Loon - Jack McLean [40]
Less than a week later, we joined Charlie Company in the field. This was it. All that we had learned since our first night of boot camp had led to this. We each had a thousand questions that were patiently addressed by our new leaders. Our lives depended on these leaders. They, of course, knew that their lives depended on us as well, and they were eager to respond to any small question or unspoken fear.
“Larry, I gotta pee. Where do I go?”
“Larry, where’s my hole? Do I get a hole?”
“Larry, will I stand watch tonight? When? Who wakes me up? Who do I wake up? Which one is he?”
Terry Tillery was assigned to a fire team led by Buck Willing-ham of Maysville, Oklahoma. During the early days, Tillery occasionally felt that he had forgotten everything he had ever known.
“Buck, the wide part of the claymore faces out, right?”
“Buck, are we allowed to have rounds chambered in our rifles?”
“Buck, where do we get water, food? When do we eat? Where do we eat?”
That night we received our first incoming mortar attack. It was terrifying, even though I was dug safely into my hole. It sounded just like in the movies—a slow increasing whistling scream ending in an explosion. Other guys were scrambling all around, some even were laughing. For them, as it would soon be for me, it was routine.
Wayne Wood, Terry Tillery, and I were assigned to the 2nd Platoon. We quickly learned that we were not alone. Able, experienced marines were eager to help and would endure endless questions. The 2nd Platoon squad leader was Texan Robert Rodriguez, an exceptional marine who, like many of our new leaders, appeared to thrive under the pressure of combat situations. We listened carefully and learned well.
Every night the NVA would lob in a few rounds just to keep us honest. Occasionally someone would be injured, but mostly it was part of the daily give-and-take with the enemy. Our tender ears quickly learned to listen for the sound of the muzzle blast from the mortar—sort of a dull thwump sound. The first to hear it would yell “Incoming!” and all knew, given the high trajectory of a mortar, that we’d have ten seconds or so to find a hole.
We were mostly teenagers, full of bravado. We occasionally would yell back at them in defiance. “Hey, asshole, I’m trying to take a shit here,” or “Where’d you fuckers learn to shoot, the army?” Every night it continued. Every night we’d taunt. We developed a whole subculture of humor to respond to the nightly visits.
Days before our arrival at Camp Evans, Vice President Hubert Humphrey had visited South Vietnam and presented the Presidential Unit Citation Medal to General Bruno Hochmuth, our 3rd Division commanding general, based out of Phu Bai. The citation recognized the outstanding performance by the division during the previous months. This included our defense of Con Thien during the siege. Days after our arrival at Camp Evans, we learned that General Hochmuth had been killed in a helicopter crash in nearby Hue—the old provincial capital. He was replaced by Major General Rathvon McClure Tompkins, who held the post until the prophetic arrival of Ray Davis in late May.
Shortly after joining Charlie Company at Camp Evans, we ran several days of routine road security along Route 9, the main east-west road. This involved watching endless convoys of marines heading west from Dong Ha to the remote flrebases that lined the route. The farthest west of these was called Khe Sanh. I remembered seeing a sign that said KHE SANH back in the hangar in Da Nang. I previously hadn’t heard of it, and wondered what it was.
The convoys would be followed by hundreds of Vietnamese women and children who swarmed about selling Jim Beam, marijuana, and sex. (“She virgin, give number one boom-boom.”) It was difficult at first to discern our role. On the one hand, any one of these people could take out half the convoy; on the other hand, my fellow marines showed little concern, so as the new kid, I took