I awoke in darkness, bringing up my Gus Grissom watch more for the tiny bit of illumination emanating out through the crystal than to see what time it was. I quickly oriented myself to where I was and how I’d come to be there. I heard the wind and river sounds wafting by the entrance to the cave. I breathed deeply in and out, gently sitting up and pulling away from Fusner, who’d apparently slept next to me unmoving through the night, or at least until five a.m., which it was. I remembered that Gunny said he was going downriver to pick up the remaining Kilo bodies just before dark the night before. I hadn’t heard anything since quieting Fusner’s crying and falling unconscious myself. I blinked my eyes rapidly. I felt vital, alive and so filled with an energy I wanted to get up and move about. I needed food and water, and I needed to get out of the cave. I hadn’t heard the CH-46 leaving or return, if it had returned. I’d heard nothing, and that fact was hard to believe since my nineteenth night had been the first I’d truly slept through since I’d been in Vietnam.
I almost whispered behind me to wake Stevens but then remembered he was dead. Zippo was there but I decided to let him sleep as long as possible, and Fusner too. The boy had shown me his age and how much he was holding inside himself. Why I had thought of him as a stoically tough figure I didn’t know, but I had. That he was just another young scared kid bothered me, although I knew it shouldn’t. My job, not his, entailed being the stoically tough figure, and I had to get better at playing that role.
I rolled away from Fusner onto my stomach and crawled prone toward the opening to the outside. I felt the sandy muddy loam of the cave bottom. I felt for leeches like I was searching with my fingers for tiny landmines, but there were none that I could feel or find in the dark. I ran into my helmet and put it on. I knew my pack was somewhere behind me, and inside of it was a box of C-Rations, but I wasn’t going to disturb Zippo and Fusner just for a bite or a drink. I could wait. I stuck my head outside. A bare glimmer of light illuminated the river in front of me and Nguyen’s shiny poncho-covered side. He’d wrapped himself inside a cover against the rain, but he’d stayed right where he’d been when I entered the cave earlier. I wondered if it would be possible to take Nguyen home if I made it back to the world. I smiled ruefully about how great it would be to have the silent Montagnard at my right hand, at my beck and call, around my friends and family, and maybe let him out if some angry motorist wanted to mix it up. But the smile rapidly faded with the reality of the wind, rain and fetid heat penetrating my current reality. If I made it another week and a day then I’d only have a year in the A Shau Valley left to serve. I would have laughed out loud but I couldn’t dredge up any real appreciation for that kind of humor.
I reached behind me and fumbled around until I came into contact with my poncho cover. I’d learned enough to know that poncho covers were dangerous in the night, if it was raining and the slightest bit of light. The rubber surface of the cover would begin to sparkle like Christmas tree tinsel. There could be no threat directly across the river, however, because the cliff face came straight down to enter the rushing water. What was positioned in the highlands above was lost in the wet misery of low cloud cover, invisible at this hour of the early morning.
I moved past Nguyen on hands and knees until I found a flat place to stand, where I could grab the bank for support. The sandy mud wasn’t slippery, except in a few places. I moved slowly. I didn’t want to collapse the bank and fall into the passing water. Nguyen would probably save me but the embarrassment wouldn’t be worth it. I leaned back toward Nguyen.
“Gunny?” I whispered.
Nguyen nodded his head and then used it to motion back over his shoulder up toward where the edge of the tarmac stuck out a bit from the berm.
I was relieved. The motion meant that the Gunny was either back or hadn’t gone at all. Either way, he was nearby, which meant he’d be found in only one place. Where the Ontos was. It would be dry as a bone underneath and the little armored monster wouldn’t sink down on him in the mud because it was set on the concrete not far from the cave.
The tarmac was uncomfortably open and flat, without any flora to provide cover or concealment. I decided not to crawl the hundred and fifty meters or so to the blotch of blackness that had to be the Ontos sitting there near the far wall of the valley. I climbed over the berm and ran, my boots sounding loud, making splashing rebounds at every footfall. I didn’t realize until I got close that I might be mistaken for an attacking enemy sapper.
“Stop,” I heard ahead of me, so I stopped dead, then went down to lay on my stomach in the puddled mess of cracked concrete.
“It’s Junior,” I said, into the darkness ahead.
“Proceed,” the voice said, and I knew it was the Gunny himself. No other enlisted person in the company would likely use that word.
I crawled under the hull at the front of the Ontos. The space was confined, with the armor slanting slightly above my head, Angling down from front to back, it was barely visible in the dark at all.
“What happened?” I asked, unable to wait for his report.
“Recovered the bodies without incident,” the Gunny replied. “Seven of them. They dropped us here about two hours back. You got some sleep.”
He pushed a can against my shoulder.
I grabbed the can, realizing it was a C-Ration container. Heavy. It had to be Ham and Mothers. I pulled my P-38 miniature can opener out from under my utility blouse. The can opener was the only thing on the chain other than one of my dog tags. I never took my dog tag off because it was the only thing I possessed that had my blood type on it. I gently opened the can, working the opener slowly around its upper lip, making sure not to cut myself on the sharp edges of the top.
I didn’t have utensils so I simply turned the cold can up and began letting the heavy grease and beans fall down my throat.
The Gunny pushed a canteen into me.
I drank deeply, and then finished the can of food as best I could, working to not cut my mouth on the sharp metal.
“You have something to say, I presume,” the Gunny said.
I could hear bodies behind the Gunny shifting to pay attention to him.
“Clews is going to call us up on the radio after dawn like he said and we’ve got about three hours to make time.”
“Make time?” the Gunny asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “when he calls the NVA will know we’re leaving to join him, because he’s not going to use code over the radio. He’s too new and he’s only got Johnson and Johnsen with him to advise.”
“Ah, yeah,” the Gunny replied, with a question mark in his tone.
“We’ll be a third of the way there if we leave now, in the dark. We’ve moved several times like that and we’ve never taken heavy casualties. They don’t expect us to move in the dark and they don’t much like it themselves.”
A full minute went by, and neither the Gunny nor anyone else said anything during that time.
“You expect us to be there tomorrow afternoon?” the Gunny asked.
“If we hustle. If the Ontos can make it all the way up the river on this side since we have no ability to cross the Bong Song. We can’t leave it and it’s our only mule for carrying the extra ammo, the new mortars and rest of the crap we appropriated.”
“Why?” The Gunny asked.
“Why what?” I replied, surprise in my voice.
“Why move fast?” the Gunny asked. “The outcome’s a given. We can fire and maneuver our way along at our own speed. Their situation’s done.”
I tried to see under the Ontos but it was too dark. I didn’t know who was there, but every Marine who was there was listening intently to our exchange. I wanted to talk to the Gunny alone but realized that he didn’t want to talk to me alone. He was speaking for the company and I was left in the position of selling to the company.
“We took their stuff,” I said, saying the words gently and not as an attack.
“We let ‘em go knowing they were going to an impossible position.”
I waited by the Gunny, but he didn’t reply.
“We went back for your dead,” I said, not wanting to say it. “We went back for Kilo’s dead. Those living Marines on that hill may make it through the day. We might save them if we hurry, and we’ll risk fewer casualties ourselves if we move now.”
“They’re mostly Army pogues, not Marines,” someone further back in the dark said.
I recognized the voice of Jurgens.
I wanted to kill the man so badly right then.
“We’ll be back under supporting fires, not just air,” I said, ignoring the combined forces nature of Clew’s unit. “I can call one of three firebases as we get close, and make any attack on us living hell for the NVA.”
“Doesn’t seem worth it,” Jurgens responded, still invisible in the dark.
I waited, and the slow dark seconds went by. The rain hit the Ontos and then rolled down the raised armor plate, and then over its rounded front fenders. The sheet flowed across my lower legs, but the space was so low under the thing I couldn’t pull my feet up any further to get them out of the way.
“They know,” I finally said, my voice as quiet as I could make it.
I knew the Gunny could hear me, even with the ever-present rush of the river’s water and the rain coming off the surface of the vehicle.
“What?” the Gunny asked.
I was taking a risk but I didn’t want to talk to Jurgens or any of the rest of them about the move. A decision had to be made and it could not be made by committee.
“They know we don’t do what they order us to do back at battalion,” I said, now speaking so every Marine under the Ontos could hear me. “They know we’re fucked up. I talked to battalion and once we reach Hill 975 all Kilo personnel will be flown out to the rear to regroup. We’ll stay in the field where they leave us because we’re fucked up. If we go get Clews, and those guys are still alive, then they’ll pull us out with Kilo and we’ll get time in the rear.”
“What?” the Gunny, Jurgens and a few others all said at the same time.
I waited. I was lying my ass off. I hadn’t talked to battalion and was hoping Tank wasn’t up on the command net where he might have known that, or any of the rest of them with Prick 25s. I didn’t know what battalion knew or thought and there was no order to pull Kilo out. I knew in my heart of hearts, however, that the company, battered and broken but not beaten, was at a crossroads. If we didn’t go to try to save Clews and the Special Forces guys we’d never make it as a unit no matter what the odds against us. Racial tensions and more would be as nothing if the unit lost its identity as a Marine company and Marine companies did not leave their men.
Not their dead, and never those alive and imperiled.
Jurgens lit a cigarette and I saw his face. His eyes met my own for the brief seconds of the flare and then through the pure yellow burn of his Zippo. My hand was already on my .45, and I wanted to shoot him right there, but the space was crammed with other Marines. I clicked off the safety as quietly as I could, remembering I hadn’t cleaned the weapon in too long. Was the barrel still clogged with mud? Would Tex’s more delicately made Colt even go off? The burn of the Zippo was gone and complete darkness returned. I knew where he was. If he said one more word to convince the Gunny and the others not to go I was going to draw and put five rounds where I knew him to be.
There was some murmuring from the Marines whispering among themselves. I waited. The Gunny had to speak and I wasn’t going to say another word until he did.
The Gunny lit his own cigarette. I saw that his body was only a few feet from my own. He lay on his stomach facing me, his elbows bracing himself up. He looked into my eyes across the light formed by the burning flame of his lighter. The light was gone then, like it had ended so quickly when Jurgens snapped his lighter shut. But my knotted insides, twisted in fear, settled almost instantly. I’d seen a very slight wisp of a smile on the Gunny’s face. He knew I was lying. He knew what I was doing. He knew he’d let Jurgens run off at the mouth because he didn’t want to go after Clews either. But somehow, I felt he was going to side with me.
The time passed. The rain stayed exactly as it was, as did the river noise. A slight wind picked up and gently laid into the sheet of water coming down off the Ontos, and the water’s flow moved all the way up my legs and onto my buttocks. It was almost cold. I didn’t move in the slightest. I could get my Colt out, but I’d have to roll slightly onto my left side to do so. The Gunny was almost directly between Jurgens and me, but if I recovered by rolling to my stomach before I squeezed off the first round, I’d miss him, although the supersonic shock wave of the bullet going by so close would be damaging in a way I couldn’t predict or do anything about.
“What’s this plan supposed to be called this time?” the Gunny said, his voice loud enough for everyone under the armored vehicle to hear.
I breathed out gently for many seconds, making certain I did so silently. I also waited a few more seconds to see if Jurgens was going to seal his own fate. I realized I didn’t want him to speak. I wanted to kill him but I didn’t want to kill him, at the same time, and I couldn’t understand how that could be. Each force within me was just as powerful as the other. I realized it was his call and I was waiting for him to make it. If he spoke, I would fire. But the Gunny had made his decision or he wouldn’t have asked me for the plan.
“The plan,” the Gunny said, his voice becoming a bit forceful. “We’re all waiting.”
“Little White Dove,” I said, knowing the Gunny must somehow have understood that Jurgens’ time on earth was very close to being over.
“Little White Dove?” a Marine said, quizzically, as if trying it out.
Then the other Marines began passing the phrase uncomfortably around among them.
“On the banks of the river stood running bear young Indian brave, on the other side of the river stood his lovely Indian maid,” I said, quoting exactly the lyrics of Running Bear, as I remembered them to be. I didn’t know what the men would think. It was the only thing that came to my mind when the Gunny had put me on the spot for a name. The water flowing down my ass. The river. Indian country. The song.
“Fucking ‘A’,” somebody said. “Little Fucking White Dove. Yes, let’s get some.”
Everyone under the Ontos began laughing quietly, myself included. I would not have to shoot Jurgens, and possibly hurt the Gunny.
“All right,” the Gunny said. “Smoking lamp is out. Get the supplies and heap ‘em up onto our little armored friend here. Saddle up, night move, we’re going up the river to save Lieutenant White Dove.”
I backed out from under the Ontos and into the rain. I hadn’t worn my poncho cover because I was afraid the reflection would shine all the way across and down the river. I hadn’t forgotten the sound of the fifty caliber the NVA had been briefly able to bring on line before our air support had come swooping in.
The Gunny followed me, while the rest of the men crawled out from under the back of the six-barreled beast.
“Battalion, huh?” he whispered, cupping his cigarette against the rain and slight wind. “What’re you going to tell them after 975 and we don’t get pulled out to the rear?”
“What are we going to tell them?” I countered, but the Gunny had gone silent.
“If we stayed here until morning there’d be hell to pay,” I replied, without going further into the lies I’d told. “Air support may or may not come back, but Stars and Stripes are gone, our special combined arms command is gone, and we’re likely to be left as sitting ducks. The NVA’s going to be pissed as hell, and they’ll be chasing us up north once they figure out we got our asses out of here. In three hours, we’ll have light. I can call in the 175s to dump tons of shit back down here and not long after that I’ll have three fire bases within range of their 105s without the steep cliffs to block them out.”
“You don’t have to lay it out,” the Gunny said, handing the cigarette across to me. “You got a gift, and you’re using it.”
I inhaled the smoke and it felt good for the first time since I’d started my strange form of the nearly universal habit.
“Thanks,” I replied, handing what was left of the cigarette back. “I’ll have the supporting fires tap dancing on our dance floor.”
“Nah,” the Gunny said, flicking the remains of the cigarette out onto the mud. “Yeah, you’re good at that. I mean listen…”
I frowned and held my head up. Finally, I pulled my helmet from my head to cut out the noise of the rain striking it. It took a few seconds to hear what the sound the Gunny was referring to. The Marines were quietly singing while they worked to haul the supplies. They were singing the song called ‘Running Bear’ that I had quoted the lyrics from.
“Getting that from them,” the Gunny said, “that’s your gift.”
I moved low and slow back toward the cave. Although the hole in the side of the river bank running back under the concrete of the old airfield tarmac was secure against just about any incoming fire, getting back and forth to the position itself had to be done while fully exposed to sniper fire from the jungle area downriver. Although that distance was almost half a mile, snipers had been known to make much longer shots on both sides. In the rain and dark it wasn’t likely but the crossing still made me nervous when I had to make it.
Nguyen was gone when I slipped over the side of the berm and slid down the bank. The river was rising even further with the onslaught of the steady monsoon rain. If it kept rising at its current rate the cave would be uninhabitable sometime during the next day. Fusner and Zippo were still sleeping. I roused them and got ready for the move. I was energized for the first time I could remember. The pack I strapped to my back felt light. I wished I had better boots but had forgotten to try to swap out with the Stars and Stripes guys, like I’d forgotten to ask them when and where their film would be shown back home, or why they hadn’t wanted any of our names or information.
By the time we reached the Ontos again it was starting to move. The vehicle was perfect in one more way. It was quiet. With the rain, river and wind there’d be no engine noise making its way downriver to the jungle.
Nguyen appeared around the edge of the armored vehicle. That I saw his slippery wet figure at all told me that dawn was not that far off. We needed to move and move fast. According to my map the area between the river and the west wall of the valley would quickly expand out from a mere hundred meters to more than a thousand. That open area wasn’t shown to be covered with jungle. According to the map it was covered with scrub, which meant it had to be left behind each time the river went over its banks and scoured the flat area clear. Using the river’s rising toward the cave entrance as my gauge, that meant that we had to get the Ontos and the company across that open area as fast as we could. Even only a foot of fast moving water sweeping across a mud flat would be impossible to cross unless atop the Ontos, and then there was the problem of its tracks bogging down.
I moved past the Ontos, expecting the rear armored doors to be closed, but they weren’t. The Gunny sat on the flat space of the thing’s floor with his feet dangling out the back. He jumped down at my approach.
“Ride,” he said, motioning toward me to get inside. “You’ll be able to see with the optics better than using your glasses. The crew loaded four flechettes and two HEAT rounds for range.”
Fusner stripped off his radio and pushed it inside before hopping aboard. He gave Zippo a hand. A crewman sat on the folding chair, talking through a hole in the metal wall. I realized he was talking to the driver located in the front of the vehicle. The driver could not see behind us. Nguyen climbed to the top of the Ontos and rode there, fully exposed to the rain and wind, as always. He looked down and our eyes engaged. I realized he’d been there in the dark with me earlier. I’d felt him, although I could not figure out how. It had been a good feeling.
Sugar Daddy came slogging through the darkness and mud, arriving as I was trying to climb through the open back doors. He grabbed me and threw me into Zippo’s waiting arms. Sugar Daddy made no attempt to climb into the now cramped space, however. I pushed against one hard metal wall but my arm ran over curved surfaces. The cabin was filled with extra live 106 rounds. I pulled back. Without being armed they weren’t supposed to be dangerous but their closeness made me uncomfortable.
“I need the eight black guys from Kilo,” Sugar Daddy said, slogging backwards, staying a few feet from the rear of the Ontos moving in the same direction. “I can’t take no FNGs and no more white guys. Just the way it’s gotta be.”
“So?” I asked.
The racial thing would not go away no matter what the circumstance, although there hadn’t been an internal killing inside the unit for several days that I knew about.
“We’re providing your rear-guard escort, the Gunny told us. He said to ask you if it was okay. I’m asking you.”
It was too dark to see the man’s eyes, or even his flat hat. The Gunny was shrugging off the responsibility and accountability again. But he’d supported me with the company when I’d needed him the most.
“Take ‘em,” I said. “I don’t like it and you know that.”
My tone reflected the anger I felt about being put into the position of having to decide something for which there was no decision to be made. I had no choice. And I didn’t like the spoken threat of having Sugar Daddy’s guys as our escort if I said no.
“We’re all Marines,” I said, petulantly, knowing any more comments could only hurt and not help me.
“This ain’t Quantico,” Sugar Daddy replied. “This here is the A Fucking Shau Valley, and I know you know that now. We gotta work it. It ain’t no free ride for nobody. We gotta work it as best we can. Like you do. Like we do. I need those black Marines.”
I would have agreed again but Sugar Daddy dropped away to the side of the slowly moving Ontos and was gone. I knew he and his men would be out there. I couldn’t kill him and Jurgens too. O’Brien was a nearly silent unknown force, like Nguyen, and Charlemagne was a complete unknown. And then there was my mystery corporal or buck sergeant commanding that last platoon I never seemed to run into.
The Ontos rocked and I jammed my back a little further inside until I was against the steel wall. I wouldn’t need the optics of the machine to stare through for at least a couple of hours. I thought about what Sugar Daddy said. I realized that his words were about the wisest words I’d heard put together since landing in country.
I pulled my boots in out of the rain and went to work stripping off my pack. I had a corner of the groaning little machine. It moved smoothly over the mud and debris with little fits and starts, but made good headway, always moving backward. The gunner, or whatever the crewman was, talked constantly to the driver.
“Zippo,” I said, “Break out the Starlight Scope and give the gunner a real set of eyes in guiding us along.”
I didn’t wait to watch him unpack the special instrument. Instead, I curled into a ball and pushed my way in among the 106 rounds I feared and closed my eyes. I thought to myself about Lieutenant Little White Dove and his two ‘Johnson’ officers. Johnson and Johnson was the name of a drug company.
I drifted off to sleep thinking that being named Junior by the Marines around me was a whole lot better than being called Little White Dove.
Running Bear
Johnny Preston
Your great saga continues, James – what a riveting tale it is. I was prime cannon fodder age in 1969, but blessed with a high draft number. Your story along with the Ken Burns series sadly confirms everything I suspected of that era. I recall being at a hockey game in 1973 when they announced “the Vietnam War is over!” The crowd stood and applauded; I sat totally pissed because I knew what a huge lie it was.
btw, here is a link to lots of info about the A Shau in case you’re interested. All my best, Ed.
https://www.cc.gatech.edu/~tpilsch/AirOps/AShau.html
thanks for that Ed and the stuf fon the A Shau too….
Whom would have thought back then that that valley would become synomnymous with
such death and dismemberment…
Semper fi,
Jim
Hey LT, Junior could call up some Marine 4 duece mortars to overcome the cliff obstacles. There were two guns on hill 425. 1/11 W/Y battery.
Yes, the 4.2 mortars were a wonder when you needed high angle fire, and deadly accurate in the hands of those trained gunners.
Thanks for the imput and hilll 425 playes a role….and you must have been there to know…
Semper fi,
Jim
Dear Sir, Thank you for telling your story.
Back in the nineties there was a bunch of us that got together several times a year for a fishing trip up the mountains. One of the guys served in Vietnam, he never talked about it, I never asked. He found out my father was a Marine in Korea and we hit it off. One morning we were in the bar for breakfast, I asked a question about a TV show on Vietnam, I don’t know if it the numerous vodka and OJ he consumed for breakfast everyday or what, but I got the next half hour of his Vietnam experience in all it’s gory detail. It was so chilling I could not believe it. Now your story confirms what he was telling me. He said he was in a unit referred to as the walking dead due to the casualty rate. He was there 68-69. He said he was in the A-Shaw valley and Dewey canyon.
Unfortunately he now resides in the mental ward of a VA hospital.
We need to know the truth. Thanks again for your efforts. God Bless.
Yes, the guys who made it back…didn’t really.
Most of us who came back were ‘repackaged’ by that valley like theGunny said earlier in my tour.
I didn’t come home as me. I look at those pictures of me in college and before.
I smile to myself. That kid had no clue…and that was good.
I have regained so much of my humor and positive outlook
on life itself but that kid, he had that in spades.
The A Shau gobbled him up in a matter of days…
Semper fi,
JIm
We all lose our innocence one way or the other and usually sooner then later. That is a lesson in life which we must learn, in order for us to be able to discern good from evil. Those of us who bare the burden of extreme evil, are and should be the teachers of those who are unaware of what evil truly is.
This is what you are teaching, when it comes to exposing the evils of war. War is never glorious in the sense that it kills and destroys our fellow human beings. The only glory that one might celebrate from war, is ending the evil perpetrated on mankind, by an aggressor nation. We will never see peace on earth, until we see the end of all wars and mankind adopts the idea of live and let live.
The truth, as written by J. Yes, on every point Mr. Wisdom….
Semper fi,
Jim
one of the most gratifing memories was when we brought everyone out of Kae-son,crewed h-53’s some really good times and some of the worst times
I remember when those guys all came out of there, against all odds. The French were not so lucky.
I did not know they all flew out on 53s thought. Great birds thos huge wonderful mothers.
Thanks for the comment and your own history…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim…I’m no combat veteran. I just served and did what was asked of me. BUT..one line speaks all…”You got a gift and you are using it…just listen to them..”
If you don’t know it and haven’t realized it….You are what a leader is and should be…Our nation would be at a great loss without people like you….Thanks…
Thanks Charlie, I guess the role is a bit tougher to see fron the inside out.
Thanks for the compliment in your writing and putting it up on here in public.
Semper fi,
Jim
I look forward to each and every installment. I just wanted to say that the Gus Grissom references are pretty neat, as his birthplace is 9 miles from mine. He died a year before I was born, so I never got to meet the man, but he was definitely a hero to every child that grew up in Lawrence County, Indiana. Keep up the good work.
Yes, I love everything I have come to know about Gus. Needless to say, when I got home
I took to his memory and history as closely as I could when I came home and over the yeers.
Thanks for the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
There were two types of ham and mother’s when I first went in. The original was ham and Lima beans and I loved em! The second was a ham and eggs loaf in a can, the nastiest sponge you ever chewed on. No amount of tobasco sauce could make em eatable! I would eat everything else in the box and throw them away. Before I got out they were transitioning to MRE’s. I wasn’t a big fan! The new ones my son bring home to me aren’t bad but I still prefer the C- rats! Semper Fi!!!
Never got the loaf variety, although heard about it later in the hospital.
MRE’s I’ve tried and they’ll get you by, but that’s about it. The old C-rations
offered real food no matter how processed and the food packed real punch too.
Along with the cigarettes, no less. All the boxes lacked was a small can of Pabst
or Blatz.
Semper fi,
Jim
Evening Jim, LOL, You survived on Ham and Mothers, I survived on Ham and Green Eggs, or as it said on the boxes, Ham and Eggs Chopped Water Added….. The saving grace was the cheese wiz that came with them, I would heat them up with a little JP-4, melt the cheese, and pour it all over the green eggs and ham, I was never at a loss for something to eat, always had about a dozen of them stuffed in the storage …….. The joys of C-rat cuisine, I wish I could find some again and see if they still taste as good as I remember them? To each their own……
Semper Fi/This We Will Defend. Bob.
My second favorite and yes, you can find them on Ebay but the risk is fairly high that
they’ve gone bad. The cans they used back then were not made real well, and most have rusted through.
The only way to know if the stuff has gone bad is to eat it…and I won’t go that far!
Semper fi,
Jim
“This aint Quantico” So much said in so few words.
It was funny that some of the enlisted Marines, who’d likely never been to Quantico, knew it so well
as the sort of heart and soul of Marine leadership.
Thanks for the excerpted comment….
Semper fi,
Jim
Excellent as usual.
“Running Bear dove in the water, Little White Dove did the same. And they swam out toward each other, through the swirling stream they came. As their hands touched, and their lips met, the raging river pulled them down. Now they’ll always be together, in their Happy hunting ground.” Hopefully this is not a portent of things to come….
Oh man, you had to go into the other lyrics. The song was always kind of dumb on lyrics but the music itself was so
addictive….and home…
Semper fi,
Jim
LT. Jim, caught some of a TV documentary on the experiences of some Vietnam soldiers who served “in country” like you did. Even after multiple decades passing since their service to their country, most related how they had battled (or were still battling) war-related demons of their combat experiences in Vietnam.
Someone on the show said [paraphrasing]…”…even though they brought a soldier home and out of the country (Vietnam), they could never seem to take the country [Vietnam experiences] out of the soldier.” I though of you and your men under your command…God Bless, Sir. Still thoroughly enjoying every segment you put up and anxiously await each new one…keep on keeping on…
Thanks fo the great comment Walt and the compliment inherent in the words.
Much appreicate you making thes comments on here where everyone can see them too….
Semper fi,
Jim
Ham and mothers are to you what spinach is to Popeye. Semper Fi LT.
That was very true, and I would eat them today if they still made the mix.
You can’t eat the old C-Rations because the cans have all gone to hell.
I tried ordering off Ebay!
Semper fi,
Jim
Great reading. Brings back plesant on not so plesant memories. Got a little confused in reading middle chapters of second 10 days. You refer to Stevens but then you referred to Stephens? in the middle Are they one in the same? Maybe need an edit?
Al, E Co 2nd Bn 9thMar. ‘Feb66-Mar67
Yes, clerical error by the chief clerk…that would be me! Thanks for picking it up so I can correct it.
Or Chuck, who is better at it.
Thanks for the help, and the neat compliment…
Semper fi,
Jim
We are so fortunate to have such sharp readers……
Found the “Stephens” and believe all are corrected.
Thanks, Al.
Thanks for your sharp reading eye, Al
I think we have the “Stephens” problem corrected.
Thanks again.
Dear Sir,
I am just blown away by this story, your writing and most importantly you and your men. I recently watched Ken Burns Vietnam and there was a quote that Vincent Okamoto gave about his men. “They didn’t have escape routes that the elite, the wealthy and the privileged had. And that was unfair. And so they looked upon military service as..like the weather. You had to go in and you do it. But to see these kids who had the least to gain, there wasn’t anything to look forward to, they weren’t going to be rewarded for their service in Vietnam. And yet their infinite patience, their loyalty to each other, their courage under fire was truly phenomenal. And you would ask yourself, how does America produce young men like this?” God bless you sir and all of the men that did what they had to do.
There was no question that the collection of men and boys was something indeed.
Surprises all the way around. They never failed in the missions but they were failed all the time
by piss poor leadership…
Semper fi, and thanks for the compliment written into your words…
Jim
Still here and reading. Haven’t sent any emails as I figure you are getting ready to soon wrap up the Second 10 Days and are pretty occupied, but we will get back on track soon. I can just see Nguyen standing to the back and side of you at the Thursday morning meeting at Geneva Java, and everyone there nervously looking at him if they are disagreeing with you. One note on Tex’s .45. The custom .45’s are not fragile, they are just more precisely made, with less clearance that the normal government model, and thus could more likely jam from mud and dirt. However, my Colt National Match has never shown that tendency, and has never jammed except when the firing pin stop had to be replaced. I, too, anxiously await the next chapter, and check almost daily.
You are correct Joe, about the Colt. Never had one fail, there or back here.
Never had a failure to fire either, which speaks to the outstanding U.S. ammunition then and now.
Glad you came to visit and really complimented by that effort. Thank you so much.
Semper fi, your friend,
Jim
Your story continues to keep me drawn in. Not looking forward to its ending, but every story has one. Will this be the real end of the story? When finished, provide an epilog giving us what followed with your time in the Corp.
The series will end and the book following will be about getting out of the Corps at that time and then
the books that follow that will be about going to work for President Nixon on the Nixon estate in San Clemente.
I was a long way from being done with my wild life when I got out of the Corps.
Semper fi, and thanks for asking and wanting more.
Jim
Am continually fascinated by the by-play on going between you and the Gunny Lt. At every seemingly critical juncture it appears that you both come to the same conclusions from different angles. Symbiotic relationship is the term which comes to mind. Can’t decide whether it’s deliberate in your writing or something that has just developed over time. Which ever, as I said, fascinating!
It was a complex and fascinating relationship, especially in retrospect. Living it was a bit more hairy and problematic.
Thanks for the compliment and for writing it here in public…
Semmper fi,
Jim
Praying for others is always acceptable to the Big Guy up there! Putting others before yourself, is the primary lesson in life here on earth.
Thanks J. So, today, I am praying for you. Happy Thanksgiving, my friend!!!
Semper fi,
Jim
Praying for others is always acceptable to the Big Guy up there!
Well okay. I shall do so for you this very minute. Don’t be upset if the roof comes down and lightening tries to find you
in the rubble though…
Semper fi, and God bless you,
Jim
James, if that were the case, you would no longer be around as your name has been constantly brought up before the Lord, by those of us who are less worthy then you think of yourself.
Bottom line, none of us are worthy, but He loves us all! If that were not the case, we would all be gone from this planet.
Your blessings are accepted and may they be returned several fold. Semper fi my friend.
Words of wisdom, as usual. I read. I think about the words. Thank you….
Semper fi,
Jim
Thank you Mr Strauss! I meet with the surgeon today! I look forward to every chapter! A thank you for this wonderful edge of your seat story and keep em coming!!!
Praying for you David…hope that’s acceptable to the Big Guy up there.
Thanks for the compliment. Means a lot.
Semper fi,
Jim
Spent my time, 1968-69, on a B52 base in the pacific. You have a talent that brings across what a mess the place in hell was. Thank you.
Correction: “Clews is going to call us up on the radio after dawn,” like he said. “We’ve got about three hours to make time.“ I don’t think you need the internal quote marks.
Thanks for being part of the editing team. Chuck will fix this tomorrow.
And thanks for the compliment…
Semper fi,
Jim
“Gift”, sounds like you finally proved yourself to the grunts. For what it’s worth, I only had one Lt. in S. Korea that earned it and he had to be a Nam vet, we went through several before him.
What you write let’s me compare my time with one of your grunts and it leaves me lacking. Pick any rifleman in any squad, he marched off to kick ass where ever needed while for most of my tour it was stay where you are and tell us (on the obscure chance) when the North jumps. Apples, oranges, luck of the draw, you got the shit, I got the toilet paper.
Thanks Walt, as usual, for the pithy neat comment. Always thinking, and always on top of things.
Thanks a lot for coming in like you do on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
I read some of these comments and I’m humbled. What could I possibly contribute that would add anything to the conversation? This story has become important to me in ways I didn’t anticipate. I think the reason for that is not just the obvious tension created by the A Shau itself, but the wonderful characters you’ve brought to life! From Nuygen to Sugar Daddy they come alive in your writing Jim. As always I look forward to the next chapter. Semper Fi!
You are most welcome Jack and it is a pleasure to know you and read your stuff on here.
The compliments inherent in your words do not miss me by any stretch…and sometimes that is what keeps me
going through the mess of this whole thing…
Semper fi,
Jim
Getting respect is the first sign of a good leader, gaining everyone’s respect is reaching the Great level , which you are heading for . Awesome read, thank you so much for sharing. Best thing I’ve read in do years !!!
What is respect? That’s a tough one in combat.
Things change at an elemental fear-based level.
Respect goes right out the window of harsh circumstance and then maybe comes back in later….
while still waiting to be defined.
Thanks for the terrific compliment…for which I give you my respect!
And appreciation, of course…
Semper fi,
Jim
Okay James…….here’s my first criticism of your entire work so far – where the HECK is the link to “Running Bear”? I LOVE THAT SONG! Okay okay……I’ll look it up myself.
Gary……
It was intended but pushed publish button too early.
Running Bear is now on site.
Thanks for your support.
Semper fi,
Jim
Your leadership is infectious. They are doing what you want thinking it was their idea. Your survival has become their ticket home. All of us just said “get some”. Your endurance had been incredible. Thank you.
Endurance. That was the word. Not spoken or even really thought of at the time.
I am reminded me of Shackleton in the Antarctic or even those sailors with Bligh sailing the world
all the way back to England in a lifeboat. Endurance. Bearing down and just going on, one step at a time,
in pain all the way…
Semper fi,
Jim
Oh darn ,I read it and know have wait for more, thanks for great reading enjoyed every bit of it!
Thanks for the compliment of wanting more and faster…
Spurs me ever onward…
Semper fi,
Jim
Excellent! Your gift given, given in service, as their muse.
I’m not sure if this needs an edit, yet in third paragraph Junior imagined taking Nguyen back home…”I smiled ruefully about how great it would be to have the silent Montagnard at my right hand, my beck and call,…” Should this be beck and call or beckoned call?
Thanks for this and for what’s coming!
Thank your Dennis for the compliment and the notice.
I made slight adjustment.
Semper fi,
Jim
“Beck and call” is correct.
(You can even Google it.)
Looking forward to each section. Thanks.
I was a tank platoon leader in the Army. Volunteered for VN, but they sent me to Texas.
Texas was just a tad better! Or so I hope.. Thanks for the compliment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Was a young boy, called himself Tom… his parents were killed because they would not support the north… would show up quite often,,, was my buddy,, one night during the monsoons we were pulled out of the bush and put on bridge guard , the VC/NVA had a PA system out in the trees somewhere.. taunting us,, they knew we were wet and haddent been supplied for a few days, so hungery.. telling us to come out and eat with them and other craft… by order Tom was to be put out of the parimiter at night,, but I had kept him with me under the poncho hootch that three of us on that hole watch had put togeather.. any way after s few arty calls in the location of where the speaker was little Tom told me he knew where the Bad guys were.. took him to the CP and he showed them on the map .. fire was called and there was some screeching and then the speaker went dead..no more taunting.. I wanted to adopet him and bring him home.. have often wondered how he is doing…hope he had a good life