Surfing II Corps: Republic Of Vietnam
Posted on July 18, 2008 @ 1:46 PM
Words by: Patrick G Rogan
All photos courtesy of the author
It was Vietnam, and it was 1967...
As the big Boeing tipped into landing position, you could see the beach, the sand hills, and the green of the land toward the mountains. A beautiful World Airways stewardess in a pink uniform and hat stood in the aisle telling us to buckle up for landing. She was like a rose in a garden of olive drab, for we were all in our dark green, newly issued jungle fatigues and combat boots – sure badges of being brand-new “incountry” and ripe for abuse. Below us, as we descended, were neat rows of Army buildings at Cam Rahn and plumes of dark black, oily smoke. (What is that?!)
Our reception was relatively subdued and civilized, a welcome contrast to the barking orders and in-your-face yelling that greeted us at previous basic training and AIT bases (i.e: “Hold your dicks and grab your shit and follow!”), and a short bus ride took us to the barracks for the transit and replacement companies. An ironic sign read: “ 444th replacement battalion THIS WAY HOME!” It would be a long 365 days and more before I would ever see that sign again.
The place is hot, a little humid … kind of the feel of Mazatlan or San Blas. Saw some waves from the plane and wondered, then I reflected on my transition from the real to the surreal. A forced conscript in your own country leading to a bizarre journey – flashes of doing the low crawl through the sand and scrub of Fort Ord with the ‘normal’ of Monterey in the distance, 5.30am calisthenics at Fort Hamilton within sight of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge to New York, a subzero night compass course on Long Island Sound with the city lights shining bitter cold and a 10-minute leak in the damn army issued mummy bag. Always strange to be so near the “real world” yet held a prisoner, away in the draft time-warp. It had been one fast blur from the draft notice in my first year of law school to the inevitable “Greetings from the President of the United States” letter that summer.
John Milius was either at the skid-row South Broadway draft-board exam center or he had an eye-witness in Los Angeles report it all for him, because that scene in Big Wednesday was on the money. I brought the x-rays of my slipped vertebrae and hyperextended elbow from college football and pole vaulting. My surf knots from knee paddling were pretty gross, too. But …
“Turn around. You look okay. You pass!” I got the stamp of cannon-fodder approval.
The ear exam consisted of a guy walking down a line of hundreds looking through the ear device from several feet away, then ticking off the boxes: Pass. Pass. Pass.
The only guy that didn’t pass was this tall, skinny, zitty geek with droopy balls, who, standing with us in a nude circle of 20 around a doctor, when asked to “bend over and spread ’em” for the hemorrhoid check, bent over and put his fingers in the corners of his mouth, spreading his cheeks to expose his ratty yellow teeth.
Fort Ord soon followed. Previous looks at Monterey Bay had been gotten surfing Santa Cruz, and the warmth of looking down toward Steamer Lane from Jim Ritchey’s place up in Soquel. What a difference to be a prisoner in the chill Fort Ord dorms – windows open all winter, icy Monterey Bay foggy onshores blowing over thin Army blankets (meningitis control). The PT [physical training] part of Basic was like football practices but with sadists. Like drill practices – discipline in the form of holding an M-14 “at dress”: arms off the ground, held only by your left index finger from the front sight. As time progressed it cut deeper into the finger, numbing the finger then hand … asshole DI [drill instructor] the kind of guy who would be prosecuted nowadays.
Boxes of shrimp meant for chow seen going into the trunk of the Mess Sergeant’s car. One scoop after humping down to the sand dunes and back with a full pack would not do on my metabolism … I was starving. Went with my plate to the lieutenant’s office, endured the stare of the lifer First Sergeant to tell the First Looey that we weren’t getting a proper allotment of the shrimp. “Follow me!” A quick march back to the mess and an order to provide me as much as I wanted. The shrimp did not stop until the plate was a volcano of pink. I sat in
front of the dickhead mess Sgt. and ate it all.
Got a pass out of Basic by agreeing with the First Looey that he would allow me out early (wanted to get engaged to Rilla during my parents’ anniversary party) if I scored the maximum points on the PT competition for the battalion: timed low crawl, ditch jump, and figure eights around barricades, grenade throw… all much easier than the mile in combat boots in under seven minutes. Did it.
The post-basic training timeout melded into Fort. Hamilton, New York; Fort. Dix, New Jersey (“Pretend that the snow all over the piney woods is jungle, men! Jump off those trucks and roll into firing position!”), and then over to ’Nam.
Slim hopes for an alternative (five-percent chance of an assignment in Germany) disappeared when the Vietnam orders glared out of the duty jacket. I looked at the date to report to ship out from Fort. Lewis, and it was only ten days off. WRONG! I was certain that assignment to ’Nam entitled you to at least 15 days’ leave, plus travel time to the jump-off point. I pointed out the discrepancy to the Sgt.
Major who had shoved the orders at me. I asked him politely to correct the mistake, and he told me to “get lost.” A more pointed request elicited a GTFOut dismissal.
Action was required, and I had a few contacts. Called the Pentagon from a pay phone. Knew the Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Air Force (family connection). Got through. Quick explanation of problem and request for help … described the order number and the name of the Sgt. Major. Told to return to same office next afternoon for requested change.
When I arrived at the door leading to the office, the big, bulky, black Command Sgt. Major was clearly aware of my presence and purposely ignored me for some time. He was like the giant American footballer “Refrigerator Perry” in uniform, and he had every stripe possible for an EM [enlisted man], including one of those diamonds within all the stripes and hatches of five-year marks on the sleeves. Shit had obviously rolled downhill on my orders, otherwise there was no reason for ignoring me.
“Sergeant, I understand you have corrected orders for me?” He lumbered out of his chair and pounded across the room. As I reached for the orders, he threw them over the counter at me and roared, “I hope you get your ass shot off when you get over there!”
My Irish temper did not simmer… it exploded without thought. Even though I was a private and the guy outweighed me by at least 75lbs., I reached across the doorway, grabbed him by his well-starched shirt, and pulled him down to my face, yelling a challenge to step outside so I could kill his ass … then an adrenalin-assisted shove sent him tottering backwards on his heels, crashing into the desk, pulling the tin in/out boxes to the floor with him as his wheeled chair spun away.
A sideward glance at two officers, a Major and a Captain, and their eyes acknowledged where the fault lay. They did not move or say a word as the fallen man confirmed with a glance their lack of support. My last words to him: “I’ll be outside.”
Orders in hand, I decided to boogie for the airport … glances behind, but no repercussions. Had a few last surfs in Laguna Beach and stored my Bing and Hansen under the Chiquita house. Later learned my friends surfed and abused them to oblivion at Rock Pile (pre-leash days).
How da fa?
Watching the World Airways “ticket to the world” roar away from Cam Rahn … there were vague whumps of artillery. Incoming? Outgoing? Nobody moving with any alarm … so … must be okay.
You could smell the beach at Cam Rahn with the onshores, but a change of direction brought aromas from the messes and the sticky, thick smell of the shitters. Each day we assembled on a metal gridwork laid out on the sand for roll call and our orders. If they didn’t read your name, you were assigned to various duties. Mess hall was only slightly better than shitburning duty – learned about the latter and ducked it … they can draft me, send me to ’Nam, but I am not burning shit! The oily black plumes I’d seen from the plane were explained: the cutaway 45-gal. oil drums filled with shit, slopping over, carried across the road – two men, heads diverted, to the drum – to be doused with fuel oil and ignited. Afterwards, returning the empties to the flip-up doors on the outside of the latrines. Great duty to avoid.
Sneaking out to the beach at Cam Rahn revealed a wide, long beach. Probable that a river fed the place with a strong north to south current. Good beachbreak at the north end.
Mmmm! A beach center run by “Special Services” – lifers who once guarded swimming pools at flatland bases. I discovered they had a steel shipping container filled with surfboards, some sailfish dinghies, volleyball court posts and nets … a treasure trove! I asked the pricks if I could use a board for a go-out in the three-foot beachbreak. Got a solid “No!” despite my recitation of the Laguna-Malibu-Trestles-Mazatlan-Hawaii surf resumé.
“Sorry, bud, nobody uses that stuff.”
The reason, apparently, was that if someone was hurt in the surf or, if they were too scared of the overhead stuff, they would be at risk of being busted or not promoted … bad stuff for lifers. Memory banks were engaged about their treasure.
Next day my head snapped as my name was called. The green order jacket opened with some trepidation. Cam Rahn? Pleiku? Vung Tao? Saigon?
Jargon: “For further asmt 5thSPFGA, NTG.” Nothing else written that gave a clue. Three of the guys wore the Special Forces green berets, so I asked one for translation. “Mmm, you
lucky d’boy. That mean you be goin’ to Nha Trang – 5th Special Forces Group, to be exact.”
Me: “Holy shit … this has got to be a mistake!”
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