8 February 1999
The emerald green shoreline loomed larger and more distinct as the ship neared our destination. Anticipation and anxiety heightened by too much waiting colored my first glimpses of this war zone. It was beautiful; this country looked like a tropical paradise. A vivid collage of greens, a carpet of jungle sweeping away from white sand beaches to sharp, rolling hills tumbling into mountains. A steamy, hot aroma began to invade and mix with the mechanical, oily smell of our troop transport. All guests would be leaving this floating hotel of the last 25 days; we were there – Viet Nam. "Grab your gear, Marine, the enemy awaits."
I exchanged observations with my friend Phil, a fellow draftee and college-type, leaning over the rail smoking and passing the last moments of this part of the journey. In his Tennessee accent, he had a clever and philosophical way of commenting on what was amusing or at least worthy of mention.
Nearing our immediate destination, the city of Da Nang, we began to make out details along the shoreline; bamboo and palm frond huts among the trees, makeshift buildings patched together of odd pieces of plywood. This had the temporary look of the edge of civilization where the hasty growth shows no evidence of order or planning.
Seeing the hustle and bustle of the men on the dock as we are mooring adds to the feeling of chaos and disorder. The unfamiliar dress of the locals, their black silk pajamas with the peaked straw hat seems to be the other uniform of the day. One can spot the invaders easily enough dressed in olive drab and towering over the natives by at least six inches. Several other ships are being unloaded and tended to by the swarms of workers. "Now hear this, disembarkation, will commence immediately." Phil and I consider thanking the captain of the ship personally, but decide, perhaps not, as duty calls.
The distant beauty of paradise has vanished into the immediacy of a hot dusty, cluttered chaos. We are herded onto trucks by the dozens and hauled to our next collection point. Here we stand in line with orders in hand waiting to talk to a very busy corporal. "FLSG-Bravo, that’s in Chu Lai, the plane left an hour ago, you have to wait for the next one, maybe seven or eight tonight. Check back later."
Hurry up and wait. I wonder where the several thousand of my fellow ship passengers have gone; I can only recognize a hundred or so in this tin cover of an airport. From the types of planes, helicopters and short-runway turboprops, I guess this to be a regional hub, for local traffic.
I grab my duffel bag, and search out a shady spot, well aware that my utilities, my uniform, mark me as a newly arrived rookie here ‘in-country’. I recline and study the other marines and assorted military types. Most are carrying rifles or sidearms of some variety. Many are wearing an unfamiliar style of uniform, loose fitting more like a jacket than a shirt with big baggy pockets sewn on the outside. The pants are also made of the same nylon material with the big pockets on the sides at the thigh. I study the faces of the warriors. They look tired, yet wary and alert. Their eyes seem to take in everything, calculating, evaluating, suspicious. These combat marines live in a different reality. I wonder if I will ever have to know this, of being both the hunter and the hunted.
Hours later, the sun begins to set behind the mountains, at last bringing a little relief from the oppressive sticky heat. The plane to my next destination is finally loading. Up the back loading ramp of the high-winged Caribou, turbo-prop. Moments later, the plane starts rolling and is at once airborne. There is only blackness outside, but I sense are flying over the ocean. The ride is short one, 25 minutes.
We land uneventfully in my new home, Chu Lai, Republic of Viet Nam. A young marine with a clipboard comes out of the darkness, "Those of you new in-country come with me. Okay, 5th Marines, your truck is over there; 7th Marines, that way. The rest of you, wait here and someone will be along."
As I sat in the sand, using my duffel bag for a backrest, sucking on a Marlboro, I pondered. How did I manage to wind up here on the other side of the world, not sure where I am, or where I am going. This is almost a perfect illustration of "existential absurdity" that my college philosophy professor was trying to explain so many lifetimes ago. I have been transformed from a 21-year-old working guy into a trained killer, Private First Class. "How would you like him done, sir? Skewered, punctured, or barbecued."
My introspection is broken by a figure appearing out of the darkness. "Anyone here for FLSG-Bravo. Hey, listen up, can any of you type?"
"Yes, I can type, why do you ask?"
"Headquarters wants anybody that can type brought to them immediately, you stay with me."
After a bumpy, dusty truck ride, our small group is assembled in a canvas-covered office and told to hand over a copy of our orders. An orderly escorts the group away. "Except for you private, wait here, and I’ll inform the duty sergeant."
As I am ushered in, I notice the ‘duty sergeant’ looks young and freshly awakened. Looking up from my orders, he says, "Corporal Riley says you think you can type. Well, that’s good for you. We have an acute shortage of clerks here at headquarters. So you have a new job. I’ll send you on up to Maintenance Company, they’ve been screaming the loudest. Jim, could you take him up there, he’ll never find it by himself in the dark."
At Maintenance Company we find a lone occupant in the office, wearing a green colored T-shirt reading a paperback, feet propped up on a field desk, "Got some new blood for you Ed, office help. See you tomorrow for beer call after work?"
"Sounds good to me, if they have any left." Turning his attention to me, "Have a seat, take a load off. So, fresh from the world, are you? We’ll most likely be working together, if we get to keep you, that is. Can you really type?"
"Well, I would describe that particular talent as slow but accurate. I never thought that being able to type would be such a big deal."
"This war runs on paperwork, at least around here, it does…daily reports, weekly reports, bi-weekly, bi-monthly. All typed with original and four carbons copies. So where are you from?" " I’m from LA…Gardena actually. I was an Air Force service brat, moved around a lot as a kid. I was working on the pipeline offshore in Louisiana when I got my draft notice. Took a couple of semesters off college and got drafted. Call me Bill… Bill Teysko. Pleased to meet you."
"Ed Peace from Provo, Utah," he said as he offered his hand. "Yeah, I made that same mistake, dropped out of college and got drafted. I’m married but that started going sour and I just had to get away. I sure did that, courtesy of the Marine Corps. Back home I was a business major at the University of Utah. But now I’m here and I have the duty tonight, someone has to answer the phone…regulations."
I broke in at the first pause to ask what had been weighing on my mind for months, "What kind of unit is this? And where the devil am I, it turned dark in Da Nang and I haven’t seen much since then?"
"Well, to put it delicately, you are in the armpit of the universe. We are about sixty miles south of Da Nang, and the DMZ is about sixty miles north of that. Our beach is about two hundred yards that way. Nice beach, down from a little sandstone cliff. We barbecue there, when we can get some steaks. Chu Lai is unique, a bit of desert next to the jungle, a shelf about six miles long and two miles deep. Just perfect for the jet fighter base down the road. And easily defended… no mountains within artillery range. The only action around here is the occasional after dark rocket attack, usually down at the airfield. The Fifth Marine Regiment has the security for the area, they’re down in Quang Tri about twenty miles south.
"When there is a firefight out on the perimeter, they call in Puff, the Dragon Ship. It’s an old C-47 Gooney Bird with one Gatling gun mounted in the cargo door. The rest of the plane is loaded with just ammo. It looks like a streak of lighting out of the sky when it fires. It’s perfect for this area, the gooks have to get out in the open to get close enough to attack, and by then they have exposed themselves to Puff. By local standards you’re in a secure area. But there is a lot of action back in the hills.
"And what kind of unit is this? It’s something they made up for this war: Force Logistic Support Group-Bravo. Usually they have Supply, Transportation, and Maintenance Battalions all separate, but here they put company-sized units all together and invented a name. Kind of like this war…they make it up as they go along, and you get the impression that no one really knows what they are trying to do."
That seemed like a fairly accurate summary to me.