I joined the Marine Corps on my 18th birthday because I idolized my uncle who had served 30 years. As a young Marine right out of Boot Camp in 1964, I was on my way to the war – the war in the Republic of South Vietnam. The trip out of Hawaii on a US Navy troop ship took an unbelievable 14 days. A couple of days before we were to land, my Platoon Sergeant asked me if I had ever boxed? I told him I had never been in the ring, but that did not deter him. He said that this afternoon I would be putting on the gloves against one of the men from India Company. I knew a little – very little – about boxing. Growing up on a military installation, I had the opportunity to be trained by an Army Captain who had been a Golden Gloves boxer who worked at the post gym in the evenings teaching dependent children.
I thought, even if I lost the fight, I could last long enough to make a good showing. I never considered I would be an embarrassment to my company. I entered the ring at the designated moment and someone wrapped a towel around my neck. I bounced to the center where the ref, a Lieutenant from Supply, gave us instructions and told us to come out swinging. Back at my corner, the Sarge said: ‘If you don’t kick his ass, I’ll kick yours.”
The bell rang and I jumped to center where the other guy, a bit larger in height and weight than I, began swinging wildly. I ducked twice, threw-out a couple of jabs and, just as the ship hit a “pot-hole” and forced my opponent toward me, I swung a right hand uppercut with all my might. His chin met my fist and he went down. I ran to my corner while the ref counted. I kept thinking, “stay down, stay down.” But, Goliath got up and, as I started toward him, the ref mercifully called the fight in my favor. I was the H&S Company champion!
On April 13, 1965, our ship anchored in sight of the shoreline of Vietnam. We were told that we would make a beach landing the next day. That next day the Marines of Third Battalion, Fourth Marine Regiment, assembled on deck. After some announcements, we watched the Navy personnel drive the landing craft into position. As they got the last landing craft into the water a typhoon began to rage around us. We then watched the sailors as they tried to return those landing craft to the mother ship. But, this was not an easy task. Many of the Dixie cups lost their lunch over the side. That resulted in another night on board. We were told this ship would be decommissioned upon its return to the States. How it ever made it this far was our concern during the entire trip.
On April 14 we went over the side and down the ropes into the landing craft. About 50 Marines huddled, packed in tightly with weapons at the ready, locked and loaded. The short trip to the shore was not easy. Marines were puking all over as the exhaust, combined with the close-quarters, made many sick. But soon the craft scraped against the shallow bottom as we reached the shore. The Platoon Commander yelled, “Lock and load;” the doorway lowered and Marines emptied the craft with lightning speed. The first thing we heard was the loud “boom” of the bass drum as a local Vietnamese band began playing the Marine Corps Hymn people waived American and Vietnamese flags. We came to kill something and all we got was a marching band. How would we ever be able to explain this back home?
There was bar and “bawdy house” right outside our base camp. One day in June 1965, my turn came to be given a four-hour pass and permitted the evening off to get snockered on the watered-down beer served by the scantily-clad maidens – all of French descent from the southern part of the country. When my turn finally came, I went inside the bar where I was immediately handed an ice-cold beer. The girl asked for “Ps” which was short for “Piasters,” the local form of cash. I don’t remember how many but they each equaled pennies in American money. I sat down and she plopped in my lap.
A few moments later I got up to talk with another Marine I knew from HQ; and when I returned to my chair, another Marine was sitting there with “my girl.” I grabbed him from behind by his collar and stood him up as I yelled: “That’s my girl.” We both reared-back a wide right fist and suddenly came to a stop. I recognized him and he recognized me.
I said, “Jerry?” as he spoke, “Mike?” Jerry and I had known each other by way of our Father’s military service, we
were stationed together for a couple of years and he and I were pals back then. Strangely, we forgot about the girls, took our beers to a neutral corner and reminisced for the remainder of our time.
In July 1965, I transferred from Headquarters Company to Third Platoon as a machinegun operator. I was humping the boonies carrying about 80 pounds of equipment, including the M-60, belts of ammunition, and grenades; with a .45 on my right hip. It was John Wayne all the way. It became downright frustrating, day after day – rather night after night. Just before dark we would head-out, eventually reaching an ambush site just before midnight. Then we would lie in wait for unsuspecting “gooks” to come trampling through the brush to our bullets. But that seems all we did for months, except that on too many occasions someone would trip a booby trap and one of our guys got killed. I recall our battalion must have lost at least a half-dozen guys in one short period that made us all mad as hell. We would have chopped-up anyone we could have found on a patrol.
Every morning as we returned to base camp, soaked from the rice paddies, dirty from the ground we slept on and miserable for not having found and killed the enemy, we were greeted by the American flag flying high and proud at the edge of base camp. As we trudged home out of the boonies, we came to a clearing just below the mountain to the west of our Phu Bai camp.
That’s when we first caught a glimpse of “Old Glory.” Then, our footsteps picked up a more-rhythmic beat, we stepped a bit livelier, we were coming home and this familiar sight greeted us, embraced us, gave us that “warm and fuzzy” feeling that, at least for now, the threat of dying was gone.
I guess that is why so many veterans get up tight about flag burning and other disrespectful acts. We understand the cost of the freedom this flag represents and we just cannot let anyone defile it, especially for those who don’t make it home.
Regarding anti-Semitism, although I had heard some derogatory comments, they were never aimed at any individuals. My last name was my protection against anti-Semitism directed towards me.
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