Early Start

Early Start - O Dark Thirty

         It was an early start this mornin’ - even for us. 0:300 Shit – Shower – Shave, as the Sarge puts it. We put all our uniforms in our sea bags and put ’em in storage a week or so ago. A few days later we got issued our 782 - field gear; a pack, cartridge belt, canteen, helmet, poncho and shovel. When we first got to Okinawa they gave us all a shot – gemoglobin or something – I didn’t hear clearly. That damn shot brought a welt up on my ass the size of a golf ball. Couldn’t sit down proper for a couple of days. Exercise everyday for the last three weeks – runnin’ up and down the hills with a full sand bag in our packs. Seemed to me they wait til the heat of the day to git started – lots of guys just couldn’t keep up at first. I fell back several times – the heat and humidity saps your energy. No liberty at all - never got off the base. Too tired anyway as soon as lights out - I hit my rack – never did git under the blanket once - too hot - mercy.
         By the time we finished chow this mornin’ dawn was just startin’ to crack. I love this time and always have gotten up early just to see in the new day. When we got back to the barracks there were six-bys lined up with their engines runnin’. We all grabbed our gear and piled in for a trip to the airport where we first came in on military transport C-130s. Single file out of the terminal and on to the runway and in front of us was a Braniff Airways DC-10. Up the stairs and into an air conditioned inside with stewardesses and nice seats with little white cotton flaps on the head rest. I wonder whose idea it was to hire an airline company to fly us off to war.
         It was full dawn by the time we took off and the stewardesses brought around something called a box breakfast and then coffee. I started drinkin’ coffee when I was a littlein growin’ up in the rail yard in Cincinnati. Stuff on the plane was weak and watered down - taste awful. In the box was a funny looking thing she called a crowsant with a hard boiled egg and jam. I seen ‘em before – came up sometimes on a north bound Cotton Belt boxcar from Louisiana. One of the men in the yard said it was a French or Cajun bread of some kind. There was a little bag of peanuts – who the hell eats peanuts for breakfast? Besides we’d already ate.
         The plane landed at a place called DaNang in Vietnam. Supposedly the busiest airport in the world. On the flight we filled out beneficiary cards for our life insurance – I made mine out to the Railway Worker’s Union Benevolent Fund. Everyone signed up for bonds from our wages – sort of like savings. The corporal that picked up the slips said we wouldn’t have to pay taxes this year. Hell – I’ve never paid taxes – this here is my first real job. We haven’t been paid for a couple of weeks now – no where to spend any money – didn’t need to buy anythin’. They give us everythin’ we need, tooth paste and brush, soap, razor and blades. My hair has only been an eight inch long since boot camp – didn’t need shampoo. No shavin’ cream just used the soap – don’t have much of a beard – shave once a week mostly – I’m only eighteen. After zig-zaggin' around on the runway for awhile the plane stopped. When they opened the front door the heat came through like a wall – a wave of heat. Never felt anything like it – one second cool air conditioned – next second stiflin’ heat and sweatin’ like a councilman on Election Day. Couldn’t wait to get off the damn thing – thought maybe the plane was on fire.
         The first hundred guys who got off were sent to the rear of the plane and they got us in a single file – dress right dress – like on the parade ground in boot camp at Parris Island. Then we walked under the whole length of the plane lookin’ up for bullet holes in the fuselage or wings. Sometimes when the planes come in low for landing the VC take pot shots. Never brought down one yet – guess they figured it was worth a try - them boys 'ave got gumption. I asked one of the guys refillin’ the plane why didn’t they just stop ’em. He said, “Everything inside the fence belongs to the US of A – everything outside belongs to Charlie.” Don’t make any sense to me how they’d let someone sit out beyond the wire and take a shot at a plane – but then I’m only a private in this here Marine Corps.
         They got us all together again in another long single file and dress right dress again. This Staff Sergeant with a bull horn said as he passed by we would be givin’ a number and we should go to the trucks and find one with that number and get in. As far as I could hear from the left and then past me as far as I could hear to the right he said the same number 1/9 – 1/9 – 1/9. I found a truck that had a sign A/1/9 – so I hopped in. There was an old bum already in the truck. At least he looked like an old bum at first. I used to see his kind ridin’ the cars through the yard. Mostly broken men who had nothin’ and didn’t care where they was goin’ – just north in the summer and south in the winter – sorta like birds, Paw would say.
         This feller had a short beard and hair grown over his ears. Muddy boots with the tops cut off - no socks. His trousers were cut off to the knee and slit up both sides – he wasn’t wearin’ any skivvies – his pecker was just hangin’ out and he didn’t seem to care who saw. No t-shirt – just a flak jacket and a green towel around his neck. His whole body was covered in a layer of red dust. The sweat lines made his skin look cracked - like the WPA wall mosaics at the train station in Cincinnati. His helmet had a black rubber band around the side holdin’ a bunch of small cigarette packs and a Zippo lighter. He musta had ten magazine pouches on his cartridge belt and three canteens – everythin’ held up with a pair of green web suspenders. His M-14 rifle was filthy – cept for the movin’ parts – they was all clean and oiled. Someone asked him who he was and he said, “Lance Corporal Bishop.” Another asked what’s 1/9? “First Battalion Ninth Marines – no more questions til we get to Hill 55.” He reached into this big pocket on the side of his trousers and took out a beer can. Pulled the tab off and damn near drank the whole can in one swallow. My Paw drinks like that. I don’t like beer – it’s the taste – like cold piss - just don’t know how folks get used to the taste. It don’t matter anyway - can’t drink back home til you’re twenty-one. By the time I turned sixteen the men in the yard would gimme a swig of jar whisky ef’in I asked nicely. I prefer buttermilk with a little corn bread crumbled in – don’t figure on gitin’ much of that here in Vietnam. I wonder if there are any boys from Kentucky on this hill - weren't none in the barracks at Okinawa - probably lots of rebs 'ill be runnin' around.
         When we arrived here at Hill-55 they put us in a big long tent – with screened in sides. There’s a big trench runs along each side with a couple of rows of sandbags piled up around. There are big slits ever so often in the screens – don’t see how that’s gonna keep out the jiggers. The light’s startin’ to fade and somethin’ feels strange. First; we fly into a war zone on a civilian airliner with stewardesses and second; they haven’t even given us a weapon yet. Don’t that beat all. I’ll write again when I can.

Hill 55 – May 1966
Nick Forrest PFC