Reflections of a Vietnam Era Marine

I can still remember sitting at the kitchen table in 1967, listening to my parent's AM radio that was sitting on the counter. The newscaster was talking about yet another B-52 strike over North Vietnam. I was 12 years old at the time. My dad. a WWII Veteran was frequently sitting at the other end of the table, listening intently. He was 56 years old then. Dad has been gone for many years, and I'm 65 now. I have no memory of him ever commenting on those airstrikes that we heard about on an almost daily basis, not to mention the evening news we watched on our black and white TV with Walter Cronkite recapitulating the same events we previously heard about on the radio. Having lived through the WWII years and serving in North Africa and Sardinia with the Army Air Corps, I now wonder what Dad's thoughts were relative to those B-52 strikes on the North. That said. I don't think I ever once even considered how that war would impact my life in later years. To me, it was just a war in a faraway place, and many American "boys" were returning home in flag-draped coffins. Being raised Catholic and going to a Catholic elementary school and high school, the Nuns or "Sisters," as we called them back then, always had us pray for "our boys" in Vietnam.

Growing up, I always felt that my calling in life was to be a Soldier. Most of my toys and play activities with the neighborhood kids had to do with mock war. I remember each of us assuming the identities of our WWII veteran fathers and vicariously reliving the "glory days" of their collective service to our country. Vic Morrow, the star of the 60's TV series "Combat," was one of my childhood heroes, along with Robert Lansing and Paul Burke from 12 O'Clock High. When cinema movies such as PT-109, The Battle of Britain, and The Longest Day came out, I was totally hooked on the notion of one day becoming a "Military Man." In 1969, at the ripe old age of 14, I became a U. S. Naval Sea Cadet. The following summer, we were sent to Navy Boot Camp at (NTC) Naval Training Center. Orlando.

For an almost 15-year-old kid, that two-week experience was quite the ordeal. They tried to cram a normal six-week training regimen all into two weeks. We survived and returned to High School in the tall, standing out like sore thumbs with those still fresh buzz cuts. I suppose it was like a badge of honor for us Sea Cadets, but we ended up getting an early taste of how "uncool" that Military haircut was, along with being attached to a pseudo-military organization. By 1970 the anti-war movement was deeply entrenched in the hearts and minds of young people, although I'll submit that it really wasn't too bad in small-town USA. At least from what I can remember. During the summer of 1971, we were given two weeks of "Sea Duty" aboard (DD 693) the USS Moale, out of none other than the now-demolished Brooklyn Navy Yard. I will tell you that I had the time of my life during those two weeks at sea, in spite of the fact that the Navy Reservists that were attached to that "Can," as we came to call Destroyers, then mistreated us. I'm sure they must have thought we were out of our minds wanting to do such a thing as becoming seagoing sailors when all they wanted to do was to be done with their Navy obligation - period. The Commander of our Sea Cadet Unit, the Holland Division, told me that upon graduating from High School in June of 1973, I could go straight into the regular Navy as a Seaman (E-3), owing to the fact that we spent the previous four years training and preparing for such a conspicuous honor. As luck would have it, I began considering the option of enlisting in the Marine Corps instead. After making that announcement at the dinner table one evening, my father proceeded to assert that I would never make it in the Marine Corps. I was never one to walk away from a challenge. I made a beeline to the Marine Corps Recruitment Office the following day. Because I was only 17, my parents had to sign for me. That was February of 1973, and I opted for the six-month delayed entry program. I was told that down the road, that additional six months would carry some benefits such as pay and sewing on a four-year hash mark six months early. I don't remember what happened with the paltry three hundred, some odd dollars that we received on a monthly basis, but I do remember sewing on that four-year hashmark in February, as opposed to July of 1977. The Sea Cadet Commander was totally frustrated with me for going to the Marines as opposed to the Navy.

My buddies rode me relentlessly from the time I signed the enlistment papers in February until the time I "shipped out' on 5 July 1973.1 started having second thoughts about the whole deal. I was hoping the recruiter would "let me off the hook," but no dice. I even tried getting in trouble thinking the Marines wouldn't want me then. Very fortunately for me, my misguided strategy didn't work out. At about 0500 on 5 July, the Marine Recruiter pulled into our driveway on Eastern Long Island with his big green bare-bones Chrysler Sedan for the two-hour ride to the Induction Center at Fort Hamilton. NY. I'll never forget the wide grin on my father's face as I got into that car: nor will I forget my mother sobbing all night long. I don't think I got a wink of sleep. The United States had signed a Peace Treaty with the North Vietnamese government back in February, so it seemed quite unlikely that shipping out for Vietnam following Basic Training would be a possibility. That factoid still did little to stop Mom from bawling her eyes out all night. Looking back now, I would never even consider the delayed enlistment option again; I'd simply sign the paperwork and leave the following day.

Because I had previously done that two-week mini Boot Camp with the Naval Sea Cadet Corps in Orlando, I told the Manne Recruiter that I wanted to go to San Diego for my Basic Training. He did keep his word and made it happen. After getting sworn in at Fort Hamilton, we were transported to JFK Airport and boarded a direct flight to San Diego. I made friends with a guy that had previously been in the Army and had done a tour in Vietnam. He said very little about his experience there, and I didn't press him for information. We ended up in the same Platoon (3067) and completed our training together. I never saw him again after that. All of our Drill Instructors were Vietnam Veterans. They were some tough hombre's. Some were a little tougher and meaner than others. As challenging as Boot Camp was, I was almost sad to leave because, based on what our Dl's told us, we were leaving a perfect world for one that would never live up to the same standards. The truth of the matter is they were 100% correct.

My first Duty Station ended up being in none other than Marine Corps Base 29 Palms. California, located near Yucca Valley and Joshua Tree in the hot sands of the Mojave Desert. I was attached to the 1st 8" Howitzer (Self-Propelled) Battery. After completing Motor "T" School, I ended up with a MOS of 3531. I became the CO's Driver when we went into the field for training. Most other times, we'd sit around at the Motor Pool, either "busting tires" or washing the 5 ton and 2.5-ton trucks, commonly referred to as "deuce and a half's, along with "gama-goats" and jeeps. It was an insanely boring job, to say the least. Eventually, I received a tap on the shoulder from the Company Gunny, who bluntly advised me that I would be going to Chaser School. I didn't have a clue what that meant, but I found out soon enough.

You see, back in those days, the Marine Corps had a terrible drug and UA (unauthorized absence) problem. The "perps" were inevitably reconciled to the Military Justice System (UCMJ) by virtue of either being caught in the act or simply by turning themselves in. Chasers, as they were called, were issued a "nightstick" or baton as a graduation gift following the 1 Day Class. We were told to be a walking shadow to our prisoners and never let them out of our sight. The Marines that I was assigned to "chase" while they awaited either their Court Martial or ultimate incarceration in the "Brig" were all from the same outfit that I was in. I continually requested to chase prisoners I didn't know, but that never happened. Some of them got a real complex going about me sticking next to them like glue, but the rumor was that if you lose them, you get to do their time. That just wasn't going to happen. I should add at this point that most of the Marines I chased acquired their drug habits in Vietnam and just couldn't shake it. You had to feel sorry for them and wonder what they experienced that drove them to drugs. The drug problem was so widespread on that Base that we regularly had our Squad Bay's "sniffed out" by Military Police Dogs, and I can still distinctly remember having to routinely stop for a vehicle inspection and "dog sniff" at the Main Gate. The "dopers," as we called them, were pretty smooth dudes. They started sprinkling pepper in their Wall Locker Boxes which caused the dogs to sneeze like crazy. It was absolutely hilarious to watch.

Occasionally a Navy Corpsman would show up to collect urine samples. The dopers figured out a way to defeat that process as well - they engaged in "mixology." The Lord above only knows what became of those specimens. Was Vietnam the culprit here? My curiosity burned inside of me, but outside of a real-life staging of equipment and troops on "the grinder," in anticipation of mobilization for the 6 Day War of 1973 in the Middle East, I was not destined to understand that mystery or experience it first hand. Aside from the remnant left in Saigon, that war was all but a bad memory, or so I thought.

After about a year in "The Stumps," orders came in to report for duty at Henderson Hall in Arlington, Virginia, just down the road a short distance from the Pentagon and right next door to the Arlington National Cemetery. I remained there for the rest of my four-year hitch. It was a far cry from the drug-infested squad bays of 29 Palms, and race relations seemed to be much better there, although the problem didn't completely disappear in either case. I still had my occasional prisoner to chase but nowhere's near what I had in the stumps. Life was good there; heck, I'll take it a step further and submit that we had it darn good. Lots of WM's (Women Marines), great nightlife with Washington, DC a hop and a skip away, the chow was good, and the duty was easy. Somewhere in the grand scheme of things, I made the mistake of running my mouth too much and spewing out the fact that I took typing in High School. That netted me a secondary MOS of 0151 in Admin, commonly known as "Remington Raiders."

The months and years rolled by very quickly indeed. I made it to E-5 (Sergeant) along the way and collected a bunch of vivid memories and a couple of lifelong friends. To this very day, I still can remember a highly decorated Marine that frequented the EM Club just about on a nightly basis. What I recall is the sadness on his face and the despair that seemed to almost drip out of his eyes as he sat there at the bar alone, nursing drink after drink until closing time. When I inquired about him, I learned he was the sole survivor from an L-shaped NVA ambush while on patrol in the "I Corps" sector of Vietnam. You couldn't help but feel his pain. Forty-Five years after, I can still see him sitting there. I can only hope that he got some help and managed to salvage the remainder of his life. EAS (End of Service) came upon me like a thief in the night. I didn't know what to do, so I extended my enlistment for 90 days.

I never saw any combat, nor did I even leave CONUS (Continental United States). I'd been mocked, spat at, and cursed at while proudly wearing my Marine Corps uniform in public. I can only imagine what it must have been like returning from Vietnam after enduring those nightmares, only to be greeted by an angry and totally ungrateful public. The very thought of it is just mind-boggling to me. I finally got out in October of 1977 and struggled to readjust into the Civilian World.

I had a good career in HVAC Wholesale Distribution and ultimately retired in 2017 and started a second career in Aviation as a Flight Instructor. I'm not quite sure why, but there's rarely a day that passes by that I don't think about the Corps and what it would have been like to serve in Vietnam. On the one hand, I feel blessed that I didn't have to go, then, on the other hand, I feel a strange sense of guilt. I tell myself that it just "wasn't in the cards," and being born in 1955 was simply a small stroke of Divine Intervention. There again, perhaps it's just the sentimental side of me oozing out, reflecting on a lifetime of precious memories.

After all, when we leave this place, that's all we're going to take with us. To quote a saying our DI's chanted while running in formation: "And When I go to Heaven, Saint Peter I will tell, Another Marine Reporting Sir, I Served My Time in Hell." Semper Fidelis, my Marine Brothers, and Sisters. Live Well!