The B52s

Keep off the path, 
beware of the gate, 
watch out for signs that say 'hidden driveways' 
—Private Idaho, The B-52's (1980)

In hundred-plus heat, a company of sweat-soaked grunts, a few officers and a couple of scouts, are humping—walking through the jungle single file, muscles tensed under ninety-pound packs, stopping occasionally for a ten-minute break. A nervous point man leads them. The CO (commanding officer) travels in the middle.

Charlie Company was a diverse bunch, with ten blacks and a dozen Hispanics. A lotta guys hailed from the rural U.S. and many were good trackers. There were no lifers in my squad, but my company had two—the 1st Sgt. and the CO.

Soldiers stick to their squad of eight and squads stick to their platoon of twenty-five, commanded by a lieutenant. The battalion commander flies around in his helicopter, maintaining radio contact with his COs so their units don't bump into each other. Think of a corporation following an objective.

We rarely pissed in the jungle heat because the human body conserves water, except what it discharges as sweat. The march doesn't stop to shit, either. Smoking on the move was the exception, not the rule. Lunch was over a ten-minute break. Many skipped breakfast.

The heat and the stench of the air
A sick feeling in your stomach, day after day
The smell of body odor 
and the chocking dust in your throat
Eyes that burn from sweat 
and are tired and painful from squinting
The ache in your back and neck 
while you stand waiting to move
A pause for a minute and a quick cigarette
That deserted second from reality
when your whole body reeks with tension
at an unknown sound or a shadow in the Bam-Boo 
—SP4 Bob Jackson (1970)

Our main opponents were NVA (North Vietnamese Army) conventional units of patient, patriotic men in for the duration, who liked to fight and endured ridiculous hardship.

My thoughts kept returning to where I had been and where I was going. Over and over I played the "what if we make contact?" game in the back of my mind. Do I drop to one knee or move out and seek cover or wait for directions? Think of a center fielder in a baseball game with the bases loaded and one out. He can’t wait for the coach. He's got to know what to do in case of a fly ball, a ball hit in front of him, over his head, in the gap. Anything.

Kit Carson

Thousands of Vietnamese in their late teens to early fifties joined the Kit Carson Scout Program. They wore the same uniform, back pack, and boots as the soldiers. They carried Colt M16s, traveled in the same milieu, mixed with the soldiers, and made the unit more effective. Our company always took the same two scouts; we never fired them. No effort was made to extract them after the war.

Lup, a fifty-two-year-old Papa San and former Yard (Montagnard mountain man), had built Punji pits for the VC before he defected.

A diabolical Bengal invention, Punji pits are lined with sharpened bamboo sticks and smeared with toxins or feces to infect the wound. The sticks are fixed to the sides of the pit and pointed downward so that a victim caught in the pit cannot be extricated without severe damage to his leg or the rest of his body.

The column had to stop for the painful extraction, lost valuable time and became highly vulnerable to attack until the victim was evacuated by helicopter. We never hit a Punji pit, thanks to the grunts and scouts.

We used to rib Lup about his habits of puffing on his pipe and eating anything he came across. He would smile and move on, eating alone, friendly enough. If he came across a turtle or a lizard, he would cut it up and cook it. "Chop, chop." One time, he acquired a baby monkey and asked Bob to build a fire, but Bob answered. "To hell with you, you're not gonna burn that monkey. No way!" His gourmet meal foiled, Lup let the monkey go.

A hard-core smoker, Lup would pick up the brand-new packs of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes that nobody wanted and fieldstrip them for his pipe. No big deal, because discarded items were destroyed or buried to keep them from the enemy. And each time he rotated back home, he would come back on with an old, worn out pair of boots so he could get a free new pair. Nobody blamed him for that, either.

Ty, a seventeen-year-old scout from ARVN (South Vietnamese Army), held a grudge against the VC for shooting his father in the stomach after Ty refused to join them. He was always highly pissed and wore a magic talisman on a necklace, an evil eye against the VC. He even claimed that he could smell 'em and wanted to slaughter as many as he could. Bob and Ty were good friends.

Food and Fashion

Virtually everyone wore plain OD (olive drab) jungle fatigues without unit ID, patches, or rank. Why wear anything else? On log (resupply) day, a heap of large sizes would remain until the end or until the scouts claimed them. Baggy clothes were hazardous. Besides, the small ones fit everyone, even the big boys. Underwear caused chafing in the sticky heat, so we did without.

Some wore their OD green t-shirts all the time. Our steel helmets had a reversible camouflaged brown or green cover, wearer’s choice. No one sported camouflage makeup (or any type); it quickly bled down your face in the heat and humidity.

Stop the column! I gotta freshen up my makeup.

Everyone wore combat jungle boots, black and green bottoms with a fabric top to absorb moisture and dry quickly, with or without socks. Most looked like crap. Instead of laces, mine had heavy-duty zippers I picked up from a Vietnamese flea market. They went on and off easier and I never had to worry about tripping over the laces. While setting up for the evening, many soldiers changed into something more comfortable: sandals, boonie hats and t-shirts.

CBS

John Laurence won an Emmy for his coverage of us in the field, The World of Charlie Company (1970). He led a small CBS news crew attached to Sgt. Dunnuck's squad. The sound guy liked to set out alone and record the jungle; one day he didn't come back. We moved on.

Our foes wore Ho Chi Minh slicks (clever, well-constructed sandals made from tires and inner tubes), faded green fatigues, and carried AK-47 rifles.

We could travel light because every three days we dialed room service: a Huey chopper with combat-ready C rations (canned, pre-cooked rations) and LRPs (dehydrated Long Range Patrol meals), warm beer and soda, mail and sundries like shaving gear, candy, cigs, etc. New clothes every other time, new boots only if you had ordered them. Smokers grabbed cigarettes. To keep them from the enemy, leftovers were chopped up with a machete or buried.

Water came in various containers, most notably in elephant rubbers (rubber tubes 8-10 inches in diameter and 5 ft. long). When pitched out of the helicopter, they would bounce crazy across the ground. Water sometimes came in artillery canisters tainted with gun powder. Yuck! It also came in anything and everything and believe it or not, even in regular containers.

Time permitting, cooks came along, set up a field kitchen and tables for the food canisters, and we all got a good hot meal. Mucho grassy ass—we roared! (inside) The Hueys didn't hang around. They got the hell out before attracting too much enemy attention.

A lot of our stuff had multiple functions. For example, we didn't take showers but kept ourselves reasonably clean by drying our sweat off with a towel. Afterward, the towel could cushion the frame that stabilized your heavy backpack. Mine had the older lightweight aluminum frame.

NDP

On the march in enemy territory, the Roman army sent out advance scouts to select an advantageous resting site. The legion would arrive at the designated location in mid-afternoon. For the passage of one night, they dug a ditch around a square, circle or triangle as required. The turves that they cut out of the ground would be raised into a rampart and topped with stakes or wooden spars, enabling the soldiers to rest securely in their tents without fear of ambush.¹

Like the Romans, each night we constructed a fortified NDP (night defensive position) in the bush. That way we could hide in the jungle and not expose ourselves to rocket and heavy weapon attack. Setting up camp took about two hours.

The battalion commander, the CO and his platoon leaders put their heads together and selected a spot on the go. Inadequate cover, security, proximity to trails, odds of a better area or anything else, would send the troop onward.

Charlie Company had been humping the jungle all day when the column halted mid-afternoon. The word came down the line—we would setup here for the night.

Since each soldier carried his own food, water, and supplies, we needed only provide cover. Platoons and squads were assigned sectors within a circular perimeter. The twelve squads were spaced 20-25 feet apart around and within the perimeter.

The CO, 1st Sgt., and the RTO (radio telephone operator) would set up smack dab in the middle of all this, in the secure CP (command post) hole.

We went to work like Romans. We dropped our packs, helmets, ammo belts, and five to seven quarts of water. Weapons were propped up against our packs. Shirts came off. Boonie hats went on. Everyone took part setting camp or guarding the forward and rear areas, regardless of rank.

Some guys shoveled dirt into sandbags, piling them three or four high to make a rectangular rampart for their squad. Once the makeshift bunker was built, weapons and ammo were stacked inside and together.

Others strung trip wires, hooked up flares, and set antipersonnel Claymore mines around the perimeter, about 30 yards out from our defensive rectangle.

Claymore mine.

We placed Claymores on the ground atop their tripods, into interlocking fields of fire, facing outward toward any potential enemy. Each mine or group of mines could be blown individually with a "clacker" (detonator). Each squad controlled their own sector of flares and mines within the 360-degree company perimeter. Every angle and square inch was covered. A bug couldn't get by unnoticed.

If a flare was tripped in his sector, the guard blew the mines in his sector, sending a lethal barrage of steel balls, .00 buckshot, screaming bloody murder through the bush. We scored a fair number of kills this way.

Next, each man used a machete to clear an area next to the rampart where he could sleep. The sleeping areas were close together, defended with squirts of bug juice; we avoided red ants at all costs. Air mattresses were inflated with a heroic effort, the camouflage poncho liner set on top for a blanket. If needed, an OD poncho was tied to the surrounding trees to provide shelter from the rain or mist.

Finally, we could rest and recuperate. The guys got casual with sandals and t-shirts. If you had to take a shit you put on your helmet, grabbed a shovel, and went outside the perimeter. No Pentagon toilet seats here. Some guys borrowed my .45.

Everyone was his own chef for the big meal; the secret ingredient in his kitchen was a bottle of Tabasco sent from home. C rations were opened with the awesome all-purpose P-38 John Wayne can opener, the greatest invention since the fork. It doubled as a screwdriver or a knife; we kept it on our key chains.

Spaghetti, crackers and cheese, and candy bars were OK. Tuna, eggs, and ham, not so much. In a highly unauthorized, but universal practice, C-4 plastic explosives dug out from a Claymore mine instantly heated a can of C rations or a canteen cup full of water for coffee, hot chocolate, or LRPs (Long Range Patrol rations).

LRPs weighed much less than C rations and were a welcome change, except for one small detail—they required water, a precious commodity in the field! So, I only ate them occasionally. Most of us stored our C-4 supply in an empty LRP bag to keep it dry.

The canteen cup could be washed with relatively clean ditch or bomb crater water. Some even used it for their LRPs. I never did. It was famous for parasites and bacteria.

Fed and watered, we could now kick back and reflect. We commenced smoking with cupped hands over the tip, listening to transistor radios with earplugs, reading and writing letters.

War Is Beautiful

The sun setting turning the sky a blood-red
The stars at night hold you like a satin blanket.
While a fuck-you lizard does his thing
Each night laying there staring at the stars
Gazing at all God's beauty and goodness.
Knowing that these same stars umbrella over everyone
and everything you love
Nights that seem eternal and ominous
—SP4 Bob Jackson (1970)

All was quiet as the stars took their places. Lying on my air mattress, arms folded behind my head, I awaited guard duty. Gazing up at the incredible night sky, a brilliant star moving across the heavens caught my attention.

I whispered to Bob, my closest squad member,

What is that?

A B-52. Operation Arc Light.

B-52 Heavy Bomber

Suddenly, the heavens blazed orange and the ground shook—a multitude of thousand-pound bombs had dropped from the sky.

My beautiful Star of Bethlehem was a Death Star. 

1 compiled from Vegetius' de re militari, Book III

Grenade

With the bunker incident over, we were happy to set up our NDP (night defensive position) at last.

An FNG from our platoon went for a shit in the jungle. He thought he was doing a good deed, picking up a grenade. He must have missed that lecture. When he set it down, it blew his hand off! Most people would have passed out but instead he came screaming back to our perimeter for Doc Walsh.

[The grenade was probably a dud dropped by a Loach (a small helicopter with a pilot and a guy with an M60 on his lap whose job was to scout by flying low.)]

I was supposed to get married! What am I going to do now?

If you're both in love and it's meant to be, don't worry about it. Take care of yourself first.

We felt terrible.

Somebody went out and brought his hand back in a box, like a reliquary.

It was getting dark and we’d had no enemy contact that day so we radioed for a MEDEVAC. We waited on pins and needles. A chopper landing at night, broadcasting our position was not part of our regular routine. As it approached, we set a strobe light at the landing site. The bird picked up the wounded man and his hand and disappeared into the night sky.

We triple-checked our position. Everyone reminded everyone else,

Don't pick up anything! 

No one did.

Doc continued to check on the man by radio after he left and they stayed in touch after he returned to the States.

The rest of the night was uneventful. In the morning, we moved on. We had learned to detach, the medics will take care of him. 

Swamp

Charlie Company was conducting a B-52 BDA (bomb damage assessment) on a cloudy Spring day when it humped out of the jungle to a five acre field. The small trees scattered in medium-high grass reminded me of the field where I first took point. A field like this would be unremarkable to most, but not to us - we preferred to be snug as a bug in the jungle.

It was early afternoon, but we were told to set up for the night here where sparse cover could invite rocket and heavy weapon attack. The lack of wildlife and bird songs made us uneasy. Hopefully, the enemy will be just as scarce, but we would need to dig deeper.

As we were scooping out foxholes with our entrenching tools and filling sandbags with the earth, we noticed that water was slowly seeping into the holes. Within five minutes they were full of water. We had the makings of a hot tub instead of a foxhole!

We had never run across terrain where the water table was so high. The guys wondered if they would float away on their air mattresses during the night.

Damn the unexpected!

We had all these sandbags full of dirt, so we piled them up in a shallow defensive arrangement. If attacked, we could lay on the ground behind them, place our weapons on top and fire away. It was better than a stick in the eye.

Bobby Parris (L), Terry McClish (C), Carlos (Buck) Howley (R)

Thank God the NVA stayed away, but the critters didn't.

The place was perfect for snakes (not many), scorpions (too many) and the ubiquitous “fuck you” lizards (named from the sound they made).

While preparing our NDP (night defensive position), such as it was, a Bird Dog (the Cessna O-1 single-propeller two-seater) popped up in the distance. It caught our attention, because they were often used for FAC (forward air controllers) or recon. We didn't want more surprises, like nasties from F-14s or artillery dropping on our heads.

O, the appalling diversity of Vietnam!

Most of us stopped what we were doing, stood up and waved. Dangerous? No! The NVA Air Force was nonexistent. When the pilot dipped his wings back and forth in a friendly gesture, we knew he got the message. Good thing – these pilots were gutsy and the most decorated in the war. Over four hundred Bird Dogs were lost in Vietnam.

It was no KOA (Kampgrounds of America), but once we setup for the night, the guys used the extra time to read, write letters, and shoot the shit.

Others went on a war against the tons of scorpions. In an attempt to clear their sleeping areas, catching scorpions became job one. They put 'em in steel pots, squirted lighter fluid on 'em, set 'em on fire and listened to the snap, crackle and pop. Don't tell PETA.

It made at least a temporary difference. I was not aware of anyone stung during our stay, although Bobby found a six to eight inch scorpion under his air mattress after he slept on it. Scary.

When morning came, we humped back towards the jungle, leaving the scorpions behind.

Good riddance!

The River

A river seems a magic thing. A magic, moving, living part of the very earth itself.― Laura Gilpin

Charlie Company kept its nose to the grindstone in Tay Ninh Province, our home at the time. It wasn't all sturm und drang, danger and drudgery. One afternoon in April, our point man broke out of the heavy bamboo onto the banks of the Song Bay River. Throughout all of our days in the bush, some of us had never seen a river.

Capt. Martinez asked us for direction while we posted guards and took a break. Although we were close to Cambodia, we hadn't had any recent contact with the enemy.

After a discussion with the guys, he decided to give the company a break from war. A postman's holiday from our cook's tour of the jungle. A little R & R. We'd hang around and camp by the river overnight even though we couldn't see very far upstream or downstream.

There was lots of wildlife near the rivers of Vietnam – snakes, monkeys, tigers, crocodiles, lizards and large birds. Active wildlife usually meant Mr. Rogers was not in the neighborhood.

The Song Bay seemed quiet enough, but not too quiet.

Some guys fished – with hand grenades. The pin was pulled and the grenade tossed underhand into the water. Five seconds later, a muffled thud was heard followed by a six foot spout of water and a few strange yellow fish popping up to the surface.

Terry McClish holding Thumper (M79)

Others were goofing around and taking pictures of the beautiful scenery. Stan, Bob and I took one by the river posing with our favorite pudding. When I got out of the bush I developed the picture and sent it to General Mills with a note requesting a complimentary case. In the note we praised the pudding to the max, adding “What a tasty break from our C-rations.” It didn't work so well. Only four cans came back from the big “G.”

Bob Jackson (L), Stan Krimsky (C), Terry McClish (R) 
with pudding

Some guys put their flip-flops on and waded in to the waist-high water. The blue-green Song Bay was calm but I didn't like the looks of it. A river contains many things and besides, several boyhood friends of mine had drowned in the Mississippi.

Capt. Martinez (L) in the Song Bay R

Then we got the real scoop from a nearby Huey pilot flying overhead.

Beware. Crocodiles are in your vicinity, down around the bend, a mile away.

Everyone jumped out of the water as if a lifeguard had blown his whistle or a doodie had floated by.

We had fish for dinner! I didn't partake, because the fish had a black tint and some fish are poisonous. The area looked like a source for red ants, so before going to bed, we spread generous amounts of bug juice around the outside of our sleeping areas.

The next day we went back into the jungle to carry on where we left off, refreshed by a pleasant break down by the riverside.

General Mills Letter

Greetings

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.

I watched the nightly news but I wasn't thinking about the war. I half expected it to be over any day now. What? Me worry? My deferment kept me out of it. Actually, it would have, if I hadn't lost it to a thief in the night.

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.

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.

 Mt. Rainier

Gang showers and gang toilets. No privacy. Six shower heads, four stools, six sinks for shaving and brushing teeth.

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 4^th battalion 2^nd 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.

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. 

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.

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?