MCRD 51 Years Later

 

 

USMC League

MCRD San Diego Back in the Day

Everything must begin somewhere. And in the United States Marine Corps, my enlisted tour commenced with yellow footprints. Drawn on the asphalt of the recruit depot with heels close together and toes angled out to 45 degrees, they are where I, along with seven other guys from our suburban Chicago neighborhood, stood to begin military service. Then we marched somewhere, boxed up our clothes and mailed them home, coming to the realization that our new life would be different from drinking beer behind a bowling alley.

The Vietnam War was winding down, at least for the United States, though the North Vietnamese would launch a huge attack against South Vietnam toward the end of March as we conducted infantry training at Camp Pendlelton. (In September, now a Private First Class, I would find myself in an Army hospital called Camp Kue on Okinawa, sharing  a ward with American advisors who'd been wounded helping the South Vietnamese forces stop the communists.)

In 1991, I visited the footprints on a vacation to San Diego with my girlfriend. (Now My Fine Wife or MFW.)

In 2002, I stood on a hill in Vietnam called Con Thien with a Vietnamese guide who told me about the obliteration of his village by B52s, bombing the NVA advance.

In 2008, I was back at MCRD finishing up a marathon with Team in Training.

But on a Friday night, January 14, 1972, I stood on yellow footprints. Oh, right before we boxed up our clothes, this happened:
(The following scene is rather accurate, except there's no C&W music. Just buzzzzzzz.)

h/t: amp1776

Note 2020:

On this 48th anniversary of my enlistment, I pay my respects to Tom Poto and Steve Lovell, two of my comrades who are no longer with us. RIP, bros. Hard to believe we were once young together.

Note: 2021

Yikes! 49 years ago; one removed from a half-century. I'll write no more on the subject.

Note: 2022

NOW 50 years have passed. I remember being hung over with a shaving cut on my right cheek that bled most of the day. Grisly forshadowing. Ah, well. 

Note: 2023

Alas, another comrade passed on. Gary Burke, who I'd known through grade school and high school, died last November. We'd only recently gotten back in touch. He was a great guy and a man's man. I pray for his soul and that God may ease the hurt in family and friends.

Memorial Day Memories

 Note: Orginally published January 23, 2012.

Reposted: May 26, 2014.

United States Flag Wallpaper

 

Ever in Transit

There was a time when I burned through military history books by the gross. I read famous authors like Band of Brothers' Stephen Ambrose and not-so-famous guys like Keith William Nolan. My history book reading has fallen off lately and so I just learned Nolan died three years ago from cancer. His specialty was the Vietnam War and his works relied heavily on interviews with American veterans who fought there.

Ten years ago, I had vague plans of producing a film based on Nolan's book about Operation Buffalo, which centered around the ambush of a Marine company in 1967. As I was returning to Cambodia for a project with State Dept./USAID and Warner Bros.—a story in itself—I made plans to visit the battlefields in neighboring Vietnam.

And so I contacted Keith William Nolan and asked for an option to develop a project based around his 1991 book Operation Buffalo: USMC Fight for the DMZ. I mentioned I was a former Marine who had served during the Vietnam era.

He let me have the option free.

That is simply not done in these parts.

By email, I thanked him for his generosity. In time, I toured the landscape of Operation Buffalo, a dangerous patch of ground still peppered with Viet Cong mines and booby traps as well as unexploded American and North Vietnamese artillery shells. I walked the narrow, red dirt lanes on which B Company was ambushed in an action that grew into the bloodiest day for the Marines in Vietnam.

I drew a crowd of Vietnamese, hardly any who had lived there back in the day. (Most had been relocated in 1966, the year prior to the fight.) At one point, I was invited into a hut and asked to tell a few elders what I knew of the event. With kids and dogs yelling outside, I spoke in bursts of English which my interpreter translated into Vietnamese, explaining how a battalion of North Vietnamese lured an understrength Marine company into an trap that wiped out two platoons and shot to pieces a second company that came to help. Some enemy units dressed in captured Marine uniforms to move in close and backed their assault with flamethrowers and heavy artillery—based in nearby North Vietnam.

We drank tea and smoked cigarettes as the sky grew darker outside. Reciting Nolan's book from memory as best I could, I told how the Marines returned the next day to retrieve the bodies of their dead and that turned into another fight. More reinforcements poured in on both sides, culminating in a massive North Vietnamese attack preceded by an artillery barrage. The Marines cut down the charging troops, sealed off breaches in their lines and held. The enemy withdraw back to safety in North Vietnam. Marine patrols from the hill base at Con Thien set out once more to sweep the area and the pattern of Operation Buffalo would be repeated in minor and major keys for the next several years.

Outside the kids gathered around as I reemerged from the hut. There was a huge freaking spider the size of a catcher's mitt hanging in a web attached to a nearby pole. I refused to look at the monster for fear the kids would knock the hulking arachnid down with a stick and chase it toward me to see what the tall foreigner would do.

I came home and the option expired and my movie idea eventually migrated into a rather large folder of unfinished products. Nolan wrote ten books on the Vietnam War, but never made a pile of money. His publisher wanted him to write about "popular wars" because Vietnam didn't sell. But Nolan felt he had an obligation to veterans who were treated quite shabbily. He felt someone had to tell their story.

He stayed true to that calling.

A non-smoker, 44-year-old Keith William Nolan died of lung cancer. He left behind a little girl.

Nolan's books are more than just the story of battles, interesting to history buffs like myself. They are our heritage, our nation's story, told by those present, their deeds preserved for kids like Anna Britt Nolan.

One hot August night, I was at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. Little gifts, flowers and tokens are often left at its base by families, friends, and old comrades come to visit the names of the dead. Apparently a grade school class had passed through earlier and left various letters on lined paper in huge kid scrawl. One in part read: "Dear Grandpa, We saw the Vietnam Wall. I'm sorry you could not tell your stories."

Keith William Nolan could.

(And while many of us are short of money, I'm including trust fund info for Nolan's daughter. If you can, please donate.)

Anna Britt Nolan Trust
c/o First Bank
6211 Midriver Mall Drive
St. Charles, MO 63304

Images: Two-Seven Tooter

MCRD 50 Years Later

 

USMC League

MCRD San Diego Back in the Day

Everything must begin somewhere. And in the United States Marine Corps, my enlisted tour commenced with yellow footprints. Drawn on the asphalt of the recruit depot with heels close together and toes angled out to 45 degrees, they are where I, along with seven other guys from our suburban Chicago neighborhood, stood to begin military service. Then we marched somewhere, boxed up our clothes and mailed them home, coming to the realization that our new life would be different from drinking beer behind a bowling alley.

The Vietnam War was winding down, at least for the United States, though the North Vietnamese would launch a huge attack against South Vietnam toward the end of March as we conducted infantry training at Camp Pendlelton. (In September, now a Private First Class, I would find myself in an Army hospital called Camp Kue on Okinawa, sharing  a ward with American advisors who'd been wounded helping the South Vietnamese forces stop the communists.)

In 1991, I visited the footprints on a vacation to San Diego with my girlfriend. (Now My Fine Wife or MFW.)

In 2002, I stood on a hill in Vietnam called Con Thien with a Vietnamese guide who told me about the obliteration of his village by B52s, bombing the NVA advance.

In 2008, I was back at MCRD finishing up a marathon with Team in Training.

But on a Friday night, January 14, 1972, I stood on yellow footprints. Oh, right before we boxed up our clothes, this happened:
(The following scene is rather accurate, except there's no C&W music. Just buzzzzzzz.)

h/t: amp1776

Note 2020:

On this 48th anniversary of my enlistment, I pay my respects to Tom Poto and Steve Lovell, two of my comrades who are no longer with us. RIP, bros. Hard to believe we were once young together.

Note: 2021

Yikes! 49 years ago; one removed from a half-century. I'll write no more on the subject.

Note: 2022

NOW 50 years have passed. I remember being hung over with a shaving cut on my right cheek that bled most of the day. Grisly forshadowing. Ah, well. 
    

Nam Killed Kurt Over Time v.3

Photo: Life Magazine. Kurt's unit patrolled these hills. (Mutter's Ridge and the Rock Pile.) 

Some veterans die in battle while others return home to perish on the installment plan. My friend Kurt passed away in 2003 from liver cancer. He went quick, maybe a hundred days. The cancer was partially brought about by PTSD-inspired drinking coupled with hepatitis from a bad blood transfusion he underwent in Vietnam. Kurt could have skated on that particular war, but extended his enlistment in order to fight. Serving in Marine Recon, he won a Navy Commendation medal for helping his unit battle clear of an ambush.

Several Purple Hearts later, Kurt joined an ultra-secret outfit that probed the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. Hacked out of the jungle, the Trail was a highway for the North Vietnamese to funnel men and supplies into South Vietnam and Cambodia. Because of our odd political posturing, Laos was officially off-limits to U.S. ground forces. That meant Kurt and his unofficial comrades were forced to ditch the bodies of their dead. The fallen would be listed as "Missing in Action in South Vietnam." It always bothered Kurt that families would be denied the closure of burial—or the recognition of bravery from a schizophrenic government.

A good portion of Kurt's post-war years were spent in alcohol and drug-fueled rage and self-destruction. In time, he made peace with his past. Little by-little, Kurt cut a trail over to serenity from which he rarely strayed. Despite a Master's Degree in electronics, he took a job driving a truck and fixing vending machines. (Kurt worked well unsupervised.) Getting married, buying a home, his last ten years were good ones.

I was a pallbearer at Kurt's funeral. He received a Marine Corps color guard, taps, and a view of the 2 Freeway stretching below in the distance, flowing past Forest Lawn Cemetery on its way to Eagle Rock. (Transportation played a big role in his life.) I recall Kurt when I drive past and often wish he could call down artillery on erratic drivers.

This Veteran's Day Kurt came to mind. And while he's at peace, I send prayers and best wishes to those still struggling with the silent baggage of war.

Happy Veteran's Day to all who served.

(This is a 2014 repost from Veteran's Day 2010 reposted once more in 2021.)

Memorial Day Memories Redux

(Originally published in 2013, based off a 2009 post. The day remains as solemn today as it was then.)

This Memorial Day I again think of Kurt and T.J.

Imagine you knew a man from Cleveland, Ohio.

This man had one sibling, an older sister.

During Vietnam, he volunteered for dangerous assignments, operating far behind enemy lines.

After the war, he battled drugs and alcohol.

Eventually, he sobered up and went to work for a vending machine company.

For many years, he traveled in a van around Los Angeles fixing coffee and soda machines.

Now imagine you knew two men with the exact same history.  (But different vending machine companies.)

I was honored to have been friends with a pair of guys whose backgrounds meshed in such odd intimate ways. Once I introduced them at a party, figuring they'd have lots in common, but after a few polite minutes they separated.

They'd experienced stranger things.

Kurt served in Marine recon. Based out of Khe Sanh, he operated in Laos along the Ho Chi Minh Trail on operations so secret that the Americans who died there were never officially acknowledged. Kurt had extended his service to go to Vietnam. He was wounded twice, decorated, and returned home only to be attacked in a bus depot by a man angry over the war. (The man didn't fare well against Kurt who beat him into a fine mist.)

T.J. originally fought with the 12th Infantry near Dak To. He loathed the eerie randomness of combat—here one second gone the next and decided his odds would be better in the  LRRPs (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol). Instead of waiting to be hit, TJ  crept around North Vietnamese base camps in the Central Highlands making the enemy nervous. He returned to serve out his last few months at Fort Knox, conducting tours of the U.S. Gold Reserve. One night while watching a TV show he started shaking and broke into tears.

Years would pass before he learned about PTSD.

In 2002 I made a business trip to Vietnam. I brought Kurt back a little Buddha and some red clay from Khe Sanh. TJ collected Buddhas so I picked him out a honey in Saigon: a big, fat happy Buddha, smiling like he'd just won the Power Ball,  holding up the Pearl of Knowledge.  
  
In the end, Vietnam finally claimed them both. Health and psychological problems shortened their lives. But they did the best they could with a bad hand and I value the times we had together. 

This weekend I remember them and all who gave their lives in service to the country.

(Based on a post from 2009.)

USMC and the Yellow Footprints

USMC League

MCRD San Diego Back in the Day

Everything must begin somewhere. And in the United States Marine Corps, my enlisted tour commenced with yellow footprints. Drawn on the asphalt of the recruit depot with heels close together and toes angled out to 45 degrees, they are where I, along with seven other guys from our suburban Chicago neighborhood, stood to begin military service. Then we marched somewhere, boxed up our clothes and mailed them home, coming to the realization that our new life would be different from drinking beer behind a bowling alley.

The Vietnam War was winding down, at least for the United States, though the North Vietnamese would launch a huge attack against South Vietnam toward the end of March as we conducted infantry training at Camp Pendlelton. (In September, now a Private First Class, I would find myself in an Army hospital called Camp Kue on Okinawa, sharing  a ward with American advisors who'd been wounded helping the South Vietnamese forces stop the communists.)

In 1991, I visited the footprints on a vacation to San Diego with my girlfriend. (Now My Fine Wife or MFW.)

In 2002, I stood on a hill in Vietnam called Con Thien with a Vietnamese guide who told me about the obliteration of his village by B52s, bombing the NVA advance.

In 2008, I was back at MCRD finishing up a marathon with Team in Training.

But on a Friday night, January 14, 1972, I stood on yellow footprints. Oh, right before we boxed up our clothes, this happened:
(The following scene is rather accurate, except there's no C&W music. Just buzzzzzzz.)

h/t: amp1776

Note 2020:

On this 48th anniversary of my enlistment, I pay my respects to Tom Poto and Steve Lovell, two of my comrades who are no longer with us. RIP, bros. Hard to believe we were once young together.

Note: 2021

Yikes! 49 years ago; one removed from a half-century. I'll write no more on the subject.
    

Indochina History Break Revisited

Check upper left hand corner. World Atlas

Fourteen Years Later, Procrastination Wins Again

Back in the day, to avoid arduous writing tasks, as well as training for a marathon, I took a break to write up a brief history of the battle of Dien Bien Phu, it being March 13 and the anniversary of the opening salvos. Here is what I jotted down then:

Today marks the 52nd anniversary of the Viet Minh attack on the French garrison at Dien Bien Phu — a remote valley in northern Vietnam near the border with Laos. The Viet Minh were an umbrella group of Vietnamese nationalists under the leadership of communist Ho Chi Minh. They had been fighting the colonial French, and other Vietnamese nationalist groups, since 1946.

The French viewed their position in a flat valley surrounded by hills as an offensive base. From there they would venture out and cut the Viet Minh supply lines, preempting an attack on Laos. As a result of this outlook, the garrison never outposted the hills. They'd be attacking and, besides, it was impossible for the Vietnamese to haul any significantt artillery up there.

Unaware of French opinion, the Vietnameses went ahead and hauled heavy artillery up onto the hills along with daunting amounts of anti-aircraft guns. On March 13, they let loose a barrage, followed by a human wave attack that engulfed a French strongpoint manned by crack Foreign Legionnaires. The fight was on.

French troops entrenched. ThoughtCo

For the next several months, while peace talks droned on in Geneva, the Vietnamese strangled the French. All French supplies had to come by parachute. The planes—many flown by American contract pilots— braved intense flak dropping their cargo. As the garrison was compressed, the drop zone grew smaller. Food and ammunition ran short. Meanwhile, generous supplies from nearby communist China—including American ordinance captured in Korea— enabled the Viet Minh to bombard their opponents at will.

Despite horrendous casualties, the Viet Minh seized one French strongpoint after another. Finally, on May 7, 1954, it ended. The French surrendered. Over 10,000 men marched into captivity, many of whom died in Viet Minh prison camps. French colonial rule in Vietnam and Laos ended. In 1955, Vietnam was partitioned into a communist north and a non-communist south along the 17th parallel.

Now back to running and writing stuff.

Sixty-six years have now passed and the valley appears to be something of a tourist stop. For a better short summary of the battle, try here. And while I'm considering another marathon, much writing awaits my hand today. 

And yet, I repost. 

C'est la guerre.