We R Not Warmongers

By RC Binns

A young man from the Bronx, becoming board with school and life in the city, begins thinking of entering the military. He ends up in a famous battle, but not before facing many growing pains and experiences. An adventurer at heart, he planned to join the Navy’s elite Underwater Demolition Team (UDT) , then is challenged by a friend saying that the Marines is more of an elite military organization.
Finding that the Marine Corps is an elite branch of the Navy, and also had Reconnaissance Units that did all and more than the Navy’s UDT, he decides to join the Marines and get into a Recon Unit. However, it was not as easy as he thought. He drops out of high school, and attempts to enlist in the Marine Corps, just after his 17th birthday. He then finds out doing that created a problem from the start. His arrogant nature clashes with an interviewing officer and his plans to enter the Corps are delayed. However, encouraged by his recruiting officer, some months later he tries again, and is accepted in the Marine Corps, in March of 1963.
This book describes in detail his journey through Marine Corps boot camp in Parris Island SC, and summarizes a few weeks of Guard Duty, and the month of the basic Infantry Training all Marines must go through before going to their first permanent duty station. After the training, his plan to become part of a Recon Unit does not come as expected, and he finds himself in a regular rifle company.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RC Binns
• Release date: Jun 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311452818

RC Binns

The author currently resides in northern Idaho. He has dedicated more than thirty years researching and writing this book and his forthcoming book: The Price of Glory.

Book preview

We R NOT WARMONGERS

R.C. Binns

Blue Shadow Enterprises

PO Box 872

Bonners Ferry, Idaho 83805

Copyright © 2015 by R.C. Binns

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

R.C. Binns / Blue Shadow Enterprises

P. O. Box 872

Bonners Ferry, ID 83805

Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

We R Not Warmongers / R.C. Binns -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1311452818

Assisted by Christopher H. Tipton

***

This book is in memory of those who gave their all, for the freedom we enjoy, only to be paid with a transitory illusion of glory…

***

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

A Shadow in the Night

Dreams and Marines

The Passing of Time

The Eternal Commitment to the Corps

The Oath of Allegiance to the Service of the Corps

Parris Island - South Carolina: March 1963

One Knife, One Fork, and One Spoon

Real DIs

My Forgetter

Black & White in Living Color

The Rain Dance

The Obstacle Course

This is My Rifle — This is My Gun

The Investigation

Returning to Normal

Boot Camp Mess Duty

Hand-to-Hand Combat & Bayonet Training

Pugil Sticks

The Confidence Course

Flashlights in the Morning

Training Minds & Bodies

General Orders

If You’re Not a Clown

My Cartridge Belt

Feeling Naked

The Regimental Inspection

Five Packs

Animals?

The Rifle Range

The Swimming Test

The Blooming Towel Trick

Qualification Day

Back in Dodge City

Elliott’s Beach

Graduation Day

The Morning I Left PI

Short Guard Duty & ITR Camp Geiger North Carolina

ITR Training Finally Begins

ITR Training Ends

EPILOGUE

The Real Marine Corps

PROLOGUE

The opening italicized segment in this book is from one of the earlier versions of an attempt to write an accurate account of The Battle of Hill 488, which took place on 16 June 1966 in Vietnam. It is only an excerpted segment of the preliminary situation and activities taking place before the actual beginning of the battle. The battle is completely finished in its entirety in my forthcoming book titled, The Price of Glory, illustrated with several era pictures of Vietnam, and photos of all the men who participated in the battle.

***

For me, it all began in my early teens, when deciding what I wanted to do when I grew up... I entered the Marine Corps at the age of 17, and went through Boot Camp in Parris Island, South Carolina, which this book describes in detail. It shows how the training prepared me to live up to the expectations, and traditions of the Marine Corps, and to function as a highly effective warrior, as only Marine Corps training can instill in a young man.

A Shadow in the Night

It was Thursday, 16 June 1966. The time was 0045 (12:45 a.m.). I was sitting on the north slope of Hill # 488, in South Vietnam. It was a warm dark night, and there was no moon. In the clear sky above, the stars shone brightly. It was still and quiet except for the sound of a soft breeze that now and then would ever so gently sweep by, its sound barely audible.

My position on the North Slope of 488 was one of four outposts that guarded the military crest of the hill. There, hidden among some rocks, was the command position of our 18 man Reconnaissance (Recon) platoon. We were the First Platoon of Charley Company, First Reconnaissance Battalion, of the First Marine Division. (`C’ Co. 1st RECON Bn 1st MARDIV).

Our mission on this patrol turned out to be an observation post, observing activity in the valley far below. We were part of a large military operation in effect at the time. The overall tactical plan of the operation that the higher echelons on the battalion and division levels had in mind I knew little about, and cared even less about knowing any more than I needed to know. I had a job to do, which I enjoyed, and orders to follow, which took a long time for me to conform to doing. I was nine months in country and had been wounded once. I was a lance corporal (L.Cpl.), and the squad leader of the platoon’s first squad.

As I was looking down the slope of the hill to my front, out of the darkness, a shadowy figure of a man appeared. He was slowly walking toward me. I wondered if he might be one of the men from another part of the platoon. I knew the whereabouts of the three men of my squad who were with me. As I pondered these thoughts, my hands were already putting my rifle to my shoulder.

***

We had no patrols out as far as I knew. Outside of our platoon, the closest friendly unit was another Recon platoon, positioned far across the valley on another hill, observing the valley from the north. There was no password. No one should have been approaching my area, especially from that direction.

Twice earlier that night we had been cautioned to go on alert. The first time a platoon corpsman came down from the CP (Command Position) and passed the word to me that we were going on 50% alert. The second time he came down he told me that our platoon commander wanted to see me.

Stealthily, the corpsman and I made our way to the CP, among the rocks at the top of the hill. There our platoon sergeant, S.Sgt. Jimmie Earl Howard who was the acting platoon commander on this patrol, told me that there was a large unit of enemy troops moving in our direction. He told me to be sure that everyone stayed awake, and that we were now on 100% alert status.

I wasn’t overly concerned. We had been told to go on 100% alert many times before and nothing much ever happened, but you never knew when things would hit the fan in a combat situation.

S.Sgt. Howard had a way that gave me cause to feel uneasy about the soundness of his tactical reasoning, at times. For quite a while now, since he entered the platoon, taking the position of platoon sergeant, he had relied upon me and had assigned me with higher responsibility, which brought me a meritorious promotion.

Some of the other members of the platoon had voiced concerns about him, but my advice to them was just to follow orders. Though I thought that the alert may have been just another false alarm or an intimidating exaggeration, I followed my own advice and attempted to get my team on full alert.

It had become my habit to stay up at night, when we were out on patrols. I’d catch catnaps during the day if I could. At night, I’d check on the men who were supposed to be awake. During the last few patrols, some of the platoon members were getting lax and were falling asleep while they were on watch. I had told Howard, our platoon sergeant about the problem, and he told me to get them in line.

The shadowy figure still approached slowly as my mind calculated a countless number of things. Quickly I scanned the positions of the three men with me. One was still in a foxhole not far in front of me and slightly to my right, where earlier, when I told him that we were going on 100% alert, he complained of having a cold and disobeyed my order for him to get up. He had put on his poncho and curled up in the hole despite my insistence.

I wasn’t about to raise my voice and argue with him, or physically drag him out of the hole, especially while in the middle of enemy territory at that time of night, and having just been told about the possible approach of a large enemy unit. Whether the information was true or false, I wasn’t taking any chances.

He had coughed and rustled around in his poncho as I was trying to get him up earlier. Before abandoning my efforts, I told him to stay as quiet as he could. That, at least, he did.

The second man was directly to my right, lying on his back, about 20 feet from me. Every time I’d crawl over to him, poking him, telling him to stay awake, he’d say, Ya, I’m awake. Then he’d lie back down soon after I got back to my position. This was the type of behavior that needed to be squared-away but again; I didn’t feel it was the appropriate time for disputing a challenge to my authority. I would keep a mental note of it, planning to address the matter the next day, and or when we got back to our battalion area, so I thought.

The third man was sitting up as he was supposed to have been. He was also to my right, about 40 feet away and a few yards higher on the slope of the hill than my second dozing team member. I was hoping he had seen what I was doing. He looked alert enough. However, it seemed he was oblivious to what was happening.

Thinking back on it, it may have worked out better that he didn’t see the approaching figure. If it was a member of our platoon and he opened fire on him without being sure of who it was, if it wasn’t an enemy it would have been a tragic mistake... I thought of Bones, the machine gunner who opened fire at what he thought were enemy troops infiltrating our lines on a dark night, when I was back in 2nd Bn 9th Marines (2-9), and what happened then.

If it was an enemy, and any one of us fired at him and missed, they would have had one up on us, not to mention the waste of ammo.

Now, my rifle in my shoulder, my eyes watching the figure close toward me, the sights of the weapon centered on its mass, approximately 20 yards from me. Just a step or two more would bring him close enough to know who he was. He would also be crossing the line that would put him inside of my outpost perimeter, by passing the flank of the foxhole where my first team member was sleeping soundly, wrapped snugly in his poncho...

***

Those were the events that preceded the beginning of the Battle of Hill 488, and brought me to be a member of what would become known as … the highest decorated unit for its size in the history of the United States military services, during combat action.

The following pages will tell you more about myself, my boot camp experiences, and how the events of life brought me to a hill on the other side of the world, aiming an M-14 rifle in the dead of night, at a man whose identity I wasn’t sure of. To tell it, I must take you back to a different time and place.

CHAPTER ONE

Dreams and Marines

In the summer of 1960, on a rooftop skylight of a five story building, in the Bronx of New York City, two boys, both about 14 years old lay on either side of the skylight watching the clouds change shape, imagining what images they resembled. They had tied the string of a kite to a TV antenna, and as boys of that age often do, were talking of their plans for the future.

One of the boys was blue eyed, with reddish brown hair and freckles, but he was somewhat pale and gaunt. He was from the southern part of the United States, and often smelled a bit rank from having to sleep in the same bed with his brother on sheets that were constantly wet as they slept. No one ever knew who the culprit was; each would always blame the other.

The other boy had brown eyes with dark brown wavy hair. His healthy olive complexion, rosy cheeks, and clean appearance made it obvious he was cared for more than his sallow looking companion. He was very crossbred, but a native New Yorker born in the Bronx. His parents had immigrated to the United States from the island of Jamaica, which was at the time, one of the British West Indies islands.

His racial identification was somewhat confusing to most people. He tanned dark in the summer, and was usually thought to be Latin, but he spoke English well. He was brave, well featured, and groomed; though cursed with a touch of arrogance and pride, he was an honest boy with high moral standards, which made him naive to some things, but gained him respect.

I don’t want to get married until I’m at least 28, the dark-eyed boy said to his friend.

I aim ta have a mess o’ kids by then, the fair-haired boy answered, with a catty smile on his face.

How are you going to support a ‘mess of kids’? His friend asked.

I’m gonna be rich! he said, as if it were a matter of fact.

I’m going to be rich, too – I think I’ll go to college and become a lawyer or an architect after I go to the service, the dark-eyed boy replied.

What service ya goin’a?

Oh, I think I’ll join the Navy and get into the UDT. They’re the toughest.

Nooo, they’re not! The Marines is the toughest!

But my cousin’s in the Navy and he said that he tried out for the UDT and he didn’t make it because he got a nose bleed when he was diving down deep in one of those training tanks. He said, the Underwater Demolition Team it’s the toughest, and my cousin’s pretty tough, said the dark-eyed boy.

No they ain’t! the other boy answered, The Marines is the toughest! My dad was in the Army Airborne, and he says the Marines gotta be the toughest ‘cause they always hafta go in first. The toughest outfit there is! Ya can ask him if ya want, he’ll tell ya the Marines is the toughest. I’ll bet ya a whole dolla’. Wanna bet? he asked, as he donned his sly, catty smile again.

The dark-eyed boy would usually win most of their bets but would rarely get paid. He watched his friend’s blue eyes opened wide with conviction as he spoke about the Marines, so he was cautious about betting on this argument.

I’ll tell you what, he said, Give me 24 hours to research it, and if I think you’re still wrong, we’ll bet. Okay?

OK! That’s a deal. But you’re gonna lose if ya bet… Yu’ll see.

It was getting close to suppertime and the boys were hungry after putting in an active day of play. They brought in the kite and began to climb down from the skylight, which was above the stairwell of a five-story building. They were cautious in their movements, because climbing down required hanging at arms distance from the edge of the skylight and just touching their toes to the wall that surrounded the roof below, taking care to jump onto the tarpaper floor of the roof rather than over the side. It was a five-story drop to the cement below. They were also looking out for the older boys that would always chase them, not wanting to give away one of their hiding places.

They had eluded many chases by climbing to that skylight and laying down flat. From there, they watched as the older boys bombarded the streets below with balloons filled with water. It was a good place to hide. Flying the kite from there was taking a chance, but they both thought that they could get away with it without being detected because the older boys were playing a game at the ball field by the river, more than a mile away. The two had been there earlier, taunting the older boys to chase them. They knew full well that the older boys would not leave the ball game for one of the all day war games that would go on from time to time.

Is your dad home? The dark-eyed boy asked.

I guess, he might? Ya want ta ask ‘im about the Marines?

Yeah.

His dad was a tall, large-boned man with a large head. He had a small nose for his face, and when he would get mad at the boys, he would make a distinctive sound as he inhaled before yelling. For this reason, the boys nicknamed him The Breather.

The Breather had long, straight brown hair, combed back on the sides and parted on the left with a pompadour in front, very typical of the southern style of the time. He was born in Copperhill, Tennessee. He always wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie. He was a mortician by trade.

He had a large collection of Country and Western and Hillbilly music and he was what could be called a passive racist. He used the words nigger, spick, and hebe frequently but did not seem a violent or ignorant man. In fact, he was very knowledgeable and had somewhat of an introverted personality. He was a member of the Masonic Lodge, but it seemed his greatest love was his down-home music. He would never miss an annual Grand Ol’ Opry gathering.

As the boys came into the apartment, which was in the same building they’d just been atop of but down on the second floor, the Breather was in the living room. He was playing records and his guitar was out of its case, leaning against the sofa. His jacket was off and his tie loosened as he sat toying with a five-string banjo he had just bought.

On the table next to the couch was an open bottle of bourbon, some kind of mixer and a half-full glass.

Hey, Poppy, my friend wants ta ask ya somethin’.

The Breather paused for a moment, taking one of his famous breaths, then said in a stern southern drawl, Why didn’t ya do ya chores taday?

It’s not my turn ta do da chores ta’day, the boy replied, almost whining. He went on to say it was his brother’s turn to clean the room, and take the garbage down.

The dark-eyed boy stayed quiet. He was used to the on-going dispute between his friend and his father. That often ended with him having to leave by request. Sometimes he’d be prompted to make a quicker exit when the belt would appear.

I don’t care whose turn it is! Go clean up ya room! It stinks like a damned barn! said the Breather, showing a hint of irritation marked by the vivid flushing of his face.

OK, Poppy, but he thinks the Marines ain’t the toughest! his son said slyly, with almost malevolent tact.

The man’s mood changed quickly, as his son had the knack of doing to him often. Surely, this was one of the main reasons for the room never being cleaned.

Calmly, he went back to tuning the strings of his new banjo.

The Marine Corps is the best fightin’ outfit in the world, he said with a reflective tone in his voice.

Ya see, I tol’ ya! Ya still wanna bet a dolla’ huh?

I got 24 hours, remember?

Ya ain’t gonna bet. I’ll bet you a dolla’ ya don’ bet.

These were the kind of word games and tricks the boys would use in their consistent betting. Mostly by the dark-eyed boy, who might have made a shrewd lawyer because of his keen memory of exactly what was said.

The Breather had a