Loon - Jack McLean [39]
Back on the tarmac, we were herded up the C-130 rear loading ramp and directed to belt ourselves onto the benches that lined the bulkhead. The plane taxied, turned, and took off with a deafening roar that continued for the entire trip. The late afternoon sun shone brightly through the portholes onto the squinting faces of those who lined the starboard side of the fuselage. My back to the west, I stared across at them. They were all there—each stage of the Vietnam Marine Corps experience. About half looked as I did—brand-new fatigues, shiny jungle boots, pink skin, and, had I been able to see, they were ridiculously wet behind the ears. While we may have looked tough, trained, and ready, the fact was we were all scared shitless.
Anyone who tells you different is lying.
The other half was older guys—in tenure as opposed to age. Some were on their way back from R & R; others were returning to the field after having injuries tended to. All were frozen with the faraway trance that acknowledged that they were headed back into the shit. Their fatigues, boots, skin, and helmets were covered with the same dusty reddish-gray patina that covered their eyes and expressions. Between their knees were M16 rifles—scratched, scuffed, and nicked on the outside, but spotless on the inside. These rifles had shot at human targets and would soon again.
This was no longer an exercise.
I was to be one of them.
A basic Marine Corps hill humping, paddy sloshing, shit stirring, motherfucking grunt. Not supply. Not the air wing. Not guard duty. A grunt—the epicenter—the best of the best of the United States Marine Corps, the backbone of 192 years of American military excellence.
I was now Jack McLean, 0311, WESTPAC.
I quietly sang the familiar Parris Island cadence to myself:
One, two, three, four.
United—States—Marine—Corps.
This is—what we—asked—for.
Three—thousand—seventy—six.
We’re the—best.
Of all the—rest.
Left-right-left.
Left-right-left.
I silently hoped—prayed—that I would remember half of what Staff Sergeant Hilton had taught me.
15
WE ARRIVED IN PHU BAI AN HOUR LATER, EARS RINGING. Several of us were directed to a truck that transported us several miles over a dusty rutted road to Camp Evans. We were then deposited in front of a vacated wooden barracks. Our unit, Charlie Company, was on an operation along the DMZ and would not be returning for several days. There were other new guys like me who, while awaiting the company’s return, were passing the time with menial tasks designed to keep them busy. It was a letdown, but I was glad to make some new friends among the group. Three in particular, Terry Tillery, Doug McPhail, and Wayne Wood, remain friends to this day.
The first night was eerie. Lying exposed in an aboveground barracks, we could hear the steady sounds of artillery and air strikes all night long. We weren’t yet accustomed to the sound difference between incoming and outgoing, or bombs, or artillery, or mortars. Hence, each explosion was a startling, potentially life-threatening event. Several boys who had already been there a day or two tried to calm the rest of us.
“That’s an outgoing 105 mm howitzer,” said one.
“That’s a B-52 bombing five or so miles away,” said another.
And on it went.
Outgoing 81 mm mortar—night defensive fire.
155 mm artillery outgoing.
60 caliber machine gun.
For the next year, noise would become our constant companion—outgoing mortars and artillery, incoming mortars and artillery, outgoing rifle fire, incoming rifle fire, Phantom jets, B-52S, 16 inch naval artillery, all stirred into a stew of sound. The same way one would learn how to sleep through the