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Arrival to: Hotel Company, 1st Platoon, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, 1st Marine Division. Located at the Cua Viet River area just six miles south of the DMZ. A Company of men, no longer boys, which most in age were, but never any more due to the reality of war and the emotional scars that cut deep into your soul Lifting off in a C-130 transport plane leaving
Da Nang and on our way up to Phu Bai, we sat huddled against the inside
of a hollowed out air craft which rattled so loudly you couldn't hear yourself
think. As we climbed higher into the sky headed for Phu Bai, the thought
of being shot down by a rocket or anti aircraft guns seemed all so real.
Everyone was silent, scared or worried; it was hard to tell as the noise
made it impossible to speak to the person next to you. So I sat listening
to the vibrating sounds of the aircraft as it headed towards the war I
had only known about from TV and newspaper articles. I still couldn't get
the thought of heading up towards the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone) and wondered
if we’d be landing in a “Hot LZ” (Landing Zone). All I had was an old square
pack and an M-14 rifle with no ammo to shoot anything if the opportunity
presented itself. My mind began to imagine what Phu Bai would be like.
It was the next stop on my road to where I was to join up with my new outfit.
God knows we all had plenty of mental pictures of combat areas, from watching
the 6 o'clock news, when we were civilians at home safe in our living rooms
and Vietnam was somewhere, not quite sure where, in Asia some place.
The thoughts of those times when you'd run in to catch the news at 6 O'clock, mainly because my father was a career Marine, and he was stationed in Da Nang back in 1965, came flooding back into my mind. Back then during those times, the TV by way of the media, was always loaded with a few battle scenes piped directly into everyone's living room all across America. No previous war our country had fought in before gave this "real action" television imaging. My generation had such an opportunity, right as it was actually occurring, live every night on TV. We'd get to see wounded Marines and other service personal being loaded into medevack choppers, as families all across America could only pray and hope that those individuals who appeared critically wounded were not their loved ones or the neighbor next door. I had grown up in the Marine Corps. I had been born at Chelsea Naval Hospital, in Boston, Massachusetts, back on April 4, 1948. My first memories are when I was only two, living out in California. My father was stationed at El Toro, Marine Corps Air Station, and we lived on Balboa Island in California. My brother, four years older then I, was teaching me to float at the beach, and as I was floating, he let me go. My first experience of panic shrouded me like a smothering blanket, in fear of floating forever out to sea. I started screaming as my father casually walked over and picked me up. I probably could have just stood up, but at two years old, I felt only fear. Funny how your able to remember bits and pieces of early childhood. Something like a broken puzzle, until all of a sudden, a full picture develops around the age of four or five years old, and then memories from that point on seem to fit together, like in building a bridge to where you are now. At the age of five we lived at Parris Island, Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot, in South Carolina. Living aboard a base offered all kinds of exciting adventures to a little kid. Movies on Saturdays were free, the pool was free, both indoor and outdoor pools. The Island was yours to explore to your hearts content, and there wasn't anywhere you couldn't get to on your bike. Another advantage to having a father in the Marine Corps. You had state of the art military gear, helmets, packs, tents, canteens, even an old rifle that didn't work, but you didn't care because it worked just fine when you were playing combat and said BANG! All the kids in the neighborhood had the same gear available to them, so when you played war, you played war! Realism was no problem, as we had swamps and woods, and grassy fields to fight any kind of battle you could imagine. The only draw back was when you yelled bang at your enemy, he always yelled you missed me. Heck we even threw dirt clogs as hand grenades for realism, except sometimes they'd be a rock in one and the side of someone's head would open up, as they ran screaming home like they were dying. At least he couldn't say you missed me then. Funny what you think about as you fly high above the NVA (North Vietnamese Army) and VC (Viet Cong) in Vietnam. This time you were not playing war, but going into it, where there were no time outs, safe bases to be free on, and you couldn't yell at the enemy you missed me, or time out. My thoughts of early childhood, back at Parris
Island, playing Marine came to a sudden halt, when they were abruptly interrupted
by a banging noise of the landing gear going down on the C-130 transport.
We were told to brace ourselves for our landing. I watched the crew chiefs
on the plane as they took up their positions. They didn't appear to be
concerned about where we were landing, as they didn't have flack jackets
and helmets on, and no one was poised to fire a machine gun out an open
window in our defense. I guess the area was pretty secure, or these guys
would let us know, right?
The landing was rough and bumpy as all get out, I expected to have landed in an old corn field as the way we bumped and jolted around, it didn't appear to be a nice smooth runway that we landed on. This was different from the runway I had landed on earlier in Da Nang. The noise of the aircraft got louder as the pilot revved the engines and applied the brakes to coast to taxing speed. The heat seemed to pour into the aircraft even before we had come to a stop. This heat was stifling hot and suffocating along with the clouds of dust that the aircraft created as it came to a stop. When we stopped, the huge gate in the back kicked into its hydraulic gears and screeched out its loud sound of pressure, as it slowly lowered the back end of the aircraft, in order to allow us all the opportunity to deplane from the aircraft. All right, the crew chief yelled over the sound
of the engines still vibrating the C-130 as it stood motionless on the
runway. Grab your gear and file out in two single lines on the double,
he screamed with his voice over the thundering sound of the airplane’s
engines. The dust still hovered around the plane so it was difficult to
see what you were venturing out into, other then a thick brown, orange
cloud of dust. As we deplaned the dust clung to you like a grasping animal
clinging onto you for dear life. Even shielding your face and eyes wasn't
much help. The dust stuck to you everywhere, because you were sweating
bullets from the high temperatures of the heat and thick and balmy humidity.
It also made breathing difficult, something that you didn't want to do
anyway, because you'd choke on the thick particles of dust that would rush
into your mouth and lungs. The dust rushing into your mouth caused you
to gasp for air while choking and gagging and coughing lumps of grit. Grit
that had seeped deep into your lungs from breathing the thick dust the
aircraft stirred up. We hustled off at a faster pace to escape the dirt
and dust still being churned up by the rotating propellers of the aircraft.
Finally once out of the thick clouds of dust and dirt, you were able to
cough up more sludge from your lungs as you gagged and spit it out onto
the ground.
Having been briefed by this guy in the terminal, which was only a single story reddish brown building, that had originally been painted green. We were dismissed and told to proceed outside where we would board some trucks, which would take us to our final destination. We boarded the big trucks and they drove us off towards a group of shabby looking huts with tin roofs, surrounded by sandbags, and you guessed it, the color of reddish orange mud or dirt that was the basic makeup of the entire area. What ever happened to all this green lush jungle area you imagined when you were on your flight over to Vietnam. So far all I'd seen in Da Nang, where we started out was runways, single story sandbagged covered buildings, a mass of mixed military men and women dressed in every uniform of the day possible as some were arriving, others leaving and the rest marking time or doing their jobs. Phu Bai looked more war torn, as it probably had been, and definitely redder dirt and sand, then the green hills surrounding Da Nang when I arrived there. The truck stopped in front of all these huts and we climbed down from the vehicles and I stood there with all my earthly belongings and had no idea where I was or to who I was to report to, or even what outfit I was going to be assigned. Communication, I guess was just taken for granted, as no one seemed to know what we were suppose to do or where we were suppose to be. The Marines, who had made the trip up from Da Nang with us who had already been here or assigned to outfits, to which they knew their locations, didn't pay much attention to us at all. Heck, when the truck stopped and everyone got out, as I looked around to ask one of them where we were suppose to go, they were all gone, disappeared to their areas of refuge or to their outfits. Talk about organization, I thought to myself. I could be where I'm supposed to be and not know it. Or lost in the middle of this damn place. No body knew where we were supposed to be. All six of us that is, that had been assigned in Da Nang to this hellish area or duty station. They also seemed to be new, so none of us really knew the other as there wasn’t time to get to know each other being shuffled into the aircraft and then herded around like cattle at the air port at Phu Bai. We were all seemingly as confused to where we were supposed to be I was anyway. In front of us was this hooch with a sign on it, "2nd Battalion 1st Marines, “ The Professionals”. Is this it? I thought, do we go in here? As I started to walk towards the front door, it sprang open and this older guy in a greenish brown T-shirt and utility trousers said, you the new replacements up from Da Nang for Hotel Company? Yes Sir! We responded. Drop your personal gear, and take your M-14’s over to that hooch over there and turn them in for M-16’s, and pick up any additional gear you need, then report back here by 16:00 hours, is that clear? Yes Sir! We responded again, as he disappeared back into the hooch. Well, I thought, maybe this place isn't as unorganized as I thought it was. Obviously this guy had learned to cope with this miserable heat. He'd just occasionally poke his head out of his air conditioned office, or quarters, every once in a while, bark out some orders, and disappear back into the coolness of his quarters again. That to me is called copping with the elements. I dropped what gear I had, that I knew I wouldn't have to have replaced, and put it under the hooch so to insure it would be there when I got back. I was a bit leery about leaving it, but I could just keep my eye on it from where we were supposed to go. I figured it would be fine. The gear I had wasn't anything anyone would find worth stealing anyway. The humidity and the heat is so sticky and thick, that it chokes the breath right out of you, and leaves you feeling totally exhausted in the process, I was thinking when I felt this presence behind me in line. I could feel this large presence of an individual behind me, so as I inched forward to avoid whatever it was from crowding right up and over on top of me. A hard poked me and hit me square in my back. The heat was enough to make you feel crazy as it was, without this joker playing games or doing macho head-trips on me. So I politely inched forward a little more to give him the added room he seemingly needed for his large body. Poke! Again this joker pokes me in the back, and his presence seemed larger then ever looming over me from behind then before. I thought to myself, look, you've had martial arts since you were six years old living on Parris Island, you’ve kept up with it ever since you began, way back then. Now why feel uncomfortable about standing up for myself? I'd never seemed to have any problems dealing with anyone, physically or otherwise all my life, so the idea of standing here in this ungodly heat, having this huge bull elephant poke you around like a small insignificant animal didn't make any sense to me at all. Poke! Poke! This was ludicrous! If this guy
pokes me one more time, I'm going to drop suddenly down, fast as I possibly
can, real low, while at the same time swinging around with all the force
I could muster to hit him with an upper cut right in the family jewels.
If that doesn't drop him where he stands, well I was always considered
a fast runner, and I know someone this size couldn't catch me even in this
heat, so I'd go for it. Poke! Poke! I started to drop down but caught myself,
it was as if something inside said hold it, you’re making a mistake. For
some strange reason, I found myself turning around all natural and relaxed
like. As if nothing was happening, and as I literally looked up into this
guys face, which was a good foot taller then where I stood, my mouth dropped
open a second, then a huge smile broke out across my face.
I'll be, it was Peter Hoban, Peter here! It was impossible; Peter and I had been friends since we attended high school together, a time that seemed a 1,000 years ago. I was in shock, Are you really Peter Hoban? I thought you'd never turn around Hink, he said to me with a big broad smile on his face, as he gazed at me in a manor of unbelief. Hink, is a nickname my father gave me growing up, and everyone back in Milton, Massachusetts, my hometown and Peters, who knew me, or knew who I was, called me Hink. I hadn't heard that name called out in months. Even though it seemed a lot longer to me now, as a lot had happened to me and both of us since I had heard the sound of Hink being referred to me so casually. Everyone since boot camp only called each other by their last names, somewhat impersonal and to me always lacking in proper manors. Maybe it was better that way. We had been told in training, those of us headed for Vietnam, that you didn't want to develop close friendships as if they were killed or seriously medevacked it would make a hard situation even more difficult to deal with. Vietnam itself was difficult to deal with, and no one needed that extra baggage to lug around with over here. There were reasons for every seemingly insignificant
thing we did during training. It would all be later applied once we were
finally in actual combat conditions. That’s when reflexes determined life
or death, and there isn’t time to get in a group and decide weather to
obey it or formulate a better approach. It wasn’t weather you were making
sense out of what you thought was some insignificant order or not that
really mattered. They were not just as a harassment tool to make our lives
that much more difficult while in training, as we originally thought they
were. It is amazing what you are able to learn once you have already learned
it, and capable of seeing it from a more realistic viewpoint. This was
when a degree of maturity had settled in, and some how miraculously explained
it all to you. Some how it always came afterwards, never while it was being
applied. Like growing up, one day out of seemingly no where, zap!
You’ve become enlightened with the knowledge of how smart your parents
really were, and that all those times you figured they just interfered
with your fun, was not to prevent you from having fun, but keeping you
from heading down the wrong paths of your life. What you were unable to
see, was a life of disappointment and heartache, that awaited you, had
you been given the opportunity to make the decision that was fun as opposed
to what would be of real value to you. The many times I would sit mad at
my parents for seemingly punishing me for the sole purpose of making my
life miserable, when in fact they were keeping me from experiencing the
misery of a life time, had I been allowed to do these things my way. I
thought I had more knowledge of what was happening, then my parents did.
This period of enlightenment unfortunately doesn't have an age defining
period in which it arrives. To some it isn't until their in their late
teens, others early twenties and some never at all. Never at all group
are the most unfortunate, as they are unable to pass the wisdom from which
they were taught by their parents on to their children so they too can
reach that period of enlightenment in their lives. Amazing how in only
a few short months how much the Marine Corps in training you for combat
and the defense of your country, can bring about a period of self awareness
you never realize you had.
Fox Company just got waxed, (a term used which meant basically destroyed completely), in a convoy going down route 1 on a regular weekly patrol. Peter said as his voice dropped off suddenly allowing you to know by his tone that something very serious and bad had taken place. It wasn't like the bad we were used to on the block back home. This bad was far more serious, as lives were lost, and an experience that isn't common, even to them, the troops here, were used to having happen, it was basically a shock to them all. You got here in time, Peter said. Plenty of
time in case you thought you were going to miss out on any of the fighting.
Yeah, you're here in plenty of time, his voice dropping off again in tone,
as he seemed to turn and look at something far away in the distance. Turning
back with a different tone and even a different expression on his face
and in his voice he said, You’d probably see action before the week is
out Hink, then changing the subject, he said, here to get your new gear?
Yeah, I said, curious why he would ask when he knew why I was in this line
to begin with. That gear your getting by the way, it is from the company
that I just told you about, Fox Company. I can see, as he stopped speaking
for a second while gazing at the gear this guy was carrying as he passed
by us in line. His arms were full and he was making a beeline to somewhere
he could sit down and examine what he just picked up a little more carefully.
Peter began speaking again, that is the same gear Fox Company men had.
They were killed or wounded, from that incident I just mentioned to you.
It looks as if they didn't spend much time cleaning it up for you guys,
as his eyes turned to follow the guy who had passed us with his gear. Peter
was making sure what he just saw was really what he'd seen. The gear in
this guy’s arms was still covered in dried blood, and had holes in it,
where it looked as if shrapnel had penetrated it. See the blood on that
guys flack jacket, tugging at my arm as Peter responded in a voice sounding
like he was really seeing what he saw but not being able to believe it?
Yeah, I responded in a slow motion sound, as I wasn't able to take my eyes
off of the blood on the flack jacket and the holes in it, small holes but
hole just the same. If your lucky, yours won't be in such as bad a shape,
Peter said to me as he poked me again and he had added some humor to his
tone as he spoke this time.
Who's next! Came this voice out of no where, jolting me back into reality. Who's next, we don't have all day, the voice said again. I am, I said as I stepped forward and I handed this guy my M-14 rifle. What are you doing in this line I asked Peter? Just making small talk, as there wasn't much to say, yet at the same time there was so much to say. I saw you Peter said, so I figured I’d sneak up on you and surprise you. Well surprise me is right, what happened to college, you were accepted to Boston University with a full football scholarship? Ah! Peter remarked I guess I didn't want to miss out on the war, so I joined up back in August 1967. Well how long have you been here, I asked, hoping he wouldn't say he was going home soon, now that I finally found a really familiar face, after wondering around not knowing a soul? I got over here in January 1968, he said just in time for the "Tet Offensive". Are you going to stand there all day or take your gear this voice said out of no where? OH! I responded as I grabbed a handful of ammo bandoleers, an M-16 rifle, and a flack jacket and a poncho that was covered with areas of dried blood. Hink, Peter said, ever fire one of those rifles before? No, it's the first time I ever held one or really seen one up close before. Grab your gear and come with me, Peter said as I struggled with everything and tried to keep up with him. Hink, do you know what company your in yet? Yeah I said, as I dropped some gear and almost tripped over it. Let me give you a hand, Peter said in a way like we were still back in high school. I'll help you get situated and then take you to an area where you can zero in that rifle and get used to it. What company you in? Hotel, I responded, suppose to be with 1st Platoon, who and where ever they are. I'll take you to where their area is, there not there, where I’m taking you; they're up at Cua Viet. That's where you'll be going with the first available transportation out to them, probably tomorrow. I'll be going with you. I'm with S-2; I'm a sniper attached to Hotel Company for now. Lets get your gear sorted out and have you fire a few rounds before you get shot at and have no idea what end to use, he said with a chuckle in his voice. I was thinking, good OLE’ Peter, he always had a way of looking out for those he cared about, and that made me feel more comfortable, just knowing we’d be together for awhile anyway. By: Bobby Hingston
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