“Crimson and clover, over and over…”
The song played from Fusner’s tactically stupid, but achingly home-calling radio. The song’s lyrics just repeated with no actual meaning, like the days and nights of my life in Vietnam. Brother John came on after the song to introduce “Eight Days a Week”, by the Beatles. I liked that song, although, until I got out in the bush, I’d never put much emphasis on listening to rock and roll. For some reason being amerced in the wet-heated jungle, waiting for some gruesome death that might come at any minute, made every song burn itself into my brain. I understood why the men played their radios all day long, and why Armed Forces Radio shut down at night. It was worth the risk to all of us to be able to listen during the day. And Headquarters knew we’d play the music all night, too, if we had the chance.
Two choppers came in before sunset. Whatever Pilson said when he called for the medevac must have mollified Marine Air Command (Vertical) because the birds landed without Huey Cobras to fly their usual support. Either that or word had gotten back that the Army would fly in support of Marines in trouble, when the higher ranking Marine chopper pilots would not.
The Hueys came down close to where my scout team had set up their hooches. As soon as I’d heard the first vibrations of the helicopter’s blades, my brain tuned out the Beatles and homed in on the medevac landing. My left hand clutched my two letters home. I could not forget to get them aboard, again.
The lead chopper took three Marines on IVs. They looked like anonymous slugs, folded and crumpled down in their poncho covers. There should have only been one. With no updates since the shots in the smoke screen, I didn’t know where the other two casualties had come from. The Gunny was nowhere to be seen. I moved toward the loading chopper, the door gunner swinging his M-60 from side to side like the approaching Marines might be the enemy. He wore an air helmet that looked like it had been poured around his cranium, with bulges for his ears. He also wore large sun glasses so dark I couldn’t see his eyes. If the man was trying to look intimidating, he’d succeeded.
Macho man stood beside the open door in his usual pose. Parade rest combined with port arms, so he could best show off his Thompson. For the first time I noted that he carried no canteen, bayonet or any other clip or junk on his belt like the rest of us did. All the pockets of his utilities were pressed flat and obviously empty. The Thompson had one stick magazine loaded into it. Twenty rounds, I presumed. What could you do with twenty rounds when all of them came out together in one burst? Maybe he had more ammo inside the chopper, I thought, but then doubted it. Macho man held down an extremely dangerous job and had probably been shot at a whole lot more than I had. He was doing his thing and in doing it, proving he was at least as looney as I was. I gave him my letters home. He released one hand from his beloved Thompson and took the letters. Surprisingly, he accepted them very gently, and then carefully placed them inside one of his flat chest pockets.
I backed away far enough from the still turning blades of the chopper to hear Fusner’s civilian radio behind me. “We gotta get out of this place,” squeaked out of the speaker. Probably the last song of the broadcast, I realized. Brother John’s end-of-day humor.
The second chopper unloaded supplies by dumping the boxes and bags into the mud, unlike the careful placement and stacking the Army had provided earlier in the day. Rittenhouse scurried about after making sure the Marines going out were properly noted, recorded and whatever else he did to make sure the identities of dead and wounded were established and maintained. The chopper dumped five of the plastic water bottles. I made a note to try to get one for my second shower if at all possible. I knew I’d never get rid of the white oil patina that covered my skin without soap and water. The water couldn’t be carried in jugs because of the distance we’d be covering the next day, which would be long and hard. It made sense to lighten the load.
The first chopper, the one with Macho Man and the wounded, took off. I moved over to the supply pile and gathered in some boxes of Ham and Lima’s. For some reason Rittenhouse seemed intent on trying to inventory with his little note book. What was that all about, I wondered. He didn’t try to stop me but I could tell he was displeased about what I was doing. I shrugged. There was, no doubt, a set of rules I knew nothing about because nobody else was going through the supply pile. Rittenhouse walked over to me and I got ready to take some heat for my behavior.
“Here,” he said, pushing a cardboard box at me. It was a little larger than a C-ration box. Even before I took it I knew it was a care package sent from the states. My hopes soared, although I knew I had not been there long enough to get a box from my wife. I read the name on the box, but it wasn’t mine. I looked up into Rittenhouse’s eyes in question.
“From the tough guy with the Thompson,” Rittenhouse said, raising his voice to be heard over the rising whine of the departing Huey’s rotor. “He said to give it to Junior, the guy with the shoe button eyes.”
I took the box and backed up. I got the rest of my stuff together and moved to my hooch. I wasn’t able to get inside my tent-raised poncho cover before being surrounded by my scout team and the Gunny.
“Care package from home?” the Gunny asked, his tone light and casual.
“Says Waldo Vanilli on the box,” I said, reading the name written in cursive on a white label across the top.
“But he gave it to Rittenhouse for you,” Fusner said, as if he’d been right there, which he hadn’t. He added; “The guy with the shoe button eyes.”
My shoulders slumped a little at the phrase. I changed the subject by tearing the weak cardboard apart with my hands. Chocolate chip cookies began to fall out. The box was loaded.
“Cookies from home,” Stevens exclaimed as everyone grabbed for the breaking and falling pieces. Not one crumb hit the mud. I ended up with part of the torn box and two cookies. I knew I’d just learned another etiquette rule of combat. Care packages from home get shared, even if they don’t come from your home and aren’t addressed to you.
Fusner sat nearby eating cookies and reading off a torn piece of flimsy cardboard that the cookies had come in. “Waldo,” he read. “You think the box belonged to him, or maybe was supposed to go to someone else?
“Nah,” Zippo said, “he looks like he’s Italian with that Vanilli name and all. ‘Sides, it’s bad luck to give out packages from home where you can’t find the guy. If he’s dead, then what?”
It surprised me to hear so much come out of Zippo. Other than Nguyen, who never spoke at all, Zippo was the most silent of the team. But they both ate chocolate chip cookies just like the rest of us.
“What are shoe button eyes?” Fusner asked.
The group became silent as I thought about answering the question. I knew what Macho Man, or Waldo, meant, but didn’t want to say it. He meant that my eyes looked like those sewed-on button eyes found on a teddy bear or in a plastic or ceramic doll’s head. Dead eyes. Eyes that gave no expression at all.
“Blue eyes,” I finally said. “My eyes have always been bright blue. I’ve heard the expression before but not in a long time.” I didn’t mention that I’d never heard the expression used on me, or to describe my eyes. I wish there had been a mirror in the sundry packs we got all the time. If I ever got to the rear area, I tucked away the thought to look at my own face in the mirror. My wife thought I had nice eyes. A lot of people thought I had nice eyes. I couldn’t have lost my nice eyes in only a week’s time! But I knew the thought of that happening wouldn’t leave me until I found a mirror.
Once again, the scout team erected our hooches touching one another. The proximity of my team made me uncomfortable at the same time it made me feel somewhat accepted. The men around me in combat seemed to more resemble predator cats in their physical behavior than human beings. They moved sinuously like Nguyen, winding, slipping and sliding their way through the jungle. They came close to one another but did not touch. Captain Morgan, with the Americal unit, was the only man in Vietnam who had touched me except for the Gunny, and the touches of the Gunny had been much more predatory than friendly.
The Gunny came out of the undergrowth and plopped himself down on my poncho liner. He went to work making the fixings for his habitual Coca Cola coffee. The sun had set below the edge of the west facing mountain ridge, with darkness fast closing in upon us. No more transistor radio music played, and my usual fear of the night began to creep into my stomach and up and down my back. I reached for my canteen holder to extract my canteen and join the Gunny, but my hands started to shake again. Instead of having coffee, I sat with my knees up and massaged both of my thighs. The deep muscle movement would eventually stop the shaking while at the same time, hiding my fear.
Soon, I knew, the Gunny would leave to set up his own hooch and my hands would be good enough to write another letter home. My daughter would be two months old soon. She’d been born as the most beautiful little creature I’d ever seen. I’d never seen a beautiful baby before had been been shocked not to find some red-faced crying thing. There would be no news from home, but I could write about my lovely daughter instead of talking about what went on around me — certainly not that I was deathly afraid of the coming night.
“Not a soul and not a shot fired,” the Gunny said into the rising steam. He dumped two green foil packets of the black powder into the water, using his right index finger to stir the near boiling mixture. Impressed, I found the Gunny tough as iron with hands as steady as those of a carefully moving robot.
“Not exactly,” I replied, quickly regretting the comment. The Gunny had tried to keep me alive and I now owed him, even if the wrong Marine got shot.
“What do you think?” the Gunny asked, ignoring my snarky remark.
I felt more than saw Fusner’s head bob up in surprise from behind him. Did the Gunny really ask me what I thought? I was as surprised as Fusner but didn’t let on. I took a moment to think, wondering if the Gunny was asking me about things in general or about the fact that we’d crossed the open area unopposed. I assumed his question pertained to our tactical situation.
“They’re out there and they’re waiting,” I said. I pulled out one of my new maps and spread it between us. With barely light enough to read, I took out my taped up “one-eyed flashlight”, as Fusner called it, and turned it on.
“Here’s our position,” I said to the Gunny, pointing with my right index finger. “And here’s the saddle nine thousand meters away. After we cross that depressed area, (I tapped my finger on it), it’s a straight climb through heavy timber to the lip of the A Shau ridge. The saddle’s where they’re setting up. I mean, if I were leading their forces that’s where I’d set up. Plenty of time to dig in, lay firebase positions, walk-off registration distances and set up incoming artillery fire. By the time we hit the saddle, we’ll be under their fire capability.” I stopped and looked at the Gunny. In the flickering light from the burning composition B and the slight beam of the flashlight, his eyes looked like black glittering onyx.
The Gunny took a few long seconds and a couple more swigs of his coffee before answering. “They teach you that shit back in Quantico?”
“No,” I answered with no derision in my voice. “I learned it from Nguyen. It’s the way he thinks so it’s the way they think. Nguyen wouldn’t have attacked where we were today. The gunships, air, artillery and a world of reinforcements would have arrived here in no time at all. The NVA are not stupid. But at the saddle we’ll have almost no support. They want to hurt us. The war is about hurting us, not just stopping us…when we’re not busy hurting ourselves.”
I waited again, noting thankfully that my hands stopped shaking, at least for the time being.
“What about your artillery just leveling the place, as you did with it right here and over at Hill 110?” the Gunny asked, peering down at my map.
“Firebase Cunningham can’t use plunging fire,” I pointed out, running my finger from one small peak to the saddle ten clicks or so away. “Their rounds won’t cross the peak between us firing as cannons, and they don’t have the range to point the barrels up like howitzers and fire at a high angle.”
“Great, just great,” the Gunny said, shaking his head and then sipping more of his strong coffee. “So what do we do, General Patton?”
“We don’t go,” I answered without any delay.
“Don’t go? Then how in the hell do we get to the A Shau? This isn’t Hill 110. We can’t just report we’re there, because everyone in the world knows damn well where we are and where we have to go.”
“We go up,” I said after the Gunny wound down. “No matter how thick the trees and brush, we go up to the top and then follow that wooded ridge all the way to the valley.”
“Just like that,” the Gunny said, his tone one of exasperation. “That’s a hell of a hump up that slope to start with, and then along that high ridge? That’s it? That’s your lieutenant-type shit solution?”
“No, it’s not my solution,” I replied, as calmly as I could. “It’s from the ‘Frozen Chosin’. It’s what they did. The Chinese thought the Marines would go down into the valley and follow it all the way to the sea, but Chesty Puller didn’t do that. He took the ridge and followed that down, killing about four Chinese divisions along the way. They won’t expect us to do this and we’ll have the high ground.”
“I was in Korea,” the Gunny said. “It was damned cold.”
I said nothing, wondering what he would say and do.
“Won’t work,” the Gunny finally concluded. “Can’t work. The men aren’t going to like it. Hell, fucking Jurgens is dead set on killing you, and Sugar Daddy isn’t far behind. Like they’re going to do what they say and if it wasn’t for the snakes, they’d probably be on their way right now.”
“Snakes?” I whispered, wondering if I’d heard right. But I had to go on with selling the plan instead of asking. “Artillery at Cunningham can fire all day long along our right flank, the machine guns cover our left and you can say it’s all your idea, like before.”
“Like before,” the Gunny breathed. “Chesty Puller? You sure that was his plan and that’s what did it?”
The name had an almost magical aura around it. Somebody on the plane coming into Da Nang had said that Puller’s son was serving as a lieutenant with a Marine unit out of An Hoa, too. I fervently hoped he was doing better than I was. I waited, the idea of snakes haunting my thoughts. The Gunny hadn’t sounded like he was kidding.
“If Puller used that then maybe we can, too,” the Gunny finally said. “I’m going to call a powwow tonight and discuss it. Puller’s got five Navy Crosses, you know.”
I didn’t care if Puller had eight medals of honor, and I wasn’t at all sure how the fateful and famous retreat at the Chosin Reservoir had really been accomplished. I just knew that I needed something because if the company just hiked up the trail, it would arrive at the A Shau a shattered, mostly dead wreck. And I would be, no doubt, one of the shattered or dead along the way.
“Snakes?” I asked softly, while the Gunny tossed the remains of his coffee into the mud and got up to go assemble his own hooch. I turned to look at my own team in the almost dark background and saw Pilson chewing away. The cookies were gone, regretfully, but I’d put my two broken small ones in my breast pocket. I couldn’t wait to consume them, even though I’d probably get maybe four bites combined.
“Fucking Bamboo Vipers,” the Gunny said, replacing his canteen holder and inserting the canteen into the opening. “These NVA assholes probably brought them in by the bushel. They wrap them around the bamboo about head high. You can’t see ‘em. They’re the same color as the bamboo shoots. When you walk close they strike. The poison goes straight to your heart if you get hit in the face. And that’s it. The other casualties… they were from the vipers. They say you don’t die but you want to. Took two morphine to sedate both of them. It’s why your guys are all clustered around you. For protection. Nobody will be moving around tonight.”
The Gunny started to walk off, Pilson getting up to follow behind.
“How in hell can I protect them from poisonous snakes?” I said to the Gunny’s back.
“By getting bit instead of them,” the Gunny replied, his voice fading in the distance growing between us.
Poisonous snakes in Vietnam… I’d never thought about it. The Basic School didn’t have geographic training for snakes, and certainly nothing about the related flora or fauna of Vietnam. Were there other poisonous snakes in the country? Did they crawl in with you at night like scorpions in the desert? I had no clue. I moved to my pack to write my letter home. If the Gunny put the plan into action and it worked, then the company would be at the edge of the A Shau by sundown of the following day. And that meant I could mail the letter on a resupply or medevac chopper. If I did not die from a snake bite in the night.
I took my flashlight and shone it around my little area. Maybe a deeper moat, even empty, might be better than what I had. I wondered if I should tell my wife about the snakes but quickly got that idea out of my head. I’d write about Captain Morga, and how cool the Army food had been and how they’d come in to resupply us because the Marine Air Wing wouldn’t fly through the bad weather. It was a good story. It would be a good letter. I got my stationery out and went to work.
30 Days Home | Next Chapter >>
I served in the Air Force from 66 to 70. Spent time in Okinawa fixing B52 and KC 135’s to support Young Tiger and Rolling Thunder missions. I never got shot and I never bled for my country, but plenty of my friends did. We were moving around the base one day looking for an errant airplane parked in the wrong place when we passed a plane being loaded with strange containers. I asked what was in the containers and the was bodies fro Nam. That day is as vivid today as the day it happened. It affected me lots. For those who went in-country I have the greatest respect.
Well hell Ralph, it’s not like we didn’t let that death from above stuff to get by!
Thank you for making sure those birds helped us out.
Sometimes it was hard to tell when air power was having a good effect but sometimes,
like with Cowboy’s support in the A-1 it was everything.
Thanks for helping and thanks for caring.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I am going to go get your book. Looks like great read. My father was CO of 12th Marines at Da Nang in ’65/66 and was awarded a Silver Star during the retreat from the Chosin in 1950. He had a few stories about Chesty from personal experience.
From the Chosin to Da Nang. You have to admit that a career in the corps was varied and different!
Liket he CIA. Been to 122 countries. What a wild ride. Thanks for your comment. I never met Chesty
because he visited Lewis at the First Med in Da Nang, or so I’ve been informed. Lewis used to talk about him
before he finally committed suicide during one of his depressions. He always spoke highly to me about Chesty
and always made sure to let me know that his dad was not at all like his public or combat image at home.
Thanks for the comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Hey Jim,
I saw on FB you were having a little trouble writing at the moment. Like one of the comments said, “take a few days of R&R”. Like ol’ Neil Young said.. “Comes a Time”… Was reading some of the comments from earlier chapters this morning. Some how missed this one. Cool that you knew Lewis. I really felt bad for him after reading Fortunate Son many years ago. Anyway, hang in there, man. Thinking about you.
Yes, Lewis. The rum in the desk overlooking D.C. like we’d both made it,
but neither of us really knew where we’d made it to at the time. He was sort of
trapped in a system that wasn’t his to change and I was jaunting in and out of D.C.
making believe I was some sort of OO7 with a license to travel, eat bad food, and spend
lonely nights in crummy hotel rooms around the world. That kill stuff you didn’t need a license for
back in the day. Thanks for writing here and also for caring…
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I’m reading an excerpt from your book and enjoy it. Driving down I-81 from picking up my son at William & Mary reading about Chesty Puller’s mention in the book. I am a USMC Vietnam vet. Went over with 2/13 as a radio operator 2533 February ’68 from Camp Pendelton. I had attended Vietnamese language school 1st Mar Div Interrogation/Translation school in ’67. I ended up with 11th Marines but my MOS and VN language (really not that good but the Corps thought otherwise) got me “shared” with various other units. Being a LCpl I really never knew where I really was but it was consistently interesting.
Anyway, I have a good friend USMC Buddy who also was a 2533 radio operator with 2/5 at An Hoa among other places. He made it home, lives in CA. We talk frequently. Last year he called me in the summer and said he had something to share with me…a true story that he’d never shared with anyone and he needed to share it.
One night late, he was doing BN radio watch in a bunker at An Hoa. Quiet night for a change. The wiremans phone next to him kept ringing and the wireman was gone. Tired of listening to the phone ring, my friend picked it up. The voice on the other end said “Son, this is Chesty! My son’s been hurt real bad and I need you to get Captain Downs in a hurry to go up to DaNang to see how he’s doing”. My friend told the story quietly to me. I had chills going down my back standing out on my patio with my cell phone to my ear. My friend told me he just had to share that story with someone who would understand before something happened to him. I felt blessed to hear it. Very few people in my life now in East Tennessee would understand. God bless. Looking forward to reading more…
Thanks for the story Duke. That story certainly has the patina of truth to it because Lewis Puller was hit on October 11th by a booby trapped howitzer round. He lost both of his legs, basically, and then some. I never met Chesty and I say that because I was at Yokosuka when Lewis came into intensive care to be at my left side. On my right side was General Master’s son, wounded a few days earlier. We were all condition critical and prognosis poor, why we were in the same space while the special staff fought for our lives. We all lived, although Lewis coded out three times (me twice) during that time. I never saw Master’s son again after being shipped home, as he was too injured to talk to me but I still have the wonderful and very faded letter from his Dad (sent to my wife about my condition). I befriended Lewis in that medical theater and then when I was active CIA and reporting to D.C. I would visit him at the VA HQ and we’d shoot the shit. He was a very troubled but wonderful man. I knew he might not make it because he always drank straight rum from a Bacardi bottle he kept in his desk drawer. I don’t know if Chesty made it to Yokosuka or saw Lewis at First Med. in Da Nang. Those that knew Lewis knew his dad was okay because Lewis was. Lewis said his Dad was only scary to other people and a marshmallow with the family. I never knew whether to believe that or not.
Thanks for reminding me about that snippet of history.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, love the read. Unfortunately, it takes me back. Had someone ask me the other day when was I in Nam? Had to tell him the truth.”Last night”. Best thing happen to me from Nam was in 1989 in Fulda, FRG. Had a guy kept staring at me and finally I’d had about enough of it, took my glasses off and headed his way….he stood (big sucker, too) and stepped toward me with his arms out-spread….”Doc!” he said, “You sorry SOB, how the hell did you get out of there alive?” I was a medic, he was my first ‘bad’ casualty. Got him stable and evac’d. I never checked on any casualties as I didn’t want to know the outcome, so I didn’t expect to be remembered this way. Funny thing is he was shot off a Navy river boat. My first real test wasn’t even Army. Even had an AF and Marine casualty before I got out of there. Know what, all of us bleed the same and we are all brothers in arms.
Pleasure to make you acquaintance here Roy. Marine respect for corpsmen and medics knows no bounds. Never met one without a real set of clangers
and personality to go with them. Wonderful to meet a man like that so many years later and know in your heart the effect you had on his and your own
life. Neat stuff.
Thank you! And thanks for the comment, of course, and the reading in the first place…not to mention the approval. I never know how some of these bits and pieces assembled together
are going to be taken.
Semper fi,
Jim
This is the first I have seen your articles Jim, and it held me close all the way through. My military career was in the Navy so most of my time was spent off shore, but I served just the same. While reading your article though, I thought hard on wondering if my son had somewhat the same thoughts going through his mind when he was in Afghanistan. The climate is very different, but war is war and of course he would not share much of his thoughts when he corresponded via facebook. We never had the opportunity to receive any letters from him or actually talk to him about most of his experiences since we lost him two months after he arrived over there. We have had several chances to talk to his Battles but it has only been just under 5 years and there are still things they do not want to talk about. Thank you for sharing your experiences and your one effort to talk to the family of one of your fallen. One of those we have grown closest to is my son’s Lt. My apologies for rambling but just wanted to share it and thank you.
Iwas atFB Cunningham golf co2/3 Jan69,we replaced 1/9 marines,remember having to go out on night ambush ,couldn’t see jack,scared gooks would hear my heart beatin out of my chest! walked point with scout which I did not trust but I was new kid (19yr,old)so I got all the shitt detail&short timers didn’t want to be point man(didn’t blame them! I didn’t want to either!)came up on Layway station,lots of rice,weapons,etc,jumped 4 gooks killed 2& were following blood trail of others,came into clearing of waist high grass,dead quiet,scout got hit in shoulder& I got hit in rt hip&ankle ,blowed femoral artery,was pumping like oil jack! That was march 3rd,69 .By Grace of God I survived! Spent over a yr,inHospitals. Thank God everyday for bringing me home!Semper Fi !
Wow Pete, but you were in the shit. FNGs were pretty damned expendable, as you proved. Shoulder is a tough wound
and se’s the hip. I took one in the left hip too and it remains all knit together with wire that shows up on X-ray to this day.
Got over the limp but it was the stomach hits that really took it out of me for my year in the hospitals. Glad you are here my
friend and glad they put us back together better than they sent us into that shit.
Thank you!!!
Semper fi,
Jim
I never served due to a knee injury that nagged for years prior to a TKR. I did lose 2 friends in the Nam strangely both to “non-hostile” action. I carry a feeling of guilt with me to this day. I enjoy you taking me there in print, Thank you & and those who gave some or all.
Glad to be of any assistance, Jimmy. As I’ve told so many others who did not serve or have a chance to serve or even avoided it,
I am happy to be able to still have you alive to have a dialogue with. If you’d gone with me you would not be writing this at all.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thank you for writing about the reality of war. I is both sobering and thought-provoking. I served in the U.S. Army from 1963 to 1966. I enlisted the day after turning 18, ignorant of most everything. I was in an air cavalry regiment in the First Infantry Division at Fort Riley, KS in ’64 – ’65, a very interesting time. I was trained as a fixed-wing airplane mechanic, but at Ft.Riley there were no airplanes. Then we got helicopters, little 3 person Hillers, on one of which I was appointed Crew Chief. Then we got Hueys. Then machine guns and rocket launchers were put on the hueys. Then played war games in Florida. One day, in May 1965, I got orders for Germany. A couple of weeks after arriving in Germany, the Stars & Stripes newspaper headline “1st Division Redeploys to Vietnam” got my attention.
I have been grateful every day of my life since then that I did not have to participate in the madness of war. I have friends and acquaintances who bear the scars of Agent Orange and PTSD. Your stories are vivid descriptions of the madness that engulfs us in war. Thank you.
Glad you missed that boat! I have a lot of friends who didn’t go for one reason or another and
I am always happy to tell them that I appreciate that they are there talking to me, which they would not be if they’d gone with me.
Thanks for the compliments and the reading.
Semper fi,
Jim
My unit, Army 10th Cav. recon went In May 1964.
I got out that Month. Too short to shoot. zmussed getting extended by the same 1i days that I had v quit school
and joined up. Fate
Thanks for the comment Frank. That must have been a really interesting time to be in country, given what happened after.
Thanks for saying anything here at all and thanks for the reading.
Semper fi,
Jim
I’ve been keeping up with your articles and must say I enjoyed reading them. Being a Nam Vet too, I like to hear of others experiences without all the embellishments some folks add. The time we spent was hell and not a theater stage or an act, and deserves to be told in truth.
In your reference to snakes, I noticed one in particular that was never mentioned. That was the deadly “Two Step” snake. These were prevalent in our home base area around Cha Rang Valley, which was South of you guys. I only saw one King Cobra during my tour, and the excitement he caused was hilarious. We had been under attack for three days, without being able to move from our positions, when one Sgt. ventured to take a quick look over his sandbags, to check for anyone advancing on our position. Staring him in the face, at maybe two feet distance, was Mr. King with his hood spread. His reaction was so funny, even Charlie stopped shooting and started laughing !!! I had never seen any man make moves like that. He appeared to be break dancing and trying to preform a ballet move at the same time. Needless to say, he refused to return to that bunker, and no one else wanted it either !! Keep up the good work, I enjoy it !!!
Thanks Raymond for this lengthy comment. And the funny story about the sergeant. Funny how the men were more afraid of snakes than the enemy!
And there weren’t that many snakes compared to the enemy. I am not sure I am not embellishing, by the way. I don’t think, in re-reading to edit, that I do a great job at portraying how afraid I was or how cowardly I sometimes acted. It’s hard to do that because my self-image is a bit better these days. I’ve lived a lot of years in redemption, trying to make up for a lot of shit I did over there. It’s a way to get along instead of drinking or drugs. I’m doing the best I can to get it all out though and I don’t think there are many of us who can do that, for whatever reasons.
Semper fi,
Jim
Ya gotta buck up marine and get these pages out quicker. It’s painful for this old Army grunt to have to read a few pages then wait…sorta like the fire missions we called in…
Too bad these pinkies today can’t be made to live one week of that hell…might change their outlook a litttle
You are too funny Darrell! Thank you. I am not allowed to write all the time because the errands of life keep me at it, especially in this Christmas season. And I get down a bit, from time to time. I lost so many of those kids and the pain of that has been deadened over time. I only visited the parents of one to tell the the truth about what happened to their son. I got thrown down the front steps of that Sausalito home and I still remember trying to get up because my wounds had not fully healed yet. I never tried that again. But the rendition of these events is harder than I thought it would be, not because I can’t remember but because I can remember. So many of us came back and beat those memories down whenever they came up or drowned them with alcohol or drugs or both. Hell, screw the doctors and shrinks, many of us lived because we drank and took drugs. It got some of us through, somehow. Anybody else remember those nights? Up at three a.m. with only a .45 and a bottle, trying to decide which? Sorry for the rant here but I wanted to let you know why it’s coming to print so slow. Maybe I should have written it all at once but, in truth, I needed to know whether anybody out here would give a shit…and people like you help me continue. thank you for that.
Semper fi,
Jim
sure didn’t mean anything disrespectful sir. anytime i was in field, there was a squad of marines covering my butt..i thanked every rotor jockey that picked me up, but i thanked god for the marines that got me back… took me a year to realign myself and be straight again. you do the writing and i’ll do the reading and keep quiet. Semper Fi, Marine, with total respect…
Darrell, I would hope that this would be the kind of comment place where you can feel perfectly free to say what you think and write what you mean. There were so many little wars fought over there and my outfit and what happened inside it is only one of those stories. For all I know the companies on my flanks did not conduct themselves that way at all, in fact I don’t think they did. Jim Webb was a better company commander than I could ever have been, for example. I just know it. The Marines on the ground had a distinct love/hate relationship with the air dales. Those guys got to leave every day and fly high into cool air. They ate hot chow every night and slept in cots. But they saved our asses time after time and dragged our shot up asses to medical help, and those of our friends. Hard one. Thanks for sticking with me as I continue.
Semper fi,
Jim
An Hoa rats were the bigger pests by far. OIC LOC
16,000 Pax.37,000 tons a freight
I never made it back to the battery at An Hoa so was not introduced to the
rats. Heard about them though and the reports were scary. That country, luscious and beautiful as it
was and remains is one hotbed of ferocious fauna and flora.
Semper fi,
Jim
You’ve done it again. There was no safe place to be, was there? Seems to me the Nam went downhill from horrible. Keep writing and I’ll keep reading. Can’t wait for the Amazon book.
Thank you Walt for your comments. Hope to have Volume One first 10 Days out in January.
Will need all my friends to help let everyone know it is available.
Have you signed up for email updates?
We will be making the release ‘attractive’ to our subscribers
I hope the policy makers from the Vietnam era who are still alive read your accounts so they can see what kind of hell their policies put our young Marines into.
The war machine does not work with facts. It is why they would not let me go back to Quantico and teach there
when I got out of the hospital. They say that the Basic School does a better job today but I don’t know.
Policy makers are about money and the extension of power. War is ever on the horizon and there’s nothing Donald Trump
has said that is not bellicose and warlike. Living with war is very much a part of living on this planet as a human.
Semper fi, and thank you,
Jim
Your right they make the policy we die for it
John, that is a longstanding and almost eternal part of going to war. We in the field depend upon our leaders
to make policy that we know we may die from but will have some sort of great purpose. Since WWII there has been no
real purpose to die for. Every war since then has been founded on one lie or another that we who survive only find out about later on.
Shame about Vietnam.
Semper fi,
Jim
Enjoy reading your posts! HShanker…Mike 3/9 3rdmardv…1969
Thank you Howard. Thanks for saying that. Interesting, terrifying and outrageous time back then.
Many wars within the war fought over there and mine only one of them.
Semper fi,
Jim
For me the A Shau was not a place but a thing. It would eat you up and spit you out. As the Gunny said you come out a different person than went in. I hate snakes and spiders, but realized that I was in their yard, which did not stop me from killing as many as I could.
No mercy for the damned snakes. Fortunately, most of the venomous spiders had weak venom so they weren’t quite as bad.
The NVA was bad. The booby traps were worse. The A Shau remains the most dangerous place I’ve ever been in my life.
Semper fi,
Jim
Another great article, James. I always find myself re-living my ‘Nam experiences through your writings. And those damn snakes sucked, big time. Especially, that yellow bamboo viper. I seriously do believe the gooks released them at An Hoa. That place was full of them. Out Post (OP) duty was the worse. Those vipers would crawl over my feet and I had to remain silent as not to give my position away. Most times, they were beheaded and thrown at a cherry the next morning. We had to have something to laugh at.
I saw several of my Marines after they’d been hit by that damned snake and they were in a lot of pain.
We thought they would die in the rear area after medevac but they didn’t. The King Cobra, that will make itself apparent further on
was not so kindly when it came to lethality, like the damned sea snakes that wound their way up the rivers from time to time.
Thanks for the comment and insight.
Semper fi,
Jim
Laughingly.. I told you when i would come in off patrols i would race to the ocean and surf on boards we got from the green beanies. Well now that im enlightened about agent orange dumped in there, you reminded me of layin on the board waitin for sets, and hearing splashing around me. I looked up to see one of those damned snakes tangled up in itself on the end of my board. As i slowly paddled backward to ease the snake off the nose of the board, i looked down to see school of them swimming underneath me. My buddy told me not to get bit cause there aint no antidote and theyre deadly poisonous! Ok..?
Your buddy was spot on about the sea snakes but there’s one important caveat.
Like the Coral Snake in Florida, the sea snake has no viper teeth to inject the poison.
They have to gnaw on your awhile for the poison to be soaked into your skin. That’s why their
poison is so powerful. Because they can’t get very much into you. Not many died in the Nam
from all the sea snakes there were around because of this. I knew a couple of guys who went
down aboard a chopper in the middle of a breeding pile of sea snakes and actually swam a quarter mile
through millions of them without having any problem. They just kept gently moving through them and pushing
them aside.
Semper fi,
Jim
I enlisted into the Navy in June 1963 after my dad asked me which branch of the arm forces “I” wanted to join (Nov 1962). My Vietnam duty was aboard the USS Enterprise CVAN-65. She is a massive bird farm that brought screaming death from the sky. I only saw the green machine from her decks. We went in very close one night and launched our war birds to drop aerial mines in Haiphon and the canals leading to that port. The mountains behind the port flashed with the light of AAA and SAMs as the mission progressed. I watched through the pedestal binoculars until I felt a tap on my back. Turning around I met the eyes of CARDIV 1 Admiral Epes who asked if I was lost? I got lost PDQ leaving the O11 level three steps at a bound. I read every Vietnam book, story, or article that crosses my path. Your story sucked me in like an F4B jet intake. Great piece of writing and I wan’t more. Vince Staley AQ1 G-Div. Weapons Dept. The BIG E.
Wow, not a bad piece of writing right there Vincent! And that experience, with a little more fleshing out, is a great short story.
My rendition of what happened to me is a whole slew of short stories that happened to me with as much as I can remember
and put together from the fragments I have left over.
Thanks so much for liking that rendition and taking the time to write all of us on
here about your own experience, as well.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I can hardly wait for these installments, and than I tear into them voraciously. You have the talent of taking readers there. Missed “Nam” myself. Joined at 17 1/2 years old in 78 after midterm graduation, I vowed to join at almost 8 years old after my Uncle and “Brother Marine” gave the ultimate sacrifice in 68. You bring to life many of the areas he had traversed and the hardships endured. Thank you for the chance to better understand situations many will never begin to understand.
Well, Bill, I can’t thank you enough for that kind of comment.
Since I’m not writing this series to make a buckand I don’t have any professional assistance
it can get to be a chore every once and awhile to go on.
But stuff like you just wrote is motivational.
I don’t expect everyone to like what I’m writing because it runs against the grain of much military training and
current organizations.
There will be push back.
But I persevere, thanks to people like you.
Semper fi,
Jim
“Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.” Not my quote, but there’s a lot of that going on here as evidenced by the from-the-gut-comments of those of us living/reliving (for you), these seven days and nights. I’m not snake averse, probably the only “plus” I’ve registered so far, not enough to have kept me alive.
I was not snake averse either, when I got to Vietnam John. But it took no time at all to realize that snakes were another of the
enemy that I was very quickly learning had to be killed to allow me to live. The Bamboo vipers will reappear later as well as the
Cobras and sea snakes. This planet is a hard place, even in the tropics, and humans are not very welcome.
You write smoothly and with vibrant enthusiastic interest. Have you thought about doing a bit more of that,
other than commenting here?
Semper fi,
Jim
Coming from you, the writing compliment is high praise indeed. I wrote a few pieces for Farm Journal, back when the magazine was actually a “journal”. Now it’s just another one of a mailbox full of “How to Farm Bigger and Make More Money” vehicles for advertisers. I can write fairly easily about things I care deeply about. Thanks, I appreciate it.
Yes, John, you are pro caliber and I enjoy reading what you write. And yes, the damned magazines that I so used to love, from nature to science and even farming
have all gone the way of advertising and crap. No writing. No talent. Nobody can get in to even give them good writing because the current owners and producers all believe
they are good. And most of them suck, like in Hollywood. But they own the territory.
The would be writers suffer but it is the general public that really gets hurt. Try to
go into a Barnes and Noble and find anything anymore.
You go through the racks and the stacks and there isn’t one book worth a fuck, unless you find just one every once and a while.
No magazines. I used to walk out of this places with two bags of shit.
Now, I walk out with a latte.
Thanks, as usual, for the erudite and well crafted response.
Semper fi,
Jim
A Shau was a place to be respected, both the NVA as well as the terrain and the snakes, bugs and jungle. I was wounded on Tiger Mountain (Co A Long)on April 25, 1968 in a major ambush and left most of my body’s blood on that soil. I was with D Co. 5/7 Cav on a recon patrol because of machinery and engine noises we were hearing. Must have been a major post of theirs cause they hit us with everything they had. Lt. Mike Sprayberry earned his Medal of Honor there and saved my life along with many others. Six men are still unaccounted for up there. Glad to be alive yet to this day.
The ambushes in that valley were never ending, on both sides. What a rabbit warren of
clefts, cliffs, trees, crags and jungle growth…not to mention the animal life.
Another world, really.
Glad you are alive today too and thanks for putting your tacit stamp of approval on
my version of life back then.
Semper fi,
Jim
Fantastic memories. I was lucky enough not to have gone so yours articles are very interesting to me. Not sure I could have handled it.
Richard, you would probably have done great, if you were given the opportunity to survive at all.
Thank you for caring enough to comment and for reading the stuff with some sense of understanding.
I don’t think anyone who’s gone through shit like that ever forgets the detail. I just somehow managed
to get the ability to write about it half way intelligently.
Semper fi,
Jim
Another Good Read… I hate snakes, too.
Kay, I really discovered snakes for the first time in my life. I’d always lived in developed areas or in Hawaii.
I had no clue really. I’d heard stories but the reality of running into first their effects on my men and then
running into them directly and physically was stunning. Again.
Thanks for the comment and yes, I hate them too.
Only two fears built into babies genetically from birth. Falling and snakes. Interesting.
Your friend,
Jim
Snake story. Guy in our platoon gets bitten by a snake in the middle of the night on a dense jungle covered mountain side. He kills the snake and we call for medivac. They have to drop a jungle penitrater to get him out. While pulling up through the canopy he breaks his arm. Now he is one happy camper when he finds out the snake is nonvemonis and he out the bush for awhile.
Funny how minor injuries were treated as wonderful to the point where
such self-induced injuries had to be punished because the guys tried to
get out of the field using them. Read on.
Thanks for your very real story and how it all fit into the insanity
that went on there.
Semper fi,
Jim
Didn’t they hit the A Shaun with alot of B52 strikes? You were there after me.I thought they really blasted that I was at Kon Tum in 65 and that got B52 strikes daily. It was always bad at night.
You will recall just how big the A Shau is if you think about it Dan. They hit the valley with B-52s all the damned time and never made a dent in shit. They were dropping two thousand pound bombs that had only three hundred pounds of explosives in them. The rest was shell casing and shrapnel. The heave jungle ate that shit like there was no tomorrow. Nice specific craters dotted all over but that was about it. Those bombs did nothing to root the NVA out of the many canyon walls and stream banks.
We would have needed small nukes to effect anything there. But then we’d have radiation instead of Orange as part of our baggage!
Semper fi,
Jim
Fire with fire. We could have dropped thousands of them following artillery.
(Snakes).Hind sight.
Actually, I don’t think they had much to do with snakes.
They seemed to hate them more than we did.
God knows what they faced inside those damned tunnels that were everywhere.
But it is a funny idea.
Imagine being assigned to the unit in charge of finding and gathering the nasty snakes together for a drop!
Semper fi,
Jim
😁