• A green star cluster—a pen-sized device that shot up colored fireworks—meant that a patrol was coming in. A red star cluster signaled an enemy ground attack.
• Take one white malaria pill every day, and the big red one on Sunday.
• Take your salt pills four times a day.
• Don’t aim the tank’s main gun over the driver’s head. In case your tank hits a mine, he won’t split his head open on the gun tube.
• When you hear a flare pop in the night sky, cover one eye. That way, you can retain night vision in the other eye.
• Never use the word “repeat” over the radio. It’s an artillery term that means “Keep firing until told to stop.” Rumor had it an entire company had been wiped out by someone’s misuse of the word over the radio. Supposedly, the unit moved into an area that had just been heavily shelled by artillery. A radio operator with the grunts was having trouble understanding a garbled message and said, “Repeat your last.”
Unfortunately, the artillery unit that had just done the fire mission was monitoring the same channel. What they heard was a request to repeat their fire mission. We all doubted the story, but we never used “repeat.”
• Before inserting your rifle magazine into your weapon, tap it against your helmet, so that the bullets don’t jam as they feed into the rifle.
• The first P-38 can opener you find, attach it to the chain with the dog tag around your neck. A P-38 was the only tool that could open a can of C rations.
• Never go on a night ambush with a canteen not filled to the very brim. Anything less than full would slosh and make noise.
• Before starting the tank’s engine, shut off all radios to avoid blowing their fuses.
• Before shutting down the tank, turn off the radios—for the same reason.
• If the enemy is close by and you can’t talk over the radio, one click of the radio’s handset means “Yes” and two clicks, “No.”
• Tape down the spoon on every grenade in the tank, in case a pin should rattle loose and set one off.
• Keep more tension on the tank’s track than in the States to discourage it from coming off.
And so on, ad infinitum. There was so much to remember and so little time in which to learn it, that—especially if you were a grunt—you only hoped you got it all before it got you.
DURING LONG OPERATIONS, Marine grunts were beasts of burden, inhumanely loaded down with equipment either in, or on, their 782 gear. The Marine Corps called its antiquated ex-Army packs 782 gear; it was used to hump a grunt’s basic living essentials into the field. Nonessential items were limited to what you were willing to carry in the hundred-plus-degree heat. Needless to say, personal effects were kept to a minimum.
On extended operations, packs usually contained extra pairs of socks, two or three meals of C rats, an extra canteen of water, salt pills, and a few personal items such as a toothbrush and maybe a razor, depending on how strict your CO was. Troops shaving in the field was a sign of a unit with discipline.
I remember thinking that shaving in the field was an officer trying to impress his superiors by demonstrating his authority at the expense of his men and their morale. Every man bitched about keeping his chin clean, but today I can appreciate the method behind the madness. Something as mundane and senseless as shaving provides a traditional reminder of the normal world. It helps maintain discipline in the midst of insanity. More importantly, it instills pride and self-respect.
Every grunt’s pack contained the last letter from home, along with a spare bottle of “bug juice.” All Army and Marine grunts wore their primary bottle of insect repellent on their helmets, held in place by a thick black rubber band.
It was also common practice to secure the plastic poncho to the outside of the backpack to make room for extra C rats, Claymore mines, and trip flares to be hauled out each evening to set up night defensive positions in the boonies. The poncho not only kept the rain off, but doubled as a makeshift stretcher, with a Marine at each corner to carry its owner to the rear—and hopefully to medical attention. Its last job was to act as a body bag, a drape to cover the dead in the field. Contrary to Hollywood, regular body bags were used only in the rear areas; they were never brought to the field.
Attached to the pack was an entrenching tool used to dig foxholes, although not everyone carried one. The infantry carried other items too, in a collaborative group effort toward their mutual survival. You could see some men hauling a couple of 81mm mortar rounds, while others carried extra belts of machine gun ammunition. Both mortars and machine guns devoured large quantities of ammo, and when the shit hit the fan, running out of ammo could spell instant extinction. So everyone carried as much ammo as he could.
Hung on the packs’ shoulder straps were other items such as flashlights, hand grenades, and usually a knife unique to Marines called a Ka-Bar. Officers and senior NCOs also had a compass and map case hanging from their belts.
No matter what his job, every man wore around his waist a web belt, attached to the shoulder straps on his backpack, which helped defer some of the weight. Like the pack, the belt was loaded down with several items—always at least two canteens of water, sometimes three or four. There was also a medical kit and possibly, but not usually, a gas mask. Under the pack, everyone wore the ten-pound flak jacket that was mandatory in the field. Each grunt wore a heavy steel helmet on his head, plus an inner helmet liner. To top it all off, each rifleman had to carry at least two bandoleers full of loaded M16 magazines slung over his head and shoulders. Along with this enormous load, a few men needed to carry a couple of Light Antitank Assault Weapons (LAAWs) that were effective against enemy bunkers. A total load of eighty pounds was commonplace, but many were often far heavier.
Some men, such as the M60 machine gunner and radioman, carried even greater loads. The radio was a heavy, back-mounted box with a large appetite for batteries; extras always had to be humped into the field. The machine gunner had to be part pack mule to carry all of his gear, ammo, and the bulky weapon. To make their plight even worse, radiomen and machine gunners sustained the highest casualty rates. Due to their effectiveness, they were the NVA’s first targets. After the opening shot in a firefight, their life expectancy was purported to be eight seconds. That high casualty rate was no surprise because they were so easy to locate. The radioman had an antenna sticking up from his back like a neon sign screaming, “Here I am! And the guy next to me is the commanding officer!” The machine gunner was slightly more fortunate. He didn’t draw attention to himself until his gun opened fire—at which moment, the M60’s distinctive sound and rate of fire instantly revealed its location. Unlike the little 5.56mm (.223-caliber) rifle bullet that the M16 used, the M60 was the only weapon on the battlefield that fired the heavier 7.62mm (.308-caliber), which had tremendous penetrating capability and wasn’t deflected by grass or light obstacles. When an M-60 opened fire, the enemy would immediately direct all their fire at the indispensably deadly weapon.
Grunts were the centerpiece of any Marine operation. They certainly had every tanker’s respect, and we thanked God for not being assigned as one. Odd as it seemed, every grunt I ever talked to was glad not to be in tanks!
The heart of the Marine Corps philosophy was that we were all infantrymen, first and foremost. Anything else we did was a secondary job, and all other jobs existed only to support the infantry. That meant that all pieces of heavy equipment, from tanks to jet fighters, were referred to as “supporting arms.”
The marriage between tanks and grunts was essential, yet often difficult—a real yin-yang relationship. We needed them to provide us with close-in protection, and they needed us bulletproof tankers for our ability to take on a dug-in enemy. Grunts either hated us or loved us, depending upon the moment. Often they begrudgingly tolerated our presence. Seeing us as a magnet for enemy fire, they naturally wanted to distance themselves from us or get directly behind us. The tank commander had to know where the grunts were at all times. If he let them get too far away, his tank would be exposed to enemy RPG teams. We also depended on the grunts to keep Charlie from overrunning us and getting on top of a tank. If they did, the crew’s life expectancy could be quickly curtailed, because the enemy needed only to lob a grenade down an open hatch.