Secretary McNamara and General Taylor reported their judgment that the major part of the U.S. military task can be completed by the end of 1965, although there may be a continuing requirement for a limited number of U.S. training personnel.—White House statement October 2, 1963
I was twenty-one, married with an ten-month-old baby girl, going to school days, working nights, when I was swept into the army in June, 1969.
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When I opened the thoughtful letter from the President, the most memorable letter I ever received, I was shocked, I tell you. Shocked.
The President of the United States,
To
Terry Lee McClish
Greeting:
You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States
The Selective Service vultures had pounced.
Why me? What about my personal situation?I called the draft board immediately.
For crying out loud, are you so hard up that you need to take people with a wife and a baby?
No use.
We need bodies.
Canada went into my mind and then out. The war couldn't go on forever. Lots of my buddies had been drafted and come back OK. So I went along and didn't run for the border. Nevertheless, Vietnam increasingly preyed on my mind.
Now my wife and kid would have to move in with my folks. We had just moved into a brand spanking new apartment in St. Paul a month before I was called up.
I reported to the Federal Building downtown Minneapolis. I stood in a line for the doctor, turned my head and coughed. The ones that passed, like me, lined up in the hall and counted off in fours.
All those with the number four step forward. You are now marines.
Some guys teared up because they figured their life had ended then and there. Some were right.
The rest of you guys follow me.We shuffled after the sergeant to a room where we took an oath.
You're in the army now. Report back in two weeks. Don't bring a lot of stuff, just a shaving kit and a towel.
During my last week, I had lots of dinners, my friends took me to a strip club and I said my goodbyes.
Lots of support from everyone.
Lots of support from everyone.
Come back in one piece.
When I reported back to the Federal Building, they carted us off to the train depot. We took the scenic Empire Builder route overnight, cruising through the Dakotas and the Rockies, to Tacoma, Washington. My first ever train trip.
I shared a cramped compartment with another guy. One slept up, the other down. All the draftees on the train were from the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. I knew a few. On the way, we picked up a few more en route from brief stops in the Dakotas and Montana until we had about fifty. Most got totally blitzed in the lounge car. I didn't, because I didn't know what was in store for me when I got off the train.
At Tacoma, they put us on a bus to nearby Ft. Lewis and stuck us in a “temporary” WWII barracks in a obscure corner of the fort. We had been yanked out of our lives, out of everything recognizable. No house, no car, no family, no friends no sex, no booze. We were stranded in a vast military reservation.
We were in the shark tank, but where were the sharks?
We didn't wait long. Early the next morning, the drill sergeant Bowman showed up and began processing us.
You pieces of shit! Scum bags!
You look like monkeys trying to fuck a football!
You assholes, git your swinging dicks movin'!
Straight from An Officer and a Gentleman (1982). Our prospects were dim. Our lives were worth less than a goat.
During the next two days, we were bused around to get our uniforms, equipment, a standup locker, a foot locker, a scalped haircut and shots.
Hair today, gone tomorrow
This was the 1960s. After the cut most guys were unrecognizable. Distinctive hairstyles were gone. The shoulder-length hair was lying on the cutting room floor. We were a completely different group of people. Another leveler—everyone more or less looked the same. But we accepted it because it was inevitable. The name tags on our shirts allowed us to sort out who was who while we laughed our asses off.
We were corralled in a two-story wooden WWII barracks in a populated area next to a parade field. Mt. Rainier was visible everywhere. Each floor had a long center aisle bordered by bunk beds. Your plywood footlocker was at the foot of the bed, the metal standup locker against the wall behind the bed.
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| Mt. Rainier |
The snack bar next door was off limits. Rare luxuries such as soda, ice cream, candy and snacks were so close, yet so far.
Our unit was Charlie Company 4th battalion 2nd brigade. Our rant was
C42 Chargin' Charlie, Rah!
Bowman, an E6 lifer in his thirties, wasn't Mr. Tough Guy. He didn't beat the hell out of us. He used psychology—be a coach, a friend, a disciplinarian.
He wore a Smokey the Bear hat. His E5 assistant, a fit Vietnam combat vet, wore a baseball hat.
He wore a Smokey the Bear hat. His E5 assistant, a fit Vietnam combat vet, wore a baseball hat.
The vet was a short-timer, living in a little room full of psychedelic paraphernalia up on the second floor by the stairs. He was our barracks sergeant. After he was busted for smoking dope and lost his stripes, we peons mocked him,
Re-up (reenlist) and get your stripes back, sergeant.He took it in stride.
Barracks life was rough and talk was coarse, but slowly and surely I made friends. Two were pretty unique.
Charlie, a quiet guy from Montana, had the upper berth in the bunk next to me. He was an Indian, a champion rodeo rider.
Each person had a half hour fireguard shift during the night. Trouble was, Charlie would wake up swinging. It was easier for someone to take his turn instead of trying to wake him and suffer through a wild west show.
Craig's girlfriend followed him from Minneapolis and lived off base. He bitched about Vietnam and worried about his girl. An assistant drill Sgt. looked after her.
We had settled in, but the days were going to be a lot longer during the next eight weeks.
We had settled in, but the days were going to be a lot longer during the next eight weeks.
The Basic Idea
Our day began when the fireguard on the last shift woke us. When reveille sounded, we were already straightening, dusting, cleaning windows and mopping floors.
Our bunks had to be made up so a quarter would bounce off the top blanket. If not perfect, the barracks sergeant ripped it up and threw it onto the floor. Don't worry, you could start all over.
The oldest guyin the barracks was a twenty-six-year-old teacher, Roger Wallenstein. Everybody treated him like a grandfather. He was a liaison between us and drill sergeant Bowman. They put him in charge of everything.
You do floors, you do windows.
My job was shower walls. They had to be spic and span without a single water spot.
Not what I expected from life. Better days would beckon.
One asshole was not doing what he was supposed to. He expected others to do his work. To bring him in line, the barracks gave him a blanket party. I didn't participate. Late at night, they threw a blanket over him while he was sleeping and beat the livin' shit out of him. He couldn't fight back or identify his assailants. Problem solved.
I must emphasize how clean the barracks was. Our mothers would be shocked. Better be, it was inspected every day except on weekends. Each barracks strove to be first.
After we donned our fatigues, we mustered outside in formation for a headcount and inspection. You had to be clean shaven—if not, they would make you dry shave. Only then would they march us to the mess hall.
We ate by platoon. If you couldn't recite your service number at the door, you went to the end of the line. If you sputtered or stammered, someone behind you would yell out,
Come on, lets get the fuckin' ball rolling.
Every freaking day after chow, we assembled to police up the area. Not a cigarette butt, not a speck of anything could be left on the grounds.
If it doesn't shit or bleed, pick it up.
Afterward we formed up again outside the barracks at attention, at arms length from your neighbors on all sides. An “expert” led us through the “dirty dozen” PT (physical training) exercises. Pushups, situps, jumping jacks, you get the idea. Seen it a million times.
You had to assume the correct starting position for each exercise or you did twenty pushups.
No, no! I ain't mad at you,
Well then don't be mad at me,
Gonna change the way you do.
—I Ain't Mad at You, BigMaybelle, Newport (1958)
They held the whip hand and beat you down like a dog. Everybody came under the scanner. They taught you how to salute, how to stand at parade rest, how to stand at attention and how to march. Our simple civilian ways were broken and discarded in favor of a killer lifestyle. Cogs in the army killing machine.
I didn't take well to threats.
They're not God. I'm stronger than that. I'm not gonna give in to that bullshit. This is my way of winning.
One nice thing? Our day was planned.
After our hair started growing out, Bowman offered to cut it for a dollar a head. He guaranteed that our hair would be one-quarter of an inch longer than any other trainee hair. All of us lined up in the barracks for this little bit of freedom. Our hair was the envy of the neighborhood.
The Basic Knowledge
We jogged everywhere or commuted in trucks, buses, semis. Whatever they could drum up. Before going to the rifle range, we jogged across the street to the armory to pick up our long weapons, the M14 rifle (no ammo). In Medieval times, it might have been crossbows.
Lots of times, when we were sitting or standing in a truck, we would start mooing until we sounded like a cattle car. Funny? You had to be there.
We attended beaucoup seminars. How to handle weapons. How to take cover in an open field.
We were at the rifle range practically every day, if only for an hour. Ammo was assigned to you there. Shootin' at Ivan all the time.
The instructors showed you how to handle the bayonet, but for the drill we used broomsticks with pads on each end. We spent an hour a day, three times a week, stabbing each other, thrusting like gladiators. I didn't like it—you got dinged up on the head and body.
Why are we spending so much time on Ivan and this? It's not WWII, it's Vietnam.
However, hand-to-hand combat was very impressive. I never forgot the rear strangle take down, a quick, effective way to kill an enemy by breaking his neck. We paired off and went through the drill in slo-mo, stopping just before any damage was done.
Thank God I never found an occasion to use it.
Hand grenade practice was done from the bottom of a pit. They would be the ones killed in case of a SNAFU.
We also spent some very useful time learning how to setup Claymore mines, an indispensable skill in Vietnam.
Gas
For the gas mask training, you put it on and entered a room full of tear gas. All the instructors had theirs on. You took yours off and had to say your name, rank and service number. The gas and I did not mix well. I choked my guts out. After a successful recital, you ran out of the building gasping for air.
When we were finished, come to find out a smart ass had pilfered a couple of atropine syringes. Bowman went ballistic. When nobody owned up, everyone had to put on a gas mask and march back to the barracks double time. Problem was, I couldn't breathe out of the dang contraption.
Back at the barracks one of the guys came up to me,
Did your gas mask work?
No.
Tear gas doesn't bother me. I don't need one. Wanna trade?
Yes!
He was immune!
I heard later they offered him OCS (Officer Candidate School) in chemical warfare.
We marched to the first aid classes over by Puget Sound.
If you see a soldier with his intestines hanging out, whatever you do don't put them back. Wrap them up in a t-shirt and tie them off until a medic arrives.
Sure, sarge.
Fright Nights
Live fire was when you cradled your gun in your arms and crawled on your belly under live M60 machine gun fire at night. Before we started, the instructors pelted us with a constant stream of dire warnings. Partway through, I turned over on my back and saw the red tracers far above me. Great. I crawled on my hands and knees the rest of the way. Easier, cleaner and quicker.
The escape and evasion exercise was cut from the same cloth. They hauled us out into the middle of the woods and dumped us off at some bleachers to hear a lecture on the do's and don'ts.
Don't get captured at all costs.The goal was to get back to the starting point of the course in the pitch black darkness.
Some friends and I took a shortcut across a highway into the woods. It was out-of-bounds. We were bopping along a ditch when some aggressors came out of the bushes.
You're under arrest.
They led us back on the course to a pickup point. A bus was supposed to take us to a makeshift prison camp for mock interrogation and torture. I heard if you went along with the whole program, they stuck your head in a 55 gallon drum full of snakes.
Screw this.I 'm not gonna be a prisoner.
I saw a chance when they weren't looking and booked it. I ignored their pleas of
Come back!
I'm gonna make it to the end myself. To hell with them.
I meandered around the course until I saw a bonfire in the distance, marking the finish line. From there, I took the next bus back to the barracks while most guys were in the woods, hiding behind trees & bushes.
I still use some of the Boy Scout tricks I learned in basic like map reading and navigating by the moon and stars at night.
Send in the Clowns
One of our barracks comedians was a native of Superior, Wisconsin, my wife's hometown. Despite being short and fat, he cut others down to size with his wisecracks, like Don Rickles. He got along fine with everybody except the army personnel. They gave him dirty looks or ignored him instead of piling on punishment because he was so out of shape. They couldn't let anyone get away with shit or they'd lose control and it'd be all over.
Of course, he was very concerned with meals, like the rest of us. It just so happened that a set of monkey bars was installed outside the mess hall. To earn a place in the chow line, you had to go from one end to the other shouting
C42 Chargin' Charlie, Rah!
No sweat for me, but for the clown, big sweat. I had a sports background and lifted weights, but the clown needed our help. He couldn't reach the bars or do more than one or two on his own before he fell off.
The other joker was the exact opposite. He was a chicken farmer from Minnesota, in fabulous shape but one fry short of a Happy Meal. He specialized in physical humor. His backward salutes and goofy gestures pissed Bowman off. Crazy. Why would you tell a mad dog to bite?
Trainee, give me ten [pushups].
Do you want me to do more, drill sergeant?
Give me twenty!
Silence.
Never a dull moment.
Mooned
The one bright spot? Watching the first moon landing in the day room on Sunday, July 20, with a few other trainees. The rest didn't consider it a high priority. It was a curiosity for me, but to one of the guys in the room, it was a downright fascination, if not an obsession.
AIT
After eight weeks of basic, it was on to eight weeks of Advanced Infantry Training (AIT). I walked across the parade grounds with my duffel bag of belongings to my new barracks, my pleasanter and nicer home. Weird, like walking through a Star Trek portal.
Let's get the ball rolling so I can finish this shit.
AIT was more intense, but with less harassment. If you had any questions, now was the time. The last chance saloon. Questions or not, we stayed in shape.
Instead of heavy M14 sniper rifles, we used lighter M16 assault rifles, the weapon of choice in Vietnam. The semiautomatic AR-15, the civilian M16, is a favorite for going postal here in the States.
We also got our hands on the M79 grenade launcher for the first time.
Oh freedom (freedom), freedom (freedom), freedom, yeah freedom—Aretha Franklin, Think (1968)
More freedom, too. I hurried to the forbidden snack bar that had been off limits and downed my first treat in eight weeks—a chocolate malt. Fantabulous!
On our first weekend, a bunch of us got a two-day pass and took a bus into Tacoma. We split up into twos. Finally, I could drink another beverage of my choice. But freedom can be dangerous—two of the guys got rolled.
Some things never change. Our barracks Sergeant got busted, not for drugs, but for giving unauthorized haircuts.
Departures
After graduating from AIT, I guess I had what it takes. I was breathing. I still thought I might be shipped out to Korea or Germany or even stay in the States. No such luck. In basic, our barracks had been number one in everything, but it came back to haunt us. The contest had really been between lifers. They punched their tickets but our whole barracks went to Vietnam.
I went home for two weeks to get ready. My welcome home was great.
I was gone constantly when I wasn't busy looking after my wife and baby. Would I ever see them again? When I left for basic, my daughter was ten months old and had taken her first steps. Now she was fourteen months. What a change. I wanted to spend some quality time with them.
I tried to fix the money situation by having extra pay taken out for my wife. She had left my parents house and moved in with her sister, but would still be living on bare bones.
I tried to fix the money situation by having extra pay taken out for my wife. She had left my parents house and moved in with her sister, but would still be living on bare bones.
It wasn't long before I sent a telegram to the army that
I was taking two more weeks.Seemed like a reasonable gesture to me. Was I nuts? In any case, I got no response. At least I made the effort.
One more thing. I undertook a diplomatic mission to Craig who had been in basic with me. He also had orders for Vietnam but wanted to go to Canada in the worst way. I went over to his house to talk him out of it. I thought there wasn't much Vietnam left. We parted friends, but I never saw him again.
Time flies. Before leaving my comfortable suburb for the last time, I said goodbye to my wife, parents and baby daughter.
I'll be back in a year if I don't get shot.
Until we meet again.
When I reported back to Fort Lewis, they stashed me in a temporary barracks. I was in limbo until my legal status was settled. Papers were served on me. I collected an Article 15 for my tardiness, a mere formality. One week's pay, no court, no time in the stockade.
Coincidentally, J. R. Olson, from Lanesboro, Minnesota, the moon man, was in the same barracks with me again. I had lost track of him since basic and now we were both waiting to be shipped to Vietnam.
J. R. had marital troubles. He was so smitten with his girlfriend, that he stayed with her instead of his wife when he went home after AIT. The army had offered him a hardship discharge, but he turned it down. Made no sense to me.
I'm leavin' on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go.
—Peter, Paul & Mary, Leaving On A Jet Plane (1969)
A couple days later we both got orders to fly out on Flying Tiger Airlines. Stupid me, I thought I was going on a WWII fighter. Confusing? Yes, until J. R. and I boarded one of their regular passenger jets, bound for Vietnam.
We had a ticket to ride.
Lucky, huh?
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