Some Vietnam War stories, sent to be by John Wilborn.
John Wilborn
Photos. John Wilborn
Name
JOHN WILBORN
Email
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
MISSION COMPLETE....
THE SMELL OF DEATH
DEATH LINGERS.
The smell of death started to fill the cool, night air. It began as insidiously as one would
begin smelling grass being mown--or bread being baked--toast beginning to brown. The
purtid, rotting, gutt wrenching odor of decomposing human flesh. As the intensity of the foul
smell increased, there began to be discerned, heavy grunting and snorting sounds. Then
the scratching and scraping sounds of something or someone picking it’s way through the
brush and tangled heaps of the discarded junk pile of war wrecks.
A human figure that was in a prone firing position nearby, sensed the rancid smell--then the
gutteral sounds of something alive, and finally the movements and the noise. Navy Seal
Jack Apperson made no movement--no sound. Up to the time that the smells started,
anyone capable of peering in from the darkness, would have observed the covert sniper in
an almost sensual, ‘holding-onto-the-Earth’ firing position. The young marksman was laying
on his special deodorized ground cover, face foward to the target, body at a comfortable
angle, ankles and feet flat down on the rubberized cover. A soft jungle hat covered his
head and down on the forehead to his eyebrows. He had been sighting through a special,
light amplified spotters scope at the bonfire burning down in the distant valley. The big
sniper rifle was was propped up on pliable items that seemed to be almost like bicycle inner
tubes. The weapon seemed to be overly long at a quick glance--then one would notice
the sound suppressor attached to the muzzle--then the eye would catch the overly large
scope--My God, the eyepiece looked as big as a dinner plate.
Apperson still had not moved. Through his specially provided (top secret) spotter scope, his
right eye held onto the sight pattern around the bonfire down below his concealed position.
Movements around the fire were not sheltered. It was as if those in attendance had no
worry of attack or discovery. Every once in a while, the flames would leap high into the
night sky, accompanied by firey sparks when someone would throw more combustible fuel
on the fire. Apperson had already spotted his prey--his assigned target--all of the photos
and details that had come in the CIA’s courier pouch had listed features and identifiable
things about this vicious killer. Claiming to be a North Vietnamese general, he was nohing
but a sadistic killer of village elders, women, and the clergy--even children were
slaughtered on his orders, when it suited his whims. Apperson had the strongest inkling that
this man was the Devil reincarnated--he surmised that this evil man looked like the old
oriental actor in the Charlie Chan movies. Most of the gear Apperson wore or carried on
these covert missions, was not availble to line troops. The big M-21 rifle was so designated
by The Agency--the monstor scope--military jargon, LL-2 --the little light amplified spotter
scope was a marvel of ingenuity--not the green, garish muddle that one would see through
regular issue night vision lenses, but daylight clear--that’s how Apperson could spot old
Charlie Chan so easily. Old J.C. back at the F.B.I. training facility in Quantico, had a large
part in devising these magic buttons-- Spook Gear he called it. He was the one staff
instructor Apperson remembered so fondly by his name--every expression by the old
instructor, and for it’s added emphasis it seemed, was preceeded by a Jesus Aich Christ, thus
his nickname for years was J.C. Apperson remembered the time when old J.C. praised him
for his stealth and cunning in a field exercise--that was when he had forcibly stated, “Jesus
Aich Christ Apperson---you are like a Gawd-damned ghost--I have never, in my forty years of
teaching you young whelps, seen the likes of you --- I bet you can walk right through this
Gawd-damed wall”--.
The grunting and snorting sounds now had come closer--significantly so--and the stench of
decaying flesh had become overpowering. The occasional silence as if the thing
approaching was stopping--listening--then it would begin again--the breaking of the grass
and brush--the snorts and the----yes, it was a raspy, uneven intake of breath. The heavy
breathing--sounds as if a patient with terminal emphysema. Apperson still had the small
spotter scope up to his right eye, with that locked onto the flame flickering target far
below--the left eye closed tight shut---. The sounds now were almost on top of his
concealed position--the rank smell, terrible as it was, had got no worse, but the young
sniper now could sense hot blowing breath--the heat of a laboring body-now the sounds of
slobbering and chewing mixed with the blowing of breath. Iron-nerved as the young Navy
Seal professed to be, his left eye popped open--at the same exact micro-second,
Apperson’s bare eyeball must have reflected the flames shooting skyward from fresh fuel
being added to the already towering flames. That other set of eyes--the eyes of the
marauding Messenger of Death--at that some precise instant, that purveyor of the odor of
the long dead, must have seen the terror reflected there in the coiled mans eyes. The
sound emitted by the creature was not unlike the death squeel of a hog being slaughted--.
The clandestinely secret spotter scope, was not good for close up vision. Apperson had to
get an eyeball on this thing that had suddenly startled him so badly, as he hurled the small,
pocket sized scope aside. The acuity of Apperson’s night vision was at the maximum. The
creature he was staring at was not more than four foot away. The quick, calculating mind of
of the young assassin determined that this horrible creature was indeed a cruel abortion of
nature. It appeared to be a cross between a Mid-American wolverine and perhaps an
oriental mongoose--he had seen a mongoose one time on the island of Okinawa--it was pit
fighting with a cobra snake--natural enemies Jack remembered--there had been no winner
that day--the mongoose killed the snake but in a few minutes had tettered off and died
itself. The animal, whatever species it was, uttered another squalling sound, whirled and
went crashing away in the darkenss--it seemed to be wallowing as it ran--from the rear it
looked like a fat hog or a hippopotamus. Apperson’s heart was pounding as if it was going
to explode--his mouth had dried--the crackers he had eaten hours before, choked in his
throat-- the burning stomach acid tore at his taste buds. Apperson realized unconsciously
that his intense sniper discipline had cut in--in his mind he was threshing and tearing at
things--but not so--he was as cool headed as any old western hangman. It was then he
surmised the whole event had only caused him to open that eye and lay the spotter scope
aside. He peered down into the valley again--from Hill 881 South the view was
magnificant--the flames on the bonfire were dying down a bit--not causing the reflected
figures to dance and move around so much--moving only his head, he peered into the big,
pre-set LL-2 rifle scope--the sight pattern was suddenly and greatly magnified--crystal bright
and he could see Charlie Chan as clear as if he were on the movie screen back home in
Wisconsin--wonder if they still have Charlie Chan movies, Apperson mused--he’s sure be an
old bastard now--a smart old Chineeman--solving all those complex murder mysteries--a
flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of the young Seal’s handsome mouth--. Time had
passed so evenly this mission--wish they all were like that --so smoothly since his insertion into
the field by the small, moth like, Bell chopper--as soon as Jack Apperson would ‘burn’ the
target, he was required to activate a small beeper device--that would commence
extraction procedures from the target site. “Jesus aich Christ you shooters--go for a head
shot--just like you been tought--you can never tell if they are wearing armor--even if they are
buck naked as the day they were hatched--still go for a head shot--you loose if you hit a
rib--or a button--just like you been tought--you’ll feel good when you squeeze off that round
if it looks like it was with those watermelons you practiced on--that red, hazy looking mist flies
and you can say without a doubt, I rung his bell for him”.
I bet that smell that come from that dumb, stinking, nasty animal--whatever kind of animal it
was--I kinda think that he’s been foraging on dead Vietnamese bodies that are buried here
in and around Khe Sanh--and Hill 881 South--the ones the ARC-LIGHTS nailed--or the
Jarheads and the Grunts killed when they were defending this ‘shit-hole’--they never did
come back to recover their dead, Apperson mused in his head. The sight picture through
the big #2 Leopold could not be better--he could even clearly see the blemishes on ugly
Old Charlie Chan’s face. The special cast and molded 7.62 round was already chambered
and waiting as Apperson snapped off the SAFE--. Crosshairs in the sight picture were like a
picture book. Rock steady--full face and head--”Jesus aich Christ, Apperson--I have never
seen a man with so much of a sense for timing--you should have been a Gawd-damned
ballerina dancer Apperson--and you have the Magic Touch in your trigger finger
Apperson--did you know that my fine young----”!
The big heavy weapon surged-- almost like an orgasmic shudder, as trigger and sear did
their mechanical functions. In the fraction of a second that it required the supremely
machined round to reach the Charlie Chan looking face in the scope, Apperson’s sight
picture never wavered. The seeming obsene, yet eloquent words of old J.C. speaking
about the red mist-- “like when you shoot a water melon”--there it was --as the florid looking
face of the Killer of Innocents drooped out of Appersons captive view--. He reached into
the pocket of his jacket and retrieved the homing device for calling the Bell and beginning
extraction. “Jesus Aich Christ”, Apperson muttered to himself--”I stink as bad as that ugly,
fat-ass little carrion cruncher--makes me wanna puke”.
Name
JOHN WILBORN
Email
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
It was a serious situation--deathly serious. It was a comical situation---deathly comical.
It was necessary to separate the two situations, to ascertain either one. Can men find
any humor when death is nigh, those of course being normal men, with the pyhsical
and spiritual outlooks on life that makes them normal, as we recognize normality. As
stories seem to evolve, this particular story was related to me the first time as if it had
actually happened to the teller. Then the second time I heard the story, it was another
first hand account, and the third time and so on. But isn't that the way stories become?
I bet you have heard that old story related by someone you knew, you know that one
where the Marine was dating this girl. Oh, but she was 'a real hot number'. Finally,
when he was invited to her parents house for Sunday dinner, her Father turned out to
be the minister of the local Baptist Church. Sure you?ve heard that one--the Marine is
trying to put his best foot foward to the family, and asks so unpretentiously ?PLEASE PASS
THE F----- BUTTER!!!!? That is an old classic I have heard so many times over the years.
I have always chuckled when it was related to me, for the situations of which I spoke
before, is similar to this one, be it deathly serious or deathly comical.
In 1968, during the siege of Khe Sanh South Vietnam, the U.S. Marines were the
besieged, and the opposing forces were a mish-mash of North Vietnamese Army (NVA)
forces and civilian fighters called Viet Cong. It was a hellish situation up there near the
border, with many men dying and being wounded on both sides. Ground probes by
the NVA and the Cong, and then followed with counter-attacks by the Marines--back
and forth--give and take. Air strikes with heavy B-52 bombers called ARC-LIGHTS or
close air support with fighter-bombers like the F-4 Phantoms were the Americans
Ace-in-the-Hole. Countless and never-ending aerial operations with helicopters
provided the Marines with supplies and support. There was a motto used offhandedly,
BEANS AND BULLETS IN---BODIES OUT. Oh yes, back to the serious/comical story. At Khe
Sanh, there were snipers, Marine snipers and NVA snipers. Both sides had their snipers
and there were 'confirmed kills' on both sides. The story, as related to me, was that the
sniping operations run in kind of a set pattern--'to serve, and then be served up to'--you
know, the give and take affair. The Marines always had targets, but the Marines never
wanted to be the target. If some Charlie got lucky, there was a really a concerted
effort by the Marines to determine where the enemy sniper was, and then destroy him
with whatever means---search out and kill him clandestinely, or to call in a massive air
strike even. These sieges by the snipers really didn't last that long, however when
you're getting shot at by someone you can't see, once is too often, and a few seconds
can be too long of time. This is where the story gets comical, or at least to my way of
thinking, and I think to the tellers thinking too. One day the Khe Sanh Marine area
started being sniped on. Of course the troops took cover in a very rapid fashion, and
while under cover, observed the sniper who would come to be tagged as CROSS-EYED
CHARLIE, as he delivered methodical but very inaccurate fire upon the Marines camp.
It was related by the teller, who was right there and seen it all everytime, that rounds
impacted all over the camp---this CROSS-EYED CHARLIE couldn?t hit a hay barn with
the doors shut. Next day old CROSS-EYED CHARLIE was back, firing in the same can't
hit anything fashion?. Marines called the weapon old C-E-C was using as an 7.62 SKS.
The determined that by the sound of the crack and the thud of the round impacting.
Or that's how the story goes. The Marines talked it over and concluded that Old C-E-C
must have a motive for his lousy marksmanship---hell, no rifleman can be that bad, let
alone a sniper. 'Leave him alone---no counter-fire to take him out'--- that was
reasoned by the Marine Colonel. Just think, if the Marines don't kill Old C-E-C, a
better marksman won't come to replace him---'let him grow old shooting holes in the
sky'. Deathly serious or deathly comical---it would just become another oft-told story of
the war, and the men of the war, who were called on to be there in that armpit of the
world during those terrible times. I was not there at Khe Sanh then, but the story
become so much of a classic, I could find myself slipping easily into a first-hand
account. I went to Khe Sanh Easter Sunday, 1968, with our battalion Chaplain. He had
been called on to conduct services there that Holy Day. Easter Sunday 1968, was
another one of the many truces set up by the black coated statemsmen in Paris. There
were some truces that held, however most didn't, caused by infractions on both sides.
Shortly after Easter, the seige was lifted on Khe Sanh by troops of the 1st Air Cav., and a
relief column called OPERATION PEGESUS, took over from the battle weary Marines. I
have heard this sniper story told so many times about Old CROSS-EYED-CHARLIE---the
Marines used to quip, he always hit was he was aiming at, but you know with the eye
impediment, the cross eyes and all, that the tip of Charlie's nose was his sight picture,
and the whole damn sky was Old Charlie's target. Wilborn
Name
JOHN WILBORN
Email
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
This story is about my grandson Bryan Wilborn. Bryan is currently in Afghanistan with the
US Army....
LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN!!!!
The volume on the small television set was much too loud. One of the mindless and seemingly
senseless morning game shows was playing. The voice of Bob Barker, the game shows host, was
easily recognizable. The older of the two persons watching the show commented how old and
grey and wrinkled Bob Barker had become. The younger individual listened respectfully to the
less than kind remarks of the old man, all the time watching the goings-on and the give-aways
attentively. ‘Grandpa’, the young man questioned, ‘how much do you think that metal detector
they’re showing the people is worth’? The aging and overweight man looked disinterestedly at
the screen and stated in an expert sounding voice, ‘oh, I dont know Bryan, about a
dollar-three-ninty-eight---maybe a bit more or a bit less’. One could almost sense the wheels
turning inside the youngsters head as he mentally digested his grandfathers answer. Abruptly he
turned his tousled head toward his viewing partner and exclaimed, ‘oh Grandpa, there’s no such
amount as a dollar-three-ninty-eight---you’re just making that up’! The boy noticed the smug smirk
on the old mans face and immediately knew he needed no further convincing of his
grandfather’s teasing.
The televisions scenes and sounds changed to commercial time---payday for the American
programming system. The screen on the small colored television was filled with an aircraft
carriers flightdeck operations being conducted on a storm tossed sea. The carriers busy flight
deck showed a nuclear powered aircraft carrier retrieving an F-18 TOMCAT with the arresting
wire and snatch-hook clearly visible. A second later the scene had changed to a prop driven
HAWKEYE plane with a large saucer like dome atop the fuselage, being catapulted off the flight
deck in a slashing cloud of steam. The busy flight deck crewman, dressed in a variety of colorful
jackets and headgear, scurried about like ants after sugar.
LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN was announced as the title of the Navy’s commercial . The next action
scene displayed was of red-shirted bomb and ordinance technicians, strapping heat seeking
missiles under a fighter- bombers stubby wings. Headaches to be delivered up today for
somebody, somewhere -----and will it rain on your parade this day? The profound silence of the
two relatives sitting at the kitchen table seemed deafening as they watched the Navy sea
operations, wide-eyed and enthralled. As the announcer continued his narration, the next scene
showed another grey painted vessel, a guided missile frigate, leaning hard over for a graceful,
tactical turn, in the white-capped ocean swells.
A 1-800 number flashed onto the screen and a free video about the Navy was offered to anyone
desiring more nautical excitment. It was one of those where you did’nt have to remember the
number as there was a catchy phrase like GO NAVY. The Grandpa grabbed a nearby pen and
scrawled the complete set of phone numbers onto the palm of his liver spotted hand. The old
man’s active mind flashed back almost fifty years earlier as he recalled his first day in Navy boot
camp at San Diego when the young sailors had to write important things in the palms of their
hands with Navy ballpoint pens--things like their blood-type, religion, service number, and then
to survive the wrath of their new God, the Company Commander, yelling into their faces
because the perspiration in their palms had flushed that vital information away before they had
committed to memory what they had, up until then, considered to be trivia.
What’re you grinning about Grandpa’, Bryan asked the old retired Senior Chief Petty Officer,
‘what’s so funny?’ The old man reached over and patted the twelve year old on the top of his
tousled head and sighed, ‘just and old man’s memories Bryan, it’d just take too long to tell you
the whole story but I will someday’.
‘How would you like to have that video about the Navy, Bryan’, the Grandpa inquired, ‘you
know how interested you’ve become in the Navy every since your Dad enlisted you into the
Navy League Program. ‘Golly Bryan, now you’ve got your own uniform and seabag and
everything---they even give you a set of dog-tags’, the old man exclaimed, sounding very
enthuisitic. Not to be put off with the hundreds of questions the youngster wanted to ask his
Grandfather, the lad started out with the one he most likely already knew the answer for as he
and the old man had often talked of his naval career with his Grandson.
‘Were you ever on an aircraft carrier, Grandpa---did you ever watch them launch a jet fighter
Grandpa --- did you ever want to be a jet pilot Grandpa, huh, did’ja, huh?
The old fellow was used to a barrage of questions, rapid fire inquiries like his young Grandson had
just delivered, so very patiently the old man reminded the boy that he had spent his entire twenty
year naval career in the NAVY SEABEES. He always added, like the young man needed a
reminder, that the SEABEES were named for the naval construction battalions, and always jokingly
added for the young mans benefit, that the SEABEES ‘babysat’ the MARINE CORPS and built all
kinds of things like airfields and barracks for them. Bryan had heard his Grandfather speak many
times of the two tours of duty he had spent in Viet Nam with the First and Third Marine Divisions.
That had been in 1967 through 1969---actually that had been when Bryan’s father Timothy, had
only been in the first grades of school over in Port Hueneme, California.
‘Would you like me to call the Navy Bryan and ask them to send you the video ----you could
even take it to your next Navy League meeting and show everyone?’ All the time the old man
was asking, Bryan was nodding his head vigorously, like he was anxious for it to happen. ‘How
long do you think it’ll take to get here Grandpa, huh; do you think I’ll get it by next week cause
that is when I got my next meeting’? The young man questioned and stated, all in a single
outburst, that left him redfaced and breathless.
‘Well now Bryan, you just be patient-- I’ll find out more when I talk to those folks-- that is if they
have some real live people on the line and not just that computer voice thing---I’ll be sure to ask
and I’ll make it so they send it to you in your name ---would you like that’? The head nodding
continued in such a vigorous fashion that the young mans unkempt hair flopped about like it was
being blown by the wind.
A short time later the old man was on the phone talking to a ‘real live person’ and responding to
the questions being asked. ‘Yes Miss Navy, I’ll spell the name for you that I’d like it addressed
to---the name is Bryan Wilborn--B--R--Y--A--N and the last name is spelled W--I--L--B--O--R--N.
The old man continued to speak giving the address and zip code followed by an extended
pause. ‘Yes Miss Navy, that is right, I’m requesting that Navy video for my Grandson who’s name
I’ve given you, and if that’s not possible because of his age, please send it to us using my name
as I am a retired Navy Senior Chief Petty Officer’.
‘Yes Miss, I did say he was twelve years old and yes, he is very interested in the Navy, even at
his age’. The old man had made the last statement in such a proud sounding manner that the
operator remarked quite emphatically, and so very matter of factly, ‘he’ll get his navy video
sir, I guarantee it’!
Finally all the information was gleaned and the operator said she would read back the data
gathered for the old Chief’s verification. When the information was repeated about Bryan’s age
she made a subdued chuckling sound over the phone and remarked in a jovial sounding voice
‘we’ll just make that a two-one instead of one-two’, followed by a click and whir of the
electronic equipment, recording the mis-deed just logged---’and we thank you Senior Chief
Wilborn for your interest in our program LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN’.
The old man then made his declarations of appreciation and thanked the friendly operator most
graciously for her time and ingenuity by helping the way she had. ‘You have a real pleasant
day Miss Navy -- you’ve made a pleasant day for Bryan and I, and we thank you again’, and the
old fellow hung up his phone. Almost two weeks later the video addressed to the grandson
Bryan arrived. He was overjoyed at his good fortune. The video package was colorful and
decorated with one of the aircraft carrier’s crewman dressed in special yellow outfit that
identified him as one of the aircraft handlers on the deck of the giant ‘bird-farm’---bird farms
were what the SEABEES used to call the aircraft carriers that operated out in the South China Sea
during the Viet Nam ‘days of glory’.
No other Navy activity happened for awhile--Bryan watched the video countless times and
shared it with local friends. July in Arizona leaves a lot of ‘inside the house time’. Younger
members of the household spend long periods of time in the swimming pool, sometimes with
friends, other times alone. HOT--HOT--HOT is the main conversation!
THREE WEEKS LATER
It was about three o’clock Thursday afternoon-- the day the Navy came to our home. Bryan’s
Grandmother was sewing her Raggedy Ann dolls and watching The Donnie and Marie Show in
the den. I was working at the computer while keeping an eye on Bryan and his friend Josh as
they played some roccous splash game in the pool. Though it was comfortable in the house, I
was wearing only a pair of old scrufty shorts---no shoes or socks or even an undershirt. My
‘grungy’ retired attire, was even less than informal.
The doorbell rang and I called out loudly to Mary that I would get the door as I typed a closing
sentence on a story I was trying to string together. My wife of forty-five years yelled back ‘okay’
as the door bell sounded again. I mused to myself, I bet that’s the mailman---he’s gotta a
package for me today and being he’s the one that’s running late, it’s making him impatient. I
headed off through the front room to answer the door and glancing quickly out of the front bay
window, to my utter astonishment, there on my front doorstep, reaching to ring the bell the third
time, was one of the largest sailors I had ever seen. He was accompanied by two other equally
large navymen, dressed in sparkling white uniforms, chests full of multi-colored ribbons, looking like
they had just stepped out of a recruiting poster.
My wife described my vocal outburst later, in fact she said it sounded like I was strangling. She
said I had fairly gasped out, ‘there’s three great big sailors at the door Mary---are they here for
you’, to which she responded gaily “sure, at my age, there’s three big sailors at the door, ringing
the doorbell for me!” What a woman--what a wife---I thought all these thoughts much later, for
by then I was streaking toward my room on the other end of the house to get at least a shirt and
some shoes on as the doorbell continued to chime determinedly. Never let it be said this old
navy chief would greet any navy representive out of uniform, as I yanked on my ‘skivvy shirt’
and shoes with panic-like determination.
When I opened the door for our nautical visitors, I tried to be clever and suave when I
introduced myself to them and remarked casually, ‘where do you want me to sign to go
back to active duty men?’ They chuckled polietly-- I believe it was a chuckle, as I invited
them in to the living room. Actually they probably thought to themselves, ‘who’s leg is this old
Dude trying to pull’! I can’t tell you how honored I felt when those young navymen called me
Senior Chief and as we visited openly, rapport and good feelings prevailed. Humor was at the
forefront of the entire meeting that day. Actually, they had come to interview Bryan Wilborn, the
twenty-one year old Bryan Wilborn, for enlistment into the United States Navy. When I told them
my grandson Bryan was only twelve years old and that a mistake must have been made when
paper work was filled out, you know maybe the thing of a two and the one being
reversed----well my face must of flushed and gave away the video conspiricy that had transpired
for those navymen smiled and remained totally unflusterd looking. When I told the recruiters that
my twelve year old grandson Bryan was out swimming with his friend, they all remarked and
wished that they were able to do the same. When I offered to have Bryan dry off and come in to
talk with them, they simply scoffed at the idea of disturbing the young mens enjoyment. “Let
them swim Senior, they’ll have their nose to the grindstone soon enough the way it is,” one of the
knowing sailors remarked. That matter-of-fact statement made me feel good and even relieved
for the deception I had been part of. Later when I told Bryan and his Dad about the recruiting
escapade, we all agreed that it would have been so unforgetable for a meeting to have taken
place with the recruiters and my twelve year old grandson.
As I visited that afternoon with those impressive looking Navymen, I could not help from feeling
proud. Proud for them and their deportment and for what they represented, proud for myself of
having been once been a part of it, and proud of Bryan and his father for questing about the
information and finally their advancement into the naval organization. The sailors inquired and I
told them, probably boastfully, of things I had done and places I had served. I told them that
when I had been twenty-one years old, I had been helping to shove a mountion out into salty
depths Subic Bay in the Philippines --- my SEABEES were building the Cubi Point Naval Air Base
there during the Korean War. To that, one of the young warriors commented that he had
helped decommission that same base following the devasting volcanic eruptions that had
occurred in the Philippines a decade earlier. There were many other sea stories told also but the
recruiters were’nt able to stay very long that afternoon. I offered coffee and refreshments,
however they declined as other commitments needed their attention . I commented how sharp
and ‘squared-away’ they all looked---even tried to identify a couple of the strange new insignias
on their uniforms rating badges. Silently I felt elated that the ‘torch had been passed’ to the
new generations -- it glowed as brightly as I remembered.
Although just by being the biggest, does’nt always mean you’re in charge, but today it seemed
to be that way. The men were all much taller than I, but the recruiter in charge was a giant of a
fellow. I randomly thought of the yard-arm that is up on a ships mast---and mused to myself, that
this big guy had that yard-arm fashioned inside the shoulders of his shirt. Their shoes glistened like
polished ebony and the service dress whites they wore so handsomely, were almost unnatural in
their brilliance. At the door when the Navymen departed, a few more humorous remarks were
exchanged---‘sailor talk’ you know, and we shook hands all around. The giant was the last to
leave and as he clasped my hand, he flashed a brilliant smile. “They told us there would be
stories out here like this Senior Chief--I’ve been out for three years now and this is going to be the
one I’ll never forget--these are the kind’a stories our country and our Navy are made of.” He
seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment as if he wanted to say something additional and
then remarked so very casually, “this is just going to make one hell’va Navy recruiting story--just
can’t wait to get back to the office ----wow!” Wilborn
__________________
Name
JOHN WILBORN
Email
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
VENGENCE IS MINE, SAYETH PAPA-SAN
The young pointman’s screams sounded almost feminine. “Ambush, ambush, ambush”,
as his high-pitched screams reverberated off the moist, early morning surroundings.
A single rifle shot had rung out foward of their position. A sharp, ringing sound, not to
be compared with anything they were familiar with--not like the telltale rattle of the
AK-47’s or the ripping, tearing sounds of their own, rapid-fire, M-16’s.
An ambush could not have happened in a worse place for the ‘poop and snoop’ patrol.
Bradley, who had screamed the alarm, was serving his solo as pointman. The
reinforced fire team consisited of six members and a hospital corpsman. They were
clustered too close together and in a single file. The had a saying they all knew well,
that if you were in a single file column, a single fifty caliber round would get thirteen
of you and still make kindling wood out of the tree behind you. The patrol had simply
been sent out to talk with the farmers and villiagers surrounding the camp. There had
been a reactive Force Recon Team in the immediate area only the day before, raisingall
sorts of hell. There had been smoke rising from several sites throughout the
morning--that, and there had also been random firing of automatic weapons.
Another sharp, crack and the M-79 ‘thumper’ that Statler was pointing toward the
suspect position, was torn from his grip and sent flying. Statler rolled out of the way
and clutched at his holstered forty-five.
The patrol had been following a worn footpath, as they trudged along before the firing
commenced. Exactly the moment when they had started down the long, sloping, and
meandering decline, the methodical firing had begun. Unknown to the others, the first
round had found it’s mark. Lovitt, who was walking ‘drag’, caught the round in the
throat and was probably dead before he hit the moist, slippery path. He lay there like a
discarded puppet doll--his head off to one side at a grotesque angle--his spinal column
severed, his eyes wide open and staring sightlessly. What very little blood there was,
meant that his beating heart had been stilled almost instantly--and the blood there
was, contributed to a coppery odor in the now still air. The shooter was experienced
and was taking out the rear personnel first-- the skills of a sniper.
Jonesy, the patrol leader, called out orders to the low-crouching team members.
“Filbray--you and Sticks take your ‘60’s and lay some covering fire on the bunch of
bushes, forty meters at eleven o’clock--Statler, you grab Lovitt’s piece--short bursts
you gunners--me ‘n Stat are going in skirmishes left and right--Stat, you catch the
right -- and dammit you gunners, keep your fire on target--don’t sweep it or you’ll tear
us a new ass”!
Another metallic rifle crack and a round thudded into the earth beside Jonesy, causing
him to roll off to one side and scream simultaneously, “COMMENCE FIRING YOU
GUNNERS---let’s go Statler”!!!
It was not to be unlike a choreographed movie script playing out. The mind-numbing
noise of the hammering M-60’s, firing the short five round bursts, blended with the
‘mad-man’ soundings battle crys of the charging Jonesy and Statler as they swung
wide out of the cone of fire from the machine gunners, and bore down on the bushes
that were shaking and jumping as if dancing.
Perhaps it was all the machine fire had done was to keep the shooters head down, for
as soon as the hidden sniper saw Jonesy, he attempted to bring the long rifle to bear
on his target. A rapid burst from Statler’s M-16 stitched across the snipers midsection
hurtling him back to the ground from whence he had been hidden. The long-barreled
rifle was knocked from his grasp. Jonesy stood up, and in a slicing action of his hand
across his own throat, made the motion for the machine gunners to cease fire. The
smell of cordite fumes hung heavy in the now silent air. Statler’s heavy breathing
sounds blended with the grunting sounds Jonesy made as he pulled the wounded sniper
from the bushes. The patrol leader turned and gave an arm signal for the other patrol
members to assemble at his point.
The agate black eyes of the wounded Vietnamese stared up hatefully at the American
patrol leader, who only moments before, had been in his gunsights. Slimy, black
blood that smelled of viscera, oozed from between the fingers of his claw-like hand
that was attempting to shove the mess back into the gaping cavity. “Statler, you
speak their lingo--ask this old bastard what he was trying to do--hell, by the looks of
him he’s an old farmer--**** Stat--he ain’t got a tooth in his face--ask him what the hell
he was shooting at us for”.
By now Filbray and Sticks had appeared with their M-60’s draping the belting rounds
remaining, and was gawlking in at the gross scene ther on the ground. “Damn”, Stick
complained “that old bastard stinks like the worse kinda ****--what the hell do they
eat--garbage and maggots”. “Knock it off big-mouth--have a little respect--can’t you
see the poor old bastard is dyin’--”. A sudden and perplexing look clouded Stick’s
sweaty features. He had never seen death this close before. His ruddy complexion
seemed to blanch out and go grey, as he suddenly turned on his heel abruptly, and fell
to his knees and started to vomit.
Statler had been talking Vietnamese to the old casualty. The sing-song sounding parley
had been going on for a few moments when Statler suddenly turned his face up to the
waiting Jonesy and remarked hatefully, almost accusingly. “Holy ****--what a bummer
Jones--this old slope-head is a farmer--a rice grower--he’s had that old gun every
since 1954 when he was with General Giap--that was when they whupped the
Frenchies asses up at Dien bien Phu or some shitty sounding name like that--he was
just pissed off today because those frigging Force dudes killed his water buffalo
yesterday--no damn reason--just bein’ mean Muthers”!!!
The unbidden hate that now showed in Statler’s blue eyes and caused his pinkish
complexion to seem bloody--as if by cointrast it matched the hate that had shown in
the black eyes of the old Vietnamese farmer minutes earlier.
The moments of hatefilled actions by the old farmer was now past. The groping and
shoving hand had fallen off his torn stomach and now lay on the blood and viscera
stained earth beside him---this earth that he obviously knew so well--this earth he had
eeked his livihood from, but in a fit of ill-serving rage, had died here on the bosom of it.
Sticks was back on his feet again--he looked worse, now after his bout of vomiting,
than the dead old farmer looked, in fact there was a peaceful and paranormal
appearance to the old tiller of the soil as he lay there in a manner of repose. “What are
we gonna do with the old gook, Jonesy”, the Corpsman Dixon asked. Dixon had stayed
with Lovitt’s body while the firing had been going on, and now had rejoined the patrol.
“I called for an extraction chopper--be here in twenty--s’posed to pop a green if it’s
still clear--red if it turns hot”, Dixon stated casually.
“Let’s saddle up troops--get ready to move out--the family will find the old mans
body--they must have know what he was gonna do--hell, they may be watching us
right now--waiting for us to move out so they can come get him--poor old man--he died
for his ground--those mean, motherless, bastards killed his tractor”---Jonesy paused as
if catching his mistake--”well hell, it was like a tractor to him--they cherish their
aninals--that old buffalo probably slept on the same rice-mat as the old farmer
did--what a shitty deal, is all I gotta say--a real crap-detail”. Wilborn
JOHN WILBORN
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
MISSION COMPLETE....
THE SMELL OF DEATH
DEATH LINGERS.
The smell of death started to fill the cool, night air. It began as insidiously as one would
begin smelling grass being mown--or bread being baked--toast beginning to brown. The
purtid, rotting, gutt wrenching odor of decomposing human flesh. As the intensity of the foul
smell increased, there began to be discerned, heavy grunting and snorting sounds. Then
the scratching and scraping sounds of something or someone picking it’s way through the
brush and tangled heaps of the discarded junk pile of war wrecks.
A human figure that was in a prone firing position nearby, sensed the rancid smell--then the
gutteral sounds of something alive, and finally the movements and the noise. Navy Seal
Jack Apperson made no movement--no sound. Up to the time that the smells started,
anyone capable of peering in from the darkness, would have observed the covert sniper in
an almost sensual, ‘holding-onto-the-Earth’ firing position. The young marksman was laying
on his special deodorized ground cover, face foward to the target, body at a comfortable
angle, ankles and feet flat down on the rubberized cover. A soft jungle hat covered his
head and down on the forehead to his eyebrows. He had been sighting through a special,
light amplified spotters scope at the bonfire burning down in the distant valley. The big
sniper rifle was was propped up on pliable items that seemed to be almost like bicycle inner
tubes. The weapon seemed to be overly long at a quick glance--then one would notice
the sound suppressor attached to the muzzle--then the eye would catch the overly large
scope--My God, the eyepiece looked as big as a dinner plate.
Apperson still had not moved. Through his specially provided (top secret) spotter scope, his
right eye held onto the sight pattern around the bonfire down below his concealed position.
Movements around the fire were not sheltered. It was as if those in attendance had no
worry of attack or discovery. Every once in a while, the flames would leap high into the
night sky, accompanied by firey sparks when someone would throw more combustible fuel
on the fire. Apperson had already spotted his prey--his assigned target--all of the photos
and details that had come in the CIA’s courier pouch had listed features and identifiable
things about this vicious killer. Claiming to be a North Vietnamese general, he was nohing
but a sadistic killer of village elders, women, and the clergy--even children were
slaughtered on his orders, when it suited his whims. Apperson had the strongest inkling that
this man was the Devil reincarnated--he surmised that this evil man looked like the old
oriental actor in the Charlie Chan movies. Most of the gear Apperson wore or carried on
these covert missions, was not availble to line troops. The big M-21 rifle was so designated
by The Agency--the monstor scope--military jargon, LL-2 --the little light amplified spotter
scope was a marvel of ingenuity--not the green, garish muddle that one would see through
regular issue night vision lenses, but daylight clear--that’s how Apperson could spot old
Charlie Chan so easily. Old J.C. back at the F.B.I. training facility in Quantico, had a large
part in devising these magic buttons-- Spook Gear he called it. He was the one staff
instructor Apperson remembered so fondly by his name--every expression by the old
instructor, and for it’s added emphasis it seemed, was preceeded by a Jesus Aich Christ, thus
his nickname for years was J.C. Apperson remembered the time when old J.C. praised him
for his stealth and cunning in a field exercise--that was when he had forcibly stated, “Jesus
Aich Christ Apperson---you are like a Gawd-damned ghost--I have never, in my forty years of
teaching you young whelps, seen the likes of you --- I bet you can walk right through this
Gawd-damed wall”--.
The grunting and snorting sounds now had come closer--significantly so--and the stench of
decaying flesh had become overpowering. The occasional silence as if the thing
approaching was stopping--listening--then it would begin again--the breaking of the grass
and brush--the snorts and the----yes, it was a raspy, uneven intake of breath. The heavy
breathing--sounds as if a patient with terminal emphysema. Apperson still had the small
spotter scope up to his right eye, with that locked onto the flame flickering target far
below--the left eye closed tight shut---. The sounds now were almost on top of his
concealed position--the rank smell, terrible as it was, had got no worse, but the young
sniper now could sense hot blowing breath--the heat of a laboring body-now the sounds of
slobbering and chewing mixed with the blowing of breath. Iron-nerved as the young Navy
Seal professed to be, his left eye popped open--at the same exact micro-second,
Apperson’s bare eyeball must have reflected the flames shooting skyward from fresh fuel
being added to the already towering flames. That other set of eyes--the eyes of the
marauding Messenger of Death--at that some precise instant, that purveyor of the odor of
the long dead, must have seen the terror reflected there in the coiled mans eyes. The
sound emitted by the creature was not unlike the death squeel of a hog being slaughted--.
The clandestinely secret spotter scope, was not good for close up vision. Apperson had to
get an eyeball on this thing that had suddenly startled him so badly, as he hurled the small,
pocket sized scope aside. The acuity of Apperson’s night vision was at the maximum. The
creature he was staring at was not more than four foot away. The quick, calculating mind of
of the young assassin determined that this horrible creature was indeed a cruel abortion of
nature. It appeared to be a cross between a Mid-American wolverine and perhaps an
oriental mongoose--he had seen a mongoose one time on the island of Okinawa--it was pit
fighting with a cobra snake--natural enemies Jack remembered--there had been no winner
that day--the mongoose killed the snake but in a few minutes had tettered off and died
itself. The animal, whatever species it was, uttered another squalling sound, whirled and
went crashing away in the darkenss--it seemed to be wallowing as it ran--from the rear it
looked like a fat hog or a hippopotamus. Apperson’s heart was pounding as if it was going
to explode--his mouth had dried--the crackers he had eaten hours before, choked in his
throat-- the burning stomach acid tore at his taste buds. Apperson realized unconsciously
that his intense sniper discipline had cut in--in his mind he was threshing and tearing at
things--but not so--he was as cool headed as any old western hangman. It was then he
surmised the whole event had only caused him to open that eye and lay the spotter scope
aside. He peered down into the valley again--from Hill 881 South the view was
magnificant--the flames on the bonfire were dying down a bit--not causing the reflected
figures to dance and move around so much--moving only his head, he peered into the big,
pre-set LL-2 rifle scope--the sight pattern was suddenly and greatly magnified--crystal bright
and he could see Charlie Chan as clear as if he were on the movie screen back home in
Wisconsin--wonder if they still have Charlie Chan movies, Apperson mused--he’s sure be an
old bastard now--a smart old Chineeman--solving all those complex murder mysteries--a
flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of the young Seal’s handsome mouth--. Time had
passed so evenly this mission--wish they all were like that --so smoothly since his insertion into
the field by the small, moth like, Bell chopper--as soon as Jack Apperson would ‘burn’ the
target, he was required to activate a small beeper device--that would commence
extraction procedures from the target site. “Jesus aich Christ you shooters--go for a head
shot--just like you been tought--you can never tell if they are wearing armor--even if they are
buck naked as the day they were hatched--still go for a head shot--you loose if you hit a
rib--or a button--just like you been tought--you’ll feel good when you squeeze off that round
if it looks like it was with those watermelons you practiced on--that red, hazy looking mist flies
and you can say without a doubt, I rung his bell for him”.
I bet that smell that come from that dumb, stinking, nasty animal--whatever kind of animal it
was--I kinda think that he’s been foraging on dead Vietnamese bodies that are buried here
in and around Khe Sanh--and Hill 881 South--the ones the ARC-LIGHTS nailed--or the
Jarheads and the Grunts killed when they were defending this ‘shit-hole’--they never did
come back to recover their dead, Apperson mused in his head. The sight picture through
the big #2 Leopold could not be better--he could even clearly see the blemishes on ugly
Old Charlie Chan’s face. The special cast and molded 7.62 round was already chambered
and waiting as Apperson snapped off the SAFE--. Crosshairs in the sight picture were like a
picture book. Rock steady--full face and head--”Jesus aich Christ, Apperson--I have never
seen a man with so much of a sense for timing--you should have been a Gawd-damned
ballerina dancer Apperson--and you have the Magic Touch in your trigger finger
Apperson--did you know that my fine young----”!
The big heavy weapon surged-- almost like an orgasmic shudder, as trigger and sear did
their mechanical functions. In the fraction of a second that it required the supremely
machined round to reach the Charlie Chan looking face in the scope, Apperson’s sight
picture never wavered. The seeming obsene, yet eloquent words of old J.C. speaking
about the red mist-- “like when you shoot a water melon”--there it was --as the florid looking
face of the Killer of Innocents drooped out of Appersons captive view--. He reached into
the pocket of his jacket and retrieved the homing device for calling the Bell and beginning
extraction. “Jesus Aich Christ”, Apperson muttered to himself--”I stink as bad as that ugly,
fat-ass little carrion cruncher--makes me wanna puke”.
Name
JOHN WILBORN
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
It was a serious situation--deathly serious. It was a comical situation---deathly comical.
It was necessary to separate the two situations, to ascertain either one. Can men find
any humor when death is nigh, those of course being normal men, with the pyhsical
and spiritual outlooks on life that makes them normal, as we recognize normality. As
stories seem to evolve, this particular story was related to me the first time as if it had
actually happened to the teller. Then the second time I heard the story, it was another
first hand account, and the third time and so on. But isn't that the way stories become?
I bet you have heard that old story related by someone you knew, you know that one
where the Marine was dating this girl. Oh, but she was 'a real hot number'. Finally,
when he was invited to her parents house for Sunday dinner, her Father turned out to
be the minister of the local Baptist Church. Sure you?ve heard that one--the Marine is
trying to put his best foot foward to the family, and asks so unpretentiously ?PLEASE PASS
THE F----- BUTTER!!!!? That is an old classic I have heard so many times over the years.
I have always chuckled when it was related to me, for the situations of which I spoke
before, is similar to this one, be it deathly serious or deathly comical.
In 1968, during the siege of Khe Sanh South Vietnam, the U.S. Marines were the
besieged, and the opposing forces were a mish-mash of North Vietnamese Army (NVA)
forces and civilian fighters called Viet Cong. It was a hellish situation up there near the
border, with many men dying and being wounded on both sides. Ground probes by
the NVA and the Cong, and then followed with counter-attacks by the Marines--back
and forth--give and take. Air strikes with heavy B-52 bombers called ARC-LIGHTS or
close air support with fighter-bombers like the F-4 Phantoms were the Americans
Ace-in-the-Hole. Countless and never-ending aerial operations with helicopters
provided the Marines with supplies and support. There was a motto used offhandedly,
BEANS AND BULLETS IN---BODIES OUT. Oh yes, back to the serious/comical story. At Khe
Sanh, there were snipers, Marine snipers and NVA snipers. Both sides had their snipers
and there were 'confirmed kills' on both sides. The story, as related to me, was that the
sniping operations run in kind of a set pattern--'to serve, and then be served up to'--you
know, the give and take affair. The Marines always had targets, but the Marines never
wanted to be the target. If some Charlie got lucky, there was a really a concerted
effort by the Marines to determine where the enemy sniper was, and then destroy him
with whatever means---search out and kill him clandestinely, or to call in a massive air
strike even. These sieges by the snipers really didn't last that long, however when
you're getting shot at by someone you can't see, once is too often, and a few seconds
can be too long of time. This is where the story gets comical, or at least to my way of
thinking, and I think to the tellers thinking too. One day the Khe Sanh Marine area
started being sniped on. Of course the troops took cover in a very rapid fashion, and
while under cover, observed the sniper who would come to be tagged as CROSS-EYED
CHARLIE, as he delivered methodical but very inaccurate fire upon the Marines camp.
It was related by the teller, who was right there and seen it all everytime, that rounds
impacted all over the camp---this CROSS-EYED CHARLIE couldn?t hit a hay barn with
the doors shut. Next day old CROSS-EYED CHARLIE was back, firing in the same can't
hit anything fashion?. Marines called the weapon old C-E-C was using as an 7.62 SKS.
The determined that by the sound of the crack and the thud of the round impacting.
Or that's how the story goes. The Marines talked it over and concluded that Old C-E-C
must have a motive for his lousy marksmanship---hell, no rifleman can be that bad, let
alone a sniper. 'Leave him alone---no counter-fire to take him out'--- that was
reasoned by the Marine Colonel. Just think, if the Marines don't kill Old C-E-C, a
better marksman won't come to replace him---'let him grow old shooting holes in the
sky'. Deathly serious or deathly comical---it would just become another oft-told story of
the war, and the men of the war, who were called on to be there in that armpit of the
world during those terrible times. I was not there at Khe Sanh then, but the story
become so much of a classic, I could find myself slipping easily into a first-hand
account. I went to Khe Sanh Easter Sunday, 1968, with our battalion Chaplain. He had
been called on to conduct services there that Holy Day. Easter Sunday 1968, was
another one of the many truces set up by the black coated statemsmen in Paris. There
were some truces that held, however most didn't, caused by infractions on both sides.
Shortly after Easter, the seige was lifted on Khe Sanh by troops of the 1st Air Cav., and a
relief column called OPERATION PEGESUS, took over from the battle weary Marines. I
have heard this sniper story told so many times about Old CROSS-EYED-CHARLIE---the
Marines used to quip, he always hit was he was aiming at, but you know with the eye
impediment, the cross eyes and all, that the tip of Charlie's nose was his sight picture,
and the whole damn sky was Old Charlie's target. Wilborn
Name
JOHN WILBORN
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
This story is about my grandson Bryan Wilborn. Bryan is currently in Afghanistan with the
US Army....
LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN!!!!
The volume on the small television set was much too loud. One of the mindless and seemingly
senseless morning game shows was playing. The voice of Bob Barker, the game shows host, was
easily recognizable. The older of the two persons watching the show commented how old and
grey and wrinkled Bob Barker had become. The younger individual listened respectfully to the
less than kind remarks of the old man, all the time watching the goings-on and the give-aways
attentively. ‘Grandpa’, the young man questioned, ‘how much do you think that metal detector
they’re showing the people is worth’? The aging and overweight man looked disinterestedly at
the screen and stated in an expert sounding voice, ‘oh, I dont know Bryan, about a
dollar-three-ninty-eight---maybe a bit more or a bit less’. One could almost sense the wheels
turning inside the youngsters head as he mentally digested his grandfathers answer. Abruptly he
turned his tousled head toward his viewing partner and exclaimed, ‘oh Grandpa, there’s no such
amount as a dollar-three-ninty-eight---you’re just making that up’! The boy noticed the smug smirk
on the old mans face and immediately knew he needed no further convincing of his
grandfather’s teasing.
The televisions scenes and sounds changed to commercial time---payday for the American
programming system. The screen on the small colored television was filled with an aircraft
carriers flightdeck operations being conducted on a storm tossed sea. The carriers busy flight
deck showed a nuclear powered aircraft carrier retrieving an F-18 TOMCAT with the arresting
wire and snatch-hook clearly visible. A second later the scene had changed to a prop driven
HAWKEYE plane with a large saucer like dome atop the fuselage, being catapulted off the flight
deck in a slashing cloud of steam. The busy flight deck crewman, dressed in a variety of colorful
jackets and headgear, scurried about like ants after sugar.
LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN was announced as the title of the Navy’s commercial . The next action
scene displayed was of red-shirted bomb and ordinance technicians, strapping heat seeking
missiles under a fighter- bombers stubby wings. Headaches to be delivered up today for
somebody, somewhere -----and will it rain on your parade this day? The profound silence of the
two relatives sitting at the kitchen table seemed deafening as they watched the Navy sea
operations, wide-eyed and enthralled. As the announcer continued his narration, the next scene
showed another grey painted vessel, a guided missile frigate, leaning hard over for a graceful,
tactical turn, in the white-capped ocean swells.
A 1-800 number flashed onto the screen and a free video about the Navy was offered to anyone
desiring more nautical excitment. It was one of those where you did’nt have to remember the
number as there was a catchy phrase like GO NAVY. The Grandpa grabbed a nearby pen and
scrawled the complete set of phone numbers onto the palm of his liver spotted hand. The old
man’s active mind flashed back almost fifty years earlier as he recalled his first day in Navy boot
camp at San Diego when the young sailors had to write important things in the palms of their
hands with Navy ballpoint pens--things like their blood-type, religion, service number, and then
to survive the wrath of their new God, the Company Commander, yelling into their faces
because the perspiration in their palms had flushed that vital information away before they had
committed to memory what they had, up until then, considered to be trivia.
What’re you grinning about Grandpa’, Bryan asked the old retired Senior Chief Petty Officer,
‘what’s so funny?’ The old man reached over and patted the twelve year old on the top of his
tousled head and sighed, ‘just and old man’s memories Bryan, it’d just take too long to tell you
the whole story but I will someday’.
‘How would you like to have that video about the Navy, Bryan’, the Grandpa inquired, ‘you
know how interested you’ve become in the Navy every since your Dad enlisted you into the
Navy League Program. ‘Golly Bryan, now you’ve got your own uniform and seabag and
everything---they even give you a set of dog-tags’, the old man exclaimed, sounding very
enthuisitic. Not to be put off with the hundreds of questions the youngster wanted to ask his
Grandfather, the lad started out with the one he most likely already knew the answer for as he
and the old man had often talked of his naval career with his Grandson.
‘Were you ever on an aircraft carrier, Grandpa---did you ever watch them launch a jet fighter
Grandpa --- did you ever want to be a jet pilot Grandpa, huh, did’ja, huh?
The old fellow was used to a barrage of questions, rapid fire inquiries like his young Grandson had
just delivered, so very patiently the old man reminded the boy that he had spent his entire twenty
year naval career in the NAVY SEABEES. He always added, like the young man needed a
reminder, that the SEABEES were named for the naval construction battalions, and always jokingly
added for the young mans benefit, that the SEABEES ‘babysat’ the MARINE CORPS and built all
kinds of things like airfields and barracks for them. Bryan had heard his Grandfather speak many
times of the two tours of duty he had spent in Viet Nam with the First and Third Marine Divisions.
That had been in 1967 through 1969---actually that had been when Bryan’s father Timothy, had
only been in the first grades of school over in Port Hueneme, California.
‘Would you like me to call the Navy Bryan and ask them to send you the video ----you could
even take it to your next Navy League meeting and show everyone?’ All the time the old man
was asking, Bryan was nodding his head vigorously, like he was anxious for it to happen. ‘How
long do you think it’ll take to get here Grandpa, huh; do you think I’ll get it by next week cause
that is when I got my next meeting’? The young man questioned and stated, all in a single
outburst, that left him redfaced and breathless.
‘Well now Bryan, you just be patient-- I’ll find out more when I talk to those folks-- that is if they
have some real live people on the line and not just that computer voice thing---I’ll be sure to ask
and I’ll make it so they send it to you in your name ---would you like that’? The head nodding
continued in such a vigorous fashion that the young mans unkempt hair flopped about like it was
being blown by the wind.
A short time later the old man was on the phone talking to a ‘real live person’ and responding to
the questions being asked. ‘Yes Miss Navy, I’ll spell the name for you that I’d like it addressed
to---the name is Bryan Wilborn--B--R--Y--A--N and the last name is spelled W--I--L--B--O--R--N.
The old man continued to speak giving the address and zip code followed by an extended
pause. ‘Yes Miss Navy, that is right, I’m requesting that Navy video for my Grandson who’s name
I’ve given you, and if that’s not possible because of his age, please send it to us using my name
as I am a retired Navy Senior Chief Petty Officer’.
‘Yes Miss, I did say he was twelve years old and yes, he is very interested in the Navy, even at
his age’. The old man had made the last statement in such a proud sounding manner that the
operator remarked quite emphatically, and so very matter of factly, ‘he’ll get his navy video
sir, I guarantee it’!
Finally all the information was gleaned and the operator said she would read back the data
gathered for the old Chief’s verification. When the information was repeated about Bryan’s age
she made a subdued chuckling sound over the phone and remarked in a jovial sounding voice
‘we’ll just make that a two-one instead of one-two’, followed by a click and whir of the
electronic equipment, recording the mis-deed just logged---’and we thank you Senior Chief
Wilborn for your interest in our program LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN’.
The old man then made his declarations of appreciation and thanked the friendly operator most
graciously for her time and ingenuity by helping the way she had. ‘You have a real pleasant
day Miss Navy -- you’ve made a pleasant day for Bryan and I, and we thank you again’, and the
old fellow hung up his phone. Almost two weeks later the video addressed to the grandson
Bryan arrived. He was overjoyed at his good fortune. The video package was colorful and
decorated with one of the aircraft carrier’s crewman dressed in special yellow outfit that
identified him as one of the aircraft handlers on the deck of the giant ‘bird-farm’---bird farms
were what the SEABEES used to call the aircraft carriers that operated out in the South China Sea
during the Viet Nam ‘days of glory’.
No other Navy activity happened for awhile--Bryan watched the video countless times and
shared it with local friends. July in Arizona leaves a lot of ‘inside the house time’. Younger
members of the household spend long periods of time in the swimming pool, sometimes with
friends, other times alone. HOT--HOT--HOT is the main conversation!
THREE WEEKS LATER
It was about three o’clock Thursday afternoon-- the day the Navy came to our home. Bryan’s
Grandmother was sewing her Raggedy Ann dolls and watching The Donnie and Marie Show in
the den. I was working at the computer while keeping an eye on Bryan and his friend Josh as
they played some roccous splash game in the pool. Though it was comfortable in the house, I
was wearing only a pair of old scrufty shorts---no shoes or socks or even an undershirt. My
‘grungy’ retired attire, was even less than informal.
The doorbell rang and I called out loudly to Mary that I would get the door as I typed a closing
sentence on a story I was trying to string together. My wife of forty-five years yelled back ‘okay’
as the door bell sounded again. I mused to myself, I bet that’s the mailman---he’s gotta a
package for me today and being he’s the one that’s running late, it’s making him impatient. I
headed off through the front room to answer the door and glancing quickly out of the front bay
window, to my utter astonishment, there on my front doorstep, reaching to ring the bell the third
time, was one of the largest sailors I had ever seen. He was accompanied by two other equally
large navymen, dressed in sparkling white uniforms, chests full of multi-colored ribbons, looking like
they had just stepped out of a recruiting poster.
My wife described my vocal outburst later, in fact she said it sounded like I was strangling. She
said I had fairly gasped out, ‘there’s three great big sailors at the door Mary---are they here for
you’, to which she responded gaily “sure, at my age, there’s three big sailors at the door, ringing
the doorbell for me!” What a woman--what a wife---I thought all these thoughts much later, for
by then I was streaking toward my room on the other end of the house to get at least a shirt and
some shoes on as the doorbell continued to chime determinedly. Never let it be said this old
navy chief would greet any navy representive out of uniform, as I yanked on my ‘skivvy shirt’
and shoes with panic-like determination.
When I opened the door for our nautical visitors, I tried to be clever and suave when I
introduced myself to them and remarked casually, ‘where do you want me to sign to go
back to active duty men?’ They chuckled polietly-- I believe it was a chuckle, as I invited
them in to the living room. Actually they probably thought to themselves, ‘who’s leg is this old
Dude trying to pull’! I can’t tell you how honored I felt when those young navymen called me
Senior Chief and as we visited openly, rapport and good feelings prevailed. Humor was at the
forefront of the entire meeting that day. Actually, they had come to interview Bryan Wilborn, the
twenty-one year old Bryan Wilborn, for enlistment into the United States Navy. When I told them
my grandson Bryan was only twelve years old and that a mistake must have been made when
paper work was filled out, you know maybe the thing of a two and the one being
reversed----well my face must of flushed and gave away the video conspiricy that had transpired
for those navymen smiled and remained totally unflusterd looking. When I told the recruiters that
my twelve year old grandson Bryan was out swimming with his friend, they all remarked and
wished that they were able to do the same. When I offered to have Bryan dry off and come in to
talk with them, they simply scoffed at the idea of disturbing the young mens enjoyment. “Let
them swim Senior, they’ll have their nose to the grindstone soon enough the way it is,” one of the
knowing sailors remarked. That matter-of-fact statement made me feel good and even relieved
for the deception I had been part of. Later when I told Bryan and his Dad about the recruiting
escapade, we all agreed that it would have been so unforgetable for a meeting to have taken
place with the recruiters and my twelve year old grandson.
As I visited that afternoon with those impressive looking Navymen, I could not help from feeling
proud. Proud for them and their deportment and for what they represented, proud for myself of
having been once been a part of it, and proud of Bryan and his father for questing about the
information and finally their advancement into the naval organization. The sailors inquired and I
told them, probably boastfully, of things I had done and places I had served. I told them that
when I had been twenty-one years old, I had been helping to shove a mountion out into salty
depths Subic Bay in the Philippines --- my SEABEES were building the Cubi Point Naval Air Base
there during the Korean War. To that, one of the young warriors commented that he had
helped decommission that same base following the devasting volcanic eruptions that had
occurred in the Philippines a decade earlier. There were many other sea stories told also but the
recruiters were’nt able to stay very long that afternoon. I offered coffee and refreshments,
however they declined as other commitments needed their attention . I commented how sharp
and ‘squared-away’ they all looked---even tried to identify a couple of the strange new insignias
on their uniforms rating badges. Silently I felt elated that the ‘torch had been passed’ to the
new generations -- it glowed as brightly as I remembered.
Although just by being the biggest, does’nt always mean you’re in charge, but today it seemed
to be that way. The men were all much taller than I, but the recruiter in charge was a giant of a
fellow. I randomly thought of the yard-arm that is up on a ships mast---and mused to myself, that
this big guy had that yard-arm fashioned inside the shoulders of his shirt. Their shoes glistened like
polished ebony and the service dress whites they wore so handsomely, were almost unnatural in
their brilliance. At the door when the Navymen departed, a few more humorous remarks were
exchanged---‘sailor talk’ you know, and we shook hands all around. The giant was the last to
leave and as he clasped my hand, he flashed a brilliant smile. “They told us there would be
stories out here like this Senior Chief--I’ve been out for three years now and this is going to be the
one I’ll never forget--these are the kind’a stories our country and our Navy are made of.” He
seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment as if he wanted to say something additional and
then remarked so very casually, “this is just going to make one hell’va Navy recruiting story--just
can’t wait to get back to the office ----wow!” Wilborn
__________________
Name
JOHN WILBORN
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
VENGENCE IS MINE, SAYETH PAPA-SAN
The young pointman’s screams sounded almost feminine. “Ambush, ambush, ambush”,
as his high-pitched screams reverberated off the moist, early morning surroundings.
A single rifle shot had rung out foward of their position. A sharp, ringing sound, not to
be compared with anything they were familiar with--not like the telltale rattle of the
AK-47’s or the ripping, tearing sounds of their own, rapid-fire, M-16’s.
An ambush could not have happened in a worse place for the ‘poop and snoop’ patrol.
Bradley, who had screamed the alarm, was serving his solo as pointman. The
reinforced fire team consisited of six members and a hospital corpsman. They were
clustered too close together and in a single file. The had a saying they all knew well,
that if you were in a single file column, a single fifty caliber round would get thirteen
of you and still make kindling wood out of the tree behind you. The patrol had simply
been sent out to talk with the farmers and villiagers surrounding the camp. There had
been a reactive Force Recon Team in the immediate area only the day before, raisingall
sorts of hell. There had been smoke rising from several sites throughout the
morning--that, and there had also been random firing of automatic weapons.
Another sharp, crack and the M-79 ‘thumper’ that Statler was pointing toward the
suspect position, was torn from his grip and sent flying. Statler rolled out of the way
and clutched at his holstered forty-five.
The patrol had been following a worn footpath, as they trudged along before the firing
commenced. Exactly the moment when they had started down the long, sloping, and
meandering decline, the methodical firing had begun. Unknown to the others, the first
round had found it’s mark. Lovitt, who was walking ‘drag’, caught the round in the
throat and was probably dead before he hit the moist, slippery path. He lay there like a
discarded puppet doll--his head off to one side at a grotesque angle--his spinal column
severed, his eyes wide open and staring sightlessly. What very little blood there was,
meant that his beating heart had been stilled almost instantly--and the blood there
was, contributed to a coppery odor in the now still air. The shooter was experienced
and was taking out the rear personnel first-- the skills of a sniper.
Jonesy, the patrol leader, called out orders to the low-crouching team members.
“Filbray--you and Sticks take your ‘60’s and lay some covering fire on the bunch of
bushes, forty meters at eleven o’clock--Statler, you grab Lovitt’s piece--short bursts
you gunners--me ‘n Stat are going in skirmishes left and right--Stat, you catch the
right -- and dammit you gunners, keep your fire on target--don’t sweep it or you’ll tear
us a new ass”!
Another metallic rifle crack and a round thudded into the earth beside Jonesy, causing
him to roll off to one side and scream simultaneously, “COMMENCE FIRING YOU
GUNNERS---let’s go Statler”!!!
It was not to be unlike a choreographed movie script playing out. The mind-numbing
noise of the hammering M-60’s, firing the short five round bursts, blended with the
‘mad-man’ soundings battle crys of the charging Jonesy and Statler as they swung
wide out of the cone of fire from the machine gunners, and bore down on the bushes
that were shaking and jumping as if dancing.
Perhaps it was all the machine fire had done was to keep the shooters head down, for
as soon as the hidden sniper saw Jonesy, he attempted to bring the long rifle to bear
on his target. A rapid burst from Statler’s M-16 stitched across the snipers midsection
hurtling him back to the ground from whence he had been hidden. The long-barreled
rifle was knocked from his grasp. Jonesy stood up, and in a slicing action of his hand
across his own throat, made the motion for the machine gunners to cease fire. The
smell of cordite fumes hung heavy in the now silent air. Statler’s heavy breathing
sounds blended with the grunting sounds Jonesy made as he pulled the wounded sniper
from the bushes. The patrol leader turned and gave an arm signal for the other patrol
members to assemble at his point.
The agate black eyes of the wounded Vietnamese stared up hatefully at the American
patrol leader, who only moments before, had been in his gunsights. Slimy, black
blood that smelled of viscera, oozed from between the fingers of his claw-like hand
that was attempting to shove the mess back into the gaping cavity. “Statler, you
speak their lingo--ask this old bastard what he was trying to do--hell, by the looks of
him he’s an old farmer--**** Stat--he ain’t got a tooth in his face--ask him what the hell
he was shooting at us for”.
By now Filbray and Sticks had appeared with their M-60’s draping the belting rounds
remaining, and was gawlking in at the gross scene ther on the ground. “Damn”, Stick
complained “that old bastard stinks like the worse kinda ****--what the hell do they
eat--garbage and maggots”. “Knock it off big-mouth--have a little respect--can’t you
see the poor old bastard is dyin’--”. A sudden and perplexing look clouded Stick’s
sweaty features. He had never seen death this close before. His ruddy complexion
seemed to blanch out and go grey, as he suddenly turned on his heel abruptly, and fell
to his knees and started to vomit.
Statler had been talking Vietnamese to the old casualty. The sing-song sounding parley
had been going on for a few moments when Statler suddenly turned his face up to the
waiting Jonesy and remarked hatefully, almost accusingly. “Holy ****--what a bummer
Jones--this old slope-head is a farmer--a rice grower--he’s had that old gun every
since 1954 when he was with General Giap--that was when they whupped the
Frenchies asses up at Dien bien Phu or some shitty sounding name like that--he was
just pissed off today because those frigging Force dudes killed his water buffalo
yesterday--no damn reason--just bein’ mean Muthers”!!!
The unbidden hate that now showed in Statler’s blue eyes and caused his pinkish
complexion to seem bloody--as if by cointrast it matched the hate that had shown in
the black eyes of the old Vietnamese farmer minutes earlier.
The moments of hatefilled actions by the old farmer was now past. The groping and
shoving hand had fallen off his torn stomach and now lay on the blood and viscera
stained earth beside him---this earth that he obviously knew so well--this earth he had
eeked his livihood from, but in a fit of ill-serving rage, had died here on the bosom of it.
Sticks was back on his feet again--he looked worse, now after his bout of vomiting,
than the dead old farmer looked, in fact there was a peaceful and paranormal
appearance to the old tiller of the soil as he lay there in a manner of repose. “What are
we gonna do with the old gook, Jonesy”, the Corpsman Dixon asked. Dixon had stayed
with Lovitt’s body while the firing had been going on, and now had rejoined the patrol.
“I called for an extraction chopper--be here in twenty--s’posed to pop a green if it’s
still clear--red if it turns hot”, Dixon stated casually.
“Let’s saddle up troops--get ready to move out--the family will find the old mans
body--they must have know what he was gonna do--hell, they may be watching us
right now--waiting for us to move out so they can come get him--poor old man--he died
for his ground--those mean, motherless, bastards killed his tractor”---Jonesy paused as
if catching his mistake--”well hell, it was like a tractor to him--they cherish their
aninals--that old buffalo probably slept on the same rice-mat as the old farmer
did--what a shitty deal, is all I gotta say--a real crap-detail”. Wilborn
Name
JOHN WILBORN
Email
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
THE CALENDAR
The divided country of Vietnam, 1968 was a war zone. It was the first combat/war
zone I had ever been in. I had served with the Navy Seabees during most of the
Korean War, but had never served a combat tour in Korea. The Seabee battalions I
had been with then were down in the Philippine Islands, shoving an entire mountain
off into the salty depths of Subic Bay and building the largest and finest airbase in
the Far East. Vietnam was a strange place. Vietnam was a strange war. The
American forces who were being sent there, were a strange contrast of loyalities,
devotion to duties, and military discipline. Society would say it was a ‘Sign of the
Times’. One thing that made it so difficult for the personnel was the set lengths of
time called ‘the tours of duty’. It seemed that each and every person was required
and obligated to serve for one (1) year, and then they would be reassigned and
rotated out of the Vietnam area of operations (VAOO). That rule was to prove a big
stumbling block for some units because many troops wanted to stay, whereby for
other personnel, it would become a mental block and much of their time and
obsessions were spent, ‘counting the days’. Many times personnel would take black
marking pens and write or draw on their items of battle gear, the information about
their rotation dates. Flak jackets and helmets were the main items for marking.
Along toward the ends of their tours of duty, the word ‘SHORTTIMER’ was coined for
that individual. Everyone tried to be as original and demonstrative as they could with
their ‘grafitti-on-the-gear’. Many times the markings were like tattooings, with figures
denoting luck or lack of luck. Death Before Dishonor was a popular comment as was
Semper Fi. There were a lot of Marines at the Dong Ha Combat Base area. Some
scribblings on the gear were lewd and demeaning about the service or perhaps a
certain ethnic group. Field commanders had originally attempted disciplining the
artists to stop their marking and the defacing of government property, but the
attitude of the troops had become, “what are you going to do about it---send me to
Vietnam”. The TET Offensive of 1968, up north in the l Corp AOO made for a terrible
duty station. The phrase body counts had become another term used extensively,
along with the acronyms of missing in action (MIA), wounded in action (WIA), and
killed in action (KIA) taking on meanings other than what you heard back in the
states on the evening newcasts. The Dong Ha Combat Base was a large, sprawling
complex. Camp Barnes, where I was stationed with a Naval Mobile Construction
Battalion (NMCB), was only one part of the widely spaced areas. Camp Barnes had
been named for a Seabee who had been killed in action the summer before up on
the demilitarized zone (DMZ)---a brutal place named for angels, Con Thien. Donnie
and I had been friends since we were those teen age boys down there in the
Philippines as we helped build the Cubi Point Naval Air Station in the ‘50’s. Donnie
was an E-8, as I now was. He had been supervising a crew up there on the DMZ
building bunkers for the Marines. Another central point there at Dong Ha was
named DELTA MED. Delta Med was about two clicks from Barnes and when the
battles raged at nearby Khe Sanh, or Hue, or most anywhere in 1st Corps AOO,
medi-choppers arrived in an almost endless procession, bringing in the battle
casualties. Delta Med was described as first echelon hosptial treatment--it was like a
giant triage (sorting) facility. There were times when the giant, twin-rotored Chinooks,
would come swooping into Delta Med from Khe Sanh or Hue, and the smells that
were driven down into Camp Barnes from the rotor wash smelled as bad as any
thing you had ever sensed. Camp Barnes had basic foward area facilites such as
mess halls, clubs, laundries, and our own sick bay staffed with regular physicians and
hospital corpsman. More than once, when we come under rocket or artillery attack,
those valiant medical personnel served us well and faithfully. There was this one time
Delta Med sent many dozens of field litters (collapsible canvas strechers) over to
Camp Barnes for repairs and renovation. A duece and a half Marine cargo truck
hauled them into Camp Barnes and dumped them off at sickbay. The bundles of
field litters were strapped together with metal bands--maybe a dozen in each
bundle. There must have been prior arrangements made, for our battalion hospital
corpsman set upon those bundles immediately. Initally there was the sorting and
clearing off of the canvas strechers. They were in a terrible condition---a horrible
sight to behold. All were blood spattered and many had items of discarded bits and
pieces on them, including some clothing items, towels, and battle dressings. Had the
weather been warm, instead of the cold weather of early spring, they surely would
have smelled worse than the coppery blood and fecal odors that permeated from
them. Our camps nearby boilerhouse had an insulated steam hose rigged, and
prior to any other repair work, all the litters were taken there and thouroughly
steamed. Those procedures were followed by dispersal to the various shops for
whatever repair needed to make the re-usable.
The reason for this story, is that one event happened that I have never forgotten over
these long years since. A flak jacket was found amongst the discarded items on the
litters. Across the fabric covered plates, on the back of the jacket, this ‘Shorttimer’
had fashioned a calendar page for February 1968. Other markings on the jacket,
and all the wear it had exhibited, surely the wearer must have done his year in hell.
He must have been a U.S. MARINE or that identification was printed boldly, and
obviously, very proudly, around the entire neckline. Where ever in the United States
the young marine had called home, he had labeled it on the breast of his
protective vest as God’s Country. There was a burned hole, having the appearance
of sharpnel damage, where he may have listed the states name. The flak jacket
had lots of other puncture damage also, and proud to say, that damage was all in
the front parts. There was not a single tear or hole in the back of the vest. The
February 1968 calendar page on the jackets back, was preserved and could be
easily seen. Each days date had been obliterated by either the scratching or
blotting out with a ball point pen or felt tip markers. The 14th of February, Valentines
Day, was circled with such a large heart that it also covered over other nearby
dates and inside that heart was scrawled in childish looking script I LOVE YOU CINDY.
There was one other date circled and noted on the jackets drawing and it was for
the 29th of February---inside that circle and again that child like scrawl, was listed,
BUG-OUT DAY. That 29th day marked, may have been for Leap Year or perhaps
some other personal meaning from the crafter of the calendar. The last date
marked off on the worn, battered, and bloodsmeared protective gear, was for the
25th of February 1968. So very impersonal, but still so very touching. The other
dicarded items from the litters, were disposed of in some fashion, however that field
protective jacket took on a certain symbolism all it’s own. It hung outside of the
boilerhouse for a little while and then it was moved over to my S-2 office. S-2 always
seemed to be a repository for confiscated enemy weapons or munitions, classified
materials found in the field and other ‘whatevers’. The discarded jacket drew many
comments hanging there in my office. Well meaning phrases such as, “poor
bastard” to others like, “what a lousy f-----g break---I hate this damned place”. There
were other times when men would look at the calendar on the jackets back and
not say a word--the silence many times was deafening yet it screamed
volumes. Sometime later in the deployment, the jacket come up missing. There
were no questions asked, or even any remarks made about it’s disappearance as I
recall. Why do you suppose I remember all these things after so long of
time---should I forget--can I ever forget even if I want to. Wilborn
ADDED COMMENTS:
Of all the stories I have written this one seems to be the most mentioned back to me and asked about... How ironic would it be, if by chance, someone out there would read this story and recognize the flak jacket and the things written thereon...Just suppose that Marine had of been wounded and possibly evacuated out to the Hospital Ship Repose...he recovered and went back to the world and Cindy....that calendar with it's markings of February 29...the mentioning on Valentine's Day and the declaration of his love for Cindy...you have to day dream about situations such as the scenerios I just related to you and wish it might come to pass. One time there was a letter from a person on the west coast requesting my permission to somehow place that calendar page on the back of t-shirts he did for a living...Of course I gave the man the go-ahead....had he called instead of msg'ing me, I know sadness may have been the mood set...Oh, what tangled webs we weave...Chief
__________________
JOHN WILBORN
rooterjohnw@msn.com
Comment
THE CALENDAR
The divided country of Vietnam, 1968 was a war zone. It was the first combat/war
zone I had ever been in. I had served with the Navy Seabees during most of the
Korean War, but had never served a combat tour in Korea. The Seabee battalions I
had been with then were down in the Philippine Islands, shoving an entire mountain
off into the salty depths of Subic Bay and building the largest and finest airbase in
the Far East. Vietnam was a strange place. Vietnam was a strange war. The
American forces who were being sent there, were a strange contrast of loyalities,
devotion to duties, and military discipline. Society would say it was a ‘Sign of the
Times’. One thing that made it so difficult for the personnel was the set lengths of
time called ‘the tours of duty’. It seemed that each and every person was required
and obligated to serve for one (1) year, and then they would be reassigned and
rotated out of the Vietnam area of operations (VAOO). That rule was to prove a big
stumbling block for some units because many troops wanted to stay, whereby for
other personnel, it would become a mental block and much of their time and
obsessions were spent, ‘counting the days’. Many times personnel would take black
marking pens and write or draw on their items of battle gear, the information about
their rotation dates. Flak jackets and helmets were the main items for marking.
Along toward the ends of their tours of duty, the word ‘SHORTTIMER’ was coined for
that individual. Everyone tried to be as original and demonstrative as they could with
their ‘grafitti-on-the-gear’. Many times the markings were like tattooings, with figures
denoting luck or lack of luck. Death Before Dishonor was a popular comment as was
Semper Fi. There were a lot of Marines at the Dong Ha Combat Base area. Some
scribblings on the gear were lewd and demeaning about the service or perhaps a
certain ethnic group. Field commanders had originally attempted disciplining the
artists to stop their marking and the defacing of government property, but the
attitude of the troops had become, “what are you going to do about it---send me to
Vietnam”. The TET Offensive of 1968, up north in the l Corp AOO made for a terrible
duty station. The phrase body counts had become another term used extensively,
along with the acronyms of missing in action (MIA), wounded in action (WIA), and
killed in action (KIA) taking on meanings other than what you heard back in the
states on the evening newcasts. The Dong Ha Combat Base was a large, sprawling
complex. Camp Barnes, where I was stationed with a Naval Mobile Construction
Battalion (NMCB), was only one part of the widely spaced areas. Camp Barnes had
been named for a Seabee who had been killed in action the summer before up on
the demilitarized zone (DMZ)---a brutal place named for angels, Con Thien. Donnie
and I had been friends since we were those teen age boys down there in the
Philippines as we helped build the Cubi Point Naval Air Station in the ‘50’s. Donnie
was an E-8, as I now was. He had been supervising a crew up there on the DMZ
building bunkers for the Marines. Another central point there at Dong Ha was
named DELTA MED. Delta Med was about two clicks from Barnes and when the
battles raged at nearby Khe Sanh, or Hue, or most anywhere in 1st Corps AOO,
medi-choppers arrived in an almost endless procession, bringing in the battle
casualties. Delta Med was described as first echelon hosptial treatment--it was like a
giant triage (sorting) facility. There were times when the giant, twin-rotored Chinooks,
would come swooping into Delta Med from Khe Sanh or Hue, and the smells that
were driven down into Camp Barnes from the rotor wash smelled as bad as any
thing you had ever sensed. Camp Barnes had basic foward area facilites such as
mess halls, clubs, laundries, and our own sick bay staffed with regular physicians and
hospital corpsman. More than once, when we come under rocket or artillery attack,
those valiant medical personnel served us well and faithfully. There was this one time
Delta Med sent many dozens of field litters (collapsible canvas strechers) over to
Camp Barnes for repairs and renovation. A duece and a half Marine cargo truck
hauled them into Camp Barnes and dumped them off at sickbay. The bundles of
field litters were strapped together with metal bands--maybe a dozen in each
bundle. There must have been prior arrangements made, for our battalion hospital
corpsman set upon those bundles immediately. Initally there was the sorting and
clearing off of the canvas strechers. They were in a terrible condition---a horrible
sight to behold. All were blood spattered and many had items of discarded bits and
pieces on them, including some clothing items, towels, and battle dressings. Had the
weather been warm, instead of the cold weather of early spring, they surely would
have smelled worse than the coppery blood and fecal odors that permeated from
them. Our camps nearby boilerhouse had an insulated steam hose rigged, and
prior to any other repair work, all the litters were taken there and thouroughly
steamed. Those procedures were followed by dispersal to the various shops for
whatever repair needed to make the re-usable.
The reason for this story, is that one event happened that I have never forgotten over
these long years since. A flak jacket was found amongst the discarded items on the
litters. Across the fabric covered plates, on the back of the jacket, this ‘Shorttimer’
had fashioned a calendar page for February 1968. Other markings on the jacket,
and all the wear it had exhibited, surely the wearer must have done his year in hell.
He must have been a U.S. MARINE or that identification was printed boldly, and
obviously, very proudly, around the entire neckline. Where ever in the United States
the young marine had called home, he had labeled it on the breast of his
protective vest as God’s Country. There was a burned hole, having the appearance
of sharpnel damage, where he may have listed the states name. The flak jacket
had lots of other puncture damage also, and proud to say, that damage was all in
the front parts. There was not a single tear or hole in the back of the vest. The
February 1968 calendar page on the jackets back, was preserved and could be
easily seen. Each days date had been obliterated by either the scratching or
blotting out with a ball point pen or felt tip markers. The 14th of February, Valentines
Day, was circled with such a large heart that it also covered over other nearby
dates and inside that heart was scrawled in childish looking script I LOVE YOU CINDY.
There was one other date circled and noted on the jackets drawing and it was for
the 29th of February---inside that circle and again that child like scrawl, was listed,
BUG-OUT DAY. That 29th day marked, may have been for Leap Year or perhaps
some other personal meaning from the crafter of the calendar. The last date
marked off on the worn, battered, and bloodsmeared protective gear, was for the
25th of February 1968. So very impersonal, but still so very touching. The other
dicarded items from the litters, were disposed of in some fashion, however that field
protective jacket took on a certain symbolism all it’s own. It hung outside of the
boilerhouse for a little while and then it was moved over to my S-2 office. S-2 always
seemed to be a repository for confiscated enemy weapons or munitions, classified
materials found in the field and other ‘whatevers’. The discarded jacket drew many
comments hanging there in my office. Well meaning phrases such as, “poor
bastard” to others like, “what a lousy f-----g break---I hate this damned place”. There
were other times when men would look at the calendar on the jackets back and
not say a word--the silence many times was deafening yet it screamed
volumes. Sometime later in the deployment, the jacket come up missing. There
were no questions asked, or even any remarks made about it’s disappearance as I
recall. Why do you suppose I remember all these things after so long of
time---should I forget--can I ever forget even if I want to. Wilborn
ADDED COMMENTS:
Of all the stories I have written this one seems to be the most mentioned back to me and asked about... How ironic would it be, if by chance, someone out there would read this story and recognize the flak jacket and the things written thereon...Just suppose that Marine had of been wounded and possibly evacuated out to the Hospital Ship Repose...he recovered and went back to the world and Cindy....that calendar with it's markings of February 29...the mentioning on Valentine's Day and the declaration of his love for Cindy...you have to day dream about situations such as the scenerios I just related to you and wish it might come to pass. One time there was a letter from a person on the west coast requesting my permission to somehow place that calendar page on the back of t-shirts he did for a living...Of course I gave the man the go-ahead....had he called instead of msg'ing me, I know sadness may have been the mood set...Oh, what tangled webs we weave...Chief
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