Part Three of My Vietnam Story
When we turned those two Marines over to the command, I honestly believed our job was finished.
We had caught the thieves.
Recovered the stolen property.
Turned the suspects over to our chain of command.
As Marines, that’s exactly what we had been taught to do.
Instead, we became the problem.
It started almost immediately.
The men in our hooch quietly moved out.
No explanations.
No arguments.
They simply packed their gear and found somewhere else to sleep.
Nobody wanted to be associated with us.
Then one of the Marines we’d arrested made good on the threat he’d shouted while we were marching him to the command post.
“Kill them. They can’t testify if they’re dead.”
At first I thought it was just talk.
I was wrong.
One Marine from another hooch was shot.
Then two innocent Marines were murdered in what we believed was a case of mistaken identity. Whoever pulled the trigger had the wrong men.
Suddenly it wasn’t just a courtroom witness they were trying to silence.
It could be any of us.
One day someone found a fragmentation grenade hidden inside a fire extinguisher just outside our hooch.
Whether it was meant for us or simply another warning, nobody had to explain the message.
We were living on borrowed time.
The isolation became almost as frightening as the threats.
At the mess hall nobody would sit with us.
One Marine looked at us and said,
“We don’t eat with dead men.”
That sentence has stayed with me for more than fifty years.
We had done exactly what everyone had wanted.
Every Marine had complained about the thefts.
Every Marine wanted the thieves caught.
But once we caught them, we became the enemy.
That’s when I learned another lesson the Marine Corps never taught in boot camp.
Sometimes doing the right thing comes with a price.
Asking for Help
After the second murder, we stopped worrying about prosecutions.
We simply wanted out.
We requested transfers to other units.
The answer was no.
Officially, there hadn’t been any murders.
We were told they were accidents.
“Friendly fire.”
That explanation didn’t square with what we had seen, but admitting otherwise would have meant acknowledging serious problems inside the command.
Whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, morale, discipline, and careers were all on the line.
A Letter Home
Running out of options, I wrote a letter to my father.
I told him something no son ever wants to tell his parents.
If anything happened to me, it probably wouldn’t be the enemy who killed me.
It would be another Marine.
I had no idea what Dad would do with that letter.
He immediately contacted Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington.
My command responded by assuring him I was exaggerating the danger and that my concerns were unfounded.
That only convinced my father something was very wrong.
He wrote again.
And again.
Each letter created more problems for me.
The Colonel
Eventually I was ordered into my commanding officer’s office.
He was furious.
I was informed that because of my actions I would be considered a substandard Marine.
I was told my career was effectively over.
Promotion?
Forget it.
Transfer?
Forget it.
I was even warned that if I continued making accusations I could face a dishonorable discharge.
I stood there listening for a while.
Then something inside me snapped.
I realized I had nothing left to lose.
I relaxed.
Pulled up a chair.
Sat down.
Put my feet on the colonel’s desk.
He exploded.
I looked him in the eye and calmly said,
“Colonel, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. If you think you’ve got problems now, wait until I report these threats back to Washington. You’ve already told me I was the kind of Marine you wanted under your command. I’ve got the commendations you signed to prove it.”
He ordered me to get my feet off his desk.
The meeting ended exactly as you’d expect.
A few days later someone handed me a new set of orders.
I was going back to the United States.
At the time, I thought I had finally escaped Vietnam.
It would take me decades to realize Vietnam had no intention of letting go of me.
This concludes my three-part Vietnam series. Although my tour ended, the story didn’t. The years that followed would eventually lead to PTSD, a battle with the VA, and a deeper understanding of what many veterans carry long after the shooting stops.