Bad Day at Cao Danh

By Olin Thompson

Two young men join the Marine Corps in early '50s and their passage through their careers is almost parallel. One though the ranks of the officer corps and the other through the enlisted ranks. The only reason both are not chosen for officer candidacy is the vision of one exceeds the limitations of 20-40.
The men experience the last throes of Korea's war with the North Korean allies of communist Russia and China. They arrive within days of the signatures on the Cease Fire. From then it is training in various parts of the Marine Corps. Lizard eating for one, counter-insurgency with a special Air Force unit in a desolate and harsh land of Louisiana, culminating in several battles in Viet Nam which prove he is all that had been expected of his training. He concludes as 0-7 on his final days in the Corps. The other through the command structure of enlisted men up to and finally concluding as Sergeant Major of Marines years later. The heroism of both is not challenged. Their dedication to one another as friends continues throughout a long and distinguished career in their beloved Marine Corps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Warren
• Release date: Jun 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9780945949657

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Bad Day at Cao Danh

Olin Thompson

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Copyright © 2008 by Olin Thompson

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DEDICATION

This is offered for the many men, Marines in particular, who lived and died in their service to their country. Two, in particular, who have returned and become close personal friends. We share places and names and dates where we served.

Jim, the retired Coast Guard CWO-3, who as a young Marine was with me in a fox-hole in Korea in 1954 and 1955. We shared an experience I wouldn’t trade for money.

Jim, the Marine Captain back from 18, yes, 18 months in Iraq on an almost indispensable assignment – no one could be found to replace him.

These men and others with whom I served and came in contact continue to be a part of my life. Sgt Majors, Colonels, and old Sergeants of the 1st Marine Division Association who were where the action was also came with their Globe and Anchor pins and had meals together, shared war stories, and bonded. Dave Severance, Colonel, USMC (retired), the CO of the company of Marines who raised the flag on Iwo Jima, often stops where I work and we shake hands inquire how one another is doing, and then part with a feeling of brotherhood, that Band of Brothers Marines are.

Thanks to all of you who gave me strength to finish this book. You are My Marines and I love you, one and all.

Chapter 1

April 15, 1952

All right you muthafuckas, get aboard! Lock and Load! They stood at the tailgate of the big dirty mud splattered ten wheel truck with the First Marine Division signature on the bumper. The First Marine Regiment insignia was on the tail gate.

A loud nasal voiced Corporal handed out bandoleers of .30-06 ammunition, screaming over and over, Next! Lyon looked to Marston. Marston shrugged. They looked at the other twelve men in the truck who stuffed ammo in every pocket of their green dungarees. The two jammed clips into their rifles, thumbed chambers closed, and pulled the safeties; it appeared the rest of the men aboard did as well. When the men sat, the rifles stood at attention between their legs.

Hey, you assholes, move it! We ain't got all fucking day here. Move it!

Lyon and Marston followed instructions. Sort of. The next men who boarded looked for guidance, loaded weapons, and sat as the others did.

This is shit, the new man said and shoved his ass in between two other Marines who bitched and moaned about having to be there in the first place.

Shit! one of them said and kicked his sea-bag a bit to make room.

When the Corporal returned, his camo material covered helmet set saltily low on his brow, he looked inside the dark truck and screeched over the din of all the vehicle noise, You load yo' fuckin' weapons an' lock yo' fuckin' safety? If we get ina fight, roll to the sides of the road; I'll be yo' squad leader fo' the action. Might save your fuckin' ass if you pay a-fuckin'-ttention.

Marston guessed the tail gate was left lowered for easy falling out on the side of that road.

Lyon looked sick, a pale green tint to his brown skin. Marston felt he too was some ghastly color. He felt the fear. He saw Lyon shiver. Anxiety lashed at them both, it seemed.

* * *

Marston and Lyon, the warriors, chose this way of life. They were not yet bigger than life, but it would arrive one day.

But for now they had to survive. They'd arrived just hours before on Draft 40 which was a shipment of replacement Marines from the States to Korea.

What's a draft, Sarge? Marston had asked before they loaded on the navy transport.

A draft is a collection of men to replace Marines due to rotate back to the States after a time in the field, the Sergeant said, unusually pleasant it seemed to Marston.

Marston and Lyon hung out together in the ship's library and on the fantail dragging their clothes in the ocean water, bleaching them salty while Draft 40 headed west to Korea, to the place they were told by a red faced ripe Second Lieutenant, We face Communism and defeat it before it comes ashore in California.

Lyon mumbled something and Marston smiled. Easily translated was Fuck! and it was also pretty much a consensus of opinion after the lecture.

The lectures were required. Half the men, Marston noted, in the muggy ship's compartment nodded at least half of the lesson and the other half of the men slept the other half of the lesson. It seemed every one of them had the same opinion Lyon had, fuck!

* * *

At Inchon Harbor Lyon and Marston were almost separated at the first step by a Marine Corps Staff Sergeant who stood counting off the new men. Marston saw the numbers coming as the Sergeant counted one this way and one that way one this way one that way. Marston dropped his sea bag and a man stepped forward; Marston stood and ran into line just behind the man who had moved up.

You! That way, the Sergeant called and Lyon didn't look back.

You! That way, the Sergeant called and the fellow ahead of Marston marched off to a waiting truck.

You! That way, the Sergeant called and Marston followed Lyon.

The men with them in the truck now all seemed to shiver though they were told the temperature was 80o when they arrived. Humidity was high and mostly because of that, the heat was oppressive.

The Gunnery Sergeant also told them as they went through the last firing exercises on board the ship, Men, fear will freeze your balls to your ass!

Now, Marston thought, I know exactly what he meant.

The Marines were told over and over that they were coming to do a job. There was never any question about it when the Marines climbed up the rope landing net to get aboard the ship in San Diego.

But now Marston had questions. One was, What the fuck am I doing here?

You Marines replace other Marines who had come to fight! a Sergeant said into the rear of each truck. It was an exhortation, obviously, to do a job.

Lyon repeated his expletive, Fuck! Marston laughed quietly and agreed.

We kicked the fuckin' North Korean and their asshole buddies, the Chinese, out of fucking South Korea, one young man called out, a bandage the size of a football on his hand a waved to the men. He appeared to be the inspirational speaker.

Both Marston and Lyon sensed the guy was sincere, but they both laughed, not out loud, but inside as they couldn't get over the serious nature of the lectures to the new guys.

* * *

May 1, 1952 You fucking men of the First Marines sit astraddle a hill which overlooks fucking North Korea! the First Sergeant yelled at the company formed in front of him at Lounge as opposed to Rest or At Ease.

To Marston, everyone seemed to yell at them. Fuck was the most repeated word in the lectures, conversations, and mutterings. This place and this man was no fucking exception.

Lyon and Marston heard him when they checked in with Easy Company, First Battalion, First Marines, First Marine Division: E-1-1 was the designation.

While the First Sergeant yelled at the men outside, the two newly assigned replacements waited in the CP and listened to the radio chop and chatter of network talk between various units.

The Skipper is pure death on training. You might fucking die in battle, but not because you wasn't fucking well trained! the Gunny yelled at the company as the Marines stood about casually after the First Sergeant's talk.

There's little need for any fucking formality here, because each of you men knows your fucking job, the Gunny said and emphasized it with fists jammed in his hips and he scowled at the men like a demon possessed.

Marston and Lyon peered through the CP tent entrance at the scene before them. They knew they looked green. Very.

Cap'n's comin'. We're gonna listen to him for a few minutes and get back to fucking work. Okay? Let's fall in now, the Gunny said and he assumed a more formal position to the front of the group of men.

Faaaall I-oooon! he shouted melodramatically in a hoarse voice.

Clusters of men suddenly formed, lines straight. Dreeee-ooos right, dreeee-ooos!

The dress held for seconds, arms extended to the man next to him and eyes to the right.

Whoooo!

The dress dropped.

Squad leaders announced, All present or accounted for. ' Ease! the Gunny screamed.

Everyone seemed to relax once more.

We're gonna get hit. And hard. Those airdales think they got these Chinks figgered out. That's bullshit and you know it! the Skipper announced loudly in a voice which carried, likely, into the valley below and onto the hills beyond which were occupied by the Chinese or North Korean army. More likely the Chinese, every one of them in place, at least the Marines who relied on the intel people clearly thought so.

When they come they have to drive their tanks up that road right there, the Skipper said and head nodded to the west. First Anti-Tanks can handle that. First Weapons will get mortars on them right away. New Zealand arty, he abbreviated the word for artillery, but it appeared everyone knew what he meant, will jam their ass. Kiwis can flat shoot. But you and me? We got a problem. We're just a company on this god forsaken hill. We're expecting at least a battalion, maybe a regiment will come at us. He let out a sigh. Chinks got nothin' but people. He paused, obviously to let that sink in. Everyone remained at ease.

Lyon and Marston looked at one another with that fear one gets of the unknown.

Lemme put this in perspective for you. We drop fuckin' Abombs on them at the rate of one every hour forever, they can out populate the death ratio. You got that? Over one hundred thousand per hour. We bomb, they still keep comin'. Chinks are baby makin' sombitches. The Skipper paused and looked almost as if he wanted to make eye contact with each man.

Let me explain what we're going to do. We have to hold this position and tie in with the companies on either side. We haven't got a chance if the Chinese penetrate. Every gun will be placed and every man will hold his piece of real estate. Figger it's your little piece of earth and no Chinaman is gonna grab it away from you. Understand?

The men all nodded as if they did understand.

Let's get this show on the road! the Skipper yelled.

The Executive Officer and the Platoon Leaders all came to attention.

Teeen-Hooo!

The company came rigid.

Fall out with your Platoon Leaders. Squad Leaders take your men to their positions. There was a delay while the orders were allowed to digest. Faaaall ooot!

The men rallied to their leaders. The men were led to their little piece of earth where they would die or kill.

Who knew? Marston wondered and shrugged. And who knows when? No one but the Captain seems certain. And he couldn't know anything for sure.

Marston! Yessir!

Don't fuckin' 'sir' me asshole! Yessir, Gunny.

Get your ass in here. The Gunny disappeared into the CP Tent.

Marston charged in with rifle at Port Arms.

You'll be the Skipper's runner. Shit me that asshole buddy of yours. Lyon? Where is he?

Donno, Gunny, Marston said.

Well, go find him! The tall, skinny, hard looking Gunnery Sergeant looked back down to his papers and with a mere wave his hand said hoarsely, Move out Marine!

Marston found Lyon with another squad of men who took position on a knoll which overlooked what appeared to be a dangerous ridge the Chinese probably wanted very badly.

Fuck! Looks like no one would attack from that direction. Steep and rocky with barbed wire hundred yards, fifty yards, and ten yards out. Already collected scraps from previous battles, the Corporal seemed to be chatting with Lyon about a deadly situation. You can fuckin' see 'em dangle and shiver in the breeze. The Corporal never looked at Lyon. He just looked straight ahead at the enemy's position.

Gunny wants you, Marston told his friend. Now, Marston added.

They ran back to the CP. The Gunnery Sergeant seemed to be yelling at everyone in every direction.

The Gunnery Sergeant said the Captain had told him, 'Your job is to train the men to live, to kill, and not to die!' So, I take this job very fuckin' seriously.

Marston would remember that forever.

It's gonna make me somewhat unpopular, bein' a hard ass, but you and Lyon will live because this Gunny was one bad muthafucka and trained you right, the Gunnery Sergeant said, thumbed himself in the chest, and with a stern look on his face he seemed to add harshness to his demeanor.

Right, Gunny, the two said simultaneously.

Lyon. The Gunny motioned for the young Marine to come closer. You do watch from oh one hundred to oh three hundred. See Corporal Sanderson.

Right, Gunny, Lyon said.

Marston. You too. Both of you will be with Sanderson. The Gunny made another mark on the paper. He looked up and asked if the two had any questions.

No, Gunny, they said.

Get the fuck outta here, the Gunny said. So they did.

* * *

They sat with Corporal Sanderson in their shooting holes, which had been dug from the hardest most boulder strewn earth the Marine Corps could find. The night was slow to pass for all three of them.

To Marston it looked as if someone dug the foxholes by putting a grenade under a sandbag and blowing the hole. They still smelled of burned powder and there were fragments of metal everywhere. That night the men mumbled among themselves about girls and sports. More about girls. They talked about the situation they were in.

Fuckin bug out Twenty Sixth dogfaces on our right. Fuckin' ROKs about a mile that way. Don't depend on 'em for anything. First fight they drop their shit and run, Sanderson said softly, almost reverently, and spit a long stream of brown tobacco juice out into the air and smoothed out the tan earth under his hand. He flicked a pebble about ten feet in front of him.

Figger you gotta fight this fuckin' war all by yourselves. We don't know how hot the Gunny is over at fuckin' Able Company. If he don't do his job we gotta hold anyhow. Way we get out is to walk the fuck out, the Corporal said and moved the swollen thing in his jaw from one side to the other. He seemed to talk out into the night. Or be fuckin' carried out. Seems these muthafuckin' Chinese is serious.

Lyon wiped his steel rimmed glasses and checked them against a dark sky. His hands were hard, his eyes were stern, and his attitude was one of business, Marston decided. The Duke, irritated, made a rock move with a kick at the side of the shooting hole. A bucket full of dirt fell at his feet.

Lyon stood and it seemed he merely looked over the parapet down into the darkness of the valley below. Treeless and tired from a war that seemed not to want to end. The images of sprigs of spring growth did not seem possible with the war where it was at this time.

Lyon must be six feet, Marston thought. Seems taller somehow, being so skinny and all. Marston was feeling as if he had become awfully close to a person and wondered if that was what he needed at this time. If one of them were to be killed or badly injured, how would that affect the other?

James Marston tugged up his belt, stiffened his courage and thought of himself nowadays as too skinny as well. He ran his fingers through his light brown hair and put his helmet back on. He and Lyon were about the same height.

Marston's mother once said he was a handsome Marine. He told Lyon that day after they left the turkey dinner, Who am I to argue with my mother?

Lyon had punched the Duke's shoulder and they tussled all the way to the bus stop where they headed for Camp Pendleton and their final days of training for Draft 40.

Lyon told Marston, I have an almost unseen scar on my chin from a fall when I was a kid. He pointed it out to his friend.

The Duke, as the MCRD Drill Instructor called him, peered at Lyon's chin.

Can't see it, Duke said. See mine? Dole asked and pointed to the little scar from his football days.

Can't see it, Lyon retaliated. They both laughed.

Tonight, deep in the middle of a war on a peninsula in Asia, Marston pushed at Lyon and in the dark of the morning they could barely see each other smile on the forbidding Korean country side.

What's up with Gunny? He a China Marine? Lyon whispered to Sanderson.

Marston wondered also, but remained silent.

Got the big one. The blue Max. Three-Nine Marines on Oki' in the war. Sil' Star on Tarawa and Navy Cross last year for Wonson Harbor. Fuckin' guy is a legend. Top ain't all that bad neither, but Gunny one bad muthafucker, the Corporal said, slurped another spit into the night, and was quiet with the others as he seemed to be hearing something.

A figure slipped out of the blackness to their right. Mickey, whispered Sanderson.

Mouse, came the reply. Lyon? Yeah?

Come with me, the voice said. Where we goin'? Lyon wondered.

Beef up the flank, the man replied and turned away.

Be careful, Marston said as Lyon and the runner headed down the trench toward the ROK boundary.

Yeah, Lyon said softly back over his shoulder.

The night became darker and the lights from the campsite dimmed considerably. Only the cook shack, a saggy tent, remained alight and made an eerie glow in the haze some two hundred yards to the rear.

Mist and moisture gathered on Marston and the Corporal as they both shivered in the wetness. Marston was tired. He'd been training for Assault on a Fortified Position with the rest of his platoon all day. He'd had no rest before supper and he was too excited about his turn in the trenches before he came on duty; so he got no sleep.

He and Corporal Sanderson had a flat rock and while one watched the canyon below the other ground the tips off the .30-06 rounds.

One of the lectures aboard the ship coming over was, It is forbidden to shoot what they call dum-dum bullets. Flat tipped bullets will not be used. The Geneva Convention forbids you to file the tips off the rounds on flat rocks. Someone asked, Why?

Because if you ground off the tip, usually rubbed on flat rocks it will create a man stopping bullet. It is forbidden by law to grind off the tips. You understand?

Everyone said they did. Tonight both Sanderson and Marston rubbed flat the tips of nearly two dozen bullets.

Another lecture aboard ship was impromptu. A Gunnery Sergeant told the men, The problem is the trajectory. It isn't accu rate over a hundred yards. Most of the fightin' you'll be in will be within fifty feet. Never been hand to hand here, but with the Japs; I hear it's a bitch with these Slopes. The Gunny was without expression. But his bright teeth, outlined with a tarry like substance identified by someone as chaw, gleamed when he talked.

* * *

Go get some chow and a quick nap, Sanderson said to Marston the next afternoon late. The sun still shined, but they couldn't see it through heavy cloud cover. I'll wake you when the oh hundred watch comes up.

Marston grabbed a fast hot-and-run meal: a slab of ham, two pieces of bread, a pile of mashed potatoes, a spoon of something they called gravy, and a canteen cup full of steaming coffee with milk and four spoons of sugar. He lay on the sand bags beside his watch post. The Corporal shook Marston awake, as promised, just after oh hundred hours.

Time, Sanderson hissed.

They relieved two men who'd been on duty since twenty one hundred.

The Gunny's a maniac about noise makers, Sanderson told Marston. The traps are for enemy sappers who like to blow holes through the wire for the fuckin' Gooks to pour through.

Little night sounds attracted the senses of the Corporal. He nudged Marston who was already alert.

Movement in the wire, Sanderson said softly. Nothin' special. Just a twitch.

Marston saw men everywhere; he cleared his vision with a shake of his head, and wiped a hand across his face. The visions went away. For a few seconds.

The noise maker the Gunny had the platoon attach now suddenly rattled and a beer can received a cascade of small rocks. In the quiet it sounded like a din. Once more a stream of tobacco left the Corporal's lips into the night.

Sanderson shouted, Corporal of the Guard, Post number three. In the wire!

The Corporal took a grenade and pulled the cotter pin which, it seemed to Marston it had been previously straightened to extract easily. Sanderson pulled the cotter pin on another one of the grenades at the ledge of the trench, hung onto the spoon clips of both and held the grenades below the level of the trench while he breathed out and in a smooth motion the Corporal threw one grenade high.

The spoon tinged brightly into the night's silence.

Marston counted aloud but softly, One, two, three four, he dropped just below the edge of the trench and continued, five, six, seven.

Sanderson let the other one fly as well.

Just as Marston said the last number he heard the flat whump of the grenade, heard the zing of fragments, and shortly smelled the remnants of the cordite explosive.

Marston checked his clips of ammo. Each sat little brass soldier straight on a little shelf he'd dug for the specific purpose to hold ammunition.

Corporal Sanderson, elbows at the edge of the trench, looked over, pulled another pin on another grenade and this time rolled the bomb down the slope. A mortar bomped in the background, to the rear of the Marines, and in seconds a flare floated in the sky.

The night became day just in front of the position as what seemed to be about twenty five Chinese were caught in the open; they rose and pressed forward. Their whistles screamed and a horn of some kind blared as they surged toward the Marines.

Marston and the Corporal remained calm and quiet.

Fire discipline! the Corporal ordered harshly. Marston remained quiet, but he also held his post.

Fire discipline, boy. Keep cool, Sanderson said, and repeated it twice more.

Marston loved to hear his rifle crack and he liked the impact of the weapon in the crotch of his shoulder. He could hardly wait now. His heart pumped so hard he could barely hold his rifle still.

The Gunny had said to hold fire until, ...you're able to count the stitches on their coats.

Sanderson knew that was a bit too close, but was probably better than trying to pick off the moving Chinese at a distance.

There were more bomps as round after round of mortar fire came. Several missiles were flares, others were anti-personnel.

Marston got antsy. He squirmed. The Corporal must have seen or felt the youngster.

Steady now, boy. Steady, he said moistly and spit toward the screaming, bugle blowing, whistle tweeting bunch on the slope. No buck fever, he warned.

The firm grip helped Marston. He settled down. The Chinese came through the wire