Loon - Jack McLean [80]
We were all confident that it would be a long time before we got sent back into the shit. It would take weeks to reman the company and weeks more to bring the new guys up to speed. There was talk of a “float phase.” Occasionally, undermanned companies such as ours were sent onto ships offshore to regroup, practice amphibious landings, and, of particular interest to us, get leave in the squalid Philippine liberty port of Olongapo. I figured that I had about six weeks left in the field before going home. I was safe. The war was over for me.
Soon enough, new guys poured in, all as green as grass. They looked at us as though we’d just stepped out of some war movie. Their eyes were as big as globes as they heard us recount our stories. Some were scared; most were pissed that they had missed the action. As had become his custom, Bill Negron took each one aside, welcomed him, and passed on his wisdom of the ages.
“This is serious business,” he’d begin. “When your squad leader tells you to do something, do it. Move on command. Don’t ask questions. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” would come the obedient reply.
“I’m not ‘sir’ out here, son. I’m Bill or I’m Skipper. Gooks hear someone call me sir, I’m a dead man. Get it?” Negron was always clear about this.
“Yes … ah … Skipper,” would come the uncertain reply.
“Good man. Good man. Look, you want to stay alive, listen to the old guys, the veterans who’ve been in the shit. They’ll get you through it.”
This would be followed by a warm arm on the shoulder and an encouraging word. “You’re going to be fine, Marine.”
With that, Negron would call Tillery and have him escort the new guy to his assigned platoon, squad, and fire team.
“Tillery,” he’d call.
The radio man would obediently run right over.
“Sir. Yes, sir?” Tillery couldn’t resist. He loved to give the Skipper shit.
And Negron would laugh.
“Get this marine over to 2nd Platoon on the double.”
Bill Negron could be an intimidating person when you first met him. He was as tough as nails, had a big brown square jaw, and appeared wired to blow—he was that intense. But he also was as personable and as nice a man as any of us had ever met.
He cared.
He talked to his men.
He never pulled a punch. He taught us everything he knew—and he knew a lot.
He was the best.
The fresh marines brought one piece of news from home that felt like the last straw. Bobby Kennedy, New York senator Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., brother of the slain President John F. Kennedy, candidate for the presidency of the United States, had been killed days before, while we were on LZ Loon.
What the fuck was going on back home? Jesus.
Our days of comfort were short-lived. We were ordered to saddle up with full packs, helmets, and flak jackets. We were issued chow, water, and fresh ammo.
The choppers came and we headed back out into the shit.
Consistent with Ray Davis’s new policy, we were choppered into LZ Robin. Like LZ Loon, it too was hard on the Laotian border. The artillery was already in place this time. It was an impressive battery of 105 mm howitzers—what might have been at LZ Loon had we gotten them in. Alpha Company was already in place as well and showed no signs of departing. Temporarily homeless, we took our small band of marines and climbed all the way down the hill and all the way up the next one. We dug out holes. If some were already there, we dug them deeper.
For the following three days, until Alpha vacated, we occupied a small perimeter that we dubbed Robin Alpha. It was too small for a helicopter landing, so every morning