Khe Sanh « Bravo! The Project

Today is the 250th birthday of the United States Marine Corps.

Formed at Tun Tavern in Philadelphia at the beginning of the American Revolution, the Marines have been a part of most American wars and police actions since then, as well as helping out a few other governments and companies on the sly. I often think of Lieutenant General Smedley Butler, a two-time Medal of Honor recipient, who said, “War is a racket,” and he said, “I spent 33 years and four months in active military service, and during that period, I spent most of my time as a high-class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers.” 

I think there are a lot of folks who might agree with those sentiments. I’m not sure that I do—wholeheartedly, anyway—and I see my service as something that, in some ways, I am very proud of. No one that I know who fought at Khe Sanh would love war. War is something to hate, as far as I’m concerned. A dirty business that costs money and lives and wrecks families. Nevertheless, I have some pride.

I joined the Corps quite spontaneously in August 1966 and went to boot camp on October 4 with three other men from Arizona. We boarded a bus in Phoenix, went to San Diego and stepped into a world so different in many ways than what we thought the world should be. Yellow footprints, where we first stood, scared out of our wits because drill instructors stood on either side of us, in front of us, in our faces, in our ears, screaming what maggots we were, what communists we were, and a lot of vulgarity I will not share. It was tough both mentally and physically. Wore us down, wore us out. Some refused to be worn down and didn’t make it; couldn’t say they were United States Marines. The name we wanted so much to wear.

As soon as my training was done, I went to war in Vietnam and when I came home in 1968, Vietnam Veterans were not particularly welcome.

I got cussed at by angry protesters while getting ready to leave El Toro Marine Corps Air Station, and I got challenged in a VFW post back home sometime in 1972 by some vets of America’s “big war.” A few years later, some guy who’d painted ships in Long Beach or San Diego while serving in the Navy during World War II laid into me about how Vietnam Vets couldn’t whip their way out of a wet paper bag. At that moment, instead of busting heads like any salty old Marine would do, I decided not to have anything to do with being a veteran. No Veterans Affairs, no VFW, American Legion, nothing, nil.

And of course, you really can’t unbecome a combat vet. All the debris you accumulate from warfighting rides your back for life, but for decades I never told anyone about my combat experiences, some of which were ferocious and frightening. I never verbalized what I felt, that I’d done my duty and served the United States at a time when some of us thought it needed to be served.

Fast forward to the early 2000s and we, warriors of the 60s, suddenly became heroes and I ‘ve heard “Thank you for your service” ad nauseum, and not that I don’t appreciate the recognition of the sacrifice—and make no mistake, it was a sacrifice—I can’t help asking myself, as if I was talking back to those of my own generation, “Where’d you serve, “ or “What did you do while my comrades were being blown to hell in the trenches of Khe Sanh?” But I don’t. I nod and say, “Thank you,” because I know that they generally mean well, and the belated recognition is better than nothing.

These days, the war still hammers a steady thump in my mind, invading the portals of my memory constantly, and I think of all the good men I served with. I think of the bad ones, too, and there were more than a few. But maybe they weren’t “bad,” but just in an environment that was, to say the least, quite often unkind. People died, and people were maimed, and fear roared through the air and assaulted you, and it rained and rained, and it was hot, and snakes and leeches and rats.

Later in my life, I rekindled some of the old camaraderie I had with my Marines and Navy Corpsmen. Some of these men have turned out to be close friends, but unfortunately, time is taking its toll on us, along with old wounds and Agent Orange.

While in the Corps, I never celebrated the Corps’ birthday, even though it was a big deal. A lot of my good buddies would rent dress blues and deck their girlfriends or wives in fancy outfits and go off to the Marine Corps Birthday Ball while I hung out in the barracks or on duty or in my San Diego apartment.

In the 1990s I started to attend some birthday events and had a lot of fun, a lot of laughs, a lot of memories that wormed into my mind.

This year, Betty and I are traveling so we may decide to hang out at a VFW post somewhere today. I’ve gotten over my anger at what happened at the VFW post in 1972.

So, here’s a toast to all my old mates, deceased and still kicking, and to all Marines everywhere who stood on those yellow footprints on Day One, I say, “Semper Fidelis and Happy Birthday.”

~ By Ken Rodgers

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