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.
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