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The Troubled Vet' Returns
AKA: "There is no PTSD."
By Thomas A. Holloran USMC
L/Cpl. Holly
Hotel Company, 2nd. BN. 1st. Marines
Vietnam, The Republic of: 1967-68
Northshore Queens Detachment #240, MCL
Email: [email protected]
December 24, 2004
Dear Editor,
In 1967/68, The USMC had just two woefully under strength infantry divisions operating in the most northern (I-Corps) region of South Vietnam. As a result, the Marines were all too often pushed beyond the realm of human endurance. Marines routinely suffered from physical exhaustion and sleep deprivation while serving in I-Corps. The battle casualties sustained by the Marine Corps in Vietnam were nothing short of horrific. And, Marines burned out by combat fatigue and incapable of rational thought made poor decisions. Due to the unprecedented levels of prolonged stress and fatigue, Marines would often times pray for a "Million Dollar Wound" and a guaranteed trip back to the "World."
The war fought in I - Corps was a bloody meat grinder for the grunts of the Corps. And, in my judgment, the Marines amounted to little more than a cadre of expendable cannon fodder for corrupt politicians. Our Generals lied, our politicians lied and young men died, unnecessarily, on a daily basis, in Vietnam. Even after all these years, not a day passes by that I do not find myself thinking about that horrific military debacle in Southeast Asia. I wish to state, for the record, that no Veteran's Administration official ever contacted me about a comprehensive "combat action survey" in 1980.
Semper Fidelis,
Tom Holloran - Hotel Company 2/1 – USMC, Vietnam, the Republic of: 1967 / 68.
Home address: 222-23 92nd Road. Queens Village, New York, 11428-9998.
Email: [email protected]
November 10, 2005.
Dedication: "He who checks into this Hotel will spend his tour in the fires of Hell."
-Corporal Mike D'Angelo, Hotel Company -RVN, 1967.
Re: Promises to keep. A reflection of Nam.
Aka: (Marines never retreat or do they?)
Several years ago, I responded to a chaplain's letter in a Vietnam Veterans newspaper asking for volunteers to contact him. National VVA Chaplain Father Phil Salois was seeking to recruit combat veterans of the Catholic persuasion who fought in Southeast Asia and had never been treated or hospitalized due to combat fatigue (aka: PTSD.)
In time, I was to learn that I would be one of 200 Catholic combat veterans of the Vietnam War invited to take part in a unique Spirituality / PTSD study. The questionnaires relating to the combat experience were mind blowing and I found that many of the questions were extremely difficult to answer. With my wife's encouragement and support, however, I managed to stay the course and complete the surveys.
Upon completion of the Spirituality / PTSD study, my wife, Jane and I were invited to attend a "Sacred Stories Retreat" hosted by Father Phil on the Jersey Shore. Before receiving Holy Orders, Father Phil, himself, had taken part in the carnage of war as a young infantryman with the United States Army. - RVN Class of 1969. I liked knowing that about Father Phil.
The most emotionally troublesome and distasteful reality that I had to try and come to terms with, myself, is quite simply the awful reality of war, itself. Even the nicest kid from anywhere USA can, and often times, does become Attila the Hun in the struggle to survive a hostile confrontation with his enemy.
Regrettably, many of our people learned firsthand that the bitter legacy of embracing "The Spirit of the Bayonet" is one fraught with a survivor guilt, a Catholic guilt and a lingering sense of uneasiness that just never quite seems to let one go. "And, the Moon never beams without bringing us dreams." Payback is hell, bro's!
It took Father Phil Salois, over twenty years after he had rotated back to the "World" before he could bring himself to face his fallen comrade's parents. When Father Phil did finally share with them the harsh realities of their son's final earthly moments under fire in Vietnam, the experience had drained him.
Yet, Father Phil was possessed of both the moral character and fortitude necessary to accompany the KIA's Dad to his grave site. There Father Phil knelt in silent prayer and spoke to his buddy. Even after all those years, that chilling bone yard experience was a difficult one for the two of them. The guy's Mom had wisely chosen to remain at home and prepare a meal for them. From that day forward, Father Phil remained in touch with his fallen comrade's family. There it is, brothers.
After hearing Father Phil's "Sacred Story," I felt a little better about myself and my own inability to knock on a door. In 1967, the Marines operated in the northern most regions of South Vietnam. As we moved up closer to the DMZ, our battle casualties steadily mounted. In truth, it was a total shit – storm, people!
So, the "Old Salts" (Seasoned campaign veterans) in the platoon entered into a kind of brotherly visitation pact that would later become an emotionally draining nightmare. Our sacred pact required the surviving members of the Herd (platoon) to visit the others (KIA) parents when they rotated back to the World.
At that time, the survivors would be honor bound to tell the families of those of us killed in action exactly where and when and how their son's final moments came down. In truth, it seemed like well thought out plan and a righteous thing to do at that time. In the final analysis, however, the visitation pact proved to be a daunting mission that few of us were able to carry out.
In Vietnam, I had been a weapons platoon man and member of a M-60 machine gun team attached to a rifle platoon in the "Hotel." (aka: Hotel Company, 2/1 -USMC). Machine gunners were a breed unto themselves: "You fed in the belt and pulled back on the bolt, squeezed off the trigger and oh what a jolt, for she'd buck like a model T. Ford and that was the only reward, for when you are dead, some other shit - head will carry that gun you adored!" - Bless ‘em all, Bless ‘em all...
The Marines of I-Corps were continually operating in a serious world of hurt. Northern I-Corps was also known as "The Fan." And, all along the DMZ, the Marines were pounded by enemy rockets, mortars and hellish artillery barrages. Those God awful bombardments that shook a Marine’s immortal soul to its very core. In truth, people, there was absolutely nothing "demilitarized" about the DMZ (aka: Demilitarized Zone) In fact, the DMZ was one of the deadliest TAORS (tactical areas of responsibilities) in the Nam. - "Merry Christmas, brothers and Good luck 2/1."
So, it came to pass that many of our people began to pray fervently (myself included) for a million dollar wound and guaranteed trip to the rear to watch over the gear. - Note well: "Who Art in Heaven hallowed be Thy Name; I'll take the pain and won't complain, just whack my sorry ass enough to get me on a freedom bird back to the World, forever and ever, Amen! - There it is.
In late November of 1967, Corporal Francis (aka: Rocco) Muraco USMC was killed in action while we were on night patrol in the rolling hills of Quang Tri Province. Corporal Muraco had given the last full measure of devotion on a nameless hill that held no real military importance. In fact, neither side needed the hill; nor, cared very much about it.
For reasons that still defy logic, the Marines of I -Corps fought over hills that were then immediately ordered abandoned. In a war that many of our fellow countrymen claim never should have been fought, the Marines paid a horrific price in blood sweat and tears. In fact, the Marines suffered more casualties in Vietnam than all of World War 11. Yet, in truth, brothers, that was no victory parade leaving off from the roof of our Saigon Embassy Compound in 1975.
The Nam went into the toilet but, just why still remains an enigma. The United States Military won every major hostile engagement with the communist forces in Southeast Asia. Yet, the war was eventually lost at a "Peace talk table" in Paris, France." Go try and figure that one, bro's ??? - Like the song says, "The answer my friend is blowing in the wind….The answer is blowing" .... Along with Corporal Francis (Rocco) Muraco, Hotel Company lost L/CPL. JJ Martinez (aka: Mex) and Lieutenant Runnels (KIA) when a massive enemy explosive device was detonated. Our point man, L/Cpl. Kisner lost both his legs on that midnight to mother patrol just North of the ancient provincial capitol.
The force of that ungodly explosion sent shocks waves in every direction and lit up the darkened skies like a Fourth of July celebration back in the "World." In the utter confusion that followed, Corporal Tom Nolan (aka: Nolie) took charge and called in the med-evac chopper. War is Hell, bro's!
The latest Hotel Company replacement officer, Lieutenant, Lloyd Runnels, had been wounded during his first month in country. And, in truth, all the salts in our Platoon had thought that our new Lieutenant had gotten himself a million dollar huss (a good break) and a guaranteed trip out of the bush for the remainder of his tour of duty. "Oh-rah and well done, Lt!"-And, do get some for us.
The all but confirmed scuttlebutt circulating around the "Hotel" had our newest Platoon Commander safely back in the "World." For sure, Lt. Runnels was knocking down a few cold ones and chasing the girls around the sandy white beaches of the West Coast. - "California here I come, right back where I started from!"... - Dream on, brothers.... Dream on. In truth, “The Nam” was the frigging rumor Capitol of the “Free World!”
Lieutenant Runnels had been a "Gung Ho" type Marine Officer. And, in keeping with the finest traditions of the Corps, Runnels had volunteered to stick around Vietnam with us a while longer. Lt. Runnels had just one hand functioning when he returned to us from the hospital. Who could believe it? Lieutenant Runnels was with us so short a time that I've, often times, wondered why "Who Art" had sent him to us at all? - RIP, LT.
Of one thing about the Nam, I am certain; I did not survive my tour of duty because I was a better Marine than any of my fallen comrades. In truth, I was just one very lucky dude. What else can one say? There was nothing special about moi! In fact, I was the least of all my brother, Marines. Yet, I was always very proud of the fact, that as frightened as I was in Vietnam, I never fell out for a sick call or failed to take my place in the line of march. There it is.
In truth, we had all voluntarily signed on the dotted line and freely pledged that we were willing to play John Wayne. - Get Some, Duke! Ergo, “For God and Country,” we swore an oath to fight for freedom in Vietnam and help put an end to communist aggression in Southeast Asia. Let's all kill a commie for mommy, "Oh-Rah, do or die, Kill, Kill, Kill, Marine!" It didn't mean a thing, not a damn thing.
The United States Marine Corps fulfilled our childhood fantasies of becoming combat warriors of our beloved Corps beyond our wildest imaginings. God help us; we were only nineteen and still very much in need of a mother's guidance and prayers. The words: "Mother Dear Oh Pray For Me" adorned many a Marine's camouflage helmet covering.
During WW11, the average age of an American soldier was twenty - six. In Vietnam, most of our people were still in their teens. So, the desire for payback and retribution upon the enemy was fundamental to the grunts belief on how one should deal with this guerrilla warfare.-And, it was all quite simple: "Do unto others as they would do unto you, only do them where they breathe, and make certain you do ‘em first! There it is. It didn't mean a thing, not a damn thing.
Ultimately, if we could not win the locals minds and hearts, (aka: Promote the people to people program) then we would round up the populace and force them into government sponsored relocation camps at gun point. We could then commence to burn down the villes. Anyone opposing relocation would be deemed a hostile and the Marines could then blow their commie sympathizing asses' away without any questions asked.
This “Round ‘em up and move ‘em out policy was initiated in order to deny the NVA a vital source of shelter and food stuffs needed to sustain his incursion into South Vietnam. Welcome to the "Free Fire Zone," Marine. And not to worry, bro., it's all perfectly legal. Like Georgia once said: “Shoot, it’s just like herding steers!” - There it is.
In order to bring the benefits of truth, justice and the American way to the hapless farmers of I-Corps, the Marines had to learn the hard way that they first had to destroy ancestral villages and then lock their charges up in government sponsored relocation camps. (aka: Semi-Benevolent Interment Centers that severely restricted one’s movements) So much for the “Sons of liberty, bro’s.” In truth, the entire Nam experience was little more than a bright shinning lie!
So, now, let’s take out your lighters, Marines; "Operation Zippo will commence at 0: Dark-thirty hours tomorrow morning.” - Burn, ‘em down, and burn ‘em out, bro’s -
And, Do Get Some, Crusaders!
Note well brothers:” If his eyes slant and he's dead; he's a VC." - Do 'em all and let "Who Art" sort it out!- "I shoot North; I shoot South, same-same!"- The Gooks (North Vietnamese and Viet Cong Communist forces) may give their souls to Buddha but their asses belong to the Corps. "Waste 'em, you are in a “Free Fire Zone, Marine!"
The "Scorched Earth" policy was deemed necessary to help win the war in I-Corps. It was, after all, deemed to be in the villagers own best interest. Hell, most of those slant–eyed, rice growing sons of bitches couldn't spell their own names anyway. It didn’t mean a thing, not a damn thing, brothers. Yet, somehow, just some how mind you, burning down the villages of the people whose minds and hearts we were supposedly trying so hard to win over to our side did not seem kosher either!
In truth, brothers, more bombs had been dropped in Vietnam than were dropped on Europe during World War 11. It seems that the Brass just did not get it. We should have been dropping everything on North Vietnam. In truth, the Marines were fighting on the wrong side of the DMZ. The whole "Search and Destroy" campaign was troublesome and in many ways morally questionable. There it is!
And, for God sake, why did our military commanders have us circle the wagons and present ourselves as vulnerable targets of opportunity for NVA gunners to plaster with hellish artillery bombardments at will? Instead of attacking those NVA gun sites North of the DMZ and destroying them, we were ordered to dig in, eat shit, and take those near daily earth shaking bombardments.
It was sheer madness and just didn’t make any sense militarily. The Nam was "UN -Frigging -Believable, bro's!" Future historians will shake their heads in disbelief about the way the war was conducted by LBJ and his “Beltway Morons.” So, let’s all be sure to join our senile President’s semi – beautiful menopausal wife, “Lady Byrd” in committing ourselves to her quest to have the Vietnam beautification program become a reality, people. - You gotta be kidding me, Marine!
Corporal Francis X. (Rocco) Muraco had been a trusted comrade and friend. Rocco's parents lived nearby to my older brother's home in Massachusetts. Several times, when visiting my brother's home over the years, I had wanted to go by Rocco's house, visit with his folks and fulfill the sacred promise, in the final analysis, however, I just could not quite bring myself to walk up that walk and knock on their door. It always made me feel like a piece of amphibian dung. There it is.
The Good Lord really does work in strange ways, though. Some months after attending Father Phil's, "Sacred Stories Retreat," Rocco's cousin, Sal, posted a message on the First Marines web - site. Sal requested to hear from any Marine who had known or served with one Corporal Francis X. Muraco, USMC, in Vietnam. For a long time, I just sat staring at my computer and then, I began to weep. And, I continued to do so, until there were no tears left in me to shed.
After consulting with my old squad leader, Bob Hughes and our rocket team leader, Hank (aka: Deck) Decker, it was agreed that we would make contact with Sal. A few days later, with Jane's encouragement, and following Bob's lead, I answered Sal's posted message. And, Lu Parker (Antenna man, our platoon radio operator) sent Sal a copy of the video he and his lovely wife, Kiu, had produced about Hotel Company 2/1’s days in the Nam.
In truth, bro’s., it was an emotionally gut wrenching experience all around. Just viewing lu's video tape of 2/1’s days in the Nam was enough to send a guy reeling back in time. Back to “Heart Break Hotel,” Back to that hellish twilight zone we called the Nam. There it is, bro’s.
Several weeks later, we received an email from Rocco's sister, Mary. Corporal Muraco's sister was overwhelmed by the information that came streaming in about her brother's exploits in Vietnam after so many years. There had been so many questions left unanswered about Rocco's passing. The family was both elated and yet, at the same time appeared to be in a near state of shock.
"One. - We were a company. Two. - They called us infantry. Three. - We went to Vietnam. Four. - No one gave a damn!" - There it is.
In time, I was able to share with Rocco's sister that I also had a sister named Mary. And also, that no one in our platoon went by their given birth name. Francis was Rocco, JJ was Mex and my name was Holly, shortened from Holloran. Hank Decker was Deck, Richard Alien - RIP was Hombre, Nelson was Figgy and so it went people. At mail call, Rocco and I always shared a little private ditty. "How's Mary, bro!"
So, as a matter of fact, even if a guy didn't get a letter at mail call, himself, he at least got to read some of the other guys mail. "Sisters are good people; they really are!" We all lived for mail call, pound cake and peaches and an R&R date. It was considered bad joss (hard luck) to talk about one's rotation back to the "World."
On the down side, mail call also, at times, caused serious strains in our squad. Hombre, (- RIP) once accused me of trying to steal his girl away from him. Things quickly blew out of control and tempers flared. Deck and Rocco had to separate the two of us in order to keep us from beating the living daylights out of each other. It really didn't mean a thing though, not a damn thing. In the end, I still helped Hombre write love letters to his main squeeze back in the "World."
In our squad, we shared the letters from our girlfriends back home and we also got to ogle the cheesecake photographs of the main squeezes. The mini skirts and shrinking bikinis were easy on the eyes and "round eyed" girls were always placed on a pedestal. We even had an official platoon "Hog Board" with the girls photo's on prominent display for rating reviews and nods of approval. It seemed that every grunt in Vietnam had an opinion to share on matters pertaining to love and war.
And, there was never a shortage when it came to offering up advice on the female of our specie. Women and mail call were always a top concern in our squad. I recall that Rocco's sister Mary had a really neat stationery: "Greetings from my sand dune to your foxhole."- Oh-rah!
We were all impressed by those “Sand Dune” communications from Rocco’s sister and the two sister Mary's wrote regularly. It's just how things were in Vietnam. - Say again: "Sisters are good people; they really are!" They sure helped to keep those cards and letters flowing. There it is, brothers.
Hank Decker once lost a full month's wages in a poker game at regiment. Deck was engaged to his future bride, Gloria Priano, at the time. Since Deck could not send any monetary contribution to help bolster their future marital nest egg, a good cover story was needed. Thus, the story of the lost rifle was concocted. The Herdsmen felt the cover story would do nicely and might even garner some sympathy for Deck. In retrospect, it was a huge blunder that caused a great deal of unnecessary angst in the platoon.
When Ms. Gloria Priano wrote back and expressed her displeasure about Deck's being so careless as to drop his rifle in a river, there was an immediate agitation and call for payback. - (some serious retribution.) Corporal Nolan (aka: "Nolie") had gotten a "Dear John" letter from his main squeeze back in Jamestown, New York and was in a particularly foul mood at the time.
And, to top things off, Corporal Nolan had just recently returned to us from the hospital. "Nolie" had suffered multiple fragmentation wounds when an enemy grenade exploded at his feet. Our squad had been on line and closing in on a VC unit operating in the Rocket Belt when the shit hit the fan. We took several casualties (WIA's) during that hostile encounter.
Therefore, Nolie was in no mood to let any of our people be done in by a main squeeze. At least not without firing off a couple of "Broad - Sides" in the direction of the complainant female, first. Thus, it came to pass that the squad, all frigging eight of us, which included the weapons team men, fired up their "Brain -Housing Groups" and commenced to join in on the "righteous verbal assault" directed at Ms., Gloria Priano of Geneva, New York.
How dare that pampered “State-side Geneva Witch” complain about money or the future for that matter? What future was she talking about anyway? Didn't Ms., Priano know that twenty-four hours was an eternal vigil in the Nam? And, in truth bro's, no Marine worth his salt would give odds on any other Marine in his platoon being around to see another frigging pay day, anyway!
In truth, most of our guys got dumped by the girl back at home, sooner or later, anyhow. So, the girl from Geneva had some serious payback coming and that's all there was to it, brothers. Thus, the infamous "alcohol fueled payback letter" was composed with malice of forethought and with a mud Marine's perceived justification, that juicy poison pen letter was mailed off to the future Mrs. Henry M. Decker.
And, in truth, it didn't cost us a dime, not a single damn dime, bro's. We got to send our mail out from Vietnam free of charge! In the Nam, it just didn't get any better, bro’s. In fact, it was all part of a generous government benefit package. “God Bless the troops - Oh - Rah!"
Who could ever forget the immortal opening line of that payback letter: -" You penny pinching bitch." - The line was a personal gift to Deck from Corporal Nolan, himself. Let it suffice to say that those were kindest words put down on that bloody paper, brothers.
In truth, "Confidence was high" that verbally lambasting Gloria Priano was not only necessary but was also the righteous thing to do. The girl deserved a dressing down and Deck deserved no less than our full support to help straighten that whining pampered state-side female out. There it is!
The stink storm that followed, however, turned into a "Condition Red" - damn near a total disaster right from the get - go. Gloria broke off her engagement to Deck and Deck, himself, was lost in a funk and agitated near to the Nth degree. The Herdsmen (platoon members) noted the change in Deck and were all deeply concerned about his state of mind. Payback is a bitch, bro's!
Like, we really needed any of this added, "Tell it to Ella, Stress and Mickey Mouse, Female, Poon -Tang type, Moaning and Groaning." No matter, though, we still had to saddle up and move out to seek and engage our enemy in mortal combat. “Chasing - Nathaniel Victor Alpha" (aka: Mr. NVA) and his sneaky black pajama clad night crawling southern communist cousins "Charlie Cong and Luke the Gook" (aka: The VC) was the primary mission of the grunts. There it is!
"Thirteen months of nights, thirteen months of days, October's drift on into May's, Grunts set their sights on the NVA, And, then, just cast their fates to the Wind!"
Since my words were, often times, infused in my comrades love letters to the girl back home, most of our people felt that I should be the one to deal with the broken - off engagement. Lest, we forget; love is a many splendid thing, brothers! My two favorite original love letter lines were: “A.”-"Of all the beautiful Asian girls I have seen in this country, I have not met even one that I desire more than you baby. I miss you so very much and I'm being good... Get some!
And, Line"-B”. Was my Squad leader / Team leader personal best insertion message to the main squeeze. "Honey child, you drive our leader wild. You must be some kind of all American woman, baby doll." - Love and Kisses, Holly. Along with my 782 gear,(aka: military equipment) I also managed to carry a pocket dictionary with me everywhere we went. And, as Hombre (RIP) would, often times, exclaim: “Say words, Holly! - Say the words for us, bro!” Mail call was the absolute best and that’s no bullshit, people!
So, it fell upon my sorry ass to make amends with Ms. Priano for our transgressions and try to settle Deck down a bit. And, in truth, the detail wasn't bad at all, bro's. Hell, it was almost like hearing confessions; except, I could not grant any of my brothers’ absolution. “C’est la vie, Mon ami! - Who Art Forgives! - Or, does He? Judgment Day?? - is going to be one hell of an experience, “Fer - sure” brothers. There it is.
No matter, I still organized the daily prayer services with Deck, Rocco, Porter, Hombre and Figgy. And, in truth, we all faithfully recited the Crusader Prayer of Salvation sent by Mrs. Decker to comfort her son. We are ever in her debt. May Mrs., Decker's soul and all the souls of our departed brother Marines rest in peace, Amen.
In the end, Gloria accepted our letter of apology detailing and explaining the sorry ass reasoning behind our people interfering in her future marital bliss. And, even better, the apology had struck a chord and I had gotten Deck’s sorry ass off the hook! And, his spirits even picked up a bit. In truth, it was a win-win situation report! (aka: Sit – Rep) For a group of weary ass grunts in the Nam, it just didn’t get any better.
At the same time, I was feeling a bit down and uneasy, myself. So, I began to say a couple of extra prayers that, Jane Murray, my own number one squeeze back in the “World” would not forsake me. For in Vietnam, it was often times said about the main squeeze: “Absence makes the Heart grow fonder - for Jody, Bro’s.”
**** - (Jody -a seven times school deferred snake in the grass still hanging out back in the “World” trying to prey on our women.) So, isn’t it great to have a pal left behind to boost morale, brothers??? In truth, who could not help but wonder whether or not a “Dear John” letter would be looming large in their own sorry ass future. Hell, It didn’t mean a thing, though, not a damn thing. There it is.
In Vietnam, the Marines looked after each other as best we could. Grunts shared their meager worldly possessions willingly and without question. We often prayed together as a squad and, without regard to race, color or creed, we freely drank of the same canteen. And, then again, lest we should ever forget, bro's, there were also those God awful times when we proceeded to beat the living shit out of one another before sitting down and breaking bread together.
It was all so "Beaucoup Dinky Dau." The grunts dined in foxholes or bomb craters or alongside dank jungle trails. And, they dined on a “boxed lunch” – US Government type, combat meals, one each, canned rations, (aka: C-Rats) A grunt had a one in twelve chance of drawing ham and lima beans (aka: "Ham and Mother's)
Without a doubt, ham and lima beans were considered by most grunts to be the absolute pits. On a personal note, I wouldn't feed that rancid crap to my dog. Yet, in truth, some of the Southern boys in Hotel Company seemed to thrive on that "putrid horse-shit! - Go Figure, people! - Different strokes for different folks. There it is!
At any rate, there came a time when Marines in I-Corps were reduced to having to survive on just two combat meal rations per day. So, on top of being physically exhausted and emotionally spent, Marine grunts were forced to stave off pangs of hunger.
While at the same time, those troops who were fortunate enough to be stationed in areas considered to be secure (aka: Remfs) were feasting on beef steaks and guzzling down cold beers. It was a damn outrage and pure bullshit, brothers. “Use us and Abuse, Us! – That’s what we’re here for, brothers. - Oh-rah”.
To add insult to injury, the Remfs even got the opportunity to make “Mars Calls” to the folks back home during the Christmas Holiday Season. So, once again, I say with a clear conscience: (Loud and Clear, aka: Lima, Charlie) "Eat the Apple and F- the Corps, bro’s!" - If there is truly such a thing as a"Love-Hate Relationship" it is what I feel for the United States Marine Corps!. - There it is.
Yet, in truth, there is something about being a physically exhausted and emotionally stressed out grunt in harms way that allows a young man to rise above the petty bullshit of life. In a combat zone, one comes to embrace all of his brothers as equals among men and quickly learns to respect all of his comrades.
And, in embracing each individual Marine, as a comrade and brother grunt, the Marines of I-Crops learned something about life, each other and even, perhaps, a few things, just a few things mind you, about the unfathomable female of our specie. There it is.
What can I say? It was the best of times and the worst of times and damned if I know how to explain those sentiments rationally to anyone other than another sorry ass Marine! Yet, for all the camaraderie in the our platoon, it never stopped tempers from flaring or boys from being boys.
Yet, the occasional fist-fights and temper tantrums really didn't mean a thing, not a damn thing. In truth, we were comrades in arms and brother Marines. And as Marines, we fought a war together against the little people from up North. And, in truth, we all bled the same “Marine Corps Red.”
Yet, For all our caring and sharing, the Marines suffered far too many KIA and witnessed so many, many more of our brothers get themselves half - blown to hell in that war torn country, we lovingly referred to as: "The Nam." The Marines of I - Corps were, without question, physically exhausted and emotionally spent while operating under extreme duress on a daily basis.
In an unimaginable world of hurt, there was no rest for the weary grunt. In truth, the grunts were little more than a cadre of expendable cannon fodder to be used and abused by corrupt politicians in “LBJ’s” so called war of freedom and liberation in Vietnam???
On a personal note, it seemed to me that almost no one in the Dong Ha Command Group (aka: MACV) gave a damn about any of us. In truth, exhausted grunts made poor decisions in the field and some of those faulty decisions had cost other Marines their lives. The grunts of I-Corps were damn near “punch drunk” from being forced to function in a prolonged state of fatigue. Yet no one from on high ever called time out so that we might get even one decent night’s sleep.
No matter, brothers: - "Just Do or die, Marines.” You are on your own out there and you are expendable, bro’s. There it is! So, it’s no wonder that the seasoned campaign veterans (aka: Salts) had to shut down emotionally. There simply was no other way for them to cope with the near unbearable realities of that shitty little war. The stress level in I - Corps was literally off "The Frigging Richter Scale.”
So, in truth, exhausted Marines with heavy hearts and barely capable of rational thought due to the stresses of battle fatigue roamed the bush with awesome firepower in their hands. These weary grunts of I-Corps who were "Hell-Bent" on inflicting payback upon their elusive enemy. “Set your selectors on Rock and Roll, bros; it’s time to go for a stroll. Amen, and do get some, Marine’s!
Let’s do ‘em where they breathe, bro’s!” If one took but a brief moment out to look around as the patrol saddled up, all he would have seen was old heads on young shoulders. In truth, there were no young men in Vietnam. Everyone in “The Nam” had lived to be the eyes of age and few died young, people. There it is!
Yet, as the year 1967 drew to a close the battle weary Marines of 2/1 had no clue that the worst days of their tour of duty in Vietnam lay just ahead. Like the song said bros:
"Christmas Bells, mortar shells, VC in the grass, take your Merry Christmas and pound it up your ass. We're dashing o'er the dikes, while dodging barbed steel spikes, into the villes we go, seeking Uncle Ho. VC, on our right, another fire fight, oh what a bitch it is to be in Vietnam this night." Hey jingle bells, mortar shells... The stanza’s were frigging endless.
Cadence Count: “Your Corps, My Corps, I – Corps, Marine Corps! – Army, no good! Navy, no good! Air Force, no good! - Marine Corps, so good! umh, ah!… umh, ah! …- My Corps, Your Corps, Our Corps, Marine Corps. - So good! - Happy New Year, 2/1; we have just entered the Year of Our Lord - 1968. – Oh Rah and do get a grip on your- selves, bro’s!
Re: Statement about the Corps often heard in the Nam. – And, just to think, t-two years ago, I could not even spell the word, “M, - Ma -rine!” And, then, and then, Holy Shit, bro’s, I were one! – In truth, that light hearted dumb-ass, self - bashing attempt at humor always managed to draw a laugh or two from the seasoned campaign veterans.
The emotional shut down of a grunt may seem cruel and inhuman to some. And, in truth, it did give some credence to the myth that somehow, new guys were considered less worthy than seasoned campaign veterans (aka: Salts) in the Nam. In truth, it simply came down to a matter of self-preservation and maintaining one's sanity in a world gone mad.
By mid -1968, however, fifty percent of all United States Combat Forces in the Nam would be deployed in I- Corps. Thank God in Heaven for the United States Army Americal Division! And, welcome to I -Corps, dudes!” And, do be certain to bring all your “CHO – PARS” (aka: Huey attack helicopters) and an ample supply of body bags. You won’t know whether to shit or wind your watches up here, brothers.
So, Welcome and Ruff, Ruff, doggies! You dudes are just going to love the shit out of this place. And, you best believe this brothers: “The further North you go; the smaller the USO!” So, dig in deep, and dig in right, dudes! - You won’t be sniffing any female type, “Poon Tang,” out here. Welcome to the war in I - Corps, brothers!”
In truth, though, there also came a time when the most widely used greeting in our platoon was simply: "Eat the apple and F the Corps, bro's; it don't mean a thing, not a damn thing!" - "Gee but I want to go, back to old Quantico, gee but I want to go home!" I’ve had enough of this shit. - Where's Mom? What can anyone say with regard to just how one should go about explaining the reality of the Nam to a new guy. Except, perhaps, to say: "Welcome to the Nam, FNG, Welcome to the eternal heartache, Welcome to the thousand yard stare, and above all, Welcome to the war in Vietnam, sucker!" You are one dumb-ass patriotic American son of bitch and we salute you, bro!
Now here this; “The Marine Corps thanks you, the First Division thanks you, the General thanks you but, most of all, your weary ass brother grunts in the platoon thank you. Welcome to I-Corps, Marine. And, “Listen good, FNG” - you’ll be getting your Cherry busted most “Ricky-tick!
You’ll be going out with Corporal Bebault on the LP tonight. - (aka: Listening Post Detail beyond the perimeter wires) “Welcome to No Man’s Land,” (aka: “The Twilight Zone) - Sine Loi, my man, report to first squad. Corporal D’Angelo will get you squared away.
But, make no mistake, Marine, you have gotten yourself into a serious world of hurt! So, do keep your eyes wide open and your mouth shut, Marine. And, do watch that next step bro, it may well be your last. And, don't forget to clean your weapon and then clean it again, FNG. You’ll be needing it! "It's all beaucoup dinky dau out here, New Guy."
So try to look at it this way, New Guy: "In just 394 days and a wake up, if your head and ass are still wired together, you too will be up for rotation back to the land of the big PX." (Post Exchange - A Department Store on Base) Booze, Babes and good times await you back in the "World." And God willing, some of us are going to make it out of this stinking dung heap of a country alive. So, settle down and try to enjoy life as best you can new guy.
All you got to do is survive your tour of duty, brother. And, after that, your sorry ass is free to roam "World." And, then you can do whatever strikes your fancy! So, square your sorry boot to life ass away and do get with the program, Marine. Stay alert and do try very your best to keep your head and ass wired together, FNG. And, one more bit of advice here: “If in doubt, take 'em out Kill, Kill, Kill." In the end, all we had was each other. There it is!
Corporal Tom Bebault (aka: Be-Bo) was seriously wounded while on patrol in the “Rocket Belt.” Corporal Mike D’Angelo got to see Tom at “Charlie Med” down in Da Nang before he was shipped back to the “World.” When Corporal D’Angelo returned to us, he reported: “Listen up bro’s: Be-Bo got himself a “Million Dollar Wound.” Tom is being sent back to the World and he is going to make it.
Corporal D’Angelo’s sit-rep made our day. Oh-rah and get some “Be-Bo.” Normally, when a Marine was med-e-vaced out, he simply became history. No one ever knew for certain how things turned out for the guy; nor, did most Marines bother to ask. It was just better that way. It was the very first time that I can recall seeing a gentler and kinder side to Corporal D’Angelo. (aka: “D.”) D’Angelo was one hard core type of grunt.
Corporal Bob Hughes was also one gung-ho squared away kind of Marine. Sadly, On October 7, 1967, Bob was hit bad and, lost a leg, during a search and destroy operation in Quang Tri Province. Bob had also suffered multiple fragmentation wounds to the rest of his body while maneuvering our squad on a platoon sweep.
Our squad Corpsman, Doc Moyer had not given much hope for Bob recovering. The wounds Bob suffered during that hostile engagement with the North Vietnamese Army were of a truly grievous nature. I had always believed that Corporal Hughes had died that day. When a Marine got wasted (aka: KIA) in the Nam there was little time for his comrades to grieve his loss. His SRB (aka: Service Record Book) was closed, the war simply went on and yet another hapless FNG (Replacement Marine) took his place in the line of march. There it is.
But, in truth, the agony of that mortally wounded comrade's final earthly moments are forever seared into the brain-housing- groups of his brothers. In the Nam, Marines did not just die. In truth, people, they were brutally torn from this journey we call life while fighting for every last breath. There it is. - RIP, Bro’s.
The I - Corps region of Vietnam was a target rich environment, and not just for the Marines. Sadly, on October 18, 1967, Doc Moyer, himself, was struck down by enemy ground fire and seriously wounded during the Forest Campaign. There it is, bro’s. The grunts of the Corps wasted, did, blew away and permanently pacified the (NVA or VC forces) gooks.
But, lest anyone should ever forget, “The United States Marines of the Mickey Mouse Generation did not kill.” In truth, the Marines were all fine American patriots. Young men who willingly went to war to save a fledgling democracy in Southeast Asia and halt communist aggression in our “World.” Oh-rah! So, what the Hell went so wrong???
In turn, the North Vietnamese Army came down the "Ho Chi Minh Trail" in force to "do" (Kill) the Marines of I - Corps to the very best of their ability. The Marines had nothing but respect for those little brown commie bastards from the North. The NVA were a formidable enemy and “Totally Hard Corps."
Like the song said: "He shot once and he shot twice, I lay face down in the mud and rice. Well this could the last time, may be the last time I'll patrol, oh no. -Before you sign that line think twice or you may die in the mud and rice. Well this could be last time, may be the last time, I don't know"... - Semper Fi, do or die, Marine!
War is a dying business and in the 1967 - 68 Era of the War in Vietnam, business was good all the way around! Then one day, the Marine receives a tap on the shoulder and is told that his orders finally came through. The Marine is then told to pack up his 782 gear and get his sorry ass up to CP. (aka: Command Post) It’s over, bro. You're going home, you are history now, Marine.
The Marine knows what he has just been told yet, somehow, the grunt inside just does not allow him to believe it at first. Am I really going to make it out of the Nam with my head and ass still wired together? "Who Art in Heaven hallowed be Thy Name!" Yet, there is still one last agonizing mission to carry out before the Marine can depart his platoon area.
The weary grunt must face his comrades, dole out his extra gear and endure those gut-wrenching farewell embraces before boarding that out bound chopper. It is one painful and emotionally tormenting moment for that grunt. There it is.
Suddenly, all the terror that the seasoned campaign veteran had to work through as an FNG, returns with a vengeance. And, the grunt finds himself fervently praying that the chopper taking him down to Dong Ha will not be shot from the sky. It becomes the most terrifying of all the chopper flights that the grunt has ever been a part of. Later that evening, the Marine finds himself assigned to a plywood billet with a cot to sleep on. Hell there is even a table and some chairs available. The homeward bound grunts are duly impressed by their new surroundings.
But, all too soon, a siren begins to wail and the terrified grunt dives right through the side screening of that plywood hooch. And, in truth, he is not alone; grunts from others units take that desperate leap for cover and concealment almost in unison. The war weary Marines then decide to spend yet another night in a trench, screw the cots. There it is, bro’s. It don’t mean a thing, not a damn thing. In the morning, the maintenance Remfs at Dong Ha are pissed off to the Nth degree over the damage that had been done to their hooch area. - Sine loi, my man. – Ask me if I give a shit!
Some ninety - six hours later, the Marine finds himself standing in his Mother’s living room watching her cry. So, he tries his best to say goodbye to the Nam and move on with life. Yet, somehow, the Nam always remains close by. In truth, just a sound of a helicopter traversing the skies is enough to transport the Marine back through time, back to a place called The Nam, back to the “Twilight Zone,” of his youth, back to confront those pestering demons of a lost war that continue to haunt him.
One memorable evening, some fourteen years after that deadly fire fight in I-Corps, the telephone rang. Before my wife, Jane, handed the receiver over to me, she quietly confided to me that the man on the line told her was writing a book about Vietnam and would like to speak with me. I immediately felt uneasy and did not really want to take the call.
Hello? - "Hey Holly, this is Corporal Bob Hughes calling and I am trying to locate some of our people." How about we try to get together in Washington DC., on the tenth of November, Marine?
You've gotta be kidding me; who the hell are you. Corporal Hughes is dead??? -Hell, I was right there with him. What do you want with me, anyway? If you are working with that History Professor, forget about it, - no interviews - got it!
****Listen up, Holly, it's me, Bob Hughes... You remember that time in the rocket Belt with Sgt. Gaffney (aka: Robin) ... - Ken Gaffney had been awarded the Silver Star, suffered the loss of vision in eye and voluntarily remained in the Nam. Gaffney was one squared away Bostonian, bro's. NCO’s just didn't come any more "Hard Core" than - Sgt., Ken Gaffney, USMC.
As we spoke, the guy had all the right answers for my questions. He knew things only one who was there with you would or should ever know about. When Bob began to talk about Lt. Little (aka: Batman) I knew this was no prank. Damn, it was my former comrade and squad leader on the line. Welcome home, Bob. C'est la Guerre, Mon Ami!
My God Bob, I am so sorry; I thought that you were wasted... The last time I saw you, you were so frigged up... I mean, I thought...well, you know... - Yeah, so did everyone else, Holly, but somehow, I managed to pull through. - And, hey guy, it’s really good talking with you!…
With the sudden realization that Bob was alive, I damn near went into shock. Who would ever believe this one. It is extremely difficult, if not damn near to impossible, to ever adequately explain in mere words how one feels after taking a call from a ghost in a grave. Let it suffice to say that emotions were running high that evening and I could not get to sleep.
As soon as Bob and I had mutually concluded our present day situation reports, I hung up, poured myself a stiff drink and called Hank Decker. Deck was the only Marine I had regularly kept in touch with after the Nam. We attended each other’s weddings, got drunk together and more importantly, we've always been there for each other through the years.
Thus, it was that the first Hotel Company reunion held in 1984 in Washington DC began to take shape. While gathered together in DC, we literally stumbled upon our squad M - 79 man, Denny Porter. - (aka: The Lifesaver) It was both fitting and proper that our reunion with Porter, the "Gentle man from West, by God, Virginia," took place on one of our midnight to mother forays to the Wall."
As one of Hotel Company’s finest point men, historians, and published authors put it: “We drank beer by the case, swapped lies and missed the guys who have already gone on ahead of us. Oh - rah, and get some Michael! No one could have said it better. It would later be remembered as the night of the grunts.
So, the 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, of the Vietnam Era lives on and we are now, thanks to the dedicated efforts of our founder: - Corporal Robert T. Hughes, Jr., USMC, an incorporated association. Yet, we that are left grow old with the certain knowledge that we fought in the only war America has ever lost. All the sorrow and all of our sacrifices in the cause of freedom went for naught. It is a most bitter legacy and one that I would wish upon no other man’s son.
In truth, just thinking about that final debacle as our brother Marines were being evacuated from the roof of our Saigon Embassy still torments my soul. And, having witnessed that NVA tank crash through the main gates of our Saigon compound on the evening news became a recurring nightmare.
Finally, watching President Gerald Ford and his sell out piece of amphibian dung negotiator, Henry Kissinger toast the end of our Vietnam commitment while US Marines were still waging a desperate fight to survive on the roof of our Embassy, damn near put me over the edge.
Even now, I awake in the stillness of the night with that uneasy feeling and then commence to patrol the perimeter of my home. I listen for a sound, any sound, and then think about how to react first if and when trouble should come. Mercifully, I then loose myself in a thousand yard stare to await the coming of the dawn. Later, I will call upon my squad leader Bob Hughes or the rocket man, Henry M. Decker, to help settle things down with me.
Every Sunday morning since 1968, following Mass, my wife, Jane, and I light a votive candle in reverent memory of every Marine who gave the last full measure of devotion in our Nation's cause. War is the unfathomable curse of humanity, brothers and as Pete Hoban, a seriously wounded brother guest of Hotel 2/1, once said about the Nam: " We, the survivors, are forever numbered amongst the living dead." I do so fear judgment day, brothers. May Almighty God have mercy on us all.
From time to time now, we hear from Rocco's cousin, Sal through emails and the Muraco family has visited the First Marines web - site. And, when in Boston, we have an open invitation to get together with Rocco's sister Mary and her husband. God bless you, Mary. We wish you only pound cake and peaches all the rest of your days.
Yet, even after all these years, as the grunts of “I – Corps” would say: “Keeping that promise just about kicked my sorry ass.” All the days, peace be with you and do remember this Marines: “Sometimes, just sometimes mind you, a retreat can be a spiritually uplifting, thought provoking and worthwhile experience.”
And, lest I forget, brothers: - About Corporal Tom Bebault, Hotel 2/1. -(aka: BeBo) Tom did get that “Million Dollar Wound. “Be-bo” as Tom was affectionately known in our platoon arrived home in a hospital bed and married his main squeeze, Toni, while he was still recuperating from wounds sustained in Vietnam, the Republic of.
Tom actually went AWOL from a VA Hospital in Maryland in order to exchange marriage vows with, Toni, the girl he left behind, driving the getaway car. Sadly, though, Corporal Bebault spent his honey- moon all alone in his “VA Honeymoon Hospital bed. What the hell, in truth, it didn’t mean a thing, not a thing.“ Get some, Oh-rah and well done, Tom and Toni!” – “May the road rise to meet you, the wind be ever at your back and may the rain fall ever so softly on your fields.” - God bless and Semper Fi, Holly.
A friend from my church prayer group once shared some of the advice that his Grandfather had given to his Father regarding this journey that we call life. Manny’s Grandfather summed it all up in just four words: “Marry a good woman!”
“Thanks to Who Art” and the willingness of my “High School Sweetheart, Jane Murray,” to tie the knot, I was able to do just that, brothers! And, to my main squeeze, I would very much like to say: “Thanks for staying the course with me, Jane; I know that it has not always been an easy thing for you to do. – I do love you so.”
In summation: I would like to thank: “Lt. Herman little, the finest officer ever to command our platoon for his guidance and impeccable moral leadership. Sgt. Ken Gaffney who led the way and instilled confidence in us. We are in debt to Corporal Tom Nolan for helping us maintain our sanity with those word and mind games he always managed to conjure up. To Corporal Michael D’Angelo, a Marine’s, Marine, Oh – rah and Well done!
In truth, as an FNG, brothers, I was more afraid of Corporal D’Angelo at times than I was of the Viet Cong. Corporal Mike D’Angelo was also, thankfully, a “C-ration chef – extraordinaire and, often times, made those rancid c-ration meals more palatable for us.”
To our indispensable cadre of United States Navy Corpsman for the care and comfort they brought to their seriously wounded Marines in the field, I want to say: Oh - rah and Well done, brothers! To Henry and Gloria Decker, Denny and Gwen Porter, and L/Cpl. Nelson (aka: Figgie) my partner in crime and to my former squad leader Bob Hughes there are no adequate words to convey my thoughts or feelings about you guys. So, I will simply say: “ Thank you, one and all, bro’s, I love you guys to pieces.”
And, last but not least, a very special thanks goes out to: “ VVA National Chaplain, Father Phil and his Sacred Stories Retreat team.” And, finally, I would like to conclude this remembrance of our days in the Nam by saying: “Thank You Who Art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name!”
"Good Night Hotel Company, - May there never be another Vietnam”
Semper Fidelis,
Tom (Holly) Holloran – USMC: Hotel Company 2/1.
Email: [email protected]
