The shelf running just down from, and alongside the top of, the mountain’s descending ridge eventually played out. The company once more trudged through the jungle under a barely seen double canopy of heavy brush, bamboo stands, hanging vines and cutting saw grass with umbrella-like layers of tree foliage. The moon glowed distantly above, hardly visible through the mess of foliage and flora.
My body and mind were run through with deep fatigue. If I had been hunting alone, headed back to my car or truck in the real world, I knew I’d drop my pack and belt and leave them behind, intent only on making it back to safety. But I was bound for the A Shau Valley and if any, even one, of the reports I’d heard about it were true, then it was one of the ugliest and most perilous destinations on the planet for a human being to go and attempt to survive. When I’d read Dante’s Inferno in college, I’d laughed at the old English language descriptions of gargoyles, devils, and demons. What I’d never felt was the reality of fear so deep that it was powerful enough to drive back the brutal fatigue, and even reason itself.
“Not so bad…it’s not so bad,” I whispered to myself, thankful that I could hear myself again following the hours-old artillery barrage I’d brought down further up the mountain.
“Sir?” Fusner said, scurrying up from behind like an eight-year-old kid trying to take care of his dad.
“Nothing,” I said, making sure there was no bite in my tone.
My armpits hurt from the old layered sweat dried and re-wet in my utility blouse. My crotch hurt the same way. I was covered in old oils and mud, and we were coming down out of the cooler air accompanied by slight, but oh-so-welcome, winds. The mosquitoes were back, although not in force. I’d had no food or water all night long and what passed for rest up on the plateau, waiting to be attacked, could not be defined as rest at all, no matter how it might have looked. Every time I thought of myself as a miserable mess, I knew I was soon to become more of a miserable mess just by thinking about it.
The Gunny appeared in front of me, easing back, probably to see if I and the scout team were still there. The Gunny was herding his chicks along, I knew, which just added to the feeling, or lack of one, that I’d ever command anything in the Nam.
“Do we have flank security out on the left?” I asked him. Small patrols of Marines were supposed to be extended out from the main unit along the line of travel of any moving combat unit.
“Right,” the Gunny said, across a few feet of passing jungle, as we moved. “Nobody’s going out there. This isn’t the open wooded and pastoral Virginia land of your training. Nobody’s going out there to die.”
I looked behind us, realizing right then that there was no rear security either. If the angry half-mangled enemy had sent out a party to attack the rear of the company while we traveled toward the A Shau Valley, the place they had to know we were going, then I and my scout team would become the first very vulnerable targets of their attack. I wondered how it was possible to put into practice any of the principles learned in training, principles there because of bitterly hard-learned lessons of the past if the Marines could not be ordered or commanded. If survival considerations were only applied to the present instant, then what of the future, even the near future? I determined that I would attempt to not only make future moves in a different place deeper inside the company but would find a way to make sure that flank security was always out. Without flank security, warning of an impending attack, the entire company could be totally wiped out.
“Probably less than an hour out,” the Gunny said, before moving ahead to check on the rest of his flock, or so I thought.
My spirits began to lift as I moved, the waning light of the partial full moon fading to be replaced by an invisible dawn diffusion of light coming from up ahead. We were heading due east into the rising sun, toward a dead end that would be defined by the lip of the river cut A Shau chasm.
“The A Shau can’t be as bad as this,” I murmured to myself, only to draw another inquiring “Sir?” from Fusner.
The mosquitoes loved perspiration. They had no problem biting my face and hands while I moved. I pulled my repellent out of my helmet rubber band and ‘cleaned’ my face and neck with the awful stuff. I looked at over-burdened Zippo, lumbering along not far from me. He didn’t use the repellent. He slathered on the mud from under our feet. He claimed it worked better, but he looked like some creature from the Blue Lagoon movie. Whatever discomfort I got from wearing the utility blouse in the heat was returned in some comfort by the fact that the mosquitoes couldn’t bite through the tough cotton of its manufacture.
Dawn was breaking by the time we reached the natural edge of the jungle. A clearing extended out from that broken line all the way to the edge of a great cliff. The Gunny set up the company’s first security perimeter since we’d left the position up on the mountain. I was relieved. I’d already learned how hard-bitten tough the Vietnamese enemy was, and I didn’t doubt at all the capability of its leadership or ability of NVA units to take hard hits. The company had only escaped taking heavy casualties by pulling bizarre and unexpected moves and getting some perfectly fired artillery. How long that might be continued was anybody’s guess.
I shed my pack near the tree line and threw down my poncho before walking over to the lip of the cliff to stand next to the Gunny.
“Holy shit,” I breathed out.
“Looks are deceiving,” the Gunny replied, cupping his hand to light a cigarette against the light wind rising up over the edge.
“Holy shit,” I said again, the scene so stunningly beautiful that I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’d been raised in Hawaii, and because of my father’s Coast Guard position, I’d traveled to all of the islands. There were some beautiful valleys on those islands but I’d never stood at the top of one of them and looked down the expanse of the whole thing at one time. The river below was a brown and blue ribbon, glinting occasionally as the water shifted and moved. The walls of the great gently sloping sides of the valley were covered in green growth of all kinds and hues. There were little canyons feeding into the main canyon in many places, and heaving round-topped mountains rose up from different points along the valley’s entire length.
“Resupply is going to roll in,” the Gunny said. “It’s a weird run because command said our mission to enter the valley will be on the chopper. Usually, they just tell us. What shitty crap do they have up their sleeves this time?”
“It looks empty down there,” I said, having nothing to add about the coming resupply drop.
“B-52’s have dumped hundreds of thousands of pounds of bombs down into that,” the Gunny said, blowing smoke out to let the wind sweep it back over our heads. “You see any evidence?”
I ran my eyes slowly up and down the valley, and then did it again, even slower. “There’s no evidence at all,” I answered, shaking my head.
“The A Shau eats everything that enters,” the Gunny said, snapping the butt of his cigarette into the air. Unlike the smoke, the butt went up, out and then plunged down, like it’d been grabbed by a small invisible hand.
“ A Shau is a dead valley predator and it wants more dead for company, except mosquitoes, snakes, and crocodiles.”
The Gunny turned and walked back toward where the company was setting up to receive the hoped and prayed for resupply chopper.
“Crocodiles?” I whispered into the wind.
“Crocodiles?” Fusner repeated, from just behind me.
I didn’t know there were crocodiles in Vietnam, but I didn’t want to let Fusner know that so I let it go. Each day in the Nam was like getting a barely passing grade in some arcane and painful college course.
“If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes back at you.” I quoted from some philosopher I’d read somewhere.
There was a delay of a few seconds before Fusner replied. “What’s an abyss?”
I felt the throbbing beat of distant helicopter blades working their way toward us. Even at a great distance, I could already tell that there was more than one chopper and that one of them was a big CH-46 or 47. The welcome resupply was about to come in. I pulled myself away from the gorgeous vista and hurried toward my stuff, to secure it from the hundred-mile-an-hour winds that would blast out from under the big chopper when it landed.
For the first time since I’d landed in country there were no body bags stacked and waiting for the chopper, and I smiled a very faint smile of pride. The giant twin-rotor helicopter came gliding in, moving a lot faster than it seemed. Two Huey Cobras flew shotgun, the crews obviously enjoying diving down into the valley and then screaming upward to veer in low and fast over the landing zone. Debris flew about, as the CH-47 flight engineer set his crew to work running boxes and other gear down the rear ramp that had flopped down on the hard lichen-covered rock surface below. The twin rotors kept spinning at high speed. The process of unloading only took a few minutes. At the end of that time three Marines in rear area utilities, including flak jackets, walked down the ramp before ducking down as the monster chopper spooled up and lifted from the flat surface at the top of the cliff. In seconds all the choppers, plunging down into the valley, were just fast-fading blade-slapping echoes.
I stared at the three men, my eyes going wide. The first real smile of my tour began to stretch its way across my face. The black bars on the Marine’s helmets were clearly visible. A captain and two lieutenants. The company was getting real officers. I didn’t move. The Gunny came out of nowhere, strode past me, and went out to greet the new officers. I heard Captain Casey, and First Lieutenants Billings and Keating, introduce themselves. The Gunny pointed back to where I stood, still gaping, with Fusner, Stevens, Zippo, and Nguyen lined up next to me.
The three officers walked toward me. I inhaled deeply. I didn’t know what to say. Would they want the company’s condition explained, or knowledge about the night’s countering of the NVA attack or even the state of our supplies?
“You’d be Junior,” Captain Casey said, his face hard and his tone even harder. The first lieutenants formed up behind Casey, spreading out slightly, like fighter planes supporting the leader of a combat squadron. I noted the Gunny slowly backing away until he disappeared from my focus.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, almost coming to attention, but not quite.
Casey turned his attention to the scout team. “You’d be Sergeant Stevens, I’m told. Stand at ease, Sergeant. You’re now my Scout Sergeant, with your little assistant there.” The Captain pointed toward Nguyen, before turning back to me. “You can keep the radio man, Junior. The Gunny won’t need one anymore so I’ll take his. And you,” he pointed toward Zippo, “you’ll be heading for one of the platoons just as soon as we take care of this racial thing. The Captain scowled at me again. “How in hell you managed to get a race war going in this company, Junior, is the kind of stuff that’ll be written up for future training commands.”
The Captain pointed at me with his right index finger extended.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, nearly struck dumb, my mind having gone blank as he finished the last few words about the problems with First and Fourth platoons.
“We need to talk,” Captain Casey said, approaching to within a few feet of me. I had to lean back a bit to look up at him. I was a little less than five nine, which put him at about six foot three, or maybe a touch more, I calculated. He wore the new jungle utilities and boots I’d only hoped to one day acquire, as did his supporting lieutenants. “Step this way,” he ordered, and then walked back toward the edge of the cliff.
I had already assumed that my place was to say nothing. I walked next to the captain, knowing I wasn’t going to be asked any questions. I was going to be told what to do. That was the way it was supposed to be in the command structure of a regular Marine unit. There were no excuses. You did what you were ordered to do or paid the price.
When we came to the edge of the abyss he stopped and turned, staring deeply into my eyes. He said nothing, instead pulling a pack of Camel cigarettes from his blouse pocket and a small box of C-ration matches. I waited, glancing surreptitiously down the face of the cliff. I figured it was about four hundred feet down to the forest bracken below. It was not a survivable fall. I looked back at the Captain and figured he probably weighed about two-twenty, or so.
“You fucked up your first, and probably only command, Junior,” he said, facing out over the vastness of the valley below. “Now we’re going to run this company by the book. You disobeyed a direct order to take Hill 110. You refused a direct order from Captain Mertz by ignoring it, and you’ve used up about a quarter of all the artillery supplies in the whole damned area, plus calling in the Army to do Marine Corps work. How can I say this? You haven’t even had a decent kill ratio. Your company has more casualties than all the other companies of the battalion put together.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not knowing what else to say. The Captain inhaled and blew out smoke three more times, before going on.
“Finally, this whole war is being fought using the rules of engagement. Have you ever even heard of the rules of engagement?”
“I heard that there’s a copy of them on a special podium in Division Headquarters,” I replied. “I think I saw them there on my first night.” Unlike the Captain, I kept my voice flat and emotionless. I looked at our relative positions on the lip of the crevasse. I was just to the left and a little behind him. I knew I could handle his two-twenty fairly deftly. I looked back toward where I’d tossed my stuff and saw almost the whole company making believe it wasn’t watching the show at the edge of the cliff. What would happen to the company if Casey took a fall?
“You’re now the forward observer,” the Captain said, turning to face me.
“And that’s all you are. You can have your radio operator to reach the artillery net but you don’t fire a single round without my pre-approval and you don’t fire on anything or anybody I don’t order you to, and that sure as hell includes our own men. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering how many times I’d said the only words I’d spoken to the man, and how many times I’d have to say them again.
“You’re dismissed,” the captain said, but I didn’t walk away because he kept talking.
“I’m going to separate and blend in the blacks with the whites in all the platoons before nightfall. The two problem platoon commanders, the shake and bakes, are reduced to squad leaders or even fire team leaders if their new commanders so choose.”
I stood waiting, again not knowing what to do or say.
“Any questions?” Captain Casey said, although he didn’t say the words like they were a question, or that he welcomed any.
“How do you know what’s going on in the company, sir?” I asked, truly befuddled. The radio contact with battalion command was extremely slight, and controlled up until now by the Gunny.
“The daily reports, of course,” the captain snorted. “Rittenhouse has filed very accurate and detailed reports on all of this crap.”
I was stunned to silence, once more.
“You’re dismissed…again,” the captain said, with a wave of his hand, which had to mean he really meant it this time, I guessed.
I walked over to my gear, which had been blown about ten feet by the chopper’s downdraft. I gathered my stuff together, aware that Zippo and Stevens were getting their own together. I didn’t know what to say to them so I just made believe I was working away setting up my own hooch. When I looked up both men were gone. I felt an ache inside me I could not quite place. Fusner built his own little hooch next to mine, placing it closer, like he’d done when he was afraid of the snakes. Nguyen sat on one edge of his laid down poncho in his tight cross-legged pose that only natives could pull off for any extended period of time. I wondered if he’d gotten the word that he wasn’t my Kit Carson scout anymore.
I finished building my hooch by myself. I laid out my poncho cover like it was a little flat porch. I was thankful that the ground was not wet mud for a change. For some reason, possibly because of the wind coming up over the edge of the cliff, the mosquitoes were all but gone. I could not see where the Captain and his two First Lieutenants had gone off to bivouac, and I didn’t much care either. It was daytime, but the company wasn’t going anywhere without some kind of rest. Fusner hauled in a big plastic bottle of water and a load of my ham and lima beans. I had water but was no longer thirsty. I had food but was no longer hungry. And I could rest but I could not rest. I sat with my legs up and knees spread, with my elbows lying on my knees. Fusner’s transistor radio played some blues piece: “…sittin’ here resting my bones, and this loneliness won’t leave me alone, two thousand miles I roam just to make this dock my home…” while I stared out over the beauty of the A Shau stretching out below.
The Gunny came striding through the bush behind me, and then sat down on the other edge of my poncho liner. He immediately went to work making a canteen holder of coffee. He tossed a packet of the instant stuff at my feet. Fusner appeared next to him with a holder filled with some of the new fresh water. I didn’t really want coffee, but I wasn’t going to interrupt whatever was going on. I began to make a cup for myself, using the Gunny’s flaming explosive chunk when he was done with it.
“Rittenhouse,” I said, softly.
“Yeah, I heard,” the Gunny replied. “That’s a problem that’ll be taken care of post haste.”
I knew then that the Gunny hadn’t thought about the potential of daily reports going back to command and the necessity of making sure of what was in them before they went off. It wasn’t the Gunny who’d filed the reports. I tried not to show my relief.
“The three knights of the orient look really good,” the Gunny said, between sips of his too hot coffee.
I checked out the Gunny’s gear, taking a sip of my own coffee. He looked a bit more tattered than I did, if that was possible.
“Nice boots,” I commented.
“What size do you wear?” the Gunny replied.
I laughed out loud for the first time since arriving in Vietnam.
“Jurgens and Sugar Daddy want to see you,” the Gunny said after he stopped laughing himself.
“You’re kidding,” I said, with a sigh. “Now what? Are those guys ever going to lighten up, or do I have to climb into a body bag to make that happen?”
The Gunny lit another cigarette instead of answering right away. I waited. In only a few minutes I’d lost my whole scout team, been reduced to even less of an officer than I’d been before, and then blamed for every misstep of the company, past, and present. On top of that, it was all on paper, back at battalion, not that it mattered much with my lousy prospects for continuing to live.
“There was an old Chinese general who once said that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” the Gunny said, blowing a big cloud of smoke out toward the lip of the A Shau.
I drank my coffee with my right hand. My left started to shake a bit so I reached down to massage my thigh with it. I felt the letter inside the pocket. I’d forgotten to send my letter home when resupply lifted off. For the second time. I looked out over the beauty of the A Shau and became afraid again. I was afraid that Vietnam was claiming me. Slowly, ever so slowly, back home was being pried loose from me like one narrow board after another in the disassembly of an old farmhouse.
End of the First Ten Days
Moving on to Second 10 Days>>>>>>>>>
LT,
If all the “actual” combat vets could sit down for a discussion of what they saw and what they did, there would be a lot of common denominators. What would also happen is that there would be a lot of never heard of that!no S)&it!! I’ll be damned!
We all fought a nasty, brutal war that we never had a chance at winning. Some incredibly inept officers, and some out to make a name for themselves.
I think those of us who made it home, left part of our selves there. I live under the flight path National Guard helicopters, invariably as they pass over and I suddenly hear them, I’ll have a flash back. Instantly I’m back in
Vietnam. Your writing does the same thing, keep it up. Slowly but surely I will be able to have a day or two when I don’t think about the war or the horror.
Funny, I spent 13 months at war
46 years ago, and it’s affect has never left, I am still learning how to deal with it.
Ps, don’t worry about the editing,
We know what you meant!!
Dave, you will always be at war, in one way or another because of your nature.
This is a hard planet to make it on. What with the three and a half million years it’s taken
humans to just get this far, you get an idea. You are genetically set up to fight the hard fight and
there’s no quit in you. I’m sorry for you and happy for you. You are a real mover and shaker or you
would not feel the way you do. And telling you that isn’t going to bring you closer to acceptance
and peace either because there’s neither of those things inside you. But there is intellect, understanding,
knowledge and humor about the whole fucking rolling thing of this life. Glad you are on my bus….
Semper fi,
Jim
MORNING SIR, As a VIET NAM ARMY r.t.o. 1965-66 i have a nagging question. Was the fear of your own troops real or imagined? ALSO,did your thinking on that change after leaving the bush?
Any leader who is not afraid of what his or her troops might do to them, for them, and
wth then in combat, is going to get exactly what he or she deserves, or inexperience serves up.
And all units are different, from one another in many respects. When I got home I was still afraid, and that was after damn near a year in
the hospitals, away from them. I had to return to command while awaiting a disability board, and my fear of
my own men back in barracks caused me to treat them in ways that were not good for any of us in the real world.
My 1st Sergant took me aside one day and said: “You’re not in Vietnam anymore, sir.” Only after I got out did what he said really
sink in. Thanks for the sincere comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Outstanding.. A great help to better understand my younger friends whose experiences have formed who they are today.. As a “peacetime” sailor of the 50s, I have nothing to draw on when trying to understand . Your writing lends a basis for the conversations we have had regarding their time in country..
It took me awhile to understand that ” it dont mean nuthin’ “
Thanks for the big compliment and also for gaining an understanding of what it was and is really like.
Hard to bring people in on that unless you tell the whole story with all the nits, pits and details, which is what I
am trying to do. thanks for the encouragement and writing this apropos comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
USMC. 0311. Of 39 months in country, I found myself staying one day for over a years at a place they said God had forgotten about, Few clicks south of the DMZ. Khe Sanh Fire Base…7 Feb. 67 /March 68 The red clay dust just couldn’t be, believed. It seem to get in everthing we had. Even threw our screw on lids of our canteens… Been threw the A Shau Valley a few times on my first two sleep overs in RVN. LOL.. Love your story,, A belated Welcome Home, Brother As Alway; Just Sgt.
Thank you most kindly James. It is certainly good to be living in the land of the round eyes, as we used
to refer to it before more politically correct language was called for. Thanks for liking the story
and for making that known on this comment section….
Semper fi,
Jim
When I was young a few vets I knew came home and now I understand what the little sticker on his window meant , it read ” yea,though I walk through the valley of death I shall fear no evil because I’m the meanest muther fucked in the valley ” and I guess you had to be to survive.
You had to be lucky Scott. And you had to be very very intensively aware of the
slightest nuance or change. Paying attention was so hard what with the insects, the weather,
the mud, and so much more.
Thanks for the comment,
Semper fi,
Jim
I really like your writing style James it’s like two old buddies sitting down and talking about the shit
Nice compliment Donnie. Much appreciated. I guess it is me telling the tale to you guys every night.
Thanks for reading me and taking the time and trouble to say something.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, is this book for sale? I didn’t see a place to purchase it from your website. I’m currently writing a gritty young adult fiction novel. One of the main characters is a retired Marine Master Sergeant who refers to his time in Vietnam often. I’m looking for resources to help me tell his story accurately. Thank you.
We will be publishing “First 10 Days” within the week (hopefully) In Kindle and Paperback.
Always FREE to to read on-line.
I was a part of the very first evac of A SHAU vally air strip air field in 1965. It was HELL flying in there on HUEY’S M-60 running so hard the barrel’s began to bend. It is still all in the back of my mind where I hope it stays!!! (VMO-2 MAG 16 USMC Air wing)
Changing barrels on that M-60 after the glove has been lost was a bitch!
Thanks for your report on your 1965 entry into that place.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I enjoyed your publication. I was in Vietnam from August of 68 to Jan 70. I was not a grunt on the ground where the hell truly was. I served in MAG-16, Marine Air Group 16, with several squadrons in, around, & out of Marble Mountain. I won’t discount my efforts or actions. But I knew for the most part if we could survive the insertions & extractions supporting these guys. We felt like we were lucky, because we weren’t going to be there in that hell on the ground. I’m not saying there weren’t many anxious, scared as all hell, heroing, moments of hell. It was the going into & picking up the aftermath & remenets of an operation.
I couldn’t agree more about the beauty of the country from the scenic view of a helicopter.
The photo with your article is a Marine CH-46 Sea Knight. I think it may be from squadron HMN-263 Purple FOX’s
Keep up your good work. It is one way this “Old Vietnam Vet” can reflect on mine & others participation & part of a “Brotherhood”
th wore world has told us about the CH-46 confusion. One of my people was not a veteran and
took that photo off the Internet to illustrate a chapter. Wow. Do the guys on here know their shit? Yes!
Anyway, thanks for commenting and liking the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
Am enjoying your writing. Spent my time in II Corp 1967-1969. U.S. Army. Keep writing, it has the making of a good book.
Thanks Terry, I am all over it, putting up another segment right now and then
getting back to it as I spend this weekend getting the first novel “The First Ten Days,”
ready for publishing. Thanks for your interest and the compliment.
Semper fi,
Jim
The “Captain” in your story very much reminds me of a story I heard many years ago….
I’m not a vet, however I was taught my trade by a vet, a tough vet who fought his way across Europe in the second world war.
He was a sergeant.
During the few years I spent with him (40 years after the war when he taught me my trade), I heard a lot of “War stories.”
Sometimes after a story or two, he’d say “Can’t talk about this anymore, still get nightmares.”
Once, driving to one job or another, we saw a torn-up rabbit with it’s guts strewn along the road. I said “Ugh,” he said, “Imagine seeing a man looking like that.”
He talked of snipers and shelling and utter exhaustion; I got the picture.
When the war in Europe ended, he was at one base or another with rumors that plans were underway for redeployment of troops for the coming invasion of Japan, but we know how that ended (Some people today question the morality for using “The bomb.” I remember asking him what he thought when news came that the bomb was dropped. He was elated, he said fighting the “Nazi” was enough. He used that word, “Nazi.” He said the German was “Friendly,” the Nazi, “Fanatic”).
Back at the at the one base or another at the end of the war, he was approached by a snot-nosed Lieutenant, the smart-ass with polished boots and a starched uniform who hadn’t seen combat, the one who carried an attitude like some sort of medal he’d earned. The lieutenant said something a smart-ass would say, and since there wasn’t a nearby cliff to push him off, the sergeant crushed the lieutenant’s face with his fist.
After surviving the battlefield of Europe, the sergeant now feared court-martial by his own government. The way I remember the story, nothing became of it, he mustered out, returned home, married, had kids and taught myself and a few others “Tricks of the trade….”
Sergeant Martin F. Bohla, WW2, United States Army
He was buried with full military honors, he is not forgotten, he was my friend and I was his student.
As I continue to repeat, Macsone, the non-coms were and are the backbone and very fiber of the corps.
Putting up with new officers can be a most trying thing to go through as so many times in life experience
triumphs over textbook learning in spades. Thanks for the lenthy and meaningful comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was in the A Shaw 1969 with the 101st Airborne. Your accounts of the war experience are right on. After awhile with fear and exhaustion, and not knowing if you where going to make it through the day, seeing death all around, the only thing you can say is, “it don’t mean nothing” It was a way to deal with the insanity of it.
That is a very true comment, Gene. I remember that phrase well.
Of course it all had meaning and that meaning moves with everyone who lived right through
the core of their lives. Thank you for taking the time and trouble to comment and for reading the work,
Semper fi,
Jim
For you, LT… It Takes strength to remember
it takes a different kind of strength to forget,
It requires heroism to do both.
To remember is to court the madness
of too much pain;
to forget is to court the madness
of the denial of pain.
The world is full of madmen
who remember too much…
and madmen who forget too much.
Heroes are rare.
You again. Hmmmm. With a touching and thematic poem, no less. A brilliant short piece
but then you had to be that to come out of that program and vault to the heights of intellectual achievement.
Now you sit, retired, and write poetry…and what else. Those with PTSD never know true rest, like the remainder of
unbloodied humanity. Thanks for the writing on here as it makes more than just my day. A lot of the guys read these
comments along with me. These comments have more credibility than my story by far and I do not deny any of them because of
what they might say.
Semper fi
Again,
Jim
It’s difficult to explain what’s in my mind now, but I’ll try…
It’s shocking how the brass knew (or must have known) what kind of mess you were ordered into, yet they assigned you the blame anyway. Sad to say, same thing happens today as well.
Thank you for sharing the history with us. My wish is that future generations know if what happens in the event of command failure (you were not that failure of course), and the importance of the higher ups taking responsibility for their actions.
SEMPER FI
Not so shocking, as you see from the comments how many other men who served in that
war suffered at the hands of terrible management and command. Catch 22 caught me in
years later when I read it and saw the movie. It was so spot on but different because
most of that took place in the rear area. Thanks for your comment and the reading.
Semper fi,
Jim
Spent 68-70 with the 173 rd. Lz English and other places. Tough shit. Reading this and the problems encountered almost makes me chuckle. I know, it was no joke but, shit, there were days that if we didn’t laugh we’d cry. I mean. The “c” , camels. I use to hide just hearing a chopper. Knowing it would draw fire. Your writing is good and knowing.
You could not be more correct Jorgen. Now, in writing it I get the gallows humor in the experience
too although I have to admit I could find little humor in it at the time. Thanks for writing what you think
here and also in hanging around to see how the story is playing out.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jorgen, the 61st Assault Helicopter Company has built a Library in Bong Son. We have visited the LZ English Airstrip a couple times—-a still in tact and well-built landing strip by American Engineers.
I have a couple pictures (1967-68 & 2015 and 2016) to send you if you are interested. Thanks John for this monument to the guys of the Ashau Valley. We have made 23 “Returns to Bong Son” on the Library Project funded by Vets, family & friends of the 61st. The 173rd is well known and appreciated, sited as a supported unit of the 61st in a small self-published book, 2nd Edition recounting the Citizen Soldiers of Vietnam and LZ English, of which you are one. We will publish this 2nd Edition in the next few weeks. If you have a few pictures of the 173rd ‘back in the day’ we sure would appreciate being able to incorporate a few in the subsequent Editions, with the name of the person who took them recognized of course.
Thank you for the compliment and I would love to have whatever you send but I have
not photos from the time. I had no camera during that time, but I really appreciate seeing
the work of others from then in that place. Thank you and I look forward to hearing more from you.
And thanks for reading my story and commenting here.
Semper fi
Jim
When I was in the Air Force I met some good officers and I met some bad. The Lt. Col. of my supply squadron was a good officer. He put me on the snow removal team because that entitled me to a superb cold weather parka and he must’ve looked at my skinny self and figured I could use a warm coat. The captain of the company, on the other hand, was a jerk. We used to call him “Roger Ramjet”. He never lifted a finger to help any of his enlisted men, but was always quick to give us grief when he had the chance. From you writing I figure you were like the Lt. Col.
James: please keep telling the entire story and don’t pull any punches. Americans need to hear things like this.
A typo? “The Gunny was herding his chicks along, I knew, which just added to the feeling, or lack of one, that I’d ever (should it be “never”?) command anything..”
Actually, both of those uses would be acceptable, I think. Both speak to the issue
of never commanding anything, although using ‘never’ might be more definitive.
Thanks for taking the time to bring it up and I will be sure to be reminded when
I go through for the final edit for Amazon. Anyway, thanks a ton for the encouragement.
If it was not for guys like you writing in I am not sure I would be where I am in the story.
The next segment is a particularly difficult one and those take extra effort emotionally.
Semper fi,
Jim
James,
I was there in 69 and part of 70 with the 3rd Marines up around the DMZ and later when they were pulled out in September/October, I was transfer to the 1st Marine Division south of Da Nang. My purpose in writing is to let you know that the units I was in was much different that what you were dropped into. All platoons were integrated and we did not have any problem in the field. We knew we needed each other to survive. I do no recall any problems with race. It was different when we got back to the rear. The RFMs had the time on their hands to engage in this type of activities. Back in the rear I did hear rumors of fragging, but not in the field.
I did not enjoy my time in Nam but did love my brothers who helped get me back. I am sorry that you got dropped into a bad situation with such a dysfunctional unit. I’m glad I did not. By the way I was an 0311.
Thanks so much for sharing your story and glad you made it back. Semper Fi
I do not expect that it was the same everywhere. It was so vital as to what unit you pulled, where and what was
going on at the time. So many little wars inside the big one. Fragging in the field was almost never listed as that because who was going to list it?
In the field it was all KIA, WIA, or nothing. No daily report discussed friendly fire because no clerk wanted to die over the data transmission.
Not that I knew, anyway. Rittenhouse wrote shitty enough stuff without that. I can’t presume that things were the same everywhere though.
Thanks for the straight shot across the bows. And thanks for liking what I am trying to write.
Semper fi,
Jim
I was a Cavalry rotor head, I flew slicks, B-227AHB 1st Cav. Div. 70-72 I flew some support for you Jarheads, Some very good people, some not so good, Flying gave me a very broad sample of the war, and yes, There were some units that had some very serious trouble, Both Army and Marines, Some outstanding officers, and some who needed a course in the real deal, Yes, There were always some rumors, With some actual experiences…. But not so much in the field, But if some one was really stupid, it seemed accidents happened.
You guys in those Huey choppers, especially the slow slicks, were something else.
I so remember how the pilots could make those things jink, jerk and dive at will.
Astounding skills demonstrated under the most dangerous of circumstance. Thank you,for myself
and all the guys who you resupplied and then pulled their bacon out of the fire.
Semper fi,
Jim
We took great pride in supporting you guys on the ground no finer men than you grunts in the dirt, Semper Fi!
Love your story, I can vouch for everything you have described, I saw the results, To many were carried out in the back of my slick.
Bob
Thanks Robert. It was a meat and mind grinder and I thank you for your support.
The way it is going in the story’s development it would be hard not to buy into it, I think.
Too many details to be fictional but who knows once the trolls get a hold of it.
Thank you for being true blue, now and back then when it really counted.
Semper fi,
Jim
They promised us that the best flight in the world was ‘leaving the jungle with a door seat while flying ‘NOE’ on the way back’. Never got my promised ride…
Roy. I got your ride. Nap of the earth doesn’t even cover it. We had the hydraulics shot out
of our Huey and they could not get any altitude. We chopped jungle shit all the way down the mountain until
the clearing before An Hoa. I, of course, was way screwed up so didn’t enjoy the ride like you might have.
Thanks for missing out on that ride. The other guys “saved” that day didn’t make it.
Semper fi, and thanks for the sharing….
Jim
Check, “Creature from Blue Lagoon”, should be “Black Lagoon”. Brooke Shields never did Mud, just sandy beaches. Enjoying your book, endeavor to persevere.
Yeah, it should have been black lagoon but my brain changed it because of the passage of time.
Man, just using a photo of a CH-47 instead of a 46 caused a lot of guys to short out. The friend of mine
who did that was not in the military or the Nam. Oh well, you can only check so much. Hell, I have the guys to keep me straight!
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I think the comments you get on your story speaks volumes and your answers are as great as the story. I am craving more. I must be one sick sob. For your record and for your readers there is a great website for info on Marine Helos in Vietnam, http://www.popasmoke.com
The squadrons are broke down by Aircraft type, typical missions, designation, and call signs. ie, CH 45, HMM-364, Purple Foxes, call sign “Swift”. H means Helicopter, M means Marine, M means Medium.
HML, Hueys and Cobras…Helicopter Marine Light. CH 53’s Helicopter Marine Heavy or HMH.
When I came back from my Vietnam Tour, I was assigned to 1st Bat, 1st Marines, 1st Mar Div at Pendleton, Camp Horno. This was my only time in 6 yrs that I would actually be with a Marine Infantry Unit. Since the 1st just returned from Danang itself, we had a year of Court Martials, almost all drug related, race related, and some frag related. I saw the way things were. I am sorry you had to endure what you did. I know we all had higher ideals coming out of Quantico.
I was with 2/13 while I was processing out. I too sat on court martial after court martial
for the same problems coming home. I would not vote for conviction on any case. Period.
So I got transferred to a Civil Affairs unit where nobody could find my office until they dumped me
finally at the Nixon Compound in San Clement to be Marine liaison. They didn’t need any Marine contact
really though so I began my odyssey there working beach patrol…
Training was wonderful at Quantico and Fort Sill but the real world we entered into afterwards
only had a place for some of the analytical skills we learned and polished. There was zero preparation
for the rest of it.
Semper fi, and thanks Pat…
Jim
snafu fubar shit rolls downhill..etc etc etc….never ceased to amaze me that some dick in starched clean clothes and shined boots struts up..points a finger and tells you everything you have done wrong…having never put his shit in the wind….imagine it still is the same today..