Becoming a Marine
Author describes his enlistment in the Marines, recruit training, Marine Corps schools, deployment to Vietnam, and finally patrolling and engaging the NVA in 1967 along Route 9 near Khe Sanh
Author: Bruce “T-Bone” Jones
Date: July 21, 2025
Part One – Becoming a Marine
During the early years of the Vietnam War, the military draft brought the war to the American home front. The draft made a significant, personal impact on young American men, including me. Healthy, eligible young men ages 18-25 who didn’t have a deferment faced conscription into the Army. At 21 years old, I knew a draft letter was in my very near future.
A month earlier, I had reported for a pre-induction physical at the local federal building and was found to be solid cannon fodder for the war. Almost any day I was going to receive a “Greetings from Uncle Sam” letter. I was faced with being drafted and serving in the Army, or volunteering for another branch of the military.
I chose the United States Marine Corps. It was definitely not a conscious choice based on logical evaluation. I wasn’t infatuated with the dress blues uniform; it was a choice of sheer impulse. After all, the Marine Corps was tough! It had a brave war-fighting tradition and if I was going to participate in a war, I was going to be the “first to fight!” In retrospect, I simply wanted to find out what war was about and if I was tough enough to hack it.
My boot camp training was just as I thought. It was rigorous and de-humanizing as hell. The drill instructors tore you down and built you up in the image of a fine killing machine. My body was strong, and my mind was clear. You learned to obey a command without any hesitation, and it was expected to be performed with your very best intention.
Never in my life had I tried so hard to meet a set standard, let alone rigorous Marine Corps standards. It tested me physically and mentally like I had never been tested before. I was proud that I met the mark to become a Marine. At boot camp graduation, I was welcomed into the warrior society of the United States Marine Corps. OOORAAHH!
Based on my high aptitude test scores, I was scheduled to attend electronics school at C&E Battalion, MCRD San Diego after my thirty-day boot camp leave. With a MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) of Electronics Radio Repairman, I was supposed to receive training in electronics. In short, I had been assigned the “brass ring” of MOSs in the Corps. Even if I was sent to Vietnam, I would never go on any combat patrols or ever leave a secure area; I would be repairing radios “in the rear with the gear.” I had it made!
The training consisted of 10 weeks of basic electronics class and 36 weeks of radio repair. You were required to pass a weekly test to move on through the course curriculum. If I had studied harder instead of drinking every night off-base or at the EM Club, I might have finished the training. At 21, I had become a drunken shit-bird!
After 11 months of failing out of every electronics school C&E Battalion had to offer, the first sergeant called me into his office.
“Well, PFC Jones, you have managed to piss away one of the best training opportunities in the Marine Corps. What the hell do you want your Marine Corps to do for you, Jones? What career choice are you looking for?”
Bluntly I replied, “Well I know I don’t want to repair radios in Vietnam sitting in an air-conditioned hardback hooch in Da Nang.”
First Sergeant Davis looked at me with his face crimson red and yelled, “Well, Marine, I’ve got just the right job for you. You will remain in the ‘Eeelektronicks’ field that you tested so high in, but your MOS won’t be so fancy. I am shipping your sorry ass to Camp Pendleton for Ground Radio Operator School and then VIETNAM. Now, how do you like that?”
I responded like the fool I was then, “Doubt if I have much choice, Top.”
He looked at me with total disapproval and said, “No shit, Marine, and in addition, you get thirty days of mess duty before I send you on your way! And now, get the fuck out of my office!”
The United States Marine Corps wanted an intelligent radio repairman. They got a dumb, radio-humping grunt!
Part Two – Arriving in Vietnam
After Ground Radio Training at Camp Pendleton, a thirty-day Christmas leave, and Staging Battalion, I arrived in Vietnam. I was assigned to an 81mm mortar section that was located near the Dai Loc Bridge a short distance from Hill 55 outside of Da Nang and was ordered to report to this mortar section as a replacement forward observer radio operator.
I was now officially assigned to Bravo Company 81s, 1st Battalion, 26th Marines Regiment, and yes I was an “FNG” with three days in-country! A truck had just dropped me off in front of the Bravo Company mortar section after a short drive from Hill 55 to the bridge.
The day I arrived, the Marines in the mortar crew were running gun drills on a mortar, trying to beat their individual set-up times. The competition consisted of a man standing upright over the mortar and on command, dropping down to his knees and spinning the mortar tube in the base plate and positioning the tripod in alignment with the aiming stakes. Then he had to use the horizontal and vertical sights to level and adjust the mortar for an accurate, rapid set-up. If the gun was verified to be “on bubble” and set up accurately on the correct azimuth, the time was recorded, and the competition would continue with the next man trying to beat the fastest set-up time.
I later understood that if a man was consistently the fastest and the most accurate, he could assume the position of “gunner” on the gun crew. So, there I was, standing there watching men throw a mortar into position while screaming and cussing at each other. It was not until they had tallied their set-up times that they even acknowledged me.
“I’m the new forward observer radio operator,” I said. They just looked at me with blank expressions and then one Marine said, “Gilbert, take him to see Staff Sergeant Luck.”
As we walked across the bare patch of ground that made up the Bravo section of 81mm Mortars, I couldn’t help but notice how casual everyone acted. No helmets, no shirts, and all their rifles propped up next to their flak jackets inside the gun pits. Maybe Vietnam wouldn’t be so bad after all.
I just HAD to ask THE question: “Get any action around here, Gilbert?”
“I have been here less than two months and almost nothing,” he replied. “The grunts catch a few sniper rounds on patrol, but otherwise it’s quiet. The gooks leave us alone, and we leave them alone.”
We approached a large bunker. Country Western music was playing inside and a drunken voice was singing along, slurring the lyrics to a Willie Nelson song.
“This here is the Fire Detection Control Center (FDC) bunker. Fire missions start and end here and…all the ‘lifers’ live here.” Gilbert stuck his head in the doorway and yelled, “Staff Sergeant Luck! Your new radioman is out here. He’s reporting in!” Then he turned around and without saying another word, walked off leaving me standing alone outside the FDC bunker. That was my introduction to the best friend I would ever serve with in Vietnam.
I was assigned the job of humping the PRC 25 radio for the Bravo Company 81s mortar forward observer. Sgt. Joe Castillo was a “Tex-Mex” from Corpus Cristi, Texas, and he was a veteran of ten months in Nam. A forward observer team is comprised of a forward observer (FO) and a radioman who provides mortar support to a Marine company in the field. The FO reads the topographical map and directs the mortars on the base where and what to fire at the enemy. The radioman relays all the FO’s directions and carries the radio in the bush.
Joe could read a map better than most of the company officers, and his skill was highly respected by the command staff of Bravo. He always knew where we were in the bush, which was a valuable skill required to prevent errant rounds from landing on our “friendlies.” I learned quickly to listen to all his advice about humping in the jungle and how to be a competent radioman.
Whenever and wherever units of Bravo Company went into the field, we went too. Early on, I struggled physically to hump all my gear and a radio that weighed 20 pounds plus a spare battery. Joe’s advice and support helped me to adapt to the rigors of humping the mountainous terrain around the Khe Sanh Combat Base. He would even carry the radio to give me a rest and help prevent my heat stroke!
Part Three – Our FO Team
In June, our two-man FO team grew to three with the addition of Gilbert Wall. He was assigned to replace Sgt. Joe Castillo who was going on leave to the US. Joe had extended his tour in Nam for six months and was going to be re-assigned to an MP unit in Da Nang. MP duty was SWEET! And SAFE! Air-conditioned housing, dry cot with a real mattress, hot showers, and cold beer and steaks! But before that sweet duty could begin, he had to train Gilbert as his FO replacement.
Joe indicated to me that he was satisfied with Gilbert as a potential replacement. He had been recommended by Staff Sgt. Morris because he’d shown an interest in the functions of the FDC. He had asked a lot of questions about directing mortar fire, more so than any other mortar man within the section. In addition, he was excellent at using a lensatic compass which was critical for directing outgoing rounds and adjustment during a fire mission. Gilbert’s OJT began by going on all Bravo Company patrols and observing Joe in the pre-patrol meetings with the Bravo command group.
My first months in Nam passed by quickly with the same monotonous patrols with only one disastrous contact with the NVA. It was on June 7th, and it was bloody! It was NOT a proud day for Gilbert and me. Bravo Company was hit by 30 mortar rounds and then we were assaulted by an overwhelming force of 40 NVA. It was our first patrol without Sgt. Castillo, who by then was home stateside on leave.
Gilbert tried to call in a fire mission, but I could not make contact with our mortars on top of 881! I tried to switch to our back-up frequency but still could not communicate with the guns. The incoming machine gun fire and grenades had us pinned down and all we could do was stay low while I fiddled with that damn PRC 25 radio! When the enemy was finally beat off, the only thing Gilbert and I did to support Bravo was to carry a dead Marine to the med-evacuation area.
During his training, Gilbert and I became good friends. We were together 24/7. Gilbert was almost 21 and more mature than the 18-19 year-old men we served with in Nam. During our off hours or on radio watch, we talked about our families, civilian jobs, and girls!
Gilbert was a Blackfoot Indian from Browning, Montana. He grew up in a large family like me, and like me he was raised poor, and that was where the comparison ended. I learned that he was a product of the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) school system. At age eight, he was sent to a BIA boarding school in Flandreau, South Dakota, 1,140 miles from his home. He described the school as a harsh Dickensian existence, one that the students were expected to bear in rigid obedience and prescribed silence.
They cut off his long hair, forbade him to speak his tribal language, confiscated all his personal belongings that were “Indian,” and dictated their harsh rules of conduct. Gilbert was to spend the next twelve years at the school with only summer breaks at home in Montana. But these summer trips home ended when the students became teenagers. In their teens, the students remained at the school year-round.
The local farmers would “hire” the older boys and girls as farm hands and domestics during the summer. The children were not paid for their work and were told their earnings were being saved and would be given to them upon graduation. Gilbert said he never did receive the money when he graduated! He said the education was terrible and although he was good at math, he was not able to read or write well when he graduated. I realized right then that Gilbert had a much different life growing up than I did.
While Gilbert was quiet, his actions and the way he carried himself spoke volumes about his character. Between us, our friendship was strong; we knew we could count on each other. That bond would soon be tested under very dangerous conditions during our first combat with the NVA.
During most of July, Gilbert’s training and our patrols continued with no sighting of the NVA. Every time we stopped to take a break on patrol, Sgt. Castillo would ask Gilbert to identify our current location on his map. When we set up camp for the night, they would huddle together to discuss and plan the nightly “on call” missions and select defensive targets to protect us in case of an enemy attack. It was rigorous “show and tell” training and Gilbert was learning fast! He grew more confident with each passing day.
On July 20th, 1967, First Platoon was assigned to conduct a recon sweep away from the combat base to Route 9. Our orders were to run a patrol along this road to discover any potential ambush sites that could intercept and destroy our supply convoys coming north to our base. Vietnamese “Highway” Nine was no more than a narrow gravel road that ran alongside the Dai Trang River. Barely wide enough for two trucks to pass by together, it was the only overland road to the Khe Sanh Combat Base.
Day one of the sweep consisted of humping overland to Route 9, then setting up defensive positions on the high ground overlooking the road for the night. On the morning of July 21, we descended to the road, organized our positions for the march, and proceeded south down Route 9. The platoon formation consisted of one column on the left flank on the high ground above the road, and another column on the right a short distance below the road near the river. The command group and our FO team were in the middle of the road, followed by a 60mm mortar team.
It was not long before the pace slowed to near zero. The left flank on the high ground was faced with some very formidable terrain and had slowed the entire platoon down. They were in a thick bamboo forest with a jungle canopy that almost completely blocked the sunlight, darkening their path forward. In addition, the ground sloped precipitously downhill on the column’s right side. The platoon commander had instructed that the left column remain slightly ahead of the remainder of the platoon, and if possible, stay in visual contact with the other Marines on the road.
Neither of these was the case. The order was given to the left column to proceed as planned, and after getting ahead of the rest of the platoon, the movement on the road would commence. It wasn’t 15 minutes later that the left column made enemy contact! They were almost in the dark, in a firefight with a dug-in NVA ambush, and it was going very badly for the Marines on the left flank.
Almost simultaneously, the remainder of the platoon came under withering fire to the front and our right across the river. Joe immediately crouched down, looked back at me and Gilbert and said, “Standby, fire mission!” I immediately closed the two-foot gap between Joe and me while saying, “Whiskey Bravo, this is Whiskey Bravo 1, fire mission, over.”
By the time I keyed the handset on my radio and voiced those words, I was crouched directly behind Joe, waiting for his next words. He had always instructed me to remain close to him during a fire mission. Over and over, he would say, “T-Bone…when the shit hits the fan, you had better be crawling up my ass! We don’t want to miscommunicate and fuck up a fire mission. We’re supposed to kill the gooks, not our own men!”
Joe pulled his map out of his flak jacket and quickly yelled the target grid with the corresponding azimuth and then said, “Fire one round of Whiskey Papa (white phosphorous or WP), will adjust.” I immediately repeated his directions and then nervously looked behind me and there was Gilbert Wall listening intently.
The radio crackled in a few minutes; it seemed like a lifetime. I heard, “One round Whiskey Papa, out.” I began to repeat the response from the guns located at the previously destroyed bridge site along the river, and Joe interrupted me mid-sentence, “I heard.”
We all started to look for our WP spotter round to impact so Joe could begin his adjustments to his target. After waiting enough time for the spotter round to impact and not seeing its white cloud across or up the river, Joe yelled, “Moving up,” and started running up to the next bend in the road. Gilbert and I scrambled up and ran after Joe. We didn’t catch up to him until he had run around the bend in the road and was crouched down near a sheer cliff along the road looking for that spotter round.
All the while we were conducting our fire mission, the “mad minute” had begun! Responding with small arms fire from individual Marines, machine guns, M79 grenade launchers, and 60mm mortars all firing across and up the river. Rifle, machine gun fire, and explosions could be heard coming from the high ground with the NVA matching our firepower.
Hugging the ground while our eyes scanned for the tell-tale wisp of white smoke from our spotter round, the entire FO team came under intense NVA fire. Machine gun bursts landed above our heads showering us with rock fragments, and then it happened! I looked to my left and Joe was trembling while blood spurted out between his partially opened flak jacket. I looked closer and there was a gunshot wound in his upper chest. He started to slump to the ground and his face lost its color; he was dead!
All of a sudden, I felt a hard slap and a strong sting on the right side of my neck. Instinctively I reached up and felt a bloody patch on my neck and my finger discovered a bullet hole! I was stunned but didn’t go into shock. As I turned to my right, reacting to the gunshot wound, I observed Gilbert was lying in the road behind me.
I started to reach for him and then I saw a blue-green-yellow flash above my head and my field of vision shrunk and waves of concussion hit my body. In addition, I felt these little bumps and pin pricks all over my head, face and arms. My vision started to disappear! I lost the sight of my left eye almost immediately and I could barely see out of my right eye. I later found out that an RPG had exploded near us and that caused all the shrapnel to hit us.
Squinting with my right eye, I rolled Gilbert over and blood squirted from his mouth. I had learned in our battlefield first aid class that this was a sign of a bullet or shrapnel wound through one or both lungs. Guessing, I tipped him on his right side and luckily he was shot through that right lung so he could breathe with his remaining good lung. I also found out later that the bullet had entered through Gilbert’s left shoulder and the round had exited through his right lung and side.
My adrenaline must have disappeared soon after because the last thing I heard Gilbert say as I passed out was, “T-Bone, lie down and play dead!”
The firefight ended as soon as it had started. I regained consciousness while being lifted through the door of a med-evac chopper. Lying on the floor of the chopper, Gilbert made eye contact and I began to moan. Gilbert reached over with a comforting hand on my shoulder and said, “What the hell just happened to us?” I responded with tears in my eyes, “We lost Joe! And we found the NVA!” The chopper lifted off and I was so glad to be alive!
Source: Bravo! The Project! (bravotheproject.com/)