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