Category: Marine Training

Is it about ‘defeat’ or about “de feet”?

Posted on by Wes Choc in Marine Training

Getting to Vietnam is more than just having a military attitude or even a Marine Corps predisposition.

 

In the military, y’know, a lot of things just don’t fit.

In the Marine Corps, a lot of fit guys just make do.

Then there are those who neither get fit, or can’t fit.

Yeah, there is M, L, and XL. In the end, there’s a few claiming S or XXL. For a million guys, this takes care of 99.9% of all the t-shirts the Marine Corps ever needed. Then there are shoes. The Corps provides all the sizes from 7 to 15, most often either D or E widths. Those possibilities care for 99.9% of all toe to heel requirements whether during peacetime or during Vietnam war times. But, let me tell you, being one of those 00.1% “others” was no fun, especially during those Vietnam years. I write about this in my book, Just Dust. It’s about how when I joined the Marine Corps, I got off on the wrong foot.

Barely enough room to turn over
Barely enough room to turn over in the marine bunks on board the USS Vancouver

I do have kinda strange feet. I can walk, run, and swim just fine; so there’s no impediment. Except when I go to buy shoes; stores seldom ever carry my size. Though not conspicuous, it’s an attribute I can’t change. Size 14s are not profoundly odd, mind you. I was no athlete to say the least, but lots of athletes I’m told have longer-than-average feet. It’s just that mine were a 14-A (that’s pretty darned narrow!) at age 21. In boot camp, that peculiarity was indeed odd …acceptable enough to take the oath of allegiance of course, but almost inexplicable on my particular uniformed journey during the three years that followed. Now it wasn’t impossible, obviously; it was just plain odd and difficult to accommodate. As I got deep into writing Just Dust, recollecting how shoe size became an iconic barrier to cross at so many junctions, I was repeatedly reminded about something no one could’ve predicted.

Nuisances: Lying on military cots at my 6’4” length, my ankles always rested on that crossbar at the bottom of the bunk …my Achilles tendon would hurt the next morning. Wearing a too-wide shoe, your foot slides sideways creating imbalance or slippage. Having to wear the right size shoe to do training, I was instructed to just stuff a sock in those wide sneakers I flip-flopped around in. Then there were all the duck jokes. Getting the right sneakers was not impossible, it just took time to actually get them.

Growing up without a lot of stairs, an unanticipated consequence of long feet was missing steps climbing up or down narrower-than-usual-steps on the USS Vancouver crossing the Pacific, sister ship to the USS Iwo Jima (LPH-2). The ball of my foot frequently missed the normal place where most feet connect with the step itself. I tripped on board ship or getting into or out of choppers and mike-boats.

Once I finally did get boots, it was amazing to realize I was issued boots made for World War II marines, and pulled out of some storage locker just for me. It was a different kind of leather (the touch was rough and grainy and they smelled different), harder to polish, and cast a reflective green luster in the sun. I had to explain repeatedly why this duck’s boots were so different.

The real challenges came when I was being issued my boots, shoes, and sneakers in the first place. This peculiarity turned out to be consequential quite a few times, and I mention several events in Just Dust that will surprise many who would have never considered this an issue at all.

It Ain’t About the Destination Vietnam

Posted on by Wes Choc in Blogs About Military, Marine Training

Pacific Intentions

Do you go fore? Or, do you go aft?

Can one can surmise much by watching people, or watching what people look at? Whether at a shopping center, a bar …or aboard ship like I was …watching their eyes caught my attention. I write about an event in my book, Just Dust, that occurred as we were swishing out of port from San Diego aboard the USS Vancouver, sister ship to the USS Iwo Jima (LPH-2), in 1966 on our way to Vietnam.

The author on deck
The author on deck [July 1966]
As we migrated toward top deck to witness this departure event, we clumped up on the metal “up” steps then quietly exited out. Mixed conversations were replaced by eyes darting left and right once our voices were brushed with open tropical air. Taking it all in, we congregated into smaller and smaller groups until, it seemed, we were standing isolated, alone but in a loose crowd, and not talking at all. The sun was just then kissing the horizon. Half the marines were moving toward the bow starboard consuming unknown lures yet to come with squinting eyes …with the other half at the stern, watching the sun’s reflections bounce off San Diego skyscrapers growing smaller into the eastern dusk.

By now, the sun was an orange half-sphere.

So many unknowns. Were these high-eyebrowed guys upfront motivated by thresholds to be crossed, first time anticipations yet to come? Were pursed-lipped guys at aft reminiscing of home and family, of people and things left behind? A hefty breeze from the north lifted my cap off my head as the somberness of departure overcame my own mood. Once I retrieved my hat, I walked to the handrail amidships where I, now completely alone, could contemplate both east and west simultaneously. Either one way or the other, in less than a minute everyone else had now ambled away. I was the very last one left to decide. Guys don’t talk about these things much; yet, I watched their eyes. I write about this in my book Just Dust. So many of these contemplations are buried inside, and not easy to retrieve.

Somberness wasn’t the right word, though. This event was an unguarded gesture of dignity. It was like we were watching while being watched. After all, we were trained. We were fit. We were ready. Uniforms were clean, shoes shined. Our blood ran fast even at rest. Was it respect for undisclosed fears? Was it a come-and-get-it fist-thumping inside our chests? Or, was it a form of resignation? Most of us had not proven prowess or adulthood outside those San Diego or Tijuana bars; even then, those were the kind of victories we’d already learned in high school. This was different.

Our choices had become consequential. Whether we were prepared or not, we were en route to that vast unknown called Vietnam that we had read about in the newspapers …that place where Walter Cronkite reported the explosions and deaths d’ jour on the 10 o’clock news. We were actually en route to that very same place. Yeah, we knew where we were going, but now the act had actually begun …the journey, commenced. Who might not come back?

But emotions are disguised by most young men; it’s after all, unmanly. We were proud, we were able, we were willing. But there was no one to comfort my own pensiveness at this moment.

I raised my eyebrows, squinted, then walked to the bow.

Boot Camp

Posted on by Wes Choc in Marine Training

No, it’s not about your muscle.

US Marines boot camp is famous for being tough. Ever wonder what it takes to get through boot camp? We’ve all heard those ooh-rah Marine Corps stories about the way recruits are pressed to expand their muscle mass, or all those movie or TV episodes where we hear “OK, ladies, what are we going to do now?” And do we a performance grade, or is it entirely a pass/fail kind of program? As I explain in the book, Just Dust, it may not be exactly what you think.

No, it’s not about your discipline, not even your intelligence.

Sure, it’s body strength and obedience to authority; it’s gotta be. Sure, you hafta have smarts, but it’s just not “I can do anything” cleverness that’ll get you through either. So just how does one make it? Probably there was “advance wisdom” disclosed to us that there were three things one had to know to be effective in the United States Marine Corps:

  • confidence in self
  • thinking like a team member looking out for your brother’s survival
  • finally (of course) achieving the mission

Though most of us got that sage advice before making our promise to God and country, most young men didn’t really get the meaning of “it” even though they understood the words beforehand, particularly in war time, particularly as the unripe youth we were heading in. But we young men agreed to participate because we believed we were ready, willing, and able to do whatever it took; nothing else mattered. Just what was “it,” and what did it really take? Yes, there were those who could just plow through unscathed; but, there were some of us who had to learn this ever-so-compelling lesson a different way.

Especially if you were a skinny wimp like I was:  a scant 140 pounds, 6’4” and only enough strength to lift two cans of beer at the same time. Especially if you encountered a serious setback during boot camp, like me tearing skin completely off a finger and then having to wear a gauzed-up hotdog bandage while doing pull-ups on the high bar or crawling under barbed wire. Especially if all the other guys had to do an extra ten push-ups whenever I couldn’t do something they already could. Those drill instructors made sure a certain few of us knew who wasn’t going to make the grade …and prepared each one of us for the inevitable. Indeed, some couldn’t and didn’t make it. In Just Dust, I recount how I actually did make it through …barely …and, exactly what did make the difference.

Reading Your Dad’s Marine Corps Diary

Posted on by Wes Choc in Marine Corps Travelings - Vietnam, Marine Training

Why can’t Dad just tell me about what happened?

Ever think your father spoke a different language? Or, maybe, that his eyes weren’t really looking at you when you asked him about Vietnam? Sure he was a marine, but did that explain why he seemed to drink more than others? Ever wonder why he didn’t talk about those rifle-carrying times or what it was like to endure Vietnam? Yeah, he might talk about some gooks or not getting enough sleep or the mud and bugs, but there was always something missing, something he didn’t want to discuss. He may have had pat answers …or maybe his eyes just listed to the side.

In my book, Just Dust, I offer some introspection about stuff that happened in Vietnam as best I could. No, not blood and gore, not Rambo or John Wayne shoot’em ups, either …no, not even about any wounds you could see, only ones you couldn’t. Back then, there wasn’t even an official-esque-sounding response from NCOs or officers to marines explaining why they didn’t feel right. Instead, “Kwitch-yer-bellyachin” was the retort from those of higher rank or experience. Guys emotionally withdrew because they had a tough time self-managing such inexplicable events. There was a kind of flannel-blanket security when alone, a safer place to be, private, comfortable.

There were hours of tension, explosions and excruciating noises impacting one’s head even without spilling blood. There were moments where your dad wrestled with his own imagination amid the mental and physical traumas of others. Then there were the helicopters …flying food and ammunition in …dead bodies in those dark-green plastic green bags …out.

“Just suck it up, man!”

Sure, there were days of utter nothingness …boring days of on-edge restiveness, lack of sleep, and private I-can-do-it public fronts from those not wanting to show their bruised souls. There were days and days of repetitive emptiness …followed by flash-flooding lethal minutes …followed by day after day of eroding washed-away spirits.

“Man up, marine!”

Such personal thoughts never got written down in journals. They were carried instead, embedded under the skin …drug-around anchors no one saw, or perhaps only shared in a smoky bar after four or five shots of whiskey. I know I carried a couple good-time remembrances. But I also stashed away some inexplicable twists of fate, like when I was overlooked then abandoned or when others did what they were supposed to do then were wounded or killed. I survived forgotten but unscathed. Just what mattered, anyhow? In Just Dust, I identify these coming-of-age events …some treks that were admittedly mine and unique, yet penetratingly parallel events that impacted quite a few of us … some more significantly than others. Most of these stories remain untold.

“Get your butt and gut out and get going, bud!”

What’s now known as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) was dismissed in the 1960s as “shell shock” or being a sissy, and trivialized for this challenging slow-to-heal condition. From writing about my own journey traversing these recollections, invisible wounds, and guilts, comes a better understanding about what does matter. For those reading their dad’s diaries or trying to read his wrinkles, it may help them listen with a different eye.