I arrived in the Nam on December 2, 1967. It was hot, humid, sweaty, and full of red mud. I was sent to Kilo 3/5, in an area Southwest of Da Nang. From the 3/5 area compound we ran day patrols and night ambushes. For two months we pulled our share of CAP duty, sweeps, and operations. Never a day or night went by without getting feet wet and clothes muddy. A day went from cold and wet to hot and humid. At the compound we took occasional incoming RPG's or mortars and once an outgoing short-round (outgoing arty). On patrol we took sniper fire and stepped on booby traps. We spent a good amount of time in the bush. Nighttime in the bush was scary and punctuated by biting mosquitoes you didn't dare swat for fear of making noise.

Some people got hurt. Some got killed. I didn't. So, for me, it wasn't really all too bad. After a while, for me and those still around me it became one day after the other doing what we were told to do and going where we were told to go, bitching about everything under the Sun (and the Moon), and already carving notches into our "short-timers" sticks. I was already down to about 310 and a wakeup, more or less. I didn't really like it there but thought I could at least handle it until my turn to go back to the "real world".

Tet was coming and we didn't even know it!

Our platoon was "guarding" Anderson Bridge. Or, maybe it was a bridge near Anderson Bridge. Anyway, it was February 1968 and we were on a bridge over a winding river, surrounded by jungle, rice paddies, and villes Southwest of Da Nang.

It got to be sunset and the Lieutenant told Steve Cronin that he, Missouri, Louisiana, Brown and me got the patrol that night. Cronin would be designated squad leader. We set off through the jungle for the river and the start of our patrol. We followed the river for awhile and then turned "in-land". We walked a long time. We skirted rice paddies, penetrated the jungle, crossed roads, stayed in the dark areas, and passed a ville or two. I followed and wondered how can he possibly know where he's going? It's so black I can't even see the guy in front of me. Finally we started back. It had been a quiet and uneventful patrol and as long as we were moving the mosquitoes didn't bother.

We were in a big field of very tall grass about a click away from the bridge. Suddenly we heard and saw a helicopter heading our way… the one with the big bright searchlights on them. He was sweeping the area, lighting up everything under that big light. He found us and got us in his light and, I imagined, in his sights. I thought that this would be the end, but Cronin popped a green flare to signify that we're the good guys. The problem was that three green flares went up! Ours was in the middle!

The chopper left and that left us sitting between two other groups... we knew not who. A radio call to the CP confirmed that there were NO "friendlies" in the area. We sat quietly trying to decide what to do. I heard talking and it wasn't English. Cronin decided that just maybe we should get out of there and get back to the bridge and, because they let us, that's exactly what we did.

Back at the bridge, the Lieutenant was trying to get us to "go back out there and find out who that was" when the rockets started inbound. They got one of the tanks but never did get the second. I think that is why we weren't hit with a ground attack. I'm pretty well convinced that the only reason we got back to the bridge at all is because they were more interested in the rocket attack on the bridge than they were in one small squad of Marines.

It is mid-summer 1968 and Kilo 3/5 is on bridge watch and highway patrol midway between Hi Van Pass and Phu Bai. We're guarding Highway 1 and keeping the traffic flowing. Third Platoon is bivouacked on a hilltop overlooking the highway facing Southeast towards the Hi Van Pass. We run several patrols and ambushes nightly from our hilltop station. Those not out on patrol or ambush form a thin perimeter around the top of the hill along the only path separating jungle below from hilltop above.

It is a fairly scary place to be as there have been a considerable number of firefights in the area. Monkeys sneak up at night throwing rocks at us (and of course, it sounds like incoming grenades when they hit the ground). A small bear was killed coming through the perimeter one night.

Jenkins and I are the sentries at the entry point where the only path up the hill through the thick jungle meets our path around the hilltop. To get to the rest of the platoon from down below you have to go through us. We put our ponchos together on the side of the hill and propped them up, tent style, with sticks so that at least one of us can sleep while the other is on watch. There is a small dug out bunker in front of our hooch that provides a good view down the hill and into the valley. The path coming up to our hooch and the jungle in front of us are completely black. Can't see a thing there even though it's only feet away.

This night I crawl into the poncho tent and try to fall asleep while Jenkins stares into the blackness, listening. It's completely still and quiet except for an occasional burst of fire far off across the valley.

Jenkins (photo) is a skinny kid from Louisiana. Although he's a little bit "high strung" and a nervous type, when relaxed, he loves to use words to paint verbal pictures of things like a cool, moist can of ice cold beer or his favorite anatomical parts of the female human body. He is a "team player" and would stand by anyone in trouble at any time. He's a good friend to have!

I'm trying to convince my body to sleep when I hear Jenkins say, in a shaky trembling voice, … "Basteeeen… Come out here!" He sounds scared and I think to myself, "That doesn't sound good". So I quickly crawl to the front of the poncho tent. I stick my head out to see what is going on and I see Jenkins, with shaky finger, pointing at a large, glowing, orange parachute jumping around in the night sky just in front of us. "What the Hell is that?" he asks in a high squeaky voice.

I have never seen anything like it. I'm wondering what the heck that it can be. Without waiting for me to reply, he says "I'm gonna shoot that M__ F___! And he fires off about a dozen rounds. I see the tracers disappear into the orange, glowing parachute and I say "You got it!" but nothing happens. It just sits there floating in front of us, bouncing around.

I guess that the sound of shots fired disturbed those on the other side of the hill and we could hear them stirring… probably coming to investigate. I was wondering what we would say about this unauthorized giving away of our position when Jenkins and I both noticed something very interesting. The clouds above us, and in front of us, were beginning to break apart and show much more open night sky than before. We noticed that the wind was blowing them really fast past us. And, lastly we noticed, through one of the large clear patches of night sky, a full moon just rising over the tops of the mountains to our southeast. Our large, glowing, orange parachute had actually been the full moon just half way risen over the horizon out in front of us! It had seemed to be jumping about because of the fast moving clouds racing by. Jenkins had shot the moon and I had thought he hit it!

When the others arrived from around the other side of the hill, I didn't want to tell them that Jenkins was shooting at the moon, so I said, "Jenkins thought he heard something". The Lieutenant responded that "God Damn It… when you hear something, throw a grenade at it or they'll know where you are!" Well Jenkins was now so relieved at finally determining what his dangerous foe was that he had no inhibitions about saying "Yup, now the moon know where I at".

March 2 is my birth date. By March 2, 1968 we had already been on sweep for a long time. The last several days we had been sweeping the area east of Highway 1, wandering between beaches and highway, north of Hai Van Pass and south of Troi Bridge. The area is wet jungle on steep hills with cliffs and valleys all the way from the Highway 1 right down to the beach on the South China Sea. You know you're getting close to the ocean when the ground levels off and becomes white sand, the trees spread out and become palm and coconut trees, and the barrel of your M16 starts to rust. We were up in the hills, though, where you sleep at a 45-degree angle, on wet grass, with your feet wedged into a tree so you don't slide downhill during the night. Of course, it was raining!

We hadn't seen much action, but then we hadn't seen much of anything. The weather had been really wet and the re-supply choppers weren't flying… at least our way. Rations were low. I was down to a can of jelly and Jenkins had a Pound Cake. In honor of my birthday, Jenkins offered to share half his pound cake with me for half my jelly.

After dark, when we stopped, Jenkins and I crawled under our ponchos and began the feast. He opened his can of pound cake and it did smell good! I proceeded to open my can of jelly, anticipating the approaching birthday dinner.

As I peeled the jelly can top back, I couldn't believe what I saw. Or, more realistically, I couldn't believe what I didn't see. I didn't see any jelly! There was one little poop of red jelly… it looked like the machine farted its' last little squirt of jelly as it ran completely dry at this particular can. They closed up that can and sent it to me as a birthday present!

Jenkins took one look at the empty can and snatched back his pound cake. He gobbled it down right in front of me real fast before I even had a chance to try to grab it back. It rained on me all that night, I shivered, and I don't think I was a very happy camper.

Concerning showers in Vietnam, there was good news and then there was bad news.

The bad news was that once the thrill of the once-a-month, cleansing shower was over and once you had toweled-off, all new and squeaky clean, well then you were left completely unprotected and at the mercy of the elements. The elements, in this case, meant things like MOSQUITOES! And SUN! Without the protection of all that sweat, body odor, and accumulated bug juice, your body was a waiting feast for mosquitoes, gnats, and flies. Without that natural sun-block of mud and body-crud, Marines fried bright pink in the summer sun. Normally it took about three days heavy-duty sweating to rebuild that important protective body armor. I almost got to the point where I didn't want to take a shower… wasn't worth the agony.

However, the good news about showers made suffering the bad news worthwhile. The good news about showers was that they felt so good. After all, just remember how luxurious it was to be able to clean the crud out from between your toes and to discover, once again, that your hair is really made of individual strands rather than just one piece of matted down straw. Remember how it felt to lather up, thick with soap, and to rinse it off with cool, clean water.

It was just this situation, during a brief stay in An Hoa, after one of the mid-summer operations when we arrived back "in-the-rear" and were given the choice of beer, chow, mail, or a shower. Mobeck and I both said, "Race ya to the shower… we'll get the beer next!" We were first ones there. It wasn't much… just a square piece of cement, four wooden-crate walls around it, no roof or ceiling, and about three or four pipes six feet tall with showerheads on them. But, it was nice. Running water, clean and cool. We started luxuriating, lathered-up, saying "Ooooh" and "Aaaah", "Yeah, that's good".

I finally had enough and started thinking about my beers. Didn't want the club to run out before I got there. I rinsed off and started toweling dry.

Mobeck, though, is one of those guys that is just naturally super enthusiastic about everything he does. If he's digging a trench, he is digging it faster than anyone else. He says to me, "Watch this, I'll lather up so that I look like Frosty the Snowman". He got completely lathered from head to toe. No part of his body was showing through the soap.

Just then, the water ended. Mobeck stood for a moment in complete disbelief. Then he yelled out at the top of his lungs, "Hey, what the F**k is going on? Where's my water?"
A few minutes later somebody came by and said, " Oh, the officers are having their shower now. The water will be back on in about a half hour".

Standing under the sun in about 110-degree heat, it didn't take long for all that soap to bake and cake. In about ten minutes he looked more like "Plaster of Paris" man instead of "Frosty the Snowman". I laughed so hard my sides hurt. Had tears in my eyes so bad, I could hardly see to find my beers… but I did, while Mobeck molted.

It's sometime after Tet. We're in the coastal mountains between Highway 1 and the beaches, north of Hai Van Pass where the jungle is thick and lush. The hills are steep and the vegetation is thick and wet. We've been on a company wide sweep from one end of this area to the other for more than a week. It rains most of the time. We're usually wet, cold, and hungry. Nights, we generally sleep alone, single-file along the trail in a poncho backed up against a tree or curled up in a patch of tall grass or right there in the trail. Morning wake up usually finds a torrent of water running downhill through our ponchos.

Tonight, however, looks to be a good night! The sky is clear and we are stopping early… still dry. Even better, we have been re-supplied today. We have food. The mood is good! Spirits are high.

I find myself getting first watch while Mobeck, Wilson, and Hawthorne decide where to "bunk" and "chow-down". I am uphill somewhat from them but can still hear them decide to dig a "neat" bunker where they can eat and sleep in complete comfort and safety. "Yeah, this will be good", I hear Hawthorne say.

I listen as three e-tools chop away feverishly at the soft ground. After a while they have a fairly large, deep hole big enough for three Marines. Ponchos spread across the top, anchored at the sides by mud and rocks, make a roof. They are extremely proud of themselves as they slip under the ponchos to enjoy a warm, dry meal in secluded safety.

I must admit, they did a good job too because, even though I was only a few feet from them, I could just barely see a dim glow through the ponchos from their candle. I could just barely hear whispering but figured they were congratulating themselves, patting them selves on the back, for a job so well done! After their C-ration feast the candle went out and they settled in for the night.

It hadn't been ten minutes since the candle went out. The night was still and quiet. I began hearing a commotion of some kind and it seemed to be coming from down in the ground. It got louder. There definitely was a romping and a stomping going-on, down under the ground, and this had me somewhat confused!

Suddenly the ponchos over the hole-in-the-ground flew upward and fell downhill into the wet, muddy bush. Mobeck, Wilson, and Hawthorne all followed in one mighty leap and stood looking at one another while furiously wiping and brushing themselves. One of them said, "What was that?" Another replied, "I don't know, but it was on me too!"

I laughed quietly to myself as I watched them sleep alone, wrapped in their damp muddy ponchos, along the trail and NOT in their insect, reptile infested hole.