country club. The Air Force certainly doesn’t rough it. It looks as if I won’t be going to the 3rd Marine Division, maybe the 1st Marine Division. I find out later today. Apparently, we will sit around here for a couple of days. I hope not too long because it is such a hole.
August 24, 1969
I have been reassigned from the 3rd Marine Division to the 1st Marine Division, and I leave Okinawa the twenty-seventh. I don’t know if I can stand three more days of this place. There is absolutely nothing to do but hang around the officers club and drink. Our rooms are real sweatboxes, and the water is turned off half the time. We have to muster twice a day, so we can’t go anywhere, as if there is anywhere to go.
We store all of the uniforms and luggage we brought in Okinawa. I have no idea why we were told to bring all of our uniforms. They will just sit in storage. We also get the remainder of our shots here. Some of those really hurt! The gamma globulin shot can make even a battle-hardened gunnery sergeant tear up. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the line while waiting to get our shots. A number of us were sitting very gingerly the next day.
Of the five of us that came together, John Erins and Mike Hodgins leave tonight for Da Nang. Jim House, John Graff, and I follow on the twenty-seventh unless we are moved up on the list.
August 25, 1969
I am slowly going stir crazy. There is absolutely nothing to do but hang around the Officers’ Club. At least there they have the air-conditioning working. Sleep is hard to come by because our rooms are so hot!
August 27, 1969
Arriving in Vietnam I was little nervous. I halfway expected to get off of the plane in the middle of an attack with mortar shells bursting around me. We had flown in a commercial aircraft with civilian stewardesses and arrived at a big busy airport, operating with business as usual. Much to my disappointment, I wasn’t handed a helmet and flak jacket and pointed to the nearest bunker but directed to the area where I was supposed to report with my orders for transportation to my unit. It was all very businesslike, not the least dramatic. There was even a barracks for those who had to wait overnight.
One thing that literally hit me with a wallop when I got off the plane was the heat! It was like being enveloped by a suffocating blanket. The heat drained the energy and sucked the breath right out of me. My uniform instantly became a perspiration sodden mess. There was no way to be adequately prepared for Vietnam’s heat.
August 29, 1969
Right now, I am at the 1st Marine Division headquarters, awaiting transportation to the 7th Marine Regiment. The 1st Marine Division headquarters is built on a hillside ringed on three sides by mountains and on the fourth side by Da Nang and the sea. It is impossible to hit with mortars or rockets.
There is nothing private about going to the head (toilet) here. I was coming out of the shower with my towel just as all the Vietnamese women came to work. That wasn’t too bad. After all, I had my towel. However, I downright resent tipping my hat to them while sitting on the head. The toilets are a series of seats built over cut-off barrels in a wooden enclosure screened in front by wire mesh and situated next to a path. Using them can turn into a social occasion, particularly if people parade by while you or whoever else is sitting there. It was very awkward, to say the least, to be occupying the head as the officers club workers filed by at their shift change. They must have become used to it because it didn’t seem to faze them.
August 30, 1969
I am still at the 1st Marine Division headquarters. What a mess! I wonder how the Marine Corps ever win any wars. Yesterday evening, they gave my orders to a lieutenant going to amtracs. I spent all day today waiting for my orders to be sent back. Personnel called amtracs several times, and they were told each time that my orders were about to leave. Well, it is now 4 p.m., and I am still waiting. I have been doing a slow burn. The unit I am going to has been in contact the last two or three days, and I would like to get down there before everyone packs up and goes home. Famous last words!
Everyone around here has a flak jacket and helmet but me. That makes me feel very insecure. They also have pistols. However, a pistol wouldn’t do me any good anyway because the best I could hope for with a pistol is to scare someone with the noise.
September 3, 1969
I got to the 7th Marine Regiment at landing zone (LZ) Baldy and received the runaround for a couple of days. The division likes to give new people a week to acclimatize (no way) so that the new guy won’t get killed the first week. At any rate, I didn’t know if I was coming or going. The ending was spectacular though! I was rushed over to my battalion at LZ Ross the minute it came in from the field, given my gear and my platoon, and left that night on an operation. Wow! What a rush.
The company came in to Fire Base Ross for a hot meal. After the meal, they immediately left the base to begin another operation. As the company lined up to receive their meals, one Marine had an accidental discharge (all rifles were supposed to have been cleared upon entering the base). That created quite a stir! It would have been a heck of a note to get shot while getting my meal before even going to the field!
When I picked up my platoon, it was a dark, rainy night. I was introduced to my platoon sergeant and, of course, promptly forgot his name. The platoon sergeant introduced me to my squad leaders and the platoon guide. Naturally, I immediately forgot their names too. In the dark, they all looked alike. Fortunately, I soon met my radioman called Bo. That name I could remember, and with him having the radio, I could always recognize him.
We marched most of the night to our starting point and collapsed toward morning alongside the road. Though drenched clear through, we wrapped ourselves in our poncho and poncho liner, lay down in the mud, and slipped into an exhausted sleep. We dug no holes, posted no sentries, nothing. We all could have had our throats cut and would never have known the difference.
The next morning, we started a sweep. I was loaded down with equipment: helmet, flak jacket, pack, M16, web gear, canteens, ammo pouches, first-aid pouch, grenades, the works. The gear I was issued at battalion was very worn. I would swear my flak jacket had bloodstains from its previous owner, though that may have been my imagination. The suspenders holding up my pistol belt definitely were of WWII vintage as was my backpack. I might add that there weren’t enough compasses for everyone, so the only guy in the platoon with a compass was a squad leader. Fortunately, I brought my own jungle boots because jungle boots were not part of the issue either.
I was covered in every piece of armor I could wear. Being new and having heard all the gory stories, my main fear was that I would trigger a booby trap. In wet terrain and unbearable heat, we walked up and over paddy dikes through tree lines and hedgerows. We changed direction several times as someone higher up changed the plan. By afternoon, with all the weight of my equipment and the heat and humidity, I was staggering along just trying to keep up. I definitely was not acclimatized!
We finally stopped. I immediately dumped all of my gear, rifle, helmet, and flak jacket included. Our commanding officer (CO), Captain Stanat, called for the platoon commanders. We were deployed in a line across a series of rice paddies. Captain Stanat was holding his conference on a raised mound, probably an old grave. He was near the front of the column, and I was at the back with the Third Platoon, my platoon.
My platoon sergeant and I made our way to Captain Stanat’s position. We no sooner arrived than the enemy opened up on us with automatic weapons. Everyone was hugging the ground. My platoon sergeant was shaking (it was near the end of his second tour), and my adrenalin was soaring. Lying prone on the ground, Captain Stanat turned to me. “Lieutenant, take Third Platoon and envelop that tree line.” He indicated the area from which we were taking fire. That meant crawling back across all the paddies separating me from my platoon with bullets flying. No helmet, flak jacket, or rifle.
Passing a wounded Marine receiving aid from the corpsman, I crawled back, scrunching up and lunging head and shoulders, then rear end over the paddy dikes in a caterpillar-like movement. I was operating under the theory that if I got shot, it would be in the rear end since that was the last part over the dike.
I got back to my platoon and yelled, “Guns up!” I set up a base