LETTER HOME… JUST ARRIVED IN NAM

I was awakened by a “ding” as the cabin sign was illuminating  “FASTEN SEAT BELTS”. The “NO SMOKING” neon was a glow. The Captains voice was echoing through the cabin area arousing the sedent passengers. “We’re beginning our final approach into Da Nang. Stewardesses, prepare the cabin for landing and thank you for flying TWA”. Than he added “Hope to see all in twelve months.” Hope to see all in twelve months, crap! Does he know something we don’t know?

The Boeing 727 circled at thirty thousand feet for about twenty minutes over the Gulf of Tonkin. The Captain again got on the intercom and announced that we were “beginning our descent”. The aircraft began a rapid downward move toward, what I hoped, was the airport. As the aircraft accelerated in its downward trajectory, I notice the expression on other faces, as they were listening to their inner voice, “what if we crash and I die” and other premonitions like, “if I crash in the sea, can I still be buried in Arlington”? 

A loud screeching disconcerting metal to metal sound filled the cabin.  A frequent flyer next to me gave a nonchalant thumb up and smirked “it’s the airplane’s flaps”. Not sure what a “flap” was but obviously from the frequent flyers reaction, not a death nail to my “Hemingway Moment”. The next loud noise was the aircraft landing gear being extended. It seemed longer than forever before I was jolted by a big thump. Finally, touch down. The aircraft seemed to go into reverse with lots of braking, slowing it down, then quickly veering its nose toward the airport terminal. I begin to unbuckle. 

I stepped out of the aircraft door and said goodbye to the last round eye, blonde woman I would see for the next twelve months. As the stewardess smiled, I turned and stepped off the first step and continued down the stairway to the bottom. Once on the ramp, a loud sergeant was making his present known, giving us contradictory instructions he expected us to follow. I just kept in the middle of the crowd and followed the herd, it seemed safer that way. 

They said the summers were hot in Vietnam, or as “bush veterans” call it, The Nam. But wasn’t quite ready for the stifling, humid, scorching heat of the airport ramp. I’m sure things will get cooler once the nighttime comes, yea right! I have arrived, a Marine in a war zone, looking for my M-16, looking for bullets to put in my M-16, looking for someone to shoot with my M-16.  Pretty gungy, but this is what I’ve been training the last 6 months for. Having just turned nineteen, beats bagging groceries, doing real work on road construction or taking college courses about real life. Hell, I’m living real life. 

The “loud sergeant” starting barking orders to us newbies, who were still dazed from a twenty-three-hour flight and with a “what the fuck” look painted on our face. The group was directed to “fall in”, the military term for taking one’s place in a formation or an orderly grouping of men and equipment. As would be the case, the orderly grouping was more of a gaggle, then a precision drill team. 

Standing behind the “loud sergeant” were three non-commissioned officers from three branches of the military, Air Force, Army and Marines. The gaggle was turned over to these three noncoms. The Air Force Sergeant step forward with intentions of collecting the airmen just off the 727. He wore a starch uniform, with razor sharp creases in the trousers and jacket. He was meticulously groomed with a cover (hat) sitting perfectly over his meticulously groomed hair. As he stepped forward a few snickers were heard as his forward movements were more of a sashay than a “take command” gesture. Davis murmured under his breath “little Saint Sabastian”. Most of us weren’t educated or culturally sensitive enough to appreciate the humor. Later, I would find out the meaning of Davis’ iconic witticism. The snickers turned into jocular diatribes as the Air Force Sergeant began to speak in a Truman Capote voice. I knew who Capote was having read In Cold Blood and immediately linked Davis’ earlier comment to a gender bender ball busting. “OK gents, please fall out and enter the bus on my right and take a seat, lets hurry”. No shit, Saint Sabastian was getting his boys transportation on a blue air conditioned school bus. I would find out later, the Air Force fought the whole war with air condition.   

The Army was next to collect its “quarry”. A large black Staff Sergeant dressed in short sleeve Khaki Service uniform, half size too small, and a large sweat spot under each arm pit, aggressively stepped forward. With a haranguing tone, he bellowed “Army, get on the trucks, no grab assing, take a seat”. The Army’s mode of transportation was a duce and a half, a M35 2½-ton cargo truck. The soldiers broke rank and scurried to the combat vehicle, hopped aboard and found a seat on the benches.  

So, what was left for the thirteen Jarheads still in formation. Was it an air-conditioned bus, a truck to transport us to the war or maybe base taxies? Hell no! A Marine Corporal, dressed in camouflage utilities, boonie hat and jungle boots, stepped in front and gave us the news. “We lost our transportation Marines, so we have to hump to base operations for further transport. Pick up your gear and we’ll route step to our rally point”. Sounds easy, twenty-three-hour flight, no chow, tropical heat, humidity, a middle of the day stroll. OK, we’re Marines but that didn’t stop us from bitching. With sea bags over our shoulders and field packs on our back we begin the one mile hump. 

Once arriving at BaseOps, a cattle car pulled up. Yep, this was our ride. We had ten minutes to relieve ourself and get some water. Once ready, we boarded our ride to the 5^th Marine Regiment Staging Area. Arriving, we debarked from our conveyance and fell in on formation. A crusty old Gunnery Sergeant came out and said a few words, nothing noteworthy, just told us to count one to three. Once we finished this cheesy “math of Marines” exercise, Gunny had the one’s fall out behind him, the twos to his right and (you guessed it) the threes stay in place. This counting exercise would determine our future for the next twelve months. “Alright Marines, here’s your assignment”. The one’s would go to first battalion, the twos to second battalion and (you guessed it) the threes would be going to third battalion. We trained as a unit for the last three months and now they break up the team. We all wonder what kind of horse shit we’re getting into. 

We spent as little time as needed in Da Nang before helo lifting out to the “bush”. The Regiment wasn’t gonna waste “fresh meat” malingering at China Beach or hanging out at the USO. We got transported to the airfield and boarded a CH-53 Helicopter, non-affectingly known as a “Shitter”. Note: If you road in a “Sitter” and got off the “Shitter” without any hydraulic fluid on your person, it was because the Shitter didn’t have any hydraulic fluid in its system. The damn thing was always leaking. 

The aircraft took off, climbed to six thousand feet and proceeded to the Regimental Headquarters in a “shit hole” called An Hoa. With that forty-minute voyage, I could see beautiful green mountain vistas, wide rivers and valley lowlands pocked mark with craters, architecturally designed by our bombers and artillery. Without the rice paddies and greenery, the terrain looked like an Apollo 11 snapshot of the moon. 

I awaken from my oneirism with the “Shitter” doing a quick turn to the left. The crew chief said we’re spiraling down to the landing area. I found out later a spiral was a helicopter maneuver that put the aircraft into a thirty to forty-five-degree bank, a seven hundred to one-thousand-foot rate of descent with variable airspeed. The purpose of this maneuver was to prevent Charlie from getting a bead on a slow landing helicopter. Once landing at the LZ, the ramp to the back of opened and we unbuckled and departed, sprinkled with hydraulic fluid. 

We were met by a Marine sergeant, appareled in what appeared to be new up to date fighting garb supplies by the Military Industrial Complete; flake jacket, hard hat, gas mask, M-16 slung over his shoulder, spit shined jungle boots, very pogue looking. He led us to the headquarters where we met our first sergeant. The “Top” gave us the usual screed with canned fulminations like “you’re now in Vietnam, don’t be a hero and always walk where the man in front of you has stepped”. We moved to the supply hootch to receive our jungle attire and equipment. Then we went to the armory hootch, had our rifles inspected, given four boxes of 5.56 caliber rounds for our M-16 rifles and did a “battle field zeroing” of our weapons.  Now we’re ready to go to war. Not yet. 

An Hoa was encircled with fighting holes where Marines would nightly occupy and perform sentry duty called “hole watch”. Sentries would stand vigilant over their “sector of fire” by peering out over the concertina wire (barbed wire). Any activity or movement seen inside the wire would have the Marine immediately sound the clarion call “gooks in the wire”. The claymore would be armed and their M-16 would be taken off safe. All newbies would be assigned the duty of “hole watch”. Welcome to the Nam.  

Very little would happen during these annoying interludes with the exception of a few mortar rounds and occasional sniper fire. Falling asleep wasn’t an option on “hole watch” so you’d pass the time thinking about what you’ll do when back in the “world”.  

After two weeks of this undertaking, the first sergeant called me into his tent. “Lance Corporal, understand you have a military driver’s license”. “Yes sir” was my retort. “Need you to pick the Captain up at Liberty Bridge and return him back to base. Any questions?” Fuck yea, I had lots of questions, but proving I had my “shit together” was more important than getting all the details. “No sir, ready to go”. Besides, I’d feel more comfortable asking a veteran in the platoon some of the minutia like, what’s a Liberty Bridge, where’s a Liberty Bridge and who’s our Captain. I was given the what, where and who by Sergeant Bennet then scurried over to the motor pool to check out transportation. After signing for my M151 Jeep (that I didn’t have a license for), I exited An Hoa’s west gate and started motoring along on the Liberty Bridge Road. How hard could this be to find Liberty Bridge. Hell, the road is name after it. 

Looking at a topographical map, I figured about an hour drive while keeping Charlie Ridge to my right. Beautiful Sunday drive with a full tank of gas, paid for by Uncle Sam. No one on the road, no one in the rice paddies. Weather was clear and dry. I wasn’t stupid though, I had my M-16. 

Soon, the bridge was in sight. I was accurate with my map reading, one hour drive and proud of accomplishing my first mission. As I pulled up to the sentry guarding the road to Liberty Bridge, he gave me an incredulous look and wanted to know “what fuck I was doing”. I told him I was here to pick up Captain Branson and return him to An Hoa. The gate guard pull back the movable barrier and continue to look at me like I was an effrontery rube. I gave him a head nod and proceeded to the encampment at the edge of Liberty Bridge. The Captain was easy to find from the description I receive prior to departure from An Hoa, a large black man with captain bars. I easily located the Captain and reported to him. “Sir, I’m your driver sent from An Hoa to provide transportation back to base”. He acknowledges my salutation, looked around and then gave me the same “what the fuck” look the gate guard did. “Where’s your convoy Lance Corporal?” suddenly the light came on why I was receiving the incredulous looks. “Sir, I traveled alone”. The only thing the Captain said was “be in line with the convoy leaving at fourteen hundred”.

 I grabbed some chow, talked to a few “homies” and then moved my Jeep into position. In front of me we’re two duce and half trucks, in front of the trucks was a M-48 tank. An Engineer Mine Sweeping Vehicle was in front of the tank. Leading the convoy were four Marines carrying hand held mine sweepers, walking point, searching for land mines. Epiphany! Like Icarus, my earlier hubris took me on a heliacal journey. I found out later, reportedly the area I just did my “solo joyride” through was very active with bad guys from the R-20 VC Battalion. In retrospect, a Sunday Morning drive alone, through the “badlands” with enemy ambushes, road mines, rocket attacks and snipers was a dumb ass stunt. Note to Lance Corporal Jacklin, lessons learned. 

After a week or so standing “hole watch”, we received a frago (mission) to run patrols in Dodge City, a real fucked up place. The area is located approximately 20 miles south of Da Nang. Marines saw frequent booby traps, ambushes and “boo-coo” firefights there. This type of area we called “Indian Country”. The VC (Viet Cong) and NVA (North Vietnamese Army) held strongholds and base areas in Dodge City. Numerous Marines and bad guys had been killed there. My anxiety and excitement level shot up like a Saturn Rocket. 

Just prior to moving to the helo pad for transportation to my perceived destiny, we drew chow, water and ammo. I loaded down with twenty boxes of M-16 rounds, six grenades, a LAAW          ( Light Assault Attack Weapon), four cans of C-Rations and two canteens of water. Along with my gear, the platoon sergeant gave me two bandoleers of M-60 rounds to hump for our machine gun team. Heavy yea, but what the hell, I’m a Marine, young and in great shape. Besides, the helicopters will drop us off, we’ll walk a bit, kill some gooks and get back on the aircraft. Sounds pretty simple, all in a day’s work. 

Our platoon commander, a new first lieutenant, was surreptitiously given the nicknamed “Ricky Recon” because he was always jogging around An Hoa airfield in a flak jacket and jungle boots. Now he shows up at the helo pad with a Tompson Sub Marine Gun, with ivory handles, and ten box magazines holding twenty round each. I know I was a new guy but even to me, this really seemed a “fugazi” (fucked up). 

The Lieutenant gave us the details, at least what he knew about our mission. We broke up into lift teams, boarded the CH-46 helicopters (called Frogs) and transported to the war. The landing in Dodge City was uneventful, much to the dismay of the hard charging nineteen-year-old Marine killing machines. But I got the eerie feeling all would change. Didn’t take long for my somatic sensation to come to fruition. 

We’re started our platoon patrols by moving in tactical formation, Marines behind each other, in a staggered column. Second squad had the point, with first squad next and third in trail, bringing up the rear. I was one of three new guys in third squad. We’d keep just enough distance between us to “mass our fire power” should we engage the enemy but far enough behind each other so one booby trap would not kill multiples Jarhead. It was called “spread loading the SGLI”. SGLI was the Serviceman Group Life Insurance program for military personnel that provided death gratuity benefits to beneficiaries in the event of the service members death. 

Most of the terrain was flat and dry with overgrown elephant grass covering a large part of the AO. The elephant grass grew to over six feet and would cut deep into your exposed hands and arms. The grass was good cover from snipers in the tree line, but shitty when humping eighty pounds of gear on a hot humid jungle day.

Sergeant Dan Bennett was walking point, which I found odd since he had less than twenty days left “in-country” before the “Freedom Bird” would take him back to Alabama. He always talked about his mother, red Alabama dirt and Merle Haggard. He also didn’t want any FNG (Fuckin New Guy) getting wasted on his watch. 

As we meandered through the bush, a loud explosion was heard. Harvey, another new guy, and I both looked up into the air and saw the lower half of a severed torso being propelled upward about twenty feet. Wasn’t sure who the unlucky bastard was, good guy or bad guy. The next thing we heard was “corpsman up”. A few seconds later, another explosion filled the agitated scene, another partial body flew into the air. Harvey and I started putting it all together and came to the conclusion, the good guys just got blown away. 

As we assumed our defensive tactical position, the word came back that Sergeant Bennett and Doc Kempel got wasted. It appeared Bennett, walking point, was hit by an 82mm mortar rigged as a command detonated booby trap. We knew it was command detonated because as soon as Doc Kempel sprinted forward to treat the wounded, the gook denoted a second 82mm booby trap, cutting Doc in two and wounding five other Marines. In total, eight Marines from our platoon of twenty-three were either dead or medivac to the 95^th Evac Hospital in Da Nang. 

Charlie was good, very good. He wired a high explosive mortar round to a firing mechanism then controlled it from a standoff distance. Set it up anticipating foot traffic by Marines and waited patiently for his prey. Knowing the first blast would generate casualties and necessitate a corpsman to render assistance, he set the second one up to kill Kempel once Doc got into the kill zone. I though deliberately targeting medical personal was against the Geneva Convention. This sucked. Word got back to third squad that Bennett, even though he was blown in two, was calling for his mother. This really sucked. 

Got our payback a few weeks later. Running a squad patrol in the foothills of Charlie Ridge, we spotted four bad guys moving through the ravine, one hundred fifty yards from our patrol. All four were wearing black pajamas and two were carrying AK-47’s. We immediately laid down a heavy barrage of fire, killing two and probably wounding a third, who got away with his buddy. We send a fire team (four-man unit) into the ravine to check out the two carcasses and strip the bodies for intel. 

We found out we had just killed a doctor and a nurse. They were probably being escorted to a field hospital by their weapons carrying comrades. The doctor, from his name, was Chinese. The nurse was a female Vietnamese, very young, very pretty, very dead. As the naked bodies laid in the ravine, a dark quietness permeated the squad. The momentary enthusiasm at having just scored a kill was outstripped by the realization that one of the kills was a young female. The feeling didn’t go completely dark as the squad leader reminded us of Doc Kempel getting blown away. “It don’t mean nothing”. The patrol moved on.

A month later our AO (Area of Operation) was changed and we move to a fire support base called LZ Baldy. It had four 155 Howitzers guns and a couple of 81mm mortar tubes. Our job, of course, was to provide security for them. That meant “hole watch” and running patrols in the area to keep Charlie on the defense. 

One such patrol started out mid-morning with a platoon trip to the helo pad. We waited for about an hour, weather was good so the aircraft showed up on time. Two helicopters took us on a twenty-minute ride and dropped us off in a rice paddy at the bottom of a large hill with a good size acclivity. Our mission now was to climb the hill, look for Charlie and destroy any caches he may have. After an all day hump, we reach the top; no gooks, no cache. 

The movement down the hill was quicker and a lot easier. Once we reach the bottom, I radio to headquarters “mission complete, negative contact” and requested our airlift back to base. That’s when I saw God. As we were waiting in the rice paddy, a VC sniper decided to have a cathartic moment. He let off a burst of automatic fire. The rounds splashed in the water about five feet from my trip to eternity. Seeing the bullets splash, I moved to take cover. During my summersault over a berm the gook sniper launch another burst of automatic fire. I felt something striking my helmet violently, jolting my head backwards, knocking my helmet into the water. For a brief second I was consumed by a sanctified peace, reliving my past life as it flashed in front of me while my reasoning seemed to move in slow motion. I concluded the only thing missing was a levitation toward a bright light. My predominant thought during that nanosecond was “so this is what dead is like”.

A quick head shake and a “sorry about that” snapped me out of my eulogy. It seems my moment of death was only Sugar Bear kicking me in the head as he also jumped over the same berm. From that point on, having just paid a visit, the afterlife and purgatory seemed less frightening. 

We called in air support and within ten minutes, two AH-1 Cobra Attack Helicopters were on station. We mark the sniper position with a 40mm smoke grenade. After clearing the Cobras “hot”, they began to lite up the area with 2.75mm rockets and 5 inch Zuni’s, the grand finale on the 4^th of July. After expending all their ordnance, the Cobras departed for home and we continued to remain on high alert. 

Since it was getting dark and since the pickup LZ was now considered hot, the helicopters and our transportation back to base would have to wait till the morning. No shit, now we a have slumber party in a rice paddy. We set up a defensive perimeter, maximized security and waited until morning to get our ride back to dry land. Hell, maybe Sugar Bear can kick me in the head again.

After a few days in the rear to dry out, warm chow and a clean uniform, our platoon was assigned the Area QRF, the Quick Reaction Force. Our job was to be on a thirty-minute standby and launch anywhere to assist a unit that needed reinforcements. Acting as a blocking force while the main unit sweep through the area was a good QRF mission. Holding a key terrain feature while the main unit moved into enemy contact was a good QRF mission. Pulling Special Operation Marines butts out of trouble when shit hit the fan was not a good mission, but we did that more often than not. 

While standing QRF, we were transported near a hamlet in an area called the “Arizona”. Rumor had it the “Agency” had just worked their Phoenix program in that area, focusing on this hamlet. 

Phoenix was a CIA program designed to identify and destroy the Viet Cong via infiltration, torture, interrogation and assassination. Torture, assassination! Hell, If the rumor mill was true, we’re about to pay a visit to some pissed off villagers.  

Once off the helicopter, Dalton and I moved through the bush, down a separate footpath. We were looking for any ammo cache or signs that Charlie had been there. Quickly, yet cautiously, the hunt was on. Suddenly we came upon a fork in the foot trail. Daulton and I looked at each other for a half second. Then with a shrug of my shoulders, I took ownership of the tail and motioned I’d take the right path. Dalton nodded that he had the “left path”. With thumbs up and a pat on his shoulder, I drifted toward a decade of pseudo-nihilism. 

Within minutes of our divergence, an explosion and “corpsman up” rang out, organized chaos ensued.  Moving toward the sound, I found Dalton being administer morphine by the corpsman. We begin to set up a secure perimeter and call in a medevac helicopter. The helo arrived and Dalton was carried out on a stretcher. He looked anesthetized and motionless on his back. His left arm was draped over his chest with his right arm curled up by his side. His left side was charred, uniform torn and blood stained. The right boot and left leg below the knee was gone. The stretcher team hurried to the medevac helo. This was the last time I saw my friend Tim Dalton. 

Few days later, assuming Dalton was safely in a hospital getting primo care, I asked the first sergeant “how’s Dalton?” Without putting down his binoculars the Top said “he’s gone”, the inference “gone from this life”.  That’s how we did it in the bush, no memorial, no eulogy, no “what a great guy he was”. The First Sergeant continued his “binocular gook hunting” and I walked away, emotion drained having just heard Dalton didn’t make it. I continued cleaning my rifle.  

Epilogue: my ownership of the “path not travelled” weight heavy on my core for the next thirteen years. I would be playing the “what if” game for evermore. What if I took the “left path” instead of Dalton, would I have been terminated. Would there not be a Karen and Steve or three wonderful daughters. What would Karen’s grandchildren look like or be like without Steve propagating the family lineage. Would she marry up into a better gene pool. The hereditary genome sequence was mind blowing. 

In 1983, on the opening of the Vietnam Memorial, I made a trip to Washington D.C. to visit “The Wall”. At the west end of the entrance to the memorial, stood a podium with a book of 58,000 plus names that were killed in the Vietnam War. I quickly perused the book, noting other Marine brothers lost, but could not find Lance Corporal Timothy Dalton, USMC. This exigent realization was as if someone had thrown a stone and hit the back of my head. 

Dalton wasn’t on the Wall, he wasn’t dead. When I got the word “he’s gone” what the first sergeant must have meant was “he’s gone back to the states” not “he’s gone dead”. Wow, what a transformation in my thought process and a quick rewrite of history. Now it was Dalton surviving the impact of the explosion, losing a leg but living a fine Hoosier life the last thirteen years. 

I recalibrate my timeline, flashbacked to “what if I took the left path” and lost my leg. What a head fuck! How would my life have been the last thirteen years? Still married to my high school sweetheart, raising three wonderful daughters and having a career selling insurance. No college football, no continued military career, no Pensacola pilot training or leather flight jacket with aviator sunglasses. OK, so the “left path” was not a mortal wound to Dalton, but did have had me rewriting my one-legged history.  

Story’s not over. After the 9/11 attack, I was ordered back to active duty. My assignment was in the Pentagon, Washington D.C. On a Sunday afternoon, I made another trip to the Vietnam War Memorial. The “book of dead” was still on the podium near the entrance to the Wall, albeit, with a few names added since 1983. I bypassed the book and went directly to the Wall with a different “search query”. Staring at the Wall, I focused on the 1970 thru 1971 time period. I read the names engraved on the black granite and saw the faces of Bennett, Kempel, Aston, Trotta, Tucker, Ward, Rowley. 

Then, like a tequila hangover and a linebacker hitting you in the head, there it was. I struggled to not vomit, my head was pounding and a violent spasm overtook my body. Engraved in the black granite was the last name Daulton, spelled with a “U”. The “what if” game returned with a vengeance. The explosion near a shitty little hamlet, in a shitty little country, did kill my friend Tim Daulton. The only thing that changed from that explosive day, thirty-two years ago, was the spelling of “Daulton”.