Straight out of boot camp we came—with our new tattoos and freshly acquired contempt for human life.  We were new in country and could hardly wait to show “Charlie” how “bad” we were.  Actually, we could hardly wait to show ourselves how “bad” we were.  We had trained for months stateside in mock combat.  We had been indoctrinated with the mantra that we were the finest fighting force on earth.  Most importantly for many, the chaplain told a full auditorium of us that it was all right to kill in the defense of freedom

Not everyone in Vietnam--especially in the Marine Corps--was there unwillingly.  In fact, most of us were there because we wanted to prove something either to ourselves or someone else.  Many wanted to be a combat veteran like their father, or friends or relatives.  Like so many others, I looked to combat as a test of myself—as the final liberation from the over protective, small town mindset I had been so eager to escape.  It seemed only logical, if I could survive 13 months of Vietnam, nothing in my life afterwards would ever be as traumatic, and therefore, everything from then on would be harmonious and beautiful. I thought if I paid my dues up front, I would get a free ride for the rest of life. In later years, I dwelled on the irony of this line of thinking far too many times.

Then there were the war junkies: they seemed to be programmed from birth to be warriors. They were drawn to war.  There was a popular saying at the time which really rang true for them; “Don’t knock it, it’s the only war we’ve got.”  For “lifers”(a career Marine), this was especially relevant.  It was important for their careers and their egos to have lots of combat medals to wear on their uniforms.  I’m reminded of Napoleon’s observation that he could get soldiers to risk their lives fighting his battles for nothing more than a piece of ribbon.  But, there was a little of Napoleon’s soldier in all of us: we wanted to return home with at least one piece of ribbon.

All through our training, we were constantly bombarded with tales of bravery of Marine Corps heroes.  Pictures of them stared down at us as we ate in the chow hall.  Buildings and even entire bases were named after them.  They weren’t all colonels or generals: some were junior enlisted men just like us.  There was another saying popular in Vietnam at the time, the significance of which had yet to register with me, “Old soldiers never die, just the young ones.”

As we waited for air strikes to finish on a V.C. encampment before going in to “mop up”, I remember vividly how anxious I was to finally get the chance to put all my training into action.  I wasn’t sure what “mop up” entailed, but I was sure that it had to be the most exciting thing I could ever experience.  I had all kinds of Napoleonic visions of grandeur.  I imagined myself with my M-16 on full automatic shooting a couple of remaining enemy snipers out of a tree just as they were about to wipe out our entire squad.  They would fall end over end with all the drama that I had seen in countless movies.  All the other guys in the squad would give me high-fives, and the C.O. would recommend me for a Bronze Star.  Never mind that there were no trees.

The anticipation was far better than the reality.   We were so disappointed when we finally went in.  We found nothing—not even a body for the all-important body count.  “Charlie” had eluded us again, just as he had done so many times before. We had yet to experience any real enemy contact.  We had yet to face any of the senseless death, or the appalling suffering and inhumanity that would haunt us in later years. There was so much we didn’t realize yet.  Perhaps that is why it still seemed so glorious and noble. 

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