It was all over the camp and made all the papers:
“C Company put on Full-Emergency / Red Alert”
They rousted us out of our racks at 11:45 PM that Monday night. They made us dress in utility greens and boots. Had us pack our seabags. Then they made us don 782 gear (cartridge belt w/ suspenders and accouterments), paint our faces, and put on our helmets—then double-time down to the armory to draw our rifles. And then double-time back to the barracks. With rifle propped against the bulkhead and full field packs on our backs, we sat on our cots . . . and waited. And sat. And Waited. And sat . . . and waited.
1:00 AM
Rest against the wall to ease the tension on your shoulders from the straps of the knapsack.
2:00 AM
Unfasten cartridge belt and let it hang loose.
3:00 AM
Remove helmet to alleviate headache.
4:00 AM
Recline on rack and use field pack as a buffer to ease the stress on your spine.
5:00 AM
Doze fitfully.
6:00 AM
Curse fully.
Then at the cockcrow—with everyone having it up to here—the sound of deuce-and-a-half trucks shattered the nights silence outside the windows.
The Full-Emergency / Red Alert was in full-tilt boogie!
Saints and sinners and soldiers be praised!
In the cool California dawn, misty with an ocean breeze, we dutifully loaded onto the olive drab vehicles; the lids on the vertical exhaust pies, on each side of the cab, blowing like tea kettles. Popping and varooming in idling frenzy. We then convoyed our way toward the gates of Camp Pendelton, exited, and turned north; headed for El Toro airbase. On the highway we hauled arse as much as the speed limit would allow and covered the distance to Toro in record time. There, we offloaded onto the asphalt hardpan hurriedly, formed a formation, and sat and waited for our plane. And sat. And waited. And sat . . . and waited.
Morning turned into afternoon, and our empty bellies growled at us in hunger because we missed our breakfast. There was a small vending area with a few machines stocked with sodas and candy bars, but they were soon emptied by the hungry mass of Marines.
It was late in the PM, and still there was no sign of an airplane. And the company of exhausted Marines turned cranky, short-fused, and all in all, no fun to be with.
Finally, near dusk, salvation came. Spread out on the tarmac in various postures of laze, a few heads looked to the skies in anticipation of something that was unseen. But something got their attention . . . a sixth sense perhaps.
And long minutes later, there she was.
Coming in from the west flew our very own homogenous, silver Lockheed C-141 troop transport slash strategic airlifter—known in military jargon as a Starlifter. Holding capacity: 138 passengers; no meals or stewardesses included.
The airplane circled one time and started its approach, bounced on its tires a few times in landing, and then the pilot gunned the turbines to slow the behemoth down. It taxied behind some hangers momentarily, then reappeared and began to lumber our way. A right and left turn and there she be . . . our one way ticket to Disneyland East.
It was way into dark before we got loaded on the plane, settled ourselves in, and watched as the crew chiefs buttoned her up. And while everybody was anxious for takeoff . . . we waited. And sat. And waited. And sat.
Two hours passed and at last we were blowin’ down the runway making for the lovely, exotic, and dangerous land of Vietnam—or so I thought our destination to be.
We flew to Hawaii where we debarked to the airport terminal and waited and sat. Then took to the air to Wake Island. Where we off-loaded to the airport terminal and waited and sat. Then took wing to Guam. Where we deplaned into the airport terminal and waited and sat. And then soared to Okinawa. Where we unloaded ourselves (and our gear) and found our way to Camp Hansen.
There, we sat in transient barracks and waited for orders to Vietnam.
For around ten days.
Time total since leaving the barracks in the good ol’ US of A—umpteen days, innumerable hours, incalculable minutes, and limitless seconds
On a Full-Emergency / Red Alert!
Go figure.
(Coming: a young man’s fun and folly in Okinawa brought to you by the courtesy of BC Street)
Preview:
I got out at the outer fringe of BC Street and the cabby did a screeching U-turn and headed back to Hansen and his next fare. The panorama lay out before me, block after block of nightclubs and massage parlors. In front of each establishment, Okinawan shills of all ages worked the streets and extolled the virtues of the businesses they fronted. They implored the masses of GI’s, from all the representative services, to enter—declaring that their establishment had the best booze and girl-sans on the block. Inside was every brand of alcohol imaginable, and all top shelf. There was bottled as well as tapped beer. There were girls to serve you, girls who danced for you while you drank, and girls to sit with you as you drank and watched the girls who danced. It was a paradise for eighteen and nineteen year olds in full libido overdrive.
