One poor, lonesome son-of-a-bitch Corporal got his money stolen by these deadbeat thieves, and the troop handlers didn’t do anything about it. I was waiting for the chance to help beat the shit out of the thieving scumbags when we were escorted in a bus out to the huge silver bird that was heading nonstop from the Rock to El Toro Marine Air Base in California, just a taxi ride away from LA International Airport.
Our plane, a huge American Airlines transport, had some very good-looking stewardesses but no booze. Everyone was silent until we got airborne, then there was a huge Marine Corps yell: “WE’RE GOING HOME! WE MADE IT!” I looked around and was amazed to see I had more ribbons than most of the grunts aboard. I sat next to a Corporal who had spent 12 months on top of a hill in an anti-missile unit, or “rocket man site,” as we called it. He only had the standard giveaway medals and had wasted a whole year in a chickenshit outfit with haircut, bloused boots, and clean utilities—the whole nine yards of Marine Corps bullshit. His girlfriend had left him, he had never fired his rifle in 12 months, or ever got the opportunity to kill a single dink. I tried to cheer him up, and finally he told me his big top secret—just about every night they picked up unidentified flying objects on their radarscopes. He said it was top secret and he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. I had talked to this Corporal for only 20 minutes and here he was, telling me UFO stories. Thus I spent my flight talking about aliens and Roswell, New Mexico, and finally fell asleep.
The Marine Corps was smart. When we returned to El Toro, they gave us a free pass good for 24 hours on any airline. The Marine Corps didn’t want us hanging out in go-go bars, beating up anti-war protesters or going to Tijuana. It wanted us to GO HOME! PERIOD!
LA INTERNATIONAL
I grabbed a taxi and shared it with another Sergeant from the 5th Marines who knew the Klondike call sign very well. He said we had saved his company’s ass numerous times, but he also had a bitch—empty 7.62 machine gun shells used to drop out of our gunbirds and hit the ground Marines on the head. He said it usually scared the shit out of his men. I apologized, asking if he hadn’t been happy with our quick service blowing up tree lines and wiping out VC/NVA villages while he lay low and watched the show. I also said his men got to keep the dead zips’ guns and equipment for souvenirs. We both laughed and agreed war is hell. He was headed for Chicago and I for Philadelphia.
I had heard on the news that returning Vietnam veterans were being spit on and called baby killers. I had also heard that some veterans changed from their uniform into civilian clothing in the taxi. They must have been draftees. Both the grunt Sergeant and I walked through the LA airport and no one dared even give us a bad stare. He had about as many medals as I did. We were United States Marines and damn proud of it. We ran into a Hare Krishna singing and dancing, dressed up as a Buddhist monk. He was asking for money and a lot of people were giving him donations. When he asked us too, the grunt Sergeant gave him a left cross and a right cross, whereupon he had to use his Blue Cross. In short, Marines hate Buddhist monks.
As we headed for the nearest bar, we ran into a plumbers’ convention. The plumbers all had nametags like, “Hello! I’m Joe!” I walked over to the head guy and said if it hadn’t been for the Marines, the airport would be crawling with zips wearing red stars on their hats, and there wouldn’t be any $20.00-an-hour plumbers. He agreed, and the union guys bought us shots and beers while we told them war stories. The grunt Sergeant left for his flight and shook my hand. I headed for the men’s room.
I had half a load on and was sitting on the toilet daydreaming when all of a sudden a hand came under the partition of the stall and grabbed my leg. I was in shock. I looked at my left hand and checked my right hand, and thus concluded it must be a faggot. I quickly pulled up my pants and ran over to open the next stall door. It was locked. I told the faggot to open the door or I would kick it in. I heard a sissy voice say, “Leave me alone!” I tried to kick the door in, but it was built like a brick shithouse. Then I got a plastic cleaning bucket, loaded it with hot water and threw it over the door into the faggot’s stall. He yelled out on being hit with the hot water. I then threw over the plastic bucket. By this time the airport cops came charging in.
The faggot opened the door and, to my amazement, he was wearing a suit and tie and was a middle-aged businessman. He wanted me arrested, and the cops looked rather confused until I said, “This faggot grabbed my leg from under the partition!” The cops asked me when my plane was departing, and by a miracle it was leaving in nine minutes. They called ahead to hold the loading stairs and gave me a quick ride over in their vehicle.
I gave my ticket to the agent, quickly ran up the stairs, and took a seat in the middle of the jet. I heard a fat, obnoxious woman ask, “Why did we wait for a lousy soldier?” I went over to her and said, “I’m not a lousy soldier, Ma’am, I am a United States Marine and I have been waiting for two years to catch this flight to Philly, so shut your pie hole.” I ordered a drink and was told that the second-class passengers were allowed only two drinks. I told the stewardess to bring them on until I told her I’d had enough. I sat next to some sports idiot who was rattling on about the Eagles football team—as if I cared about some overpaid morons who always seemed to get in the National Guard to avoid their duty.
I had called from LA to tell my mother when I would be in Philadelphia, and my whole family came to greet me at the airport. My high school buddy gave me a ride home in his 1959 MGA roadster with the top down. Life was good. I was the first Marine or Army personnel to come home on Lotus Road, a little, dead-end street in Overbrook, and the whole street was decorated with huge “Welcome Home John” banners. My neighbor, who was a fireman, had gone out of his way to put them up. My family had an open house and a million people came and shook my hand. I was in all my glory. It was one of the best days in my life, and I will be forever grateful to the neighbors who went out of their way to welcome me home. God bless them, every one.
MY LAST ASSIGNMENT
I got 30 days leave and was then ordered to Cherry Point, North Carolina, for duty. I spent my leave getting my 1958 MGA coupe running, inspected and ready to go. After 15 days I went to the Marine Corps Pay Master at Broad and Washington. This building is now a fancy condo, but in 1967 it was filled with pleasant, hard-working women sewing uniforms and making camouflage utility uniforms for Vietnam. My medals really spoke for me. I was treated with the utmost respect and paid up to date, and everyone shook my hand and welcomed me home. I thanked all the ladies for making such nice, well-fitting uniforms, and the foreman looked at my blouse and gave me the okay sign. He was surprised to see a 44-long look so good. This was the first time that the people who made the uniforms had the chance to see one of them with chevrons and medals on it. They all were happy that they were helping the war effort.
Finally I drove down Route 95 to Cherry Point, North Carolina, and was welcomed with open arms by the Wing Gunny Sergeant, who assigned me to an F-4 Phantom outfit. I ran the S-3 Operations section and had three clerks under me. Life was good. As a supervisor, all I really had to do was keep S-3 Operations functioning. In front of our barracks were three parking signs—Sergeant Major, First Sergeant and Duty NCO. I parked in the Sergeant Major space one day, for he seldom visited our barracks. I was in civilian clothes waxing my MGA when he drove by. He stepped out of his official Marine camp car and asked, “Do you know who I am?”
I saw that his chevrons met the hash marks on his shoulder and he had a million ribbons like some General. I said, “Sir, you are the closest thing to God that I will ever see on Earth.” He then smiled and said, “Don’t call me ‘Sir,’ I work for a living. Move the car, now.” I had been in the Marines for over three years but had never really talked to an E-9 Sergeant Major before, especially one with all his medals on.
Cherry Point was a typical Marine Corps base with a million rules. Since I was a Sergeant E-5, I didn’t have to be annoyed with most of them. They had general inspections with junk-on-your-bunk, and every t
hree months they had the PRT test, where every Marine from Colonel to Private had to run three miles in 27 minutes with all his gear. You also had to climb a knotted rope with all your gear, then crawl across a football field and finally do the fireman-carry. This meant running across a 100-yard field, throwing a Marine over your shoulder, picking up your rifle and his, and running ran back across the 100-yard field. This was timed, and I ran down too slowly and got stuck with picking up a real fat Sergeant. I almost had a heart attack, but I made it.
A certain Captain in the S-1 Office was somehow envious of my eight ribbons. I wore two rows of three plus another two on top, but he had only the National Defense Medal. When we had junk-on-the bunk inspection, I laid out laundry tickets instead of clothing. This Captain, who I will now call Captain Envy asked, “Where is your rifle, Marine?” I told him that when I signed in, the Armory was closed for lunch. He then ordered me to go over and sign out an M-14 rifle. I did this to make him happy, but I paid the Sergeant in charge to clean it and take care of it.
Next he saw that I hadn’t qualified with my rifle in three years. I was ordered to report to the rifle range for a week of shooting instruction. Little did he know that shooting was a pleasure I had always enjoyed from age 9. I drove out to the range in the middle of nowhere and had a five-day vacation shooting my M-14 rifle. I shot a 218 and went from Marksman to Sharp Shooter, and almost shot Expert, which was 220 and up. Captain Envy thought that I would fail to qualify and have to repeat another week of M-14 rifle training. I knew the grunts who ran the range—they were all back from ’Nam, and I was qualified to run the range myself if I wanted to.
I came back and was congratulated by my immediate boss, Major George. When Captain Envy saw I was now wearing a Sharp Shooter medal, he was more than pissed off. Thus life went on. Major George said Captain Envy was envious of my ribbons and told me to stay out of his way. When I asked the Major why he only wore two ribbons, he said, “I have row after row of them, but I only wear the good ones.” These were his Distinguished Flying Cross and his air medal. I just laughed. He was an ace fighter pilot, but he was still a regular person.
The Gunny Sergeant who ran Wing called me up to talk one day. He opened a huge safe and took out a long list. My name was on it to be promoted to Staff Sergeant E-6. He then went back to his office, opened the lower drawer of his desk, and poured us each a shot of Jack Daniels. He said the Marines needed good men like me to re-enlist. He said I could expect a $6,500 bonus for signing up for another four years, plus automatic promotion to Staff Sergeant E-6. He asked what I hated about the Marines, and when I asked permission to speak freely, he said to spill it out. I said, “I hate all the bullshit, especially from Captain Envy, who is trying to break my balls.” The Gunny said the Captain was a first-class asshole who hated all decorated Marines who came back with a lot of medals. He said he’d make me a recruiter or whatever I wanted, and I could transfer out of there.
I needed 12 credits to become a junior in college. I have to say truthfully that I loved all the shooting in ’Nam, the endless missions and excitement, the booze, whores, tropical paradise, and all the men I fought with—but I had had enough. It was a miracle I had lived through it all, and I needed a change. I also told the Gunny that we spotted over a regiment of NVA the day I got shot down, and the Marines didn’t call in an ARC light strike with B-52s to wipe them out. We fought a war that was controlled by Washington, DC, not by General Walt. When you don’t take the opportunity to kill 2,000 NVA, you miss a big chance. Thus I realized that we were not allowed to win! The Gunny Sergeant told me he recalled stuff like that too, that when he had been stationed at Camp Caroll, he had seen NVA cross the border into Laos too many times to remember, and was pissed we didn’t go after them in Laos. Thus I said I would have to think it over about re-upping.
The base had a special boating club, and I purchased a 14-foot speedboat and spent a lot of afternoons boating. I avoided Captain Envy until almost my last day, August 30, 1968. On August 29, I was just about all checked out with all the various departments and had returned my M-14, 782 gear and the rest. Captain Envy looked in my SRB and didn’t see the Presidential Citation Medal listed. At 11:00 AM, as I was headed for lunch, he ordered me to remove the medal in front of the whole squadron in our ready room. He had my SRB in his hand and said it had never been awarded to me. He tried to embarrass me in front of my boss, Major George, who privately called him a horse’s ass.
I decided on my last full day that it was payback time for Captain Envy. I drove my MGA up to Wing Headquarters and looked up the Gunny Sergeant. I found him in his office, told him my story, and showed him my SRB. I told him I had been in a unit attached to the Iwo Jima Aircraft Task Force that had been awarded the Presidential Unit Citation. The Gunny looked it up and saw VMO-6 had sent six gun-birds for the two-week operation. He had his Staff Sergeant type up the entry in my SRB and had it signed by the Wing Colonel. I came back into his office and was given another shot of Jack Daniels and told to go for it. I shook the Gunny’s hand and said a very grateful thank you. I then came back at 12:30, and put my SRB back under the G-Section in S-1 without anyone seeing it gone.
At 1:15, I walked into the ready room and was immediately confronted by Captain Envy, who said I had disobeyed a direct order to remove a ribbon from my shirt that I wasn’t entitled to wear. Instead of returning to Pennsylvania, I was headed for the brig. I stood up and without hesitation asked Captain Envy if he had looked at my SRB lately. He replied, “Yes at 11:00 AM, and you are in a world of shit.” Major George said he had better recheck in S-1 and look at it again. Captain Envy ran into S-1 to pull my record book and took note of the entry made at 12:00 noon, signed by the Colonel himself. He went nuts and wanted to rip my newly printed DD-214 in half. Major George said that since he was an officer and a gentleman, he owed me an apology and he was waiting to hear it loud and clear. He put it straight in front of everyone—“Apologize, or have it entered in your record book for undue harassment of a decorated Sergeant E-5.” And so it was that Captain Envy was forced to apologize to me, a lowly Sergeant from a row house in an inner-city ghetto. “I’m sorry,” he said in a wimpy voice. Major George declared, “I can’t hear you, Captain.” Thus, in a loud and super pissed-off mood, Captain Envy apologized to me for the whole ribbon incident. I said, “You’re the reason I’m leaving the Marines,” and walked out the door. I got a “HOO-RAY!” from the complete squadron for showing him up.
Major George was an okay guy. “You salute the rank, not the individual,” he said, and told me that Captain Envy was just an empty uniform. We shook hands and I said it was a pleasure serving with such a decorated, dedicated and honest officer. He wished me good luck and gave me the rest of the afternoon off to pack.
August 30th, my last day, I ate my last Marine Corps breakfast at the Sergeant E-5 mess hall, said happy trails to all the Sergeants, and drove for my final checkout at the Provost Marshal’s Office, run by Gunny Sergeant Bailey. His nickname was Popeye, for in his younger days he could punch out your headlights in a fistfight. A black guy named Private Johnson was also checking out. As I was bullshitting with the Gunny, Johnson started yelling that he hated the Marine Corps and couldn’t wait to get out the gate. The Gunny said that Johnson had been in and out of the brig too many times to remember. He had been busted to Private six times. At 11:45, we had 15 minutes to wait. Gunny Sergeant Bailey handed Private Johnson a broom and told him to sweep up the floor. Private Johnson went nuts and threw the broom down. Gunny Sergeant Bailey said, “Pick it up and sweep, Johnson, or get locked up in the brig for 30 days.” Private Johnson finally swept the floor while Gunny Sergeant Bailey supervised. I had to laugh that this man had learned nothing in four years, except to hate my beloved Corps.
At 12 noon, I shook Gunny Bailey’s hand and said goodbye. I slowly drove my MGA with my speedboat attached through the gates. Private Johnson walked out the gate and, on the front lawn of Cherry Point Air Base, dumped his duffel bag on t
he perfectly cut grass and took off his uniform. Standing in his skivvies, he then sprayed lighter fluid on all his clothing and lit it up. I parked and watched the show. He danced around the burning clothes, cursing the Gunny and me for watching and also cursing the Marine Corps.
In less than five minutes, the North Carolina State Police arrived. He put up a fight and was subdued, handcuffed, and arrested for indecent exposure, risking a catastrophe, and destroying Marine Corps property. Gunny Bailey was laughing and I thought Private Johnson got exactly what he deserved. His head bleeding, he was dumped in the back of a state trooper car and taken for 30 days in jail at New Bern, North Carolina. As I drove out to Route 95, I couldn’t stop laughing at this last ridiculous incident. How could anybody be so stupid?
Thus my four years ended on a light note. As I drove out of Cherry Point, there were hundreds of white crosses and a sign reading: “You are now entering the most dangerous place in the world—civilian traffic! Each cross represents a Marine killed in a traffic accident.” In the back of my mind, I thought that when we landed in ’Nam at Red Beach, they should have had a sign: “You are now entering the most dangerous place in the world—Vietnam, filled with the smiling faces of black pajama-clad VCs, whose only purpose in life is to wound, maim, or kill you!”
THE END
GLOSSARY
AA: Anti-aircraft fire. Usually .51-caliber crew-served weapons that will turn a helicopter into chopped liver.
LBJ's Hired Gun Page 30