I sat in the belly of a behemoth as it advanced slowly along, bouncing in my seat whenever it lumbered over a depression. Across the aisle, separated from us lowly enlisted men, I heard one officer comment to another, “I remember landing here in the early years when the runway was as smooth as rice paper, and now it’s a network of patched-over holes from mortar and rocket attacks.” He breathed a long sigh. “This is now the fourth year of our involvement in this quote police action unquote, and I fail to see any military gain, only escalation Stateside, we load enormous troop transports such as this one, then unload our soldiers in this godforsaken country to sweat, no pun intended, out their tours. Then we reload the fortunate survivors and fly them back the other way. Aircraft traversing the International Date Line on a daily basis, with no end in sight. It is all so frustrating, at times I’d like to suggest to the Joint Chiefs—”
“But you won’t, major. That’s a surefire way to stall, if not end, your career. No one at the Pentagon is interested in your recommendations, and least of all, your personal opinions.”
Another sigh. “I suppose not, colonel.”
“Remember at all times, you and I are fact finders, not . . . policy makers.”
“Yes sir.”
I glanced covertly at the two of them, then put my eyes back to the front. Officers are gods, and one does not eyeball a deity. The plane hit another rut, made a sharp right turn, then braked to a stop. The pilot cut the power to the turbines and they whined to silence. Then his voice rang out nasally over the intercom, “To the men of the Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines I bid you welcome to the Da Nang air base, Republic of South Vietnam. The time 1515 hours, the temperature is, shall we say, an inconceivable eighty degrees for the month of February. . . . Considering that I grew up in Minnesota.”
After a moment he continued, “Officers will deplane first, followed by senior noncommissioned officers, then junior NCO’s . . . then the rest.”
Someone behind me mumbled, “I’ve got your rest hangin’ right here.”
“I hope to see everyone again in 365 days. Except for the marines who always need to be one up. I will see you in 395. Enjoy your stay in exotic Southeast Asia.”
I was pondering the fact that it was not my idea to be “one up” when the cabin lights went off, and the after-cargo ramp began to lower with a hydraulic hum. Like a curtain opening on a premiere movie, I waited for the scenes about to unfold.
The first assault on my senses came from an intense, blinding light that made me wince and turn my head away. Next came an oven heat set on broil. Tangible and oppressive, it flowed into the plane and gobbled up the cool, oxygenated air.
Lastly, came a smell I can only describe as follows: A combination of feces and garbage. Fear. And meat long since dead.
With the latter in mind, I clutched my M-14 for comfort, but that was short-lived when I remembered it was empty. They had issued no ammo back in the states, during the numerous refueling stops, or prior to landing. I looked across the aisle again, spotted the colonel, and worked up the nerve to speak. “Ah . . . sir?”
Frosty-eyed, he stared at me, and I feared his wrath from having dared to cross the vast gulf of enlisted to officer, and address him.
“What is it, Marine?”
“Sir, I have no ammunition for my weapon.”
He stood, a leather briefcase in hand, and stepped into the aisle. “That will be issued to you upon arrival at your next unit.” He looked to his aide and said curtly, “Major,” then walked away, the minion in tow.
I wanted to share my concerns about what could happen between here and there, but he gave me no chance, already moving fast toward the exit. So I waited, occupying myself by drumming my fingers on my knee. When it was finally my turn, I got up wearily, grabbed my useless hunk of iron and 782 web gear, and trudged down the aisle.
Outside, to my surprise, the airport sprawled on flat prairie that stretched into the distance where heat-misted mountains squatted menacingly, looking like homes for gnomes. I had expected jungle, flora and fauna straight out of Sabu the Elephant Boy.
Everywhere, there was motion. Fighter jets, loaded with bombs, took off with roars and others, empty, landed with screeching / smoking tires and billowing parachutes. Helicopters, adorned with large red crosses, clattered overhead, landed, and disgorged litters to ambulances, with white crosses, that sped away. Jeeps carrying pilots to and from their aircraft buzzed by like bumblebees. Fuel trucks crisscrossed the tarmac. Another troop transport landed with a fresh load of bodies.
I joined the other new arrivals who stood in formation waiting for commands to put them in motion, and gave myself the once over lightly. My helmet, pack, and web gear smelled warehouse fresh. My uniform was brand spanking new, clean and pressed. My boots were shined to an inch of their lives. I was a bouquet of canvas, cloth, leather, and steel. Add to that a freshly shaved face and recent haircut and clean fingernails.
All duded up and decked out for a funeral I thought to myself.
A door in an administration building opposite of where I sweltered, opened, and a butter bar jounced down the stairs then strode importantly toward the group. The second lieutenant stopped in front of us, pointed over our heads, and spoke in a squeaky voice, “The airport terminal is over there. You’ll find bathroom accommodations, fast food, and sundry items as well. You have fifteen minutes to complete your business.” He pointed in another direction. “After that, assemble in front of building 12B. When your name is called, stand at the bottom of the steps. Do not, I repeat, do not enter the building. Dismissed.”
When I entered the terminal, the place was a hotbed of activity with soldiers, sailors, and airmen scurrying about like ants storming a picnic blanket. Some were wearing wrinkled dress uniforms, obviously just out of storage, which hung loosely on their gaunt frames. They were deeply tanned and sported huge shit-eating grins, so I figured them for going home. Others were wan, had ample meat on the bone, and wore an expression like their best dog done died. So I figured them for me, the newly arrived.
I went to the head to relieve my full bladder, then to the gedunk stand and bought two sodas and a handful of candy bars. Pure pogey bait. I consumed it all quickly, remembering the time limit imposed by the lieutenant. On the way out, I stopped in front of a full length mirror hung on a wall. Over it was a plaque.
SQUARE YOURSELF AWAY!
YOU ARE A GUEST OF THE SOUTH VIETNAMESE GOVERNMENT
AND ITS PEOPLE
PRESENT AND CONDUCT YOURSELVES ACCORDINGLY
Guest? I didn’t get no invitation. Just orders RSVP’n my butt over here ASAP.
I checked myself out in the mirror. Barely nineteen. Six-four, 190, hands to big for my wrists, feet size thirteen. A slight overbite and a relaxed jaw that kept my thin lips ajar and got me in trouble when I was at attention. Blue eyes. And in them, leftover from boot camp, a look of uncertainty / apprehension as to what was going to next befall me.
I was a kid and knew it. But upon graduation from the Marine Corps Recruit Depot the Regimental Commander, in a prepared speech during commencement exercises, had informed me that I now was a man, as were my peers. In his infinite wisdom, he also advised that if I / we comported myself / ourselves as such (man-men), others would treat me / us as one. I bought his pitch, but had the wind blown out of my sails when, in reporting to my first duty station, I was assigned to policing up cigarette butts on the entire post.
And I didn’t even smoke.
After a quick pose in the mirror, chin up, marine scowl, rifle clenched—kill—I rushed back to the formation to wait. Hurryup . . . and . . . wait—was the Marine Corps way. A loudspeaker above the door of building 12B finally crackled to life calling out names and when I heard mine, I walked over and stood as ordered. A small window to my right banged open.
“First Shore Party Battalion, First Marine Division, Da Nang,” sounded a rude voice from the darkened interior. Paperwork magically appeared on the sill and as I reached over to grab it, air conditioning from inside washed over me in a cool, moist breeze. “Fall back in,” the voice barked, “you’ll be taken to your transportation shortly.” The window banged shut, and I wanted to shoot out the glass and let the phantom inside get a taste of the heat. But, of course, I had no ammo.
I snatched my papers and marched off, but stopped dead in my tracks and stared. A motorized flatbed with huge tires moved ceremoniously across the hardpan, activity around the airport seeming to mode into freeze frame. On the conveyance, the lone driver the only pallbearer, flag-draped coffins were arranged in rows that were perfectly aligned and squared.
I got back in formation, shoulder to shoulder with those next to me, centered on the guy in front of me.
Life in the Marine Corps demanded military precision. As did death.
