LBJ's Hired Gun

by John J. Gebhart

  WILDLIFE

  Vietnam had a lot of things running around on the ground. At Ky Ha, we had fast-moving, busybody lizards. They liked to sun themselves around the rocks at the beach, but they watched you all the time and you could never catch them. We used to throw our bayonets at them, but nobody was ever lucky enough to hit one. They were harmless, and we only messed with them when we got bored filling sandbags.

  One moonless night, I was stuck on guard duty with Shithouse Jackson. I started telling him ghost stories and they got him all shook up. I told him about a Viet Minh General who climbed out of his grave on moonless nights and cut the throats of sleeping Marines, thinking they were Frenchmen and he was still fighting the French IndoChina war. Before long, Jackson had had enough and told me to shut up. He went out the back of the sandbag bunker to take a piss and came running in scared bug-eyed, claiming there were a couple of tigers outside the bunker entrance.

  I figured he was getting back at me, so I grabbed my M-14, chambered a round, and went outside to shoot these imaginary tigers. What did I run into? A full-grown ocelot with two cubs trailing behind her! She wasn’t afraid of me. I shined my flashlight into her eyes, and she stopped dead in her tracks. I had always pictured ocelots as big as mountain lions, but in reality they are the size of an average dog. I quickly turned off the flashlight before a sniper could take a shot at me, but I was amazed to see this beautiful cat with the large, tufted ears.

  The ocelot and her cubs went off into the night and I came back into the bunker screaming, “The tiger ate my arm off!” Jackson almost shit himself and yelled out, “Please God! Don’t let the tiger eat me!” I burst out laughing and unloaded my rifle. I always liked Lance Corporal Jackson. Like I’ve said, he always had a lot of goodies from home that he shared with other Marines. This night, he popped open a can of Planters Peanuts and we ate them and laughed about the pussycat, aka tiger, we had just seen!

  Another time we inserted Recon team Sudden Death, which was one of our favorite teams because they always seemed to pick a hill with zips already on it. If we saw enemy soldiers running around, we “dusted” them, as helicopter people put it. When you hit their black PJs, dust came out of their clothing—hence the term was born.

  This particular sunny day it was very quiet. We flew down to 25 feet over six-foot elephant grass, which moved like great waves in the ocean in the back blast from our chopper. All of a sudden, I saw a lot of brown objects directly beneath us running in all directions. Corporal Cross and I opened fire and wasted two 100-round belts each. I took a look with my field glasses at some of the dead, and guess what? They were not VC/NVAs, but a herd of wild boars.

  The recon team landed, secured their landing zone, and were happier than faggots in Boys’ Town to have wild boar for dinner. Those they didn’t eat they skinned and cut the heads off. Now they had scary new toys to hang on their hootch walls. Major Moose was tempted to land and pick one up for us to eat, but our Colonel was a dead serious officer who would have blown his top if he knew we had risked losing our gunbird by landing to pick up dead animals. Thus, Sudden Death dined on first-class, freshly killed wild boar, and we flew back to base totally amazed at what big game hunters we had become.

  CHAPTER 7

  EXTENDING MY TROPICAL VACATION FOR ANOTHER YEAR

  THE PRIVATE WAR OF THE FIRST SERGEANTS

  Well, just as expected, First Sergeant Prick really did know First Sergeant Doright. I believe they had been PFCs together in World War II, fighting the Japs on Tarawa. One day First Sergeant Prick flew down from Marble Mountain with a Bell Helicopter representative who was to inspect each UH-IE chopper for a mechanical problem that temporarily grounded our birds. Both First Sergeants quickly got a load on and the bullshit started pouring out as to who was the best Marine. We all listened to this for about two hours and then went to bed. Both of them got into a jeep and loaded it with two M-60 machine guns, 4,000 rounds of ammo, two M-79 grenade launchers, two grease guns and a case of hand grenades. They then took a case of beer and a bottle of Jack Daniels, and headed down the road toward the main Marine camps at Chu Lai. They somehow got through the gate and past the Army Hospital into the open road, which was loaded with VCs, NVAs and unfriendly villagers.

  After a couple of miles, they parked the jeep on the side of the road and waited to shoot some zips. It sounds pretty simple when I relate it, but believe me it happened. The two old Lifer fools would probably have gotten themselves killed if it hadn’t been for a convoy coming up the highway from Quang Ngai City headed for the Army hospital with supplies. The convoy had MPs driving up front and they ran right into the two First Sergeants.

  There was all hell to pay when both First Sergeants told the Army MPs to leave them be and mind their own business. This was their private war and an army made up of draftees wasn’t invited. The MPs called Land Shark Alpha and were instructed to bring the two First Sergeants back to the end of Chu Lai at Ky Ha. The MPs overpowered them, handcuffed them together, and took their beer away.

  About midnight, the MPs drove into our compound at Ky Ha with the First Sergeants handcuffed to each other in the back of their jeep, which was loaded with ammo and machine guns. The two First Sergeants were in rare, foul, drunken moods, and there was a lot of yelling. Everyone came out of their hootches for the show. They were released to the Commanding Officer, Colonel Monte, who told the Army he would deal with them. The jeep was parked in front of Ordnance and both First Sergeants were marched into the Colonel’s office in the S-1 Building. He yelled at them for five minutes, then left in his jeep. Both First Sergeants came out and yelled at all of us, “What the fuck are you looking at?” We all went back to bed laughing at the antics of the two old hard-core Lifer fools.

  HOW MAJOR MOOSE GOT HIS M-16 RIFLE

  Corporal Booze and Sergeant Irish both worked in the parachute loft. They fixed anything made of nylon, and repaired helicopter seats, rescue equipment and parachutes that we didn’t have. They made great nylon bullet holders for our shoulder holster, whereby a gunner or crew chief could wear 35 to 40 extra .38-caliber bullets. They were entertaining, good-natured drunks who never bothered anyone and got lots of great stuff for everyone. They even got me a one-man rescue raft with paddle included, so I could go exploring the seashore area around Chu Lai. The only problem was that they were always arguing about stupid stuff. When they got bored they drank hard liquor, and then we had to babysit them and listen to their endless arguments. A few times I pointed my .38-caliber pistol at them and told them to shut the hell up or go out and argue in the rain.

  One time Sergeant Irish got a bottle of Jack Daniels and went on a two-day drunk. Corporal Booze covered for him at work while he sat in our hootch and drank beer after beer and shots of Jack Daniels. He soon ran out of hard liquor, and told Corporal Booze he wasn’t allowed in his hootch, which we all shared, unless he came in with another bottle. I gave Corporal Booze a bottle of Red Fox whiskey, which wasn’t good enough for Sergeant Irish. He got really pissed that Corporal Booze couldn’t get him his drink of choice, and they got into a knock-down, drag-out fight.

  We all watched these two idiot buddies roll around on the floor, and thought it was quite funny. Sergeant Irish then grabbed an alarm clock and hit Corporal Booze in the face so hard it left the imprint of the clock on his left cheek. Corporal Booze was so drunk he didn’t even feel it. Sergeant Irish felt sorry and thought he had killed Corporal Booze. We had to pick them both up and dump them into their racks, something we had all done numerous times before.

  The next day Corporal Booze still had the imprint of an alarm clock on his face. Captain Ruthless saw Corporal Booze’s face all swollen up and sent him to sickbay. The Navy doctor reported back to Captain Ruthless that, in his opinion, Corporal Booze had been struck so hard by another Marine that it left the outline of an alarm clock on his face. Captain Ruthless must have had a hard-on for Sergeant Irish and his wild behavior in the parachute loft department. Who knows? Next thing we knew Sergeant
Irish was up for office hours and possible court-martial for hitting a Marine of lesser rank. They tried to get me as a witness, but once again I said I was taking a piss and had missed whatever had happened.

  First Sergeant Doright laughed at my excuse and said, “How come you never, ever see anything, Gebhart?” I just gave him a dumb look back, and he said, “Send in the next man to be interviewed.” Captain Ruthless wrote up the order for a full court-martial board to meet, and by luck, Major Moose was appointed the senior officer.

  I liked both of these fun-loving drunks, and didn’t want to see Sergeant Irish get busted. I asked Major Moose what I could do to get Sergeant Irish off the hook. Major Moose looked me in the face and said, “Get me an M-16 rifle and I’ll find insufficient evidence and let Sergeant Irish slide.” I said, “How the hell am I going to get an M-16 rifle, when they are only issued to the Army?” He said, “We have a saying in the Marines—find a way or make one!”

  I said I would need a jeep and a driver. He said to take his jeep, but if I got caught, he did not know me and our conversation had never occurred. I borrowed the jeep and went back and got Corpsmen Cure-All to help me get through the main gate of the 93rd Evacuation Hospital. I told him my mission, he agreed, and in some of the finest bullshit ever laid out, we got through the well-guarded Army Hospital main gate. We were on an official medical visit to a wounded Marine who had come in contact with another Marine who had tuberculosis. Corpsmen Cure-All was sent down to monitor his shoulder wound and take a blood sample for Chu Lai’s Medical Department. When he said TB, the Army Corpsmen almost ran from the room. We got a fake blood sample and brought it with us too.

  We then asked for directions to the Army Enlisted Men’s Club, saying we had heard it was a first-class operation. We had to put our weapons in a box outside the club, so I deposited my M-14 rifle, and Corpsman Cure-All left his .45-caliber auto. We then went in and got a half-ass drunk. The Army was amused by a visit from a Marine helicopter gunner and a Corpsman. Finally we said goodbye to our newfound friends. When we went out to get our guns, I picked up an M-16 rifle with a cartridge belt, canteens, and an extra magazine. We put them under a tarp and calmly drove out the front gate. I dropped off my buddy, Corpsman Cure-All, parked the jeep up at the Major’s hootch, then walked back down the hill to my hootch and told Sergeant Irish I had just saved his ass. He should make up with Corporal Booze and stop arguing and drinking so much. Grow up!

  He didn’t believe me, and lay awake all night listening to our snores, thinking that Gebhart was bullshitting him. His court-martial hearing was at 9:00 AM. He even got a clean pair of BVDs and shined his brass, polished his boots and starched his cap. At 8:00 AM, Major Moose asked, “Where is my M-16, Gebhart?” “It’s under the tarp in your jeep, Sir,” I replied. He looked under the tarp and I saw the biggest smile I ever saw on his face. I told him it was hot, and not to get caught with it. “Bullshit,” he replied. “You let me worry about that.”

  At 9:00 AM Sergeant Irish walked into his hearing. At 9:15 AM Sergeant Irish walked out of his hearing. Captain Ruthless was beside himself and Major Moose said if he’d had 50 men like Sergeant Irish, he could have won the war in Korea. Sergeant Irish did get a stern warning to sober up. Everyone was happy. The Major had a new toy, Sergeant Irish got a second chance, and once again, a nobody named Lance Corporal Gebhart performed a miracle. Only Captain Ruthless was pissed off—but hey, you can’t make everyone happy!

  SUICIDE SAM

  PFC Sam Hazzard was a metal smith who fixed bullet holes in UH-IE gunbirds who lived in our hootch. He knew his stuff and was well regarded by his fellow Marines. One sunny Friday, he received the standard letter from his hometown girlfriend that the war was wrong: “I don’t feel right writing to you or being the girlfriend of a baby killer.” The three big TV channels all were showing films of dead villagers, including kids. One famous photo was of a Marine on patrol lighting up a grass-roofed hootch with a Zippo lighter. “We had to destroy the village to save the village,” read the caption. In reality, the Marines had burned down the village to deny the VC rice, food and medical supplies purchased on the black market. The whole village complex with their livestock had been moved to a secure village with ARVNs running it. That one picture made General Walt so pissed that no TV news people were ever again allowed to film an operation. They were kept under constant guard and restricted to Da Nang Air Base, where they were briefed once a day.

  When PFC Sam Hazzard got his Dear John letter, he was heart broken. All he ever talked about was his girl, and how he was saving up to buy a Mustang convertible. We tried to get him drinking. We tried to tell him maybe she wasn’t good enough for him. We got pretty drunk trying to get him drunk so he could get it out of his system. This type of thing happened all the time—just about every Marine in our hootch lost his woman to draft dodgers and dope smoking, coward dogs who loved what America had to offer but refused to fight for their country.

  As our hootch got ready to go to the movies, PFC Sam asked for my MP .38 pistol. Every man in the hootch wanted to walk away from this new tragedy. We needed an emotional break from these heartbreaking incidents. I said, “Here’s my pistol. Don’t make a mess in our hootch. If your buddies can’t help cheer you up, then go behind the hootch and shoot yourself. Think about your parents at your military funeral. Think about the rifle salute and the folded flag given to your mother. Do you think they can handle the stress and sorrow of your suicide?” We all did our best to save Sam.

  The Special Service was still hard up for movies, so they were showing TV shows like Batman and Combat. We all loved the Combat reruns. It was bullshit—the regulars never got killed, only the new guys in their Army unit. As PFC Sam took the pistol and was walking out the door to shoot himself, I said, “You’re going to miss Batman.” He took his lawn chair out back, sat down, and cocked the pistol. I said, “I’m out of here. I need a break from this forthcoming tragedy.”

  As coldhearted as it seems, we got our lawn chairs and beer and headed to the flick. Any minute I waited to hear the shot. Some of my fellow hootch buddies said I was too cold and uncaring of him. I said, “You guys are wrong. I’d risk my life for any one of you. You’re my family, but he needs to get his head screwed on right. If we show we don’t care, he may decide to join us and not shoot himself. We can’t baby him.” I prayed to God I was right.

  Then a miracle happened. A guy pulled up his lawn chair next to me. I looked over, and it was PFC Hazzard. He handed me my pistol back and said we were a ruthless bunch of uncaring bastards. I said, “Glad you could make it. Batman is in real trouble and Boy Wonder is still at stately Wayne Mansion sleeping!”

  We all walked back to the hootch together and I pulled out a bottle of Napoleon brandy I had traded an extra K-bar for. I got out 12 Dixie cups, filled each with a shot, and we toasted PFC Sam Hazzard’s new nickname, Suicide Sam! Sam was both pissed and happy about his new handle. We all laughed and told him it was good he hadn’t shot himself, for he would be burning in hell with all the gooks we had killed. Quietly, I said a thank you prayer to God for helping Sam see the light. Who said miracles don’t happen? Praise the Lord and load the M-60s!

  MERITORIOUS PROMOTION TO CORPORAL

  Around August 1966 at Chu Lai, I decided to call in a favor to Gunny Sergeant Wood at Wing S-3 Headquarters. I went into S-1 and looked up meritorious promotion papers. I copied one set and replaced the guy’s name with mine. I wrote a lot of bullshit about how I was winning the war as a door gunner and operations clerk and typed it up in triplicate. All I needed now was a Major’s or Colonel’s signature. The Colonel would sign any papers I put in front of him, but if I got caught later it would make him look bad, so I decided to work on Major Moose, who was easier to bullshit.

  One day I simply walked up to him and said there was a warrant at Wing for a promotion to Corporal for an outstanding Marine. I told him I thought I deserved this—I risked my life flying in his crew, and I had more than earned it. He smiled
and signed it, shook my hand, and said I was an outstanding bullshit artist who would do anything to get ahead. When Captain Adventure heard the story, he laughed and asked if I could get him promoted to Major. I told him that I would ask my Rabbi at Wing what he could do for him, and he just shook his head.

  Gunny Sergeant Wood took the merit promotion papers to the Colonel who ran the Wing and got them signed personally. He also saw that my paperwork was ready for my award of the Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V for killing seven VCs at Marble Mountain. Then he sent back my medal and promotion paperwork.

  A week later I was told to wear clean utilities, polished boots and brass, and a starched hat—our squadron had an award ceremony. Air medals, Purple Hearts and all other types of medals were awarded this happy day for both officers and enlisted men. I was awarded my Navy Commendation Medal with Combat V and also my meritorious promotion to Corporal E-4. The whole outfit had to stand at attention in the hot sun and General Kulak came down from III MAF Headquarters to hand out awards and shake our hands.

  I was extremely happy. All my buddies had to listen to how my total devotion to duty stopped the insurgent VC guerrillas from wiping out all the UH-IE gunbirds at Marble Mountain. My action saved the day and was in keeping with the highest traditions of the Navy. I got to shake the hand of a famous World War II General. My crew chief, Corporal Cross, was awarded his 22 to 32 air medal awards. We were two proud Marines that hot August day, and the drinks were on us.