13 Months and Counting...
Episode 1 - You'll love IwakuniEpisode 2 - A Fruitcake at DaNang
Episode 3 - Square away that crowd of ...#%*!
Episode 4 - First the Rifle Inspection & Then Report to the Wing Staff NCO Club
Episode 5 - Living Accommodations and Personal Cleanliness
Episode 6 - How to Stop a 10,000 Pound Bomb
Episode 7 - Arrows, Darts and Punji Sticks
Episode 8 - Don't Shoot the Dog-- Shoot the Damn Dog!!!
Episode 9 - Liberty Goes!
Episode 10 - Snakes don't eat peckers
Episode 11 - Find Teepee ! He's AOL!
Episode 12 - Shoot Damnit Shoot!
Episode 13 - Canberra Fireworks - close in
Episode 14 - The Escape of the Sidewinder... grader beware
Episode 15 - Puff the Magic Dragon
Episode 16 - Singing in the Rain
Episode 17 - Re-qualify?? Again? Here ? Why me??
Episode 18 - Duel in The Sun
Episode 19 - Is That You Phil? Shut off that light!!
Episode 20 - LST Lt. And What is that Barber Doing Pacing About?
Episode 21 - Happy Birthday Marines
Episode 22 - Merry Christmas
Episode 23 - RTB El Toro - New Assignments
Episode 1 - You'll love Iwakuni
Gunnery Sergeant Vince Spalding, USMC, and I were settling in for Friday night happy hour at the Iwakuni MCAS Staff NCO Club. Iwakuni is a major air station with a large contingent of Marine squadrons occupying one side of the airstrip. Navy VP aircraft and JDSDF forces were also sharing the facilities. Iwakuni makes an ideal Marine Corps location because not only did it have an air station but also a deep water port which made it possible for AKAs, APAs, LSDs, LPHs, LSTs and carriers to embark Marine aircraft, equipment and personal with a minimum of delay.
I had arrived late Thursday from NAS Atsugi in a Marine Corps R4D flown by two enlisted pilots. My orders read that I was to check in to VMCJ-1 as the radar NCOIC on the following Monday. VMCJ-1 was a recon and photo squadron flying F3Ds, ADs and other ancient USMC aircraft. They were to begin accepting F8U Crusaders, F4 Phantoms and A6 Intruders configured for EW and recon operations as their mission aircraft in the very near future. Since I was F8U and F4 qualified...I was assigned to run the radar and radio shop.
Since I had arrived after normal duty hours and the 1st Marine Air Wing OOD had me billeted in the transit crew hut. A Quonset hut with accommodations for 6 to 8 Staff NCOs. I couldn't help but notice the steel cables running over the roof of the hut and securely anchored in the deck. I had forgotten about the typhoons. My bunkmates were from stateside squadrons on their way to Vietnam. I offered my condolences and left for the club. I ran into Vince while checking in around the base. He was the Avionics NCOIC of one of the Marine F4 fighter bomber squadrons operating out of this southern Japan Marine base.
Tonight's club special was screwdrivers for 10 cents each. We decided that arriving early would give us the undivided attention of the bartender. So we ordered 5 drinks apiece, put our paper MPC on the bar and waited for the day workers to arrive. I was looking forward to renewing old times at El Toro, LTA, MAG-16, Atsugi and Cherry Point. The Marine Corps has only a few air stations and a career Marine could easily end up knowing everybody in and around his MOS. The Few...is true. We'd order 5 more when the crowd started milling around the bar.
There was some commotion at the entrance and we turned to see Staff Sgt Stan Smith, showing up with his weekly catch of josans. He would make the rounds of the bars during the week and invite the local gals to the base on Friday. Three or four would show up at the main gate and Smitty would rent a big cab and pick them up for the run to the club. It always amazed me that Iwakuni, so close to Hiroshima, was so hospitable.
Stan was a recruiting poster Marine, a handsome devil and his cohorts sent him trolling for women wherever they landed. He always managed to bring in a net full of possibilities. His VMR squadron flew daily supply and personnel replacement flights to Vietnam. Vince remarked when Stan arrived, "Gunny, you are going to love it here at Iwakuni."
Later that night we were in the strip on the second floor of the Miss Iwakuni hotel when Sergeant Mickey Mantle (not the ball player) pops in and says there is a message for me on my bunk at the transit hooch.
I said, "I'll read it in the morning." Meantime I was going to get a steam bath and massage...
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Episode 2 - A Fruitcake at DaNang
I awoke in a room full of sleeping bodies covered with sheets on hospital type gurneys. The masseuse would massage you to sleep and then roll you into this room with the rest of the Friday night liberty hounds. Remember? I had to back to base and sign the OD's muster log before morning colors, so I caught a kamikaze cab and off I went.
Waiting there for me on my bunk was the message. I was to report to the Wing Officer of the Day ASAP. Discretion being the better part of valor and after spending an entire night cultivating my love of vodka and josans I figured that the morning would be soon enough. Especially since the morning would bring a new OD and the outgoing OD would perhaps be in a hurry.
As I reported to the OD I saw a set of orders for me on his desk. I signed for them and I noticed that they had attached an envelope with my pay and medical records. Bad sign. The orders read that I was to report to the Commanding Officer MAG 11 fft to H&MS 11 with all of my uniform issue. Greens in Vietnam? I would be issued 782 gear and weapons in country. Weapons? Plural? My locker box (which hadn't arrived in country as yet) and sea bag to be part of my manifest.
That August afternoon I was "booked" on a C130 loaded with ammo and artillery shells headed to Okinawa and then on to DaNang. Several of us were riding in the "coach" seats of the trash hauler. The seats with horizontal and vertical nylon straps. Later on in the flight as we approached within a hundred miles of Vietnam I watched the crew strap on weapons. What me worry?
We landed that night after some delay due to a mortar attack on the Marine Air Terminal. As we pulled up to the terminal and exited the aircraft I saw another C130 loaded with body bags ready to leave for Okinawa.
We no sooner got our gear of the plane and another mortar attack started. They were trying to get the aircraft. A Marine counter mortar battery started raking off rockets to quiet the attackers as soon as the first rounds landed. It worked. I had a short reunion with one of my 1953 Parris Island boot camp buddies who was now a commissioned officer and was escorting a safe full of MPC to Chu Lai and points west. What a way to earn your combat pay. This guy had a job kinda like the old Wells Fargo stage coach crews .
AT 2200hrs I was picked up in one of those 4x4 mules and carted off to the MAG headquarters. A general purpose tent with pallets used for flooring. Tricky walking. The MAG commander came staggering in to meet me (he had just left the O' Club. Which, by the way, was the first semi permanent structure to be built in the MAG 11 area.)
This lieutenant Colonel asked me if I had met the fruitcake I was relieving. Fruitcake? And then he went on to explain, as only a sympathetic Marine Officer can, the reason why I was diverted in to H&MS11 was because the current NCOIC had a nervous breakdown. He was the kind of a guy that could be driven crazy a short trip for him by the shenanigans of his promiscuous wife.
Much later I got a bunk, blanket and netting and managed to fall asleep with the flare ships lighting up the area and choppers flying over my new home in tent city.
The next day when I met the outgoing Gunny and saw all the pics his wife had sent. Yes, I did find myself lacking in understanding of his mission to save his "marriage." And I couldn't help but notice a Corpsman standing by waiting to take him to the commercial plane that would return him to the land of the big PX. He would have been better off with us...we would have taken care of him better than his non-issue wife.
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Episode 3 - Square away that crowd of ...#%*!
After the Gunny left for his stateside flight I looked around the area. The first thing I noticed was a shoddy sandbagged M60 position on top of the shelters. And all other positions were lacking in sandbag discipline. One bag is not enough to stop an AK57 round. So I had the M60 taken off the roof, a shot thru the bulkhead and up thru the overhead of that tin can shelter would kill everyone at the MG. The perimeter bags were only two high and one deep. Some positions were too close to the diesel generator fuel tanks. I instructed my line company sergeants (re-trained as radar techs) to set us up a proper defensive position one that would let us repel all boarders. Lents, Parker and Roberts told me that we were also taking fire from the Air Force MG position on top of the old French hanger. I told them "I would fix that and I'll be back for a rifle inspection in a few hours...Get everyone ready...we'll inspect in platoon formation with you Sergeants as squad leaders to take names and I'll kick ass. I want the names of those who think they are R&R bound. Especially those gripping about this sand bag cluster #@$%."
I had instructions to check in with Master GySgt Pappy Sutton (my old boss at El Toro). He was at Wing Headquarters in the old French Army HQ building. Some of you may remember that the Viet Minh used bayonets to crucify a French Army Sergeant Major on the stucco wall of this building and years later the stains were still there where his body rotted for weeks. MGySgt Sutton was waiting for me in his office. His bald head and sparkling gray eyes hid the warrior inside that body. His first words were "glad to see you Mac. Sorry to screw up your weekend in the Miss Iwakuni." How did he know? He rose from his chair lit a cigarette and led me to the hatch with "it's almost time." Time for what? We stood at the doorway and he casually said "here they come." Boom! Boom! Boom! Three mortar rounds landed about 400 yards away and short of the bomb dump! Pappy said, "one of these days they are going to hit that damn place." All I could do is imagine an explosion sending both of us to the final Special Court Martial in the sky.
That show over we chatted a bit and he then ordered me to return to the flight line and "clean up that @#$%&*!! Shop! Clean up those rifles and square those s$%#heads away.. NOW! Get your young butt out of here and get it done." As I left he yelled, "hey Mac, come to the Wing Club tonight and give me a report." A club? A real Club? Wow, this war ain't gonna be too bad after all. I wondered what the MAG 11 club looked like. (Some of you will remember that GP tent)
Parker was waiting with the jeep just outside the "French camp" as we called Wing HQ. The buildings were stucco and concrete blocks originally painted in an adobe color. An easy target, (but never hit while I was there at DaNang) with all the lush vegetation surrounding the compound.
I told Parker to get to MAG supply. I had to draw a weapon. As we bumped along I noticed a large fuel storage tank under construction beside the road and close to the perimeter. Now that would be a nice target if filled with jet fuel. The Armory was in a Butler hut with a "stateside style" counter and all. As we entered we witnessed a search of a Marine's locker box and sea bag. Pictures of VC dead, naked women and war souvenirs were confiscated. I had this to look forward to? This young Marine had his orders to "the land of the big PX" stamped by the Supply Sergeant and was dismissed. I couldn't help but notice that the "contraband" went into another footlocker not the GI can.
I showed my orders and was issued a Model 1911 cal 45 pistol that was as loose as a goose. The last one and the Sgt had no magazines to issue. NO magazines? I asked, "how do I load and fire this thing?" The peckerhead Sgt said, "just turn it over and load them thru the magazine slot." This answer required a special kick in the ass but I reserved that for another time. Anyway, I knew where I could get magazines, but not overnight.
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Episode 4 - First the Rifle Inspection & Then Report to the Wing Staff NCO Club
We left the supply hut and drove towards the MAG 11 compound "main gate." The Marine sentries called "halt" and since they were armed to the teeth...we halted. A Lance Corporal approached us and said, "Gunny, make sure your driver knows that no jeeps are allowed in the 'living' area." This is living? It was then that I noticed the Avionics Officer's jeep parked in a little sand dune revetment near the guard's bunker. Hmm...something to remember. We were always looking for a jeep to borrow.
Parker drove towards main side on the perimeter road between a double apron fence and triple concertina wire. The fence was about 4 feet high and 30 feet wide with ramped wire to the highest point and multiple crossings of barbed wire so thick that you couldn't get your legs in or out. Seemed like a formidable barrier to intruders. And since my hooch was just 4 tents in from the concertina I felt secure and happy. Especially with two MG bunkers on the tent side of the wire. How wrong I was.
I asked Parker if his rifle was in operating condition. He said, "just like in boot camp Gunny."
I thought, ok, when we get to the area you can fall in with the platoon. We drove into the aircraft flight line and saw my platoon standing in ranks at ease. We approached and I told Parker to get in the rear rank. He looked startled. He thought he'd skate on this inspection. Lens handed me a .45 cal grease gun and said, "this weapon is really yours Gunny, but we have been keeping it in the shop by the hatch. I clean it every day and oil the ammo in the three 30 round magazines." The M60s are inside the shelter field stripped for your inspection. "Ok sounds good; let's see what we have in this all girl gaggle. He called "toon, ten hut." Hey, they did that pretty good. Was this to impress me?
I had recently graduated from NCO leadership school and I had served with Guard company at PI and security with HMX1 (the President's Squadron) and I knew how to inspect rifles. I didn't get too far down the first rank when I found an M14 with rust, a loose front sight, sticky bolt, and dirt in the receiver. I pulled on this young man's bayonet and it wouldn't release from its scabbard. Rusted inside. I then took his spare magazines (the Marines armed with rifles actually had magazines!) I couldn't slide the cartridges out of the magazine. They were corroded and stuck to each other. I asked this soon to be private how he expected to help defend our position. He explained that he would clean it after he got back from Thailand R&R. Pop!, there goes another R&R to the bottom of the list. I started to field strip every other rifle and by the time we reached Parker he was as white as ghost. Another dirty rifle. As I returned to the platoon front I looked back at my work and heard the murmuring of the spectators. There were rifle parts and bayonets all over the place. Perhaps 600 rounds of moldy 7.62 ammo on the deck and 4 trips to the land of pooh tang postponed. I scheduled inspections at shift changes. "Any grenades in the platoon?" Lens replied, "Not allowed Gunny." Safe!
Looking up to the roof of the old French hanger (which was used to repair US warplanes during the Korean War) I saw an Airman in a bunker with his MG pointing towards the flight line. Have I got a surprise for you.
I left the jeep on the flight line and went back to the tent area on a cattle car. Met a few folks I knew from other duty stations and got the skinny on where to get a lawn chair and other necessities not sold at the PX. The GP tent we lived in wasn't fully furnished.
That night at the Wing Club I met MGySgt Sutton and reported on the inspection. He said he wanted frequent rifle inspections. Remember we are all Airdales. He also wanted the repair records and spare parts inventory cleaned up. As we were talking in this room with clean tables, a real floor and electric lights I noticed many beautiful Vietnamese waitresses wearing a white silky outfit of long pants, slit skirt and a tunic that covered all but their
hands and face. Pappy said not to think about these gals as recreational ventures and don't ever drink out of the same glass or kiss one of them. "How come?" I asked. Pappy looked at me and said, "Charlie sends a lot of these gals to work on the base. Several of them are infected with tuberculosis and other respirtory diseases. Too bad, they sure could mess up a good night's sleep. He then led me to a hole in the wire.. a shortcut to MAG11. And I took it with my holstered .45, one in the chamber, safety off and a pocket full of loose cartridges.
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Episode 5 - Living Accommodations and Personal Cleanliness
August is not a good month to be in Vietnam. Especially at DaNang which is close to the ocean and functions like the neck of a funnel for all the streams, rivers, honey buckets and benjo ditches that originate inland. Our hot and humid Club Med vacation site was adjacent to a swamp, not a large swamp, but a prolific producer of snakes, centipedes, mosquitoes and very safe habitat for rats and cover for VC. But the rent was great! The Corps put us up for free. Couldn't beat it. (This was also about the time that the 7th Cavalry under Col Hal Moore was tested in the La Drang Valley.. the valley of death. Read of it in We Were Brothers)
The MAG-11 tent city had been a foraging place for water buffalo. Ask any one who was there on the Shu Fly mission. Before MABS built the strong back (framed) elevated tents you could wake up to the snorting and shitting of a big ol long horn monster with a 9 year old kid on his back just laughing and laughing. No, I don't know how that kid got the beast inside. I was asleep. The water buffalo couldn't get out of the ground level tent without knocking the tent pole over. Well the new "SBGP" platforms solved the visits of the beasts and the concertina wire kept the kids out. Sigh! Peace at last.
Now to put our tent city location in perspective: Our neighbors included: a gigantic bomb and ammo dump, a huge fuel farm, a Special Forces club, swamp, double apron fence, a dirt road, a village aka "dog patch" of concrete block buildings just 100 yards beyond the wire, a POW camp, a dog training facility, (and that's another story we'll get to later on in the series) and the active runway. My platoon was housed in GP tents about 11 o'clock from our spaces. In that same direction the MAG had a Staff NCO club GP tent with pallets for floorboards and 4 barrel rocket launcher tubes for beer bloat relief. These tubes were all over the campsite set at 45 degree angles for the convenience of all. There were no bushes to hide behind or lawns to pee on. It was a fields of fire issue, that's all.. Location, location, location. Prime real estate. Yup, we had it, the famous between a rock and a hard place.
Staff NCOs lived in 8 bunk general purpose tents. We had a little more room than the younger Marines. I had my space with a folding rack, mosquito net, my new lawn chair and a blanket. Three incandescent bulbs hung from their own wires and provided lighting inside the tent. There were also 8 electrical duplex outlets that would take a fan, or hot plate or another light. One cage type rat trap was parked on the "carrying timber" of the tent. Our quarters were good enough to be a rest area for line company platoon sergeants. We kept a bunk open in the hooch for these guys. They knew what tent had the refrigerator and the beer.
And how did the Air Force handle the climate. I asked "Red" O'Hara, an AF MSgt from their F4 Maintenance facility. He said their two story barracks were heated, some had air-conditioning, tile floorslots of fans, hot water, real ceramic shitters and sinks, housekeepers, sheets and pillow cases...and rolls and rolls of real toilet paper. (A death trap.)
We had made a deal with Red to wire his hog farm (villa) downtown in exchange for a case of good scotch whiskey. There were no power lines near his place. So I had three of my Marines tap into the French power company lines about 50 yards away. They ran the wires across rooftops to a junction panel (compliments of the Air Force supply at Tachikawa AFB Japan) and red was happy. He delivered the scotch the next day. We were tired of Carlings beer.
You would always see naked individuals enjoying the MAG-11 shower. A primitive but effective facility with a floor of ragged slippery shipping pallets and two nozzles with hose bib control valves. Cold water only. Water was stored in a water blister on top of a wooden tower. The mess hall and that is another paragraph or two I owe you, the shower and the water buffalo trailer (USMC water point) provided the water we needed from this blister. If you arrived early enough after a sunny hot day the water was tepid... We called it hot. After dark it was cold even though the temp was up in the 80s. A puddle of soapy water always lay under the pallets. It was called the "Coliseum." We drowned our rats there in a contest each week.
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Episode 6 - How to Stop a 10,000 Pound Bomb
Quiet night in tent city. We can hear the artillery in the distance. When all of a sudden the tent flap opens and in walks GySgt Jim Gregorski. Jim and I had taken a steerage class sea voyage to participate in Operation Blue Star in the late '50s. We were on the USN cruise ship Dunn County (LST 742) in the Formosa Straits. Some of you guys will remember the straits. On a clear day, blue sky, the ground swells are 30 feet high. And a flat bottom LST does a lot of skidding down the waves and shuddering up the front sides. Why were we there you ask? The President thought it would be a good idea to put the Marines and US Navy in between mainland Commie China and Taiwan because of the Red threat to invade Taiwan. Well, we did get two medals 40 years later.* Jim says, "Mac I heard that you were looking for 45 clips. I'll trade you some for cold beer." "Done," I said. Six beers and 6 loaded clips later we fell asleep. But not before we talked about overnight liberty in Hong Kong where a street creep tried to sell us a 12 year old girl and he would throw in a cashmere sweater to sweeten the deal. I said let's take it. I took the sweater and Jim took the girl to the USO Red Cross. Then there was the time when we had to sleep in a warehouse...a bomb warehouse. No room at the Inn. No blankets, just field jackets. And that time we came in off a skimmer and were fed outside by the "TAGs" (Taiwan Air Ground workers). The meat had cut onions all over it. Looked good in the semi darkness and rain. When someone popped a flashlight on our chow we could see the onions were maggots. Sooo 20 of us turned the cooks and mess line crew upside down and stuck their heads in the first stage mess kit wash GI can. You know the one with the hot water and caustic soap.
Now I had a 45 caliber pistol, ammo and clips, some grenades, a grease gun, a knife and a non- issue shoulder holster. I looked "salty." I even had a quarter roll of GI toilet paper stuck in my hip pocket. I stored most of all this war making stuff in the grenade pockets of my utility jacket.
Rain came about noon almost every day. We always got a few inches and the rain stayed that deep for a few hours. Things went adrift and floated away. I went outside the van about 1430hrs to check for the pallets we used as steps for entry. The pallets would usually wash away if not sandbagged and people were always stealing our bags for one thing or another.
As long as I was outside I took in the view. The flight line, DaNang harbor, Hill 327, and here was an Air Force C130 parked very close to our area. The crew were milling around and standing mostly in the shadow of the big wings. Then I heard the sound of a large diesel truck.
And here it comes from between the buildings. The flatbed trailer held a bomb like I had never seen before. Huge! I knew that the truck was headed to the C130. The driver cut a right turn at an aggressive speed and the bomb rolled off the truck towards my position.
I banged my fist on the shelter and yelled "get out, get out now!" Then as I saw this monster spinning circles on the concrete. Just let it spin. It will stop. And it did! The air crew started to laugh and I joined in and watched an AF Chief chew this young driver's ass out with ear piercing fury.
A hefty crane showed up and by this time the flatbed lined up with the loading ramp of the C130. After placing the bomb back on its rollers the crew loaded it in the hull of the airplane. Nice work. Engines started and the big whale took off with its load of woe for the VC. Russ walks up and says, "Gunny, imagine crash landing with that thing in the hold. It would travel past the pilots and out the thru the nose." And us? Well we really needed that kind of excitement to liven up our other wise dull days and nights.
Back at the tent area that evening I saw my locker box on the deck. Opening it after all this time revealed the damage to winter greens that only comes from a climate like South East Asia's. I had "procured" a calendar and immediately used masking tape to tape it to the inside metal cover after cutting out my "13 months." Now this was really like it should be. Ready to count.
The metal locker boxes were pretty common in MAG 16. Every one of them was borrowed from an Army warehouse at Oppama and Camp Zama. Truckloads were taken to the H&MS16 metal shop, painted helicopter green with our names and serial numbers stenciled in white. Thanks Army.
Thanks to Lloyd Evans and the Badge of Honor Society.
http://www.taiwanvets.com/
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Episode 7 - Arrows, Darts and Punji sticks
The MAG CO issued an order forbidding loaded weapons (one in the chamber) in the tent area, on the road and cattle car to and from the line and on the line. All combat zones. I first met the CO on my arrival in country. He was at OD's hut at check in and was drunk. I thought, as we all did, that he issued this order under the influence of demon rum. Another one of his tickets to a speedy retirement.
The CO also put an UCMJ Article 15 rider on his "ban" on non-issue pistols, including derringers and custom leather shoulder holsters, throwing and Bowie knives. The leather USMC hip holsters on the regulation cartridge belt always filled up with rain water. Under your armpit the pistol almost always stayed dry. Smelly but dry. The CO thought we should start to look like Marines. But we wanted to look cool. It was not the best situation for most of us so we mostly ignored the order to keep the weapon unloaded. Unloaded except when the CO was in the mess hall and could see 30 percent of the tent city population from his hangover recovery specially imported Philippine mahogany cushioned chair. You can't imagine how I wished he would fall asleep in his peanut butter, "Gains burgers," powdered potatoes or maple syrup. His face needed some professional care. The care we see today on the TV show "the Sopranos."
As luck would have it the new "law" was tested within days. Parker had the jeep in for enemas, breathing exercises and other important preventative maintenance and I had to resort to shanks mare and the cattle car ride to and from the line. On this particular morning I walked up the company street to the gate and waited with a gaggle of 30 Marines for the cattle car to show up. Just across the double apron fence we watched the good looking neighbors (females) come out and fill up their tea pots and wash pans for the morning activity in dog patch. All of a sudden a 5 foot sniper popped out of a house with a 6 foot rifle and cranked off one round at our crowd. A young Marine just a few feet from me was hit in the shoulder and dropped to the ground. We all drew down on the runt sniper and not a round was fired. Everyone was in compliance with the order because the CO was watching us. Everyone, except the sentries in the bunkers along the concertina wire. They opened up with M14s and M60s seconds after the shot was fired and pasted this little VC across the face of one of the cement block homes. Nice shooting. I was as frustrated as the rest of these guys. We saw the sniper walk out in the open and saw him shoulder the rifle. 90% of us went to the magazine pouches and started to load our weapons but it took too damn long to return the fire and contribute our 30 rounds to the neighborhood watch effort.
A chopper arrived and carried the wounded Marine off to Charlie Med on 327 and we never saw him again. What a waste. What a stupid regulation. From then on we ignored the order and no one was ever brought up on charges.
That night Jim, Buzz and I visited the Special Forces club just about a half mile up the road. It was in a nice sandbagged neighborhood of tents and trailers maintained by Green Beret and LRP security details. The club had a "Z" shaped entry to discourage ricochets and grenades. The routine was to go in on the Z and when you smelled the beer you take your weapon off and hang it with your head gear on pegs provided on the sandbagged wall. Once inside you could see that these guys knew how to live. Beer, Booze, huge shrimp, steak, hamburgers with onions, French bread and scallops. And music...the latest stateside records!
We looked around the club at the wall hangings of pictures posters and IBM cards. IBM cards? Yup. The cards had the name and unit of soldiers wounded by arrows, darts, spears and punji sticks. The info included the location of the wound. Some in the genital area. Some in the derriere and some in the upper back and chest. We thought this was just some form of morbid SF/GB humor. But no, we were assured that the information was accurate and one sergeant offered to take us to the Army casualty data processing center. Not 100 feet away.
The center was in two large vans with a huge computer and lots of operators/data entry clerks I bet they thought they were going to be sitting out the war in some cushy stateside unit filing IBM cards. Our tour guide located a pile of cards for us and we started going through the casualty reports. VC warfare included every kind of trap, body penetration and infection you could imagine. Casualty records also specified venereal diseases, open sores, leech bites and lung infections.
I felt pretty comfortable, "tranquil" with that good club food and beer in me but the thought of a punji stick in "mister joy" gave me nightmares.
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Episode 8 - Don't Shoot the Dog-- Shoot the Damn Dog!!!
What a beautiful day it was at DaNang. Temperature 87 degrees, humidity 93%. What a paradise! No mortars. The morning toilet went well. The MABS fire team hadn't lit up the kerosene/jet fuel mix in our 10' high "thunder box." So I would have no additional burn scars on my behind. There was even a song in the air. A Jane Fonda whining played by Hanoi Hattie. Ahhh, the sounds of patriotic Americans. The previous day was a hot one so the residual "fluid with critters" in the water buffalo was barely warm (hot by our standards) and shaving was better than ever in our Club Med with folding beds. Uncle Fran had sent new 45 cal clips and a stiletto taken from an inmate at Concord reformatory in Massachusetts. Now I had enough legal and illegal 782 gear to outfit my entire tent. My cup runneth over. My wish list was now shortened to an electric blanket and rubber knee boots from the PX in Okinawa or Japan. (the blanket kept our bunks and clothing dry in the rainy/monsoon seasons and it did rain and rain deep)
Parker was at the guard post with our jeep and we made the run to the flight line with 6 hitchhikers on board. Marines are lean so the jeep had no problem. Partly due to diarrhea of course. As we drove the dirt and rutted road we remarked on the vista. The concrete telephone and electric utility poles the French had built. The almost finished jet fuel tank. Gigantic! The Marines were still living in tents at the bay end of the runway and the hawk battery looking as spiffy as ever. Semper Fi MSgt Broz! Keep your butt down.
The line of buildings to our left included the Vietnamese hospital, the main gate to the airbase from DaNang city. And to our ten o'clock there Air Force barracks and clubs. We hooked a right, drove past the buildings and onto the aircraft parking area where our maintenance shelters and diesel generators were sited. We then walked over to the coffee mess in the old French hanger and bought some good coffee.
I was still working in a tent at a GI 2x2 desk with stool on the shop admin paperwork. We were to move into a fabricated dock in a couple of months. MSgt "Couth" Coffer was the engineer in charge of converting 4'x8' Philippine plywood, 2x4s, C130 flare carton liners (Styrofoam) and corrugated tin roofing material into a reusable transportable shelter which could be dismantled, palletized and taken on any LST or AKA with us. Couth was fabricating the dock in the MAG11 tent area ... to ferret out problems. When complete it would move to the flight line and all of the air conditioned maintenance shelters, with one end removed, would butt up to the 8' wide dock in a weather proof seal. We would share air conditioning and the avionics officer and NCOIC could walk around and harass us without going outside. (Got the picture? Was this just a dodge to get the Major and the E9s air conditioned spaces?)
I had the tent flap up and could hear the aircraft landing and taking off. A breeze was blowing in and it was just perfect for a young Gunnery Sergeant. (Thoughts of shipping over passed quickly through my Carlings infested brain... when were we going to get some decent beer?)
Hmmm, that sounds like gun fire. The alarm siren goes off. I run to the shelter and tell my troops. "Prepare for pedestrian control!" They grab their weapons and get behind our sand bags to wait for the dummies who think they can outrun Marine M14s and M60s in broad daylight. Time passes.... Where are these critters? "No drill," the word is passed. The EE9 rings and Sergeant Tracy says, "Mac, prepare to repel boarders and take a look out towards the Air Force barracks." I moved around to the other side of the bags and I saw the Air Forcers like ants all over the VC side of their two story luxury apartment building (some crappin their pants others passing puke, pee and gas) jumping out windows and looking for shelter on the VC side of the barracks. Most had no weapons. Locked up in a safe place I assume. No matter, the VC ignored them anyway. It was the planes they wanted to blow and they had to get by us.
Lens with his M60, Parker and I lined up on the same alley where we drove on to the flight line this morning. There they are.... Not as many that had run in through the hospital. They had cut a tunnel under the perimeter wall from a house in DaNang city. They came up on the blind side of the hospital and attacked us across an open field and road to reach the planes. Not a good idea...NOT a good idea Charlie before lunch. We were all hungry and wanted to get this over with.
Red arrived with his squad of techs from the F4 aircraft bunkers and between us we created deadly fire. He with the M16s and my Marines with the heavier weapons. We killed and wounded so many VC that it looked like some one had constructed an asphalt path (black pajamas) from the alley towards the planes. Some officer called cease fire. Not smart. Wait 'til we kick the bodies. Six of the attackers heard him and got up running for their lives towards the hot aircraft on the ready launch pad.. They ran right by the planes towards the high grass and across the runway towards the bomb dump, my tent area and dog patch. Body count: 15 dead and Red and I split the score. Yup. 7.5 kills for each FC shop.
Later that day I decide to go back to the tent, take a shower and change these bloody, grungy utilities and return to the line looking like the charming fellow I am. Lens starting cleaning his MG and Parker and I went to the compound. I picked up my laundry (all the comforts of home) and headed for my ride.
We had to leave the jeep (mule) at the sandbagged entrance in back of the bunkers. When I got to my "quarters" I stripped to the basic body hair and jap flaps, grabbed my towel, wash rag and soap dish and headed for our shower in the tulles. Damn, no improvements yet. It was still two cold water pipes with hose bib outlets. Nothing special, but good enough. Anyway, the Air Police training facility for guard dogs was active about 2 hundred yards away. The dobbies and shepherds were running their obstacle course and walking elevated planks between 8 foot towers... just a few feet from their compound barbed wire.
The cold water felt fine and I started soaping down while humming the Marine Corps hymn when I noticed a dog jump from the plank over the wire fence and start running towards me. Apparently the dogs were still wound up from their search for VC this morning. (Matter of fact some of the VC were still in the swamp not 20 feet from me)
That 4 legged hero thought he saw a naked VC and took off after me. Me, a Gunnery Sergeant of Marines! The handler was calling the dog. Hah, fat chance rover was listening. It was then that I saw Foley, Bicknell and White watching the dog trials on their way to the line. I yelled out, "Shoot the dog!" And being trained to respond to their master's voice they shouldered their weapons.
The AF handler yelled "don't shoot the dog!" I replied in my finest calmest surest Marine Drill Instructor voice, "Shoot the dog!" What followed was a major competition in controlling authoritative voices. With "shoot the dog" and "don't shoot the dog" competing for in-country honors. Somewhere in the midst of this dialog the handler yelled out his rank. But who ever cares about AF rank. We had heard that they had their own version of the UCMJ anyway.
I yelled, "Bick, (the best shot to come out of Tennessee since Davy Crockett) shoot that damn yankee dog!" Bang! A clean shot.. one shot...then silence... and in the distance we hear... "oh shit." I yelled over to my expert marksman.. "Bick, the beers on me."
And to the Air Force guy I yelled, "hey you, keep your freakin dog out of my yard."
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Episode 9 - Liberty Goes!
Things were looking good around the flight line and work area. We had painted, patched, replaced, filled, drained, loaded, oiled, greased, checked, ordered, moved, stacked, inventoried, assigned, typed, destroyed and complained about everything we had on our plate. The VC seemed to be taking a break. Time to sit back and enjoy Miller time (actually Carlings. The good beer was still on the dock in DaNang on a Seabee LCVP.) The Master Gunnery Sergeants and OIC were now able to plan some ridiculous and rewarding things to enhance their fitness reports. We waited in anticipation of a personnel and rifle inspection.
I was on the flight line again looking for souvenirs of a (VC) raid and saw a C123 land. The aircraft taxied to our area, shut down its two radial oil leading engines, parked and commenced to unload "old McDonald's farm." Chickens, pigs, cows/oxen, canvas sacks of salt sugar and rice were off loaded with a crowd of Vietnamese families. The markings on the old plane were faded but readable. What in the hell is an "Air America" I wondered. Even the Marines had given up on these planes 15 years ago. This plane was certainly a South Vietnam Farm Bureau aircraft. No? The pilots and crew chief deplaned and a water pumper truck drove up. The driver entered the aircraft through the front hatch ... opened the clamshell doors and commenced to hose all the muck out in our area. "Hey!" I yelled. "Get your shit outta here!" The crew just waved with the international good luck sign (one finger up). There was so much FOD on the deck and smell in the air that I thought the major has got to see this. About face, route step to the supreme de electrono...Avionics Officer.
So here he comes... our hero. Major V approaches the crew and yells out, "Cracker you old son of a bitch!" (Why did they have to be friends?) The four of them knew each other from somewhere and took off for the "MABS Warehouse" aka Officer's Club to celebrate their reunion. Me..? I was just standing there. Major V yells out..."Hey Mac get a crew and clean up this mess." Lucky me. In the right place at the right time. (Mind you I had no idea who these AA dudes were and where they were from)
I said to myself, "shot at and missed.. shit at and hit." And here comes Staff Sergeant Zukav. Mr FOD metal shop NCOIC himself. "Sgt Zukav, how are you this fine Marine Corps day?" "Looking forward to happy hour" he replies. Weren't we all. Happy hour at Iwakuni, Atsugi or Oppama. Zuk asks, "where did this disaster come from?" I fill him in on the details and he says he'll take care of it. After all, he and his tin knockers do trash the flight line now and then. Several minutes later Air Force street sweeper and civilian broom crews show up to clean the area. There is a God...Thanks Zuk.
So I report back to the shop and tend to business. Major V returns with this ragtag air crew and asks, "how in the hell did you get the Air Force to clean the area? Never mind, I don't want to know... good job gunny. You are now in charge of buildings and grounds. (What buildings and grounds?)
The Major then calls a meeting of all Staff NCOs and tells us to quit early and report to the MAG 11 gate in tropicals. We are going in to the DaNang Hotel for a dining out. And he adds don't bring any weapons. Not a good idea major. I love my 45 and I hate to leave her alone..
Picture this... 17 Marine Staff NCOs in almost untidy tropical uniforms (never the uniform of the day at MAG 11) retrieved, aired out and hot breath pressed straight from our locker boxes. Our dress shoes were nearly green with mold, inside and out. This squared away gaggle of NCOs started the walk from our tents, thru sand and dirt to climb on a six by for the ride into town. As we drove past the missile battery, Sgt Broz yells out, "you guys going on R&R or what?"
The DaNang Hotel entrance was located across the street from a dock area loaded with small Vietnamese fishing boats and coastal freighters. The hotels front windows were covered with heavy metal grating and there were a few armed guards on the street. A beautiful Eurasian woman welcomed us in French and English and led us to our tables. We were seated well back from the entrance away from any blast area at tables covered with linen, china plates and silver flatware. Not bad... if this is to be our last meal let it be good.
Dinner was memorable. Prepared by French trained chefs and served by waiters in clean tunics. And they were wearing real shoes and clean socks! The onion soup, gigantic shrimp in some exotic sauce, filet mignon, steamed vegetables and wine was the best meal I ever had. The Air America air crew was introduced to us and we got an idea of just who they worked for and how often they renewed their death wish. The aircrew actually tried to recruit some of us. Later that night we made our way back to MAG 11 in the same truck and fortunately no one barfed on our uniforms. We called it "command presence" in the Corps. Aka look sharp and don't puke.
But we were apprehensive. There were only two Lance Corporals on the truck with weapons and one was the driver. The next day the event was the talk of the Wing. All MAG-11 Marines and Corpsmen wanted a shot at it. The CO said no. But he would allow liberty. Once a month for 5 or 6 hours. Daylight only. My guys didn't care. Just to get into town and get away from the base. You could hear them yell, "liberty goes! I have a pocket full of love chits!"
I got my platoon together and set down the rules. "Most of all...no VD. None. Nada." I told them to set the rubber hose on their horses before they went riding into the dark. I needed these guys to keep the airplanes running. VD meant internment at Subic Bay.
The next day and once a week after that one of my squads went into town at noon after chow. I insisted that they eat before going into town. And I made them verify that they were not to separate, not be alone anywhere (except in a whore house) and be waiting for the 6x6 at the assembly point when the Sergeant of the Guard dispatches the vehicle. The routine went as planned until one day when I received a call from the Officer of the Day ordering me to report to the gate and retrieve my men.
Parker, Lens and I arrived to see the two bunkers with the guards but no crews. The OD came out of the south bunker and told me to take a look.
There they were, laying and sitting in the sand and puking all over the place. What a sight. The second lieutenant OD wanted all of their names for a report. No way Jose.. these are my guys. I take care of them. And as bright eyes approaches me with a lined tablet a chopper hovering over the POW encampment 300 yards away, gets blown off his hold. The Viet Cong he was dropping into the compound (Federal Express we called it) now falls outside the wire and takes off running towards the tent area. Right down the company street. Lieutenant Dudely DoRight does a turn about and draws his weapon to control traffic. Meanwhile...
The old gunny, Parker and Lens put the worse of the liberty hounds in my vehicle and Parker drives them to their tents. Lens and I round up the walking drunks and move them to safety away from DoRight. The next day... well it came pretty harshly for these youngsters. Hangovers, upset stomachs, cramps, diarrhea , and the worst shit of all.. My ass chewing and threats of making them door gunners at MAG 16. (This turned out to be a big mistake)
Oh Dudley? He got a medal for protecting the compound.
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Episode 10 - Snakes don't eat peckers
The MAG compound was starting to look like Boston urban development. Tents and butler huts everywhere. The Staff NCO Club had a tin roof, screened sides and a cement floor. Quite an improvement over the pallets we had to negotiate when the GP tent was set up as "the club." Sanitation facilities were still "tricky" however. The only improvement to the ten-hole thunder box was a low wattage incandescent light build that reduced your chances of being dinged by a sniper. What it really needed was a water hose or fire extinguisher to cool the hole of your choice after MABS set their daily fly fires. Aircraft rocket launcher tubes still served as "rest stops." No ceramic Jane Fonda memorials for us.
Even Ratchet's pet rat had a shelter until the python got him. And the Marine Corps in its unique wisdom and campaign for conformity and order had supplied rakes to spruce up the sand and dirt around the tents. I just knew that there were hundreds of Pfcs and Lance Corporals who were glad to do their part for the war effort by causing a hole in the supply system. Rakes were important. Yah, important to get rid of. But a small area we "raked" provided valuable intelligence this month. Thankfully the Commandant wasn't sending stones and white paint to occupy our off duty hours. Nothing like lining up mortar and rocket targets for Charlie.
Movies were always popular in the compound. Rain or shine. The routine was to find a good spot to view the movie, take your helmet off and place it on the deck, place a towel on top and bring your poncho around your body and over your head. Just like Parris Island boot camp. Except for the inverted galvanized pails that were better seating. Once darkness set in ... the 16mm movie started and we broke out the beer and snacks the doughnut dollies, stateside honeys and families sent us. Of course a cold C of lima beans and ham always tasted better after 3 or 4 beers. The dog patch residents would find spots close to the distant side of the double apron barbed wire fence and enjoy the movie with us. We were able to smoke and drink beer and the villagers were eating bananas, dried fish and drinking green tea or the local moonshine. They couldn't understand the language but all the Vietnamese men loved our big-busted movie stars. When we hooted... they hooted. (It's a guy thing mom.)
The new guys were always seated where we wanted them to sit to enjoy a beer with us. You know a sort of "MAG welcome wagon." No one had to remember names because the Marine Corps gave us new names, which were very easy to remember. Gunny, Sergeant, Corporal... very easy and socially acceptable. Everyone was happy until...
..the movie was well into its plot. The plank owners checked their watches and commenced a poncho cover up. After we quietly passed the new guy a fresh full beer (Carlings this time) we turned our heads to the left and saw ol green eyes coming our way.
Now as pythons go this wasn't a very big snake. Seven or eight feet long at best. No man killer, just a rat killer. The movie lot was in the snake's path to the empty boxes in the MABS temporary warehouse. There was no way that snake would take a detour. He wasn't afraid of us and just slithered his way past us on his hunt.
Turns out that the new guy was always in the boa's path. Coincidence? When the snake came upon the new guy sitting on his helmet blocking the chow run, a pop up to check bearings was required. Picture this. You are sitting close to the ground, watching a movie, drinking your brew and all of a sudden a snake with a head as big as your hand appears on your left within inches of your face. Incoming! "New guy" bolts upright, the beer goes airborne, we duck and cover up more. And the snake. We can only guess, as he looks past the spot where new guy was, is now satisfied that he is on course.
Next day brought the tent builders to the Staff NCO tent city. A fresh bunch of Marines were arriving tonight and the strong backs were going to be ready for them. Cots and mosquito nets were on the tent floor. If you were senior you got the pick of the place. Yes it's true, rank does have it privileges (RHIP).
Meantime we were asked by the staff sergeants to move an obnoxious tent mate to another location. Mr. "O" would sleep stark naked, without mosquito netting. While that wasn't so bad they could see that he had very mature dreams. If covered by a sheet he would be making tents all night.
This move required some planning. I told Parker to get a crew and rake the area around the swamp side of the new tents. From the ground edge of the tent floor to the swampy vegetation.
The next day I checked for "green eyes" path across the raked surface. There it was. His trail. And with a rake in hand I erased my footprints and the perilous pythons path. The next step was to place two 4.8 boxes under the tent floor to block the path and force greenie to rise up and check for a new route.
Now was the time to move Mr. "O" into his new tent. I rounded him up and told him he was moving. He gave me a few oh shits but you just don't give a gunny too many of those before all hell breaks loose.
Coco Loco, an enlisted pilot, marked the spot on the tent floor where "O" would live for the next 13 months. He was advised to use his mosquito netting and to sleep in his underwear. That done, we waited for movie night. And if the Marine Corps says movie night is on the next Thursday, it takes the Commandant or a VC raid to delay the cinema. Sgt "O" declined our invitation to see John Wayne in Sands of Iwo Jima (again) and hit the sack, in the buff, tent light on, no netting... and we waited. We just knew the python loved John Wayne movies. Foster, Sumas, Redding, Clutch and I moved our chairs (we used our folding lawn chairs tonight) towards the new tent area and picked a spot where we could see "O" clearly. Lights out - "O" ignored the order. 2200hrs, 2300hrs and finally at 2330hrs we see "green eyes" looking over the many obstructions in his path to the warehouse. I could just imagine the 8 footer thinking "oh what the hell I'll just crawl over this white ape and head for chow."
So up on the tent plywood floor, up on the locker box, and across the body perfecto. Whereupon Sergeant "O" woke up and screened in double time while forcibly removing all the liquids and solid waste from his naked carcass. The snake paid no never mind. He had seen worse messes. Body beautiful continued running around in circles and calling for help. At that point we moved our lawn chairs to the middle of the viewing audience.
The screams brought Master Gunnery Sergeant Cafferty and a corpsman. We could hear Caff yelling at Sgt fool to clean up the mess and stop hallucinating about snakes. Caff00 said, "snakes, there are no snakes here and if there were they don't eat peckers, just peckerheads." (Thanks Sgt Caff). Yes, Caff was in on the plot.
Shortly afterwards, here comes "ol green eyes" passing by and I swear I saw a smile on his face.
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Episode 11 - Find Teepee! He's AOL!
Sequel to episode 10. Sgt "O" started sleeping in his utility uniform with mosquito netting tucked in all around his cot. (most of the time) After the python incident, the only time we saw him naked was in our high class outdoor shower. After the big event "green eyes" went under O's tent thru the movie lot and on to the mouse and rat buffet at the warehouse.
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Most of my platoon could find recreation of one sort or another. It didn't matter what country they were in or what ship they were on. But women were at a premium on any foreign base. Nurses and doughnut dollies wouldn't date enlisted. The only people I had to watch closely were the "far east first timers" who easily fell for the "tender trap." Tender trappers were Vietnamese/Eurasian girls who were absolutely beautiful. These gals were clever enough to be receiving several US Government allotments every month.
The experienced Marines would check out the PX clerks and the shop girls on the strip before taking on the bar girls. Down town visits were few and far between so if the hormone levels were up (I could see white in their eyes) I sent them off to town in the daytime with an Article 15 warning. Just for a couple of hours or so. You know ... to get their laundry done.
One of my Sergeants had set himself up with a gal who worked at the PX. Sergeant "dimple dick" would skip noon chow (I never let these guys off the base after 1800 hours) and jump on his Honda motorcycle for 5 minute run to the PX. (We had smuggled several small motorcycles in from Atsugi and Oppama.) He and miss Shave Cream of 1966 would take off to her pad and review the current news. Then he would motor back to work. Never was late, never asked for special time off. Dimple was so proud that he had found his one and only who would be faithful to him.
Well all things have to come to an end. Dimple approaches me one day after visiting sickbay and asks to speak in private. I take him outside. It was tough to hear yourself think with the F4s rolling in and out of the parking area. So I say, "what is it Ralph?" I loved to call him Ralph. It was a nickname that reminded me of TV character. He says, "I got VD bad Gunny. Very bad, and they are sending me back to Subic Bay for treatment." Damn there goes one of my best technicians. Dimple had gotten careless and rode the horse without a blanket. What he had was not the most common of social diseases. They flew him out the next day and we never heard from him again. Never again
The only case of a gross stupidity based tragedy involved a friend of mine. Staff Sergeant Thomas Patrick Sheehan. TP was a textbook example of alcoholism mixed with imagined charm, shaken, not stirred. Lucky for him that he always had a wad of charm chits in his wallet. TP loved the women... loved them to extreme. With reckless abandon.
As we drove in to the flight line, on a fine September morning, I saw line company (infantry) officers and Senior NCOs assembled around vehicles loaded with grunts. Just another raid I thought. Oh shit. Another hole to patch in the van.
My phone was ringing as I entered the shop. I picked the headset up and a raspy voice yelled "shut the fuck up and listen" just as I was answering with my official Marine Corps greeting. Pappy Sutton yelled thru the EE9, "MAC, get your ass off that chair, (I hadn't sat down yet) and see if you can find Tee Pee. He's AOL! (Absent over liberty) Take the main road between base camp and the choppers. The grunts are searching the weeds and down town. Take a radio and link up with MAG 16 mission Croaker 27 on 44.7 fm. And get me the name of the ass hole that let him go on overnight or any liberty in Danang City. MOVE!"
Lens was ready with his M60, He'd been talking to the grunts and knew today's program. Parker had borrowed a M14 modified to fire auto, and I took some grenades, my grease gun and lady love (my 45). We piled into my jeep and off we went.
I called Croaker 27 as we left base camp. "Croaker two seven this is Alpha one one departing to main road with two in jeep." "Ok eleven I see you. Head over the river bridge and drive slowly towards the mountain. I have seen some activity there on the side of the road." "Roger" I replied. This had to be one crazy way to look for one guy. We knew the road but the 0369s knew it a hell of a lot better. I was tempted to call Croaker and ask if he knew the story behind this call from Wing HQ. But I kept my radio silent.
I was riding shotgun in the right seat with Lens in the back with his M60. Parker had good eyes and he saw a man on the road about one half mile away. The Viet dropped back into the tall weeds and we were ready to shot as we approached. (Oh how I wished for a grenade launcher.) All of a sudden this old man rushes out of the shade of the bushes and yells "GI, GI come here!"
Now we are not too sure if we should shoot this dude, expect an ambush, or follow him. So I get on the "prick 44" and call croaker two seven. "Croaker two seven I have a resident who wants us to follow him into the tulles. Request you look over the berm and see if Charlie is waiting for us."
"Eleven I am just about there and I see some kids standing around something on the deck. I'm closer.. and it looks like a body." My doors (gunners) will watch out for you."
It was too bumpy for Lens so he got out, set his combat sling, and carried his '60 with an assault magazine pointed waist high at the old man who led us over the berm to the kids. We followed with the jeep. The children moved back. Lens motioned them away as he walked up on the body. (We didn't want any grenades delivered by kids as frequently happened downtown). Then Lens called back to me, "it's ok Gunny we'll take care of him. Yes, it is Tee Pee. He is a friggin mess!"
Lens and Parker walked up to the body and looked back at me and motioned that I should stay back. What is this I thought. Gotta see for myself.
It wasn't a pretty sight. Whoever had done this had decapitated and emasculated Thomas Patrick. His body was wrapped shoulders to knees very tightly in US Government black comm wire. His head was tied onto his chest and facing us. His genitals were in his mouth. The radio barks, "eleven this is Croaker two seven we are coming in." The crew chief and one door gunner came to us and lifted the body onto the Huey. It happened so fast that I didn't have a chance to say a prayer. But I did make myself a promise to get even.
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Episode 12 - Shoot Damnit... Shoot!...
The day started with a gray sky and drizzle. I hated drizzle. I hated rain. It was obvious to all of us that the Commandant of the Marine Corps had this idea that rain doesn't fall on his Marines. So we don't feel the discomfort (never). Umbrellas would help but that was a no no. (Most of us from MAG 16 used umbrellas between the barracks and the chow hall, which was run by the Navy, and the sea wall flight line.) The CO looked the other way. The Navy didn't want us messing their chow hall. But here at DaNang where the daily rainfall sometimes exceeded the annual rainfall in LA.... No umbrellas.
I could see the perimeter patrols rounding up some intruders who tried to set charges on our new, big as a small town, jet fuel tank. The crack of M14s spiced with a 12 gauge trench gun report meant we weren't in a prisoner taking mode today. Fine with me. Kill the bastards.
I made my way to the compound gate and a pair of gun ships flew over looking for VC stragglers. I waved up to one of the door gunners, Corporal Ryan Sean MacBane and he yelled some profanity back I'm sure. A qualified jet engine mechanic and always in trouble he loved his door gunner role. He was in his element. I sometimes envied him. All those kills. All that flight pay. Ryan could hit a man on the run while his pilot flew at close to 70 miles per hour. He had a knack for Kentucky windage. I had known him since we were on I&I duty together. A career Corporal. Every time he made Sergeant. he celebrated. Celebrated hard. Like AOL or AWOL, or D&D or assaulting a senior NCO. Within a couple of days he was busted back to Corporal and threatened with mess duty for the rest of his career. But, Corporal Ryan Sean MacBane was the most combat decorated door gunner in I Corps. Pilots wanted him on their crew. He would never see mess cooking as long as he was in combat.
The gunship flight kept us on alert. We rarely saw a flyover in the daytime. The night was full of C130 flare ship flyovers and spotlights and machine gun fire from the MAG 16 choppers. Entertaining light show but when we could see Charlie... he could see us.
The flight line was busy with reloads on Phantoms, Crusaders and Skyraiders. This was not going to be a day to nurse a hangover. We were flying everything but the hanger doors. South Vietnam Paratroopers were being loaded on R4s for an airdrop and all I could think was "where the hell did all these VC come from? Undetected!" Master Sergeant Goldberg was outside the maintenance area watching this activity and gave me a short report as I walked up. "The runts are at the end of the runway and around us on the south side. We are dropping bombs within 500 yards of the approach line and soon will drop paratroopers behind this bunch of trespassers."
As we spoke I watched an F4 make a mid-runway arrested landing to avoid the ground fire from the VC. The VMF 312 kerosene burner turned right off of the runway right into the rearm area where 30 or 40 aviation ordnance men awaited with fresh bombs and 20mg gun reloads. This was not going to be a nice day. Drizzle and all.
As I entered the vans I saw my crew cleaning and checking their weapons. I did a head count and asked for the whereabouts of Russell and Peters. "Russell was drawing ammo and Peters was killed on watch last night," Lens reported. Damn, Peters was a chain smoker and I bet he lit up and gave away his position. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Things were quiet in the afternoon and as darkness approached I decided to stay with the night crew for awhile to make sure they knew the situation. We reviewed the routine for exiting the vans with the lights out and where their positions were in the perimeter sandbags. I said... "no cigarettes outside the van, none or it's office hours for you." Sergeant Harrison called to me and asked me to look at this sick APQ94 that resisted his loving care. I knew this radar so well I could walk a tech thru it with my eyes closed.
We were on this repair for an hour or so. Coffee break and all, when the hanger alarm sounded. We shut the racks down, threw the manuals in our little porta potty safe, spun the dial and hit the beach. I was the last one out. As I exited I saw Lents on the deck waiting for me. He was a day worker and had hung around to ride shotgun on my jeep. This kid really thought he was my bodyguard. And thank God and his parents for raising such a hero.
I stepped outside and closed the van entry hatch. I was outlined perfectly against the white shelter when a flare ship popped one that lit up everything from here to the Philippines. The second step down and my "oh shit" cued a close in VC not 20 feet from me with a AK47 aimed at my Irish body. And just as this Charlie shouldered his weapon Lens opened up with his M60 from the hip. The 50 or 60 7.62mm rounds from Pete Lens' MG ripped Charlie just about in half.. but not before he got off 5 rounds towards me. I felt like the scantily clad assistant in a carnival knife throwing show for a second or two. The bullets hit the shelter but not one touched me. I thought, "Nah na na na nan na... you shithead you didn't hit me!" "Good shooting Sergeant" I yelled towards Lents and dropped behind the short side of the bunker bags.
The ground inside the bags was covered with scrap Marson matting (the type used for temporary runways.) I mean, if it was there and no one was using it, it was scrap. It made a good surface that helped keep the area clean and neat.
"Clang, rattle rattle," I heard above the sounds of spent casings hitting the matting. The gooks were tossing bamboo grenades at us and some were landing inside the sandbags with us. I grabbed the closest one and was about to toss it back when I noticed it was sans firing mechanism. The drizzle. The drizzle. I love the drizzle. The VC had a practice of making grenades from hollowed bamboo and sealing the detonator in with mud which dried like glue. But let it get wet for several hours and throw the grenade. The pin is pulled, the grenade is thrown, the thrower hits the deck and snuggles up to the pin which has pulled the detonator out of the grenade. Perhaps another story of the low bid contractor.
I can see two more of these bamboo grenades in the sandbags with us and I crawl up to retrieve them. I set my back against a wall of sandbags and stuff these inert bamboo goodies down one of our several grenade sumps. Just as I looked up to see how the game was going two VC sneak a peak just on the other side of the bags where I had retrieved the first grenade. I leveled my M3A1, 45 caliber grease gun loaded with a 30 round magazine and wondered if they had lost something just as I squeezed (Marines don't pull triggers) the trigger and let at least 20 rounds remove their heads from their bodies. I thought, "that is going to be a hell of a mess out there."
Parker calls out, "Gunny that shithead on the hanger is shooting at us again." Now I could understand why this airman was shooting our way. We had uninvited intruders within a few feet of the position. But you never fire on friendlies...especially United States Marine Corps friendlies. "Pete" I called, "get that guy off the roof." Lens elevates his M60 and fires a few rounds with tracers up to the Air Force position. Mr. Air Force hero machine gunner had never experienced the thrill of incoming small arms fire. And as predicted, pissed his pants, rolled out of his sandbags, down the slope of the hanger and through the roof of the battery shop. I could hear a cheer from my platoon and several "Semper Fis."
Lance Corporal Cushman rolls over to me and reports that we have people in the diesel farm. Now there is a situation for you. Fuel and firearms do not mix. There was a sign they had to pass that reminded them of the danger. There they were trying to prepare charges on our electrical supply. Lucky for us that there was so much diesel grease on the metal that the bags kept sliding off. "Get Bicknell over here," I call out. Bick shows up and says "Lance Corporal Bicknell reporting for duty Gunny." Oh shit... I am in a nightmare... reporting for duty???
Bick take out the sappers in the diesel farm. Don't hit the machinery. "No problem Gunny." Two shots two dead. Damn this kid was good. And he reminded me, "Gunny, you know I was the Marine who posted that danger sign over there."
The earth shudders in front of our position. No explosion. A dud? Where is it?
The attackers make for the tall grass just beyond the aircraft and disappear. Not a good idea Charlie. The grunts will clear you out of there in no time.
The all clear sounds. I call for the squad leaders report. No casualties. But there is a Charlie rocket stuck in the matting on the port side. Whoa... that was the plop in the earth I heard. The rocket traveled in the soft soil and came up with its fuse end sticking out of our metal flooring.
Yup, Today will be a light work day as EOD removes this danger.
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Episode 13 - Canberra Fireworks - close in
Some days you just knew, you have that feeling, that something is going to go wrong. Today I have that feeling. As I entered the Marine Air Group 11 "spacious and well appointed" tin roofed screened in mess hall I was intercepted by a Navy Corpsman. "Gunny, it's time for your second gamma glob shot, report to sick bay today or tomorrow." "Again? Did these sailors need more pin practice or was this some sort of revenge," I asked.
Typical Corpsman, he ignores me and looks behind me in the line and zeros in on another poor soul. Those GG shots were enough to cripple a grown man. One in each side of your ass and then try to walk back to your tent or just walk away from the Corpsman.
In case you didn't know...The Marine Corps is a wonderful institution. We follow orders. Generally without question, unless of course you are a Gunnery Sergeant. This rank gives you the privilege to question many things including the rationale for shots on a Navy schedule.
Parker was at the compound entrance in a revetment and waiting with Lens to drive me to the line. Lens said little except. "Gunny, the shit is going to hit the fan today. I need you to go to bat for me. Someone told the Sergeant Major on the Air Force side that you ordered a machine gunner to clear the top of the hanger." Parker was silent during the ride.
When I arrived at the line there was a reception committee. Marine and Air Force Officers and enlisted. The Air Force officers reached out for my hand. The Marines laid back a notch and stared at me from under their utility caps. I was invited to drive to the Air Force Headquarters building.
Nice place. Real wood furniture, polished too, imported carpets, air-conditioned, big refrigerators, and Vietnamese secretaries typing on IBM electrics, coolie cleaning folks. Did these guys know this is a combat zone? As we moved down the passageway I noticed an Airman seated outside the office door marked Executive Officer. Hmmm... could be the hanger roller. Lots of band aids.
We entered the XO's office and an Airman closed the door behind us. I was asked to identify myself and show my ID card. Could they lay another office hours on me, an article 15 or worse, in an AF facility? Looked very possible. After they determined that I was I. The XO asked me if I ordered fire on the hanger roof last night. Was this to be the end of my career as a Gunny and a restart as a Staff Sergeant or Lance Corporal.
"Only after we were fired on," I replied. Dummy, I just admitted shooting at the roof. The Marine MAG Sergeant Major then popped up with, "there have been several occasions of the Air Police sentry firing on Gunny McGadden's position. This action reduces the effectiveness of his platoon by causing them to take cover allowing the VC to approach the aircraft." "And," the Marine Adjutant said, "this added danger has been reported to your office on several occasions."
"Bullshit," the XO says. "Your Gunny almost killed a US Serviceman acting in the defense of his country." This was beginning to sound like a trip to the brig at Okinawa.
"Gunnery Sergeant McGadden, are you aware that this Airman "topohanger we called him" was risking his life in an exposed (poorly prepared) position to protect you and the rest of the line from attack?"
"Yes sir, I do understand the principle of the defensive position but I also emphasize fields of fire in my platoon." "We have never hit an airplane (not yet anyway) and we have never hit a friendly, not even in this case." "Gunny, you do understand that this individual was acting in a heroic way as a volunteer for that critical position?" No sir I thought, I know that this MG position was punishment for screwing up. That zoomie was up there because someone wanted to scare the shit out him... and I did just that.
"Joseph, Joe, do you like to be called Joe? Hmm, I'm starting to get the drift of some sort of deal. You don't realize that some of our Airmen are the relatives of some very powerful people and a incident like this could reflect badly on your military leadership (yours too sir) and fitness for service?"
"Yes sir," I replied. I noticed that the Marines had backed away from the desk. This was the final act of something preplanned? The XO cleared his throat..
"Joe, do you think that you could initiate a recommendation for a combat award, say a bronze star, for the sentry?" I turned a bit and saw the MAG Sergeant Major nod his head up and down ever so slightly. "Yes sir, I could do that, I just need the paper work."
"No problem Gunny, I took the liberty of preparing the necessary papers for your signature. You must sign as the area combat commander. It's just Air Force lingo."
"Area Combat Commander! What am I a full bird for a day?"
There it was, on the form, no rank, just the words Joseph R McGadden I Corps Area Combat Commander. I signed, breathed a sigh and snapped to attention. Snapping to attention usually confused Air Force officers. What do I do next they think.
"And by the way Gunny, we are not going to man that position in the future." Nice job, even the French, as dumb as they were never put a sentry on top of the hanger... Marines always thought that the Air Force studied their defensive policy from comic books. The zoomies should stick to airplanes.
Back at the line I tried to find Parker. Sullivan told me he was at the compound requesting a transfer to Chu Lai. More starched wing aircraft I thought. Ok, now I know who turned me in. Those transfer orders will come to me for my recommendations.. door gunner at Marble Mountain MAG 16 looked like a good spot for Parker.
The different sound of Canberra bombers could be heard in all the noise around the line. Six South Vietnamese Air Force B57s were landing, taxing to the ordnance line, loading up with bombs and ammo and continuing to our parking area.
The B57 Canberra night bombers were especially hated by the VC. Not only because of their effectiveness in night ops but because they were flown by South Vietnamese crews.
Charlie Mallard and I went over to look at these planes. Charlie said the engines were so small he could carry one away in his arms. Reese came up and said they were so close to the ground that the back seat could wear the ass of his flight suit out on a hard landing. The two of them were figuring they could steal an engine, sell it downtown and live like kings on R&R in Australia. I hear nothing...nothing.
The air crews disappeared somewhere in a SVN vehicle and we went back to work... until we heard the shotgun starters and whine of those dinky jet engines. Then most of my guys cleared the shelter to watch the takeoff. Six of us climbed up on the shelter roof and were amazed at how these low rider thick wing bombers made it to the Danang Bay end of the runway without bottoming out, for final arming and takeoff.
It was just getting dark, but the visibility was good. The bombers lined up in pairs, echelon left configuration and started their roll. So slow. So slow but with that huge wing they should be wheels up pretty soon. It was a picture perfect roll to lift off. All six of them rolling about 300 yards apart.
About one third of the way down the ten thousand foot runway we saw some figures pop up out of the tall grass and shoot at the lead Canberra. It went out of control and crashed at the side of the runway settling in the tulles with a gigantic explosion which took out his wingman and two of the following bombers.
This was quite a show I thought. Then Major Trickle's raspy voice yells up at us, "incoming, incoming frags!" The sky was full of bomb and bomber fragments, some directly over us.
We jumped from the roof, hit the deck at a roll, and got under the shelters for cover. All I could think of was all the holes that would have to be patched in the shelter skin.
The fragments shower seemed to last a good 2 minutes and we could still see a huge black smoke cloud where the planes blew up.
Huey gun ships, searching in the area, started to clean house. Love those choppers.
Several days later Parker's paper work came across my 2x2 desk and I penciled out Chu Lai and inked in MAG 16, "combat door gunner." That got Parker's attention. He came storming in to see me and said, "you are trying to get me killed!" Not really, I just wanted him to shit his pants.
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Episode 14 - The Escape of the Sidewinder... grader beware
Gunnery Sergeant Jose Vargas visited on a scrounge run the day after the Canberra crash and asked if I thought the hanger roof guard post could have spotted and killed the intruders.
I replied, "only if it was a Marine up there. That roof goof never bothered to check targets ... He would have shot down bombers 5 and 6."
Gunny Vargas was built like a middle guard for the Green Bay Packers. He was easily upset by the frequent distortion of his name. You could expect him to grab the offender by the stacking swivel (throat) and lean into his forehead with such force that some said it caused a minor concussion. You'd never know he graduated from Boston Catholic. Luckily Joe Vargas and I were friends.
Just as we were finalizing our plans for a raid of the Air Force warehouse a load whack whack, sprong, screeching and dragging sound filled the air. We knew from experience that this was a plane coming in wheels up. We arrived at the edge of the shelters in time to see a Spad AD Skyraider spinning down the runway in a shower of sparks and smoke.
Joe and I leaned back a bit expecting an explosion of fuel and ammo. The Korean vintage attack bomber spun off the runway and the pilot leaped clear and walked to our flight line.
Joe said something like, "no fuel?" I said, "no fuel. No boom." This Spad was running on fumes when he approached the runway without hydraulics to lower the gear.
The crash crew arrived and just stood around watching and waiting for the fire that never started.
A cherry picker and flatbed arrived and after lifting the AD and blowing the gear down with compressed air they lifted it onto the trailer. The recovery crew moved it back behind our area of the flight line.
This landing was nothing short of a miracle. The Spad had a bullet hole about every 10 inches all over the fuselage, empennage and wings. (The VC technique of filling the sky full of bullets in the flight path of attacking aircraft or chopper was proving to be an effective anti aircraft measure.) The pilot escaped injury only because of the armor plate around his cockpit.
Now was the time to make our move. The Zoomies were lining up to see whatever they could and they were all talking at once and asking questions about the crash. We just slipped away with Joe's International 4x4 and drove to the AF Warehouse.
There was no one minding the store.. so we helped ourselves to electron tubes, paper towels, real toilet paper, Kleenex (we couldn't believe our eyes), ball point pens, magic markers, GI coffee, canned milk, sugar, and parts that Joe could use and hide on Hill 327. 327 was the last place anyone from the DaNang Gang (USAF) wanted to go look for anything. It was a daily battle of infiltrators and sappers up there around the big radar site.
After I promised to visit Vargas on 327 he left with a big smile on his face... because we also managed to lift the Supply Sergeant's bottle of medicinal rum and some real stateside Coca Cola out of his frig. Oh yah, and half salami too.... Ahhh... life is good ...again.
Lens and Lance Corporal Jack Doherty (an accounting major from Bentley in Boston) were waiting for me at the shop with all the latest scoop on the flight line testing of gun sight, bomb and missile releases.
Before I looked at the line I asked Doherty if he learned to cook logbooks and check gas mileage at College. He just looked like a dumb Irishman and said.. "no gunny, but I can calculate ounces of Dutch beer consumed per person per hour and frequently come up with none, not a trace. "Ok, ok you are my driver. Welcome aboard. Don't add anything the jeep without the Gunny's permission. Lens likes a free gun for the M60. No mounts or radio antennas. They just invite trouble. We look too important if we carry whip antennas."
Lens says, Gunny it looks like a groggy ordnance man had dumped a bomb rack off the wing of a Phantom. The rack hit the deck on the flight line but can be replaced without any major repairs."
"Semper Fi... now let's make sure that they don't turn on the APQ-72 and fry some flight line slugs"
Some of the F4s were turned to face away from the parked aircraft. The nose of the plane faced the runway at 90 degrees and pointed towards the bomb dump and the 4.8 box storage area.
"Looks good so far," I said. And thought, this should be safe enough as long as the missile isn't armed for release.
Now the Sidewinder is an interesting missile. The warhead is about 20 pounds of continuous rod which opens up much like a circular saw blade to cut the target aircraft to pieces. The missile has to travel a few hundred yards before it arms itself and after that, any shadow it senses (like a fuselage) will detonate the warhead. Pretty vicious little equalizer.
Buhda mules were towing additional aircraft into this safe alley for testing. It was getting routine and boring. So I slipped back under the shade of an R4D and moved towards my vans.
"Clang! Whoosh! Grind!"
I turned to see a 190 pound Sidewinder on the loose and heading for the main runway and beyond. It was airborne, then it would drop and it would skip along the ground pop up and head generally towards the bomb dump and the 4.8 storage. I reached for my rosary beads... hail Mary...
Someone was yelling "get down, it is going to blow."
But it never did.
Across the field it went and after taking a peak I could see it was heading for a grader on the perimeter road. Al Roach Construction (ARC) was soon to be the target of this runaway.
The construction worker saw the missile coming and started to leap off the grader when it struck his long blade with a loud clang and fell to the ground still sputtering and turning in circles.
EOD! We need an EOD daredevil over there.
Oh well, it was almost quitting time so I rounded up Doherty and Lens and headed to the tent.
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Episode 15 - Puff the Magic Dragon
It hadn't rained in days. Unusual for DaNang. My Irish heritage of superstition and Salem, Mass. folklore had me wondering... what's coming down the road? What's next?
The dirt highway from the MAG 11 compound tent area to the main side air station was slow, dusty and hot. But we were making good time behind several vehicles and cattle car buses. I could never understand how Doherty could drive us in traffic with his head down to avoid the dust kicked up by vehicles in front. I mean, without rear ending someone.
Finally, we were on the paved road and we all felt better. The motor bikes and motor cycles zoomed ahead and we waved to all wishing for a skid out. We needed some excitement today.
As we turned into the alley that led to our shops I noticed an executive type North American Sabreliner jet in the landing pattern. Some VIP was coming to I Corps. Something important must be going on today.
The jet taxied up to our area and a tall thin Vietnamese General* wearing a blue flight suit, white silk scarf and fore and aft cap deplaned followed by a beautiful woman in the traditional white dress called ao-dai. Several officers neglected their salute when this gal appeared. The visitors were Prime Minister and Air Marshall Ky and his wife.
Something was up and yet there was normal activity on the line.
Lens said, "look down towards the Air Force visitors line. There are planes there that never land at DaNang." I checked it out and there were more aircraft on the line than at O'Hare airport in Chicago on Friday afternoon. Super Constellations, Vigilante, newer C130s, R4s, A6 Intruders, and an old R4D or DC3 as the blue suit group liked to tag them.
This had to be another Johnson-McNamara extravaganza static aircraft display for Ky. The Pentagon and the White House obviously wanted to show the Prime Minister that we have the firepower to restore "peace" to South Vietnam.
But here was something different about that R4 so I decided to take us down the line to look over all of the visiting aircraft as soon as Ky and Miss Vietnam moved on to the next stop on their tour.
As we approached the R4 we couldn't help but notice the ten 30 caliber machine guns mounted on the port side of the aircraft and thru the cargo hatch doors. The aircraft designator on the fuselage identified it as an FC47. ("F" meaning fighter?)
A Tech Sergeant appeared out of nowhere and asked if he could help. I said, "you got our curiosity up. What is this used for and how can any gunner stay on his feet with hundreds of brass casings rolling all over the deck?"
He replied, "that is only the half of it. We have safety lines because the guns have to be cleared now and then so we have to be careful not to slip out when the plane banks to fire on VC in the tulles. If we do slip out and hang out on the safety line we could be in the line of fire for some of these guns. Most of the brass casings roll out of the hatch when we bank for a shot at the ground." So I finally met a real machine gunner from the Air Force.
He went on to say, "this aircraft is called Puff the Magic Dragon and will be replaced by that camouflaged AC47 model down the line. ("A" meaning attack.) Go take a look at it. "
I could never understand why the Air Force painted their aircraft in camo colors. They never parked in the bush and no Commie fighters were attacking them from above. It seemed to me that the darker color made a better target.
The AC-47D was equipped with three 7.62mm SUU-11A Gatling Miniguns mounted in the fifth and sixth windows on the port side of the fuselage and in the aft passenger/cargo door area. Approximately 16,500 rounds of ammunition was carried on a typical mission.
The fire from the muzzle, plus the eerie growl caused by resonance inside the empty cargo compartment, caused the superstitious
Vietnamese people, both North and South, to imagine a dragon in the air earning the AC-47 nicknames such as "Puff" and "Dragonship." The Dragon's breath!
For night missions, the aircraft carried approximately 48 MK-24 Mod 3 flares. Each flare could last up to three minutes and produce a light magnitude of two million candlepower. The delivery system was extremely simple, the loadmaster armed and dropped each flare out the cargo door when the pilot signaled by flashing a cargo compartment light.
Airspeed during attack maneuvers was normally 120 knots indicated air speed (KIAS). With the Miniguns firing at a rate of 6,000 rounds per minute, aerial coverage was provided over an elliptical area approximately 52 yards in diameter, placing a projectile within every 2.4 yards during a three-second burst.
*General KY served as prime minister of South Viet Nam from 1965 to 1967. After that, he was elected vice president and served four years in that capacity. Widely known as the flamboyant vice marshal of the Vietnamese Air Force, he was one of the last and highest ranking Vietnamese to fight his way out of Vietnam at the end of the Republic in April of 1975. He was able to escape in a helicopter that landed on an American aircraft carrier.
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Episode 16 - Singing in the Rain
What a beautiful fall morning. The rains would be starting soon. Stepped out of my tent, down the wooden steps and walked 100 yards to our new mess hall. Tin roof, vented sides and screens, scullery for mess men to wash our trays and utensils. Elegant for Marines. Thanks Seabees. I met Goldie going in and we picked up our anti malaria pills, salt pills, moved in on the stacks of stainless steel trays, real coffee cups and issue tableware.
Morning chow was without fanfare. There were limited if any choices. First stop was the peanut butter bowl. This stainless bowl was enough to bathe your kids. "PB" was important deterrent to diarrhea so we had it for practically every meal. Chow was powdered milk, coffee, toast (the corps had a baker here at Danang), canned fruit, powdered eggs - always scrambled, salty bacon or doggie dick sausages, oatmeal and soggy corn flakes. Life doesn't get better Looking around we notice a few new faces that must have arrived at 0 dark thirty last night.
You could always tell the new guys. Utilities were not faded. Boots were shiny. They just stared at the Malaria pills and wondered what we used them for. Probably thought they were for the cavalry. The pills were big enough for horses. No weapons on hip or slung over shoulder. They might even have an issue raincoat with them. Raincoats were almost useless in Vietnam. They looked well fed and without the "trots." We plank owners were gaunt from weight loss, were tanned better than the bay watch boys, had faded or new jungle tiger stripe utilities, no shined boots or real jungle boots with punji stick soles and canvas sides, and we kept our weapons handy and loaded.
Winter brought on several problems. The monsoon followed the rainy season and this just about covered the months from October thru March. Kinda like the rainy season in Louisiana without the gun shots. Our tents were about 3 or 4 feet above the ground level and the rain would oftentimes be just a few inches from intruding on our plywood deck. But it would drain away and if you were lucky you could walk in BD (barely deep water).
The "FNGs" were fun to watch in the heavy rains of winter. The day arrivals offered some entertainment. If they arrived around chow time and tried to make it to the "dining facilities" through the 2-3 foot deep water covering several 4 foot deep holes (remnants of the attempts to build a grease trap) they were always in trouble. We would watch them make their naïve way until they fell in a hole. (Yes we did laugh). We homesteaders learned very early to sight a path and stay on it.
My tent mates would cross the path to the tent directly across the company street and set out on a straight course for Gains burger heaven. Canned hamburgers came in tins of 12.
If you wandered off the course....down you go. The intrusion into the domestic lives of the neighborly tent inhabitants was paid in traffic tolls of beer and booze from our large supply.
Rats? We had many rats in the tents. The high water brought too many of them. They would be on the beams in the strong back frame, under the tents on the deck supports, on top of the tent pegs and where ever there was a dry spot. We had metal traps to catch them but there were usually so many trying to snuggle up in a dry space that it became common to see them huddled under your cot. You could stamp your foot and they would just scurry under someone else's cot.
The VC would often attack our compound by laying planks over the 30' wide double apron fence and breaching the triple concertina with their bodies. Once they were inside the wire they were in deep kimchi or water. You could see them struggle against the ankle deep water and every now and them sink in a hole. When they were tired some of them would turn to look back on their entry route, probably wishing their squad leader would call a retreat, big mistake. If they slowed or hesitated when they popped up from a hole we would shoot them like ducks in a barrel. Every now and them we would hit a satchel charge detonator on their bodies and the explosion would create another deep hole.
The VC who made it past the tent area would find themselves out in the open and heading to the bomb dump and flight line across a flooded plain ankle deep in rain water. Some would crash into the 4 bay rocket tubes set at 45 degrees for bladder relief. There were no porcelain facilities on the Marine side. A lucky hit would be in the groin. Perhaps the bomber would slip under the water and come up after a short delay to catch his breath. Either way, a groin hit or underwater soaking would slow them down and Lens would pop them off with his M60.
I caught a few with my grease gun after they tried to cross the small stream on the perimeter of the tents. They couldn't tell where the foot bridge was (it was under water) and would fall into deep water. I could easily pick them off from my tent or foxhole alongside the tent. The 45 cal burst would wake the senses of some of the sappers and they would turn and crank off a few rounds at my position. I wasn't worried about getting hit. The worry was how many holes is that slant eyed skimmer going to put in my tent. The 45 cal slug could just graze these swimmers and that would be enough to spin them around or send them down on their faces. The rest was inevitable. Hello Budaa... here he comes with a 45 cal slug up his ass.
Every so often a gook would run up the wooden stairs of the thunder box (aka long drop - a ten hole outhouse set 10 feet above ground level), open the screen door, look around, lift a hole cover, turn around (it stunk!) and run out the door and back down the stairs. Everyone would wait for the intruder to run down the wooden stairs before we shot. Otherwise we would put holes in our screen door or screened sides. We were going to zap him anyway.
Scully always said they turned away from the thunder box because there was no toilet paper up there and no warm water to wash up afterwards. I never believed him. I always thought they were looking for a place to hide... yuk.
The rainwater would drain into the ground and off to the low spot on the other side of the dog training facility. The bodies would float down there and into a stream which would take them out to the bridge on the perimeter road. The resulting body jam made it easy for the Intel guys to go thru their pockets before the dead drifted out to sea via DaNang bay.
This was not shipping over weather. Everything was soggy and moldy. We took our socks to bed with us and sometimes slept in our utilities to dry them out. It was tough to get out of a sack that you had spent the night warming up, drying your clothing to a "moist level" and face another rainy day.
The winter temp would be 50- 55 degrees or so and after work we would trudge back to the tent to change into dry socks. Couldn't take the jeep because of the bottomless mud holes. If you were lucky enough to have an incandescent light to dry your socks...but if you had dry socks you needed dry boots. Many of us contacted Vince and Smitty at Iwakuni and had knee high rubber boots sent in with the regular C130 mail and supply flights. We didn't wear bedroom slippers at MAG11. The USAF side wore them.
So there you are muddy here and there... your pistol holster is full of water, you need to clean up.. you are pissed. So what do you do first? Get a beer at our tent. The routine was to consume about 4 -5 beers and then make a bet on who was going to walk the 100 feet to the shower. The shower was down the muddy tent street across the stream and company street to the edge of this open air shower.
The wind blew thru that open space will little care about your manhood. Matter of fact, most nights, if you didn't know you were with guys.. you might wonder who all these people were in the buff. With lots of body hair and no male appendages in sight.. brrrr.. Lemme tell you if you got ideas in the middle of the night... and went to the shower, to discharge them, you soon needed a flashlight to find your "little boy."
We were on the edge of several typhoons and tropical storms which rolled in from the east. The new MAG 11, F8 Crusader hanger faced east and would catch the full force of the wind. The roof would blow off and sections would be scattered on the MAG side of the field. The French hanger faced north. It had no damage except rust for years and years. We had actually used this hanger during the Koran War for depot repair.
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Episode 17 - Re-qualify?? Again? Here? Why me??
My in-country training had been limited to combat first aid at the Special Forces area just north east of DaNang. That was an experience in itself. We learned the basic stop the bleeding, prevent shock procedures, along with suturing and injecting simulated morphine Syrettes filled with distilled water. Since there were no injuries available, or volunteers willing to let us sew them up, we had to sew ourselves. Yup, we sutured our fingers together.. It was easy at the thumb. We also had to stand at attention in one rank, about ten of us from all services, hold two of the 2 inch needle Syrettes, one in each hand, at arms length and on the command "attack" inject ourselves in the upper thighs without hesitation. The flesh is so thick on that part of the leg that it was easy. Then we did a right face, forward march at half step, and continued to do column lefts until someone passed out or quit. There were no quitters in the needle dancers who survived the injection.
Some of these warriors couldn't even get the needles below the horizontal, one passed out and one pissed his pants. (He is now a doctor on the TV series ER). We survivors did one turn and then pulled the needles out of our legs. For graduation we got our own suture kit and FA bag.
This is what happens to you when you are the junior Gunnery Sergeant. Lots of fill the quota shit details. I made Gunny with two hash marks and was frequently written-up by First and Sergeant Majors because they thought I was out of uniform. Unheard of to make Gunny in less than 12 years they said. The new Navy CPOs had initiation for a day or so.. it seemed to me that as long as I had less than 3 hash marks I would be doing some sort of shit or skit detail. Semper Fi.. It was mostly fun.. until...oh you'll read it later on in the last of the episodes.
I arrive at the line to see Lens and Doherty with a guard mail envelope. You remember those brown envelopes with round holes and tied with a string around buttons? It was for me they said. I couldn't believe what I saw when I opened it up. I had orders to firearms re-qualification.. Jesus H Christ I had already killed 7 VC . I am qualified!! Damnit!!
When I asked these two what they knew about this Doherty, that smart ass college boy, said that Lens had to show proficiency with the M60, for a diary entry, and the range was out in the boondocks. The Wing G4 took the shooters out there in a cattle car. These two wheeler dealers thought that if I had to go along we could take the jeep. Gotta give them credit for being resourceful. I agreed as long as Lens would let me fire off a short belt or so from his MG.
We left from the MAG compound at 0730hrs the next day. The drive thru the military encampment of Army and South Korean and "Specials" (mercenaries) was just like a drive thru any field camp. We got a look at their tent city layout, semi-permanent buildings, defensive positions, minefields, wire and the proximity of the indigenous folk. Some were pretty damn close to the friendlies but I had heard that the cinder block homes were inhabited by South Vietnam troopers. Who knows? When the shooting starts you shoot in one direction ... outward from your position ... that is unless they are in the sandbags with you exchanging unfriendly noisy metal highlighted greetings.
The road to the range was a right turn off the main road and about three quarters of a mile long and very straight. It ran along brush, a fast running stream and rice paddies. The rice paddies were on both sides of the road so we were on a low profile jetty keeping our feet dry in the jeep.
Doherty said he had a surprise for me when we got to the grenade area. What has this bay state accounting whiz got up his sleeve I wondered. Another brown envelope?
We entered the range area behind two cattle car tractor trailers and drove to the head of the column when the troops started to disembark. Oh shit... there are some officers in one of the groups.
Well, we will just pretend we are part of the range crew. I had Doherty drive to the grenade range about 200 yards away and park behind a conex box.
Doherty said that he was meeting someone down there anyway. He moved the jeep closer and parked behind the box out of sight of the rifle firing line.
There were two enlisted Marines behind the conex box and they stood up as we came around. I could see a frame of sorts and canvas on the deck. Doherty had negotiated for a new frame and canvas cover for the jeep. (After all, the rainy season was soon to arrive.) I see nothing... I see nothing ... I thought. The Marine mentality of possession is not 90%. It is based on who is using the jeep. When I need it, it is mine. All other time, which was most of the time, it was Corporal Doherty's. God and the devil only know where that four wheel life safer got to when I was at the line.
The MG and grenade launcher range was to our left and the range coach let us shoot the M79 down range at some 55 gallon barrels that were so full of holes the grenade could possibly go thru without exploding 'til it struck the ground on the far side. No matter.. I love that M79 with the wire wound war head. Mount the weapon, sight a target, squeeze the trigger and Ka..chunk, the grenade was on its way.
Lens set up on the MG range with Doherty as loader. These two were a good team. They shot up the course and hit every target offered. I told the range coach I wanted to shoot the M60 and got into the prone position with Lens as loader. He whispered instructions to me and we started to tear apart the close in targets of 25 and 55 gal containers. Man this was fun.
We got to fire the M14 and M14 modified, my tanker grease gun and the 45calibar M1911 standard issue pistol. Not a bad day. Not a bad day at all.
We had our C ration lunch after our duty range officer had signed off all the necessary paper work. By that time the after dinner drinks were served. Iodine treated water.
The jeep looked great with the new cover and Lens got in the back with his MG.
We were the last "visitor" vehicle to leave the range that day. As we drove down the jetty road I had a premonition of something.... I told Doherty to be alert and Lens to sweep to port and starboard as we came up on the brush. Then it happened.
Wham! A mortar round hit the road about 50 yards in front of us. We pulled over towards the brush and hit the deck as we slipped into the brush towards the cover of the stream bank.
The only sound we could hear was the slow movement of the water and some talk among the farmers. The mortar round never got their attention. I said, "into the stream and cross to heavier cover." Once I was satisfied with our wadding to a natural foxhole I told Doherty to take a look back over the rice paddies." He gave the all clear and we moved up the stream to find a place along the bank that had a better view. Lots of cover here so we crawled over an oxen path to the edge of the nearest rice paddy. The field was fringed with tall elephant grass and wild rice and we had a view like you get in a drive in movie.
No need to speak. Lens and Doherty, with his M14, were set up to "repel boarders."
It was them I noticed that we had company to our left. A Marine rifle squad was moving down the stream away from us. The rear point gave me a thumb up and they took a position about 40 yards from us.
Chunk... boom! A mortar round hits the brush the squad had just vacated. So these were the guys that had the beef with the VC. Their radioman was on the horn and it didn't take long before we had friendly incoming and two gun ships just above us. Lens asked if we had any smoke.. Yah sure, like this is a daily thing with us. "No smoke" I yelled. He mouthed back "next time for sure."
The gun ships shot up the country side and a bunch of raggedy ass VC popped up and started our way. Not a good idea. We had good cover and the Marines south of us were cutting loose with their MG as we opened up with ours. Rounds cracked thru the trees over our heads and I could hear Doherty yelling "the jeep, the dorks might hit the jeep." (That was the only jeep we were going to get in our tour unless we could steal or buy (swap) one from the friendly jeep dealers on Sea Bee Street along the docks.)
The grunts south of us moved out into the paddy and started to mop up. We stayed low and watched this "training film." I was impressed with the way they covered each other and no, there were no survivors in the attacking force. I found out later that as the day wears on with heat and humidity, prisoners are not desirable traveling companions. The VC will shoot at you whether you have captives or not.
Back at the jeep things were as normal as ever. No hole in the canvas and the extra gear was still in the foot-wells. Not a bad day for three juggies in a random combat zone.
"Did you have any trouble re-qualifying Gunnery Sergeant McGadden" asked Master Gunnery Sergeant Cafferty when we returned to mainside. I looked at Lens and the Irish Bean Counter and said, "nope, the three of us did pretty well today."
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Episode 18 - Duel in The Sun
We were looking forward to the next few months of cooler, but wet, always wet, weather. There was to be free beer in the "mess hall," on the Marine Corps Birthday, Bob Hope, Ann Margaret and Joey Heatherton were scheduled to visit with a big USO troop. Then Christmas and Tet. We knew Charlie had some surprises for us. But what could go wrong? We were winning (yah sure we were).
President Johnson and McNamara kept telling us we were winning this war... little did they know that micromanaging a war is a sure way to lose. We could see the desperation of the politicians when we were strapping WW2 bombs on Phantom jets with large diameter metal hose clamps. "Yankee ingenuity." And we were still eating Korean War C rations. For those gourmet meals we had a lot of Dinty Moore's beef stew and other commissary (Atsugi and Iwakuni) canned food to last us a month or so. You never know, company might drop in and it is nice to have a First Marine Air Wing Marine Air Group 11, Fleet Marine Force gourmet meal for them. And yes, it's good to have friends everywhere.
A few days earlier we had a message that one of our most dependable suppliers, Staff Sergeant Stan Smith, had pulled a groin muscle while flying as a load master delivering artillery shells via pallet and parachute. Picture this: The delivery crew pushes huge and heavy pallets of ammo and supplies out the rear of the C130 and prayed that a parachute deployed to break the fall of the "stuff." What happened on Stan's airlift was one of the pilots eased the stick forward when he stretched and the C130 nosed down. That's an uphill push (on rollers of course) of several tons of artillery shells. So we had to just wait for any care packages from Smitty or Vince.
All of the F8, F4, Intruder radar was up and running. No Yellow Sheet gripes. All equipment was RFI. Evening crew would be cleaning weapons, oiling ammo, checking the machine gun belts, reading and writing letters home. All is well. So I went back up the perimeter road to my tent.
We had about 40 or so cases of beer in my tent and we had one of the few refrigerators in the MAG compound. Another midnight delivery by a VMR C130 flying out of Iwakuni, Japan.
I was sitting in my shaky lawn chain, drinking a beer, feet up my bunk (Staff NCO privilege) reading another classical collection of poems and art work (aka Hustler) when I heard someone calling out "one, two, three four, five, six and so on. Since I had the corner bunk next to the Company Street, and I knew we never had a company parade in the compound, I was curious. Upon rolling the tent flap back and I looked out to see two Marine Sergeants squaring off for a duel with M1911 .45 caliber pistols. I could also see that their aim was going to be corrupted by their condition. That wasn't "sighting fluid" they had been drinking.
They had no seconds, the sandy street was clear, and were planning on a duel in the sun at 20 paces or so. Where is Jennifer Jones when you need her?
The two were drunk as Ozark skunks and as far as I knew the best of friends. Ah, I see numb nuts is one of the combatants and closest to me. Oh course I hated Sergeant numb nuts because of his welcome to Vietnam issue of a 45 without any magazines. His instructions were to turn it upside down and drop the cartridges one at a time down the magazine slot as I pulled the trigger.
Now the big problem that I saw was the possibility that these turkeys would put some holes in the roof of our tent. Lots of water would come in and patching the holes is work for a jeweler. This would not be favorable conditions for our one Master Sergeant tent mate. He bitched enough.
I yelled at them to back off and ground their weapons.. no response. I yelled again, louder.
Then all of a sudden one of them let a round go. Numb nuts returned the fire and struck the steps to the Charlie 2 tent. Charlie 2 was actually two guys named Charlie. Charlie Ballard and Charlie Cleese. Both big men of tremendous strength and stamina.
Charlie Ballard said "hey you idiot I was going to have those steps painted next spring." Cleese took this opportunity to walk around the shooter at his end of the street.
Meanwhile I pulled a four foot long tent peg out of the ground and moved in behind my favorite supply sergeant and just as the distant target yelled a garbled warning I brought the stake down on asshole number one's right ear and shoulder ( already killed a man with nightstick didn't want to do it again) Alpha Hotel 1 dropped the pistol and Sgt Empey (nicknamed Empty) snatched it up. AH1 turned about to see who struck him and said "oh shit, it's you." So I hit him again for disrespect towards a Senior NCO. AH#1 then thought he was back in the supply tent, he got up on his own two legs and said "you'll be sorry for this. I can make your life miserable."
I felt that what I heard was a cue to pop him again and I did. Down he went and with the 45 in Empty's hand I sat on this rag bag of a Marine.
The other duelist was knocked cold by one of the Charlies. Now as soon as the OD shows up I can see if I can go back to find that page in the National Geographic I was examining. The Sergeant of the Guard showed up and after we told him what had happened he asked if I wanted to handle it or should he call the Guard Shack.
This was a tempting offer.. but revenge is sweet. Numb nuts could have gotten me killed in the early months of this camp out. So I said, "call the OD." What followed was a forced eviction from the Staff NCO tent area. We could make our own noise without shooting at each other.
The next time I saw the two Staff Sergeants they had been reduced to PFC with a fine and promise of Norfolk Rehab if they as much as forgot to salute an officer or took a drink.
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Episode 19 - Is That You Phil? Shut off that light!!
The line company guys were busy all night chasing Charlie. The VC were close in to our fuel enormous storage tank. We could hear the shots and grenade explosions all night long.
The commies had dug tunnels in from the sparse jungle perimeter, under a mine field, up a hill and just under the edge of the 50 gazillion gallon jet fuel storage tank. If they were successful the entire East side of DaNang base would be burned to toast or turned into a large deep hole. The US Military would be killed by fragments of exploding bombs and ammo from the First Marine Air Wing Ordnance dump.
The next morning we awoke to find our compound inhabited by Line Company Marines and Green Berets. One of the squad leaders told us that the VC had dug up to the surface and escaped (disappeared) into the MAG 11 compound... someplace. There were not too many places to hide in the compound. You couldn't even take a crap in private. So they were there hunkered down somewhere.
Meantime the Seabees and MABS brought out there big Caterpillar bulldozers and were digging up the tunnels and back-filling them in with dirt to about 200 yards away from the fuel tanks. Beyond the 200 yards they were pumping in napalm right from a fuel truck. The "holed" outs in the distance reaches of the tunnels were in for a gigantic warm surprise when that jellied fuel was ignited. The flame would travel the length of the tunnel and consume everything in its path. The tunnel itself would be like a canon and we might see some of the intruders thrown up into the air. I had visions of skeet shooting.
When Lens, Doherty and I drove by the action we could see Marines on both sides of the road and into our defense area. No problem. Defense was not a Union job. Pay was the same no matter what time of day or night and we had no dues to pay to fat cat bosses.
We saw a Navy LST off the East end of the runway cruising in a slow circle. "Doherty, find out what that LST is all about," I said. Lens thought it might be waiting till the shooting stopped and they could run it up on the beach. I had friends on one of those skimmers.
I thought it would be a good idea to ask Master Gunnery Sergeant Brose and Gunny Vargas what to expect tonight. Those two had access to all kinds of info and Intel aka known as scuttlebutt.
We made it to the line without incident and I went right to my phone and called the hill. Vargas said they had Intel that there were a hundred or more VC inside the outer wire (that was between our wire and the distant perimeter) just hiding and waiting for nightfall. Joe said he could see some of them from his vantage point and his team was directing a little Army chopper armed with a mini-gun to air them out.
Brose confirmed that Intel and said they were busy smoking out the intruders who were mostly lightly armed sappers. The real force of company size was behind a half mile or so.
I called a platoon formation and did a rifle and ammo inspection. The word I passed on possible action had these young bulls excited and itching to add kill numbers to our tally sign in the van. I issued grenades to those going back to the tent area and told "itchy" Izzit to draw a M79 Grenade launcher for his area of the MAG 11 area in the compound.
The day was uneventful at the line. But we could hear occasional rifle shots during the afternoon and early evening. Most of the shots were from the north east side of the field on the other side of route 1. So.. what me worry? Nah. The shooters will clean them up before evening chow. How naïve I was...
Evening chow was crowded. And there were several Army types sitting with us passing the time of day. They were there to augment our perimeter if needed.
I went out to check the wire and bunkers on the east end of our company street. The sandbagged bunkers were 5 or 6 sandbags thick and the roof was supported with 2 by 6 timbers with plywood. The shooting slots were set to accommodate M60 machine guns in bands of interlocking fire just over the apron wire. The triple concertina wire was hung with empty beer and coke cans. Trip flares were setup at our end of the double apron fence. This fence was a maze of criss-crossing barbed wire 4 feet high and 25- 30 feet across. Seemed impossible to breach The Army, bless them, wanted to lay out Claymore mines.
Back in the tent I rescued the duty beer from our refrigerator and joined the Staff NCO Literary and Art council evaluating the current issues of Play boy, Penthouse and this is your life "dear John" letters from home from adoring spouses and girlfriends.
Darkness fell and the lights went out at 2200 hours. Just like stateside. I took this opportunity to check my prone shelter just outside the edge of the tent. In a pinch I could fall out of my bunk, grab my helmet, boots, canteen and clothing, my pistol with 8 magazines, a bowie knife, two grenades and drop 3 feet into soft sand and roll into this shallow foxhole. I moved a can of rifle ammo close to the edge of the tent just in case I needed a rifle or to re-supply a rifleman. With a grunt of satisfaction I crawled in under my netting and tried to fall asleep. I could hear Hanoi Hattie on the radio in the next tent. She was talking about someone named Jane Fonda who had interviewed in Hanoi and seemed to all of us to be nothing but a traitor. The radio finally clicked off and I feel asleep.
The whop whop of rotor blades awoke me and I could see the searchlight on the chopper probing for targets in our tent area. This ain't good" I thought. Might as well get suited up. I stepped out of the tent with most of the other Staff NCOs and as usual we asked each other the same question without giving anyone a chance to answer. Then the perimeter lights came on. These lights illuminated the wire and fire zones for the bunkers. Looks like it is time to repel boarders.
I saw Lens go by with Doherty to set up the M60 in a prepared hole back a bit from the bunkers.
We were almost settled in when a gaggle of slants on the other side of the wire arrived with bamboo ladders. They moved in from Dogpatch and laid the ladders over the double apron fence. There were at least a dozen of these ladders along the wire. Coming our way. Damn what a sight!
Act 1, Scene 2: The main cast arrives with weapons and charges and without hesitation started shooting and running across the ladders towards our bunker line.
I yelled at Lens, "where the hell is itchy?" Lens replied, "he is right behind you gunny." Sure enough here is that small man with his M79 small tube artillery in a fine position.
The perimeter lights showed over one hundred of those little cockroaches coming to kill us. The M60s in the bunkers were knocking them down and the survivors were caught by Lens and Itchy. But more were coming in close to the triple concertina. The compound was going to stink for a few days until the rats and birds cleaned up that wire.
And here comes the cavalry. Those Army guys showed up with grenade launchers, machine guns, and rifles. Without the benefit of prepared positions these dudes dug their peckers into the sand and dirt to make a smaller target.
The VC that got into the triple C never got over it, through it or under it. We killed them all and I never saw one retreat back to dog patch now called dog shit by the plank owners.
A white flare went up and we moved around a bit to see if there were any wounded or dead on our side of the wire. I got up to tend to itchy because this was his first time in combat and I wanted to make sure he had more grenades and ammo for his rifle.
A C130 flare ship lit up the area from one side of the field to the other. Nothing moving - nothing shooting. Good. All is well in hell. The lights came back on. Then suddenly the lights went out.
As I ran back to the bunker line I was illuminated by a Huey gunship. I waved my arms to let them see my white face and yelled out, "put that light out. Is that you Phil, you wiseass son of a bitch?" I was a beautiful target for two or three heartbeats. But when the light moved.. I couldn't see. I swear I did see Parker in the hatch before I went blind.
But I could hear and I low scrambled towards Lens and Doherty. As I crawled in their position I heard Doherty say, "what the fuck over? Where did this new crowd come from?" Several more armed intruders appeared at the edge of the village outside the double apron fence.
We never got another round off. Two headlights appeared to our right and we could hear the noise of a tracked vehicle on the perimeter road
An Ontos armed with a cluster of 106mm recoilless canon showed up. He fired one spotter round from his .50cal mg and then let fly with eight 106mm rounds. What he did was create a new road thru dog patch which we named route 1A in honor of the event. A little bit of grader work and we could a short cut thru the village.
And that is what I did at summer camp Mom and Dad.
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Episode 20 - LST Lt. And What is that Barber Doing Pacing About?
The next morning: We got to the east end of the runway and drove on an access road out to the beach on DaNang Bay. The road was protected by claymore mines, short wire traps, several Marine Corps outpost bunkers and roving patrols. The bay was a beautiful blue green and almost postcard picture perfect. Patrolling about 500 yards off shore were three small boats from the US Coast Guard and the Navy's brown water squadrons. No swimmers or water skiers in sight. A few fishing boats were about a half mile out.
The beach itself was beautiful with a sandy shoreline accented with tropical trees, small huts. and except for a beached LST and a crowd of indigenous types you could have imagined yourself in Bali Hai.
The bow doors were open and a cluster of hoses were running from bladder tanks inside on the tank deck to a coupling valve station on the shore. The ship was pumping jet fuel and aviation gas to the fuel storage areas.
The beach master, a Marine Gunny, wanted to know what business we had with the ship. He said he had enough trouble keeping the girls back and watching for smokers. I told him I was looking for Chubby McCabe a Navy LT. The Gunny pointed him out inside on the tank deck overseeing the transfer of this cargo of boom and then boom boom.
I walked up the ramp and thru the open bow doors to the tank deck. There he was. Chubby and I had attended Saint Peter's Parochial School in Lowell Massachusetts in the late 1940s. Chubby was always in trouble with the nuns because he would get involuntary erections about every hour of so and would refuse to stand up to answer questions in class. By the time the nun beat him silly with a rattan stick or chalkboard eraser his body would have reeled in his offending appendage.
I saluted him and introduced Lens and Doherty. We talked about old times and it was more than fun for Lens and Doherty to get some of these stories about their own Gunny. Chubby said I could help him and the Bosn's Mate keep the smoking lamp out within 300 yards of the skimmer and make sure he had no AOL s off "entertaining" the bar gals lining up on the shore with "for sale" written all over themselves. Chubby said that even the non-smokers were requesting to light the lamp at the 300 yard marker.
A sweet middle aged lady came up to me and said, "Gunny, I give you free one if you let sailors stay in trees." Lucky me I raised a strict Catholic and I replied, "no way, I want a rain check." I recognized this gal from the old French section and she had a nice business she called girl guides.. "much like girl scout, clean girls, no disease" she said.
"Ok, but I will only round up the ones zipping up their pants." "You ok Gunny" she said.
Chubby yelled down beach, "Joe, what are you up to? I know the kind of deals you make!"
I yelled back, "I am rounding up the ones with the reduced testosterone levels right now. But only for the good of the service."
That exercise was just like rounding up squirrels during mating season. There were so many trees and bushes for those young sailors to seek solace and refuge behind. It was fun for awhile but then we got tired of this sword swallower patrol and went back to the ship. Lt. McCabe said thanks he always could use help at this fuel transfer station because the girls could get so close.
Chubby said his ship had been supporting Kenny Lake in the swift boat club. This brown water squadron was just down the beach and up the river a bit. If we met him tomorrow at Vingh go Dih bridge, we could take the jeep and all three of us up river to see Kenny and be back at the bridge by 1600hrs. Chub had to deliver ammo and fuel. ... and Purple Heart and Combat Action ribbons. Seems like the shallow water Navy was seeing a lot of action.
We were invited to evening chow but we declined. We had eaten enough meals on LSTs and people mover skimmers like the APAs and AKAs. "We'll meet you tomorrow at the bridge," I promise and we left for the line.
Later that day Doherty told me we had a barber inside the wire at the MAG compound. OK..now we wont have to go into grenade alley to get a haircut. Grenade Alley was the 500 yards or so from the south side main gate into town where the Air Force had an Exchange. There were many incidents of grenade attacks on US Military by naïve children who were told to deliver hand grenades, pins removed, to the nice GIs over there in front of the BX. And the children were everywhere.. begging and selling and stealing.
I left the line with Doherty and told him to get a haircut. I would show up in a few minutes after I walked my dog. Doherty was outside looking at the ground when I returned. He said, "Gunny, this barber guy is pacing off distances to the O'Club and our HQ hut." I replied, "yah sure, but does he give a good haircut?" Irish eyes was just a bit upset but he bit his lip.. as I whispered, "I'll sit in the chair and you go get the OD and the bone crushers (aka as interrogator translators) down here.
My haircuts were always down to the skin so I was ready to leave the chair in about 5 minutes and just about that time Car 54 arrived.
The translator asked our barber many upsetting questions... I could tell by the way his skin was flushed and he looked frightened. They took tonsorial Tony outside and pointed out his prints in the dirt. That did it. Tony bolted towards the gate. A Lance Corporal from Guard Company caught up with him and smashed him in the shoulder with his M14. That spun haircutter one zero around and then another to the stomach and we had a new prisoner.
It was a week before we got another barber and this time it was a nice old lady who couldn't see past the tent flap.. or so they said.
We met the LST Lt at the bridge and after they loaded their truck cargo we drove our jeep onto the tank deck. Chubby said we didn't have to tie it down because we were staying in the river channel... and off we went.
Within a hour we came across this floating city of shallow water boats and helicopter landing pads. We never saw these guys back at main side. Every one of them seemed to have some bandage on their body. (ah... I thought .. the purple hearts)
Kenny was on the dock ship and greeted Chub when we came alongside. A gangway was laid across and he came over to Chub, saluted him and asked if he had the special from the Seabees.
This special turned out to be a pallet of good Holland beer.
Ken was glad to see us and provide a tour of his boat. There was a lot of armament on this jet boat. He said that oftentimes they were so close to the shoreline at times they could see their rounds hitting the VC and the blood flying. I asked about an odd looking spraying device and Ken said, "that's our weed killer. It is a flame thrower. We can get about 100 yards or better range with it and it will smoke all the vegetation and gooks 20 yards back from the shoreline. And Just after that we can let go with our twin 50s and grenade launcher to clear the survivors." I thought, too bad this boat didn't have wheels.
We had a few beers, listened to several war stories, saw Ken's 7 purple hearts and several CAR awards and came away just a little jealous of his exploits. The chief of the boat tried to recruit Lens and I said "no way Chief, he is mine." At that we got up and returned to the LST for the ride back. As we turned in the channel I could hear bullets hitting the steel hull of the Large Slow Target. Chub said, "this always happens as we leave, the Hatfields are pissed that we deliver cargo to what they call dragon boats...spit fire from .50 cal machine guns. The Skipper and the bridge crew just get down low and no one gets hurt. We could open up with our 20s and 40s but that just brings fire down on the small boats."
We cleared the rest of the channel without incident and beached the ship on a ramp near the bridge.
There were a dozen 6bys waiting to off load their cargo as we rolled down the ramp. I started to take in the scenery on the road away from the bridge and couldn't help but notice what appeared to be a dust off chopper on the road ahead of us at the next river crossing. Several Corpsmen and Air Force Medics were lifting a survivor out of the brackish water on to a stretcher for the chopper lift to Charlie Med or the hospital ship.
This poor guy had been skinned alive, had his hands tied with black comm. wire and tossed into the river apparently as a message to all of us.
We were more alert on the way back and I know my kill number would go up (yes I was countingVC kills like rats on a wall) any chance I get.
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Episode 21 - Happy Birthday Marines
November was starting off to be a pretty dry month. The god of downpour was probably on R&R. I could only guess that the average rainfall here in I Corps was 100 plus inches a year. There were places where you could kick at the top soil and 2 inches down a small puddle would start to appear. Rain was never out of the weather guessers forecast... he was batting 500.
We decided that some happy hour night (which was every night you were alive) when the Major was at the Officers Club, aka the Marine Air Base Warehouse, we would borrow his jeep and make another run to the Special Forces Club up the road. His jeep had no amenities like a machine gun mount and white porcelain antenna insulated mount. Things that I never wanted because they do draw fire. The Major's jeep was naked, except for USMC markings and color. Tonight was the night to make our move. Senior Staff NCOs asking for an Article 15 or worse, like they might send us to Vietnam, or something like that.
Three of us thought that things had been quiet enough to warrant a run to the SF Club. We set up Doherty on a walkie talkie in his tent which was in sight of the MAG Officers club. Sometime around 1830 hours Doherty called and said "oh Four to Refuel." I clicked with, "roger that, stay in touch. Out." O4 is the rank of major.
The ride up route 1 to the Green Beret Special Forces area took about 15 minutes at 30 miles per hour. There were several military vehicles on the road and no one gave us a second look. Just some jungle bunnies on a beer recon or scrounge mission.
We entered the club via the same z shaped entrance, hung our pistol belts (with the .45 holstered) on a peg provided for such convenience and then placed our utility covers on the peg...sort of a weapons and hat check honor system. How we managed to get our piece and cover back always amazed me.. but these SF guys were Special Folk.
We then did a Marine Corps right face and marched forward to the bar and food. We paid our visiting Military tab and were blessed with a fine table of excellent food.
These guys knew the system. They had been here for years and years and had a supply system that was faster and more liberal than the Federal Supply System.
Tonight we had shrimp (real shrimp) stuffed mushrooms, rib eye steak sandwiches, salads, french fries, fresh cold cut tomatoes and baked beans (forbidden to those going on the line tomorrow. A sign warned violators about something being shoved up their delicate bottoms if they showed any signs of passing gas.)
A radio was playing music from Hanoi. The Commie DJ was announcing that Hattie would be on shortly with a special message for MAG11 Marines. Hmm, I thought, that's us.
When Hattie made her introduction as a friend to the Americans who resisted the war... you know the politicians, news media, draft dodgers and movie stars she also said she had a special birthday greeting to the members of H&MS11 especially Master Gunnery Sergeant McCormack, Whistler Snook (Master Sergeant in the Electrical shop), Buzz, Frank, Vern, and a few others who were in my compound.
Hanoi Hattie said "tomorrow night is the Marine Corps Birthday and we will celebrate with them by attacking with a regiment of female soldiers who have instructions to emasculate all Marines as a token of their contempt. (Geeezzz, how will I explain that to my girlfriend if I am zipped!)
The SF and GBs just laughed. They had heard that threat before. We asked if it ever happened. And just like the great American fighting men they are they said, "can't remember it ever happening......except maybe once....or twice."
Our radio link with the Irish banker whistled and we heard "Oh four... departing."
It was easy to settle our tab because this was one of those prepaid nights. All you can eat and drink for a long as you think for a MPC price of 5 bucks.
The jeep started and we drove rather quickly back to the compound where we junior Staff NCOs scattered to our tents and the MSgt took the jeep up the company street to the Majors tent area. No problem GI.
The next day, the Marine Corps Birthday was uneventful. No news or raids or warnings from the Intel guys. No small arms fire, no mortars, no boarders in the wire. And then there was the mess hall. There had been a Happy Birthday sign on the screen for a week announcing free beer.
We hit the chow line about 1700 hours and it was true, beer was being served in the chow hall.
You had to take your chow first and then some mess man handed you a can of beer. When our line showed up we got an aluminum pitcher of what was usually water.. like Olympia water. It turned out that one of our Lance Corporals was doing a short stint on mess duty. (Instead of Office Hours)
Sometime during the meal and long before all the war stories were told, a second pitcher arrived and someone said to make sure the Lance Corporal gets Pro-Pay. We all voted for him.
After chow we made it to our general purpose tent Staff NCO club and consumed more of that good beer. Most of the guys were celebrating the birthday by playing poker. By this time I couldn't even see my cards. I got up and said, "I'm out, going to the rocket tube."
I went out of the tent and lined up with the 4 bay rocket launcher that served us as well as a Kohler urinal and hit all 4 bays over and over again.
Proud of myself I walked over to the water buffalo and washed my hands and face, wiped my hands on my jacket and headed for the sack. I took off my boots and rolled in under the netting.
About 0130 the next morning there was a tremendous explosion close in to our tent area. Then another and another in quick succession. Dirt was flying up and dropping down on the tents.
"Holy Mother of God," I thought (as all latent Catholics do in times of stress) the VC babes are keeping their promise. About that time my male appendage was retreating into my stomach cavity for safety.
We rolled (you never want to sit up because of the mosquitoes waiting for your head as you stretch the netting) out of our bunks, hit the plywood deck and rolled out of the tent thru the loose screen on the bottom support. My prone shelter was just a 3 foot drop to soft dirt and sand. I had my helmet and enough ammo to keep me going for a while.
The duty C130 flare ship flew over and lit the place up like daylight with a dozen drop flares. And just as they started to fade a VMCJ F8 Crusader recon jet made a run and popped a bunch of photo flares.
"It's true; they are going to make a photo record of all these scrotums spread on the ground."
I had forgotten my radio and I could see it just inside the tent on the deck. There were no small arms fires so I reached up and pulled that green jewel out and in the hole with me.
The air was full of voice comms and thru all of the bull shit I could here that the Wing had passed an all clear. "All clear?" Those babes are coming after Yankee mountain oysters.
The siren for all clear did in fact sound and I was so sick and hung over I went back to the tent and slept it off.
That morning at 0530 hours, Lens and Doherty were ready to go to the line. They brought me a coffee from the chow hall and said I looked like "shit, with all due respect Gunny." I knew they were right. I had to ask... "What happened last night?"
I just rocked back and forth shook my head when they told me that the United States Navy had screwed up a fire mission (coordinates) and dropped three 5 inch shells in our combination putting green, snake and rat farm between us and the runway. They missed thank God.
"THE US NAVY?? Damn way to help us celebrate a Marine Corps Birthday."
I told them to wait while I got something from the chow hall. I needed something to take the taste out of my mouth. What a treat! Canned tomato juice, almost chilled, like room temperature greeted me at the start of the chow line. I filled my canteen cup with coffee, decided I couldn't face powdered eggs again and headed to my jeep.
As we rolled past the end of the runway a Phantom jet flew over and I had enough strength to look up thru my half closed eyes and see holes in the fuselage and wings.
"Looks like Gunner Bieber's plane. Let's haul ass and see if he is ok." Bieber and I had been to boot camp and tech school together. I knew his family in Massachusetts and I said a short prayer that he was safe. He was the back seater radar operator bombardier in the F4.
We got to the line as the F4 pulled in to the parking area. Blood was all over the RO's cockpit area and I could see Chief Warrant Officer Yoni Bieber (someone decided to nickname him Yoni and I never knew the meaning of this until I got a hold of a Webster's one day). He was waving and yelling for a corpsman. The Phantom stopped and the Gunner Bieber came down the ladder on his own. He had been hit in the hand. Not in the palm but between the thumb and forefinger... I went over to Yoni and said, "Gunner, glad to see you are ok. What happened?"
Yoni said, they were on a milk run bomb drop and he had his left hand up on the console near the radar scope when a round came thru the bottom of the fuselage thru his hand and out the Plexiglas. At almost the same time there was a bright flash and he thought the plan had exploded.
Upon inspection... we saw that hug center line fuel tank had been hit and exploded under the plane. No damage to the occupants just a ride like a bucking bronco at a rodeo.
"Gunner, Sir, your purple heart with that visible scar will just make the rest of us think that you got hurt jacking off."
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Episode 22: Merry Christmas
One interesting fact about the Christmas holyday in Vietnam is that there are so many Viets who are Catholic. They recognize the traditional symbols of baby Jesus, Santa Claus reindeer and the decorated tree. What can they be thinking? This area never saw snow and if Santa came there was no chimney and of course he would arrive on a bicycle or oxen cart...or maybe a sampan junk boat.
But we were going to celebrate Christmas. My tent was 80 percent staff NCOs of Irish decent. So we named the event "Christmas in Kilarney with all of the folks at home." And they were at home while we were in country. Our tent was hung with decorations made up of scrap paper and gifts from the land of the big PX. There were lots of salamis, summer sausage and cheeses hanging by twine from the rafters. Every now and then a rat would try to get at our goodies and fall to the deck with a load thump. Shooting them with a Model 1911 .45 caliber automatic was out of the question... so we just let them run away.
The big holiday event was when the real live Santa arrived with Ann Margaret. We set a mostly stand down policy and let all but the security force go to the Bob Hope show.
Bob and his entourage arrived just hours after the rain had drenched the area. The stage was still damp in places. The Wing had a squeegee detail working on stage.
Two USO gals started the show. The musicians were from the MAG compound. The banjo player, originally from Canada, worked for me. The gals were terrific singing the tunes we were hearing on the Armed Forces Radio Network. They were a pathfinder act. We never noticed that one was black and the other white. No matter... just a real joy to look at and listen to.
Bob came on stage with a USMC cover and his golf club and kidded around about the weather and the lack of "facilities." He also thought that Charlie had a good view of the base from the surrounding hills. His show was funny and entertaining. Music, dancing, songs, comedians and most of all Ann Margaret. She was beautiful and in her black leathery outfit and high heel boots. She looked like our dream girl. I know she had to be in a lot of dreams that night. The only round eye women we saw were the doughnut dollies and the hospital nurses.
As the show wrapped up and the instruments and sound equipment was loaded on Air Force trucks to be driven to a waiting C130 I could only hope that this was not the same aircraft we had shot up that night on the line when the VC tried to hide behind the landing gear. We skipped a few into the fuselage.
Everyone who attended the show felt rejuvenated by the show and will be forever grateful to Bob Hope and the memories of that day... Thanks for the memories Bob. We miss you.
Back at the line I came upon a gaggle of my Marines with a brand new Sergeant Parker, my former bad boy Article 15 driver. Parker is a now a door gunner on a huey and is charming my techs like a recruiter. Remember, they are all testosterone charged dynamos after listening to Ann Margaret tell them what handsome heroes they are. She would love to hug and kiss every one of them. Soooo.... Is this a good time for MAG16 to recruit door gunners or not?
Parker revealed the combat pay and flight pay, combat air crew wings, the air medals and the chance to shoot machine guns at close up and real VC was a chance of a lifetime. He also emphasized the fact that door gunners don't have to clean the M60 gun. The Wing has ordnance men do that work after every mission. He went on to talk about his missions, re-supply, covering and dust off (med evacs). Some of the audience looked back at me and I mouthed the words ... "not good." (I had a card to play in this.)
The next few days brought a few requests for transfers to the gun ship Hueys at Marble Mountain. I had to tell these John Wayne wannabes that I needed them, the Marines trained them for months and at great expense for the job they do and...I said, "I will have to cut your proficiency pay off." Pro pay was more than air crew pay in most cases.
Needless to say only the reckless wanted to stand up in front of 500 angry VC who have just been bombarded, burned, shelled, shit on, spit at and shot up as a fine in the open hatch target.
So I let one go to join Parker. (Both Parker and Ernie B the wannabe returned safely from Vietnam.) We are now all members of the FMAW Vietnam Service and I see them at reunions. I am the one with the cane.)
Charlton Heston's visit, later this holiday month, was more up close and personal. The MAG had him tour the area and we were able to talk to him and shake his hand. He is really a large man. We could tell by the difficulty the plane captains had trying to make his tall body fit in a Phantom F4 for a publicity shot. (Glad to be in the NRA? Me too.) Heston had a great personality and even though he was no comedian like Bob Hope we admired the work he had done in the movies and the principles he stood for.
This poster was circulated a few weeks later. Most of us had no idea that movie stars opposed the war and some of Hollywood was willing to do treasonous acts to get publicity. Hanoi Jane's poster served as the surface of dart boards, rifle and pistol targets, and even as toilet paper. Most of the guys remembered her in various movies but none had anything good to say about her after this event in North Vietnam. We wished nothing but the worse.
But our major disappointment was to come when we went home to see all the chicken hearted guys waving commie flags and harassing wounded returning from "Nam.
Thanksgiving was a workday just like every other day of the week. But we did have good chow in the mess hall. Real turkey and gravy and mashed potatoes with cranberry sauce. The meal cheered us up because the rainy season was starting and we wouldn't see the blue sky for weeks.
The crazy VC tried to get to the bomb dump again. They moved in during a downpour and took up station next to the swamp. The line company guys had them in their night vision scopes and forced the VC into our mosquito development farm pond. We were on the far side of the swamp, only about 100 yards away, and the grunts would not fire into the weeds because the strays would ricochet into our tent area.
So they kept watch, and we did too, and waited for some sort of daylight. The next morning the swamp was surrounded with demolition experts who tied C5 to primer cords and dragged them across the weed to center the charges. Then BOOM! The place erupted with rats, weeds, frogs and all sorts or creepy things. And oh yah, the VC were there... quiet and dead. Good job... Semper Fi.
Christmas in Kilarney with all of the folks at home. That's what we called it. My tent was mostly Irish Catholics. Our folks had sent us all sorts of goodies and decorations. Trouble was that the paper goods got soggy and wrinkled but we hung them up anyway. Cookies had to kept near an incandescent light build to prevent sogginess and mold. By this time in our tour we were used to such precautions. I was just surprised that my Marine Corps issue combat boots were still in good shape.
The picture shows my bunk, the rainy season "holiday décor" and the wet footprints by my bunk. (The junior Staff NCO gets the bunk by the hatch aka tent flap.)
We ate well over the holidays thanks to all the care packages from family and friends; we cleaned and oiled our weapons, drew extra ammo and grenades, stashed dry socks and waited for the big raid that Hanoi Hattie was promising us for New Years.
The NVA kept her promise and we were busy keeping the planes in the air for weeks. Some of the raids were on our real estate and those days were exciting with the F4s, F8s and A4s bombing and strafing the west end of the runway approach.
I had a frequent visitor to my tent during these last few months. Tom Bulokovitch. A fellow Bay Stater who worked on Trull's farm with me during the early '50s. Tom worked for Air America and we spoke about me leaving the "protection" of the Corps and joining the Agency under cover as a civilian. In other words some people would know I was a Marine. I could work in the states or overseas in Iran or Saudi. Lots of travel and big bonuses he said. I said was thinking about it as he put an application on my bunk. It was raining so hard and we were so damp and disheveled .... Yes, I filled out the application.
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Episode 23 - RTB El Toro - New Assignments
I now have my orders to return to CONUS, via Okinawa, thankfully alive and with all my body parts. Meantime I have to check my uniforms, get a short arm inspection, and turn in my weapons and 782 gear. I'll be unarmed for a day or so. I also had to pack up my blankets, mosquito netting, poncho and jungle boots. Yes, they really wanted those boots returned. This was the Marine Corps. We were told to pick up everything - even our brass casings after a firefight. But, I repeat BUT, do not pickup any unexploded ordnance and return it to supply.
I had already sent some undeveloped 35mm film stateside. After seeing the Marine Air Group 11 supply sergeants rooting thru locker boxes and confiscating all combat fatality and atrocity pictures... the decision was easy. Wrapping the 35mm film required a few empty cigarette packs and there were plenty of them available. I had a few gory shots of VC in the wire and some of Pete Lents' work with the M60mg.
Look at my greens. Moldy and in need of cleaning. I wondered if they could be restored after 13 months in a footlocker.
I thought of Operation Blue Star when we left our footlockers in the old seaplane hanger at Oppama, Japan for five months. Right on the shore of Tokyo bay. Lots of humidity. The greens and tropical uniforms came out of that seclusion ok after the dry cleaners did their magic.
My boots and dress shoes needed brushing and when that job is finished I would be Joe Marine once again. Except I had lost 35 pounds and my dress trousers were too loose around the waist and in the ass.
Oh HAPPY DAY!! My orders authorized me to travel in utilities to MCAS El Toro where I would be billeted in the Staff NCO transient quarters.. (not the Hilton but lots of hot water, and a clean bunk with real screens on the windows) The only noise would be the sound of aircraft taking off and landing. No mortars or artillery.
The uniform of the day at El Toro would be utilities. Lot's of time to utilize the tailor shop and laundry. Also time to see my old buddies in MAG33 and H&HS, NAMTD.
I had told no one that I had an offer for another job. But my orders read FFAUSG UL (for further assignment - United States Government Undisclosed Location) and that was a clue to anyone who was interested. The Wing Intelligence Officer would inform me of my new assignment at MCAS El Toro.
It was get even time for the Senior Officers and Sergeants pissed at me and the United States Marine Corps because I made Gunny in less than 12 years. This meant a batch of back to back short timer shit details. My collateral duty as embarkation NCO made me ripe for a verification of all packing boxes stored in a field just behind the bomb dump.
It was no surprise to me that on a rainy cold morning I was ordered to verify the box count in the field on the far side of the runway. A detail assigned to me would inventory, and stack the wooden boxes and crates in a military manner. Of course, they would blow over in the next big wind storm but the brains behind this organizing would use that as an excuse to jam some other Sergeants ass.
My 10-man crew included a combat forklift. The driver was a Lance Corporal who had a good attitude in this miserable weather. We organized the containers by size and embarkation number. The job was going well in spite of the water in my holster and all of us being soaked to the skin. That is until some boxes fell over as the lift tried to pry them out of the mud.
The lift driver jumped off his seat and pushed the top boxes over and at that moment a 10 inch centipede took a short trip up his bare arm. We heard a yell and saw the flesh colored insect fly thru the air only to be stomped by several Marines as it landed at their feet.
I'd seen these bites before and even as I put a call in to "11" base I could see the arm swelling.
Two Corpsmen arrived shortly in a covered jeep and took our driver away.
No one, luckily, had a combat forklift license so I called Avionics and told them I needed a driver. The reply was to return to the line. Oh happy days.
I passed the word and we loaded on to a waiting six by six and headed back to the old French hanger. It was dry there.
My short timer's physical consisted mostly of an interview. The doc said I had worms and a creeping crud on my scalp and face. I would be delayed at Navy Hospital Okinawa Isolation for a couple of weeks. He said the chow was great and the nurses were pretty. Like I had a choice?
My last morning at DaNang was uneventful. I checked out of the compound and got a ride to the Marine air terminal. I unloaded my sea bag and walked up to the counter under the sign "Staff NCOs Only." The Marine clerk endorsed my orders and asked me to wait outside for the flight to Okinawa.
The day passed and no airplane. I went to the counter a few times and got the same answer "it's on the way."
C rations, circa Korean War, were distributed and not too many of us wondered why we got a full carton. The delay would be overnight.. I thought. And it was. We took our issue raincoats out of our sea bags and used them for ground cover for the overnighter.
The next morning a huge double deck Air Force Reserve Globe Master arrived and taxied up to the Marine Terminal.
We were called to embark on this creature as an Air Force Tech Sergeant called out our names.
I took my seat in a nylon strap US Government comfort/torture assembly and prayed for the engines to start. When they finally cranked up I noticed that the rivets in the fuselage skin were rotating in their holes as the plane vibrated itself to oblivion. Would we ever get out to here I wondered. And these Reservists flew this heap all the way from Pennsylvania???
The aircraft taxied to the west end of the single runway and waited for clearance. Did the pilot know that this was the closest to VC he had ever been? Not likely. The VC were out there just past the perimeter wire probably wondering, as we were, if this crate would get off the ground.
Finally, the roll, and longer roll and pick up speed and lift off. We were lifting off slowly and once again I remembered that as we flew over DaNang Bay and past several small islands, at an altitude of 500 feet or so, these islands were the day bases of several VC and NVA regulars.
Hail Mary, Holy Mary Mother of God...pray for us sinners, no ground fire please. This plane is so big and so slow they will never miss. Ahhh... we finally made 5,000 and then 10,000 feet. No ground fire. Now all we had to worry about was the condition of this airplane.
The two weeks at Okinawa went by quickly and on the day I was released my departure flight details arrived as I dressed for what would turn out to be an cancelled liberty. The next day I was to report to Kadena Air Force Base at 0500 hours.
The non-stop flight from Okinawa to Marine Corps Air Station El Toro, California was to be in a windowless DC7 normally used for cargo. Condensation was dripping from the overhead during the entire flight. You could nap in the seats but drops of moisture soon awakened you.
We arrived at El Toro in the middle of the night and lined up to have our orders endorsed and our AWOL and sea bags searched by US Customs officials. First time I had seen any thing like that. They dug out AK 47 parts, grenades, ammo, and precious gemstones.
One Marine's seabag was dumped on a huge table normally used to pack parachutes. The Customs guys must have been tipped because there in the midst of his t-shirts and dirty laundry they found a huge cache of Chinese jade. They arrested the smuggler as the rest of us were bused to our billets.
I swear I saw Tom B in the semi darkness of the arrival terminal.
MCAS processing center was in an old barracks building. They had replaced the bunks and lockers with counters, desks and chairs.
The next morning I checked in with a Warrant Officer and he directed me to 3rd Marine Air Wing G2. "This was unusual, he remarked, you are on some sort of special orders."
Captain James Clifford Law aka John Law was to be my contact. I knew Captain Law from the old Corps when he was in field artillery. His wife and dachshund were the bright spots in his life.
My orders read to report to Chelsea Naval Yard Boston. Oh no, I thought, not another ship.
That night I went to the Staff Club to see if any of my old buddies were in house. There they were sitting at the bar. When I joined them I got all of the horror stories of servicemen traveling the country through hoards of anti-war demonstrators and draft dodgers. They also told me about Marines that had been killed in country. Marines that I had been stationed with at El Toro, LTA Santa Ana, Quantico and Cherry Point. Too many of my friends had died over there in "Johnson's War."
Two days later, with a clean and pressed uniform, I was in the terminal at San Francisco. Traveling in uniform was interesting but not a safe ticket through the creeps crowding the air terminal.
Three young men with long hair and shabby clothing approached me with challenges and accusations of baby killer and the like. I asked if they were draft dodgers and afraid to serve. That did it. They moved in on me.
A policeman had been watching from about 50 feet away and started moving towards me at a slow walk.
Two of the hippies pushed on my chest where I had several rows of ribbons. I stepped back and motioned to the policeman to turn around. He obliged and I landed two punches on the noses of the attackers and they crashed to the floor. One of them in tears. The third guy ran and rounded up a cute little dark haired teenager who started yelling at me for hitting her friends. After all they had done nothing.
She then took both hands and pressed them on my chest forcing me back a bit towards a wall.
I moved back to the wall as I grabbed miss non-America and pulled her to my face. I quietly told her to get out of here before she got hurt. She turned and yelled "Police, Police, rape, rape."
Rape? What did I miss... I always enjoyed sexual encounters and mostly remembered all of them to the smallest detail.
Time to dump this one.. Hands up, judo foot sweep and down she went on her ass. I actually held on to her arm so you wouldn't land too hard. Yes I am a gentleman.
The third male lifted her and they took off to ply their shit on someone else.
Chelsea Navy Base was close to Logan Airport so I took a cab. The Marine at the gate greeted me with "welcome home Gunny, building C3 is just to your portside."
I paid the cab and carried my sea bag up the stairs to a quarterdeck entry. After saluting the OD and the Flag I was directed to a first floor office where I met Captain (USN) Hemi. He took my orders, my health record and my pay card, examined them and told me my assignment was to be on an Air Force Base in Lexington, Massachusetts. Air Force? A Gunny on an Air Force Base?
Captain Hemi said, "you will be assigned to a unit where we suspect theft and misappropriation of funds. Your orders will make you an Air Force First Sergeant transferred from the Far East. Look around and tell us what you see and hear. Report up here every week and call whenever you see the need for a quick arrest." So now I am a cop.
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