Posted on 09/07/2019 7:23:05 AM PDT by Chainmail
When I was a First Lieutenant of Marines in 1977, I was assigned to the 3rd FSSG in Okinawa and at the middle of my one-year deployment there, was given the job of embarking 225 Marines and huge amounts of equipment aboard an amphibious transport ship, the USS Mobile LKA-115. My mission was to take part in a large training exercise in the Philippines on the island of Mindoro, establishing a Landing Support Element (LSE) on the beach for a couple of weeks. Any of you have had experience with sort of thing know that it took many, many hours, late into the night to load and unload and reload that ship so that all of the things that had to come off first were loaded last and those priorities constantly changed as new equipment arrived. We had everything finally loaded as the dawn broke, just ahead of the time we had to sail, so I was a very pleased officer to finally have all of my equipment aboard and my troops accounted for and billeted, just ahead of casting off.
The voyage to Mindoro was beautiful and made much more pleasant since the ship’s Captain was one of those rare naval officers who liked Marines. My troops were given wide latitude to wander the ship and lots of good work to do to keep them occupied and we officers got to share duty watches as we navigated the constrained waters of the Philippine Archipeligo.
The only sour note was when I was standing deck watch in the wee hours of the morning, the ship’s Engineering Officer came to relieve me. After I had briefed him, he told me to “get off his bridge”. I asked him if he meant to say that and he said it again, “get off my bridge”. I told him that we were landing in the morning and that at some point after we were established I was going to have a cookout on my beach and the he should “stay off my beach”. We did have that party and he stayed aboard ship.
We landed without any hiccups and we set up our LSE: Motor Transport, Maintenance, Fuel Depot, Medical, and our own Harrier landing pad. We were supporting a huge multi-element exercise and we were an important cog in a large machine. The only strange thing for us was that because there were potentially hostile elements in the local population, we were not allowed to have any weapons in our position to keep from provoking anyone. We had several million dollars’ worth of critical equipment but our only defense was a concertina barbed wire fence and a couple of nightsticks.
But there I was, King of my little sector of my beach, complete with our own personal landing pad for the Harriers. The only issue we had with eh locals at first were nearly continuous raids to steal stuff. We were a rich country to them and they were poor, so it followed that we wouldn't miss it much. They’d crawl over and under our wire and even land by dugout canoe to take gas cans, rations, spare parts and tools – anything they could grab. They were quite friendly and left when you chased them off but they were also persistent, so we really had to be watchful, particularly one night when they tried to load a large generator onto one of their boats.
Then one night while I was sleeping in my uniform (as always) since you never knew when something might happen there, one of my troops woke me and said “there’s a man in our wire trying to buy a radio”.
I pulled my boots on without even lacing them and headed for that part of my perimeter where one of my guards was standing next to the barbed wire and across from him in our lights, I saw a middle-aged Filipino man and young and voluptuous and barely dressed Filipino woman. The man was apparently trying to buy the PRC-77 radio (with KY-38 encryption system) from my PFC with the young woman as an obvious inducement. I also saw that the man had a large pistol in a shoulder holster which in the days of President Marcos was likely not legal for him to be carrying.
In a loud voice, I ordered my Marine to move away from the wire – and the Filipino man told me “Don’t interrupt me while I am speaking to this man”. I told him loudly that I was his commanding officer and that he would do what I told him to do (though that PFC will still standing there, transfixed by that lady’s largish upperworks).
The Filipino gentleman then turned charming and said “all I want to do is to buy this radio from him”.
I told the man that it was not his to sell and I again told the Marine to move back from the wire.
As I was saying this, two young Filipino men stepped into the pool of light from the shadows and both of them had tall pompadoured hair and had red-painted machetes held across their chests and were staring at me.
I thought, “crap; my head’s about to be removed” but gathering my wits I yelled: “Corporal of the Guard! Call the Constabulary!” and all of my guests melted into the shadows.
Great bluff – since I didn’t have a Corporal of the Guard or any links to the Philippine Constabulary.
During that exercise we had a horrific helicopter crash that killed 35 Marines and my medical team was sent to recover the bodies. It took days to find everyone and my Corpsmen were very upset about it all, since most of them had never dealt with the dead before and they were worn out from dealing with the rugged terrain and the heat too.
But we had a schedule to keep and we began the very intense preparations to reemebark aboard the Mobile. All of our equipment had to be washed down and reloaded on vehicles and then loaded in the correct order on lighterage to go back aboard to their assigned parts of the ship. When my schedule came to the Medical Element they had done absolutely nothing to get ready. I went to their chief and told him that it was time for his stuff to be washed and readied for movement but he refused to move. He said that “they had seen too much death and they were not going to move until they felt like it". I told him that I understood, but it was time to go – and his element was holding up the whole complex sequence and the ship and the whole amphibious operation. He still refused, so I told my Marines to dump their large tent, which they did and the corpsmen and their chief came stumbling out as the canvas fell. We rolled the whole thing up – with their gear all wrapped up in it – and we loaded it aboard the waiting truck and sent it to the LCM for the ship. The chief came up to me sputtering with rage and I told him that I‘d seen a lot of death too (I am a Vietnam combat veteran) but that never held me up from doing my duty. They had their Admiral call my General when we got back to Okinawa and our General backed my decision.
We had one more incident of note on the way back to Okinawa. One of my PFCs came to me a told me that someone had stolen his seabag from his truck that was loaded down in the ship’s hold and that had all of his personal possessions in it. I went to the Captain and told him what happened and the Captain then announced to the whole ship that “unless the stolen gear taken from the Marine was returned, we would do stay right where we were – and no liberty in Okinawa for all hands”. He also said that there would be a period of time when the Officer’s Wardroom would be unattended to allow the thief/thieves to return the gear without being observed.
The time period arrived and ended and when we entered the wardroom it was stacked high with all sorts of Marine equipment (including my Marine’s seabag) and most of it didn’t come from my troops – it came from many previous units that had been embarked aboard the Mobile!
Sailors!
My uncle of 98 years recently passed. He was an amazing guy...had five degrees in mechanical engineering, doctor and orthodontist. During WW II he worked on the Manhattan Project and for a few years after the war he worked on nuclear weapons at Los Alamos. During a visit a few years before he died, we were discussing his nuclear weapons work and I asked him about the machining tolerances on the plutonium cores. After a few moments contemplation, he said “I can’t tell you that — it’s classified information.” He was still sharp as a tack and couldn’t tell me simple things like classified tolerances 70 years later.
“He was still sharp as a tack and couldn’t tell me simple things like classified tolerances 70 years later.”
About a year and a half ago, I wanted to read some of the old action reports from when I was in Vietnam. Most are available and declassified. The one I wanted to read (from 1969, to refresh some of the details in my memory) was unavailable, because it had not yet been declassified.
I especially liked the trip back to my "pricks", though I don't remember the 77, I do remember the 19.
I was a radio teletype operator in my own hooch in Korea so it was a tad didderent.
ANYone out on FTX can relate to your account ... especially me in Korea ..... except we were able to sneak off and tryst with lovely local girls for a bar of soap.
My wife is Filipina and though I am not familiar with Mindoro, I DO know a bit about provincial (boonies) Mindanao, where Mama lives ... just visited last April as a matter of fact.
I got re-assigned while in Korea ('65 - '66) to an Engineer outfit (76th? ... I forget) and our job was to bridge the Han River.
After the FTX, we broke the floating bridge down and part was on our camp side and the other side close to North Korea (if I remember correctly) and I was the only one stationed to guard all that alluminum on that far side.
18 years young and still stupid about a LOT and the "slicky boys" were good.
I was live armed, but I had no real fear because Army was still sort of a game to me ... RTT op. is an elite kind of job (work 8, off 16) and a lot of "yobo" {lover} time in the village.
With no other guard, I was left on my own and I wasn't very good at making "combat decisions"..... I think I was Spec 4 at the time
They got away with a pretty large aluminum span ... about 20 ft by maybe 18" that I never saw disappear and got an Article 15 for it. Turns out they had buried it in the sand and I never saw it happen .... MY defense was the parts were too far spread out and it was true, that's why only the Article 15.
I enlisted at 17 and after three, never looked back .... God had kept me from "country" which I didn't digest until I got back in the world in "68.
By then I was full blown sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Thanx for your account and your service
We’d lug them around with spare batteries just for fun lol.
We then went with the tccs radios, they are the cat’s meow.
Thanks for sharing!
Good story. Thanks.
As a sailor myself, we never stole anything. Thief is such an ugly word, equipment was re-purposed and re-appropriated, of course, for the good of the Navy.
You should have that huge pile of “repurposed” stuff in that wardroom!
I was in Okinawa from Sept 77 to Sept 78 assigned to 3rd FSSG, although it was 3rd FSR when I arrived. It became 3rd FSSG sometime during my time there. Semper Fi.
Shortly before my father in law died, his wife told us he had worked on the Manhattan project. We had no idea, and when we asked him he said "That's classified". That was all he would say. We went home and laughed about it with my mom and step dad.
Several years later my step dad died. His brother told us he had worked on the Manhattan project! I could't believe that stinker laughed about my father in law with us, knowing he had the same secret!
That’s funny!
Great talent!!
You manage to translate military ‘lingo’ into language that I can understand, but it still maintains a powerful punch.
All hand written, and of various scan quality. Very interesting to scan through those of my time there.
Of the time when my pilot was hovering and tagged rear rotors with a stationary -46, causing us to crash from several feet, it just said we were in a ground collision. Well, yeah, we did collide with the ground.
Love it. Keep writing.
My performance reports stated: “He is a master at appropriating perceived surpluses.”
Running recon jobs just prior to the, um, *incursion* into Cambodia in 1970, we were picking [and marking] targets for bombing by the USAF via radar navigation, day or night, known as *Operation Menu.* And then my dad passed away in Chicago, with his remains being sent home to Indiana for thew Funeral. I got notified by a Red Cross representitive, who told me that the paperwork for my emergency leave and flight home was in process and would be completed as soon as I paid him a $400 *processing fee.* In cash. Which I didn't have.
Sp like a good troop, I went to my immediate supervisor, a Captain who blew up, having been shook down himself by a Red Cross Rep when his own father had passed away while he was in Korea. He certainly didn't want to see the poor Red Cross man get hurt, so he assigned a pair of Nungs to *escort* the guy, after telling them to beat the snot out of him daily, and to break his leg if he tried to leave the camp. Oh, and the Nungs didn't speak English.
I was sent out by Marine H-34 helo to a US Army artillery fire base, by Huey from there to Tan Son Nhut, then made it to Indiana the day before the services [thanks to a very helpful USAF Major who got me space available seating on a 2-seat fighter trainer he was ferrying from Scott AFB/ St Louis to Wright-Patterson in Ohio] When I returned to my boss he arranged for me to catch a ride in with our boss, who wanted to have a nice chat with Mr Red Cross, after which he'd decide whether or not the guy was going to be killed in a terrible accident on the way back.
We had a real short chain of command: my immediate boss was the captain, his boss was a full colonel, and his wore two stars. The guy whose helo I rode back in was the two-star. I don't know if the Red Cross guy made it back or not. The floor of that D-model Huey was awfully slippery. Operation Menu was declassified by President Clinton in 2000, way to late for me to be able to tell the whole story to my grandmother or my dad's two brothers.
The Nungs were great little guys, kind of like Gurkhas without the sense of humour.
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