Merry F*@&in Christmas
No one goes off to war thinking they’ll survive. If they say they will, then they’re either lying or in serious denial. Even though I was never the smartest guy in school, it was pretty obvious to me the odds were not in my favor. Six months at St. Albans on the C-1 dirty surgery floor, the B-1 plastic surgery ward, and the psych ward showed me that no one comes out of war undamaged.
Some time in December of 1967, I arrived in Danang, Republic of Vietnam in a “world bird”, as contracted commercial airplanes were called. (The military used to have names for everything before many of them became politically incorrect.) We were quickly off-loaded in order to load the lucky bastards who had survived their 12- or 13-month tours and were going home for Christmas.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane was the foul stench. It’s nearly impossible to describe, but it was combination of rotting, putrefied flesh, and burning garbage. Add in the intense heat and humidity, as well as the fact that you’ve just arrived to start a one-year combat tour, and you’ve got the kind of oppressive environment that would make any boot camp seem like a vacation.
Much like the day I arrived at AFEES in St. Louis, there was a lot of grouping and waiting at the side of the airfield. Corpsmen to one side, Marines on the other. Some people from 1st Division Medical arrived to collect our orders and records. “Hang here, and we will get back to you.” Seemed like an eternity until they returned. They were busy dividing us up within the Division depending on which regiment or battalion needed bodies, how many, and so on.
The Division Medical Personnel finally came back and announced, “Listen up for your name as we call out where you’re going.” We listened. So-and so “7th Marines, here’s your paperwork, head over to Field operations for transport,” So and so “5th Marines, same place,” So and so “1st Marines, follow them to the transport pickup area. All of you that are left will be assigned to the 1st Medical Battalion. Get into the truck.”
I was so excited, I almost peed my pants. Medical Battalion was the Marine Corps’ version of a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, or M.A.S.H. — except there were no female nurses. This would be surgical technicians, laboratory technicians, etc. This meant I wasn’t destined for the Marine infantry. You couldn’t possibly imagine my relief at that very moment, as if my death warrant had been tossed into that trash can the way the Personnelman back at St. Albans had done to my advanced training request. I knew where I was, and it wasn’t with the infantry. I was in the back of the big truck off through Danang, and on my way to safety, or so I thought.
The ride to the Medical Battalion was eye-opening. Before Great Lakes, Camp Lejeune, and St. Albans, the only world I’d known was New Madrid, Missouri. None of what I’d seen on TV or in the movies or what I’d heard veterans talk about prepared me for the sights, sounds, and smells of driving through the dusty, dirty streets of the city — smoldering trash fires, cooking braziers with some kind of animal on them, small wrinkled people carrying two cans of water hanging from the end of a long bamboo stick over their shoulders, lithe women dressed in ao dais, traditional Vietnamese clothing, all wearing a conical straw hat or carrying a parasol to protect themselves from the intense sun.
We drove through the Dogpatch slum and then by Hill 327, or Freedom Hill as it was named. The amphitheater was hosting the 1967 Bob Hope Christmas show when we drove by. It was impossible to miss the hillside packed with Marines. We even passed a Marine squad heading out on patrol along a dusty road. It was all too surreal. My first exposure to color in what was up until then a black and white world.
Outside the Battalion Administration office we were told to “hang loose” until called in for processing. It turned into a long day of trying to find a shady spot in the bare dusty area. When I was the only one left and had been by myself for what seemed a bit too long, a Navy Chief came out of the office as though he was on his way somewhere. He looked at me sitting on my sea bag and asked, “What’s your name and what are you doing here?”
“HN Hayes, waiting to be processed, Sir,” I replied.
“No, no you’re not. We’re finished with everyone who was assigned to us.”
“My name hadn’t been called at the airfield so I got on the truck like they told us to.”
“Ok, let me find out what’s going on.” He promptly left me outside pondering what now seemed like my demise rather than redemption. He came back and informed me, “Yeah, there seems to be a mistake somewhere. You’re assigned to 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines, which was just placed under the 1st Marine Regiment. I called your battalion to let them know you’re here. They’d have sent a vehicle for you today, but the road out to their area is closed due to an ambush earlier in the day.”
My excitement, which had turned to fear, turned to a brief sigh of relief that I would be spending my first night in Vietnam at the 1st Medical Battalion, safe at least for one night. While I was there, I ran into a guy that I knew from Corpsman basic school in Great Lakes and Camp Lejeune. He’d been assigned to the Medical Battalion after being wounded in combat. He told me he’d been shot, through and through the chest, and side to side through the breasts, while making an on-line assault against a fortified village. He proceeded to describe the assault, about lying in the rice paddy waiting for someone to help him and how he thought he was going to die. I tried to tune this out. Fuck me to tears, I didn’t need to listen to this. Why he told me this story I’m not sure. Why I sat through the story? I don’t know. Fascination I’m sure. That, and trying to learn from someone else’s bad luck. But that story was shoved to the back of my memories as I wondered whether I’d ever be so lucky as to survive something like that.
The next morning, a vehicle with two corpsmen from the battalion arrived to pick me up. “Welcome to Vietnam,” they said. “We’re always glad to meet a new guy. You’ll be joining three others who just arrived a couple of days ago.” Warm enough welcome, not that I’d expected one. We retraced the same route that I had taken the day before, past Freedom Hill, driving quickly through the Dogpatch, past the airfield, past Marble Mountain and into a tree lined dirt road heading to what was called the 413 area. This was where the 2nd Battalion of the 3rd Marine Regiment headquarters was located.
At this time, in the Marine Corps infantry organization, you only needed three fingers to count, until you got to the Battalion level. There are 3 Divisions, 3 Regiments per Division, and 3 Battalions per Regiment. Within each Battalion there are 5 Companies: Headquarters and Service, or H&S, which contain the main administration, supply, communication, battalion aid station and such; then there are four letter Companies, depending on the Battalion, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta for the first battalion of the Regiment; Echo, Foxtrot (or Fox for short), Gulf, and Hotel for the second battalion of the Regiment, and then India, Kilo, Lima, and Mike for the third battalion. These letter companies are the Marine Corps’ primary reason for existence. They are the infantry. The 0311’s are the military occupation standard, or MOS. This is where the rubber meets the road; you saddle up, fix bayonets, lock and load. This is where the legends are born — the United States Marine Corps.
These brave soldiers carried the legacy of those who fought at the Battle of Belleau Wood in WWI, the Battle of Iwo Jima in WWII, the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in the Korean War and so on. Even if you aren’t into military history or have little to no appreciation for it (which I understand for many people), it’s important to at least understand that these battles had been embedded in our consciousness as acts of selfless, heroic soldiers who laid down their lives for America and the world. There was a lore about them, and these stories upheld their courage as a virtue few could embody, let alone attain.
No matter your view of the military as a killing machine or war as a waste of taxpayer money and motivated by power hungry governments, there was a time when people believed war spared innocent lives and ensured democratic freedom. I don’t wish to debate this idea. I recognize that attitudes have shifted. As I said before, I didn’t think I could ever live up to the legend, and yet here I was about to join them.
We finally arrived at the Battalion Aid Station, or BAS as it was commonly called. The BAS consisted of two large huts, or makeshift structures called hooches, that were placed side-by-side and completely encased in at least one layer of sandbags. One side was the medical hooch, where the battalion surgeon held his sick call and where a couple of cots were kept for patients who needed to be observed. The other hooch was the supply and administrative part of the aid station where I went to see the Chief in charge of the enlisted men. Above his desk was a roster of corpsmen and the companies they were assigned to. I immediately saw a name I recognized from St. Albans, ward C-1, Chavez. Buddy Chavez is how I knew him. Never found out his given name, everyone called him Buddy.
“He come from St. Albans hospital?” I asked.
“Yeah, he’s been here for a while, probably due to rotate out of the field. Do you know him?”
“If it’s the same guy, he pulled my ass out of a jam one time.” I didn’t elaborate, but one time while working graveyards I went to work hammered, drunk off my ass. The night charge nurse noticed immediately so she and Chavez ensured no one went unattended or died, checking IV’s and doing a few minor dressing changes while I staggered around. I repaid him by helping him out whenever he asked. Seeing a name I recognized gave me some sense that I wasn’t too far away from home.
The Chief then duly informed me that 2/3 was actually part of the 3rd Marine Division, and had just been assigned to the 1st Division for administrative purposes. 2/3 had just come off of Special Landing Force (SLF), where they had been on the USS Princeton, a helicopter carrier, going up and down the coast of Vietnam being inserted into the hot spots, where some other unit had gotten hold of a North Vietnamese Army unit and needed backup or a blocking unit, or were assigned to helicopter into a place for a sweeping operation and other operations. The next unit that went on SLF was 3rd Battalion 1st Marines, and 2/3 replaced them in the 413 operational area, just south of Danang.
Lucky me. I got orders to the 1st Marine Division and ended up with a 3rd Division unit, the very unit I’d noticed that no one rotates out of unless they’re killed or mutilated. Well Whoopee fucking ding dong. I’m two for one now. But like I’d learned over the past year, you don’t question or complain. You take your orders and go.
But first . . . more paperwork. My death warrant summarily picked out of the trash can meant I had to complete my last will and testament. Since I was only eighteen, my mother got everything, which was a ten thousand dollar insurance policy and two sea bags of uniforms — Navy and Marine — which was all I had at that time.
I also finally met my fellow newbie’s. One guy, Charlie Johnson, I already knew from St. Albans. He and I would often meet under the tables at the bar on the hospital compound as we drank ourselves into daily and nightly stupors. We congratulated each other on our mutual luck of being in the same unit. The other two guys were lifelong friends from Dimmitt, Texas. They had known each other from kindergarten through high school, boot camp, and Hospital A School. They had joined on the buddy program and here they were, “Gus” Gustafson and Donnie Stokes. We got to know each other pretty well while we were in the rear. We were undergoing acclimatization, getting used to the heat and humidity. (That was no problem for me. The upside to the summers in Southeast Missouri on the banks of the Mississippi is that they had prepared me well for this.) We filled sandbags for bunkers at the BAS and humped water to the BAS before the water buffalo (water tank) was procured.
The Doctor, I don’t remember his name, taught us jungle medicine: athlete’s foot treatment was the same as jungle rot treatment, Furicin ointment if you could get it, or mix Bacitracin ointment with a sugar packet from your C-rations; getting leeches off of a Marine’s scrotum without touching the scrotum or the leech was done with the tip of a hot match. What to do with an arterial bleeder, clamp it off with a hemostat; and stated unequivocally, never do a tracheotomy, but if you do this is how to do it.
The Doctor had been there for a while and knew what went on out there and begrudged no one for doing what they had to do to save a Marine’s life or their own. The Army had their M.A.S.H units, we didn’t.
We also traded off covering the mine sweep patrols between the battalion area and a checkpoint just before Marble Mountain. I quickly learned that being a corpsman makes a Marine warm to you quickly, because if the time comes you’re likely to save him and/or his friend’s life. After a few weeks, perhaps two maybe three, we were each given our assignments. Gus and Donnie were assigned to Gulf Company but ended up in different platoons. Charlie and I were going to Fox Company; I went to the first platoon and Charlie to the second. When I finally got to the platoon, I relieved Chavez, and he became the company senior corpsman, not an envious job by any stretch of the imagination since he would be responsible for the company Captain and all the people in his command center in addition to being available to help the platoon corpsmen with anything they couldn’t handle or fill in for them if they became sick or injured.
My first day with first platoon Fox we were assigned to bridge security at the Tu Cau Bridge just off of Highway 1 leading into and out of Danang. The road leading to the bridge from our battalion area was a dirt road barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. There was a supply run once or twice weekly made by an amphibious tractor (Amtrac) and a couple of small vehicles all delivering rations, ammo, and other items needed to keep a platoon of Marines in the field. I caught my first ride on an Amtrac when I went to join my platoon, riding on the top since I was told to never be inside of one. The fuel cells were the floor, so a single landmine and you were literally toast. In any case this tractor was full of supplies, grenades, C-4 explosives, detcord, blasting caps as well as food. I went to grab my bag from inside and accidentally knocked over a can of blasting caps, spilling the contents and pissing off the Amtrac driver. “Goddam it kid, “ he shouted. “Get out of here, I’ll get your bag,” he said, tossing it outside.
Chavez greeted me like a long-lost brother. I was his relief, and he knew he was almost done in the field. The other corpsman in the platoon was a guy named Keller from New Hampshire who had the accent to prove it. He woke up each and every day yelling, “Good Morning Vietnam!” He was a really nice guy with a good sense of humor. Chavez helped me by showing me around and letting others know he knew me from New York. We had a recently arrived 2nd Lieutenant as platoon commander and a Staff Sergeant by the name of Blackwell, a Marine’s marine — tough, by the book, and a good guy as long as no one crossed him. The other names have become blurred over the years, but a few stick out: Hartwell, he will be the first in-country dead Marine I see, Baker, Rocky, Quinn, Grist, Fitch, Lloyd . . . God so many more.
Christmas Eve 1967 was my first night patrol. “Merry-fucking Christmas” was added to my ever-expanding vocabulary. Every day the platoon sent out two squad size patrols, one in the morning and the other at night. Chavez and Keller thought it would be nice for them to have the night off and send out the new guy, a.k.a. me. The squad leader for the night patrol was a Marine by the name of Fitch. Corporal Fitch was a veteran, meaning he’d been in-country for a while, had seen enough, and was responsible enough to be given a squad of Marines. The numbers in a squad varied due to illness, injury, rotation, or death, but usually it was between 9 to 12, ideally 12 to 14, but rarely was that number achieved.
Chavez and Keller helped me get dressed for my first solo: .45 strapped on, loaded with safety on, check; helmet on, not strapped, don’t want your head to fly off from the concussion of a mortar, check; flack jacket on, don’t snap it closed, too fucking hot, check; boots tied securely, don’t want to trip on your shoe laces while running, check; trousers bloused so the leeches don’t crawl up your leg, check; medical kit ready, check. I was ready for my first date with the mysteries of the night.
We went out at dusk, through a Ville, a small group of huts with women sitting around small fires, cooking and a couple of half-naked toddlers toddling around. It was getting pretty dark. Damn I wish I had a cigarette, I kept thinking to myself. That was the other thing, no smoking while on patrol. We were out of the Ville and on a small path leading to the main village gate. It had gotten darker, not holy shit dark but dark, without a single noise, when suddenly we heard the loud staccato of rapid gun fire and from the sound of it, it wasn’t from an M-16, but rather the sound of an AK-47 or something other than ours. The point man had sprung the ambush. He’d seen something or heard something. We were suddenly pinned down on a small path with no cover at all. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening. I cowered and waited for the call I knew would come, “Corpsman up,” the words for me to go and take care of a wounded Marine.
From the cacophony of gunfire I thought a thousand rounds must have been exchanged. Suddenly, Corporal Fitch came out of nowhere telling everyone that we were pulling out and heading for a graveyard for cover and to just follow him, which we did. After he accounted for everyone and positioned the Marines on the perimeter with me next to the radioman, he radioed battalion requesting artillery fire to help get us out of there. The reply was, “Denied. Christmas truce is on, besides that’s a friendly Ville.”
“Requesting 81mm mortar fire.” Nope. “Denied. Christmas truce and that’s a friendly Ville.” All the while the Marines were firing at where they saw the flashes from the VC’s weapons, from the so-called friendly Ville. Finally, our platoon Lieutenant came on the radio and told Fitch, “Two rounds of 60mm mortars in the tube. Run like hell when you hear them coming.” Once again, trusting in Fitch, we followed him to a better defensive position where we spent the night without another shot fired.
Sometime after dawn we made it back to the bridge. Later that Christmas morning, an Amtrac arrived and took our Lieutenant away for a few days, presumably to be disciplined for the mortar rounds he fired during the truce. We all liked him a bit more for what he’d done. Even though it was Christmas Day, I wasn’t having any of the Merry Christmas shit, even if I was alive and unhurt. I was scared and kept thinking to myself, Only 364 more days of this?
