LAST OF THE SPARTANS

By Cpl. Charles Patrick Dugan
2164539 USMC
Vietnam 1966-1967
Machine Gunner – Infantry

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The Days are hot, real hot, the type of heat that sponges up your very soul and your eyes burn as you fill the hated sandbags. Your shirt sticks to your back as the dried sweat leaves your body salt behind to form white reminders to take in more of the precious fluid and salt. The old joke is that God created the world in six days, then rested on the seventh day while the Marines continued to fill sandbags.

You look up through sweat fogged eyes and you watch the hurt melt from the faces of your friends. Biceps ache and throb as every shovel load tilts to pour the sand into green, burlap sandbags. You hate the sandbags while you are filling them during the day, yet at night you hide behind them and pray that they will stop the bullet that may be aimed at you. You touch them at night and feel secure at the fact that they are there and in a way they become womb figures at night when the jungle seems to scream your name and beckons you to just give up and become part of the rot.

Everything in Vietnam robs you. The entire country thrives and flourishes with the life juices that come into contact with it. You look at the natives and see individuals that are bone thin and old before their time. They have years of misery etched onto their faces.

Your mind drifts to the cold seasons of the United States and you remember the chill of the north wind as it bites your face. Cold, wonderful cold, the wonderful goose bump, nipple hardening kind of cold. Your mind's eye sees the steam from your girlfriends mouth as she moans your name during a moonlit night on lover's lane.

The curses from your sandbag loading buddy brings you back to reality and you laugh as you watch him shake the sand off of himself and yet you hate him for bringing you back to this tropical sewer called Vietnam.

A break is called and you ease your tired body down and take a hard pack of Marlboros from your pocket and open the moist lid and place one of the cigarettes in your mouth. You pull a Zippo lighter from your pocket and your hand feels the etched writing on the sides of the lighter. You have your name, serial number, unit and all the other brave words and sayings that are supposed to impress wives and girlfriends.

With your cigarette dangling from your lips, you glance at the magic words- Cpl. C.P. Dugan- 2164539- United States Marine Corps- Machine Gunner-Infantry- Fortuna Favet Fortabus ( Fortune Favors The Brave). You smile and click the lighter open and ignite the dried out tobacco. It makes a crisp sound as you suck the warm smoke into your lungs. It feels so very good and the taste of the tobacco on your tongue seems to revive you.

You think about the saying on your lighter as you close the lid and you realize that the brave are over here and the fortune goes to all the ones hiding in colleges. It is so odd to have feelings like that. One part of you tells you not to hate them for hiding behind laws, religions, parents and college. Yet, the other side of you wants to kill each and every one of them every time you see one of your fellow Marines die or be maimed. You remember the hippie girl in Oceanside, California that made fun of the way your hair was cut so short and the fact that she called you " baby-killer. "

It hurts and hurts deep to not be a part of your own generation anymore. You ask yourself why you can't be like them- free-on the beach- no responsibility and in the arms of another person that likes them that way. You feel like the last of a dying breed and that nobody even cares whether or not you are a Spartan or a Peacenik.

Glancing around you brings feelings of sadness  as you see each Marine in his own little world and personal hell. The Gunny Sgt. is walking around the foundation of the bunker kicking the bags and mumbling to himself, the Lt. sits on a pile of filled bags and thinks of college days and rosy nippled co-eds, and you share the glow of all their thoughts. You know that you will make it because you are a part of all the people here. You know that you will write about this one day and make this day live forever. This day will never be forgotten and in a sense you are God for being able to freeze this moment in time.

It may be lodged in a dusty book located on a small library shelf, yet you know that some day a young person may read this passage and wonder why his dad didn't have to suffer as you have in this passage. An old man may read this account and smile because he will remember the heat and the death until the last days of his life. Knowing all of this makes the call to go back to work much easier.

You pick up the shovel and smile at your partner and think to yourself " You are going to make these people live forever and you are going to bring this scene to the world and then maybe you can rest." As the shovel pours the endless sand into the sandbag and you hear the distant sound of gunfire, you know that this will all be worthwhile.

Patrick Dugan

Email me: patdugan@wcsonline.net
 

SCARS

As your infantry patrol nears the small Vietnamese village you hear the loud sound of a radio blaring out the harsh sounds  of oriental, tinny sounding music. You strain to hear every sound and you then hear the sounds of people's voices, animal sounds and the clinking of at least 100 wind chimes. All the sounds fit the normal pattern and you sense yourself easing the grip on your machine gun, yet you still are afraid to enter the village. You have heard these sounds many times before yet each time sends waves of fear up your spine. It is a fear unlike many other fears. It is a fear so unique that it is hard to contain or label. Basically it is a fear of the people in the village. They are a different world and a different culture and you feel lost in dealing with them. Your worst fear screams in your mind, " WHO IS THE ENEMY? " You can't tell the basic difference that will keep you alive, so you treat each and every one of them like the enemy just like your Sgt. says. You know it's wrong yet you want to stay alive.

The dogs start barking and run out to meet you followed by waves of shoeless, rag dressed kids that approach you with out-stretched hands begging you for anything you might give them. As they run towards you, your grip tightens on your machine gun again and your eyes nervously scan each and every one of them hoping and praying that none of them have that " special surprise " that all Marines fear. You have seen children in other villages have grenades in their hands and you have seen them die for having those grenades. You have also seen Marines become victims of unseen grenades carried by the children. Today, thank God, your eyes see no such surprises.

In a matter of minutes your patrol is surrounded by children that have never been allowed to be children. Your favorite child tugs at your canteen and with a big smile asks you for a cigarette. He is only 6 or 7 years old, yet you find yourself reaching into your baggy pocket and giving one to him. He pulls a Zippo lighter from his ragged shorts and lights it. It doesn't look natural to you, yet nothing in this screwed up country looks familiar or natural. He inhales deeply and exhales the smoke through his nose like a seasoned smoker. He holds his right thumb up and speaks, " Tanks Mawine, you number one!", which is the highest form of praise.

As the patrol winds its way through the masses of children, you see the central fountain or well located in the middle of the village. The Lt. orders us to unload our packs and take a break in the village. The trail to the village was hot and dry and our throats are parched. We all sit around the fountain and take off our gear, however, we still keep our helmets on and our hands on our weapons. This village has seen many patrols yet you can tell that the villagers are just as frightened of us as we are of them.

The merchants appear out of nowhere and circle us with trays of semi-cool cokes and Tiger 33 beer. We all glance to the Lt. and he gives us the nod that it is alright to purchase the beer and cokes. We watch our Lt.  take off his helmet and rub his short Marine styled hair-cut. The rest of us follow his example and then produce wads of Vietnamese money to pay for the drinks. You buy one of the cool beers and your mouth waters as you watch the old man open the bottle. The coolness of the bottle touches your hot lips and in just an instant the bottle is drained. The drinks are cooled by the stream since there is no ice in this jungle hell. You look around and all your fellow Marines are doing the same as you. We then start washing our faces and necks to cool us off more.

As we dry off our faces we notice that we are surrounded by all the villagers and we feel like we are animals in a zoo. You spot a cute young boy hiding behind the skirt of his mother and he smiles at you. You reach out and take his little hand and as you pull him towards you, you are shocked when you see that his legs are severely burned and crippled. You look at the mother with questioning eyes and she explains by gestures and broken english that he was hit by particles from a white-phosphorus shell. Your hands touches his deformed little body and you want to cry for what has happened to him.
You are full of sadness when he shocks you with a question in broken english, " Mawine, you want to boom-boom my sister?" You are stunned because you realize that he is not only scarred on the outside, but on the inside as well. You look in the direction that he is pointing to and you see his sister. She is around 16 years old and very well developed. As you stare at her blank, emotionless face, she slowly unbuttons her blouse to show you her small, rock hard breasts. You feel a lump in your throat and a stirring in your loins and then you realize that the little boy isn't going to be the only one scarred from this horrible war.
 

Cpl. Charles Patrick Dugan USMC
VIETNAM JOURNAL

Email me: patdugan@wcsonline.net