The sky was clear and blue and the sun was just about to rise. This was the coolest part of the day and one of the main reasons I always took last watch at the bunker. The other reason was that I didn't want to wake up to an early morning attack. Breakfast this morning was a cold (relatively) can of fruit cocktail and some peanut butter fudge(made by mixing togeather a ration can of peanut butter and the powder from the C-ration instant cocoa mix).

The first thing you do in the morning is open the can of fruit that has been resting in the middle of your pack all night. This is done to get it as cool as possible by morning. You drink the refreshing fruit syrup and savor the flavor and coolness before beginning the main course. The peanut butter fudge sticks to the spoon and your mouth, so you need to have a canteen of water handy to wash it the rest of the way down.

Dessert this morning was instant coffee with lots of sugar and what passed for powdered coffee creamer.

This peaceful moment was interupted by a yell from the other side of the river.

"Fire in the hole!!"

Then a loud explosion on the river bank.

Apparently someone had been playing with a grenade and had lost the pin to it.

The only alternative to holding it for the rest of the morning was to throw it away.

This impromptu reville was at 6am and was greeted with more than a few irritated yells from the men, and a request from one of the officers to see the man who threw it later in the morning, for a discussion (one sided, I presumed).

A few hours later a couple of M-60 tanks show up and we are told to saddle up for a platoon patrol. The best part of a tank patrol is that you don't have to walk to the patrol area. Sometimes you don't even have to disembark from the tanks at all.

On this particular patrol, part of the patrol disembarked and fanned out as flank security for the tanks. (A rocket propelled grenade can ruin a tanker's whole day.) The remaining squad stayed aboard the tanks to spot for any movement in the chest high rice plants.

Our first indication of any activity was some shouting and a volley of M-16s firing directly ahead of us. From my position on one of the tank turrets, all I saw was the helmets and shoulders of a half a dozen men converging on a point to our right front. I heard the call for "Guns up!" and some more sporadic firing until the machine gunner got his gun into position and began firing from the shoulder. "To the right!" came the call, and then another, "Further right!" The gunner let off another burst six to seven rounds this time. "I think we got him!" came the cry, and everybody dismounted. We all ran up to see what had happened. There in the brush was the biggest wild boar I had ever seen. In fact it was the first wild boar I had ever seen. It was covered with thick, short black hair. I now understood the controversy over the stopping power of the M-16's 5.56mm vs. the 7.62mm NATO ammunition. This pig was riddled with little holes made by the M-16s and hadn't even slowed down. After about 6 or 7 rounds from the M-60, he was stopped for good. I couldn't believe how tough this animal was.

After this inspection, somebody wanted to know what we were to do with him. I suggested that we take him to the near by ville. When we got him to the ville, we raised quite a stir. Being the only Vietnamese speaker on the patrol, I negotiated a sale of the pig to the locals. We traded him for 4 cases of orange soda and as many cookies as we could each stuff down. The soda was warm, but we didn't care. It was almost like being home, the cookies tasted so good. We each got one soda apiece. We had to drink them there since the shop owner wanted the bottles back.

As we left, the pig was being hacked apart and divided up among the villagers. A feast was had by all.

When the French occupied Vietnam, they built triangular shaped forts along Highway 1, the main route from Saigon to Hanoi. These were massive affairs made from local stone and ponderously thick. Members of Kilo had the opportunity to stay in the one which guarded the section of Highway 1 between the summit of Hai Van Pass and the Lang Co train station. One of the nights we stayed there, a couple of cyclo girls show up and the whole platoon lines up to leg down. (I stayed out of it!) There must have been 20 guys if there was one. So everybody gets his piece, and the last guy in line, Jerry goes in, gets on top of his girl and can't get a hard on. He demands a refund, but the cyclo girl refuses to refund his money!! At the same time, one of our radiomen (this was going to be his first piece of ass), had no money and went to everybody in the place, officers included, to borrow the money to get laid. I loaned him a 5 cent MPC note to help in his quest, but he remained a virgin. You should have seen him scurrying around like a squirrel in a peanut factory. We teased him about it for weeks. We didn't let Jerry forget his experience either.

Propaganda leaflets were every where when we went on patrol. The ones we dropped were scattered like snowflakes. An aircraft, usually an O-2 twin boom, with a prop in the front and one in the back, would fly over with its loudspeaker blaring surrender information to the Viet-Cong. This was followed by a shower of leaflets. They were occasionally delivered by artillery shells, also. These were fired over enemy territory, open up and disperse their contents over the area. I found a number of these cannisters on patrols. I also found quite a number of leaflets which I added to my collection. The NVA/VC would place their leaflets in strategic areas, such as on trails outside of CAP units or other base camps. These were printed on extremely thin rice paper. You could almost see through them they were so thin. The American leaflets, on the other hand, were on thick paper, of about a 40# paper stock. I collected propaganda leaflets from both sides with a religious ferver. In doing so, I developed a great insite into the nature of the Vietnamese villagers. Many times on patrol as we were entering a village from the treelines or paddys, not using the trails, we would stumble upon the outhouse area. This was usually a patch of ground outside of the ville where everybody would go to do his or her "duty". Here it was that I found out the true effectiveness of our propaganda barrage. The villagers were using our leaflets as toilet paper. Ever after, I was very careful in my leaflet collecting.

The Marine Corps is not in the business of dealing in off-the-rack clothing. I became painfully aware of this in February of '68. Jungle utilities because of their light weight were always tearing or getting just plain worn out in a hurry. It was just part of the territory. Jungles are forests of thorns and snagging branches which would stress even the toughest Levi's. Whenever we were resupplied we would receive a few sets of new jungle utilities. These were usually given out to the men most in need of clothing (read that as dressed in ragged utilities). After one particularly nasty patrol, I fell into that catagory. The supply chopper had come and gone and we went to see what the people in the rear had sent us for clothing. There were the usual Large-Long trousers(38 inch waist & 36 inch inseam) and a few Medium-Regular's (34 inch waist & 34 inch inseam). At that time ( I wish it were so today) I was what was referred to as a Short-Small (29 inch waist & 28 inch inseam). There were none of these to be had in the current resupply, so I had to make do with Medium-Regular. Thank God for the Marine Corps brass buckle and web belt. I had my belt pulled as tight as I could get it to keep my trousers up. Having the crotch of your trousers is fashionable today but in those days it was an irritation. Word was passed to saddle up for patrol, so I put on my cartridge belt and bandoleer. I just couldn't seem to keep my trousers up high enough to get a good walking stride. This I could live with. But when the time came to jump a ditch between one rice paddy dike and another, that was all she wrote. No sooner had I made my leap than I heard the ominous ripping sound. There was a large tear along the seam at the crotch. Well, it's not like I was in civilization were people would stare or anything, so I just hitched 'em up and kept moving. After a short while, word was passed back to get off the trail and take a break. It was early morning, the sun had only been up a couple of hours and the heat of the day hadn't started yet. I looked around for a comfortable place to sit and saw a small mound next to the trail and sat down. I was relaxing and began brushing the rust specks off of my rifle with my toothbrush. Then it started. Slowly at first. It was just an itching and tickling sensation. Then they attacked. They had crawled into the hole in the crotch of my trousers and were biting my balls. They were everywhere and they were the tiniest ants I had ever seen. It had been my misfortune to choose their nest as my seat during the rest break. I was a lot wiser in my selection of seats after that. I also began keeping a spare pair Short-Small trousers in my pack.

It was in the Summer of '68 after Allen Brook and Mamaluke Thrust that 3/5 went on a battalion sweep thru the Arizona. We started out at night walking single file from our jump off point, which was Liberty Bridge. 3rd platoon had the lead and Bill Lemmer's fire team was point. "Gunny" Spang was the point man. We called him Gunny because he had held that rank when he had fought in the Korean War. He was a painter by trade and had gotten bored with it. When Vietnam started heating up, he reenlisted. Since more than ten years had passed since his last enlistment, he had to start all over again as a Private in boot camp. By the time he arrived in Vietnam, he had finally risen to the rank of PFC or Lance Cpl. He was in his early 30's, lean and looked pretty grizzled to us 18 and 19 year olds. Gunny was on point followed by Bill Lemmer and Dave Daisher, the Blooper (40mm Grenade Launcher) man. The night was moonless and the only light we could see was the distant glimmer from the hooches of villagers. We were working our way down a trail on top of one of the paddy dikes. Ahead of us was what looked like an island of trees in the middle of some extremely large rice paddies. As the line snaked its way to the trees, we went through the stop and go routine of the movement of a long line. Suddenly up ahead, we heard a scream; a couple of shots and the sound of an exploding grenade and the bloop sound of the 40mm grenade launcher and the resulting explosion as Dave Daisher fired. Then silence. Word finally came back down the line about what had happened. Gunny had walked into the trees and an NVA soldier, with his AK still slung by his side, had approached him and began speaking. Spang poked his M-16 into the NVA's belly and the soldier pushed it aside, still talking to Gunny. It turned out that the NVA were expecting some reinforcements and thought we were them. Finally the gook realized what was happening and yelled to alert his comrades. That's when Gunny fired, cutting him down but not before another soldier threw a grenade. Daisher was firing his blooper at nearly the same time and blew away the other NVA. Bill Lemmer was the only casualty that night. The chicom grenade had landed next to him. He was blinded from the blast. We medevaced him and never heard from him again.

We were at the foot of the mountains West of An Hoa. Here the rice paddies of the Arizona melt into the elephant grass and then give way to jungle vegetation of the steeper terrain. This was a classic hammer and anvil operation where we were to flush out the enemy and drive him into a blocking force set up to cut him down when he shows up. Kilo company was winding its way along the trails when we started taking some sporadic fire. The call went our for, "Guns up!" I was gun section leader, working as Terry Waterman's A-gunner at the time (we were short handed as usual.) I always deferred to the expertise of my machine gunners. They were good. Terry and I went running up to lay down a base of fire. Terry set up the gun and started to fire at what looked to be a crudely made bamboo hut in a clearing. I got took off the 100 round belt I was carrying "Poncho Villa" style (crossed belts of ammo across the chest), and linked it to his starter belt and began to hold it so that the ammo would feed correctly into the gun. Next to me was black Smitty. The 60mm Mortar section leader (we had 3 or 4 men named Smith in the company at the same time). He began rapidly firing his M-16 at the same target. As he fired, his rifle ejected the hot brass and these shell casings began to fly down my collar and were burning my back. I started rolling around on the ground. It was like being branded. The both stopped firing because they thought I was wounded. I told them both in the finest language that I could muster that I was fine and that Smitty's brass was burning my back. The snipers we had engaged had didi'd and were later nailed by the blocking force. I ended up with a bunch of blisters on my back from the hot brass and a lesson well learned. Always keep the rifleman on your right when the shit hits the fan and stay spread out.

Sgt. Brown, our S-2 scout was a pretty crafty man. He was a country boy from Duck Run, Kentucky. Whenever he was asked where he was from, he would just smile and say "Duck Run, Kentucky." The usual response was, "Where in the hell is Duck Run, Kentucky?" Then Brown would get this shit eatin' grin and reply, "Why, it's just down the road a piece, from Bug Tussle." Then everybody would just crack up.
We had captured 3 NVA prisoners on Allen Brook and they were really whipped. They had been bombed and shelled until most of them were pretty much in shock. Interrogations are usually lengthy affairs. So Sgt. Brown decided to shorten the preliminaries. He had the prisoners blindfolded and taken to 3 different parts of the perimeter. With that done, he walked to the center of the perimeter, drew his .45 from its holster and fired 2 rounds from it. Pow…..Pause…Pow. He then holstered the pistol and went to each prisoner in turn and asked his questions. Each prisoner spilled his guts, thinking the other 2 had been executed.

After we finished the routine medevac of the bodies of the KIA's from the daisy chain booby trap, Sgt Collins, who was now the acting platoon commander took us across the valley to hill 100 just to the north. It had been occupied proviously and there were already pre dug fighting holes. The place was littered with discarded C-ration cases and empty cans. We hadn't been resupplied and what water we got was from a funky stream that was more swamp than stream. Iodine tablets cure everything except taste. Adding kool-ade to the mix doesn't help much either. When you dip your canteen into water that smells like buffalo shit, you can't expect it to taste like fine wine. We finally humped our way up to the top of hill 100 and setup a perimeter. We were pissed off about our casualties. I loaded up a rocket in the 3.5 and fired it into the mountain we had just come from. A fitting salute to our fallen. Vic Sheeler had decided to check the aim on his M-14. (His wife had sent him a scope to mount on it , so we had our own in house sniper.) He noticed a hooch down in the valley next to a stream and was taking bets as to whether he could put a round thru the door. It looked to be a good 3/4 klik away. He had no takers so he jacked a tracer round from the machine gun ammo he carried and took aim and fired. BAM!! Right thru the center of the open door. The next thing you know, out of the hooch comes running an old pappa san. He was headed for the ville about a mile down the valley and to the south. Vic asked if he could shoot him. The answer was an emphatic no, but he took that to mean that he could shoot near him, so he loosed a couple of rounds just behind the old man. This had the effect of accelerating his shuffle to a trot. He was out of sight within about 10 minutes. The sun was beginning to set and dusk was creeping our way. Grumbling was starting . Some was on the lips and the other was in the stomach. We hadn't been resupplied yet. This usually didn't effect me since I usually carried extra rations. The extra weight wasn't a bother to me and after it was my security blanket against the Marine Corps lack of logistics. Some of the men were digging around in one of the garbage pits left by whoever had occupied the hill before us (the 101st Airborne had been received by us so they were our best guess). Occasionally someone would find a treasure of unopened peanut butter or a can of crackers and cheese, but alas, no main course. This was not made any better with the light drizzle that began to fall. A light breeze began to add a chill to the drizzle. Coupled with hearty appitites, and no food, this was not going to be a very short night. Darkness finally settled on us and we began our hole watch. I checked on my rocket team and made sure they were positioned, and returned to my hole. I had found a couple of sleeves of C-ration cardboard to line my hole to ward off the damp and a few other scraps to cover the top to keep out the mist. Under the circumstances, it was luxurious. Then the voices started. First a murmur and then shouting. "I WANT A PEPPERONI PIZZA!! NO, NO!! I WANT A GIANT DELUXE PIZZA WITH HAMBURGER, HAM AND PEPPERONI OOZING WITH CHEESE AND TOMATO SAUCE!!" It was Tattoo, one of the machine gunners. He was a biker from Chicago and covered with Harley-Davidson Tattoos. Hence the nickname. He was sharing a hole with Terry Waterman, the other gunner, also from Chicago. "ONE PIZZA!!" Chimed in Waterman, at the top of his voice. "I WANT 5 PIZZAS, COVERED WITH OLIVES, MUSHROOMS,ONIONS AND GARLIC. I WANT 'EM COVERED WITH 3 KINDS OF CHEESE AND EVERY MEAT IN THE HOUSE." "Order one for me!" yelled someone from another hole. At that, all pandemonium broke loose. Everyone was calling for orders of their favorite foods and lots of it. This lasted for what seemed like an hour. Sgt. Collins was more than a little upset with the noise, and it took him about 10 minutes to get the clamor silenced. Heaven help any VC who attacked that night. Dealing with Marines was bad enough. Tonight they would have had to deal with a bunch of hungry and pissed off Marines. The night passed quietly enough, and I took my usual last watch so I could watch the sun rise over the ocean. I opened my pack to get my fixin's for my morning coffee and cocoa mixture and got a little surprise. My pack had been rifled through. Not much was missing except a can of crackers and cheese, some peanut butter and crackers and some coffee. Plenty was left over for a light breakfast. My fruit was still there and so was the cocoa and coffee. I was content, and no harm was done. Later Bruce and Steve confessed that they raided my pantry while I was over at the "pizza parlour" checking on the gunners. They were afraid that I'd be upset. I let them know in no uncertain terms that I always carried a little extra, and that next time they should ask. We were resupplied that morning and a feast was had by all. Ham and Mothers don't make a pizza, and the Marine Corps ain't a Chicago Deli, but food is food, and you take what you can get, when you can get it.

It was my first week in country, August of '68. The dust was every where. It was opressively hot and humid, and I was completely disoriented. In cases like that, you just shuffle along, follow the crowd and get processed. You are pointed in the direction of the truck you are supposed to get into and head toward your battalion area. The 6 by that I got into had only 5 or 6 men in it. I had never seen sandbags so thick on the bed of a truck before. I was told that they were to protect us from any mines we encountered. I began to say my prayers right then and there. This was bad enough, but there was only one man with a rifle on board other than the driver. It wasn't very encouraging. Our truck took off at what seemed to be a good clip (25-35 mph was fast on those roads). Once we settled down, the movement of the truck was soothing. I looked at the surrounding country, people and checked out the villages we went through. One of our number had a quart can of orange juice and was just finishing the last of it when the man with the rifle looked at him and said, "Gimme that can dude, I gots to take me a Mother F**king Piss." He was hopping up and down as though he was going to explode any second. He was handed the can and turned away from the passengers so he could do his duty with some modesty. When finished, he turned back around and grinned from ear to ear. It was a look of pure satisfaction combined with relief. Just about that time, we were passing thru a village. During our passage through the ville, all of the kids held out their hands asking for some "chop chop" which was slang for food. He tossed the can out of the truck and hollered, "Here's some mother f**king chop chop for you!" It hit the road just as we were leaving the village. About a half dozen kids ran out to the can and immediately backed away. The smallest of the group who was running out to join them, noticed that nobody had grabbed the can. Siezing this opportunity, he immediately ran into the center of the crowd and in one motion swung the can up to his lips. I saw him throw the can down and spit as hard as he could. The last thing I saw as we pulled away from the ville, was a little Vietnamese boy jumping up and down in anger and shaking his fist at us. I knew at that moment that the winning of the hearts and minds was going to be and uphill battle.

We had just finished our sweep from Phu Gia pass down the bowling alley. Our reward was a 600-foot climb to the top of the mountain overlooking Claymore Pass. First, we had to walk up the road to its base. We were to relieve Hotel 2/5. Claymore pass itself is a moderate grade to an elevation of about 500 feet at the summit. This was to be starting point of our ascent. We were tired. We had been walking most of the day. The least the Corps could do would be to send us some trucks. No such luck. We were assigned to the infantry because we had a high level of adaptability and inventiveness (so we were told). My feet said otherwise. We had decided to take a rest break and have some chow. After about a half an hour of resting and eating, life was starting to look a little brighter. Food and rest always seemed to make the difference. The truck traffic on Highway 1 was starting to pick up. We watched everything from 6 bys to Citroen taxis to motorcycles pass by. Finally after looking up the road at the summit, we decided to flag down the next military vehicle that came by and hitch a ride to the top. We didn't have to wait long. The next rig to come into view was an Army lowboy carrying pallets of cargo to Phu Bai. As he came to the grade, he down shifted into low and slowed to almost a walking pace. We flagged him down. I swung up to the step next to the cab and asked him for a ride to the top of the pass. "Sure," he said, "Hop on." He waited for the platoon to get aboard the trailer and shifted into gear. Meanwhile, we started looking around at the cargo. An infantryman is also an opportunist and we were not to be exceptions. Someone notice that the cargo was banded and palletized cases of Ballantine beer. Out came the bayonets. Haversacks were emptied of their contents. Ponchos were formed into makeshift tote sacks. Cardboard cases were cut into and their contents were hastily transferred into any available makeshift container. Haversacks were filled. Cargo pockets of our jungle utilities were bulging with cans. Ponchos were tied into bags the size of which would make Santa Claus jealous. The truck reached the summit and stopped. We disembarked, being barely able to stand from the weight of our booty. I walked up to thank the driver for the ride. He took one look at us, looked at his cargo and began the slow burn. He asked us what we thought we were doing. I replied that since we were guarding this road, there was, on occasion, a toll to be paid. This didn't seem to be going over very well, so I brought my M-16 to a single handed port arms and flicked off the safety. I then asked him if he had any problem with that. He took one look at me, then looked at some of the others who were making a show of locking and loading and decided that the road looked clearer further on. We thanked him for the ride and headed for the hills. We were sweating like dogs from the climb to the top. The skipper took one look at our cargo, turned around and walked away saying that he didn't want to know anything and that it had never happened. We took our treasure to our new positions and quenched our thirst while admiring the view of Claymore Pass.

February '68. Dawn. We are told to gear up for a 2-day patrol of the hills surrounding Phu Gia pass and the bowling alley. We chow down; saddle up and head out the gate turn left and walk down the road and head north. The day was warm, but not hot, after all, it was winter and the rainy season. When we reached the bottom of the hill, we left the road and started walking through the sandy fields between hill 88 and our objective. A few nights before, we had watched as an Army twin 40mm "Duster" pumped some rounds into the hill. A "Duster" is a two-barreled 40mm anti aircraft gun like the kind you see on ships, only this one was mounted on tracked vehicle. We humped over to the base of the hill and started up. The brush was thick and the way up was littered with sharp outcroppings of what looked like spears of granite. We started to sweat and began pulling ourselves up by the branches of whatever we could grab onto. When we got to the top, we came to a boulder strewn clearing and what looked like a trail. It was lunchtime so we moved off of the trail and settled onto the boulders for some chow. I was two teams behind the point squad. I looked over to Billy and he got this big grin and fished a can of tuna out of his pack. I asked him where he got the goodie and he said that his mom had sent it to him. If there was any thing that Billy loved, it was tuna fish. He was looking thru his pack for a can of bread and couldn't find any. I told him that I had a couple of cans and why didn't we pool our resources and have some tuna fish sandwiches. He agreed. Billy was always the kind of person who was there when you needed a helping hand. More that once, when I was slipping on a hillside or about to loose my balance and go underwater when crossing chest deep rice paddies, his was the hand that usually caught mine when I held it out. The best thing about him was that he was always laughing and joking. He made the day a little brighter and any work seem easier. We finished our lunch and I shared a can of fruit cocktail with him and some orange Kool-Aid. The best tasting flavors of Kool-Aid seemed to be orange, cherry and grape. The other flavors made the water taste terrible. We had some time for a siesta so we kicked back and enjoyed the rest. About 30 minutes later word came back to saddle up and for Brisky's fire team to take point. That meant Billy and Ron "Chief" Goodiron too. He was another fun one to be around, serious about his work but always smiling and laughing. He looked the part too. He was short, stocky, round faced, and strong as an ox. He seemed to be able to walk all day with a full pack and never break a sweat. We saddled up Brisky's team moved forward along with Lt. Ruggles and his radioman. My rocket team held where we were until the previous point team moved back. Then we started to move out. We hadn't gone more that 50 yards when I heard a series of explosions. There were 3 or 4 of them but I don't recall exactly. Word passed back for "Corpsman Up!" Doc was just behind us and headed forward. We were also told not to move because of mines. Doc went up anyway. He felt that he was needed up there no matter what. We held steady for about 10 minutes until "all clear" was passed back. I went forward and saw Sgt Collins standing over the body of Lt. Ruggles. The Lt. Looked like he was asleep. He was covered with the fine gray dust that powders everything after an explosion in the jungle. He was right next to one of the mines in the daisy chain (a series of mines that detonate in succession) and was killed instantly. Brisky was wounded in the arm. I don't know what happened to the radioman, or even remember his name. I looked around for the rest of the team and found Billy curled up in a fetal position on the ground, his entire left side covered with black blood and dirt. He had been killed instantly, too. Sgt. Marx, our 3rd Platoon guide was bandaging Brisky's arm while Doc tended to Ron Goodiron. Ron got it worst of all. He was gutshot from the mine. His intestines were exposed and doc was pouring water on them to keep them moist. Chief was calling for his mother all during this time and was in terrible pain. We stayed with him for what seemed to be an eternity while he called for his mother in an ever-weakening voice. We had radioed for an emergency medivac and were told that nothing was available for 2 hours. Ron didn't last that long. He made it for less than an hour and finally went silent. There was nothing we could have done except stay with him to the end, which we did. Sgt. Collins and Sgt. Marx begin the task of breaking out the ponchos to wrap the bodies in. I remember them gently tying up Lt. Ruggles' poncho and then moving to the others. The work was done in less than an hour. When the medivac chopper arrived, it was a CH-46 and couldn't land on the hilltop. It had to hover over a rocky outcropping drop its ramp and try to stay steady enough to take on the wounded. It took a couple of tries to get the wounded aboard. This chopper would not take the dead. That was the job of a routine medivac. Word came by radio that there would be no routine medivac until the next day. We spent the night with our dead, and that night seemed to last forever. In the morning, right after breakfast, we were told to saddle up and prepare to move out. I went with the advance team to secure the LZ, while the rest of the platoon cut poles so that the bodies could be carried down the mountainside. We got down to the flat around 8 or 9 in the morning, with the rest of the platoon about 45 minutes behind us. The chopper arrived somewhere near 11:30 and took the Lt., Billy and Ron away. We filled our canteens with swamp water, saddled up again and started our trek north across the valley to hill 100.

The bridge leading to the 3/5 battalion area was a resort. Bridge duty was by far the skatingest gig around. Hole watch at night, weapons cleaning and lounging around by day. All of this interspersed with a short stint on bridge watch, inspecting the contents of whatever the mamasans and papasans would carry across the bridge. This was to make sure no VC explosives made their way to the center of the span. What usually happened was that whoever was on guard duty would pay more attention to the cutest girls crossing the bridge than the older men and women. If we thought anybody looked suspicious, we would stop them and check out the baskets of rice for any contraband. We never found any, but it was a fun game anyway. Once one of the men stopped a mamasan, who was carrying two baskets of rice slung on the ends of a flat bamboo pole on her shoulder. She was bow legged and walked like a cowboy with kind of a shuffling gait. Her teeth were stained black from chewing beatle nut and every now and then she would spit out this blood-red gob onto the ground. That gob was completely chewed up beatle nut and looked just like a clot of blood. (That's what I thought it was when I first got in country.) The marine who stopped her was about 5 foot 10 inches and must have weighed about 175 pounds to her 80 or even possibly 90 pounds. He took one look at the arrangement of the bamboo pole and the rice baskets and decided that if she could carry it, so could he. He motioned mamasan to back away and over her protest leaned under the pole and placed it on his shoulder. By this time the flow of foot traffic had come to a complete stop. Everyone was watching him. He stood straight up with the baskets balanced and managed two or three paces. With a groan of pain he set his load down. He looked around at the laughing and smiling faces and looked at me. I was laughing the loudest. He told me to go ahead and try it, so I did. I weighed all of 145 pounds at the time and stood 5 foot 7. I bent over and put the pole on my shoulder and found that I could barely lift the load. The baskets must have weighed 75 to 100 pounds each. We poked around in them just to make sure that it was all grains of rice and sure enough it was. After that incident, I had a lot of respect for the strength and endurance of the Vietnamese. They were a lot stronger and tougher than they looked.

When we got off guard duty, we would go over to the gook shop which always sprang up around any military encampment, no matter how small, and buy a can of soda for 50 cents, candles and writing paper or other souvenirs. Afterwards, we would head back to our bunker and clean our weapons.

Our bunkers were works of art. The soil was easy to dig in and we had deep bunkers with deep fighting holes five feet away on each side of the bunker. Our bunker had cots and shelves in it for holding our candles if we wanted to read at night when we weren't on watch. Ammo crates served as footlockers and seats while ammo crates turned sideways made nice food storage lockers when mounted on the walls. The roof of the bunker was made of 6inch x 12inch lumber covered with plastic tarps to keep out the rain. This whole affair was covered with sandbags, about 3 or 4 layers deep. Even more layers if you were really paranoid.
We had light proof curtains made out of what was left of an old GP tent and finely sculpted stairs carved out of packed soil leading into and out of the entryway. As far as we were concerned it was a palace. We had a sandbag parapet mounted on top of it with the detonating plungers of all of our claymore mines leading to it.

After guard duty and cleaning our weapons, we could then take a little time to get in some swimming. This was one of the great side benefits of bridge watch. There was a makeshift raft/dock arrangement next to our rocket bunker. Dave Daischer and I decided to go for a swim. We dumped our clothes and boots on clay of the riverbank and walked out onto the dock and dove in. The water was cool and refreshing. It was also kind of greenish colored and every now and then you would see debris floating downstream. Sometimes this debris consisted of a dead animal of some sort. We weren't curious enough to try and stop it in its journey to the sea. Looking back, there is no telling what creatures were swimming under the water. We were 18 and 19 years old and invincible and never gave anything a second thought. After our initial dip in the water, we climbed back up on the dock and jumped back in again. It was great. This went on for about 10 or 15 minutes. The next time we got out, we looked up at the bridge and found that a crowd had gathered to watch the two naked marines jumping in and out of the water. Well, Dave's answer to crowd control was to grab hold of his non-Marine Corps issued piece of equipment and shake it vigorously at the mamasans gathered on the bridge, hollering at the top of his lungs, "Hey mamasan, this numba one, you want numba one boom boom?" The women gathered on the bridge would wave their arms at him, yelling back at him, "No can do, you numba ten! No can boom boom!" After which they would all start laughing, pick up their loads and moved on. I was laughing so hard I lost my balance and fell into the river. What a way to spend the afternoon. We dried off with dirty sweaty towels, dressed and headed to our bunkers to have some C-rats and take a nap before it got dark and hole watch began.

Toward the end of my tour, in late August or early September '68, I was getting short and spent most of my time at our company CP. The CP was at Phu Gia pass at the time and we were cruising. Tet was over, things were fairly quiet and 3rd platoon was perimeter security. We were getting new replacements in fairly regularly now. We had a new skipper now. Lt. Smith had finished his tour and was rotating to another assignment. I was running an M-60 section and was acting as the squad leader for 3rd platoon's gun squad. Rather than carry my rifle around, I would be gunner for a day and carry a .45 caliber pistol. This particular day, I was doing something to kill time near the LZ, which was just up the hill a little from our tent. There was a makeshift firing range in a gully just on the other side of the LZ. One of the new men, who had just arrived in country within the past few days, came up to me and asked if I knew how to use the .45 I was carrying. Without saying a word, I popped the flap of my holster open, and in one motion, drew the pistol, flipped the safety off, pulled the slide back, jacked a round into the chamber and raised the pistol up to point at a telegraph pole near the LZ. I gave the trigger a squeeze, felt the pistol recoil and watched the insulator on one of the arms of the telegraph pole disappear in an explosion of glass shards. I cleared the pistol, put the safety on and put it back into my holster. I then looked deadpan at the man and said in a low slow voice, straight out of the old west, "Yep, I guess I do." His eyes were still wide and his jaw was only a few inches above the ground as I walked by him to the tent. When I got inside, I got the biggest grin on my face. I don't think I could have repeated that performance in a million years. I was a lousy shot with a .45, but everything felt so right. It was one of those instances where you don't even let your mind think about what you are doing, you just let reflexes take over. I had this sort of feeling many times during my tour and always let it take over. Believe me, it worked.

February '68. We had been at Phu Gia pass for more than a few days. The weather was a fine misting rain that was barely distinguishable from fog except that you got wet faster. Water beaded up on the leaves and tended to soak you as you brushed against them. You didn't have to travel far to be soaked to the skin. The solution: rain gear. My parents had sent me a heavy duty set from home and they worked great. The rain pants were like farmer's bib overalls and the jacket was a rubberized pullover type like a sweatshirt with a hood. No way was I going to get wet unless it was from sweat.

This was our first patrol of the bowling alley area since arriving at Phu Gia pass. Lt. Ruggles decided that we would be patrolling about a half klick from the highway and with a shielding of brush to give us concealment. There were no trails. The ground was firm but spongy and gave good traction. The point man was moving at a comfortably brisk pace. We had moved thru the underbrush for about an hour or so when the lieutenant called a halt, set out the watch and we took a break. We were hot and sweaty from the pace of the patrol and started taking of our rain jackets. Then came the discovery. One of the men had a leech on him. Lt. Ruggles passed the word around to check for leeches. I found mine right away. It was on my left forearm still wiggling around looking for a place to settle in and feed. I got him right away with my Zippo.
I wasn't a smoker but I carried a lighter out of habit. You never knew when you needed to light a fire.

Off came shirts and up came trouser legs to check for the dreaded creatures. Trousers were dropped and inspections made. There were leeches on shins, covering backs, posteriors and on various parts of arms and legs. The lighters came out, the cigarettes were fired up and everyone began to burn leaches. Then came the howl. One of the men had found a leech on his pecker. Well, not really on his pecker, he had gone to take a leak and found himself stoppered by a swollen leech. It was inside his pecker, with the tail of the leech hanging part way out. His cry for help hadn't gone unanswered. The first helpful volunteer had flipped open his Zippo and fired it up. Now the protest wasn't about the leech, but the damage the flame of the Zippo would do the tip of the very sensitive equipment. A compromise was made and the Zippo was used to light up a cigarette. The leech was coaxed out with the burning end of the cigarette gingerly applied to the affected area. It was a bloody mess. I had never realized that just how big leeches could become in just a short feeding time. I thanked my parents many times during the monsoon season for my rain suit. I always kept my rain pants bloused at the boots and that kept me from having any leeches on the bottom half of my body.