LBJ's Hired Gun: A Marine Corps Helicopter Gunner and the War in Vietnam

By John J. Gebhart

Many Vietnam memoirs have appeared in recent years, but not a single one has the humor, pathos, poignancy, and often sheer hilarity of John J. Gebhart’s riveting LBJ’S Hired Gun. As Gebhart tells it, he was a “smart-mouthed college boy” who joined the Marines to see the world and “dust a few black pajamas for Uncle Sam.” Two grueling tours of duty later (1965-1967) he returned home as a sergeant after surviving 240 combat missions (12 air medals) and being shot down twice. On his chest was the Navy Commendation Award (with the combat V).

LBJ’s Hired Gun launches with Gebhart’s grim recollection of the intense old-school brutality that was Marine Corps training on Parris Island before transitioning to his difficult journey for Southeast Asia aboard a troop transport with 2,000 other nameless grunts. These hardships offered but a glimpse of the suffering he and his comrades were about to endure. PARA His candid account of life and death in Vietnam is written with a lively, infectious flair. But be forewarned: no attempt has been made to sanitize this memoir with politically-correct language. Gebhart tells his story exactly as he and his comrades spoke in the 1960s. The result is a gripping, no-holds-barred memoir of his “misadventures in-country.” He spares no detail and no one in his effort to convey exactly what he and his comrades experienced in Vietnam.

Here is how the author describes Vietnam: “What was not to like about Vietnam? It was a tropical paradise filled with lush green forests and mountains, endless rice paddies, and beautiful beaches with clear green water. You get all the free ammunition you want, endless cold beer to drink, and boom-boom girls to party with. Who could ask for more? Of course, there were some minor problems like all the VCs and NVAs who wanted to kill us. Everyone counted the days they had left before rotating back to the land of the big PX. I was having such a great vacation I signed up for another 12-month tour. I spent twenty-four action-filled months dusting VCs and NVAs, rescuing reconnaissance teams, flying LZ prep missions, delivering mail to bases where you came in shooting and flew out the same way. Somewhere along the line they decided I should be decorated for killing the enemy.”

This is not just another book about Vietnam written by an officer. LBJ’s Hired Gun is the story of an enlisted man who lived on a dead-end street in West Philadelphia, intent on lifting your spirits and putting a smile on your face as you journey with him across the world and meet the people, explore the places, and relive the events that shaped Marine Corps history in Vietnam from September 1965 to September 1967.

There are many outstanding Vietnam memoirs. LBJ’s Hired Gun stands heads and shoulders above them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casemate
• Release date: Dec 13, 2007
• ISBN: 9781935149651

John J. Gebhart

John J. Gebhart grew up on a dead end street in West Philadelphia and graduated from Monsignor Bonnor High School. In 1964, he quit St. Joseph's College after his sophmore year to join the Marines, his childhood dream, and spent September 1965 to September 1967 in Vietnam. Returning to St. Joseph's College in 1968, he graduated with a degree in Business Administration and started an employment service, which he still runs today. He also owns Iron Triangle Paintball Club, where famous battles from Vietnam are fought in bamboo forests and muddy swamps. He was inducted into the "Enlisted Combat Aircrew Roll of Honor" on November 14, 2003 aboard the USS Yorktown docked at Patriots Point in Charlestown, SC. He currently lives with his wife Betty and his German Shepard Corporal Logan in Zionsville, PA.

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Published in the United States of America in 2007 by CASEMATE

1016 Warrior Road, Drexel Hill, PA 19026

and in Great Britain by CASEMATE

17 Cheap Street, Newbury RG20 5DD

Copyright © John J. Gebhart 2007

ISBN 978-1-932033-65-6

Cataloging-in-publication data is available from the Library of Congress and the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.

Printed and Bound in the United States of America

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CONTENTS

PREFACE

1. MY PARRIS ISLAND VACATION: Marine Boot Camp

In The Beginning

Boot Camp Rude Awakening

My New Home

The Rope

The Piss Ants

The Pack of Cigarettes

The Whitman Incident

Swamp Thing

Pugil Sticks

Rifle Range

2. MY CRUISE SHIP TO ’NAM

The Good Ship Lollypop

Havoc on Hotel Street

The He/She Incident

Aviation Guaranteed

Our Luxury Yacht

The D-Day Landing

The Screaming Mimis

Laying Wire and Riding Shotgun

The Boy Who Blew Up

The Marlboro Man

Play Money

3. MY BEACHFRONT PROPERTY: Misadventures at Marble Mountain

The Soul Brother Bunker

The 3.5 Rocket Incident

Paddy-Hopping Hawkins

Guard Duty: The Attack on Marble Mountain

The Bruiser AK-47

Sergeant Kilpatrick

My Dog Prince

The M-48 Tank Visit

Jungle Survival School

The Prodigal Son Returns

Private First Class Punchy the Monkey

The Day I Met My Guardian Angel

The KIA Guard

The Clap

Red Beach

Navy Drone Disaster

The Dog that Exploded

Zips in the Wire

Mortars

Our First VC Prisoner

The One-Man Transfer

4. LEARNING TO DEAL OUT DEATH FROM ABOVE

My Welcome to the Land of Mud

The Great Grapefruit Investigation

NSU, or How I Became a Huey Door Gunner.

Mission Number One

The Balls Test

Rockets Away

The Holy Man

Two-Shot Chu Lai Charlie

The KGB Spy

5. DAILY LIFE AT CLUB MED, CHU LAI

The Phantom Faggot

The Twin Brothers

The Island

The Great Popcorn Tragedy

Shithouse Jackson

How Sergeant Reckless Lost His Crackers

LST 912

My R&R Trip to Hong Kong

6. EARNING MY KEEP: More Adventures of a Huey Door Gunner

Carrier Warfare

The Dynamic Duo: Captain Thrill and Lieutenant Seeker

The Day of the General

They Died With Their Boots On

The Nungs

Wildlife

7. EXTENDING MY TROPICAL VACATION FOR ANOTHER YEAR

The Private War of the First Sergeants

How Major Moose Got His M-16 Rifle

Suicide Sam

Meritorious Promotion to Corporal

My Dear John Letter

Major Misery

Going Home

The New People

First Sergeant Rocky

Sergeant Snake Eyes

Christmas in ’Nam, 1966

Corporal Wiseass

The Tunnel Rat and the Tiger

Beef and Beer Beach Party

Corporal Wiseass’s Trip to Lunch

Nurse Michelle

8. MY SIDETRIP TO AUSTRALIA

The Passport Trek, Da Nang

Second Passport Trek, Saigon

The Motorcycle Bandits

My Return Trip to Chu Lai

Australia, Here I Come

My Thirty-Day Vacation

The American Embassy, Sydney

Heaven Down Under

My Triumphant Return

9. WORKING AT THE DUDE RANCH FOR LBJ

How Major Goodheart Went to Heaven

Paybacks are a Gook’s Worst Nightmare

How I Taught Myself to Swim

The Great Swimming Test

Major Misery’s Miracle

The Reactionary Platoon

The Peninsula Incident

One Pachyderm Bites the Dust

The Day We Fell From the Sky

The VC Submarine Incident

The Beetle-Toothed Old Lady Who Exploded

Number Ten’s Deadly Descent

The Trawler Incident

The Hedge That Moved

The Old Man and the Swimming Hole

King Cobra

The Zip I Cut In Half

Groundhog Day

Number 8 Disintegrate

The ROKs

The Bucket of Blood

The Hidden Trench

My Last Mission

10. HAPPY TRAILS: Good Luck and Goodbye

Going Home, September 1967

LA International

My Last Assignment

GLOSSARY

APPENDIX: Marine Songs and Gunship Missions

PREFACE

Be just and fear not; let all the ends thou aim’st at by thy country, thy God’s and truth’s. I do love my country’s good with a respect more tender, more holy, and profound than my own life.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

I carried these stories around in my head for 38 years. When I returned home from ’Nam in 1968 and went back to complete my degree at Saint Joseph’s College in Philadelphia, no one wanted to hear what I had been doing for the last four years. When I joined the local Veterans of Foreign Wars in Sellersville, PA in 1976, no World War II veterans or Korean War veterans wanted to hear my stories either. They only wanted my dues money, not tales of my daring deeds. In short, no one gave a damn about what we combat veterans went through in Vietnam. Finally books got written, brave tales got told, movies got made and America slowly embraced us. The long black wall went up with fallen warriors’ names, and finally America said thank you with a few parades and welcome-home handshakes. By this time, some Vietnam veterans no longer even mentioned their time in ’Nam, and some became drunks or drug addicts. Most were bitter inside but went on with their lives.

When we arrived in Vietnam, we were all eager to save the Vietnamese from being overrun by their northern Communist neighbors. We soon learned that average Vietnamese farmers couldn’t care less who ran their country as long as they were left alone. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) had the latest weapons, uniforms, and equipment, but was totally useless. We had to take over from being advisors to fighting their war while they sat on their asses and listened to their new Sony radios.

The ARVN had a few elite Ranger outfits but not enough to win the war. Thus they did less and less as the days went on. We soon learned that most of the local villages were infested with the Viet Cong (VC). We fought to save ourselves. We turned into stones that showed no emotion or mercy. We learned how to fight the VC and North Vietnam’s Army (NVA) and wasted thousands of them without a tear. As fast as we killed them, new replacements came hopping down the bunny trail.

The American press made it look like we were losing but we really were doing an outstanding job. We soon ran into the problem of Washington, DC calling the shots instead of our field commanders. Thus after the Tet Offensive, which was a great Marine Corps victory that the press called a defeat, our field commanders had their hands tied as to what they could do on their own. After all, the US didn’t want to piss off Russia and China, the very people who were supplying the up-to-date weapons and materiel to kill us.

The Marine Corps finally got fed up with a war we were not allowed to win and thus packed up and left. The Army soon followed. Thus the ARVN had to get off their lazy asses and resume the fight on their own. We all knew this was a joke. The ARVN ran like rats off a sinking ship. The US shouldn’t have allowed even one into our country. But then they didn’t even have the guts to try Jane Fonda for treason. Finally the ARVN reached a peace settlement with the Communists. It was, of course, just a lull the North needed to rebuild its strength and convert the Ho Chi Minh Trail from a bomb-cratered jungle path to a two-lane highway. When the NVA sprang again, the entire ARVN collapsed in about two weeks.

When the Marines in I-Corps left we were winning—never tell a Marine veteran from Vietnam that we lost the war. The coward ARVN soldiers lost their will to fight and gave their country up. Period!

I hope my readers enjoy these tales of war and that they shed some light on what an ordinary Marine had to put up with in ’Nam. Some stories are happy and some are sad, but they all allow the reader to put himself in my boots and follow how I went from a shitbird Private First Class to a Sergeant E-5 in two years. Relive my adventures and re-tell my tales, just as Vikings long ago sat around campfires and relived the timeless sagas of their warriors.

JOHN J. GEBHART

August 2007

AUTHOR’S NOTE

It would have taken me to the end of time to get every Marine’s exact name and permission to include in this book. There was also no point in writing it if I couldn’t be totally honest, and far be it from me to hurt anyone’s feelings. Thus I have changed the names for the benefit of telling a good tale. As in every account of things that happened long ago, I may have forgotten a detail or two or even added a thought. I tried my best to remember every detail exactly as it happened to my outfit and me. Forgive me if I have left something out and do not chastise me if I have added something, for I am only a mortal man trying to remember the brave deeds of gallant warriors who fought so long ago.

To all my reckless, daring comrades who served with VMO-6 Klondike at Ky Ha, Republic of Vietnam, from 1965 to 1967. May their devotion to duty, honor, and country never be forgotten. May we some day meet again in Valhalla and drink a toast in memory of all our forgotten deeds.

CHAPTER 1

MY PARRIS ISLAND VACATION: Marine Boot Camp

IN THE BEGINNING

It was the best of times and the worst of times. It was also my time in 1964. I was 21, working as a bank teller during the day and attending college at night. I drove a 1958 MGA sports coupe and dated a beautiful blonde who looked like Bridgett Bardot. I had it made. I was six-foot-two and weighed 165 pounds. No matter how much I ate or how much beer I drank, I seemed to stay the same weight. To sum up my life, I was a tall, skinny, wiseass, fast-talking guy who was bored. I longed for the great adventure—a crusade, a search for the Holy Grail. I had never been more than 500 miles from home. I felt that I would never see the world. I loved deer hunting, shooting of all types, and the great outdoors. I was a grown-up Boy Scout at heart. Deep down in the pit of my being, I was still a boy playing boys’ games. And it dawned on me that I needed to become a man. I decided that I wanted to emulate every John Wayne war movie I ever saw. I needed to become a mean, green fighting machine. I needed to join the Marines!

The Vietnam War was just getting started and the local draft board began sending notices to everyone to report for a physical. One day everyone in my West Philadelphia neighborhood received a notice to report to 401 North Broad Street for their draft physical. I saw guys there that I hadn’t seen for years. The last time we’d met, the Nuns at Saint Callistus Grammar School had had to intervene and beat us up, calling us bold brazen articles.

The physical exam was somewhat of a joke. They made 200 guys stand in their underwear with numbers on their shoulders. A bunch of Army PFCs and Corporals were running the show, acting like Generals. One fat pachyderm flunked his physical because he had hemorrhoids. He was happier than a faggot in Boy’s Town. He even bent over so we could see his marvelous affliction! Another guy, a muscle-beach, Mafia-killer type, fainted when they took his blood. Imagine, a future hit man afraid of his own blood. One guy who had a double heart (a normal one and a small second heart) felt sure that he would flunk. The doctors told him he was lucky—if he got shot in the heart he had an extra one. That was a Ripley’s believe-it-or-not for me. I passed the physical and we all got a free cafeteria lunch. It was very good and you could have whatever you wanted. I was starting to like the military already.

About two months went by, and everyone who passed the physical received a notice to report to Fort Dix, New Jersey for the Army. My buddy from up the street, whose name also began with G, got his draft notice. His name was always called before mine in grammar school, so I knew I had to move quickly or I would be in the Army.

I called in sick at work for the first time ever. I went out to the Upper Darby Marine Recruiting Office at 69th Street Terminal and signed up. I had already met the Gunny Sergeant who was in charge when he had come to Monsignor Bonner High School on Career Day. The Army promised me a million schools. The Navy promised me I would see the world (probably while painting one of their ships gray). The Air Force promised me an office job. The Marine Gunny Sergeant only promised me one hot meal a day and six hours of sleep if possible. His chest was full of battle ribbons and he was one mean, green killing machine from the Korean War era. Basically he said, Are you ready for an adventure? One you will remember for the rest of your life? We are the best! Semper Fi, Do or Die! Once a Marine, always a Marine! Well, for some odd reason this sounded good to me.

When I told my mother that I had joined the Marines she almost had a heart attack. My father was very proud. My girlfriend was very unhappy with this career move. But you can’t make everyone happy. Just as I predicted, when I returned home from signing up, my draft notice was waiting for me. All my friends were ready to go and were amazed that I’d joined the Marines and wouldn’t be traveling to Fort Dix with them. I signed on the bottom line for four years. Most of my buddies thought I was nuts and would get killed in ’Nam.

I told everyone who would listen that if you are going to war, you want to go with the best. The Marines don’t leave their dead. They don’t run, they fight until the end. My night college friends thought I was bullshitting them until I showed them the paperwork. They felt I had made a terrible mistake and should have tried to get out of the draft by saying I was in college. Coward dogs!

I drank my last beer and said goodbye to Saint Joseph’s College and my classmates. I was 12 credits short of being a Junior. I resigned from my job as a bank teller and said goodbye to my boss, who was a Korean-era Marine. He took me out drinking and told me what to do and what not to do in boot camp. We shook hands and that was the end of my banking days.

BOOT CAMP RUDE AWAKENING

I left in a van on August 31, 1964 for the Philadelphia Naval Base for the final physical and then the plane ride to Charleston, South Carolina. On the way the recruiter stopped the van at the Italian market and purchased a huge bunch of bananas. One kid weighed only 145 pounds, so the recruiter made him eat all the bananas and drink all the water his stomach could hold. I thought this skinny kid forcing himself to eat bananas was pretty funny. He passed the physical by one pound—151 pounds got him into the Marines.

Another thing I thought quite strange was our medical inspection. They made everyone drop his pants, and a Navy doctor looked at everyone’s dick with a flashlight. I never had any one look at my dick with a flashlight before. While he was checking for leaky dicks, he kept reciting, Do you prefer guys to girls, do you do ups or downs, marijuana, heroin? He listed around a million things. We all passed this rather rude short-arm inspection. It was my first and last in the Corps. Whenever I think of it, I have to laugh. Like some idiot is going to tell him, Yeah, I’m a faggot with the clap who does heroin. What a joke that bit of embarrassment was.

They put the biggest guy in charge, drove us to Philadelphia International Airport and dropped us off. We boarded the plane and, later in the day, landed in Charleston, SC. From there, a bus took us to Parris Island. It was around 11:00 PM when we finally arrived. The troop handler yelled and screamed at everyone as we were led to a barracks. I was worn out and went to sleep.

At 5:00 AM the troop handler came inside the barracks, threw the trash all over the place, and called us every name you can think of—maggot, fuck-face, shithead, turd, fucking idiots, and morons. It was Hurry up! Hurry up! Wait! Hurry up again! Finally we were led into our new home, 3rd Battalion Disney Land. These were real nice, brand-new, three-story brick barracks.

We were then introduced to our Drill Instructors (DIs). I have to tell you, these guys scared the shit out of just about everyone in that room. We got the super speech. We were to be Platoon 383. There were 90 of us and the DI said, Take a look at the guy next to you. Some of you will go nuts or die before your 12 weeks are over. There are only two ways to leave the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island. Graduate and leave on a Greyhound bus, or be tagged, bagged and mailed COD to your mother in a wooden box.

Our new DIs introduced themselves and put a long string on both sides of the squad bay floor, both port side and starboard. All 90 of us had to line our feet up on the string, then all three DIs came past us and we had to yell out our name, serial number and place of birth: Private Gebhart, 2099701, USMC, Philadelphia, PA! Half the guys screwed this up and got punched in the stomach and thrown into the walls of the barracks. The guy next to me started shaking and swaying while I was memorizing my routine. When they came to me, I said I was from West Philadelphia, and I got hit in the stomach and thrown against the wall. The DI said, What are you, a bad ass from the ghetto, puke?

By this time they were in front of the shaky guy. In a sissy voice, he said his name, rank and serial number, and that he was from Hazleton, PA. The DIs were pissed because he sounded like a faggot. The DIs said, Only faggots and queers come from Hazleton, PA. Which one are you, boy? They smacked him in the stomach and threw him into the wall like the rest of us. But this guy went bug crazy, pissed his pants, threw up all over, and then shit himself. Then he started rolling around in his shit. I was right next to him, and to this day I have never, ever seen a sight like that. They told him if they had to call the Navy crazy ambulance, and he were faking being crazy to get out of the military, they would drive him crazy for sure. To tell the truth, when we graduated, he was raking leaves behind a large fence and talking to himself in the Navy crazy farm.

The DI was God! He was our mother, father, sister, brother, uncle, and the girl you were screwing down the street. He was our new family. I have to say that being a DI isn’t the easiest job in the world. He has 12 weeks to take a herd of idiots and make them into Marines. His job is to get rid of the losers, momma’s boys, lazy lizards, non-hackers, and other assorted scum. We graduated with 81 people, so nine didn’t make it.

The DIs came in two forms: Senior Drill Instructor (usually a Staff Sergeant) and Junior Drill Instructor (usually a Sergeant or Corporal). They were fair and never asked you to do anything they wouldn’t or couldn’t do. The problem was, they could do all the training exercises easily, but some of it almost killed the rest of us. These DIs were in 110 percent shape. They could run miles yelling and singing without missing a step, climb the ropes like monkeys, and shoot like the experts they were. In short, they were some mother-fucking, squared-away dudes, as the black guys would say.

Before I joined up I had started to get my body in condition. I could run six miles and do 60 push-ups nonstop. I lifted weights in my parents’ living room every day and even got a crewcut the day before I left. I was ready for their games. Some people were so out of shape they couldn’t keep up in the running formations. The DIs had a gray Navy truck follow the platoon on the runs. If you fell out due to heat exhaustion, they just threw you in the ice truck, which drove the losers back to the barracks. By that time they were alive again. As soon as we got back to the barracks, the DIs would go off on the losers, calling them things like whale shit, which is the lowest thing in the ocean, even lower than reservists. Then they would make both sides of the squad bay line up, port and starboard, and the ice guys would have to run the gauntlet. Both sides of the barracks would punch and hit and try to beat the shit out of them as they ran by.

When the rest of us saw this, we really got motivated. No matter if you were near death, you wouldn’t fall out on a run and face that punishment. If your bunk-bed buddy was about to drop, you grabbed him and helped him up. Teamwork—the strong helped hold up the weak. No one falls out! Keep the DIs happy! This sounds good, but there were always two or three slobs who must have devoted their sorry-ass lives to eating cupcakes and ice cream. How could you hold up a 240 pound piece of shit for a five-mile run? They had to go.

The Marines had a special place for fat wastes and other losers, non-hackers and ten-percenters. If you couldn’t hack the program, the DIs sent you to the STB—Special Training Battalion. This was like being sent to Devil’s Island. It was a brutal place filled with crazies, piss ants, momma’s boys, laid-back losers, non-hackers, chubby fellows and other assorted vermin, where they ran your ass and yelled at you all day. There were no schools, no movies, nothing but running and physical exercises. They made the losers run holding onto the belt of the guy in front of them, and whenever a regular platoon passed, the recruits would throw punches at them. Their DIs would look straight ahead.

How do I know about the STB? It all started when one unlucky day, a fat waste fell off the ball-breaker obstacle at the obstacle course. All 230 pounds of him landed on my left foot. It swelled up until I couldn’t put on my boot and the DI was forced to send me to the Navy hospital at Beaufort, South Carolina, which handled base personnel, military dependents and hurt boot-camp Marines. I arrived wet and filthy dirty with a messed-up left foot. The first Navy doctor ignored me. He figured I was too muddy and he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Being treated like a piece of shit in an emergency ward of a Navy hospital pissed me off. People wonder why the Marines hate the Navy, when, in reality, the Marines are part of the Navy. I had to sit and wait until finally the first snob left and a Navy Commander doctor came in and asked what he could do for me. God bless this man. He was kind, and angry that I had been ignored for so long. He got me cleaned up, got me some dry clothing and a bed, and examined my swollen leg. He told me to put my leg up on a pile of pillows for five or six days and I would be okay. I was treated well for the next seven days, when I finally could walk and run again.

The doctor told me to take care of myself and not let any more fat guys fall on me. We shook hands and I told him he would go to heaven for helping me. This made him smile. He called a jeep and off I went to Parris Island. When I returned, I was reissued my M-14 rifle and 782 gear, which was a bucket with a shelter-half, tent pins, rope, mess gear, and all the crap you need in boot camp. I got my duffel bag back, which somebody had packed when I was in the hospital. I thought I would rejoin Platoon 383. How wrong I was!

The Gunny Sergeant in headquarters didn’t know what to do with me. He told me that Platoon 383 was at the rifle range and that I had missed a week of rifle training. I replied that I had been shooting since I was nine years old. He said that the Marines were really serious about the two-week training at the rifle range, and if I didn’t comply with the M-14 training, I might not graduate and would have to do the whole boot camp over again. While he went to lunch, I hitchhiked out to the rifle range in the middle of nowhere to find my old platoon. I knocked on the door the hardest I ever knocked in my life. I yelled out my name, Private Gebhart, 2099701, reporting back from the hospital for duty! The DIs were in shock to see me. I figured they would beat me up for coming back, but what the hell, they were my new family. I was amazed I didn’t get the standard tune-up. They explained that I had missed one of the most important weeks of training at the rifle range and they were not allowed to take me back. They said they admired my determination and guts, and even drove me back to Headquarters and shook my hand and said good luck! They also said they were sorry to lose me. I guess I wasn’t a shitbird after all.

The Gunny Sergeant said I would have to report to STB. I was wearing my chrome dome helmet liner. I had my bucket with all my 782 gear in it, my M-14 rifle and my duffel bag filled with all my clothing. I knocked on the door and a hand grabbed me by the throat and pulled me inside the squad bay. I was hit on top of the head, flying my helmet liner across the room, which was filled with fat freaking losers, other assorted crazies, and who knows what else. The STB Drill Instructor was the worst. He threw my 782 bucket into the wall, spilling its contents all over, and took my duffel bag and dumped it all over the floor. Then he grabbed my rifle with such force that it knocked me down. He said, Welcome to STB. I am Staff Sergeant Fadden. You mess with me and I’ll kill you! What a great welcome. Made me feel right at home. He then walked out and left the Junior DI in charge.

The Junior DI told me to pick up my stuff and find an empty bunk, and said he hoped my stay with the STB was long and miserable. Then he went to his private quarters. All the lowlifes in STB were trying to steal my belongings from the floor. I yelled out that I would take my M-14 bayonet and gut them down like a dead Pennsylvania deer in hunting season if anybody took any of my stuff. A miracle happened—they returned all of my gear, right down to the ropes for my shelter-half. It took me a good half hour to get all my gear back where it belonged and to repack my duffel bag.

To get out of this hellhole, I had to do 50 push-ups, 50 sit-ups and run five miles the next morning. During the night, the Staff Sergeant returned drunk on his ass and in a worse mood than when he left. He came in at 3:00 AM, pushing open the door, overturning the bunk beds with men still in them, and throwing their stuff all over the room. I got lucky; he didn’t mess with me. I passed the strength test the next day.

While I watched, these pitiful sons-of-bitches flunked the test on purpose. The rule was, if they could not make a Marine out of you in six months, they would discharge you as unfit for military duty. Most of the losers in STB were counting the days until they were let go. How they could go through all this harassment and endless physical exercise was beyond me. All they had to do was pass the strength test and then be reassigned to a new platoon and transfer out of the STB hellhole. They were the type of low-life scum who will get you killed when the sloop heads hit your position. Ball-less wonders and coward dogs. It was good the Marines weeded out the ten-percenters and other wastes. They could go back to their mothers and play with their twangers for the rest of their useless lives.

MY NEW HOME

The Gunny Sergeant eventually assigned me to Platoon 387. He wished me well and asked me to put on my killer face for him. Later in life I ran into that Gunny Sergeant again. This time he was acting as a DI in the movie Full Metal Jacket. He was the one that got shot in the head by the fat guy. He was, and still is, an okay guy. You had to laugh at all his particular sayings. One of his favorites was Fucking outstanding, Marine!

I reported to my new platoon and knocked on the door. The door flew open and once again I took a punch to the face that blackened my eye, two punches to the rib cage, and was thrown against the wall. My new DI called me a fucking Russian spy brought in to ruin his outstanding platoon. He told me not to unpack because when morning came he would personally throw me the fuck out. He took no crap, period. He called me Buzzard, and I felt right at home again—black eye, hurt pride, and a DI who wanted no part of me. In my mind I was singing Home, Home on the Range, and hoping not to hear any discouraging words.

Well, he never threw me out. If the door opened today, 43 years after I first met him, I would still do whatever he asked as fast and efficiently as possible.

Morning came, we ran our three miles, and went to chow. In boot camp, the last man through the door is the DI, so when he is done eating, everyone is done. You have to get your ass out on the parade deck before he walks out the door of the mess hall. I can tell you this—you are hungry as shit and have to eat fast.

There is a big sign on the door to the mess hall: Take All You Want, Eat All You Take! Of course there are some guys who hide donuts in their hats and pockets. When the DI comes out and finds donuts, the whole platoon is punished. Private Fat Waste gets to eat his donuts while the rest of the platoon, 80 or so people, do push-ups. When nighttime comes to the squad bay, Private Fat Waste gets a blanket party. Reality check: Eat It or Leave It! Don’t Bring It Outside. Just about every day some platoon’s heavy guy would be standing outside the mess hall reciting, By the position of the sun and moon and stars in the sky, and every tick-tock of my Mickey Mouse watch, the time on deck is… The Marines had a table marked Fat People, and they were on a special diet, which is why they were always stealing ice cream and donuts.

There are a million stories I could tell all day long about my 13 weeks at Parris Island, but I’m going to mention only the good ones. On the second day there, the DIs took us into a large warehouse to get everything we needed to live. There were some Simple Simons who amazed even the DIs. These idiots lived so far back in the woods that they had to pump daylight into them. There were 90 tables in the warehouse with all the stuff you would ever need—foot powder, soap, razors, toothbrushes, shoe polish, boot brushes, etcetera. Each recruit received a duffel bag. The DIs yelled out, Hold up one can of boot polish! Everybody held up one can of boot polish. Put it in the bag! This went on, one item after another. It took a lot of yelling and quite a bit of time.

When the DI yelled, Hold up your toothbrush, Private Hardtack from West Virginia held up his shoe brush. He had never seen a toothbrush in his whole life. I was standing next to this village idiot, so I started laughing. The