A LETTER HOME … IT DON’T MEAN NOTHIN

Reflection, August 1970, begin second tour in country. Nothing’s changed, the more gooks we kill, the more gooks we kill, need body count… “It don’t mean nothin.” Charlies formable but not the water walking paladin Hanoi Jane and her cohorts want to anoint. It’s hot, humid and stupid, but being a nineteen year old Marine at a firebase in Vietnam is better than sitting in a liberal arts class hearing from a ‘never done anything’ professor pontificating on Rousseau, John Locke or Yoko Ono. Just finished listening to All Right Now by Free on Armed Forces Radio. The Splibs (black Marines) think there’s not enough ‘soul’ music on AFR. I have to agree but then again, I’m not the program direction.

Just spent three days in the Rear. Yea right, the rear. Hill 55, named such because of the elevation, 55 feet above sea level. Here’s how that happens; someone at the TOC (Tactical Operation Center) overlays the pending operation on a topographic map. Than they circle the tactical areas of maneuver. A fire support plan is than develop to support the maneuvering. Once that is completed they find the highest elevated terrain in the AO (Area of Operation), blow the hell out of it to clear the trees then send in an engineer platoon to prep the summit for an LZ (Landing Zone). Drop in a company of Marines, dig fighting holes, string concertina wire around the perimeter, and airlift a section of artillery to the hill; whala! you have a Fire Support Base, or what bush Marines called The Rear. …. no resemblance at all to any sanitized John Ford 1940’s movie. More like a Sam Peckinpah production.

A hill is chosen that provides enough range for the 105 howitzers to support the grunts when “shit hits the fan” and they need a little love for arty. The guns provide a tasty “carte du jour” selection of weaponry; White Phosphorus WP (know as Wilson Picket), HE (high explosives) and illumination (known as basketball missions when dropped by aircraft), great for night ops since Night Vision Goggles haven’t been mass produced yet. Had they been on the market, Charlie would have them too. The Military Industrial Complete would sell to anyone to plus up their quarterly earnings.  “It don’t mean nothin”.  Reminder to self “when back in the world, buy DOD stock.”

We received the word to “saddle up” get ready to move back to the bush, this time moving to our AO where we’ll set up for a couple of days to act as a blocking force. What does that mean; tactically, we take up a platoon position, dig in, set kill zones, establish fields of fire and wait for enemy to move into contact. In reality what it means is a lot of walking, waiting, and rainy days of boredom punctuated by forty-five seconds of chaos. Humping into position, often up to six clicks away from the fire support base, you’d carry up to eighty pounds of gear on your back. Extra mortars, extra M60 rounds, claymores, PRC 77 radios, plenty of frag’s, a body bag, water and C-rations. Lots of C-rations since you may not get resupplies in the bush for days. That hunger hurt is enough to make you want to kill, (maybe that’s the strategy).

C-rations were canned food developed during WWII. Since they don’t have a shelf life, the REMF’s (Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers) at Disneyland East (The Pentagon) decided to use the left-overs from the last war to feed this war. An assortment of meals with twelve meals to a case, you turned the carton upside down so as not to tell what kind of meal you’re grabbing. The taste of the meal wasn’t bad, with one exception. Everyone wanted to trade their ‘Beans and Motherfuckers’… colloquial term for lima beans and ham. Tough to choke down even when hungry. No one wanted fruit cake either except Budman, a bumpkin from the hollers of Northwest Virginia.

Once at the pickup LZ, we divided into three lift teams. We have two choppers inserting us into our AO called The Arizona, a real shit hole with plenty of bad guys.  Last week, Bennet and Doc Kimpel got blown away by a command detonated booby trap. A few days back, Taylor got medevac’d to the 95^th Evac Hospital when he took a 7.62 sniper round in the chest. The round entered between the quarter inch opening of his flak jacket. Good shoot, unlucky bastard. Heard today he didn’t make it… “it don’t mean nothin”.

Every unit that has operated in The Arizona has either been in a fire fight or sustained causalities by booby traps. Eighteen members in the squad, you have roughly a six percent chance of getting blown away. Marines accept those odds when they choose to wear the eagle, globe and anchor. Pathological? Probably.

The birds were to insert us into a rice paddy, probably fertilized with human excrement. The LZ was two clicks from our night position. Not only do we have to hump nearly a mile and half, but have to get there before dark and set up. Once over the LZ, the helo’s hover three feet off the ground, we jumped off the ramp and hopefully don’t sink too far into the muck. Once clear of the rotors we disperse into a tactical circle, take our positions and wait and see if Charlie wants to buc buc. When all aircraft are clear and out of the area, we saddle up and begin movement to our night pos.

Walking down the trail in a staggered column, I’m right behind the FNG (Fuckin New Guy), just out of charm school (an in-country orientation) and ‘gung ho’ to get his cherry popped, so he volunteered to walk point. His name is Riley, a four-year college grad whom we nick named GPA. After finishing college, GPA said he wanted to find out what all the campus antiwar ruckus was about and experience a ‘Hemingway in Spain Moment’.  Didn’t want a second lieutenant commission with a four year obligation, so he took the enlisted route and a two year sign up.

Back in the rear, we screwed with GPA. Told him to find a bucket and fill it with rotor wash, go get some fallopian tubes for inside the mortars, or see the supply sergeant and order five yards of flight line. He was good natured about the ball busting. Right now, I just want to keep this guy him alive.

 My head was on a swivel, trying hard to keep situational awareness while not letting GPA do anything stupid. Then, as I step forward with my left heal, I feel an object under my jungle boot rotating slightly downward. Instantly by instincts mobilize, senses elevate and I realize, I might be in a ‘shit sandwich’.

First thought, a Bouncing Betty! A booby trap, when tripped, the explosive charge is propelled 3–4 feet into the air, where the charge is detonated, spraying lethal fragments above the waist. Or could be a pressure released explosive device, triggered by stepping on a plate, arming the trigger and then stepping off the plate detonating the explosion.

In the bush, death is the constant default setting. But the thought of surviving the blast and losing your legs, or worst, having your genitals scattered amongst the elephant grass not a preferred way to show up at your high school five year class reunion.  Damn, so much for the high school football hero.

So what’s next? I halt the squad in place, and called Sugar Bear,the squad leader. He came up and I advised him of the situation. After a “no screaming eagle shit” comment, he gives me that, what do we do now look. “We treat this as a booby trap. Move the rest of the squad a safe distance, yet still tactically deployed, place flake jackets around my feet to decrease the frag pattern, call a medvac to be on standby and developed an exit plan.” Sarcastically Sugar Bear quipped “Sounds Easy.”

With no further discussion, we started placing flak jackets around my feet and lower legs, the next step would be for me to dive out of the flak jacket encasement, stay prone on the ground and hope for the best, shrapnel in the buttock, a million-dollar wound and a trip to Hawaii for a three week rehab. Worst case, I stumble out the flak jacket casing and absorb the entire brunt of the explosion. What the hell, “it don’t mean nothin”…

The medevac chopper was called and had an eight minute ETE. An LZ was identified and secured with green smoke on the ready. Once the bird was overhead, I would execute my best Sue Gossick, three meter 1968 Olympic diving performance. Yea right, I’d be lucky to propel my ass far enough to get distance between me and the executioner.

As I’m standing there, careful not to release any pressure, a myriad of thoughts fire my synapses; Purgatory or Hell, The Stones or Dylan, Ginger or Mary AnnHave I kissed my last, have I sung my last, have I lasted beyond my shelf life?

The medevac helo checks in on station escorted by two snakes (Cobra Gunship). Expectations were if this was a pressure release device, the explosion would be instantaneous once I lifted my foot and released the pressure, a pool of blood and small body parts left for the corpsman to bag. If a Bouncing Betty, once pressure is relieved, the projectile would go airborne and take approximately two seconds before detonation, the guillotine would have done its job. A quick head nod to Sugar Bear, a boisterous “fire in the hole” and then the dive toward eternity or Oahu.

A perfect landing, 9.8 from the American judge with a 4.3 from the Soviet. While the ‘fog of war’ consumes our staging area, an eerie quiet eats into the stifling heat and humidity. Aside from the deafening raucous of my carotid artery, the only other sound was a “what the fuck” shout out from the tree line, then a breathless quiet replaced by nervous laughter.

With no explosion, body parts or entrails scattered over the jungle path, we waited for a safe interval, then carefully moved to the pile of flak jackets. Intentions were to find the cause of today’s disruption. We slowly moved the flak jackets away from the spot where I experienced my “come to Jesus” moment. One by one we cleared the area of flak jackets so as to inspect the impression left by the left heel. I pulled out my K-Bar and begin to slowly probe around the spot. At first, large concentric circles than smaller circles, each one getting closer to the center of action. Within a three-inch radius, my probing hit the “G” spot. My anxiety level shot up, then a couple deep breaths and continued probing.

I brushed the dirt back, moved my K-Bar under the item and begin feeling for any electrical wiring. Nothing under the spot. After minutes of frenzy, and not so assured self-assurance, I used my K-Bar to leverage the obscure device out of the ground. Slowly at first, still unsure as to the deadliness of my encounter. The pace quickens as the item came into view.

There it was, the mysterious item that jacked up our excitement for the last thirty minutes. The conundrum that held thirteen seasoned Marines captive. The mystifying source of an old man’s war story.…a damn C-Ration can. The relief was intoxicating as a contact high… at a Who Concert.

With a few chuckles at the encounter, we saddled up and continue on our mission, keeping the world safe for democracy. Before throwing the can into the weeds, I wiped off the mud to read the label … there it was ‘Beans and MotherFucker’… Really, it don’t mean nothin!