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Reflections and Recollections of Nam
AKA: Moving Day
By Thomas A. Holloran USMC
L/Cpl. Holly
Hotel Company, 2nd. BN. 1st. Marines
RVN Class of 1967-68.
Email: [email protected]
This Reflection is dedicated to the rocket men: Cpl. Thomas Nolan and L/Cpl. Henry M. Decker, Hotel Company 2/1, Third Platoon, Weapons section, RVN. Class of 1967-68.
Big John was wounded South of the river and I took over as team gunner. I kept firing on the enemy’s position and left Big John to Doc’s care. I never got to say thanks or even a “go easy” to my first mentor in Hotel Company 2/1. I did get to see the shadow of the med-evac chopper carrying Big John and the rest of our wounded back to Charlie Med. Then, L/Cpl. Alan James, returned from his R&R week in Hong Kong and assumed the position of First gun team leader. I immediately requested a transfer out of the team. James was a good field Marine and knew the M-60 machinegun inside out. But, L/Cpl. James was always spouting off about the brothers dying for the "White" man in an unjust war.
My request for a transfer was flat out denied. Our Company Gunny did intervene, however, and have a talk with L/Cpl. James. Whatever transpired during that chat, the playing of the race card came to an abrupt halt. Following a rocky start, we worked well together, came to respect each other and there were no attitudes to deal with. I guess it is so: “All’s well that ends well.” Some time later, Hotel Company was sent across the river, (aka: The River of no return.) on a two day search and destroy operation. And, things would never again be the same for Marine James.
While on patrol, L/Cpl. James was struck in the head by a sniper round. He spun around several times and went down hard. Miraculously, “Who Art” had chosen to spare Marine James on that fateful morning. The round had pierced Allan’s helmet and circled around his helmet liner in a downward spiral. L/Cpl. Hughes was so certain that Marine James was dead; he called it. What a surprise! Although, his head was creased and his brain-housing group had been rattled, Marine James was, in fact, alive.
In truth, not a single hair, piece of bone or brain matter appeared to be out of place. Our people had witnessed a full-blown miracle. All were amazed as they watched the latest Hotel casualty med-evac'd out. When James returned to us, he learned that Sgt. Carlson (aka: Sandy) was now our section leader. And, he (James) had become a squad leader. I was officially promoted to Lance Corporal. And, I became the 1st gun team leader to boot. All of our people wished me well.
Marine Decker jokingly suggested that I would be lucky to last as long as Big John did. In the Nam, a little gallows humor was always good for the soul. Following my promotion, I was ceremonially punched in both arms by my comrades. I was pleased with this ancient, if somewhat barbaric, tradition of the Corps. Although, both of my arms ached for hours after that promotion shindig. I had also been duly declared a platoon salt by the indomitable L/Cpl. Henry M. Decker, USMC. A salt: “One who had been around the Nam for awhile having managed to keep his head and ass wired together.” There it is.
About that time, we got some fresh meat (FNG’s) in the platoon. PFC. Figgie and PFC. Childs arrived in the weapons platoon. Both Marines had been assigned to the machine-gun teams. This was welcome news as there was a shortage of trained gunners (0331) in the machine-gun section. We were soon to learn that these boots to life had arrived just in time. Lt. Herman Little, the finest officer I ever served under in our beloved Corps, had just passed the word: “2/1 was about to depart the rocket belt and go North to Quang Tri Province.”
I always get a chuckle or two when a Nam Marine tells me that he did not go “North.” Every Marine who served in Vietnam was already operating in the Northern most Provinces of that dung heap we called Nam. In getting ready for the move up to Quang Tri, the Marines encountered a whole host of new challenges. Challenges that we could not have envisioned prior to our rotation out of the First Marine Division (TAOR) tactical area of responsibility. In truth, Marines were always on the move but we were also accustomed to traveling light.
One simply saddled up and boarded the chopper or truck carrying all the provisions needed to complete the mission on his back. This time, however, the Marines had to take everything the battalion possessed with them. Everything meaning: “Generators, 106 recoilless rifles, office equipment, etc.” To sum it up, the whole nine yards had to be tagged and bagged for an airlift up to Dong Ha. This advent brought us in close contact with "Super-Lifers."
These rear area (Remf) types were normally seen only when a grunt was: A.- going on an R&R, (A week’s vacation outside the Nam) B. - Being transferred from Charlie Med to a Naval hospital outside of the Nam, or C. If and when, a Marine got lucky and rotated back to the “World” under his own steam. A “Super-Lifer” was readily defined by the grunts of I-Corps as being a “Sorry-ass, loafing, non-combatant, son of a bitch, expecting retirement.”
So, now, we found ourselves having to deal with these pieces of amphibian dung and their petty (Remf) bullshit on a daily basis. In truth, though, we did get to have some semi-cold beers. (a rarity for Marine grunts) And, we also got to visit the “Boom-Boom” girls at the “Dink Deli” in Dog Patch. Being at the “Dink Deli” was akin to being in “Grunt Heaven.” Once there, the Marines drank down gooker beer, frolicked with the “Boom-Boom” girls and wrote letters home.
The salts definitely made the most of their time before “Moving Day” commenced in earnest. Silver Star recipient Sgt. Ken Gaffney (aka: Robin) had cut us some serious slack in the days just prior to going North. We were all in Gaff's debt. So, like, a weary grunt could truly say: “It wasn’t a total loss being in lifer land, bros’!” While we were in Dog Patch, L/Cpl. Rocco Muraco, RIP, had the audacity to have his jungle utility trousers altered.
And, “tapered utilities” became the instant rage in our platoon. It was definitely the fad to follow. Rocco looked so good that I was the next Marine to jump in line and have that “tapered utility look” laid on my sorry-ass. Our Mamma-San had cashed in “Big Time” on Rocco’s fashion statement. So, just when you think, the work details are over and all of our gear is stacked and ready to go, "Sin Loi," the shit hits the fan.
G/Sgt Thomas spies L/Cpl. Muraco in the tapered utilities and goes off the deep end. Thomas immediately calls a platoon muster and inspects the rest of the herd. Marines: Parker, Hebb, Porter, Miller, Chase, Butler, Decker, Ski, Figgie, along with Cpl. Nolan and company, (myself included) were taken to task for unlawfully altering Government Issue Field Uniforms.
Our guys, (aka: “The Mellow Fellows”) were sternly chastised, threatened with fines and subjected to company punishment. How dare we commit such an unlawful and dastardly transgression! In truth, what punishments were they going to hand out? Like, send us to the fucking DMZ or something? We were then given a direct order to remove our trousers and stow them in our haversacks. There it is.
Thus, it came to pass that we boarded the aircraft “Balls ass naked” for the flight up to Dong Ha. In truth, It was a most degrading and humiliating experience to have to endure. Every Marine who was humiliated by G/Sgt Thomas that day vowed to get some serious payback. And, when it came, that payback was ever so sweet! So, shit in your face, "Super-Lifer." There is a God and, as always, thank you, “Who Art!”
We arrived in Quang Tri, in the rain, and began the task of unloading our gear. “So welcome to the Third Marine Division war; you First Marine Division pieces of amphibian shit.” The Third Division Marines were always bitching that they had gotten the dirtiest end of the stick in Vietnam. The hours are long and the workload is heavy but, in short order, all is in place. So, we saddle up with field transport packs, kiss the relative comforts of Dong Ha farewell, and climb onto the transport trucks that have arrived in our honor.
As we travel past the 1st ARVN’s compound, we make eye contact with some of the South Vietnamese soldiers. And, many of our people are not happy with what they see. The ARVNS are playing loud music, holding hands and smiling, yeah they are smiling at us. These South Vietnamese gooker misfits are cheering our sorry asses on as we drive toward their war. From what the Marines observed, it was no wonder the first ARVN compound had already been overrun once by the NVA.
The Marines ended up having nothing but respect for their mortal enemy. The NVA were hard core troops and definitely had their shit together. On the other hand, our so called South Vietnamese allies left much to be desired. Wherever the ARVN went, they made enough noise to wake their ancestors. In truth, they just never quite cut the mustard. And, for the most part, the Marines ended up loathing them. In parting, we shake our heads and flip them the bird.
So, I am thinking to myself: “We who are about to die salute you, you ARVN pieces of amphibian shit, go rot in Hell.” The sentiment is damn near unanimous: Fuck ‘em where they breathe, do them all and let “Who Art” sort it out. “I shoot North; I shoot South, same-same.” Further up the road, our convoy comes to a halt and the Marines disembark. We rout step passed a Catholic convent and school complex on our trek into Hell.
A cross placed atop the Catholic school looms larger that life itself and draws more than a few long, hard stares. “Who Art in Heaven hallowed be Thy Name!” Do I have an Amen on that, Bro’s? - Amen! The Marines hump through the bush carrying all their earthly possessions on their backs. And, Marine Holloran cannot shake the uneasy feeling about the future. After what seemed like an eternity, the column finally came to a halt. It had been a full day's trek.
So, here it is bros’ our new home away from home. Many things begin to happen all at once as the Marines take control of the area. Hotel Company’s main body starts a wide circling maneuver as the lead squad begins to search for mines and booby traps. As the circle closes, more fire teams join in on the sweep and clear mission. Once the sweep is completed, the Marines begin the arduous task of digging foxholes, laying wire, creating interlocking fields of fire, setting up claymore mines and waiting for some word. And, yeah, no matter what, it always came down to a proverbial case of hurry up and wait! There it is.
As Corporal Buddha approaches our position, Lieutenant Runnels closes to meet with him. And, "CA- Boom,”- Cpl. Buddha steps on a land mine and is launched into the air. Lt. Runnels is thrown back and slams into the ground about ten feet from my foxhole. Corporal Buddha is seriously hurt; Lt. Runnels has his bell rung and his right hand is also fucked up by the blast. So much for the success of the sweep and clear operation inside the perimeter.
The latest Hotel Company casualties are air lifted by a med-evac chopper and taken back to Dong
Ha. Our platoon commander voluntarily returns to us within a few days. And, though his right hand is now useless, he is raring to get into the action. In the end, Lt. Runnels “Gung Ho” attitude would prove to be a fatal mistake. Cpl. Buddha is history, and is already rumored to be in route back to the “World.” - Go easy Bro!
In the meantime Staff Sgt. Elias Sau Sau, a Samoan dude made of pure grit and brawn, had assumed the duties of acting platoon commander. The platoon is informed by S/Sgt. Sau Sau that the Third Herd will be going out on a fact finding mission. The Marines are going to check out the local terrain. So, we chow down, secure the password and set in for the night. When it comes, we are in total darkness. There it is.
I take the "Mid-Night to Mother" watch because I simply don’t trust anyone else to watch over my sorry ass in the dead of night. With the rising Sun, I enjoy my one true passion, a steaming hot cup of coffee and some C-ration crackers. It is an awesome treat and that near to sacred ritual of mine was always so finger dunking good. A Marine had to learn to make the best of a shitty situation in anyway, however small, that he could. The life of a grunt is never an easy one.
We draw ammo and secure three grenades per man; we clean and check our weapons, pack some extra socks and stow our C-rats before hauling ass. As ever, before departing our perimeter, I engage in my standard prayer ritual. I say one Our Father, one Hail Mary and one Glory be. I then make my confession to the four winds. And, as usual, I faithfully promise “Who Art in Heaven” that I shall never again visit the “Boom-Boom” girls in Dog Patch. And, at that moment, I am dead serious about mending my sinful ways and steering clear of brothels.
We hump through the hills for a time and make no contact. During our first day in the bush, there is not a soul to be found, friend or foe. On the afternoon of day two, our point man, Ski, makes visual contact with an NVA patrol to our West. But, the gookers’ are quite a distance off and are of no immediate concern for us. Platoon radioman, Lu Parker, calls in an enemy in the open sighting sit-rep (aka: Situation Report) to Battalion HQ. The Marines then commenced to sit their sorry asses down.
All to often, we are over worked, underfed and physically exhausted while operating in harms way. Therefore, it is always good when we can catch a huss (aka: a break) and just sit in place for a awhile. The “Fast movers” (aka: Jet Aircraft) appear overhead and close with the enemy. An unsuspecting enemy patrol now caught out in the open. We are just like spectators seated in the top rows of the Roman Coliseum.
Our Platoon is just close enough to make out some of the action but still far enough above the fray to have any concern for our own well-being. We chow down on our government issue C-rations while we catch some slack time. So, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em bros! A sudden call for “Corpsman up” interrupts our time of tranquility. One of the FNG’s in the 60 Mortar Crew has suffered a seizure. The Marine was in serious condition and a med-evac priority had to be called in. This was not good news people.
Now, we would have to vacate our area of operation most ricky-tick. The presence of a chopper going down in the bush could only mean one of three things: A.- Marines were being inserted into the area. B. - Marines were being extracted from the area or C. - A chopper had just crash-landed. In any event, it would certainly draw the attention of any gookers’ lurking in the area. Once the med-evac chopper lifted off, our platoon had to make a Dee-Dee (aka: a move on the quick). The Marines had to put some distance between themselves and the piece of earth that was to have served as their base camp.
The Marines saddle up, once again, and move out. We are now heading in a Northwesterly direction. We are also traveling deeper into the foreboding hill country. The terrain is marked by dense undergrowth and the going gets rough. As nightfall approaches, the Marines find a suitable hill top position and hunker down. The dense foliage provides us with good cover and concealment. But, that very same foliage limits our vision and denies us a clear field of fire. A proverbial case of: “Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.” Our people do not like the situation much but there it is.
As I stare off in the distance, I sight in on what appears to be a perfectly designed hill. It
seemed as if all the trees had been deliberately placed in a straight line. So, I suddenly get an uneasy feeling about that hill. I, then, share my thoughts with my comrades. And, I tell them that we will be going up that hill in the near future. I also share my vision that there is great death on that hill. I now find myself emotionally torn and sinking into a serious World of shit. I do not like dealing with ominous premonitions; like, they freak me out. Yet, every now and then I'd get one. There it is.
In Quang Tri Province during the day, the temperature hovers at just over 100 degrees. At night, however, the temperature drops down to a mere 75 degrees and our teeth chatter. The sweat of the day’s toil dried like glue and is caked on our skin. The Marines felt like day old water-boo dung. And, it sucked big time! “In truth, it was cold in them thar hills, especially at night, Bros.”
Yet, as always, the Marines of Hotel 2/1 sucked it up and simply accepted the hellish reality of another ungodly situation. We were, after all, United States Marines with a mission to carry out. For the record, "Mother Green" and her killing machine had never promised any of us a rose garden. And, the only thing you could count on in the Nam was the simple fact that things could always get worse. And, they often times did. “It didn’t mean a thing not a damn thing!”
On day three, our food supply is exhausted and the Marines begin to feel the pangs of hunger. We have been maintaining a 50 percent alert during the "Midnight to Mother" watch and our people are suffering from sleep deprivation. The Marines are so fucking tired that they can neither react fast enough, nor, think rationally any longer. It is not a good situation. We seem to aimlessly hump the bush looking for signs of recent enemy activity. We stumble across several well concealed bunkers and also uncover some enemy spider holes.
Thankfully, no NVA occupied the encampment. I sit down inside an NVA bunker and eye fuck the area. And, I thank “Who Art,” once again, for our good fortune. If the NVA had been home, there would have been hell to pay. We are all spooked as an eerie feeling settles over the platoon. We are walking around in an abandoned enemy base camp and we don’t like what we see. It is a formidable fortification that is very well concealed. Hell, we had walked right smack into the middle of it before realizing what we had actually stumbled onto. Lady luck was with us.
We pushed on until it was nearly nightfall and found a place to hunker down. We were tired, hungry and not in the best of spirits. The mood in our platoon was somber to say the least. C-rations never quite satisfied our hunger pangs. I have one beef bullion cube. Hank Decker has a partially used tube of Ipana toothpaste; L/Cpl. James throws in a can of ham and lima beans. We are sorely missing our C-ration chef- extraordinaire. Cpl. Mike D'Angelo had rotated back to the world. - "Get some D!" There it is.
To round out our meal extraordinaire, we toss in a couple handfuls of wild berries. The berries are from nearby bushes that we observed a flock of birds feasting on. We placed our hodgepodge meal in a helmet and mixed in some instant coffee and cream packets for good measure. We then heated that rancid pile of shit and had each man in the squad draw an equal share. It tasted like day old water boo dung but, at least, we had something in our stomachs.
Suddenly, a hapless deer like creature wandered into our sights. And, in truth, it was a mighty tempting target of opportunity. S/Sgt. Sau Sau, sensing our ill-advised starvation thought process, took immediate action. Sau Sau gave us a verbal tongue lashing worthy of a Parris Island D.I. For a moment there, our desire for a solid meal nearly overrode the need to maintain noise discipline.
It seemed that the Brass in Dong Ha was doing little or nothing to increase our food rations. The Marines of Quang Tri just never got enough C-rations (aka: C-rats) to satisfy them. In one way or another, the grunts always seemed to get the short end of the stick. Rumors ran wild about the Brass eating bacon and eggs for breakfast and feasting on steak and potatoes with gravy for supper. Hence, sometimes, just sometimes mind you, it came to a point where few, if any of us, gave a flying shit about anything.
“Eat the apple and fuck the Corps” was a cry heard loud and often in those days up North. Holly wondered whether keeping lowly grunts agitated and hungry was not an official Marine Corps policy. For, in truth, the Marines did become: “Aggressive, Lean, Mean, Fighting Machines.” Our casualty rate was steadily on the rise. And, the mood was getting ugly. Ergo, the Marines came to hump the bush country with “Mercy for none and malice toward all.” Payback was most definitely on the Marines agenda and confidence in themselves, for all their troubles, remained high. There it is.
The foray into the hills west of Quang Tri was mostly uneventful. “The Hill of great death” turned out to be nothing more than a National Shrine of Honor. The trees actually had been planted in line. Each tree was planted to honor some deceased “hot-shot” gooker who had made his mark in Quang Tri Province. Still, the premonition about that hill was unsettling. And, to boot, the Marines had been out for days and failed to make contact with the NVA. We arrived back at base camp exhausted, emotionally drained and near starving. No one even asked about the Marine who suffered the seizure. It was best not to know.
Our people were so exhausted, in fact, that a true-life tragedy reared its ugly head. An FNG attempting to clear his Colt 45 caliber pistol suffered an accidental discharge. The event ended with the second friendly fire incident on my tour of duty. This so-called "Friendly Fire" thing turned out better than our first one down South. At least this time, there would be no fatality to fret about.
In truth, PFC. Childs had gotten himself a “Million Dollar Wound.” And, although his wound was serious, Childs would live to tell the tale. His near death experience was witnessed by our people in disbelief. The shaken and punch-drunk FNG was beside himself with grief. It was a tough thing for any Marine to have to live with. The tragedy conjured up memories I had long tried to forget. In truth, the incident shook me up pretty badly.
Our first friendly fire incident had taken place down South. The God awful mishap had resulted in the death of L/Cpl. Paul MacKay. Our platoon was operating in the Da Nang TAOR at the time. Lt. Little (aka: Batman) had taken our people across the river into no man's land. Once there, we began the arduous task of seeking to engage the elusive Viet Cong. Our mission was to be a two day "seek and engage op."- (aka: mini-operation) Nothing out of the ordinary for the grunts of Hotel Company. In fact, it was standard procedure for the grunts of 2/1. There it is.
As I recall, it was an extremely hot and humid day in July. In truth, there was not an ounce of shade to be found anywhere. The water in our canteens was little more than a putrid, piss warm, liquid. It was hardly worth sipping. Our jungle utilities stuck to our skin like wallpaper. Our people were keeling over from heat exhaustion. Still, we humped through dry rice paddies and abandoned villes. What Holly would not have given up for just one cup of ice. The beat goes on.
As night fell, our squad, led by Sgt. Templeton, set up in an L-shaped ambush in a nearby tree-line. It was there that things went terribly awry. During the "Midnight to Mother Watch" while checking lines, Marine MacKay stepped outside the tree-line. Marine MacKay then, for reasons known but to God, turned the corner and proceeded to walk in front of our fighting position. Marine MacKay's actions proved to be fatal.
Cpl. Evans (aka: FNG Type NCO), in that god awful darkness, mistook Marine MacKay for a gooker and opened fire. Marine MacKay fell mortally wounded and passed on quickly and quietly. Paul MacKay was an Afro American, a devout Jew, a faithful comrade and an all around decent dude to hang with, - RIP bro. In truth, that first friendly fire kill kicked our ass. Our squad was in a funk for days following that horrific screw up. Truth be known, violence and death visited us often in the Nam. But, when the violence is caused by your own mistake, what can one say? It is a hard thing. There it is.
As the latest med-evac chopper lifted off from our base camp in Quang Tri, I thought to myself: “You lucky bastard, Childs; I almost wish it had been me.” PFC. Childs’ ticket had been punched. His war was now over. In time, Marine Childs would recover and be sent back to the “World." It just doesn’t get any better than that bros'. In the aftermath of the accidental discharge, I curled up in my foxhole and went to sleep. It didn’t mean a thing not a damn thing. “Sweet dreams Holly!”
As Corporal Thomas Nolan recalls in his new book: “Just a walk in the Park.” “Our mission took us on a night move through a nearby village suspected of being sympathetic to the NVA. We had not, as yet, been through that area during the daylight hours.” All of our people were a little unnerved about that reality. “Yet, ours was not to reason why; ours was but to do or die.” And, die we did bros'. There it is.
The patrol departed the relative safety of our hilltop perimeter about 21 hundred hours. But, not before we completed our prayer group service. The Marines then headed North passing through the village without incident. The patrol then continued on into the hill country beyond the ville. My M-60 gun team was bringing up the rear of our patrol. I had a very uneasy feeling.
PFC. Kisner was on point. Kisner was followed by JJ Martinez, (aka: The Mex). Squad Leader, Frank Muraco (aka: Rocco) was third in line. Muraco had been in the Nam for just under a year. Rocco was followed up by Lt. Runnels who had just, recently, arrived in country. To say that it was dark that night would be the understatement of my entire tour of duty in Vietnam. To boot, the Marines were operating on totally unfamiliar ground.
Our people moved along cautiously as the patrol began to ascend toward higher ground. My heart was pounding so hard I thought the gooks would hear it beating on the other side of the DMZ. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light that was followed up by an ungodly noise. I had been temporarily blinded by the flash and put out of action. It seemed to take forever before my eyes could readjust to the darkness. It was all "Boo-Coo Dinky Dau."
Cpl. Maples approached me and indicated I was needed up front. The blast from that detonation had been utterly devastating. The Mex, Rocco, and Lt. Runnels were KIA; PFC Kisner was unconscious and in critical condition. Marine Kisner’s foot had been severed by the blast. And, a couple of other Marines had suffered fragmentation wounds. Doc was using all his medical skills, and then some, to keep Kisner alive. In truth, we had a full blown fucking nightmare on our hands!
In the moments following that ungodly explosion, Cpl. Thomas Nolan assumed command of the patrol and pulled everything together. Nolan immediately formed a hasty defensive perimeter. This action was taken to counter any attempt by the NVA to overrun us. Our radio operator, Lu Parker, calmly set about calling in a priority med-evac for the dead and the dying. PFC. Parker was always a cool dude under fire. I was ordered to place my gun team facing down the trail to our rear and to keep the team alert.
The Marines would be maintaining a100% perimeter watch until first light. Many sound military tactics were being put into place. Even some of our FNG’s came of age that night. There was little time to dwell on the horror or the sorrow that had just befallen our “Midnight to Mother” patrol. There was little for anyone to say, except maybe: “War is hell bro’s.” There it is.
When the med-evac chopper arrived overhead, Cpl. Nolan ordered Marine Maples and Marine Holloran to place the bodies of the MEX and Rocco Muraco aboard the chopper. Nolan did not want any FNG’s touching their remains. We had all traveled down many trails together. So, it was fitting that old comrades should handle that detail with as much dignity as possible. Lt. Runnels had only been with us for a short time. In truth, we never really got to know him and there was little time to mourn his passing.
Yet, later on, while alone in my foxhole, I did allow myself a moment or two to grieve the loss of my old comrades. My tears flowed freely and I made no attempt to hide, conceal or stop them. Rocco and the Mex were good Marines and they were also my friends. We had swum at bridge, frolicked in Dog Patch and broke bread at regiment, together. It all seemed to have happened so many lifetimes ago, RIP bros. L/Cpl. Holly suddenly felt so very old.
Late in the month of November 1967, the Brass had a hot meal flown in for us. “Hot Meals” were unheard of for grunts operating in Quang Tri Province. Yet, we were told that this gala event was shaping up to be a feast fit for a King. A long overdue “party hearty affair” that was to be served up in our base camp. Our mouths were watering just thinking about that prospect. So, “Happy Thanksgiving Day, bro’s!” There it is.
When the day finally came, our people were all on cloud-fucking-nine! We got to chow down on some hot turkey, or what was passed off as turkey. Our meal was smothered in brown gravy and covered over with mashed potatoes. - Good Lord, what a treat! We drank semi-cold beer and listened to the sounds of Armed Forces Radio. The music was soothing and a welcome change from the silence of the bush. In the bush country, the silence was deafening. This would surely be a day to remember.
A popular female DJ, Chris Noel, read a number of love dedications from girls back home. On the radio, Chris Noel spoke in a voice that was to die for. Just the way Chris said: "Hi love" was enough to send a homesick grunt into orbit. Years later, I got to meet Chris at the Wall and even gave her a kiss on her cheek. It was one of those moments to have and to hold. - Oh -Rah!
At any rate, back in Quang Tri, the Marines enjoyed an overdue mail call. And, some Marines, just some of them mind you, even spoke of rotating back to the “World.” Dudes spoke of the cars they would soon buy. The kind of job they wanted to get. And, more importantly, the type of woman they hoped to find. What an experience! It was a time of peace and tranquility for the “Guests of the Hotel.” In truth, the bullshit was flying high. And, yeah, a good time was had by one and all. “Oh-rah and well done!"
A short time later, however, most of our people came down with a severe case of the drizzling shits. Marines farted, wretched and up-chucked all over the perimeter. In truth, it became something of a fucking full blown “Barf-a-rama.” These grunts had existed on C-rats for so long that their bodies were no longer capable of digesting real food. The Marines could not even tolerate semi-cold drinks in their stomachs. Yet, amid all the abdominal discomfort and the rumors of the coming move up to Con Thien, the exhausted “Grunts of the Hotel” managed to get some much needed rest.
As sparse as the living conditions were at our hilltop base camp in Quang Tri, it sure beat the hell out of humping through the bush. For the weary young men of Hotel 2/1, it just didn’t get any better. Home sweet home, there it is. And, finally, the mellow fellows got a chance to settle the score over being humiliated by G/Sgt.Thomas. The “Ball Ass Naked” ditty that Thomas had put us through on moving day was not forgotten! As Thomas lay sleeping at the bottom of his hole, one of the mellow fellows squatted over him and let loose with a full blown drizzling shit barrage!
Spastic diarrhea covered Thomas’ eyes, ears, nose, mouth and throat. G/Sgt. Thomas was freaked out for days. He was seen often goggling from his canteen while muttering to himself about the disgusting fate that had befallen him. The mellow fellows had taken their revenge on a petty ass lifer. And, in truth, that revenge was ever so sweet. G/Sgt. Thomas vowed that there was going be "Hell to Pay" if he caught the guilty Marine. Holly just gloated and chuckled over that late night rectal gas assault for weeks. It was the best, the absolute best, bros'. The lifer bastard got his just desserts. Yes, God does exist and thank you, "Who Art"!
L/Cpl. Holloran (aka: Holly) had, by that time in his tour of duty, witnessed enough of the carnage of war to last him a lifetime. Holly was no longer joyful or even the slightest bit enthusiastic about laying claim to the title of United States Marine. Truth be known, L/Cpl. Holloran only wanted to leave the Nam behind and return to his beloved Jane. The war had taken its toll on the patriotic young man from Bishop Edmund J. Reilly High School.
L/Cpl. Holloran often thought about that naive young fool who could not wait to join the Marines. An innocent kid who was anxious to get to the war before it ended. He sincerely wanted to save the "World" from communist aggression and also return home in glory. The South East Asian Treaty Organization (aka: SEATO) and the Domino Theory as taught by the Sacred Heart Brothers had motivated him. Upon high school graduation, he proudly answered the call to duty and enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. "Goodbye my darling hello Vietnam!"
In those days, Holly still believed that men of honor were running the United States Government. But, during a tour of duty in the Nam, everything had come unglued. The home front had exploded in anti-war sentiment. And, his own family was uncertain of what to think about Vietnam. Holly was left confused, downtrodden, and uneasy about the meaning of life itself. He suddenly found himself at sea. It was all "Boo-Coo Dinky-Dau!"
In late April of 1968, L/Cpl. Holloran got the wish he had been fervently praying for. He finally boarded that coveted "Freedom Bird Flight" back to CONUS. And, to boot, he had managed to do so with his head and ass still wired together. As the Continental Airlines Jet approached the twelve mile limit, our military fighter escorts broke off and returned to Da Nang. Shortly thereafter, a voice came cackling over the intercom. - A voice simply stating: “This is your captain speaking: We are now flying in International airspace, gentlemen. Please be advised that you are no longer short-timers in Vietnam, you’re gone!"
Loud roars and screams of approval erupted throughout the aircraft. For a moment there, Holly thought the plane might well be shaken from the sky. Once the pandemonium settled down, a quiet calm came over the returning veterans. I guess each of us got lost in his own thoughts; the silence was deafening. For the first time in thirteen months, Holly closed his eyes, gave thanks to "Who Art" and slipped into a peaceful slumber. It was one of those rare moments in life that one would never forget. His war was finally over or so he thought.
On September 27, 1969, Tom married Jane at Saint Kevin’s Church in Flushing, New York. Hank and Gloria Decker were present at the marriage celebration. We have remained close and dear friends throughout the years. Jane still maintains and treasures all the "Free" letters I sent to her from the Nam. As for me, I still struggle with the PTSD thing. There is not a day that goes by that I don't think about some aspect of my tour of duty in Vietnam. There it is.
To this day, Jane and I continue our weekly ritual of lighting a votive candle after Mass. We carry out this Sunday thing of ours in fond remembrance of all the fallen Marines of I-Corps. And, truth be known, it really does mean a lot to us. All the days, peace be with you and may God bless bros'.
Parting Quote: "I pray for a more friendly, more and more understanding human family on this planet. To all who dislike suffering, who cherish lasting happiness, this is my heartfelt appeal."
- The Dalai Lama.
Semper Fidelis,
Tom Holloran, USMC.
Hotel Company, 2/1.
RVN Class of 1967-68.
Email: [email protected]
Nam Talk: An explanation of the language used by Marines in Vietnam:
ARVN: Army of the Republic of Viet Nam.
Boom-Boom Girl: A young Vietnamese female type prostitute.
Boo-Coo: From the French word beaucoup, meaning many.
Brass: Senior Marine Officers in charge.
Bush: Any area of terrain outside the wires of Marine base camp perimeters.
C-Rations (aka: C-Rats): 12 boxed meals per case.
Charlie Med: A Navy medical facility located in Da nang.
Charlie and Luke: Slang names used for the Viet Cong.
Claymore Mine: Hand detonated anti-personnel explosive device.
CONUS: The Continental United States.
Dee-Dee: Move out on the quick.
Dinky Dau: Crazy in the head.
FNG: Fu*king new guy.
Gooker: A Vietnamese person, male or female, friend or foe, from the North or the South.
Grunt: A Marine infantryman
Huss: Catch a break or enjoy some slack time.
I'm Game But I Don't Have The Flame: Lacking a Zippo Lighter.
Lifer: A career Marine, usually, an older man with a rank of S/Sgt. or above.
Med-evac: The evacuation of a wounded or dying Marine to a medical facility by helicopter.
Midnight to Mother: The hours between midnight and dawn's early light.
Mother Green: A slang term used by grunts in referring to the United States Marine Corps.
Number One: The absolute best.
Number Ten: Is down and dirty, or no good.
NVA (aka: Mr NVA): -Nathaniel Victor Alpha, The Enemy.
PTSD: Soldier's heart, Shell Shock or Combat Fatigue
Remf: Rear area non-combantent office type Marine.
R&R: A week's vacation outside of Vietnam referred to as "Rest and Recuperation."
Ricky-Tick: As soon as possible.
Salt: A seasoned campaign veteran.
Sin Loi: Sorry about that.
Situation Report (aka: Sit-Rep): A radio transmission indicating prevailing conditions.
TAOR: A tactical area of responsibility.
Viet Cong: Local communist guerilla forces in the South.
Ville: A hamlet or village.
World: Back home in the good old USA.
There it is!
