Loon

by Jack McLean

  Within the relative security of the new location, I was able to write home.

  Vietnam

  December 8, 1967

  Dear home,

  Right now I’m sitting on the ground writing this on an empty C ration box. It’s 4 P.M. and cold and bleak. The rain has let up for the moment, but the weather doesn’t look good. Due to the casualties, we all have a bit more gear and more food, but none of us will ever be the same.

  Please write if you get a chance—mail doesn’t come often, but it’s such a boost when it does. Don’t worry about me; I am confident that I’ll be all right. I’m sorry this can’t be longer, but there is much work to be done.

  Love,

  Jack

  Confident that I’ll be all right?

  I had no confidence whatsoever that I would be all right, let alone that I would see nightfall. My lesson for that day was that the line between life and death was random and arbitrary.

  I elected not to share that revelation with my mother.

  On December 6, 1967, the small group of us new guys had been officially baptized into the fraternity of combat-tested United States Marines. Although it was a rite of passage, it didn’t feel that way to me. I hadn’t killed anybody. I hadn’t really even shot at anybody that I could see.

  It had been eerie, frightening, invigorating, chaotic, and surreal.

  Welcome to combat.

  It was not like in the movies.

  16

  SEVERAL UNEVENTFUL WEEKS FOLLOWED. CHARLIE AND Delta companies moved back and forth across the Firebreak without incident, save the nightly mortar visits from the NVA. The rain subsided. The sun came out. Although still cool in the shade, it was almost warm, and we each grabbed every opportunity to dry our soggy gear and selves.

  All agreed that there had never been a night like December sixth.

  On a quiet night weeks later, I was standing an uneventful third watch thinking of home and wondering what the scene was in Brookline. It was Christmas Eve—my first ever away from home and family. A little before midnight, preparing to wake my watch relief, I took a final scan out over the parapet toward the desolately black DMZ beyond.

  My rifle lay before me with a full magazine, a chambered round, and the safety in the off position. There were several hand grenades by my side—fragmentation in case they got close, illumination in case I heard a scary noise. There was also a little switch that connected to a wire that led to a claymore mine that I had placed twenty feet in front of me. When activated, a claymore would eliminate all living things within fifteen feet of its face—plants, rats, humans. It was a nasty little weapon that provided great peace of mind to any weary marine on a late watch.

  I had a fresh canteen of water and a half-smoked pack of Camels. I pulled one out and lit it—ever careful to shroud the ignition lest I expose my position. I was saving the remnants of a joint as a special treat for later.

  I wasn’t certain that I had ever been up at midnight on Christmas Eve. Dad and Ruthie used to go to the midnight church service sometimes, but I never found the idea very appealing. The faster I got to bed, the faster Christmas would come. I continued to believe that long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus.

  Yet here we really were—caught in an unfathomably peculiar limbo between war and peace.

  War—the previous two weeks had been cold, wet, mud, horror, death, wounded, scared, oh my God so scared.

  Peace—a three-day Christmas cease-fire during which there was no noise, no movement, no patrols, no incoming artillery or mortars, and no outgoing.

  At midnight, as I was preparing to give my watch relief a gentle nudge, a dull distant boom broke the silence. It was a distinctive muzzle blast from far to our south. Dong Ha? Quang Tri? Then another—boom. I thought it must be night defensive fire from the rear.

  Why were we shooting?

  More drumming boomed on top of the other. So much for Christmas. Then, all at once, the familiar whistling sound from far above was followed by a friendly pop.

  A white illumination flare exploded across a jet-black sky … and then another. Alert. Senses spiked. Enemy activity? Eyes sharp, Jack. Adjust. Adjust. Use your peripheral vision. Look away from the lowering flare. Look for movement, any movement. Is the claymore still there? Yes. Thank God. Then again from high above a green flare ignited a sky that was already sprayed with a million stars, followed by a red flare.

  A red flare.

  Christmas Eve.

  The silence of the cease-fire continued all through Christmas Day except for a brief early-morning flyover by a spotter plane with speakers that serenaded us with Christmas carols. It was very cool. No patrols were sent out, although the watch schedules were maintained. We took the time to breathe easier, while playing with children’s games and toys that my sister Ruthie had sent—checkers, Slinkies, yo-yos, old maid, and Silly Putty. There were candy canes to eat and photographs of peaceful places back home in which to lose ourselves.

  The yo-yos were the biggest hit. Machine gunner Tom Morrissey instantly made one of them his own. For weeks it never left his side. During an occasional quiet moment he could be seen alone pulling it out and, through the magic of a string and a round block of wood, removing himself to some distant New Hampshire childhood place.

  Days later, Tom and I were on a patrol with the 2nd Platoon. I noticed him, far ahead where the column twisted around and into the tree line. He was at the edge of a rice paddy, kneeling to fill his canteen with the tepid swamp water. As he rose, M60 machine gun carefully balanced on his shoulder, Ray-Ban aviator glasses in place, he pulled the yo-yo from his hip pocket and with one downward thrust spun a perfect cat’s cradle.

  Then, with the flick of his shoulder, in a ritual of ultimate cool that he had performed a thousand times before, his weapon fell softly into his hands. In one unbroken motion he slapped a full bandolier of NATO 7.62 caliber ammo into the top, chambered a round, flipped off the safety, and followed his fire team back into the jungle.

  Forever Tom.

  I’m certain that no one saw it but me.

  Six months later Tom Morrissey was dead.

  A downside of the truce was that resupply was not permitted. On the upside, however, the word was passed that we would be moving out for a daylong march across the Firebreak to C-2, one of the McNamara Line listening posts, to stand lines around a bridge that spanned a small river just south of Con Thien. The word was that a hot dinner would be waiting for us, and, given the river, we all looked forward to our first bath in a month. It sounded like paradise and, as the boys of Charlie and Delta companies were to find out, for the next five months it was as close to paradise as a 0311 WESTPAC grunt could expect.

  The hump across the Firebreak was hell. In one long day we covered the same amount of ground that weeks earlier had taken us three days. For once, however, the rumors were correct. The promised dinner of roast beef was waiting for us when we arrived—our first hot chow in more than thirty days. After nearly a month of C rations, our stomachs reacted with joy at the eating and with pain moments later as it rapidly flew out the other end.

  The position was known as the C-2 bridge site. This differentiated it from C-2 itself, a separate artillery position directly to our south. The bridge site sat hard on a dusty rutted dirt road dubbed Route 561. The road was the north-south link between the village of Cam Lo to the south and Con Thien two thousand meters to the north. The bridge had been built several months prior by marine engineers in an effort to improve supply lines to Con Thien. The area was nicknamed “the Washout” since, during heavy monsoonal rains, the water flooded the low-lying ground. The terrain along the road consisted of low rolling hills and waist-high brush. It would be continually patrolled by us throughout the winter and early spring.

  Our first assignment, in addition to patrolling and security, was to improve the shoddy bunker system that existed. According to the 1st Battalion’s monthly chronology, none of the bunkers could be considered complete. We were joi
ned by several support units—including engineers, artillery, and tank and antitank detachments—to both assist us and make mine sweeps along the road.

  We ran constant patrols, but it was a quiet area with little activity. We could hear incoming slamming into Con Thien almost daily, followed by certain strikes on C-2 to our south. As an artillery position, C-2 was a more valuable target than our little bridge. When C-2 was being hit, we could hear the rounds coming over our heads from the north. It was eerie but soon became comforting. They weren’t aiming at us.

  Our first tasks, as always, were to secure the lines; create adequate fields of fire; set claymore mines and booby traps around the perimeter; and establish watch, patrol, ambush, and listening post assignments. This had become our nightly routine.

  Over the next several months, every free waking hour would be spent filling sandbags and fortifying the flimsy bunkers. Soon, our noncombat gear was trucked up from Dong Ha and life became progressively more bearable. Hard rock dirt beds were replaced by air mattresses; ponchos were supplemented by light, quilted blankets; and the food and goodies from home finally arrived.

  The sun came out.

  We wanted for little.

  Early in our first week at the Washout, I came across a copy of Stars and Stripes, the daily military newspaper. Starved for news, I read every word off the page, digested the sports scores, and scanned the comics. A small news item buried in the corner of the third page caught my eye. William Sloane Coffin, Jr., the Yale University chaplain, had been indicted by a grand jury in Boston on the charge of conspiracy to encourage violations of the draft laws. The charges were the result of actions taken at a protest rally the previous October at the Lincoln Memorial. He was subsequently convicted of the charges.

  William Sloane Coffin.

  Holy shit.

  An iconic New England Yankee, Coffin had been my uncle Sid Lamb’s Andover roommate. Coffin had gained increased notoriety both in the Episcopal Church and in the antiwar movement back home. Sid, not particularly religious, had enjoyed wondering with great humor what had happened during those Andover years to send Coffin off on such a celestial calling.

  Any humor related to the Reverend William Sloane Coffin ceased the day I saw news of his indictment in the Stars and Stripes. Had it been someone else, it might not have caught my eye, but Coffin was so mainstream, so like my parents.

  The antiwar drumbeats back home were increasing.

  For the first time, we were beginning to feel them in the field.

  17

  WINTER AT THE WASHOUT PASSED IN RELATIVE TRANQUILITY.

  On occasion we’d hear incoming and outgoing artillery from the nearby outposts of C-2 to our south and Con Thien to our north, but the NVA paid little attention to us. The bridge that we were protecting had become increasingly inconsequential when compared to the target-rich environments of our neighbors.

  The lull in action brought subtle changes to our daily routines. Although patrols, listening posts, and ambushes went out daily, and watch schedules were maintained, we could feel ourselves growing slacker by the day as the combat action of the previous December 6 drifted into memory.

  Our days were spent filling what seemed to be an endless number of sandbags. The bags were used to fortify our bunkers, reinforce the security of the ammo dump, and line the parapets of the trenches and mortar enclosures that were also being created.

  Heads were dug and redug. With all of us in one place most of the time, we were running out of places to pee and shit. The heads were outhouses, often two-seaters, with sawed-off fifty-five-gallon drums under each hole. Once every day or two, a private or PFC would be assigned the unfortunate task of “burning the shitters.” This was accomplished by pulling the slopping drum from beneath the head, dousing it with kerosene, setting it on fire, and stirring it with a long stick for an hour or so.

  Food came to us in two ways. Given the relative security of the Washout, one hot meal a day was trucked up from Dong Ha. Otherwise, all food came in the form of C rations. C rations were the constant in our lives—no surprises; we knew exactly what to expect days in advance. In an environment of uncertainty, where life itself could end in an instant, there was much to be said for this.

  The uncontested worst meal ever thrown into a box was ham and lima beans—known affectionately as ham and motherfuckers, ham and mothers, or simply ham and moms. The only people on earth who seemed to like ham and moms were the Vietnamese. Perhaps they had developed a taste for it, as it was the one food that most marines used for barter, gave away, or simply left behind.

  In January 1968, support for the war was still strong in the United States, although cracks were developing. On the evening of January 17, 1968, President Johnson stood before a joint session of Congress and delivered his fifth State of the Union Address:

  Since I reported to you last January:

  Three elections have been held in Vietnam—in the midst of war and under the constant threat of violence.

  A President, a Vice President, a House and Senate, and village officials have been chosen by popular, contested ballot.

  The enemy has been defeated in battle after battle.

  The number of South Vietnamese living in areas under Government protection tonight has grown by more than a million since January of last year.

  These are all marks of progress. Yet:

  The enemy continues to pour men and material across frontiers and into battle, despite his continuous heavy losses.

  He continues to hope that America’s will to persevere can be broken. Well—he is wrong. America will persevere. Our patience and our perseverance will match our power. Aggression will never prevail.

  Those of us in the field wanted desperately to believe the president’s every word.

  We still believed in what we were doing.

  We still thought that we were stopping Communist aggression.

  We still felt that the war could be won.

  Although we remained out of the direct line of fire, evidence of the war was all around us. To better observe troop movements from the north, someone decided that it would be a good idea to defoliate the DMZ. One January day, we watched with curiosity as planes that appeared to be crop dusters began to spray the area north of us with a white powdery substance. Within several days, it was all over everything—in our eyes, in our rifles, in our water, on the leaves of every tree that we brushed by on patrols, and on the ground upon which we slept.

  Agent Orange.

  The defoliant of choice in Vietnam.

  Immediately some of us began to itch. Others developed rashes. Over the ensuing years, legions of us would contract diabetes (myself included), have children with birth defects, and suffer all manner of physical maladies that could be traced directly back to the chemical dioxin—the active ingredient in both Agent Orange and napalm.

  At half past midnight on Wednesday morning, January 31, 1968, the North Vietnamese launched the Tet Offensive at Nha Trang. Nearly seventy thousand North Vietnamese troops participated in this broad action that took the escalating war from the jungles into the cities of South Vietnam.

  The following day, General Nguyen Ngoc Loan, a South Vietnamese security official, was captured on film executing a Vietcong prisoner, shooting him in the temple at point-blank range. American photographer Eddie Adams won the Pulitzer Prize for the photo. It was to become yet another iconic rallying point for antiwar protesters back home. Despite later claims that the prisoner had been accused of murdering a Saigon police officer and his family, the image called into question everything claimed and assumed about our South Vietnamese allies.

  Over the following weeks, nearly every city and military installation in South Vietnam was hit. Even the U.S. embassy in Saigon was penetrated by enemy troops and resecured only after a fierce battle. The offensive carried on for weeks and was the major turning point in the American attitude toward the war. Little remained the same after Tet.

  Throughout the Tet Offensive we coul
d hear Con Thien and C-2 getting hit every day. The 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, who took over our former position on the Firebreak, got hit by several battalions of NVA, and held their ground while losing only fifteen men. Choppers were on standby to take us up as reinforcements, but the call never came and we returned to our routines.

  The Washout became one of the few marine installations untouched by the Tet Offensive.

  Vietnam was not the only Asian country in which the mighty military of the United States was being tested by unconventional tactics during the early months of 1968. On January 23, the American military was brought to its knees by several North Korean patrol boats that captured the USS Pueblo, a U.S. Navy intelligence-gathering vessel, along with her eighty-three-man crew. It was the first time that a U.S. Navy ship had been hijacked on the high seas by a foreign military force since the War of 1812. The capture resulted in neither military action nor reprisals against the North Koreans. Their charges included violation of the Communist country’s twelve-mile territorial limit. This crisis would paralyze U.S. foreign policy for eleven months, with the crew of the Pueblo finally gaining freedom on December 22, 1968.

  Certainly the tepid U.S. response to the seizure provided a morale boost to the hordes of North Vietnamese soldiers who were quietly pouring across the border into South Vietnam, within miles of us, to commence the Tet Offensive.

  What was up? we wondered. Those in command wouldn’t let us go up to Hanoi to finish the job for which we’d been trained, and now eighty-three of our navy and Marine Corps brothers were being held somewhere in North Korea with the United States powerless to take action.

  The United States Marine Corps was founded on November 10, 1775, in Tun Tavern in Philadelphia. Its purpose was to provide onboard defense to American naval vessels against the rising scourge of the Barbary pirates. Now, some hundred and ninety years later, we gave up a United States Navy vessel to a hostile foreign power without firing a single shot in defense?