Tip of the Spear: From Boot Camp to Vietnam

By David Arocha

The years 1967 and 1968. It is the height of the Vietnam War. A boy of eighteen enlists in the U.S. Marine Corps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664152212

David Arocha

David Arocha has a diminutive stature of five feet two inches and weighs only 103 pounds . . . Boot camp and combat will be times of hardship and tears. With the naiveté of youth, he has no clue where South Vietnam is other than it is in Southeast Asia. The cause of his country’s fight holds no relevance other than it is a place to prove his manhood. His combat tour will begin in July 1967 with Kilo Company, Third Battalion, Third Regiment, Third Marine Division. Arocha will soon experience over a dozen battles and firefights and more than forty shellings from enemy guns . . . Arocha will take you to the lower rungs of the field Marine. He guides you through the misery, privation, and terrors of sudden combat. Arocha is an average Marine seeing death and destruction on a massive scale.

Book preview

Tip of the Spear

From Boot Camp to Vietnam

David Arocha

Copyright © 2021 by David Arocha.

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 in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/19/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

819218

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

To all the infantrymen, friend and foe, who never came home

CHAPTER 1

I SLEPT THE sleep of the restless, anxiety and uneasiness tearing at me. In a disturbing dream, I was transported to a dark and ominous forest with huge black trees. In the distant night sky were continual brilliant flashes that lit up low-hanging clouds. Shadowy figures began roaming and romping through the woods. One of the apparitions stopped and came closer. It seemed to float up to me. It was one of those dreams where you could not run, could not speak. I felt the clawlike grip on my left arm. Struggling with the unseen beast, I began to hear the cries and screams of men’s voices in mortal terror and then the sounds of heavy gunfire and explosions …

Opening my eyes, I stared into a solid gray predawn sky of February 8, 1968. Hell, still in Vietnam. One bad dream to the reality of another. Pushing back my helmet, I tossed aside the flak jacket that covered me and hoisted myself heavily out of my foxhole. I then thanked God it had been a very bad dream. My legs ached as I had dug this hole too small in my haste. I was pleased to see a number of my platoon dug in nearby. In the waning darkness, I could see a secondary main line ringing my platoon, Mike Company infantry, who had come to our rescue. Shocking details of the previous day before flooded my mind all at once. The morning before, Kilo had walked into an ambush set by a reinforced North Vietnamese battalion.

Outnumbered, the company was hammered by intense small arms fire. Even with the support of artillery and airstrikes, Kilo had sustained numerous casualties. I longed for a hot cup coffee to bring myself around and warm myself in this early morning chill. I thought it would be in my better interests to inventory my personal gear. Although I now considered myself a veteran with six months in the field, I had been foolish to not have not been properly prepared. Assuming the patrol would be routine and of a short duration, I’d brought out for protection only a .45-caliber pistol and ten rounds. No food, and a single canteen of water. Since yesterday morning, I had acquired an M16 rifle, several cloth bandoliers of ammunition, an entrenching shovel, three hand grenades, and a C ration of peaches—all salvaged from dead or wounded Marines.

At first light, two Marine M48 tanks came rumbling in from the Gio Linh firebase located to the southwest. They crossed the unfinished dirt road being built by engineers and came to our position and halted. Mike and Kilo had dug in this open field just short of the dense tree line where the ambush had taken place. All our wounded that could be found had been taken out by medevac helicopters the previous late afternoon. But scores of men remained missing. I felt very uneasy about friends who were remained unaccounted for.

Shortly after 0700, or 7:00 a.m., the tank commanders revved up their engines. The majority of Mike Company’s Marines began to form in a single line facing west on the tree line. This would be a maneuver known as a recon by fire. At the given order, the men would advance on line into the tree line, firing as they went. The tanks rolled into position in line.

Enemy troops, although dug in for the ambush, had themselves taken a serious battering and pulled out to parts unknown. The possibility of lingering stragglers still posed a threat. On the other hand, any of our missing still alive was now in grave danger of being killed by this friendly fire. The order was passed. A deafening roar of gunfire erupted as Mike pushed its way into the tree line. The smell of cordite filled the air. In a few moments, they all had disappeared into the tree line. Kilo’s survivors could only watch from the rear and speculate how many of the missing would be slain by this fire. The sustained roaring gunfire finally dropped away to a few scattered rifle shots. Time seemed to come to a standstill. Then the Mike men began to return.

Many walked back slowly, heads down, rifles hanging loosely from their hands. Amazingly, several wounded Marines had been found and rescued. Chugging slowly out of the trees emerged the tanks. And it would be a sight I would never forget. On each were scores of dead bodies piled around the turrets. Closing my eyes, I muttered a prayer.

Carrying their dreadful cargos, the tanks came to a stop and shut off the engines. Although ordered to stay away, I found myself walking swiftly toward this carnage. Bodies, bloodied and mangled, were stacked three deep, like cordwood. Kilo Company survivors looked on in devastated silence. Some turned their backs at the grisly sight. The dead were piled atop one another, some faceup, others facedown. I was profoundly saddened and hurt as I recognized good friends. Rigor mortis had set in on some. A big black man, anguish still written on his face, was set in a sitting position against one of the tank turrets; his arms were chillingly outstretched before him. My God … I was so glad their families could not see them like this. There would be much tears in many an American household soon.

Standing next to one of the M48s was our platoon navy medical corpsman. As we stood there conversing in low voices, my eyes were continuously drawn to a dead man lying facedown just a foot or two behind and above the corpsman. The Marine had the top of his head entirely shot away. The brain was exposed and appeared to be relatively untouched …

How does one even tell a war story? So many unaccountable others who have engaged in warfare through the ages have put their thoughts and feelings to paper. What value would be my insignificant words? Yet I had something to say—to tell others now long after I am gone. War is bigger than any individual participating in it. If that combatant dies, the conflict goes on without him. And he goes practically unnoticed in the larger scheme of events, except remembered by only those who knew him and loved him. And that was the fate of many an anonymous warrior who did his duty for the particular country and cause he believed in.

Although participating in many combats, I had not the heroic blood that ran through the veins of some men that I served with. I was not terrified in combat, but far from being a brave man. Yet I wanted to get at the enemy who wanted to kill me. There was that combination of fear and that unique high of great excitement of battle all rolled up in one grand emotion. An unparalleled sensation I had never felt before or since in those days long ago.

Time has passed so quickly. Now in my early seventies, it seemed like I was only in my thirties only a few weeks ago. There was a time when I got applications for Visa or American Express cards. Now my mail consists of advertisements for mobility scooters and cremation services. I have become acutely aware that sympathy and get-well cards sections are right next to one another on store displays. A fine line indeed. Once again, but with more of an accepting heart, I face my mortality easier than when I was nineteen and twenty. The Vietnam War changed my life most dramatically. To have those thirteen months out of one’s entire life, which made its lasting impact, is truly astonishing.

Sadly, war is a commonplace in this world. But to the common man, it is unnatural. And it has its profound consequences. When I came home from Vietnam in August 1968, my father said to me, Forget the war now. It’s over for you. Easier said than done. I tried to put certain things and memories behind me. Visions of dead comrades who never got to understand the meaning of really living haunted me. I had tried to express my feelings to family and friends about the war. Ever increasingly unpopular at the time, no one wanted to hear about my experiences that I badly need to get off my chest.

It came to a head when I visited an old friend working on his car at his home. Hey, it seems like you just left, Dave. What do you think of this rebuilt engine I just put in? I had been away a hundred years. Everyone, except war protesters, seemed to easily blank out the war in Southeast Asia, while I, on the other hand, could not. I reacted to this by keeping to myself and donning my green fatigue jacket I wore in combat. It would be years before I stopped wearing it daily.

Although I have lived to become an old man, I wrote some words about what really happened out there and to keep the rich memories of friends living and dead in a form that will hopefully be remembered long after we are all gone. I have based my accounts from my own personal journal I kept and from the company diary and journal made available to me during the exact days of my own tour in Vietnam in 1967 and 1968. I apologize for inaccuracies, although I have attempted to stay true to events. Of course, as comparable to a car accident, all of us saw events differently and from an individual perspective. But I wrote exactly what I experienced and saw.

My first breath was drawn on July 22, 1948, in French Camp in the fertile San Joaquin Valley in California. Several days after my birth, my mother’s uncle Juan came to visit her in the hospital. She made the remark that the majority of the recent births had been males. In twenty years, there will be a war, he replied. The country is going to need all these boys. On July 22, 1968, I was in Vietnam climbing mountain heights with my company near the Laotian border. In spite of the exhausting uphill trek, it was quiet day. Throughout Vietnam, forty Americans would die that day.

Admittedly, through my school years, I was nothing more than an average to poor student. School was just a run of mandatory requirements interspaced with youthful fun and frolic. I did enjoy being a high school student at Sequoia High in Redwood City, California. I was fair student through my freshman and junior years. But by my senior year, I was in trouble. By this time, I was being tardy or cutting classes regularly. I only attended classes that I liked. And that was very few. While friends were doing well, I seemed to have lacked motivation and that drive to excel.

I graduated with 525 other baby boomers in June 1966. Although I never heard it said, I personally called it the Class of 666. I never knew my class ranking. But it had to be quite dismal. Both of my parents never graduated high school. So, unwittingly, I was the first of my immediate family to do so. The next month, I enrolled in San Mateo College, a two-year institution just up the peninsula from my home.

Special counselors were on hand to guide you along. I enrolled in just one English class to test the waters. In the college library, I got a part-time job shelving books. I enjoyed the company of new friends. But even though I had become a college student, I found it just a spin-off from my high school days. I stuck it out for the summer semester—and never returned.

Like the majority of young men my age, it was mandatory to sign up for the draft, which was a requirement of the times. Unsure of my goals or future, I began to consider joining the armed services. But which? For some time now, my father and I were at odds. I just could not seem to do anything right in his eyes. We argued with one another incessantly. And we argued bitterly. I had inherited my father’s fiery temper. I had to get away. No longer in college, the precious student deferment many cherished was now gone. Now I was a prime candidate for the draft. Mom was quite worried. The United States had gotten in another conflict far from home in a place called South Vietnam.

The recruitment office was at the local federal courthouse in Redwood City. I had decided to join the United States Navy. I felt I was not a good fit for the Army or the Marines. I stood just under five feet two inches tall, weighing a mere 101 pounds—not like the U.S. Marine poster outside the recruitment office, with the square-jawed, tall, handsome Marine pictured.

My cousin Greg had recently spent a year in Vietnam with the Army in a construction outfit driving a bulldozer. He stopped by on his way home from Vietnam. Luckily, he had not seen or been in any combat while in-country. And I am sure that was just fine with my mother’s sister, Aunt Lela. Greg was on his way back to the California Central Valley, his military service completed. He was home.

CHAPTER 2

I T WAS NOON when I went up the courthouse steps. Opening the door, I took an immediate right into the recruiting office. (I visited it recently. It is a city government gift shop). The Navy, Army and Air Force recruiters were all out to lunch. And there stood the U.S. Marine recruiter. He was a handsome fellow, tall and lean. He wore staff sergeant stripes on his dress shirtsleeves. A lot of colorful ribbons adorned his chest. Brightly colored light blue dress trousers with a red stripe down the sides and shiny dress shoes. Marvel Comic’s Captain America has come to life. Most impressive to a young, naive ex-high schooler. He greeted me warmly asking what he could do for me. I said I was here to join the navy.

Well, what’s wrong with the Marine Corps? You look like damned good material for a Marine.

Laughingly, I replied, I’m too small to be a Marine. Look at you. Look at the poster outside. I’m just not a good fit.

Drinking from a coffee cup, he waved it airily. Nonsense. The Corps needs a clean-cut fellow like you.

We discussed the benefits of being in this branch of the service. I still had my doubts. But the idea of being one of the best was most appealing. Being a Marine in dress blues sounded pretty good each moment. He handed me a fistful of pamphlets and brochures. Go home and think on it. Get your parents in on the conversation. If you’re going to join, join the very best.

I said nothing of my visit to my family. I lay awake for several nights weighing my options. An intense feeling of wanting to meet and best an opponent in battle overtook me. Marines were headed to South Vietnam by the truckload, it seemed. And I had no doubt I would be there if I opted for the Marine Corps. Combat. Real war. Could I be bear up to it? I felt no bravery in my heart. Yet I wanted to test my mettle. I could maybe do this.

But the other side of the coin. The other column. The negative one. Many American boys had already died in this new war. I read in 1965 of the first pitched battle between U.S. Army troops and North Vietnamese troops. Thousands of enemy soldiers had been killed, along with more than three hundred Americans. And I heard of Operation Hastings fought on the northern demilitarized zone between the two warring Vietnams.

The clash had been strictly U.S. Marines and North Vietnamese. I recall Walter Cronkite reporting on the battle. For the first time I heard of the Rockpile. I would see it soon enough. Part of Cronkite’s report stayed with me about the battle. U.S. Marine losses are not known at this time but are reported to be extremely heavy. This was no game indeed.

My high school typing teacher, Mr. Callis, had already lost a son in this young war in 1965. Also a Marine, he was one of the very first of the 14,700 Marines who would die there. The newspaper accounts stated he died from gunshot wounds to the chest. The good guys and the bad guys. But for real this time. Was his death for the good of the country? or in vain? I tried to visualize in my mind just how long this conflict was going to last. Would the war be over even by the time I left boot camp?

In my own mind, I came to the conclusion that this new American war would be of a short duration. How could a small Asian nation I barely heard of even attempt to take on the armed might of the United States? All I really knew in this moment in history and my own life was a golden opportunity to test my manhood. The mettle of my own being. I was completely ignorant of the politics or misadventures that led the country to South Vietnam. There was a sense of duty that I need to fulfil. A great many young men did not share my ideals. I decided to enlist in the United States Marines.

Decades later, my young nephew Kyle questioned me about Vietnam and the war. I was most amused when he referred to the North Vietnamese soldiers as the other team. In 1966, I knew nothing of Vietnam. I could not even find it correctly on a world map. It took a few ganders before I located the small nation where all the fuss was taking place. Twirling the globe at the library, I wondered why the United States was bothering with this country so many thousands of miles from our coasts. I never knew a Vietnamese person or that they even existed at all. It would be many years later when I read and understood Vietnamese culture and politics. None of that really mattered at this time for me.

Pres. Lyndon Johnson was so adamant about keeping the Communist threat in Asia under control. There was turmoil in my soul on this possibly life-altering decision I was about to make. The Apostolic Church was then a big part of my family’s lives. There was a strict doctrine that no member was to bear arms in a conflict. One could serve the country but as a conscientious objector and noncombatant. I respected the church and the good Christian people.

Yet I felt a pull to serve in my own way. I had no wish to be killed or severely maimed for life. And killing someone who had a whole different viewpoint from my own was still a matter I had to review in my mind.

After two days, I returned to the recruiting office. I balked at the doorway. To my left, two women who had been chatting nearby grew silent and stared at me. I went in. As I filled out the necessary paperwork, I also was required to take a standard test. Mostly it dealt with very basic logic, math, English, and grammar. The recruiter left the office for a while, and he conveniently left the answer page next to me. A dumbass would have looked at it. But I completed the test on my own merit. A question was asked on the test. Why do you want to enlist in the United States Marine Corps? Time to sling bravado and send sensible caution to the winds. I want to fight, I wrote in the designated box. John Wayne, move over and give me five!

Even as I happily bounced down the courthouse stairs, I still was not sure about this war business. Soon, newscasts would be flooded with graphic images of the Vietnam War. As a baby boomer, I had seen my share of war movies, mostly dealing with World War II, the majority produced in the early 1940s war years. What made me jump up and salute the television at eight made me cringe at eighteen.

Attempting to raise the country’s morale and wave the flag, these war movies reeked with overblown patriotism and sentimentality. In films such as Wake Island, Air Force, Sahara, Gung Ho, The Immortal Sergeant, and others were strewn with numerous clichés and syrupy dialogue. The joy of getting at the enemy was excessive. It had its purpose in the war years, I suppose—morale builder. But by 1966 and a new generation, it was completely outdated.

If that wasn’t enough, I always had that youthful question why older men like George Murphy, William Bendix, Humphrey Bogart, Lloyd Nolan, and Robert Taylor were bravely taking on the enemy on screen. It finally occurred to me that a great majority of the younger actors were in uniform for the duration of the war.

Finally, I let my family know I had enlisted. My mother was dismayed that I had chosen the Marines. It meant the carrying of a gun. It was almost a done deal that I would be going off to this new war. Willingly, I had disobeyed and I had gone against church doctrine. As for my father, he remained silent on the matter. At least in my presence.

Two weeks later, I went to the Oakland Induction Center and easily passed the physical. There was a question raised by the medical staff about my puny one-hundred-pound weight. Son, you are letting yourself in for a lot of hell in boot camp, a doctor warned. I was eventually classified 1A. Apparently, just a warm body was all that was needed with a war on.

Not everyone was looking forward to military service. Many young men were trying their absolute best to convince the doctors that they were unfit for service. Good-natured banter and jeers went on between enlistees and those loath to be in uniform. Other draftees took possible military induction in stride with a come-what-may attitude. Walking to my car, two Beatle-haired fellows that I had seen inside were firing up a joint. No real Marine would do that. I would find out later that I could be wrong.

On November 3, 1966, I returned to the induction center to take the Armed Forces Oath of Enlistment. As I was about to go in, a thin, long-haired hippie leaning against the wall handed me a flyer and asked if I was being drafted. Informing him of my enlistment, he sneered, Did it ever cross your mind that you just might get killed? At the nearest trash can, I ditched the unread circular.

In a small room, standing before a Marine Corps officer, seven of us raised our right hands. Then he administered the Oath of Allegiance. My half-dozen companions towered over me; all husky football player types, all over six feet tall. Hey, pint-size, how did you get into the Corps? one of the recruits asked, as the others looked me over and shook their heads. It was one of the proudest moments of my life. Now, like it not, for better or worse, I was a part of something that was much bigger than myself. I would see history in the making. It would be an adventure of a lifetime. The likes that I had never seen.

As an incentive to enlistment, the Marines offered a delay program of approximately 120 days. I would then report for training at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego. As I had enlisted for four years, I took advantage of the time to take care of things at home, relax, and get myself mentally prepared. I had never been away from home for a long extended period. Four years with the Marines. It would be November 1970 before I was civilian again. A long time off.

But that was then. This was now. My bad temper had been a strain with my family. My brother and sisters were being kindly toward me. I secretly felt they would be glad to be rid of me for a while. Even the arguments and fights between my father and me had ceased. Mother was concerned about my spiritual welfare. There would be no guiding light to keep me in check. She had heard stories of boys going into the service and learning to drink and smoke and coming home wild and profane after being among worldly pleasures.

I was taking my last drives in my ’57 Chevy. I’d drive to the ocean. I cruised through the A&W Root Beer stand to check out the scene one more time—the last days of eating those great burgers and that root beer drink I liked so much. Driving with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a soda was a trick in itself. With no power steering, it took two turns of the wheel to even round a corner.

The days allotted on the delay program came and went so quickly. I began to say my good-byes to friends and relatives. My family were quiet, realizing now that I was now leaving home for the unknown. On the weeknight church service, members prayed for me en masse. Lots of hugs and handshakes. The minister speaking that night wished me well and asked God to forgive me for my decision to refuse conscientious objector status. A great majority of the young Apostolic men had done so. I felt very surly at the comment. But I remained cordial.

On the early afternoon of February 17, 1967, I bade my family good-bye. Tears and sadness from everyone. Carrying nothing but my orders to report, I was driven by my father to the Greyhound bus depot in Redwood City. My father, not a man of many words, simply shook my hand and told me to be careful. After arriving in Oakland, I was picked up by military personnel. Then a short trip to the induction center, where a bus was waiting to take the recruits to San Jose Airport in the South Bay.

It was quite a surprise to find that every recruited man was headed to the Navy Recruit Depot in San Diego. I felt all of a sudden very lonely. No one to buddy up with. A soon-to-be sailor had a quick visit from his girlfriend and her parents. On hearing that one of the group was going to the Marines, she asked him to point me out. I casually looked that way. She was staring. A few minutes later, I looked that way again. Still the stare. I would have given anything to know exactly what she was thinking.

Like many on this flight, it was my very first trip on a plane. This was PSA Airlines, which flew local and domestic flights. The flight would have been more enjoyable had I not begun to have a bad case of butterflies whirling in my stomach. Some of the recruits flirted with the pretty miniskirted stewardesses, while others sat quietly pondering what lay ahead.

Landing in San Diego, navy and Marine personnel met the plane and sorted out the herd. A Marine sergeant found me, and I followed him to an area where other Marine recruits were being assembled. In short order, about sixty recruits stood chatting nervously among themselves. Civilian passersby gazed at us curiously. Another sergeant came up and bellowed, OK, you people, follow me! As we headed to the exit and the awaiting buses, two young Marines were walking by in the opposite direction. And true to the great World War II novel Battle Cry by Leon Uris, one of them called out in a singsong voice, You guys are going to be sorieee!

The airfield was adjacent to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, and the bus ride was very brief. The buses passed through the main gate of the depot. Armed Marine guards waved us through. Everyone was now silent, united in facing the great unknown. My heart was beating furiously, and I suddenly wished I was anywhere but here. As soon as the brakes were applied and the door opened, a drill instructor in the legendary Smokey the Bear campaign hat boarded. From his mouth came a tirade of orders and profanity. Get your slimy asses of this bus now! he bellowed. Get your feet on those yellow footprints right goddamned now! Move! Move! Move!

People scrambled wildly over one another like rats abandoning a sinking ship. Although I got shoved and elbowed pretty hard a few times, I was now out and standing on a pair of those fabled yellow footprints at attention with more than sixty others. On my right was a tall Mexican kid. He looked quickly over at me. Even in the darkness, I could just make out his nervous smile. I’m Benny, he said quietly, smiling. Benny Morales from New Braunfels, Texas. We were to become good friends.

Then the night became a blur of all things done at a double-quick time. Drill instructors leaped up and down, screaming, pushing, shoving, waving arms, with near-absurd fast-paced commands. We stood at attention the receiving barracks building, like so many untold thousands of recruits had done in the past. Ushered rapidly into the building, we were met by four to six civilian barbers wearing white smocks, each standing by a barber’s chair. Amid threatening Marine voices and the unceasing buzz of electric barber clippers, each recruit was shorn of all head hair in about one minute. Each man, bald now years before his time, was hustled out of the chair and outside while another took his place. The floor was barely visible with so much shorn hair underfoot. Even as I ran outside, I thought the barbers completely lacked any knowledge of hairstyle or grooming; just electric shaving heads bald day after day.

In another large room, every stitch of civilian clothes was stripped off double time and boxed and addressed for shipment home. That included wallets, watches, and other personal items. In place, I donned my first uniform of sorts—a bright yellow sweatshirt with a United States Marines Corps emblem and words printed on the front in red, green fatigue trousers, white skivvies, white socks, and white tennis shoes. Even with a twenty-eight-inch waist, my pants were far too long. Hurriedly, I rolled them up. Apparently, I was too slow printing my address on the returning box of civvies to the folks. I got a nasty shove that sent me sprawling. Nobody told you to write a ten-page letter home! a Marine instructor screamed down at me.

During this period, I took the opportunity to quickly look over the people I had arrived with. Earlier, we all had stripped down to white skivvies. Muscular arms and shoulders here and there. No one was a perfect specimen. Acne abounded on chests and backs. I, too, noticed the fat, the thin, the lean, and the short … It took all kinds for this Marine Corps. Some were taking the shouted orders, verbal abuse, and many shoves quite well. Others were showing absolute fear, with that deer-in-the-headlights look to them. Oh my, tears in some eyes. I would shed a few myself in the coming weeks.

All of us knew about boot camp and what one was expected to endure. But to suddenly be subservient to mandatory and totalitarian authority was an instant shock to the senses. And this was only a small tip of the iceberg on what was to come. Our platoon drill instructors were more than ready to tear down each man’s personality and being and then mold it into what the Corps expected of each recruit.

As I watched my addressed and boxed civilian clothes tossed into a corner for shipment, I knew that I would never be the same again. When my mother received the clothing, it seemed to her as if I were dead. Our ears still ringing from shouts and the shouts of recruits of Sir, yes, sir! the large group was herded to another building. On a long staircase, about sixty recruits were lined up on either side two to a step, facing downward. For hours, we stood at attention. Nothing to look at but the descending white scalps below me. All these bald heads waiting to audition for Curley Howard’s place on The Three Stooges. My naked head felt very cold. I wondered what I looked like in this state.

During this stay, a Marine sergeant came to give us rudimentary instructions on how to address drill instructors and officers and how to salute. Certain procedures were passed down on how to ask permission for this or that. Reminding us that recruits were lower than whale shit, we had to say, Sir, or salute practically all other living things. It was not until about 2:45 a.m. (I spied a wall clock) that we were able to get some sack time in a barracks and use the toilet, or head as we now were to refer to it. Although exhausted, I had a difficult time sleeping. Nearby, someone was blubbering and sobbing. Shut up! another recruit yelled.

Compared to today’s thirteen-week boot camp training schedule, we would have to take on the challenge in a compressed time span of only eight weeks. A war was raging, and the cannon fodder was apparently needed. The compacted training program would be a source of unmitigated stress and a harried, tumultuous whirlwind of activity.

Early the next morning after given breakfast, our platoon commander Staff Sergeant McLawhon and Staff Sergeant Smith arrived to take charge of the sixty men who would become Platoon 331. For a time, they were quiet but gave us the hardest of looks. The calm before the ultimate storm. We were assembled in some order and marched, or should I say herded, to the warehouses and issued bedding and blankets.

Earlier, at another distribution station, each man was fitted out with a green field jacket and a cap. At least we could hide for now that glaring yellow sweatshirt. But those white tennis shoes shone brightly .One by one, we marched into the armory warehouse by other drill instructors to be issued the M14 rifle. Wooden racks held up to thirty rifles standing on end. The serial number was noted before carrying the weapon outside. I had been in boot camp less than a day, and I already had my own rifle. But as I stood outside in line, Staff Sergeant McLawhon stepped up to me. He was tall, his Smokey the Bear hat pushed low on his brow. You’re a small shit, private. Looking at the large ten-pound rifle in my hands, he said, mostly to himself, We’ll have to do something about that before we get to the range. It would be weeks before I would have the opportunity to fire it. Long before social security numbers were used, I was issued a military identification number: 2327809. I would never forget it.

At a nearby warehouse, field issue gear was distributed: clothing, caps, field jackets, belts, boots, metal buckets, buckles, mess kits, gas masks, canteens and covers, field packs, cartridge belts, helmets, first aid kits, bayonets, and scabbards. Each man was also given a thick and large canvas seabag to store most of this gear for the trip to the barracks. The drill instructors were annoyed at our first attempts at marching and not keeping cadence. A few souls did not seem to know their left from their right. Or if they did, they were nervous and forgetful. Here and there, a recruit was swatted or being bawled at considerably for perceived or real infractions.

With M14s and heavy-laden seabags flung over shoulders, Platoon 331 marched to their new homes. Adjacent and directly east of the San Diego airport runway were six blocks of Quonset huts containing thirty huts to a small city block of sorts. The airfield and the depot in this area were separated by only a high cyclone fence topped off by heavy barbwire.

Each hut was made of galvanized corrugated steel with wooden doors on either end. It resembled a fifty-gallon drum cut in half and laid lengthwise .These all faced cement walkways. Within each hut were rows of steel double bunks. And in the center stood an old-style