Loon - Jack McLean [84]
By the end of June, freed from the chains of partisan politics, President Johnson admitted that it would be impossible for the United States to pay for both “guns and butter.” On June 28, he signed into law a bill that called for both a 10 percent income tax surcharge and significant reductions in government spending. The fiscal strain on Washington to pay for Johnson’s Great Society programs while financing an increasingly costly war half a world away was beginning to catch up with the extraordinary human sacrifice.
By Wednesday, July 3, 1968, news of our three days at LZ Loon and the ensuing body snatch had reached an increasing number of press outlets in the United States. The San Diego Evening Tribune featured a front-page article titled “Marines Always Pay Their Debt to Dead.” It contained a photograph of a very tough-looking Bill Negron with the quote “I personally wouldn’t want live Marines coming in for me if I were killed out there. But I know their parents, their wives and sweethearts would. We have an obligation to them.”
During the first week of July, I got word that my flight date out of country had been assigned. I would be leaving from Da Nang on July 30, 1968. Those rotating home normally left the field ten days before departure, which meant I had just less than three weeks left.
The following days were spent doing what combat marines in Vietnam did. We boarded helicopters, opened new firebases, or took over ones that were there. We ran patrols, sweltered in the sun, engaged in the occasional small firefight, and always returned to Vandergrift for a night to get resupplied. The following morning we’d be off again. Perhaps road security this time, or a company-size patrol into the bush. It was hard, grueling work, but we all seemed to thrive on the routine and enjoyed the activity. Bill Negron was now an integral part of our lives, and we were deeply happy for that. We would do whatever he told us to do because we always knew that he would be the first to go in and the last to come out.
Every time.
The morning of my departure from the field was bittersweet. I had said my good-byes earlier and now sat to the side of the LZ waiting for the supply chopper to come in and take me to Dong Ha, the first leg on my journey home.
The marines of Charlie Company had spent the morning in high activity in preparation for another operation to the west. They were now positioned across the small LZ from where I sat with all of my gear. Since Charlie Company was headed off on an operation for an indeterminate time, Captain Negron let me go a few days early to be certain that I made my flight out from Da Nang the following week.
It was odd—eerie—watching my Charlie Company saddle up without me with their full packs and ammo, as we had done so many times before. There were some hugs and a few waves, but the boys were headed back off into the shit. There was work to be done. I could visualize the scene inside the chopper. When they became airborne, squeezed along the bulkhead with the weight of the world on their backs, they’d look at the man across the aisle and share a thumbs-up. On our way, we never sweated anything. It was a wonderful quality of being a marine. A can-do attitude permeated all that we did. I would miss it. I would never again share that kind of a bond with anyone. The chopper would land, and they’d charge off and hit the deck as far from the helicopter as they could get.
The daily mail chopper came in minutes later. I hitched a ride on it back to Dong Ha. I was no longer a member of Charlie Company. Within days, I would no longer be a United States Marine.
I was so very sad.
I was so very happy.
Mostly, I felt very alone.
26
MY FINAL DAYS IN VIETNAM WERE SPENT IN DA NANG, waiting for my flight home while trying to wangle out of getting the required gamma globulin shot. Every marine beginning and ending a Vietnam tour was required