by Phil Ball
Just down the road a short ways past our compound was the MACV compound (Military Assistance Command, Vietnam). I was never clear on exactly who they were or what went on over there, and we rarely had occasion to visit. We all knew the CIA had a forward command headquarters in Cam Lo and from time to time they would visit MACV. I saw them drive past in jeeps a few times. They went so far out of their way to look inconspicuous that they defeated the purpose, sticking out like a sore thumb. Of course they all had to wear their aviator sunglasses, and the coolest bush hats available. Some wore blue jeans and black T-shirts instead of the traditional camouflage.
The one thing that could make anyone stand out from a crowd was the type of weapon he carried. In Vietnam, every able-bodied man carried a weapon. The CIA, or spooks as they were not so affectionately called, carried some of the most exotic, head-turning weapons I ever saw in Vietnam, and I certainly saw my share. Since the type of weapon was often the first thing that identified an individual, it was the first thing that always caught my eye when I met someone or was approached by a stranger. I could distinguish between our own M-16 and the silhouette of an enemy’s AK-47 from great distances, so whenever I saw a weapon that was not one of our M-16s, I always went on alert. I always thought there was something a little strange about an American carrying an enemy weapon, but the spooks did it all the time. Many of them considered the AK-47 to be superior to the M-16, which in my mind was the same as saying that the NVA were superior to the USMC. Besides the AK-47, I saw weapons from Czechoslovakia and other Communist countries carried by U.S. personnel, so exotic-looking I could not recognize them at all.
In November, the rain finally started to let up, but it got much colder. When the temperature dropped to 65 degrees at night, we started looking for sweatshirts and field jackets, articles of clothing we hadn’t needed before. The damp, cool air was not something our bodies were used to and a lot of us actually came down with a cold.
We made daily patrols into Mai Loc, observing the people and letting our presence be known. We were told to be polite and under no circumstances cause trouble with civilians. We were skeptical, not knowing if there was a VC in the crowd ready to toss a grenade in our midst or take a potshot at us from the bushes. All in all we did a pretty good job of maintaining peace and tranquillity in the village. It was only when a grunt had something stolen or was ripped off in some way that tempers flared and trouble started.
I had a run-in one day myself when one of my buddies told me there was a cowboy in the village wearing a raincoat just like the one I had that all of a sudden was missing a couple days before. I locked and loaded my M-16 and in a huff, went looking for the thief. It wasn’t hard to find the cowboy, and the raincoat was definitely the one my mother had sent me; it was unlike any other I had seen in these parts. I approached the culprit and demanded my property be returned immediately, realizing then that the situation was quickly escalating into a potentially dangerous confrontation. He had half a dozen guys on his side and I had my entire squad; every participant held a fully loaded automatic weapon.
There was a lot of screaming and hollering back and forth and all I could understand was that the cowboy claimed to have purchased the raincoat in Cam Lo. He was not going to give it to me under any circumstances. At some point, the macho mercenary handed his weapon to a friend, and then took the rain coat off and after carefully folding it, handed it to another one of his fellow cowboys. At that point he assumed some sort of karate stance and with a smile on his face he challenged me to fight as he began to move slowly toward me.
There was no way I was going to drop a perfectly good weapon to fight this fool with my bare hands, so when he came within range I simply jabbed the barrel of my rifle at him as hard as I could, as if there were a bayonet attached to it. It struck him in the face. It caught part of his eye and I saw blood. I then struck him several more times with the M-16 as well as with my feet until he fell down. I immediately shouldered the weapon and aiming directly at the man’s head who held my coat, I approached him with two or three very fast steps. He dropped it in the mud and ran. Suddenly there was a shot, then a scream. The thief was lying on the ground, writhing in pain, holding his foot, while the others quickly left the scene. My own guys didn’t hang around, either; they all dispersed to locations more suitable to find an alibi.
Atwood and I went back to our hooch and waited by the radio. I fully expected “schoolboy” Keown to call about the gunshot, but no call came. I never saw that particular cowboy again, nor was there ever any further mention of the incident.
We used to set up L-shape ambushes at the intersection of Route 558 and the main road through Mai Loc, near the marketplace. From this position we had a very good vantage point, able to see anyone coming or going from several directions. One squad of Marines would take a squad of PFs to the ambush sight just after dark. With perhaps three grunts and three PFs on watch at all times, the rest of us tried to sleep. We tried to impart that the key of triggering an ambush effectively meant that everyone should be alerted to a target and fire at the same time in the hopes of hitting the enemy as hard as possible all at once, as well as maintaining the element of surprise. We repeatedly told the RFs to hold their fire until everyone else was ready.
One night I had just finished my shift and was lying down to go to sleep, when suddenly one of the PFs started popping rounds from the far end of the line. Within a second or two, we all joined in and began firing in the direction of the road. Small arms, machine gun, and grenade fire reached an ear-shattering decibel for 30 seconds and then was over.
“Cease fire!!” We received no return fire whatsoever, so I immediately thought an RF had falsely sprung the ambush, but when we attempted to question the culprit he was gone. In fact they were all gone, except Little John. The RFs had lived up to their cowardly reputation; as soon as the shooting started, they ran away.
Little John told me the PFs definitely did see something, but what they saw was anyone’s guess. We sat there for a few very long minutes in complete silence, watching and listening for further signs of enemy movement. We were only 10 meters away from the middle of the dirt road and were very aware of the possibility that a wounded enemy could be lying in wait. He might well wait until we stepped out of the bushes and onto the road before tossing a grenade or opening fire. I certainly did not want to be the first one to go out there and see, and neither did anyone else, so we waited. Meanwhile, Hamilton and Schoolboy were on the radio wanting to know how many gooks we killed and why we were waiting so long to check out the target area.
It took every ounce of courage I had to finally step into the open and onto the road. I was startled out of my wits when I did, because instead of a wounded gook leaping into action, it was the local crazy lady. This old mama-san had lost her husband and sons in the war earlier, and she would often be seen walking and running aimlessly through the village talking to herself. Somehow, she had wandered out of her house in the middle of the night and wound up triggering our ambush. She jumped up when she saw me, yelling and screaming profanities as she ran back down the road from where she had come. It was truly remarkable and quite embarrassing that all our murderous firepower had failed to put a scratch on this petite old mama-san. She was not hurt at all. Explaining that one to the commanding officer was quite a challenge!
As 1968 neared its close, and I completed my eighth month in-country, I became eligible for the seven-day, out-of-country R&R that every U.S. serviceman looked forward to. On a first-come first-serve basis, we chose from a list of five or six exotic destinations, usually taking the first place available when it was time to choose. You could wait until a certain port you wanted was offered, but it could be days or weeks. Only so many guys could go to each country per month; there were limits for how many Americans were allowed at a time.
When I was asked to choose between Tokyo or Hawaii, I chose Tokyo. The married men were going to Hawaii to meet with their wives. Some single guys went there to fly home to
the States. I considered it, but realized it would cost too much and I’d spend way too much time in the air instead of on the ground.
R&R was really a big deal. Not only did you get to leave Vietnam for a week of hard partying, but if you played it right you could milk it for nearly three weeks’ time out of the bush, hiding in the rear areas for as long as you could.
When a grunt traveled around inside Vietnam, there were no airline tickets—you simply went to the airport and boarded a flight. Your R&R orders had no specific dates printed on them until you arrived at your destination; therefore, you could only spend the designated number of days out of Vietnam, but by missing a plane here and a ride there you could fool around in-country for several days. That’s what I did.
From Mai Loc I went to Quang Tri and collected my pay. From there I hopped a flight to Da Nang, where I was to catch a plane for Tokyo. I hadn’t seen my long-time friend Richie Stuerenberg for nearly a year now, and since he was stationed somewhere in Da Nang, my first order of business was to look him up. I walked out of the airport and hesitated. Did I really want to walk around here without a weapon? I had been instructed to leave it at the armory in Quang Tri. I looked around and saw that everyone else carried one, but I had come this far and I wasn’t turning back now. Besides, compared to up North, Da Nang seemed almost as secure as being back in the world. It felt great not having all that fear again; I wasn’t worried about anything.
I stuck out my thumb and was picked up by the first jeep that came by. The squared-away Marine looked at the red clay embedded in my boots and immediately asked if I’d been at Khe Sanh. I noticed a sincere hint of respect and awe in his voice and I realized most of these guys in Da Nang don’t really know what combat was all about. From that moment until the time I left Da Nang, nearly everyone I came in contact with treated me like some sort of celebrity. The biggest difference was that everybody in Da Nang had to keep their boots polished, and mine didn’t have any black on them at all. The one word that described my appearance had to be “salty”; to these guys anyway, I was the closest thing to combat they would get. I enjoyed the respect but not the attention. I did not want to talk about Foxtrot Ridge or the DMZ when I was asked what it was like up North.
Rich introduced me to a lot of people, including his company commander. He asked for the night off and permission for me to stay on base, explaining that I was in transit and showing him my papers. The captain was most gracious, congratulating me for being a Marine and suggesting I take advantage of his excellent mess hall and NCO club. He told Rich to take the day off and suggested he show me “the sights around Da Nang.” I wasn’t used to all this special treatment, but I certainly ate it up.
Rich and I spent the day running around Da Nang. I couldn’t get enough of this “good life.” I stuffed myself with cheeseburgers and ice cream, loving every minute with my friend. We didn’t talk about the war; we chose to ignore its very existence, talking instead about home and the things we missed the most.
The whole day turned out to be a great time, one of the best in Vietnam. It ended after a big meal with us joining the heads on the perimeter, sitting on top of a bunker, smoking pot and watching the war from a safe distance. “This is as close as we get,” said one of the Marine Corps Engineers, as we watched Puff work out over Monkey Mountain. Several miles away, Marines were fighting and dying, while we looked on doing nothing. It didn’t seem right and I felt extremely uncomfortable with the whole attitude some of these Marines had about the war. Yet I could not help but be a little envious of their position and comfortable lifestyle.
After repeatedly being asked to talk about my experiences up North, I reluctantly attempted to share what combat had been like for me. I was disappointed in myself because I was unable to remotely voice my feelings and made it sound antiseptic and impersonal. There was no possible way to tell another human being what it was really like. I think Rich saw the difficulty I was having and bailed me out by excusing us and taking me back to his hooch where we had a little privacy. We lay there next to each other; he was in his bunk and I was on the floor, talking the rest of the night. After only an hour or two of sleep it was time to part ways and I headed back to the airport to catch my flight to Japan.
Seven full days in exciting downtown Tokyo. This was going to be great! I bought a pair of dress slacks and a shirt at the R&R center and caught an early morning cab to the city. The driver spoke no English at all, but he knew right where to take me, a nice, five-story hotel just off the strip, where I could more or less get anything I wanted to help me enjoy my stay.
The flashy and flamboyant hotel manager, who looked like a Japanese gangster out of the movies, was extremely friendly and helpful. He knew what I needed and wanted and for a one-time payment of only $500, he promised me the best room they had for a week, my choice of any number of the two dozen girls working there, meals and all drinks, anything except “guns and dope.”
When I left Quang Tri I had drawn out $2400 cash for the trip. I didn’t spend more than $50 in Da Nang and about $20 or $30 at the R&R center. I had to exchange my greenbacks for yen at the center and when I did, I got confused as to how much money I really had. It was something like 350 yen for every dollar, so I wound up dealing with hundreds of thousands of yen just to pay the cab fare. Needless to say, I think I got ripped off. As close as I could tell, I was about $700 or $800 short already and I hadn’t even been in Tokyo a full day yet. We all had been warned repeatedly to keep a close eye on our money, but this naïve country boy had already been taken. I was not about to let that spoil my fun, and after checking into my room I ordered a six-pack of ice-cold beer and a hooker.
I don’t think I left the hotel the first three days or so. Enjoying the pampered life of a GI with money, I sampled nearly everything available. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth day that I fell in love with one of the girls and we started going out to see the sights. We went a lot of places by train and saw the famous Mount Fuji. We spent our nights visiting all the most popular clubs. By the time my seven days were up, I was not ready to go back to the war. It was not a hard decision to stay—what could they do, send me to the bush? I did not fear going to jail or any other disciplinary action that might be handed down; my feeling was I might very well be killed in action if I went back, so I decided to stay as long as I could or at least until the money ran out. I spent Christmas and New Year’s in Tokyo, but fearing I might be picked up by the ever-present MPs, we moved on to Yokohama, a little further south of Tokyo.
The girl I was with was the daughter of a prominent Japanese politician, and she was very anti–Vietnam War. She was outspoken in her beliefs and told me I had no right to be in Vietnam. Her view of the war began to rub off on me and I became completely against it. She knew the underground club scene very well and introduced me to some people who could, for a fee, get me to Sweden so I could become a deserter. I did not like that idea whatsoever and I told her to keep those people away from me. I made it clear that I intended to go back as soon as the money was gone or before the 30-day time limit was up. As things stood now I could only be charged with AWOL (absent without leave) or UA (unauthorized absence), but if I stayed on the run for 30 days or more I could be charged with desertion, a much more serious offense. I believed desertion was punishable by death during time of war, but the reality was more like “6, 6, and a kick”: six months in jail, six months loss of pay, and a dishonorable discharge paper. That was totally unacceptable to me. This created some friction between us, but when my money ran out she came up with more. I believe her father wired her several hundred thousand yen, which lasted us another week or so.
I wound up turning myself in on the 28th day and being escorted back to Vietnam. We landed at Cam Ranh Bay and I was released and told to find my own way back up North and not dilly-dally. The orders I carried were the originals that were cut in Quang Tri. According to them I was now a deserter. By the time I arrived back in-country I had been gone more than the allotted 37 days
, counting the seven-day R&R.
From Cam Ranh Bay I flew to Da Nang, but instead of immediately catching another flight on to Quang Tri, I made a decision to go see Richie one more time. After hitching a ride off the airport grounds and a few miles in the relative direction of the Engineer’s Compound, I was let off on the outskirts of the off-limits village known as Dog Patch. I must have looked terribly out of place, standing at the intersection trying to decide what to do and where to go. I needed a shave and a haircut badly. The dirty camouflaged utilities I had on had been wadded up in my duffel bag for the past month and slept in for several nights now. I really looked the part of a grunt who was not where he was supposed to be.
I tried to look inconspicuous when a pair of neatly dressed MPs pulled up to the stop sign across from me. When they pulled around and asked for my ID and paperwork, I explained that I was from up North and was trying to get back to my unit. When they read the outdated orders that said I was AWOL, there was nothing left to explain. I told them I was released on my own recognizance, but they did not buy my story. I was cuffed and taken straight to jail. I was pissed off because they did not give me any respect for being a grunt and I copped a bad attitude.
The MP station in downtown Da Nang was an old block fortress that had once been the local police station. The building itself looked old and dingy and really set the tone for this depressing lockup. Inside was one cell, approximately six feet wide and 10 feet deep and filthy, with cracked tile lining the walls and floor like a shower of sorts. When I was locked up, there might have been one or two other GIs in there at the time, but as the day turned to night it really started filling up. By midnight there must have been a dozen or more, mostly drunk and angry prisoners held in that confined space. Tempers really began to flare.
