Chapter XXIII
The trip onto the base was quick and easy, although getting through the gate for the first time without having to travel ten more miles to Mainside to sit, qualify for, and get a base sticker, was a bit problematic. The two guards were suspicious of the car, which I had the registration for but had forgotten the USAA auto insurance packet back at the hotel. They motioned me to the far side of the tiny guard booth, but then everything changed when I got out.
“Holy hell, lieutenant, you okay?” the Corporal said, noting the fact that it had been difficult for me to extricate myself from the seat and stand upright.
“Now those are some ribbons,” the Private First Class with him exclaimed, before going on, “you must be just back from the Nam. I only got this one shitty little ribbon that everyone else has.” He pointed at his own left breast.
“They’re going to give you some trouble here about you being just a second lieutenant and having all those decorations,” the Corporal stated. “Better bring your auto insurance papers and stuff to back up the medals too, because they’ll never give you a permanent sticker without it. Here’s a temporary to get you by for the first week, and here are your orders back.”
The corporal wrote on a large yellow and orange piece of stiff paper, before handing the document to me. I glanced at the driver’s side hood briefly, where he’d put the paper down to do his writing and signing, but let it go. The body of the GTO had been good but after being acid-dipped by Thompson to get rid of weight, the paint they’d sprayed back on was many times better quality than had ever come from the factory. The GTO had been blue but now it was a very deep shiny blue, and I loved it almost as much as my wife hated it.
“Speed limit’s twenty miles per hour on the whole base, which is big so it can be a bother, but the MP’s are everywhere so hold the reins on that beast as best you can.”
The Corporal handed my registration back and then carefully got into the front seat of the car took the placard I was holding and placed the temporary pass tipped up on the very center of the dashboard, resting in the main center heating vent.
The Corporal got out of the car, leaving the door hanging open. Both men then stood side by side and saluted me.
I crisply saluted back, wanting to thank them but knowing it was better if I just got into the GTO and left. They were good Marines doing a good job. As I drove away, carefully maintaining the ridiculous twenty-mile per hour speed limit, I wondered at the fact that there had been no other cars entering or leaving the base while I was stopped. It was late morning and I would have thought there would be more regular traffic in and out of the gate. I figured that I had a lot to learn about Camp Pendleton.
I drove the GTO slowly in second gear for a few miles, mad at myself for not having asked directions to my reporting-in unit, which was the second battalion of the thirteenth Marines. Amazingly, the first turn-off to the left I came to had a big sign with an arrow. The sign gave the battalion colors and had a big 2/13 painted in red across it.
The drive up to the headquarters building was short, the parking lot nearly empty, but with each space having printed titles. Only four vehicles were present, none of the spaces occupied that had the letters; C.O., X.O., and 1st Sgt printed across the top of them. I pulled the GTO into a space that was reserved for some warrant officer named Smyth. There were no handicapped places, no visitor parking, and not even a fire curb or lane. I grabbed my hastily written orders, stepped out of the GTO with some difficulty, but thankfully with no one there to see me. The double doors that opened into a hall reminded me of Hawaii, in that they were screen doors. I guessed that the building wasn’t air-conditioned like almost nothing was in Hawaii either.
I removed my cover and then stepped inside. The first office I encountered along the right side of the hall had a closed-door with a rectangular glass inset. The glass was the kind you couldn’t see through. The title on the glass, in cursive black paint very well done, said Colonel William Fennessey, and under the name; Commanding Officer. I knocked several times lightly, and then, following the code of entering a superior officer’s office, I stepped in. If the commander was in and didn’t want company I would have been shouted at prior to my entry.
A corporal sat behind the C.O.’s desk.
“Can I help you?” he asked, looking up from some paperwork.
“We’re not in combat,” I replied, my voice flat, my expression the same.
“Ah no,” the corporal replied.
“So, we’re in a training command stateside on the United States Marine Corps base of Camp Pendleton,” I went on, with the same deadening flatness in my tone.
The corporal didn’t respond, only his hands, which had been fiddling with paperwork, were all of a sudden frozen in mid-air. I stared into his eyes.
“Do you need me to order you to come to a position of attention and address me as sir, or might you want to do that on your own?” I asked, my voice now softer, making it more difficult for the corporal to hear me.
“I’m the Colonel’s aide sir, sorry sir,” the corporal responded, standing and coming to the position of attention.
“Colonel’s, even regimental commanders, do not rate an aide, and if you were a real aide you’d be wearing an aide’s badge to denote such. What are you doing in here and where in hell am I supposed to report in to?”
“The Colonel isn’t a normal commanding officer, sir,” the corporal replied. “Trust me when I say you’ll like him. He’s having lunch at the O’Club with the other officers.
You can go to the club, although I doubt you’ll want to report in there, or you can wait here until he and Major Stewart, our XO, get back.”
“Stand at ease,” I ordered, “and where can I wait?” My GTO had no air-conditioner and even in May, the bright Southern California sun was heating everything up that was outside under its bright glare. There was also the not so apparent fact that my wife had wrapped me up again in the Saran, and that would make the heat in the car totally unbearable.
The corporal came around the Colonel’s desk and headed around me for the door, making sure we made no contact as he went by. I noted that the Colonel’s desk was the usual Marine Corps duty metal affair with a crummy marked-up rubber top. Maybe I really was going to like the guy.
The Corporal led me down the hall to an opening that had no door. It turned out to be the coffee/break room. A ratty couch and many regulation chairs lined the walls of the relatively small space. The coffee pot was full, centered on top of a small corner table, and the red light was on, indicating that the coffee was hot. I walked over to it, noting that the ceramic cups were nearly exactly like the parking places out front. They all had the same names painted on them in black.
“A cup?” I asked the corporal, as he made to leave back through the door.
“Under the table, the double doors, sir,” he replied, pointing. “Coffee’s yesterday’s though because nobody drinks it after early morning hours, and not many at that.”
“Shocking,” I whispered to myself. Shocking that nobody wanted to drink day-old reheated coffee. I waited until the corporal was gone, and then very carefully lowered my mostly erect torso down so I could get the door panels open. There was only one stack of Styrofoam cups. I sighed. I felt like taking the coffee cup of the same guy whose parking place my GTO occupied, but I thought better of it. I’d already terrified one corporal at my new command and I didn’t need any more potential trouble.
I poured a cup of the likely terrible coffee, putting four spoons of the Coffee-Mate cream into it, and three big dollops of sugar.
I got slowly to my feet, straightened my back as best I could, and moved to sit in one of the chairs. I could only imagine how long it would take to work my way out of the couch if I sat in that deep-cushioned thing.
The coffee wasn’t as bad as I thought. I sipped and thought. My first entry into the rear area Marine Corps at Treasure Island hadn’t gone well. My hospital stay at Oakland Naval Hospital had been about the same. I wondered what it might be. Had The Marine Corps changed so much while I was gone that I could find no commonality with almost any of the men serving in military positions back home? Or, had I changed?
I drank my coffee slowly down and then got another cup. I realized that I was more patient than I had been prior to my going overseas. I attributed it to not really giving much of a damn about most things that might once have interested me.
I loved my wife and daughter, liked the GTO, and I missed Mickey Thompson and Danny Ongais and what they’d done for us, but backward and forward from that was mostly a blank. A passing canvas of unremarkable work that was of the past and the present but the ‘painting’ on the canvas not seeming to have much of a depth of emotional quality to it. I thought about the corporal serving as ‘aide’ to the Colonel. I hadn’t been angry with him. I’d been cold, and in a way, I was uncomfortable with, deadly. I also knew that I had nearly instantly turned him into some sort of threat and then reacted to the threat mentally in a way the poor corporal could, and never would, understand. I promised myself that I’d get better. I heard the whole crew of the Headquarters command structure returning. They talked, laughed, and drifted down the hall.
“Who the hell’s in my parking spot?” said a deep male voice rising above the rest. “Where in hell am I supposed to park?” the voice continued.
There was no answer to the man’s question that I could hear, as I stepped out into the hallway and made my way back to Colonel Fennessey’s office. The door gaped open. I walked through the congregated but moving mass of returning officers. It wasn’t hard, as my cover was folded under my belt and all I carried was the folded sheath of papers that were my orders. Some of the officers looked at me fairly closely but nobody said anything.
I knocked on the door jam that was part of the commanding officer’s door.
“Enter,” a voice said.
I stepped in and walked up to the C.O.’s desk, noting something I hadn’t noticed before. The desk sat atop a raised platform. The platform was only about six inches high but it assured that anyone occupying the two chairs in front of it would have to look up to see across the top of the desk properly. Another desk was situated in the left corner of the room. A big man with silver hair sat at the desk in front of me. I did not make any move to sit in one of the chairs, stepping carefully between them. The Colonel was a full bird colonel, polished silver eagles perfectly mounted on both parts of his collar. The other man at the other desk was a major, whom I presumed to be the X.O., although it seemed odd that he’d be at a desk in the C.O.’s office when his own office was right next door.
“Reporting for duty,” I said, formally, coming to the position of attention. I didn’t salute. Marines do not salute inside buildings, unlike Army soldiers, unless they are wearing a cover because they are underarms. I pushed the thin folded set of papers across his desk after he ordered me to stand at ease.
The colonel looked at me strangely, but accepted the papers, unfolded them, and began to read.
“Travel pay,” he said, flicking his eyes up for a few seconds. “You don’t get that here. You have to go to Mainside, check with Personnel and they’ll give you cash unless you want a check.” The Colonel stopped talking and read on.
“You were an artillery forward observer attached to 2/11 over there, it says here,” the colonel noted, still reading.
I said nothing. There was nothing to say I realized. I didn’t have a believable combat record and I knew it. I had been a company commander of Marines in combat, two of them in fact, but my actions would likely never be written anywhere. It was useless to tell the story. I waited.
“Forward observer’s a dangerous job in combat,” the Colonel finally said, putting the papers down in front of him. “What else did you do?”
I remained silent, trying to think up a good believable lie.
“You didn’t get that chest full of medals being a regular forward observer, not in my experience.”
I glanced back and forth between Major Stewart and the Colonel. Neither man was wearing Vietnam campaign ribbons. The Colonel sounded okay but in truth, I knew I was dealing with two FNGs.
“You don’t seem to stand too straight,” the Colonel observed after some time had gone by and I’d been unable to find a proper answer to his previous question.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “The central incision from my surgeries is healing from the inside outward. If I stand too straight, then the bleeding gets worse.”
“What’d you do, run into one of your own guns in the middle of the night?” Major Stewart asked, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“He’s got the purple heart,” the Colonel said, putting some anger into his tone, “and he’s wearing five decorations for combat valor, which is five more than you have and he’s been a Marine for only just short of seventeen months, not your ten years.”
I didn’t look over at the major but I felt his gaze, a gaze of acid hate, I didn’t have to see to know was there. Other Marines, those who hadn’t seen real combat and didn’t have combat decorations for valor, mostly resented those who wore them. That much I’d picked up in the hospital and at Treasure Island. I hadn’t made an enemy for life out of Major Stewart. The Colonel had made him that for me.
“The bleeding gets worse, you said,” the Colonel stated as if catching the phrase only in review.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering where he was going with his question.
“So, you’re bleeding right now?” Fennessy asked, his eyebrows going up.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, surprised by the surprise evident in his voice. “My wife wraps me in Saran Wrap so it doesn’t leak out, although I have to change bandages every chance I get, and she’s not always around.”
“Unbutton your blouse,” the Colonel ordered.
I unbuttoned one button after another of my tight outer coat, the coat that held me together so well. I didn’t want to unbutton them all, however, because I might not be able to get one started in a loop again without outside help.
“Open it,” the Colonel asked, his voice becoming hushed as he bent forward and stared.
“Jesus Christ,” he suddenly yelled, coming to a standing position behind his desk. “Stewart, call the hospital, have them send an ambulance, and get some corpsmen in right now. I don’t need this guy to die right here in front of me in my office.”
I bottomed up my blouse while the Major, the Colonel, his corporal ‘aide’, and others conferred about my condition. I noted that none of them was paying much attention to me. I retrieved my orders from the Colonel’s desk. I wasn’t due to report into the command, by order, for six more days. I had shown up early to get a travel check. The most important thing the Colonel had said, that impacted heavily on me, was that I could get cash for the travel at Mainside.
I turned and walked out of the Colonel’s office, down the hall, out the double doors, and then made it to Smyth’s parking spot and got into the GTO. Mercifully, the car started on the first revolution of the new engine. I didn’t know where Mainside was but I’d somehow find it. Nobody had come out of the Headquarters office behind me. I turned right at the bottom of the road that led up the regiment and headed back toward the guards at the Las Pulgas gate. They’d been more understanding and helpful than anyone I’d met so far, and I knew they’d know where Mainside was and how best to get there.
I smiled as I drove. I had no address and no telephone number. I was free as a bird until I had to report back, and that reporting could take care of itself. Only one thing bothered me. Would either Stewart or Fennessey remember about the travel money? I’d made no point of being truly interested and the Colonel had only mentioned it offhand. The last thing I needed was to be encountered at personnel and forced to return to the 2/13 command structure. I knew that eventually I’d have to serve time there but the whole experience so far was best described by the parking lot. I had no place there. Could I somehow force myself to fit into the kind of creature they would find acceptable to work with?
Once the Marines at the gate turned me around to head back into the interior of Camp Pendleton, I drove by the turn-off to 2/13 and kept going. Mainside was ahead not more than eight to ten miles and I had the directions down.
I laughed out loud as I drove. What would a couple of corpsmen have said or done if they’d showed up in time to catch me? Take me to the hospital where the dirty surgery staff there, if they even had such a team, would tell them that I just needed to rest and recuperate…although the Marines Corps wasn’t quite up to wanting to provide that part of it? I’d have a week to get myself healed as best I could and in shape enough to at least perform a desk job for a full seven-hour day, given that back in the rear there was always an extended one-hour lunch for officers.
When I found the personnel office I was a bit put off. The long low building reminded me so much of the personnel office in Da Nang. It was much larger, however. I went inside and walked up to the counter, expecting trouble but not knowing what kind. And then I was surprised. The young civilian lady at the counter wanted my poorly written set of orders, my I.D. card, and whether I had reported in to my command. Although I had nothing to prove that I’d formally reported in to 2/13, I simply acknowledge the reporting I’d done and also told her that Colonel Fennessy had insisted that I get to personnel and get cash before the day was out.
“He’s quite the wonderful man, you know,” she smiled. “He’ll be Commandant if there’s any justice in the universe.”
I didn’t want to tell her that there really was almost no justice in the universe, at least my universe, so I simply cloned her smile and nodded my head.
“Yes,” I added, “He seems like he’ll be a great commanding officer.”
“Base housing for officers is full,” the woman said, processing paperwork but no showing any of it to me. “That means you’ll have to live off base. I’ll advance the first off base housing allowance to you but it’s to be taken out of your next paycheck in one lump sum.”
“Fine,” I replied, having no idea when my next paycheck would be or how much it would be for. I was out of the hospital so the forty-four dollars a month combat pay would be gone. I did know that.
The woman left and I waited for ten nervous minutes for her return. I waited in silent worry. Had anybody from the regiment called about me?
When she came back she handed me a thick envelope, my orders, and I.D. card back.
“Welcome aboard,” she whispered, “and thanks and welcome home too.”
I walked out to the GTO, reflecting on the simple fact that the woman’s sincere welcome and thanks were the most genuine I’d gotten from anyone outside of my wife and the guys who’d bought us lunch at the Thunderbird Restaurant at Rockaway Beach days before since I’d returned.
I left the base as quickly as I could, not wanting to take even the slightest of chances that I might run into one of the officers from 2/13. The run from Pulgas gate back to the hotel in San Clemente took mere minutes, once I got through the gate. There were no procedures for exiting the base, which made me feel easier. The GTO was half empty of gas, and I’d been about nowhere in distance. I knew that car had to go, as much as I loved it, as I couldn’t afford to have it eat up so much of my income. I regretfully parted with five dollars from my cash stash, and paid the attendant at the Esso station, vowing to trade in the special automobile, which wasn’t just any old car but a key part of my returning home from the war.
I pulled into an open parking stall outside the hotel on Del Mar. I took the envelope off the seat and counted the cash. Eight hundred ten dollars and 75 cents. It was more cash than I had ever held in one amount since I could remember. I had to get a bank account but before doing that I needed to change my bandages and get some more rest. I sat in the car, almost too tired to get out and move into the hotel lobby. Relief was building inside me. We’d be able to afford an apartment in San Clemente, a nearly idyllic small Spanish town that was almost totally unmilitary, at least in appearance. That it was snuggled right up against the northern side of the Marine base might have effects that I could not easily see, I also understood.
My wife was ecstatic. After carefully cutting me out of my Saran Wrap coating, I lay on the sofa, careful not to bleed on anything, as I pulled off old 4X4s and put new ones on. The regular surgical tape would hold them sufficiently well as long as I didn’t exert myself overmuch. I was surprised at my wife. She wasn’t nearly as excited by the sum of money, giving us survival and some good bit of freedom, as she was in finding out that I was going to trade in the GTO. I’d underestimated her hatred for the car, I realized.
“What are they going to do when they can’t find you at the command or the base?” Mary asked as I tried to nod off for a bit.
“I don’t know,” I replied, not really caring. “They’ll figure it out I presume. One of them, probably that nasty character named Stewart, or maybe the fake aide, will call personnel.”
“You didn’t technically report in, though,” my wife said, still worried.
“Read the orders,” I replied. The paperwork’s over on the kitchen counter. The orders say that I have to report in next week. This time I’ve been given is recuperative time and I’m taking all of it.”
“Well, you did get the money, and you are selling the car,” she continued, as my eyes started to close.
“You got the money,” I replied, “it’s right there in your hand, and I’ll take care of the GTO. What kind of car do you want?”
But my eyes finally closed and I didn’t hear her reply.
<<<<<< The Beginning | Next Chapter >>>>>>
James – reading the end of this chapter my heart almost jumped out of my chest. Let me preach on…
I finished 30 Days Has September then lost track of your writing as life got in the way.
Back in Mid February of 2020 a friend and I were returning from a 5 week trip through northern Thailand, Northern Laos, Cambodia, and back through Hong Kong. We were scouting old CIA sites in Laos for a novel my friend was writing. We had very Little knowledge of this Covid thing but almost got stuck in Hong Kong. Then my son at W & M came home in March when colleges we’re closed for the last few months of his senior year. He lived with us for a year as the Covid turned Life upside down for us. Fortunately he graduated and is gainfully employed living in Richmond
However, I’ve started the Cowardly Lion and am focused! I read each chapter with a rapid heart beat!
This chapter was particularly interesting. I completed USMC MOS 2533 radio school June ‘67 at MCRD San Diego, and I reported to my first duty station in the Fleet – HQ Battery, 2/13 at the beautiful Camp Las Pulgas. A few months later was sent to Kaneohe Bay 1st MAR DIV Interrogation & Translation School for Vietnamese language. Returned to 2/13 Pulgas December ‘67. Second week of Feb ‘68 2/27 and 2/13 were sent to DaNang with 4 days notice. It was confusion at best. All short timers for Nam were sent to other units. I never went through Staging BN at Las Pulgas. The only training I had was rudimentary Vietnamese language.
I can’t wait to finish the next chapters as I have some similar experiences as a Corporal returning to stateside duty from VN with no uniforms and sent to Quantico as Student Demonstration Troops PLC / OCS for my last 5 months of active duty. Quantico MB and especially OCS didn’t like marine VN veterans returning with absolutely no uniforms and looking a little scraggly. Will share later. Thank you and hope your healthy.
This is one of those comments that slipped away somewhere. Thet’s happened a few times now and I don’t understand it. This comment re-appeared today although I never saw it when it was written.
Thanks for such a great rendition of your own experience here. I am so happy to be writing Cowardly Lion as it is much more accepted than I thought it would be. I was living history but
the details are no more intensely believable than those that occurred and were written by me in Thirty Days. Wild times. You also describe those times. Everything in the rear and back home, when it came to military was almost all about appearance. Appearance the physical training, yet, combat is so much of the mind.
Thanks for the length and oh so qualitative comment.
Sorry about the time that’s gone by.
Semper fi,
Jim
Hard to wait for the next chapter in your life . And I will want a signed copy of the finished book to complete my collection. Already moved to your other writings quit awhile back I am hooked lol !
Thank you for your support, Don
James: I’ve chimed in once or twice with general and positive comments. No edits since you’ve good a great group of volunteer editors.
Just wanted to say that this time I got the.notification of two chapters as I was starting a short hike up Sweeney Ridge in Pacifica. Couldn’t help myself so I stopped under the shade of a pine tree to read them.
Delightful writing in a delightful setting. NB.
Glad to hear you have been enjoying the story, Nick
Share with your friends.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thanks for another Barn Burner LT. Love it, would give my soul and first born for that Pony Car!
In truth, Joe, it wasn’t that great a car. It went like a bat out of hell and the feeling in the seat of my pants has never been matched,
but it wouldn’t even come close to beating a Tesla, any Tesla, and it didn’t have air conditioning, a decent heater or much of anything else that
worked very well. It was beautiful compared to almost any cars today (who thought that when the Japanese brought their cars here that all cars would
end up looking like them?). Thanks for the compliment and support.
Semper fi,
Jim
Too bad you don’t have the Goat today,,,,,,worth a small fortune!!!
Intriguing James (LT). Thank you for your service and sacrifice, and Welcome Home! I have been following you all along, since the first Ten Days. Tremendous and amazing story!
As a side note, I ordered “Thirty Days has September” on 4/5/21 and it has not arrived as yet. My order number is 38588. I would appreciate if you could check on it. I plan to order the “Cowardly Lion” when it is finished as well. Thanks so much. Marine Airwing Danang 1965.
Which of the three did your order? Send your address right away and I will get off the order
as I have no time right now to check the records. Thanks for letting me know.
Semper fi,
Jim
Hello James,
I have been along the whole way as well. I have not commented but love reading all of them. I did not receive my order either… I tried emailing a few times. Stay well…
[Order #38419] (February 23, 2021)
The books will go out later this morning USPS. found you back there. Don’t know how your name got checked off as having been sent.
My apologies. Thanks for sticking with me.
Semper fi,
Jim
tracking 9549 0127 7683 1222 5644 47 USPS
no worries sir….. Thanks a bunch.
Another really great chapter – thank you.
I figured that you would be selling the car, which was almost impossible for your wife to drive. Shame, though, leaving all of Micky Thompson’s fine work behind.
I have no idea where my ribbons, etc., are. Moved too many times. Hopefully in this house until I get graduated from this life.
Semper Fi, my friend. Keep up the good work.
God knows what happened to the car and how much it would be worth exactly as Mickey built it, with his scrawled signature on the dashboard.
Semper fi,
Jim
As always your true faithfulness and love to your work and family comes through with a humble atmosphere of devotion . <3
Well it would seem the Col. may have some insight into your reality LT.
Hope it stayed that way, as alot us had to deal with some of those as you mentioned that were not so warming to us returning home. I hope when and if they ever returned from their turn being in-country they had a change of attitude.
A long drive down from the SFO area in a GTO, in a “normal” situation would have been a blast !! I know because I’ve done it but not in a GTO !!
Reporting in to an unknown situation once again must have been harder on your wife I would think, as they want to set up house ASAP.
Great chapter, looking forward to the next.
SEMPER Fi
Well, SgtBobD, a retromod GTO maybe…but those cars of that era, what a mess to keep running and fuel up all the time.
We have come so far. My old hot GTO would not be able to outrun a Honda today.
Semper fi,
Jim
Loved this chapter! Sorry you have to give up the GTO but “Happy wife, happy life.” One question. You wrote: “He’s got the purple heart,” the Colonel said, putting some anger into his tone, “and he’s wearing five decorations for combat valor…” I’m not familiar with the Marine Corps’ awards. What were the five decorations for combat valor on your uniform?
…and the answer is???
Captain my captain, I don’t reveal stuff ahead of time that is due to be part of the story
and my decorations are part of the story as it goes on in a fashion I want to have impact within the telling of the story.
You were a captain in the Special Forces. You know or can access the chart of decorations, which are pretty much the same,
with a few differences among all the services.
Appreciate your interest and the compliment you pay me in wanting to know more.
Semper fi,
Jim
Thank you, Sir, for another installment of your story.
God Bless!
You are most welcome Walter. Glad you are still along for the ride…
Semper fi,
Jim
WoW !!! James ( LT ) I know the Marines was/is different from the Army, but WoW I am so glad God interviewed in Your life so many times.
Well it looks as though You have lots to catch up on and recover from. I know the decision to part with the GTO was not easy, but You performed many tasks that were not easy. You have me amped up now for You’re next installment. PS what did it take to make 1st LT seems that would have been in order with all You went through.
God Bless Salute George
Making 1st LT was not the problem. It was automatic back then after around 12 months service, because they were going through lieutenants that fast. My serial number is 0104358. That means that I was
the 104,358th LT to never get his bars since the beginning of the Corps. Rare territory all by itself. The problem was having the promotion catch up with me in paperwork. My pay in the Nam was delayed four months
and that made life hell for my wife. I would not get nt official 1st LT notification for some time after being at Pendleton. Computers were in their infancy in those late days of the sixties and early ones of the seventies. Thanks for the kind comments
and reading the stuff.
Semper fi,
Jim
Geez, went does it get easier for you LT. Life just seems to keep handing you crap when it should be sugar, Thanks for the new chapter, keep it up, Semper Fi sir!
Finally, things seem to be going better for you and its been a long time coming. Great read with my morning coffee. Thank you!
One correction stood out though. When you were buttoning yourself back up in the Colonel’s office it says “bottoming” when it should say buttoning.
Find it hard to understand why some treated you so bad, especially your fellow Marines. I’m guessing they never were in Viet Nam. How long did you stay active duty?
The story continues Pete and that will all be covered as we proceed.
I was told that the books after Thirty Days should have less of an influence from the wartime experiences and I thought about that
for a bit.
My son told me to continue, as those years following had everything to do with what happened to me and my life and so many around me.
My son also said, when I indicated that the war had affected almost everything I did for the rest of my life, that I had yet to include those things were deeply effected by me. Interesting.
I don’t really stop and look at life that way.
Thanks for the interesting note.
Most of the people I served with following the war had not been to the war, or, if they had, had not been in combat. The combat Marines were very few and far between. Those Marines were totally cool.
Semper fi,
Jim
Things haven’t changed a lot. As you know both my MArines Sons served in Combat. One was in a reserve unit so when he returned home and got reassigned to a new Reserve Unit there were many long timers that had never seen combat so there was some ill will that this young non com had more ribbons than they did.
So very true, about the decorations, and so hard to accommodate back then, or even now.
We are still so very small as human beings developing…and way too competitive.
Semper fi,
Jim
LT you are so right! Combat changes you forever! It’s been 50 years since I left Vietnam but I still have “Vietnam” habits. I sit so I can watch the entrance (and that is non negotiable). I still watch my 6. I have a civilian legal unit one I carry with me when I’m out in the field. I have a fully stocked trauma bag in my pickup. I still react badly to loud unexpected noises. The 4th of July is a bitch. My late wife always said “He lived through it and now I live with it.” She learned the hard way not to grab me to wake me up. We all adjust and find a way to carry on with our lives. Welcome home Bro. Glad you made it back!
I’m enjoying every one of the chapters as they come out.
The amazing thing is, Terry, that we don’t really come back. Not as the men we were before.
We come back alright, but we come back different. So different that only by a very hard forcing
of fake behavior do we fit in at all. As time goes by that fake behavior deteriorates and people
see the real creature inside. Some like it and respect it and some don’t. Rough game, this long
term behavior is all about.
Semper fi,
Jim
Boy just think if you had been able to keep the “GOAT” what you could get now? I still regreat selling my 56 T-BIRD!!!
And my wife thought it was terrible and tacky that Mickey Thompson had painted his signature across the dash board on the passenger side with mineral-based white paint.
Jeez.
Semper fi,
Jim
Welcome Back James. I have heard similar stories about uncompassionate treatment of wounded vets from Nam. You might expect that from civilians but not from the military.
This is one huge competition out here and that includes everyone, not just the military. If you rise high then you will likely fall without ever having to do a damned thing, unless you are very
careful about guarding those things you have excelled at. Marines especiall, at that time, and probably now, did not like other Marines who had higher decorations.
I didn’t make the system or understand it at the time, but it sure as hell cost me a lot of pain.
My medals today are in the basement of my home, inside a trunk, which is inside a concrete bunker. That’s where they’ll stay, along with the boxes they came with, the citations, and the rest of the letters and other junk that came with them. I am proud of them, don’t get me wrong. But I do not need any more pain.
Also, never forget that decorations are the opinion of what someone else thought they saw and assumed that you did…not necessarily actually what you did or why you were doing it. When you get the medal you then have to decide whether you want to spend your life living the likely ‘lie’ on the citation or tell the truth and be held in either contempt or laughed at.
As in the song lyrics from long ago…I don’t have time for the pain.
Semper fi,
Jim
wonderful writing. glad you are here to put pen to paper! carry on
Great picture of Mary and Julie!
Thank you Dan
Jim
James, Great to hear the “welcome home” you received. They were few and far between – if at all.
Some minor editing suggestions follow:
Only four vehicles were present, none of the spaces occupied that had the letters; C.O., X.O., and 1st Sgt printed across the top of them.
Maybe reorder the words.
Only four vehicles were present occupying none of the spaces that had the letters; C.O., X.O., and 1st Sgt printed across the top of them.
Colonel’s, even regimental commanders
Plural not possessive
Colonels, even regimental commanders
because they are underarms.
Maybe separate “under” and “arms”
because they are under arms.
was to be encountered at personnel and forced to return to the 2/13
Maybe upper case “P” in personnel
was to be encountered at Personnel and forced to return to the 2/13
Multiple instances where personnel might be better capitalized.
When I found the personnel office
so much of the personnel office in Da Nang.
Fennessy had insisted that I get to personnel
maybe the fake aide, will call personnel.
I simply acknowledge the reporting
Maybe past tense for “acknowledge”
I simply acknowledged the reporting
so the forty-four dollars a month combat pay would be gone.
Are you sure about the $44?
Imminent Danger Pay: +$65 (Enlisted and Officers). Granted to personnel serving in a Combat Zone. Also known as “Combat Pay”.
I walked out to the GTO, reflecting on the simple fact that the woman’s sincere welcome and thanks were the most genuine I’d gotten from anyone outside of my wife and the guys who’d bought us lunch at the Thunderbird Restaurant at Rockaway Beach days before since I’d returned.
“since I’d returned” seems tacked on. Maybe drop it.
I walked out to the GTO, reflecting on the simple fact that the woman’s sincere welcome and thanks were the most genuine I’d gotten from anyone outside of my wife and the guys who’d bought us lunch at the Thunderbird Restaurant at Rockaway Beach days before.
The GTO was half empty of gas, and I’d been about nowhere in distance.
I had to reread this a few times to comprehend. Maybe substitute “traveled” for “been”
The GTO was half empty of gas, and I’d traveled about nowhere in distance.
“Read the orders,” I replied. The paperwork’s over on the kitchen counter. The orders say that I have to report in next week. This time I’ve been given is recuperative time and I’m taking all of it.”
Open quote before “The paperwork’s”
“Read the orders,” I replied. “The paperwork’s over on the kitchen counter. The orders say that I have to report in next week. This time I’ve been given is recuperative time and I’m taking all of it.”
_________________
Definitely some insights worth pondering:
“Or, had I changed?”
Oh yes! Big time. Didn’t we all.
“I’d underestimated her hatred for the car.”
That’s a huge step towards maturity and being a husband.
Blessings & Be Well