Night didn’t come easily in the Nam. The day had been a blessing compared to my first night. Moving seventeen clicks through muddy rice paddies wearing a fifty-pound pack was its own form of misery, but the brutality of Marine training had kicked in and setting one foot in front of the other had become a tweaking exercise of endurance. And I had endurance. What I didn’t have any longer was a useless flak jacket or utility coat, and wearing only a Vietnam issue green “T” shirt allowed the shoulder straps of my pack to chaff, cut and hurt like hell. Being the supposed leader of whatever this Marine Company had morphed into, I knew instinctively that there could be no show of weakness. I hunched and staggered my way through without comment and without water.
We were in the flatlands. From the ocean far away in the unseeable distance to the mountains inland, the land supported subsistence farmers trying to grow rice. Rice and small fish, with inedible fish sauce called nuoc mam (nook mom), were what indigenous locals ate all of their lives, along with noodles. My concern, with nightfall coming and the inevitability of attack facing us again, was where to set in. The soggy land prevented digging foxholes. The few spotted areas among the paddies of low hanging jungle seemed to be all that was left. My training told me that those would not work simply because they were the only places to spend the night. The enemy would know that. They would be registered (previously measured for range and declination) for mortar fire, if not heavier stuff.
The unit stopped just before sunset. I’d ended up near the rear for unexplainable reasons. I’d talked to no one during the arduous hike, preceded by my scouts and followed by Fusner, who somehow managed a full pack and the Prick 25 radio. The Gunny made his way back from the long line of Marines strung along the straight raised berm of the paddy dike. The dikes themselves were all wide enough for two people to pass one another side by side, but that was about it. The slightest misstep and a bath in the awful smelling paddy water would result.
Jim, just got out after 8 years infantry. It’s a strange adjustment for sure since it is all I’ve known since 19. I am reading this for the first time, and though it is a different war, this has made me feel less alone. Thank you for sharing brother.
Hunter. Yes, combat is a ‘brother’ kind of thing and I don’t think real combat, rare as it really is,
is much different from place to place and time to time. Thanks for clarifying that and bringing us all forward to
the modern times with this series of novels….set long ago but right now too.
Semper fi,
Jim
What unit were you with in Vietnam, James? So far I haven’t been able to find it on your site.
Been to the river, got trapped there in the middle of a monsoon,
We couldn’t get out , chopper couldn’t get in, got pretty hungry!
Yes, trying to get anything to come right down into the thick of that valley, especially when
it narrowed down or the weather was bad. Shit. Thanks for the real nature of your own experience
adding to mine…
Semper fi,
Jim
Glad to see you got rid of the flak jacket early. In 65 we went on our first mission to rescue the SF guys at Plei Me and we wore flak jackets because we were ordered to. The next mission we were told to leave them and I never saw mine again. On my 2nd tour we carried them to Khe Sanh in 71, but never wore them outside of the perimeter, just inside when we had incoming, which became every day. In a remark you mentioned your letters to home. My grandmother and an aunt saved mine from my first tour in 65/66 and gave them back to me as soon as I got home. A few weeks later while very drunk I got them out and burned them on the ground outside. I wonder what the neighbors thought. Fortunately my mother saved the letters I had written her and much later gave them to me so I still have them.
Yes, the flak jackets were hot, heavy and only gave an impression of stopping anything.
About as useless as a bayonet on an M-16. Today’s jackets work a helluva lot better I am told,
but still, without a cooling pack your can’t do the jungle shit. Sorry about the letters you burned.
I burned the only photos that I had early on in an alcoholic rage too. Must be endemic to the breed!
Thanks for the deep meaningful comment. I needed that just now…
Semper fi,
Jim
Jim, There is always another side to the flak jacket. On the first day of the tet offensive, an NVA regiment managed to break thru our perimeter at Bien Hoa only to be slaughtered by both AF & Army aerial & ground security forces. One of our security augmetees was caught off guard with his flak jacket open & became a KIA. His chief duties was that of a finance clerk.
The flak jacket of the time would not stop a 7.62X39 round, or much of anything else flying
around a battlefield, as many discovered belatedly. Your clerk probably would have died anyway even if
he had the thing closed. TET was a real challenge for a lot of outfits but the after action reports I got
all talked about how US forces conducted themselves pretty damned good, all except for handling the press reports
later on.
Thanks for the vignette.
Semper fi,
Jim
A great insight James. you must have written most of this down during your tour, I am glad you did. Eye corps 71-72
I did write some of it down on the backs of my maps (they were only coated with plastic on one side
back then). And my beaten mess of a diary which was sporadic at best. The most effective tool has been
the letters home. Even though I stayed away from so much I am able to read the letters and instantly place myself
right there, like tonight on that overlook of the A Shau. My son reminded me, after reading the last segment, that
I’d told him all about the Kamehameha Plan when he was a kid on Oahu. I had no memory of that until he told me.
It is surprising to have the family reading this and being surprised too. Most of it has just lain there like
a waiting section of swampland, to be gone around and not through.
Thanks for the comment and your support.
Semper fi,
JIm
Like Jim above, turned 18 in ’74. I am enjoying your writing. My cousin flew 2 Cobra Tours. Don’t know how you guys did it. I always wonder how I would have responded.
Thanks for your writing.
Like the class act your probably are Jaxk! Good people are good people and you can’t do much
to fix the bad ones. Not in combat, anyway. Thanks for commenting so openly and from the heart.
Semper fi,
Jim
Never had the honor. Nixon ditched the draft in 75 I believe . Turned 18 in 74, registered and waited. Know many vets who came home and always blown away with their accounts. A real shit sandwich.
Jim, glad you didn’t go because here you are, in one piece and sane! Vietnam was quite something for so many of us. In fact it was so much a something
that I don’t know anyone who came home ‘quite right’ after being there for awhile. Thanks for reading the story and writing on here.
Semper fi,
Jim
So Descriptive. You really have a gift.
Thank you James. For the reading and the commenting. So many people simply remain silent, but that is also very
characteristic ofthose who went out into the shit.
It’s a tough subject so filled with unbelievable crap
because the mythology we’re all taught is so
filled with bullshit.
Semper fi,
Jim
Good read so far
Your comments keep me at it Dean!
Semper fi,
Jim
Amazing story..
Thank you Sally…
A ground pounder.