CHAPTER 10 - SEMPER FI

            Joey sanitized his experiences for my consumption, withholding the gory realities of war. He left out details that might worry or disturb me. He told me about being able to go swimming in the South China Sea, but not about the helicopter landings in the river to wash the blood off the decks after transporting the wounded and dying. He wrote about delivering supplies to the soldiers in the field, but omitted any mention of the body bags they brought back on the return trip. He avoided dwelling on the fact that as a door gunner, a big part of his job was killing people, and that he was very good at what he did.

            . . . You were wondering what a normal day is like for me. Well, we usually get up at 0‑dark‑30. That's slang for, Too Darned Early. We put on our flight suits and head out of the hootch - our living quarters - and over to the mess hall with the rest of the crew for breakfast. The coffee's okay, but those powdered eggs are nasty.
            After chow, we head to the ready room. That's where we hang around until we're called for a mission. And that's the waiting part of the hurry up and wait you always hear about in the military. Sometimes we get called for an emergency extract - the grunts call it a shit sandwich. That's when a reconnaissance team is in serious trouble and needs help immediately. And that's when the hurry up comes in. We head for the chopper-pads and fly off to take care of the grunts - the infantry soldiers - which is the only reason we're here.
            Sometimes the mission is an insertion, which is dropping off troops in the field. Other times it's a regular extraction, which is when we go pick them up again and take them back to base. Or, we fly re-supply missions, taking C‑rations, water and ammo, a thousand pounds at a time, to the grunts out there humping the boonies. That sounds dirty, but it only means a long hike through the jungle.
            Other times it's a dust-off, a medevac - medical evacuation. It can be a little easier for us to get in and out without getting shot at than the regular air ambulances. I don't think the VC have ever heard of the Geneva Convention because they really seem to like shooting at helicopters with those big red crosses painted on the sides. There've been a few times when we've had to rescue the ambulance crews.
            Sometimes we're holy helos. We take the chaplain into the field to conduct services. By the way, we have a very nice chapel here on base, so you can tell Brother Dick that I haven't become a total heathen. I make it to Sunday Services whenever I can.
            It's not all work, though. We have fun, too. Since the airfield is right on the ocean, we can go swimming, and we have beach parties. If it wasn't for the barbed wire, I could almost swear I was back at Casino Beach or Eagle Mountain Lake. You're not going to believe it, but this kid from land-locked Fort Worth has actually learned how to surf! . . .

***

            By the early months of 1971, more and more Marine helicopter units were being withdrawn and sent back to Okinawa, Japan or stationed aboard carriers of the 7th Fleet. I dared to hope that Joey's squadron would be one of them, that he would soon be out of Vietnam and out of harm's way, but those orders never came. There were still plenty of jobs to be done.

            On January 30, the Republic of Vietnam began an operation known as Lam Son 719, an infiltration of Laos with the objective of disrupting the enemy's supply routes. According to the history books, American involvement in this enterprise was limited, but it was far from nonexistent. Marine helicopter crews, braving enemy fire, moved tons of equipment and artillery in and out of Laos for the ARVN during the months of February and March.

            The Hellhound Squadron managed to keep busy through the remainder of 1971 and into 1972. They flew re-supply missions or insertions and extractions of ARVN troops. At the end of March 1972, the war escalated when the North Vietnamese began an Easter offensive against Quang Tri and Thua Thien, the two provinces north of Marble Mountain.

            Of course, I had no idea of what was going on during those months, of everything that Joey was going through, until many years later when I was able to read historical accounts of that period of the United States' involvement in Vietnam. Knowing that Joey had participated in those battles and assisted in those rescues had a profound effect on me. I think for the first time in my life I understood that history is more than just an endless procession of dry facts on a page. Those were real events happening to real people. Just like any of us, they had hopes and fears, and their share of virtues and vices. They had loved ones, and they were loved in returned. And, there were people who missed them once they were gone. They were missed and mourned the way I still miss Joey.

            At the age of 14, though, I didn't really care about politics and borders. I wasn't interested in why America was involved in someone else's war. I only cared that someone I loved was being kept far away from me. The defining incident of the war took place on Friday, July 21, 1972. At 14, I was the same age that Joey had been when he'd first came to live with us. It was the day that the world as I had known it came to an abrupt and bleak end.

            Some moments stand out forever in one's mind, like that last moment of blissful innocence before learning that something terrible has occurred. Our Buick turning the corner as we came home from church on that unmercifully hot Sunday, July 23, 1972, was one such moment. It was the moment just before I saw that unfamiliar and official-looking Marine Corps staff car parked in front of the house. It was the moment before I saw the uniformed Colonel waiting for us.

            My father's face went ghost-white, just as it had done the day Joey informed us that he'd joined the Marines. He already knew the reason for the stranger's presence, but he got out of the car and walked slowly toward the officer who met him halfway. My mother remained in her seat, watching the two of them. She also understood why this man had come and cast a worried glance in my direction.

            My father and the officer stood facing each other in the front yard beneath the Mimosa tree that bathed the tableau in its sweet fragrance, a stark contrast to the scene unfolding in the shade of its branches. "May I help you?" my father asked, erecting a defensive wall of formality in an effort to forestall, for just a few precious seconds, the blow that he most surely knew was coming. I couldn't help being impressed by his quiet dignity.

            The Colonel was a commanding and distinguished-looking gentleman himself, every inch the poster Marine, resplendent with ribbons and braid. "I beg your pardon for intruding on your Sabbath," he began, "but I am Ryan, Colonel William Ryan. Would you be Mr. Richard Shannon?"

            By this time, I had followed from the car and was standing only a short distance away, looking back and forth at each of them as my father replied very gravely, "I am."

            "Then, I'm afraid it's my sad duty to inform you . . . "

            "No," I whispered, shaking my head in disbelief as my knees buckled and I sank down into the grass. It was Colonel Ryan, and not my father, who gently helped me to my feet. He held me tightly while I sobbed against his chest. "Not Joey," I begged, though I'm not really sure whether I was addressing my supplication to God or the Marine Corps. "Please, not Joey," I murmured it over and over until my futile entreaties dissolved into silent tears. The colonel picked me up and carried me into the house while my parents followed close behind. Once inside, he set me down on my feet.

            My mother pounced on me quickly, taking my arm in a vice-like grip that left the bruised impression of her fingers in sharp contrast to the pale skin of my upper arm. She steered me down the hall to my bedroom. After depositing me on the edge of my bed she hissed, "You get control of yourself!" Then, she closed the door and left me alone before she rejoined my father in the living room while I lay on my bed in shock and desolation trying to absorb the realization that Joey was gone.

            Colonel Ryan stayed for about an hour, giving the details of Joey's death, the approximate date to expect the arrival of the body, and the preliminary arrangements for a funeral with full military honors. Of course, after my unseemly display of hysteria, as subdued as it had been by most standards, I was not allowed to be privy to these proceedings.