by Barry Fixler
Note to Kindle Readers
ONLINE PHOTO ALBUM
You have access to the author's online photo album created exclusively for readers of the e-book version of Semper Cool. The Web site URL and login information are listed at the end of the book (jump to end).
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ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
SEMPER COOL
“I finished reading Semper Cool and wanted to let you know that your story will stay with me forever... When I have a bad day and I am feeling bad about my loss, I will think of you and the inspiration I felt as I read your story. It helped me to understand what my son was going through in Afghanistan.”
—CHERYL HODGES, gold star mother of CHRISTOPHER R. HRBEK, USMC,
Killed In Action January 14, 2010
“Your stories of combat are timeless and will resonate with warriors across the generations, from Vietnam and Afghanistan.”
—GENERAL JAMES N. MATTIS, USMC,
commander in chief, U.S. Central Command
“Barry Fixler, a Jewish kid from suburban Long Island, N.Y., joined the Marine Corps when he was 18 years old because he believed he needed discipline; he was right. The result is Semper Cool, which I recommend be submitted for a Pulitzer Prize. The book is an incredibly detailed account of the making of a United States Marine. Youthful hormones permeate it. Fixler’s Vietnam buddies are always tired, hungry or horny. The crotch ‘crabs’ tale is worth the price of the book.”
—TOM “T.J.” COLLINS, retired journalist,
CBS Evening News and Newsday
“If ‘War is Hell,’ Barry Fixler discovered an even grimmer inferno in Vietnam. A riveting, incomparable, firsthand account of a combat Marine’s experiences and the intriguing aftermath effects on a young warrior.”
—SELWYN RAAB, author of
Five Families (a New York Times bestseller)
“No book to date covers a Marine's journey before during and after the Vietnam conflict with so much depth, understanding and passion as Barry Fixler's Semper Cool.”
—DAN LAURIA, USMC (ret.),
AKA "Jack Arnold” The Wonder Years
“Semper Cool provides a tremendous insight into the role the experience of war can play in the development of loyalty, morality and courage. Barry Fixler has enabled non-combatants like me to understand how service in Vietnam could transform a clueless adolescent into a man of honor.”
—RITA TAVEL FOGELMAN, director,
West Nyack Free Library
“This is a powerful and raw book about one man's experience of war in Vietnam. It is unflinching, direct and scary on several different levels.”
—JOHN D., book blogger, layersofthought.net
“It's terrifying... I recommend it.”
—T.D. MISCHKE, The Nite Show With Mischke,
CBSRADIO WCCO AM830
SEMPER COOL
ONE MARINE'S
FOND MEMORIES OF VIETNAM
BARRY FIXLER
Copyright © 2010 by Barry Fixler.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is a work of nonfiction. In an effort to disguise the identities of some of the individuals, certain names and personal characteristics have been changed. Any resulting resemblance to individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
Published by EXALT PRESS NEW YORK, LLC.
Publisher's Cataloging-in-Publication
Fixler, Barry.
Semper cool : one marine’s fond memories of Vietnam /
Barry Fixler. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
LCCN 2010933990
ISBN-13: 978-0-9825184-0-3
1. Fixler, Barry. 2. Vietnam War, 1961-1975—
Veterans—Biography. 3. Marines—Biography. 4. Vietnam
War, 1961-1975—Personal narratives. I. Title.
DS560.72.P39F59 2010 959.704’3’092
QBI10-600160
ISBN-13: 978-0-9825184-2-7 (Kindle K3v01.10)
Formatted for the Kindle 3 by Taylor Dye
Cover design by John Hamilton
For Mitch Sandman
and Mike Lucas
CONTENTS
Introduction
I. IN HARM'S WAY
Ch: 1 2 3
II. MAKING A MARINE
Ch: 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 Photos
III. INTO THE FIRE
Ch: 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 Photos
IV. KHE SANH
Ch: 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 Photos
V. NO SLACK FOR A SHORT-TIMER
Ch: 28 29 30 Photos
VI. COMING HOME
Ch: 31 32 33 34 35 36 Photos
VII. CALLS TO DUTY
Ch: 37 38 39 Photos
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
POW/MIA Recognition
About the Author
Note to Kindle Readers
INTRODUCTION
You might wonder why I titled this book Semper Cool: One Marine’s Fond Memories of Vietnam. How, you might ask, could I have fond memories of Vietnam? I saw Marines severely wounded or killed on a regular basis. I endured the horrible hardships of combat. How could I have fond memories?
There is no doubting that I am a very lucky man. At most reunions with my war buddies, I’m usually the only one without a Purple Heart, which is awarded to those wounded in combat.
Somehow I made it through the Siege of Khe Sanh and the worst that Vietnam could throw at me and suffered little more than a scratch, when men all around me were wounded or killed.
I look at myself today, and I’m in great shape. I came home from Vietnam mentally and physically sound, and that is reason enough to have fond memories.
Since Vietnam, I’ve had success in life and in business, and to this day, I attribute my accomplishments and the way I conduct myself to the values instilled in me by the United States Marine Corps and lessons I learned in Southeast Asia.
Every Marine is responsible for the legacy of the Corps. I never want to be the one who tarnishes that, and still I want to do more. That’s why I am pledging all of my profits—100 percent of my royalties—from this book to wounded combat veterans and their families and the children of warriors that were killed in Iraq and Afghanistan fighting for our country.
* * *
Vietnam was an adventure. Some days were pure horror, while other days were just plain miserable. I saw a lot of death at a young age. Yet, when it all was over, despite the hardship and horror, I felt as if I had accomplished something important. I still feel that way.
I would do everything again in a heartbeat, no second-guessing. Of course, Marines were hurt and killed. I feel terrible about all of the men who lost their lives or their good health, but if I had to do it over again, I would.
The Marines gave me quiet confidence, and my combat experience left me with healthy self-esteem.
I could attend a dinner with New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, who’s a multibillionaire, and maybe a few dignitaries or doctors or lawyers, and I wouldn’t feel inferior. I am as much their equal as they are mine.
I am a combat veteran, a combat veteran. I helped fight a war and I put my life on the line when my country asked me to. That’s all the confidence I need to hold my own in any group.
I joined the Marine Corps in part to earn my father’s respect. I grew up hearing all of his Army stories from World War II in the Pacific and how in awe he was of the Marines. My dad was proud of my service, and that me
ans the world to me, and I am proud of the men and women who continue to risk their lives to defend our country and the ideals it stands for.
IN HARM'S WAY
1
Good Morning to
an Automatic
“Don’t move or I’ll fucking kill you!”
The big guy in the black trench coat across the counter of my jewelry store shoved an automatic pistol into my face and screamed while his partner in white stood to his side.
“I’ll fucking kill you! Don’t move or I’ll fucking kill you!”
I don’t like automatic pistols, so I moved.
* * *
Valentine’s Days are usually great if you’re a jeweler. Guys come in from morning to night picking out something for their girls: engagement rings, necklaces, earrings, last-minute gifts from the heart, the things they buy when they’re in love. It’s one of a jeweler’s biggest business days of the year.
I’m Barry Fixler. I’m a jeweler, just like my father Louis before me. February 14, 2005, was a Monday, and my head was still a little numb from a weekend of celebrating when I arrived early at my store, Barry’s Estate Jewelry, in Bardonia, New York.
I anticipated a typically busy and profitable Valentine’s Day as I sorted through new jewelry to display.
It wasn’t 9:00 a.m. yet and I still had the glass front door locked, though I expected people to come early. They always do on Valentine’s Day morning.
I thought nothing of it when two fellas walked up to the door. One wore a white, hooded sweatshirt, and the other had on a black trench coat, but they looked fine to me. No alarms went off in my head. I actually walked around from the counter and unlocked the door to let them in.
The one in black asked if he could see an engagement ring, and then the other guy piped in.
“I tried to talk him out of it, but my buddy wants to get engaged today,” he said.
I’ve heard that a thousand times, guys wanting to get engaged on Valentine’s Day. My back was to them as I walked back around the counter, but I have natural instincts.
I kept a few feet of distance between us so that if one of them lunged at me, if they were bad guys, I would be able to hear the rustling or sense the quick movement. If that happened, I had left enough room that I could bolt away.
The guy asked to see a marquise stone. It’s an unusual shape, the marquise.
While I showed it to him, the other guy paced six or seven feet away from me. They had arrived while I was still setting out the jewelry in the displays, and the safe in back of my store was wide open. No big deal.
Helping the two guys, I actually got down on my knees behind the showcase because my leg hurt. I thought nothing of it. My guard was down. At that moment, if I had to make the call, I would have said there was no way that they were going to do something to me. I felt no threat.
I showed them the easiest ring to reach, and I noticed the price tag: $11,500. I saw the guy hesitate. Now I know why he hesitated, but at the time I thought it was because of the price.
I thought to myself, “Jerky Barry! This guy doesn’t want to spend eleven, twelve grand. Pick out another stone.” I never said to him, “Oh, if you can’t afford this, let me show you something else.”
That’s not classy.
So, without discussing the price, I started looking for another ring in the $3,000 to $5,000 range.
I was really off guard. I had celebrated with family and friends on Saturday night after learning that my mother Ronnie had tested negative for cancer.
That Saturday, it was just friends, maybe thirty or forty other people, and we rented a private room at a restaurant. Each person paid $100, and it was catered just like a wedding: cocktail hour, appetizers, the whole bit.
I took it to another level. I started drinking a martini, drinking a beer. I started dancing. Another martini. Another beer. We all were friends laughing and having a great time.
I had a major hangover the next morning, and on top of that, I had danced the whole night carrying a pistol on my right ankle. The handgun weighed three or four pounds, and I woke Sunday barely able to walk. I don’t usually carry my pistol in social situations, but I had been in a hurry to close my store and get to the celebration and somehow forgot I had it on me.
But I’d made plans to go drinking with four or five friends. No women were around, so we all were cursing loudly and toasting each other and having fun when my friend John Settle hit me with a question.
“Barry, what would you do if someone came to hold you up?”
“I’d shoot them. I have no fear,” I said. “I have a fear of someone breaking into the store when I’m not there, but if thugs came in armed and loaded, I have no fear of that. I’d just light ’em up.”
My friends knew that I was a combat Marine and that they’d get an answer like that, but it was something that they still took with a grain of salt because Vietnam was years ago.
John asked me that question on Sunday. The next day was Valentine’s Day, and an automatic pistol was in my face.
“Don’t move or I’ll fucking kill you!” the guy screamed. “I’ll fucking kill you! Don’t move or I’ll fucking kill you!”
My brain snapped into high gear, time froze, as it always did in combat, and in a fraction of a second I evaluated the situation: “This is the real deal. That’s an automatic pistol in my face, and I don’t like automatics.”
These thugs didn’t just pull a gun on Barry Fixler the jeweler. They were threatening the life of Cpl. Barry Fixler, United States Marine Corps, and they weren’t the first to do it. If they had known that, they might have rethought their plan.
“Now I have to kill these two guys,” I thought. “I HAVE to kill them.”
2
Mitch, Crazy Freddy
and Mad Luck
Crazy Freddy was the first person who ever tried to shoot me. That was in the mid-1960s, and Crazy Freddy didn’t know he was really trying to shoot me because he didn’t know that the pistol that I’d pulled on him and my best friend Mitch Sandman was real.
I was fifteen years old, and that was also the first of many times that I got lucky with bullets. I have such good luck with bullets that I don’t actually fear getting in a shootout. I respect handguns and rifles, but so many bullets have whizzed past me that I must be lucky.
My dad carried a revolver, a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38 Special. That model has been around for more than one hundred years. It is somewhat common for jewelers to own and carry pistols.
It was a school night, and my sister Vivian and I were home alone in our comfortable, split-level house that was like so many of the other homes with spacious lawns and neat hedges in our Long Island, New York, subdivision.
Vivian was eleven, so I was babysitting. Our parents had gone out for dinner.
It wasn’t a big deal, so I called over my friends Mitch and Crazy Freddy to mess around. My sister was upstairs reading.
My father had left his pistol on his nightstand, so I sneaked around and strapped on the handgun, just as a goof. I wore it in its holster under my robe. When they were least expecting it, I jumped out and pointed it at Mitch and Freddy screaming, “Aaahhh! I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna shoot you!”
Mitch had been my friend since second grade. He knew the handgun was real and bolted for cover. Crazy Freddy thought it was a fake. He jumped me and tried to grab the gun like he was going to shoot me.
“You wanna shoot me?!” Crazy Freddy screamed. “Now I’m gonna shoot you!”
In a split second, my stupid prank turned into a life-and-death struggle. Crazy Freddy was bigger and stronger than me. He locked his hands over mine, trapping my finger on the trigger while we struggled for control of the handgun. It took all of my strength to keep the muzzle out of my face, and I kept screaming to Freddy that it was my dad’s gun—it was real—but he wouldn’t listen.
BOOM!
The gun fired and the blast of gunpowder and gas ripped Freddy’s pants right off and pepper
ed his legs. The bullet missed him and went through my mother’s couch and lodged into the baseboard of the wall.
“Holy crap!” Freddy howled. “I didn’t know it was real!”
Then he and Mitch ran out the door, and I heard my sister upstairs crying, so I went up and threatened her.
“Go to sleep and don’t say anything to Mom and Dad!”
“Jesus Christ!” I thought, still stunned. “We killed the couch.”
Then an idea hit me.
I had a six-month-old puppy, Taffy, and I decided to frame her for the damage. I picked her up and took one of her paws and used its toenails to make the bullet hole in the couch bigger. The trunk of my father’s Ford had a bunch of loose bullets in it, so I grabbed one and replaced the spent cartridge.
I placed the pistol back on the nightstand where I had found it and waited for my parents to return. I had the puppy convicted the second that they walked in the door.
“You should see what Taffy did!”
My poor mother wailed. “Oh my couch! My couch! My couch!”
“Yeah, the dog just flipped out and tore up the couch,” I said. The puppy didn’t know better. I put the blame all on Taffy, and my parents bought it.
It was my first real life-and-death situation, and I’m still amazed that Crazy Freddy didn’t shoot me in the face, or I didn’t blow a hole in his leg. We could have killed my sister with a stray bullet.
But the couch took the bullet and the dog took the blame. It was such a horrible night that Crazy Freddy, Mitch and I never discussed it. We just said, “You know what? That was not cool.”
* * *
Mitch Sandman and I could find trouble without even looking for it. We were in sixth grade when we ruined his mother’s kitchen just by making soup. We put it on the stove, started talking and stopped stirring, and pretty soon left the room altogether. We didn’t remember until we smelled the smoke, and by then the kitchen was charred and it was too late. There wasn’t an actual fire, but the smoke damage was severe.