I spent the next four days working out, as best I could. I had the endurance to run five miles straight, but I hadn’t regained the speed I one had before being shot and operated on so much. My fears about the coming academy stretch were active, particularly at night. I could no longer sleep at night like I once had. Instead of sleep, I stayed up in the dark, peering out of windows and listening for movements or any odd sounds in the night. I waxed the fire-engine red Volks, and it sparkled, its chrome wheel covers so bright in the morning sun that they appeared to be made more of glass crystal than highly polished chrome plating. I was going to go to work on the Bronco and give it its first-ever waxing until I polished one small spot on a front fender. I stepped back and had an epiphany. The Bronco was partially meant to be a stealthy vehicle, well-muffled but powerful. A vehicle of silent death. I smiled at the thought. I had no intention of killing anyone ever again, but I couldn’t scrub the killing of humans fully from my mind no matter how hard I tried.
Drinking alcohol didn’t help. It only made things worse, as it seemed to magnify my emotional reaction. I had to totally quit, which I had, to my wife’s welcome relief.
“Do you realize that I spend about three-quarters of my waking hours worrying about you?” she asked, one morning, as I struggled before her while totally hungover, trying to drink a cup of coffee but not succeeding.
Her words had bitten deep on that day, not that she really spent that much time thinking about me but as an illustration of my unsatisfactory behavior in being a dad and husband. I hadn’t had a drink since that morning in San Francisco.
My neighbor from the apartment directly across from our own was out polishing his Mustang. He couldn’t help but notice the two cars I now had to squeeze onto one driveway. He walked over to talk to me. I noted the Marine “T” shirt he wore. He wasn’t and hadn’t been a Marine, as we’d talked before about his job. He was a civilian contractor working on the Marine fighter jets stationed at El Toro, the Marine base I was familiar with.
“What the hell is that thing?” he asked, moving to the side of the Bronco which I stood peering at.
I didn’t get a chance to answer because he caught sight of the San Clemente Police sticker plastered to the passenger-side door panel.
“How can a police vehicle not have license plates, don’t they just issue those automatically?” he inquired, before continuing, “and you’re not a police officer, anyway, are you?”
“The plates haven’t come yet, Greg,” I replied, not wanting to go into detail. I had no title for the vehicle, no registration, no insurance I knew of, or any proof at all of whom or what the Bronco belonged to.
“So, are you a cop now?” he replied, seeming to not notice that I’d avoided the meat of his question.
“I start at the police academy on Monday,” I replied, again avoiding a direct answer.
“So, you’re going to be a cop?” Greg said.
I sighed. The man was smart, curious, and my unavoidable next-door neighbor. I couldn’t simply ignore him, but I also didn’t yet know what to reveal to anyone, much less someone who worked at the Marine airbase.
“Sort of,” I answered. Aside from security issues, I knew the telling my story so far, especially the part where I was working or somehow ‘taken in’ by the Western White House, was not believable. I didn’t need credibility issues in my own neighborhood. The Bronco had to go back to the police or the estate parking lot. It’s very existence and presence in front of my apartment simply would not work, and I couldn’t really let Mary drive it. No plates, giant tires that made it unstable on highway surfaces, and a beautiful woman at the controls. I could not think of a better recipe for a potential automotive disaster. Greg’s curiosity was an alert that I had to pay attention to.
I showed up at Rio Hondo Police Academy, located an hour’s drive from San Clemente, just up above Whittier, where Nixon was born. I discovered immediately upon entering the campus, that it was indeed a campus. The signs all read the same as I approached. Rio Hondo Police Academy was actually Rio Hondo Junior College. I parked and walked through the big double doors into the registration building. It took only minutes to discover that police training was done at the police academy portion of the campus, located on the rear grounds of the place. I drove to the back of the campus and parked again, this time near a banner-like curved sign that described the place. I sat for a few minutes, taking the place in. I knew immediately that my fears about an extremely rigorous and unforgiving boot camp type of program wasn’t what I was going to run into. A small ‘platoon’ of obvious candidates marched on the grounds, behind a chain-link fence. I could do that part. Marines march, maybe more precisely than almost any other military body on earth.
I got out of the Volks, not bothering to lock it. I wore my shorts and short sleeve shirt, having seen the candidates marching. I grabbed the hanger with my newly minted long sleeve SCPD shirt, plain white undershirt, and the trousers Jake had taken the trouble to have tailored on time. I also took my Marine boots, well worn, broken in and highly polished. Footwear was vital in any training environment and I wasn’t about to begin whatever training course was in front of me wearing new leather, not if I could help it. I’d arrived an hour before I was supposed to report in on purpose. I wanted the lay of the land and time enough to introduce myself and change clothes. I’d already discovered that thank God, I could leave at the end of each day and come back the next morning. I wouldn’t have to go through the barracks life experience again.
The two weeks passed quickly. The chief in San Clemente never called about my returning the Bronco to the department lot, Lieutenant Ehlow didn’t contact me either, and all was silent at the Western White House, at least as far as I was concerned. The strangeness of my situation remained steady and true. I was a ‘Casper the Ghost’ kind of character, which was comforting in the fact that I was left alone but with an ominous unknown and truly unknowable element to it. There were a few runs, calisthenics, and weight-lifting exercises but no forced twenty-mile marches or any of that. The harassment of D.I. instructors, some of whom were attired in Marine uniforms, along with the D.I. hats, was much easier to endure than it had been in regular Marine training.
Weapons training was also easier, as all the candidates fired .38 revolvers with range loads at seven-yard ranges. Shotgun training was more interesting and new to me. I’d never fired a twelve-gauge shotgun in my life, and the experience of using such a pump-actuated smooth-bore on moving field targets was challenging, while also being interesting and fun. The recoil of the Remington 870 was hard and solid if the stock was held to one’s shoulder, but easier to fire if held away from the body. All training was at close ranges, assumed to be what it would be like if the weapon had to be used in real-life situations. The very worst part of the course was going through the tear gas afternoon. Real CS gas canisters, rockets, and grenades were used before the candidates were required to enter a tent so as to endure what citizens would go through if the gas was used on them. The effects of the powder when so concentrated were horribly painful and long-lasting. It was so bad that after hours of exposure it was a challenge to be able to see well enough to drive home.
“Why have you been crying?” was my wife’s first question when I got into the apartment, trying not to stumble as I made my way to the kitchen sink.
I explained the training I’d just gone through, while I held my whole head under the pouring cold water coming full blast out of the spigot. Only the icy water, continuously streaming, gave full relief.
I looked down at the radios, mounted under the center of the Bronco’s dashboard. The regular police radio was closer. The other one, which was identical in make, except painted bright red in color, was the direct link to the Secret Service office of the Western White House. Only the central police department dispatch and the Bronco were tied into the Western White House. The dispatch by old fashioned landline, but the Bronco immediately available at any time by radio. The local radio twittered and cooed all the time. Short static sounds were interrupted with police chatter.
San Clemente only ‘streeted’ three cars full-time (two on graveyard shifts), yet the back-and-forth traffic on the radio was constant. The Secret Service radio never made any sound at all. The local cops, and Scruggs, all used ten codes. They said the number ten before they said another number code. I didn’t know why. It seemed silly to me. “Ten-seven” meant you were home. But the officers all said “Ten-seven, home,” anyway. Ten-eight meant at work. Ten-four meant you understood. There were more codes. I had a book of hundreds of them. I spent some time memorizing all of them. I especially liked “Fifty-One-Fifty,” which was used to describe a person who was stark raving nuts (or ‘unable to care for his own safety or that of others around). The whole system seemed to be fifty-one-fifty to me.
The driving codes were mildly humorous, as well. Code One was driving like you always do (which is fast, for cops). Code two was really fast, with your rear amber lights flashing. Code three was with a siren and all lights. You could only get to code three with permission from Scruggs. I liked code ‘Two-and-a-half,” best, however. It was driving code three without permission, then lying to the dispatcher about it. The city of San Clemente was so small and cove-shaped, that running code three could be heard all over town, including at the dispatcher’s desk. When someone ran code two-in-a-half, everyone knew. Scruggs would go crazy trying to figure out who was breaking the code three rule. Nobody ever admitted to it, but everyone did it all the time. The nicest feature about the local radio was that it had two channels. One channel communicated with the dispatcher at the station and the other, channel two, was car to car, and the station didn’t have access to that channel. Cops in the field could communicate with one another without worrying that whatever was said might make it into either the rumor mill or go up the line to higher command.
I decided to check-in at the Coast Guard Headquarters. At 0900 exactly, I walked in the door. Nobody noticed me. There was a central open office, where several men in civilian attire sat at desks. They all wore their suit coats, so I could tell they were Secret Service. It was too hot for coats. I figured it had to be one of their rules. I asked for the head agent. That made a few of them smile.
“Ben Williams. You want Special Agent in Charge Ben Williams?”
I nodded. I wanted to ask why agents were all called ‘special’ agents but did not. It was like the FBI. I had never heard of a regular agent. The desk agent pointed me to a door located at the corner of the building. I went over and knocked.
“Enter,” a voice yelled, from within.
I stepped through, closing the door behind me. Ben sat at his desk. His suit coat was on too. I wondered if they took the things off at home. His office was not cool either.
“What do you want?” he asked. A phone sat off the hook in front of him. I presumed he had interrupted a call for me.
“Ah, just introducing myself. I’m the Beach Patrol. I was hired by Haldeman, I think, or so he said. Hell, I don’t know. I just thought I should check in with someone, before starting the day.” I did not mention that I didn’t know what to do during that day.
Ben laughed out loud.
“So, you didn’t want to check in with H.R.?”
I just looked at his large smiling face. His smile fell away.
“I can’t blame you for that. First-class prig of a man. What’d he hire you for?”
I shook my head but said nothing.
“Typical. I wonder if he even knows. He’s so damned busy trying to act smart he doesn’t have time to be smart. Ehrlichman, though, that son-of-a-bitch is smart. Watch out for him in the clinches.”
I just stood there astounded. I could not believe that a secret service agent would talk the way the man was talking.
“Who are you?” I finally asked.
“Ben Williams, head of the entire agency of the United States Treasure Department known as the Secret Service. This is the Presidential Detail. The class act of the whole shebang.”
I had to smile at the man’s presentation. He was a hard man not to like, I realized. I also began reflecting on the strange arrangement of power I had stepped into. Obviously, the head of the Secret Service did not care much at all what a presidential advisor might think about his comments. Who was who at La Casa Romantica, and what power they actually had, was going to be a difficult thing to figure out?
“Actually, I do know a bit about you,” Ben said in follow-up, “and you don’t have to check in with me, or anybody else you’re likely to run into around here. Whatever you’re really here for is a mystery. Somebody high up over there,” he waved in the direction of the estate, “wants you around for something. That’s okay with the Secret Service. It may not be okay with you. I don’t know. You have a pretty damned good war record. Maybe they want you because of that.”
I didn’t know what to say about his presentation, so I didn’t reply directly. Instead, I hedged a bit.
“I’ve got a Bronco out here with San Clemente Beach Patrol written on the side of it. I’m being paid from the White House though. I thought I’d just try to do the Beach Patrol job until somebody tells me to do something else. One thing though, H.R. told me that everyone started at 0900 around here. What did he mean? Am I supposed to report in? If I am, then to who?”
Ben stood up and stuck his right hand across the desk. “You have my approval, which you don’t need. Nobody really reports to anybody at the level those guys are operating at. I’d just go about my business and wait to hear from them. They’re not bashful, those people. But good luck. I’m sure we’ll see one another around here.”
I shook his hand, went back out to the Bronco, and headed for the beach. I had a lot to learn about creating a beach patrol out of nothing at all.
It took me almost half an hour to figure out how to get to the beach. Where the bluff did not rise too high to drive down, like along the entire front of the estate, brush grew so thick it was basically impenetrable to any kind of vehicle. Finally, I drove North to the first public beach I ran into, called Calafia Beach Park, then drove over the railroad tracks and onto the sand. The Bronco came into its own on the soft sand. It rose above the sand on its huge grooved tires. The detuned V8 was not so much detuned as it was set up to provide most of its torque at low RPM. The vehicle powered over and through things with an inexorably slow gait and inertia. On the street it was one of Ralph Nader’s ‘Unsafe at any Speed Vehicles,’ but on the sand, it was home.
I drove to Trestles beach. A group of surfers sat on the shore working their surfboards, drinking beer, and puffing on homemade cigarettes. My silent arrival in their very midst caused a universal cessation of movement and the burying of many lit cigarettes into the sand. I stopped in the middle of, what appeared to be, more than a dozen frozen beach mannequins.
The Bronco idled, its six mufflers making it either pleasingly or deadly silent. Nobody moved or said anything, most of the surfers looking out to sea instead of at the apparition that had appeared in their midst. I looked out to sea and watched swell after swell roll in. I’d surfed growing up in Hawaii but never found the sport as entertaining as so many around me had. To me, it was, unless working down a twenty-five-foot wave, mostly a sport of waiting and being bored for long periods of time, not totally unlike police work, I was discovering.
I met the eyes of a few of the men, rather boys to me really. I wasn’t wearing sunglasses, like a lot of them. I’d already decided that sunglasses were an offensive look for a cop. I intended to project no aggressiveness whatsoever, particularly when I was able to go out as a regular enforcing peace officer for the State of California. All cops in California were the same and there were no geographical limits to enforcement within the state.
There was no enemy around me, I realized, as I tried to gauge the nature of everyone who was down on the beach with me.
“Forty-six-six-seventy-three,” came out of the small square speaker attached to the center of the Bronco’s shaped steel dashboard.
I replied, saying my identification number right back as an assent that I’d received the call.
“Ten-seven,” Scruggs said.
I waited but nothing more came out of the tinny little Motorola box.
Ten-seven was home. Did Scruggs mean I should find a way to contact my home, or go there, or come off duty, or what? Our apartment was three miles north on the beach and then a few blocks west up into San Clemente proper.
As I considered what to do, the radio squawked again. “Go to two,” Scruggs intoned, laconically, before ending the communication.
I hit the little switch on the face of the radio unit and then pushed down on the button located on the side of my hand-held microphone. Before I said anything a voice deeper than Scruggs gruff rumble spoke.
“Stockdale,” the voice said, “your wife called and wants you to get hold of her. It’s personal so Bobbie won’t say anymore over the general frequency.”
Stockdale was the watch commander, having just reached the rank of sergeant after taking the sergeants test for the sixth time. I’d only met him twice but I liked him.
“I’m only a few minutes away, sergeant,” I replied, keying my microphone once again.
“You’re on the beach,” Stockdale said back. “That’s no man’s land. Handle however you want. Almost never a call on the beach. Let me know when your ten-six again.”
I hung up the microphone. The San Clemente Police Department was nothing like the Marine Corps, especially the Corps in peacetime commands. The informality and distributed responsibility were vaguely uncomfortable but cloyingly and pleasantly familiar, as well.
I turned the Bronco south and headed toward the San Clemente Pier, running just beyond the reach of the waves beating into and slightly up the sand. The surface was hard but not as hard as concrete or asphalt. The Bronco responded perfectly. High-speed runs up on the softer sand were quite possible except for the fact that there were so many undulating low dunes. Running at forty-five, coming over a rise, and then trying to stop the vehicle in soft, and therefore slippery, sand wouldn’t do at all. People laid down towels between the sand swells to block out the wind.
Running at about thirty in third gear was no trouble at all and in only minutes I was passing the “T” Street overpass that ran high above the railroad tracks. A quarter-mile later I had to slow, as I was forced toward the railroad fence because the San Clemente Pier pilings were too close together and covered with barnacles to chance racing between. Going very slowly, I inched the Bronco through the people coming and going around the base of the long pier. At a quarter-mile, the pier was among the longest piers sticking out into the ocean along the whole Pacific coast. That the water at the end of the pier was only twenty-eight feet deep always surprised me when I stared down into the clear depths from the very end of the wonderful edifice.
I hit the clicker mounted on the visor above my head and the gates located at the lifeguard headquarters slowly clattered open. The long gates took about a full minute to fully open. The guards and all police units had clickers because there was no way the public could be allowed to cross the tracks. The trains running up and down from San Diego to Santa Ana and then beyond to L.A. ran at fifty-five to sixty miles per hour. San Clemente averages three train deaths every year, but none of them were auto-related. I’d been told it was usually beachgoers walking on the tracks and failing to properly gauge the speed of an approaching train.
I drove up Del Mar toward home. What could have caused my wife to call the station when she knew full well that I was working and not available for personal stuff?
In minutes I was parked in our driveway. I ran to the front door but it was already open. My wife stood waiting, holding a box about one foot square on each side.
“This package came for you, but I’m not sure it should be in our home,” she said, extending the package out toward me.
I took the box and examined it. There was no address information of any kind on it. The cardboard box had been wrapped with brown wrapping paper, sealed with clear tape, and that was it.
I looked at my wife, in question.
“An oriental man delivered it, maybe Vietnamese, maybe from the war,” Mary intoned, making no move to let me in the door with my package. “He said that you would understand and that the two Marines who were at Oak Knoll with you would not be a problem again.”
“Vietnamese,” I breathed out, more to myself than her. “About as tall as my shoulder, thin, with penetrating black eyes?” I asked.
“That’s him,” Mary replied. “I don’t think he blinked during the whole time he stood at the door.”
“Nguyen,” I whispered, my voice even lower, while I tried to think about anyone from the units who served within the A Shau who might have been at Oak Knoll.
There’d been none. And then it dawned on me. The treatment I’d received that had been so shabby as to almost be humiliating, the fact that they knew my nickname of Junior, the fact that I’d been discharged without question with open bleeding wounds, all of it came together like a crashing wave. All of it was confirmed by Nguyen’s few words. I wondered how he’d know where I was, how he’d gotten into the U.S., and what he might have done to the two Marines from my company who I’d not know were alive or back, much less in the same facility as me.
“What’s in the box?” my wife asked.
I stood holding the thing, realizing it was just about the right size to hold one single human head. Nguyen would never have delivered such a thing to my wife, however. That I knew for certain.
“I don’t know,” I replied, honestly. “Where did he say he was staying? How can I find him?”
I sat down on the steps leading up to our front door and cradled the box.
I’d known, however hazily, that Nguyen had made it out of the valley, so I wasn’t truly relieved. I smiled to myself. Once again, the strange Montagnard was saving me from things I didn’t even know I needed to be saved from, and somehow, he’d gotten into the states. He’d also resolved the mystery of the lousy treatment I’d received. I pulled out my modified Imperial Scout knife, the one I’d been awarded when I attained the rank of Eagle.
I carefully cut the tape along the top edges until I could unfasten the two cardboard flaps covering the top, and the other two supporting the first two. I peered down into the inside of the box. It was loaded with newspaper-wrapped pieces of something. I pulled a chunk of paper out that was about as big as a lemon, and then unwrapped it. When the paper fell away, I was holding a small ceramic statue of Jesus in a manger. There was no indication that it was Jesus, except for my memory. I knew what was in the box, all of what was in the box.
One miserable rainy night in one of the caves we’d help up in I’d told Nguyen about my love of Christmas. It hadn’t been a religious moment, however. I had merely mentioned my time in Chicago, living in a small home with a Christmas tree while I was in high school. Those years had been hard ones, and I’d spent a lot of time sleeping under the tree, inhaling the pine aroma, enjoying the multi-colored lights, and looking out the windswept Chicago scene in the front yard. A single streetlight lit the outside cul du sac in front of our house. Back then, the only relief I felt I had from anything in life was given to me by Christmas. I hadn’t believed in Catholicism or Jesus, but I’d believed in Christmas.
My wife saw the infant in the manger and then reached in to unwrap some of the other objects.
“These are nativity scene figurines,” she said, examining one of the wise men, “and there filigreed in real gold, I think.” She turned the wise man over. “Made in France,” she read. “These must have cost a small fortune.”
I stared at her, as she talked. Christmas was many months away. Somehow, I’d come back home to the wonder of her and our child. Somewhere out there Nguyen was still looking out for me. And I had Christmas back. My mind was already calculating what materials and tools I had to make a proper stable for the set, knowing that Nguyen’s gesture wasn’t a gesture at all. We were both back home. To new homes devoid of killing and war, or the other horrors that accompanied that word.
I knew the nativity set would remain with me for the rest of my life.
The Chapter Image is the actual Nativity Nugyen gave me 50+ years ago
Loving your story backdropped against beaches and towns where I’ve spent some time. I’ve heard stories about successfully and unsuccessfully evading the Marines in restricted areas.
Interesting perspective you have on surfing. In my mind, by the time you’re working down a 25′ wave you’re riding bigger stuff than 95% of California surfers have ever seen. In my late teens everybody took up surfing. Most found there were much better things to do than waiting, getting worked and then getting harassed by the locals. I didn’t have anything better to do. Surfing and paddling kept me in shape, made me quit smoking and cut down on drinking and generally kept me out of trouble. I enjoyed it immensely though I was never really good at it. The largest waves I rode were around 6 feet. Surfing served me well for decades as a very inexpensive way to get some great kicks.
Wow is all I can say as I am at least 10 yrs your junior and with no service. But I can relate to San clemente as I moved to riverside Ca. from Kc missouri. I shall buy the so I can Gain understanding of the past . And you sir have a very good talent at writitng.
Do you know if Nguyen lives in Southern California? At my last job, I had a lady named Wendy Nguyen. She said that her parents were from Vietnam. I offered her a guitar that was made in Saigon that I bought from the BX. She said that she had to ask her parents. For some reason her parents would not let her have it. She is a Network Engineer working for LACOE. She is intelligent and I was glad she worked for me. She calls me ever now and then for advice and just to talk.
I currently do not have that information, sorry
A beautiful Nativity.
In 30 days you lead the reader to believe Nguyen may or may not understand the English language. Or maybe he does / did to a low extent.
I can remember when I was in the 25th how we could nod slightly or say one word and the entire weekends plans were made no further input….
So, I wonder if Nguyen was so in tune with the environment in the war time a shau as opposed to being well In tune with the environment coupled with a broader knowledge of English than he dare let on for survivals sake.
He’s no dummy and it warrants the question of how smart this guy truly was, like ,was he a top leader of a wiped out government or something of the sort…
Merry Christmas sir! It’s where I find joy and vex at the same time these days. I appreciate your writing.
Lt., I have been following closely since Day 1. Your detail during the 30 Days took me to the Asian heat, rain, smells, noises and bugs. The first book of the Lion realistically related the fog and misery as well as the frustration you must have felt dealing with military bureaucracy and medicine as well as the joy of getting home to family. All of that put the reader in your shoes, no matter how tight or comfortable they may have been. Book 2 of the Lion has had me in a surreal world with all of the twists of the continuing plot. It seems more of a mystery, slowly being revealed. It continues to hold my attention and keeps me waiting for the next hint of the conclusion.
Great writing. Fantastic personal history.
Semper Fi James.India Co. 3rd Bn 5th Marines 67-68. Due to wia’s I was Plt Sgt at 21 years old.Almost 75 and still remember how lost I felt when I came home. My platoon was my.family.Years later I was contacted by a friend about a reunion . It is a brotherhood that can only be forged by going through hell together. I thoroughly enjoy all your writing. It was not as hard as you had it, but I was a FNG in charge of men with combat experience .Nerve-wracking to say the least. I had to learn fast. Our Gunny was plt ldr, our company ran out of officers.I learned a lot from him. Thanks again
Thanks for the comment Seems we shared some common experiences.
Semper fi,
Jim
The events you write about here are actually fairly ordinary, but your writing is so absorbing that I couldn’t stop reading. You have a talent, My Man…
“what he might have done to the two Marines from my company who I’d not know were alive or back, …”
I believe you meant to say/write “known” instead of “know”.
Yes, you are correct Tim and I thank you for the help.
Semper fi, and Happy New Year
Jim
Sure would like a new chapter here. Anything coming soon?
You have your wish Eric and thanks for wanting it so badly.
Semper fi,
Jim
Another great chapter. Nguyen arrival with a gift was so unexpected! LT you must have touched his soul while in the valley. Few men keep promises they make to themselves. Nguyen is a friend to keep for life. You are truly blessed to have made it home to a loving family with a Guarding Angel covering your back. I believe we all have a predetermined destiny. Your ability to share yours is compelling. Happy New Year, LT.
Thanks so very much for that touching comment and the compliment inherent in your words.
Happy New Year and Semper fi,
Jim
Somewhere out there Nguyen was still looking out for me. That right there would no doubt make Christmas !!
Keep ’em coming Jim, SEMPER FI
Thanks Sgt Bob,
I will keep my hand in play, and much appreciate the loyalty and trust you place in me.
Semper fi,
Jim
Just wanted to wish you Happy Holidays LT. May you and your family have a great and healthy year. I have a question: Did you ever go over what awards you received or what happened to the Gunny and others? I don’t know if I missed that chapter or if it’s in the future or if you aren’t going to go over it. You can email me your response if you would like. Take care and Semper Fi.
Yes, the Gunny is up there in the distance, as I continue to write of my experiences following the Nam. The Gunny is, and will always remain, a difficult case
for me to try to describe and then accommodate and try to deal with. He sure as hell wasn’t Nguyen or anything like him.
Semper fi. I will get there Joe, and if you want a confidential heads up by email then let me know.
Happy New Year and thanks for the comment.
Jim
So glad to hear that Nugyen made it to the States. Will he make contact with you later on?
No, he did not make contact, as he did survive the Nam.
I made contact and the story will be written later in the coming volumes.
Semper fi,
Jim
James, I don’t typically comment on your writings. You have excellent proof readers who point out any errors you might have made. I just wanted to make comment on this chapter. The nativity scene given by Nguyen, and the fact that he found you despite there being no internet search available, gave me cause to wonder. There just seems to be the feeling of, for lack of a better way to say it, rightness. I smiled when I read it.
Continue on Sir, you have my full attention.
Wayne
I hope you are doing well, my old friend. Yes, the Bronco was a lovable hateful beast at times.
The giant tires when driving on streets. The requirement that we get out of the vehicle to engage the front wheels into
four wheel drive. The four wheel drive that was really only two wheel drive, depending on which tires might lack traction, and, of course,
no air conditioning of any kind and a heater that was mostly a joke.
Good to see you writing and ‘back in play.’
Happy New Year and Semper fi,
Jim
Sorry Wayne, but I somehow wrote a reply to you that should have gone to Dwayne Herberich, which whom I worked at the SCPD.
I copied and pasted to him but didn’t know how to erase the comment here. Thanks for commenting about the nativity scene.
It effects me every Christmas of its use. Yes, the photo is the real one. My wife still does not quite understand the depth
of my feelings nor the fact that I set it up perfectly every year, with each piece in its proper place and my old home made
stable unmodified or changed.
Semper fi,
Jim
Is it my aging brain housing group or did Nguyen say more to your wife in that one sentence than he ever said to you the entire time you were in the valley?
Yes, you are correct Paul. By then Nguyen was taking English at Saddleback college.
There will be more on Nguyen’s passage and placement in the US and my growing ability to
help him made it all legal.
Semper fi
Jim
This is the last communication I’ve had with you, are you okay?
All OK. Sorry I missed this, Ira
James, thank you for the wonderful memories of our old Department and beloved City. The old Bronco with the “three on a tree” shifter made it difficult to “speed shift” on code 3 runs but we found a way! Thank you so much for the trip down nostalgia lane! Semper Fi, Dwane (aka Herbie).
p.s. I’ll never forget how you and Mary tried (in vain) to teach Debbie and I Canasta!
I hope you are doing well, my old friend. Yes, the Bronco was a lovable hateful beast at times.
The giant tires when driving on streets. The requirement that we get out of the vehicle to engage the front wheels into
four wheel drive. The four wheel drive that was really only two wheel drive, depending on which tires might lack traction, and, of course,
no air conditioning of any kind and a heater that was mostly a joke.
Good to see you writing and ‘back in play.’
Happy New Year and Semper fi,
Jim
Another great read.. Hope your Christmas was enjoyable and New Year will be better..
Corrections for you..
I had the endurance but not the speed I “one” had before.. maybe “once”
Ben Williams head of the United States “Treasure” Dept.. maybe Treasury”
One miserable rainy night in one of the caves we “help” in.. maybe “holed” or “held” up in..
Looking forward to next chapters in that crazy time of your life..
Thank you so much, JC, for your correction.
Semper fi,
Jim
Merry Christmas and welcome home.
Always a nice moment when I see a new chapter, ever since Thirty Days. So entertaining. This one came at a boring time, laying in a hospital bed with a freshly repaired broken femur. I got clumsy two days ago and tripped over a curb. Being 72 comes with some frailties.
Thank you for the journey thus far. May your New Year be healthy and prosperous.
Lt your life contuines to be a roller coaster of up’s and down’s and mystery. Awesome job of habdlinng the unknow !!
One miserable rainy night in one of the caves we’d help up in I’d told
…. caves we held up in .. or holed up in ….
…. Another good read LT
LT WOW !!!!!!! Belated Merry Christmas NGUYEN MONTAGNERD What an amazing Alley What Respect That Man Has For You
God Bless All Y’all
Have a Happy. Blessed, Safe and Prosperous New Year 2022
PS I was born Oak Knoll 48 no longer exists strange how the building marketecture so closely resembles Bethesda Naval Hospital DC
God Bless You and Your Family and The Work of Your Hands Salute !!!!
One that my wife is always on me with:
“Let me know when your ten-six again.”
I eagerly wait every chapter.
Great chapter . Hard to put into words how your story makes me feel. Thank you.
powerful…..
Must have been a great Christmas,,, you never let these typos slip in before.
DanC caught most of them except, “,,,,one of the caves we ‘held’ up in,,,”
I want to hear more about Nyguen, asap.
One more edit Jim.
regained the speed I one had
regained the speed I once had
Merry Christmas and a Happy and prosperous New Year.
Thanks Paul…
Semper fi,
Jim
I
Outstanding!
Thank you
Thanks for the great ‘Marine Corps compliment’ Bob. Means a lot.
Semper fi,
Jim
you are a blessed man to have all the good that happened to you after all the bad shit you endured. God put you on this earth for a reason, , and you are up to the task. Great chapter
Thanks Bill, great compliment and I really value you that.
Semper fi,
Jim
Once again LT you’ve given us a great memoir of your time in Nam. You bring back memories from a long time ago and you’re really good at jerking a tear from my eye. Again thank you for being you. Merry Christmas and a good New year to you and your family.
Thank you.
You are most welcome Robert!
Semper fi,
Jim
Happy New Year Jim. Thanks and God Bless!
Right back at you Joseph. Means a lot to have so many great comments at this time of year, hell at any time!
Semper fi,
Jim
Well done sir
Thanks Sam, laconic but meaningful…
Semper fi,
Jim
SO GLAD NYUYEN MADE IT OUT.ALWAYS FELT HE WOULD SURVIVE! YOU STILL HAVE A N ABILITY TO BRING A TEAR. MERRY CHRISTMAS !!!
thanks Bob. I did not time the entry and that it has such Christmas implications my wife had to inform me.
I’m just telling the story as it went down. The photo is the actual set he gave me, along with the little
rough stable I made myself in that year in my garage.
Semper fi, and Happy New Year
Jim
My sentiments exactly,I’m setting here wiping tears..So glad he made it out.
That you, a man among men, would cry, reaches me in an emotional way that I am surprised about.
I did not write it that wya. I only wrote what happened. But here we are, with real life making
its way into our hearts and minds. Most writers are not doing that kind of work today and most writers are
not getting these kinds of heart-rending reviews that I much love and appreciate either.
Thanks so much for this heartfelt and penetrating comment.
Semper fi, and Happy New Year, brother,
Jim
Once again LT you’ve given us a great memoir of your time in Nam. You bring back memories from a long time ago and you’re really good at jerking a tear from my eye. Again thank you for being you. Merry Christmas and a good New year to you and your family.
And the plot thickens….. Great read LT and a Merry Christmas to you sir!
Thanks Bob, yes, the game is afoot, as Sherlock might say…
Semper fi,
Jim
Fantastic, Merry Christmas and have a healthy happy New Year
Thanks Jim, turning out to be a better year end because of men like you!
Semper fi,
Jim
James, the timing of this chapter at Christmas time touches a warm spot in our hearts. So much is happening to you and around you. I immediately liked Ben. Good to have people with integrity to work with.
Some minor editing suggestions follow:
the experience of using such a pump-actuated rifle
Actually smooth bore and not a rifle. Maybe choose another term.
the experience of using such a pump-actuated shotgun
the experience of using such a pump-actuated long gun
the experience of using such a pump-actuated smooth bore
I looked out to see and watched swell after swell roll in.
Maybe “sea” instead of “see”
I looked out to sea and watched swell after swell roll in.
I met the eyes of a few of the men, boys rather than me really.
I don’t quite understand this sentence.
Maybe: I met the eyes of a few of the men, rather boys to me really.
Or: I met the eyes of a few of the men, boys rather like me really.
rat at fifty-five to sixty miles per hour.
Maybe “ran” instead of “rat”
ran at fifty-five to sixty miles per hour.
two Marines who were at Oaknoll
A Shau who might have been at Oaknoll.
Google says Oak Knoll
anyone from the units served within the A Shau
Maybe “serving” instead of “served”
Or add “who” before “served”
anyone from the units serving within the A Shau
anyone from the units who served within the A Shau
Nativity Mugyen gave me 50+ years ago
“Nguyen” rather than “Mugyen”
Nativity Nguyen gave me 50+ years ago
May this coming year bring you improving health and contentment in life.
Blessings & Be Well
Again, you outdid yourself DanC
I believe all corrections are made.
Thanks again and a very Happy Holiday Season and a fabulous New Year for you and yours
Word pictures and surprises are you much! And its delightful!
Thanks for the great compliment Bruce.
Semper fi, and Happy New Year,
Jim
You are truly amazing DanC. I could not do this as well without you
and your ‘rapier-like’ mind!
Thank you so sincerely,
Jim
It seems you are on a roller coaster ride to who knows where. Pleased to know Nguyen is in the States. What about Gunny?
The Gunny lived and will come into the series later.
Thanks for asking and thanks for the compliment.
Semper fi,
and Happy New Year,
Jim
Extremely intriguing Jim, you’ve got me almost as hooked as the accounts from the valley. Glad to hear the gunny made it. Not surprised about Nugyen. Didn’t expect your life after the valley to be this interesting. Nor did you I imagine. Any help on the names of the 2 from Oak Knoll? Was that Lighting Bolt and ?? Guess I could go back to that chapter.
spent 8 months with 155’s and 4 months with a 105 outfit. Spent some time on the radio with guys like you, some who were being over run. Not a good memory.
Keep up the good work I get totally absorbed in your writings.
Jim/LT/Sir,
Another amazing chapter.
Thank you.
Some lingering questions answered.
Some new questions raised…
Hope you had a joyful Christmas, and wishing you and yours a wonderful New Year.
The Walter Duke! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year my friend.
Thanks for the astute (as usual) comment and the well wishes.
Semper fi,
Jim
Great Chapter. Nguyen is one amazing man. Merry CHristmas and hoping the New year is a good one.
Thanks Tom, and yes, it was great to have Nguyen do his usual mysterious work.
Thanks for liking the chapter and being there chapter after chapter.
Semper fi,
Jim
Byoungren@earthlink.net
Now thats a heck of a chapter for a Christmas story. Great way to blend the cave with being home. Merry Christmas Sir Semper Fi.
Thanks Kenneth, much appreciate the Christmas note there but never wrote it to be that. Just what happened at the time.
Thanks for the compliment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Merry Christmas, Marine. Your writing is enthralling. Semper Fi.
thanks Karl for the great compliment. Happy New Year.
Semper fi,
Jim
Your story continues to be compelling, if not bizarre, and your writing engaging. I’m sorry for what you front line guys endured, both over there – and at home. From a rear echelon Vietnam vet.
The main think I like about ‘rear echelon’ vets from Vietnam is the they are still here to communicate. The second thing is all about the unending help and support
those of us ‘in the shit’ got from you. We wanted to be you but also understood that we could not leave to become you. It wasn’t in the cards of the time.
Thanks for writing and thanks for the compliment and Happy New Year, brother…
Semper fi,
Jim
You share some amazing things my Friend! I think you are only understood by Warriors! We still don’t understand why we are in this Unit
S/F
Homan
Homan, you are astute and accurate in your analysis and you are right. It’s hard to be truly understood about combat when others have not experienced it.
Semper fi,
Jim
Great read. I have had two of the original small Broncos and loved them both.
I had the impression that Nguyen had been killed. I am happy to hear he survived and made contact with you.
Kemp
I had seen him in a blur at the airport in Da Nang when I was evacuated but had no idea he was in the states until he appeared in that strange way.
Scared my wife to death as Nguyen looked naturally menacing.
Semper fi,
Jim
interesting
what a very curious road you were on
did it all make you uneasy?
Yes, uneasy is good descriptive word, although it was great ‘brush blocking’ all the mental shit away while I had to
do so much.
Semper fi,
Jim
Nguyen! Very interesting guy. What a thoughtful gesture on his part. Each chapter reveals a new piece of the puzzle you appear to be a key part of James! Can’t wait for the next one! Your writing never disappoints my friend!
Thank you Jack! Your evaluation means a lot to me. You are no ‘piker’ yourself….
Semper fi,
Jim
James Of all the twists and turns your life has taken since I began reading the The First 10 Days this chapter takes the cake. Hope you find Nguyen real soon. Any pictures of the Bronco?
Chuck, I have never found any photos of the
Bronco at the time. Nothing online. We just weren’t picture takers back then, I guess.
Semper fi, and Happy New Year, old friend.
Jim
Saw two spelling misses, no biggie but you may proof it some. Glad to hear Nguyen got out.