(continuation of previous post)

I boarded the bus in my sodden clothing and sat thinking about how it started raining on New Year's Day, 1967, and continued until February 26th. I remember the bone-wrenching fatigue as we desperately coped with nature and the North Vietnamese. To this day, it is an amazement to me that we could put men in space, but couldn't get A-rations to South Viet Nam's I Corps.

All of the troops on watch in the darkest hours struggled to stay awake. Some straightened safety pins and taped them to the muzzles of their rifles. They placed the muzzle under their chins, and when they nodded, the pin pricking their chin woke them. Others slapped their own faces viciously to keep themselves alert. Still others extended their arms skyward and left them there until the blood drained. When they lowered their arms, the pain from the recirculating blood entering their arms successfully drove off sleep. I chewed tobacco while on watch so the heartburn would keep me awake. We all feared death, but to be dead and missing or, worse yet, to be maimed for life and nonfunctional were the great horrors.

I wish all the armchair generals who have never heard a shot fired in anger could have seen the new guy who struggled for life and identity. The fight was over, and we were evacuating casualties. A Marine had suffered a head wound that had robbed him of the ability to speak. He didn't have his dog tags. The corpsman had put an evac tag on him and expressed concern because he didn't know the Marine's name. The wounded man rolled onto his side and wrote his name in the dirt with his finger, as we watched in stunned silence.

In 1965 the Marines, as always, came to fight. My tour in Viet Nam was near the beginning of America's involvement in the War. When I joined the battalion in 1966, I saw no drug problems, no racial strife and no support for the 'hippie dope fiend, communist perverts' protesting at home. The Marines I served with ate and drank together, chased women together, and fought and died together. The greatest feat of accomplishment in battle is to make fear work for you and not against you. Fear that overwhelms you might cause you to let your buddies down. You had to be confident that when the carnage began, your buddy was standing tall with you, and when it ended...he would still be there.

We lived, fought and died by a code that to my perceptions is seldom embraced in civilian climes. It is a given that the bonds forged in the crucible of combat are enduring and impervious to the erosion of time. Some say the reunions of Veterans are nothing more than attempts to regain their youth. I think all of us who served 3rd Btln. know we left our youth in Quang Tri Province, as did our fathers on the shores of Iwo Jima. I'll never regain my youth, but I can enjoy the ties that bind our hearts together by meeting, reminiscing and kindling anew the fond memories of our buddies who have crossed the river. We still listen with great respect to our colonels and stand in awe of our sergeants' major.

Finally, the bus was full. On the way back, we again shared our memories of who died where and how. As we reminisced, I recalled with great feeling the memorial service we had following our reunion in Florida.

The colonel stood at the podium after the prayers and began to speak as the last strains of 'Amazing Grace' faded from the bagpipes. His back was to the Atlantic Ocean as he spoke of our dead. He said, "They're behind me now, standing in three ranks at attention."

I saw them, still wearing the rags they'd died in. Their helmets were on and the chinstraps fastened. The rifle belts and suspender straps looked just right, and the rifles were at sling arms. I looked closer and saw the platoon corpsman beckon to me. He said, "Come on, Jarhead. Liberty goes most ricky-tick." The architect was standing by him and gave me a thumbs-ups. The insurance agent called to me, "Yeah, come on, Sarge...no room for stragglers in the Corps."

And I thought, "Hold what you got. Gimme some slack. I love ya'll. I'm coming."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Postscript: Mr. Lowrie was also a Texas peace officer. He wrote numerous short stories, a play, and a novel. He served in the Corps from 1962 to 1968, and won the Bronze Star Medal with combat 'V.' He passed away in 2013.

(continuation of previous post)

I boarded the bus in my sodden clothing and sat thinking about how it started raining on New Year's Day, 1967, and continued until February 26th. I remember the bone-wrenching fatigue as we desperately coped with nature and the North Vietnamese. To this day, it is an amazement to me that we could put men in space, but couldn't get A-rations to South Viet Nam's I Corps.

All of the troops on watch in the darkest hours struggled to stay awake. Some straightened safety pins and taped them to the muzzles of their rifles. They placed the muzzle under their chins, and when they nodded, the pin pricking their chin woke them. Others slapped their own faces viciously to keep themselves alert. Still others extended their arms skyward and left them there until the blood drained. When they lowered their arms, the pain from the recirculating blood entering their arms successfully drove off sleep. I chewed tobacco while on watch so the heartburn would keep me awake. We all feared death, but to be dead and missing or, worse yet, to be maimed for life and nonfunctional were the great horrors.

I wish all the armchair generals who have never heard a shot fired in anger could have seen the new guy who struggled for life and identity. The fight was over, and we were evacuating casualties. A Marine had suffered a head wound that had robbed him of the ability to speak. He didn't have his dog tags. The corpsman had put an evac tag on him and expressed concern because he didn't know the Marine's name. The wounded man rolled onto his side and wrote his name in the dirt with his finger, as we watched in stunned silence.

In 1965 the Marines, as always, came to fight. My tour in Viet Nam was near the beginning of America's involvement in the War. When I joined the battalion in 1966, I saw no drug problems, no racial strife and no support for the 'hippie dope fiend, communist perverts' protesting at home. The Marines I served with ate and drank together, chased women together, and fought and died together. The greatest feat of accomplishment in battle is to make fear work for you and not against you. Fear that overwhelms you might cause you to let your buddies down. You had to be confident that when the carnage began, your buddy was standing tall with you, and when it ended...he would still be there.

We lived, fought and died by a code that to my perceptions is seldom embraced in civilian climes. It is a given that the bonds forged in the crucible of combat are enduring and impervious to the erosion of time. Some say the reunions of Veterans are nothing more than attempts to regain their youth. I think all of us who served 3rd Btln. know we left our youth in Quang Tri Province, as did our fathers on the shores of Iwo Jima. I'll never regain my youth, but I can enjoy the ties that bind our hearts together by meeting, reminiscing and kindling anew the fond memories of our buddies who have crossed the river. We still listen with great respect to our colonels and stand in awe of our sergeants' major.

Finally, the bus was full. On the way back, we again shared our memories of who died where and how. As we reminisced, I recalled with great feeling the memorial service we had following our reunion in Florida.

The colonel stood at the podium after the prayers and began to speak as the last strains of 'Amazing Grace' faded from the bagpipes. His back was to the Atlantic Ocean as he spoke of our dead. He said, "They're behind me now, standing in three ranks at attention."

I saw them, still wearing the rags they'd died in. Their helmets were on and the chinstraps fastened. The rifle belts and suspender straps looked just right, and the rifles were at sling arms. I looked closer and saw the platoon corpsman beckon to me. He said, "Come on, Jarhead. Liberty goes most ricky-tick." The architect was standing by him and gave me a thumbs-ups. The insurance agent called to me, "Yeah, come on, Sarge...no room for stragglers in the Corps."

And I thought, "Hold what you got. Gimme some slack. I love ya'll. I'm coming."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Postscript: Mr. Lowrie was also a Texas peace officer. He wrote numerous short stories, a play, and a novel. He served in the Corps from 1962 to 1968, and won the Bronze Star Medal with combat 'V.' He passed away in 2013.

(continuation of previous post)

I boarded the bus in my sodden clothing and sat thinking about how it started raining on New Year's Day, 1967, and continued until February 26th. I remember the bone-wrenching fatigue as we desperately coped with nature and the North Vietnamese. To this day, it is an amazement to me that we could put men in space, but couldn't get A-rations to South Viet Nam's I Corps.

All of the troops on watch in the darkest hours struggled to stay awake. Some straightened safety pins and taped them to the muzzles of their rifles. They placed the muzzle under their chins, and when they nodded, the pin pricking their chin woke them. Others slapped their own faces viciously to keep themselves alert. Still others extended their arms skyward and left them there until the blood drained. When they lowered their arms, the pain from the recirculating blood entering their arms successfully drove off sleep. I chewed tobacco while on watch so the heartburn would keep me awake. We all feared death, but to be dead and missing or, worse yet, to be maimed for life and nonfunctional were the great horrors.

I wish all the armchair generals who have never heard a shot fired in anger could have seen the new guy who struggled for life and identity. The fight was over, and we were evacuating casualties. A Marine had suffered a head wound that had robbed him of the ability to speak. He didn't have his dog tags. The corpsman had put an evac tag on him and expressed concern because he didn't know the Marine's name. The wounded man rolled onto his side and wrote his name in the dirt with his finger, as we watched in stunned silence.

In 1965 the Marines, as always, came to fight. My tour in Viet Nam was near the beginning of America's involvement in the War. When I joined the battalion in 1966, I saw no drug problems, no racial strife and no support for the 'hippie dope fiend, communist perverts' protesting at home. The Marines I served with ate and drank together, chased women together, and fought and died together. The greatest feat of accomplishment in battle is to make fear work for you and not against you. Fear that overwhelms you might cause you to let your buddies down. You had to be confident that when the carnage began, your buddy was standing tall with you, and when it ended...he would still be there.

We lived, fought and died by a code that to my perceptions is seldom embraced in civilian climes. It is a given that the bonds forged in the crucible of combat are enduring and impervious to the erosion of time. Some say the reunions of Veterans are nothing more than attempts to regain their youth. I think all of us who served 3rd Btln. know we left our youth in Quang Tri Province, as did our fathers on the shores of Iwo Jima. I'll never regain my youth, but I can enjoy the ties that bind our hearts together by meeting, reminiscing and kindling anew the fond memories of our buddies who have crossed the river. We still listen with great respect to our colonels and stand in awe of our sergeants' major.

Finally, the bus was full. On the way back, we again shared our memories of who died where and how. As we reminisced, I recalled with great feeling the memorial service we had following our reunion in Florida.

The colonel stood at the podium after the prayers and began to speak as the last strains of 'Amazing Grace' faded from the bagpipes. His back was to the Atlantic Ocean as he spoke of our dead. He said, "They're behind me now, standing in three ranks at attention."

I saw them, still wearing the rags they'd died in. Their helmets were on and the chinstraps fastened. The rifle belts and suspender straps looked just right, and the rifles were at sling arms. I looked closer and saw the platoon corpsman beckon to me. He said, "Come on, Jarhead. Liberty goes most ricky-tick." The architect was standing by him and gave me a thumbs-ups. The insurance agent called to me, "Yeah, come on, Sarge...no room for stragglers in the Corps."

And I thought, "Hold what you got. Gimme some slack. I love ya'll. I'm coming."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Postscript: Mr. Lowrie was also a Texas peace officer. He wrote numerous short stories, a play, and a novel. He served in the Corps from 1962 to 1968, and won the Bronze Star Medal with combat 'V.' He passed away in 2013.