Kilo 3: The True Story of a Marine Rifleman’s Tour from the Intense Fighting in Vietnam to the Superficial Pageantry of Washington, DC

By Richard W. Foster, Jr.

This is the true story of a 17-year-old kid who quit high school in his junior year to join the Marines. After a short cruise with the 6th Fleet in the Mediterranean, he was assigned to a rifle company in Vietnam during the heaviest fighting of the war in 1967 and 1968. He went to Vietnam eager to save the world from Communism, only to become disillusioned by the lack of progress in the field, and mentally exhausted from the intensity of the ground combat. Returning in shock from what he had seen and done, he was assigned to the most prestigious Marine ceremonial detachment in the world: the Special Ceremonial Platoon located at the oldest post of the Corps, Marine Barracks at 8th and I Streets in Washington, DC. As part of this unit, he served at the White House under two Presidents, and at ceremonial duties all over DC. The contrast from the jungle of Vietnam was startling. While fighting constant nightmares of combat, he stood before Presidents, politicians, celebrities and heads of state, all the while maintaining the dignity and poise required for his position. This book is honest, graphic, and yet enlightening, ending positively. For those interested in understanding the Marine Corps and the horror of personal, ground combat, contrasted with the bright lights and facades of Washington politics, this book will not disappoint.

Reading Rick’s chapters on "The Barracks," (8th & I), rekindled many fond—and not so fond—memories of our time together. I was a fresh-caught second lieutenant charged with the almost impossible task of transforming combat Marines into ceremonial perfectionists. For a Marine to leave the mud and blood of Vietnam and report to the most fabled and oldest post of the Corps was something not every Marine could handle physically or emotionally. Rick’s reaction to the trauma and how he succeeded reminds me of the song Tin Man by America: "But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn’t, didn’t already have." I believe no one gave Rick anything he didn’t already have. He survived that transition with little help from anyone because he is that kind of Marine. To become one of a nine-man section responsible for the Marine Corps’ official colors and all presentations throughout the nation’s capital is something only a few Marines can own. For those fortunate enough to have watched a Friday Night Parade, Rick’s vivid description makes that “MGM Production” come to life. No Marine leaves "The Barracks" untouched by the significance of it all—Richard W. Foster, Jr. is living proof of that! -Colonel Jim Bathurst, US Marine Corps (Ret)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Apr 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781977242631

Richard W. Foster, Jr.

Richard W. Foster Jr. ("Rick") withdrew from high school in his junior year at 17 years old to join the Marine Corps. He served in Vietnam as a rifleman during the heaviest fighting of the war. Upon his return from combat, he was selected to serve in the most prestigious ceremonial Marine unit in Washington, DC. His extensive combat and subsequent DC service shaped his life dramatically. He entered college after his Marine duty, earning a bachelor’s degree in Political Science/English and a subsequent law degree. He practiced law while living on a working ranch near Junction, Texas where he raised two children: a son who is an attorney, and a daughter who is an airline pilot. He has remained married to his first and only wife since 1969.He presently lives in Newnan, Georgia near his two children.

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Chapter 1

The Decision

"WHAT DO YOU want to do with your life?" the principal of Henrietta High School asked me. He frowned in disgust as he leaned back in his chair.

I was in trouble again. I seemed to always be in trouble. This time around, I had backed my car up to the front doors of the school and peeled out on the main walkway, leaving two long streaks of black rubber. It had seemed like a good idea the night before.

I have no idea what I want to do with my life, I answered politely.

He stared at the ceiling and sighed. It’s time for you to figure it out. It’s obvious you’re not happy here. The principal was a middle-aged man who was authoritative without being rude, but he was clearly appalled by my behavior.

I shrugged my shoulders and looked at him. Being summoned to his office every week was becoming the norm.

He shifted his eyes to meet mine. You have manners but no ambition. You make bad grades, got kicked off the football team for drinking beer, and you’re always doing stupid stuff like last night. It’s time you figure out what you intend to do with your life. It’s obvious that your future does not include academics.

No, sir, I agreed.

Well, you need to do some serious thinking over the Christmas break. The fall semester of 1965 was almost over. Now get out there and clean up the sidewalk!

I left quickly before he could decide to pronounce a stiffer sentence.

Henrietta, Texas, is situated near the Texas-Oklahoma border in the gently rolling farm and ranch lands characteristic of North Texas. With a population of approximately 2,800 at the time, it was a typical small town in Texas in the 1960s. The nineteenth-century courthouse building was situated in the center of a square, with small, locally owned businesses lining the four streets around each side. Highway 287 ran through town a block from the courthouse and connected Henrietta with Wichita Falls to the west and Fort Worth to the southeast. Houses were built on both sides of the streets that branched off from the courthouse square, with expensive homes built next to modest frame houses seemingly without logic or planning. Trees and green lawns were well kept, and noisy kids and bicycles were abundant. The quiet streets were often disrupted by teenagers with loud cars and less-than-careful driving.

Near the rodeo grounds on the north side of town was a small hill. After traversing that hill, a sparsely traveled highway ran to ranching and farming communities that stretched one after the other every few miles all the way to Oklahoma. The expanse of road on the hill was covered with black rubber marks from high school kids with powerful cars.

The peacefulness of Christmas season was about to be shattered by my 1962 Corvette, which was white with a bright-red interior and a convertible hardtop. I was allowing it to slowly roll backward toward the bottom of the hill. Just before it hit bottom, I floored the accelerator and popped the clutch.

As both tires began to spin forward, the backward movement started to slow, and I quickly shifted into second gear without releasing the pedal on the floor. The rear wheels rotated at such speed that the speedometer read just over seventy miles per hour even though the car was still moving backward. Within a few seconds, the backward motion stopped and the car began to crawl forward in a cloud of blue smoke.

It stopped squealing near the top of the hill, and I stopped, shouting a war whoop to my friends grinning nearby. Longest damn piece of rubber ever laid in this county, I’ll bet! I yelled with a grin.

I won a round of applause from the kids as they ran to their cars to clear out before some neighbor called the cops, and we headed into town to the local drive-in to drink Cokes and laugh about what I had just done.

The car hadn’t been a gift from rich parents. At the age of seventeen, I had talked a local banker into loaning me the money to buy it—without an engine but with my dad’s signature—and had paid the loan by working at a car dealership, where I did lots of cleaning and a little mechanical work. I built and installed the engine myself inside the maintenance bay of the dealership at night.

My dad was a country veterinarian and barely made a living. He charged precious little to the farmers and ranchers, who themselves had difficulty making enough to survive and raise a family. I went on so many country calls with him that by the age of fourteen, I could do a caesarean on a cow while he watched, ready to help if I got into trouble. I always let him do the first cut, since that gave me the willies, but once inside I was fine. He was a great vet but a poor businessman. Most importantly, though, he and my mom loved me dearly and overlooked my constant teenage rebellion. I could roam mostly free—and did just that.

I stood six feet one and owned a slender frame, with short, neat blond hair and blue eyes, which, if you looked, were always filled with mischief. I’m not sure where the mischief and rebel streak came from, but I sure had it. I dressed in shrink-to-fit Levi’s, white socks, slip-on black loafers, and sport shirts with button-down collars and rolled-up short sleeves.

I drank with my rowdy friends all the beer I could get my hands on and drove drunk and fast. I was the kind of guy that several girls wanted to date, but most dads were smart enough to not let them get close to me. If irresponsibility had a mascot, I was it.

I had a high school friend, a good friend, named Butch Hamilton. He was the son of a rancher who had died in a Jeep accident when Butch was young. Raised by a single mom whom he loved dearly, Butch was always careful to not disappoint her. He was a little shorter than I was and sported dark hair and an innocent, boyish face and grin. He was just as wild and crazy, but somehow managed to portray innocence to adults. He had girlfriends all the time, and we would laugh at how he could fool their dads. The kids knew, of course, but they weren’t talking.

During a double date one night, I watched Pam Rider, his date, eagerly kiss and chew on his ears in the back seat, and all I could think was wow! She was our age—slender, blond hair, green eyes—and had a sultry air about her that I found tantalizing. I had never been around such a girl. Little did I know that she would support me with letters while in Vietnam and with intimate company when I returned.

I dated a few girls when I was seventeen, but my favorite was Novella Straley. She was fifteen at the time, freckled-faced, and always had a ready laugh. She was such a nice person—and so innocent—that I never took advantage of her. Her dad, however, always hated to hear me at the door, so we snuck around often. Sharon, her older sister, dated Butch and could usually get Novella out of the house with them and pick me up somewhere in town for a double date. Sharon was, like her sister, a quality person and a pretty girl, but she was Butch’s girlfriend. We were friends, but we left it there. Novella and I would kiss and cuddle, and I could and did confide in her. I had a lot on my mind. When alone, we would talk of life and the future. I always had deep thoughts and questions.

What do you want to do? she asked one night.

I smiled to myself, remembering that our high school principal had recently asked me the same question. I’m not sure, but there’s more in this world than going to high school, and I want it. I want to taste it and feel it.

She didn’t really understand, but she listened. I could always count on her for that. She finally squeezed my hand and gave me a cute smile that only she was capable of giving. You’ll figure it out.

I got home that night and found my dad asleep on the couch. The ten o’clock news was on and was showing the fighting in Vietnam. I saw our military in action, both on the ground and in the air, and knew at that moment that I was being called. It was a sudden knowing—a belief that something bigger than me was taking place and that I had a part to play.

I saw Novella a couple of nights later in her front yard. I stopped the Corvette, and she ducked inside to sit beside me.

I think I know what I want to do, I said.

And what is that?

Join the Marines and go to Vietnam.

She fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. Why?

Well, I responded calmly, look what we’re doing here. Getting drunk, driving fast, throwing dead skunks in the school gym during a game, and studying crap in school that’s dry and useless.

She laughed at the skunk prank, which had cleared out the gym. Not a single adult had been amused. She took her time with her reply. And if you get killed?

I can’t think that way, I said in a firm voice. There’s a need, and I feel like I can help.

It sure will be quiet with you out of town.

I laughed, and her dad turned on the porch light.

Oops. Gotta go. She was out of my Corvette in a flash.

I drove to Butch’s house and went over the same conversation with him.

He nodded after I finished. I understand. In fact, I think about the same thing. If you go, I may go too.

I was stunned. For the first time in my life, I realized, I had made a decision that could affect someone else. I could barely stammer a response. Really?

Really, he said.

We sat in silence.

I repeated Novella’s question. And what if we get killed?

Can’t. Too many girls out there need us.

We giggled at the absurdity of the thought.

I talked with Mom and Dad a couple of nights later over dinner. The kitchen smelled like chicken-fried steak, and the conversation was light.

I think I wanna join the Marines, I said out of the blue.

Mom dropped her fork.

Dad looked at me. Really looked at me. Why?

I hate school. They teach crap that doesn’t interest me. I’m doing nothing here but making bad grades and getting into trouble. I want more. I don’t know exactly what, but more. I want to see the world. I want to do something that matters. And I want to help our country … I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. I sat still, letting it all sink in.

Why now? Mom asked in a trembling voice.

I know why, Dad said. He knows we can’t afford college. He’s only a year and a half from graduating, but he’s restless. I don’t like it, but I understand. He took Mom’s hand. Let’s give it a week or two and see how he feels then.

Two weeks later, a Marine recruiter was at our house, nodding in approval at me and reassuring Mom and Dad that I would make them proud. He did not, I noticed, reassure them that I would come back alive. But that seemed like a minor point at the time. I was on my way.

Chapter 2

Prelude

DISPLAYED IN THE homes of some former Marines is a picture of a yellow footprint with the following caption: If you have to ask, then you won’t understand.

After tumbling from the buses, all the while enduring the constant screaming of the drill instructors, we were ordered to stand on yellow footprints painted on the asphalt. We were platoon strong in number, about fifty. We had arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego after midnight.

Stand on the yellow footprints, shut the fuck up, and don’t fucking move, you slimy pieces of shit! the drill instructors barked.

I had known it would be bad, but when the instructors walked around slapping anyone not standing straight, reality hit home. I was here, there was no escape, and my stomach filled with butterflies. Am I strong enough? I wondered.

Under constant screaming and cussing, we moved three at a time into an adjacent building for haircuts. The instructors ridiculed us while our long hair was cut as short as the clippers would allow.

The guy next to me got nicked by the rough movement of the clippers, and blood ran down his face.

Aw, did you get cut? one instructor said in a mocking tone. Would you like your mommy? He slapped the recruit hard in the face and laughed.

Am I strong enough? I wondered.

We rushed into adjacent showers, then into a receiving line for new clothes that were shoved into our hands, along with toiletries and large duffel bags called seabags. From there we moved into a big room lined with tables and boxes. My butterflies remained.

The job of the drill instructors was to take irresponsible kids like me and turn them into disciplined fighting men. It was a daunting task, but they were oh-so-very-good at their work. They smiled at our misery and laughed at our initial weakness.

Put your stupid-ass civilian clothes into a box and address the box to your mommy and daddy! they barked. If you have a pocketknife, put it in the red box being passed around. You just lost it forever. If the Marine Corps wants you to have a knife, it will issue you one!

I said a painful goodbye to my favorite pocketknife, which I had owned since middle school and had spent many hours sharpening. It was a tool, not a weapon. Sadness nearly overtook my fear. Am I strong enough? I wondered.

Put your issued clothing on and get your asses outside and line up! an instructor yelled. No fucking talking! Hurry the hell up! And button the top button on your neck, just like when you were home with Mommy and you had to put on a tie! None of you assholes deserve to have your top button open! He paced as we hurried to dress.

If anyone took too long or hesitated, he got slapped. So far I hadn’t been hit.

Outside, another instructor was waiting. Line up in rows of four! He shoved into formation anyone standing in the wrong place.

Some of us had dropped our duffels beside our feet.

And pick up those fucking seabags and put them on your shoulder with the strap! he barked. That’s what the fucking strap is for, you dumb sons of bitches! He was not amused at our clumsiness.

The guy next to me kept moving his bag from shoulder to shoulder. The instructor approached him and, without saying a word, drove a fist into his stomach. The recruit doubled over in pain.

Anyone else need to move around a bit to get comfortable? the instructor asked.

Am I strong enough? I wondered.

Okay, girls! an instructor yelled once we were gathered. Now we’re going to march across this parade ground in front of you to our barracks! Keep in step, and keep fucking quiet!

We stumbled along for about two hundred yards until we reached several Quonset huts that were to be ours.

Drop those seabags and assume the prone position! For those dumbshits among you girls, that means to get down on your belly!

We quickly complied.

Now we’re going to do a few push-ups, the instructor continued. I know that you’re probably stiff from your long trip here, so I just want to help you out a little. He smirked. We’ll start with one hundred. You will count them out together. All counting will be, ‘One, two, three, one; one, two, three, two,’ and so on. So actually, we will do two hundred. He smiled. Ready … Start!

We did about ten with ragged, uneven counting before he stopped us.

Okay, girls, stop right there! Your counting is too soft and not in unison. Now get it together! Ready … Start!

We continued for about thirty minutes, after which most of us were too exhausted to do even one more push-up, but most of us kept trying. Those who gave up got kicked by an instructor. If they didn’t start trying again, they were dragged to the front of the group.

Because of these maggots in front of you, an instructor shouted, we’re going to do another hundred while they rest. Ready … Start!

We tried but struggled to keep going.

When our count reached thirty, he stopped us. Anyone else want to rest?

No response.

Good! Now get to your fucking feet!

We struggled to stand.

From now on, if one of you fails, all of you will pay the price. He ordered those who were resting up front to get back into the group. Take a good look at these maggots that caused you additional pain. Weakness will not be tolerated! He glowered at us as he paced among our ranks.

We were struggling to breathe and stand straight. Not even high school football practice had prepared me for such a brutal workout. My arms burned, and my chest heaved as I gasped for air.

He slapped anyone not standing upright. I was grateful when he passed me by.

Pick up those fucking seabags and get your asses into those Quonset huts! he barked. And do it on the double!

We ran toward a sea of huts that sprawled outward as far as the eye could see. Another instructor, after pointing us in the right direction, divvied us up among them so that the right number of men occupied each hut. We took several huts that sat in a row along a street.

Pick out a rack and lie the fuck down, was the order. "‘Reveille’ will be at 0600, which is about two hours from now. No fucking talking!"

I didn’t know what a rack was but assumed it was a cot. Several metal bunk beds lined our hut. I took one on the bottom. An instructor turned out the lights. If anyone needed to go to the bathroom—or head as Marines called it—they were out of luck. I heard heavy breathing all around as we tried to recover. Am I strong enough? I wondered.

Loudspeakers announced Reveille the next morning, accompanied by the screaming of drill instructors. I was groggy, confused, and sore.

And so it began: day after day of our instructors yelling at us and slapping us as we exercised until we wanted to drop. But we didn’t dare. We were being taught to never give up.

Thankfully, we had classes to attend every day. Our class education provided a respite from the physical training. We took classes on Marine Corps history, weapons introductions, and proper dress and manners. We learned how to survive in the wilderness and, always, how to kill without being killed.

Slowly, with much pain and mental resistance, we began to function as a platoon instead of a bunch of high school kids. The physical demands never ceased, but our mental ability to handle the stress improved daily. We learned that giving up was never an option. The weakest recruits—about 10 percent—disappeared. Some were shipped home in disgrace, while others were moved back to new platoons to start over. I was determined to never be in either group.

One day while we were marching to another class before suppertime, I thought of home. Mom would be cooking, and Dad would be talking with her in the kitchen. It suddenly hit me that I was no longer a kid, that I had said goodbye to the warmth and love of my childhood home. I was surprised to feel tears forming in my eyes and hoped that no one noticed them streaming down my face. It was a defining moment. At seventeen years old, I was taking a step toward adulthood, and the realization offered no comfort. I fought back the tears. I am strong enough, I insisted to myself. I am!

Boot camp normally lasted twelve weeks, but due to the urgent need in Vietnam, it had been shortened to eight weeks. Our instructors compressed and hurried everything we learned—with the exception of the rifle range. Marines had always put marksmanship high on the list of skills, and we spent two full weeks of shooting.

We shot in every position imaginable—and always under time pressure. We had to qualify at a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, and five hundred yards, all with open sights using an M14 rifle. When it was over, we were capable riflemen. Only a couple from our platoon failed to qualify, and they were transferred back to start over. There were three levels of qualification, and I made it to expert, the highest level. I was proud.

I slept poorly the last night of boot camp. I was excited. I had made it over what I thought were impossible hurdles and had surprised myself. It had been hard. Really hard. My Marine Corps career is just starting, I thought, and I really am strong enough after all. I finally fell asleep with a smile.

On graduation day, our instructors addressed us for the first time as United States Marines. We felt pride in that moment, but other Marines still considered us boots. No respect, and looking back, I realize that we didn’t deserve any. We still knew so little.

I was still only seventeen years old, and in accordance with official policy, no Marines were sent to Vietnam until they turned eighteen. On graduation day, our instructors read aloud our new duty stations, with almost all receiving orders for Western Pacific, or West Pac, as it was called. That meant Vietnam.

When my turn came, I was assigned to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. I had expected as much, but I was still disappointed. Four weeks of specialized infantry training at Camp Pendleton still lay ahead of us, but at least we all knew where we were headed afterward.

My specialized infantry training consisted of learning how to use an 81 mm mortar. It was not a difficult weapon to learn, and the training was easy, especially after boot camp. Days of boredom ensued, which I found surprising after the rushed eight weeks of boot camp. I took advantage of the rest time to write letters and catch up on my sleep. I called home once on a pay phone, but since long distance calls were expensive, I couldn’t call as much as I would have liked. I was pleased when the time finally arrived to depart.

I left Camp Pendleton and arrived in Henrietta about midnight. Since we only lived about a mile from the bus station, I walked home, carrying my seabag. My parents were asleep, and I didn’t want to wake them, so I took my dad’s truck to Butch’s house. I tapped on his bedroom window and crawled in when he opened it. Still wearing my uniform, I plopped onto his bed, which was under the window, and smiled at my good friend.

He grabbed my hand and shook it warmly. Sure have missed you around here. Welcome home.

We laughed and talked until daylight. Nothing had really changed in town during my absence, but it felt good to see him. He wanted to hear all about the Marines, and I wanted to hear all about the girls we knew.

I woke Mom by accident when I got home, and she gave me a much-needed hug. She cooked us a wonderful breakfast and wanted to hear about everything. Dad soon joined us, and we had a happy reunion at the kitchen table—a table that I had missed dearly. My six-year-old brother sat in my lap.

No, it wasn’t the same. I could feel the difference. It was my home, but at the same time, it wasn’t. I didn’t really belong there, but the love