I could not believe I was flying into my first field experience wearing crummy Korean War utilities. I wished fervently that I’d brought my own from training. At least they would have been green instead of whatever color I now wore. Being colorblind as a Marine Corps Officer wasn’t allowed, but then the Navy Corpsman I’d bribed to pass me on the lantern test needed the fifty bucks I’d paid him. Fifty bucks to get into this Catch 22 mess…
The Huey banked sharply and I grabbed for a bit of nylon webbing to avoid falling right out the wide open door. Looking through the big rectangular space to the ground below, I saw how helicopters landed at night. A smoke grenade had been popped below. Obviously, the upfront chopper crew was in radio communications with the unit below. The smoke from the grenade billowed around while the burning flare of the ignition device turned it into a big glowing lantern. The chopper continued its sharp turn and dropped into the jungle below. Except it wasn’t jungle. When we touched down I saw that it was more like great scrub mired in variously hardening chunks of mud. And we didn’t actually touch down, either. We hit hard on the skids. At that same instant, the crew chief literally threw me from the machine. I never saw the outside of the Huey. I was too busy pulling my face from the mud and trying to find my pack in the slimy bracken. I heard the chopper pulling away and up at full power, though, and then I heard and felt the incoming fire. Several bursts at a time flew over my head. I stopped trying to find my pack. I stopped trying to get up, instead of burrowing back into the mud. I’d never been on the receiving end of a gun before. Not in life before the Marines or in Marine training. Live fire exercises had ended years before I began my service.
The bursts of gunfire were loud cracking sounds, almost loud enough to make my ears ring. But it was the light from the tracer rounds that scared me near to death. The enemy had seen and heard the chopper, I reasoned. They were shooting at the chopper, I argued. Yet the tracers continued to fly right above my head. They looked like fast-moving illuminated beer cans. I knew that each tracer was only one of a three or five bullet string. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t terrified. It was something deeper than that — something that wrapped around my insides and then compressed them to the point that I felt like I couldn’t breathe. How was it possible that I was lying in the sucking mud during the misting blackness of a night from hell, when only twenty-four hours before I’d been asleep on an Air Force base in California? I was brand new. This couldn’t be happening! I knew I was in shock but I didn’t know how to get out of it.
The shooting finally stopped. The Huey must have flown out of range, I thought. I worked at crawling. To anywhere but where I was. I didn’t care about my pack, my gun or anything else. I knew I had to get out of there, wherever there was. I didn’t get three feet before a pair of strong hands grabbed me by the shoulders from above.
“Who in hell are you?” a gruff voice, only inches away, said directly into my left ear.
“Second Lieutenant Strauss…” I answered haltingly, allowing the hands to turn and pull me into a low sitting position. I looked around for more of the flaming beer cans but there were none.
“They flew you in at night? They don’t fly anybody in at night, specially not lieutenants,” the man said, letting go of my shoulders.
“Who are you?” I asked, wanting to lay down and get back into the mud but resisting the impulse.
“Gunny Socorro,” the voice said. “I was the company commander, but you are now…sir.” The Gunny stood up and helped pull me into a standing position.
“I can’t be the company commander,” I said, trying to twist my neck and shake off some leftover hearing issues from the chopper and gunfire.
“My MOS is artillery. I’m the forward observer. I didn’t even get to check in with my artillery unit. Hell, I don’t know who the artillery unit is. I’m here as a forward observer, I’m sure. I can’t be a company commander. I just got out of Fort Sill.”
The Gunny hustled me off into the night by one arm, dragging my pack along and acting like he could see in the dark.
“Two eleven,” the Gunny said.
“What’s two eleven,” I asked, so tired of the mysteries.
“That’s the name of our supporting artillery unit. One-oh-five howitzer outfit. I’ll put you on the command net with the six actual back at battalion about the company commander thing if you want.”
“Thank you,” I breathed, feeling like finally I might be able to talk to someone who would understand.
“Get down and stay down until I come back,” the Gunny said. “This hole is designated as the command post.”
“There’s nobody here,” I indicated, being able to establish that even in the dark. “Where are the other officers?”
“There are no other officers,” the Gunny replied. “That’s why you’re the company commander. Wherever you are is the command post. I’ll find your radio operators. We have command, artillery and naval gunfire when the navy forward observer is around, which he rarely is.”
The Gunny left. I was alone in some old shell hole with my pack. I slid down from the lip until I ran into a small pit of water at the bottom. I searched the small outside pockets of the pack until I found a little bottle of the mosquito repellent I’d gotten some relief from earlier. I slathered the weird smelling liquid all over my bare skin, rubbing right over all the small bumps swelling from previous bites. I pulled my helmet and the liner under it off. It was too hot to wear a helmet. Too hot to wear the body armor I’d been told in training wasn’t effective against anything moving faster than a BB. Too hot for a long sleeve utility jacket. I pulled them all off and then layered on more repellent.
The gunny returned with another Marine after only being gone a few minutes.
“Here’s Corporal Fusner. Other operator was killed a few days back with the officers, when they met to plan ahead. Fusner can access both nets on his Prick 25.”
“Corporal,” I said, noting that Fusner also wore only a dark “T” shirt, with no helmet or liner on his head. Maybe I was doing some things right.
“Sir,” Fusner replied, sliding down the muddy slope to rest next to me, as the Gunny walked away.
“How’d the officers die?” I asked, keeping my voice soft, like the Gunny’s and Fusner’s own. It was night and an active enemy was very definitely nearby.
“Rather not say, sir,” Fusner replied, to my surprise.
Reality was beginning to dawn on me. A reality I didn’t want to accept. Was I to be in command of a unit in combat that had killed all of its leaders? That simply could not be. Not in the Marine Corps.
“Get me the six actual,” I ordered. The six actual was the commander of any unit, not the radio operator, duty or executive officer.
“Colonel Bennet, make it quick,” a voice demanded from the small speaker in Fusner’s telephone mike.
“Sir,” I said, nervously, “I just got dropped into Mike Company and there are no other officers alive. I’m the forward observer. I’m sure of it. I can’t be the company commander. I just got here from the states.”
“You’re the only officer. You know how this works. Stop calling me for stuff you already know. You’re the company commander until I tell you otherwise or you’re relieved. Got it?”
I nodded, hesitantly. Fusner poked me. “Got it,” I said, handing the mic back to the Lance Corporal.
“Mike Company six actual over and out,” Fusner transmitted, before clipping the mic to the radio frame he wore on his back. “He’s the battalion commander. He doesn’t have to use radio etiquette, but we do. And no profanity on the combat net. He gets very upset.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was out in the mud after almost being shot down and we were talking about swearing over the radio. Nearby gunshots and explosions seemed to come plunging down into the pit we were in. I scrunched even lower into the mud.
“They hit us every night,” Fusner said, his voice calm. “They only get guys at the perimeter, and that’s mostly with grenades. Except for the mortars, ‘cause they come right inside. I don’t think they have mortars tonight. They would have fired them first. It’s just the way it is.”
“Where do we sleep?” I asked.
“Sleep? We don’t sleep much, sir. When we get back closer to An Hoa maybe. No sleep here.”
“No sleep?” I said, still trying to adjust my ears to the horrid loud noises of incoming fire. “Everyone has to sleep. It’s not like it’s an option.” I pulled my hands into my body, bringing them up to my face. They were shaking. I tried to stop them but I couldn’t, which added to my fear, if such a thing was possible.
“You’ll see,” Fusner said, in his usual matter-of-fact tone.
“How old are you?” I asked, sensing something.
“Seventeen,” he replied. “Or at least I will be soon.”
“You have to be seventeen to be in the Corps,” I said.
“Yeah, I know,” Fusner came back.
The hell, I thought. Sixteen. I was serving in combat with a sixteen-year-old. A sophomore in high school. How he came to be there didn’t matter.
“How’d the officers all die?” I asked him again, “and don’t give me that crap about how you would rather not say. We’re in this together and I’m the company commander.”
“They killed ‘em, which was a shame because some of them were okay. I mean in the second set.”
“Second set?” I asked, not truly surprised at his answer but not fully understanding either.
“Yeah, that was two weeks ago. They killed the first bunch a month ago. Now nobody will come out here to our unit anymore. Back there they must all know. We only get mistakes or FNGs.”
“FNGs?”
“Fucking new guys,” Fusner answered. “Like you. No offense, sir.”
We waited together for the coming of dawn. The sporadic fire went on through the darkness. Fusner was right. There was to be no sleep. My body vibrated with energy and terror. I was relieved when my hands stopped shaking on their own. I didn’t want the men to see me like that. But I couldn’t think. My brain would not work right. Every shot in the dark or explosion in the distance blanked me out. The dawn came with the Gunny and some other Marines. The men looked exactly like the ones I’d seen at the Da Nang Hilton.
“Your scout sergeant and Kit Carson Scout,” the Gunny said, squatting down to plop a small box next to my side.
The two men squatted down beside him while the Gunny took out some heat tabs and lit them with one flick of a Zippo. He broke the box in half with both hands. An assortment of small cans and green envelopes fell into the mud. “Coffee,” he said, holding up one envelope before tearing it open. “No cream or sugar. The guys take those out of the C-rations before anybody gets them.” One of the men squatting down with the Gunny was buck sergeant while the other was Vietnamese, but wearing old Marine utilities like my own.
“The guys?” I said, in surprise, not really understanding.
The Gunny didn’t reply, instead he took his canteen holder apart and pouring the holder full of water.
“Scout Sergeant and Kit Carson Scout? What kind of titles are those,” I asked the Gunny? “I’d never heard of either unit designation in training.”
“In due time,” the Gunny laughed, for the first time.
“I’m an officer,” I shot back without thinking, “it doesn’t seem like I’ve got an awful lot of time left.”
All four men stared at me with no humor in their expressions.
30 Days Home | Next Chapter >>
Writer to Writer James, I LOVE your style! It’s succinct, direct, vivid and to the point. It carries the reader from line to line. I did not serve. My big brother did, 71 – 72 out of Cam Rahn Bay driving trucks. Another of my best friends was a gunner on slicks in the A Shau. To every Vietnam Veteran I say from deep in my heart THANK YOU for your service and WELCOME HOME!! You made me damn proud! I graduated HS in 74. I thank you and your families who made such great sacrifices so you all could serve! Thank you for sharing your story!
Wow, now that’s a great complimentary segment of comment right here…. Thanks for the thanks too, especially when delivered in this kind of
wrapped package…
Semper fi,
Jim
Your description of the Vietnam war is far better than any of the other books I have read.
I served with the Australian Army in SVN 1969-1970 and even the small detail such as the mosquito repellent brings back memories, I haven’t seen any description of the rations we had in Vietnam, maybe you have that in another chapter. My experience of Australian and US rations is un-printable, however I have to admit the US rations were marginally better than ours, as you know the NVA and the VC were able to acquire our rations and it was not unusual to come across unopened Australian rations in their bunkers, even our enemy was wise enough in not consuming our rations.
Keep up the good writing as I am looking forward to the next chapter.
Regards,
David.
Yes, earlier I went into a lot of detail about the C-rations we received.
Interesting stuff, and not all crappy, either. In some ways, the canned stuff
with liquid already in was better than todays ‘add water’ served up as the modern
version today.
Thanks for the great compliment too…
Semper fi,
Jim
I like the first person narrative. It shows what was inside of you. Love the story as I humped with the 101st. Went to the A Shau several times and must have aged each time. I didn’t see Camp Eagle much and thought most units operated that way. Was I ever wrong being 19 and 20 in charge of a squad and a platoon for awhile, no officers. Only those who were actually out in the bush understand the drudgery of humping a 90 lb. pack in the mountains of l Corp wishing sometimes to (accidently) shoot my foot to get out of the field. Guys were purposely getting malaria to get out. I only wish I had kept a diary but we had to hump all we owned on our backs being resupplied every five days. It was no fun trying to fight when Charlie had the high ground and you were ltrying to maneuver uphill. Love your story and many respects. A co 1/327th, 101st 68-69
Thanks Paul. The A Shau was a back-breaker for carrying shit, not just because of
the elevation extremes but because the ground was always wet and rocks mossy and slippery.
And the place was rife with caves in the walls and tunnels along the floor.
If we’d truly held the high ground that would not have been so bad, but we were constantly
building up down in the valley only to be taken from spots of high ground.
The lack of company grade officers stretched the non-coms to the limit and beyond.
Thanks for your accurate and well thought out comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thank You and God Bless you …. terribly sad what our young men went thru .. my husband was there, had nightmares til his death. So many, just boys………..gone too soon !
Thanks Jan. Sorry about your husband.
It was indeed a very formative and difficult time.
Thanks for commenting and reading the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
Wow… the only books I read are self development and leadership. I NEVER read a war book or even watched war movies… The crazy thing is as I was reading this it was like I was IN a war movie… or almost the war itself… there is something very captivating about this… which with my personality, attention span and lack of ability to focus, is quite remarkable. Jim your a good man and although I don’t know you that well I have a tremendous amount of respect for you. With that said, I never viewed he ability to write as “art” but this my friend, so far as I read… is just that… be blessed..
Compliments do not come to me any higher than this Colin. I have been writing some time
in several genres, including screenwriting and running a newspaper. This story was intended to
merely drag out of the closet an old writeup of events that I wrote in 1971 or 1972 and then tossed
down to lay there from move to move. Finally, when I could finally afford to buy jamesstrauss.com
my friend said I needed something original to put up. I chose to bring the dead old manuscript to
life and I guess it came to life much more than I expected. Thank you ever so much. The veterans on here, like you,
write straight from the shoulder and heart and it is humbling to read and reply to every one.
You so deserve it. Thank you for that comment and for liking the work. It was a lousy situation back
then and with terror and wanton fear as my companions I tried to make the best of it and somehow come out
alive. It took many years and drugs and alcohol before I was able to accept that I lived and so many
did not. Many of whom were better men than I.
Semper fi,
Jim
Colin, Glad you had a chance to find the site and read a bit..
Have you had the opportunity to meet Jim?
I understand he may be found at Geneva Java occasionally.
Colin. I do know you and you are a class act. Thanks for liking the story and the way
in which I tell it. See you at the Geneva Java Coffee Shop upon occasion.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, I was with A/1/5 1966. I was an enlisted grunt. Your writing is excellent. Just curious why you refer to your weapon as a gun.
That was a big problem starting with my second day at San Diego.
Just curious. Please keep writing your very good at painting a true
picture of the way it was in the bush.
Tim
You learned you rifle serial number and probably still remember it in training.
You were required to call your gun or rifle your weapon. You were taught and formed as
a unit, not trained to compete with one another to see who was best or who could be made to
fail in the competition (they only had funding for sixty percent of the OCS classes to go
on and become officers.). Enlisted training was a whole lot different, and probably still is,
in the Corps. My platoon sergeant, Baines, didn’t care about that nomenclature. We didn’t have to
memorize the manual or our weapon’s serial number, but my good friend Mike Vanni had to remember his M-14’s number. Different.
Thanks for bringing that up.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I don’t think a BOOK has to happen. That’s up to you.
greg
Yes, Greg, nothing could be more true. I must continue, then I must put it all together
and edit it and then get it up on amazon and kindle. The traditional publishers would never
even read any of this much less print it. None of it is very politically correct.
Thanks for the thought and the reading,
Semper fi,
Jim
Its a book i would buy James.I enlisted in 69 but couldn’t pass the physical exam or i would have been there with you guys to,at least i wasn’t a coward draft dodger.I think this would be a best selling book James,i will be looking for it.
Thank you Lonnie. There are so many men I met who didn’t end up gong into the teeth of the combat and
so many I would have loved to serve with. I got handed a ‘hand’ while I was there and that was that.
In retrospect it was not as bad a hand as I thought it was when I served there with the guys.
The situation was simply awuful and although some of it was their and my fault most of it was not.
You sound like one of those I’d be proud to say are those whom I served with over there.
Semper fi,
Jim
I Don’t Usually Read Books Or Go To Movies About VN But I Did read This. It Wasn’t Hollywooded Up. I Appreciate That. Thank You. If This Is A Book I Would Like To Buy It.
Thank you Bill. I am kicking around the idea of putting his all in the third person. Right now I am
just writing what the hell happened since I relive it all the time anyway. The book will be called
Thirty Days Has September if I can get my worthless disabled butt moving enough to do the real
work.
I was a GMO from Chcago in March 1970. Right out of my internship in LA and all at once the doc for an artillery battalion based at Quang Tri. Your “Second Day” vivid account brought images that, thank God, I never had to experience, but know those who served with me that year will never forget. For that reason alone I wish to hear more, to more deeply honor their story and suffering, never appreciated by the America they loved.
Thank you doc! I am glad you didn’t get into that stuff either, or you might not be writing at all, even if
you came back. I am simply recounting what happened to me in September of 1968. I’m kicking around
converting to third person and then writing the book “Thirty Days Has September.” I don’t think a real
publisher would publish it because of what’s coming in it but hell, there’s always Amazon…and truthfully,
I don’t much give a shit anymore about the selling of books. Nobody seems to want to write about what
really happened out in the shit over there back then.
They might not want to publish it, but for sure there are some such as myself who want to read it. I’ve only gotten through the 2nd day and it rings true. I was an A2C in the Air Force working as an admin type in the hospital at Tachikawa AFB in Japan. Saw a lot of wounded young men coming out of Nam. I was a paper-pusher, but was glad to do my part, small as it was to support those guys. Had a side job showing movies in the wards at night. I loved it and so did the guys. I appreciate what you are writing and hope you’ll keep at it.
I was at Tachikawa Bob. The First Med in Da Nang saw the big red letters M.C. stamped on my
file and thought I was medical corps so they sent me first to Tachikawa and then the next day to
Yokosuka. Strange times when they’d move someone around in condition critical prognosis poor just
to get to the proper service facility. Thanks for the compliment and I am hard at the writing this night.
Semper fi,
Jim
Good writing. For me the first person story telling is okay for a short piece like this,but not for a longer piece work. Still I enjoyed the image and feelings your recount of this event gave.
Just writing it as I remember it right now Dennis. I am kicking around a book in the third person,
because I agree with you. The book would be called “Thirty Days Has September.”
Interested in buying. Where?
Thank you Bill. I’ve been kicking what happened around for so many years and finally decided to
write it here on this new web page. The book, if I finally put it wall together, will be called
“Thirty Days Has September.”
I Thought It Was A “Book”. It Held My Interest. Let This Old MSgt Know When You Finally Put It Together. Thanks Buddy!(1/5 68-69)
Jim, Riveting… Shit you went through the wringer. Glad you made it back to the world. You ever read Dispatches by Michael Herr? I just re-read it after some 30 years. Mike just died a month or so ago. I read it in his honor. I remembered that it made me nervous and jerky the first time I read it. Well,it did it again when I re- read it… Your writing style reminds me of Mike.. Thanks…
What a great compliment Thank you. I’m just writing it like it happened
because I don’t give a shit anymore and maybe, just maybe, some young
guys will read this and either go to their own war with some advance prep
or maybe make sure they don’t leave the rear area no matter what!
GOOD STUFF. NOT SURE HOW I FEEL ABOUT HOW I FEEL ABOUT READING THEM.
So we are even. I don’t know how I feel about reading your comment. Thanks for the first part. The second part of your comment just seems to hand out there near the edge of my mind….
Made me feel Very Anxious and Upset…. see what a Good Writer You Are !!!
Glad I was in the sky.
Glad you were too, Daniel. The ground war sucked so badly, especially as the monsoon season began…