Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
WELCOME ABOARD
3 MARCH 1970
A small army consisting of chosen troops is far better than
a vast body, chiefly composed of rabble.
The Hitopadesa, iii, c. 500 B.C.
My ears popped repeatedly while our Boeing 707 executed a wide descending turn into the landing approach pattern for Da Nang. Bile rose in my throat as the plane lurched into a steeper descent. I swallowed hard, closed the dog-eared paperback I had been reading, and shifted in my seat to peer into space through a porthole. From my vantage point just forward of the port wing, a panoply of colors flowed past, green hues of jungle, yellow-browns of rice paddies, blue-green ribbons of water-courses, the macadam strip of Highway 1, the stark green-black mass of Ba Na ringed with clouds, buildings, and finally, the airfield. Here and there, light flashed, reflections from the windshields of vehicles on the roads below. Smoke from countless small fires pillared and drifted in the clear blue morning sky. A pair of F-4 Phantom fighter-bombers streaked down a runway and lifted into the morning sky, leaving telltale gray-brown plumes behind. I looked at my Mickey Mouse watch (a much coveted and hard to acquire matte-finish military issue watch with a green nylon band and a black face). It was 0617 (6:17 A.M.). The war was starting early for somebody.
“Gentlemen, we are commencing our final approach into Da Nang International Airport! The captain requests that you return your seats to their full upright position, return your tray tables to their upright and locked position, and insure that your seat belts are securely fastened. We will be landing in approximately five minutes. On behalf of Flying Tiger Airlines and your crew, we wish you the best of luck and hope to see you on a return flight!” The irony of her words was lost on the stewardess. I studied her as she clipped the microphone in its bracket on the aircraft bulkhead and set about collecting trash, impervious to the sea of anxious teenage faces staring at her from the cabin. She was old, past forty, and tired. It had been a long, no-frills ride, and she was clearly looking forward to her return flight. Hers was fourteen hours away. Ours was a lifetime. I followed her instructions, looking around as the cabin rustled with activity. The other stews were moving down the aisles collecting blankets, pillows, and trash from a sea of young, rumpled, big-eyed boys about to become men. Next to me, the army lieutenant colonel with whom I had shared bits and pieces of conversation on the long flight from Hawaii, leaned across me to stare out the porthole window. “What’s all the smoke? They must have had a rocket attack this morning! Is it safe to land?”
As he spoke, he slumped back into his seat, embarrassed by his outburst. He had identified me back in Hawaii as a salt returning to the theater from R & R (rest and recuperation). My camouflage uniform and gauntness had given me away.
I smiled, remembering my own not too dissimilar thoughts months before. “Yes sir, it’s safe. Those are outhouse fires, mostly. It’s part of the daily routine in all the camps, sir. Troops have to pull the barrels out, pour kerosene in, and burn them every morning before it gets too hot. Prevents typhoid and stuff like that. The fires you see in the hills are charcoal fires—the farmers make the stuff all the time for cooking in the villages. Rockets and mortars don’t make fires, Colonel, just messes.” His face turned pale with the import of my remark.
The plane lurched suddenly toward the ground, leaving all our stomachs at altitude. The colonel was startled again. “Tactical descent, sir. Just in case.”
I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes. Within moments, we were jolted as landing gear contacted the runway. It was a hard landing. The aircraft engines screamed into reverse thrust, braking us rapidly, then muted to taxi power as the aircraft turned and ran down an apron toward the huge Butler buildings which served as the terminal. As the big aircraft braked to a halt, the cabin doors were thrown open, and a rush of putrid air filled the cabin. The pervasive odor of kerosene and fecal matter tainted an ocean breeze that raised the cabin temperature to over one hundred degrees in seconds. We had, indeed, arrived in Southeast Asia.
“Gentlemen, please remain seated until the briefer has completed his briefing. Upon completion of his statement, you will be permitted to debark the aircraft. Once again, thank you for choosing Flying Tiger!”
An Air Force master sergeant in green fatigues appeared in the aisle behind the stewardess, a clipboard in one hand, a megaphone in the other. “Good morning, gentlemen! On behalf of the Joint Service Processing Center, welcome to Da Nang! I know you are all anxious to get off this aircraft, so listen up.”
The aircraft engines continued to whine, drowning out his voice. All around me troops and troop leaders milled in the aisle, jostling one another as they recovered luggage and belongings from the overhead. No one gave the JTO a thought. I looked out the window, watching as the ground crew scurried about servicing the aircraft and unloading the cargo bays. In the shade of the Butler buildings was a bustling crowd of uniformed men, mostly in camouflaged utilities. Almost all carried small canvas or cloth bags. Some smoked. All laughed and joked as they watched the bustle of activity around the aircraft. They were going home.
The master sergeant finished his speech, having told us all how to get off the airplane and where to go once inside the terminal. No one had understood a word he said. I remained seated, outwardly patient, sweating profusely, while the field-grade officers (majors and above) debarked the aircraft. There weren’t many, but as the cabin became insufferable, sweaty bodies continued to jostle one another in the aisle. Tempers flared and there were scuffles as teens of many races attempted to recover their carry-on bags from the overhead storage and scrambled to escape the stifling heat of the aircraft. I remained in my seat, skimming a few more pages of my Louis L’Amour, until the motley group began to dissipate. Finally, I stashed the novel in my kit and worked my way up the aisle, through the hatch, and into the harsh morning sun. Standing on the landing of the debarkation ramp, I squinted into the morning sun, taking in the sights and sounds of the terminal. In the shade, the vets were beginning to make catcalls and comments to the new arrivals, most frequent among them, “You’ll be sorrryyy!!!”
I smiled at the thought and made my way down the ramp, into the terminal. Once inside, I cast my eyes about until I sighted the First Marine Division plaque, suspended from the overhead. Beneath the sign, there was a counter not unlike the airline service counters back in the States. In front of the counter, uniformed bodies struggled with seabags and other luggage, documents stuck under their arms. Farther back, there were benches littered with Marines and their gear, some sleeping, some engaged in card games or conversation. The uniforms were about evenly mixed between the green fatigues of Marines coming in country from Stateside and the camouflaged uniforms of those who had been in country. I moved to the counter under a sign reading OFFICERS, dropped my carry-on bag on the deck, and handed my orders to the corporal behind the counter. “Good morning, Corporal. My name is Hodgins. I have orders to report to First Recon Battalion. I need transportation.”
The corporal took my orders, removed the staple, took a copy, stamped an endorsement on them, sorted the stack and handed them back to me. “Yes, sir! You’re all set. You need to recover your gear from the baggage claim and wait out there under the 1st Mar Div sign. There’ll be a sixby [6×6 truck] to pick you up in about forty mikes [minutes].”
He gestured toward the huge sliding doors on the opposite side of the Butler building. I gathered my gear and turned away in the direction of the growing crowd of green, sweaty bodies in front of the baggage claim area. I knew from experience that my B-4 duffel bag and valpack would not be in the pile just yet. Officers’ luggage was first on, last off— revenge of the Snuffy (enlisted Marine). I slumped on a bench and lit a cigarette, content to wait for the crowd to dissipate, and mused about how things were. My thoughts were shaped, as in a hazy dream, by the comings and goings of the troops around me.
They were of many ranks and races. What they had in common was youth, bad luck, and the tradition of the Corps. Back in The World, the Marines were looking for “A Few Good Men.” These were what they had found. Upon their arrival from CONUS (Continental United States) they became, in the vernacular of the time, fuckin’ new guys (FNGs). No one wanted to be an FNG in Vietnam, circa 1969–70. And no one wanted to be led by one, followed by one, or flanked by one. Yet, the FNGs were everywhere, in every pay grade from private to general. In fact, with rare exceptions, even the senior officers being assigned to combat command and staff billets in 1970 had no combat experience in country, in grade, in billet. It was all on-the-job training, the typical high-profile stint being six months. By the time a man had learned or not learned how to do the job, he was transferred, replaced by a fuckin’ new guy. It was bad for morale, and hard on the few good men the Marines had found. Yet, here we were—here I was, a fuckin’ new guy again.
