July 4th 1970

 

 

 

 

 

Philly airport. American Airlines. Marine. Two years in. The Big Swoop. To Viet Nam.

 

Underway.

 

Frank Lavelle, recent Ph.D. in electrical engineering, no doubt checked his watch when the wheels came off the ground. He would meet me at L.A. airport. A country-wide wait away.

 

I was a grin in a uniform. I don't exactly know why, but that Marine uniform gave me strength, gave me purpose. Given where I was heading, perhaps I'd find out if it gave me valor.

 

On the flight, all kinds of people offered to buy me cocktails. I let them.

 

Friendly. That's what I was. The whole flight. Friendly.

 

 

Frank kind of expected he'd pick me up in a drunken bucket, given where I was going. And, given where I was going, he brought a bigger bucket.

 

I had never really been to free Los Angeles. By free, I mean that I didn't have to be back on base the next morning. The gamble, this time, was we had the whole night to explore wild LA. All we had to do was have me at Edwards AFB, on a plane, heading to the far Pacific. The next day.

 

We had ourselves a fine time, and barely made it. The base was deep in the California desert.

 

Next stop was Anchorage, aboard a workhorse World Airways 'Stretch 8' chartered jet. The most enduring thing I remember of that flight was being comforted by the Flight Attendant as we began our landing descent.

 

Standing behind me, she saw me react to mountain peaks poking above the clouds just below us.

 

I jumped in my seat when we started sinking, blind, into those swirling clouds. Bounded by Christmas-tree-icicle-tipped granite mountains on either side of the cabin. I felt nauseous.

 

She stepped forward, and with a smile, asked me if everything was okay. Kneeling briefly by my side, she gave me a wink and said the pilot does this every day. She said we'd be on the ground in a minute.

 

Her kindness meant everything.

 

We laughed and applauded when the pilot put us firmly, assuredly, on terra-firma.

Three jacket, middle of March cold. The wind chill blew away any sense that it was still July. With threatening clouds swarming overhead, we darted off the plane and into the low-slung, glass windowed airport. As a group, we headed for the bar.

 

Less than a beer later, a senior officer from our flight was drawn away. When he returned, with a smile, he said he had bad news. Our flight was being delayed. We were going to have to wait for some indeterminate time for an engine issue to be fixed.

 

Bartender. Another three hours of cocktails, please.

 

Nobody seemed to care when we finally got word to get back on board.

 

Like most everyone, I imagine, I fell fast asleep.

 

Drunk drooling dreams, and ten tired hours later, we touched down at our destination.

 

Kadena AFB.

 

Okinawa.

 

 

 

 

 

 

STUMPY

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stumpy was really good at what he did.

 

And what he did was drink.

 

As a guy who had just gotten ten-grand for 'shipping over' for a four year extension on his enlistment, he had a lot more money to spend doing it.

 

But not yet.

 

He was on his way to Viet Nam.

 

All of us were.

 

As part of his new contract, he agreed to immediately be transferred to a unit that needed his particular specialty. He was really good at that too. He even got another stripe when he shipped.

Sgt. Stumpy!!!

 

Sgt. Stumpy was something of a Supply genius; his ability to make deals and horse-trade with other outfits was uncanny. Coming from the hills of West Virginia, where barter is a way of life, he just knew how people worked. Especially when they wanted something.

 

 

Okinawa. Wet Okinawa.

 

Flooded Marine Base.

 

Okinawa.

 

Camp Smedley D. Butler was a sodden mess. Worn out from the long flight from Anchorage, we jumped off the bus and got pelted by rain drops the size of frozen peas. At least that's what it felt like. We raced into the Quonset hut barracks, a ramshackle remnant of WWII, and claimed our racks, ready to kick back. Pressed into service as a way station for troops going to Viet Nam, it had the barest of amenities. The head was outside. So were the showers. Not that it mattered. All of the plumbing in this area of the base was backed up since the day before. Not a pretty sight.

 

 

The morning crashed in on us with withering heat. As wet as it was when we got here, right in front of our eyes, radiant straws of sunlight were sucking the place dry again. It was oppressive.

After some of the most miserable chow one could imagine, we spent the rest of the morning getting lectured about Marine Corps tradition in war and the ongoing combat situation across Viet Nam.

 

We were also pleasantly surprised to find that we would have 'liberty' to go off base one of the two nights while here. We were not particularly surprised to learn of the prevalence of VD on B.C. Street, in Koza, just outside the base. We were warned about traveling in pairs and being back on base by 23-hundred hours.

 

 

Day passed into night. The humidity and heat came right along.

 

With a promise that the plumbing would be fixed soon, we were disappointed to learn that it wasn't 'soon' yet.

 

Undeterred, the place mellowed out quickly. The musty smell of the Quonset hut no match for the heady aroma of forty sweaty Jarheads, two days in. Small groups gathered. Music played here and there. Some guys hit the rack.

 

Stumpy and two others made a bee-line for the 'slopshoot'. The bar on the far side of the base.

 

A card game, predictable as piss down your pantleg, was already assembling.

 

I knew three of the guys who set it up. All of them were wondering where Stumpy was.

 

Stumpy. Sgt. Stumpy. Loved cards. Gambling actually. Cards too.

 

He was terrible at it.

 

Word of his gambling ups and downs were legend. He always won big. So he could lose. Bigger.

 

His nickname was 'Pay Day'.

 

 

The card game proceeded without him. No big wins or losses. Around 10:30, Stumpy's erstwhile bar buddies returned from their boozy travels. Amiable enough, they giddily settled back in among the rest of us.

 

Their arrival didn't go unnoticed.

 

 

 

 

 

The obvious question was quickly asked. The asker was the most senior person among us, a hard corps Recon Gunnery Sergeant.

 

"Where's your buddy?"

 

"He went into town. About an hour ago."

 

"Is that so."

 

 

Lights out was at 11:30. Twenty-three-thirty. A half-hour after the end of liberty.

 

It came. It went.

 

No Stumpy.

 

 

At some dark, still hot and humid moment, a couple of hours later, all hell broke out.

 

Three Shore Police. And Stumpy. Bloody Stumpy.

 

He had gotten jumped. There was an attempted robbery.

 

He won.

 

But it cost him a gash on his cheek and a bruised knuckle.

 

A tough little nugget with a perennial five o'clock shadow, Stumpy was a barrel chested bantam. Few ever chose to mess with him twice.

 

A little worse for the wear, he laughed it all off. A bit of a challenge, he scaled the frame of the bed to the top rack.

 

Lights out.

 

Like frogs by a lake, snorers began a contrasting chorus of snorts and grunts. Sleep for the rest of us came at a premium.

 

One thing you quickly learn about being in a Quonset hut is that the metal it's made of only intensifies whatever the weather outside is. Hot outside. Very hot inside.

 

Sunrise accentuated that point.

 

 

The showers and other facilities were working again. Luxurious!

 

We marched to chow at 8.

 

Today was the day we would receive our weapons and other gear, from backpacks to jungle boots.

 

Shortly after chow, with almost no warning, it rained buckets. Word was that a typhoon was headed our way. We held off going for our gear until after lunch. 

 

We took the bus to an area not far from the base's rifle range. We got our weapons from the armory there. Ammunition, we would get in-country. Our ears rang with the fam-firing of some exotic sounding weapons. Recons were putting on a demonstration for some of their troops before deployment.

 

Nearby, there were three flimsy hootches, side by side. Stepping around, and through, cinnamon-orange mud puddles, we broke into three groups and went from one hootch to the other. Because of the rain, the floors had been raised using wooden pallets, so you had to step up to get in.

 

In each hootch, with room to walk around them, there were four or five gigantic cardboard boxes. When it came to jungle utilities and such, all of the clothing was clean. But used!

Even the boots. You couldn't not think about how 'used' boots got here. Made you swallow hard.

 

Looking like extras in a John Wayne movie, all clad in flack jackets, helmets and full combat gear, we gathered all of our boodle into seabags and headed back to the bus. A somber quiet came over us all. The fun was over. The Games were at hand. We'd leave tomorrow.

 

 

Everybody but Stumpy had saved liberty for tonight. He was happy to hold down the fort.

No one knew of course, as we set out as a group, that Stumpy had plans. For two bottles of whiskey. Somehow he'd gotten them on board after our layover in Anchorage.

 

 

Because there were enough of us, we took the bus and parked it inside the gate for our return.

 

Koza was lit up like a cartoon version of Las Vegas. Garish signs blinked and flashed naked neon figures above bars and juke joints. Suggesting fleshy contents within. Music blared from every portal. Each containing its own Filipina-girl band. Most were awful. A few were great.

 

The air was thick with the smell of cooking wood and unusual, but enticing, food.

 

Most of us chose to go to a restaurant. The food couldn't be any worse than on base. Or so I thought. Of course, the menu was completely incomprehensible to me. Luckily some dishes had pictures. A charming young girl took my order.

 

 

I settled for what looked like a soup of some kind. It wasn't terrible. I ate it all. As we left,

I heard one of our guys speak Japanese to the girl. I had him ask her about what was in my soup. I shouldn't have. Dog and frog and rat came back her cheery reply. With noodles.

 

Two plus hours remained. The town laid out before us like a candy land of bad choices. We agreed to meet back at the bus at 22:50.

 

I went off with a staff sergeant and a couple of his buddies from dinner. On either side of the street, enticing women gestured, finger trilling us to come forward and into their musical drinking lair. We sternly made it past the first two, until "Rainy Night in Georgia", sung in three part, darling harmony, pulled us inside what looked like a cave door, and into a dim lit bar with the few lights aimed at the stage.

 

We ordered beer. Orion rice beer is what they had. I liked it. For the rest of the night.

 

I don't dance. But I do drink and dance. Tonight it was assorted wiggles, twists and feet that barely moved. All the while chugging Orion. I swigged and jigged in the dark. And nobody cared. Least of all me.

 

When it was time, like hypnotized drunken ducks, we waddled back to the bus inside the gate.

 

The happy ride back to our metallic, half honeycomb quarters was slowed by massive patches of sunken dirt road and poor driving. We eventually arrived. The place was lit up like a lunar space pod. Something wasn't right.

 

The Gunny was the first out of the bus. Alert. Looking for Stumpy.

 

Stiff-legged, he strutted down the squalid barracks. The bunks on either side of him.

 

We followed him like a swirl of bait fish.

 

If it could be said that he came to a screeching Halt. He did.

 

There. Face down. Pants down. Butt up in the air. Was Stumpy. In Swanson's rack.

 

As plain as day. Stumpy had fallen, deeply drunk, asleep. And taken a dump. On Swanson's rack.

 

On the table in the clearing, cradled in Stumpy's newly acquired bush hat with little pockets for shotgun shells, was a bottle of whiskey, empty.

 

As if he had dived into the bed with high impact, his other bottle of whiskey, half empty, lay just beyond his reach. Judging by the looks of things, he was probably going somewhere else and the bed got in the way. The rest of things happened as they did.

 

 

 

It was impossible to awaken him. By common agreement, we agreed to let it stay that way.

 

Drunk as he wanted to be, Swanson just climbed into Stumpy's rack and cheerfully went to sleep.

 

At dawn, we awoke. We didn't mean to. We did so because the Gunny physically yanked Stumpy out of his rack. With Stumpy's arm stuck way up behind his back, we watched the Gunny frog-walk him outside.

 

He threw him into a deep brown puddle. Stumpy had met his match. The Gunny, taller, leaner and one mean muther-fucker, had had it with Stumpy. Dumb enough, Stumpy tried to get out of the puddle. The Gunny connected his right foot with Stumpy's chin and he sunk momentarily back into the muck.

 

It took fifty half-sunk push-ups before he let him out again. Then they had words.

 

Never tamed, but wiser, Stumpy apologized to all of us. With a sly grin, Swanson laughed and said he really didn't give a shit.

 

After chow, we spent the rest of the morning readying our gear. We broke down our rifles and cleaned them. For the rest of the day, we were on ten-minute warning to be ready to leave. The weather got more insistent by the hour. Around 9 p.m. we finally got word to saddle up. We would try to beat the storm.

 

We got on the bus, one last time. Our full packs and gear made it as cumbersome as it sounds.

To our relief, carts were ready at the flight line to put them into the belly of our airplane. But which one. There were three World Airways stretch-8's, lights blinking, lowly idling, awaiting us to board.

 

It turns out that there were other staging areas on the base just like ours, with other groups of Marines heading to RVN.

 

We looked at one another, realizing that this was all a mirage. This little splash of people caught up in a whirlwind, were blowing on now to other directions, to whatever fates might await them.

 

We looked at our tickets and walked to our planes.

 

Not on board, I never saw Stumpy again.

 

 

 

 

Wheels Up

 

 

 

On the intercom, the captain explained that he was finally getting instructions to taxi. We had been sitting in our ever-less-comfortable seats for more than an hour. It was getting pretty close in the cabin. About a hundred and eighty of us, sweltering on the loaded plane.

 

We started to move, the whoosh of the engines a welcome sign of our departure. There was a break in the clouds and we were making a run for it. The weather scene all the way to Viet Nam was going to be filled with periods of bumps and rain, but nothing to be concerned about.

 

Our veteran Flight Attendants, perhaps five of them, got out of their seats as soon as we got to altitude. For many of us, they would be the last American women we would see for a year. The oddities of military flight rarely involve warm, caring offers of a blanket or a cup of coffee. Having ferried so many others to war, the smiles carved on their faces hid their concern.

 

The Captain was right about things. For the first couple of hours.

 

Then. The Storm.

 

Like a B-29 in a Hollywood re-make, we shook and shimmied, raised and dropped, and got to know nauseous in a new and personal way.

 

Even our stalwart F/A's were forced back into their seats.

 

It got hairy.

 

 

Somehow, we made it. Still in one piece. After a no-sleep, perilous journey. Dawn came a couple hundred miles out from Da Nang. And with it, clear skies. Welcome sun.

 

Being a rookie at this war thing, I felt a tinge of fear when I saw fires on the hills below, as we approached our destination. Thinking that they were from bombs or something, I was relieved when the Captain told us they were there as navigation aids.

 

The wheels hit the runway in an odd way. We bounced and landed again, more firmly.

 

For the second time on a recent flight, we broke into applause.

 

The plane rolled to a stop.

 

The Captain, calm as ever, came on one last time.

 

"Gentlemen. Given the circumstances, I predict that things will go well for you here."

 

We looked at one another.

 

"Remember all that rain and grief back there...?"

 

It didn't require an answer.

 

"Well. That was Typhoon Ruby."

 

He paused.

 

"And I just landed this plane by the seat of my pants. We were struck by lightning and lost some of our hydraulics. Not all. That's why we're here. Safe. On the ground."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

F N G

 

 

 

 

 

 

My first impression of Da Nang.

Hot. Humid. Hot.

 

My second.

Fear.

 

There is nothing worse than being in a place. Where it's completely possible.

That all your fears. Can actually happen.

 

My confusion, as I sucked in the dangerous air, was that everyone else I saw seemed just fine with it all. I just knew that rockets and mortars would start raining down at any minute.

This is a war zone.

 

But.

 

No rockets. No mortars.

 

Just chow.

 

And. Not bad.

 

 

After a while, I didn't notice that I wasn't thinking about what might happen. What was happening was that I was going through all sorts of shifts and shuffles and go-to-that-line-over-there's. The details of my orders seemed to say I was going to a unit that didn't exist.

 

Because of that, I got sent to an artillery base on a hill outside of Da Nang.

It was just getting dark when my chopper set down. The place seemed pretty secure.

It had actual wooden hootches to sleep in.

 

I reported to the Major who ran things. He knew I didn't belong there.

A salvo of 105mm canons went off on another part of the hill.

 

I must've jumped ten feet.

 

He shook his head.

 

"What's your MOS?"

 

I told him I was a combat support radar operator.

 

He shook his head again.

 

"I'm going to have you out of here by morning. I think I know what happened."

 

I was assigned a rack.

 

In the middle of the night I jumped straight out of it.

 

And under it.

 

"Fuckin' New Guy!"

 

"That's outgoing!"

                                   

 

 

In the morning a troop-carrier CH43 helicopter blew dust and shit everywhere.

 

As promised. I got on it. I was heading 90 kilometers south.

 

To an R&R area on the coast.

 

Chu Lai.

 

 

 

A jeep beeped.

 

An oversized pair of reflective sunglasses glared at me from the driver's seat. It was Corporal Alpha Charley Droke. A beanpole with a .45 on his hip and a gnarly twang. He was our driver.

 

Amiable and chatty, he told me about his time in-country so far. He said Chu Lai was a vacation paradise. My stomach clenched when he told me his prior unit was nearly overrun one night.

 

He was getting ready to go home and get out of the Corps. Then. He was going to join the Israeli Army. The adrenaline rush of war seemed to agree with his nature.

 

We rode up the winding road to the top of a hill on the coastal range. It was beautiful.

 

In time, he looked at me.

 

"We're here."

 

Where. Was my first question.

 

I grabbed my gear off the jeep and looked around.

 

I saw nothing but a grove of low slung evergreen trees.

 

 

Droke said something about the trees.

 

I looked twice.

 

Upside down. Hanging by one foot. Were three fat lizards.

 

Razorback from Arkansas. Alpha Charley Droke. Loved trapping animals.

 

"Guess I'll go'in cut 'em down now."

 

 

 

From this vantage point, a couple hundred feet up, I walked around to get some perspective.

 

To my left, foothill bulges and slopes ran down to meet the water and the far reach of the South China Sea. Off to my hard right I could see the landing strip where he had picked me up. Situated on the lowland plain between these hills and more serious mountains about ten miles west, Army planes, hangers and assorted helicopters ran for a mile in either direction.

 

Soon, I would come to learn about those mountains. Mobile 'rocket pockets'.

 

The VC could shoot from any given spot. Then disappear.

 

 

We met back at the jeep.

 

All teeth and adam's apple, a hat looking for a body, A.C. Droke closed his knife.

 

"I like to keep in practice."

 

 

 

Our bunker, to my surprise, was right in front of us. Surrounded by trees.

 

Low. Unseen. Dug into the sandy dirt.

 

Two-high. Three-deep on either side. Sand-filled fifty-five gallon drums provided the rough entrance to the interior.

 

Inside was a complete, if not compact, operations center. Booths with radar screens,  sophisticated computer and communications gear took up most of the space. A small common area had a table, a few chairs and a refrigerator.

 

Outside, the sound of the generator hummed continuously. It was the beating heart of our mission. It could never go down.

 

The captain who ran the unit was engaged in a mission when I arrived. Quiet was strictly enforced. Seeing me enter, he tossed me a smile and swept his hand. As if to tell me to make myself at home. Three other guys came over to offer silent greetings.

 

One of the guys, whose nickname was Seahorse, from Medicine Hat, Canada, invited me outside for a smoke. He told me that this was the best unit he and his buddy, Taylor, also from Canada, had ever been in. Too bad it was being disbanded in a couple of months.

 

Whoa. Too much to chew on. From Canada. Disbanded. Huh?

 

He explained that he and Taylor had wanted to join the US Marines since they were kids. Somehow they talked a recruiter into making it so they could train and work together for their four year enlistment. To just about everybody's surprise, the Marines actually did it.

 

 

I had so many questions. He told me scuttlebutt had it that operations for Marines in this area were coming to an end. We didn't know it then, but the war itself was winding down.

Army units from Americal Division would be taking over this space.

 

None of that mattered to him, or most of the guys here. Almost to the man, they were all scheduled to rotate back to the states in a month or so.

 

Hard to get my bearings. Based on what he said, the unit would either be sent home, or possibly shift operations to the DMZ.

 

Fuck me.

 

 

Then the surprise.

 

Our housing.

 

In paradise.

 

Walkways made of wooden slats went down from the bunker. Then down again to our compound of three low-slung wooden buildings.

 

Lush pockets of fronds, trees, and green-everything almost hid them from view.

 

Like a wrinkle in a smile, the hills held moisture rich crevices that looked more tropical than mountain. Wet warm wind from the warmer-still waters had created a refuge of embracing calm.

 

Officers' quarters on the left. Common Room in the middle. Non-coms to the right.

 

There was plenty of room. With lockers as walls, I made a nice corner space for myself.

 

 

 

We were on call day and night. Our ability to direct sorties in any kind of weather was critical for troops needing robust and immediate close air support.

 

This was a very disciplined and task driven crew. They made me welcome from the start.

 

However.

 

I was the FNG. The fuckin' new guy.

 

The guy who gets the shit duty. Generator man.

Until a new FNG comes along. And those prospects seemed dim.

 

 

The faces that originally greeted me in July were gone by September.

 

Except one. Sgt. Pepper.

 

I knew nothing about generators. I do now.

 

Thanks to Sgt. Pepper.

 

He taught me everything he knew about generators.

 

Almost.

 

 

 

 

 

Hollywood sun-dog surfer handsome. He was the hands-down leader of the troupe.

 

We threw bullets in the fire the night before we saw him off. An old salute.

 

Casings, not bullets, flew everywhere.

 

 

We ran a short crew after he left.

 

One night. Two weeks before we crated our gear to go up to Quang Tri. Two things happened.

A typhoon was a day away. Rain was already heavy.

 

And.

 

The generator and the back-up generator both failed. One after the other.

 

By some unwritten law, generators always break down at the worst possible moment. That's why a back-up unit always sits next to the one in use. The rule also states that the classic, choking run of surges the engine makes - just before it goes down - must occur in the middle of the night.

When it is dark and most likely raining.

 

In the back of my head, even dead asleep, I had a constant awareness of every gentle thrum of the green beast's heartbeat. With the first irregularity, I would jump out of bed, into my clothes and out - into the dark rain, of course - to dash to the ailing engine's side. I would start up the back-up and connect it to the cables running to the bunker. Then attend to the problem at hand.

 

Sometimes I could make a few adjustments and all would be well. Sometimes, I could switch out a sending unit or unclog a fuel filter. Sometimes. Nothing worked.

 

As 'the generator man', I was really the magician's assistant. I knew I always had Sgt. Pepper there to un-fuck the un-fuckable.

 

Now, on my own, I had more hats than rabbits. I had nobody to talk to.

 

I imagined Sgt. Pepper getting a steam and cream in Bangkok by now.

 

I looked like a wet dog in a jump suit when I came into the bunker and told the Captain we had no options. Both diesels were done-for. I had done my best.

 

He had me call up HQ and took the mike.

 

A new generator. Despite the weather. Would be here soon.

Forty-mile sideways rain on a hilltop, in the dark, is no place to land a fat diesel generator.

But that was what was happening. Slung under a heavy-lift helicopter, the pilot skillfully set the machine down and released the hook holding its sling.

 

He then maneuvered over to pick up one of the bad ones we had prepared with a sling.

 

I climbed up the rubber wheels and stood on top of the slick metal machine. Maybe five or six feet off the ground. I held up the sling's harness. It was made of heavy rope around a metal loop.

 

The huge plane came into position and hovered precariously above me. It shifted and tilted and rose and fell. Nearly blinded by the rain, I struggled to get the harness on the hook. Only inches at times between us, the expert pilot kept me from being crushed. I reached up and pulled back as we struggled to hook up the dead beast.

 

Then.

 

The tremendous static electricity generated by the plane's blades arc'd to the metal loop I was holding. In a blinding jolt, I learned what Sgt. Pepper surely would have told me.

 

But didn't.

 

Thousands of volts lit me up and slammed me to the ground unconscious.

 

The rubber wheels of the machine kept me from joining the angels.

 

 

I woke up two hours later with a large headache.

 

No worse for the wear.

 

No longer the generator man.

 

 

Epilogue.

 

The next guy learned that there is such a thing as a 'grounding pole'. And that nobody goes up to a hovering chopper in a mission, especially in the rain, without first discharging the electrical current of the rotating blades into the ground.

 

Somebody else's deal. Not me.

 

FNG. No more.

 

Two weeks later, we and all of our equipment, re-located to Combat Base, Quang Tri.

Eleven miles from the DMZ. Definitely not paradise.