In 1969, I watched a fellow Marine die during an ambush near Da Nang. Forty years later, I discovered that golfers were playing in the same region where I’d once fought to stay alive.
People often talk about returning to places they knew when they were younger and discovering how much things have changed.
Sometimes the changes are small. Sometimes they’re almost impossible to believe.
A childhood home becomes a shopping mall. A familiar neighborhood disappears beneath a new interstate highway. An old school gets demolished and replaced by something that bears no resemblance to the place you remember.
And sometimes, surprisingly, nothing much changes at all.
When I returned to Ferguson, Missouri, for my fiftieth high school reunion, I visited Central School, a place that had been part of my childhood.
I was surprised by how familiar everything seemed.
After half a century, I had expected more changes.
But there it was, still recognizable, still carrying memories of a time when my biggest concerns were schoolwork, girls, and figuring out what I wanted to do with my life.
Of course, not every place from my past has remained so familiar.
One of the most remarkable transformations I’ve ever encountered involved a place thousands of miles from Ferguson.
Vietnam.
And a golf course.
A Golf Course Where I Remember a War
In 1969, I was a young Marine serving in Vietnam.
One of my assignments was riding shotgun in a six-by truck carrying supplies from Da Nang Airfield to Marble Mountain.
For those unfamiliar with Marine Corps terminology, a six-by was a large military cargo truck, commonly called a six-by-six because of its six-wheel-drive configuration.
Riding shotgun meant providing armed security for the vehicle and its driver.
It wasn’t exactly glamorous duty.
You rode along with your weapon, kept your eyes open, watched the roadside, and hoped nothing happened.
Most of the time, nothing did.
Until the day something did.
Riding shotgun was only one of the assignments I encountered during my Vietnam tour. As I would later explain in The Theft Ring, sometimes the most troubling experiences of military life had little to do with the enemy. Vietnam taught me that danger could come from directions I never expected.
Frenchie
The Marine driving my truck that day was nicknamed Frenchie.
I never knew his real name just something he mentioned when we met that he was from Louisiana and was of French Creole decsent.
“Just call me Frenchie”
He was a driver attached to a Motor Transport unit, and I was a combat engineer. We’d never met before that day. The Marine Corps had simply assigned us to the same truck for a supply run.
That’s how things sometimes worked in Vietnam. You could find yourself depending on a Marine you’d only just met.
We’d been joking with each other just minutes before the ambush.
That’s something civilians sometimes don’t understand about military life in a combat zone.
You can be laughing with another Marine one minute and fighting for your life the next.
There’s no warning bell.
No dramatic music.
No announcement that your life is about to change.
One moment you’re riding along a road, talking with a buddy.
The next, somebody is shooting at you.
Our convoy came under small-arms fire.
Frenchie was hit.
I dragged him out of the drivers seat and beneath the truck and tried to give him first aid.
In all the confusion, I didn’t even realize I’d been wounded myself.
Frenchie didn’t survive.
I’d known him for only a short time, but more than half a century later, I still remember him.
I wish I’d known his real name.
China Beach: No Hawkeye Pierce
When the helicopters arrived to evacuate us, I was taken to a medical unit at China Beach.
I never saw Frenchie after that.
For anyone who remembers the old television series MASH*, there was no joking doctor named Hawkeye Pierce that I could see.
Just some pretty “round eyes” (nurses) and clean sheets.
After what I’d just been through, that wasn’t a bad deal.
It turned out my wound was superficial. What I’d initially thought was shrapnel was actually a piece of glass from the truck’s side mirror, which had been struck by a bullet.
I’d been lucky.
Very lucky.
No Purple Heart for this Marine. And considering what had happened to Frenchie, I think I might have turned one down anyway.
I spent about a week at China Beach, recovering and enjoying more than a few beers.
Music was another way we Marines escaped the war, even if only for a few minutes. I’ve written about that in The Soundtrack of Vietnam: What We Really Listened To. A familiar song, a cold beer, and a little peace and quiet in a rack at China Beach could make Vietnam seem almost normal for a while.
Once the medical staff were satisfied that my wound wasn’t going to become infected, they sent me back to my unit.
Back to being a combat engineer.
Back to Vietnam.
Back to the war.
Frenchie never got that chance.
And that’s the part I’ve carried with me ever since.
Forty Years Later, a Very Different Vietnam
Fast-forward to 2008.
By then, Vietnam was decades behind me.
I’d spent years working in the travel industry, including arranging cruise vacations. Golf had also become a major part of my life.
In fact, I was a PGA professional qualified to give golf lessons.
One day, I learned that Crystal Cruises was introducing a golf-themed voyage through Southeast Asia.
The announcement was dated November 5, 2008.
The planned eleven-day cruise would depart Hong Kong on April 20, 2009, and sail to Singapore, offering passengers opportunities to play golf in Vietnam and Thailand.
There would be golf instruction, onboard lectures, clinics, contests, and a PGA professional accompanying the voyage.
Among the featured courses was a relatively new championship layout near Da Nang.
Montgomerie Links Vietnam.
Named for Scottish golf professional Colin Montgomerie, the course is located along Vietnam’s central coast, between Da Nang and Hoi An.
Now, that got my attention.
Da Nang?
Golf?
In the same region where I’d served as a Marine?
You’ve got to be kidding me.
When I was there in 1969, nobody was advertising luxury golf vacations.
Our idea of an all-inclusive resort involved a military compound, a cot, and whatever the mess hall happened to be serving.
The entertainment wasn’t always optional, either.
Yet here was a cruise company promoting golf in a part of Vietnam I remembered for entirely different reasons.
I couldn’t resist looking into it.
The Sixth Hole
As I learned more about Montgomerie Links, I came across an especially intriguing detail.
According to information I’d found, a concrete wartime pillbox had been preserved near the sixth hole.
A pillbox is a fortified defensive position, usually constructed of concrete, designed to shelter soldiers and weapons from enemy fire.
It was reportedly a surviving reminder of the war that had once engulfed the surrounding area.
I haven’t personally inspected the structure or independently confirmed its history, but the possibility fascinated me.
Imagine playing a beautiful golf course, walking up to a tee box, and finding a remnant of the Vietnam War nearby.
Most golfers would probably glance at it, perhaps take a photograph, and then go back to worrying about their next shot.
I wouldn’t have been thinking about my next shot.
I’d have been thinking about 1969.
And Frenchie.
I should make one thing clear: I cannot say that Montgomerie Links occupies the exact spot where our convoy was ambushed. My recollection places the ambush on our supply route between Da Nang Airfield and Marble Mountain, while the golf course is farther south along the coast.
But it was darn close, the same part of Vietnam that had left such a permanent mark on my life.
And that was enough to stir some powerful memories.
My Brilliant Idea: Send Me Back!
The more I thought about the Crystal Cruises golf voyage, the more I became convinced that I belonged on it.
Not merely as a passenger.
As a travel professional on a familiarization trip.
For readers outside the travel business, a fam trip is an industry-sponsored opportunity for travel agents to experience a destination, cruise, hotel, or resort firsthand.
The idea is simple.
Let travel agents experience the product so they can return home and sell it to their clients.
Airlines, hotels, cruise companies, tourism boards, and other travel suppliers have used familiarization trips for years.
And I thought I had an unusually strong case.
Consider my qualifications.
I was a Vietnam veteran.
I was a travel agent.
I was an experienced golfer.
And I was a PGA professional qualified to give lessons.
I was a quadruple threat!
How many other travel agents could offer that combination?
I could talk about the cruise, the golf, the destination, and the historical significance of returning to Vietnam.
I could even explain to prospective travelers what the country had been like forty years earlier.
From a marketing standpoint, I thought it was a terrific opportunity.
Apparently, Crystal Cruises didn’t agree.
I contacted the organizers and tried to arrange a familiarization trip.
They declined.
No free cruise for this old Marine.
Maybe they were being cheap.
Maybe they didn’t want a Vietnam veteran along who might say something unflattering about the country’s wartime past.
Or maybe—and this is entirely possible—they already had their golf professional scheduled and didn’t need another one.
I don’t know what motivated their decision.
But I certainly appreciated the irony.
The United States Marine Corps had sent me to Vietnam with a rifle. Forty years later, I couldn’t convince a cruise company to send me back with a set of golf clubs.
Go figure.
What Would I Have Thought Standing on That Tee?
Over the years, I’ve occasionally wondered what it would have been like if Crystal Cruises had accepted my request.
Suppose I’d actually made that trip.
Suppose I’d stepped onto the sixth tee at Montgomerie Links.
Imagine the scene.
A beautifully maintained golf course.
Green fairways stretching across the coastal landscape.
A golf cart waiting nearby.
A driver in my hands.
Perhaps Marble Mountain visible in the distance, depending on the view.
Other golfers discussing club selection, wind direction, and whether the hole called for a fade or a draw.
And there I’d be.
An old Marine, back in Vietnam.
Only this time, nobody was shooting at me.
At least, I’d certainly hope not.
But I doubt I’d have been thinking much about golf.
I suspect my thoughts would have traveled backward forty years.
Back to that six-by truck.
Back to the road.
Back to the sound of gunfire.
Back to Frenchie.
I would have remembered the Marine sitting beside me, joking only minutes before our convoy came under attack.
I would have remembered dragging him beneath the truck.
Trying to help him.
Not realizing that I had been hit myself.
And I would have remembered that Frenchie never got the chance to grow old, become a golfer, or return to Vietnam as a tourist.
I did.
He didn’t.
That’s a difficult difference to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it.
A golfer standing beside me might have seen nothing more than a beautiful course.
I would have seen something else entirely.
Not because the golf course itself was the scene of our ambush.
But because Vietnam has a way of bringing back memories that never really leave you.
From Ambushes to Birdies
There’s another side to this story, and it’s an important one.
I don’t resent the Vietnamese for building golf courses where war once raged.
Quite the opposite.
Think about what that transformation represents.
When I served in Vietnam, the country was torn apart by war.
There were military installations, armed patrols, convoys, checkpoints, helicopters, artillery, and constant danger.
Today, tourists visit Da Nang to enjoy beaches, resorts, restaurants, and golf courses.
People from countries that once fought each other can now share a fairway.
They can argue about handicaps instead of politics.
They can compete over who buys the drinks after the round rather than who controls a stretch of road.
I’d call that progress.
A hell of a lot better than the alternative.
Of course, a golf course doesn’t erase what happened there.
Nor should it.
The Vietnamese have their memories of that war, just as American veterans have ours.
And somewhere in all those memories are young men who never came home.
Men like Frenchie.
Some Places Never Really Change
Returning to Central School during my high school reunion reminded me that some places remain surprisingly familiar despite the passage of time.
Learning about Montgomerie Links reminded me that other places can become almost unrecognizable.
But there’s something else I’ve learned.
A place can change completely while the memories attached to it remain exactly where they were.
A battlefield can become a golf course.
A military supply route can become a busy highway.
A former combat zone can become a vacation destination.
And an old Marine can become a travel agent and golf professional.
Life goes on.
It should.
I’ve written before about how Vietnam followed many of us home, long after our tours ended. Frenchie is part of that story for me. I knew him for only a few hours, but more than half a century later, I still remember him.
I never did get that familiarization trip.
I never stood on the sixth tee at Montgomerie Links.
And I never got to find out what it would feel like to play golf in the shadow of those memories.
But I know one thing.
If I ever had stood there, looking out across that peaceful landscape, I wouldn’t have been thinking about birdies, bogeys, or my score.
I’d have been thinking about Frenchie.
Semper Fi, Marine.
Your Turn
Time changes places, but it doesn’t always change the memories we carry of them.
I’ve often wondered what it would have felt like to stand on a golf course near Da Nang, looking out over a landscape where I once experienced the horrors of war, and remembering a Marine named Frenchie who never made it home.
Veterans, have you ever returned to a former duty station, battlefield, or place where something happened that changed your life? How had it changed, and what memories came rushing back?
And for everyone else, have you ever revisited a place from your younger years and discovered that it had changed beyond recognition, even though your memories of it remained crystal clear?
Share your experiences in the comments. Sometimes the places change. Sometimes we change. But some memories stay with us forever.
Continue Exploring
Frenchie’s story is one of the memories Vietnam left me with. Here are more firsthand accounts of Marine Corps service, the realities of war, and the memories that never completely fade.
Boot Camp Didn’t Prepare Me for Vietnam
The Marine Corps taught me discipline, weapons, and survival skills. But nothing in boot camp could fully prepare me for what awaited in Vietnam.
Sleeping With One Ear Open
In Vietnam, even sleep required vigilance. A look at the constant alertness, interrupted rest, and survival instincts that followed Marines long after the shooting stopped.
Living With PTSD: A Marine Explains It
A personal look at how combat experiences can affect a Marine long after the war is over.
Friendly Fire: The Nicest Name for the Worst Day
Not every danger in a combat zone comes from the enemy. A firsthand account of violence, suspicion, and the dangers Marines sometimes faced from within their own ranks.
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🪖 Bunker Rule
Every veteran carries memories of people, places, and events that civilians may never fully understand. Some memories bring laughter. Others bring sadness. And some stay with us for a lifetime.
You’re welcome to share your military experiences, discuss the Vietnam War, or reflect on how former battlefields have changed over the years.
But here’s the rule: Respect the veterans, respect the fallen, and respect the memories of those who were there. Good-natured Marine Corps humor is always welcome, but personal attacks, political mudslinging, and disrespect toward those who never came home are not.
🪖 Bunker Notice
This article is a personal recollection of my service as a United States Marine in Vietnam during 1969, combined with memories of my later career in the travel and golf industries.
The convoy ambush, the death of a Marine I knew only by his nickname, Frenchie, my efforts to administer first aid, and my subsequent medical evacuation are described from my own memories more than half a century later. I never knew Frenchie’s full name.
My wound was superficial and resulted from glass from a truck’s side mirror struck by enemy gunfire. I was treated at China Beach and subsequently returned to duty.
The discussion of Montgomerie Links Vietnam and the Crystal Cruises golf voyage is based on information I encountered years after the war. I have not established that the golf course occupies the precise location of our convoy ambush, nor have I personally visited its sixth hole.
The reasons Crystal Cruises declined my request for a familiarization trip are unknown. Any possible explanations offered in this article are personal speculation, not established facts. This story is offered in remembrance of Frenchie and the Marines who never came home.