Young Man In Vietnam Part 1

YOUNG MAN IN VIETNAM.

by Charles Coe.

PREFACE TO THE PAPERBACK EDITION.

Dear Tommy and Charlie:

More than twenty years have pa.s.sed since I wrote Young Man in Vietnam. The world has turned over many times since then; a whole generation of things has happened to me - jobs, marriage, divorce, loves, deaths. And most special of all, you two fine sons arrived.

Vietnam has faded from the news. No more daily television reports. No more frenzied protests in the streets. No more telegrams announcing casualties. The war, it seems, belongs now to history.

Historians will write about it as they always do in terms of the winners... the losers... of the political ramifications. Somehow in the process, what it meant for those of us who were there is lost.

I wrote this book twenty years ago because I felt then what happened on a daily basis was important to record. Not the "big" things historians write about. The things that truly mattered to those of us who fought. A letter from home. Your first dead man. The heat. The boredom. The fear.

I'm glad I had the experience of being a young man in Vietnam. I wouldn't trade it for anything. But I could never go through it again. At least not in the same way. The experience never leaves you where it finds you.

I hope this book rings true to you. I hope it has more meaning than just the fact your father wrote it. I hope it will tell you something about me long after I am gone. I hope it tells you that, as horrible as war is, it is possible to fight one without losing your soul or your sense of honor or your profound awe at human strength. But most of all, I hope you never have to fight a war.

Your loving father.

Charles Coe May 15, 1989

Das Schwert ist kein Spaten, kein Pflug, Wer damit ackern wollte, ware nicht klug.

The sword is no spade, no plow, and to use it To dig in the fields would be to abuse it.

Schiller (Wallenstein's Lager)

1.

THE BEGINNING.

The ground is still wet from the night's rain and everything smells clean and fresh. The sun is beginning to burn off the ground fog and it feels warm on your face when you look up. You watch the patrol sliding down the hillside toward your hidden position. There are twelve men in the patrol. They are bunched up and moving quickly. They want to get home.

You look at your machine gunners and they smile.

"This one's going to be too easy, Lieutenant," one of them whispers.

You nod for him to be quiet. Wires stretch from the detonator at your feet through the underbrush to a series of explosive charges placed near the trail the patrol must move down.

As you wait for the patrol, you reach down and touch the handle of the detonator. It is very smooth and wet and you hope the dampness hasn't affected the charges. When the third man in the patrol has pa.s.sed your position, you press the handle and the explosive roars its greeting.

Your machine gunners open fire at once. They are firing as fast as they can from three different positions and the staccato of the individual guns blends into a uniform hammering. The patrol leader shouts and tries to rally his men, but they are hopelessly confused. They aren't even returning the fire.

"Cease fire," you yell. "Cease fire."

The sudden silence is shattering. You order the patrol leader to a.s.semble his men at a large oak tree about a hundred meters distant for a critique of the exercise.

As you walk to the tree you think of the other patrols that have been run since you took command of the NCO Leaders.h.i.+p School. You check your notebook for some of the specific mistakes this patrol committed. It will be a long critique.

You enter your office after dismissing the patrol for the morning and your admin chief hands you a note. He says it's important. The note is from Jan, a friend in your old infantry battalion. He's the intelligence officer there. The note asks you to call him right away.

"Welcome aboard," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"You will shortly."

"Listen, should I dig out Esther's address? I've got it here someplace." You are kidding him about a girl he knew in the Philippines when you were overseas together a year earlier. And you are asking him to confirm what you have both known by rumor for at least a week - the battalion is going back overseas.

"You'd better find Big Ida's, too," he says.

You tell him you'll meet him for lunch in a few minutes and you feel your stomach tightening with excitement.

You hardly recognize the battalion area. There are crates of gear stacked everywhere. No one is drilling troops or holding inspections or teaching cla.s.ses. There is barbed wire strung around the CP, and armed guards are patrolling. You ask the sentry at the entrance to the CP if your friend is there and he checks a list for your name before he tells you to go in.

"For Christ's sake, what's going on?" you greet Jan.

"You're looking at it. We're going back and you're going with us."

"Don't I have any choice?" you protest.

"The orders are already cut. They knew you'd volunteer. Besides, if you tell them no you'll make paperwork for a dozen clerks and two dozen majors. And you know what that would mean." He takes a pencil out of his pocket and begins to initial reports that are stacked on his desk. "Look," he says, "everybody is going to be back in Asia before too very long. At least you can go back with some people you know - your old battalion."

"That's what I'm afraid of," you tell him. You knew from the minute you talked with him on the phone that you would go - that you wanted to. You dislike being told you have to do anything, but you know you'll go. "I guess I'd better find those addresses," you grin at him. "Semper Fi," he says.

You receive orders as soon as you are back at your office. The Director of the Schools Battalion calls you in and asks if you want to return to the Second Battalion the next day. He wishes you luck and you shake hands with him and leave quickly.

Your company commander is new to the infantry. He has come from duty with a guard detachment at a naval station. He relies on you as the executive officer - and the second in command - to get things done. You like the responsibility.

They are bringing the battalion up to full strength and many new people are posted to your company. There are a.s.signments to be made and briefings to be attended. You know you'll be leaving the States soon - maybe within the week, but the exact date hasn't been released yet.

You make sure your men have all their field gear. You have the company armorer check all the weapons and you replace those that fail the examination. The corpsmen are busy giving shots - typhus, cholera, typhoid, plague. There are division orders to be reviewed and regimental directives to be filed and battalion reports to be completed. By the end of the week you are exhausted. You are having a hard time keeping your sense of humor. But when you think of what you'll soon be doing the excitement makes a sense of humor seem unimportant. Word comes down on Friday that you'll be leaving the next day. The electric effect you thought it would have isn't there. Everyone is too weary; everything is too confused. You caution your men not to reveal the sailing time and you let them go on their last liberty in the United States.

You drive up to Laguna Beach with Jack. You go to- a little bar and drink beer until you're very drunk. The beer is free. Tommy, the bartender, says he wishes he were going with you. Everyone is slapping you on the back and wis.h.i.+ng you luck and shaking your hand. Through the beer haze you enjoy the recognition and you try not to brag. But you're proud to be a Marine and you're happy - even anxious - to be going into combat. You'll prove to yourself at last what the training has told you - that you're the best.

By dusk you are ready to drive back to Camp Pendleton. You can see the ocean swelling and flexing in the fading twilight and the smell of it is very strong. You pa.s.s your old home in San Clemente and you feel a twinge of homesickness. You won't be sleeping there anymore.

There are buses waiting to take the outfit to your s.h.i.+p in San Diego. Everyone has been drinking and it is hard to load the vehicles. People are sleeping on their packs all around the parade deck and someone is constantly getting sick. The officers and staff are checking rosters and yelling and looking for stray Marines. By midnight the buses are loaded and rolling to San Diego. No one in your company is AWOL.

You try to sleep on the bus. The beer is beginning to wear off and the seat is too small for you and your pack. The lights of oncoming vehicles make you blink. You feel sick to your stomach. You drank too much. But it won't be long now.

The s.h.i.+p looms up at dockside like a skysc.r.a.per. You think it is part of the pier - that even if you chopped all the lines securing it, it couldn't float away.

Your company boards last. You take off your pack and sit on it by the gangway and watch the other companies file onto the s.h.i.+p. There is a constant stream of olive drab figures. You think it will never end.

When your company is called away, you and your first sergeant check the name of each Marine against a master roster as he moves up the gangway. You make sure all your men have bunks and that their gear is properly stored before you move to the Troop Officers' Quarters to find your berth.

It is just sunrise. You feel the s.h.i.+p throb gently and the announcement comes over the intercom that you are underway. Some of the officers are going out to the weather decks to watch America slide away in the distance. But you are too tired. You aren't interested in what is behind. You know you'll see the States again. It's only a year.