Major Goodheart received the Navy Cross, the second highest medal in the Marine Corps. This was the medal no normal-thinking Marine wanted, because usually you had to be dead to receive it. I ran into only one ’Nam Vet who was in a grunt outfit who was awarded this medal and was alive and in one piece to receive it. We called it the Marine Corps’ going-away present. I always wanted a Silver Star or the Medal of Honor, but the Navy Cross was a no-no.
Corporal Cross also told me the incredible follow-up to the Major’s death. A few days later, a report went into Wing Headquarters that all 18 operating UH-IEs were down, due to metal stress around the landing skids. They then loaded up all 18 gunbirds with the big rocket pods. I believe the small ones held seven on each side, but they put the big ones on that held 18 2.75 rockets. Ordnance loaded the Lucky #7 with a good mixture of HE (high explosive), WP (white phosphorous or Willy Peter), and other rockets with large darts called flechette rounds that blew thousands of darts through the air. They did a great job of ruining groups of VCs.
They launched all 18 gunbirds, listing them down on the flight schedule as test hops, and flew in one big formation to the village that helped the VCs kill our Commanding Officer. Corporal Cross said I would have died to be on this mission. As the gunner in my place, they took Corporal Reckless, who already had half a load on from the night before. He figured he would get killed on this massive attack.
Major Moose, our hero, outranked Major Misery and was appointed acting CO for about two weeks. He thus in all his Confederate Mississippi glory led the attack in the lead gunship, Lucky #7. He was Command and Control, or as we say, TACA (Tactical Air Controller Airborne). They hit the village at the bottom of the mountain where the gooks were still digging graves for their fallen buddies. They heard the familiar sound of approaching death from all the noise the 18 Hueys made.
Major Moose made the first gun run and shot all the burial detail. He then called in his A/C Whiskey Fox Trot 2, rolling in hot, and then Fox Trot 3, firing away, and so forth down the line. After all 18 birds had fired, Major Moose led a second gun run in a different part of the village. They wasted everything that moved—dogs, cattle, chickens and VC shooting back at them. Eighteen gunbirds is the way Air Cavalry worked over a village complex, but the Marines usually sent only two to four out on a mission. Corporal Cross said it was like a war movie that hadn’t been made yet—the total destruction of lying, VC/NVA helpers. Old men jumped in bunkers and started shooting back, and NVA that were wounded came out of their secret tunnels to return fire. Smartass VC kids shot SKS carbines and got wasted. The gunbirds redeveloped the whole area, even killing the water buffalo and sinking the zips’ sampan boats. It was payback time for killing our beloved CO. Finally, Major Moose said to return to base and re-arm and resume normal activities. Everyone was extremely happy with the morning test hop mission.
When they landed, Corporal Cross said Lucky #7, the lead ship, had numerous bullet holes in its rear boom arm and the tail rotor had taken an AK round through it. This meant he had to down the bird and install a brand new tail rotor blade. A number of other aircraft took hits too, but mostly in the rear boom area. Nobody got hit, they didn’t lose a bird, and Wing didn’t have a clue about the test hop mission. If III MAF Wing Headquarters ever learned that Major Moose had done this, he would have been in a world of shit. The zips would have remembered that day for the rest of their miserable lives if they hadn’t all been killed outright.
HOW I TAUGHT MYSELF TO SWIM
After I became a Sergeant, I had access to the Sergeant’s private beach. As I worked the 4:00 PM to midnight shift in the S-3 Operations Office whenever I wasn’t flying, I could screw around during the day, so I decided to conquer my fear of water. I watched some World War II Ranger films that showed them swimming like frogs. I went down and stood in four feet of water and tried this frog stroke. I found that if you moved both arms and legs together you could move through the water. I practiced this stroke for about a week until I got enough courage to leave the shallow water and swim out to the float. I climbed the wooden ladder and jumped up and down with joy. Two nearby bunkers on the overlooking rocky cliffs were manned 24 hours a day. Both bunkers must have been watching me trying to swim, because they yelled out that it was about time I’d made it to the platform. I then climbed down the ladder and swam back to the beach, very happy that I had conquered my old fear.
Later, I taught myself the scissors stroke, and discovered that my strong legs cut through the water much faster. I practiced for weeks, back and forth to the float. Next I held my breath and dove under the clear blue water. There were small fish, and I enjoyed this even more. I bummed a facemask from Special Services that made the little fish look larger. Finally, I swam out to the reef ledge and climbed up, as the water was only up to my waist. On the other side of the reef was the South China Sea, but since we lived in a large cove area, the waves were very light because the reef slowed them down. I walked along the wall of the reef wearing an old pair of sneakers. The coral could cut your skin and you had to be careful, because cuts in ’Nam became easily infected.
If I swam three or four hundred yards out into the ocean, I came in contact with Vietnamese junks returning to the village at the very end of Ky Ha. The gooks always gave me a dirty look, but they could look up on the cliff and see two Marine bunkers with M-60s aimed right at them, so I was protected. The more time I spent in the water, the better I got. I even started swimming hand over hand.
My private reef lake was great. It had a depth of five to 15 feet, and I got to know every spot like the back of my hand. One day I climbed over the reef wall, went out in the open sea, and swam right into a school of poison jellyfish. Their long tentacles hit my back and stung the living shit out of me. When I finally got back to shore I had whip-like welts that hurt like hell. I put on a shirt and walked to sickbay. My Navy buddy, Corpsman Cure-All, couldn’t believe what happened until he saw my back and lower legs. The Navy doctor ordered me to take antibiotics and use a special cream. All the other Sergeants said I should stay in our private lagoon. The word was, “Don’t go beyond the reef wall! You can run into sharks, stingrays, and all sorts of nasty creatures.” It was a little late for this good advice. I had to sleep on my stomach or side. It hurt for about a week before the welts disappeared, and I learned my lesson to watch the water for jellyfish.
THE GREAT SWIMMING TEST
As I continued to practice swimming, I tried to take my yellow rescue raft to the end of a long narrow strip of rocks that made a jetty into the South China Sea midway between the Sergeants’ beach and the wrecked LST. That was a real bad move. A huge wave came and lifted me nearly on top of the slippery rocks, and I almost got killed. Thus I decided to walk out on the jetty and try to find a spot where I could jump into the sea and climb out without getting cut up by the coral and broken shells wedged into the rocks. I spent a couple of days looking, and finally discovered a set of super rocks. I memorized this spot, for it was the only safe exit spot on the whole jetty.
One day I decided that I could swim all the way out to the US Navy hospital ship Sanctuary anchored about one mile off Chu Lai. I figured I would walk to the end of the jetty, jump in at my secret spot, swim out to the ship, touch the side, and swim back. I had discovered that if you moved the right way, you could ride the waves in with very little effort. It just took proper timing.
I jumped in and headed straight for the hospital ship. As I swam out, I crossed the Vietnam shipping channel, which has a lot of local junk traffic coming and going. I came very close to the junks and waved to them, and they gave me their simple zip smile. Meanwhile, I was praying that a VC wouldn’t take a pot shot at me. I crossed the shipping lane and the hospital ship looked like about another 250 yards. I swam through the water like a fish with my scissors stroke, while the shot-up Marines on board cheered me on. I swam out and actually touched the side of the huge ship. I waved to the wounded Marines and floated on my back to relax for a minute or two. A lot
of the Corpsmen and Marines took pictures of me. They figured I was either a great swimmer or nuts and trying to commit suicide.
I yelled that I was a Klondike gunner swimming on my day off. I turned around and headed back to my jetty. It was around 3:00 PM and the jetty was in a haze, looking like it was miles away. Luckily for me the tide was coming in and thus it was easy to ride the waves back in. When I got tired I simply lay on my back and floated for a few minutes, then continued towards shore. I once again crossed the shipping lane and got some nasty looks from unhappy fishermen.
As I was returning I looked up on the cliff, and low and behold the whole squadron, hundreds of men, were watching me with field glasses. I guess they thought I wouldn’t make it, or a shark would get me. That started to get me worried. Next thing I knew, I was laying on my back floating and relaxing for the final assault on my secret jetty landing rock, and out flew a Huey gunbird to rescue me. Corporal Iron Leg, the crazy Indian crew chief, was now a Sergeant and he was getting the hoist out with the sling to fish me out of the sea. The wind from the Huey really churned up the water as the hoist was lowered with the rescue collar. I refused to be rescued and waved them off two or three times.
Sergeant Iron Leg told the pilot that I didn’t want to be saved and they left. I rode the waves almost up to my secret rock landing, then stopped and did my frog-leg stroke till I reached it. I stepped up and out of the water like Tarzan in the movies. I lifted up my arms in triumph and the whole shoreline yelled out at me. I felt like I had won an Olympic gold medal. I then walked back on the jetty to the beach. Five minutes later, I was sitting in my lawn chair with everyone yelling I was nuts to attempt such a swim. We had a wild party, and thus I conquered my fear of water and proved to the whole squadron that I was the best swimmer in MAG-36.
After breakfast the next day, I learned the Colonel had personally driven out to rescue me and when Sergeant Iron Leg told him I didn’t want to be rescued he couldn’t believe there were such men in his outfit. The hospital ship had called our radio room to advise of a lone swimmer floating on his back and waving to them. When Major Misery heard that it was me and that I had refused to be rescued, he wanted the cost of the JP-4 fuel taken out of my pay.
A few weeks later Colonel Nellie asked me why I had done such a foolish stunt. I told him I could not swim in boot camp, and that I had taught myself. “Well done, Marine!” he said. “It takes great courage to overcome childhood fears. You are a living legend in the MAG-36 history of ’Nam. Sometimes in life you have to risk everything to prove to yourself that you can overcome anything and conquer it. You just have to put your mind to the task. There are no great people, only ordinary people who are forced by circumstances to overcome great challenges!”
MAJOR MISERY’S MIRACLE
One of my many duties on night shift was to pick up pilots on the flight deck and drive them to the chow hall. I waited for them to eat and then drove them up to the hill they where lived. At Ky Ha, at the very end of Chu Lai Air Base, the officers lived on the side of a hill. The Colonel had the Seabees build him a regular split-level house at the top. Majors and ranks above lived near the Colonel’s split-level in similar houses. It always amazed me to see three or four well constructed houses with barbecue grills and patios. They reminded me of the Lawrence Park development near Philadelphia. The road then wound around on different levels where various other officers’ hootches were located. They lived in the same type of hootches we did, so they were nothing fancy.
One night I got stuck with driving Major Misery home. He had gone up to Da Nang and returned around 9:00 PM. He missed chow and I figured it would be an easy drive from the runway to his mansion on the officers’ hill. I saluted him and we drove in silence to his house. I helped him unload his M-2 carbine with folding stock and his flight bag. He then invited me in for a drink. He lived well. He even had a real dinette set in a real kitchen with a sofa and chair in a family room. We sat in his kitchen and he opened a bottle of Black and White, poured me a shot, and drank one himself. The scotch tasted terrible, so I asked if he had any beer as a chaser and he got me one. I sipped the beer and pretended I was drinking the scotch, but actually managed to pour it into a nearby plant on his windowsill.
The Major got drunk, and I asked him if it was okay if I left. He said I could leave only when he dismissed me. Prick! So here I was, babysitting this aristocratic southern pain in the ass. He was so well hated no one even wanted to drink with him. He asked me why the men didn’t like him, and I told him I had no idea. He told me great leaders were always hated by their men. I then brought up Napoleon Bonaparte and how his soldiers loved him. I also mentioned General Lee of the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia. It pissed him off that I was not stupid. He then told me he had read my SRB, that he realized I could act stupid when I needed to, and that by my test score I could be an officer, especially since I had two years of college. He then accused me of putting myself in for a meritorious promotion to Corporal. (How did he know that?) I told him it had come down from Wing Headquarters, and I had nothing to do with it.
By this time he was really drunk, and it started raining cats and dogs. He excused himself and went outside to take a piss in his piss tub. This was a 55-gallon drum with a screen over it dug into the ground, like we all used in ’Nam. I heard a yell and went outside to see what had happened. He had fallen and slid half way down the muddy hill. I hopped into the jeep and drove down to find him. I saw him in the headlights, covered in mud and unable to get to his feet. I put his drunken ass into the jeep and drove him up the hill again, then carried him, mud and all, to his bed. He passed out, a filthy mess with his boots still on. This was about 11:00 PM. I figured that with that load on, he would miss the next day completely.
At 6:00 AM I was awakened by the Duty Officer and told I would have to replace a gunner who had an abscessed tooth. I reported to Gunbird #9 and awaited the crew chief and pilots. Who came out in a jeep, but none other than Major Misery! He didn’t even have a hangover. He was fully alert, and as stuck-up and nasty as usual. First Lieutenant Crash was our copilot. We loaded up and headed out to the end of the runway to arm the rocket pods and our outboard machine guns and take off. Major Misery could fly very well. We flew over the ocean and tested out the machine guns and headed down the coast.
Our mission was to assist Marines landing in a valley in the middle of nowhere. We flew very low and fast ahead of the CH-34 troop-carrying helicopter loaded with grunts from the 7th Marines. We circled the landing zone and took no fire. It looked peaceful and calm with no one around. The nearest village was about a mile away, surrounded by rice paddies that looked like a huge quilt. We went down to about 50 feet and I looked through my field glasses and saw nothing but six-foot elephant grass swaying in the back blast of our chopper. We threw out a green smoke grenade and the CH-34s started to make their approach.
All hell broke loose. Instead of your stock 327 local VCs, we hit a hornets’ nest of NVA regulars equipped with helicopter-killing 12.5 or .51-caliber machine guns. A .51-caliber bullet hit our chopper directly under Major Misery’s bullet proof-chair. The impact actually pushed the UH-IE upward in the air. The Major was unhurt, but was pushed into the top of the chopper roof. It was a good thing he had his seat belt and helmet on. He called off the landing and immediately called in fixed-wing Phantom jets to bomb and napalm the landing zone. We figured the NVA were dug-in, and we were right.
Luckily, we had Willie Peter rockets to smoke up the area so the NVA couldn’t shoot at our bird. We determined they were dug into the small side of the hill, and we hit it with regular and Willie Peter rockets. Both gunbirds made repeated runs at the hill, and took a lot of hot tracer rounds on the way out of the runs. Both machine gunners blasted at the hill as we went by it. I threw a red smoke grenade to mark the spot so the fixed wing aircraft could dump their ordnance.
Oxwood 1-1 & 1-2 jets arrived, saw our red smoke, and napalmed and bombed the hell out of the hill, staying on station unt
il they expended all their ordnance. I figured all this would kill the NVA for sure. Wrong! The Marines landed unopposed, but as they quickly fanned out toward the knoll, they came under intense enemy fire. The NVA had felled large trees and covered them with a mountain of dirt to protect the bunker. It must have taken months to dig. In addition to the jungle foliage they had also planted bushes, so you couldn’t even tell where it was. All you saw were muzzle flashes going off behind the small, cutout shooting ports in the side of this little hill.
The Marines took a lot of casualties and Major Misery called for more gunbirds and another flight of fixed wing aircraft, this time loaded with napalm. We stayed on station, assisting the Med-Evac’s CH-34 chopper in and out of the LZ. The LZ was secure, but half a mile away it was like Pork Chop Hill. Finally Oxwood sent two new jets down with napalm canisters. We flew by and dropped another red smoke and they napalmed the hillside. There were two or three loud, secondary explosions of the NVA ammo, then everything got still and the air cleared. We went low to see what happened, and finally smelled the burning bodies. The 7th Marines made a sweep of the hill, capturing numerous weapons and souvenirs off the dead.
The Marines won once again, but the cost was high with a lot of KIAs and too many wounded to count. Another happy day in Happy Valley. The 7th Marines like to say, “Though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evil, because I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.”
I was amazed that Major Misery didn’t have a hangover and was in top form. He was a ball-breaker, but he knew his stuff. I thus had to respect him even though I didn’t like his superior attitude toward enlisted personnel.
THE REACTIONARY PLATOON
Gunny Sergeant Blast from Ordnance, who was in charge of the Reactionary Platoon, picked a Sergeant E-5 to run the platoon each night. The platoon was a rear guard unit that patrolled the whole base and back-up bunkers with extra men. The platoon broke the men down into teams of two and had them walk around the flight line, fuel pits, ammo bunkers and shoreline. They were the extra eyes and ears of the regular guys on guard duty. The duty was usually from 4:00 PM to midnight or midnight to 8:00 AM. I had been on an endless number of these platoons as a PFC, a Lance Corporal and a Corporal.
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