“There’s a lesson to be learned from this and I’ve learned it oh so well,” was coming out of any number of small radio speakers when we marched across the perimeter and into the temporary encampment Captain Casey referred to as his command post. I walked in the lead with the Gunny behind me, feeling like, but not resembling, the much taller and hugely more elegant leader of the Marine Corps band. The music wasn’t marching music, and I somehow felt the part of the song playing about a mythical non-existent red rubber ball might prayerfully apply: “I’ve bought my ticket with my tears, and that’s all I’m going to spend.”
The captain had somehow offloaded some version of real shelter from the chopper, and set it up in the very middle of the open area of the sand covered river bank. As I approached, it looked like nothing more than a bullseye in the middle of a large target.
I looked back over my shoulder. The company followed in the first semblance of any kind of order I’d seen since dropping into its midst so few days before. The Marines did not march to cadence or with the parade ground precision the corps was known for all over the planet. But they walked with order, their loads shifting, machine gun belts swinging and bodies leaning forward into the task of moving heavily loads. I checked my Omega, and the little hand was on the three. There was plenty of daylight left, which meant plenty of time to get off of the exposed open area and safely set up in inside the brush and under the hanging eave provided by the near base of the cliff we’d just descended. I knew instantly upon seeing it that the flat sand bank was a killing zone.
I tried to straighten myself up, as our tattered and dried mud mess of a company snaked out onto the packed sand clearing. Captain Casey waved the side of his tent-like structure aside and stepped out, with Billings behind him. Both men were angry about something, from the expressions on their faces. Red Rubber ball finished playing from behind me on Fusner’s radio. I stopped when the Gunny, off and just back of my left side, touched my elbow.
“Company, halt,” he ordered loudly and unnecessarily, using a deep D.I. guttural growl. The silence and sudden stillness was filled with Brother John’s deep comforting voice. Brother John didn’t normally comment that much between songs, so I was vaguely surprised as I tried to meet Casey’s and Billing’s baleful stares. “It’s fixing to be an interesting afternoon in Vietnam,” Brother John said, but he got no farther.
“Turn that God damned thing off,” Casey screamed at the top of his lungs, before breathing deeply in and out to get control of himself.
Fusner fumbled and got the transistor radio shut down.
“Who in the hell do you think you are, Lawrence of Arabia?” Casey said, his voice deep, and filled with a seething anger.
I looked away from his accusing eyes downward. My eyes focused on his feet. He and Billings were wearing their new jungle-issue oil-soaked green socks, but no boots. I looked away, past Casey’s tent toward the turgidly moving brownish waters of the nearby river.
“No, sir,” I replied, formally. I had automatically assumed a position of attention in reporting to my commanding officer but was having trouble holding it because I was so tired. My thigh muscles ached from the climb down, and the rest of my body felt like a beaten piece of meat from the fearful tension that hurt all the time. Strangely, it also seemed to hold me together like some form of biological epoxy.
“He’s Junior of Vietnam,” I heard come whispering gently from someone behind me.
“Who said that?” Casey screamed again. “There will be no more radios turned on while I’m commanding officer of this company. Anyone violating that order will go on report or be demoted on the spot.”
Casey breathed deeply some more, while everyone waited. I had nothing to say and still had no idea why the captain was mad. My eyes focused on a slight movement from the cliff side of the tent. Rittenhouse poked his head out. I stared into his eyes. He immediately looked down at his clipboard and appeared to make notes about something.
“Mudville,” Captain Casey hissed out. “You think I’m deaf? You think I’m not up on the command net? You think I didn’t go to school? “Mighty Casey strikes out? You think that’s funny?”
I physically rocked back at every verbal broadside he launched at me. His emphasis was so harsh and driven with slight delays between each sentence, that I was shocked. I wondered how I’d created so much enmity in such a short period of time? I also realized that I wasn’t afraid. Not of Casey or Billings.
“We need to break down the tent and get off this open area,” I replied. “They have 82-millimeter mortars down here waiting, I’m sure.” I looked quickly all around us. “Maybe not while the suns still up, but later for sure.”
Casey leaned forward, bending slightly at the waist, before standing up straight again, his facial features smoother and not giving any more emotion away.
“It can’t be you,” he finally said, softly, ignoring what I’d said about the real danger of imminent attack. “You’ve been here less than two weeks, Rittenhouse tells me. There’s got to be a darker force at work here opposing my command. A more experienced evil force.”
I moved my head slightly until I could see the side of the Gunny’s face from the corner of my left eye. I watched his eyes get bigger but he made no move to say anything or react in any other way. He didn’t look back at me, although I was sure he’d seen my glance.
“Where’s that black sergeant?” Casey asked, suddenly. “Sugar, whatever. I want him up here now.”
“Sugar Daddy, front, and center,” screamed the Gunny over his shoulder.
This time the Gunny met my eyes, and I wasn’t surprised to see a slight smile cross his lips. Sugar Daddy came lumbering up from the back,
wearing his usual flat bush hat and horrid purple sunglasses. His two Marine flunkies flanked him.
“I asked for the sergeant, not you idiots,” Casey said, pointing at the two Marines, who promptly turned and ran back into the mass of the company.
Sugar Daddy sidled over next to the Gunny’s left side. “Sir, reporting as ordered, sir,” he said, the sing-song words rolling out with about as much sincerity as a man trying to entice a dog to come forward with a snack of raw meat in his hand.
“I’m not going to take any more nonsense from you, and the resistance I’m getting from the rest of these Marines,” Casey said, pointing his finger at Sugar Daddy’s chest. “I know what’s going on. The Gunny’s going to supervise your every move from now on until I can get a real platoon commander to take over. You make one false move and your ass belongs to me.”
Sugar Daddy was about to reply but couldn’t because the Gunny had hit him in the side so hard with his left elbow that the wind had been knocked from his lungs.
“I’ll get right on it, sir,” the Gunny said. “There’ll be no more of that Mudville kind of stuff. I’m gonna be all over him.”
I looked back and forth from the Gunny to Captain Casey and wondered just where I was. The A Shau valley had been touted to me as the most dangerous place in all of Vietnam but no one had mentioned that it might also be an alternative form of the known universe or some kind of fantasyland.
“You’re dismissed, sergeant,” the Gunny ordered loudly, using his D.I. command voice.
Sugar Daddy pulled his sunglasses off and then turned to trundle back to the company. His eyes caught mine as he went around. A look of befuddled shock was in them, with his forehead wrinkled up in question. I knew from experience that the killing anger would come later.
I turned my gaze back to Rittenhouse, looking up from his clipboard at the scene. The Gunny had willingly thrown Sugar Daddy under the bus, but I knew he hadn’t been the one to point the black sergeant out, as the evil force in the company. That had been someone else. Someone close to Casey. Rittenhouse looked away again, a move I was getting used to. I hunted for Jurgens, who had to be somewhere on the perimeter he’d set up to ‘protect’ the command post. Jurgens and his men were experienced and seasoned enough to not be stupidly exposed out on the sand surface like they’d left the captain and lieutenant.
Nguyen’s face appeared from the brush, only a few feet from where the edge of the sand encountered the jungle growth. He looked back at me and and then looked along the line of bushes we marched past. I followed his gaze. Jurgens stood out of the line of my sight, unless I turned my head to the right. I could only glance over at him. This time he wasn’t laughing or even smiling. My look must have signaled my intent. Jurgens was a bit of vermin that needed to be dealt with very soon. His glance met mine with equal malevolent intent. I’d not forgotten the conversation he’d had with his men when I was nearby, so many days ago. The die had been cast, but I hadn’t really understood that at the time. I did now.
“About your boots,” I said to the captain, trying to bring the subject back to the dangers of having long conversations on top of a mortar registration mark.
“I want the corpsmen, all of them,” Casey said, looking briefly down at his feet. “There’s some sort of foot infection going around in this company. I’m sure someone must have seen it before. Billings and I can barely walk.”
I thought about the chopper ride both men had commandeered from the LZ above down to where we were. Maybe the captain had a point in doing that. If he thought he couldn’t walk the distance, then it all made sense. I was beginning to feel sorry for the man.
“And I don’t know what in hell you’re doing with this screwed up unit lieutenant,” he said to me. “You’re not the company commander. You’re the forward observer, and that’s it. You don’t have any plans. I have plans. I make and approve plans. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”
“I’m trying to keep you alive,” I blurted out, regretting the words as soon as I uttered them.
“I’ll keep myself alive,” Casey said, calmly, having regained some kind of emotional control of himself. “Billings and I will do just fine as long as you and the Gunny do your jobs. We inherited this mess from the previous company commander, and that would be you. We didn’t create it. You did nothing to fix the Sugar Daddy mess and now I have to. And I’m God damned tired of calling that man Sugar Daddy. I want his full name.”
“I’ll get that for you immediately, sir,” Rittenhouse said softly from behind him.
I stared at the scene in front of me. The captain stood in front of a tent that might have come out of some thirties African safari movie, set up in the very center of an obvious enemy target area, in his stocking feet almost unable to walk while talking to the company about how he was the leader and they were just going to have to do what he said. My comment had been the truth but, in review, I also saw that I wasn’t going to be able to manage to save his life. I couldn’t even save my own life, except for the last few days, only because of the hand of God or blind luck.
Four loud and distinct “thups” echoed back and around the sunken area of the sandbank.
“Incoming,” shouts came in from all over.
I raced forward and grabbed the captain by his new jungle utility blouse. I dragged him, hopping and staggering, across the sand to the edge of the jungle near where Nguyen’s head had appeared. I punched both of us into the harsh sharpness of the wet leaves, bamboo and fern morass, stumbling over old downed branches not washed away in past floods. We hit the rough mat of broken painful foliage together, me on my right side and him on his back.
“About twenty seconds left,” I whispered into the eerie silence. I pressed down into the mess of vegetative matter, covering the back of my neck with my hands. I’d never received mortar fire before but I was terrified because of how close we had to still be to where the rounds were likely to impact. The only good thing about mortars was the extended flight time between hearing a launch until the round arced high, and then returned to earth. The seconds passed. I thought about the injustice of being in the field and getting hit every damned night, although this time it was before the night even came. I’d heard four distinct ‘thups.’ I waited for the four explosions that had to come.
The four came in, one after another, seemingly faster than the ‘thups’ had been when the rounds were launched from the tubes. It wasn’t like receiving artillery shells. The rounds only weighed in at about six pounds, instead of forty-five. The earth did not shake and debris was not tossed about to land like a great fiery rain of potential death, as had happened up atop the cliff. And then it was over. I let go of the captain and moved to a sitting position.
“I guess you were right,” Casey said, trying to get up and brushing himself off at the same time. “Like I said, you know your artillery.”
“That wasn’t artillery and no, you never said I knew my artillery, sir.”
The captain staggered to his feet, righted himself and departed back out onto the surface of the hard sand without further comment. I followed, with Nguyen appearing near my elbow. He looked at me quizzically and I read the message in his expression. If we went back on to the sand, then there would be more mortar fire to follow. I wondered in the back of my mind if there were marks on the surface of the sand like the ones he’d found up on the rock surface above. I increased my pace to a run.
The scene in the center of the sand would have been funny in an Oliver and Hardy film, because the tent had not been knocked down by a direct hit. Instead, the canvas had been torn into strips that blew about in the mild wind sweeping down from further up in the valley. Two corpsmen worked on a body lying on the bottom remains of the tent. Dread overcame me, as I approached, hoping against hope it wasn’t Fusner or the Gunny. Fusner had not followed my move to rush Casey out of harm’s way. He’d gone in a different direction. The call of “incoming” was always greeted with a fair bit of panic, so everyone had run everywhere to find cover.
“Pull up the canvas and get him off the target,” I said, wondering when we’d hear the sounds of mortars being launched again.
“You heard Junior,” the Gunny chimed in, leaning into what was left of the inside of the tent.
“No need,” one of the corpsmen said, “he’s gone.”
“Into the bush,” I ordered both corpsmen. I didn’t have to look. I knew who it was. Billings had dived into the tent for protection instead of running for the cover of the jungle. His body was there, but I knew it wasn’t shaped the way it was supposed to be shaped.
Casey stood behind me, looking down at his executive officer, saying nothing. The corpsmen moved off, pulling the I.V. they’d started and wrapping it up as they went. I took Casey by one arm and began walking him toward the jungle we’d come out of. The Gunny followed.
“We’re going to need more officers,” Casey said, his voice muffled and low.
“Yes, sir,” I responded, guiding him to the trunk of a large tree about twenty feet into the bracken. I helped him seat himself on the back side of the trunk for maximum cover. Pilson appeared out of the jungle to join him.
“Down,” the Gunny yelled, his order coming less than a second following another mortar launch.
I plunged to the jungle mat once more, face down, my mind unable to get the image of Billings’ torn apart body out. I closed my eyes. It was only one round. This time I knew from placing the sound of the launch that it had come from somewhere upriver. The explosion was no surprise, in either timing, amount of sound or where it struck, which was almost exactly where the others had come down only a few minutes earlier. One round, following four, meant that two things were occurring. The first was that the enemy didn’t have an observer nearby, so the mortar itself was probably a mile or less away. The second was that the mortar team didn’t have much ammo or the second volley would have been greater than the first, and it would have included some adjustment around the registration point to maximize casualties. None of that had happened.
I stood up and moved to the edge of the clearing. The remains of the tent canvas smoked, but there was no more damage that could be done to Billings that mattered. I turned to look at Fusner. The rest of the team had found him and gathered around and down, waiting for more fire. I crunched and slushed through the bracken to my pack and retrieved my binoculars, before turning around.
I stood at the edge of the sand clearing and stared up along the river. Both banks of the slowly moving water were about four or five feet high, and fairly flat. Low jungle growth covered these ‘plateaus’ of land until the areas began to ease upward toward the canyon walls. The left, or east, canyon wall was a long distance away, that section of land climbing up all the way to an escarpment. Beyond that everything else was covered with huge trees and isolated giant boulders along the way. I pulled out my map. The fire had to come from that area. Either we sent a couple of squad or platoon-sized patrols in that direction to drive the mortar team back or attack it. But there was no way to tell if that enemy mortar team was attached to a major military unit or not. We did not have the strength to back up a patrol in trouble, unless Kilo and Mike companies were headed upriver behind us.
I went back to Captain Casey and asked him about the movement of the other companies in the battalion, but it was useless.
The man had to recover. Battalion was not going to tell us where the other companies were unless we needed support because we were under attack. We’d been attacked but it was over, at least for the time being. I called Americal at Cunningham on the arty net.
After a short discussion, I knew the call was fruitless when it came to putting down artillery on any target. There was no target. Even though Cunningham had the capability to use high angle fire to reach many parts of the lower valley it did not have the ammunition assets to blindly zone fire up and down an area the size of Cleveland.
“What about air?” the Cunningham battery X-O asked.
My mind immediately went to Cowboy. If he was somewhere around in his Skyraider then he might be able to see fairly well through the lower thinner parts of the jungle.
“What’s up there right now?” I asked, hoping the X-O knew something I didn’t.
“There’s a gunship rotating out of Hue airfield looking for work I heard,” he answered. “Give me your position and I’ll fill him in so he doesn’t dust you.”
I read out our real position, repeating it twice. We’d lost Billings, our second officer in twenty-four hours, and I hadn’t checked or heard yet if anybody else had been hit by the mortar fire.
“Okay,” the X-O said. “I reached him. You can come up on the air net and he should be around in about half an hour. He said he’ll cruise down the valley toward your position, do a flyover, and then look for targets of opportunity upriver from you. He goes by the call sign Beowulf.”
I went to Fusner and had him bring the air radio up, although there was no traffic on it.
The Gunny was down by the side of a bamboo stand, having cleared a small area with his E-Tool and brewing a canteen holder of coffee.
I joined him, although passed on the inhaling from his already lit cigarette.
“What was in those boots?” I asked him, “because it sure as hell wasn’t oil.”
“Mosquito repellant,” he replied, in a tone like everyone put repellant in their boots. “Makes the sensitive wet skin form boils after a few days. Used by some of the guys in trying to get shipped to the rear.”
I heard a propeller airplane in the distance before my water was hot. I tossed the water, and put my canteen outfit back together. “Gunship coming in,” I said. “We take any other casualties?”
“Only the useless lieutenant,” the Gunny replied, blowing smoke into the bamboo stand to watch it rise among the stalks.
His tone was hard and calloused, which I expected, but also didn’t in some way. Billings had been useless but he’d also not been given a chance, like Keating. I couldn’t figure out why the Gunny had given me a chance, and I wasn’t going to ask.
The light was beginning to go when the plane came flying over. It was a big supply plane, the kind that flew in and out of airports all the way from the states. What help it was going to be I could not figure out.
All of a sudden some of the Marines were running into the flat sand area that had been mortared. They were waving and yelling up at the plane as it flew over. The plane waggled its wings twice, then banked steeply, and flew back over a bit lower, before heading upriver.
I called up Beowulf on the air radio, feeling strange. What kind of radio name was Beowulf? The man who replied indicated that they had some activity about a mile upriver and in toward the far escarpment.
I didn’t know what to reply except “Roger.” The man in the plane was another southerner with a heavy accent. He’d referred to the company as “you boys down there,” in the most drawling of accents.

The Douglas AC-47 Spooky (also nicknamed “Puff, the Magic Dragon”) was the first in a series of gunships developed by the United States Air Force during the Vietnam War. More firepower than could be provided by light and medium ground-attack aircraft was thought to be needed in some situations when ground forces called for close air support.
I watched the big plane bank and begin to slowly turn toward the embankment. The side of the plane suddenly lit up, and a huge tongue of fire spit out from the side. The tongue lashed down, and then seemed to gently sweep back and forth over the jungle below. The roar that followed was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Like a trumpet section of an orchestra combined with that of an approaching train. It was wonderful and horrible at the same time. The tongue of fire continued to sweep around and down for half a minute before the plane abruptly pulled up and banked back toward the way it’d come.
“A little quiet in your valley down there, boys,” the aircraft voice said.
“What in hell was that?” I whispered to Fusner.
“That’s why the guys were all yelling and cheering,” Fusner replied. “Everyone loves Puff, but at the same time they want to make sure it never shoots at them.”
“Puff?” I asked, having heard the name vaguely.
“Puff the Magic Dragon, like in the song,” Fusner said, laughing. “Only the second time I’ve seen it. You never forget. I wonder what it’s like down there where all those rotary machine gun rounds went. Thousands and thousands of them. You can only see the tracer rounds, as the dragon spits fire, and tracers are only one in five rounds, of those fired.”
I walked back over to the bamboo stand the Gunny was still crouched under.
He’d pulled out another cigarette and was lighting it. I stopped to finish a thought. I finally got it about Beowulf being Puff’s call sign. It was the dragon thing.
“Quite something, that Puff, eh?” he smiled.
I wondered if I would ever be able to disassociate the gunship with the song, if I lived long enough to hear the song back in the real world.
“Find somebody to clean out the captain’s boots, and he’ll need some new socks too,” I said, looking twenty feet away, where the company commander still sat with his back against the tree trunk as Pilson, Jurgens and Rittenhouse gathered at his side.
“He’s an FNG shithead,” I said, taking a single puff from his offered cigarette, “but he’s our FNG shithead.”
Jim, couple suggestions for easier reading, Welcome home. Dave.
As I approached, it looked () nothing more than a bullseye in the middle of a large target. => add (like)
… here the company commander still sat with his back against the tree trunk as Pilson, Jurgens and Rittenhouse gathered by at his side. => by at, either word could be deleted.
Corrected, thanks
Semper fi,
Jim
That is what you get out of this story. A chance to edit someone’s writing?
Matthew,
We always appreciate reader input and Dave has been very helpful.
Semper fi
Jim
I’ve read three or maybe its five ,six story’s now, not sure how long I past by the site before I tried reading first couple I never finished , to much flooding my mind , Oh my the things I did not realize I remembered ,unnerving for a few days but I was curious so forced myself to read some more glad I did ,thanks and keep up the good righting Bro.
Thank you Bill, for working at it. I just lay it out day by day and night by night.
I have no plan or goal here other than to simply tell the story within parameters
as close to reality as it was. My wife corrects me sometimes because she’s heard bits
and pieces over the years. She reads the first draft and then says, “hey, that’s
not the way it was!” I pay attention and try to figure out what I told her and what I
am thinking in writing the story. Thanks for that work you are doing to absorb all this.
Makes me think it’s not just an old vet blathering away for free beers.
Semper fi,
Jim
“He’s an FNG shithead,” I said, taking a single puff from his offered cigarette, “but he’s our FNG shithead.”
With that comment, it seems to me that you “Became” a leader/commander. I look forward to watching how “Casey” grows or fails.
Thanks for this read.
P.s. I guessed correctly on the “mosquito boot dressing”. A stunt I knew nothing about until reading “The first 10 days”
The Gunny knew all about that stuff. How anyone ever figured out that putting
repellant in boots formed lesions and boils I have no idea, or why it did.
Stuff out there is discovered that boggles your mind back in the ‘real’ world.
Thanks for your conclusions, your comments and your support..
Semper fi,
Jim
Outstanding as usual! Had Puff work out for us. A few times, insane firepower. A POW told us they were told to lean into the rounds to avoid being hit 😀 Guess that didn’t work out so well. S/F
Puff wasn’t infallible because of the canopy. But man did it lay down the rounds
and scare the shit out of everyone even if they weren’t inside the beaten zone.
Thanks for the straight shooting comment and your support here…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jeurgens had to know the Captain’s tent was in a bad spot. Intentional?
Jurgens was real special when it came to
playing the game. Almost a match for the Gunny, but not
quite, thank God! Thanks for noticing and thanks for coming on here to say something.
Semper fi,
Jim
I’ve written you before; as always, great writing. That clip of Peter,Paul and Mary reminded me, so thought I’d share a YouTube video of them in a 2005 Christmas concert.
https://youtu.be/Qu_rItLPTXc
Thanks for the link Ed!!! Love that song to this day. Don’t know why
I really love it so as I should be one t shy away from it. But my roots run
deep back to the Nam and back to the corps. And Puff. And all of that.
Semper fi,
Jim
Each new chapter is as good or better than the next. It is raw and pungent and I can’t wait for the next chapter. I was in Nha Trang in 1965, a REMF but I don’t miss it. I have lots of respect for you grunts. We had the LRPs training there and the 5th SF was also there. You bring to life the blood and bullshit the grunts endured. Keep them coming.
Thanks Douglas. I shall be working on the next segment today.
Thanks for the encouragement.
Semper fi,
Jim
First of all, I will own this book, and share it with my family, all readers. As a son of a Vietnam Vet, and having been in a later conflict, I am awed not only by this story, but by all the people who have written in with their comments. You all are really awesome people, and so eloquent, more than I could hope to be. The book is truly great, but I also read the comments with real respect and complete interest!
I could not agree more about the comments and I stay up at night
to answer them…because the quality and the intent of the writers simply
demand to be recognized. I don’t know how to thank them and you except to
continue on with story…
Semper fi,
Jim
I find it remarkable that a Captain in the Usmc could be given command of a company and have nothing but shit for brains. You would think he’d of had previous experience as a platoon commander first. It’s a shame pitching that tent was a teffiffic market as you noted, damn near baited them into firing you up in the day time, a shame a man was killed because neither had any experience or common sense. The more I read the less faith I have in the USMC, I always thought we had out shit together, sounds like I’m wrong. I mean bug juice in his boots ? Great job as always.
The Marine Corps does have its shit together. It did back then too.
You will note that the enemy did not fare very well against us.
That we had internal problems goes without saying here. But some units
got hung out to dry. Not the fault of the corps. The good leaders cannot be
everywhere. The battalion commander was bad. And there you go.
thanks for the comment and the reading, of course.
Semper fi,
Jim
When you were coming down the cliff did you see any enemy bodies that fell down it? When i read the comments it is with wet eyes.gonna make it harder to shake a hand. I didn’t know until your accouts of how much of the battles happened at night. I spent a year reading about the Paris peace talks and after a year all they had decided was the seating arrangement. It pissed me off so bad I thought everyone concerned should be drug out and have a bullit in the head. My wife worked in a ordinance plant building primers for bombs. She lost a real good friend to a land mine and was part of the ones that sent baked goods over
I share all the episodes hoping it will help someone, will buy some books when they come out.
Can’t thank you enough, on behalf of a lot of the guys out here and there.
It was a strange time that caused a gaping alienation to be wedged in between
some really decent people back home and the guys and gals they sent out
there to protect them. thanks for caring and reading and comment about it here.
Semper fi,
Jim
I remember reading a novel about this in high school. The name was “The Gooney Bird” by William C. Anderson
Yes, I believe that was a short novel about the C-130 but I don’t really recall
that well. Thanks for that tidbit though.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I was in in 68 – 70 but by the grace of God stationed in Ft. Riley, KS for all but a three month war game trip to Germany. I was given a choice when I got to KS w/a Nike Hercules tech MOS of infantry or MP. So after my visit to Germany I spent the rest of my time dealing with the souls returning from Nam to finish out their time in KS. They were good men, some of them were messed up mentally and others on drugs, I did what I could to keep them from being discharged before their time was up, even if they all hated me once they learned I was an MP. Nam was the first conflict (never a declared war) to be run by the Politicians and screwed royally. Much as Iraq was when Obama pulled everyone out and let it slip into Radical Islam. Bless You My Brothers
Presidents and upper members of the Military seldom get this jobs because of
past performance and many lead us into wars without any war experience whatever.
But they think they know. Common human trait. The only inexperienced ‘think’ comment
I ever really understood I never heard: “I think I know I’m dead.” Forget questions
I needed men who knew how to listen. Hard to find in combat and back here.
Semper fi,
Jim
Early on, Puff and DUSTOFF were about the only aircraft in the air at night. came to our aid more than once by strafing enemy areas as we attempted rescue of injuried troops.
Magic dragon provided as much psychological lift as it did destruction to enemy positions.
You’ll hear from Puff again as this saga goes on…
Semper fi,
Jim
I saw spooky a few times at AnLoc and Quan Loi. His call sign at An Loc was “Big Daddy” and ours was “Tarzan Cages”. I remember him dropping the parachute flares and how the shadows moved as the flares swung back and forth.Seeing the enemy in that moving lite was particularly unnerving. I saw some parking lot lites years ago that had the same orange color and it sparked memories.
Hated those parachutes swings. They made the enemy, when you did see them,
sort of super human. Agree with you entirely.
Thanks for that truth that could only come from bitter experience.
Flares in combat don’t work, or didn’t, worth a damn.
Semper fi,
Jim
we were spared three time from the enemy because of Puff, a very welcome sight never to be forgotten, tracer rounds were a steady flow streaming down on a large target, needless to say we never had another issue from the enemy again in each area they hit, it was always a pleasure to see them arrive in the evening sky, Gary a Puchett 7th ENG, BAT 1st Marine Div, Heavy G, USMC
Thanks for the comment and the experience with Puff. You own is a lot like
the rest of ours. I have never had one comment that didn’t say good things about that weapon of war.
You too. Me too.
Semper fi,
Jim
Love your story, Jim. I was not a grunt, but an Army engineer. Was in VN 3/71-1/72 on a company compound 60 m NE of Long Binh. For more than a month we were surrounded by 2 BN’s of NVA. Every night arty was dropped around us (105’s & 155’s) from FB Nancy 3 miles away, alternating with Spooky gunships. I try to describe the Spooky’s firepower to people, but if you haven’t seen it, you can’t really grasp it. Keep up the good work-can’t wait to get the book! Jeff Snyder, C Co, 169 Eng Bn, FSB “Rock”, ’71.