We Were Brothers

By Dane Hoover

After a tour in combat duty, followed by an emotional homecoming that forced him back into the South Pacific, a Marine staff sergeant found himself caught for five days and five nights in Vietnam just before the fall of Saigon.

The United States was finally healing from the tragedy of the previous 10 years and had to stay on that course at all costs. Propaganda was prevalent in the days before the embedded journalists of todays wars. Cover-ups came easier for the most powerful government on Earth.

Would this Marine become a statistic or a survivor? Share in his adventure and feel his emotions as he relives his tours as a combatant through his homecoming and getting caught up in a backfired plot to help two officers enhance their careers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462849857

Dane Hoover

DANE HOOVER was born in New York City in February 1950. During his lifetime he spent 30 years working in 78 different countries, and has lived in 20 countries. He’s a former US Marine and GE field service engineer. He is currently living in Rock Hill, South Carolina.

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Copyright © 2011 by Dane Hoover.

Library of Congress Control Number:  2011912848

ISBN:         Hardcover                           978-1-4653-4025-2

                   Softcover                             978-1-4653-4024-5

                   Ebook                                  978-1-4628-4985-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

Big Frank

CHAPTER TWO

Olongapo City

CHAPTER THREE

The Gym

CHAPTER FOUR

Morning: Day 1

CHAPTER FIVE

Afternoon: Day 1

CHAPTER SIX

Evening: Day 1

CHAPTER SEVEN

Morning: Day 2

CHAPTER EIGHT

Evening: Day 2

CHAPTER NINE

Morning: Day 3

CHAPTER TEN

Evening: Day 3

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Morning: Day 4

CHAPTER TWELVE

Evening: Day 4

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Morning: Day 5

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Osan, Korea

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my dear friends, Tim and Sharon Maas, who have pushed me to complete it. Their faith in me has been a driving force, and I thank them profusely.

Also dedicated to my loving daughter, Theresa, who is my oldest child, my friend, and even my business partner.

And to Janice, the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.

I love you all, guys.

CHAPTER ONE

Big Frank

Beetle! yelled the voice from the walkway to the headquarters building at the Marine Amphibious Unit (MAU) Camp at Cubi Point.

Cubi Point is the naval air station that is attached to the naval base and the ship repair facility at Subic Bay, Philippines. The MAU Camp is as far away from the navy side as is possible on the base. Marines and sailors wage war terrifically together but rarely get along in times of peace.

The marine helicopter squadrons that are assigned to the base are kept at the end of the runway close to the MAU Camp. This is so the marines could walk to and from work and hopefully keep as much space between them and the navy personnel as was possible.

The navy personnel permanently assigned to the base have families; the marines assigned are single and spend most of their time in the town of Olongapo City, right outside the gate. Also known as Dodge City to all service members because of the martial law that was in effect and the heavily armed provincial police and Philippine military that walked the streets before, during, and after the midnight to 5:00 a.m. curfew.

That’s Lieutenant Bailey to you, Beetle said as he spun to face the voice after walking down the building steps.

James Earl Bailey III, up from the ranks of enlisted to sergeant, selected as a warrant officer on the first try, and then promoted to first lieutenant a year later, came from a well-to-do Boston family. He never wanted to be in the military in the first place. Unfortunately, due to his heavy drinking, drugs, and taking the free love movement to heart, he was thrown out of Harvard at twenty years old in the beginning of his second year. Many schools turned a blind eye, but Harvard was a different story. His father’s money was deep and old but could only protect him from the outside forces, not from himself.

James Earl Bailey III, during a Boston weekend, partied hard and, still in a drunken state, signed with a marine recruiter on a Monday morning and was in Parris Island, South Carolina, before he knew what happened. Almost immediately from the moment he arrived in boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina, he was named Beetle by his drill instructor. It has stuck ever since.

Beetle knew in his heart that he joined the Marine Corps just to spite his father, but it ended up being him that paid the price. After all, if he had joined the army, his father could have pulled enough strings to keep him out of Vietnam, but in the marines, and in the late 1960s, that was impossible.

And that’s Staff Sergeant Howe to you, sir came the voice from the walkway.

The two men came together face-to-face; Staff Sergeant Howe snapped his heals together in the rigid position of attention and then smartly saluted the lieutenant as only a marine could do. Other services threw salutes as if it was just saying hey, but not the marines; even if there was no audience, tradition always won. Holding his salute and waiting for the return, their faces were six inches apart now, and no hint of recognition was possible between the two men and their stern faces. Lieutenant Bailey hesitated slightly, making Howe hold the salute longer than was customary, and then came sharply to attention and returned the salute. Both men snapped their arms back to their sides simultaneously.

Beetle, what the fuck are you doing here? I figured you’d be a goddamned lawyer or something, sipping tea in Boston, Howe said as he threw a bear hug around the lieutenant.

Staff Sergeant Howe is a man about five feet eleven, with blond hair and good shape, and could have been a poster child for the Marine Corps. Although he was only twenty-four years old, his eyes told a story of much more than the average man of his age. In America, people of his age that had been able to avoid the military had the appearance in their eyes of almost being sleepy or squinting. Many from all the marijuana smoke that kept drifting in their faces. Howe’s eyes were different. Alive and aware, but aged way beyond the rest of his face. His face was rough from the sun that he obviously spent time in, but that could have happened on a beach somewhere. It was his eyes that told you he’d done more than a man of his age.

His two tours of duty in Vietnam had made him a man when most his age were just experiencing their first beer or marijuana cigarette. He was eighteen and joined the corps and only nineteen when arriving in Vietnam for the first time. He remembers being excited the day he arrived; after all, his father and all his uncles were World War II or Korean veterans, and he listened to their stories all his young life. He played war from the time he was able to walk. Never a Christmas or birthday passed without getting a toy gun. At fourteen, he hunted with older friends in the woods of New Hampshire and killed his first deer at fifteen.

But there he was at Tan Son Nhut Airport, in Saigon, Vietnam. They ushered over to the side the fresh troops arriving and half loaded the aircraft they departed from with silver boxes, and then went the live men that had sullen faces. They too told a story with their eyes.

Nobody laughed at the fresh people that were arriving in the country. Nobody said a word. They barely even looked at them, as if they didn’t want to see their faces. They marched onto the plane and sat with their heads hung low. None of them looked like the teenagers and young men that they really were. They looked like and now were all old men in young men’s bodies. Men that had shared something that nobody will ever understand unless they had been there. Probably like how their fathers looked as they boarded ships to come home. Their fathers would have the luxury of going from combat zone to a ship to take them back to the good old United States. The trek would take thirty to forty-five days, which allowed an adjustment time. These poor young men would have a fourteen-hour flight and arrive back in civilization, allowing for no adjustment from getting shot at to Pass the butter, please.

And if you looked at the new group, they were kids, and now they were scared kids. Were their fathers scared like this once? They didn’t think that would be possible. But the eyes were not the same for the people getting on the plane as for those that got off. Their ages were similar, but that was the only common thing between these marines.

At that time, a private first class (PFC), Dan Howe, had asked what was in the boxes. An air force sergeant in charge of loading the aircraft laughed as he informed him that those were the cheap seats for the ride home. And half of you assholes will probably end up the same way. Fucking marines, you think you’re invincible, but guess what. So did those marines, he said, pointing at the boxes.

An hour later, these young boys were on helicopters heading north to the base where these boxes were just shipped from. North, that’s where marines went to meet Charlie on a daily basis. Remembering what the drill instructor had told them, Every marine is a rifleman first and a specialist second. There were no behind-the-lines jobs for most marines.

It pissed my father off so much that I joined in the first place. I thought I’d make a career of it, said Beetle.

Which career? Pissing your father off or the crotch? retorted Howe. (From one marine to another, you could call it the crotch, but God helps anyone else that referred to the United States Marine Corps as the crotch.)

Hey, the fucking crotch is the only family I got now, said Beetle. It’s my mother and my father.

And your whore also since it enjoys fucking the shit out of you every day! Howe said, smiling broadly. What are you doing with that shit on your collars?

Well, I have to tell you, if you are going to make a career of the corps, it’s a hell of a lot nicer as an officer than enlisted. Now that I’ve been on both sides, the food is better over here. Besides, remember, I did do one year in Harvard, and after that, Officers Candidate School was a piece of cake, said Beetle.

I thought after Nam you would have had enough of the crotch. Let’s face it, you made a living there getting out of danger. How much did it cost you over the thirteen months to buy people to volunteer for you not to have to leave the shop? asked Howe.

Fuck, whatever it cost was worth every cent. I didn’t go home in a box. Besides, it was my father’s money. We didn’t make enough to pay for our house mouse, remember? I have always admitted that I was a coward, and I guess that’s why they made me an officer. I would rather order people to go get the shit blown out of them than have it happen to me. Besides, Vietnam is over for us. There are going to be no more wars for the next thirteen years, and I will retire and tell my grandkids that I was a hero. I just won’t ever introduce them to assholes like you, so you can tell them the truth, said Beetle.

If you think for one second that Ford won’t send us back when the shit hits the fan, you’re crazy. We didn’t lose over fifty thousand people for nothing. And now that you’re back in WESTPAC [Western Pacific Command], you’ll be the first one in, snapped Howe.

Ford is not Johnson or Nixon. Those bastards had balls. Ford is a politician and knows that he wants to go down in history as something else besides another president that sent America’s youth to their death. It will take at least thirteen years for the nation to recover from Vietnam. That’s all I need to retirement. Hell, we’ve barely recovered from the damage we did to ourselves in the US over the past ten years. Detroit still has whole blocks that are rubble. I mean, this is 1974 after all, almost 1975. If they had plans to go back, they would not have changed to an all-volunteer military. We are done sticking our noses into areas that we don’t belong. Besides, I’m not here in WESTPAC for very long, just a short stay. Are you going in to see Big Frank? asked Beetle.

Yeah, he called me from the line. I’m now the noncommissioned officer in charge of the flight line at HMM-164 over on the ramp. We got a few good guys. Most of them are vets, but many of them are still green behind the ears when it comes to helicopters. So much for your all-volunteer military. All we get now are guys that can’t get a job in the real world. Thank God for these few vets that are still hanging around to help ship these guys into shape. What’s your job now that you’re an officer? asked Howe.

Intelligence. Kind of an oxymoron, military intelligence. Beetle laughed.

Intelligence? What brings you here to the Philippines then? Is this little uprising here between the islands bigger than we thought? asked Howe with a concerned look on his face.

You’re on your way in to see Big Frank. You’ll find out all about it. Until you see him and sign a few forms, I can’t talk to you about it. But as you know, if I’m involved, it will be a piece of cake. I hope you’ll consider it anyway. I was the one that asked for you after I found out you were still in WESTPAC. What the fuck are you still doing here anyway? Haven’t you had enough rice for a lifetime? asked Beetle.

Had a bad experience when I returned and feel more at home over here, said Howe.

You’re fucking weird. Most of us had our bad experiences over in this part of the world, not back there. We all had trouble fitting in after our paid vacation in Nam. Six thousand six hundred cold beers, fifty-five trillion dead brain cells, and I was right back to normal again. Hey, I heard about Cass. I guess it happened about a week after I left. Sorry about that, I know how close you two were. I guess if I would have still been there, I couldn’t have paid anyone to take my place, from what I understand. I would have had to finally face the music like everyone else. What the fuck did he have left? Ten days? I always said if I was going to get it, do it early, don’t make me live in hell for almost a year and then send me there permanently. Beetle sighed.

Thanks, Cass was special. New York lost a good son that day. Yeah, it was ten days. I think about him often, Howe said, dropping his head.

How about a beer tonight in his honor? What’s your hangout nowadays? asked Beetle.

Brother’s Inn. It’s around the corner from the bridge. Just before the jungle on the left-hand side, said Howe with a smile creeping back on his face.

In Olongapo City, there were still divided areas in 1974. It was broken into three areas: the white bars, the black bars, and a small stretch that allowed both. The white section was the main strip that came right out of the base and across the river and turned into Magsaysay Street. The river to, all Americans, was known as Shit River. It was well known that all the sewage of the city dumped right into the river. If an American fell into the river, it would require about thirty shots for a hope of recovery from all the diseases that would befall him.

On the river were small boats that were all around the bridge. They were full of small boys and usually one well-dressed, attractive girl. They would yell at the marines and sailors as they crossed the bridge for coins, which would be tossed, of course, close but not at the boats. The young boys would then be forced to dive into this dark brown river and try to catch the coins before they hit the bottom.

Across this bridge and on that stretch of about one and a half miles was the white section, where there were over five thousand establishments, of which 85 percent were bars. The rest were small, dirty restaurants, pawnshops, and trinket shops. And of course, each bar had women, lots of women, who were assigned to the bar. All could be had for a small fee and negotiation with the bar mama-san. Depending on how recognizable you were with the mama-san, the cost varied. If she recognized you, then you were a regular to her bar.

Each of these bars had names that would attract the American white man. Each bar had a full-fledged band in it regardless of its size. There were no jukeboxes in the Philippines. Electricity came and went with daily power outages. None of them could afford to take a chance on losing customers just because there was no power. And every Filipino could sing. A seventy-eight-pound young woman could sound just like the well-endowed hundred-fifty-pound Dolly Parton. Close your eyes and you couldn’t tell the difference. Except for the smell, the constant 100 percent humidity, and day or night hundred-degree heat. Beer, San Miguel, was kept on blocks of ice in all the bars. Guys on bicycles delivered ice by the hour.

The black section was called the Jungle. Not because it had trees but in reference to the black Americans that frequented it. It began at the end of Magsaysay Street and branched to the left, curving back to Shit River. It was about a mile long. These bars had names that were designed to attract the black man into their premises. And of course, there were the women that were for the black men and never to move into the white section or their competition would let it be known that they were from the Jungle and used by black men.

The stretch that ran parallel with the river to the left over the bridge was called Baxter Avenue. Both black men and white men that chose to drink in harmony frequented this area. That was where Brother’s Inn was.

I know the place. How about seven o’clock? asked Beetle.

See you then, said Howe.

Both men came back to attention; Howe snapped his salute and waited for Lieutenant Bailey to return it. Beetle didn’t hesitate this time and returned his salute smartly.

Howe wondered what Beetle was referring to as he approached the main door of the MAU Camp headquarters. Marines do not continue to question for answers when they have been told to wait. It was part of the training.

Big Frank was the sergeant major of the MAU Camp. He was Sgt. Maj. Frank Rose. As the senior enlisted marine on the facility, all enlisted personnel reported to him. It traditionally was the one position that every person on a base respected, enlisted or officers. He had the power to punish or promote within his grasp.

Sergeant Major Rose was about six feet five tall and, behind his back, was referred to as Big Frank. His shoulders were wide, and his waist was thin. He was square-jawed, with coal black hair and Marine Corps—issue black glasses. He lived and breathed the United States Marine Corps whether he was on duty or not. Most marines believed that his children referred to him as Sergeant Major in the home environment.

Staff Sergeant Howe went upstairs and walked down the long hall to the sergeant major’s office. Outside the door was a sign hanging perpendicular from the door, with only a logo, no words. The sergeant major’s rank insignia was three stripes up and four stripes down, with a star in the middle. That was all that was on the sign, the rank insignia of the sergeant major. Other signs had Commanding Officer, Executive Officer, or Administrative Officer, each with the man’s name under the title. Not Big Frank. Just the insignia, and that was more than enough to put fear in your heart. Each squadron had a sergeant major, but there was only one command sergeant major per base. It was Big Frank.

Staff Sergeant Howe stopped in front of the door, checked the military alignment of his uniform, placed his cover under his left arm (marines don’t wear hats; they wear covers), and rapped three times, not twice or once but three times, because that’s how marines announced their presence. Waiting one second after the last rap, Staff Sergeant Howe advanced himself from the side of the door to militarily square in the door casing, saying in a loud commanding voice, Sir, Staff Sergeant Howe reporting as ordered, sir.

Sgt. Maj. Frank Rose did not look up from his desk but did acknowledge that he heard by responding very loudly, Enter.

Staff Sergeant Howe marched the three steps forward, placing himself directly in front of Sergeant Major Rose’s desk between the two chairs that accompanied the office. Standing there at attention, eyes directly forward, waiting for the moment the sergeant major would decide it was time for him to acknowledge his presence. This could be anywhere from three seconds to thirty minutes, if he chose.

Sergeant Major Rose finally looked up from the papers on his desk and announced At ease, Marine in a voice that came from his diaphragm. At that time, it really didn’t mean at ease. When you are talking to a command sergeant major, you never look down, just straight ahead. You part your legs to shoulder width, and the arm not holding your cover goes to the small of your back. You still only answer questions that are directed toward you and do not initiate conversation. All answers that you do have an opportunity to express must begin and end with the word sir.

Staff Sergeant Howe knew Sergeant Major Rose from three years ago. He was his squadron sergeant major during his second tour in Vietnam. During that time, they had a distant but good relationship. Staff Sergeant Howe was only an E-5 sergeant instead of the staff noncommissioned officer (SNCO) that he is now. If at that time he had been an SNCO, then they would have been allowed in the same clubs and mess decks aboard ship and could possibly have been closer. Never close, but closer.

Staff Sergeant Howe did have respect for the sergeant major though. He knew he had served four or five tours in Vietnam, and as a private, he saw action during the Korean War. Many said he was just too mean to die.

Squadron sergeant majors are the only personnel, both officer and enlisted, in a marine aviation squadron that are not of an aviation specialty. They were all infantry or, as a marine calls them, Grunts. And since marine aviation units are traditionally slacker in appearance and military attitude than the Grunts, a squadron sergeant major felt he had a duty to keep them in line and remind them daily, hourly if necessary, that they were still marines.

And Sergeant Major Rose did his job well. In Vietnam, he required every enlisted man to shave daily by the water buffalo (not a real one but a big tank of water on a trailer that sat in the middle of most base camps), and each marine learned how to cut each other’s hair to stay within the limits set forth by the Marine Corps. Just because there were enemy bullets bouncing around once in a while, followed up by the occasional mortar or rocket, that was no excuse, after all, not to look like a marine was his philosophy.

Staff Sergeant Howe had heard stories about Big Frank once standing up in the middle of an attack, right out in the open, yelling at fellow marines to fight, goddamn it, as in the spirit of every marine that has ever given his life for his country. For there is no greater honor than giving your worthless, fucking life for the sake of some other poor, fucking, dope-smoking piece of shit. Suzie is already fucking someone else anyway, so you’re not really needed anymore. (In the Marine Corps, all girlfriends, wives, and female acquaintances were referred to as Suzie Rotten Crotch, with the exception of your mother.)

It worked. The breach of the line was immediately closed, and Charlie was back on the run. No one could figure out how they could miss a big target like Frank Rose. As far as his men were concerned, he was the Marine Corps. He was what they all wanted to be when they joined; just so few actually ever make it to that level. Yes, they were all marines, but he was a marine’s marine and still is.

Staff Sergeant Howe, your Squadron Sergeant Major Hunt tells me there is hope of you becoming a good marine someday. Not a great one, mind you, and that’s only because there are no great fucking airdale marines, spouted Frank. (They were Grunts; we were Airdales.)

Knowing that was as close to a compliment from the sergeant major as he would receive, he responded, Sir, thank you, sir.

I am told that you were friends with that piece of shit that just left my office, Lieutenant Bailey. Is that so? Sergeant Major Rose scowled.

Staff Sergeant Howe responded, Sir, when the lieutenant was a corporal, we were stationed together at Marble Mountain, sir.

And is it true that he paid people to take his duties for him? What the fuck is my Marine Corps coming to when they allow scum like that to become an officer? I probably would have shot him myself if he tried it under my command. Anyway, for some godforsaken, reason he has volunteered to go back. I think he was forced since his commanding officer probably heard the same rumors that I did. He wants you to go with him. Of course, this is all voluntary, if you’re interested. I can’t make you go, but I sure as fuck can make your life miserable if you decide not to. As a staff NCO, your ass is mine. The sergeant major spoke, getting a little more relaxed with Staff Sergeant Howe than he would normally until that last sentence.

It’s for about thirty days. Some fucking thing about teaching the Vietnamese to tear down and repair the engines and aircraft structures on all the free helos that we gave them. All those goddamn tax dollars going to the gooks, Rose said, shaking his head in disgust. They barely know how to feed themselves and we give them fucking helicopters. Now we got to teach them how to fix them. Next, they’ll want us to teach them how to fly them too. I wouldn’t give them bastards shit. Wouldn’t piss on them if they were burning in the street. If the worthless bastards knew how to fight, they wouldn’t need our help. I personally believe they’re all fucking commie red bastards anyway, depending on what fucking day of the week it is.

Sir, yes, sir, barked Howe.

How much leave you got on the books? ’Cause if you’re interested, you’ll officially go on leave to do this voluntary Peace Corps-type action for the Vietnamese. At the conclusion, those leave papers will be tore up. But our candy ass, fucking Congress don’t want any real fighting men in Nam anymore. So this has to be a civilian action, stated Rose with a disgust emphasis on the word civilian.

Sir, the staff sergeant has over sixty days on the books, sir, Howe returned. (In the Marine Corps, it is quite common to always refer to yourself in the third person when speaking to a respected SNCO or officer.)

Of course, there is about a fucking zero chance of seeing any goddamn action on this trip. Otherwise, Lieutenant Chicken Heart wouldn’t be leading the pack. Again, Rose had disgust in his voice.

Sir, yes, sir, responded Howe while at the same time trying to keep a smile off his face.

Staff Sergeant Howe didn’t have a lot of respect for Beetle, but he did like him. Yes, Beetle paid people to take patrols for him. Yes, Beetle never flew except to arrive and depart Marble Mountain. Yes, Beetle was a pack rat that could get anything and everything of luxury that was available for a place like Vietnam. And yes, Beetle was a coward. But goddamn it, he was lovable. He was the clown that loved to spend Daddy’s money and loved to share those things with those of us that did not have. CARE Packages arrived almost daily for the man that would have done anything short of dying to piss his father off. And Cass loved him too. They fought like cats and dogs, water and oil. One was from Boston and one was from New York. Their ribbing would have made any Red Sox or Yankee fan proud. As much on one side of the coward ruler one fell, the other went the other way as a hero.

Cass loved to fly, shoot, and volunteer for any mission, anytime, anywhere. Cass was half Puerto Rican, half black. Eduardo Casanova. Cass had been fighting since the day he was born. He fought both blacks and Puerto Ricans while growing up in the Bronx. Nobody wanted to claim him. At Marble Mountain, it was the same thing. He decided early that he would owe allegiance