We were garrison troops in Hawaii during the Vietnam War. The temperature on Oahu was the usual 78 degrees, with breezes coming in from the west, carrying the scent of sugar cane and pineapple from surrounding plantations. I spent my duty hours at the base, but my off-duty time was devoted to the northern coast.
In 1970, the North Shore was not yet overrun by tourists, but there were still a lot of cars traveling the two lane highway which curved along the northern coastline, past Haleiwa towards the famous surfing spots of Sunset Beach and Waimea, then on to the less populated windward side of the island. There were turnoffs along the way, for public beaches, where old station wagons and vans, with surfboards tied to their roofs, would pull off, depositing true surfers for the best waves in the world. The waves were five feet to ten feet. During winter they would get up to 20 feet and create pipelines and come roaring in. The sound was fearsome.
The surfers were in their late teens. The boys were shirtless in hip hugging swim trunks, and the girls wore bikinis and sandals, and all were tanned dark brown from the sun. You would see them at the wooden shacks converted into small markets dotting the roadside. There were no surfboard shops or other signs of population around, as the north shore was still pretty untouched. As you sat on picnic tables at the turnoffs, you would see a string of surfers out on the water, spread out in a line, about seventy yards out, sitting or lying side by side on their boards, bobbing up and down with the swells, waiting for the right wave.
There were palm trees everywhere and the breezes blew the branches and carried the salty smell of the ocean. The beaches were sandy, interspersed with rubbery water plant. The overall effect was of green and tan landscape with gradual hills leading down to the shore, next to an expansive gray ocean under a light blue cloudless sky.
It was here that I learned to love night on the beach, and would wait until late to return to Schofield Barracks, about 15 miles inland, a large Army base housing the 25th Infantry Division.
We were housed in tan-colored, three-story barracks clustered into quadrangles. Soldiers would stand on the landings on each level, leaning against the railings, smoking, milling around, and talking, looking out at the parade ground in the center of the quad, watching troops going through close order drill or running laps around the street. Wooden screen doors led from the landings into large bays, where low partitions divided the large space into small sections, four bunks in each. NCOs had private rooms in the back.
Most of the time, the troops would sit on their bunks, cleaning equipment and talking, when they were not being loaded into trucks for maneuvers. You could hear their chatter from the landing, along with the slide of metal on metal, of rifles being assembled and cleaned. The smell was a mixture of rifle oil, and shoe polish. Some men were running oilcloths through rifle barrels. Off duty soldiers were wearing t-shirts, and green fatigue pants bloused into laced-up combat boots. Some wore their dog tags over the t-shirts. Each floor held a rifle platoon of about 45 men.
In the mornings, each unit on post would form into platoons, call roll, and head out for a 3-5 mile run. You could hear the shuffling cadence echoing throughout the post to the accompaniment of boots on cement: “Viet Nam, na, na—nam; Viet na, na, nam– every night when you’re sleepin’, Charlie cong comes a creepin’, — in the ni-ii- ii- night, in the night,” or “I’ve got a problem, five thousand miles away, got to get home to the problem, get things squared away.”
There was an interesting assembly of men in the barracks, divided into two main groups. On the one hand, were the veteran enlisted men, who had returned from one-year tours in Vietnam, some from the 9th Infantry, from the Delta, others from the 25th, from Cu Chi. Most were not good garrison soldiers, caring little how their boots and uniforms looked after fighting in the Vietnamese mud. They wore longer than permissible hair and there was little, if any, military formality between them and their sergeants.
They just went along for the ride on maneuvers, playing the training game to the minimum. Many were coming to the end of their enlistments and had “short calendars” on their walls, marking off the days. A lot smoked marijuana against regulations, and they really didn’t give a damn about anything. They were the true lost generation, burnt out and disillusioned. And they were rowdy, tearing up the nearby towns and bars on weekends.
The second group, which I belonged to, comprised the new troops, mainly drafted, who had finished basic and advanced infantry training and were probably never going to Vietnam since the division was being pulled back under a policy of “Vietnamization,” turning the war over to the south Vietnamese.
Half of these were college grads, who chose not to be officers. The other half was high school graduates or dropouts. A few of these had enlisted, promised by recruiters that they could be telephone linemen or technicians, ending up to their surprise in the infantry. The two groups, the college grads and high school kids, didn’t really mingle much, staying within their own groups. The college grads were better motivated, and, therefore, obtained the promotions.
One of the sergeants walked into the barracks, carrying a clipboard in hand.
“ LeCocq” he yelled.
“ Here, Sergeant,” I replied.
“ Report to the chow hall, you have to take Gonzales’ KP duty. He reported in sick. “ Wonderful, I thought, another day of cleaning pots and pans.
“ Fine, Sergeant,” I said, “but, you know I pulled extra KP just last week.”
“ Can’t do anything ‘bout it,” he answered. Guys like Sergeant Black were not going to be talked out of it, of going back to the roster to get someone else.
Black was not a “kiss ass” for the higher-ups, and he would stand up for a soldier in his unit if needed, but he picked his battles, and wouldn’t get excited over something like kitchen patrol. In this case, he probably knew I was picked because I was on First Sergeant Tanaka’s shit list, and even Black wouldn’t cross the company First Sergeant. No one would. The First Sergeant ran the company, rather than the Captain, who was seldom around.
Black had the entire platoon’s respect. He wore the most coveted decoration, the Combat Infantrymans’ Badge, or “CIB,” sewn over his right fatigue pocket, a black musket with laurels on green background, only given to those who had seen combat. He also had a Bronze Star, which was a real Bronze Star, according to the rumors, and his respectful but knowledgeable manner added up to the ability to make men do the undesirable. Black was a draftee, who had earned his rank in Nam. He didn’t let the stripes go to his head, but he had a certain air of authority, without trying, and a look in his eye saying he would get his way. He seldom smiled, but was a soldier’s soldier, typical of his blue collar Pennsylvania background. Most important, he wasn’t a “lifer,” or “G.I,” “government issue,” by- the-book, type. He would be leaving the Army in May.
Black hung around the barracks for a while, watching a couple of poker games, and came over to offer me a cigarette. I hadn’t really gotten to know him very well, but we would be working closely together since I was on the list for promotion to Sergeant. I noticed he had the usual Vietnam wound, a thin black scar, about an inch long, like a scab, running along the outside of the wrist in his case. It seemed everyone who went to Vietnam came back with a scar. I didn’t know any who escaped untouched.
Black lit up. “Hear you’re thinking of putting in a 10-49,” he said. 10-49 was application for transfer to Viet Nam. I had the romantic notion I was missing the war.
“ Yeah,” I said, “I ‘m thinking of it, but I would have to extend in the Army to get the required year in Nam.”
“ You want advice from a guy who just got back?” Black asked.
“ Sure,” I said.
“ We’re losing two hundred guys a week, killed. And, I’d say another thousand wounded. All from the infantry, maybe 50,000 guys, a tenth of our total troop strength.” Black loved mathematics, and was always into numbers. “That makes the odds pretty bad, especially for a Sergeant. I’d say the odds are one-in-three, to one-in-four of getting seriously wounded or killed. And, it’s mainly a matter of random luck, not skill. Just so you know what you’re signing up for. If I had it to do over, I wouldn’t have gone, but I didn’t get a choice.“
I started to answer, but he interrupted, tapping my arm, sensing my motives, “and the glory of being a combat veteran would be outweighed by the risk of getting seriously fucked up for good, un-repairable in whole. There is more future benefit in foregoing the war experience and making up for it with a Master’s degree in international relations. That‘s cache’ without the risk.”
Black sat back and smoked his cigarette, looking at me, smiling at his knowledge about the grad school acceptance I was preparing to abandon. I hadn’t told anyone about that. He must have heard from the company clerk.
“ Gotta go,” he said, nodding in the direction of the First Sergeant’s office, and adding “try not to piss off Tanaka. Believe it or not, he’s not so bad.” Black winked and was gone.
He was right, I wouldn’t believe Tanaka was not so bad. Tanaka had put me on KP three weeks in a row, just for a smartass remark I made during a training lecture. He was tough as nails despite being about 5’5”, Japanese Hawaiian, smart, the ones imported as pineapple pickers and ended up owning the islands. As First Sergeant, he controlled all duty rosters and could dump on anyone he saw fit. There was no due process.
When I was on kitchen patrol the second week, Tanaka came through the mess hall to inspect, saw me scrubbing pots and pans, and said “LeCocq, you’re a good soldier, and I expect a lot out of you. Keep a positive attitude, and I will keep you off KP in the future.” Rather than be appreciative that a First Sergeant had acknowledged a mere PFC, I answered that he “needn’t worry about me, I can handle all the KP the army can dish out.” I had taken a chance, but had respectfully added “First Sergeant” at the end.
He stormed out. Surprisingly, when it came time to approve my application for battalion drill team, he signed off. But, when an opportunity came up for a job with the battalion newspaper, which would have gotten me out of the trenches, he denied. He wanted me out there as a fire team leader, learning all I could. Maybe he mistakenly thought I would consider an Army career, knowing that I had been in college ROTC and studied military history.
Once, in the field, he came by our platoon, and had our squad abandon the foxholes we had just dug, moving to a new location on the line, just to keep us from getting slack. He saw me carrying my M-16 rifle, and told the Platoon Sergeant to have me carry the M-60 machine gun from now on, which added 25 pounds to my pack. i carried it for three months, and, out of spite, earned an expert marksman badge in it. i also received an expert marksman badge with the M-16, and scored high on Expert Infantry Badge trials. None of this registered with him; he would still treat me tough in the field.
I had noticed, however, that Tanaka, unlike most NCOs, knew almost every soldier by name. He was not disliked, and was generally reasonable. He was spit and polish and by the book, but had two tours in Vietnam under his belt, so he was also realistic. The more senior sergeants in our company, the career military men, all in their thirties, whose opinion mattered to me, respected him, even as they didn’t respect most of the lieutenants. I usually got along well with those sergeants. I didn’t gripe all the time, and volunteered occasionally, and kept my appearance “strack,” or very crisp. Nor did I make the mistake of so many of the college grads, of touting my college background. I was a middle class kid and went to a state college in Texas. I hid the fact that I no longer cared for the military.
While talking to Black, I observed two soldiers sitting nearby on their cots playing cards when the duty NCO, a young sergeant just out of “shake and bake” school, 12 weeks of NCO training, with no combat experience and little time in the ranks, approached them. He said to the black soldier, “Clay, you got guard duty tonight, report to CQ at 1800 with full gear.” Shake and Bakes were not respected by the veterans like Clay, and usually tried to overcompensate by appearing tough. Most lacked the natural leadership ability necessary for the job, but they knew map reading and orientation, and how to call in air support and artillery fire missions. The vets like Clay, however, knew all this anyway from Nam. They also knew what not to do by the book.
The black soldier, Private Clay, who liked to be known lately as “Fred Clay from L.A.” was a management challenge, generally high, and borderline insubordinate. Hoping to scare off the young sergeant, he said “don’t be giving me no shit; I ain’t doin’ no guard duty tonight. Give it to Rodriguez or Hanson, they never do shit.”
The NCO replied “don’t worry Clay, they’ll get their turn tomorrow,” and walked off. One thing about Shake and Bakes, they had learned in the Sergeants’ academy to be firm and unyielding, and not to get into negotiations about orders.
Out on the landing, overlooking the parade field, platoon Staff Sergeants Fuerth and Marshall were talking. I could overhear some of their conversation. They were both Nam veterans. Sergeant Fuerth was quiet and might yet decide to make a career of the Army. The senior NCOs and officers were certainly courting him, and had given him quick rank. He was the only one in the battalion who had won the Silver Star in combat, and was modest but serious in a good way. No one knew much about him or got too close to him, except for the knowledge that he was from upstate New York, didn’t go to college, and had a wife back home. He didn’t need to prove himself, since Silver Stars weren’t given out, and were often close to being Medals of Honor, for enlisted men. My guess was that Fuerth would get out.
Sergeant Marshall was despised, called “lifer” for making a career of the army. Not all “lifers” were disliked, but Marshall liked the army bullshit a bit too much, and was said to have been a danger for his men in Vietnam. Private Rodriguez told me that Marshall, if he ever went back to Nam, would get killed for sure. He was too dumb to avoid danger and if the Cong didn’t get him, his own men would “frag” him, toss a grenade on him during a firefight. Rodriguez said Marshall had led his squad across open fields into tree lines on numerous occasions, despite vigorous protests from the men.
I sat next to Woodward in the dining hall that evening. We were discussing the unit, who was leaving, and who was “re-uping.” Sergeant Fuerth’s name came up. Woody was Fuerth’s best friend in the unit, even though Woody was only a Spec 4 and Fuerth a Sergeant.
Fuerth, Woody said in his down east, Maine accent, was shy by nature, which comes across as reserved. Always cool in hot situations, and kept his wits, no matter what shit was coming down. Came from a big family, raised his younger brothers and sisters. Family was eakin’ by, and dad ran off. He had to step up.
“What about the day he got his silver star?,” I asked.
Woody thought for a second, “our outpost came under heavy night attack. AK rounds cracking overhead, like when you hear them close. You could tell by the firing that the gooks had broken parts of the perimeter. Everyone was desperate and you could tell under the flares the enemy was probably regiment size. They had their whistles blowing and were NVA, you could see their pith helmets as they came on. Fuerth got to an M-60, got someone to feed, and things got under control.”
Woody continued, “Fuerth says he was no hero, just fighting for his life. it was all instinct. No time to do anything but stand up and fight, or else play dead. I mean those weren’t Viet Cong guerrillas in black pajamas and sandals. They were NVA regulars and regiment strength. RPG rounds going off everywhere.”
“ What was Fuerth like outside of that?”
“ Normal. Sometimes he would take his squad out on night ambush patrols, and if the situation was dicey, he would do the smart thing– go out beyond the perimeter and set up for the night.“
I knew what Woody was saying was true, that squads would go out just beyond the perimeter and sit up all night there, rather than at the designated point further out in the boonies, calling in periodic reports, “sit reps,” “situation negative,” i.e. no enemy activity so far. Those were the guys who came home, and brought their guys back. No “body count” of enemy dead, but, as most of the guys said, the war didn’t mean nothin’ anyway.
“ Of course,” Woody said, “lots of times, Fuerth would go through with night ambushes as directed. Just depended on whether it made sense.”
I asked if Private Clay had been there when the outpost was almost overrun. I heard he had.
“ Yeah,” Woody answered, “Clay was in the fight. After that, didn’t care if he went to ‘LBJ,’ he wasn’t going on any more patrols. Found ways of getting over.”
LBJ was the name of the U.S. military prison: Long Binh Jail.
“ Sad thing about Clay,” Woody continued, “he was a good soldier, even in Nam for most the time. All this garrison discipline is just alienating him, all the nit picking and harassment. And, he changed since he went home for leave during the riots. Now, he only hangs with the brothers and has nothing to do with the rest of us.”
Woody knew that had happened to me. Clay and I had been friends, but all that changed after he got back from Watts. When he returned, he just looked at me sullenly and answered some jargon I couldn’t make out. When I called his name for roll the next morning, he didn’t respond, and, when I made a point of it, he said he would throw my shaky ass off the landing. I reported this to the Captain, who had already seen Clay’s changed behavior, and told me, “handle it yourself,” joking that I was trying to ”agg-ervate Fred Clay from L.A.”
Clay started wearing his uniform pants un-bloused, had a black woven bracelet around his wrist, and spent a lot of time doing strange, complicated handshakes with the other black soldiers. He took to calling me a “jive ass” after I tried to have a heart to heart and told him to lay off the dope. His standard response to my instructions were to comply, but say “don’t mean nothin’’.”
I thought Clay had buried our friendship, but once, later, at the post beer garden, a well known Bravo Company bully started taunting me over something, getting personal, pushing for a fight. No one seemed particularly anxious to step in, but I noticed that Clay, who was at a nearby table with the brothers, had moved his chair out a bit from the table, eyeballing the drunk, and giving me a glance that he was ready to help if I needed it. The brothers’ table got quiet. The drunk calmed down, and Clay resumed his conversation with the brothers as if nothing had happened. We never mentioned it. And we had disagreements after that.
A couple of months later, when his tour was over, I waited on the sidewalk in front of the barracks to say goodbye as Clay walked towards his ride to the airport. He was with the other brothers so I just “good luck, Clay,” and waved as he passed. He just looked beyond me with his watery bloodshot eyes, and walked on to the car, but as they were getting in, he stopped and turned around, pointed to me, grinned, and said “LeCocq, be cool,” then turned back to the car. After that, the brothers were surprisingly friendly to me.
I would miss all these guys. Woody, a high school graduate and lobster fisherman, biding his time till he got back to the lobster boat, which his dad owned. He was a good soldier, but also didn’t like the crap that went with garrison duty. His best pal was a high school track star from Albuquerque High, who somehow managed to win all the physical training tests, despite being a pack a day smoker and big boozer. He was looking forward to getting back to New Mexico, and might even go to college at UNM.
Woody, Rodriguez, Black, and the other 9th Infantry Vietnam veterans, were good to me, but I didn’t join them in smoking pot and going to town, since I knew their reputation for getting in trouble. They were a close knit group, and intended to keep in contact after the service, exchanging addresses.
This group left me with a lasting impression of Vietnam veterans, which is that they take care of each other, as well as strangers in need, and care for their fellow man. They would do anything for their buddies. After the war, I would see this close bonding among Vietnam veterans, holding motorcycle rallies to remember those left behind, and joining hands in front of a name on the Vietnam Memorial, not hiding their tears. They would help anyone on the street, taking some food to a homeless man that no one else would think of helping. It got so I could tell a Vietnam vet, even on a construction site, just because they were more human, concerned with suffering rather than superficiality.
The war had changed them forever and made them learn to rely on their fellow man. When they went back to graduate school, I would see them in class. They were always questioning conventional wisdom and searching for true meaning. They hated pomp and form. They were quick to make friends. And, they were not only the most engaged students, almost on a mission, but you also found out they were holding down jobs that made a difference: physical therapists, nurses aides, social workers, probation counselors, prison teachers, and so forth.
I would also miss the wonderful career professionals, like my platoon sergeant, Sergeant Taylor, a 40-year-old Texan who was a real professional and did a lot of mentoring, including me. He was scheduled, like most career NCOs, for another combat tour. There was Staff Sergeant Huddleston, who was from Tennessee hill country, a real Alvin York type, and the best natural soldier I ever saw. He was always first up in the morning, tall, thin, tough as nails, a man of few words, and when he would wake each man up in the morning in the field with a soft kick to the leg and say “getup” in his flat twang, you did it. He knew nature and terrain, and could out shoot and out hike anyone.
After I made sergeant, I ignored Sergeant Black’s advice, and turned in a 1049, a form volunteering for transfer to Vietnam. If approved by the Company Commander, I would be off within a month. But, a week after I turned it in, on Christmas Eve, First Sergeant Tanaka, dropped in unexpectedly to my room at the back of the barracks, carrying a manila envelope with my unapproved application to Vietnam.
He tossed it on my bunk, and said in his tight Japanese voice that brooked no argument, “Sergeant LeCocq, this contains your 1049. I have decided not to sign it, and not to submit it to Captain Jones. You only have seven months left on your enlistment. To go to Vietnam, you would need to extend in the Army for an additional five months.”
He paused to let this sink in, then continued: “You can ask to extend, but I can say it’s not worth the paperwork. The real reason I am not letting you go to Vietnam, is that you have a future, and I don’t want to see you wasted in some firefight in a lost war. Enjoy your Christmas present.” With that he turned and walked out.
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