Part One: From Patriotism to Reality
🪖 Brothers In Arms • Field Notes from Those Who Served
Content Note: This article contains personal recollections of combat, drug use, violence, and military life during the Vietnam War. These events are described from my own experiences as a young Marine serving in Vietnam from 1969–1970.
- Part One: Boot Camp Didn’t Prepare Me for Vietnam (Current)
- Part Two: The Theft Ring (Coming Soon)
- Part Three: The Walking Dead Man (Coming Soon)
My name is Richard Schaefer. I served in the United States Marine Corps from 1968 to 1972. In August of 1969, shortly after Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and just after my nineteenth birthday, I arrived in Vietnam and served in the 3rd Marine Division as a combat engineer (MOS 1371).
Like thousands of young Marines before me, I believed what boot camp had taught me.
Discipline mattered.
Brotherhood mattered.
Drugs would get you court-martialed.
And if you did your job, the Marine Corps would do right by you.
I was about to discover that Vietnam played by a completely different set of rules.
“Nothing in boot camp had prepared me for the realization that not only did the enemy want me dead—some of my own Marines did too.”
My First Assignment
My first assignment was to a small bridge platoon near Dong Ha in northern I Corps, so close to the DMZ that it sometimes felt like you could almost watch the North Vietnamese Army raise their morning colors.
Our platoon was small: an acting platoon sergeant, a young second lieutenant fresh out of school, a handful of Marines—and me, the new guy.
The “FNG.”
Every veteran knows what that means.
The guy who doesn’t know anything yet.
The guy everyone watches.
The guy who has to prove himself.
I figured I’d get teased a little.
Maybe assigned the worst jobs.
I never imagined what actually awaited me.
Culture Shock
The first thing that hit me wasn’t enemy fire.
It was marijuana smoke.
Nearly everyone in the platoon was smoking it.
Not secretly.
Openly.
The lieutenant didn’t stop it.
The Staff NCOs didn’t stop it.
As I would later learn, some were afraid of being fragged if they cracked down too hard. Others simply joined in.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Back in boot camp we had been told, in no uncertain terms, that drugs would land a Marine in prison.
I had just arrived in Vietnam.
I was still full of patriotism.
I believed in stopping the spread of communism.
I believed I was there to help the South Vietnamese defend their country.
Instead, I found myself in a platoon where I was expected to smoke marijuana—not because anyone thought it was a good idea, but because refusing made you suspicious.
Some Marines warned me that if I didn’t join them they’d assume I was CID—a Criminal Investigation Division informant.
I refused.
I figured that would be the end of it.
I was wrong.
The Blanket Party
One night, as I lay on my cot trying to sleep, a blanket suddenly came down over my head.
Before I knew what was happening, the blows started.
Rifle butts.
Fists.
Boots.
I don’t remember much after that.
The next thing I knew I was waking up battered and bruised.
It was my introduction to what Marines called a “blanket party.”
The message couldn’t have been clearer.
Conform.
Or else.
The next morning I was expected to join the smokers.
I refused again.
I went to sick bay because I thought I might have a concussion.
After that they mostly left me alone.
Actually, that’s not quite true.
They ignored me.
Sometimes being ignored is its own kind of punishment.
Living Under Rockets
Every night seemed to bring another rocket attack.
Soon the cries of “Incoming!” became part of everyday life.
You’d dive for cover, run to the bunker and wait for the explosions to stop, then crawl back out and carry on.
It became routine.
As strange as that sounds.
What never became routine was realizing there were two groups of people who might want you dead.
The North Vietnamese Army…
…and maybe even some of the Marines living inside your own perimeter.
Nothing in boot camp had prepared me for that.
The Job
Eventually I settled into the work that had brought me there.
As a combat engineer, there was never any shortage of jobs.
Mine sweeps.
Riding shotgun on supply convoys headed to infantry units.
Walking patrol with the grunts.
Building defensive positions and ambush sites.
Constructing security perimeters.
Blowing tunnels and bunkers.
Some days we built things.
Other days we destroyed them.
I was shot at more times than I care to remember. And I remember my first reaction as the bullets cracked over my head, “why are they shooting at me? I’m just a kid from Missouri!”
I suffered a few minor wounds that were treated in the field, but nothing serious enough to qualify for a Purple Heart.
I was, however, awarded the Combat Action Ribbon.
Like most combat veterans, I would have gladly traded the ribbon for never needing to earn it.
A Ticket South
By the fall of 1969, President Nixon was under enormous political pressure to begin reducing America’s role in Vietnam. Back home, television viewers watched reports about troop withdrawals and the first signs that U.S. forces would eventually begin coming home.
Those of us wearing the uniform experienced it differently.
The Marine Corps began moving people around. Marines like me, who had recently arrived in country, were transferred south while others with more time in Vietnam shifted north as units prepared for eventual redeployment.
Since I had arrived only a few months earlier, I was among those transferred.
I left Dong Ha for Danang.
I won’t pretend I was sorry to leave.
Dong Ha had given me an education I never wanted.
As our convoy pulled away, I didn’t spend much time looking back.
My next assignment would be with Marine Wing Support Group 17 at Danang.
Compared to Dong Ha, it felt like a different world.
But Vietnam wasn’t finished with me yet.
Related Reading
- Ghosts in the Barracks: A Marine’s Memory of Vietnam, Fragging, and the Long Tail of PTSD — How those first months in Vietnam continued to affect me decades after I came home.
- PTSD Primer – Field Notes From a Marine — What PTSD looked like in my own life long before anyone finally gave it a name.
- Friendly Fire: The Nicest Name for the Worst Day — Why “friendly fire” is one of the most misleading phrases ever invented by the military.
- Fort Benjamin Harrison DINFOS — My assignment after Vietnam and another chapter of my military journey.
- After DINFOS — Leaving military life behind proved to be far more complicated than I expected.
Next: Part Two — The Theft Ring
The Vietnam War was experienced differently by every service member, every unit, and every tour. This series reflects my personal recollections as a United States Marine serving in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970. It is not intended to represent the experiences of all veterans, nor is it a comprehensive history of the war. It is simply one Marine’s story, told as honestly as memory allows, more than five decades later.