Marine Corps B'Day 1970 - Pt. 1

Marine Corps Birthday

1970

- Part 1 -

The Marine Corps Birthday started precisely at 8:30A.M.  The drinking that is.  No matter where you are in the world, if reasonably possible, supplies to celebrate the Marine Corps Birthday WILL reach you.

And you WILL CELEBRATE the Marine Corps Birthday.

My detachment was in a pretty safe place all things considered, about 11 miles from the DMZ.  How safe?  We were surrounded by the Army’s First Infantry Division, known as the Big Red 1, and the 22 Air Cavalry.

Our unit consisted of 15 non-officers, and a Lieutenant and a Captain.

Me and Ex-Sgt. Bernard and Frank, our driver, had stood duty all night.  Bernard and I had known each other in the States.  Back then, he hadn’t yet done what he shouldn't a done to become Ex-Sgt. Bernard.  We got off at 5:00 A.M. and crammed in a couple hours sleep. 

Promptly at 8:30A.M, some of the guys cracked into the beer cache provided by none other than the Commandant of the USMC.  First order of business, a solemn salute to all Marines, especially those who died in combat; and to all who have gone before.

Bernard and I joined in around 11:00 or so.  Before long, we were joined by a couple of guys from DaNang passing through on their way to Phu Bai. 

The rest of the day was spent drinking and partying in my hootch.  We smoked pot and laughed and told stories.  We shared the good stuff, like cookies and booze, out of our care packages from home. 

Whenever we got together, part of every conversation included talk about what we'd do when we got home.  Back in the 'World', as we called it.  Nobody believed any of it.  This was our world.

Something was always playing in the background.  The Doors.  Sly and the Family Stone.  The Beatles.  Moody Blues.  Everybody loved The Temptations.  Music was everything to us. 

Sometimes at night.  After it would get REALLY dark.  Just to freak ourselves out.  We would play an Ozzie Ozborn song.  It began with a sawing, threatening guitar line.  And then, a terrifying, moaning wail...
“OH GOD… OH NOOOOOOOOO... PLEASE HELP ME-E-E...”.
 

Before duty the night before, Bernard had quietly worked it out with the Captain so we could join in on the Birthday gig the Army was throwing at Dong Ha.  They were putting on a party for the Marines stationed in a small helicopter detachment there.  They were six miles up the road.  Spitting distance from the DMZ.


Around 6:30, a well-frothed and giddy band of Gyrenes spilled into the back of the PC, or personnel carrier.  In it was me, Charlie Baker and Doc, plus the two DaNang Marines.  Frank and Ex-Sgt. Bernard were in the enclosed front cab.

“Personnel carrier” sounds like it should be a fairly protective vehicle to ride in.  Some are; not this one.  What we were riding in was the canvas covered back of a light military truck. 

Very sparse, it had two rows of facing wooden seats with room for six troops.  A zippered plastic opening allowed you to communicate with the driver through a sliding window.

Because the main road, Route 1, was too dangerous to drive without an escort, we took a back road.  We knew the way.
Mostly.

None of us had ever exactly been to the base at Dong Ha.  Near it, just not there.  Frank had gotten some directions over the radio before we left.  Only later did we learn that he had forgotten to bring the radio with him.

To make matters worse, his writing was almost illegible.  The route passed through a few small villages, but they said it was our safest bet.  We were supposed to look out for a special turn somewhere along the way.

No worry.  We were protected by beer and good reefer.

Driving north, the lights of Quang Tri faded quickly behind us.  In no time, we were all alone traveling in the very dark, black night.  We went slowly.  Little slits, called “peepers”, were our only forward lights.  They did little to show the way.

Feeling our way down the heavily rutted road was starting to give everybody a case of the willies.  We were locked and loaded, but frankly, that wasn’t all that reassuring.

We knew we were steadily closing the distance to the deadly DMZ.  Everybody said that if you get within a certain distance of it, all hell would break loose.

From both sides.


After about forty nervous minutes, I stuck my head through the opening and tapped on the window.  Bernard opened it.

I asked Frank, our big, surly… no wait… I asked Frank, our big, surly... DRUNK driver... our ETA.

“Shut the Fuck Up!” was his reply.

“Oh yeah," I responded.  "Well guess what, dick wad... we’re in Injun Country and you have NO FUCKING IDEA where we are.”

Frank didn’t like anybody.  Except Bernard.  They were both from Buffalo.  They were both the same kind of crazy, that people from certain places where there’s a certain kind of crazy, tend to be.

Even though there was no avoiding Frank’s universal human hatred, I still outranked him.  He hated that even more.



Suddenly, the “Fuck You...  No.  Fuck You...” roadshow came to a quick, hard stop. 

Frank hit the brakes so fast all of us in the back slammed forward and just as quickly got tossed backwards against the tailgate.

Outside, I hear firm, deadly voices.

“DON’T SHOOT!  DON’T SHOOT!!”

They were shouting at US.

I snuck forward and looked through the opening.  About eight Army Rangers were standing in the road, their weapons leveled at us. 

Even though I was only a corporal, I was the senior NCO.  One of the Rangers, a staff sergeant, was just coming around to the back of the truck when I came tumbling over the tailgate.

He takes one look at me, and says, “Marines!  What the fuck are Marines doing this far north in I-Corps?”

I told him we were from Quang Tri and that it was the Marine Corps Birthday.  I further explained that since they were throwing a party at Dong Ha, we were heading there.  Naturally. 

Then I told him that we had gotten j-u-u-st a little turned around trying to find the place.


The Sergeant laughed and shook his head.

“Fucking Marines!”

He drew me aside.

“C’mere, Jarhead.  I wanna show you something.”

I walked by his side down the blind, curving road.  In less than a minute, the road began to straighten and my eyes bugged out of my head.

There in the slack night air, bathed in floodlights, about 75 feet up, was the flag of NORTH VIETNAM.

The Sergeant snorted, “Ya almost did it.  I'd say y'all were about 500 yards from meeting your Maker, pal.”

We returned and he gave Bernard very specific directions.

The sergeant turns and walks away.

Bernard grins and pulls me close.

He whispers into my collar.

"Almost don't count."

MC B'Day 1970 - Pt 2

Marine Corps Birthday

Viet Nam, 1970

- Part 2 -

Almost invisible.  That’s what you'd call it.  Especially in the dark.

Nobody saw it first time around.  Now, retracing our way back down from the DMZ, Bernard sees it from the front seat.

Code name: Plymouth Rock.  There it was, the elusive back entry to a section of Dong Ha Combat Base.  The least obvious break you could possibly imagine.  Hidden in an endless row of weeds.  Grown into hedges.

"Goddam brass monkey knuckles!" 

A creative curser, Frank mumbled to himself and nudged the front of the truck through the weeds.  The thick brush scraped the sides.

Dong Ha turned out to be big and fairly spread out.  We followed a rutted dirt road for about a mile and came upon a group of buildings.  Off to the right were a few hangars, a couple old jets, a runway and some helicopters.

We slowly pulled up to the sentry.  He offered a slack salute and muttered to himself.

"Fuckin' Marines."

He gestured to a low-slung building in the middle of a group of hootches.

We could hear the party in full swing.

Although the ammo dump was still operational, Dong Ha was no longer the hotbed of activity it once was.  It had long been an essential launch pad and defense base for combat operations in Northern I Corps.

The year was coming to a close and there was a sense that the war was winding down.  American troops had been gradually withdrawing from this part of the country for the better part of the year.  


Twenty-five Marines in a helicopter unit still worked out of this sector.  To my knowledge, we and they were the last Marines this far north.  

An Army helicopter troop was also stationed there.  And, because the runway could handle their light-duty bombers, a clutch of Aussie pilots were tossed in for good measure.


Bernard and I grinned that, "... this is going to be fun..." look at each other.  We climbed a few steps to a long wooden porch that led to the Army's rec room.  The whole place was done up in all kinds of Marine Corps! 

There was enough food and booze to last a week.  In the center of the room, a large sheet cake proudly depicted the Marine Corps symbol - The Eagle, Globe and Anchor.

Sturdy tables and chairs dotted the room.  Each had a bucket of beer.  And way too many bottles of liquor.  All were well dug into. 

Without warning, a hand reached between Bernard and me.  It held a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.  I took it.  Like all the beer in Viet Nam, it was warm.  Piss warm. 
 
I turned around and was greeted by a grinning, sun bronzed Marine.

"Welcome, gentlemen."

He slapped a beer into Bernard's hand and offered a toast.

“Here’s to the Marine Corps!”  

"Semper Fi." 

“Chug it!” 

We chugged it!


“Okay.  Listen up.  Here's the deal.  Tonight..."

He offered us another warm Pabst.

He opened his beer. 

We did likewise.

"Tonight... whenever you hear... SEMPER FI..."

He raised his beer in a toast.

"You Chug!"

We chugged.


Suddenly.  An intensely drunk Army lieutenant spotted us and lurched in our direction.  He had his hand out, but we weren't sure he was going to make it. 

He stumbled and landed hard in a chair next to Bernard.  

Bernard stepped back a pace.

The lieutenant mumbled some sort of greeting.  This was all his idea. 

An obnoxious drunk, he leaned forward confidentially.  Wanted us to know.  He's going home soon.  Gonna get out of the Army.  Then he's going to join the Marines.  And come back to 'The Nam' as a Marine!

Bernard screwed up his face and looked to the ceiling.

Asshole.

We turned our backs and walked away. 

Unfazed, the lieutenant tripped off to his next victim.

A couple of Army guys came over and introduced themselves.

"The LT is a dickwipe.  Wanna be gunslinger.  Total risk in the field."


Surprise.

Another beer materialized.

"SEMPER FI."

Chug.

Bernard disappeared.


I picked up with a couple of the Aussie pilots.  Funny.  Crazy mutherfuckers.  And brother, they were some big fellas!

They flew the jets we saw outside.  English Electric Canberras.  They explained how they loved them, but how cranky they were to fly.  None of the automatic assists like you'd find in more modern aircraft.  

In 1951, these Brit-made planes were the first jet-powered bombers in any military, anywhere.  And now, in 1970, these smoky old airplanes still pushed into the sky to make bomb holes in the mountains all around us.

One of the Aussies asked me about the facial scars I'd gotten from going through a windshield the year before.

Before I could answer him, I caught Bernard motioning to me by the door with two beers in hand.

I excused myself and joined him outside under a large tree.


“Do like I do.”

He gives me a warm beer.

"SEMPER FI."

Chug.  Slog.  Gulp.  Gulp.  Gulp. 

“ERR-r-r-r-r-rrrppp.  Aaahhhh!” 


Bernard points to the can.

“Do like I do.”

He pulls out his pecker and pisses in the can. 

Seemed reasonable. 

I did likewise.  
  

Back inside, all eyes eagerly followed us.  

They all knew.

Bernard honed directly in on the Lieutenant.

Seeing him approach, the lieutenant steadied himself against a table.


Bernard walked right up to him and slapped his container onto the table. 

I did likewise.

Pointedly, both of us said at once. 

"SEMPER FI !"


Two cans. 


The flummoxed officer could only oblige. 

Chug.  Chug.  Gulp.  Gulp.  Gulp. 

Buuurrrrrrrpp.

"Thash one."

Chug.  Gulp.  Slog.  Slog.  Slog.

"Ahhhh."

He takes an uncertain bow.

"Two!"


There is a gasp from the crowd.  Then.  Wild applause and laughter. 

The lieutenant, barely erect, looks upon the assembly.  Happy they’re happy.



One of the Australian pilots, a poster-boy for Vegamite, the one so fascinated by my scars, made his way over to congratulate us.  He was still laughing.  His handshake felt like you'd slammed your hand in a car door.

“Theet was fucking awesome, Mate!”

He offered his hand to Bernard, but he just smiled.

"Thanks."


“Wheel theen, why don't you fillas come join us in our quartuhs.” 

We foolishly agreed. 


All their buddies were already in the common room near their sleeping area. 

Sundry foodstuffs from Down Under had been laid out in a small feast.

Vegamite left briefly, then re-emerged carrying a bottle of 13 year-old single-malt sledgehammer.  


Oh good. 

More booze.


I caught my face in the mirror.  I was starting to circle the drain.
 
Bernard, in contrast, sidled over to the guy with the scotch.  

Wanted to help him open it.


We toasted: 

The Marine Corps. 

The Girl Scouts. 

The Australian Legion of Legionaires. 

The Marchers in the Macy’s Day Parade.


After a couple more toasts, it was the perfect time for the Australians to start acting like Australians.  

Aussie women... they say... say Aussie men... would rather fight than fuck. 

From my perspective, at least half of that equation was gonna have to stand untested.


The bottle circled pretty fast. 

No saying, 'No' as it was passed around.  

So naturally, it quickly started to empty.  Too fast for some.  A snarly scrum developed over the last pull. 

In my hand.

Vegamite, the one who brought the bottle, grabs it out of my hand and drains it.  

Seeing that, one of his crew mates grabs me from behind and flings me at him.

“You gonna let him get away with theet... Marine!”


No time to think.  Vegamite pops me a good one in the gut, turns me around and pushes me right back.  His buddy tags me on the side of the head as I go flying past him.

My legs twisted beneath me and I landed with a face-plant on the floor.  Out of the haze, I could vaguely hear the guttural yell. 

Bernard. 

ALL riled up. 

He started swearing and pushing people out of the way to help me
get off the floor.  

Still swearing, Bernard grabbed the guy who'd just hit me and smashed him in the nose with his palm.  Blood gushed out all over him. 

Cheered on by Bernard's bravado, I went after Vegamite. 

How stupid.

I swung at him mightily. 

Twice my size, he just snorked and grabbed my arm mid-flight.

In half a second, he had me in a headlock.

After that, I could barely feel it. 

Him. 

Maniacally laughing.  Rhythmically punching my face.

“I loyk you.  Ya scar-faced cunt.”



Out.

C M F

C M F

                                                      

February 1971.  Quang Tri combat base.  Near the DMZ.  Tet.

 

A boot lieutenant doesn’t command much respect.  Except, this guy did. 

Chicago street tough.  Turned Marine Officer.

He was a scrappy black kid who had been raised by a Polish family.  Even he could barely pronounce his last name.  Imagine the low sound of crunching metal.  Put ‘ski’ at the end, and you’ve got it.

We just called him ‘LT’.  He had only recently come in-country, so you'd normally think twice about taking too much from a 'new guy'. 

Not LT, he was a very heads up dude. 

Growing up poor in South Side Chicago, he had been fighting for survival his whole life.  A more calm and confident person would be hard to find.

LT was the duty officer on this particular night.

We were a very tight unit.  Fifteen enlisted men and two officers.  We lived in hootches just outside our bunker compound.  Our mission was radar-directed, close air and bombing support in any kind of weather.  Our job was to remain undetected near combat zones and wreak havoc. 

As usual, at 1800 hours, we all met in the common room of the bunker.  It was separated from the operations area and our equipment by a door and a hallway.  It was our lounge.  In it, we had a refrigerator and a ping pong table, some hoodwinked furniture, and of course... music.

Situated on strategic, north-south Route 1, our base was roughly eleven miles from the DMZ.  Quang Tri City lay just across the Cua Viet River from us.   

As the northern-most provincial capital of South Viet Nam, trouble from the North was always a possibility.  Three years prior, during the infamous 1968 Tet Offensive, Quang Tri was briefly overrun and captured, after a lightning, middle of the night invasion.

At that time, there was only a scattered American presence in these parts.  This base was likely a response to that attack. 

Captain Hoover explained the situational outline for us.  Not that he needed to.  We all knew the scuttlebutt.  No pep-rally type, Captain Hoover was direct, brief and to the point.  He told us about how we would coordinate with the broader defense resources around us over a secure radio net.

The Captain’s tone was positive, completely pragmatic and clear-sighted.

Athletic and at ease, LT stepped forward.  He said a few words, read the night’s assignments and then dismissed us.

“Semper Fi”.

Nobody said much.  Especially me and David.  We already knew our assignments.  LT had drawn us aside earlier in the afternoon.  He told us we might need to get some shut-eye.  He said David and I would be manning the .50 caliber machine gun tonight.  It sat atop the twenty foot high blast wall that formed the perimeter of our bunker.

Unlike the hilltop, underground bunker that we had in Chu Lai, in Quang Tri we were at sea-level.  A shovel or two into the ground would quickly yield water.  So.  Above ground was the reality.  For rocket attacks, underground is decidedly better.

The perimeter of our compound was formed by a revetment.  This was a blast wall made from two parallel stacked rows of corrugated steel sheets with a five foot gap between them.  Steel girders pounded into the ground acted as back bones.  Then, they pour a shitload of sand in between them.  All the way to the brim.

Atop the revetment, in the corner facing the end of the runway and the river, the .50 cal. had been added as an extra element of defense.  It is pretty fast for such a big mo-go of a gun.  It can put a hole in a hole.  It’s either the best thing.  Or what everybody shoots at.

Anyway, we were glad to have it.  A couple of weeks prior, a VC Sapper unit had used the river to infiltrate the bomb depot at Dong Ha, six miles north of us.  For four days, we watched the endless explosions from the revetment.

David and I had become good friends over the seven months or so that we had known each other.  In fact, he went to my house in Philadelphia on his R&R, and had a great time partying with my brothers and their friends.

This was his second tour in Viet Nam.  I trusted him completely.  Very intense, very smart.  Very cool under pressure.

After LT dismissed the group, he came over to where David and I were standing.  He invited us to go out and catch a smoke wit him. 

Outside, the lieutenant asked us what we thought about manning the machine gun for Tet. 

David and I, of course, said it was no big deal.

The angular officer took a small step back. “Bullshit!”

David and I looked at each other.  And cracked up!  In truth, we were just talking about what we would do if we had to act quick.  We looked at the lieutenant and grinned.

“Good. Now. Listen up.  Let me tell you about CMF!  Chronic Mind Fuck.  FEAR !”

He had our attention.

“Gentlemen.  Properly focused, and re-channeled, it will keep you alive!”

“CMF will want you to act rashly.  I learned this the hard way.  On the very nasty streets of South Side.  Fear must become the very thing that makes you slow your mind down.  Breath evenly.  Sharpen your thinking."

He let that settle in.

"And most importantly.  At all times.  Know your situation relative to your surroundings.  Do Not React.  Slow your mind.  Act.  And know why.” 

David and I each saluted him.  And not because we had to.


Walking away, David grinned at me.  “Fu-u-u-u-ck!  That was intense!” 

We went about our business, got some restive sleep and banged around until it was time to relieve the other guys. 

It was 2300 hours.

Nightfall in this part of the world can be downright eerie.  A special kind of darkness envelopes the night.  Even Quang Tri City across the river goes almost completely dark.  The odd light an unwelcome focal point.

In such conditions, the stars come infinitely closer.  These shimmering pinpoints conjoin earth and the firmament as one.

In position, we exchanged a few quiet words with ex-Sgt. Bernard and ‘Alpha Charley’ Baker as they got the creaks out of their backs.
 
A calm, dry night, things seemed fairly tranquil.  All things being relative.  To dissuade floating munitions under cover of darkness, machine gunners raked the water with sporadic fire from the bridge.

Off to our right and beyond a broad empty plain lay a chain of foothills.  Maybe a couple of hundred feet high.  Called the ‘rocket pocket’, the VC could toss harassing rocket fire from there.  And then disappear. 

Aside from the blasts from the bridge, tonight was pretty quiet. Unusually quiet.  And, to our relief, it stayed that way all night.  

Not a pop.  Not a boom.  Nothing.


To our gathering satisfaction, the thin grey blue of dawn began to subtly insinuate itself.  We sat quietly, just observing, not speaking at all.

After a while, David began fidgeting around in his field jacket pockets.  I didn’t pay much attention.

With a fake sinister laugh, he flourished a thin object before my eyes. 

Oh no.  A joint!
 
Weed was the tea and crumpets of Viet Nam.

Wheels turn in my head.  Hmmm.  It was getting lighter.  It would be crazy for anybody to try anything now, what with all the firepower around us bristling for a fight.

“W-e-l-l-l.  Ok.  Just one toke.”

Still on the alert, but far more relaxed, we spoke in low tones about our good fortune.  Dawn slowly crawled out of night's grasp. 

THEN. 

All of a sudden.  Out of freakin' nowhere.

"WHOA... WHAT THE...!" 


BLINDING FUCKING LIGHTS!!!


About four hundred feet off the deck.

I quickly swung the Fanner 50 around and sighted it.

David shouted.

“WAIT!”


Thank god.


Rather than fly in on a direct approach, the shiny DC3 came in from the ocean side.  At about four hundred feet, just above the runway, the plane flipped over in a loop and turned on its landing lights.  

And.  Just like that.  Touched down.   


Unshot!
  

It was the CIA!!

Positive Target Awareness - to the rescue.
 
CMF!   

LT's words had seen us through.


Or we’d still be in jail! 

jmc