Fusner whispered into my left ear before first light. I blinked rapidly, once again not aware of having slept, but nothing could explain the passage of time from one waking moment to the next. I shook my head. Maybe I did sleep. If so, then it didn’t resemble, even remotely, the sleep I’d enjoyed all of my life up until one week ago. I eased up to near vertical position and rubbed my mosquito bitten repellent covered face. I brought my hands down, wondering when we would have enough water for me to take another jungle shower. Maybe it would pour rain again and I could run around in the mud naked, scrubbing madly with one of the small white bars of sundry pack soap.
Fusner knelt only inches away, already wearing the Prick 25 on his back, its flat field antenna folded over several times looking like a sheaf of palm blades. The shadows moved around me. I hated the moving shadows. Anything could come out of them or be them. Light was my friend and darkness, a tool of the enemy. I looked around me until I could get my bearings and overcome the night terrors. I breathed deeply in and out. The darkness had one good feature. Nobody could see me clearly, either — that I was busy being too afraid to be an officer, much less the company commander.
“On the seventh day God rested,” I whispered, my left hand going to my thigh pocket to feel my letter home.
“Sir?”
I could make out Fusner’s young face hanging in the air only a few feet in front of me, his eyes big, round and somehow still filled with innocence.
“On the seventh day God created Fusner.”
“Oh, okay, sir” he replied.
I liked being called sir, even if my radioman was the only one who would use the word.
“Army’s coming in, sir,” Fusner whispered, as if warning me of the arrival of some devilish witch.
“What army?”
“On the net. I can get Army command,” Fusner replied. “I can hear the Hundred and First on their frequency, if nothing else is going on.”
I pictured Fusner up all night listening to whatever he could find on the small powerful radio that didn’t work nearly as well as the little transistors most of the men carried. That a multi-thousand-dollar radio rig, big as a suitcase, could be outperformed by a tiny cheap transistor job confounded me. The little radios invariably picked up both Da Nang transmissions and Brother John’s down in Nha Trang, hundreds of miles away.
“What army’s coming?” I asked with a frown.
“The 101st Screaming Eagles Army Airborne are on our right flank, over the hill on the other side, I think,” Fusner replied. “The Army guy running that company over there’s coming to see you, or the Gunny, or somebody here.”
I didn’t know what to say. A real officer, even if from a different service, coming here? That was big news to me. Would he know what was going on? Did he have similar problems? Did his company suffer horrid casualties? Were racial problems plaguing his unit, too? Did he carry morphine?
“Do we need to acknowledge, or what?” I asked,
“No, sir, I don’t think so,” Fusner replied. “Razzy, the radio guy over there, said his CO was coming over the hill at first light. I said it was okay, sir.”
“You said it was okay,” I replied. “God has spoken. Well, somebody ought to alert the perimeter. Isn’t there a pass code or secret sign to get through the line?”
Fusner started to laugh, but stopped when I glared at him.
“No, sir, no sign. It’s kinda easy to spot the gooks when you can see them at all, and so far none have tried to get inside the perimeter by asking.”
Another combat joke, I presumed, at my expense. I decided to get ready for the big event. I shaved, using the last of my water supply. The choppers were due in just after dawn, although if the open poisoned area was hot they probably would not land. I didn’t care. There was no point in saving for a future, even one that appeared just up ahead in the day, when moment by moment there seemed so little chance of survival. Water would be a problem for later in the day, since nobody I’d seen had humped the big plastic containers up the trail. The coming dawn and crossing the clearing without being killed were problems that had to be handled much sooner than water issues.
The Gunny came across the mud mess between our hooches. Reverting to ape-hood, I smelled him before I could really see him. I hating the smelling. Soon I would be swinging from the low-hanging branches nearby.
“We’ve got a problem,” he began, squatting down and lighting a block of explosives with his Zippo.
I waited, but he said nothing more. Finally, I squatted down, tossing a packet of the Coca Cola coffee to him. I’d dug through the pack and found my small supply.
“Thank you,” The Gunny said formally, as if we were in some mess hall back in America.
When I couldn’t wait any longer to for him to tell me about this new problem, I spoke up. “Fusner heard that the Army on our flank is sending somebody over to see us at first light.”
“That’s great news,” the Gunny replied, his tone suddenly one of excitement. The first excitement I’d heard in his voice since I’d jumped from the chopper a week before.
“They’ll bring hot food. They always bring hot food. The men will go nuts. The Screaming Eagles. Great name for an outfit, isn’t it, even if it’s Army? Do you think eagles really scream in the wild?”
I sat on the edge of my poncho cover, a bit befuddled. The Gunny’s enthusiasm seemed so out of place. We had to cross almost a quarter mile of flat muddy open area where the enemy had to be encamped on the other side after dawn. We had no water to speak of, unless somebody had worked to haul it up, and our artillery was all but useless as an effective accurate means of fire support. We were about to get shot to pieces, and the Gunny was excited about maybe getting a hot meal. I decided to shut up and wait, sloshing what water I had left around in my canteen cover over the Gunny’s fire.
I thought about crossing the flat open area, wondering about the chances of the letter in my pocket ever making it home? In Basic School one of the best training officers had said; “Take care of the big things and the little things will go to shit.” I didn’t really understand what he’d meant at the time, and I wasn’t entirely sure now, but the letter in my pocket was a big thing. The little things would have to dribble on down or take care of themselves, unless the choppers didn’t show up.
“We got a blooper problem,” the Gunny finally said, sipping his steamy brew. How he drank it so boiling hot I had no idea but, it impressed me.
“Blooper?” I asked, knowing I should know but obviously didn’t.
“M Seventy Nine thing,” he said.
The M79 was a grenade launcher. A 40-millimeter, shotgun-like weapon that shoots spin-armed “balls” or small grenades. The weapons were 
issued one to a squad, which meant that the company had a bunch of them. I hadn’t noticed any Marines carrying them. In the Basic School they’d shown us the weapon and then demonstrated it but, since we were officers, we didn’t get to fire it because, well, we were officers. Some Marines thought the weapon was terrific and others found it an underpowered, slow-reloading and heavy piece of crap. It was hard to justify a grenade thrower used in a jungle where bamboo and other heavy growth were seldom more than a few yards away, and the “blooper” round, named that because of it’s strange blooping sound when it launched, didn’t arm itself until it was thirty meters from the end of the tube.
“We out of blooper ammo?” I asked, trying to prompt the Gunny to explain his situation.
“Nah, one of the guys from Fourth Platoon fired some rounds last night and a Marine from First Platoon got hit.”
I wanted to scream “no shit,” in the darkness around me. Bloopers did not have tracers that I knew of, so there was no way to know where rounds fired came from, or went. The race war inside the regular war went on, no matter what plans I implemented to stop it.
“Wounded or dead?” I asked, sipping my own tepid coffee.
“Sort of wounded,” the Gunny replied. I couldn’t see his shoulders actually move but I would have bet that he had shrugged when he said the words.
“Sort of ?” I asked, in surprise. “How in hell does someone get sort of wounded out here?
“Well, it seems that the round went through the air, probably armed itself, and when it came down it hit this guy’s soft tissue just above his collar bone, and then entered the area around his lung or somehow got down into his abdomen. That’s where the round is now. Inside him. The Marine seems fine though, except for some bleeding and breathing shit, but he’s got that live round in there.”
“I’d say he meets whatever standard we have for being wounded.”
“That’s funny, right?” the Gunny replied.
“I don’t see the problem,” I said, ignoring his comment. “Medevac him and let the aid station work it out. Since they were shooting at each other inside the perimeter, it’s likely the damned thing never got far enough to arm, anyway.”
“The problem is that Medevac won’t come if he has this live round in him. If it goes off in the chopper, then everyone aboard’s dead.”
“Screw it,” I said, “don’t tell ‘em. This is a game of risk. Lousy risk. They signed on just like we did.”
“Pilson told them when he called for the chopper,” the Gunny murmured softly so Fusner, sitting by like a bird of prey, didn’t hear. “Even the resupply won’t come,” he finished, his voice trailing off. He took another swig of his coffee.
So here it is again, I thought. The company commander, but not the company commander. I get the ability to make the wrong decision handed to me, and if I’m wrong, I’m “that crazy fucker”, but if I’m right, then somebody else gets the credit. I only get to make decisions that have no solutions. We had to have medevac and resupply. What was the alternative? None. We needed water, ammo, food and more. Even the gunships would provide invaluable help by strafing the tree line before we crossed, unless they didn’t come because the other choppers wouldn’t. I clutched the morphine package in my other thigh pocket, massaging it gently. Was I supposed to kill the Marine with morphine to save the unit? Leave him behind? Take a K-Bar and cut the big round out of him? What?
“It gets worse,” the Gunny went on. “Jurgens wants to take his platoon and carry the man all the way back to the aid station. If he does that, then we won’t have our best platoon at point to get us across that open area or available to us as we cross down into the A Shau.”
I sat there just thinking about the problem, and drinking my coffee. I wondered if the Basic School ever offered to teach young officers how to handle problems like this, instead of how to cross a radioactive bridge or a raging river with no bridge. Once, in a college poker game I’d been forced to play in, that I didn’t want to play in because I had so little money, I’d bought the same kind of cards that they used to play with. I made up a ‘cold deck’ by stacking the cards, kept that deck under my right thigh and then substituted that deck with the one I’d just shuffled, dealt, and then won the hand and was able to quit. The situation I faced now was much the same, with no acceptable solution that didn’t have odds that were way too high to gamble. How could I cheat my way through?
I knew when to expect first light because Brother John, three hundred miles away down in Na Trang, told me with his first daily broadcast: “This is brother John, coming at you with Otis Redding from Na Trang.” The song began to play. “Sittin’ in the mornin’ sun, I’ll be sittin’ when the evenin’ comes, watching the ships roll in and then I watch ’em roll away again …”
What I would give, if I had anything to give, to be sitting on the dock of any bay anywhere in the world and watch ships roll in. It would have been more appropriate if John had started the day out with a “Chickenman” episode.
“They’re here, sir,” Fusner said.
“They radio in?” I asked, presuming he was talking about the Army visit.
“No, sir, listen.”
I picked up the sound of laughing and talking around me. An uncommon sound. A group of men came out of the waning darkness and jungle bracken, the mud-sucking sounds of their boots preceding them.
“Six actual?” the leading man asked, holding out one hand.
I looked at the Gunny. He shrugged but said nothing.
I climbed to my feet and faced the man. I noticed that he was clean, wearing a set of the new jungle utilities I’d only heard about, along with the duty flak jacket none of our Marines wore. A small group of men behind him brought forth a few big green canisters, which they plopped down in the mud next to where the Gunny squatted.
“Hot spaghetti and ice cream,” the man said, still holding out his right hand. “We gave out the rest back there to your men.”
I shook with my own repellent and Agent Orange smeared hand, feeling like an alley vagrant in comparison to the picture perfect officer in front of me. He wore double black bars on his helmet and on each shoulder of his green flack jacket.
“Captain Dennis Morgan, at your service,” he smiled. “West Point, class of sixty-six. How can I help you guys? It’s always good to have you Marines taking care of the flank. Where are the other officers?”
I sat back down on the edge of my poncho cover and motioned for the captain to do the same, wondering if he would because of his pristine condition.
The captain sat immediately, to my surprise. The Gunny and the rest of my scout team went at the canisters without comment, the captain’s men standing back to get out of the way.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, automatically.
“Sir? What’s your rank?”
“Second lieutenant, sir,” I replied, looking away.
“Stop calling me sir. We’re out in the field. I’m commanding Echo Company, Hundred and First. What happened to the other officers?”
I thought about his comment and his question. Maybe it was okay for my Marines not to call me sir. We were in the field. The other officers didn’t matter, so I set that part of his question aside without answering. Maybe the captain could help with something other than food.
“I heard that your choppers are piloted by young warrant officers,” I said.
“Crazy fuckers, every one,” the captain said, with a laugh like he was proud of their insanity. I noticed his gold Academy ring, worn where other men wore wedding rings. ‘Ring knockers’ the rest of us non-academy officers had called them in Basic School. “Why do you ask?”
“We’re headed into the A Shau and we gotta get across the clearing, sir. Our air won’t come in. I’m at the end of range from the An Hoa battery for supporting fire. The Cobras won’t be here to strafe the tree line if the Hueys don’t come in.”
The captain lost his smile and stared at me. I wondered what he saw. I knew what he saw. A ragamuffin officer covered in stinking oils and probably smelling like a cape buffalo straight from a wallow, and a second lieutenant to boot. The captain looked away without replying.
“Why no air support?” he asked.
I told him the blooper story.
“Larsen, get over here,” he yelled to the side when I finished. “Give me that,” he ordered, holding his hand out. Larsen, coming in out of the dark, proved to be the radio operator. He gave the captain his handset.
“When do you want them to come?” he asked.
“They’re coming?” I asked, incredulous.
“Are you kidding me?” the captain exclaimed. “To be a part of a story like the blooper thing? This is “Stars and Stripes” kind of shit. You want a Cobra dustoff and supplies too? What do you need on the resupply ship?”
I sat stunned. This was the Army? The Army that was supposed to hate the Marine Corps? Was nothing in the world the way I thought?
“Water, food, and some 60 mike mike ammo for the crossing would be good, maybe in an hour?” the Gunny piped in, talking between big bites of spaghetti he’d loaded into his cleaned out canteen holder.
“What’s a grid number where you want them down,” the captain said, dangling the mic from his hand and flipping it around like it was a ball at the end of a piece of string.
“They’ll take the Marine with the round in him?” I asked, just to make sure he’d fully understood what I’d told him.
“Hell, if he was going to blow up he’d have blown up already. That’s American ordinance he has inside him, not that Chinese shit.”
I gave him a grid number from memory, as I’d laid out fire for our attack across the open area earlier in the night.
“Okay,” the captain said, waiting to hear back from whoever he called for air support. “I’ll give your radioman the frequency for the Americal Division. They’ve got some of those M102 lightweight 105s on top of Cunningham peak a few miles down the A Shau. Dropped ‘em in by helicopter a few months back. I’m sure they’ll be happy to fire for you guys. Gotta air drop ammo though, so you might have to use them sparingly.”
I sat in front of the man in wonder. A real company commander. Fusner’s radio began to squeak out another song that seemed so appropriate for the coming of the light and maybe the possibility of living through the day.
“Fighting soldiers from the sky, fearless men who jump and die. Men who mean just what they say, the brave men of the Green Beret.”
The 101st weren’t Green Berets but they sure seemed like it.
Sittin’ On the Dock of the Bay
30 Days Home | Next Chapter >>
Jim, another gotcha by the nuds segment your story. The longest thirty days I believe I have ever seen. So much history and 10 days still to go. Great as usual. As a medic I heard of live rounds being removed by docs and crew behind makeshift sand bag bunkers. Some balls there because hands and arms and eyes are a surgeon’s bread and butter. Did see a AK round taken out of a right heart chamber. They used a heart lung machine that had followed LBJ in ’66 when he slipped in and out of Cam Ranh. Thank you for doing this, so many are experiencing help not available for too many years. Poppa Joe. Merry Christmas Marine
Thanks Poppa J, for the usual wonderful comment made on here…
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I started reading day 10 and then went back to catch up. Your story makes me even more glad that I didn’t make it to Viet Nam. I’m afraid I would have been one of the FNG Lieutenants that didn’t make it. Your account of meeting up with the Army really hit home. As a battery commander in 10th Marines in the 70’s we’d see Army units when we trained at Fort Bragg. I was always thinking, “That’s what light artillery is supposed to look like.” They had 102’s with a Gamma Goat prime mover and ammo hauler. We had M101’s and worn out M35 deuce and a half’s.
You know Mike, there was no telling with that war and then there was little truth coming out of it.
My wife roomed with another Marine Lieutenant’s wife when I was over there.
He came home and claimed to have been in I Corps and never saw or heard a shot fired.
I believed him. Only later, after he was divorced and ravaged by PTSD did I realize he hadn’t been truthful.
Maybe couldn’t have been truthful.
It was a little hard for me to say I never saw action.
Yes, many times the corps worked with the dregs when it came to equipment.
Just getting a howitzer that had lands and grooves could be difficult.
Semper fi,
Jim
As of today, I think I’m caught up. Fortunately I’m retired and don’t have a job I have to worry about. Your writing is great. Maybe this will be required reading at TBS.
I don’t think so Mike. TBS might have changed over the years but never forget that the idea of
that training is not just to get new officers up to speed and trained. It is also to inure them in
Marine Corps tradition and continue the great warrior myth. My work is a long way from supporting what they
conceive of as continuing that belief system. Remember, almost all warrior myths are written by those who
did not go out in the shit. There were no reporters out there in the shit with us. They visited once one day and got
the hell out of Dodge toot sweet…and probably went back and wrote great warrior crap when they thankfully got back.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks for the thought though!!!
Being in charge of the lives of others is a very lonely job. Being dropped into the middle of that with no experience, I can related being an E5 field promoted to an E6. Had to be the one always on guard and watching over the security of my men. I didn’t like that responsibility. I worried most over getting one of them killed by a bad decision. Lonely. Wasn’t close to any one but wanted to. Another note, not all Army had fresh fatigues and hot chow. Had hot chow one time three days after Thanksgiving 68 in the field while Charlie rocketed us unless we were on a fire base. The M79, guys used it so they would have to walk point. Seldom used until a lieutenant carried one along with his AR. Once when we were ambushed and pinned down as Charlie had the high ground on the ridge line, I went down and got the 79 to put high angle fire through openings in the tree canopies. Didn’t know it at the time but it chased Charlie from their position. These comments aren’t meant to degrade any if the guys in the unit, just saying how it was. The M79 guy just didn’t want to come up where we were pinned down and that is all I could think of to do. James, you don’t have to reply. I know I’m commenting way past the time your segment was posted. I’m thankful for your moral courage and wanting to do the right thing in an impossible situation. Sorry you were dropped into that godawful hell of a unit. I also think you must have beat yourself up mentally when you got stateside replaying your decisions over and over in your mind if I’m correct. I did. It’s a honor to experience your story. A co, 1/327, 101st 68-69
There were a few guys who became genius operators of that special weapon most
of us could not really figure out. The good ones did not use the sights. They just knew, like you. To them
and probably you, it was like throwing a really fast baseball. Thanks for your comment. I read it all and
I enjoyed the reading and taking in all that you were and remain today. Pleased to be a vet with you.
Semper fi,
Jim
Once in awhile, the Army comes through for Marines.
I should know…my dad retired as a field medical from the Army Reserve, so I learned from his mistake and became a Marine!
SEMPER FI
Jim
The Army came through a whole lot for the Marines in Vietnam. I had
not one bad experience with the Army contacts I made or the services they
very generously and caringly provided. That was a shock too, because I was not led
to believe it would be that way in training. Thanks for the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
M-79 was my weapon of choice {Nam 69,70,71 & 72] Never herd of that happening? Who ever that fucker was on the M-79 would be left at base camp & premoated to PSB [permant shit burner ] for duration of his tour ?
Later Dee Ernst[815th/102nd Cbt Eng 75th Ranger US Army Rt. ]
As with so much of what happened in the thick of it Dee, accountability for who shot who or what
was mostly missing entirely. Thanks for your accurate response though. And the reading of the story, of course.
Semper fi,
Jim
Dee, do you recall using or seeing the M79 mounted alongside the M16?
I never saw one until I got back to the States. The 79 barrel was built into the underside
of the M-16 barrel. It was single shot and the rounds were heavy. Never fired it myself but the barrel of
the 79 part looked shorter than on the actual weapon stand alone.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was at Camranh Bay. Air Force August 1967 to August 1968 I didn’t see the terrible duty the marines and Army did. We were hit with rockets during the first TET Offensive I take my hat off to you guys. But we sure flew support for you all.
Belated thanks for the air support Robert! Thank you for writing back to me and reading the story I am telling too.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was in a CAG combined action platoon 1968-1969 between Dong Ha & quang tri we had seven villages we rotated in, no officers E5 was head NIC lol of seven men left out of 15, we slept in budgodas when we were not on night ambushes, our corpsman was killed we had all his drugs and stuff, they never sent out another Corpsman, we got to send a man to Town ( or base once a month ) supply’s were dropped by road side when we’re were in the area, after our E 5 was killed I was promoted to E4 became HNIC never saw a officer for months. Lol we trained the local PF by day ran ambushes at night with our Kit Carson scout, VC was infiltrated in our PFs lol we knew it they knew we new it, I don’t think I slept for 6 months until R&R lol, had 12 months and 10 days of snipers by day. poison by locals chicoms at night. Final hit my glass (Ceiling ) short timer, was killing a village chief choking him to death for some reason I thought he was VC, when marines held me down till medavac to Japan then states the nut ward in Pensacola for 6 months then told I was med. Discharged not able to be state side Marine anymore. Now they call it PTSD (then just can’t rehabilitate you marine) Medical Discharged it’s over by now. Couldn’t do nothing right for 20 years till I found Jesus, it’s ok now I can talk. Thanks for your story Marine .
Wow! Man you went through that wringer too! The Marine Corps was not ready
back home to take us in after what we’d been through. The up front and personal
crap of the jungle had not been experienced much except for small pockets during WWII.
It’s good to see that you’ve made it through, so to speak. Thanks for sharing from your heart
here and reading my story.
Semper fi,
Jim
I have enjoyed reading your account very much, James. Might be useful to clarify your comment about small pockets in World War II, however. My father was a second lieutenant in the first Marine division on Guadalcanal. I grew up hearing his stories and he was indeed a gung ho Marine. Myself, an E-6 on a missile submarine SSB(N) 617 Gold, 1967-73, Missile Tech/Diver.
Meant no disrespect to you and your own Bob. Jungle warfare in the guerrilla warfare style occurred in Burma, China and in some the island campaign, although the islands were more conventional in how one force faced the other with regular lines and geographic goals of conquest. Meant no disrespect. This island campaigner’s were put to the test hugely and did they ever measure up. The special life of a nuclear submariner isn’t to be sneezed at either. Takes something special to wear those dolphins. Thank you for the comment and the reading.
Semper fi,
Jim
Happy Thanksgiving James. I spent Thanksgiving 1969 on hill 22 in Vietnam. I was hoping that maybe we would get a hot meal that day but did not really count on it happening. That afternoon we saw a mule coming down the road with the driver and one other Marine on it. This was surprising since they had to cross several clicks of Indian territory to get there. The mule also carried several vat cans which we knew contained hot chow. The “shotgun man” on the mule was a former squadleader from our platoon who was in the rear and about to rotate back to the states. He had heard that there was no helicopters available to fly the food out to us so he and the company clerk borrowed the mule and hauled the hot chow out to us. I am forever thankful to them for that… Semper Fi
I don’t know what it was about hot chow Jack. I just went into me like hot chocolate or something.
It was more emotional than it was taste or nutrition but it sure had meaning. Thanks for your mule story.
There were so many of those extraordinary stories about guys doing fantastic things for other guys they didn’t even
know. There were good parts amongst the terror….
Semper fi,
Jim
This is a good read.I was navy bird farm 69-74 3 tours gunnersmate. I know we don’t count,but have alto of respect for those that do. Truly enjoy your stories.
Why in hell would you not count? The guys and gals who serve in the military have a common bond and it’s called the willingness to face into utter disaster should it befall on behalf of others who are not at all equipped, willing or able to do so.
Thank you for a good bit of that.
And it is a pleasure to have you voice your opinion here and also receive your support in laying this story down.
Semper fi,
Jim
Look forward to your stories. This time of the year makes me think of worst times up north with Fox 2/9 Marines. WIA in December 1966 and medivaced to battalion aid and then to the USS Repose.
Almost ended up on the Repose myself! Instead got sent to Tachikawa and then Yokosuka. Yes, the fall is weird for that if you served in the Highlands of Vietnam.
It was low sixties and the damp could make it cold as hell, particularly after climbing up from the high nineties lowlands. Thanks for the comment and the reading.
Semper fi,
Jim
Where is the HMFWIC ??
I know my question will eventually be answered, but where is the battalion CO or his XO? And why haven’t you met or at least spoken to one or the other?
It’s been a week.
For that matter, why no contact with the CO’s of your sister companies?
I don’t expect an answer here. Just sharing my thoughts. Waiting for the wtf’s next.
Steve. We were anathema out there for a variety of reasons that will become more clear over time.
Webb did contact us as did battalion.
Battalion was in contact with the Gunny who was answering as the Six Actual while I became aware of that
but did not mess with that until later on.
This is just the first week.
The battalion C.O. was an incompetent drunk later relieved and charged.
The X.O.spent as much of his time in Da Nang as was possible, somehow.
Thanks for the very apropos comment and the reading.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thank you James.
Wasn’t expecting any answers. Just feeling frustrated for you.
You made me open my dictionary though.
Keep writing.
Well Hell Steve! You are and remain one of us so you deserve answers as best I can give them.
Doing a rendition of what happened is plagued with some inaccuracies of memory and tortured outrage I
went through about the injustice of it all, not to mention the simple fact that it all resembled the Keystone
cops of death much more than the Marine Corps I was ready for.
Command in combat situations is so much more fluid and weird than any of us were ready for and not having accountability out there on the combat field created huge problems.
Probably better now with all the sensory, night vision and computer video applications.
Thanks for your interest and the intellect behind your comments.
Semper fi,
Jim
As Vietnam vet 69-71 two tours without coming home with the 241st in Quang Tri, I can relate to everything that you have written, I was brought out Dec. of 71, placed on a med. flight to the states, put in Letterman General hospital, top floor (crazy room) stayed there a week before they transferred me to Menlo Park(buzzer locked rooms) was told I’d never fit into society again, long story short I never talked about Vietnam until about 6 years ago, then I went into therapy, I didn’t want anyone to know I was even in the service, it has helped me out more than anyone can believe, I can now read and talk about it, I can still see it my mind, smell it, taste it, but would not change it for anything, the VA has been so helpful, In the last 5 years they have taken the last 4 pieces of shrapnel out of me and have treated me with nothing but respect, I encourage more Vets to come forward.
Thanks Mark. Yeah, I got isolated at Oaknoll in San Francisco and not treated well by the
Nave staff of the time. Somehow some citizens identified the warriors as being the ones who caused the conflict.
Strange times. Thanks for ‘coming out’ so to speak and commenting here.
Semper fi,
Jim
A Seabee, 67-68, tha VA has been a blessing ta me here in Razorback country. Glad I got back, wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.
Yes, Robert.
If I had known I would never ever have chosen to go but in having gone how could I ever
replace what I learned, about life and myself and the ‘real’ world?
We are simpatico.
Thanks for the reading and the erudite comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was in Army in 60-62. But I was lucky I did not go over seas. I have tremendous respect for the Viet Nam veterans. Not sure if I could handled it. HOORAY to you guys.
Thanks for the respect, the reading of the story and also your comment. It’s a pleasure to see the interest here from
people who didn’t necessarily serve in the conflict but have come to understand the vets who did.
Semper fi,
Jim
I’m a Vietnam vet and wish I could recount dates and times of my time in country. Mainly names that I have forgotten. I noticed there as no mention of a daily log you wrote. Are you blessed with a photographic memory?I was an Army door gunner in I Corp and flew many missions in support of the Marines there. When are going to post more of your accounts of your time in VietNam?
I wrote to my wife daily and that is mentioned throughout many of the episodes and I kept some personal notes.
It has been through the encouragement of close friends and family that I finally decided to share.
The first 10 days will be completed soon and will publish in digital form on Kindle, hopefully January 2017.
Also making arrangement for printed copies to follow.
Sign up for updates here on the site and you will get an email every time a new post is published, Gary
Marine veteran. I was there in 66-67. Started reading your stuff and really look forward to each installment. Great work. Semper Fi.
Thanks Mike, it’s a labor of love and angst, and then remembering shit I thought I’d long forgotten but still lays there like that mud.
Thanks for the read and the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
CWO USMCR retired, but in 1967-68 was with the 101st ABN Vietnam. Patrolled in the mountains outside of Phu Bai and Hue during the Tet offensive. Went into the Ashau at the end of March 68. In July the company came out of the field to be refitted. We were never clean. Sometimes before we came out of the field we would shave and clean up in a river so the press would not see how dirty we were. One thing for sure , you could smell us coming a mile away. Only ate C-Rats the entire four months. Welcome Home.
Thank you Don. Yeah, being filthy was just horrid. I never got used to it and some smells today zoom me right back to that
area and time. I never have felt since an emotion of being so close to my fellow men but so distant from them, if that makes
any sense. Thanks for the cogent comment and the reading of the story….
Semper fi,
Jim
In early months in Vietnam, I was a PFC promoted to Spec/4 and only had to follow the leaders and learn from them. I now realize the responsibility of Command,and can appreciate what you went through. Semper Fi.
Thank you Don. It’s a pleasure to read notes from the guys who were really in the shit.
They all understand.
I don’t expect that from the general public, any more than I came to expect it (finally) when I got home.
Semper fi,
Jim
We didn’t have any officers with us . I was in a combined action platoon ,first cag, 10 clicks south of chu lie. First cag commander was lt.colonel day,a mustang, fought in ww2 and Korea one hell of a marine
The CAG’s were special outfits who went out like Force Recon and dealt with
issues of social and physical combat with little to draw on in support or
understanding back at command. Officers were a whole lot more in demand in
the Nam than anyone is saying and part of the reason was friendly fire. Sometimes,
not all, the friendly fire could be argued to have been required.
thanks for the comment and reading the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
Like your (your, hell, you!,Strauss) shell-shocked, other-world dweller, brown bar principal character, I didn’t know if I could even smile again, let alone grunt out a laugh while reading this mind snatching saga. But that’s what I did, more out of relief than humor as you stumbled your way out of this shit pile that had burbled to the top of the ever present layer of manure. The unbelievable nature of the unlikely savior-and I’m still smiling. I’ll wait til tomorrow to start fretting again about what’s going to go wrong in the next installment. An old farmer friend of mine had a saying: “They can never take away a good time that you’ve already lived”.
SF,
PFJ
Well John, as usual your comments leave me smiling and in wonder. You have a knack brother, for the written word and appear to be one of the ‘good shits’ in life out here.
Thank you for the terrific support. In the Nam it seemed to me then and now that I just bounced around like one of those old super balls, never really knowing from
one moment to the next what crazy bat shit stuff would happen or come flying my way. In my perspective it all landed on my plate and I never seemed to have
any good or solid options. It was like living a running series of Flash Gordon segments.
One day soon we probably should meet.
Semper fi,
Jim
John, I love your quote from the Old Farmer, ““They can never take away a good time that you’ve already lived”.
I wonder why so many hold back from sharing those times (good and sometimes bad) with the younger generation?
Being the oldest survivor of my “family” I was honored when a first cousin’s grandchild asked to know more about my folks and grandparents.
So many good stories to share, not all to be found publicly. ~~smile
Great Stuff… Jim Walker of Montana is a Facebook Friend… I think he was in the 101st Airborne.. ….You should Friend Him, I think he would know about this STUFF….and would probably love reading your account of it….
Thank you Kay, for the kind words, as usual.
The vets reading have been most wonderful and Jim is truly welcome here if he wants
to accompany all of us on this journey back through time.
Semper fi,
Jim
As a Navy Corpman1968 through 1971 I can relate to many of these stories. I was stationed at Camp Pendleton after coming back from a tour overseas I was eventually transferred to the hospital to work on the psych ward. It was so frustrating that they only keep us Corpman on the ward for a few months, we could treat sucking just wounds dismemberments, but it was very difficult to deal with what we now know as PTSD. It took me years to recoup from that six months I worked on the psych ward but A wonderful wife and Jesus I have made peace with that. Keep up your writing James everyone of us enjoy it.
HM3
First of all, thank you for being a Navy Corpsman. I don’t think many corpsman every come to understand how much
you mean to all of us serving and former Marines. You guys saved so many lives, mine being one of them.
Ooooooorah! and Semper fi, and thank you….again!
Jim
having served in the 101st 1st brigade during this period the difference between the two units must have been big. worked with the marines a lot but never understood their mind set.
The 101st was a great unit over there. A lot like the Marines but not.
I think the 101st was filled with more ‘characters’ then the Marine units but
they all pulled their weight in the A Shau. That valley claimed so many of
both. Thanks for the comment and who in hell can understand what is in the mind
of a Marine because of how heavy the bone is around it….
Semper fi,
Jim