Khe Sanh Veterans Association Inc.

Red Clay
Newsletter of the Veterans who served at Khe Sanh Combat Base,
Hill 950, Hill 881, Hill 861, Hill 861-A, Hill 558
Lang-Vei and Surrounding Area

Issue 54     Winter 2002

Memoirs

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In This Issue
Note from Editor and Board     Incoming     Web Briefs     Short Rounds
In Memoriam     A Sprinkling Of Your Poetry

by Bill Person

    I have given some thought to the overall and complex intelligence effort back during the Vietnam War. There seemed to be no really good place to begin. I was assigned to Eastern NORAD/CONAD Region at Stewart AFB, New York as the Special Security Officer, SSO and the inheritor of a real mess. It had little to do with security but was instead an SI intelligence complex.

    When I arrived at Stewart AFB, New York in June 1965, a Major Dubrow was most anxious for me to relieve him. He had been there for a few years and had been completely ignored by the senior officers on his billet. That means personnel cleared to see Top Secret codeword material. The Director of Intelligence, an Army Lt. Col., had tried to get him to become one of the consumer intelligence types in his outer office, but he had become sort of a recluse inside his vault-like compound. He continued to receive materials and keep the facility open with two sergeants in the communications field. He also had a Japanese wife which is a no-no for holding a SI clearance. No  foreign wives of most nations allowed. The exception was Canada, U.K., Australia and New Zealand where background checks could be conduct ed to determine if they were subversives.

    In 1965, the Air Force Security Service relinquished its control of the Special Security offices to Defense Intelligence Agency. This was a system to present highly classified Special Intelligence information to the commanders and their staffs of the other commands, i.e., SAC, TAC, ADC, etc. I  was greeted with a pale green covered book, DOD Directive 5200.17, which was the new authority and operating procedures for an SSO. NSA had apparently decided that USAFSS was a lesser entity as were the Army Security Agency and the Navy Security Group, so a new civilian agency was created with more prestige and one, moreover, to study and disseminate information they considered necessary to those commands in the conducting of their activities.

    Once I assumed the office complex, I went to see M/General Gordon H. Austin and told him I was his new SSO. I informed him that Defense Intelligence Agency had just assumed control of this facility and that I planned to conduct weekly briefings in the SSO briefing room at 1000 each Friday. My briefings would consist of world events that, in my opinion, he and his staff needed to know. In the event of a war, the first indications would come from this source and if he did not make  use of it, he would not know how to use such information if we ever do have a war. I told him that if he and those cleared on his staff chose not to attend, I planned to go to Washington where DIA was located in the Pentagon annex and close the facility, because it served no purpose being there if it was not used. From that day on, no one missed a meeting and most of them came in for special background information. My two NCOs operated the secure communications equipment and with the courier bringing material in weekly, I believe my briefings were the equal of any SSO anywhere. Because I was the one preparing and presenting them, I know what was presented to the commander and his cleared staff. My experience in the intelligence field gave me a sound background to be able to talk with ease about almost every subject since I had studied the materials since October 1962.

    In early 1964 while I was at Wakkanai AS, Japan, my intercept technicians intercepted a special signal and after we determined its significance and I reported it, I was criticized for meddling in what was not my area of responsibility. Later, a thick, illustrated report was disseminated to the upper levels of certain commands to confirm what I had reported as fact. While I was Queen Bee Delta Project Officer, my back-end intercept crew began to monitor Navy Task Force 77 transmitting launch activities over hand-held radios. I knew that the Russians had ELINT/SIGINT/COMINT fishing trawlers operating nearby and that they would be intercepting vital intelligence about our strike force composition, ordnance and intended targets. I directed my 10-man intercept crew of linguists to record these transmissions and I sent seven reels of tapes to the Director of Intelligence to confirm my identification of a major breach of security.

    CNO and other members of the Pentagon sent a scathing message back, through channels, to say that the only means of getting such information was Queen Bee Delta and that was not my tasked mission. It went on to state that I was neglecting my primary mission by wasting time recording these friendly transmissions. It also stated that Navy Task Force 77 was not violating any security transmissions. I responded that the tapes had been recorded while en route to Da Nang from Bangkok to pick up fighter escort prior to taking position at Yankee Station. I was directed not  to do this anymore by the Pentagon. Gen. Blake, DIRNSA sent me an Eyes Only message to keep doing it and to send him the tapes via courier and not to tell anyone.

    Actually, Blake, the Director of National Security was the boss over me and the Queen Bee Delta  project and as such, should have been the one to make that call, not the Pentagon. As the war progressed and I was seeing MIGs practicing an intercept technique that I had seen back while  at Wakkanai, I sent a special message suggesting top cover for fighter/ bomber strike forces  for both Air Force and Navy. I was told to let command decisions be made at the appropriate level and keep to my assigned mission which was intercept and report, leaving the planning to Washington. After we lost four F-105s to a single MIG that command said the North Vietnamese didn't have the capability to do, and the Navy lost four F4s to Chinese MIGs, that changed. This took place on the 3rd and 5th of April, 1965. I was concerned that aircraft commanders and Navy ship captains' were not cleared to know what the mission of those vessels were, which I considered vital to their decisions for their own safety. I doubt any of the aircraft commanders or their flight crews knew exactly what was taking place in their planes as they flew EC-llSs, EC-47s, EC-130s, EC-135s. Perhaps the SAC crews knew a little more in their RB-47s and RB-57s but I know that neither captains Cmdr. Lloyd Bucher of the Pueblo nor Cmdr. William L. McGonagle of the Liberty knew the extent of their missions.

    The intelligence community had a myriad of collection efforts all over SEA and this was fed back to Wheeler AFB, Hawaii in what must have been a river of intelligence. We knew that the world press published everything they could find out about the dayto-day activities of the war and this served as a very good intelligence source to Hanoi. Perhaps because of this, special intelligence and the information picked up by CIA was sent directly through their channels and denied to combat commanders at all levels. PAC Security Region had reams of vital intelligence at Wheeler that could have been shared with the Intelligence Directorate at Hickham, but this did not happen. The information went straight to NSA and the White ktouse. President Johnson and Robert S. McNamara were the ones to review this intelligence and make the major combat decisions.

    In January 1968, while flying as a Batcat on an EC-121R over the Laotian panhandle, I detected tanks moving down the Ho Chi Minh Trail on Route 9. I sent a message from Korat to report this, bypass ing Task Force Alpha at Nakhon Phanom. The same intelligence office at Hickham where Larry Clum worked replied that Air Force intelligence estimates claimed that the Vietnamese had no such tanks. On February 8th, 11 Soviet-built amphibious PT-76 tanks and 400 NVA troops with supporting artillery attacked the Army Special Forces camp at Lang Vei, overrunning it. The term, "Tanks in the wire!" was used, routing U.S. forces from their base on Route 9. The Siege began with Tet 68 with the Rangers at Lang Vei reporting tanks in the wire, overrunning them. Later, it was reported that these were not tanks, merely amphibious PT-76s. I doubt the Rangers could truly appreciate the significant difference when this assault woke them by boring through the barbed wire.

    I believe that President Johnson and McNamara did not want the Commanders in the area to have such intelligence for fear that it might leak out to the press. This in turn might, as the Intelligence Community always reasoned, deny us that intercept source in the future. Like the press always knew, to announce a source denies that and other such sources in the future, so you don't make them public. There was supposedly enough other source intelligence back then: photo-reconnaissance, trail watchers and direct reports from the forward areas. I can only imagine what the commanders from Hickham, Tan Son Nhut, and Udorn must have thought when they examined the intelligence information they did see and then to have directions from Washington to assign a specific target where they may not have any information at their levels.

    During World War II, Churchill severely limited his ULTRA and MAGIC to but a few top people. In the Pentagon, an Army General threw a codeword document into his trash basket. He was removed from the access list. Churchill would have shot him. We have all seen a tiny part of that war and it is doubtful that all of the real story will ever be told. I was privileged to see more than most and I write about some of it, but I still have a lot of questions to ask if I could ever know who might be able to answer them.

    I do not accept the term we lost that war, but rather we were not allowed to win it, and then were ordered out. The Queen Bee Delta intercepted tapes that we recorded and dropped off at Da Nang for transcription to be read in Washington, told us peons that we could have destroyed North Vietnamese ability to fight a war in South Vietnam if we had bombed the 92 targets recommended by the JCS in March and April 1965 before the enemy had a chance to prepare for a protracted war. I personally gave a briefing to LBJ in September 1968 to tell him about the sensor war. Until that time, I thought he was the good guy and he was being advised badly. I met the real enemy that day but it took me a while to realize it. 58,000 Americans did not need to die over there if we had a good military leader. Good generals do not make good presidents and good presidents do not make good generals. I stand corrected, we did have George Washington, didn't we, but they broke the mold after him.

Regards
Bill Person

*****

by Bob McLane

A soft rain was falling as twilight turned this Veteran's Day into night. Other Vets quickly walked past the slow moving man in the faded Corpsman's shirt. He leaned on a cane. With a little more light they might have noticed the Navy Cross among the ribbons on the faded shirt. Many were on their way to reunions that were going on all over town as thousands of Vietnam Veterans gathered to celebrate this tenth anniversary of the Vietnam wall. This was a national place of healing but even after ten years, many Vets were seeing the wall for the first time. The man in the Corpsman's shirt stopped walking and clutched the cane tightly.

    "Are you alright, Doc?" I recognized him from a party the night before at the Sheraton where hundreds of former and active duty Marines had gathered to celebrate their 217th birthday. The old corpsman had helped cut the cake with a Marine Officer's sword. Any corpsman who ever had served with a Marine outfit in a combat zone was considered an honorary Marine by most leathernecks. Jim Mayton was a dues paid member of that brotherhood. He had saved the lives of hundreds of Marines in Korea and Vietnam. The cane shook as he looked at me. "I'm out of gas," he said as he fought for another breath. Advanced emphysema and his refusal to quit smoking made even the short est walk seem like an uphill march with a full pack. A park bench was a few feet away. "Have a seat, Doc. We'll figure something out."

A Green Beret walking by, saw what was going on and offered to help. We thought about carrying him to a taxi but his bad hip killed that idea. A park ranger came by, driving a electric cart. I explained the situation. "Do you know how to drive one of these things," she asked. "I'm a golfer," I smiled. She gave me the cart. I drove Jim back up to the street and hailed a cab. He waited while I returned the cart.

    We took the cab back to the Sheraton. Settled in on a couch in the lobby, Jim ordered a gin & tonic and lit a cigarette. His eyes followed a pretty woman walking by. Other Marines entering the hotel saw Jim and stopped to say hello. Everyone from generals to former privates treated the old corpsman with respect and affection. He still wanted to see the wall.

    After a BLT sandwich and another cigarette, we hailed another taxi. This time three Marines went with him. They borrowed a wheelchair from the hotel. There are over fifty-eight thousand names etched in gray letters on the black granite wall. That night Jim went to see just one, Edward Gaffney Creed. After picking up some wounded Marines, the young corpsman's helicopter had crashed, killing everyone on board. Among the wreaths of fresh-cut flowers, they find the name. His eyes filled with tears as he rubbed his fingers across the gray letters. "He was a ski bum," Jim told the Marines. "Once he kicked my butt." Quietly, Jim said the goodbye he never had the chance to say in Vietnam. At times like this, some say the wall weeps as raindrops slowly slide down the smooth black granite. James Mayton passed away in the summer of 1994. He was buried in Tennessee with full military honors. At his request, a small piece of black granite rock was added to the headstone.

Top Side

*****

by Richard Boykin

    What a privilege and blessing it was to be a child and grow up in Hawaii in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Advertised and promoted as the "Paradise of the Pacific," the fond memories of those times for me remain undiminished and confirm the billing. For almost a century, Hawaii had been America's most successful melting pot. My own family's experience was testament to that. My mother's maternal grandparents came from the Azores to Maui in the 1890s to work the cane fields. My mother's father, born in Izmir, Turkey, of Spanish and Sephardic Jewish descent, came to the islands as a teenager just in time to be drafted for World War I service with the U.S. Army. 

    As it is today, so it was back then. Hawaii has, since the mid-l800s, had a large Asian population. The Chinese came first, followed by the Japanese, Koreans and Filipinos. More recently, there are large minorities of newcomers from Southeast Asia. So pervasive, so complete was this integration from my childhood perspective that, on more than one occasion, I recall my own dear mother stating that "every fourth child born was Chinese." As a 5-year-old in Hawaii, ignorant of fractions, demographics or the birds and bees, it was my natural expectation that, since I was the third child in my family, if my mother were to get pregnant again my new brother or sister would, in fact, be Chinese. Long before it became un-kosher for little boys to play army with real toy guns, my childhood friends and I would while away the hours playing war throughout our neighborhoods. The popular kids, those with the neatest toy guns, got to be the Americans. The second string got to be the Germans or the Japanese. Oddly, it was most of my .Japanese buddies who always showed up with the coolest stuff. Out of their fathers' closets or from old, musty footlockers came the real trappings of little boy wealth. Army mess kits and canteen cups stamped "U.S.," entrenching tools, cartridge belts, first-aid kits and even old, ill-fitting helmets. Real treasure. 

    By age 6 or 7, it was becoming apparent that my .Japanese pals definitely had the edge in war loot. Then, 1 began to hear and slowly learn about a special army unit that so many of their dads had served with. Some outfit called the 100th Infantry Battalion and the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. Widely known in Hawaii, everyone simply referred to it as the "Four Four Two." I recall being  a bit envious and disappointed that my own dad had not been a member. 

Internment

    Many reasonably informed and educated folks know the general circumstances surrounding the internment of Japanese-Americans living in the continental United States during World War II. (Japanese-Americans in Hawaii constituted roughly 160,000 of the islands' 400,000 residents. Fortunately for all, their internment was a logistical impossibility and thus they were spared.) While difficult to imagine from a 21st-century perspective, the deep-seated racial prejudices of the times, coupled with the real fear of invasion by Adm. Yamamoto's naval forces was sufficient threat to motivate President Roosevelt, a Democrat, to order the internment of American Japanese living on  the West Coast. Quite possibly the most egregious abuse of justice committed by the U.S, government in the last century, the internment issue will forever be a dark stain on our nation's  history. 

    Numerous books have been written by the men, women and children forced to experience the shame and deprivation of life inside the camps as citizens without the benefits of citizenship. As modern Americans are the undisputed world leaders in celebrating victimhood, they have been even more aggressively pusillanimous, until 9-11, in recognizing valor, bravery and sacrifice. While many are aware of the broader issues of the American-Japanese roteminent experience, and that odd, erudite man or woman might also be able to name a camp or two, an extremely low percentage, even among contemporary Japanese-Americans, are aware of the exploits of the most decorated unit in the history of the United States Army.

    What would eventually evolve into the 442nd Regimental Combat Team had its genesis in the Hawaiian Territorial Guard. With distrust of Japanese running extremely high after the Pearl Harbor attack, the Nisei (second-generation Japanese-Americans) soldiers then serving were actually involuntarily discharged from the Guard Unwilling to accept this flagrant slight to their patriotism and filled with the same desire to avenge Pearl Harbor as most other Americans, these eager young warriors were formed into a separate all-Nisei unit that ultimately became the 100th Infantry Battalion. The 100th Battalion was the first all-Nisei unit, although most of its officers were Caucasian. Initially staffed almost entirely of Hawaiian Japanese, the 100th would evolve into the 442nd RCT and would be fleshed out by young Nisei men from across the United States. The 442nd RCT would ultimately have three infantry battalions (the 100th, the 2nd, and the 3rd), a battalion of artillery (the 522nd Field Artillery Battalion), along with the usual supporting elements required for a regiment -- medical, combat engineers, etc.

    The 442nd fought in seven major campaigns in the European Theater of Operations. It engaged in some of the heaviest fighting of the war and took horrendous casualties. The men of the 442nd were often pitted against Hitler's finest troops and never lost a battle. Their motto, "Go For Broke," was from a pid-gin English expression in Hawaii which basically meant "shoot the works." Their record in combat showed that the 442nd lived by its motto. Suffering casualties enough for two or three army divisions, their skill and tenacity in combat placed them in great demand. Gen. Mark Clark said of the Nisei, "They are some of the best ---damn fighters in the U.S. Army. If you have more, send them over." While the RCT fought in places like Anzio and Monte Cassino, the battle for which the 442nd is arguably most famous and revered is their Pyrrhic victory in rescuing the First Battalion, 141st Regiment of the 36th Division, a unit comprised mostly of Texans. In a six-day period spanning Oct. <+">25-30, <-">1944, the now veteran soldiers of the 442nd would advance nine miles against a firmly entrenched enemy at a cost of 90 men per mile to reach and relieve what became known as the "Lost Battalion." By battle's end, the 442nd suffered 800 casualties to save their Texas brothers who numbered only 211 men. After the war, a grateful Gov. Connolly would pass legislation declaring all members of the 442nd "Honorary Texans."

    By war's end, the 442nd had been awarded eight Presidential Unit Citations for their extraordinary combat exploits. The men of the 442nd earned more than 9,000 Purple Hearts, more than 5,000 Bronze Stars, and almost 600 Silver Star medals. A total of 680 young men paid the ultimate price in serving a country which did not yet fully value that sacrifice. 

    The "Go For Broke" culture of the RCT produced valor in super abundance. Ironically, through war's end only one member of the 442nd had been awarded the Medal of Honor, our nation's highest award for combat bravery. As with a high percentage of Medals of Honor, PFC Sadao Munemori died earning his. Prejudice, no doubt, had a role in minimizing the granting of appropriate valor awards to the Nisei. That said, 52 young members of the RCT were awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, our nation's second highest valor medal. Of this group, 23 earned the medal posthumously. No other unit in the United States Army would match this record of achievement, sacrifice and bravery.

    Separating the 442nd further from distant rivals was the effort made in the 1990s to review many of the old valor awards for possible upgrade. In June of 2000, President Clinton awarded 21 new Medals of Honor to former members of the 442nd (an additional MOH was awarded to a Nisei soldier who served in the Pacific theater.) Of those awardees, nine had been killed in Europe and of the remaining 12, only seven were still alive to receive the recognition so well deserved. It should be noted that all but one of those receiving the MOH had earlier been DSC recipients. The story of this unusual unit and these intrepid and once young men, a unique subset of the Greatest Generation, remains largely unknown and untold. Two cultural issues inhibit the complete proliferation of information about the 442nd to the regular civilian. First is the easily explained reluctance common among most veterans of combat to discuss the horrors of wartime experiences. When all is held back, none of the greatness, the stories of special times or friendships and sacrifices shared get passed along either.

    Add to this, in this group of the reddest-blooded Americans, the still admirable and prevalent aspects of Japanese culture which stresses humility and reticence and you are limiting history, at best, to only the very closest confidants or brother warriors. Were it not for the continued presence of Hawaii's senior U.S. Sen. Daniel Inouye, himself one of the seven living former DSC recipients upgraded to the Medal of Honor, there would be virtually no awareness of the 442nd outside of the Japanese-American community today.

    In researching the facts for this story, I am grateful for the efforts of the late Chester Tanaka and his book "Go For Broke." Mr. Tanaka, a Nisei and combat veteran of the 442nd published his superb pictoria} history in 1982. Thoroughly researched and filled with generous support from his brother soldiers, Tanaka still noted that universal tendency towards selflessness as many of the veterans, while giving critical input to his story, refused to accept attribution for their quotes. 

    This month marks the 58th anniversary of the savage battle to save the Lost Battalion, enough time for nearly three generations of Texans to be born and enjoy the blessings of liberty bought and paid for  with Nisei blood. My sense is that few in Texas will stop to recall. Sadder, though, is that nearly as few in the modern Japanese-American community will even be aware of sacrifices made by fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers, or by the 680 Nisei soldiers who never had a chance at family life.

    The story of the 442nd Regimenta| Combat Team, one of the greatest in U.S. military history, remains mired mostly in facts and figures. We know what they did and the prices they paid to do it. What we really do not know is who these young men were and why they did the incredible things they did. It is a story not just for 211 lucky Texans and the 5,000 or so Nisei soldiers, but one for all America to thoroughly celebrate. As these silent heroes approach their twilight years, we need to impose upon them one more time, to have them overcome their cultural reluctance to draw attention to themselves and tell their stories fully. With a bitter and long war before us, the legacy of this unique group of men is the perfect medicine to steel America for whatever challenges are ahead.

June 1966 - October 1967

by Ron Swensson

December 15, 2002

    Some things a Marine never forgets. Like his ID number that appears on his ID card and dog tags (mine was 2226447). I saved a pair as a souvenir. There are memories of boot camp that I'll also never forget. Especially the platoon's lead drill instructor's name (Sgt. Effinger) -- and his nasty habit of kicking me in the shins whenever I messed up. The pain didn't go away for a long time. Little did I realize that boot camp was the Ritz Carlton compared to Vietnam. 

    I headed for MCRD in San Diego on February 1, 1966, after screwing up my freshman year at the University of Michigan. In my doldrums, I had read Leon Uris' book "Battle Cry," about the Marine Corps in World War II and that book just festered in my mind until I finally went down to the recruiting office. I had signed up for helicopter duty but discovered on the day I showed up for Pensacola, FL, that your 4-year obligation started when you completed OCS and flight training (2 years +/-), which meant your total commitment was more like 6 years. Instead, I opted for a 3-year enlistment as a 0311 infantry grunt. It just goes to show how stupid I was at the time.

    After graduating as a Major in a ROTC-based high school where I was battalion commander my senior year, I discovered 1 lacked the self-discipline to do the things that would bring success at the college level. In other words, I turned into a true party animal.

    My dad had pulled some strings to get me into the university in the first place. My original application was rejected, although I had a pretty good grade point average and my College Board scores were well above average. My dad had plenty of successful friends in Detroit that were U of M alumni, so I guess he went to work for me. Unfortunately, I just didn't have the heart for studying. After 2 semesters, I was politely asked not to return.

    How could my life change in such a short time? I was king of the mountain my senior year in high school. Now I was a college flunkout. I assimilated the role I had earned and subsequently developed a huge chip on my shoulder. The next 3 years of my life in the Marines did little to dampen my attitude. If anything, it reinforced my belief that life is what you make of it.

    After ITR training and some personal leave after boot camp, I wound up at Camp Pendleton reporting for duty with the newly formed Mike Company 3rd Battalion 26th Marine Regiment. The history of the 3rd Battalion 26th Marines in World War II is something most Marines aren't aware of. I have an uncle who now lives in La Habra, CA, who was an artillery forward observer with M/3/26 when they raised the flag at Iwo Jima. That was the first combat they had ever seen! He never had a chance to return to the States during his 4-year tour of duty. 

    I was assigned to the 1st platoon in Mike Company, and our Platoon Leader, was 2nd Lt. Mike Hester, a recent graduate from Annapolis and nephew of General Krulak, the Fleet Marine Force Pacific Commanding General! Mike was from a family of Marine Corps tradition, as he was the 2rid or 3rd generation Marine in his family. Many years after returning home from Vietnam, I called the alumni office at Annapolis to see if he was still alive and get his most current address. Sure enough, he had made it home, and was then the Commanding Officer of the Honor Company at Arlington, VA. After twenty-some years he was now a Lieutenant Colonel. 

    1st Platoon's First Sergeant was Sgt. Wade. He was so "Gung Ho," we called him John Wayne behind his back. What I learned from Sgt. Wade was that the ranking enlisted men really are the backbone of the Marine Corps rifle company. Sure, the officers give the orders and probably take the heat when things go wrong. But when it came time to get things done or when the shit really hit the fan, it was the ranking enlisted men that rose to the occasion. Sgt. Wade was old school Marine Corps. I'm sure he had time in Korea. He had excellent map and compass skills and didn't take crap from anyone. Plus his physical stature and personality were big, like John Wayne. I felt extremely lucky to have been in his platoon. He kept his cool under fire and kept us alive as a result of his stringent demands in the field. He had an uncanny skill in selecting the best men for walking point when we were on patrol. 

    Amazingly, when I called Mike Hester in 1987,Sgt. Wade was the highest-ranking enlisted man  in the Marine Corps and was stationed with his own son and with Colonel Hester in Arlington! How's that for a family tree? A fellow Marine friend of mine from the Internet told me that Sgt. Wade had been wounded in action after kicking down a door to a "hooch" that had been trip wired to a grenade. It was good news to hear that he had survived as well. My original squad leader in 1st platoon was Sgt. Kaufman, who was the only guy in our platoon that had been to Vietnam once before. Cpl. Gill later became squad leader after Sgt. Kaufman was KIA in February 1967. Captain Richard Sasek was our company commander, and Lt. Lee Klein was our executive officer.

    Captain Sasek was M/3/26's CO throughout our training at Pendleton, Hawaii, the Philippines, and Okinawa. He was relieved of duty after we were ashore at Dong Ha (if memory serves me), and was replaced by Captain Andy DeBona (whom we affectionately referred to as "Bone Head.") Turns out that DeBona was an enlisted man for 6 years before he became an officer. He was the most "Gung Ho" Marine Corp officer I ever knew and a true warrior. Some Marines question his tactics and demeanor while in Vietnam, but I think you have to remember that the NVA and Charlie were trying to kill us. So what's the big deal? It was either kill or be killed which do you prefer? 

    But I digress. Las Pulgas was our new home for a while; an arrangement of dormitory style one-story buildings. Las Pulgas sat deep within the perimeter of Camp Pendleton. The place was kind of bleak, but what do you expect from a Marine Corps training facility? It was summer in Southern California. We could occasionally see the high school kids surfing off the coast of Pendleton whenever we were on maneuvers near the coast, which wasn't often enough for me. Morning overcast clouds and afternoon heat were typical for this time of year. To make training realistic, we conducted maneuvers in the high hills at Pendleton during the heat of the day. Guys would drop like flies from heat exhaustion or dehydration. looking back at events as they unraveled over future months, the Marines in charge did everything they could to prepare us for life in Vietnam.

    A couple of things I learned from our training in Camp Pendleton: First, the old school enlisted warriors from Korea or previous tours in VN were thereal teachers and everyone else, including many of the new officers, were the students. Second Lt. Mike Hester was smart. He liked to travel light when in the field. Real light. Where everyone else humped a week's supply of C-rats, Hester would scrounge chow off the guys in his platoon. Most Marines were delighted to share their stuff with him. But I saw things differently. I couldn't stand ham and lima beans, and neither could he, but I'd carry them just so I could share them with him when he came calling. This twisted bit of sharing went on for the better part of a year.

    On September 9, 1966 we departed from Long Beach harbor aboard the USS Washington. My friend Gene Weresow from 3rd Platoon Mike Company remembers this exact date because it coincides with his birthday. We have been reunited over the KSV website on the Internet. This ship was an old World War II aircraft carrier that had been retrofitted to become an LPH - Landing Platform for Helicopters. I'd never been on a carrier before, and it was kind of neat in design. It was a huge ship. Actually, a city on the water, completely self-contained. 

    From Long Beach we headed for Pearl Harbor where we went on some maneuvers and liberty for a week or so, then we were off to the Philippines, Subic Bay. It was in the Philippines and later in Okinawa where we became indoctrinated in jungle warfare. We slept in the field. Walked on patrols. Set up ambushes. Learned about punji sticks and trip wires. The only things missing were live ammo being shot at us, and seeing our buddies get killed or wounded. But that was coming soon enough. We spent some time on the island of Mindanao in the Philippines. Here we saw crocodiles while on patrol, and at night the rats would climb the trees and keep you awake all night with their gnawing away on coconuts. Little did I know that this was excellent sleep deprivation training, which would come in handy real soon.

    The 3rd platoon of M/3/26 was a swinging outfit. Their platoon leader was a warrant officer, Lt. Flick from my home state of Michigan. He was a good looking, lanky guy with several years' experience as an enlisted man. He was real cool with his platoon members. If I had known how to transfer to his platoon, I would have done it in a heartbeat. The guys in 3rd platoon were tight. Many of them were from New York and New Jersey. And man, did they know how to have a good time on liberty. 

    Back at Pendleton, about 9 or 10 of us (me, the only one not from 3rd platoon) would rent a couple taxis and go to Tijuana, Mexico, commonly referred to as TJ. When we arrived in town we would literally take over an entire bar or club down there. On occasion, we would return with one or two fewer Marines than when we started. Our comrades had been arrested for disturbing the peace or whatever. An officer would have to travel down to TJ and conduct the rescue mission'. I'm sure there .was a price to pay, but I was lucky and didn't get tossed into the stammer. Well, 3rd platoon's string of tradition on liberty followed it all the way to Subic Bay, PI. Where liberty was cut off at 12:00 midnight, 10 or 12 members of 3rd platoon would be out with their platoon leader after hours. Officers didn't have the same time restrictions that we enlisted men had. And me,. thinking that if they can get away with it, so can I, was a serious mistake. I wasn't in their platoon, and I didn't have a Lt. Flick to stand up for me. One night after hours while out with 3rd platoon, who should come walking into the bar but my best buddy, Lt. Hester. I was busted. Hester gave me this funny smile, and next morning I was out in front of our Quonset huts digging a fighting hole (for punishment) while everyone else in 1st platoon was free to go on liberty. Sgt. Wade (I'm sure he was instructed to do so) was trying to make an example of me. So in the future I didn't stay out late after hours.

My Most Memorable Lesson

    Once we left the Philippines for Okinawa, we knew we were getting close to going in-country. We just didn't know when. It was in Okinawa's Jungle Warfare School where we learned the most amazing concept about being ambushed in the jungle. And it saved our lives over and over many times. Our instructors told us that whenever we were caught in an ambush while on patrol, to turn towards the incoming fire and with our weapons on fully automatic walk directly towards the muzzle flashes and shoot like hell. They emphasized -- DO NOT fall down on the ground -- because there you will be picked off like ducks in a barrel. This concept was totally bizarre. We actually trained for days applying this routine using blank rounds. We practiced so many times that it became a natural instinct to respond in the manner they taught us. This one piece of training alone saved my life many times. Because as M/3/26 "whenever we were ambushed, we all acted in unison, and I'm sure Charlie freaked out when they saw such discipline.

    My memory becomes a little fuzzy about exact dates here, but sometime around October or November 1966 we went aboard the brand new LPH Iwo Jima, or so it seemed to be after being on board the USS Washington (World War II vintage). We were acting as the SLF -- Special Landing Force -- or "float boat" as I have heard it called. Along our journey somewhere (perhaps Okinawa itself), we turned in our M-14s for the newer, improved M-16s. We had them as our primary weapons when we were on the Iwo Jima. 

    One day we were ordered to saddle up. We were going in-country to set up a perimeter around a Marine Corps group that was in need of help. We flew ashore these big Chinook choppers, they looked like flying bananas with the huge twin overhead blades. They were big enough to put jeeps and such inside. This particular day there were about twenty of us well-equipped Marines inside and as we were landing; with the back ramp already down, we were taking incoming 50 caliber rounds right through the main fuselage of the aircraft. You could hear the rounds going through the sheet metal and everything in between. The Marine flight crew pushed us out that back door so fast my head was spinning. I think I landed on all fours just to keep from breaking a leg or something. Once on the ground we headed for this dike close by and I could hear the distinct "chug-chug" of a 50-caliber machine gun. We could even see the muzzle flash and smoke just ahead of us. It looked like it was elevated about 6 feet off the ground. And there was nothing but open ground (actually a rice paddy) between them and us. This is where the fun started! 

    We had been instructed to assemble our M-16 cleaning rods so that they were in one piece, and we taped them to the side of our barrels with electrician's tape. In case the rifle jammed, we were in a position to rip off the cleaning rod and insert it down the barrel to clear the spent cartridge that was preventing the weapon from loading another round. Guess what? I don't think I fired 5 or 6 rounds and Whamo! My weapon was jammed. I thanked the Lord I wasn't out in the middle of that rice paddy.  We spent the rest of the day near this same location. The VC with the 50-cal. MG were either dying of laughter at the sight of our "continental Army" weaponry, or they had skipped down to the next province. I was so upset over using this stupid M-16 that I wrote home and asked my Dad to send me some kind of sidearm. Just in case.

    We floated up and down the coast of Vietnam for a while. I prayed that they didn't send us into a real firelight situation with these stupid rifles. They did send us in a couple more times but just in small numbers, and usually to provide perimeter watch while a downed chopper was being fixed. It was at this point in time that our adventures took a little twist. We were fully expecting to go ashore some where in VN off the USS Iwo Jima, but that didn't happen. Instead they took us all the way back to Subic Bay, and the ship hurriedly turned around (now empty of Marines) to extract another battalion of Marines that were in some heavy battle back in Vietnam. 

    We wound up having Thanksgiving turkey at Subic Bay. Most everyone had dysentery by now, so the turkey just slid on through. The best part of our return to Subic Bay was that they gave us all brand new M-14s! Thank You, Lord. Christmas came early that year. There were times in the months ahead during the monsoon season where you would go a week or so without having the ability to clean your rifle in a dry spot. The rain never stopped so what was a good Marine to do? Usually, I would find a clear stream along a trail and just remove the magazine, lock the chamber open and swish the old baby in the running water of the stream. Presto magic. Worked every time. Lock and load and we're ready for action. Couldn't do that with an M-16, guaranteed. 

Dong Ha

    In typical Navy/Marine Corps fashion, they used "Mike" boats to take us off the Henrico and up the Perfume River to a staging area before trucking us to the fire base at Dong Ha. Welcome to Vietnam. We finally made it. One of my first memories in Dong Ha was standing in chow line with these Marines that obviously had been in-country for a long time. Their M-14's were silver, long ago the bluing had polished off. They hadn't seen a barber in months, and their uniforms were faded and "salty" looking. Plus, they had that thousand-yard "stare." I struck up a conversation with one Marine in front of me in the chow line, and wouldn't you know it, he was from my own hometown and we had even dated some of the same girls in high school. For three minutes, we escaped that place in time and I know he felt sorry for us new guys, but he didn't say so. 

    Our first assignment at Dong Ha was perimeter watch for a day or two. Really boring stuff. Getting acclimated, I guess. We manned these sandbagged bunkers around the airstrip there. The first morning I woke up all alone in this stupid bunker, my partner was gone to breakfast, and my  rifle was gone! Deep shit, if you are a rifleman. Well, it didn't take me .two seconds to figure this one out. My favorite Platoon Sgt. "John Wayne" Wade probably snuck up and stole it from me while my partner and I were sleeping. And since we had a longstanding twisted relationship already, whose rifle better to steal than mine? I remembered where his bunker was, and since everyone -- and I mean everyone -- was at breakfast, my rifle had to be in Wade's bunker. Sure enough, there it was propped up against the inside wall of his bunker. I knew there was a reason to memorize your rifle's serial number. One good turn deserves another. Well, .I'll tell you this, I never let that stupid rifle out of my hands even when I slept, as long as we were out in the field. Being in a bunker was a Little different. Wade never said a word about that incident. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

    Just before Christmas '66 we started on this operation in Co Bi Than Tan Valley to establish what would later be known as Camp Evans, and later, Camp Eagle. We spent Christmas and New Year's on perimeter watch there. This is where I learned how to pull the pin from a hand grenade and let the spoon fly before you threw the damn thing. If you didn't, they'd come flying right back at you! If you counted 2 or 3 seconds before you threw the grenade you would get this "air burst" which was really cool. Charlie had no way to hide from those, and he couldn't throw them back at you either.

    Sometime in early 1967, Captain Sasek, our CO, was relieved of duty from M/3/26 and assigned to another company, and Captain Andy DeBona was brought on board as our new Commanding Officer. Whenever we were ready to go into the field he would say, "Let's go get some ears!" Kind of morbid when you think about it, but as we were soon to discover, once our comrades started to get wounded or killed -- that's all we cared about -- was getting revenge for our fallen Marine buddies. Months later I really didn't care whether I lived or died; I just wanted to kill some VC. That was about the time I acquired that thousand-yard stare.

    Under DeBona's leadership, we definitely took our involvement as Marines to a new height. Our standard operating procedure for at least 4 months (before 80% of us were reassigned to 1st and 2nd Battalion, 26th Marines, in April '67) was to carry a case of C-rations per man, as well as a couple hundred rounds of M-14 ammo, along with linked ammo for the M-60 machine guns, and, every man in the company carried at least one 81mm.mortar round or two 60mm mortar rounds. These were illumination rounds mostly. Boy, did they make staying alive at night a lot easier. We were loaded for 'bear. And thanks to DeBona's planning and leadership, we were self-reliant if the shit hit the fan, which it often did.

    One thing someone from weapons platoon will have to explain to me someday is why aren't there enough M-60s in a damn rifle company so each squad can have one at night? What we would do is completely saturate a metric grid on the map with our company. Each platoon would have its own area of responsibility, and from there we would break down into smaller size "squad-level" ambushes. We were always short one M-60 MG, so we took turns rotating being the one squad without. These were the nights when the sleep deprivation training helped immensely. As the AK-47 has a distinctive sound like no other, I'll take an M-60 anytime. When Charlie heard the M-60 start firing, he didn't tend to stick around for long. Being on a nighttime ambush at the DMZ was like ocean fishing. You never knew what you were going to catch until after you hooked on. And maybe you didn't really want what was on the other end of the line after all. Especially if it was a ' big, nasty shark.

    I remember one night ambush when there were only about 10 or 12 of us. In customary fashion, we sent LPs down the trail in each direction to give us advance warning if anything came along. Both LPs had PRC-25 radios on this particular ambush. We didn't have an M-60, so we were dead meat if "shark" came along. It was just 10 or 12 of us and our fully automatic M-14s and maybe an M-79 or two in the group. Fortunately, there was no moon this night, and I think maybe it was overcast, because it was really hard to see even with the stars a-blazing. We had set up our ambush site along this hedgerow of tall grass, maybe 2 or 3 foot high. We were spaced about 6 feet apart, max. With 2 Marines at each LP, that left only 6 or 8 of us in the primary kill zone. So we covered a span of about 35 to 50 feet from one end of the kill zone to the other.

    I remember counting NVA regulars as they came stealthily down the trail. They had about 10 yards between each man, they knew what they were doing. If we had pulled the trigger on this ambush, we would have only killed for sure 2 or 3 in our first immediate burst of fire. All of us had enough sense about us to let this group pass our position. I had counted to 110 and stopped counting. They still kept coming. They would have decimated us if we had opened fire on them. The key to not giving away our position had more to do with the radio operators than anything else. In this situation, they had to hold down the "push to talk button" down and hold the handset so that the earpiece and receiver were up against their body. This was the only way to kill the squelch from announcing our presence. This was undoubtedly one of the scariest nights of my life. If we had had an M-60 MG I think we would have sprung that ambush. As a squad, we talked about not having an M-60 that night before we set up the ambush site. We were all on the same sheet of music when the NVA showed up. After they passed our position we called the CP and let the artillery boys do their thing.

    On one of our nighttime excursions near the DMZ during the monsoon season of 1967, we actually set up a platoon-size ambush site right next to an NVA Regular battalion. It was raining hard when we set up our ambush site about 4 o'clock in the morning. It was about an hour before first light when we finally settled down. As daylight rose, so did the NVA. We could smell the fish sauce they used for their rice along with the smell of their tobacco, which smelled like marijuana to me. They were so close to our position that we could hear them talking incessantly. Vietnamese and Chinese sound very similar to me -short, choppy, one-syllable words strung together.

    After about an hour of this nonsense (at this point we had no idea how many NVA there were) their point man started to move down the trail. There was no doubt about it, we were in the NVA's backyard, not ours. One piece of information they forgot to share with us in Jungle Warfare School back in Okinawa was that the point man for the NVA sometimes checked out a suspicious looking area along the trail by "reconning by fire" (as we came to call it). The NVA usually used an AK-47 for this task, so it became easy to know who was shooting at whom. For some reason the Marines never used this tactic that I ever saw, but it did the job it was intended to do. Once their point man shot off a few rounds all hell broke loose. In this instance, we hadn't taken the time to dig fighting holes, we were too wasted from trucking through the jungle all night. So we just flattened ourselves to the earth as close as we could. There were still rounds flying everywhere (mostly theirs) when Sgt. Kaufman, my squad leader, stood up to see where the NVA were. Unfortunately, he didn't have his helmet on, and he caught a solitary round right in the middle of his forehead. I was right next to him when this occurred.

    It wasn't until the firing ceased that I realized what had happened. Sgt. Kaufman never let out so much as a peep of sound. The entry point of the wound looked like a minor cigarette burn. Sgt. Kaufman was the only Marine in our platoon that had been to Vietnam before, and he was everyone's inside source for asking about things to come. He also was our platoon's first KIA. It was a sad occasion for all of us. He was truly looked up to. I know he had a wife and child back in the States. I also remember the sad look on Sgt. Wade's face as we left the ambush site and started a sweep of the area for anything we could find.

    An amazing thing happened just as the firefight was winding down, before we started our sweep of the area. Down the hill from above came our commanding officer Captain DeBona with Gunnery Sgt. Ortiz close behind. DeBona had his 45-caliber pistol drawn as he was trucking down the trail to find out firsthand what the hell was going on. This was a pretty gutsy move since there were still NVA in the area. Capt. DeBona called in an artillery shoot that included our entire battery of 105s. The NVA never knew what hit them. Gunny Ortiz stood on this ridgeline above us and was shouting orders at Frances McGuire and me to check out this little clump of bushes near our ambush site. Frances carried an M-79 grenade launcher, and thus was provided a .45 pistol as a sidearm. We poked around these bushes half-heartedly and walked on. Gunny Ortiz was infuriated! He yelled back at us to get on our hands and knees and crawl inside this clump of bushes. Well, I let Frances take point on this one, and sure enough, there was an NVA ammo humper hiding inside this clump of bushes. He had a half dozen Chicore grenades with strings coming out of what looked like a bamboo handle laid out in front of him. This NVA was so strung out on drugs he could hardly move. Frances emptied l~is .45 in this guy from less than 10 feet away and the guy still could crawl away from us. I was disappointed in the firepower of the .45. Together, we dragged this NVA up the hill to Gunny Ortiz who had an interpreter there to help question him. All in all, this was a sad day for 1st platoon M/3/26. We had lost one of our best men this morning. I became enraged. Somebody was going to pay for this.

    It was time for Mike Company to get a little break time back at Camp Evans. A shower, some warm food and mail call were in order. On this particular day there were some surprises. My dad had come through. He sent me a Browning 9mm "Hi Power" pistol with extra magazines and ammo. It kind of looked like a .45 until you put it in a holster. The magazine was about twice as wide as the .45s. There were a few other unique safety features of this weapon that Colt Manufacturing could surely learn from. The magazine held 14 rounds, plus one in the chamber -- you could have your own mini-firefight with one magazine. The safety. features were what impressed me the most about the Browning: Even if you had a round in the chamber (which is the  only way to carry a weapon like this in the field) once you removed the magazine, you could not fire the weapon. I don't care how hard you tried; once the magazine was removed the weapon was safe. Most accidental discharges from 45s that I ever saw were from supposedly empty weapons.

    Another feature I liked was the half-cock safety. Often times when sleeping in a fighting hole at night, or other strange places, I would sleep with the weapon loaded, a round in the chamber, the safety off, and in the half-cock position. This way the pistol was safe until you thumbed the hammer back all the way. Too bad it wasn't double-action. I was glad to have it handy many times. Now that we had our M-14s back, there wasn't really a need for it. In fact, I never actually fired it in combat; however, I slept with it like a sweetheart (when I wasn't sleeping with my M-14.) It may sound funny, but that's exactly what we did on nighttime ambushes.

    You didn't want your weapon next to you. You wanted it in your hands pointed in the general direction of the kill zone while you slept.' Locked, loaded, a round in the chamber and the safety on. That way when the shit hit the fan you were instantly ready for action -- well, almost ready. During this same mail call, my friend Rick Szabo from 3rd platoon received a surprise package from his mom who happened to be a nurse. She had gotten some small medicinal bottles that held about 15 or 6 ounces each and had filled a whole shoebox full of them with Canadian Club whiskey. Hard liquor wasn't found real easy in Vietnam. We were told we were going to be at Camp Evans for a while (little did I think that it would only be for a few hours), so Rick popped open a couple of these small bottles for him and me. At the time, I weighed about 135 soaking wet. I had weighed closer to 155 when joining the Marines. The Canadian Club was definitely relaxing. Almost too relaxing. Next thing I knew we were saddling up to go back on patrol. We each grabbed our case of C-rations (12 meals for 6 days in the field), filled our canteens, grabbed as much ammo and grenades as we could possibly carry and off we went. As we left the perimeter, there was a pile of 81mm illumination mortar rounds waiting for us to grab one on the way out. 1st Platoon was point as we left the perimeter. After the company cleared the wire, we sat down alongside the trail and let the platoon behind us move forward to take point. 1st Platoon was going to be rear guard. Although I wasn't exactly smashed from drinking several ounces of that Canadian Club, when I sat down next to the trail I fell sound asleep. When I awoke, the entire column had gone by my position, and left me there all alone! Boy, did I panic for a few seconds. I scrambled down the trail as fast as I could without making too much noise.

    Fortunately, the rear of the column was less than a hundred yards away. That was the first and last time I drank hard liquor in Vietnam.

Cigarettes and' Leeches

    There was a span of time when we were working out of Camp Evans that it rained 82 days straight! The only thing that wasn't completely soaked was the matches and cigarettes I stored on the top of my head inside my helmet. Prior to this time I never developed the habit of smoking, but here it became a challenge. Believe it or nor it was little things like this that helped you keep your sanity, or what was left of it. In the lowlands, where there were a lot of bamboo trees, leeches would be everywhere. 

    In fact, if you stood still on a trail and looked around you on the ground, your body was like a magnet. You could see dozens of leeches heading your way as if they had built-in radar. In spite of everything we did to keep them from getting inside our uniforms, there was always a way for them to find bare skin. We learned not to extract them by pulling them off our body, but by using a burning match or insect repellent (mostly alcohol) to get them to let go.

    On one occasion a very large leech, about as big as my little finger, during the night had somehow gotten inside my trousers and had attached himself to my penis. I discovered him after first light that morning, and wasn't really thinking very clean My natural instinct kicked in and I grabbed my insect repellent and douched the leech and me. Too late. The leech fell off, and it felt like my member was going to fall off as well. I hit the ground rolled up in a ball. I'm sure my buddies got a laugh out of it. It took about 45 minutes for the effect to wear off so I could at least stand up. Sgt. Wade wasn't too happy about my delaying our getting out of where we were at the time.

    In June 2002, the 3rd Battalion, 26th Marines had its fifth biennial reunion in Ennis, Montana, the summer home of Andy DeBona, our host. I have only attended one other reunion, and that was the KSV reunion in San Diego in September 1999. So I don't have a lot of experience to draw from in these matters. However, the two reunions were quite different. My first with KSV, I went alone without my wife, Karen. Frankly, I wasn't sure if I could handle the emotional side of this affair and really didn't want to embarrass myself in front of my bride of 32 years. This KSV reunion was wonderful in every way. I should have brought Karen along; she would have enjoyed it. The worst part was having to leave on Sunday after four days of camaraderie. So many memories had been resurrected from the past that I didn't trust myself with facing my fellow Marines and saying good-bye. I snuck out the door like a dog when it came time to leave for the airport. What a schmuck I was.

    Attending the KSV reunion was the culmination of over a year of contact with Marines Over the Internet -- like James Everley, Jacob Krygoski, Frank Taggart, Joe Cote, Tom Kilgore, Steve Sneed, Gene Weresow, and Joe Olszewski. Not all of them attended this KSV reunion (my first), but I know they wanted to be there if they weren't. To give you an example of the type of things that occur during these reunions, let me mention just one incident that took place on Saturday during the  KSV reunion in September 1999. As part of the four-day program, we attended an MCRD graduation ceremony out on the main parade deck at San Diego boot camp. As we were walking from the buses towards the bleacher stands on base, I witnessed 3 or 4 members from "Charlie"  Battery 1/13 who ran into each other for the first time since being at Khe Sanh during the Tet offensive in 1967. It turned out these 3 or 4 Marines had shared the same bunker for months and hadn't seen each other since they departed Vietnam. I had met one of these former artillery Marines the night before, and it turned out he lived a mile from my house back in Denver! 

    My second reunion was this past June 2002 in Ennis, Montana. I had planned on attending for the better part of a year, and this time Karen was going to go along. She wasn't sure what to expect but afterwards, was delighted that she came with me. There were plenty of other wives at both reunions. We were among friends. The next reunion for 3/26 will be in Reno, Nevada in June 2004. The next KSV  reunion will be in Charleston, South Carolina next Fourth of July (2003). Both are on my calendar right now; wouldn't miss either one if it can be avoided. 

    Attendance counts at the 3/26 reunions for the first four had a high of 83 or so from what I heard. The attendance in Ennis was 243! The events subsequent to September 11th 2001, I am sure made an impact. Where for 32 years I refrained from even mentioning my association with the Marine Corps on a resume, now all of a sudden it was OK! The feeling being amongst close friends at the Ennis reunion was completely unique. I met guys I hadn't seen in 35 years. And one even thought he saw me mortally wounded on a medical evacuation helicopter. Seeing remembered faces and reliving old events helped me feel like I once again was part of the human race. From that perspective alone, the entire trip paid for itself. And, yes, there were some guys who snuck away without saying good-bye. But I know from firsthand experience what that was all about, so I don't hold it against anyone. Half the battle of life is just showing up.

Top Side

*****

The history of mankind points out many examples of ordinary men performing extraordinary things under enormous external pressures. These next two articles represent a moment in time. Our Nation and our Corps were responding to the crisis developing in South Vietnam. Marines responded admirably. With the activation of elements of the 5th Marine Division in 1966, there was an enormous internal pressure to "grow' infantry ~ both officer and enlisted ~ to answer the call to arms in Southeast Asia. The first article provides a detailed look at one Basic School class that answered the call. The second provides a close look at the Marine Corps and one small corner of our Nation as the North Country in New York gave the best there was to give in protecting the freedom of all Americans and our allies overseas. The irony is that the number of names etched in granite on the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, DC is almost the same for both groups. Heed once again the saying on this month's cover, and say a prayer of thanks  for the brave men who gave everything they had to give to preserve liberty for you and me.

The Tip of the Spear

y Lt. Col. Jack Wells, USMCR(Ret)
Reprinted from the November issue of
The Marine Corps Gazette, with permission

    Marine Officers Sixth Basic Class of 1967 (BC 6 67) convened on 7 June and graduated 498 second lieutenants on 1 November. BC 6-67 sent more lieutenants off to battle and suffered more officers killed or wounded than any Basic School class since the Korean War. The huge size of BC 6-67 was the result of the Joint Chiefs' request to the White House early in 1967 for an additional 200,000 men for the escalating war in Vietnam, plus the activation of the 5th Marine Division at Camp Pendleton in June 1966. In July 1967, President Lyndon B. Johnson reluctantly agreed to an increase of 50,000 men for the war effort. The Marine Corps had long been under pressure trying to deal with the acute shortage of officers caused by the number of Marine forces that had been committed to Vietnam. The number of Marines serving in Vietnam had increased a staggering 45 percent from July 1966 to July 1967.

    The Marine Corps Commandant at that time, General Leonard Chapman, Jr., aptly described the manpower headaches that the Marine Corps was experiencing when he stated, "There are just three kinds of Marines: those in Vietnam, those who have just returned from Vietnam, and those who are getting ready to go to Vietnam!"

    Most of the officers in BC 6-67 came from the huge 44th Officer Candidates Course (44th OCC) that started in March 1967 with 715 officer candidates, and graduated 585 new second lieutenants on 2 June 1967. In the 44th OCC class were 187 officer candidates from the newly expanded enlisted commissioning program that was used to fill the critical shortage of officers. Joining BC 6-67 were 67 officers that came from the Platoon Leaders Class, about a dozen "fallen angels" (lieutenants who had not completed flight school in Pensacola), and 20 other officers from various Naval Reserve Officers Training Program.

    The Basic School in 1967 was commanded by Col. E.H. Haffey, and the class was made up of Companies N and O with 250 officers each. Major Russell Kramer commanded Company N, and Major Carter Swenson commanded Company O.

The Basic School in 1967 had been condensed to 21 weeks of instruction which meant that the work-week included half days on Saturdays with just a few exceptions. The course syllabus had been modified to double the number of hours allocated to land navigation based on feedback coming from the Western Pacific (Westpac) that new lieutenants needed greater proficiency in map reading.

    The demand for infantry officers in Vietnam had mandated that fully 70 percent of the class had to be designated as basic infantry officers (0301 ). Retired Col. Swenson recalls not feeling comfortable in having to assign some of the officers to infantry military occupational specialty and more than several in the class did not want to be platoon leaders but had no choice. Unbeknownst to U.S. military leaders at the time, Communist leaders in Hanoi had made a decision early in July 1967 that would directly impact BC 6-67 and change the course of the war. This decision was to launch an all-out offensive in South Vietnam in January or February 1968.

    Preoccupied with the long hours of classroom and field instruction, plus late nights on night patrols and compass marches, not many of us realized what we would face in 1968. We were confident of the fire power and technology that was on our side but could not imagine the stealth, deception, and surprise tactics that we would see in doing battle with the North Vietnamese Army (NVA). The NVA were particularly adept at constructing mutually supporting firing positions that were almost undetectable until too late.

    After graduation from The Basic School on a crisp fall day on November 1967, approximately 300 new second lieutenants had West Pac orders, either after a short leave or after completion of a formal school such as field artillery or the combat engineers course. Ninety-four officers in the class went on to flight training, including 15 ordered to U.S. Air Force flight schools because of the backlog of officers waiting to start flight training at Pensacola. BC 6-67 officers setting foot in Vietnam in December 1967 and January 1968 were soon to enter a hellish maelstrom of fighting that was inconceivable during our final weeks at Quantico. In 1968 there were more Marines killed or wounded in Vietnam than during any other year of the war.

    By mid-December some of, the single or more eager lieutenants were arriving in Da Nang en route to either the 1st or 3d Marine Divisions. A short time later, names of our classmates started showing up on the Casualty reports being sent out. On 18, December 1967, 2ndLt. Michael Ruane from Brooklyn, NY was the first t~3 be killed after just 9 days as a platoon commander with Company M, 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines (M/3/7) in Quang Nam Province. Thirty days later, two more officers were killed in action, 2ndLt. Randell Yeary's reconnaissance patrol was ambushed on Hill 881 North and 2dLt. Thomas Hoare would posthumously be awarded the Silver Star medal for heroic action leading his L/3/4 platoon against an NVA company west of Gio Linh near the demilitarized zone.

    A number of BC 6-67 officers found themselves in the 77-day siege at Khe Sanh and the deadly hill fights on Hills 861,881 North, and 881 South. Marines at Khe Sanh Combat Base would be subjected to days during the siege when over 1,000 enemy artillery rounds would land inside the perimeter. Several of our classmates would also experience the terrifying nightmare of having their platoons or artillery batteries overrun by North Vietnamese sappers. In The Basic School an often heard refrain from the instructor staff was, "What do you do now, lieutenant?" On 16 February 1968, 2ndLt. Terrence Graves was brutally confronted with that phrase when he was seconds away from safety as he and his 3d Force Reconnaissance team boarded the UH-34 helicopter that was going to extract them away from over 200 pursuing NVA soldiers. When 2ndLt. Graves realized that one man was unaccounted for, he immediately jumped off the helicopter. Graves was joined by Cpl. Danny Slocum and PFC James Honeycutt who did not want to leave 2ndLt. Graves alone in the search for the missing team member, whom they found severely wounded. 2ndLt. Graves and his men were hopelessly outgunned in spite of calling in supporting arms from every source available. When a second rescue helicopter from VMO-6 came in to extract the four Marines, it was riddled with gunfire as it was lifting off the ground and crashed, killing all but Cpl. Slocum who managed to evade the NVA soldiers until he was rescued a day later.

    In July of 2001 at The Basic School, Graves Hall, student officer housing, was rededicated in honor and memory of 2ndLt. Graves. Terry was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions on that fateful February day. At The Basic School, we received instruction on combat in a "built-up area," and all of us knew well the few cinder block two-story structures that made up "combat town.

    Instead of the make-believe combat town at The Basic School, 2ndLt. Leo Myers from Alva, OK found himself in the ancient city of Hue, the third largest city in Vietnam with a population of 140,000 people. More than 5,000 NVA troops comprising 16 battalions had taken over the city on the second day of Tet -- 31 January 1968. For 12 days, 2ndLt. Myers led his 1st Platoon, H/2/5 Marines in the bloody street-by-street fighting against an enemy that was so fanatical that some NVA soldiers were found chained to their heavy machine guns to ensure that they would not flee against the attacking Marines. 2dLt. Myers would be the second classmate to be awarded a Silver Star for his heroic actions on 11 February 1968. 

    BC 6-67 officers were now being killed at a rate of more than one per week through April 1968, and the second NVA offensive, labeled "Mini-Tet," was still to erupt in May. 2ndLt. Thomas Keppen was a platoon commander with B/1/3 that was operating with Battalion Landing Team 2/4 (BLT 2/4). The Marines of BLT 2/4 found themselves in one of the boodiest battles of the war where they went up against two NVA battalions that were spread out along the Bo Dieu River northeast of the Marine Combat Base in Dong Ha. During this heavy fighting in what would be known as the "Battle of Dai Do," the Marines would suffer 81 killed and 300 wounded in the 3-day battle during 30 April to 2 May 1968. On the first day in this battle, 2ndLt. Keppen's company came under withering machine gun and rocket-propelled grenade fire while crossing the Bo Dieu River in an amphibious assault on top of an LVTP-5. Before that day ended, all of the officers in B/1/3 had been killed or wounded an~l six months after The Basic School, 2ndLt Keppen turned over command of his platoon to SSgt John Gavel, who at the young age of 22 assumed command of Bravo Company. 2ndLt. Keppen would live through this battle only to die from wounds received in a mortar attack early in July 1968.

    From January to November 1968, BC 6-67 lieutenants would be awarded 17 Silver Star Medals, 2 Navy Cross Medals, and 1 Medal of Honor. Another nine officers would be medically retired from wounds suffered in Vietnam in 1968. By late summer of 1969, BC 6-67 officers who had gone on to the Navy flight school in Pensacola or Air Force flight training in Texas began to be assigned to Vietnam. Four of these aviators would be killed during the next 12 months, including lstLt. Bernard Plassmeyer, flying with VMA-311 when his A-4E went down near the A Shau Valley southwest of Hue. lstLt. Plassmeyer had been the honor graduate for the entire BC 6-67 class.

    The last classmate to be killed, LtCol. William Higgins, had returned safely from two tours in Vietnam and in 1988 was serving with the United Nation peacekeeping mission in Beirut, Lebanon, when he was captured on I February and executed by terrorists while in captivity. In April 1999, the USS Higgins (DD 76) was commissioned and named in his honor. Any one of the rest of us in BC 6-67 could have ended up with our names on the Vietnam Memorial Wall along with the 44 fellow officers and friends that we lost. The men in BC 6-67 were long ago stirred by President John E Kennedy's inaugural words: "We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship...to assure the survival and success of liberty." Let us never forget our classmates who did not return home.

"He that outlives the day, and comes home safe...
will yearly on the vigil, feast his friends...
he'll remember, what feats they did that day."

William Shakespeare, "Henry V"

Top Side

Top Side

*****

by Jack Glasgow

Reprinted from the November issue of
The Marine Corps Gazette, with permission

    The measure of men is often reflected in the standing they have in their communities. Lonely souls come and go and are oft tossed on the trash heap of humanity. In 1966 a community came together. Thirty-six years later the bond is still as strong, and the patriotic fire, once ever so bright, has not dimmed through the years. This is a story about "Hometown America" at its very best in Clinton County, NY.

    Hometowns are identified by the three Ps -- place, people, and personality. My narrow definition of the "North Country" is Clinton County, NY. The place, or location, is the northeastern most corner of New York State. The County Seat is Plattsburgh, the "jewel" of the North Country. Growing up there, we called it "God's Country." It still is. Bounded by Quebec on the north, Lake Champlain on the east, and the Adirondack Mountains on the west, it is paradise on earth.

    People combine to make a place a hometown. There are many cities in America with sprawling suburbs of bedroom communities that become no more than transitional stop-offs in a nomadic lifestyle. That's not the case with the North Country. Generations feed upon generations. Roughly 80,000, from the last census, call Clinton County "home." Many thousands more of us long since removed, brag about our hometown of Plattsburgh -- the roughly 25,000 citizens that have become the identifiable magnet drawing us back home over the years. Familiarity and trust are built over time. The small towns and villages witness the spirited growth of youth and fierce competition on athletic fields. As youth gives way to maturity, your fiercest opponent becomes your best friend. Families in one town link to families in others through marriage, work, and play. The network is strong, and the bond is unbreakable.

    Personality is the defining characteristic of a hometown. North Country citizens are proud of their heritage. They are passionate, and they are patriotic. They don't whine, and they are not afraid to jump into a flay and help straighten things out. But I think the one thing that defines their personality more than anything else is the pervasive sense of community and the obligation one has to participate for the greater good of all. And in the patient mode of seeking the greater good -- you may just see a swagger or two, a bit cocky, perhaps -- but not arrogant.

    In the early 1960s, North Country boys would graduate from high school and go to college or enter the job market. Some were drafted into the Army. Others volunteered to go into the other services but after the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, thoughts of patriotism and love of country were far from the minds of North Country youth. That all changed with the Marines landing in Chu Lai, Republic of Vietnam in 1965. The Marines ramped up recruiting and as 'forces increased in size in Southeast Asia, the need for Marine infantry kept escalating. The need would be greater the following year with the activation of elements of the 5th Marine Division.

    I watched the escalation from a comfortable student perspective at Cornell University. My turn would come through Marine commissioning in the Summer of 1966 from the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps program. I knew deep down that the politicians and the State Department would have everything settled by the time I would finish college, Marine schooling, and enter into the Fleet Marine Force in the spring of 1967. Comfortable in my surroundings, I did not realize what was going on back home. Marine recruiters in Plattsburgh were hard at work answering the call. Patriotism was at an all time high in the North Country, and the efforts of GySgt. Bob Brady and SSgt. Charlie Appleton bore fruit. A number of volunteers were able to convince their buddies to join and by the end of January 1966, the local recruiters were able to ship a "North Country Platoon" of 25 young men, with 23 of them from Clinton County. The Plattsburgh Press-Republican ran a feature on the sendoff at the bus station on Wednesday, 2 February 1966.

    These young men comprising the North Country Platoon were not all young boys coming out of high school. A good many of them had been to college or had been working. Cadyville's Mike Norcross had been with me in Ithaca for 3 years as a student at Ithaca College. All felt it was time to take stock of the situation, put aside education and careers, and answer the Nation's call. Many signed up for a 2-year enlistment program. Recruit training at Parris Island was arduous but something these young men could handle with ease. The North Country Marines were integrated into Platoon 338 and graduated on 31 March 1966. They were smiling and holding the sign donated by a local sign company in Plattsburgh and brought to Parris Island by a Plattsburgh area contingent of family and friends. The euphoria of enlisting and training together was somewhat dimmed by the sobering fact 90 percent of Platoon 338 would be on orders to Vietnam.

    Recruit training was followed by infantry training at Camp LeJeune. By June the initial skills training was complete and a number of the North Country Marines were home on leave, headed to Camp Pendleton and then overseas with their new units. I crossed paths with a number of them at a local bar 2 nights before I was commissioned into the Marine Corps. They were all in their Marine Summer Service "C" uniforms. Some I had played ball against in high school. Some had my mother as their high school English teacher. Some I had worked with as a teenager in the North Country. They were headed to Vietnam. I would join some of them 10 months later. The common denominator that evening was a collective euphoria, a group of the best our country had to offer volunteering to go over and fight for freedom. I'm sure we all thought we would be back drinking pitchers of beer together in another year. Regiments of the 5th Marine Division were forming up in California that summer and several of the North Country Marines wound up together in Company I, 3d Battalion, 26th Marines, known to the Marines as "India" 3/26. Three would make it to Vietnam along with a fourth, Steve Greene, who was born in Plattsburgh and moved away at an early age. He was made an honorary member of the North Country Platoon. The three musketeers were Mike Norcross and Tom Goddeau of Cadyville (my mother was their English teacher in high school), and Ike Conley of Plattsburgh. I had worked with Mike and his brother, Tom, at a local grocery store the year before. As they went through training at Camp Pendleton, none of the four could imagine what was in store for them in a few short months.

    The personality of the North Country came to the fore in support of their Marines from the time the young men left on the bus on 2 February until they came home for good. It started with the publicity for the enterprise at the bus station on that first day. It continued at Parris Island with local WIRY radio personality, Tiny Hare, a former World War II Marine in his own right, visiting the North Country Platoon during recruit training. He made another visit to the Marines in Vietnam and brought back tapes of interview for local consumption.

    The greatest effort at support and morale boosting came from the family networking back in Plattsburg and the surrounding communities. Bernice Conley, mother of one of the 3/26 stalwarts, organized the mothers back home. She started a newsletter and got a number of the other mothers involved. They painstakingly kluged together the addresses of all of the Marines in the North Country Platoon and solicited information about the Marines and what they were up to. She printed the monthly newsletters and distributed them to Marines overseas and to their families back home. Others helped her, and various volunteers helped her pay some of the postage. The networking newsletter was so popular that it spread way beyond the original intent maintaining contact with the North Country Platoon. Soon it encompassed all local service men serving in Vietnam and around the world. This networking kept us all informed in the combat zone and allowed many of those listed to link up while "in-country." In addition, it facilitated more letter writing to families and friends back home. Speaking as one on the receiving end of the newsletter, it had a huge impact on morale for the North Country boys in combat. At its peak in May, the list included 95 names. Sixty-one Marines, with 33 "in-country" -- others were on orders to Vietnam. Some were still in boot camp. Others were in St. Albans Naval Hospital on Long Island recovering from combat wounds. In addition, there were 34 names of North Country boys in the other Services.

    In Vietnam, as in most wars, the infantry is always the bill payer. Casualty rates in 1967 and 1968 were very high. The 3d and 5th Marine Division regiments and battalions were spread out all along the demilitarized zone with the 1st Marine Division elements near Marine Amphibious Force Headquarters in Da Nang. India 3/26 paid its dues at Khe Sanh and Con Thien among other places. So did the Marines of Echo 2/9 pay heavy dues around Con Thien in May and June of 1967. Fire4ights, ambushes, mortars, rockets, and hand-to-hand combat always take their toll. Some of the North Country Platoon members earned up to three Purple Hearts. The slightly wounded Marines always wanted to return to their units. In the end, Mike Conley and Tom Goddeau joined 44 others from the North Country in making the ultimate sacrifice to further the cause of freedom. MSgt. Charlie Jock, a North Country native and head of the Plattsburgh recruiting substation in the summer of 1966 after the Vietnam transfers of both GySgt. Brady and SSgt. Appleton was instrumental in working the casualty calls and providing assistance to the grieving families.

    The networking back home never ceased. Grieving took place in its natural form. Letters of condolence and offers of support came flying back from all around the world. Gears were shifted. The cheerleaders and purveyors of care packages became Gold Star Mothers, joining the ranks of Clinton County mothers who lost sons in World War II and Korea. If you ever get to Plattsburgh, you have to check out Trinity Park. It is a beautiful, square memorial park downtown across Margaret Street from the county courthouse. In that park you can see the handiwork of the Gold Star Mothers. Clinton County gave 269 of its sons in World Wars I and II. It gave 19 in Korea and a heavy toll of 46 in Vietnam. The efforts of Bernice Conley, Gladys Goddeau, and many others witnessed the installation of the Vietnam plaque in 1969. These photos show the Gold Star Mothers at the memorial in February 1979, and the memorial plaque as it looks today. The support continues through today, fully 36+ years after the platoon headed to Parris Island. The North Country salutes its own fallen heroes each Memorial Day in May, as well as each Veterans Day on 11 November. And on the Marine Corps birthday, each year on 10 November, the surviving members of the North Country Platoon quietly raise a glass and toast the Corps, wherever they may be, in quiet recognition that when the call came, they answered it with pride, dignity, and honor.

A final manifestation of the continued local support was the establishment of the North Country Vietnam Veterans Association. Its motto is "Vets Helping Vets," and members have a strong collective voice in furthering veterans' benefits to its fellow members. In addition, the organization provides scholarships and performs charity work as well as participating in patriotic parades.

    If you are ever in Yorktown, VA on 19 October, known to the locals as Yorktown Day, go out to the huge monument overlooking the York River. Each Yorktown Day there is a ceremony at the monument. It ends with a lone bugler playing the Civil War melody "Taps." On the other side of a ravine about a hundred yards away, a second bugler, out of sight of the first, plays the same melody. A few notes from the first, followed by the same notes from the "echo," This continues until "Taps" is concluded. It is haunting and so apropos. It makes you concentrate on what's really important in this world.Whenever I hear "Echo Taps," I can't help but think of my friends who didn't come back. They might have been doctors, lawyers, maybe even priests. They would revel in the knowledge that Mike Norcross had a very successful career as a teacher and that Steve Greene retired as the Deputy Administrator of the Drug Enforcement Administration and is now working at the House of Representatives. They might even smile knowing that the English teacher's little boy became an editor. But they can't, and they never will. So we salute the North Country Platoon. We salute the 46 servicemen who left nothing on the field of battle. And we salute the Gold Star Mothers who work feverishly to keep the memory of their loved ones alive. May the day come when the olive branch becomes supreme. Until then, the North Country Platoons of the future will answer the call, and we wilt all be proud of them.

Excerpts from a Story 
by Col. James B. Wilkinson
Leatherneck Magazine, Nov. 2002

    In years past, nicknames were common throughout the Marine Corp. Are nicknames, like lace-up leggings and the MI rifle, part of the "old Corps"? Are they a bit of nostalgia, out of touch in today's Marine Corps?

    How do nicknames come about? Physical attributes are the most obvious way to acquire one. You don't think up a nickname for yourself then have everyone start using it. They are bestowed on Marines, and many last throughout one's lifetime. "Old Gimlet Eye," "Brute, .... Manila John," "Howlin' Mad Smith, .... The Big E, .... Chesty, .... Big Foot," and "Herman the German" come to mind when the subject of nicknames is viewed. In the 1930s Marines were patrolling the jungles of Nicaragua searching for anti-government bandits. Wilbur Brown was a young officer leading a patrol when his boondockers (high-top shoes) fell part. A message was sent requesting a pair of new boondockers. A single-engine Marine Corps plane appeared and dropped one replacement shoe, then flew away. The plane soon reappeared and dropped the second shoe. The pilot included a note explaining that because of the size of the shoes, the small air craft could deliver only one shoe at a time. From that day on, young Wilbur Brown's nickname, Big Foot, stuck with him throughout his career.

    All of these colorful nicknames belong to "Well Known, Higher Ranking Marines." When Colonel Wilkinson wrote this article, he insisted that nicknames attributed to the everyday fighting Marine, be included. Thus, our member of the Khe Sanh Veterans is being honored with the recognition of our own "hero," Bruce "T-Bone" Jones.

    Nicknames are bestowed more frequently in combat. Why? Probably because in combat Marines serve side by side, day in and day out. Keen observers pick up any idiosyncrasies or physical attributes quite easily when living, eating and fighting alongside each other for harrowing days on end. In 1967, Corporal Bruce E. Jones was a 21-year-old forward observer with an 81 mm mortar platoon at Khe Sanh. Having served in Vietnam several months, he had lost weight. Once, when Jones was returning to Hill 881 after a patrol through the triple canopy jungles around the hill, a member of the 81mm mortar forward observer team looked at him and exclaimed, "Dude, if you lose any more weight, you'll look like a T-bone steak without any meat." The name stuck. Later on Cpl. Jones was seriously wounded and evacuated. He recovered and returned to his unit in time for the Battle of Khe Sanh in January-May 1968, where be was wounded a second time. Thirty-six years later, Bruce Jones retired from a career as an industrial engineer. He has embarked on a new project: building a Montana-style house for his family in La Crosse, Wis., where he is known by one and all as T-Bone.

    Marine aviation squadrons have had nicknames for years. There are the Night-Hawks, Batman, Grey Ghosts and Vagabonds, to name a few. It is rare for infantry units to have nicknames. Perhaps the aviation Marines are a bit more free-spirited than their infantry counterparts. There are a few nicknames for infantry units. The Ninth Marine Regiment was known as The Striking Ninth. 

    In Vietnam, the 1st Bn, 9th Marines, 3rd Marine Division became widely known as The "Walking Dead." The unit served in combat for 48 months. There are more than 600 names of 1st Bn, 9th Marines etched on "The Wall" in Washington, DC, honoring those killed in action in Vietnam. The battalion fought with valor and courage in Operation Starlite, Leatherneck Square (Con Thien, Gio Linh, Dong Ha and Cam Lo), Mutter Ridge and other heavily contested areas of I Corps (the northernmost part of South Vietnam, just south of the demilitarized zone). Repeated contacts with the North Vietnamese, coupled with heavy casualties, explains why 1/9 Marines became known as The Walking Dead. 

    In the early morning of 21 Jan 1968, the North Vietnamese attacked Khe Sanh.  The ammunition dump took several direct hits and then exploded. Several North Vietnamese divisions, well armed with everything, including 152mm artillery surrounded Khe Sanh. Just when it seemed that things couldn't be worse, 1/9 was flown into Khe Sanh. While welcoming the experienced and combat-tested battalion, some Marines had other feelings about 1/9 arriving. Lieutenant Ernie Spencer, "Delta" Company commander, 1st Bn, 26th Marines, commented that while things were already grim at Khe Sanh, the situation would get worse because, "The Walking Dead could step in flesh manure coming out of church."

    Those with 1st Bn, 9th Marines fought with valor and distinction at Khe Sanh, making some of the strongest contributions and ensuring Khe Sanh did not become an American Dien Bien Phu. They also performed with distinction during operations in the A Shau Valley specifically Operation Dewey Canyon. It was in A Shau Valley that Lt. Wesley Fox won the Medal of Honor while serving with 1/9. The nickname The Walking Dead has not only survived the past 35 years, it has flourished. First Bn, 9th Marines has its own website, which claims that The Walking Dead was the only unit in Vietnam to have its own North Vietnamese Army Regiment attached to it. The Ninth Marine Regiment was deactivated years ago. The regimental colors can be viewed in the Marine Museum at Camp Pendleton, CA. Time passes and things change, but heroism is not forgotten.

    Nicknames frequently are bestowed on colorful Marines, who combine charisma with ability. In recent years, critics of the U.S. military frequently assert that management has replaced leadership. As a result, it has been said the military has become homogenized and Marine leaders who manage rather than lead are motivated by so-called "zero-tolerance." Make one mistake and your career is over. Risk-free management was not a trait of Chesty Puller, Major General Smedley D. "Old Gimlet Eye" Butler or Brigadier General Hiram I. "Hiking Hiram" Bears. They led by example. 

    Based on the outstanding performance by Marines in recent conflicts, leadership is prospering through out the corps. A visit to Parris Island S.C., or San Diego will reveal that drill instructors and series commanders are dedicated to providing topnotch Marines and Marine expeditionary units and aviation. 

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: 
Colonel Wilkinson, served as the Commanding Officer of 1st Battalion, 26th Marines, in Vietnam.

Top Side

*****

by Talis Kaminskis

    The clouds had been present all day. The once young Marine had been watching them on and off. No sunshine this time. Only a lighter continuation from one night to the next. Shortly, darkness would descend upon the land and once again, as he had so often in the past thirty years, he would sit in a world of wishes and dreams. From off in the darkness came the memories. Presently, the angels would sing in the sky above, but there were never any words or music. Alone sitting, he listened to the chorus he was so familiar with. So many times he composed for them. So many times he practiced for them. And there were periods of time that he actually thought he directed them. But that was the softer part of each night. Inside himself, the apprehension grew. He could feel the stirring of the yearnings that soon would engulf his world. Very little changed from night to night but yet somehow, each night seemed to bring a rebirth. A retelling, a revaluation, a new hope. One more patrol, he begged. One more time to feel the fear of hunting and being hunted. The natural high of an adrenalin rush that had built over days. One more; one more; one more of what? Inside frustration built. So much seemed to have been left unfinished when he left. Only at the time it did not seem so. But with the passage of days, turning to weeks, to months, and then years. The euphoria of coming home disappeared, replaced by gnawing threads that soon began to weave together. He had found his thoughts returning more and more to the war he had so desperately tried to remove himself from.

    Frustration. Small growing seeds of wanting to relive, and re-change; to alter that which cannot be altered. The habit of taking refuge in the darkness of the night just seemed to happen. Without intent, he found himself searching it. At times, he seemed to sense movement. At first, only brief blurs. Unadjustable focus. Illusionary images not sure to be believed. But the darkness came, and the darkness went. And each night seemed to refine, add another stroke to the canvas. Slowly came the realization. It was the night patrol. Never having lost their touch of smooth, deliberate motion. Quietly stepping, unhurriedly. The shape of figures slowly carrying out deliberate tasks. Young, stealthy, prime specimens of manhood, easily able to carry out their task. His being tensed, as every fiber of thought and emotion seemed to focus on only one thing. Joining them. Being a part of them. Doing the one thing in his life he Understood. But alas, his body mocked him. Even just sitting, there were aches and pain that never left. Discomforts that grew with each passing day. Yet his mind refused to let go so easily. In the distance, shadows hinted at the outline of the gone jungle. His feet felt damp within well-worn boots from the water of many rice paddies they had carried him through. Softly, caressingly, a well-known weight extended from his hand. Glancing up into the enveloping night, he realized he was lagging just a short distance from the group. Only a few quick steps, a slight hurry up, and he would be amidst them again. But his learned knowledge rebelled at the thought of hurrying at night. Desperately, he cast glances at the shapes moving back into the tree line. Haste brought risk, and risk endangered all. He was losing them. They would soon be gone.

    Each time the same predicament, each night the distance so insurmountable. Intently he gazed at the distinct bodies, watching for them. Knowing their procedure, their style, and their goal. He wanted to say something but realized the faces; he could not discern the faces. He knew each and every one of them. But he could not see them. Something separated his ability. He knew them, but it was as though he couldn't. Frustrated, tantalized, tense, his body slumped. In a small sign of despair, he cradled his head in both hands as if in prayer. A deep silent breath seemed to help ease the load. A whisper float ed from the distance, "I have to know." No need to seek whose voice was responsible. Mockingly, this night as before, there would be no reply. A slight. shaking of the head, an imaginary pain, an excuse to shift his body again. Hands in his lap, one thumb rubbing the other, he let the sadness come. He knew the destination of some. Others had left a blank in all he knew of them. What was it like? What did they feel?

    Had they really aged? Or were they as young now, as they were then? The rubbing of the thumbs caught his attention. The darkness could not hide everything. On the contrary, the darkness had become a cruel mistress. Tantalizing him, teasing him. He knew the real darkness. The cruel twist of fate darkness that rather than hid, revealed. It was that the darkness opened, lay bare the multiple paths, emoting back much more than what was offered it. Provided the weight to be carried when the sun ruled the heavens. Damn it, in his self. pit, he missed the last glimpse of the receding shapes. Gone was his connection to the deeper feelings. In place another cause, another excuse, and more guilt to ponder. He stared into the darkness, well aware of where he was, and when it was. Thoughts came and went, time passed by without notice. Providing comfort only he could understand. So much, so much. He let his hands join together on his stomach. Tilting back the tired head. He listened to the angels as they sang in the sky above. And for another night, they sang without words or music.

Top Side

*****

by John Watson

    When I 'was in high school back in the 60's, I, like most of the guys my age -- thought with our zippers, more than oour brains. What the heck, we were young and had the world by the ass. It was the week before Thanksgiving 1964, everyone at school was thinking of only three things: The Thanksgiving Day football game against Conrad High, the "victory dance" that Friday night, and what time mom was going to have dinner on Thanksgiving. Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, I got suspended for horsing around in class. Now, all that was left was a long weekend with nothing to do.

    January '65 rolls around, and I meet Linda. She was one of those girls that you dream of. She was 5'8" tall, and on the slim side. She had all the right stuff in all the right places. She was a strawberry blonde, had peaches and cream complexion, and the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. After a few dates I asked her to go steady, and she Said yes. I thought I was king of the world! We saw each other each day, during and after school, and even on weekends. I couldn't get enough of her. One of our favorite pastimes was a long walk by ourselves in the woods. She'd fix lunch. I can still feel the chill of the fall or early winter winds. We would walk for a while, rest and just sit quietly, watching squirrels looking at us, wondering just what these two humans were doing out in their woods. We'd huddle together to keep warm; a kiss from her was all I really needed.

    Our relationship was a good one. We were compatible. Our family backgrounds were similar. We both were from families with several kids. I'm the oldest of eight. She was the second of seven. Our goals at the time were the same. It was as if we were made or placed on the earth for each other. January was a bad month for me. I was again taken to the school office for getting into a fight with another student. The principal was in a foul mood, and the timing of my appearance in his office didn't help. I was summarily expelled. My father was a stern man possessing very little humor. When I informed him of what had happened, he told me I needed to find a job -- soon. I worked at a job taking inventory for low pay, and got a lot of hassle from my parents. The worst part was the little time I had for Linda. I was sitting at home one night thinking that I didn't have a job, a trade, Or education. It just dawned on me to go into the service to get the education, and maybe make it a career. Either way, I thought I'd be somebody and could support Linda and myself.

    January 20, 1965, I put on my winter coat and boots with there being over 2 feet of snow on the ground. I kissed my mother and told her, "I am going to Wilmington to sign up for the service."

"Just be sure you're back by dinner," she said not looking up. What could I say except, bye mom. I get on the road, start thumbing, and a state trooper picks me up and takes me to the Customs House, where all the recruiters were located. I joined the Corps on the 25th of January 1965. During all of this, Linda was taking it all in, was very loving and supportive. We started to make long-range plans for our future after boot camp, when I learned where I was to be stationed. On becoming a proud Marine, it was off to Camp Lejeune to join D/l/2, weapons platoon. We had a Caribbean cruise and came back just before the holidays. When we returned to Camp Lejeune, the whole battalion received orders for West Pac.

    I go home on holiday leave, telling Linda that I have orders for Nam. She gets real upset -- I didn't know that she was pregnant at the time and that she had miscarried two days later. She became depressed for about 3 to 5 months. We became closer as time went on, looking forward to our getting married when I got back from Nam. While in Nam, we wrote every chance we could, she and my mother become close. I'm surviving just to return to her, and, our future together. It was in May of 1965, when I returned to my hometown, re-entering my world with the highest of dreams. Who was standing there ? No parade. No crowd, just my mother, and a brother. No Linda.

    We met that evening. She sat across from me. No small talk, no romantic smile, as she had in the past, which wasn't that long ago. She proceeded to tell me that she was getting married to someone else. All I could say was: "Why? What went wrong?" She had just "played me along" so I would have something, some reason to want to come home. She had been seeing a guy for 3 or 4 months and wanted to marry him, but not me? After setting off this bomb for me, she gets up, says good-bye, and walks out of my house and my life. I never see her again. My mind was traveling at  the speed of light, yet I felt stuck, as if I were in a hardened cement. I couldn't get it straight in my mind what had just happened to me. I looked at my parents, they knew what was happening but couldn't, or wouldn't get involved. I was in such a mess and couldn't comprehend or sort out what had gone wrong or what I could do to correct it. It was a total and complete betrayal of all I was, believed in or hoped to be. I remained drunk my entire leave, with a mother of a hangover every day.

    It is thirty-five years later, and I still think of that period of my life, and what has happened since. I am 55 now with my health not being anywhere as near as what it should be. I have had several bouts with pneumonia and a bout with testicular cancer that nearly killed me. I've been disabled and unable to work since 1983 and have been married four times, my being at fault for the first three. I have a daughter who wants nothing to do with me with a granddaughter I will probably never see. I have had more than 24 different, unrelated jobs. All I can say is, thank God for steering me to my present wife. She is the reason I got off my ass and finally went to the VA to receive help. I am blessed for being with my wife of nearly 21 years, who couldn't be replaced by a million Lindas. She is my rock, and whom I love with all of my heart.

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Before and after

Before & After

We are starting a new series of articles antitled" "where are they" Before and after articles written by members detailing their lives prior to, and after Vietnam, Joseph Olszewski has volunteered to help members who wish to publish their life experiences and has submitted the first in the series.

    I was born and raised in Chicago and hated every minute if it. Besides being an only-child," unless you were into museums or the Cubs there was absolutely nothing to do on the North Side of Chicago. I went to college simply because none of my relatives had and they pressured me to pursue it. My father worked for 52 years for Brunswick Corporation and probably had the very same Manager of Shipping and Receiving job for 30 years. My mother worked as an invoice typist for Borris Solers, which made women's clothing. Neither of my parents spent one day in a high school classroom.

    My senior year at the University of Illinois was 1966. During the 60s, once you were certain to graduate from college every branch of the military began sending you literature to become an officer, pilot, language specialist, embassy liaison. officer or about 1,000 high-tech jobs. I had heard that if you joined the Navy or Air Force as an officer that you would spend more time managing equipment than men (and a few good women, too.) Plus, the Army, Navy and Air Force all required four-year commitments, if you graduated from Officer Candidate School (OCS). The Marine Corps made it very clear that as an officer you would manage men and not equipment and their officer program only required a three-year commitment after OCS. Since the economy was strong in 1966, only spending three years in the military made sense to me and I thought that managing men would look better on my future resumes. Thus, I decided to join the USMC as an officer after graduation. I remember I toyed with a childhood dream of being a pilot but that required four years of active duty after you graduated from basic flight school. I further thought that with a degree in Accounting that the USMC would make me a supply officer or some sort of computer specialist. I remember thinking that combat officers were probably only former football players with degrees in physical education. During that fateful Spring, I took a written examination one day that was supervised by a sergeant. I remember the sergeant entered the room when time was up, but I hadn't fully finished the examination. He was a big, baldheaded guy, and I remember he said, "Take your time, son." My conclusion from that response was that the USMC was short on officers. 

    I graduated from the U of I in August 1966 and was originally scheduled to attend OCS at Quantico, Virginia in October 1966. But, within a month I received a letter from the USMC informing me that the class was attend OCS in January 1967. I was elated as I was able to secure my first job as an Internal Auditor for Warwick Electronics in Niles, Illinois and, therefore, I Vietnam. would be able to save some money before I entered the USMC. That first professional job paid me $550 per month and I was excited because I was now making more than my father's 330 per month.

    I left for OCS from O'Hare International Airport on January 16, 1967. I remember I met other guys at the airport who looked as lost as I did. Until that day, I had never flown and this was to be my first flight experience. All of us boarded the plane and compared notes about how much we had prepared for OCS. We had previously received guidelines about physical preparations; such as, being able to run three miles. I remember thinking that must be for OCS candidates who attended in the Spring or the Summer. Surely, they wouldn't make us run three miles in the Winter snows? I also remember that first flight was fantastic and if I had previously known flying was so great, I would have tried to be a pilot.

    I remember sitting in a classroom around the second or third week and saying to myself "what in the world did I do?" The drill instructors, the constant mental and physical pressure, the few but always non-smiling officers, the pain, the cold, the crazy way we ate fast and the long three mile runs in the snow were nothing but disbelief to me. Every week they cut somebody from the program and if you flunked out of OCS you were headed for Parris Island as a PFC. During those tough three months, I remember thinking "I thought the USMC was short on officers?"

    The best thing that every happened to me during OCS was liberty. The first weekend we had received liberty a few of us drove to Washington DC, checked into a hotel and promptly went to dinner at some restaurant to finally have food we could eat at a leisurely pace. I think there were five of us and at least two candidates were married.

    After dinner we were returning to the hotel as we had a written test coming up at OCS on Monday and some of us wanted to study. As we approached the lobby of the hotel, three other USMC OCS candidates were coming out of the hotel. It was easy to spot us, as we all had the same haircuts and were wearing clothes that were too big for our suddenly leaner bodies. One of the three leaving the hotel stopped us and asked if anybody wanted to go on a dinner date for eight. They had pre-arranged a dinner date and there were four girls and three candidates. As I later learned, one candidate had broken his ribs the week before on the obstacle course and that's why these three were looking for another male replacement that evening. Since we had just had dinner and since two others in our party were married, none of us wanted to attend this dinner party. I remember turning to walk into the hotel lobby and saying "No, thank you." But, then I remembered how hard it was for me to get "dates" in college and I knew I would be stationed at Quantico for seven or eight months. Written tests in OCS were easy for me and I still had part of Sunday to study. So I changed my mind and said something like "OK, I'll go." That dinner date was how I met my wife of 34 years now. Her name is Rosemary and she had more to do with me getting through OCS than two male drill instructors.

    Rosemary and I dated every weekend I could get away from OCS and, later, Basic School. The Basic School tests were easy, the physical training was less strenuous than OCS and being an officer was suddenly a power trip. I also still had the thought that the USMC would assign me to a supply command or a computer operation. I never knew until later that Congress restricted the USMC to 400,000 men (and now a few good women, too) and when a Korea or Vietnam surfaced, EVERYBODY (excluding the really brilliant) were combat infantry, period. If I remember correctly, 70% of my Basic School class was classified 0302 - combat infantry officer. The other 30% went to artillery school, basic flight school, tank school and the really brilliant went to language school. To make a long story short and to keep within the biography theme of this article, I became a rifle platoon commander, could not believe the characters the USMC gave me to command, stepped on a mine in late February 1968 and spent seven months in the Philadelphia Naval Hospital.

    During my seven months in the hospital, I had a lot of time on my hands. Thus, I studied the various upscale living locations across the country and related labor markets, while Rosemary planned the wedding. I had no desire to return to Chicago to watch the Cubs and Rosemary had enough of working for the government. I always loved the outdoors and I remembered those long, cold Chicago winters when one had to live indoors for five to six months straight.

    One day I was reading a magazine and on the back cover there was a picture of people with their trailer tent camper in Yosemite National Park. I knew at that moment that California was for me. I told Rosemary that weekend and she was ecstatic. My parents were not happy, Rosemary's parents to this day do not understand how I made such a radical decision, and all our other relatives and friends were shocked.

    We were married on October 19, 1968 in Arlington, Virginia. I had previously traveled to California for job interviews with Crown Zellerbach, which was a paper manufacturer, Kaiser Hospitals and some cement company. Crown had a beautiful green building right in the San Francisco financial district. I had one interview with several managers and when I returned to the hotel room there was a message waiting for me. It was their job offer as a Senior Accountant with a starting salary of $750 per month. That was $200 a month more than my first job as an Internal Auditor in Chicago and about $400 more than I had been making in the USMC. I thought I was instantly wealthy.

    We had the wedding in the morning, a reception in the afternoon, boarded a flight for California at night and arrived at San Francisco International Airport at 3:00 AM, Sunday, October 20, 1968. There we were all alone. No family, no friends, no car. All we had was each other, our luggage and wedding gifts. We caught a cab ride to Oakland, where I had previously arranged for an apartment while I was interviewing.

    After a week or so of honeymooning in San Francisco, I started working for Crown Zellerbach. Rosemary started looking for a job and eventually secured a job with Chevron Corporation as an Economist. I remember thinking the first week or so at Crown that everybody looked so old. We all sat at separate desks in a big room. This was in the days before computers and every accounting project was performed on huge twelve, fifteen and twenty column papers called "worksheets." After a few months, Crown believed in moving new hires around various Accounting Departments to give us more experience. Within three months I worked in the Tax Department, the Internal Audit Department, the Financial Statements Department and the General Ledger Department.

    After about a year-and-a-half, I was bored stiff working for Crown Zellerbach. There were no promotions, men who had been with the company for twenty to thirty years held the top jobs and since I had worked in all of the Accounting departments already, there was nothing new for me to learn. Even worse, I had just left the USMC and was used to bossing around forty to fifty 18-year-olds, calling in artillery or air strikes, making life and death decisions and misreading minefields. In this job I was simply shuffling papers in a corporate office. I missed the responsibility level I had become accustomed to in the USMC, and nobody was calling me "Sir" anymore.

    One night I was watching TV and there was a special on Stanford MBAs who were about to graduate. One MBA said that he was tying to secure a job with a small company, as small companies were not afraid to delegate responsibility. That made sense to me and shortly I had my resume on file with a job placement firm. Within a few weeks I was granted an interview with asmall computer leasing company called Boothe Computer Corporation. The company wasn't even five years old and the entire staff was on one floor. The "one floor" was the 50th floor of the Bank of America building in downtown San Francisco. This was 1970 and there were no high rise buildings in San Francisco taller than the Bank of America, which was 52 stories tall. I interviewed with the Chief Accountant, the Controller and the Vice President of Finance. I was twenty-seven years old and all these men were in their early-to-mid 30s. I got the job and a $1,000 per month salary.

    At first, I was in charge of the General Ledger which meant closing the books every month. Then at the end of the year, I was the liaison with the CPA firm that performed the year-end audit. I loved every minute of it, including the ten to eleven straight Saturdays I had to work to finalize the year-end close and audit. The 50th floor of the Bank of America was so tall that often it was above the perpetual fog that came in through the Golden Gate Bridge every afternoon. In later years when traffic helicopters began flying even they flew at altitudes below the 50th floor of the Bank of America. All of us also worked in small cubicles and the building had huge windows so we could see San Francisco Bay and the sparkling Blue Pacific. I remember one day I stood up and looked around to see the Bay, the Pacific Ocean, fog rolling in and traffic control helicopters flying below us and said to myself, "I made it." In other words, all the college work, OCS, Basic School, Phu Bai, Khe Sanh, Philadelphia Naval Hospital and Crown Zellerbach Corporation were behind me and I truly had become successful -- in my small, Polish mind. But, that feeling of success didn't last long. Soon, I was promoted to the Consolidations Department, which was responsible for preparing all the financial statements for the parent company and all of the domestic subsidiary companies. It was hard work with monstrous overtime and ever-increasing pressure. Boothe, at that time, not only leased IBM 360 computers but also made display screens, dabbled in software production and started a separate venture capital company which bought smaller computer-related companies. My job was to train the accounting staffs in all of these subsidiaries to insure that their financial statements were accurate and received by me in a timely manner to perform the overall consolidations. Some nights I worked until 10:00 PM. I loved the responsibility but after three years of this, it began to get old. Also, IBM launched the 380 series of computers and suddenly nobody wanted to lease IBM 360s from Boothe Computer Corporation. Lastly, this was 1973, I turned thirty-years-old and there were no other jobs in the company that I was qualified to perform. Our son, Chris, was born in 1972, Rosemary was no longer working for Chevron, inflation was on the rise, the prime interest rate was 12% and I had a brand new mortgage - $550 a month. I thought I was headed for bankruptcy.

    One day I was reading the "want ads" and saw an ad for a financial statements accounting manager for a small family-owned company that made vitamins. So far, I had worked for an electronics company, a paper manufacturer and a computer leasing operation. Here was a company making vitamins and expanding with subsidiaries in Canada and Europe. Vitamins!!! I had never heard of a company that made vitamins. This company was called Shaklee Products, as that was the name of the founder, Dr. Forrest Shaklee Sr.

    I interviewed with the Controller. He was one of those hippie types with long hair as he had graduated from UC Berkeley with an MBA, but his head never left Berkeley. He reported to Forrest Shaklee Jr., who was so jealous about his brother that the two of them were not on speaking terms. Thus, I had my doubts about this company, as there were some very peculiar personalities around.

    But, I remembered how bad Boothe Computer's balance sheet looked with all the debt they had incurred to buy all the IBM 360 equipment that they could no longer lease. Thus, during the second interview with Shaklee Products I remembered my Vietnam days about gathering as much intelligence as I could about the enemy, and I stole Shaklee's balance sheet from that hippie controller when he wasn't looking. I took One look at that balance sheet and couldn't believe my eyes. Not only didn't they have any debt; they had more liquid assets than product inventory. But, they were also a direct selling company (meaning they sold products door-to-door) and I had no experience with the direct selling industry. However, I had a neighbor who sold Amway, so I later checked with him to determine if he had heard of Shaklee. I remember his words: "Shaklee, yeah they're real competitive and a pain in the neck for me as they are into biodegradable products and customers eat that up." Vitamins, biodegradable products, a balance sheet that could choke a water buffalo? I called that hippie controller and told him I would take the job. He said how's $20,000 a year and all the vitamins you can eat sound? I said, "Great." 

    That was August 1973. I remember sitting in the personnel office the first day and feeling scared, as here I was thirty-years-old and I was about to begin my fourth professional job. As I mentioned, my father had worked for the same company, Brunswick, for 52 years. Even his father, my grand father, worked for Brunswick for 30 years as a cabinetmaker. So far, Boothe was the longest I had worked for any company -- three years. I thought I was the family black sheep. 

    In the beginning, Shaklee was a great company. They made vitamins, cosmetics, household and industrial cleaners. and the money flowed in like a Vietnam monsoon rain. I was in charge of the financial statement consolidations once again, but these subsidiaries were in Ireland, France, England, Germany, Australia and Canada. All the employees, except the family members, were twenty and thirty years old.

    We worked hard, partied harder and made money like there was no tomorrow. By the ?nid-70s, we doubled our revenues. By the late 70s both manufacturing plants were operating on three shifts of production. We were one of the first companies in the Bay Area to have profit-sharing for employees. There seemed no end to the company's continued success and growth.

    By the mid-80s, business began to slow down. Inflation was low, something called high-tech companies began luring the younger employees and everybody wanted to push keyboards instead of doorbells. By 1986, the dreaded "L" word -- layoffs -- began to appear. At one point, 40% of the staff was fired. I remember saying "Well, they're not going to shoot me." In brief, all that humping around in the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam was paying dividends. I was simply above the fear and anxiety of being laid-off. It never bothered me as I worked hard and remembered from my USMC training to develop rapport with management while the company was doing well in the 70s. Granted many of them were fired during the 80s, but somehow I survived along with those who trusted me. We basically watched each other's backs and stuck together -- wonder where I picked up that habit?

    When the 90s began, a whole new senior management team was in place. Once again, I had to build a rapport with them to survive. This was 1995 already, and I had worked for Shaklee for 22 years and held every accounting job from plant controller to assistant controller. We could hardly turn a profit, we couldn't recruit people to push doorbells for a living and I had lost hundreds of friends. Suddenly, everything I had enjoyed about the company was falling apart.

    One day I had to give a speech at an employee picnic. I simply did a recap of all the five senior management teams I had worked with for 22 years and, as per my personality, I spiced it up pretty good. Some people couldn't believe how open and honest I was in describing the personalities of all these teams. Two employees who admired my openness were the senior lawyers in the company. They mentioned that they were looking for somebody for a new position in the legal department. They wanted somebody to write company policies and procedures and to reorganize many of the company departments that had become fragmented and uncooperative. Since I had no legal background, I was initially not interested. But, as I continued to become more disenchanted with the direction of the company and the now boring job of international financial consolidations, I once again changed my mind and said "OK, I'll go." That was 1995 and I continued in that position until December 28, 2001 when I officially retired from corporate life. I enjoyed that last position within the legal department so much that now I wish I had pursued law school after leaving the USMC.

    That's the story of my life. I made radical decisions, I changed my mind several times, I never regretted those decisions and I always learned to adapt to my environment. Wonder where and how I inherited those skills?

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