Once again, backed into the open-sided ‘lean-to’ my ‘scout’ team had made for me, I took out my writing materials to send another letter home. It was getting too dark to write so I did the best I could since using the flashlight under a hunched over poncho cover was out of the question in the heat. The night mist had returned with the mosquitoes and I wished for a real thunderstorm like I’d experienced while growing up in the Midwest of the United States.
I wrote furiously about how the Company wasn’t a company at all from what I understood one should be. Training had been little preparation with only the physical conditioning, map-reading and artillery school seeming to matter. I wrote of the mystery Marine named “Sugar Daddy” I was about to meet, as if being introduced at some sales conference or maybe a fraternity get-together. And then I stopped. Not because of the diminishing light, but because my wife could not possibly comprehend what I was trying to tell her. Even if she could somehow, did I really want her to know what I was going through? If they killed me, she would think I died in combat bravely, a hero. Instead of whatever the truth really was. Mary could not know, would not know…
I finished the letter without mentioning anything of consequence, focusing on the tropical weather and how much I missed our newborn daughter. I asked her to send me Hoppe’s #9 for cleaning my .45, instant creamer for coffee and a cassette tape of her voice. Some of the Marines in the unit had battery powered cassette tape machines to record or play back messages.
I eased off my leather boots. Because I hadn’t gone through combat supply on the way out to the unit, I didn’t receive the new cloth-sided jungle boots. Issue socks with my boots weren’t thick enough to handle the moisture or cushion the long hikes. I’d have to send home for more socks. I pulled out my scrunched up utility top, which I’d wear all the time the mosquitoes were so intolerable. The helmet, hot and heavy to wear, provided little protection from anything other than low hanging jungle branches. But I’d wear that, too. I needed to find one of those big rubber bands so I could carry the repellent on the outside of my helmet instead of rummaging in my pack, when I had my pack nearby.
I tried to put Jurgens and the others behind the brush out of my mind. It curdled my stomach to know there were combat Marines in my own unit who not only wanted me dead, but were already devising plans on how to take me out. Maybe someone would shoot me in the buttocks and I’d get to go home like the Corpsman. I tried to laugh at my low humor but couldn’t. I must have made some sound because Fusner, folded neatly into his own poncho covered hooch, responded.
“Repeat, sir?” he asked, between large bites of what were supposed to be ham slices.
“Who’s Jurgens?” I replied. Maybe a core group in the unit had gone bad. I’d noted from their speech patterns that there were no black Marines that I could tell . Probably a good thing. Without meeting him I presumed Sugar Daddy to be black, just from the exotic nickname.
“Platoon commander of First Platoon,” Fusner answered. Barely visible in the waning light, he bit off some more of the ham slice, seeming to avoid my eyes. I stared anyway, waiting.
“Sir?” he asked weakly, putting down his C-ration tin.
“Jurgens,” I said again, without expression.
Fusner fiddled with his ration box in setting it aside. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and took a moment to light one. I smeared some more of the mosquito crap on and waited patiently.
“He’s big and mean. Fair, but mean. The officers before didn’t like him because he does with his platoon what he wants, not what he’s ordered to do. First Platoon is like a company within the Company, like the other one.”
“Other one?” I asked, surprised.
“Sugar Daddy’s Platoon Commander of Fourth Platoon. It’s all black. They kind of do what they want too.”
My mind rocked. How could a five platoon company do anything as a unit if two platoons did whatever they wanted and all the Marines in the other platoons knew it? I watched the drizzle begin to gather in a fold of my rubber poncho and flow into the little channel one of the team had dug around my hooch. The water collected and then began to run toward a little outlet to a hole dug for collection purposes. It reminded me of being home when I lived in Hawaii as a kid, digging castles with walls and motes down near the water. I thought of finding a little stick to float down the channel into the hole but made no move. I knew I wasn’t going to run from any enemy fire that night and that thought was a relief. Like the terror of the enemy had been relegated further down inside my being because of a greater terror. Except my growing fear of my fellow Marines was a colder, more angry thing. I wasn’t supposed to be afraid of them.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way at all.
“Where’s First Platoon settled in?” I asked Fusner.
“Why?” a voice whispered out in the night.
I looked away from Fusner into the dark to see a vague shape low to the mud. The shape moved forward until it became the Gunny.
“Getting the lay out of the unit for night defensive fires,” I answered, defensively.
“I’ve only known you for a few hours,” the Gunny whispered, taking out his own cigarette pack to light one, “and in that time I’ve picked up on a few things.” He flicked the Zippo and the light from the small fire flared over it. I noted the lettering on it’s surface near where the hinged top snapped down. It said “Changjin.”
“Gunny,” I replied, since he paused longer than I expected.
“You’ve already got the night defensive fires laid out in spades, and you’ve no doubt committed them all to memory.”
I shifted inside my hooch and searched for my own cigarette pack. After a few seconds I found it. The Gunny’s observations made me nervous and I couldn’t figure out why. With slightly shaking hands I pulled out a cigarette. The Gunny lit it, the Zippo again making its distinctive little ring when it opened. The light flared. We stared at each other. I didn’t know what to say.
“Jurgens runs that platoon,” the Gunny said. “Within bounds he does okay. He’s got some good buck sergeants running the squads and his fire teams are the best in the Company. When it’s all said and done every night we’ve got the NVA out there in force, not to mention a slew of disorganized local gooks playing at being Viet Cong. We need that platoon. They shoot. They fight. They work.”
I listened carefully, wondering what units in the company didn’t do the things he so purposefully mentioned.
A column of the U.S. 1st Marine Division move through Chinese lines during their breakout from the Chosin Reservoir
“What does Changjin mean?” I asked him, trying to change the subject.
Many people don’t realize the extent of the “race thing” in our military. And I might add, it’s still there. Maybe not to the extent it was in the 60’s & 70’s but non the less it’s still there. The bro’s are still the bro’s. Thanks for bringing that ugly topic up.
You tell it like it was and I appreciate that. I’m pulled to your writing like a magnet to the fridge.
Race was definitely penetrating in almost every unit that had racial mixes.
Project 100,000 didn’t help because those kids were dumb as posts and Vietnam was
a helluva place to get your education. Transition didn’t help at all either because
every new person had nobody to tie up with.
Thank you for the time and trouble of commenting and reading the story.
Semper fi,
Jim
By the time in went in the Army in 70 mini race riots & beat downs were common in the Army. I was scared shitless after being involved in a riot on a bus. Of course the command would not admit a thing because it was the end of an officer’s career. I RSPed a grenade booby trap set to kill other GIs & was smacked down by our CO for daring to want to make a report on it. Bounced out of unit soon after. We had fraggings even in Korea. I remember the McNamara 100K & served with some. The violence was a common theme in many line & support units. Later I was an MP. 70-79.
Thanks for your comments regarding the VA. I simply cannot force myself to go.
Thank you for writing your memoirs it is helpful to many.
JERRY. You must go. I sat in the parking lot for hours three days in a row
during one winter week in San Diego, a hundred miles from where i lived. I did not want anyone to know
I was going. I was not that weak. I could not show that I was that weak. I did not want to die but I did not
want to stay alive anymore either. I was a man. I was a Marine. I had obligations and people who loved me.
They could not then and not ever know what I had done or that I could never love myself again. Not that person. Not that
creature. I was at the VA to find people like me or to find out if there were other people like me.
You have to go. Sit in the parking lot. Watch the guys come and go. They’ll know you’re out there but they won’t
bother you because they used to sit out there too. You are loved and they will care. They know now about us and
it’s okay. You have to go.
Semper fi,
And you know where I am, always. 2625815300
Semper fi,
Jim
enjoy reading all you write, was with 8″ on hill 55 and a few other places keep it coming
Thanks Frank for your comments and your service on Hill 55.
I will work to continue this piece because what happened to me
happened to a lot of Marines and troops in different places and ways
doing that awful war. Appreciate your support!
Semper fi,
Jim
Your story is not known but needs to be known. Thanks.
Appreciate the input “Older John”
Don’t hesitate to share the page with others.
Can relate on so many levels, especially the fact that you touched on about doing the VA group thing, just can’t seem to go there, and discuss it in an open forum, like you I have a flood of memories,also like you some of the names have gone from my memory,the places on the other hand are stuck in my head.Thank you for your memories,I’m sure it was not easy to do. Keep them coming if you feel up to it. In country 68-69 MOS1371 out of Con Thien. Semper Fi,
John
God yes, John. I have had a hard time with other Viet vets over the years,
not just the VA. For some reason I have a hard time with other vets. The Iraq
and Afghan guys and gals are easy in comparison. I don’t know why. And I get
very antsy and bad feelings from the VA facility. I can’t stand the cops in the
halls on those two wheeled scooters. And the their cars at the front door. Like I
am ready to explode and they are there to make sure I get arrested before I go off.
Rather pay at a regular hospital or doctor and not mention the war. The scars can be lied about
pretty easily.
Semper fi,
Jim
Really enjoy your writing skill !
Thank you Fred! Sometimes writing this stuff at night, mostly, is kind of
a lonely thing. Little comments like yours keep me going so I will write on tonight.
Thanks for the motivation.
Semper fi,
Jim
Keep writing, OOh RAh, Franny
I am punching out the words Franny and I will continue. Now that I’ve started
it’s like a huge flood of detailed memories….and only now do I get some of the
humor I could not get there.
Semper fi,
Jim
Spellbinding stuff. As GMO with the 5th/4th Arty in Quang Tri, I was well aware of the capabilities of the 155mm s/p howitzers. Too bad they weren’t able to be used to effect in 1970 up there.
Thank you Robert. Yes the 155s are now all the corps fields! And the
towed 155s were better than the mounted ones. Thank you for taking the time
to read and comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, You mentioned the towed 155s. My brothers-in-law was a KIA in WW2 on the assault on Brest France at Normandie. Hitler gave the order to defend the submarine unit till the last man. According to his service records, he was killed in his vehicle when it struck a land mine while towing the 155. Several years ago I spoke with one of his buddies. One thing I remember him saying was that Blair could really lay them in there. Blair was a corporal. Must have had good math teachers in HS. In reading your stories, you remind me so much of Blair. He & you had great artillery training……..PS.. Blair’s outfit suffered 90% casualties before the reached the Battle of The Buldge area. Most of the soldiers involved in the Buldge were new replacements.
Thanks for that comparison. Sounds like Blair was a bit more talented than I, as he did not have
the advantage of college and then Basic School and Fort Sill. As often as I discuss how inadequate training was in some areas
in the corps, it was quite fantastic in others. Thanks for Blair’s story and I am sorry you lost him in that war.
Lot of FNG in that one too.
Semper fi,
Jim
You Jar heads got the short end of the stick most times. Compared to the Air Cav. I was lucky I could sleep in my Huey.
James, keep on writing and telling your story. If your stories can touch others, like I know they have just looking at the previous comment, then you have succeeded. And if the only thing that happens is that it helps you, then you also succeeded. The only suggestion, is that you should link more of the names and battles that you put into your stories, in the same way you did for ‘platoon.’
Thank you for writing this.
Thank you Robert. It means a lot to have support form readers like you
who care enough to make comments. Yes, I’ve gotten a bit old to be pursuing
a literary career further but I did want to tell this story. And in reading
the story closely you probably will come to understand what the problems are
of being exact in names, dates and units. Not only can fact-checking on the
internet be so painful as it is wrong so much about those years and events,
there are still people living who are relatives of those no longer with us.
And I don’t need the USMC and the whole government down on my case. But you
are getting it as best I can write it from how it went down.
I am in awe of your courage. Being a DAV life member, I hear snippets of war, though I never saw combat. Your story is addictive; I cannot imagine being the target of assasination by your own troops.
Many thanks for reliving your nightmare.
The not so surprising thing about the story was discovering that friendly fire was a lot more extensive everywhere
than anyone wanted to report. I can never be certain of other experiences except for what people say anecdotally here, just as my
story remains mostly anecdotal itself. Units with extremely high casualty rates do not leave a lot of witnesses behind and the more
intense the combat the more combatants descend into any survival tactic deemed merited.
Thanks for the sincere comment.
Semper fi,
Jim
Really enjoy reading your story . I was an army engineer in 3 corp at the old french fort near nuy ba den 1970 71
Thanks for taking the time to comment Lucky. Most guys will read
and say nothing. But these comments help me a lot because they give
me impetus to go on. Most of us who were in the shit just want to
avoid going back in our mind. Most of us do not go to VA group. Most
of us can’t. But, I decided to give this a try, and thanks to people like
you I can keep going.
Semper fi,
Jim