Written September, 2021
In early November I was discharged from Great Lakes Naval HospitaI and went home on leave for a couple of weeks. I had to report to Camp Pendleton on November 14th.
I never got my belongings back from Vietnam, so I was outfitted with new uniforms at the hospital. It felt like I was back where I was last year at this time, suiting up to serve in the Marine Corps. My brother Mike, with his wife Ellen, was currently stationed at McConnell Air Force base in Wichita, Kansas. He invited me to spend a day or two with him before I returned to duty. So I said goodbye to everybody in Chicago, again, and flew to Wichita. I remember going to a bar and playing pool with Mike, but that’s about it. The only reason to mention this trip, is because Mike got me on a military flight out of his air base to save me some money on airfare. I liked that idea until I got on the plane. It was the same kind of plane that flew me to Japan, and then the USA. This one was not converted, but in its normal configuration. Mesh seats on the floor with our backs against the wall. Feet resting on our seabags. There was an assortment of odd ball military folks on the plane, which was headed for George Air Force Base in Victorville, California. It was a noisy, smelly, bumpy and very long flight on an old prop plane.
I was so glad when we landed, but I couldn’t get any help to find the public bus stop that would take me to Camp Pendleton, five hours away. Being deaf from the airplane trip didn’t help. Nor did the people at the base. They seemed a little hostile to marines. Not sure why, intra-service rivalry? Eventually I found my way. The bus ride was more comfortable. A little noisy, and definitely smelly, (BO). Mostly it was depressing. I was alone, and the weight of what was coming, where I was heading, sunk in.
Being a low ranking marine at Camp Pendleton meant you were at the bottom of the food chain, or the sewage chain. There was nothing here that could interest me or influence my future in a positive way. It was all work and “chicken shit” rules. It was the first time I started to think that maybe I was better off in Vietnam. There was some allure to the excitement of war, the danger, the adrenaline rush of fear and survival, and the feeling of being part of something important and powerful. My tour of duty in Vietnam was incomplete. I felt like I had abandoned George. It took a while to see these thoughts as crazy. But the thoughts would become a recurring theme as the time spent at Camp Pendleton was in many ways worse than Vietnam.
I used to sleep at the foot of Old Glory
And awake in the dawn’s early light
But much to my surprise, when I opened my eyes
I was the victim of the great compromise
“The Great Compromise”, John Prine
I finally made it to the transitional barracks on the night of November 13th, 1968. It was the start of many nights of loneliness, poor sleep, and frustration with my situation.
There were a bunch of other losers there too, caught in the vice of the marine corps. Decisions have consequences.
The next day I got on a bus with other marines who were being dropped off at their assigned units. I was headed for the Regimental Maintenance Company, whatever that was. Let’s see how this goes.
A few of us marines were dropped off at a quonset hut in a somewhat rural area, like the edge of a small town, on the sprawling Camp Pendleton Base. We met our commander, a gunnery sergeant, who looked like he had been on Iwo Jima in WWII, but hadn’t sobered up yet.
We sat for orientation and got the low down on what our job duties would be, i.e., whatever dirty maintenance jobs were sent to us from above.
Well, guess what. My traveling companions and I were ordered to report for mess duty early the next morning. Starting over, at the lowest possible level. I was pissed.
Later, we were taken to our barracks. I shared a bunk with one of the other new guys. Somehow I got the top bunk which is good. You don’t want to be below some guy who is thrashing around in his bed all night rocking the whole “rack” as it is called.
We were stirred to get up at “still dark:30”. We got to the mess hall and met the marines who would be our bosses. In a mess hall, the cooks rule. These cooks were corporals, non commissioned officers, meaning you had to follow their orders or face consequences. These particular cooks were definitely older than me, maybe 20. I learned that after finishing their basic and cook training, they remained stateside. That didn’t stop them from acting like seasoned lifers. They knew we were wounded marines who had nowhere else to go, and treated us like dirt, because they could. I was assigned to the pot shack to clean all the giant cook pots that were used at each meal. I had done this before in Phu Bai, but supervising civilians. Pot Shack was the filthiest job on mess duty. This was really aggravating. My tour of mess duty would last 4-6 weeks. Immersed in bacon grease, chipped beef, (shit on a shingle), and whatever other slop that was served.
This was not your Navy Mess Hall, which had nearly normal food. This was the bottom of the barrel food service. I hated every minute of it. I had violent thoughts against the
cooks. I didn’t mind following orders, but the demeaning and disrespectful language was unnecessary.
My right arm was ok for regular daily activities but the repeated scrubbing and lifting of heavy pots and iron skillets to the overhead shelves was causing me pain. After a week in the pot shack I got permission from my commander to go to “sick bay”, (medical clinic). I told the doctor about my problem and he wrote up a “light duty” rx that got me off pot shack duty. The lead cook didn’t like my attitude so he put me on the chow line, slopping food onto the trays of an endless line of unhappy marines.
I had felt a little bad about slacking off while searching tunnels in Vietnam. But this was different. I felt no shame about running to the doctor to get a light duty slip. It wasn’t like I was going to get a worker’s comp check. There was no limit to the amount of crappy jobs that I could be assigned to in the regimental maintenance company. Therefore, I decided to complete my enlistment contract as a laggard, a skater, a slacker, a shirker, and a goldbrick.
“You can’t always do what you are told”
“Hobo Song” John Prine
Except for the marines who came from the backwoods and were used to eating squirrel and possum, the men walking through the chow line complained constantly about the food. They bitterly directed their negative comments to the servers. As if we selected, purchased, and prepared the food. Maybe it was better to work in the pot shack.
I was promoted to Lance Corporal, one level below a corporal, on December 1st, 1968. This did not enhance my status, or relieve me from any of the worst jobs like garbage detail at the end of the shift. It did not provide immunity from harassment from anyone who felt like it. More thoughts, about being better off in Vietnam, surfaced and bounced around in my head.
Thanksgiving, Christmas and the New Year rolled around and I was still on mess duty. A lot of the mess hall workers went home for the holidays, so they needed help. I had no leave time left, nor money for airfare. Early in 1969 I got off mess duty and settled into reporting to the maintenance shack for my day’s assignment.
We did all kinds of odd jobs. Painting curbs, landscape maintenance, litter removal, whatever. Every morning we would show up and get our work assignment for the day. We would often ride out to the worksite in an open air truck. About 2pm every work day, “Daddy”, our commanding Sergeant, would go on patrol in his vehicle and make the rounds of the areas where our different crews were working. He would make a quick check of our work, give some orders, and move on to the next worksite. We knew from the marines who had been in the company for a while that after Daddy made his rounds, he was likely to go straight to the NonCom Club, (corporals and sergeants only), to start drinking. Our strategy was to work really slowly before he came, so he would see that more time was needed to finish the job. Then he wouldn’t be able to give us another job for that afternoon. After he left, we either took turns napping in the back of the truck or somewhere on the ground in the bushes. This was a good plan because we couldn’t go back to the barracks until our shift was over. There was a constant presence of lifers around and in the barracks who would report us for leaving work early. Also, we needed naps because most of us were hung over multiple days every week. We learned to finish the job exactly in time to get back to the barracks, not early, and not too late. It was a Monday through Friday 8-5 job. ( So, I actually did learn a life skill; quick power naps, anytime, anywhere ).
Every marine who was assigned to work at RMC, (Regimental Maintenance Company), eventually was told or discovered on their own that Daddy was using his position to accept bribes from fellow sergeants who ran the base’s day to day activities. Sergeant in charge of mess hall: “Send me a few marines for mess duty and I will keep you supplied with good steaks.” Commander of vehicle fleet maintenance: “Send me a clean up crew and you will get the best vehicles for your group.” Head of Clubs, (Bars): “Keep my parking lots clean and I will gift you the best Scotch.” Just enough graft to hide in his car and avoid a search by the gate guards on his way to his “off base” housing. We were working for him and nobody else. So far in my short life I had encounters with 2 types of authority figures who were paid by the taxpayers and also accepted bribes. That being, the Chicago Police and the USMC supply and service providers. (Probably the Catholic priests too, but I had no proof.)
Conditions in the barracks were miserable. I had gotten used to living in a hospital orthopedic ward. The sounds and smells were overpowering, but I had some
important responsibilities and certain freedoms in my day. There was very little if any harassment by upper rank personnel. In my new barracks there was a different kind of trouble. First of all, the barracks were totally self segregated by race. Black men stayed on the far end of our barracks and stayed up late at night, blasting Motown music, talking about race war, and how much they hated whitey. Occasionally, some
southern boy would talk back and there would be a fight, broken up by the NonComs that had private rooms in the middle of the barracks. Occasionally there were surprise searches of our lockers looking for drugs or items that were reported stolen. Theft was a big problem and the white marines blamed the black marines. On payday, which was all cash, I put most of my money in the base Credit Union and kept the rest on me at all times. I was drinking a lot, but only needed 25 cents per beer so there wasn’t much to steal from me. Marines in my barracks were always running out of money before the monthly payday came around. They would ask around for loans, “Give me $10 bucks now and I’ll give you $15 or $20 on payday.” I accepted the offer with a couple of guys and surprisingly they gladly paid me back right on time. I ended up with quite a few customers and made a pretty good chunk of money every month. Drugs were available on the base and I guessed that they were spending it on drinking and drugs.
Some marines took a bus down to Tijuana for the weekend party life. Only for a moment did I consider the ethical issues around my loan shark business. As far as I knew it was only for weed, and the stoners were much better behaved than the juicers.
As for me, I was drinking a lot and having hangovers in the morning. It was pretty out of control. I drank a lot in high school, so I wasn’t new to this behavior.
The weekends were actually worse than the work week because there was nothing to do. The loneliness was unbearable. Originally, I had no real friends but over time two new guys from Chicago moved into our barracks and I started hanging around with them. Then a couple of other marines moved in and we became friends also. One of these two had a car on base, which was unusual for a lower ranking marine. They would go out at night and drive around listening to music and smoking joints. They had been inviting me to join them for a while, but I had accepted the standard lies about marijuana promoted by the Government, the Military and the News Media. I steadfastly refused for a few weeks. What finally enticed me into joining them was that we could listen to the new Beatles album, “The White Album”, on the radio that night. We drove down a lonely road to the top of a hill. I smoked it and got nicely wasted and the White Album blew me away.
Then I proceeded to talk on and on like I never had before. I couldn’t stop and we were all laughing and it made me realize what a good thing this was, and how I might make it through to the end of my enlistment if I could do this once in a while. Thank you Beatles.
That experience opened my eyes and ended my prejudice against marijuana. But I certainly didn’t want to get caught “using”, and end up in the brig. There was no mercy for marines who used illegal drugs. Unless you had a car and went to some remote area, it was too dangerous. Everyone believed that there were CID, (Criminal Investigation Division), agents planted in the barracks. One of the agents was so obvious that the bolder marines called him “Sid”.
Meanwhile, the racial tension was really high and I was afraid that there would be some gunfire in the barracks. You couldn’t walk past a black man without getting a sneer or an aggressive comment. I hated them. I was too ignorant to understand what their grievances were. The white marines would be no match for the cluster of angry black marines at the other end of of the barracks. The music continued to blare late at night into the early am and there was no recourse to stop it. Can’t sleep unless you are drunk.
Sometime during the winter rainy season, a crew from our maintenance company was sent to a wealthy area in the Orange County hills. There was a huge rainstorm, the area was getting flooded, and had mudslides. Our job was to fill and place sandbags on some streets to keep the water and mud from flowing onto the property of wealthy homeowners. We rode in a truck with a canvas covering over the top of the truck bed. It was pouring rain and we still got soaked in spite of the cover. We arrived at the destination shivering uncontrollably. A dump truck came and dumped a load of sand on the street. There we were, filling sandbags, (something I hated almost as much as mess duty), and setting them up in the street as instructed by a local police officer. We got back to Camp P well after dark.
We couldn’t figure out why we went there. “Who lives here? A general, a politician, some movie star?” We knew that Daddy was going to get a good bonus for this and that we would never know what it was all about.
Marine Corps life went on, slowly. There was no end to the boredom, monotony, loneliness and homesickness.
“I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on”
Johnny Cash, Folsom Prison Blues
The excessive drinking only helped for a few hours at a time. I didn’t know how I could stand it for 8 or even 6 more months. Sometime in March, I might have about 10 days leave accumulated and be able to fly home. Hang on!
These were the times where I continued to think that it would have been better to be in Vietnam. Yeah, crazy. The Marine Corps was only good at one thing, fighting and killing. There was a brotherhood that was part of it. In my experience, there was not much brotherhood during my duty in the states. I hated the USMC and wanted out. The petty rules and harassment, the macho ranking system of marines, formal and informal, and the constant ordering around by higher ranking people who didn’t have the leadership qualifications to lead, made it insufferable. I was 19 years old and had been ordered around my whole life by Catholic School Teachers, parents, grandparents, work bosses, and now the USMC. Out of all these “leaders”, my father, and maybe a few teachers were the only ones had who earned my respect.
There were always Marines in the RMC that were ending their enlistment, or transferring to another company. This meant that we were regularly getting new marines joining our company. A lot of the new guys had been short timers, (close to going home), in Vietnam. Maybe they got wounded, or finished their tours, and were going to finish their enlistment at Camp Pendleton. These marines were very tightly wound, and a bit short tempered. They wanted to establish their “rank” by sharing how long they had spent in “In Country”, and how long they spent in the bush. Maybe even boast about how many “gooks” they had killed, and compare it to the guys in our company. A couple of us that had short tours in Vietnam due to wounds were declared slackers, like we chose our fate. They told us that we hadn’t suffered enough to be called true combat veterans. They told Daddy that we should take their mess hall duty. They deserved more privileges because they have more time in the Corps. Daddy didn’t listen to these knuckleheads’ proposals and complaints.
My new friend, John Calcitrai, had parts of a few of his fingers blown off somehow. He was picked on mercilessly, as he was small, shy, and quiet. We tried to stay away from these small thinkers as best we could. I had wished that I had the presence of mind to set the record straight with these macho marines. True, I did not have a lot of combat experiences. I didn’t see a lot of awful carnage. My time “In Country “ was very short.
But in the hospital, I was living with men who had terrible wounds. These marines, with their families, went through a huge amount of pain, loss, and struggle. They had to come to grips with the grim future that they faced. Paralyzed, brain damaged, burned, broken men. I lived with dozens of them for four months and saw the sadness and frustration. So I was not a “cherry” when it came to experiencing the human damage that the war was causing. However, I knew that if I had experienced what these troubled, bullying marines had experienced, I might be just like them. It was better that I just let it go. I didn’t realize until much later, that they all had suffered deep spiritual trauma, as well as whatever physical trauma they suffered. Their unkind actions were part of some coping mechanism I suppose.
It is true, that what these marines were doing was part of a universal male culture that uses hazing and initiation rites to establish dominance, loyalty and the “earning” of manhood. In primitive times, boys earned their manhood by hunting and gathering food, learning survival skills, and fending off marauders. But in modern times, boys try to establish their manhood through sports, sexual conquest, fighting, drinking, bullying and joining the military. For example, during my first night working at McDonald’s when I was 15, my job after closing was to go down to the basement and lift a one hundred pound bag of potatoes and carry it upstairs. I was told that this job is always for the “new boys”. I was small at the time and I struggled with the heavy bag for a long time. With a lot of effort, I could lift it off the floor, but I couldn’t get it up on my shoulder. I tried many times and was exhausted, hoping someone would come down and help me. But I wasn’t going to call for help. Eventually, the two guys who sent me to the basement came downstairs and jumped me. They were trying to “pants” me, pull my pants off against my will. I fought like an animal but they were too strong for me. It was humiliating. They were laughing and trying to tell me not to feel bad because this was just how things go. Someone did it to them, so now it was their turn to do it to me.
I had been performing my duties well, and Daddy started giving me better jobs. He agreed to have my friend John Calcitrai join me on some of the jobs. He was a clerk in the RMC office and wanted an outing every now and then.
One of my better jobs during my time in RMC, was to go to the main gate and direct traffic. I had to be in uniform rather than work fatigues. I wore a holstered, loaded, 45 caliber pistol. There were 3 of us marines. One for entrance, one for exit and one in the guard shack. The other two guys were permanent and very professional. They tried to teach me what to do. My orders were to not let anyone on the base who was not authorized, check suspicious vehicles on the way in and out, and give Officers and Non Coms quick passage on and off the base. There were different lanes for delivery trucks, visitors, officers, and base vehicles. Some cars were directed to an outer lane for various reasons. There were specific hand signals for how people were to stop or proceed. It took me a while to get the correct signal for the appropriate command.
Every move, every step, had to be perfectly choreographed. A couple of officers in their cars told me I was doing it wrong. I am not supposed to move my hips when I am waving someone through. I am not supposed to stick my face into their car to see their ID, but stand stiffly at attention. (“These guys are very much like country club golfers,” said the former caddy). They were a bunch of tight assed lifers with nothing better to do than mess with the enlisted men. If I put the palm of my hand up, facing you, that means “Stop”. Maybe my hips move when I wave you out the gate. Get over it. Is your life so pathetic that you have to focus on these tiny details?
For the rest of my life I would laugh at grown men on little leagues baseball fields, giving complicated hand signals to little kids who were pitching, at bat, or on base. How ridiculous and pretentious! Let ‘em play, let ‘em swing away!
“All these people that you mention,
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame”
Bob Dylan, Desolation Row
Then there was the day when I had to stay late at the entrance gate and help lower the flag and fold it for overnight storage. Another thing that I was not good at, or interested in learning. There are many folds required, and the Marine NonComs supervising me were very free with their disdain and disrespect due to my clumsiness and lack of reverence. I had an average amount of respect for the “flag”, but this was just silly. On special days like Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day there is an extra special amount of folding, with fold #12 described below. Who comes up with this stuff?
“The twelfth fold, in the eyes of a Christian citizen, represents an emblem of eternity and glorifies, in their eyes, God the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost.”
After a few days at the main gate I got my own rhythm and made it work better, with my own moves. It was kind of fun sending people through the gate, waving my arms and creatively cursing them, and calling them names, under my breath, while standing at attention with a stern marine face. Makes the day go better!
So think about this little scene, apply it to your life
If your work isn’t what you love, then something isn’t right
”Found a Job” Talking Heads
One day, late in the afternoon, when I was working the exit lane, I could see Daddy approaching in his giant, gas guzzling, GM sedan. He cruised up to the exit gate. He didn’t really stop or slow down much, or wait for my, “ok to pass” signal. He just smiled and waved and cruised out the gate. I wondered what kind of contraband he had in his car? “Wait, did he post me here because he knows I would never stop him for a random search?? I think I have been played!”
In the spring Daddy went on leave. His replacement was a crazy, racist, southern lunatic sergeant, stinking of the marine corps. This guy had war stories aplenty.
To hear tell, he had more combat experience than anyone, killed more enemy soldiers than he could count, and took out an NVA machine gun nest all by himself.
Got the Bronze Star, which he talked about every time a new person entered the maintenance shack. We all missed Daddy and couldn’t wait to get rid of this pompous jerk.
“He’s a drug store truck drivin’ man,
He’s the head of the Ku Klux Klan,
He’s got him a medal, he won in the war,
It weighs five-hundred pounds, and it sleeps on his floor”
Drug Store Truck Drivin’ Man, Gram Parsons and the Byrds
Sometime in the spring, Mary Ellen, her friend Dolly, my friend Joe Johnson and I, all met in LA to go to Disneyland and see the other sights in the area. My marine friend rented his car to me, a big old Lincoln Continental. I paid for it out of my loan business profits. The brakes were very poor and he hinted that maybe I should get them fixed while I was out touring. How would I do that and tour at the same time? It was challenging to avoid sliding through stop signs and red lights. We almost had to stick our feet out and drag them on the ground to stop. A couple times I had to throw it in reverse and pull the parking brake to avoid a rear end collision. Anyway, we enjoyed Disneyland, the “Hollywood Stars’ Homes Tour”, and the beach. It was great to have some fun time. As expected, the goodbyes were tough.
“Lost in a romance,
Wilderness of pain”
The End, Jim Morrison and the Doors
Sometime around these events I happened to chat with another marine who had a car. He wasn’t really a friend. I discovered that he was from Phoenix. He drove home nearly every weekend and wanted a rider to share gas expenses. I called my Aunt Laura and Uncle Don to see if I could come and visit them and, of course, they happily agreed. I took the 6 hour drive to Phoenix on a Friday night and paid for gas with my loan shark income. It was such a great respite from Camp Pendleton. Good food, peaceful sleep, and great people to visit. Uncle Don, Aunt Laura, and cousins Jeff and Debbie. I got to visit my grandparents and/or sit with them at Mass. Unfortunately, there was really only one full day to be free. Right after Sunday Mass, I had to join my driver and head back to Camp Pendleton. I made this journey maybe three times over the next couple of months. It was a great help to me to have some mental peace and normalcy.
Back at Camp P, I was finally allowed to go to the dentist to check out the situation with my two pulled teeth. The dentist said it was too big of a job and would disrupt my current working status. I should go to the Veteran’s Administration Clinic when I get discharged. Yes sir! Thank you sir! I don’t want you inside my mouth anyway.
When Daddy came back from vacation and I was done with my assignment at the guard shack, he gave me a new, somewhat long term assignment. I was going to be a “chaser” of prisoners at the brig. It meant that I would go to the brig with another chaser and pick up some prisoners for a work crew. Prisoners who had been on good behavior were allowed out on a “work party”. On my first day as a chaser we took the truck to the brig and checked out 3 or 4 prisoners and took them for roadside litter cleanup. These were not bad criminals, just guys who had gone AWOL, (away without leave), for a short time, or committed some other lesser infraction.
It was unsettling at first because it felt like a lot of responsibility. But, my partner on this job was an experienced chaser and taught me how to avoid the common mistakes. These mistakes included: allowing prisoners to manipulate you by telling you their sad story of innocence; allowing prisoners to talk to anyone other than the chasers; allowing prisoners to go into the Post Exchange, (PX), or make phone calls from a PX pay phone; (Post Exchange: markets of various sizes that are scattered throughout the base).
The first thing I heard from prisoners, was about how brutal the guards were. I didn’t believe them at first, but in the coming weeks I would witness it myself.
9/13/69
We carried loaded 45 caliber pistols. Our orders were to fire 2 shots in the air if there was an attempted escape, but not to shoot the prisoner(s) as none of these day workers had committed a violent crime or other felony.
Two or three times per week I would be on “chaser” duty depending on whether there was a work assignment that would be suitable for prisoners. We picked up prisoners at the outer portion of the brig for my first few episodes of guarding. We did not see inside where prisoners were in their cells. But outside, on the “marching deck” we could see prisoners lined up, doing boot camp type drills. It looked pretty gruesome. They were treated just like new recruits, “boots”. The guards running the drills seemed to take pleasure in the suffering of the prisoners. Boot Camp Drill Instructor wannabes. It was disturbing. But the message was, “This is what we do, don’t question it”.
The first couple outings were easy, roadside trash pick up, go to the mess hall for lunch, and then back to work. There were a lot of stares from the other marines in the mess hall because of the type of clothing the prisoners were wearing. I don’t remember what their “uniform” was. At the end of the day we would return them to the outer guard perimeter and then be on our way back to our headquarters.
One day, after finishing our assigned duties, we returned to the brig and the outer perimeter guard shack was not manned so we had to go inside and return the prisoners. We went into a cell block and it was not a pretty sight. The prisoners were in cells, no walls, just bars, in full view of everyone, toilet and all. Most of the prisoners were black marines. (I never saw a black marine released for a work party.) I saw one prisoner being forced to hold a squat position and other prisoners being verbally abused and threatened. It was shocking but I shouldn’t have been surprised. I guess that no matter where you are, you expect people to be treated with dignity. It’s jolting to see cold blooded cruelty.
One day, we had only two prisoners, one of which was a guy from my high school graduating class. Not the best citizen, a bit of a loser. He was busted for marijuana possession. He claimed he was framed. The other guy was busted for being late from his leave by a couple of days. He said he was with his girlfriend, and was so in love that he couldn’t bear to leave her. Eventually, she insisted that he return to duty. “Lock him up”, said the Court Martial Officers. I doubted the full truth of their stories, but felt sorry for them anyway. Yes, I violated the first rule. “Don’t let a prisoner manipulate with their sad story.”
We took it slow that day. My fellow marine guard and our driver were both easy going guys. We made a stop at a small PX shop, kind of like a 7-11, military style. A little strip mall with a Credit Union, barber shop, Post Office, etc.. My high school alum connived me into using the pay phone outside the PX. Yes, I violated another rule. It was quiet in the area and I saw no harm.
Then the other prisoner said that he should get to make a phone call. My partner and I vetoed the request because we didn’t want to take any more chances. Prisoner # 2 was a little crabby after that. We returned them to the outer perimeter gate and went on our way.
The next day, when we went to pick up prisoners, the brig was on lockdown. Someone who was on a work party had come back to the brig with some kind of drugs. He was caught during a random strip search. There were a dozen or so other marine chasers who were gathered there at the same time. We were pulled off to the side and given a stern lecture by some tough old sergeant.
“There will be no work parties today, the fun is over. One or more of you allowed a prisoner to get drugs.” I sucked in my breath and wondered if my prisoner had called someone to make a drop for him to pick up the drugs. And maybe prisoner number two, who was denied a phone call, turned him in. I could be in big trouble. Once again, I did something stupid that could cost me big time, like time in the brig. Daddy questioned me and my partner half heartedly and accepted our lies. I would never find out what happened. There were no work parties for us for a while. No-one ever accused me of allowing this to happen. My rotation as company chaser came to an end when a new team took over. I was relieved to avoid detection and punishment.
“I know I’m fakin’ it
Not really makin’ it”
Fakin’ It, Simon and Garfunkel
New York Times 10/71
While I was home on leave before coming to Camp P, I occasionally attended mass with Mary Ellen. It was more of a social outing. I felt empty in the church. When attending Mass in Phoenix with my aunt and grandparents, I was struck by the display of wealth that was the whole of the church. Big marble statues, stained glass, and huge wooden beams. Supposedly, Jesus was a friend of the poor. I did not see any poor people in the church. Why is money being collected to spend on all these rich fixtures? Why did the priest not mention all the killing going on in Vietnam?
Whatever he talked about was meaningless. I was already a bit disillusioned, but this pushed me a little further away.
There was a small non-denominational chapel near our barracks. Various Christian ministers as well as Rabbis took turns giving their pitch on Saturdays and Sundays.
Out of habit, or duty, I went to one of these. It was full of emptiness. The script of the Catholic Mass had become meaningless to me, and I wondered why I was there. Of course I was just following what I was told to do for so many years. I thought I would give it one more try on an upcoming Sunday. On that day, I walked to the chapel and stood outside thinking about what I really felt was important. At that point, I was pretty sure that I had a good handle on what was right and wrong. I didn’t need anyone who lived a sheltered life in the Church preaching to me, and then asking for money. I walked away and never attended Mass again unless it was for a funeral or wedding. Future study of the historical and current practices of the Catholic Church, (and Christianity as a whole), verified the correctness of my choice. I visualized the Pope in the confessional booth, making a sincere confession of the sins of the Catholic Church. The list was quite long:
Misappropriation of funds
False Advertising
Misinformation
Complicity in an unjust war
Physical and verbal mistreatment of children in Catholic Schools, including “paddling”, spanking, forced kneeling and verbal humiliation
And the ultimate sin—sexual manipulation and assault of thousands of children—with no consequences to the perpetrator—and active denial and cover up by the Church hierarchy.
I remembered reciting the Christmas Gospel at a School Christmas show when I was 6 or 7. I had been so blind to the fake piousness, the incessant preaching of dogma across all aspects of our lives, the constant grifting for money, the insistence that the Catholic Faith was the only true faith and that those not “saved” would probably go to hell. There was repression of sexual thoughts, words, and deeds, while the priests, unbeknown to me at the time, were ravaging little boys and girls.
Now seemed like a good time to end my relationship with the Catholic Church. The betrayal was the greatest incentive for me quit the Church that put the fear of Communism in so many young men, which led them to sign up for the Vietnam War. All perpetrated in order to protect the interests of the Catholic Church. I didn’t even have to pray on the matter.
“Cancel my subscription to the resurrection”
When the Music’s Over
Jim Morrison and the Doors
One really good thing that happened to me that spring was that I learned to sail at Camp Pendleton. My friend John Calcitrai, in a fit of boredom, studied the “things to do” section of the Camp Pendleton guide book. He discovered that there was a nice lake up in the hills of the camp. On a Saturday or Sunday, we got on the Camp Bus and rode to the lake to be in time for the weekly sailing lesson. This is not so strange, since the USMC is bound to the US Navy. Historically, the Navy takes the marines to where the fighting is. Marines are trained to survive in the water. When I was 15, I joined my friend, John Tutor, with his dad and older brother, on a boat trip down the Illinois, Ohio, and Mississippi Rivers. Our destination was Memphis, Tennessee, where we would be picked up and driven to Water Valley, Mississippi, birthplace of John’s dad, Harvey. It was a great adventure and I became confident navigating different waterways, and climbing back into a boat from deep water. That experience helped me to concentrate on my sailing lesson at Camp P, without worrying about the “mood” of the lake. It was a great activity, and after two or three weeks of lessons we were certified in sailing a small sailboat.
In April, 1969, troop levels in Vietnam had reached a peak of about 534,000 soldiers. Richard Nixon had ordered the secret bombing and invasion of Cambodia.
I had seven more months in the USMC and was pretty sure that they would not send me back to Vietnam. Once you had less than six months on your enlistment they didn’t bother sending you back over. Many of us had been worried about that because there was a lot of resistance to the draft and Marine Corps enlistments were dropping significantly. They needed more bodies, broken or not. Rumors were spreading that they were going to cut thousands of us loose to make room for new marines. There was a hard cap on the number of marines that could be in the Marine Corps, and now some men were being drafted into the Corps. This lent credence to the rumor.
My friend John worked in the RMC office. He saw a document with a list of marines to be discharged on May 1st, 1969. Both of our names were on it! He told me privately, and the news was being spread by others who had access to information. People were speculating about whether it was really going to happen. Within a few days, the marines on the list were called into a conference room and given the word. We were busting with joy. Marines were whooping and high stepping and high fiving. The Company Commander, Captain Squires, was not impressed. How could a lifer enjoy seeing marines celebrating the idea of getting the hell away from him and his cronies?
There was a catch, of course. At that time, the GI bill provided for two months of college education funding for every month of service, if, you have served a minimum of 18 months. If you served less than 18 months, you got 1.5 months of educational funding per month of service. In my case, it was the difference between 36 months, (4 school years) and 27 months, (3 school years). Since I would only serve slightly more than 17 months, I would miss the criteria for the higher level funding by 22 days. Yeah! So what! Where do I sign? I will work two jobs while I go to school. Just get me out of here.
I signed a document stating that I understood and agreed to the stated conditions of my early discharge, and accepted that I would be in the Reserve Marine Corps until 4 years from my date of enlistment. I couldn’t believe my luck! After escaping Vietnam, am I really going to escape all the Marine Corps misery that is waiting for me from May 1st until November 23rd? I had to stay in my role as a tight ass marine for ten days or so, not do anything to mess this up. I was going home on May 1st,1969. I called my parents and Mary Ellen to tell them the good news. My mom told me that she had been looking at houses in the south suburbs, just like all the other white people who were determined not to live next door to black people. It was disturbing. I wanted to go home to the reality I left behind, but I knew that the writing was on the wall and there was no getting around it.
In the last few days of April, Captain Squires told all of us to get proper Marine Corps haircuts as a condition of signing our discharge papers. We all had a pretty good head of hair, like normal people, but not a Marine Corps crew cut. I got my hair cut and showed up in his office a day or two prior to my discharge. I went to his office late in the afternoon because I had heard that he was sending marines back to the barber for more hair removal. I figured that this late in the day, he wouldn’t bother with that crap, since the barber shop was closed.
Wrong! He told me to go back and get it done right. I went back the next day and had a redo on my do. Back to his office, still not good enough. I had three haircuts before discharge! Confirmed my decision to get out early in spite of the loss of GI Bill funds. He signed my papers with an attitude. Sorry, I’m already gone. Last salute. Last “yes sir”.
I don’t know how I got plane tickets other than the local pay phone. On May 1st I packed my duffel bag and got on a bus to LAX. All I remember about that day was looking out the airplane window as we flew up and away from California towards sweet home Chicago. It was as exciting as my flight out of Danang.
“He’s the Universal Soldier and he really is to blame
His orders come from far away no more,,,,,,
He’s the one who gives his body as a weapon of the war
And without him all this killing can’t go on”
Universal Soldier Donavan
Donavan’s song is about a soldier’s responsibility for participating in war. It’s not just far away leader’s who bear the responsibility.
Of course it drew condemnation from the supporters of the war and within months, a song was written called the “Universal Coward”
“He’s the universal coward, and he runs from anything
From a giant, from a human, from an elf
He runs from Uncle Sam, he runs from Vietnam
But most of all he’s runnin’ from himself”
Universal Coward Jan Berry
These two songs were good examples of the pro war and anti war stances. Not much nuance.
I was leaving the Marine Corps, and I still didn’t know what to think about the war. Obviously, it was foul and crazy. I still hoped that maybe there was a deeper meaning or justification that might become public. Something that an immature 19 year old boy didn’t have access to, or couldn’t even understand. Justifiable reasons for the war may exist. Reasons that might ease my feelings of guilt and erase the shame of blindly signing up for it all. I resolved those feelings for the time being by just pushing them aside and focusing on going home and returning to normal. It was easy! It doesn’t take much effort to decide to think only of yourself.
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