There’s one thing that I keep forgetting to mention. Ever since I arrived in Vietnam, every where I go there’s the Vietnamese flag flying, scarlet red with a gold star in the middle. Now I realize that at home many folks fly the “Stars and Stripes,” especially on the 4th of July. But we also fly it a lot of other days as well to show our support for our young men and women around the world putting themselves on the line.
Since I’ve been here, the 3 day election cycle, the 3 day holiday for Liberation Day and May Day, and the 50th Anniversary of their victory at Dien Bien Phu tomorrow is certainly cause for their flying it. Nevertheless, in my mind, I can rationalize all of it, but that flag of my former enenmy started to cause a gut wrench seeing it so much. So, here’s what I did. Since they’re the same colors, I just replaced the gold star with a gold eagle, globe and anchor in my mind. After that, I’d smile at the thought that Vietnam has such a graceful heart, that she flying the Marine Flag, Nationwide, in honor of my return visit. You see, the VA keeps me heavily medicated.
To be a Marine is something that is very difficult to put into words. Eleanor Roosevelt was reported to say that U.S.M.C. stood for Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. I admired that woman immensely, so I’ll believe that she said that with a twinkle in her eyes. Her son was a Marine Raider who landed in the Solomons during WWII.
No matter what your life offers after leaving the Corps, it never leaves you. Unabashedly, I admit that I love the Corps. In my six years, my behavior disappointed some and pleased some. I had a skipper once write in a fitness report that in combat, he would request me, but in peacetime, he would hide me. Most of the bad times had to do with booze. I was well on my way to becoming a full-blown alcoholic as a young Marine. After a horrible day years ago in this Vietnam Province, I began to use to lose. A habit that would damage too much of the next twenty-five years until I got honest and asked for help.
I’m going to be getting back late from another boat trip today. I’m going up the river that runs by Hoi An. It’s the Thu Bon and it intersects through the Province between the former Marine locations of An Hoa, Dai Loc, Hill 55 and Hoi An. Just south of us is Chu Lai and My Lai. When the 3rd Marine Division started moving north to Quang Tri Province in 1966, the 1st Marine Division moved up from Chu Lai throughout Quang Nam and the Army back-filled in both Provinces. There’s a memorial in My Lai, but I don’t need to see it. Like many vets, I’ve carried it inside for a long time.
When the story broke in the press, I was a UCLA student taking undergrad breath courses, one of which was Political Science 101. It was an interesting class, I finally was told why we made a combat landing in Santo Domingo (their election results conflicted with our policies). The undergrad classes at UCLA were so large that they broke us down into smaller weekly study groups led by teaching assistants. One day, the group met out on the lawn and the TA asked me if I would talk about My Lai and if this sort of thing went a lot over there. I looked at the students and the TA a long time. Then I got up, shook my head, drove to the beach, and smoked a joint. How do you talk to anyone about something like that.
This afternoon, I’m going up river for me and mine. Since it winds through the Province, I’m going to stop mid-way and sit. There I will remember an early morning along this river’s bank and the day that followed. I will give thanks for knowing what being “tight” means. I will remember the uglies, the rains, the games, and the greatest bull sessions ever in the CP’s bunkers. One night, we were discussing if reincarnation was real and what did we want to come back as. The replies were good, but none more so than the gunny’s. He said, “I want to come back as a crab on a Vassar toilet seat.” Sorry if that’s offensive, but it sure made good sense that day.
Also this afternoon, I will remember my friend, Sgt. Fred Ratliff. He died out here. We met in Camp Pendleton’s tent Camp Horno, as part of the new cadre for the recalled 5th Recon Battalion. We were the first two NCO’s reporting in. Fred had been there for a couple of days before me and we both were just coming off our leaves after returning from Vietnam. Our 1st Sgt., Maurice Jacques, who retired as a Sgt. Maj., was a legend in recon ranks and was in on the Marines only jump in Vietnam. Sgt. Jacques took a liking to Fred and I, even though we were different. He was quiet and I was brash. When his current enlistment was up, Fred wanted to return to Colorado and get his degree and be a math teacher and I can still picture my vision of him back then with a short sleeve white, button down shirt, a clip-on tie, and pencil/pen holder in his pocket. But he was one hell of a Marine.
Jacques sent us to scuba school in San Diego and jump school in Georgia. He improved our night ops and we drilled in every insertion and extraction techniques imaginable, over and over. We spent so many days and night in those damn IBS’s that I started dreaming of 29 Palms for relief. We repelled off every point and did hydrographic surveys at midnight. We became pretty good recon Marines.
My home was in LA then, so every liberty weekend, I’d pile into my ‘66 volkswagon and head home. One day, before leaving, I saw that Fred had just taken off his boots and crapped out on his rack. I asked him what he did every weekend while I was gone. He said that he did his laundry, went to the club or occasionally, he into Oceanside to catch a movie. I told him to grab his ditty-bag and come with me. We became god friends. He became the brother I didn’t have. He admired me and I admired him, both for different reasons, I’m sure. Fred was the only person that I told about the fear behind the mask that still tightened my gut. You see, everyone thought that I loved it and was the poster-boy marine. But Fred knew the truth. When I got married to Cheryl and we rented a place in San Clemente, Fred was with us a lot. After a while, they pulled Fred into headquarters and gave me the rec room and the battalion football team.
Then Fred called me and told me a billet had just come in for a Sgt. for Westpac, and there was talk of giving it to me because they thought I wanted to go back. He said that he was going to take it. He only had about 5 months left on this enlistment, so it would be a short tour. He wasn’t going to reup and I had just gotten married and my place was with my wife. About 4 weeks before he got home, he wrote and asked if he could stay with us for a few days before he went on home to Colorado. I wrote back immediately, telling him yes and that he could stay for as long as he wants. His bottle of Jim Beam was on top the fridge with a ribbon.
I was called into the CO’s office during luchtime. The First Sgt. was there and handed me the teletype list of Marine KIA’s. There was Fred’s name and serial number. They asked if that was him and I nodded. I wrote to his CO and asked what happened? He wrote back and said that Fred had received my letter and even shared some of it with them. They were on a battalion movement (I later found out that it was called, “Taylor Common”) and A. Company, 1/7 was on point and walked into a V ambush against a potload of NVA regulars with two .50’s beating them hard in a cross-fire. He said that Fred led the assault on the one gun and they took it out with multiple dead and wounded Marines from the effort. He said that Fred was shot in the hip during that assault, but rallied the men and started after the other deadly gun. Fred was then mortally wounded in the neck and that he was putting him in for the Navy Cross.
I’ve not carried this cross very well for a long time. Terry, the honcho at the VA Vet’s Center in Boise and a team member of Dr. Blake’s PTSD program found out for me where Fred was buried: Fort Logan in Denver. I went there to talk to my old friend and met his younger brother, Willie, who was 9 when Fred died. He now has a young son around that age. I sat and talked with my old friend and listened to what he had to say. Then I got to know his brother and his son. Life was not kind to either Fred or Willie in their younger years and Fred’s loss left Willie alone at a very young age. He has honored his brother’s memory for a long time. I hope Willie knows now, that should he need, he still has an older brother.
Fred’s decoration was downgraded to the Silver Star and I have learned recently that far too many Marine’s heroics that day, deserving of recognition, were unfortunately smothered beneath an inquiry into the commander’s actions. I have written to Senators Kerry and Burns for help in working with the Corps to perhaps right an injustice. If you feel so inclined, a note or message to either or both, encouraging support for the men of A Company, 1/7, on Taylor Common, 1968, Quang Nam Province might help. The surviviors are holding a reunion this summer and it would be great if the many deserving received their just rewards.
So today, I’m going up river to smoke with the spirits and to express my thanks to an old and dear friend for giving me life; to say goodbye to a platoon, and to make peace with an old deceased enemy. Then I’ll return and begin to start my goodbye to Vietnam.
S’lan,
Tom
That was a nice blog post,I count on some more post from you.