by
Robert H. Dirr Jr.
My first car was a two-tone green and white '55 Chevy I bought in 1966. That was the year of my Senior Prom, to which I wore a jock strap, too fearful of getting an erection while slow dancing with my date. I filled gas tanks, wiped windshields and checked dipsticks to save $39.54 for my class ring. I was eighteen years old, with a flattop haircut and mandatory pimples, peg-legged black pants, a white Tee shirt, athletic socks and Keds. I had life by the ass and not a care in the world.
Something else happened in 1966. I enlisted in the United States Navy, under the 120 day delayed entry plan. This agreement required me to leave for the Naval Training Center in Great Lakes, Illinois, two weeks after graduation from Mt. Healthy High School. Why did I do such a ludicrous thing? Most of the guys in school made plans to go to college, mainly to avoid the draft. Others chose occupations that would assure them a classification other than 1-A. The rest got married.
Strolling home from school one day, I stopped at the local recruiting station and signed up. No big thing. No careful thought and planning. I must have felt overly patriotic that day and I remember the look of shock on my mother's face when I told her I enlisted in the service. She sipped a cup of black coffee at the kitchen table. When she got excited she talked quickly, and her dentures slipped. I heard them click as she spoke.
"Why in the hell did you do that?" she cried. "Are you just going to piss away your education? Oh Bobby, I wanted you to be the first one in the family to go to college. Now look what you've done."
I pulled up a chair and sat at the chrome and formica kitchen table, while she did most of the talking. I realized she was more afraid than angry. Afraid that she might lose her oldest son to a war that made little sense to her. I hugged her and said not to worry, I'd probably be stationed somewhere in the states, involved with electronics and far removed from any infantry units. Besides, dying only happened to other people.
Mom told Dad about the enlistment before supper. When Donny, my younger brother, yelled down the steps that dinner was ready, I gathered my courage, in order to face the anticipated anger of my father. Surprisingly, he didn't say much. He didn't look at me, either. He just told Mom, "The boy's a man, now, and he should be able to do whatever he wants to do." Dad served in the Army and was stationed in Germany during World War II, so he knew what I was getting into and hinted that I had to learn about life on my own.
One thing I did not know before the enlistment was that I had a full scholarship to Morehead State University. My music instructor had filed the paperwork without even consulting me about it, and unfortunately, I had to forfeit the scholarship. I was to leave for boot camp on July 26th. I was pissed.
I returned to the recruiter to discuss my enlistment, hoping to cancel it until after college. No way. So, I subsequently changed my specialty from an electronic technician to a hospital corpsman. I always had a keen interest in medicine and a secret desire to go to medical school some day, so I figured that with the training received from the Navy, I would have an edge over the other applicants. Another big mistake.
The remaining two weeks of high school passed quietly. I wore a little Navy insignia pinned to my shirt that showed I was in the service. Some of my friends threw me a combination birthday and going away party on July 23, because my birthday fell on the 30th, and I would not be around to celebrate it.
The afternoon of July 25 arrived. I said my goodbyes to the family, and they took me to the airport, where I caught a twin-engine prop airliner bound for the big city of Chicago. After landing, I shared a cab with four other guys, and headed for the Great Lakes Naval Base. When we arrived at the gate, it was getting dark, and we were directed to a receiving barracks to spend the night.
This was the first significant length of time spent away from home, and my virgin eyes were opened to the real world. During the first few weeks, I had more puncture wounds from badly aimed needles than I care to remember, and we were herded around like blind sheep, humiliated and humbled, and called everything from a bucket of civilian shit to fucking maggots. I quickly discovered that the most popular word in military lingo was a word I had never been permitted to say. Fuck this, fuck that, fucking this, fucking that, pass the fucking salt, fuckin' A.
Endless hours of drilling on hot asphalt fields, sleepy instruction classrooms, exercises, swimming, standing watch, cleaning and loneliness took their toll. I cried a lot. Everyone did, though mostly within the privacy of his own bunk. It was a miserable and depressing experience for us, except for the hard-asses from the large inner cities who acted macho and tried not to let anything show.
At first, I wondered why the guys would take turns going to the head, my newly learned word for the bathroom, late at night. Still half asleep, I staggered in to use one of the urinals and was surprised to find a guy standing up in one of the stalls with his head tilted back and his eyes clamped shut. His stall door opened and the recruit, dressed in boxer shorts, casually walked over to the line of sinks to wash his hands. "Whew, that was nice," he said, while he ripped a few paper towels from the dispenser. It was quite an awkward moment, because I knew he had just finished masturbating, and I didn't know what to say to him.
"Hi. My name's Bob. Bob Engels," he said when he extended his hand.
"Bob Dirr." I hesitated to shake his hand, because of where it had just been. "Glad to meet you." It was an amusing way to meet someone, and I tried hard to control my laughter.
"What, you never jacked off before?" he asked with a broad grin.
"Well, not in such a public place," I said.
"Don't let it bother you," he said. "It's sort of an unspoken rule around here: 'One man in the head at a time, during sleeping hours,' and it was my turn." Masturbation was a normal activity for an 18-year-old, and nobody seemed to mind waiting for his trip to the head.
I took it all in stride: the nuts-to-butts lines, the demeaning verbal (and sometimes physical) assaults, the long work hours and the short sleep hours. Actually, looking back, there were only two items on the training agenda that really upset me. The first was the inevitable tear gas demonstration.
Everyone lined up outside a small, windowless concrete block building, wearing gas masks. Groups of thirty were led inside, where vigorous exercises were done, until the instructor was certain all the guys were quite breathless from their exertions. He then set off several pellets of tear gas in the middle of the floor, and when told to do so, we took off the masks.
The eyes are the first to burn. Then the skin feels like it's ablaze, especially when touched. The delicate membranes of the nose catch on fire and you want to cry or vomit or yell to get out,
or all three. No one was permitted to leave until the entire group stood at rigid attention with their gas masks between their feet.
The other event was the swimming test; all good sailors must know how to swim. We jumped from a 20-foot tower into a deep pool, with nothing on but our dungaree trousers. Once in the water, the pants were to be removed, the legs tied off and the waist slapped upon the surface in order to fill the trousers with air. Actually, this procedure resulted in a nice pair of water wings that would keep you afloat for quite some time. Personally, I had no problem, for I could always swim like a fish. It was the poor bastards that were afraid of the water who had the problems.
Engels turned out to be a non-swimmer. They pushed him off the tower and his arms and legs flapped and flailed through the air and into the fifteen feet of water. No mercy. If he tried to doggy-paddle to the sides without doing the trousers thing, the instructors would push him back to the middle, with long aluminum poles.
It was hilarious, the way his head would bobble along the surface like a floater on a fishing line, as he sucked in all the air his lungs would allow, duck under the water to take his clothing off and try to raise the dungarees over his head high enough to get them inflated. Eventually he made it to the side, but the water wings he created were lopsided and barely kept his head above the foam he generated trying to stay afloat.
Of the 120 recruits in our company, three went AWOL, two were discharged under Section 8's and one died while exercising on the sun baked drilling field. The official cause of death was an accidental case of heat stroke, but several of the recruits received inquiries from the congressman of the deceased sailor's family.
Once in a while, we got to go to the gedunk, also known as the recreation hall. There was a small PX in one room, solely for the boot campers to purchase needed items, such as razors, soap, toothpaste, shoe polish and Brasso. Another room contained some old, beat up musical instruments, centered on an antique piano, and the area became a favorite place to jam.
Basic training was similar to being in prison. We were cut off from the rest of the huge base by a highway and tall fences, crowned with barbed wire. The living quarters were newly built three-story brick structures that surrounded a central courtyard. That small, open space was where we washed our uniforms on concrete scrubbing boards, and hung them up to dry, weather permitting. Some of the classes met in dilapidated wooden structures that stood on stilts, previously used to house troops during World War II.
One thing nobody minded was being placed on KP duty. We could eat what we wanted, and had a lot of free and easy time. I was assigned to the scullery, washing the metal, divided trays we used for dishes. Some of the guys would take the uneaten fruit or desserts from the dirty plates and sell them to the highest bidder back at the barracks, for everyone was always hungry.
After several weeks of training, we became inseparable from our pieces, old M-14 rifles, painted white, with the firing mechanisms removed. We carried them everywhere we went, drilled with them and used them during daily calisthenics. They were heavy, especially when we had to run in place for 20 or 30 minutes while we held them high over our heads.
While at basic training, a real friendship developed with Bob Engels. Some of the instructors even said we looked like brothers, because of the physical similarities. If they saw one of us, they saw both. He was from Chicago and we had a lot in common, and we spent every available spare moment talking about the future and making plans. Both of us were going to the Hospital Corps School after boot camp, and his parents sort of adopted me during their weekly visits to the base. Mine could never come because they both worked and the trip from Cincinnati was too long.
The weeks dragged on and the physical training was replaced with a concentration on classroom teaching. Closed circuit television monitors taught us about Naval history, knot tying, ship classifications, fire fighting techniques, military maneuvering and how to handle emergency situations onboard a ship.
Friday, September 30th, 1966, 1400 hours. Graduation day at last. Nine weeks and three days of hellish boot camp came to an end. We lined up in our dress blues, waiting to perform a final drill, in order to show off our marching skills to the reviewing officials and our families. On the way to the parade field, we passed a busload of brand new recruits, waiting to be processed.
"Boots!" "It's all yours, cherries!" "Fuckin' maggots!" "You'll be sorry, dude!"
I stood at attention in the middle of the formation, made up of fifteen other companies of graduating recruits, and searched the crowd for a glimpse of my parents. Mom had written, saying they were going to drive up for the ceremony, and I couldn't wait to see them. She said her little boy had become a man, and they were proud I was a member of the U.S. Navy.
We waited through the formalities of graduation: speeches from the commanding officer and brigade commander, selections from the Recruit Command Band, exhibitions by the drill team and drum and bugle corps, the march of the colors, our physical drill under arms and, finally, the invocation. After that, the Blue Jacket Choir sang the Navy Hymn. Sixteen companies of recruits, 1,920 men, stood at attention in block formation with their colorful company flags blowing in the cool autumn breeze.
One by one the companies marched around the parade grounds, passing before the Rear Admiral Commandant of the Ninth Naval District. When the last company received their salute we were once again in a block pattern. The Brigade Commander shouted "Dismissed," and 1,920 white hats were thrown into the blue sky.
I walked over to the stands with Engels and saw my family sitting four rows up from his. I hugged Mom and Dad and my brother and sister, then introduced them to Bob's family. All of us went to Mom and Dad's motel and had a nice dinner. Everyone cracked up when Bob accidentally blurted, "Could you please pass those fucking biscuits?" That is, everyone except Mom, who just raised one eyebrow and gave me a look that said "Don't you ever say what he just said!"
It was over. We had survived boot camp and were sailors. The next day, we received our orders, handed out in large, manila envelopes. Engels and myself compared orders. They were identical:
YOU ARE TO REPORT TO GREAT LAKES NAVAL TRAINING CENTER, GREAT LAKES, ILL. FOR U.S. NAVAL HOSPITAL CORPS SCHOOL, AT 0800, DECEMBER 8, 1966.
One world closer to Vietnam.
After basic training, on an unexpected leave, I wore my uniform with great self-esteem. Returning to the old high school, I chatted with some former teachers, most of whom were proud of me. Having gained a little weight, I lost the resemblance to a six-foot, four-inch beanpole. There were several dates with a few girls and I finally freed myself from the bashfulness that had plagued me throughout my adolescence. But, I was still a virgin. There I was, nineteen years old, and in spite of everything that had happened, still wet behind the ears. During that leave, I tried my damnest to get laid. No go. I never got enough nerve to even make a pass at a girl. Besides, I had other things on my mind.
On the following Friday night, I decided to go to the old alma mater's football game. A lot of the girls stared at me. Many said that I was looking good and there was just something about a guy in a uniform. The boys, however, sneered and made fun of me and mimicked me when I saluted the American flag during the National Anthem.
"Look at that dumbass," I heard from behind me. "Who in the hell does he think he is?"
"Hey, I went to school with that boy scout last year."
"There's another one of those patriotic mother fuckers."
That was the first of many such encounters, concerning the unrest and disapproval of the war in Vietnam at home. But I was proud of the fact that I wore the uniform and was serving my country. If it was good enough for my dad, it was good enough for me.
The remainder of my leave was pretty much the same old shit: hanging out with the old drinking crowd, that consisted of friends and guys I graduated with. Older men who had fought in the Korean War and World War II would buy drinks for me, while spinning their old war stories. I liked that, for the older people emphatically showed me respect.
I soon found myself drifting away from the old school crowd. I didn't particularly care for those young punks who turned up their haughty noses at me, like I was part of a giant killing machine. I now realize they were doing that out of peer pressure, for in 1966 Vietnam was not a popular war. Hell, I wasn't even permitted to see my old girlfriend.
I fired up the old Chevy and drove over to Linda's house to pick her up for a date. Her mother answered the door with a look that told me to get lost. She told me I was too old for her little girl and she didn't want me to see her anymore. Dejected and hurt, I stopped at a pay telephone to call her, but the mother answered and hung up as soon as she heard my voice.
The next day, I picked Linda up from school and we devised a plan so that we could at least see each other once in a while. I was to park up the street from her house at a specified time and wait for her to sneak out through a bedroom window. This seemed to work out fairly well, and I saw her almost every night during my leave.
I didn't know anything about politics or killing people. For Christ's sake, I was only going to a military school. And, I was only two years older than she was. I never did understand why her mom disliked me so much. Perhaps it was simply the uniform and the war going on.
I wonder where Linda is, now.
The weeks passed and my family and I went through the ritual of saying goodbye at the airport again, on December 7th. When I returned to Great Lakes, it was a different Navy. I met a lot of people I went through boot camp with, including Bob Engels. We talked about our leaves for hours, comparing notes on the girls we went out with, both of us lying through our teeth. He sheepishly said he went to bed with six women, but I was sure he hadn't.
The next morning, we were issued our barracks assignment, schedules and textbooks. After everything was squared away, our company commander came in to give us a welcome speech.
"Gentlemen, my name is Beagle. I'm a First Class Hospital Corpsman. You can call me Mr. Beagle." He emphasized the word Mister. "I'll be your company commander during your brief stay here at Service School.
"Most of you here know what a corpsman is, because you chose it as your service specialty. I'm going to give you a quick run-down on your future activities, what you will learn and what will be expected of you."
While he talked to us, he walked up and down the aisles, glancing periodically at notes written on index cards that he held in his left hand.
"The majority of you people are volunteers, because you are interested in the field of medicine. You will be going through an extensive sixteen-week course, covering anatomy, physiology and pharmacology. You should all be aware of the fact that the United States is heavily involved in Southeast Asia, and the corpsman is a very critical position. Due to these circumstances, you will be given the basic sixteen week course in approximately eight weeks."
Some ooh's and aah's murmured throughout the crowd.
"Most of you will be given a four week course on field medical techniques, after graduating from this school. That training will be divided into two sections. The first phase concerns military orientation, where you will learn basic unit tactics and become familiar with the different classifications of weaponry. The other phase will be battlefield first aid, where you will learn the best way to move a casualty over varying terrain, and how to medevack him."
He had everyone's complete attention. Someone in the rear raised his hand to ask a question. "Sir, I thought corpsmen were stationed at large Naval hospitals, and not concerned with any combat situations."
"Son," said Mr. Beagle, "The Marine Corps has a lot of troops in Vietnam. Unlike the Army, who has medics, the marines don't have any people with medical specialties. They get them from the Navy. That's you and me, boy. The corpsman is the medic for the United States fucking Marine Corps."
There was complete silence. Why didn't that son-of-a-bitch Navy recruiter tell us that?
"Most of your instructors will be Navy nurses with the minimum rank of Lieutenant. Just because they happen to be women doesn't mean that you don't show them respect. They can get you into the same trouble any male officer can. You will call them 'Ma'am' when addressing them.
"These barracks will be your home for the next eight weeks. They will be kept spotlessly clean, with frequent inspections. You will stand guard duty at various stations throughout the base. You may come and go when you wish when off base. However, you might rather choose to spend any free time studying, for you will complete this course in half the time the previous companies did."
After that, it was question and answer time.
Mr. Beagle turned out to be a pretty nice guy, doing his best to answer every question he could. Most of us held the rank of E-2, or Hospitalman Apprentice. There were a few E-3's (Hospitalmen) and a Third Class Hospitalman that were chosen to be the company clerks and officers. They were of higher rank than the rest of us because they had prior service stints, or were college graduates.
"Your first class will be at 0800 tomorrow morning, in Building 7-A. Your instructors will be taking good care of you. If there are any problems you wish to discuss with me, remember that my door is always open."
He placed his index finger on the insignia patch that was sewn onto his left shoulder sleeve. It was a caduceus, the medical insignia, consisting of two snakes wrapped around a staff.
"Not many people are permitted to wear this," he continued. "Wear it with pride. You are the chosen few. Good luck ladies and men."
When I fell asleep that night, my mind was consumed with thoughts of Vietnam. Will I really have to go there? Will I get hurt? Will I even make it back in one piece? I'm positive most of the guys were thinking the same thoughts.
The next morning, item number one on the agenda was to learn the hospital Corpsman's Pledge. We had to memorize and recite the 118-word oath, which wasn't easy, for the winds coming off of Lake Michigan were frigid and constant, and our barracks were well aged, poorly insulated and always cold.
It turned out we had very little free time. Between the classes, the homework, the watches and the studying, there was hardly enough time for the sweeping, scrubbing, waxing and dusting of our dorm.
The most peculiar thing about our living quarters was the bathroom. The urinal was nothing more than a metal trough, six feet long. Next to that were three shitters, a foot apart, with three more facing them from the opposite wall. Early in the morning, justafter reveille, all six toilets would be in use. Imagine trying to take a shit with your knees touching the guy's across from you, and your elbows touching the guy's next to you. It took a lot of getting used to. The shower was at the end of the toilets and nothing more than six showerheads located on a central pipe in a small room about the size of the average domestic bathroom.
The first subject we sprinted through was anatomy. Next was pharmacology, where we learned to identify the most common medications by sight. During the second week of school, we had to line up outside the barracks for a shakedown. It seemed that someone from our company made off with a bottle of 1,000 ten-milligram tablets of Valium. Mr. Beagle strolled around the dormitory while he spoke.
"Now I know that none of you people are druggies, and the misplacement of the bottle of pills was purely accidental. Rather than embarrass any of you, I will leave my office door open for the next two hours. I will be absent, so if anybody wishes to return the Valium anonymously, they may do so."
The missing drugs never turned up.
Thirteen of the seventy students in our company were females, and lived in separate quarters. Those women were the prime targets of the remaining fifty-seven very horny young men. Having little spare time meant not getting off the base often, so our second home became a place called The Pit, which was the enlisted men's club. It sat off the very long sidewalk that extended from the Great Lakes Naval Hospital to the enlisted men's club.
A jukebox inside contained all the latest hits, including "We Gotta Get Out Of This Place," "House of the Rising Sun," and "Hello, I Love You." An elaborate bar, a nice dance floor and a lot of booths created a quiet, dark, nightclub atmosphere. Constant wagering took place involving who was getting into whose pants. I was never in the running.
Located on the top floor of the fifteen-story hospital, a large solarium overlooked Lake Michigan. I spent most of my free time there, the same way Bob Engels did. On one occasion he asked me if I had any idea how many of our group would eventually be killed. I laughed until I noticed he was quite serious.
"What, you talking about Vietnam?" I asked.
"Fuckin' A, I'm talking about Vietnam." It was a subject that always lurked in the back of our minds, but never talked about much. However, the reality was beginning to slam into us as the days wore on, especially when we went up to the hospital. There were a lot of messed up guys there, some in wheelchairs missing legs and feet, and others sitting around minus a hand or an arm. The gastrointestinal ward was overflowing with men who had colostomies with the necessary bags and tubes attached to their sides, a consequence of being gut shot. Many were disfigured and mutilated, and few ever smiled. Most of the patients were marines.
Engels looked at me with watering eyes. "I don't want to go to Vietnam," he said. "I don't want to die."
An eerie silence was broken when he eventually cleared his throat.
"You know," he said, "I signed up for Hospital Corps School, mainly because my dad's a doctor. He said it would be good experience for me and when I got discharged from the Navy, all I would have to do is take a state exam and I'd be a licensed practical nurse. There's a big demand for male LPN's, you know."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," I said. "I was sort of planning on getting into medical school, myself."
More silence.
"What makes you think we're all going to Vietnam, anyway?" I asked.
"Shit, man. Look around you. You see all those fucked up dudes downstairs? Where do you think they all came from? Who do you think gave them first fuckin' aid, man? It was guys like us, just kids that are trained to be corpsmen."
"Yeah, but that don't mean that all of us have to go to the Nam, does it? I mean, shit, there's seventy people in our company. How many companies do you think they're running through this damn school? Hundreds, man, hundreds. And you think they're gonna single out you and me, just to go to Vietnam?"
"Come on, man," he said. "You heard what Beagle told us, didn't you? Most of us have to go to some kind of damn field medical training."
"You have to think positive, guy," I said. "Where's the karma?"
"Fuck the karma, man," he said. "Okay, look. You got three or four corpsmen to a company of 120 marines, right? You ever see any corpsmen downstairs as patients on the wards? Fuck no. They're all out gettin' killed, that's why. Do you think we're being trained for nothing?"
Another silence.
"You know, I'm an only child. All through my life, Mom and Dad gave me just about anything I ever wanted. If something happened to me over there, I know it would kill them."
He reached beneath his jersey top and pulled out a small notepad that was stashed in the waist of his pants. I watched him while he scribbled his address and telephone number on the unruled paper. He ripped it from the pad and handed it to me.
"If something really does happen to me, I want you to write my folks and tell them the way it was, okay? No shit, man. I mean it."
The expression on his face told me that he meant it. I folded the paper into fourths and placed it inside one of the compartments of my wallet.
"Sure, Bob," I said. "You'll do the same for me?"
"Fuckin' A, man, you can count on it. We're friends, right?"
"You got it," I said. "You're my number one honcho."
We shook hands while gripping each other's arm very tightly, while looking past the pupils of the eyes into the essence of our beings. That was the closest I've ever felt to another person, aside from my family, and I felt something unusual flow over me. I saw a side of Engels I had never seen before and that particular conversation still haunts me.
The next day, we got to practice the fine art of suturing. Nurse Hampton told us that the closest substance to human skin was the orange, so we put some major slices in a dozen or so oranges and were told to stitch them up. From the rear of the room, Engels asked "Should we make the sutures bigger if it's an officer?" Someone else added "Yeah...they're Naval oranges." Everyone in the classroom laughed, except for Nurse Hampton. Actually, it turned out to be a fairly simple procedure. The hardest thing to get used to was the curved needle, shaped like a half-moon and hard to pull through the orange.
We also learned how to administer injections. Plastic disposable syringes were loaded with saline solution and we practiced on the few oranges that survived the suturing attempts. Then we were matched up into pairs to shoot each other. Boy, what a trip. The girls acted like they were in a sophomore high school biology class, dissecting frogs. In fact, my partner couldn't find it in her heart to punch the needle hard enough, and it took her three tries before she buried it into my left bicep.
A few days later we were taught how to start an intravenous flow. Again, we had to utilize each other's arms to learn the technique. After a lot of missed veins and spilled blood, we tried it on our own arms. I could never be a junkie, after that experience.
The time passed quickly and graduation from Corps School was at hand. Company Commander Beagle stopped by the barracks for a few words, before we headed for the largest Quonset hut on the base for the ceremony.
"I'm not one to give speeches," he said, "but I'd like to be the first to congratulate you. A lot of you people breezed through the training, and a lot of you had trouble passing your exams, but the fact is, you all passed. You are now part of the Medical Corps and you will wear that insignia with pride, just like I do.
"I'll probably never see the majority of you, again. Some of you will get a hospital and some of you will get a ship. But most of you will be traveling to a Marine base for Field Medical training. I know that all of you will be good corpsmen, no matter where you are, or what you do. In any event, I will remember each and every last one of you. Good luck and may God bless."
There were watering eyes when he shook the hands of the guys and hugged the girls. He had become like a father to all of us, and I knew we would miss him. We received our graduation certificates on Thursday, February 9th, 1967, at 0915.
We patiently sat through the selections of the Service School Command Band and Chorus. Then, the invocation, a speech from the head of the nursing staff and one from our honor student. After that, the executive officer of the service school recited the Hospital Corps Pledge, line by line, and we followed along, holding up our right hands. Finally, the presentation of our school certificates, the benediction and the National Anthem.
Hospital Corps School Company #6667 had just graduated with a combined average grade of 83.51%. We returned to the barracks one last time to pick up our sea bags and orders.
YOU ARE TO REPORT TO GREAT LAKES NAVAL TRAINING CENTER, GREAT LAKES, ILL. UPON COMPLETION OF FIELD MEDICAL TRAINING SCHOOL, CAMP LEJEUNE, N.C. YOU ARE TO REPORT TO FMS, MCB, CAMP LEJEUNE, N.C. NO LATER THAN MARCH 1, 1967 AT 0800.
Bob Engels' orders and mine were the same. So were 46 of the other 68 corpsmen of our company. We took a glance at each other, knowing without speaking. The jungles of Vietnam called to us with a frightening urgency.
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