Red Bloodied American Boy

By Donald Caswell

Robert Francis Donalee is 18 years old. He has grown up a red-blooded all-American boy. He played sports in high school and was vice president of his class. After graduating he goes to work as an auto mechanic. Susie, his high school sweetheart, and he are saving money for their destined wedding. Life is enjoyable and fun. He never expects to get drafted. He certainly does not expect to become a marine. His MOS (method of service) is 0311, a rifleman. Like most Marines in the 1960s, he is a grunt, a ground pounder, an expendable piece of U.S. government property. Six months later he is fighting for his life in a jungle 9,000 miles away. This is the story of his time in Vietnam—how he goes from a naive country boy to a killer. The depravity, hardship, and suffering of war. While his story is not typical, for many it was. The language, actions, and events are from that time period. I make no attempt at a political statement, only thoughts and beliefs of a young Marine in the 1960s. The readers who are too young to remember Vietnam will find his story enlightening. If I offend my brother Marines or anyone that served in Vietnam, I apologize up front. Remember this is a novel. IF I made any procedure or technical errors, I am an old man now, trying to remember events from fifty years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Oct 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228842224

Donald Caswell

Donald Caswell is a seventy-year old marine. He was drafted and bullied into the marines. He served active duty with the 1st Marine Division. He served a one-year tour in Vietnam. Many of the details in this novel are based on facts and real events. After being discharged, he attended The University of Texas @ Austin. His major was salt, Tequila, and lime. Returning to civilian life proved difficult for decades. He still has nightmares and trouble making friends. It has taken fifty years for him to be able to write this story.

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Red Bloodied American Boy

Donald Caswell

Red Bloodied American Boy

Copyright © 2020 by Donald Caswell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-4221-7 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-4220-0 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-4222-4 (eBook)

DEDICATION

This novel is for all that served in Vietnam. Especially those Marines that provided much of the inspiration. You know who you are.

About the Author

Donald Caswell is a seventy-year old marine. He was drafted and bullied into the marines. He served active duty with the 1st Marine Division. He served a one-year tour in Vietnam. Many of the details in this novel are based on facts and real events. After being discharged, he attended The University of Texas @ Austin. His major was salt, Tequila, and lime. Returning to civilian life proved difficult for decades. He still has nightmares and trouble making friends. It has taken fifty years for him to be able to write this story.

Foreword

Robert Frances Donalee is eighteen years old. He has grown up a Red Blooded All-American Boy. He played sports in high school and was Vice-President of his class. After graduating he went to work as an auto mechanic. Susie, his high school sweetheart and he are saving money for their destined wedding. Life is enjoyable and fun. He never expects to get drafted. He certainly does not expect to become a Marine. His MOS (method of service) is 0311, a rifleman. Like most Marines in the 1960s he is a grunt, a ground pounder, an expendable piece of U.S. government property. Six months later he is fighting for his life in a jungle 9,000 miles away. This is the story of his time in Vietnam. How he goes from a naïve country boy to a killer. The depravity, hardship, and suffering of war. While his story is not typical, for many it was. The language, actions, and events are from that time period. I make no attempt at a political statement, only thoughts and beliefs of a young Marine in the 1960s. The readers that are too young to remember Vietnam will find his story enlightening. If I offend my brother Marines or anyone that served in Vietnam, I apologize up front. Remember this is a novel. If I made any procedure or technical errors, I am an old man now, trying to remember events from fifty years ago.

Acknowledgement

I have to mention those that helped make this book possible. They contributed in many ways. Encouragement, constructive criticism, tech aid, and optimism are only a few. My two favorite school teachers, Jeremy and Cynthia Merrill. Charlene, my wife of forty-three years. My daughter Barbara and John. My son Josh and Marrisa. My two grandsons, Joshua and Gavin. Both of them are currently on active duty in the Army. I would be remiss if I did not mention my brother David and my favorite Marine that calls me Pop, Noel.

Part One

Dark. The thumbnail of the moon and a few stars provide only a little light. Large black clouds float by and the light disappears. Then the night is black. The black you see with your eyes closed. He is scared. He feels lost and alone. How did I end up here? His eyes strain to make out any shape, any movement. All he can see is the black surrounding him.

He can only hope for some light. He prays for God’s help. He is not ready to die. He is young and healthy. He should have a long life ahead of him. He starts to tremble and shake and cannot stop. Take a deep breath. In through the nose and out the mouth. Let it out slow, try to relax. Listen hard and smell the damp air. There is nothing out there. His mind is racing, with thoughts of how he will die. Please God, watch over me!

He stares into the dark and it looks back at him. What is that? I heard something! What made that sound? Listening hard, he hears nothing else. He is sure that there had been a noise. His eyes move side to side, there is only darkness. His hands feel strange. They are tingling and trying to become numb from holding his m-16 too tightly. Relaxing the grip and shaking one hand at a time brings back circulation. His hands continue to tremble. If the enemy shows, he will probably miss with his rifle. The moon peeks out for a few seconds and disappears before he can get a good look outside the bunker.

Today is the first time he has had his hands on an m-16. His training had been with an m-14. He qualified as an expert with it. He has a lot of confidence in an m-14, but none in this m-16. They are quite different weapons. The m-14 is solid and heavy. It fires 7.62mm NATO rounds and is accurate at five-hundred meters. The m-16 fires 5.56mm rounds that are accurate to three-hundred meters. The damn weapon is made of plastic. He has no confidence in it.

Total darkness continues. Breathe, relax, deep breath. He can feel the sweat run down his face and neck. He has never felt terror before now. He cannot stop shaking. The moon and a few stars peek out. Do not stare at one spot or it will start to move.

Anxiously looking around, he sees the sandbags on all four sides and the opening in the rear. He can see a half meter in both directions of the trench running behind him. The trench leads to more bunkers, more marines, but he is unable to see them. The corporal had told him that there are supposed to be two marines per bunker. The Company is very short-handed. He is the only replacement that had arrived today. He is alone. The corporal had said they were expecting ten replacements today. What is the corporals’ name? What is the number of this fire base? What the fuck am I doing here?

Total darkness returns. Breathe and try to relax. Deep breath, again and again. Please God, help me.

Pfc. Donalee had arrived at Da Nang airport from Okinawa early that afternoon. There were three dozen marines on the transport. The flight time is short but, it had been an uncomfortable, unpleasant ride. There is little talking among the men. There is a lot of engine and wind noise inside the transport during flight. The men did not want to talk anyway.

They are deep in thought about home, family, wives and girlfriends. Will this be my last flight? A few attempt to show their badass side when the plane lifts off from Okinawa. They shout things like KILL VC and I got something for you Charlie! It stops as quickly as it had started. Those that had yelled were probably the most scared.

The plane bounces many times during landing. The runways of the busiest airport in the world, have to be patched daily. Incoming mortar rounds and artillery every night does the damage. When the airplane finally comes to a stop, the marines are ushered off to a hanger.

There they are issued basic equipment: M-16 rifle with two magazines, helmet, flak jacket, and utility belt are given out. The utility belt holds essentials like canteens, Ka-bar knife, bayonet, and a battlefield dressing. Do not use your battlefield dressing on a wounded marine, use his. You save your dressing to be used on yourself. The higher ranks also wear a holster with a forty-five-caliber pistol on their utility belt.

The marines are taken out behind the hanger. There is a long, tall mound of dirt about thirty meters away. They are given a ten or fifteen-minute educational class on the m-16. The marines are given ten rounds to load into a magazine. Locked and loaded, they fire into the dirt. After all of them fire their weapons, a Staff Sergeant (SSgt.) leads them to another hanger. They sit on the concrete floor, waiting for their name to be called.

When their names are called, sometimes two or three at a time, they are loaded into a truck or a jeep. The vehicles would leave, and empty ones replace them. Donalee is next to last to have his name called. The SSgt. hands him a bandolier of ammo.

You can load the magazines (mags), but do not, I repeat do not lock and load your weapon, unless the pilot tells you to do it!

Pilot?

He is taken to a landing zone (LZ) in a jeep. The huey is ready to go, the blades are rotating fast. The crew chief gives him a hand up and points to where he wants Donalee to sit. The huey climbs, turns and shoots off into the sky. Donalee’s stomach starts to churn. This is his first helicopter ride. It is much different than riding in a large airplane. The firebase is only a fourteen-minute ride. It seems much longer to him.

When they are landing at the firebase, the last piece of the sun disappears behind the mountains. His stomach is still queasy. The crew chief motions for Donalee to get out. He does and runs bent over at the waist until he clears the LZ. The blades turn faster. The huey raises off the ground and is gone in only a few seconds. His stomach is already feeling better. A corporal has come to meet him.

I am Corporal (Cpl.) Davis we need get under cover.

They walk down steps made of filled sandbags into a trench. It is dark.

Who are you, asks the corporal?

Private First Class (Pfc.) Donalee, he replies.

Is your rifle locked and loaded?

No sir.

Do not lock and load until I tell you.

Donalee this is your new home, Foxtrot Bravo One Zero Seven. I will give you a complete mailing address in the morning. We were hoping for ten or twelve replacements today. The company is short-handed. You are the only replacement today, so you will have to carry a load right away. Did not give you much gear, did they! Follow me to your post.

Donalee follows behind him. The trench is deep. He is six feet tall. Walking tall, the top of his helmet is still below ground level. There are sandbag steps scattered around. If you stand on them, you can see out to fire your weapon. They arrive at his post.

Davis speaks, Bunker six. Lock and load marine.

Ka-chunk, is the m-16 noise when he pulls the charging handle.

Keep watch and stay alert. If we were not so short-handed, we could have two marines in each bunker.

A squad consists of three four men fire teams. One of the four is the team leader. With a squad leader there are thirteen men. Three squads in a platoon. Add a platoon Sgt. and there are forty men. Usually a company will have four or five platoons, maybe two hundred men. Donalee does not know that this company only has ninety-four marines.

Davis continues talking, There is a patrol out.

That means there are even less men guarding the firebase. It is good that Donalee does not know the facts. The old saying: Ignorance is Bliss, applies right now.

They should not come back in before sunup. The password for tonight is Ann-Margaret. Remember it. I am going to scare up some supplies for you. I will be back in a little while. Questions?

Donalee shakes his head no.

The corporal takes a couple of steps into the trench and disappears. Donalee stands at the front wall of the bunker. He looks out. How can I stand guard when I cannot not see anything? Can this get more fucked-up? I am going to die my first night! There is a loud pop as the flare ignites. His body jerks and shivers with the noise. There is Instant daylight!

He can see the rolls of concertina wire about one-half of a football field out in front of him. Beyond that is another fifty or so meters of cleared land. They usually clear a three-hundred-meter kill zone. That’s what I remember from one of the classes. After the first hundred meters, there is a wall of jungle. This must be a new firebase. Construction is not finished.

As the pop-up illumination flare floats down on a tiny parachute, the darkness returns. He has only seen shadows. Shadows that seem to move as the flare slowly comes down. Why did a marine use a pop-up? Did he see something? Did he hear something? Did he smell something? No one fired a weapon! That’s a good thing, maybe the pop-up is just routine at night. He closes his eyes for several seconds. When he opens them, his night vision has returned.

The moon comes out. At least there is some light. He takes several deep breaths. His eyes dart left and right to scan the dark. He can only make out shadows that appear to move. Do not stare at one spot. The clouds block the light and complete darkness returns. His breathing becomes shallow and rapid.

He realizes that his hands are shaking. Try to relax, deep breath. He cannot stop shaking. A whispered voice comes from behind him. His body jumps and his heart pounds, as he whirls around! His eyes are open wide.

Ann-Margaret, Pfc. Donalee, it’s Cpl. Davis. Do not fire, lean your rifle against the sandbags! I brought you some chow and supplies.

That’s the corporal’s name, now I remember.

Did you stack your rifle against the sandbags, he asks?

Donalee can hardly speak, but manages a yes sir, as he puts down the m-16.

Davis walks up to him with a haversack in his left hand. The right hand is holding a m-79 grenade launcher. It looks like a short, fat shotgun. Donalee has seen them before but, has never fired one.

You can pick up your weapon now, I did not want you to shoot me by mistake. Donalee retrieves his rifle and rests it on his left arm.

You okay, asks Davis.

Yes sir.

Davis knows the newbie is lying. No one is okay their first night in The Nam.

Davis continues, I rounded up a few things for you. There is a box of C-rations with a John Wayne can opener inside. Put the opener on your dog tag chain, so you do not lose it. There is a poncho. Four empty mags and a bandolier of rounds. Load them after I leave. Also, a small wet rock to sharpen your Ka-bar and bayonet. You need to calm yourself. I know that is easier said than done. Trust your training. Listen to me. Nothing will happen tonight, it is Tet. That is the gook’s new year and there is a ceasefire in effect. Any questions?

Donalee tries to think, it is difficult. Finally, he says, How long till sunup?

It’s only been dark for less than an hour. Morning will come. Do not fire without a clear target and especially do not shoot me when I come back in a couple of hours. With those words the corporal disappears into the trench.

The moon is shining again. He takes his rifle in both hands. He rests his arms on the sandbags and starts looking for movement and listening hard. There is no movement or sound. He takes a deep breath to smell the air. Nothing unusual. He does not have much confidence that you can smell the enemy. The instructor in that class said that some men can, and some cannot. The instructor picked on a man with a large nose. He said, with that nose you should smell them a mile away. Everyone had laughed.

Damnit, I forgot to ask Davis about the flare. He opens the box of c-rations and digs out the John Wayne. Taking his dog tag chain from around his neck, he adds the opener to it. There is only one dog tag on the chain. The other one is on his left boot lace. Marines are told to do this. In case you get blown to pieces, one dog tag may be attached. That way we know which Momma to send the pieces to.

He put the chain back around his neck. The other small chain has a Saint Christopher medal on it. His Mom gave it to him. They are Baptist, but she said that it could not hurt. When he takes hold of the dog tag to put it inside his shirt, he realizes that there are two John Wayne can openers. When did I get the first one? I do not remember, fuck. Oh well, now I have two.

The clouds come back. Total darkness. Anxiety grips him again. Has it really been night for only an hour? It seems to have been much longer than an hour. Try to relax. Deep breathe. I will be a bowl of mush by sunup. If I live that long!

Donalee cannot see anything. He feels for the haversack and finds it. He takes out the bandolier, putting it over one shoulder. The two bandoliers cross across his chest, Poncho Villa style. His fingers fumble and finally get one pouch open. He removes the rounds from the oily thick wax paper. He unfolds the paper and picks up a few rounds. His left hand finds one of the empty magazines and he starts to load it. Counting the rounds as he loads, looking out into the dark after each one. The magazine will hold twenty rounds but, you only put eighteen. You do not want to wear out the spring at the bottom of the mag. He remembers that from the class at the airport.

The rounds are small. He shakes his head in disgust. He wants a real weapon. The moon is back. He looks intently and can only see a few shadows, no movement. The last mag is loaded. He puts them in his cargo pants pockets, two mags on each side. The activity has helped to calm him a little.

In an instant, the clouds plunge him into total darkness. Panic seizes him again and starts to squeeze. His breathing becomes rapid and shallow. His heart pounds in his chest. Beads of sweat roll down his face. He can see nothing. His head starts to hurt, both temples. His thoughts become confused. Come half-way around the world to die from a heart attack. That will be fucked-up. Will they send my Mom a purple heart? What am I doing? This is fucked-up bigtime. A loud pop saves him and brings reality back.

There is instant daylight from the flare. This time, the popup is farther away. The area out in front of him is not as bright as the first time. He moves his eyes back and forth. He searches the ground all the way to the wall of jungle. No weapons are firing, that’s good. The flare goes out and the dark returns. Deep breath, I’m okay. Damn, it is quiet. Fuck, this is a long night. There is a lot of night left to happen.

The longer the blackout lasts, the more his nerves are dancing. Take deep breathes and relax. He smells the air. His ears are alert to detect any noise. A bug bites him on the neck. He slaps to kill it. The noise his hand makes is loud. Stupid, dumbass. Give away your position. All senses focus towards the jungle wall.

The moon peeks out and there is some light. He can barely make out a few shadows. There is nothing moving. Another bug that bites him. He grabs it with a finger and thumb. He squashes it quietly. He wipes the bug remains off his hand. Then the sweat from his face.

The whispered voice makes his body jerk.

Ann-Margaret. Hey Donalee, it is Cpl. Davis. You are not going to shoot me, are you?

No sir, advance and be recognized, he says.

Davis appears from the dark and speaks in a whisper.

Are you doing better?

I think I am, Donalee replies.

Davis continues, You are not shaking like you were earlier, that is a good sign! Remember it is Tet. There is a cease fire in effect. Nothing is going to happen tonight, but keep alert, just in case. Did you eat the c-rations?

No sir, said Donalee.

You need to call me Corporal. After I leave, you eat your chow and drink at least half a canteen of water with it. Any questions?

No sir, Corporal.

I will see you in a couple of hours, and Davis disappears into the dark of the trench.

Donalee turns his attention back towards the jungle. He can only see shadows. He is pissed at himself because Davis had seen him shaking. Fuck, I forgot to ask about the flares. Davis is right, I need to eat and drink. He reaches behind his back, unsnaps the canteen holder, and pulls the canteen out. Unscrewing the cap, he takes a big swallow.

The water tastes good. It is just a little warm. He realizes how thirsty he is and drinks more. Better save some for later, I only have two canteens. The moon disappears. He stands motionless and stares at the blackness that engulfs everything. The air is damp and becoming heavy with moisture. He wipes the sweat from his face.

The moon reappears. A little light is better than none. There is nothing moving. Now is a good time to eat, he can see to open c-ration cans. Picking up the box, he tries to read which meal it is. There is not enough light to see the print. He pulls out a small can and starts opening it. The John Wayne opener is new and sharp like a razor blade. It does the job quickly.

He looks up to check the area in front of him. The open can smells like peanuts. He sticks a finger in to get a bite. All that is on his finger is oil. The peanut butter has separated. He tries to scrape the solid part off the bottom. No luck, it is too hard. He checks out front.

After a few minutes, Donalee opens the largest can. There is a large chunk of meat at the top. Thumb and index finger pick it up and put it in his mouth. He chews a couple of times and spits it out. It is only a chunk of fat. One of the beans goes into his mouth. It is hard and tastes even worse. He spits it out. The beans need to be cooked longer.

He looks for movement before opening another can. It smells sweet. It seems to be a small muffin. Taking a bite, it is pound cake and it is good. It is gone in four bites. He checks out front. There is not any movement or noise.

He reaches for the last can and opens it. Crackers that are hard as a rock. Chewing them makes a lot of racket. He dunks them in the peanut oil. It is less noisy when he chews. He eats them slowly while watching for movement.

His mind is racing. Will Victor Charlie kill me before I starve to death? I would like to kill the mother fuckers that are getting rich selling c-rations to the government. Glad I am here protecting their right to get rich while I am making $138 a month. The least they could do is make sure the beans are cooked. Sorry fucking cocksuckers! Maybe we should be at war with them. He shakes his head in disgust and peers into the darkness. The moon is hiding again.

He realizes that his anxiety is much less this time. I must be getting used to not being able to see shit. He pulls out the canteen and has a drink. A second swallow, then he closes the lid and puts it back in the holder. He continues to stare at nothing. The corporal is right, nothing is going to happen tonight. There is a ceasefire in place because of Tet.

He is starting to feel that he will make it to dawn. I was just being stupid earlier to be so nervous. I only have 364 more days to go. I will probably get killed long before then. If I die, no more worries, so what the fuck. He relaxes a little more and starts to think about family and girlfriend, mostly girlfriend.

The noise out front yanks him back to the here and now. What was that noise? A loud pop as the flare opens, daylight. Someone else besides me must have heard the noise. He searches the area with his eyes. Nothing is moving, everything looks okay. It stays quiet and still. The flare goes out a meter or so, above the ground. The moon is shining, there is a little light. He hears footsteps in the trench behind him.

Speaking in a soft voice, Who goes there?

The reply comes, Ann-Margaret, it is Cpl. Davis.

Donalee says, come on in.

How are you doing Donalee.

I think I am doing better. I heard your footsteps for the first time, just now.

Outstanding. You seem to have adjusted quickly. That will serve you well here.

What was that noise, asks Donalee?

Not sure, but it came from The Bush. That is why we fired the pop-up. Keep up the good work. I need to finish my bunker checks. You stay alert and I’ll be back in a couple of hours.

Okay Cpl, says Donalee as he watches him disappear into the trench. The moon vanishes. Donalee stands his post and peers at the wall of black in front of him. What good work is he talking about?

He starts thinking about his current girlfriend, Susie. We might be married by now if I had not gotten drafted, fucking draft! I could be making love to Susie right now! I hope I get to see her again. What will she do if I die over here? Probably hook-up with their friend Buddy. She always acts a little strange around him. She told me that she loves me and will wait. Will she? Of course, she will! What am I thinking? Fucking draft!

The pre-induction physical is a joke. If you have a pulse, all your body parts, and no serious allergies or diseases, you pass! Two weeks later you report again for induction. There is a lot of paperwork and a quick exam by a doctor. One-hundred-eighty men are being drafted that day at Fort Sam Houston. Two of the draftees cannot write their own name. They are escorted out of the room by an army SSgt. What was their outcome?

A First-Class Petty Officer comes into the room. Donalee instantly dislikes him. When he starts to talk, Donalee knows he is right. He is an arrogant asshole.

All of you people are going in the Army or Marines. They are going to ship you to Vietnam. There all of you will get your ass shot off. I do have a few openings in the Navy for six years, any volunteers?

Four draftees raise their hands. They are escorted out and close the door.

The First-Class continues, Now that those dumbasses are gone, anyone want to join the Navy for four years?

He is a real prick. He gets three more volunteers and escorts them out. The draft is only two years active duty. Those that have enlisted in the Navy, just got fucked. That Petty Officer is a son of a bitch!

A Marine Captain comes in and gives a rah-rah speech about being the best. Ten percent of the draftees will go to the Marine Corps.

We need eighteen of you to volunteer for the marines, he continues.

He got seventeen volunteers.

I need one more.

Another rah-rah speech. No one else volunteers. He looks at a few of the folders on the desk beside him. He opens one and announces, Donalee, R.F., where are you? You just volunteered for the marines. Come with me!

Donalee follows him into the office.

The Captain said, I need you to sign this form volunteering for the Marines. If you do not, I can put you in jail for two years. You will lose your citizenship and have to leave the USA. These are all lies, but Donalee does not know it. He is young and naive. He signs the paper. Fucking draft!

The ones that fail to show for induction are hunted down by the FBI. The FBI escorts them to the induction center. Some move to Canada and live there to avoid the draft. Some will cut off a finger or toe to get out of the draft. Donalee would never have tried to get out of his patriotic duty. He loves America and what it stands for. He takes pride in doing his service.

His father, that he never knew, was in the Army. He was killed in Korea when Donalee was only sixteen months old. He was raised by his mom and grandparents. His grandfather had served in the Army when he was young. It seems natural to serve. My country, right or wrong! That is the family belief.

The moon comes out and he looks hard at everything he can see. There is nothing moving. Donalee takes out his ka-bar and wet rock. He starts sharpening the knife. It is already sharp but not as sharp as he would like. After a minute or two he cuts his left index finger. There is not enough light for sharpening. He puts the knife and wet rock away. I will save sharpening for