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Vietnam

September 1968

The Marine Corps recruiter was nonplussed when I showed up at the recruiting station ready to sign up. So many college students were avoiding the military, he had a hard time coming to terms with me wanting to volunteer. Not only was I volunteering, but I virtually had completed my military obligation. He didn’t actually say he thought I was crazy, but I have no doubt it crossed his mind. At first, he suggested that I might be better off sticking with the Army since I had close to six years in already. He made sure I knew signing up for the Marine Corps was a sure ticket to Vietnam. “Sign me up!” I was determined to become a Marine Corps infantry officer!

Actually, I tried to join the Marine Corps much earlier in college. A friend, Allen Lochman, and I traveled to the Marine Recruiting Station in Los Angeles for our physicals. Allen wore thick glasses. When he took them off to read the eye chart, he was sunk. I think his words were, “What chart?” The Navy doctors diagnosed me with a curvature of the spine. They felt it would inhibit my Marine Corps training and activities. We both flunked!

Times changed. The Vietnam War consumed more young Marine Corps officers. I persisted, took the tests, signed the papers, and was ready to go. My physical wasn’t an issue this time.

I joined the Marine Corps in 1968 despite having served in the California National Guard for over five years. This was a time when getting into the National Guard was a way to get out of going to Vietnam, by now a very unpopular war. However, it didn’t seem quite right to me, though I was no big supporter of the war, that I could avoid going to war, and a bunch of drafted eighteen-year-old kids right out of high school wouldn’t have that option.

However, time passed, and my orders still did not arrive, so I boarded a plane in San Diego for Washington, D.C. and then got on a train to Quantico, Virginia. Aboard the train, I met a few others headed for Officer Candidate School (OCS). There was an air of excitement among us all.

I struck up a conversation with one guy who was very preppy looking and appeared to have it all together. He said his name was Jack (not his name), he was from Los Angeles, had been in a fraternity in college, and had taught high school biology in Los Angeles. I figured he was a good guy to get to know. We did end up in the same platoon, but things did not run as smoothly for him as he or I thought they would.

Ultimately, we arrived at the Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Virginia. I had no orders or anything other than my suitcase. Casualty figures being what they were, the Marine Corps, feeling a need for more young officers, took me anyway. It was the beginning of what was one of the most satisfying and challenging journeys of my life.

Officer Candidate School

December 2, 1968

If I get my bars here, I will earn them. From what everyone says, it is really going to be hard. So far, we have been harassed plenty. The first night, Monday night, we stayed up until midnight, pushing lockers around, getting dressed and undressed a hundred times or so, and just generally being harassed by the drill instructors. They would get right up in an officer candidate’s face, yelling and doing their best to intimidate and fluster the candidate. They were very good at it too.

We got up at 5:30 a.m., and I was plenty tired. Since then, I have been kept busy. Even on Thanksgiving, which we were supposed to have off, the drill instructor kept us busy all day. It seems like I’ve been here a month or two instead of just a week. The drill instructor storms in every morning, yelling and banging on lockers and trash cans. Startled, we are up and out of bed before we even realize it. The day begins with a rush that doesn’t end until we are back in the rack for lights out.

It hasn’t snowed here yet, but it does get a bit nippy. I am destitute and need to buy several things, among them thermal underwear. I have had a headache since Thanksgiving. I was really sick on Thanksgiving, but except for a dull pain, haven’t felt too bad since.

The clothes I wore here are a sight—wrinkled, torn, and dirty. They told everyone to show up in a good suit! The only catch: we can’t leave without a tie on weekends. I bought one at the PX so I could leave if I wanted.

Dec. 3, 1968

Around here, everyone is really sick. At least ten guys in my platoon alone have barfed, and many more had the runs. More are getting sick all the time. I don’t know why.

Tomorrow, we really start in on the training. There are guys from all over the country in here. My bunkmate is from Arkansas. Denny Cox is built like a small fireplug. He played football—linebacker, no less—at a small Arkansas college. With all the southerners here, I will probably come home with a southern accent.

Dec. 4, 1968

Boy! My head still hurts, really hurts. Now five days straight.

We ran the obstacle course today. Some of these candidates are very uncoordinated and weak. Jack, the preppy guy I met on the train, is really a nice guy, but without a doubt, the weakest and most uncoordinated person I have ever seen. The drill instructors got on him right away and haven’t let up. They told him one more mistake and he goes. That is a pretty scary proposition.

We will have a Christmas leave for sure, and the cadre platoon sergeant told us no one would be allowed to stay here because he and the rest of the staff don’t want to have to come in to keep an eye on us. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t either.

Some guy stole my field jacket liner right off the bat, so I suppose I will have to pay for it.

Jack is so uncoordinated he has to wear a coat hanger in his shirt to keep his posture straight. He really looks funny. It is amazing how someone can maintain an image in one situation and have it totally shattered in another.

I would like to get some pills for my headache. However, they take all pills, including aspirin away from us. I am enduring.

Dec. 8, 1968

I’m in command voice class right now. It’s a real winner! I probably need it. My platoon sergeant told me to practice yelling out of my car window to strengthen my voice. Tomorrow we have an inspection. I’ve got so many things to do tonight, I don’t know where to start. Trouble is, around here, they don’t give you enough time to do anything.

I am waiting for a conduct of the march class to start. We have our first hike today. They say the hikes are worse than the runs, and the runs are certainly no fun. I haven’t even cleaned my rifle yet. It has rust on it. I hope I get a little time to do that tonight, or it could be bad news.

The drill instructors regularly empty our footlockers on the floor. They found candy in mine the other night. While I was standing at attention in my skivvies in front of my bunk, the drill instructor roundly abused me for having an unauthorized item. He then made me stuff the whole pack of jellybeans into my mouth at once and chew it. I will be more careful in the future. I like jellybeans, but I prefer them one at a time.

It is after lunch now, so the day is almost over by my reckoning. Of course, the hardest part of the day comes at the end when we have physical training (PT) or hikes.

Well, it is Saturday night, and I finally have a chance to finish a letter home. I can’t say I did really well Friday on our march. The drill instructor threw me out of the platoon on the hike. That made me a straggler. I was passing a couple of guys in front of me, and he got me for being out of line, just the opposite of straggling. At any rate, I got a chit that says, “You straggled on the hill trail on hike #1. Remember, it is impossible for a man to lead if he is himself running behind.” Since a straggling chit is one of the worst you can get, it really ticked me off. I also got one for not signing my autobiography and two for my clothes and bunk, for a grand total of four! Nice going!

We came back into the bay Friday and found everything turned upside down. Just a little more harassment on top of what is already the worst part of this deal—the running. The running really hurts!

We had an inspection this morning, which, of course, we all failed. I had to throw away some hometown newspapers that were sent to me. I didn’t even have the time to read them.

We have a two-thousand-word essay to write on military courtesy, for punishment, so I had better sign off and get busy. I also have a test Monday to study for and guard to stand tomorrow.

Dec. 10, 1968

Brother, was it cold today! I have never felt such cold. And we had to spend the whole day outside! We took a test Monday, and I barely passed. Today, we had camouflage and concealment. In the afternoon, we had bayonet and physical training. Some guy got carried away in an ambulance. He got hit in the ribs with a knee or something. Anyway, his ribs were hurt. They’re starting to drop like flies around here. Three guys have been physically disqualified from my platoon alone. The preppy guy who was so uncoordinated and wore a coat hanger may have a detached retina. He sat down in class and poked himself in the eye with the rifle of the guy seated in front of him. Another guy took off for the weekend. No one has seen him since.

Wow! It is now Wednesday night, and I have two more chits. I got caught sleeping in class and had to hold a footlocker against my chest while partially bent over. I also straggled on a run. That is very bad.

Dec. 12, 1968

I am really tired and can’t wait to go to bed. We wake up every morning by jumping out of bed with our sheets in both hands and a pillowcase in our mouth. Then we run downstairs, line up on the pavement outside, and do some exercises. We run back upstairs, hit the head (bathroom), shave, make our beds, and then get ready for the day. All this is done in about thirty minutes. We then fall out again on the pavement to march off to chow and our classes.

After classes and drill and harassment, we spend about an hour doing physical training. It is a real killer too! Everyone dreads it. I sure hope I hurry up and get in better shape. We sleep in an open bay room filled with rows of bunk beds. At night, every night, we all stand in front of our bunks in our issued white boxer shorts and T-shirt and count off in order to make sure everyone is there. After counting off, we sing the Marine Corps Hymn. The drill instructor then says, “Prepare to mount!” We get by the side of our bunks. He says, “Mount!” We then jump on top of our bunks, yelling, “Gung Ho!” We lay there at attention until he says, “Get in and sleep.” Going to sleep is the easy part!

Tomorrow, we start “billets,” which means we run ourselves, and we are graded on our actions. Here is where it gets tough.

Today, Thursday, we went through the reaction course. I did okay, I guess. They give us a leadership grade for it. It rained like the devil yesterday, and we got soaked. The weather has definitely gotten nippy. I’m going to get some thermal underwear.

Dec. 15, 1968

We went on our second training hike Thursday. Our hikes always include the dreaded hill trail, a particularly arduous piece of terrain, and a part of OCS lore. I survived with flying colors and a corn on my toe. In the process, I picked up a sore throat though. We came back from lunch before the hike, and the drill instructor had completely destroyed our bay. There were clothes and things everywhere. That night, we had to mix soap, sand, and water and get down on our hands and knees and scrub the floor.

Friday. They issued us long underwear due to the nippy weather. Friday night I took over my first billet as company gunnery sergeant. I guess I did all right. I haven’t gotten my evaluation yet. Almost everyone gets an unsatisfactory, so that is probably what I will get. The drill instructor on duty cornered me twice and really reamed me. I guess he just felt it his duty because I wasn’t doing anything wrong. At least I don’t think I was.

Today, Saturday, we had a weapons and personnel inspection. I really lucked out. First of all, it rained, so we didn’t have to go outside. Secondly, Lieutenant Long, our cadre platoon commander, didn’t look too closely at my stuff or ask me anything I couldn’t answer. Consequently, I came through without any wear and tear. If it had been Sergeant Howard, our drill instructor, it would have been all over! He misses nothing.

Monday. We have a test on the rifle and bayonet. I have to study this weekend.

Our platoon started out with sixty-three officer candidates. It is or will be down to about forty-eight or forty-nine candidates by the end of the week. Most of these just weren’t physically able to handle it.

Everyone gets a chit for one thing or another. The yellow one doesn’t mean too much. The white one is the killer. Even so, it doesn’t count for much unless your drill instructor or platoon commander decides you won’t make a good officer.

I will tell you one thing about this place: your appetite is good, and you sleep soundly! I’ll bet I am asleep within five minutes of climbing into bed.

Dec. 17, 1968

The other night one of the drill instructors went around and checked for unlocked lockers after we went to bed. And of course, I had forgotten to lock my locker, so I had to get up in the middle of the night, get my rifle, take it to bed, and sleep with it.

Today was pretty easy. We got up at 5:30 a.m. and ran outside for some exercises. Then we ate breakfast and took our test on the M14. We had a critique on the test and some drill. It was too cold out, so we came in early from drill. Lunch, a morals lecture from the chaplain and physical training took up the rest of the day. We are now running two-and-a-half miles a day or more.

Some of the guys in the other bay are singing Christmas carols, and it is really making me homesick! I caught a dandy of a cold. Of course, it is a wonder it has taken this long with everyone coughing on everybody else. All of the colleges around Washington are closed because of the flu, and it is starting to go around here.

Dec. 31, 1968 (after home leave for Christmas)

Sunday night. We moodily nursed our cokes in the canteen, listening to Glen Campbell croon.

“I am a lineman for the county / And I drive the main road / Searchin’ in the sun for another overload / And the Wichita lineman is still on the line.”

Our Christmas leave was over. We were dreading Monday, starting the whole routine over again.

“I need a small vacation / But it don’t look like rain.”

Monday reveille would come too soon. There would be a crashing of garbage cans and yelling of the DIs, yanking us from our sleep. A scramble down to the cold pavement for wakeup exercises, then back to shave, make our beds, dress for the day, and out for morning formation. We would hardly have time to take a breath.

Jan. 5, 1969

This week has turned into a real hassle. We went on a seven-mile hike yesterday, and it was a killer. We ran almost the whole way, up and down hills. There were only about ten or twelve of us who didn’t get straggling chits. Then we came back and had to take everything out of our squad bay and clean it for the hundredth time. I only got a chance to read one letter from home last night and that was under the blanket with a flashlight after lights out. I barely had time to take a shower. The night before, I didn’t have time for even that!

The next two or three weeks are going to be a real hassle. We will be on the go constantly. But after that, it should get better. Right now, I am in a history review class. After this, we have two hours of physical training. I am really sore from the last hike.

We ran three miles yesterday and three and a half the day before. Not too many made the three-and-a-half miler. I did though. We ran wind sprints before the run plus regular physical training. Wow, they have really been putting the pressure on around here. Next week is going to be a tough one and so is the week after, but every week is a step closer to graduation.

I had better close now and start studying for our history test Monday. Platoon Commander, Lieutenant Long, gave my bunkmate and me a little lecture on our low grades. He said we never straggle, had pretty-high peer evaluations, and not-bad leadership grades, but we needed the knowledge, so we better hop to it and study. Of course, my bunkmate, Denny, has higher grades on everything else. So he got a longer lecture. Most of my grades, except academic, are higher than average. Consequently, I guess Lt. Long felt I rated a lecture too. All of my academic grades are passing, but they are low passing. My academic average is seventy-five for three tests. Seventy is passing.

Part of the evaluation process includes peer evaluations. Peer evaluations are important and stressful. Each of us has to rank everyone else in the platoon from the best, number one, to the worst, number sixty-three, if that is the number of candidates in the platoon. They play a significant role in who stays and who doesn’t.

Jan. 12, 1969

This has really been a busy week. We had an overnight compass course Monday. Naturally, it snowed Monday night, and we froze. The march to the compass course was unbelievable. I call it march facetiously because we had to run the whole way to keep up. Only twelve of us in my platoon and seven in another platoon made it! The drill instructors got us up at 4:30 Tuesday morning to march home.

Tuesday. We had the confidence course. That wasn’t too bad. Wednesday, we had the speed march reaction course. That involved running about three-and-a-half miles, over hills, and then solving a problem at the end. This is all done after running the obstacle course.

Today, we were issued clothing in the morning, practiced marching, and had physical training in the afternoon. It was a killer. I was hurting and so was everyone else. We spent all evening cleaning the barracks. I am really tired. Tonight from 1 a.m. to 3 a.m., I have to get up and stand guard in the parking lot. Then tomorrow, we have either a seven- or nine-mile hike, mostly a run. I have a few minutes, so I think I will take a quick shower.

Friday morning. Right now, I am sitting in a first aid class, waiting for it to begin. They are supposed to show a really gory movie. I don’t think I will watch.

That movie was gross! It showed doctors fixing up a man who had both legs blown off, was blind, and his face burned black. Ugh! The movie actually pictured the surgeons amputating his legs, peeling off his skin, and removing his eyes. The guy next to me fainted and fell out of his chair. Another guy keeled over while standing in formation outside. The movie was graphic and gory but ended by noting that the subject married his nurse. I guess that tidbit was to provide a little bit of hope to an otherwise truly gloomy scenario.

Either tonight or tomorrow, I will be candidate platoon sergeant. It is a very hot place to be because sometimes they really dump on you. I hope I get by okay.

Saturday. I was candidate platoon sergeant, and I survived! I am a nervous wreck but still alive. My bunkmate’s knee has gotten pretty bad. I am not sure he will be able to finish the program. I sure hope he can. He is a great guy. Since we have started, we have lost twenty-three people. Wow, quite a few! Before we are through, we will probably lose five or six more.

The duty drill instructor caught a guy in my platoon smoking. He had to put a trash can over his head and smoke a whole pack of cigarettes, three at a time. By the time he finished, he was throwing up all over everything.

I didn’t go to Washington. My bunkmate, Denny, couldn’t leave because he is hurt, and I didn’t want to go without him. Well, I am pretty tired, as usual, so I think I will go to bed.

Jan. 16, 1969

We lost another candidate. We were standing in front of our bunks about 5:30 a.m., waiting for morning physical training. This guy just keeled over and passed out. They wheeled him away in an ambulance, unconscious. That was the last we saw of him.

It is Wednesday of the seventh week. Another week, and the tough part will be over. I can hardly wait. I am having a hard time keeping the proper attitude toward the physical part of this program. Even though things have been easier physically lately, I have to make myself keep going. Maybe they have just worn my body down, or maybe I am just tired of it, or both. Besides, I am pretty sure of making it. I got a satisfactory chit for platoon sergeant, my first, which is really a big deal.

The discipline around here isn’t letting up any. The word is that we are an experimental group, and they are hitting discipline pretty hard. Supposedly, the other platoons stress teamwork, but our platoon stresses individual performance.

I am tired constantly. We have had a little time the last two nights. I hope it keeps up. Last night for punishment, we did four hundred jumping jacks, one hundred squat thrusts, one hundred leg lifts, and twenty-five push-ups. This is plus regular physical training where we run three miles or better and do a bunch of other exercises.

Jan. 17, 1969

I am sitting here in the squad bay while the rest of the troops are out on a hike. I kind of finked out. I have an infected toe that has been bothering me for the last few weeks. Yesterday, I could hardly walk. We had two short hikes, so I went to sick bay today. I was relieved to get out of the hike. However, Sergeant Howard, our cadre platoon sergeant, threw a guilt trip on me by telling me how disappointed in me he was for missing the hike, staying back with the other malingerers. My words, not his.

Coming from him, it meant something. We all think Staff Sergeant Howard and Lieutenant Long are great role models. Staff Sergeant Howard has a wicked and subtle sense of humor. Laughing or making any noise during an inspection invites personal disaster. However, it is very difficult to keep a straight face listening to the comments Staff Sergeant Howard directs to the various individuals he is inspecting. The exception, of course, would be when he directs his comments to you. That is to be avoided at all costs!

On one occasion, we were all standing at attention, waiting to be inspected. Our equipment was laid out behind us on our bunks. Staff Sergeant Howard slowly proceeded down the row of bunks, examining our equipment and each of us. I held my breath as he passed by me. Two bunks down something caught his eye. He stopped abruptly, squared up on candidate Jones (not his name), grabbed the candidate’s rifle, turned it up, looked down the barrel, whipped it back to check the action, and upside down to look at the butt plate. All the while, he continued to comment about the increasing amount of sand he was seeing. The amount of sand grew with each new exclamation. By the time Staff Sergeant Howard was finished with candidate Jones, you would swear that candidate Jones had brought the beach in with him and was standing waist deep in sand. It was very funny but to utter a sound would be to invite a personal catastrophe. Ultimately, candidate Jones got caught smoking on fire watch. He was shipped off to Parris Island the following day to train as an enlisted Marine.

Another time, Staff Sergeant Howard was holding a class on protocol. One candidate, brave soul that he was, asked a question. Staff Sergeant Howard responded, “What are you asking me, candidate? Are you trying to bait me, candidate?” Staff Sergeant Howard’s voice elevated, “Are you?” The candidate was doing his best to deny the whole situation, wishing, no doubt, he had never asked the question. Staff Sergeant Howard continued more calmly, “You know, candidate, if you continue to bait me, you will become a master baiter. Is that what you want, candidate, to be known as the masturbator?” Despite a lot of faces red with suppressed laughter among the rest of us, not a sound was heard.

Lt. Long stayed cool and aloof. He knew how to wear the uniform. When we finally achieved a status where we could put on our greens, he provided all the tips on how to make the uniform look just right on us. We wanted our uniforms to look as good on us as his did on him. He also attempted to pass along some of his wisdom gained in Vietnam. In one instance, he talked about his platoon taking fire and how, rather than reacting immediately, he would take a minute to review his options. He considered what he had done the last time he took fire before deciding on a course of action. Never having been in that situation, we were all ears.

It seems to me quite a few guys could be kicked out the tenth week. That would sure be crummy. They told Denny Cox, my bunkmate, they would graduate him no matter what if he could get the doctor’s okay on his knee. He was a great officer candidate. As it turned out, though, his knee didn’t hold up, and he was discharged.

Jan. 20, 1969

Right now, we are giving our impromptu speeches. I just gave mine on “While we are sleeping, could our National Guard really defend us?” Having been in one of the National Guard units sent into the Watts Riots, I had serious doubts, but I guess I did okay on the speech. Yesterday, we had squad tactics. It was miserable. It rained all day. We were soaked, and the hikes there and back were bears. Plus I messed up my squad tactics problem. Everything went okay except I got lost. The lieutenant who was in charge of the problem got so red in the face, I thought he was about to have a heart attack.

Jan. 21, 1969

Tuesday. I am back in class, listening to impromptus again. The hard rain keeps us from going outside, so we are giving speeches. I am having a heck of a time keeping my eyes open. We have one more fairly hard week after this. Next Monday, on my birthday, we have the twenty-four-hour war. A helicopter will drop us off in the countryside. We play war all day and night. It will be cold!

Friday. The last hard day. We have a nine-mile hike today. Not too bad except it is really muddy out and that makes it rough. Monday. We have the twenty-four-hour war. That will be cold and uncomfortable but not too strenuous. Besides, it is downhill after that.

Jan. 30, 1969

We finished our twenty-four-hour war. It got down to seven degrees. I was never so cold in my life. On top of that, in my opinion, the whole thing was a big waste of time. I spent most of my time, virtually all night, lying on cold hard ground shivering. If I don’t come down with pneumonia this week, I never will.

They have quit giving chits and posting billets. They also called about six guys in and told them they were going to the board that makes decisions on candidates staying or leaving the program. I guess that means I’ve made it, and all I am waiting for is the Feb. 7th graduation. Twenty-eight guys have been dropped, and six more, right now, are questionable. They really have weeded this platoon down.

I graduate Friday, and we have guard Thursday.

Feb. 7, 1969

Graduation was great! My father and Red, my wife, attended. Dad pinned on my bars. We all lined up to be saluted by Staff Sergeant Howard, our platoon sergeant. We shook hands with him and palmed him a silver dollar. The salute and silver dollar are a time-honored Marine Corps ritual. He was a great role model who commanded our respect. Carried away by emotion, I told him that if I went into combat, I wanted him there. He probably was thinking he was glad he wouldn’t be there. I don’t think he had any illusions about his officer candidates, now brand-new second lieutenants.

The Basic School

We operated night and day, trying to cram in all the knowledge we would need to lead a platoon of young Marines in Vietnam. While officer candidate school was a screening process for Marine Corps officers, The Basic School was where new lieutenants learned the nuts and bolts of being a Marine Corps officer.

The Marine Corps takes great pride in every Marine being first and foremost an infantryman. Every Marine Corps officer attends The Basic School. All officers and enlisted Marines when they are in boot camp are trained in basic infantry tactics even though they may specialize in something else.

For me, The Basic School was a great, invigorating experience with something new and exciting virtually every day and/or night. We learned everything from movement to contact and tactics to the use of supporting arms and map reading. A strong emphasis on leadership pervaded every skill taught. It was five months of exciting, intense, and highly satisfying work. I met other young officers with whom I still feel a strong comradeship.

The Basic School culminated in our assignment to a particular branch of arms in the Marine Corps. I chose, and was assigned, to the infantry. That was a pretty safe bet since almost everyone was assigned to the infantry. The exceptions would be those who ranked high in the class and chose other specialties such as armor, artillery, supply, transport, or air traffic control.

After a thirty-day leave, I attended recon replacement school at Camp Pendleton, California. The school lasted a few weeks and consisted mostly of refining our ability to call in supporting arms (i.e., artillery, air strikes, and Naval gunfire). It was a nice interlude that allowed me to spend time with my family before going to Vietnam.

Commissioned 2nd Lieutenant with my dad and Red