LBJ's Hired Gun

by John J. Gebhart

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  LBJ’s Hired Gun

  A Marine Corps Helicopter Gunner’s War in Vietnam

  John J. Gebhart

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  1. MY PARRIS ISLAND VACATION: Marine Boot Camp

  In The Beginning

  Boot Camp Rude Awakening

  My New Home

  The Rope

  The Piss Ants

  The Pack of Cigarettes

  The Whitman Incident

  Swamp Thing

  Pugil Sticks

  Rifle Range

  2. MY CRUISE SHIP TO ’NAM

  The Good Ship Lollypop

  Havoc on Hotel Street

  The He/She Incident

  Aviation Guaranteed

  Our Luxury Yacht

  The D-Day Landing

  The Screaming Mimis

  Laying Wire and Riding Shotgun

  The Boy Who Blew Up

  The Marlboro Man

  Play Money

  3. MY BEACHFRONT PROPERTY: Misadventures at Marble Mountain

  The Soul Brother Bunker

  The 3.5 Rocket Incident

  Paddy-Hopping Hawkins

  Guard Duty: The Attack on Marble Mountain

  The Bruiser AK-47

  Sergeant Kilpatrick

  My Dog Prince

  The M-48 Tank Visit

  Jungle Survival School

  The Prodigal Son Returns

  Private First Class Punchy the Monkey

  The Day I Met My Guardian Angel

  The KIA Guard

  The Clap

  Red Beach

  Navy Drone Disaster

  The Dog that Exploded

  Zips in the Wire

  Mortars

  Our First VC Prisoner

  The One-Man Transfer

  4. LEARNING TO DEAL OUT DEATH FROM ABOVE

  My Welcome to the Land of Mud

  The Great Grapefruit Investigation

  NSU, or How I Became a Huey Door Gunner.

  Mission Number One

  The Balls Test

  Rockets Away

  The Holy Man

  Two-Shot Chu Lai Charlie

  The KGB Spy

  5. DAILY LIFE AT CLUB MED, CHU LAI

  The Phantom Faggot

  The Twin Brothers

  The Island

  The Great Popcorn Tragedy

  Shithouse Jackson

  How Sergeant Reckless Lost His Crackers

  LST 912

  My R&R Trip to Hong Kong

  6. EARNING MY KEEP: More Adventures of a Huey Door Gunner

  Carrier Warfare

  The Dynamic Duo: Captain Thrill and Lieutenant Seeker

  The Day of the General

  They Died With Their Boots On

  The Nungs

  Wildlife

  7. EXTENDING MY TROPICAL VACATION FOR ANOTHER YEAR

  The Private War of the First Sergeants

  How Major Moose Got His M-16 Rifle

  Suicide Sam

  Meritorious Promotion to Corporal

  My Dear John Letter

  Major Misery

  Going Home

  The New People

  First Sergeant Rocky

  Sergeant Snake Eyes

  Christmas in ’Nam, 1966

  Corporal Wiseass

  The Tunnel Rat and the Tiger

  Beef and Beer Beach Party

  Corporal Wiseass’s Trip to Lunch

  Nurse Michelle

  8. MY SIDETRIP TO AUSTRALIA

  The Passport Trek, Da Nang

  Second Passport Trek, Saigon

  The Motorcycle Bandits

  My Return Trip to Chu Lai

  Australia, Here I Come

  My Thirty-Day Vacation

  The American Embassy, Sydney

  Heaven Down Under

  My Triumphant Return

  9. WORKING AT THE DUDE RANCH FOR LBJ

  How Major Goodheart Went to Heaven

  Paybacks are a Gook’s Worst Nightmare

  How I Taught Myself to Swim

  The Great Swimming Test

  Major Misery’s Miracle

  The Reactionary Platoon

  The Peninsula Incident

  One Pachyderm Bites the Dust

  The Day We Fell From the Sky

  The VC Submarine Incident

  The Beetle-Toothed Old Lady Who Exploded

  Number Ten’s Deadly Descent

  The Trawler Incident

  The Hedge That Moved

  The Old Man and the Swimming Hole

  King Cobra

  The Zip I Cut In Half

  Groundhog Day

  Number 8 Disintegrate

  The ROKs

  The Bucket of Blood

  The Hidden Trench

  My Last Mission

  10. HAPPY TRAILS: Good Luck and Goodbye

  Going Home, September 1967

  LA International

  My Last Assignment

  GLOSSARY

  APPENDIX: Marine Songs and Gunship Missions

  PREFACE

  “Be just and fear not; let all the ends thou aim’st at by thy country, thy God’s and truth’s. I do love my country’s good with a respect more tender, more holy, and profound than my own life.”

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  I carried these stories around in my head for 38 years. When I returned home from ’Nam in 1968 and went back to complete my degree at Saint Joseph’s College in Philadelphia, no one wanted to hear what I had been doing for the last four years. When I joined the local Veterans of Foreign Wars in Sellersville, PA in 1976, no World War II veterans or Korean War veterans wanted to hear my stories either. They only wanted my dues money, not tales of my daring deeds. In short, no one gave a damn about what we combat veterans went through in Vietnam. Finally books got written, brave tales got told, movies got made and America slowly embraced us. The long black wall went up with fallen warriors’ names, and finally America said thank you with a few parades and welcome-home handshakes. By this time, some Vietnam veterans no longer even mentioned their time in ’Nam, and some became drunks or drug addicts. Most were bitter inside but went on with their lives.

  When we arrived in Vietnam, we were all eager to save the Vietnamese from being overrun by their northern Communist neighbors. We soon learned that average Vietnamese farmers couldn’t care less who ran their country as long as they were left alone. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) had the latest weapons, uniforms, and equipment, but was totally useless. We had to take over from being advisors to fighting their war while they sat on their asses and listened to their new Sony radios.

  The ARVN had a few elite Ranger outfits but not enough to win the war. Thus they did less and less as the days went on. We soon learned that most of the local villages were infested with the Viet Cong (VC). We fought to save ourselves. We turned into stones that showed no emotion or mercy. We learned how to fight the VC and North Vietnam’s Army (NVA) and wasted thousands of them without a tear. As fast as we killed them, new replacements came hopping down the bunny trail.

  The American press made it look like we were losing but we really were doing an outstanding job. We soon ran into the problem of Washington, DC calling the shots instead of our field commanders. Thus after the Tet Offensive, which was a great Marine Corps victory that the press called a defeat, our field commanders had their hands tied as to what they could do on their own. After all, the US didn’t want to piss off Russia and China, the very people who were supplying the up-to-date wea
pons and materiel to kill us.

  The Marine Corps finally got fed up with a war we were not allowed to win and thus packed up and left. The Army soon followed. Thus the ARVN had to get off their lazy asses and resume the fight on their own. We all knew this was a joke. The ARVN ran like rats off a sinking ship. The US shouldn’t have allowed even one into our country. But then they didn’t even have the guts to try Jane Fonda for treason. Finally the ARVN reached a peace settlement with the Communists. It was, of course, just a lull the North needed to rebuild its strength and convert the Ho Chi Minh Trail from a bomb-cratered jungle path to a two-lane highway. When the NVA sprang again, the entire ARVN collapsed in about two weeks.

  When the Marines in I-Corps left we were winning—never tell a Marine veteran from Vietnam that we lost the war. The coward ARVN soldiers lost their will to fight and gave their country up. Period!

  I hope my readers enjoy these tales of war and that they shed some light on what an ordinary Marine had to put up with in ’Nam. Some stories are happy and some are sad, but they all allow the reader to put himself in my boots and follow how I went from a shitbird Private First Class to a Sergeant E-5 in two years. Relive my adventures and re-tell my tales, just as Vikings long ago sat around campfires and relived the timeless sagas of their warriors.

  JOHN J. GEBHART

  August 2007

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It would have taken me to the end of time to get every Marine’s exact name and permission to include in this book. There was also no point in writing it if I couldn’t be totally honest, and far be it from me to hurt anyone’s feelings. Thus I have changed the names for the benefit of telling a good tale. As in every account of things that happened long ago, I may have forgotten a detail or two or even added a thought. I tried my best to remember every detail exactly as it happened to my outfit and me. Forgive me if I have left something out and do not chastise me if I have added something, for I am only a mortal man trying to remember the brave deeds of gallant warriors who fought so long ago.

  To all my reckless, daring comrades who served with VMO-6 “Klondike” at Ky Ha, Republic of Vietnam, from 1965 to 1967. May their devotion to duty, honor, and country never be forgotten. May we some day meet again in Valhalla and drink a toast in memory of all our forgotten deeds.

  CHAPTER 1

  MY PARRIS ISLAND VACATION: Marine Boot Camp

  IN THE BEGINNING

  It was the best of times and the worst of times. It was also my time in 1964. I was 21, working as a bank teller during the day and attending college at night. I drove a 1958 MGA sports coupe and dated a beautiful blonde who looked like Bridgett Bardot. I had it made. I was six-foot-two and weighed 165 pounds. No matter how much I ate or how much beer I drank, I seemed to stay the same weight. To sum up my life, I was a tall, skinny, wiseass, fast-talking guy who was bored. I longed for the great adventure—a crusade, a search for the Holy Grail. I had never been more than 500 miles from home. I felt that I would never see the world. I loved deer hunting, shooting of all types, and the great outdoors. I was a grown-up Boy Scout at heart. Deep down in the pit of my being, I was still a boy playing boys’ games. And it dawned on me that I needed to become a man. I decided that I wanted to emulate every John Wayne war movie I ever saw. I needed to become a mean, green fighting machine. I needed to join the Marines!

  The Vietnam War was just getting started and the local draft board began sending notices to everyone to report for a physical. One day everyone in my West Philadelphia neighborhood received a notice to report to 401 North Broad Street for their draft physical. I saw guys there that I hadn’t seen for years. The last time we’d met, the Nuns at Saint Callistus Grammar School had had to intervene and beat us up, calling us “bold brazen articles.”

  The physical exam was somewhat of a joke. They made 200 guys stand in their underwear with numbers on their shoulders. A bunch of Army PFCs and Corporals were running the show, acting like Generals. One fat pachyderm flunked his physical because he had hemorrhoids. He was happier than a faggot in Boy’s Town. He even bent over so we could see his marvelous affliction! Another guy, a muscle-beach, Mafia-killer type, fainted when they took his blood. Imagine, a future hit man afraid of his own blood. One guy who had a double heart (a normal one and a small second heart) felt sure that he would flunk. The doctors told him he was lucky—if he got shot in the heart he had an extra one. That was a Ripley’s believe-it-or-not for me. I passed the physical and we all got a free cafeteria lunch. It was very good and you could have whatever you wanted. I was starting to like the military already.

  About two months went by, and everyone who passed the physical received a notice to report to Fort Dix, New Jersey for the Army. My buddy from up the street, whose name also began with “G,” got his draft notice. His name was always called before mine in grammar school, so I knew I had to move quickly or I would be in the Army.

  I called in sick at work for the first time ever. I went out to the Upper Darby Marine Recruiting Office at 69th Street Terminal and signed up. I had already met the Gunny Sergeant who was in charge when he had come to Monsignor Bonner High School on Career Day. The Army promised me a million schools. The Navy promised me I would see the world (probably while painting one of their ships gray). The Air Force promised me an office job. The Marine Gunny Sergeant only promised me one hot meal a day and six hours of sleep if possible. His chest was full of battle ribbons and he was one mean, green killing machine from the Korean War era. Basically he said, “Are you ready for an adventure? One you will remember for the rest of your life? We are the best! Semper Fi, Do or Die! Once a Marine, always a Marine!” Well, for some odd reason this sounded good to me.

  When I told my mother that I had joined the Marines she almost had a heart attack. My father was very proud. My girlfriend was very unhappy with this career move. But you can’t make everyone happy. Just as I predicted, when I returned home from signing up, my draft notice was waiting for me. All my friends were ready to go and were amazed that I’d joined the Marines and wouldn’t be traveling to Fort Dix with them. I signed on the bottom line for four years. Most of my buddies thought I was nuts and would get killed in ’Nam.

  I told everyone who would listen that if you are going to war, you want to go with the best. The Marines don’t leave their dead. They don’t run, they fight until the end. My night college friends thought I was bullshitting them until I showed them the paperwork. They felt I had made a terrible mistake and should have tried to get out of the draft by saying I was in college. Coward dogs!

  I drank my last beer and said goodbye to Saint Joseph’s College and my classmates. I was 12 credits short of being a Junior. I resigned from my job as a bank teller and said goodbye to my boss, who was a Korean-era Marine. He took me out drinking and told me what to do and what not to do in boot camp. We shook hands and that was the end of my banking days.

  BOOT CAMP RUDE AWAKENING

  I left in a van on August 31, 1964 for the Philadelphia Naval Base for the final physical and then the plane ride to Charleston, South Carolina. On the way the recruiter stopped the van at the Italian market and purchased a huge bunch of bananas. One kid weighed only 145 pounds, so the recruiter made him eat all the bananas and drink all the water his stomach could hold. I thought this skinny kid forcing himself to eat bananas was pretty funny. He passed the physical by one pound—151 pounds got him into the Marines.

  Another thing I thought quite strange was our medical inspection. They made everyone drop his pants, and a Navy doctor looked at everyone’s dick with a flashlight. I never had any one look at my dick with a flashlight before. While he was checking for leaky dicks, he kept reciting, “Do you prefer guys to girls, do you do ups or downs, marijuana, heroin?” He listed around a million things. We all passed this rather rude short-arm inspection. It was my first and last in the Corps. Whenever I think of it, I have to laugh. Like some idiot is going to tell him, “Yeah, I’m a faggot with the clap who does heroin.” What a joke that
bit of embarrassment was.

  They put the biggest guy in charge, drove us to Philadelphia International Airport and dropped us off. We boarded the plane and, later in the day, landed in Charleston, SC. From there, a bus took us to Parris Island. It was around 11:00 PM when we finally arrived. The troop handler yelled and screamed at everyone as we were led to a barracks. I was worn out and went to sleep.

  At 5:00 AM the troop handler came inside the barracks, threw the trash all over the place, and called us every name you can think of—maggot, fuck-face, shithead, turd, fucking idiots, and morons. It was “Hurry up! Hurry up! Wait! Hurry up again!” Finally we were led into our new home, 3rd Battalion “Disney Land.” These were real nice, brand-new, three-story brick barracks.

  We were then introduced to our Drill Instructors (DIs). I have to tell you, these guys scared the shit out of just about everyone in that room. We got the super speech. We were to be Platoon 383. There were 90 of us and the DI said, “Take a look at the guy next to you. Some of you will go nuts or die before your 12 weeks are over. There are only two ways to leave the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island. Graduate and leave on a Greyhound bus, or be tagged, bagged and mailed COD to your mother in a wooden box.”

  Our new DIs introduced themselves and put a long string on both sides of the squad bay floor, both port side and starboard. All 90 of us had to line our feet up on the string, then all three DIs came past us and we had to yell out our name, serial number and place of birth: “Private Gebhart, 2099701, USMC, Philadelphia, PA!” Half the guys screwed this up and got punched in the stomach and thrown into the walls of the barracks. The guy next to me started shaking and swaying while I was memorizing my routine. When they came to me, I said I was from West Philadelphia, and I got hit in the stomach and thrown against the wall. The DI said, “What are you, a bad ass from the ghetto, puke?”

  By this time they were in front of the shaky guy. In a sissy voice, he said his name, rank and serial number, and that he was from Hazleton, PA. The DIs were pissed because he sounded like a faggot. The DIs said, “Only faggots and queers come from Hazleton, PA. Which one are you, boy?” They smacked him in the stomach and threw him into the wall like the rest of us. But this guy went bug crazy, pissed his pants, threw up all over, and then shit himself. Then he started rolling around in his shit. I was right next to him, and to this day I have never, ever seen a sight like that. They told him if they had to call the Navy crazy ambulance, and he were faking being crazy to get out of the military, they would drive him crazy for sure. To tell the truth, when we graduated, he was raking leaves behind a large fence and talking to himself in the Navy crazy farm.