The Price Of Glory: Battle of Hill 488

In this book, the Battle of Hill 488 is described accurately, in action-packed detail, which you will never find in any other accounts of its history. It also explores the prices paid, and the lengths men will go to in the pursuit of glory.

If you’re reading this, it is only because of the innovation and foresight of some men and women who valued the written word long before computers were available to the public. However, even though their ideas of electronic book readers weren’t popular for decades, somewhere along the line the literary world became too one-sided and common people had lost their voice.

By then computers had advanced, and a new generation of innovative entrepreneurs took advantage of something that was written into a document over 200 years ago by other men of foresight; it is called the Constitution of The United States of America. The new generation of entrepreneurs developed self-publishing over the internet, which allowed people like me to tell our stories; people who otherwise would not have had been recognized by the conventional publishing industry, and whose words would remain lost in history along with the knowledge they might reveal. Ironically, the written word and the value of truth it can convey, appears to have a spirit of its own.

After this book was near completion, I questioned my reasons for writing it in the first place. It wasn’t an easy question for me to answer, because as I was in the process of writing it more and more motives inspired me to feel I had something of value to say, and would be important in some way for people to read and know. It took some personal soul searching, thinking back to what I first thought when I started.

When it all came back to me, I wasn’t sure if this was something I should tell the readers about. In fact, by doing the best I could to survive and help others to survive in a hopeless situation, it seems that without knowing it, I had committed an offense against an unwritten law in a tradition no one has proved exists.

However, my first conscious motive stemmed from bitterness that came from the feeling of betrayal, and the violation of trust that I had in my comrades and superiors. I was angry and wanted revenge, or at least to set the record straight. Although I didn’t go with those emotions or feelings without questioning them also.

I had to know if what I felt happened, did in fact happen, and then came the question of why, which was I think the hardest question to answer. In any case, such as it is, the book is published and whoever you are you’ve read at least this far.

Whoever may be offended by what I’ve written has also been an important factor of concern. The rule I followed from the start was to hold to the truth above all my fears, and my sympathies for the feelings of others who may have been directly or indirectly involved in this story. That’s the way I felt it had to go. For those of you, who are offended by foul language, be advised the language used in many of the quotes is what was commonly used in the military during the Vietnam War, and to some degree, I understated the obscenities due to my concern for some readers.

As strange as it may seem, what mostly caused this book to be written was the twisting of truth. By challenging the truth, which many people claim to hold dearly as the way to freedom, they challenged what I believed. After all, what I fought for was freedom for all, not just a select group, selected by someone’s clever manipulation of words and documents to benefit those they knew personally, and those who were willing to trade the truth for a shiny trinket they could boast about.

The confusion of the Vietnam War allowed a window for many things to slip by that otherwise might have been handled differently. The desperation of the hierarchy in the US military to justify their existence led to their willingness to accept lesser than standard values to use as propaganda to convince the politicians, and the people, to support the occupation of South Vietnam, no matter what the cost to the men who did the fighting.

Once this window opened, there were men who saw there was an opportunity to present shady ideas, which eventually cast a shadow over the men who were willing to serve their country honorably. Although the suffering of the men may be forgotten, there will be a blotch on this country’s history for generations to come.

Even though I feel the whole issue is not as important to other people as it has been to me, there were a few other men who survived the battle, and whose dying words implored me to finish and publish the story of the Battle of Hill 488 from my perspective and knowledge. Still there lingers a fear within me that this book may be perceived as, what I was told would be, sour grapes by someone who will be mentioned in the story. Nevertheless, this story is accurate with few, if any punches pulled from what I saw or did myself. I don’t hide the feelings and confusion I had during the time I served in Vietnam, or any other times mentioned in this story.

To be honest I have to admit I’m not a very skilled writer, but what I write in this story is true and is backed by documented records that show where things began to change from fact to embellished fantasy. As you may know, true stories don’t necessarily have happy endings. It will be up to the reader to judge whether this story ends happily or not. For me, there will be great value in not having to think about the many events and mysterious issues in this book any longer.

With all the motives that drove me on to finish the book, it still became a grueling task that at times I wished I had never started, but there was no way I could prove to myself what I recalled really happened without digging deeper into all the records I could find and putting all the pieces together. One thing led to another, and I found myself trapped in the task.

During the writing of this book, I was also told not to change history. The same person who claimed the book would sound like sour grapes gave that advice. He was in a position to change what truly happened in the battle, in which I was very much involved. Even though he wasn’t in the action, he deliberately reported false information in military records, which in turn became the official historical record. The reasons some of the men involved cooperated in the scheme becomes clearer as the story unfolds. It was not something that would change the world, but it adversely changed the lives of the men involved. I welcome the reader to judge who really had sour grapes about what happened in the battle, when blood was being spilt, and before the ink began to flow.

Although for some it seemed, they fooled the world by stealing glory that they did not deserve, the truth has a way of catching up from within. I do not know how many military events were falsely reported in the past, and have gone down into history without ever being questioned; the Battle of Hill 488 will not be one of them as long as I have the strength to give my side of the story.

Some people say the platoon that fought the Battle of Hill 488 was the highest decorated unit in the history of the US armed forces. Some add highest decorated for its size, which may be so, but were all the decorations valid. In the way this book is written, with facts of early documents that can be used as tools, this too is left to the judgment of the reader.

All of the citations that were included in the latter parts of this book were not simply added as filler or general information. Comparing ‘The Citations’ in Appendix: A, and the ‘Witness Statements’ in Appendix: E, to the text in the story is one of the tools that can be used by the readers of this book to make their judgements of whether the truth was violated, not only in the way it affected the men involved, but to history itself.

I am not trying to change the way things are by what I have written in this book. I have to accept the damage that has been done. However, it may serve as a warning to anyone who joins the military, willing to put his/her lives on the line to serve this country honorably. The story this book tells, and information it contains, might also be of value to anyone closely related to, or acquainted with anyone, who becomes part of military history. When it comes down to glory, it’s up for grabs to those who are in positions of power, and those willing to sell out their values to claim part or all of it. Those involved in making history do not write it; writers hired by those in power who use history to their advantage, dictate history to gain more power. As the saying goes, Everybody wants a piece of the action.

When I was in my teens, I was impressed by a movie titled 1984. It was based on a book by the same title, written by George Orwell, which I read after coming back from Vietnam.

It predicted that within 30 years or so, an iconic character called Big Brother, whom everyone seemed to worship, was in control, and whatever Big Brother said was the unquestionable truth. However, it became obvious average people were forced to believe what Big Brother said, even if one remembered differently. If they didn’t believe, there were grave consequences to pay. After I read the book it didn’t take me long to see the story Orwell wrote was all about Brain Washing, which I began to fear more than most anything else, and with good reason.

To think I could be forced to believe what I remembered from yesterday had not happened, and would have to agree with what the powers-that-be said had happened, or suffer unthinkable torture — or even death, or both, was frightening to me. I felt living like that would be no more than becoming a human robot… there were many stories predicting robots would eventually control the whole planet before the advent of computers, and the stories still continue to be a concern to people today.

However, a robot you can recognize, but how does one know if they’ve been brain washed? Or how does one live knowing they’re living in fear of telling the truth about what they truly believe? I couldn’t live with accepting that fear to control me. Nor could I turn away from exercising my First Amendment right to speak or publish my views of the history I was directly involved in making, however small or important it may have been, or may be today.

Not long after the Battle of Hill 488 was over and the reports were made, stories began to circulate in the media. However, by this time I had been separated from everyone I could trust who participated in the battle with me. Because of what I felt as overwhelming power, and accepted credibility of the official entities that created the reports and following stories, I was intimidated against voicing my views of what I recalled happened in the battle. In fact, I began to doubt my own memory, which always proved and tested above average.

After a while, talking about the battle became uncomfortable, especially to people who would contact me due to reading the stories circulated in the newspapers and periodicals. I limited my discussions about the battle to only the people who were closest to me.

Then the effect became even more disturbing. Most people advised me not to voice my opinion publicly, which became frustrating. It would be my word, (a 21-year-old mongrel from the mean streets of New York, who dropped out of school to join the Marine Corps), against the trusted powers of the military hierarchy and social elite who wrote and reported historical events. But as the years passed the stories never faded, and the haunting questions never went away. Finally, I began to write down what you are about to read, if you so choose.

I don’t know whether some of the first chapters of this story may be boring or disturbing to read, but in order to remember the sequence of events I had to evoke memories that led to the battle. I would advise the reader to at least skim through the early parts of the book, which will make it clearer to understand how I ended up in this historical battle. It may have been an unavoidable destiny… as too this book may be. It is difficult to understand the grand scheme of things and so, too, the forces that can drive one on for years to do what they feel must be done.

RC Binns

Bonners Ferry, ID

Thursday 5 November 2015

PART I

CHAPTER 1

ARRIVAL IN VIETNAM

On 26 September 1965, the USS Navarro (APA-215) Haskell-class attack troop-transport ship arrived in Da Nang harbor. I came above decks to watch as the ship slowly maneuvered into a safe position to drop anchor.

USS NAVARRO (Stock Photo)

I will always remember the feelings I had… The sun was extremely bright, and I could feel intrigue in the Oriental air mixed with the briny scent of the bay. Looking across the calm dark water, I watched the people on shore. Most were Vietnamese civilians moving about in a strictly business manner, and I wondered what parts they all played in the drama of this war.

Da Nang Street Scene (Stock Photo)

There was no apparent hostile threat, as one might expect when entering a combat zone, but lurking somewhere behind that bright, sunny, exotic scene, there was an intensity in the atmosphere, which I had never felt before. It was exciting to me but made me wary. It was like bathing in warm bright rays of reality. My purpose was at hand; I would face life and death here, which in essence is the ultimate job of a United States ‘Combat’ Marine, which I chose to be many years before I knew what the reality of that really was.

Save for the freedom of the ever-changing open sea, the voyage was long and boring. In the shadows of anticipating, the unknown expectations of what it would be like to land in the war-torn country of Vietnam, we all had hidden thoughts. I was happy to say good-bye to the Navarro, as I disembarked the ship for the last time.

As those of us who had orders for Vietnam began to move ashore, the military mood changed. Everyone, regardless of rank, save for the few officers that were disembarking, flowed quietly and cautiously toward the briefing area, where we were instructed to gather. We staged our sea-bags in a random but orderly fashion. Then we formed chow lines, and were served chow from field mess tents in the rear of the briefing area. There we waited for our In-Country Briefing and our new assignment orders. It was shadier there, but the air felt more still and humid than when leaving the ship.

It was the first time since I was in the Marine Corps that I had travelled so far, for so long, without knowing what unit I was going to be assigned. I felt very much on my own, as if I were a free agent or a mercenary soldier, seeking the adventure of fighting for a worthy cause.

There were approximately three hundred of us, most I believe had similar orders, to be transferred, then given our assignments when we arrived in country. The interaction between us was unusually slight. I had never felt more of a stranger among the men around me, and I hadn’t made any close acquaintances during the voyage. It was like being in a New York City subway during rush hour; travelling on a morning train that would deliver you to a station so you could get to your job and start the day; the only difference was not knowing the nature of your job, except that it would be dangerous.

After a while, a general came and took his place on a platform in front of us. I stayed in the rear, standing not far from my sea-bag, where I stashed a .32 cal. Beretta I had bought in Naples, Italy, on a 1964 Mediterranean Cruise. Although it was unauthorized, it was the only weapon, which I had immediate access to, and it made me feel more secure knowing it was there.

Attention was called, and the general began to speak. His speech was short and dry, most of which I let go in one ear and out the other, until he said something about some of us being hurt or maimed, and ending with, And some of you will die!

I felt offended by his mention of things that warriors from the dawn of time had to block from their minds to be effective. To me, his words were an invasion into the private part of my mind, and my determination to survive. I arrogantly turned away, dismissing what he said, and looked toward my sea-bag. All I cared to know was what my next assignment was, without being intimidated by negative thoughts.

Shortly after the general’s briefing, representatives from various units began calling off names from rosters, which broke us down into smaller groups. I was called over to the 3rd Marine Division, Headquarters Battalion group, with about twenty other Marines. We were then split into smaller groups, each going to different sections of Headquarters Battalion.

A stocky blue-eyed Marine Lance Corporal by the name of Corbett called my name along with two other newcomers, You’re Binns? he asked.

Yeah, I answered.

He spoke quickly, with a hint of an upper New England accent, Ya wanna go to Military Police?

It was a polite way of telling me where I was assigned, I thought. Yeah sure, why not, I answered.

OK. You three guys follow me, he said addressing the three of us as he turned exiting the briefing area, in the direction of where some vehicles were parked.

I took the passenger seat after stowing my sea-bag in the back of the Mighty-Mite, (a smaller version of a Jeep), which Corbett led us to, and he hopped in the driver’s seat.

M-422 Mighty Mite (Stock Photo)

It didn’t seem far from the briefing area to the Military Police headquarters compound. In fact, the memory of the ride itself escapes me, I think it was because of the dose of reality shock I had, along with the total unfamiliarity of the new surroundings. As we rode along in the open vehicle, I felt as though I had walked right into one of those good old movies I used to watch on TV back home on Sunday afternoons when I was twelve years old. I felt that way a number of times while I was in Vietnam. Sometimes, it felt as if I was playing a part in a movie I hadn’t seen before, as if my character was changing... little did I know then how much.

During the ride, Corbett and I began a good acquaintance. He told me that he was from Maine, and I told him I was from New York, but mostly I was interested in watching the new scenery on the sides of the road as we drove to our destination.

The smell of the rich moist earth and thick foliage, which grew abundantly everywhere, gusted by while we cruised along the unpaved road. The changing scents in the air, of animals, and strange foods cooking over open fires, as we casually conversed on the ride stimulated my mood, and enhanced the excitement of the unfamiliar and unknown adventure I was being drawn deeper and deeper into.

We arrived at the Military Police Compound in mid-afternoon. It wasn’t long after sunset when I was settling in for the night I learned that the new MP detachment I was assigned to was also an Interrogation Detention Center for Vietcong — a Prison Camp.

Time passed, and as it did, I became more familiar with the surroundings and the people around me. I accepted MP duty as a job that was a vital part in the scheme of things, but I didn’t like it much. I had always felt any kind of guard duty, which was mostly what we did, was very boring.

At one time while in MPs, I was posted on the side of an extremely muddy road on the outskirts of Da Nang; there was nothing in sight except high trees and thick underbrush. The road led steeply up to the top of a hill where military engineers were building a house for a General or high-ranking staff member. It was a mile or better from where I stood my post alone, wearing an olive-drab nylon raincoat, a red and gold MP armband, and a white helmet. The helmet had the red and gold Marine Corps colors striped around it, with the large black letters, MP painted on its front. I was issued a .45 caliber pistol that had seen better days, and I had doubts about its ability to function properly.

It was the 1200 to 1600 shift, (12 Noon to 4:00 PM). Nothing eventful happened for the first hour or so of this four-hour post, except for the heavy torrential rains that came pouring down from time to time. I began to feel very uncomfortable; not only because of having to stand there alone in the rain, but I saw very little activity around the construction of the house on the hilltop, which was the only place I thought I could find friendly aid or assistance if I needed it. It would take the better part of an hour to reach the top of the hill by that steep, muddy switchback road, and I didn’t think anyone up there even knew I was standing that post.

After a while, I felt more and more like the most insignificant fool that ever walked the face of the earth. As the time was slowly dragging by, I thought that if I was in the center ring of a three-ring circus no one could have resisted laughing at even my most subtle expression, standing there guarding nothing, with no one around. I had only been there for about two hours, but it felt as though I had been stranded there for a hundred years.

Then, to my surprise, a cream-colored Jeep, with no top, and a Vietnamese man behind the wheel, came driving down from the hill. He was wearing a simple brimmed straw Panama hat with the brim turned up, and a light gray raincoat. I’m sure he would have just smiled and passed me by, which would have confirmed my feelings, had it not been for his Jeep suddenly getting bogged down in the deep red mud that covered the road.

I watched as the man tried to drive onward for a few minutes without success. He kept looking over at me as if he expected me to help, but didn’t know what or how to ask. I also felt he would rather not have anything to do with me at all. In a combat zone, everyone had to be wary of anyone you didn’t know.

Finally, I came to his assistance. Taking the driver’s seat of the Jeep, and by quickly changing gears from first to reverse, I rocked the Jeep violently back and forth until I freed it from its muddy trap.

As I got out of the Jeep, the man quickly hopped back into his vehicle and gestured his appreciation with nods of his head, but his facial expression seemed to say, What the hell are you doing out here all alone dressed like that? This didn’t help my morale much at all. Then off he went down the wide, muddy road toward the more improved road along the coastline, and once again, I was left standing there alone.

I felt a wave of despair pass over me as my attention drifted to the .45 on my hip. The rumor was an American soldier’s head, in a white Military Police helmet, was worth a bounty of $250.00 US dollars to the Viet Cong. That was $150.00 more than an average enlisted man’s head would bring. What a way to go, I thought.

After about 10 to 20 minutes that seemed like forever, a Marine Corps truck was coming toward my post from a smaller road that came out of the trees, and forked into the wide muddy road on which I was standing. My thoughts were uplifted.

The Six by Six’s tires rolled over the ruts and bumps in the muddy road. There were five Marines on the truck, a driver, one guy riding shotgun in the cab, and three others riding in the back of the truck’s large cargo bed. I waved at them but as they drove by, I got in return the same expression from them as the Vietnamese man in the Jeep had given me.

It was well into my third hour when I saw some movement in the thick jungle foliage across a small clearing on the other side of the road. I considered drawing my sidearm, but on second thought, I waited. With my hand resting on my sidearm, I peered intensely into the thick foliage. A light grayish mist was lingering across the small clearing in the heavily humid air. It quickly became obvious, what I was seeing were troops with rifles moving stealthily through the brush. Without thinking, my hand grasped the handle of my sidearm.

Then slowly out of the mist appeared a small squad of eight Recon Marines. They were dressed in full combat gear with camouflage war paint smeared on their faces.

Frozen in my pose, I gazed at them. My mouth dropped slightly open, but I could think of nothing to say. To think that where I was standing an unprotected post, wearing a white helmet with red and gold stripes, heavily armed 3rd Recon Battalion troops were patrolling the area with war paint on their faces, gave me cause to wonder.

When they glanced at me, their expressions were somewhat different from the man in the Jeep or the Marines in the truck. It seemed as if they sympathized with my situation, and thought it unfortunate the dice fell that way for me, but knew I had no choice to change things.

They paused for a moment in the misty clearing, and one of them in the center of the group quietly raised his hand to me. I did likewise, and then they carefully moved off into the jungle and soon vanished.

Left standing there alone again, I became more concerned and baffled about what my purpose on this post was. The rain showers began to break with longer dry intervals, and as I searched my pockets for my cigarettes, I found I had forgotten to bring an extra pack. Now, to top it all off, I was out of smokes.

CHAPTER 2

THE BOY FROM THE TREES

I was still watching the area where the Recon squad vanished when to my surprise a young boy appeared out of the thick foggy mist. He was Vietnamese, about nine or ten years old, wearing a long light gray raincoat that looked quite new. He had a tan pith or safari helmet, the kind they wore in the old jungle movies or the soda and ice-cream-boys wore on the beaches back in New York.

The boy had a clean, sophisticated appearance. As he got closer, I noticed his very youthful face held an intelligent expression, well beyond his years. It was obvious he was heading straight for me. I stood watching intently, not knowing what to expect. Then, just before he crossed the road, he paused and looked both ways, as if he was used to crossing streets in heavy traffic. As he proceeded to cross the road toward me, he flashed a comforting smile that was somewhat disarming. While walking straight up to me, he said with a strong Vietnamese accent, Hi Marin.

Hi kid. Whadda ya doin’ here? I asked him.

He didn’t answer my question, but pointed to his helmet where I could see the name SAMMY #1 written in large letters on its front. There were also many signatures and good luck sayings written in English on his helmet, as one might see on the cast of someone’s broken arm or leg. Then, with a bright pleasant expression that looked as if there was something brewing behind his sparkling dark eyes he said, with his heavy accent, Me Sammy, Me ‘Number One!’ Good guy.

I felt that his eyes were studying me deeply, as an old man or woman with seemingly infinite wisdom would. I could not make out what he wanted, which gave an uneasy feeling. I said nothing, and just stood there and watched him for a moment. Then he broke the silence once more.

Who you? he asked, as he gazed around the area curiously.

His gaze made me feel suspicious. What could he be up to, I wondered?

Me Rick. Rick Binns, I told him as I put both of my hands on my hips, sliding my right hand down to rest on the sidearm I was carrying.

Roc Ben! OK, you wait, me com, he said, as he turned back toward the direction he came from, gesturing with his hand confidently, then he vanished back into the fog and underbrush.

I stood there alone again, and wondering what was going on around here. Was I being set up, or what? It was 1555 now; my shift was almost over. I was anxious and getting a little nervous. I wanted to hide, or go to the top of the hill to find out what was going on by radio, or something. I wished I had a good rifle with a lot of ammunition, so I could set up a defense position somewhere back in the cover of the jungle. However, these thoughts would have amounted to leaving my appointed post. That white helmet I was wearing felt like a damned death trap. I wanted so much to take it off and chuck it into the bushes, or cover it with mud, but it was only two more minutes to go. God, I wish I had a smoke, I thought.

Anxiously I looked up and down the road for the guard mount truck that was supposed to be coming to pick me up any second now, but to my disappointment, I could see no sign of anything coming on the road in either direction. All of a sudden, my eye again caught sight of someone coming out of the jungle from the far side of the clearing on the other side of the road. It was the boy. His right hand was in his raincoat pocket, obviously holding something — was he one of those grenade-chucking kids I’d heard stories about?

His smile had a curious slant to it now — was he wondering if he would get away with what he was about to do, or if he would be paid in full by the Vietcong, or what? I wondered, if it was some kind of weapon he had, did he have other people hiding out of sight somewhere around me, or maybe he planned to try it alone. If he did produce a gun or grenade from his pocket, could I kill someone so young? Would the damn .45 pistol I was carrying do the job anyway? I wondered all these things as he walked right up to me, just as he did before.

He stood there for a moment and looked from side to side, then looking up at me he smiled broadly. My hands were ready to grab anything dangerous appearing from his pocket. If it were an instantaneous explosive, he had prepared to commit suicide to kill me. In that case, I would have made a big mistake in trusting him to come so close to me at all. However, out of his pocket came a soldier’s international pacifier, a cigarette.

The boy’s face beamed with delight when he saw the pleasant surprised look, mixed with relief on my face. At that point, I did not even think of any skullduggery, such as poison or drugs in the smoke. The feelings were too good, and it turned out there were no tricks. I was wrong to have suspected him, but the stories had made me paranoid. I offered him a US 25-cent piece for the much-wanted favor, (in those days our coins were made of all silver), but he refused it.

As I lit the cigarette and tasted the fresh tobacco that calmed my nerves, our eyes met, and it seemed he received his reward. Smiling with a hint of some deep wisdom, he turned, waving a final farewell, and vanished into the thick misty jungle, back to wherever he had come from.

I never saw Sammy #1 again, but his simple gesture will be eternally appreciated in my mind. May God be with Sammy, wherever he is. People like him don’t grow on trees; or do they?

A Silent Lesson

Shortly after, I finished the smoke, and although ten minutes late, the guard mount truck arrived. It was what we called a Four by Four, which is about the size of a one-ton pick-up truck. It had fold-down benches in the back, load fences made of wood on the sides and front of the bed. The cab was covered with an olive drab canvas top. There were tie-down hooks around the bed to secure a canvas, which would make it look like a covered wagon, but for some reason it was left opened. Almost everything on this truck, as on the 6x6, could be detached or modified to suit a variety of purposes. It had a very military look to it and of course it was painted olive drab, the military green color we referred to as shit green. I got into the passenger seat of the cab, and we began driving on the road that went to the top of the hill.

M-37 4X4 (Stock Photo)

The driver of the truck was the kind of guy I’d seen thousands of times before. He looked to be in his early forties. His hair was short and gray; his eyes were a soft calm blue. He was a somewhat pudgy man of medium height; the career man, like one of those relentless civil service workers who seem to blend perfectly into the Big Machine of life; the old cop, ready to retire, the bus driver, cab driver, the company bookkeeper, carefully accepting his station in life without stress or strain, at least not apparently.

He quickly stated something about not seeing the reasoning behind manning the post I was on. I agreed and the subject was dropped, except for the rundown on anything unusual to report, a procedure we follow from our general orders. I gave the skinny, the phrase we used for information, on what went on during my posted time. He listened attentively to what I had to say and seemed humorously entertained by the part about Recon patrolling the area in full combat gear, and my erroneous thoughts about the boy.

As I spoke, I began watching him intently; I could not help being impressed by the calming aura that emanated from him. He didn’t seem especially intelligent, but he had a kind of overwhelming awareness of everything around us. The smell of the preservative that permeated most everything military, mixed with the moist air of the rain forest, grew strong for a moment, enhancing the mood as we ascended the hill on the switchback road.

He made me feel he was completely in touch with the big picture, knowing exactly who, what and where he was, and what could and couldn’t happen. I felt this as I talked and watched his soft clear eyes look straightforward taking in all the scenery, seemingly watching the trees and sky for any sign that may have hinted at a change in the calm, orderly control we were enjoying. The mood was a lesson I learned well as time passed.

Gazing ahead, I thought for a moment of how I was a character traveling through a time when history was being made. Little did I know then how significantly I would be involved in the dramatic glories of war and the age-old struggle of life and death.

We were about to arrive at where we would pick up the next posted man. The post was not quite to the top of the hill where the house was being built. I had told the old sergeant about how I got the Jeep out of the mud, and only had my driver’s license for about a year.

When we reached the post, he got out of the truck, told the posted MP to hop in the back, then came around to the passenger side of the truck, and told me to slide over and drive. I was happy to get this chance to drive a 4x4, but I felt a bit self-conscious about making any mistakes in front of someone I was beginning to respect. Nevertheless, I took the wheel and received a driving lesson on downshifting. We picked up a couple more guys who didn’t really notice much one way or another about my limited driving skills and we got back to the MP compound without incident.

I learned later that the sergeant was from motor transport and was getting ready to ship back to the States from his third tour of duty in Vietnam to retire after 30 years in the Corps. He was just filling in as a driver for that day. Although to me, he was heaven sent because of the lesson he taught me without the use of words.

I never could find out why that post was manned, but why wasn’t a question one asks in the Marine Corps.

Shooting the Breeze

Back in the squad tent at the MP Compound, Corbett, Hunt, and I sat in our aluminum framed lawn chairs, which could be bought from the local venders, and discussed the day’s events.

Hunt was a tall, thin, good-looking guy from Texas, who claimed to be from a wealthy family, and acted accordingly. The three of us sat and talked for short periods after we were off duty. We traded stories about the past, the present, and our plans and dreams for the future from time to time during the month I spent in MPs. We were getting to know each other well for having such a short acquaintance. As we talked that evening, I listened more than usual. Hunt, who always had something new to throw into the conversation, started by saying he thought the best way to wear boots in Vietnam was without socks; Corbett just went on elaborating on how wonderful the part of Maine he came from was.

When the conversation began to touch on the subject of girls, Hunt took the floor, telling us about the girl he was to marry when he got back home to Texas. He boasted about how well-bred she was, how lady-like, and what a beauty… with a sizable dowry to boot.

I had no special girl waiting for me back home, and was somewhat perplexed about whether or not that was a healthy subject to dwell on, for me at least. At that time, I felt that thinking too much about back home would cut the edge of my survival. In fact, I felt thinking about anything but the here and now was a dangerous distraction.

The reality was I had a year, and then some before my time to rotate back to the States would come, and a lot could happen in the blink of an eye in combat. I felt it was best to stay fully aware in the moment, and not to drift too far from the realities of the present time, which is what I thought I learned from the old sergeant earlier that day.

Corbett and Hunt were getting short, having only a few months to go. I had already begun formulating a vow to myself not to seek out the pleasures of the fairer sex while in Vietnam, because of the stories and warnings that were told about incurable venereal diseases. I thought, if I were to die