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THE CROSS AND THE SWORD
Hoi Chu Thap Va Thanh Kiem
By Perry McMullin
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Perry McMullin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4231-6
Chapter One
"Good morning, Lieutenant. I'm Lance Corporal McMullin, Perry V., 1981844, and I'm reporting for duty in accordance with my orders,
sir."
"Well, good morning to you also, Lance Corporal McMullin. I think that we sorta expected to see you here about two days ago ... as I recall, that is."
"Well, yes, sir. You are in fact correct. It seems that I ended up getting here by way of Saigon instead of the direct flight to Da Nang that I was supposed to be on. I guess there was some big brass on board the aircraft that needed to have special concessions made for them, so we went to Saigon first. I had to catch a hop from point A to point B, but you were supposed to have been notified by the army people about that little change of plan, Lieutenant. I guess that didn't happen though. Go figure, huh?"
The lieutenant seemed to be quickly growing weary of our conversation as he began to shuffle the stack of papers in front of him. "I wouldn't sweat the small stuff, Lance Corporal. Shit runs downhill, and I am just a notch above you here in Vietnam. Not everything goes as planned in a war zone, and it is what it is, but we'll probably extend your tour by two days to make up the difference." At least he was smiling at his comment as he waved me away so that he could return to the stacks of papers on the desk in front of him.
With the exchange of this pleasantry, I began the process of checking into the US Marine Corps Third Platoon of the First Reconnaissance Battalion, Third Marine Division. This particular platoon was just being formed on March 15, 1965. At that time, it came under the command of in-country Special Operations and Captain Ronald Barber. This platoon was used, for the most part, for covert operations and was generally broken down to be deployed in several different locations at the same time. No one should have ever questioned who, what, when, where, why, or how we accomplished a mission. In fact, they should not even ask if we had even been out on a mission. If they did question anything, either they would be completely out of line or they'd be one of us. As the recon guys used to say, "I didn't see nuth'n, I didn't hear nuth'n, and I didn't do nuth'n, cause I weren't even there!"
I had just turned twenty years old just after my graduation from boot camp in August 1964 at MCRD, San Diego. My dad had been a navy pilot during WWII and Korea, so I guess the military life always seemed like the natural route for me to follow after high school. I'd almost considered becoming a navy squid, but to me the Marines always seemed to have their shit together just a little bit more than the US Navy. Besides, the Marine Corps dress blues were awesome, and I really didn't want to wear a Dixie cup on top of my head and bell-bottom trousers with thirteen buttons. Tradition is a great thing and the Corps is full of cool traditions, but what if ya had to pee really bad? Getting those thirteen buttons undone seemed totally unsat to me.
After three weeks of advanced infantry training, and then another three weeks of communications school, I was ready to attend my two very long months of Vietnamese language school. That didn't make me a full-fledged linguist by any stretch of the imagination, but I could communicate in Vietnamese with some reasonable efficiency. "Hold your own" was the catchphrase that was often used at the school.
I'd never taken Spanish in high school because I always said that anyone who was living in America needed to speak English. I guess it was fair to say that, if I was going to be in Vietnam, I should at least try to speak a bit of Vietnamese. Besides, I wasn't asked if I wanted to go; I was told I would, in fact, go to language school, and I was told that I was going to learn!
I made private first class out of boot camp because I'd been a house mouse, but being either a private or private first class in the marines is a lot like being a mushroom—you are kept in the dark all the time, and some shit would be heaped on you a few times each day. Somehow, that was supposed to make you grow into something usable at some point and time. Indeed, we were all some very, very dangerous mushrooms too. Mushrooms that, if not properly respected, could cause you to wake up dead.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said, "The marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale, and the lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps."
There had been some brief discussion about my attending a formal sniper school at the Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Virginia. Instead of that, I was taught the very basics of sniping at the First Marine Division, Camp Pendleton, California. My MOS was still that of a 0311, or basic grunt. Nevertheless, the prospects of serving with real recon marines were thrilling to me, to say the least. A real marine sniper would have had the MOS of 0317, but I knew that I'd get there in due time, and I really wanted that elite sniper job title and MOS.
Recon missions were quite a bit different from what the field grunts did on their search and destroy sweeps. Most grunts held down some shit-hole, nasty-ass firebase in the frigg'n armpit of Vietnam. This was a beautiful country, but the Marine Corps always seemed to seek the worst possible parts of the world for their bases to be built. It was said that, if God ever gave the world an enema, He would find the nearest US Marine Corps base so he'd know exactly where to stick the damn hose. Amen, sayth my brothers that simply exist out in the boonies.
It seemed that a regular, oh-three grunt was generally just another number to generals, colonels, and other high-ranking officers. It wasn't until you got down to your platoon or squad level that you actually became more than just another warm body dressed in Marine Corps green. Rank is sorta like the game of chess—if you are the pawn, you are dispensable, but if you rank higher, you may actually have a legitimate move on the great chessboard of life.
That's not to say that marines are like the army soldiers, because our officers care about their men and women. Marine colonels and generals don't get their bird or a star by becoming politically correct.
Recon specializes in small-unit operations most of the time, so I knew I'd be getting some quality trigger time while serving with these elites. Plus, my chances of getting a decent personal medal or decoration while with recon was a hell of a lot better than I'd ever see in a regular grunt outfit. War may not be all about decorations, but look at all of the medals that have been designed just for those with a big brass ass. There was no way in hell that the average jarhead snuffy would ever get one of those medals. They were created to be chest fluff for colonels, generals, or maybe a sergeant major, but not for us snuffies. I wanted something on my chest to show off after I'd done my thing in Vietnam, when I finally did go back to the real world again.
"Oooohrah! Semper Fi! Do or Die!"
I finished checking into my unit, which actually turned out to be a hell of a lot more expeditious than any other admin procedure was back stateside. I guess that my being in a real true-blue shooting war changed the way all the chickenshit paperwork was done back in the land of the round eyes and the big PX.
Even going over to supply and drawing my Remington sniper rifle was far more simplified.
"Okay, Lance Corporal, sign here for the rifle, sling, scope, and one hundred match-grade rounds to get your rifle sighted in. Oh, and uh, keep yerself off of the skyline out there, you boot-ass grunt."
What the hell? I thought. Even though I was still a newbie in country, I resented the shit out of this REMF supply corporal, shooting his mouth off to me about staying off the frigg'n skyline. That basic knowledge stuff was taught to every marine in the ITR. If the enemy can see you silhouetted with the sky behind you, they will have the easiest shot of their life and probably the last of yours. This is very basic knowledge and common sense if you want to survive in combat, so I couldn't resist my salty retort to this scurvy-ass, rear echelon, noncombatant, supply pogue: "Well, gee, thanks beaucoup for that super-critical information, Corporal. I'll just bet that you get shot at a lot here in this nasty ole supply hut, along with all of these other supply pogues, huh?"
He glared at me for a moment and then he smiled a big grin, showing a gold tooth in the very front of his mouth. He opened the bottom half of the Dutch door and glared at me as he stepped out from behind it. "I'll give yer boot-ass another chance at life there, my chuck friend. I'm here in this nasty ole supply hut because I'm recuperating from a bullet wound that gave me my third—count em, recruit—that's ba Purple Hearts. Right now, you need to shut your cracker-ass face and listen up to those that have already walked a mile through the valley of the shadow of death. I got hit a long time before yer shiny-ass boots ever even set foot in the dirt of this country. Now, if you want to go home alive after your tour of duty in 'Nam, you need to open up those li'l ol' bunny froo-froo ears and shut yer clap trap! Now then, you can say 'thank you' to me for setting yer slacker-ass straight. Any time you need to know the straight skinny about something, you can come and talk with this here splib, Corporal James Anderson Jr. Remember who's on yer side there, lad, and knock that newfound chip of yours completely off your shoulder. You are still lower than whale shit, and that resides at the bottom of the ocean. Leave me nowww, and be cooool, my lil brotha from a different muthaaa!"
As I was walked out of the hatch, I stopped and turned back to see the gold-toothed smile that was still there. I wanted to say thanks to him for a valuable lesson well-learned, but instead, I gave Corporal James Anderson Jr. a snappy salute before I did an about-face and double-timed back to my hooch.
I was now better versed in manners, knowledge, and protocol, and not nearly as quick to make unfounded judgment call. Salty marines like I'd just pretended to be can be desalinized very, very quickly in the Marine Corps. My lesson for today was not to assume, because it makes an ass of you and me.
* * *
I was super-hyped to get the word telling me when I could go to the rifle range to acquire the proper dope to sight this brand-new Remington thirty-aught-six bad-boy in. Once I had fired the rifle and made the crosshair corrections dope, I'd be able to put a bullet on target from the thousand-yard line—no sweat, GI.
Anything that was five hundred meters or less was going to be like shooting the eye out of a gnat with this beautiful, customized weapon. Now, when you're talking about five hundred meters or more, this is where a sniper and a regular marine grunt parted company.
As riflemen, the regular marines qualify at the two, three, and five-hundred-yard lines. The M-14 rifle can make a thousand-meter kill-shot when it is in the right hands. However, this new plastic "Mattie Mattel" ArmaLite, or M-16 rifle, that was coming out soon, was a pitiful, frigg'n .22-caliber joke. The army was supposed to adopt this stupid pray and spray, pissy-ass, plastic POS, but I was hoping the marines would not cave into the intense political pressure. It is one thing to go to war with something that you know was made by the low bidder but being a POS and being made by the low bidder was just insane!
* * *
I suppose that all of the shooting expertise I had demonstrated while at the rifle range during boot camp actually amounted to something here in the Green Machine.
Talk the talk and then strut the walk, Marine!
On my third day at Da Nang, I was getting extremely itchy to go over to the range and pop me some caps on my new rifle. I mean, what the hell? I am here to shoot things, so what seems to be the massive holdup? I was ready to lock and load on full auto at any time or any day, now that I was in country.
You can either lead me or you can follow me, but you need to get the fuck out of my way, either way.
* * *
After morning chow, I beat feet over to the admin office one more time to see what was jacking up my whole range process. Go figure, the person I needed to see was out of the area for the rest of the damn day, so it was to be stand by to stand by once again. The new butter-bar lieutenant stood up and motioned for me to come over to him.
"Lance Corporal, this is our new navy corpsman, John Fox. He's just off the C-130, so I need for you show him the ropes about getting his ass checked in and then find him a place to cop a squat in your hooch."
"Aye-aye, sir. Will do," I said while still trying to sound a bit salty and reasonably official.
"Oh, hey, by the way there, Lance Corporal, are you aware that you have a range time set for tomorrow from 0800 to 1100 hours? Take this FNG swabbie along with you and teach him something about shooting. God knows that these squids don't know which end of a rifle they'd need to kill the enemy." It occurred to me that the lieutenant must have forgotten that marines are skilled in killing with either end of a rifle. It just depends on how far away from you the enemy is at the time. I suppressed my smile to a simple grin, thinking that the new lieutenant had a lot of nerve calling the corpsman an FNG. Where was Corporal Anderson when I wanted him?
Once again, I acknowledged with an "Aye, sir. Will do," as we boogied away from all the admin type of office pogue, REMFs sitting there on their flat asses, looking so all frigg'n fired, refined, and important in their newly issued and starched-up jungle fatigues.
"Hey, Doc, so you just got in country, to Vietnam?" I asked him. I didn't want to tell him that I'd just arrived a few days ago too—not just yet, anyway.
"Yeah," he said, "but I was told that I was going to be assigned to the base hospital or sickbay once I got here. What is up with this recon infantry outfit anyway? Somehow, I think it has something to do with my getting the big screw applied to me. I can just feel it coming somehow. BOHICA!"
I filled Navy Corpsman Fox in on some things about the Marine Corps, and specifically about recon units. With him just getting out of medical school, he didn't know much about Marine Infantry Units, and, right now, that might go in his favor. If he was expecting to be assigned to the base hospital or sickbay, this was going to be much, much worse than he could imagine.
I tried to console him a little bit, though. "This may not be the gig you expected, Doc, but I'll tell you one thing for sure—recon marines are tight! They are so tight they're like a frog's ass, and that, my friend, would be watertight! Just go with the flow for a while, Doc, and, well, who knows where your little amphibious webbed feet might land you?"
Getting Doc Fox checked in was done in super-record-time, because he got most of his stuff from the navy and not the marines. Except for his navy dress uniform, he would wear the same one we wore when we were out in the bush. One thing no one wanted to do was to look different from the person who was next to you. That was exactly why the army medics and the navy corpsmen quit wearing the helmet with the red cross within the white circle after the Korean War—it made an excellent target. Radio operators also hated the fifteen-foot antenna sticking up from their radio, but there wasn't any way of getting rid of that and keeping a functional radio. That's also why officers quit wearing their shiny-ass rank insignia—anything a grunt could do to look like the jarhead next to him was a good thing. It wasn't so much the bullet that supposedly had your name on it; it was all of the others that said "to whom it may concern."
"After we get your rack set up in my hooch, we'll stop by Lord and Taylor, and we'll get you a set of tiger-stripe utilities ordered up. The locals here can measure you today and bring your finished set in for you tomorrow. They'll be cheaper if you pay in our MPCs than in piasters like you're supposed to. If you have any stateside greenbacks on you, Doc, you'll need to get them converted into the Monopoly money."
Military money looked strikingly like Monopoly money in its simplicity and color. Why it was named military payment certificates instead of the obvious military money was to me just another secret acronym mystery.
John looked at me and said, "Lord and Taylor is here, on this base? Really, Lord and Taylor is here in Vietnam?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE CROSS AND THE SWORD by Perry McMullin Copyright © 2012 by Perry McMullin. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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