Ground Pounder: A Marine’s Journey through South Vietnam, 1968-1969

Chapter Eleven: America’s Finest

223 Chapter Eleven America’s Finest “Fundamentally, wars are an economic struggle between the ruling classes of nations. But it’s the common people that have to pay the terrible price for their avarice.” OneofthetruismsthatIlearnedinVietnamwasthatagruntshouldn’t hang around his company’s rear area while he is awaiting orders. The spit-and-polish NCOs would seek him out and put him to work at the first opportunity whether he is in dire need of rest or not. To my absolutedisgust,ittookabouttenminutesafterIhadlandedinQuang Tri before some sergeant stuck his head into the tent and ordered me tocollectmygearinordertostandwatchontheperimeter.Butinstead ofblindlyfollowinghisorders,Ibegantoarguewiththeguy.Ihadlost allpatiencewiththeREMFs(RearEchelonMotherFuckers).Asfaras I was concerned, they didn’t give a damn about our welfare and they sure as hell couldn’t have cared less about what we had been through. It was obvious that many of them enjoyed screwing with the grunts. Whether it was from some deep-seated resentment on their part or from some inbred anger they had acquired as a kid, I had no idea. But 224 Ground Pounder at this point of the war, Iwas getting extremely tired of being harassed by every lame NCO who had spent his entire tour surrounded by rows of barbed-wire fences while living in air-conditioned hooches. Of course, I’m not implying that all of the guys stationed in the rear were complete jerks. Most of them were good Marines who just wanted to serve their country without any hassles. However, since it had been customary for our commanders to treat the grunts as cannon fodder, a lot of guys unknowingly jumped on the bandwagon. Consequently, the conflict between the rear-area personnel and the front line troops was much more intense than anyone cares to admit. In fact, whenever there was a major disturbance among the troops in Vietnam, it generally occurred in the rear areas. After losing my argument with the sergeant, I found myself sharing a bunker with two cherries fresh from the States, who had been trained as helicopter mechanics. I don’t really remember their names, but they acted as if they had never seen a rifle before. The myth that every Marine was a rifleman may have sounded good back at Camp Pendleton,buttherealitywasquitedifferent.Thesetwoguyshadbeen way too pampered in their training to be grunts. They kept whining about the dirt, the bugs, and the lack of toilet paper. Nevertheless after getting my gear situated, I walked up and down theperimeterinordertogetafeelfortheposition.Ourbunkerwaslocatedaboutthreehundredyardsfromasmallvillage ,whichoverlooked a huge rice paddy. Off in the distance, I could see several Vietnamese farmers working the fields with their children at their side. Then as I walked back to our bunker, one of the cherries handed me a box of C-rationsfordinner.Snatchingtheboxoutofhishand,Icouldn’thelp butshakemyheadindisgust.HereIwasintherearareasurroundedby severalmesshallsandIwasstuckhavingtoeatfrickin’C-rationsagain. SimilartotheperimetersaroundDaNangandPhuBai,thebunkers were well constructed, but the positions had been poorly manned and neglected. The Marines’ policy of rotating whatever personnel America’s Finest 225 were available that day wasn’t any way to secure a perimeter. Nobody seemed to understand his responsibilities or even who was in command for that matter. Instead of rotating our infantry units in and out of the perimeter on a regular basis, we rotated individuals. On any given night, the perimeter could be manned by just about anyone, including the rear-area types who didn’t know what they were doing. As I continued to look around, I also noticed the detonators to the claymore mines were old and rusty, the concertina wire was in need of repair, and the sandbags needed replacing. At the time, I didn’t let any of this stuff bother me. I was going to Hong Kong in a few days, so my mind was on wolfing down a thick steak and possibly meeting an attractive woman. Thus as I lay down that night, I wasn’t at all concerned about having to defend the perimeter. Life was good and I would shortly be sleeping between two clean white sheets. It must have been around three o’clock in the morning when I was suddenly awakened by the sounds of 122mm rockets whistling through the air. From the impact of the distant explosions, I figured the NVA gunners were trying to hit the airstrip, which was located on the other side of the base. Confused and terrified, the other two guys in the bunker with me kept diving to the ground every time a rocket sailed over our...