881S Ice Cream Escapades

The Marines on Hill 881S faced challenges in addition to fighting the NVA: drenching rain, rats, lack of water, you name it. And, on one occasion, too much pistachio ice cream.

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Greetings Marine-

Almost exactly 36 years ago, I was feeling really, really sorry for myself sitting in a muddy fighting hole on Hill 881S overlooking Khe Sanh.

We were having hand grenade fights every night with the bad guys.

An NVA 120 mortar was perfectly zeroed in on the top of our hill, dropping Volkswagen sized, super explosive (really BIG bang) rounds whenever we stuck our heads up.

The LZ was covered by several large enemy machine guns who shot the shit out of us whenever a helicopter showed up, so we could not hear where they were firing from and kill them first.

The numbers of Marine horribly wounded, maimed and killed grew regularly, as if a part of some nauseating, scheduled pagan bloodletting.

The rats, who were as large as cats, were not even slightly impressed at our threats, schemes and poisoned peanut butter gifts to keep them from our bunkers; they responded by casually walking on us at night and chewing through anything they wanted- usually our food or exposed body parts.

Not much mail from the home front: my wife was definitely shacking up with someone.

The Paris peace talks were going nowhere, so it looked like there was no relief in sight from the political gods.

We were filthy, hungry, thirsty, tired and thoroughly pissed off- perfect killing machines- Marines at war.

I remember with exquisite clarity repeating to myself that things in my future life [if any] could not possibly ever get worse than this. I also knew that the memories of the really crappy things in life are blessedly dulled by time. Even if my brain blessedly erased all these sordid details, I wanted to force this moment of misery to remain perfectly clear for all my following years: Things were so bad that they could NEVER again get worse than this!!

Within minutes, the heavens opened and there was so much rain and mud in our trench lines that it actually washed a 50 cal machine gun down the hill when the trench walls ruptured, like Godzilla breaking a dam, leaving the gun out in the open, under enemy sights for us to have to recover before the enemy snatched it after dark.

OK, things could always get worse- lesson learned.

I found myself making little deals with God- side hustles.  Like if the 120 mortar rounds track left instead of right this time, I swear I will never again…… (Pick the sin to fill in the blank).

At that time I was the Platoon Commander of 1 Delta 1/1 Marines.

A couple of days later, we were awaiting a resupply helicopter which would bring us a much needed bladder of water.  We hadn’t even rinsed off in almost four weeks and drinking water was a real precious commodity.  Well, as the miracle of Marine Corps supply works, we were now the proud recipients of two, count them, two helicopters on one resupply mission.

In a cloud of dust, dirt, noise and confusion, the first helicopter dropped a sling with a pallet of card-board looking boxes and some orange mail bags, then immediately split the area.  Reasonably, because the enemy machine guns were putting holes in its sides.

The second had our precious rubber bladder of water slung under it- maybe a thousand gallons. I could already taste it and feel the wet rag wash down shower- the simple pleasures.  Life was good and about to get better.

As the second chopper maneuvered to set the water bladder down on the LZ, the inevitable 120mm mortar round hit and the machine guns zeroed in from the adjacent hills. The crew chief had seen all he wanted of this shithole and promptly pickled the load about twenty feet off the ground- exit stage left.

Well, the first couple of slow-motion rubber bladder bounces seemed to be going favorably for the good guys.  There was definitely hope. Even though the bladder was mashing everything it hit. Then, like a Wiley Coyote film, the thing blindly blundered and bounced inexorably toward the edge of the LZ.  Slowly, but inevitably, it started bouncing downward- down the damn hill. And there was not a thing we could do to stop it.

A couple of bounces on mashed radio antennae, cowering huddled Marines and flattened bunkers later, it disappeared downward through our impervious minefield and wire.  All 8,000 pounds of it, without the slightest tear or impervious minefield explosion (the bad guys had probably disarmed all the mines and not told us). It accelerated its descent to the bottom of 881S, where it probably rests today- a sad, deflated, wrinkled balloon from a long past party. Thus leaving us with even more repairs to be made to the defensive wire and impervious mines, in the open, before dark.

In complete shock and disbelief, we could only imagine the bad guys down there bathing and drinking our water, while having a great laugh at our expense. Sort of like a jungle beach party- and we were not invited.

My mind raced to think of the reports I would have to file, and the letters to the dead Marines” family, if it had pancaked my guys:
“There could have been no coffin wide enough for his heart…”
“He always went flat out…”
“Mercifully, he died without knowing what hit him…”
“His passing left the platoon flat…”
“Yes sir, we need a really large spatula up here and, no sir, I can’t tell you why…”

Arrrggghhhh!!!!!!!

OK, enough. Things can ALWAYS get worse. I am now a true believer.  And an even more fervent deal maker with God.

Well, it was not in our Marine Corps gene pool and and culture to let our brave north-of-the-border foes partake of our misfortune without a struggle. Shortly, the order arrived from somewhere on high to immediately take a patrol out, locate and destroy the infamous bladder. Guess it held some strategic materials or secrets which could have compromised the entire war effort.

Thankfully, we were not ordered to hump it back up the hill [that would have been much, much worse, but not unexpected]. In as much as it had rolled, mashed, bounced, blundered through our platoon’s lines, were “chosen” for the task…

Well, here we go- America’s finest warriors, on a top priority mission to seek out and destroy the elusive, now enemy, bladder.  In so doing, we move out tactically through our mashed wire and minefield, and down the hill into Indian country, where no Marine had set his jungle boots or shit since the siege at Khe Sanh had started.

After much snooping and pooping, our point comes into a small clearing near the base of the hill, demonstrating once again the finely tuned tracking skills we had acquired in USMC training and honed to perfection in the bush.  No 8,000 pound bladder could escape us!!

In the middle of this open area at bottom is what appears to be a CAVE…   Damn!!!

We now have the bad guys right where we want them. They obviously never thought us capable of such brilliant tactics, and certainly never expected to see our ugly asses diddyboppin down to the bottom of their hill.

At first, we weren’t exactly sure how they were able to squeeze our 8,000 pound bladder down into that cave to hide it from our keen-eyed search.  But we reminded ourselves that they are a cunning bunch of runts.

With no further time to waste, we moved smartly into the assault phase of the operation.  We formed a hasty perimeter using our very best stealth moves, which coincidentally had been pioneered by the infamous Vic Morrow in the “Combat” television series [you probably have seen the reruns- a must see for any dedicated grunt].

After whispered tactical consultation, we determined the best method of attack was to get their attention by throwing a few frags down the very round cave entrance that is set at about a 45 angle to the surface. After all, our mission is to destroy the captive bladder and its evil hostage holders.

No response from the NVA to our grenade into their cave. Cunning oriental devils!! Either they had slipped away for pizza in Laos or were cowering in fear of our assault at the bottom of the cave.

My mind moved quickly.  Affirmative Marines, a few more frags should clear out them pesky NVA. Send LCpl Snuffy in for the kill.

So, Snuffy crawls out under our cover, armed to the teeth with grenades destined for the enemy cave complex. A couple of unanswered frags into the cave later, what to our wondering eyes

should appear but LCpl Snuffy, back from the enemy cave.  He is holding a set of metal fins that look an awful lot like those on a 2,000 pound bomb. Hmmmmm….Strange.

Time to reconsider our tactics. A refocused search of the area revealed several more enemy caves- all very round and set at a forty-five-degree angle.  Our collective Marine Corps minds are churning. Our asses are slammed shut so tight that we could all fart the Marine Corps hymn in the key of high C. Either we have stumbled into an enemy condo cave complex, OR….

“You are not going to fuckin’ believe this…”, LCpl Snuffy back from another mission sticking his head down into our enemy cave entrance. “I think there’s a fuckin’ bomb down there.” Uh Oh!!.

e to belay our vicious grenade assault. Yes, Mabel, there was a bomb in there, and to be seen in most of the other caves.  Closer examination by our now expert ordinance man, LCpl Snuffy, revealed that these bombs had been dropped in a cluster, burrowed into the earth, failed to detonate and created the enemy condo cave complex we were assaulting. Some even did a U turn, popped back up out of the ground and ended up lying on the surface like some beached whale- a long way from water [other than the infamous water bladder which was still eluding us in the bush].

Enough.

Time to crawl back up their hill with our heads bowed in thanks and humility. I wonder what the CO would have written to our folks if we had been vaporized by setting off all those bombs with one of our grenades. Now, that would have to be a Pulitzer Prize fiction winner. Time to clam up. “No, Sir, a thorough search revealed no trace of the bladder. The bad guys must have humped it to Laos before we got there to rescue it. Damn shame.”

Realizing that any hopes of water resupply were now toast, we got back to the job at hand- crawling back into our holes and feeling sorry for ourselves. The good [??] news was that we were also short of food and grenades. So maybe the resupply gods were beginning to smile, and still had us in their sights after their bladder mashing outrage.

After all, we did have the first sling load firmly planted on the LZ.  The bad guys were probably laughing so hard or, more likely, feeling sorry for us, that they actually let us grab the mail and check out the pallet of cardboard boxes in broad daylight without firing a shot. Yeah, they must have been bent double with laughter.

“Lieutenant, you are not going to fuckin’ believe this…” Uh oh. Not a good way to start the resupply report. Entering the dingy, dark bunker from the glare of sunlight, the platoon guide was shaking his head and proffering a cardboard box held in front of him at arm’s length. Reminded me of a nurse presenting some ugly looking new born to the stunned father.

Again, “Lieutenant, you are not going to fuckin’ believe this…”. What could the Marine Corps have possibly dished up that would top today’s show at the LZ?

“Pistachio Ice Cream!!! What- a whole fuckin’ pallet of it??

You GOT to be shittin’ me!!”

But no, there it was- in our bunker and on our tiny top of the hill [ours temporarily of course, we later decided we were just kidding, didn’t really want the hill anyhow, and fucking just left]. A pallet of pistachio ice cream- now in its early stages of soaking up the tropical sun and becoming a green slime tide on the LZ, maybe forming some weird new life form with the alien red clay.

Some benevolent, far off commander [maybe even LBJ??] had apparently decreed that his loyal men needed something special to buck up their spirits. And, by damn, they were going to have ice cream, come hell or high water!!

Heaven and earth must have parted to get this frozen load from somewhere near East Jesus, Wisconsin to the tropical wilderness of 881S, Viet Nam.  Since we were at the absolute ass end of the supply chain [Laos was only 15km away] all the Navy, office and supply poges had snagged the good stuff, like the vanilla and strawberry, before we got our shot.

We got the Pistachio.  “Un-be-fuckin-lievable”: the only word in the Marine Corps dictionary that could accurately and fully capture enormity and the utter stupidity of this moment.

At critical turning points in one’s life like this, there several possible paths one can choose. Lunacy seemed the most likely choice for this particular set of circumstances. However, as a leader of Marines, that choice was not particularly attractive, considering the state of VA hospitals. Having attended college at the same prestigious Ivy League institution which spawned the real “Animal House”, one class behind and in the adjoining fraternity to the author, my command path forward opened to me with an absolute clarity and focus: “Ice Cream Fight!!”.

Let he who conceives such bold thoughts lead by taking the first action.

Well, after the brilliance of that decision, and not content to rest on my command laurels, I saw to it that the word was spread throughout our lines. Soon, we were all covered in globs of melting, sweet, sticky, green pistachio ice cream. Eating pistachio was never an option. Yes, my place as a commander who looked after his troops was secure. Chesty and the others had nothing on this lieutenant when it came to being at one with the troops.

As the raucous laughter subsided, I was blind-sided and frozen in place with a horrid realization:

Not only was my head covered in pistachio ice cream, but my tattered and only clothes, my bunk and the bunker floor were also a sticky mess. No water. No way to clean up. Temperature climbing. Rats lurking behind every sandbag. Roaches the dominant life form in our world. And we… I… looking like a wilting pistachio popsicle that had been dropped in the dirt on a summer day.

“Oh Shit”: the only possible and meaningful thing I could say next, in a fast fading command voice. With that expletive, we crawled back underground and awaited the inevitable assault from the rat and roach legions.

Now, we really, really, really felt sorry for ourselves, but this time, there was a focus to the morbidity- “It was all the Lieutenant’s fault”.

With luck, I might escape the night with a grenade wound to my groin before the rats dismembered me.

Enough, already. I surrender. Yes, things can ALWAYS get worse than they are. I swear to heaven that those words will never pass my lips as long as I draw a breath [and they never have]. Just stop.

What is the point of all this, you may well be asking yourself, Marine. A reasonable question. I’m getting there- just humor me for a bit longer. Like me, you probably don’t get a ton of letters anyway, so look at the bright side- the troops will think you a real popular guy with all this mail.

Eventually, our mail from the LZ was tossed into the bunker. No more cheery “good morning” greetings for this Lieutenant. Mine was a letter from some guy I had never heard of. Oh great, junk mail in a war zone. Maybe it was a letter from Jody saying he wanted to marry my wife. No such luck.

But any diversion was a blessing to relieve the tension. Wanting to look busy, and professionally engaged, I opened the letter immediately and stayed head down in the corner, as if reading some lost manuscript from the Bible.

The letter was from a former platoon commander of 1 Delta 1/1 who had served, I believe, in Korea. He told of his background and thanked me for carrying on the proud tradition. If only he knew…

But the letter switched something on in me, and lit me up. I was now be able put things in some perspective- a view which had been sorely lacking in my life at that moment. I was actually linked to the others who had gone before me. I was in exactly the same command position as this former stranger in a Marine Corps at war. We were an unbroken chain. Comrades in arms- brothers forever against all who could never understand what it means to be a Marine at war.

Here, from across the oceans, in this letter, came a real person, not a myth, not a legend,

into my life. He was still my hero, but now he was real. I was now responsible directly to him and the others who had one before, for my actions as the commander of 1 Delta 1/1 Marines. I was a link in the chain of these great men. I hardly felt worthy, but there it was.

So, Marine, I send you my greetings and my best wishes. Our Corps is at war… again. I had hoped that it might not happen so soon.  But clearly, peace will not overcome evil in our lifetimes. It is back to peace through firepower, and the role of the Marine Corps is to enforce that peace.

You are now the last link in our chain. It may not seem that way, but if you think about it, this is a fact. You are a Marine joined to we former Marines in mind, body and soul. Your moments of combat, with the lives of brother Marines in your hands, will likely be both the very best and the very worst times of your life. The peak and the valley, the top and the absolute bottom, all in one. Most of the rest of your life will be relatively, and thankfully, dull by comparison. Savor the moment- if you have time.

Please know that I, and the other Marines who have gone before, are with you. I hope that our presence will provide you some comfort and additional strength for the task at hand. We are all in this together.

Thank you for choosing this path in your life. I believe you will be forever proud of your decision to become a Marine. In fact, I expect that like me, it will define everything else you do for the rest of your life.

Thank you for protecting me and my family from a world of evil that would gladly take away all that is America if given the chance.

Thank you for looking after your fellow Marines as if they were your blood. They are a precious lot, those who willingly become the pointy end of the spear for America. I know they are in good hands.

Thank you for your service, Marine.
Semper Fi,
Bob Koury