the sides like a cowboy hat, pushed up in front like a cavalryman’s hat, worn with the front brim down and the rear brim up, like a fedora, or with the brim pulled down all around. And the Sergeant Major hated it.
There was a regimental policy that forbade wearing the bush cover in An Hoa, and when the Sergeant Major found someone wearing one, he had his revenge. Outside the CP bunker, he had erected a scarlet and gold board labeled “Sergeant Major’s Funny Hat Board.” The miscreant would be marched to the board, handed a hammer and nail, and ordered to nail his bush cover to the board.
The policy was not popular, and troops quickly learned to duck out of the Sergeant Major’s sight.
One evening, I was walking back from chow with another lieutenant. From our left and about 20 meters in front of us, a Marine turned onto the regimental street from the road to the LZ. He was obviously just in from the bush. He was muddy, wore a large ruck sack, carried his helmet in his free hand, and wore his bush cover in the “cavalryman” style. He was clearly tired, walking with his head down, green towel wrapped around his neck.
Suddenly, from our right and about 10 meters behind the Marine, the Sergeant Major entered the street. He made a beeline for the Marines. Getting right up behind the man, the Sergeant Major snatched the bush cover from the Marine’s head.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Marine.”
The Marine turned. On the pocket of his flak jacket, he wore the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel. (We did not wear collar insignia of rank in the bush—it made for an inviting target. In “garrison areas” the practice was to wear one piece of insignia on the flak jacket pocket.)
“Uh, Sergeant Major. I think I’m Lieutenant Colonel ________. Seventh Marines. May I have my cover back, please?”
The Sergeant Major turned as scarlet as his funny hat board. Muttering apologies, he returned the cover, and directed the Colonel to the Regimental S-3 shop, as requested.
Then, turning and seeing the two of us, grinning, he said, “Not one word, Lieutenants, not one [universal modifier] word.”
We didn’t have to say anything. The troops who had witnessed this little morality play had had the sense to duck for cover. The story was all over the base in minutes.
* * * * *
The life we lived was primitive and much like that lived by our ancestors in a frontier town. One day was much like the next. Anything new or out of the ordinary was interesting.
One afternoon, I was walking across the regimental street to the S-4 shop when a mechanical mule sputtered by. Also on the street was a war dog handler and his dog, a German Shepherd. The dog was on a lead, but when the mule drove by, he almost pulled his handler off his feet. Barking, snarling, dancing around, the dog was lunging for the mule.
“Stop that goddam mule,” the handler shouted. The driver stopped.
The handler reached down and loosed his dog. Fido raced to the idling mule, snarling and slobbering. He latched onto the rail of the vehicle and began to shake it.
The handler waited a minute or two and then ambled over. Folding the canvas lead into a short bunch, he smacked the dog between the ears. The dog quieted and sat.
“All right stupid,” the handler said. “You caught it. Now what are you gonna do with it?”
The dog just looked at him. “OK, man. Thanks, you can go.” The mule driver put it back into gear and chugged off. The dog just sat there.
Over the ensuing 40 years, there have been times when I have been tempted. Then, through God's unfathomable grace, I have felt the "stupid smack" that Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs and we fathers of a certain age know so well and His voice saying "OK, Stupid. If you caught it, what would you do with it?”
I sometimes think that that is just another way of saying “Lead us not into temptation.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Knee-high rubber boots, just like my Dad and Granddad had worn in the feed lot on the farm, were the footwear of choice. The mud was often so deep that it nearly topped the boots.
The shower point continued to operate, opening from 1900 to 2000 each night. To keep our clothing clean and dry, it was not uncommon to see Marines walking to the shower point clad only in rubber boots, flak jacket, and helmet, carrying a towel in one hand and a rifle in the other.
And it was cold. Now, that means that the temperatures had plummeted into the low 70s, but that was a 20 to 30 degree drop. One Marine in the Comm Platoon wrote home to tell his Mom that he was cold. She immediately sent him a ski jacket. He wore it everywhere.
The problem was that it was an electric, almost fluorescent, blue. Now, An Hoa and its environs was done in shades of green, reddish brown and grey. That electric blue jacket was visible for miles! You could always tell where that Marine was because there was a big empty circle around him. If he wanted to be a target, no one wanted to be close.
* * * * *
The Regimental Sergeant Major hated the “bush cover,” an item that tended to replace the standard utility cover. The utility cover had been Marine Corps issue since at least WWII. It was cut very similarly to a railroad engineer’s cap. The bush cover, on the other hand, was a floppy hat that had a 360° degree brim. It could be turned up on the sides like a cowboy hat, pushed up in front like a cavalryman’s hat, worn with the front brim down and the rear brim up, like a fedora, or with the brim pulled down all around. And the Sergeant Major hated it.
There was a regimental policy that forbade wearing the bush cover in An Hoa, and when the Sergeant Major found someone wearing one, he had his revenge. Outside the CP bunker, he had erected a scarlet and gold board labeled “Sergeant Major’s Funny Hat Board.” The miscreant would be marched to the board, handed a hammer and nail, and ordered to nail his bush cover to the board.
The policy was not popular, and troops quickly learned to duck out of the Sergeant Major’s sight.
One evening, I was walking back from chow with another lieutenant. From our left and about 20 meters in front of us, a Marine turned onto the regimental street from the road to the LZ. He was obviously just in from the bush. He was muddy, wore a large ruck sack, carried his helmet in his free hand, and wore his bush cover in the “cavalryman” style. He was clearly tired, walking with his head down, green towel wrapped around his neck.
Suddenly, from our right and about 10 meters behind the Marine, the Sergeant Major entered the street. He made a beeline for the Marines. Getting right up behind the man, the Sergeant Major snatched the bush cover from the Marine’s head.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Marine.”
The Marine turned. On the pocket of his flak jacket, he wore the silver leaf of a lieutenant colonel. (We did not wear collar insignia of rank in the bush—it made for an inviting target. In “garrison areas” the practice was to wear one piece of insignia on the flak jacket pocket.)
“Uh, Sergeant Major. I think I’m Lieutenant Colonel ________. Seventh Marines. May I have my cover back, please?”
The Sergeant Major turned as scarlet as his funny hat board. Muttering apologies, he returned the cover, and directed the Colonel to the Regimental S-3 shop, as requested.
Then, turning and seeing the two of us, grinning, he said, “Not one word, Lieutenants, not one [universal modifier] word.”
We didn’t have to say anything. The troops who had witnessed this little morality play had had the sense to duck for cover. The story was all over the base in minutes.
* * * * *
The life we lived was primitive and much like that lived by our ancestors in a frontier town. One day was much like the next. Anything new or out of the ordinary was interesting.
One afternoon, I was walking across the regimental street to the S-4 shop when a mechanical mule sputtered by. Also on the street was a war dog handler and his dog, a German Shepherd. The dog was on a lead, but when the mule drove by, he almost pulled his handler off his feet. Barking, snarling, dancing around, the dog was lunging for the mule.
“Stop that goddam mule,” the handler shouted. The driver stopped.
The handler reached down and loosed his dog. Fido raced to the idling mule, snarling and slobbering. He latched onto the rail of the vehicle and began to shake it.
The handler waited a minute or two and then ambled over. Folding the canvas lead into a short bunch, he smacked the dog between the ears. The dog quieted and sat.
“All right stupid,” the handler said. “You caught it. Now what are you gonna do with it?”
The dog just looked at him. “OK, man. Thanks, you can go.” The mule driver put it back into gear and chugged off. The dog just sat there.
Over the ensuing 40 years, there have been times when I have been tempted. Then, through God's unfathomable grace, I have felt the "stupid smack" that Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs and we fathers of a certain age know so well and His voice saying "OK, Stupid. If you caught it, what would you do with it?”
I sometimes think that that is just another way of saying “Lead us not into temptation.”
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
27 March 2010
30 DAYS AND A WAKE UP
And with the stroke of a pen, I became a short-timer. I do not believe that anyone who has not served in a war with set “tours of duty,” such as Vietnam and the current unpleasantness in Iraq and Afghanistan, can understand the fixation that one develops on the calendar. When I first went to the bush in December 1968, I listed the months on my helmet cover.
Thereafter, on the last day of the month, when the midnight time check was called, I would have a personal ceremony of checking off that month.
Troops carried short-timer calendars for their last 100 days, usually in the shapely shape of a well endowed young lady. There were numbered segments within the outline, one to be colored in each day. I will leave to your imagination the placement of the last three spots.
Counting the days was also a routine, although no one really started until the last 30 days. There were rules. You did not count the day you were in and the final day was “a wake up.” Therefore, on 17 November, I could say “I’ve got 30 and a wake up.” When you got into single digits, you were “so short, you could sit on the edge of a dime and dangle your legs.”
At the same time, the final 30 days was one of the two most dangerous times in country. The first 30 days, you were so green that you were a danger to yourself and others. The last 30 days, there was the danger of getting a “short-timer mentality.” In other words, there was a tendency to loosen up, to think Hey, I’ve got this knocked.
For that reason, at least in 1/5, we tried to send Marines back to the rear when they hit 30 days. They would stand lines and work in working parties. There was still the danger of rockets and mortars, but it was not as dangerous as the bush. Most of the time.
We had a Marine who extended his tour of duty for six months. This is not as strange as it sounds. If an enlisted Marine returned to the States with less than 6 months remaining on his enlistment, the Marine Corps had begun to offer early discharges, thus avoiding the cost of moving a Marine to a new duty station and then moving him again on discharge.
A lot of Marines who would have gotten to CONUS with 11 months left on their enlistment would extend so that on return, they could be discharged. To sweeten the pot, the Corps offered a Marine who extended a “free” 30 day leave (not charged against his leave balance) anywhere in the world, a choice of a new Military Occupational Specialty, and promotion.
One of our Corporals who had joined the battalion in Hue City during Tet 1968 extended. He was an 0311 (rifleman)and had completed his 13 month tour without a scratch, a real accomplishment for a veteran of Tet. He took his 30 days in the States and then returned to the battalion as a Sergeant with an 01 MOS (clerical). He was assigned to Headquarters & Service Company.
Shortly after his return, while serving as Sergeant of the Guard in our defense sector, he was wounded by shrapnel from an 82mm mortar. He was in the hospital for three days. About a week later, he was once again wounded by shrapnel, but this time his wounds did not require hospitalization. He was awarded a Purple Heart for each wound.
Another policy in effect was for wounds received in action. If a Marine received two Purple Hearts that required hospitalization in excess of 48 hours, he was immediately shipped out of country. Likewise, three Purple Hearts, whether requiring hospitalization or not, were a ticket out.
Finally, at 1145 on 15 May 1969, nine NVA 122 mm rockets landed in the battalion street. Miraculously, there was no one in the street at the time, but the area was peppered with shrapnel. (When I came in from the bush in June, in the BOQ tent, someone had circled every shrapnel hole and dated it. There were 57 holes labeled “15 May.” There were two tents between the street and the BOQ!)
As soon as the first rocket hit, everyone in the various company offices along the street headed for the sandbagged bunkers built at each end of the tents. All through An Hoa, Marines took cover. . . except for a bunch of crazy young motor transport Marines who fired up their mechanical mules and raced towards the impact area, looking for casualties.
The M274 4x4 "Mechanical Mule" was a half-ton utility vehicle used by the Army and Marine Corps all through the Vietnam War. It had a flat rectangular bed, surrounded by a raised rail. It was powered by 4 cylinder, 4 cycle engine started with a pull cord (like a lawn mower motor) and had a top speed of about 20 mph. It weighed about 900 pounds, and could carry 1000 pounds, hence the name.
On 15 May, as the Marines of H&S Company climbed out of their bunker, they found the Sergeant slumped over his typewriter. There was a shrapnel entry wound in the back of his head that exited through the right temple. Initially, they thought he was dead, but one Marine who rushed to him realized that he was still breathing. Another Marine took off his sweaty T-shirt, and they wrapped the Sergeant’s head.
About that time, a mule pulled up, and a couple of the clerks carried the Sergeant out to the Mule. Off they went, bouncing down the street, headed for the LZ. A couple of Corpsmen were triaging wounded in the Zone, and they immediately put the Sergeant on a Huey and off he went to NSA Hospital in Danang.
Eight weeks later, the Sergeant walked out of Naval Hospital, Philadelphia, a little unsteady on his feet, and exhibiting the signs of a serious head injury. But he knew his family and could speak, and function.
He should have been dead from the impact. When that didn’t kill him, the wound should have become infected from the T-shirt. Some men, God just isn’t ready for them when the world would assume He is!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
Thereafter, on the last day of the month, when the midnight time check was called, I would have a personal ceremony of checking off that month.
Troops carried short-timer calendars for their last 100 days, usually in the shapely shape of a well endowed young lady. There were numbered segments within the outline, one to be colored in each day. I will leave to your imagination the placement of the last three spots.
Counting the days was also a routine, although no one really started until the last 30 days. There were rules. You did not count the day you were in and the final day was “a wake up.” Therefore, on 17 November, I could say “I’ve got 30 and a wake up.” When you got into single digits, you were “so short, you could sit on the edge of a dime and dangle your legs.”
At the same time, the final 30 days was one of the two most dangerous times in country. The first 30 days, you were so green that you were a danger to yourself and others. The last 30 days, there was the danger of getting a “short-timer mentality.” In other words, there was a tendency to loosen up, to think Hey, I’ve got this knocked.
For that reason, at least in 1/5, we tried to send Marines back to the rear when they hit 30 days. They would stand lines and work in working parties. There was still the danger of rockets and mortars, but it was not as dangerous as the bush. Most of the time.
We had a Marine who extended his tour of duty for six months. This is not as strange as it sounds. If an enlisted Marine returned to the States with less than 6 months remaining on his enlistment, the Marine Corps had begun to offer early discharges, thus avoiding the cost of moving a Marine to a new duty station and then moving him again on discharge.
A lot of Marines who would have gotten to CONUS with 11 months left on their enlistment would extend so that on return, they could be discharged. To sweeten the pot, the Corps offered a Marine who extended a “free” 30 day leave (not charged against his leave balance) anywhere in the world, a choice of a new Military Occupational Specialty, and promotion.
One of our Corporals who had joined the battalion in Hue City during Tet 1968 extended. He was an 0311 (rifleman)and had completed his 13 month tour without a scratch, a real accomplishment for a veteran of Tet. He took his 30 days in the States and then returned to the battalion as a Sergeant with an 01 MOS (clerical). He was assigned to Headquarters & Service Company.
Shortly after his return, while serving as Sergeant of the Guard in our defense sector, he was wounded by shrapnel from an 82mm mortar. He was in the hospital for three days. About a week later, he was once again wounded by shrapnel, but this time his wounds did not require hospitalization. He was awarded a Purple Heart for each wound.
Another policy in effect was for wounds received in action. If a Marine received two Purple Hearts that required hospitalization in excess of 48 hours, he was immediately shipped out of country. Likewise, three Purple Hearts, whether requiring hospitalization or not, were a ticket out.
Finally, at 1145 on 15 May 1969, nine NVA 122 mm rockets landed in the battalion street. Miraculously, there was no one in the street at the time, but the area was peppered with shrapnel. (When I came in from the bush in June, in the BOQ tent, someone had circled every shrapnel hole and dated it. There were 57 holes labeled “15 May.” There were two tents between the street and the BOQ!)
As soon as the first rocket hit, everyone in the various company offices along the street headed for the sandbagged bunkers built at each end of the tents. All through An Hoa, Marines took cover. . . except for a bunch of crazy young motor transport Marines who fired up their mechanical mules and raced towards the impact area, looking for casualties.
The M274 4x4 "Mechanical Mule" was a half-ton utility vehicle used by the Army and Marine Corps all through the Vietnam War. It had a flat rectangular bed, surrounded by a raised rail. It was powered by 4 cylinder, 4 cycle engine started with a pull cord (like a lawn mower motor) and had a top speed of about 20 mph. It weighed about 900 pounds, and could carry 1000 pounds, hence the name.
On 15 May, as the Marines of H&S Company climbed out of their bunker, they found the Sergeant slumped over his typewriter. There was a shrapnel entry wound in the back of his head that exited through the right temple. Initially, they thought he was dead, but one Marine who rushed to him realized that he was still breathing. Another Marine took off his sweaty T-shirt, and they wrapped the Sergeant’s head.
About that time, a mule pulled up, and a couple of the clerks carried the Sergeant out to the Mule. Off they went, bouncing down the street, headed for the LZ. A couple of Corpsmen were triaging wounded in the Zone, and they immediately put the Sergeant on a Huey and off he went to NSA Hospital in Danang.
Eight weeks later, the Sergeant walked out of Naval Hospital, Philadelphia, a little unsteady on his feet, and exhibiting the signs of a serious head injury. But he knew his family and could speak, and function.
He should have been dead from the impact. When that didn’t kill him, the wound should have become infected from the T-shirt. Some men, God just isn’t ready for them when the world would assume He is!
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
25 March 2010
CHRISTMAS COMES EARLY
From the initial landings by the 9th Marines in March 1965, the tour of duty for Marines in Vietnam was 13 months. Every Marine knew his “RTD” or “rotation tour date.” Starting with the date that he left CONUS (Continental United States), the RTD was 13 months later. Thus, when I left California on 18 December 1968, I knew that the latest date on which I would return to the States was 13 months later or 18 January 1970.
For those of us who had come in country in mid-December, 1968, that meant that we would “celebrate” two Christmases in Vietnam. Tom Pottenger, Mike Koch, and I were already trying to figure out how we could get to Danang for Christmas, 1969.
The Army and Air Force had a prescribed tour of 12 months. The history of this difference started with the way in which the pre-war 3d Marine Division (minus) was manned up. After Korea and before deploying to Vietnam, the 3d MarDiv was based in Okinawa. It had only two regiments, the 3d Marines and the 9th Marines. (Its third infantry regiment, the 4th Marines, was based in Hawaii as the ground combat element of the 1st Marine Brigade. When the Division deployed to Vietnam, the Brigade moved in country and was once again melded into its parent Division.)
Because of the limited training space in Okinawa, the pre war practice was for a battalion to form in the 1st Marine Division in Camp Pendleton, California. A cadre of experienced officers and NCOs would receive a draft of younger Marines, form them into a battalion, and undertake a rigorous 6 month period of training. Let us use 1/5 as an example.
On 1 January, 1/5 would begin receiving its troops. By 15 January, the battalion would be fully manned and organized. Company Commanders would begin a period of training dedicated to individual tactics and would then progress to fire team tactics, squad tactics, platoon tactics, and company tactics. The troops would spend most of their time in the field and on live firing ranges. Weapons platoons would work on gun drill and on live firing on the 1000 inch range and on full distance ranges.
Finally, there would be a time for training as a battalion. The troops would go to the rifle and pistol ranges to requalify, there would be a series of physical fitness tests, and each Marine would undergo swim qualification. The "lock on" training would end with a formal inspection by the Commanding General and a final graded field exercise.
During this time, the training schedule was full. Married men would report for formation at 0530 on a Monday. The battalion would move to the field, returning to garrison late on Friday. Saturday morning was dedicated to inspections and administration. Liberty call would be sounded after the Noon formation on Saturday, to expire on board at 0530 on Monday, when everything would start again.
Following our hypothetical schedule, on 15 May, 1/5 would board ship for a two week cruise to Okinawa. The battalion would remain in Okinawa for 12 months and then take a return cruise to California, arriving circa 15 June of the next year, 13 months after deployment. (On the way outbound, in mid-Pacific, it would pass the eastbound battalion it was replacing, let us say 2/9. As that happened, the westbound 1/5 would be re-designated as 2/9 and for the east bound unit, vice versa, preserving regimental integrity.)
Although replacements for the 1st and 3d Marine Divisions in Vietnam were flown in, no change in tour length was adopted. I do believe that, at its core, the Corps is presbyterian. The default position for the Corps was to “do it the way we have always done it.” (There was a slogan popular amongst the troops and junior officers: The Marine Corps—200 years of tradition unhindered by progress! ) Thus the 13 month tour was the norm.
With the advent of Vietnamization, a minor ground swell developed as parents and families of Marines began to contact their representatives in Congress. “Why is my neighbor’s doggie son home in 12 months, but my Marine has to stay for 13 months?”
Right after the 1969 Birthday, a rumor began to circulate that the Marine Corps was cutting the tour to 12 months. However, no official word was received.
One day, I received a letter from my brother. “We are so excited that you will be home before Christmas. With the wedding rescheduled to December 27, I am trying to change your reservations in New Orleans.” Huh? I had said nothing to anyone about any possible change.
The next morning, I went over to the MARS station to make a call to the States. In the medieval times before cell and satellite communications, e-mail and Facebook, MARS— the Military Affiliate Radio Service—was a collection of State-side ham radio operators. In Vietnam, volunteers from communications sections would man a shortwave radio. A user would place a phone call which was transmitted to the States. There, a MARS volunteer would make a collect long-distance call to the destination and patch the call through.
Although we were used to voice radio and communication security procedure, it was confusing to our families, but it was the only way to speak with them directly.
I waited all day. Finally, at about 1600 (3 am in Illinois) they put me through.
Maryann (MA): “Michael, is that you? Where are you?
Radio Operator (RO): After a long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you must say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“I’m in Vietnam. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “But where are you? Oh, it is so good to hear your voice.”
RO: After another long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
Damn it, I’ve only got 5 minutes! “Listen to me. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “I can’t believe it’s really you. Where are you. Are you OK? [pause] Uh, over.”
RO: “Ma’am, he can’t say where he is, over.”
“When are we getting married? Have you rescheduled the wedding? Why? Over.”
MA: “On December 27th. Didn’t you get my letter?” Well, obviously not!
RO: “Ma’am, you really gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“No, I didn’t. Look, we are out of time. I’ll write. I love you, over.” The connection was broken.
When I got back to the S-4 shop, Maryann's letter was waiting. Enclosed was a newspaper article announcing that the Marine Corps had cut the tour to 12 months. I raced down to tell Pottenger that we were officially short-timers. From there, we went over to the Supply office to tell Mike who was now the Supply Officer.
We were going home. Christmas had come early.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
For those of us who had come in country in mid-December, 1968, that meant that we would “celebrate” two Christmases in Vietnam. Tom Pottenger, Mike Koch, and I were already trying to figure out how we could get to Danang for Christmas, 1969.
The Army and Air Force had a prescribed tour of 12 months. The history of this difference started with the way in which the pre-war 3d Marine Division (minus) was manned up. After Korea and before deploying to Vietnam, the 3d MarDiv was based in Okinawa. It had only two regiments, the 3d Marines and the 9th Marines. (Its third infantry regiment, the 4th Marines, was based in Hawaii as the ground combat element of the 1st Marine Brigade. When the Division deployed to Vietnam, the Brigade moved in country and was once again melded into its parent Division.)
Because of the limited training space in Okinawa, the pre war practice was for a battalion to form in the 1st Marine Division in Camp Pendleton, California. A cadre of experienced officers and NCOs would receive a draft of younger Marines, form them into a battalion, and undertake a rigorous 6 month period of training. Let us use 1/5 as an example.
On 1 January, 1/5 would begin receiving its troops. By 15 January, the battalion would be fully manned and organized. Company Commanders would begin a period of training dedicated to individual tactics and would then progress to fire team tactics, squad tactics, platoon tactics, and company tactics. The troops would spend most of their time in the field and on live firing ranges. Weapons platoons would work on gun drill and on live firing on the 1000 inch range and on full distance ranges.
Finally, there would be a time for training as a battalion. The troops would go to the rifle and pistol ranges to requalify, there would be a series of physical fitness tests, and each Marine would undergo swim qualification. The "lock on" training would end with a formal inspection by the Commanding General and a final graded field exercise.
During this time, the training schedule was full. Married men would report for formation at 0530 on a Monday. The battalion would move to the field, returning to garrison late on Friday. Saturday morning was dedicated to inspections and administration. Liberty call would be sounded after the Noon formation on Saturday, to expire on board at 0530 on Monday, when everything would start again.
Following our hypothetical schedule, on 15 May, 1/5 would board ship for a two week cruise to Okinawa. The battalion would remain in Okinawa for 12 months and then take a return cruise to California, arriving circa 15 June of the next year, 13 months after deployment. (On the way outbound, in mid-Pacific, it would pass the eastbound battalion it was replacing, let us say 2/9. As that happened, the westbound 1/5 would be re-designated as 2/9 and for the east bound unit, vice versa, preserving regimental integrity.)
Although replacements for the 1st and 3d Marine Divisions in Vietnam were flown in, no change in tour length was adopted. I do believe that, at its core, the Corps is presbyterian. The default position for the Corps was to “do it the way we have always done it.” (There was a slogan popular amongst the troops and junior officers: The Marine Corps—200 years of tradition unhindered by progress! ) Thus the 13 month tour was the norm.
With the advent of Vietnamization, a minor ground swell developed as parents and families of Marines began to contact their representatives in Congress. “Why is my neighbor’s doggie son home in 12 months, but my Marine has to stay for 13 months?”
Right after the 1969 Birthday, a rumor began to circulate that the Marine Corps was cutting the tour to 12 months. However, no official word was received.
One day, I received a letter from my brother. “We are so excited that you will be home before Christmas. With the wedding rescheduled to December 27, I am trying to change your reservations in New Orleans.” Huh? I had said nothing to anyone about any possible change.
The next morning, I went over to the MARS station to make a call to the States. In the medieval times before cell and satellite communications, e-mail and Facebook, MARS— the Military Affiliate Radio Service—was a collection of State-side ham radio operators. In Vietnam, volunteers from communications sections would man a shortwave radio. A user would place a phone call which was transmitted to the States. There, a MARS volunteer would make a collect long-distance call to the destination and patch the call through.
Although we were used to voice radio and communication security procedure, it was confusing to our families, but it was the only way to speak with them directly.
I waited all day. Finally, at about 1600 (3 am in Illinois) they put me through.
Maryann (MA): “Michael, is that you? Where are you?
Radio Operator (RO): After a long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you must say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“I’m in Vietnam. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “But where are you? Oh, it is so good to hear your voice.”
RO: After another long pause “Ma’am, when you are done speaking, you gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
Damn it, I’ve only got 5 minutes! “Listen to me. When are we getting married, over?”
MA: “I can’t believe it’s really you. Where are you. Are you OK? [pause] Uh, over.”
RO: “Ma’am, he can’t say where he is, over.”
“When are we getting married? Have you rescheduled the wedding? Why? Over.”
MA: “On December 27th. Didn’t you get my letter?” Well, obviously not!
RO: “Ma’am, you really gotta say ‘Over.’”
MA: “Oh. Over.”
“No, I didn’t. Look, we are out of time. I’ll write. I love you, over.” The connection was broken.
When I got back to the S-4 shop, Maryann's letter was waiting. Enclosed was a newspaper article announcing that the Marine Corps had cut the tour to 12 months. I raced down to tell Pottenger that we were officially short-timers. From there, we went over to the Supply office to tell Mike who was now the Supply Officer.
We were going home. Christmas had come early.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
24 March 2010
OF BIRTHDAY CAKES AND RIFLES
In early November, the Battalion once again returned to the Arizona. The reinforcements we had received really helped, and there was no need this time for the provisional rifle company.
We also received word that as Vietnamization got moving, areas of responsibility for those units left would be changing. In December, 1/5 was to move its forward CP to Hill 65, located north of the Song Vu Gia.
But first, there was the Birthday.
The Marine Corps Birthday is the Day, and it matters not where you are, you mark it. Along with every other S-4 in the Marine Corps, I arranged for the companies to get a hot meal (steak, baked potatoes, vegetables) and a Birthday Cake. After I was sure that they had been sent out, I caught a chopper to Hill 65. Delta Battery was there and Dick Rollins was Battery XO. I got a look at the place and then Dick and I had our Birthday dinner. After dark, he found a couple of bottles of wine and we sat on a bunker on the east side of the hill, looking down into a rice paddy where an ARVN unit was engaged in a firefight that lasted for about an hour.
I was also monitoring the battalion tactical net. At about 2100, Jim Webb called the Old Man on the radio. Delta was the palace guard at the time. “Hey, Sir,” Webb said. “Look up.”
Almost immediately, a ring of 12 60mm flares popped around their position. “Happy Birthday, Sir. We just lit the candles on the cake.”
I returned to An Hoa the next day. A couple of days passed. At about 0200, one morning, I was called across the road to the Regimental S-4 shop.
“OK, Lad,” said a grim-faced Major Castagnetti. “I knew this was going to bite you in the ass. We just got word from Division that they need to send excess rifles to the South Vietnamese. This comes from the White House. We need those rifles back, and we need them within the next 24 hours.”
Damn! (Pronounced "die-yum!")
I went straight to the battalion comm shack and called the Old Man. He was not pleased, but after talking to the Regimental Commander, he cooled off—a little. By then, I had the armorer on the job and the Supply Section was busy confirming just how many of our rifles were “excess.”
In the next 24 hours, we exchanged a number of rifles for .45 pistols, and Regiment was mollified, but it was exciting. Major Castagnetti, bless his heart, never actually said the words “I told you so,” but I got the message loud and clear.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
We also received word that as Vietnamization got moving, areas of responsibility for those units left would be changing. In December, 1/5 was to move its forward CP to Hill 65, located north of the Song Vu Gia.
But first, there was the Birthday.
The Marine Corps Birthday is the Day, and it matters not where you are, you mark it. Along with every other S-4 in the Marine Corps, I arranged for the companies to get a hot meal (steak, baked potatoes, vegetables) and a Birthday Cake. After I was sure that they had been sent out, I caught a chopper to Hill 65. Delta Battery was there and Dick Rollins was Battery XO. I got a look at the place and then Dick and I had our Birthday dinner. After dark, he found a couple of bottles of wine and we sat on a bunker on the east side of the hill, looking down into a rice paddy where an ARVN unit was engaged in a firefight that lasted for about an hour.
I was also monitoring the battalion tactical net. At about 2100, Jim Webb called the Old Man on the radio. Delta was the palace guard at the time. “Hey, Sir,” Webb said. “Look up.”
Almost immediately, a ring of 12 60mm flares popped around their position. “Happy Birthday, Sir. We just lit the candles on the cake.”
I returned to An Hoa the next day. A couple of days passed. At about 0200, one morning, I was called across the road to the Regimental S-4 shop.
“OK, Lad,” said a grim-faced Major Castagnetti. “I knew this was going to bite you in the ass. We just got word from Division that they need to send excess rifles to the South Vietnamese. This comes from the White House. We need those rifles back, and we need them within the next 24 hours.”
Damn! (Pronounced "die-yum!")
I went straight to the battalion comm shack and called the Old Man. He was not pleased, but after talking to the Regimental Commander, he cooled off—a little. By then, I had the armorer on the job and the Supply Section was busy confirming just how many of our rifles were “excess.”
In the next 24 hours, we exchanged a number of rifles for .45 pistols, and Regiment was mollified, but it was exciting. Major Castagnetti, bless his heart, never actually said the words “I told you so,” but I got the message loud and clear.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
23 March 2010
WET AND MISERABLE 101: A GOURMET'S DELIGHT
And the rains came. The fall rainy season kicked in and the Seabees learned that their low water bridge at Liberty Bridge worked. It was under water, but it easily withstood the flow and force of the water.
At the end of September, the XO called me to his office. “One Company can’t spare an officer to be its pay officer this month, so I’m sending you.”
Actually, they had a regular complement of officers, but they had a new CO who was unsure of himself and needed the “security blanket” of having all his officers in the bush. Well, great. Let’s give the bastards one more shot at the kid! “Aye, aye, Sir.”
I’m sure the platoon commanders were disappointed, too. Being pay officer once every three or four months was a little respite because invariably, between the 20th of the month when the payroll was distributed and the 30th (payday), somebody was going to be medevac-ed to Danang.
The pay process worked like this in the ancient times before direct deposit: On the 20th, an 80 column payroll was published in disbursing. The payroll was an alphabetical listing of the Company, with rank, service number, and the amount of money that the Government owed the Marine. In the Company office, they would draw three columns on the roll: “cash,” “check,” and “ride.” It would be sent to the field for review by each Marine.
The individual Marine would then annotate his desires. Most would let most or all of their pay “ride” on the payroll, i.e., they would not draw anything. The next most frequent entry was for “check” in some amount that the Marine would send home. A lot of Marines were the principal source of income to their families. In my first two months in country, I drew checks to pay off my college loans; thereafter, I let the money ride. Finally, some would ask for small amounts of cash.
The payroll was sent back to Disbursing to prepare for payday.
On the 30th, the Pay Officer would select one of his Marines to be his body guard. For a platoon commander in the bush, he would go to An Hoa on the 29th, giving his “body guard” a night in the rear where he could get a shower and a couple of hot meals. After picking up the payroll, checks, blank envelopes, and counting and signing for the cash, it was off to the LZ.
In the field, Marines were paid and signed for their cash. Those who had asked for checks endorsed them and were given envelopes so they could send the check home. The Pay Officer would carry the envelopes back and mail them from the Company office. (Congress had granted us a franking privilege, so there was no need to worry about stamps.)
After all Marines were paid in the field, the Pay officer and bodyguard would fly to Danang to pay troops who had been hospitalized between the 20th and the 30th. I would always go to 1st Medical Battalion and 1st Hospital Company first. They were close to the Division CP and the LZ at 11th Motor Transport Battalion which was also the site of 5th Marines (Rear). We would then hitch a ride to the Naval Support Activity Hospital, down near Marble Mountain, arriving late enough in the day to pay and then be “stranded” when the roads closed for the night. NSA had beds with sheets, hot showers, and mess facilities similar to back in the World.
This time, however, I was starting from An Hoa. And it rained. Then, at about 1600,
Pottenger called. “A hole in the weather just opened up. Get to the LZ.”
At the same time, my 4 Chief popped in. “I’m headed to the LZ with a working party. A hole in the weather just opened up and we’ve gotta resupply the battalion in the next hour or two.”
I got to the Z just in time to catch the resupply bird headed to the Company. There were four or five troops reporting to or returning to the Company and me, along with a helicopter full of supplies. We took off and then hovered while the Shore Party people hooked an external net to the chopper. Then we were off.
We landed 15 minutes later. I reported to the Company Commander, a 1st Lieutenant, and the Gunny promptly started rotating the platoons up to be paid. It was sunny and everyone was enjoying a respite from the rain. The CO, who was playing his role to the hilt, insisted that I, as a REMF, walk out to an observation post located about 200 meters from the lines to pay those troops "for the experience." I did, but when I returned, I pulled the SOB aside and reminded him that I had been in country for ten and one-half months to his three weeks and that I was senior to him. (He had been sent to Camp Lejeune from TBS for “seasoning,” but once in country, he was senior enough to get a company.) This last remark was particularly stinging; the maxim that "Seniority between lieutenants is like virtue among whores" usually led to a live and let live attitude.
After that, I went down to 3d Platoon and spent the night with them because I knew the platoon commander from embark school. It started to rain again about midnight.
Rain in an Asian monsoon is unlike anything we have in the States. When I was in the Philippines a couple of years later, the rain started on July 6 and stopped on August 24. And I mean it—it did not ever stop raining in that 50 day period. The volume changed, but the precipitation was constant.
In our little part of Vietnam, it rained. Streams rose, the hill on which we were located became an island, fighting holes were swimming pools.
The next morning, I checked with the CO to see if there was any chance that we would get a bird that day. While I was there, the CO ordered one of his platoon commanders to send out an OP to the same location as the day before.
I pulled him aside. “You sure you want to do that? Don’t get into a pattern.”
“Look. Lieutenant,” he replied. “I had a platoon for eight months at Camp Lejeune. I think I can run this company without your help.”
Fine with me, Jack. I returned to the Third Herd. It rained all day. The Old Man decided that everyone should stay in place. Moving in the rain is miserable. Just sitting in it is miserable, squared and cubed.
The next morning, the CO sent the OP to the same spot. I objected and was told to get the [universal modifier] out of the CP. Ten minutes later, the troops moving into the OP tripped a booby trap, killing one Marine and wounding another. Although all administrative flights were grounded, medevacs still flew.
The Gunny came down and blew off steam, and the platoon commander needed some consoling. And it rained.
On the fourth day, we began to run out of chow, and by the sixth day, we were completely out.
Whenever I am out in rain or snow these days and I hear people complain about “how miserable it will probably be,”, I smile. The Marine Corps spent 20 years teaching me how to be wet and miserable, and even now when the time comes, I can be wet, cold, tired, hungry and just [universal modifier] miserable without even thinking about it. The eight day stint in October 1969 was the laboratory session for the course entitled “Being Wet And Miserable 101.”
Finally, on the 8th day, the decision was made for us to walk out.
As we were preparing to move, the platoon commander's radio operator found an old bottle of ketchup buried in the bottom of his haversack. It was half full and looked pretty groady.
He poured it into a canteen cup and topped the cup off with rain water. Someone twisted off a pinch of C-4 plastic explosive, touched a match to it, and held the cup over the low blue flame. In 30 seconds the mixture was boiling. The platoon CP group then each enjoyed a swallow of the lousiest best tomato soup I have ever eaten.
It took us four hours to wade about 5 clicks , through waist-to neck deep water until we hit the MSR. I got leeches for the only time in country. Finally, we reached the road.
Joy of Joys, there were trucks waiting and within an hour of getting to the road, we were back in An Hoa.
I had been on the radio with my 4 Chief and we had dry clothing, including socks, waiting for all four companies.
I still had two chores. I reported to the XO that the Company Commander was a stupid SOB who had killed one of his Marines because of his own ego. The XO nodded. (I later learned that the Gunny had talked to the First Sergeant who talked to the Sergeant Major. I understand that the adjectives used by the Sergeant Major made mine sound like a Mother Goose rhyme.)
I then returned the payroll to Disbursing. Then I looked up the Company’s First Sergeant.
“Uh, First Sergeant, when I paid PFC [the KIA], he endorsed his check to his Mom and gave it to me to mail. He’s probably already home, maybe even buried. What do I do with the check?”
“Lieutenant, I’d send it on home. Put a note in it to explain to the Mom.”
So, a few days later, a grieving Mother got one last check in the mail. I wrote how he had told me how glad he was to be able to help his Mom and his six brothers and sisters. “He told me how much he loves you and his family. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Just know that he told me how proud he was to be your Son. And we are proud that he was, and always will be, one of our Marines.”
Every word I wrote was true. I pray that it helped.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
At the end of September, the XO called me to his office. “One Company can’t spare an officer to be its pay officer this month, so I’m sending you.”
Actually, they had a regular complement of officers, but they had a new CO who was unsure of himself and needed the “security blanket” of having all his officers in the bush. Well, great. Let’s give the bastards one more shot at the kid! “Aye, aye, Sir.”
I’m sure the platoon commanders were disappointed, too. Being pay officer once every three or four months was a little respite because invariably, between the 20th of the month when the payroll was distributed and the 30th (payday), somebody was going to be medevac-ed to Danang.
The pay process worked like this in the ancient times before direct deposit: On the 20th, an 80 column payroll was published in disbursing. The payroll was an alphabetical listing of the Company, with rank, service number, and the amount of money that the Government owed the Marine. In the Company office, they would draw three columns on the roll: “cash,” “check,” and “ride.” It would be sent to the field for review by each Marine.
The individual Marine would then annotate his desires. Most would let most or all of their pay “ride” on the payroll, i.e., they would not draw anything. The next most frequent entry was for “check” in some amount that the Marine would send home. A lot of Marines were the principal source of income to their families. In my first two months in country, I drew checks to pay off my college loans; thereafter, I let the money ride. Finally, some would ask for small amounts of cash.
The payroll was sent back to Disbursing to prepare for payday.
On the 30th, the Pay Officer would select one of his Marines to be his body guard. For a platoon commander in the bush, he would go to An Hoa on the 29th, giving his “body guard” a night in the rear where he could get a shower and a couple of hot meals. After picking up the payroll, checks, blank envelopes, and counting and signing for the cash, it was off to the LZ.
In the field, Marines were paid and signed for their cash. Those who had asked for checks endorsed them and were given envelopes so they could send the check home. The Pay Officer would carry the envelopes back and mail them from the Company office. (Congress had granted us a franking privilege, so there was no need to worry about stamps.)
After all Marines were paid in the field, the Pay officer and bodyguard would fly to Danang to pay troops who had been hospitalized between the 20th and the 30th. I would always go to 1st Medical Battalion and 1st Hospital Company first. They were close to the Division CP and the LZ at 11th Motor Transport Battalion which was also the site of 5th Marines (Rear). We would then hitch a ride to the Naval Support Activity Hospital, down near Marble Mountain, arriving late enough in the day to pay and then be “stranded” when the roads closed for the night. NSA had beds with sheets, hot showers, and mess facilities similar to back in the World.
This time, however, I was starting from An Hoa. And it rained. Then, at about 1600,
Pottenger called. “A hole in the weather just opened up. Get to the LZ.”
At the same time, my 4 Chief popped in. “I’m headed to the LZ with a working party. A hole in the weather just opened up and we’ve gotta resupply the battalion in the next hour or two.”
I got to the Z just in time to catch the resupply bird headed to the Company. There were four or five troops reporting to or returning to the Company and me, along with a helicopter full of supplies. We took off and then hovered while the Shore Party people hooked an external net to the chopper. Then we were off.
We landed 15 minutes later. I reported to the Company Commander, a 1st Lieutenant, and the Gunny promptly started rotating the platoons up to be paid. It was sunny and everyone was enjoying a respite from the rain. The CO, who was playing his role to the hilt, insisted that I, as a REMF, walk out to an observation post located about 200 meters from the lines to pay those troops "for the experience." I did, but when I returned, I pulled the SOB aside and reminded him that I had been in country for ten and one-half months to his three weeks and that I was senior to him. (He had been sent to Camp Lejeune from TBS for “seasoning,” but once in country, he was senior enough to get a company.) This last remark was particularly stinging; the maxim that "Seniority between lieutenants is like virtue among whores" usually led to a live and let live attitude.
After that, I went down to 3d Platoon and spent the night with them because I knew the platoon commander from embark school. It started to rain again about midnight.
Rain in an Asian monsoon is unlike anything we have in the States. When I was in the Philippines a couple of years later, the rain started on July 6 and stopped on August 24. And I mean it—it did not ever stop raining in that 50 day period. The volume changed, but the precipitation was constant.
In our little part of Vietnam, it rained. Streams rose, the hill on which we were located became an island, fighting holes were swimming pools.
The next morning, I checked with the CO to see if there was any chance that we would get a bird that day. While I was there, the CO ordered one of his platoon commanders to send out an OP to the same location as the day before.
I pulled him aside. “You sure you want to do that? Don’t get into a pattern.”
“Look. Lieutenant,” he replied. “I had a platoon for eight months at Camp Lejeune. I think I can run this company without your help.”
Fine with me, Jack. I returned to the Third Herd. It rained all day. The Old Man decided that everyone should stay in place. Moving in the rain is miserable. Just sitting in it is miserable, squared and cubed.
The next morning, the CO sent the OP to the same spot. I objected and was told to get the [universal modifier] out of the CP. Ten minutes later, the troops moving into the OP tripped a booby trap, killing one Marine and wounding another. Although all administrative flights were grounded, medevacs still flew.
The Gunny came down and blew off steam, and the platoon commander needed some consoling. And it rained.
On the fourth day, we began to run out of chow, and by the sixth day, we were completely out.
Whenever I am out in rain or snow these days and I hear people complain about “how miserable it will probably be,”, I smile. The Marine Corps spent 20 years teaching me how to be wet and miserable, and even now when the time comes, I can be wet, cold, tired, hungry and just [universal modifier] miserable without even thinking about it. The eight day stint in October 1969 was the laboratory session for the course entitled “Being Wet And Miserable 101.”
Finally, on the 8th day, the decision was made for us to walk out.
As we were preparing to move, the platoon commander's radio operator found an old bottle of ketchup buried in the bottom of his haversack. It was half full and looked pretty groady.
He poured it into a canteen cup and topped the cup off with rain water. Someone twisted off a pinch of C-4 plastic explosive, touched a match to it, and held the cup over the low blue flame. In 30 seconds the mixture was boiling. The platoon CP group then each enjoyed a swallow of the lousiest best tomato soup I have ever eaten.
It took us four hours to wade about 5 clicks , through waist-to neck deep water until we hit the MSR. I got leeches for the only time in country. Finally, we reached the road.
Joy of Joys, there were trucks waiting and within an hour of getting to the road, we were back in An Hoa.
I had been on the radio with my 4 Chief and we had dry clothing, including socks, waiting for all four companies.
I still had two chores. I reported to the XO that the Company Commander was a stupid SOB who had killed one of his Marines because of his own ego. The XO nodded. (I later learned that the Gunny had talked to the First Sergeant who talked to the Sergeant Major. I understand that the adjectives used by the Sergeant Major made mine sound like a Mother Goose rhyme.)
I then returned the payroll to Disbursing. Then I looked up the Company’s First Sergeant.
“Uh, First Sergeant, when I paid PFC [the KIA], he endorsed his check to his Mom and gave it to me to mail. He’s probably already home, maybe even buried. What do I do with the check?”
“Lieutenant, I’d send it on home. Put a note in it to explain to the Mom.”
So, a few days later, a grieving Mother got one last check in the mail. I wrote how he had told me how glad he was to be able to help his Mom and his six brothers and sisters. “He told me how much he loves you and his family. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. Just know that he told me how proud he was to be your Son. And we are proud that he was, and always will be, one of our Marines.”
Every word I wrote was true. I pray that it helped.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
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