Jan. 21, 1969
Tuesday. I am back in class, listening to impromptus again. The hard rain keeps us from going outside, so we are giving speeches. I am having a heck of a time keeping my eyes open. We have one more fairly hard week after this. Next Monday, on my birthday, we have the twenty-four-hour war. A helicopter will drop us off in the countryside. We play war all day and night. It will be cold!
Friday. The last hard day. We have a nine-mile hike today. Not too bad except it is really muddy out and that makes it rough. Monday. We have the twenty-four-hour war. That will be cold and uncomfortable but not too strenuous. Besides, it is downhill after that.
Jan. 30, 1969
We finished our twenty-four-hour war. It got down to seven degrees. I was never so cold in my life. On top of that, in my opinion, the whole thing was a big waste of time. I spent most of my time, virtually all night, lying on cold hard ground shivering. If I don’t come down with pneumonia this week, I never will.
They have quit giving chits and posting billets. They also called about six guys in and told them they were going to the board that makes decisions on candidates staying or leaving the program. I guess that means I’ve made it, and all I am waiting for is the Feb. 7th graduation. Twenty-eight guys have been dropped, and six more, right now, are questionable. They really have weeded this platoon down.
I graduate Friday, and we have guard Thursday.
Feb. 7, 1969
Graduation was great! My father and Red, my wife, attended. Dad pinned on my bars. We all lined up to be saluted by Staff Sergeant Howard, our platoon sergeant. We shook hands with him and palmed him a silver dollar. The salute and silver dollar are a time-honored Marine Corps ritual. He was a great role model who commanded our respect. Carried away by emotion, I told him that if I went into combat, I wanted him there. He probably was thinking he was glad he wouldn’t be there. I don’t think he had any illusions about his officer candidates, now brand-new second lieutenants.
The Basic School
We operated night and day, trying to cram in all the knowledge we would need to lead a platoon of young Marines in Vietnam. While officer candidate school was a screening process for Marine Corps officers, The Basic School was where new lieutenants learned the nuts and bolts of being a Marine Corps officer.
The Marine Corps takes great pride in every Marine being first and foremost an infantryman. Every Marine Corps officer attends The Basic School. All officers and enlisted Marines when they are in boot camp are trained in basic infantry tactics even though they may specialize in something else.
For me, The Basic School was a great, invigorating experience with something new and exciting virtually every day and/or night. We learned everything from movement to contact and tactics to the use of supporting arms and map reading. A strong emphasis on leadership pervaded every skill taught. It was five months of exciting, intense, and highly satisfying work. I met other young officers with whom I still feel a strong comradeship.
The Basic School culminated in our assignment to a particular branch of arms in the Marine Corps. I chose, and was assigned, to the infantry. That was a pretty safe bet since almost everyone was assigned to the infantry. The exceptions would be those who ranked high in the class and chose other specialties such as armor, artillery, supply, transport, or air traffic control.
After a thirty-day leave, I attended recon replacement school at Camp Pendleton, California. The school lasted a few weeks and consisted mostly of refining our ability to call in supporting arms (i.e., artillery, air strikes, and Naval gunfire). It was a nice interlude that allowed me to spend time with my family before going to Vietnam.
Commissioned 2nd Lieutenant with my dad and Red
4
The 7th Marine Regiment
The briefing officer erased the numbers on the large map and wrote six KIA (killed in action), adding fifteen WIA (wounded in action). An enlisted Marine came in with more information. The briefer again erased his numbers replacing them with eight KIA and seventeen WIA.
The officers with me must have been thinking, “Man, you are really in for it.” I had just been assigned to the 7Th Marine Regiment, the unit taking the casualties recorded on the briefer’s map. The other officers were assigned to other units: Graff to the 1st Marines, Erins to the 5th Marines, and Hodgins to the 26th Marines. We were in the 1st Marine Division headquarters, receiving our intelligence briefing prior to being sent to our units. Despite the numbers, I was more excited than scared—no doubt a reflection of my naivety. I had yet to work out that none of us were immune from being recorded as one of those casualty figures inscribed on the briefer’s map.
In August 1969, I left for Vietnam, one of six from my basic school company to go directly to Vietnam. My parents and my wife, Red, saw me off at the airport. I will say that until I later saw my son, Lt. Adam Curry, an infantry officer with the 82nd Airborne Division, off to Iraq, I had no appreciation for how they must have felt. I was superstitious enough not to want anyone to wish me good luck or any of that stuff. No melodrama. Just goodbye. I’ll see you in a year.
August 19, 1969
We landed at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. A typhoon prevented us from going directly to Okinawa. Clark Air Force Base is a well-kept base with lots of mowed lawns and a busy officers’ club. The bachelor officers quarters on base was full, so we were billeted off base at a hotel.
The most notable thing about the trip to our hotel was the machine gun post in the middle of the town square. Apparently, it was there to deter any action from the Philippines’ long running insurgency. At some point well before we got there, the heads of two guards from Clark Air force Base had been found in a dumpster.
August 20, 1969
I am in a hot little hotel room near Clark Air Force Base. My feet are raw and sore from my shoes, and my uniform is filthy. I should have brought some civilian clothes along, but who can foresee a typhoon? I spotted my uncle, Mike Patterson, an Air Force pilot I had last seen in Virginia where he is stationed. He was walking across the road while I was in a jeep on the way to the hotel. What a coincidence! I got the driver to stop while I hopped out to say hello. Unfortunately, I only talked to him a little because I was dead tired. My hard-core basic school buddies in the jeep gave me a hard time because I did not salute him, he being a major, and I a lowly second lieutenant.
I left Sunday and arrived here Wednesday. I missed Tuesday altogether, or maybe I missed Monday, one of the two. I felt crummy the whole trip, the usual headache. I got to my humble hotel room in The Oasis, took a shower, and had to drip dry. There were no towels.
August 21, 1969
We had to stay here another day, so we rented a car and went to Manila, a really interesting city! Whenever we stopped, a chattering group of kids surrounded us, asking for handouts. I didn’t know how to respond. Mike Hodgins, from my basic school company, threw the kids a handful of American coins. That created a mad scramble. The Philippine peso is worth about twenty-five cents.
Our visit to the main market, if nothing else, was instructional, having never been exposed to anything like it. It was a cacophony of sounds and a malodorous symphony of smells, for which I had no appreciation. It got to the point where I had to hold my nose and breathe through my mouth.
The Philippines was beautiful, filled with vibrant colors and an array of brilliant green foliage. I am glad I live in America though. The poverty was obvious. They don’t even use outhouses. I guess they just use the bushes or fields. In the Philippines, armed guards appeared everywhere. That didn’t make one feel very secure, considering the war was supposed to be in Vietnam.
August 22, 1969
At last, I am here in Okinawa at Camp Hanson. What