I was told to report at 6:00 AM the next morning to the First Sergeant, who claimed he had found a much better job for me. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was really going to screw me this time with a doozy of a detail. He proudly stated I was to report immediately to the Motor Pool and ask for Sergeant Scum. I did as I was ordered, and hitched a ride all the way out to the Motor Pool.
The Motor Pool was a den of iniquity made up mostly of black guys who were waiting court-martial for all the trouble they got into. No one was fixing the jeeps or the trucks—they were all smoking reefers or drinking, and listening to blaring music. I think even the white Lieutenant in charge of them was afraid to go out there.
They didn’t like seeing me, an unknown white guy who might ruin their party and tell First Sergeant Prick. They introduced me to Sergeant Scum, who lived out there and was in charge of the garbage truck. He was practicing throwing his K-bar knife at a wooden target with a zip painted on it. He said I was his new shotgun rider. All I had to do was guard the garbage truck and shoot at VCs and other vermin who tried to steal our trash. He had 16 years in the Marines and had been busted so many times for telling off officers and being drunk on duty that they had hidden him out there at the Motor Pool. We made a great team.
Sergeant Scum believed in running the cleanest garbage truck you ever saw. I mean this truck was his baby. He had every Pep Boys gadget on it, even fox tails on the mirrors. He also had a whore in the village, and every day when he made his personal pit stop, he had her brothers wax, polish and clean the truck. It was a sight to behold!
The mess hall workers loaded on the drums of garbage, we trucked it out of the base, and overturned the cans in the dump, which was filled with zips picking through the trash. Sometimes for fun I would shoot my M-14 rifle over their heads just to scare them. Sergeant Scum just laughed and didn’t give a shit if I really shot any of them or not. Later on, we realized too late that the zips sorting through the garbage were taking all our C-ration cans, using them as shrapnel, and making homemade bombs. They also got Marines’ Dear John letters and had Hanoi Hanna read them on her radio show. Shooting over their heads wasn’t such a good idea after all—I should have just killed them at the dump. They were all VCs, simple as that!
After we dumped our barrels of trash and garbage, we drove the truck to the hut of Sergeant Scum’s Vietnamese girlfriend in a small village near China Beach. It was like a local car wash, zip style. Sergeant Scum supplied all the cleaning stuff like buckets and wax, and her brothers cleaned the truck while he got laid. I drank Tiger 33 Bomb-de-Bomb Vietnamese beer and stood guard.
Sooner or later, it was likely the local VC would try to kill us. They knew our routine—it was the same stop every day. Sergeant Scum carried an M-2 carbine, usually on full auto, and he liked to get drunk and shoot it into the air. In the end, the zips never came after us. They probably figured it wasn’t worth it because they were so close to Marble Mountain Airfield that the Marines would come in and wipe out their village. And so it was that life went on.
This great job came to an end when a lost Captain from III MAF Headquarters came driving down the road one day looking for the General’s villa at China Beach and happened to spot us. Wondering why two zip kids were cleaning a Marine truck, he got his driver to call in our names, and of course First Sergeant Prick told the Captain that we were the garbage men from Marble Mountain. We got put on report, First Sergeant Prick acted like the prick that he was, and I was fired as shotgun rider on the cleanest garbage truck in the Marine Corps.
THE BOY WHO BLEW UP
After we got settled in at Marble Mountain, we got the opportunity to go over to the giant PX at Da Nang Air Base. We suited up with rifles, flak jackets, cartridge belts and helmets, loaded into a deuce-and-a-half truck, and off we went shopping. Marble Mountain was about five miles from Da Nang and the trip took about 20 minutes, depending upon traffic. Da Nang Air Base was quite impressive. The runway went on for miles and the air traffic was endless, with planes landing or taking off just about every minute.
One side was controlled by the Air Force, who lived like kings in cement barracks with hot and cold running water and maids. The Air Force had camouflage-painted F-4 Phantom jets parked in steel-walled revetments or hangars to protect them from mortar fire. I believe they flew beyond the DMZ into North Vietnam. The road into the base had an ARVN outpost, where you could see women cleaning the bodies of dead ARVN soldiers and preparing them for burial. (This was September 1965 and the ARVN still had a little fight in them.) We saw about two dozen dead, mangled soldiers getting washed off and cleaned up for burial. We smelled their dead bodies even from the main road.
On the other side of the base was an Army Observation Squadron Headquarters, the home of daredevil pilots who flew at treetop level to look for VCs. Code-named “Bird Dog,” they flew single-engine Piper Cubs armed with 2.75 Willie Peter (white phosphorus) rockets to mark enemy positions. Bird Dog pilots often called, “Anyone on this channel, we got troop concentration at…,” then read off the map coordinates. We respected them for their bravery and never once failed to respond to their pleas for assistance. A lot of these fearless young men got shot down and were never seen or heard of again. They had balls. The VC and NVA always executed them on the spot.
On the other side of Da Nang was III MAF Headquarters for the First Marine Air Wing and 3rd Marine Division. My buddy Gunny Sergeant Wood worked in these air-conditioned buildings. I believe the huge PX was in the Marine area. It took at least a half hour to see all the merchandise. We purchased all the good things a Marine needs for his daily hygiene, like razor blades, soap, towels, rubber flip flop shower shoes and shaving cream. What amazed me was the stuff they sold for women. There were probably less than 40 nurses at Charlie Med, but the PX had hair spray, underarm deodorant, tampax, perfume, stockings, dresses, shoes, nail polish and a bunch of other stuff. I figured it was for the Air Force whores in Da Nang, or else the head of the PX was making a killing selling it to the zips on the black market.
Next to the Marine compound was a huge wire fence eight to ten feet tall. On the other side was a village we called “Dog Patch.” Since none of us had ever seen how the locals lived, we all went over to the fence to take pictures. There were pigs pissing in the dirt, chickens running around with water buffalo, and kids asking for cigarettes and candy. It was amazing to watch all these zips going about their business—all the old ladies defecating by the road and the old men smiling at us with missing teeth.
As we gaped, a 14-year old kid pulled out a hand grenade, pulled the fuse, and prepared to throw it over the fence at us. We all hit the deck and looked for the sandbag bunkers the Marines had constructed directly across from the fence. The stupid kid waited too long to throw the grenade and it blew up, tearing apart the front of his body like a can of worms. We were all in shock. I had never seen anyone blow the front of his body off—he lost his right arm, half of his left arm, and his stomach fell out like a bag of garbage, with this long sausage all over the place. It reminded me of gutting rabbits during small game hunting season in Pennsylvania.
He wasn’t dead. We all loaded our M-14s and aimed them at the other zips on the other side of the wire fence, but no one had ever shot his rifle in anger, and no one wanted to shoot the kid dead. Basically we were all in a state of disbelief and shock. A Sergeant from Force Recon came running over, and without saying a word pulled out his .45-auto, chambered a round and shot the kid’s head off. What a disgusting mess. The kid’s brains looked like uncooked gray noodles all over the ground. Thus we saw our first dead zip, a not-so-innocent 14-year-old VC, killed with no right arm, half of a left arm, no stomach, and very little head except for his left ear. Closed casket for this zip.
The Recon Sergeant looked at us and asked why we hadn’t finished him off with our rifles. Then he realized by our clean uniforms and haircuts and new web gear that we were nicky new guys from the Air Wing at Marble Mountain. He said, “Welcome to �
�Nam. Shoot anything that makes a wrong move and you’ll be okay. Have a nice day.”
We got back in our trucks and headed home to Marble Mountain still in shock. We were all happy to still be alive and unhurt, and we had learned our first lesson in Vietnam: never trust a zip!
THE MARLBORO MAN
Before we were assigned guard duty, we all got a lecture about not shooting fellow Marines, how to call for illumination flares from the mortar pits, and how to work the clickers on our Claymore mines. One of the things mentioned over and over again was not to smoke. The zips could see a cigarette a half a mile away. I didn’t know if the Gunny Sergeant was bullshitting us or not, but I didn’t smoke any of my small cigars.
Private First Class Hardhead never listened to anyone and didn’t care one bit about what the Gunny Sergeant told us. He slept on guard duty and I was constantly waking him up. One night about 12:30 AM, he told me he was going out to light up a cigarette and take a piss. I said, “Don’t light up. Remember what the Gunny said.” “Bullshit,” he said. He climbed outside, took a piss, stretched his legs, and sat on the sandbag S-3 bunker I had built like Fort Knox. He took about four puffs of his Marlboro, and then I heard a shot ring out. Pfc. Hardhead jumped about six feet in the air and yelled, “I’m hit!” The whole line opened up fire, and I ran out and dragged his ass into the bunker. I saw blood, but I couldn’t find where he was wounded. He was yelling that he was dying, so I told him to shut the hell up and let me find the bullet hole.
Finally, after almost having to sit on his sorry flopping-around ass, I saw a trickle of blood seeping out of his forearm, where he had a tattoo of the Marine Corps bulldog with “Death Before Dishonor.” He was grazed in the bulldog’s leg—a superficial wound. He was a lucky son of a bitch. I bandaged the tattoo area and started laughing. “Some guys will do anything to get a Purple Heart,” I told him, then called the CP. The Lieutenant sent over a jeep to take him to sickbay, where his wound took five stitches. The Lieutenant asked me what happened and I told him I was taking a piss and heard a shot. I guess the VC was a sniper who wasn’t that good. The Lieutenant looked at me and sent me back to my bunker with another Marine replacement.
The whole outfit knew the real story by sun-up and PFC Hardhead was the butt of jokes for a couple of days. I learned the Gunny Sergeant wasn’t bullshitting, and we also realized the enemy had rifles with scopes and was ready to punch out our headlights for good. From that time on, we watched in total darkness from our bunkers waiting to get a shot at our new nemesis, Victor Charlie Sniper.
PLAY MONEY
In Vietnam you were not allowed to have real greenback dollars. The Communists could use our money on the world market to buy arms, so the military paid you in MPC scrip (Military Payment Certificates), paper money issued to US military personnel serving overseas in lieu of local or US currency. This came in bills of one, five, ten and 20 dollars, and looked like play money. The zips would give you about 145 piasters (the local currency) for a real American dollar, and the military scrip for the same face amount would get you about 110 piasters. If you got caught with real greenbacks, you would get into a world of shit, at least in the Marines.
It took a while to get used to the play money. One day after we had recently arrived, Sergeant Laugh and Corporal Clueless decided to borrow a jeep and go shopping in Da Nang. Corporal Clueless was in charge of Special Services—in short, he handed out board games, sneakers, baseball gloves and sporting equipment. He was something else, a walking encyclopedia about how many home runs some guy hit, or who caught which ball in the Super Bowl. Sergeant Laugh was in charge of avionics, fixing helicopter instruments. He knew his stuff, so the heavies let him be, half drunk and all. Both these guys were always arguing about some worthless crap like who was the most valuable player. Who cared? We were in ’Nam!
They talked me into riding shotgun in their borrowed jeep for the trip to town. As we were driving through center city Da Nang, Sergeant Laugh saw two ARVN soldiers guarding a fancy villa that probably belonged to some worthless, dope-peddling ARVN General. Both guards had Thompson submachine guns. Until this day, I can’t believe what happened next. Corporal Clueless pulled the jeep over in front of the villa, and Sergeant Laugh got out and started talking to the two ARVN soldiers. He asked to see and hold one of their 1928 Model Tommy guns. Next thing I knew, Sergeant Laugh gave the ARVN soldier his Sony boom box radio and $50.00 cash he had hidden in his boots in exchange for his Tommy gun and three extra 30-round magazines. And so I realized that the ARVN were worthless. A guy on guard duty doesn’t sell his weapon! Period!
We hopped back into the jeep and Sergeant Laugh was now a Chicago gangster working for Al Capone. I just shook my head. Corporal Clueless said, “Let’s blast something!” Sure, in center city Da Nang, crawling with MPs!
Next, Corporal Clueless handed me a small pile of Parker Brothers Monopoly money that he had stolen from one of the board games, and announced we were mixing it with MPC scrip money and throwing in some greenbacks. He said to mix it all up and look dumb because we were going shopping. We went into a fancy shop that was run by a Frenchman and a young, good-looking Vietnamese girl who spoke pretty good English. They had marble chess sets, silk Suzy Wong dresses, silk shoes, and even stuffed alligators. We picked out a lot of items fast and had the girl wrap and box them while we drank Tiger 33 Bomb-de-Bomb Vietnamese beer and talked with the Frenchman. We then pulled out our wads of money and spent about $1,500 among the three of us. The girl started counting the money and we tipped her with real dollars. We got both of them real confused while Corporal Clueless loaded up all the souvenirs. I was told to hold the Tommy gun so no one stole anything out of the jeep.
We tipped the owner $50.00 in Monopoly money and said adios. Corporal Clueless hit the gas and we disappeared back onto the road to Marble Mountain. Of course we had to make a pit stop and Sergeant Laugh had to shoot his new Tommy gun. I took them over to the garbage pit area and we each shot a magazine. The gun worked fine. It was a bit heavy to carry, but Sergeant Laugh was in all his glory. He had a Tommy gun, a jeep full of ill-gotten souvenirs and half a load on.
No sooner had I forgotten this sad episode than I saw a small, odd-looking French car drive up from the front gate at Marble Mountain. Out popped the French shop owner, needless to say, mad as hell, yelling in French like a faggot pastry chef in some fancy Paris hotel. He was escorted into the main S-1 Office, and then we heard an announcement that all base personnel were to muster onto the flight line immediately. He wanted to personally go up and down the ranks, looking for the wiseass who gave him the Monopoly money.
It was time to beat feet, as the black guys would say. I hopped on a Huey slick making a mail run to III MAF Headquarters. Since I was in S-3 Operations and in charge of scheduling flights, no one said anything when I decided to cool off and take a quick ride. The chopper landed and we went to the PX and wasted more time. When I returned, the French guy was gone, and he never found the guilty culprits. Sergeant Laugh and Corporal Clueless had disappeared somewhere too. God only knows where they hid.
Two days later Marine Corps Order 1127-M came out: anyone who knowingly used Monopoly money in town or off base would be reduced in rank and get two months in the brig at LBJ, aka Long Bing Jail, and lose six months in pay. So much for that scam!
CHAPTER 3
MY BEACHFRONT PROPERTY: Misadventures at Marble Mountain
THE SOUL BROTHER BUNKER
When we moved into Marble Mountain, everyone got stuck building guard bunkers. They took thousands of sandbags to construct. You either shoveled sand into the sandbags or held the bag while another Marine shoveled, and then you tied it up and stacked it where you wanted it. We constructed a line of these bunkers completely around our base, even the side facing the South China Sea and our private beach. Everyone from Sergeant to Private filled sandbags. It was a task that never ended. We bitched about doing this in the hot sun, but they would save your ass if and when we got attacked.
&n
bsp; Unlike our later situation at Chu Lai, where everything was integrated and all of us got along, the soul brothers at Marble Mountain all lived in two separate hootches and built their own bunkers. All of them worked at Motor Transport, and most were PFCs and Privates with terrible records. There was no discrimination—we all got the same jobs, white or black, but they were always bitching and complaining about how they never got promoted and were always getting office hours and court-martialed. They stuck together like glue and believed that they were sent to ’Nam because they were black. The rest of us, of course, were just tourists.
Finally the line of bunkers was completed, and the soul brothers took over two of them. We were told not to talk loudly, smoke, listen to music, drink or sleep while on guard duty. First Sergeant Prick was always on the prowl, and he caught the soul brothers sleeping on guard duty a number of times. Being a defiant bunch, they also smoked weed, listened to jitterbug jungle music, drank booze and generally screwed around.
As we were finishing our bunkers and installing M-60 machine guns, we ran into a stranger, an American Marine who wore a blue web belt and blue Seabee hat. He looked at each bunker, checking which ones had M-60s and which had 106mm recoilless rifles, and scoped out the whole line. He saw that black Marines manned two bunkers, and that they were smoking reefer even in broad daylight and bitching that this wasn’t their war. We thought he was a Seabee, but in reality he was PFC Bobby Goodwood—a man we learned too late was a spy for the VC.
LBJ's Hired Gun Page 6