That seeming incompetence of the National Guard was one reason why I joined the United States Marine Corps when I decided to go to war.
3
Vietnam
September 1968
The Marine Corps recruiter was nonplussed when I showed up at the recruiting station ready to sign up. So many college students were avoiding the military, he had a hard time coming to terms with me wanting to volunteer. Not only was I volunteering, but I virtually had completed my military obligation. He didn’t actually say he thought I was crazy, but I have no doubt it crossed his mind. At first, he suggested that I might be better off sticking with the Army since I had close to six years in already. He made sure I knew signing up for the Marine Corps was a sure ticket to Vietnam. “Sign me up!” I was determined to become a Marine Corps infantry officer!
Actually, I tried to join the Marine Corps much earlier in college. A friend, Allen Lochman, and I traveled to the Marine Recruiting Station in Los Angeles for our physicals. Allen wore thick glasses. When he took them off to read the eye chart, he was sunk. I think his words were, “What chart?” The Navy doctors diagnosed me with a curvature of the spine. They felt it would inhibit my Marine Corps training and activities. We both flunked!
Times changed. The Vietnam War consumed more young Marine Corps officers. I persisted, took the tests, signed the papers, and was ready to go. My physical wasn’t an issue this time.
I joined the Marine Corps in 1968 despite having served in the California National Guard for over five years. This was a time when getting into the National Guard was a way to get out of going to Vietnam, by now a very unpopular war. However, it didn’t seem quite right to me, though I was no big supporter of the war, that I could avoid going to war, and a bunch of drafted eighteen-year-old kids right out of high school wouldn’t have that option.
However, time passed, and my orders still did not arrive, so I boarded a plane in San Diego for Washington, D.C. and then got on a train to Quantico, Virginia. Aboard the train, I met a few others headed for Officer Candidate School (OCS). There was an air of excitement among us all.
I struck up a conversation with one guy who was very preppy looking and appeared to have it all together. He said his name was Jack (not his name), he was from Los Angeles, had been in a fraternity in college, and had taught high school biology in Los Angeles. I figured he was a good guy to get to know. We did end up in the same platoon, but things did not run as smoothly for him as he or I thought they would.
Ultimately, we arrived at the Marine Corps Base in Quantico, Virginia. I had no orders or anything other than my suitcase. Casualty figures being what they were, the Marine Corps, feeling a need for more young officers, took me anyway. It was the beginning of what was one of the most satisfying and challenging journeys of my life.
Officer Candidate School
December 2, 1968
If I get my bars here, I will earn them. From what everyone says, it is really going to be hard. So far, we have been harassed plenty. The first night, Monday night, we stayed up until midnight, pushing lockers around, getting dressed and undressed a hundred times or so, and just generally being harassed by the drill instructors. They would get right up in an officer candidate’s face, yelling and doing their best to intimidate and fluster the candidate. They were very good at it too.
We got up at 5:30 a.m., and I was plenty tired. Since then, I have been kept busy. Even on Thanksgiving, which we were supposed to have off, the drill instructor kept us busy all day. It seems like I’ve been here a month or two instead of just a week. The drill instructor storms in every morning, yelling and banging on lockers and trash cans. Startled, we are up and out of bed before we even realize it. The day begins with a rush that doesn’t end until we are back in the rack for lights out.
It hasn’t snowed here yet, but it does get a bit nippy. I am destitute and need to buy several things, among them thermal underwear. I have had a headache since Thanksgiving. I was really sick on Thanksgiving, but except for a dull pain, haven’t felt too bad since.
The clothes I wore here are a sight—wrinkled, torn, and dirty. They told everyone to show up in a good suit! The only catch: we can’t leave without a tie on weekends. I bought one at the PX so I could leave if I wanted.
Dec. 3, 1968
Around here, everyone is really sick. At least ten guys in my platoon alone have barfed, and many more had the runs. More are getting sick all the time. I don’t know why.
Tomorrow, we really start in on the training. There are guys from all over the country in here. My bunkmate is from Arkansas. Denny Cox is built like a small fireplug. He played football—linebacker, no less—at a small Arkansas college. With all the southerners here, I will probably come home with a southern accent.
Dec. 4, 1968
Boy! My head still hurts, really hurts. Now five days straight.
We ran the obstacle course today. Some of these candidates are very uncoordinated and weak. Jack, the preppy guy I met on the train, is really a nice guy, but without a doubt, the weakest and most uncoordinated person I have ever seen. The drill instructors got on him right away and haven’t let up. They told him one more mistake and he goes. That is a pretty scary proposition.
We will have a Christmas leave for sure, and the cadre platoon sergeant told us no one would be allowed to stay here because he and the rest of the staff don’t want to have to come in to keep an eye on us. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t either.
Some guy stole my field jacket liner right off the bat, so I suppose I will have to pay for it.
Jack is so uncoordinated he has to wear a coat hanger in his shirt to keep his posture straight. He really looks funny. It is amazing how someone can maintain an image in one situation and have it totally shattered in another.
I would like to get some pills for my headache. However, they take all pills, including aspirin away from us. I am enduring.
Dec. 8, 1968
I’m in command voice class right now. It’s a real winner! I probably need it. My platoon sergeant told me to practice yelling out of my car window to strengthen my voice. Tomorrow we have an inspection. I’ve got so many things to do tonight, I don’t know where to start. Trouble is, around here, they don’t give you enough time to do anything.
I am waiting for a conduct of the march class to start. We have our first hike today. They say the hikes are worse than the runs, and the runs are certainly no fun. I haven’t even cleaned my rifle yet. It has rust on it. I hope I get a little time to do that tonight, or it could be bad news.
The drill instructors regularly empty our footlockers on the floor. They found candy in mine the other night. While I was standing at attention in my skivvies in front of my bunk, the drill instructor roundly abused me for having an unauthorized item. He then made me stuff the whole pack of jellybeans into my mouth at once and chew it. I will be more careful in the future. I like jellybeans, but I prefer them one at a time.
It is after lunch now, so the day is almost over by my reckoning. Of course, the hardest part of the day comes at the end when we have physical training (PT) or hikes.
Well, it is Saturday night, and I finally have a chance to finish a letter home. I can’t say I did really well Friday on our march. The drill instructor threw me out of the platoon on the hike. That made me a straggler. I was passing a couple of guys in front of me, and he got me for being out of line, just the opposite of straggling. At any rate, I got a chit that says, “You straggled on the hill trail on hike #1. Remember, it is impossible for a man to lead if he is himself running behind.” Since a straggling chit is one of the worst you can get, it really ticked me off. I also got one for not signing my autobiography and two for my clothes and bunk, for a grand total of four! Nice going!
We came back into the bay Friday and found everything turned upside down. Just a little more harassment on top of what is already the worst part of this deal—the running.