SAINTS AT WAR
I received my Basic Combat Training in Company "D", Third Battalion, First Brigade, at Fort Lewis, Washington, during the Winter of 1968.
In 1970, members of the Saigon Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints met in the home of an American architect, who was employed by RMK-BRJ, where the Book of Mormon and the Testimony of Joseph Smith were being translated from English into Vietnamese. The miraculous saga of the President of the Relief Society, "Out Of the Tiger's Den", was told in a past issue of ENSIGN magazine.
At our regular Wednesday night Mutual Improvement Association meeting in the Saigon Branch, the Vietnamese members gave a party for the American members, celebrating Tet, the Vietnamese lunar New Year. I was very frightened that night, taking my rifle with me to church, and on the way back to camp, almost killed the taxi driver, as I suspected him of being a communist and leading me into a trap. Also, unknown to me, I was almost killed by my fellow American soldiers, as I carefully crept through total darkness (this was war, and I was in enemy territory) back to the camp.
In 1970, the Command Sergeant Major of Phu Lam Signal Battalion, First Signal Brigade was an active member in the Saigon Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A fellow soldier in our battalion was about to be shipped up north, but he was shacked up with a gal in Cholon (the Chinese suburb of Saigon), and he didn't want to leave. On the other hand, I loathed the prospect of having to return to the United States and tell people I spent the war living in air-conditioned comfort in Saigon.
I was gung ho, wanting the mud and the blood, the hardship and danger of a soldier's life, so we went to the sergeant major and requested that we be permitted to swap assignments. The Sergeant Major told me he thought I shouldn't do that, but he understood my reasons, so he would approve my request. I had bought a souvenir Montagnard crossbow at the U.S.O. in downtown Saigon, and offered it to the Sergeant Major. He told me I shouldn't give him anything, but I told him I couldn't take it with me, so he accepted it.
When I was at Dong Ha I posted a notice seeking other Latter-day Saints, hoping to start our own group, and hold services on Dong Ha. At the time, I was having to hitch-hike to Quang Tri to attend church services. Thanks to that notice being posted, I met Lieutenant James Mack Richards, who today is president of the Saint Louis, Missouri mission, and we eventually did organize a small group meeting on Wednesday nights.
When, I was stationed at Dong Ha, I would hitch-hike to Quang Tri to attend services, and I always carried my rifle, ammunition, canteens of water, et cetera. In fact, many of the members had to hitch-hike to Quang Tri from some other camp. Bob, a specialist five, and a combat medic was our Servicemen's Group Leader. This was in the northernmost part of South Viet Nam, so all of us were frequently under fire.
One of the members of the Quang Tri LDS Servicemen's Group was Captain Johnny Rutherford, of Oklahoma, who commanded an artillery battery at Dong Ha. Because the war was so controversial, it was difficult not to be adversely affected by all the negative feedback coming from America, questioning whether we were doing the right thing. Once, after sacrament service, while riding in his jeep back to Dong Ha, I expressed some of these doubts to Brother Rutherford, who became very angry, and chewed me out for being so susceptible to all the negative publicity and peer pressure.
When I was initially assigned to the 101st Airborne Division "Screaming Eagles", I was required to attend their special training course, officially designated Screaming Eagle Replacement Training School (S.E.R.T.S.), but popularly referred to as "P" training (the "P" stood for "Preparatory") located at Camp Evans, Republic of Viet Nam, which was west of Highway QL-1, about halfway between Hue and Quang Tri. Our tactical instructor (called a "tac" or a "black hat", because they wore black baseball caps), an obviously tough, experienced, gung-ho black staff sergeant, began our first day of training by telling us that, now that we were in the 101st Airborne, when we got home, people would expect us to tell them war stories. Therefore, it was very important for us to learn how to properly tell a war story. All properly-told war stories should always begin with the words, "There I was - - - ".
We then would tell our audience that we were all alone, completely surrounded by the enemy, out of ammunition, and out of water. "Wow! What did you do then?" our eager listeners would ask us. The sergeant advised us to reply, "I took two salt tablets, and drove on!"
And that's how you tell a war story.
Another time, I remember a Special Forces trooper telling me what life was like "back in the world" (the "world" was the United States of America, also known as "the land of the big PX"). At the time, I had been in Viet Nam for a couple of years, and was pretty much out of touch with what was going on back in America. He warned me of imposters who were telling people they were Viet Nam combat veterans, even though they hadn't been in Viet Nam.
He said you could always spot one of these phonies, because if you asked them where they had been stationed in Viet Nam, they'd vaguely reply that they were at a "remote outpost", whereas a genuine Viet Nam veteran would specify exactly which unit he was in and where it was located. Since those days, I've lived on the street and met many other veterans and phonies claiming to be veterans.
By coincidence, a real veteran will tell you what he really did, i.e., he was an ordinary soldier doing an ordinary job. But a phony will almost always claim to be Special Forces, or a Navy SEAL, or an Airborne Ranger. Phonies also like to claim they were POWs and escaped through the jungle, living off the land, et cetera. None of these phonies want to be known as just an ordinary soldier doing an ordinary job.
There is ONE documented instance of a sailor who fell off his ship and was captured by the North Vietnamese. But, to hear these frauds out on the street, at least ten or twenty of them claim to be that sailor.
When I was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division (Airmobile) "Screaming Eagles", I was in the Eagle LDS Servicemen's Group. There are lots of stories here, some of them disappointing. At least two Latter-day Saints I know of were involved in smuggling and dealing marijuana or heroin. Of course, there were also numerous instances of great heroism and desperation while under intense enemy fire.
I attended the Northern I Corps Quarterly District Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Da Nang. The Saturday session consisted of a grilled steak cook-out party at China Beach, where a baptism was performed. The Sunday morning session was held in a regular military chapel. I remember representatives from Church Headquarters telling us that, because of limited space on the aircraft, they could only bring boxes of one book, and after much prayerful deliberation, they thought the most important book that we could have at that time was "The Miracle of Forgiveness", by Spencer W. Kimball. They also urged all of us to avoid the massage parlors (which the Army permitted in camp), which we soldiers called the "steam and cream". Knowing what went on there, I never went to one.
Being a lonely, healthy, young male Latter-day Saint soldier was difficult. When I went on R&R to Japan, the hotel would send beautiful Japanese prostitutes to my room late at night, knocking on my door. Oh, I was lonely, and I wanted to say "YES!!!", but I would say "No", and repeatedly ask the hotel desk not to send any more women to my room. After saying "No", I'd be kicking myself, because I'm a man, and I'd really rather have said "Yes", but I was still trying so hard to be a Latter-day Saint.
Anyway, somehow, I got through it.
Likewise, en-route from Saigon, Viet Nam to Tel Aviv, Israel, when I was in Bangkok, Thailand, with time between flights, a taxi driver kept driving me to brothels and showing me photographs of very attractive Thai women. After much effort, I finally made him take me to a hotel catering to American military personnel, where I could safely wait for my flight to Israel.
But, let me be perfectly honest with you. It is NOT that easy to be a single, young, healthy, lonely Latter-day Saint male, thousands of miles away in an exotic foreign land, naturally wanting sexual release, but because of covenants, eschewing the very thing you secretly crave. But, I did it.
Indeed, before being shipped to Viet Nam, probably knowing the difficulty I would face, when my branch president in Germany authorized me to be ordained an elder, he did NOT (without telling me why) include a recommendation to attend the temple.
Here's another personal story.
En-route to Viet Nam, I met with my Bishop, Larry C. Linton, of the Portland, Oregon Twelfth Ward and he gave me a priesthood blessing, invoking that I be protected from any injury by a special priesthood shield. I remember at the time that I was secretly disappointed, for in my immaturity I really wanted to come home a genuine hero, with maybe a minor wound or scar.
As you can see from reading my testimony, I came VERY close to being killed, but came home without the coveted (?) Purple Heart Medal.
The Church never could decide which mission we were supposed to be in. Every time we had a district conference, Viet Nam would be transferred from Hong Kong to Southeast Asia or from Southeast Asia to Hong Kong. Omar Green was the district clerk for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Northern I Corps. He was from Kentucky, and was a civilian mortician, employed by the United States Army. I think he was in charge of all the Army's mortuaries in Viet Nam.
After attending District Conference in Da Nang, I hitch-hiked back to my unit, on Viet Nam's highway QL-1, just north of the notorious Hai Vanh Pass. I was really scared, because this was a very dangerous area, I was alone, on foot, and it would soon be dark. Fortunately, I made it back without incident.
I'm no hero, so when they told me I'd been awarded the Bronze Star Medal I thought they were just playing a joke on me. Imagine my surprise when they handed me the orders, and I saw my name underlined in red pencil! Without ceremony, I received my medal, certificate, and citation, as I was processing out in Da Nang, when the 101st Airborne Division was returning to the United States.
As a reward for volunteering to remain in Viet Nam for an additional six months, I was given a special thirty-day leave, with round-trip transportation anywhere in the world. I chose to go to Israel.
I was EXTREMELY fortunate to obtain lodging at the Park Hotel, next door to the United States Embassy, in Tel Aviv, Israel. When I got to Israel, I went directly to the American embassy for advice, and was told I was on my own. They told me that August was the height of the tourist season, and Israel was the world's most popular tourist destination. Without reservations, it was unlikely I would find a hotel.
I inquired about a Latter-day Saint, Professor David Galbraith, whom I'd read about in the CHURCH NEWS, when I was in Viet Nam. They had never heard of him, and knew nothing of any Mormons in Israel. So, I left the embassy, and began walking, feeling excited, but discouraged and a little trepiditious.
Wouldn't you know it? The very first hotel I came to, when I inquired at the desk had a vacancy for me! Was God looking out for me, or what?
The very first morning I went to eat breakfast in the Park Hotel, I ordered ham and eggs. They didn't serve ham. I ordered bacon. They didn't have bacon. I ordered sausage. They didn't have sausage. They politely reminded me that I was in Israel, where Kosher law is observed, and no pork is served. Oh, how foolish I felt, and how quickly I apologized for my ignorance!
I noticed a man sweeping the floor of the hotel lobby, who wore a number tattooed on his left forearm, and he told me he had been in Auschwitz.
At the Park Hotel, I signed up for guided bus tours, and on one tour, while we drove PAST (!) the Garden of Gethsemane, I inquired of my seatmate, a high school teacher from Boston, why we weren't stopping at one of the most sacred sites of all? He informed me that I was on a Jewish tour, and I was probably the only Christian on the bus. I was staying in Tel Aviv, which is a Jewish city, and all of the bus tours originating there visit Jewish attractions. If I wanted to visit Christian sites, I should have stayed in Jerusalem, which caters to Christian tourists.
But, I enjoyed being the only Christian on Jewish bus tours, as I learned much of Jewish and Yiddish customs and lore. Even though I spoke no Hebrew or Yiddish, I would try to imitate the others as they sang their joyful campfire songs, and of course, I joined in dancing the hora. The Jews were very kind and friendly towards me. I remember our tour group eating supper at a cafe in Haifa. A band was playing music, and suddenly, a girl across the table from me began screaming!
Naturally, I asked what the matter was.
She looked at me a bit strangely and replied, "Oh, that's right; you've been in Viet Nam, so you don't know."
Then she explained that a TV commercial had been frequently aired in New York City, appealing for tourists to visit Israel, and the band was playing the song, COME TO ISRAEL, from that popular TV commercial.
I wanted to share the Gospel whenever possible, but I met a man at some kibbutz, who emigrated from America, apparently an inactive Latter-day Saint, and he warned me not to be speaking of the Gospel in Israel, as it was especially insulting to Holocaust survivors.
In November, 1971, on leave from the war in Viet Nam, I spent a week in Sydney, Australia, where I stayed with a Latter-day Saint couple, the Browns, and I think his first name was Robert. They lived across the bay, in Manly, and had emigrated from England. He taught high school English, and she owned a boutique. Their son was away, serving in the Royal Australian Navy. I flew to Sydney, Australia, looking forward to seeing "round-eye" WHITE women, and eagerly anticipating a Thanksgiving Day dinner. As we were flying there, someone reminded me that Thanksgiving Day is an AMERICAN holiday, and not observed anywhere except in the United States of America.
When we landed in Sydney, I searched through the telephone directory for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, heeding advice to stay in a Latter-day Saint home, rather than a hotel, and I was referred to the Browns. During my stay with them, they arranged for me to have Thanksgiving Day dinner with an American family living in Sydney. As a result of what I learned from my experience in Australia, that Thanksgiving Day is peculiarly American, I now make it a point to dress up and wear my military decorations whenever I am invited to a Thanksgiving dinner. Even if nobody else would do that, I realize first-hand just how special our American holiday tradition is.
Now, I'd like to give you my impressions of Hollywood movies about Viet Nam.
The three movies I like the best are, GARDENS OF STONE, starring James Caan and James Earl Jones, CASUALTIES OF WAR, starring Michael J. Fox and Sean Penn, and FORREST GUMP, starring Tom Hanks.
In the movie, GARDENS OF STONE, the entire story takes place in the United States, not in Viet Nam. That's why I like that movie, because from my own observation, what made Viet Nam so terribly traumatic and disheartening, was not the combat conditions there, for we were trained soldiers and fully expected that, but the divided society in the United States itself, with its riots, bombings, and assassinations.
In CASUALTIES OF WAR, the protagonist is forced to make a moral choice, all in vain, and because of his decision, he is nearly murdered by his fellow soldiers. I identify with that, because I also was forced to make a moral choice, which was in vain, and my fellow soldiers attempted to murder me.
In the movie, based on an actual event, an American patrol kidnaps, rapes, and murders a Vietnamese girl, as one lone member of the patrol objects, but is unable to stop it. His fellow soldiers attempt to murder him with a fragmentation grenade. In my situation, I tried in vain to stop the smuggling of marijuana and heroin to the United States, and someone tried to murder me with a fragmentation grenade as I lay sleeping. In the movie, the hero eventually confides in an Army chaplain, who identifies himself as a "Methodist". Some gal on the Internet, who resides in Salt Lake, claims the real chaplain was actually her father, a Latter-day Saint, but to protect his identity, they changed that in the movie. I e-mailed her father, but never received a response. In my own situation, there was nobody for me to confide in, or turn to for assistance.
I very closely identify with the title character in the movie, FORREST GUMP, due to several uncanny parallels. First, the character Forrest Gump was mildly retarded. I spent my teen-age years locked up in state mental hospitals, getting electric shock treatments, dosed with mind altering experimental drugs, and subjected to sexual abuse. You might well imagine the effect that had (and still has) on my psyche. In the movie, Forrest Gump is blessed with an unusual gift, being able to run very fast. I have also been blessed with an unusual gift, being able to compose songs, both lyrics and melody, which I sing while accompanying myself on guitar. A lot of folks who think I'm an incompetent idiot are astounded by the transformation when I begin to strum my guitar and sing. In the movie, Forrest Gump is a hero and is awarded the Medal of Honor. I was no hero, and when I was notified that I would be decorated, I thought they were playing a joke on me. But, the point is, incompetent idiot that I was, they decorated me with the Bronze Star Medal and the Army Commendation Medal. In the movie, Forrest Gump becomes a multi-millionaire. Financially, I'll probably never be anything more than an indigent war veteran (Social Security just cancelled my Disability Retirement pension), but I got a blessing that's beyond my wildest dreams.
I'm a full-time Church missionary, something I never thought I'd get to do, and what makes it even better, is that my mission is so unorthodox. I know it came directly from Jesus Christ (and therefore, Jesus Christ lives), because the politically correct (how I despise that terminology!) and public image sensitive gargantuan Church Headquarters computerized bureaucracy would never assign anybody (especially not me) to do what I'm doing, not in a million years!
So, here I am, living out my Hollywood dream of being a modern-day gunslinger on a genuine Western cattle ranch located in Utah's "Outlaw Trail" country. As a convert, I tried so very hard to be a Latter-day Saint and a soldier, but I wasn't very good at either effort. Remember, my mind and my heart was severely scarred by my previous adolescent years of being confined with perverts and criminals in state hospitals.
Still, I tried.
And, I keep on trying.
I could go on and on, and tell you so many stories.
Coming back from Viet Nam was neat, because the Army fed me a steak dinner, issued me a brand-new dress green uniform, with my "Screaming Eagle" combat patch sewn on, my decorations pinned to my chest, and put me on a plane to North Carolina to visit my folks. After Viet Nam, I was assigned to the Combat Developments Experimentation Command at Hunter-Liggett Military Reservation in California, a remote area where the Army tested experimental equipment and tactics. My company was composed almost entirely of soldiers newly returned from Viet Nam.
One time, we went to Fort Ord to take part in a formal retreat ceremony. Most of the units on the parade field were recruits undergoing Basic Combat Training; while by contrast, we were the decorated war veterans. As part of the ceremony a cannon was fired. I could not believe what I was seeing and hearing. We had survived Viet Nam and now, here in America, the unmistakable whistle of an artillery shell flying through the ranks, as in front of me, war heroes fell wounded.
The gun crew had failed to remove the protective cap, a metal canister with a heavy chain attached, from the barrel of the gun before firing it, and thus it was propelled, whistling, through the ranks. Fortunately, nobody was killed, and I think the most serious injuries were broken bones and concussions. The lieutenant in charge was relieved on the spot, and I could see him braced stiffly at attention, as a general was chewing him out. As a result, the gun's protective cap was painted a brilliantly contrasting color, to prevent it ever being accidentally overlooked again.
I was so proud to wear my uniform, with my "Screaming Eagle" patch on my shoulder, and my Bronze Star on my chest. But, guys would drive by and throw beer bottles at me, or try to run me down with their cars. Once, when I was hitch-hiking, the couple who gave me a ride lectured me on how foolish I was for serving in Viet Nam. I endured that sort of treatment over and over. One thing that's still difficult for me, is to listen to other Latter-day Saints tell me how they avoided being in the war.
There is another Hollywood movie I closely identify with, but it takes place during the Second World War. BABY BLUE MARINE, starring Jan Michael Vincent, tells of a Marine recruit who fails his boot camp training, and is sent home.
Apparently, back during the Second World War, someone who washed out during Marine boot camp would be issued a baby blue suit to wear home, advertising his shame, and thus, the title of the movie. I won't describe the entire movie for you, but at the very end of the show, you see Jan Michael Vincent wearing an Army uniform and combat decorations. The reason I identify with this movie is because I tried unsuccessfully three different times to enlist in the United States Marine Corps, but wound up in the Army instead.
I was classified "IV-F" (unfit for military service), because of my teen-age years spent in state mental hospitals, where I was confined with hardened criminals, and endured the terrors, horrors, and utter hopelessness of repeated sexual molestation, electric shock treatments, and mind-altering experimental drugs. After joining the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and passing the G.E.D. test, I wrote to President Lyndon Baines Johnson, seeking to be reclassified "I-A" (fit for military service), which eventually was granted.
On my third attempt to enlist in the United States Marine Corps, I almost made it in, as I'd passed all my tests, and was told I would be assigned to Marine Aviation. But, thirty minutes before I was to be sworn in, they telephoned me and told me I couldn't be in the Marine Corps. I was very disappointed, for I wanted more than anything to be a Marine, but it was not meant to be. So, I went to the Navy and the Air Force, but they both had long waiting lists.
Back in those days, nobody wanted to be in the Marines or the Army, because nobody wants to live in the mud, with bugs and snakes, and get killed in hand-to-hand combat. By contrast, sailors and airmen got hot chow, hot showers, soft beds, and all the comforts of home. So, everybody was trying to get into the Navy or the Air Force, to avoid being drafted into the Army or Marines. I didn't want to be in the Army, because my father was a retired Army master sergeant, and being a rebellious youth, I wanted to be different than my father. I finally went to the Army recruiter, but he told me I couldn't enlist. Then, I went to the local draft board in Portland, Oregon, and volunteered for the draft. That automatically put me at the head of the list for draftees, and since the Army had priority in getting draftees, that meant I was going into the Army.
So, just like the Hollywood movie, I failed in my attempts to become a Marine, but thanks to the United States Army, I still got to go to war, travel the world, and get decorated.
One time, during my Basic Combat Training, we had camped in the woods, and when we were awakened for a forced march, it was still completely dark. As we marched down the road, it gradually became daylight, and the drill sergeant suddenly yelled, "Mallernee, what are you doing?" He then pointed out that I had each of my boots on the wrong foot. I was so sleepy and struggling so hard, that had he not mentioned it, I never would have known. The march was temporarily halted, to allow me to put my boots on correctly.
Because of highly publicized incidents of recent recruit deaths in the Marine Corps, the Army was being very careful to avoid having similar problems. Thus, our drill sergeants were only permitted to use two derogatory terms when chewing us out, "Meathead", and "Maggot". At one point, I was interviewed by a sergeant, who said that based on the results of my tests, the Army was going to train me to be a heavy equipment operator, to drive bulldozers, et cetera. I was very happy with that prospect, for it meant I could get a good job when I became a civilian. The sergeant also advised me to volunteer for Army schools, and attend as many Army training courses as I could.
However, the Army changed its plans for me, and I never did get to learn how to operate a bulldozer. When I completed my Basic Combat Training, I was flown to Fort Gordon, Georgia to attend the Southeastern Signal School, where I was trained in Field Radio Relay and Carrier Equipment operation and repair. Honestly, I tried my very best, but I just had no concept of what my instructors were talking about. For some reason, I could successfully guess my way through any written examination, but in practical hands-on applications, I just didn't know anything and couldn't do anything.
I flunked the final examination, so the Army kept me in school for two more weeks, and then tested me again. Since I'd only failed to pass by two questions, when they retested me, they only asked me two questions:
First question: "What is this thing?"
My correct answer: "It's a radio."
Second question: "What's wrong with it?"
My correct answer: "It's not plugged in."
I passed the test, and was on my way to Germany! Incredible as it may sound, I'm not making this stuff up.
Remember, America was embroiled in a very costly and controversial war, and the Army needed soldiers, so it didn't matter that much if I was competent to fix a radio, as long as I could fill a slot, or if need be, stop a bullet. When I got to Kaiserslautern, Germany, where I was assigned to Company "A", 11th Air Defense Signal Battalion, 32d Army Air Defense Command, I was determined to show how well I could do my job. They asked me to repair a connector on the power supply cord of an AN/TCC-7 carrier, which combines or separates multiple radio or telephone signals. Oh, I was so careful, as I meticulously spliced and soldered, and oh, I was so proud of the beautiful job I was doing!
Alas, when I went to plug the power supply into the carrier, the cord was too short, and the damage could not be fixed. I had effectively destroyed thousands of dollars worth of Army communications equipment. Amazingly, the Army didn't seem to care, as they continued to have me repair electronic communications equipment for years.
When my two years was up, I was due to get out of the Army, but I re-enlisted, requesting assignment to the war in Viet Nam. Flying into Cam Ranh Bay, Viet Nam was frightening, because from the plane window, I could see columns of black smoke rising into the air from the ground below. I was alarmed, thinking the base was under attack, but it turned out that the black smoke came from the mundane daily chore of burning human waste from the latrines.
From Cam Ranh Bay, I was sent to Bien Hoa, and boarded an Army bus to Long Binh. A sergeant stuck his head into the bus and said, "If a grenade gets tossed in, pick it up and throw it back out." Oh, that shook me up! A grenade might get tossed into this bus? I tensely sat on the edge of my seat, wondering if I would be fast enough to throw the grenade off the bus before it exploded. The other guys on the bus, most of them experienced veterans, were openly amused at my consternation.
When I visited the USO in downtown Saigon, I saw tiny souvenir state flags for sale, but they didn't have an Oregon state flag. So, I wrote a letter to the governor of Oregon, thinking he might send me a similar tiny little state flag I could display in the barracks. I received a letter from Oregon's Secretary of State informing me that Governor and Mrs. Tom McCall had paid for my Oregon state flag, which was a full-sized banner. I still have that flag, and it's one of the treasures stored in my footlocker.
When I got to Viet Nam, drug use was so prevalent, that you could see a thick smoky haze surrounding the sandbagged bunkers on the perimeter, because of so much marijuana being smoked. A clear plastic baggie of ten ready-rolled marijuana cigarettes cost one dollar. A clear plastic gumball container of pure heroin cost ten dollars, which is why it was called a "dime cap", but I knew a guy who was shacked up with a mama-san, and he got his heroin for only four dollars. Some of these guys would purchase the drugs and smuggle it to America, using the mail.
One technique was to place a flattened package of marijuana or heroin between two stiff cardboard Polaroid picture backs. These would be placed in an envelope, addressed to their home or a friend in America, and the words, "Photos - Do Not Bend", written on the envelope. Another technique was to hide the heroin or marijuana inside the hard cover of a photograph album. I attempted to stop this, but the corruption was so rife, that all my efforts were totally in vain, and nobody could be trusted. Indeed, it nearly cost me my life, as they attempted to murder me with a hand grenade as I slept.
Another problem was racial.
We were basically three different groups, Negroes, Whites, and Puerto Ricans, and all hating each other. The problem was aggravated by the officers showing favoritism towards blacks, allowing them to get away with offenses for which a white soldier would have been court-martialed. Because of all the trouble with the blacks, we were forbidden to display our individual state flags, since some state flags still incorporated the old Confederate battle flag into their design. On the other hand, blacks were permitted to openly flaunt their black power colors. From what I saw, the blacks stayed stoned all the time, and never did a lick of work. The only blacks I saw that were any good were career Army sergeants.
When I was at Dong Ha, we were often under attack by enemy 122mm rockets, which make a high-pitched whistling sound as they pass overhead. After a while, I was so jumpy, that one time, I thought we were under attack, but the high-pitched whine I was hearing was not an enemy rocket, but the engine of a diesel truck! One night, there was a ground attack at Dong Ha, and I was so frightened, I wet my pants.
While on guard duty at Camp Eagle, I watched a mortar round explode in front of a bunker, instantaneously decapitating one soldier, as another soldier completely disappeared in the blast.
One night, while on guard duty, there were North Vietnamese Army sappers in our perimeter wire, and a gun battle ensued. I remember sticking my head out of my bunker, and ducking back in as green tracer ammunition went over my head. Our tracer ammunition was red, while enemy tracer ammunition was green. The next morning, a body was found in the wire, and a blood trail led off into the brush, indicating somebody else had been hit.
Once, I was in a jeep traveling to Da Nang, and we saw the body of a Vietnamese mama-san on the road, as we passed through a small village. She was in a kneeling position, next to a South Vietnamese Army truck, with her decapitated bald head placed beside her body, in a pool of blood, split open, with the brains spilling out. It looked exactly like an egg being cracked open, and the yolk running out. I don't know what had happened, but I remember the sergeant yelling, "Let's get outta here, NOW!", as the jeep driver floored the accelerator.
I was afraid to step into the muddy waters of rice paddies, because there might be booby traps or snakes there, so when I had guard duty at Camp Evans, I placed my claymore mine on the dirt road in front of my foxhole. The sergeant ordered me to move the claymore out into the rice paddy, and very reluctantly, I started out there. At that point, artillery shells began exploding in front of me, as it was time for the nightly DefCon (defensive concentration) fire. I finished setting up the mine, and panicky, began trying to run to my foxhole, but my jungle fatigues got caught in the concertina wire, and I desperately struggled to get loose, as artillery explosions continued to burst, coming ever closer. Watching this, the guys in the other foxholes howled with laughter. I was terrified, and about to be killed, but they regarded it as merely a hilarious slapstick situation!
In the northern part of Viet Nam, which was mountainous, the monsoon season was cold and wet, and it was impossible to stay dry. Scorpions, centipedes, spiders, rats, and snakes were inside the bunkers, but you had to go inside the totally dark bunker in order to escape the drenching continuous rain. I hated using the outhouse, because there were huge black widow spiders sitting just inside the hole, and yes, guys did get bit, right on the family jewels.
Our battalion had an open theater, where movies were shown. "Lurps" (from the initials, "L.R.R.P.", which means "Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol") from "L" Company, 75th Infantry Regiment (Airborne Ranger) would sit together in one section, while "Blues" (a quick reaction team) from "D" Troop, 2d Squadron, 17th Cavalry Regiment would sit in another area. During the movie, somebody would yell, "Rangers suck!", or "Cav sucks!", and they would begin fighting each other, and somebody would add to the fun by tossing in tear gas grenades. So, I always kept my gas mask by my side, and had to use it quite a bit!
There was continuous rivalry between the rangers and the cavalry, and one day, somebody blew up the latrine in the cavalry's compound. That night, on guard duty, we all knew not to use the latrine behind our bunkers, because it was in the ranger's compound, and we KNEW what was destined to occur. Sure enough, in the wee hours, Ker-BLOOM!!!!, the ranger's latrine (which bunker guards normally used) exploded. The next morning, military police in a jeep, with a mounted M-60 machine gun, patrolled the area between the rangers and the cavalry, to keep the rival units separated.
We all enjoyed listening to Armed Forces Viet Nam (AFVN) radio, broadcast from Saigon, but the enemy blew up the relay antenna, so we couldn't listen to it anymore. But, our signal unit began broadcasting popular rock 'n' roll music, using our own Army signal equipment. Somebody called in a request for "Fool On The Hill", to be dedicated to the colonel commanding the 801st Maintenance Battalion, and as a result, our unauthorized radio station was shut down. There are so many stories I could tell you, and a lot of them would seem to be unbelievably fantastic, but I reckon I've written enough for now.
Every soldier arriving in Viet Nam was issued a copy of the "Standing Orders for Roger's Rangers", to keep in his pocket or wallet. These orders were issued by Major Robert Rogers to his band of Rangers in 1759, during the French and Indian War. Since we were fighting a guerilla war, nothing had changed, which is why the original principles still applied.
Propaganda leaflets were dropped out of aircraft, and I would find them scattered on the ground. Medical Evacuation helicopters were called, "Dust Off" in the 101st Airborne, and were equipped with a "Jungle Penetrator", an exterior-mounted winch with a folding seat, to rescue wounded troopers when trees were too thick to permit the helicopter to land. Unlike other units, where medevac choppers had door gunners with M-60 machine guns, 101st Airborne "Dust Off" choppers flew into combat unarmed, which I thought was rather stupid.
But, the Army actually came up with an even dumber idea. They decided to paint the "Dust Off" helicopters completely white, with giant red crosses, making them even better targets. They dropped these leaflets asking the enemy to please not shoot down our innocent medical evacuation helicopters, since the enemy might also need to be evacuated.
I don't know if it worked or not, because that was pretty close to when I left Viet Nam. But, I thought it was ridiculous, and I still think so today.
Most of the propaganda dropped from aircraft were "Cheiu Hoi" leaflets. "Cheiu Hoi" meant "Open Arms", and it was an effort to get enemy soldiers to desert and come over to our side. Someone who did this was called a "Hoi Chanh". Many of them became "Kit Carson" scouts for American infantry patrols.
You might be interested in learning some Army cadence calls, which we used when marching or running in formation.
The leading man in a formation carries a small colored pennant, known as the "guidon", and he is the "guidon bearer". These unit guidons are colored according to the branch of the unit, with the unit identified on the guidon, using letters and numbers, i.e., a red and white guidon with "C 1/9" on it, would be "C" Troop, First Squadron, Ninth Cavalry Regiment, or a blue guidon with white letters, "D 3/1" would indicate "D" Company, Third Battalion, First Brigade of an Infantry unit.
Here are some examples of Army branch colors and symbols:
Signal Corps is orange, with white letters: their symbol is crossed semaphores, with an upright torch.
Armor is yellow, with black letters: their symbol is a tank in front of crossed sabers.
Military Police is green, with yellow letters: their symbol is crossed flintlock pistols.
Artillery, the "King of Battle", is red, with yellow letters: their symbol is crossed cannon.
Engineers is red, with white letters: their symbol is a stone castle, flanked by towers.
Cavalry is red over white, with contrasting white and red letters: their symbol is crossed sabers.
Infantry, the "Queen of Battle", is blue, with white letters: their symbol is crossed rifles.
When the unit is marching, the guidon bearer carries the guidon erect. But, when the unit is running, the guidon bearer rotates the guidon, like a wheel. Sometimes, when running in formation, we would clap our hands each time our left foot hit the ground. Try that, and imagine the effect of having that sound multiplied many times over. Anyway, now that I've laid a foundation, it's time to give you the good stuff - - -
CADENCES!!!
Here is one of my favorite marching songs:
Oh, soldier!
Oooh, soldier!
Grab a girl and follow me.
We're the Army Infantry. (or "Airborne Infantry", or "U.S. Cavalry")
Oh, my darling, I believe
They're gonna send me overseas.
If they send me overseas,
I hope I go to Germany.
If I go to Germany,
A fraulein there will marry me.
I'm gonna climb the Matterhorn.
Drink root beer and eat popcorn.
I had a brother in Viet Nam.
He got killed by Viet Cong.
I'm gonna go to Viet Nam.
I'm gonna kill some Viet Cong.
Here's another of my favorite marching cadences:
Hey, hey, Captain Jack!
Marching down the railroad track
With your rifle in your hand,
I wanna be an Army man!
Your left, your left!
Your military left!
I said your other left!
Your left, your right,
Now, pick up the step,
Your left, your right, your left!
If I die in a combat zone,
Box me up and ship me home.
Place my bayonet on my chest. (or "pin my wings upon my chest")
Tell my girl I done my best.
"Jody" was the guy back home, who didn't have to go to war, so we would often sing about him.
You had a good life and you left! (as left foot hits ground)
(response) You're right! (as right foot hits ground)
You had a good job and you left!
You're right!
You had a good home, but you left!
You're right!
Your mother was there when you left!
You're right!
Your father was there when you left!
You're right!
Your girl was there when you left!
You're right!
Jody was there when you left!
You're right!
That's the reason you left!
You're right!
Sound off!
(response) One, two!
Once more!
(response) Three, four!
Bring it on down!
One, two, three, four,
THREE, FOUR!
Ain't no use in lookin' down!
Ain't no discharge on the ground!
Ain't no use in goin' home!
Jody's got your car and gone!
Ain't no use in feelin' blue!
Jody's got your girlfriend too!
Here's a song we sang while running in formation:
Hey, Bo Diddly, haven't you heard?
I'm gonna jump from a big iron bird!
C-130 rolling down the strip.
Airborne daddy gonna take a little trip.
Mission undetermined, destination unknown.
Don't even know if I'll be coming home.
Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door.
Jump right out, and count to four.
If my 'chute don't open wide,
I got another 'chute by my side.
If that 'chute don't open too.
Look out, boys, I'm a comin' through!
If that 'chute don't open wide,
I'll be spread on the countryside.
Airborne!
Ranger!
Up in the mornin' while the moon is bright!
Gonna run all day!
Gonna run all night!
Up the hill!
Down the hill!
Through the hill!
Pee Tee!
Feels Good!
So Good!
Whiskey!
No good!
Women!
No good!
Gotta go!
Airborne!
Gotta be!
Airborne!
Ranger!
Rah!
Two old ladies lying in bed,
One rolled over to the other and said,
I wanna be an Airborne Ranger
Livin' on blood and guts and danger.
Airborne!
Ranger!
Gonna run!
All day!
Gonna go!
All the way!
Hooah!
Hah!
Airborne!
Ranger!
Yah!
A very popular traditional Cavalry marching song goes like this:
Around her hair,
She wore a yellow ribbon!
She wore it in the Springtime
And the merry month of May.
And if you asked her,
"Why, the hell, she wore it?"
She wore it for her trooper,
Who was far, far away.
Far away!
Far away!
She wore it for her trooper,
Who was far, far away.
Around the block,
She pushed a baby carriage!
She pushed it in the Springtime
And the merry month of May.
And if you asked her,
"Why, the hell, she pushed it?"
She pushed it for her trooper,
Who was far, far away.
Far away!
Far away!
She pushed it for her trooper,
Who was far, far away.
Some marching cadences were only done when no officers were looking, because they definitely were not approved of. I'm not talking about obscene lyrics, but comical stuff like the "Mickey Mouse Club" song. Do you know that one? If there was nobody to stop us, we actually would sing that one when marching!
The Army no longer has a Women's Army Corps (the WACs), but they did when I was in.
If no officers were around, and we were marching past the WAC barracks (which was surrounded by barbed wire, and guarded by MPs), then we would have fun singing "Count Cadence, Delayed Cadence, WAC Cadence, COUNT!", which was a variation of our regular, "Count Cadence, Delayed Cadence, Count Cadence, COUNT!".
The regular cadence went like this:
Count cadence, delayed cadence, count cadence, COUNT!
One! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by silence for four steps)
Two! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by silence for four steps)
Three! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by silence for four steps)
Four! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by silence for four steps)
One! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed right foot)
Two! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by right foot)
Three! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by right foot)
Four! (as left foot stamps the ground, followed by right foot)
One! (as left foot hits ground, not stamping)
Two! (as right foot hits, not stamping)
Three! (as left foot hits, not stamping)
Four! (as right foot hits, not stamping)
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
Then you roar like a tiger.
Count cadence, delayed cadence, WAC cadence, COUNT!
In a real high-pitched voice, everybody would say:
One!
Two!
Three!
Four!
And at the end, where we normally would roar or growl, we all would say, in a high-pitched voice:
Wheeee!!!
Of course, that sort of thing would never be allowed in today's Army, because there ain't no more WAC units and women are now mixed in with men in combat support units.
I wonder what sort of cadences they have for Brigham Young University's R.O.T.C. cadets.
By the way, I have a couple of pet peeves, when it comes to the misuse of English language.
I was in the "CAValry", not the "CALvary". Calvary is where Jesus Christ was crucified, and cavalry is a light, mounted Army unit, primarily used for reconnaissance. Also, the plural of "cannon" is "cannon", not "cannons".
While serving in the Republic of Viet Nam, in addition to paying our normal tithes, Latter-day Saints were asked to donate one month's combat pay, $65.00, to a special fund for building the first Latter-day Saint chapel in Viet Nam. As far as I know, those funds were never used, and a chapel has yet to be erected in Viet Nam.
There were some fringe benefits for serving in a combat zone.
In addition to the "Hostile Fire Pay", all of our income was exempt from taxation, and we could send letters home without paying for postage. In the place where a postage stamp normally would be placed, we just hand-wrote "Free" on the envelope. Also, thanks to the Military Affiliate Radio Service (MARS), which combined the efforts of civilian amateur shortwave radio operators with American military radio facilities, we could make free telephone calls to home.
We never had to pull KP, since Vietnamese were hired to do that. We didn't worry about shining our boots or pressing our uniforms, since we lived in dust and mud.
All we had to do was stay alive for twelve months.
For Rest and Recuperation (R&R), the military would fly us round-trip to spend a week in one of several vacation spots, i.e., Australia, Japan, Hawaii, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Malaysia, New Zealand, or Singapore. We also were authorized an additional seven-day leave, with round-trip transportation provided by the military, to one of those R&R centers.
If you volunteered to stay an additional six months in Viet Nam, the military would fly you round-trip to any place in the world, for thirty days special leave. That's how I got to spend Christmas with my folks, and also how I got to visit Israel.
We had free movies and free U.S.O. shows, with Bob Hope coming every Christmas. Once every few months, a genuine American female Red Cross volunteer "doughnut dolly" would come around distributing doughnuts and Kool-Aid.
I always kept my weapon and equipment with me, sleeping on my air mattress with my flak vest for a pillow, and my loaded rifle and gas mask next to my head, ready to pull on my jungle boots and run for the bunker or the perimeter. Frankly, I actually feel safer in a situation where I'm always armed, and nobody questions it. To this day, I still sleep with a loaded weapon, and I wear a concealed pistol everywhere I go (yes, even to church).
Personally, I think our society would be a whole lot safer if everybody wore concealed firearms. Can you imagine what would happen if someone attempted to commit a violent crime when everyone around him was armed?
When we arrived in Viet Nam, we brushed our teeth with special, gritty, thick, gray-colored fluoride toothpaste, which would protect our teeth for an entire year, just in case we never had another opportunity to brush our teeth. On Monday morning, as we got our breakfast in the mess hall, we would each get our weekly dose of one very large pink-colored tablet, cloriquine perquimine (spelling?), which was to prevent malaria. Each day, at the noon meal, we took two small white tablets, (dapsone?), which I think was supposed to prevent leprosy, but I'm not sure. Anyway, they later ordered us to stop taking those pills, because they caused cancer or something like that.
Here are the alert signals used at base camps in Viet Nam:
A long steady siren meant we were under attack by enemy rockets or mortars, so we should put get into a bunker for protection. By the way, if you were running and you heard the rocket or shell passing over your head, you IMMEDIATELY hit the ground flat. When shells are bursting, you will be killed if you're standing up and running around.
A warbling, wavering siren meant we were under a ground attack, and then we were supposed to run for the perimeter, ready to fight.
There were three colors of flares, white, red, and green, and there were two types, parachute flares and star cluster flares. White flares, whether parachute or star cluster, were for illumination, so you could see what was happening.
If you are sneaking up on somebody in the dark, and a flare is popped, you instantly FREEZE, because moving objects attract attention, and if you don't move, the enemy might not detect you.
Red star cluster flares meant we were under attack. If you saw a red parachute flare, you did not MOVE from wherever you were, for it meant the enemy was INSIDE our perimeter, and so we should kill ANYTHING moving.
A green parachute flare meant the attack was over, and it was safe to walk around. A green star cluster flare meant friendly troops were coming through the wire. Of course, anyone coming through the wire had to know secret passwords, consisting of a whispered sign and countersign, which was changed every night.
During my entire two years in Viet Nam, I saw only one kitten, which was in a Bhuddist temple, and I saw only one pony, which was in Saigon.
Speaking of Saigon, the Saigon Zoo is utterly beautiful and peaceful, so much so, that you could forget there even was a war going on. I took pictures of downtown Saigon, and I have lots more pictures of Japan, Israel, and Australia, typical tourist shots.
I was classified "IV-F" and couldn't get in the service at all, although I tried repeatedly to join the United States Marine Corps. I wrote a letter to President Lyndon Baines Johnson, requesting that I be given the opportunity to serve, as Viet Nam was very controversial, with many young men burning their draft cards or going to Canada to avoid military service. As a result, I was classified "I-A", and was still not permitted to enlist, but volunteered to be drafted, which put me in the United States Army on 07 December 1967. At Fort Lewis, Washington, I was assigned to First Squad, Third Platoon, Company "D", 3d Battalion, 1st Basic Combat Training Brigade.
We were the "Dogs of Delta Company".
Because of the threat of a spinal meningitis epidemic, we wore white tags over the right breast pocket of our olive drab fatigue uniforms, with our unit, "D-3-1" identified in large black letters, were not permitted to mingle with other squads or platoons, and we could only go to the PX (Post Exchange) if we were marching as a unit in formation. Also, because of highly-publicized cases of recruits who had been abused or even killed while in Marine Corps boot camp, our drill sergeants were only permitted to use two derogatory names when chewing us out, "MEATHEAD", or "MAGGOT".
We were not permitted to ever walk, but had to run everywhere we went (unless we were marching in formation). Before entering the mess hall, you first had to do six chin-ups. When marching, or running, we would sing cadence songs, which was fun, but some of which were pornographic.
The part where you crawl under barbed wire while a machine gun fires over your head is called the "INFILTRATION COURSE". I was terrified, and they told us that if we stood up, we would be killed by the machine gun.
The part where you climb up towers and crawl over logs and stuff was called the "CONFIDENCE COURSE". In the "OBSTACLE COURSE", you ran jumping over log hurdles and small ditches. In the first gas chamber I went through, they used CHLORINE gas, and then we went through another gas chamber with tear gas (probably CS or CN, which I get mixed up and can't remember which one is which). In the chlorine gas chamber, we could not remove our masks, because chlorine gas, which smells like a swimming pool, is deadly poisonous.
In the tear gas chamber, we were required to remove our masks and one by one, state our name, rank, Army serial number, and date of birth. The lieutenant in charge asked us all, "Which platoon is the best platoon?", and everybody in my platoon (except me) wisely answered that his platoon (he was from another platoon) was the best. But, I yelled back at him that "Third Platoon is the best platoon, sir!", and had to remain in the gas chamber for a while longer. He kept asking me which platoon was the best one, and I steadfastly continued to tell him that my platoon was the best platoon, so finally, they let me leave.
Another part of the CBR (Chemical, Biological, Radiological) course was crawling through mud, under barbed wire, while being sprayed with CS gas, at which point you were to yell, "Gas!", and put on your M-17 protective mask. One fellow had to be taken away by ambulance. He had asthma, and had lied about it, because he wanted to be in the Army.
We had a bivouac (camping out) somewhere out in the woods, where it was pitch-black night, waist-deep water, and snowing. The next morning, while it was still dark, we had to break camp, pack our gear, and begin a forced march. As we trudged down the road, the drill sergeant suddenly yelled, "Mallernee, what is wrong with your feet?" That morning, in total darkness, and still sleepy, I had put my left boot on my right foot, and vice versa. I was marching along blissfully unaware that anything was the matter, until he called my attention to it. I tried to tough it out and ignore it, but after he made me think about it, I eventually requested that I be permitted to change my boots back to the correct feet, and the march was briefly halted while I did that.
Of course, we each had to qualify with the M-14 rifle. I barely made it, earning the "Marksman" badge, which was jokingly referred to as the "bolo" badge, because it was the lowest passing score. "Maggie's Drawers" referred to the red flag that was flown to indicate the range was in use. Before going to the range to fire our rifle, we first had to learn to disassemble and reassemble it, blindfolded. There was also "quick-kill" training, where a quarter was tossed high in the air, and without aiming, we shot it with a BB gun (REALLY! Even I did it!).
There was the bayonet course, with pugil stick fights, where individual grudges could be settled. We were told there were only two types of bayonet fighters, "the quick and the dead".
In the hand grenade training, we were taught to throw it like a football. When I threw the grenade, it didn't go very far, so the blast went off VERY close. Of course, I was lying face down (as instructed), and didn't know this, but was told about it afterwards.
There was hand-to-hand combat training, where we learned how to break a man's neck, or stomp his skull in.
There was also the map-reading course, where our interest was aroused by a topographical map of a woman's breasts.
And there was the first-aid course, where we learned about covering sucking chest wounds (where the lung is penetrated by a gunshot) with the cellophane foil from a cigarette pack, to make an air-tight seal.
We had to memorize only three General Orders (there used to be eleven!), and we had to learn the Code of Conduct (how to resist if taken prisoner).
All through Basic Training, EVERY drill sergeant said WE were the WORST group of soldiers ever to enter the Army, that all of us would have to take Basic Training over again, and that none of us would survive combat. We worked together to make certain everyone would make it to graduation. In the barracks, there were "blanket parties" to encourage the guys who were not progressing fast enough. A blanket was tossed over the guy's head while he was asleep in his bunk, and everybody would hit him with their fists. If a guy didn't keep clean enough, they would throw him in the shower with a stiff brush. We had one fellow who was put out of the Army because of chronic bed-wetting. Not only would he wet the bed EVERY night, but he'd wet himself while standing in formation, because the drill sergeant was chewing him out.
Everybody's Army serial number was preceded by a "US", "RA", or "NG": "US" meant you were a draftee, "RA" meant you enlisted, "NG" stood for National Guard, which our drill sergeants told us was "No Good". The National Guard was resented (and still is) because they weren't sent to Viet Nam, and most of them joined the National Guard to avoid combat. I think only three National Guard units were sent to Viet Nam: an infantry unit from Indiana, a combat engineer unit from Idaho (which included Latter-day Saint friends of mine), and a unit from Vermont. We were taught to hate "Jodie", who was the guy back home who didn't have to serve in the Army, had money, a car, and your girlfriend's love. Jodie was the target of our jokes, bayonet training, and insulting marching songs.
In PT (Physical Training), we would yell "WETSU, WETSU, Drill Sergeant!", which meant, "We eat this shit up!"
Somehow, I managed to get through it and become a soldier.
Can you believe it?
Army uniforms and equipment have changed repeatedly and continues to change.
When I entered the United States Army on 07 December 1967, I was issued:
- 1 pair of dog tags
- 4 olive drab fatigue shirts (Class "D" uniform)
- 4 olive drab fatigue pants
- 2 olive drab fatigue (baseball) caps
- 1 olive drab fatigue jacket (M-65)
- 1 fatigue jacket liner
- 1 pair black leather glove shells
- 2 pair olive drab wool glove liners
- 1 olive drab trench coat (served as either raincoat or winter overcoat)
- 1 olive drab wool liner for trench coat
- 1 olive drab wool scarf
- 2 pairs black leather combat boots
- 3 khaki shirts (Class "B" uniform)
- 3 khaki pants
- 1 pair "U.S." collar brass
- 1 Army Green service cap (the "saucer" cap)
- 1 brass insignia for service cap
- 2 Army green garrison caps (because of its shape, referred to by the name of a female body part!)
- 1 Army Green dress uniform jacket (winter weight) (Class "A" uniform)
- 2 Army Green dress uniform pants (winter weight)
- 1 Army Green dress uniform jacket (summer weight)
- 2 Army Green dress uniform pants (summer weight)
- 3 poplin dress shirts
- 2 black neckties
- 2 web belts
- 1 brass belt buckle
- 1 pair black low quarter dress shoes
- 2 pairs black dress socks
- 4 pairs olive drab wool boot socks
- 6 pairs white boxer shorts
- 6 white T-shirts
- 4 white handkerchiefs
- 2 pairs of wool long underwear
- 2 white bath towels
- 2 white wash cloths
- 1 olive drab duffel bag
- 2 olive drab laundry bags
On the back of one pair of combat boots, you placed a visible dot of white paint. This was to enable the drill sergeant to verify you were changing your boots daily, as required. We were always wet and muddy, so the same pair of combat boots couldn't be worn day after day.
In the barracks, we had rows of double bunks along each wall, with wooden footlockers, and steel wall lockers, while rifles were stored in racks in the center of the floor.
For combat field gear, we were issued:
- 1 Springfield M-14 rifle, caliber 7.62 mm.
- 1 bayonet, with scabbard
- 1 M-17 protective mask
- 1 steel helmet (called a "steel pot").
- 1 plastic helmet liner
- 1 pistol belt
- 1 pair of pistol belt suspenders
- 2 magazine pouches
- 4 magazines
- 1 entrenching tool (folding shovel)
- 1 entrenching tool carrier (bayonet scabbard was worn as part of entrenching tool carrier)
- 1 steel canteen
- 1 canteen cup
- 1 mess kit, with knife, fork, and spoon
- 1 canteen pouch
- 1 first-aid pouch
- 1 butt-pack
- 1 pair rubber over boots
- 1 poncho
- 1 M-65 field jacket
- 1 down-filled mummy-style sleeping bag
- 1 sleeping bag cover
- 2 waterproof bags
- 1 sleeping bag carrier
- 1 canvas shelter half
- 1 tent pole (2 parts)
- 3 tent pegs
- 1 tent rope
- 1 duffel bag
The Salvation Army issued each trainee a package with toothpaste, toothbrush, comb, razor, shaving cream, soap, and a New Testament. We were advised to purchase a shaving mirror and an "AWOL" bag (a small suitcase). During basic training, we were not permitted to possess civilian clothing.
As a Latter-day Saint, I was issued, by my bishop, an LDS Servicemen's Kit, consisting of special LDS dog tags, a small maroon copy of the BOOK OF MORMON and PRINCIPLES OF THE GOSPEL.
When we successfully completed our Basic Combat Training, we were permitted to wear the National Defense Service Medal ribbon (known as the "firewatch ribbon") and our rifle qualification badge on our khaki or dress green uniform. We could not wear branch insignia until we began our Advanced Individual Training (A.I.T.).
After my Basic Combat Training, I was flown (my very first airline flight!) to Fort Gordon, Georgia for my Advanced Individual Training at the United States Army Southeastern Signal School, where I trained to be a Field Radio Relay and Carrier Equipment Repairman (MOS 31l20).
Of course, all of this is just history, because everything has changed in the United States Army.
Here is the phonetic alphabet I was trained to use when I was in the United States Army:
"A" - Alpha, "B" - Bravo, "C" - Charlie, "D" - Delta, "E" - Echo, "F" - Foxtrot, "G" - Golf, "H" - Hotel, "I" - India, "J" - Juliet, "K" - Kilo, "L" - Lima, "M" - Mike, "N" - November, "O" - Oscar, "P" - Papa, "Q" - Quebec, "R" - Romeo, "S" - Sierra, "T" - Tango, "U" - Uniform, "V" - Victor, "W" - Whiskey, "X" - X-ray, "Y" - Yankee, "Z" - Zulu
When my father died, my stepmother sent me his dog tags, and I was surprised to see that the information on his dog tags was different from the information on my own dog tags, so the Army had changed. His religious preference is apparently indicated by a "P", instead of spelling out "Protestant", and his dog tags include "T-41-49" and "T-52", indicating the date of his tetanus shots. Also, his dog tags have a notch in one corner, while my dog tags do not.
Lettering was obviously smaller back then, for his entire name was printed on one line, whereas on my dog tags, my last name is on one line, and my first name and middle initial are on a second line.
When I first entered the Army in December 1967, I was issued a serial number, but when I was in Germany in 1969, the Army changed, and our Social Security number became our serial number. But, I still remember my original Army serial number!
The war in Viet Nam was very controversial, so a lot of guys were doing everything they could to avoid military service. This situation actually helped me, because I was classified "IV-F" (unfit for military service), and thanks to the war being so unpopular, I was able to get reclassified and get into the service, something that probably would not have happened today.
Remember when Dan Quayle was running for Vice President of the United States? I was one of numerous Viet Nam veterans who wanted to know where he was when we were in Viet Nam, since he was the same age I was. We were angered to learn he had used family influence to get into the Indiana National Guard. In retrospect, I suppose my feelings towards him were unfair, because he DID serve, where so many others did not. Even though he was not sent to Viet Nam, we all know that once you take that oath and put on that uniform, you go where Uncle Sam orders you to go. Ironically, his unit was sent to Viet Nam, although he stayed in Indiana. I did meet National Guardsmen who actually bragged about joining the National Guard to avoid going to Viet Nam, which enraged me.
During the Gulf War, a lot of us Viet Nam veterans were happy to see the National Guard and Reserve units being sent into the combat zone, because now, joining the National Guard or Reserves was no longer a guarantee of avoiding combat.
Now, I will write about my memories of things in Viet Nam affecting my health.
Previously, I wrote about taking a large pink pill each Monday to prevent malaria, and two small white pills daily to prevent leprosy (I think), and that we were later ordered to stop taking the small white pills because they caused cancer. I also mentioned all the spiders, cockroaches, scorpions, centipedes, snakes, how I hated using the outhouse (because of the black widow spiders hiding under the seat), and the constant freezing cold rain in the mountains of the north during the monsoon.
When I was wandering around downtown Saigon, I visited a Buddhist pagoda, and was immediately surrounded by a horde of lepers begging for alms. The sight of what leprosy can do to a human being is shocking and sickening. What made it worse (for me) was that I could do nothing to help them, and I knew that no one else could help them.
One morning, I awoke in the typical sweltering humid heat of a Saigon morning, and as I straightened my arm, I felt a burning, tearing sensation on the inside of my elbow, while at the same moment I observed a spider crawling away on my bunk. There was a large red sore on my arm, and I suspected I'd been bitten by the spider, although it really felt more like the skin on the inside of my arm had somehow grown together during my sleep, and when I straightened my arm, I was ripping that skin apart. Does that make any sort of sense?
Anyway, whatever the cause, the sore healed up, but then I began itching all over my body. The medics gave me some pills, and eventually the itching subsided. Later, when I was at Camp Eagle (near Hue and Phu Bai), the very same thing happened again, although I don't remember seeing any spider, and the intense itching never ceased. To this day, I have to constantly take anti-histamines for chronic acute itching from an unknown cause. Over the years, the symptoms have gradually worsened and now I have been diagnosed with severe allergy reaction, although the cause is still not known.
Actually, what inspired me to sit down and compose this particular message was the almost unbearable burning pain on the back of my shoulders. I'm glad I have a plastic souvenir backscratcher from my stay in Washington, D.C., because that sure helps! The last time I went to donate blood, I was turned away because they are worried that something in Viet Nam, yet undiscovered, may have contaminated my system. The really bad thing about these chronic severe allergy symptoms is the bureaucracy of the Veterans Administration is not authorized to diagnose or treat allergies. Therefore, I'll probably never get properly tested, or cured.
Now, what about Agent Orange?
That's a much-discussed controversial issue, and I want to tell you what I remember. Frankly, I can't identify what was being sprayed by aircraft, but yes, some chemical was being sprayed, often and regularly. A "Cayuse" helicopter, popularly known as a "Loach", due to its acronym "LOH" (which stood for "Light Observation Helicopter"), would spray chemicals on our perimeter, apparently to kill the foliage, so the enemy couldn't sneak up on us. C-123 "Provider" planes would fly directly over us spraying some sort of chemical (a defoliant?) which I thought smelled like DDT, and which would fall directly on our skin, in our water, and in our food.
I do remember being surprised when patrolling the countryside, as I expected to see a lush green jungle, but instead, it looked more like a scene from the American West, with its sand and low shrubs, obviously a result of repeated chemical defoliation. While patrolling outside of Camp Evans (between Hue and Quang Tri), we had to cross a river, which I dreaded. It was chest-high water, too muddy to see what was in it, and I was very much afraid of snakes or booby traps. However, we waded across the river without incident.
As we returned from our patrol, before entering the camp, we had to clear our weapons, a simple safety procedure where you remove the magazine, pull back the bolt (to eject the cartridge), and leave the fire selector switch on "Safe".
Simple, huh?
But one black soldier somehow got it wrong, accidentally firing off a burst from his M-16 rifle, but fortunately, nobody was hurt, although everybody was a lot more nervous.
Our water came from the Song Be River, which we called the "Perfume River". Trucks would drive to the river and bring it back to the camp. I think they chlorinated the water as they pumped it from the river into the trucks, but I'm not sure. The two-wheeled tanker that is towed behind a truck or jeep is called a "water buffalo", and has spigots on the sides where you can fill your canteens. We were told not to put Kool-Aid powder inside our canteens, because we would never be able to remove it. To avoid drinking the water, we drank a LOT of soda pop. I drank so many coca-colas that one day, it felt like my throat was being strangled from the inside out, and so I stopped drinking coca-cola. I have only very recently been able to drink coca-cola, and then, only sparingly.
One night at Dong Ha, I brought some cans of Fresca to drink while on guard duty. Then I popped the can and tasted the warm Fresca, I immediately spit it out. There's NOTHING worse than drinking warm Fresca! That stuff is horrible! Yuck!
The PX sold lots and lots of all kinds of soda pop. But, outside the PX were huge pallets of Fresca, and the PX kept lowering the price, but nobody wanted it, and the PX couldn't even give it away. By the way, only the Army calls their store a "PX" (which stands for "Post Exchange") , as the Navy, Marines, and Air Force call their store a "BX", which stands for "Base Exchange".
Our shower was a fifty-gallon drum cut in half, mounted on an enclosed wooden frame with screen windows, and we would stand underneath the barrel letting the water run down on us. The open barrel allowed fallen leaves, rats, birds, insects, and the air-dropped chemical spray to get into the water, which was warmed by the hot sun, and that was what we washed in. The nice thing about the monsoon was that you didn't have to use that shower, but could strip naked and stand in the rain to wash, although it was cold.
While preparing for an I.G. inspection ("I.G." stands for "Inspector General"), my signal unit was discarding unauthorized radio and electronic components by throwing them into a shell crater filled with mud and chemicals. Then somebody decided that we had to salvage those items, and I was ordered to go into that mess and retrieve the various items. I remember being covered from head to foot with all that stinky, filthy slime, as the sergeant laughed about how I "now look like a real soldier!" But, I still wonder if I might someday have some sort of cancer because of the stuff in that pit? Thus far, I reckon I've been pretty lucky.
Before going to Viet Nam, I had my left eardrum burst by an F-4 "Phantom" flying low overhead with its afterburners on at Spangdahlem Air Force Base, Germany. During my two years in Viet Nam, I always worried if some bug was going to crawl inside my left ear and enter my brain, as in some stories I'd heard. The Army couldn't operate on me while I was in Viet Nam, but they eventually repaired the damage when I was in Korea. Actually, I kind of enjoy telling folks I was operated on in the U.S. Army 121st Evacuation Hospital in Seoul, made famous by frequently being mentioned in the "M.A.S.H." television series, novel, and motion picture.
Being naturally curious and adventurous, I did sample Vietnamese food.
What did I eat? I don't know! But, we G.I.s would laughingly refer to the "rat sandwiches" sold by a street vendor in Cholon (the Chinese section of Saigon).
Dogs liked American G.I.s, because we would feed them and pet them, whereas Vietnamese would eat them, so if he had a dog with him, an American soldier could relax while on guard duty, because the dog would raise a big fuss if he smelled any Vietnamese anywhere near. The same thing was true when I was in Korea, because Koreans eat dogs, while Americans make pets of them.
I never did use the marijuana or heroin which was so rife and prevalent in Viet Nam, but I wonder to this day if I might have incurred some sort of long-term health effect simply because I was frequently in the midst of those who did smoke it. The Veterans Administration says that couldn't happen, but I wonder if they're telling the truth?
You had to be constantly alert, because not only were you in a war with the North Vietnamese, but your own fellow soldiers might decide to kill you, for whatever real or imagined reason. There were shoot-outs between rival platoons who argued over who had killed the most enemy soldiers. The favorite means of murder was "fragging", tossing a fragmentation hand grenade into where the victim was sleeping. It's how they tried to kill me, but Heavenly Father was protecting me, and I was not even injured, although I was surrounded by shrapnel perforations.
A favorite booby trap was wrapping the handle of a grenade with a rubber band, removing the safety pin, and placing the grenade in a can filled with gasoline. By the time the perpetrator left the area, the gasoline would eat through the rubber band, causing the grenade to explode. This was used against my company commander in Saigon, but fortunately, it was detected before it could go off.
At Quang Tri, two white officers ordered some black soldiers to turn down their stereo, and were shot dead. Also at Quang Tri, some angry soldiers grabbed their first sergeant, tied him to a cot, and placed claymore mines on his stomach, at his feet, and at his head, and then detonated them. At Camp Eagle, an irate soldier walked into the Orderly Room and fatally shot his first sergeant, and when he walked back outside, he was gunned down by several soldiers who liked the first sergeant. CS grenades (tear gas) were constantly being thrown, usually in fun, so you had to always keep your gas mask handy.
Each year, a soldier MUST do three things to stay in the United States Army. He must qualify with his weapon, pass the physical fitness test, and go through the gas chamber. In the gas chamber, you must remove your M-17 protective mask and breathe the tear gas. Each year, it seemed to me that I was increasingly affected by the tear gas, and I still suspect that my current respiratory susceptibility is related to my repeated exposure to the gas, but the Veterans Administration tells me that is not possible.
Once at Camp Eagle, I saw two Rangers in a knife-fight, and in Da Nang, I saw two Marines engaged in hand-to-hand combat. When I was in Da Nang, one of our trucks was in heavy downtown traffic, where a Viet Cong unscrewed the truck's gas cap, and dropped in a grenade, killing the men in the cab.
One night in Da Nang, just before I returned to the States, I remember hearing a burst of automatic weapon fire. It was ARVN soldiers (Army of the Republic of Viet Nam) killing two U.S. Army lieutenants riding in a jeep.
My last night in Viet Nam was especially nerve-wracking. It was discovered that North Vietnamese infiltrators had landed on the beach outside our compound. All the lights in camp were extinguished, and we all gathered in sandbagged bunkers. Our weapons had all been turned in (we were leaving Viet Nam the next day), and we were being defended by some personnel clerks who were manning a single M-60 machine gun. Fortunately, nothing happened that night, and I don't know what those enemy soldiers were up to, for they left us alone.
For me, it was two straight years of hot blazing sun, freezing drenching monsoon rain, creepy crawly bugs of all sorts, filthy water, mud, thick marijuana smoke, a lot of tedious hum drum monotony, being randomly shelled with rockets or mortars, and wondering whether I would be killed by an American or a Vietnamese.