Our job (me and the three guys from Montana) was to play the enemy aggressors and to get these Marines training in Staging Battalion ready for real combat in the jungles of South Vietnam. We were to have no mercy, to attack them at totally random times, ideally when they least expected it.

The real aggressors were permanent personnel, full time Marines who were stationed at Main Side Camp Pendleton and ran the intense 30-day Staging Battalion course. These Marines were corporals, sergeants and Staff Sergeants. These guys were hard core infantry Marines and had been in the Marine Corps for one or more full 4-year enlistments. They were great guys who really knew their stuff. This was a big operation as the Marine Corps geared up for full-scale Vietnam war. The United States was now shipping thousands of Marines and other servicemen from all four branches to South Vietnam every month.

We were just privates who enthusiastically followed orders. Our schedule became bizarre as we attacked during the day, in the middle of the night or at first light. Every day was different. But we really got into it. Camouflage utilities, full-on face-paint and everything blacked out. Every piece of gear secured. Nothing rattled or made noise. We were in full-on stealth mode. Except when we attacked. Then we were screaming and yelling, firing blanks like crazy enemy and throwing smoke grenades. We tore apart their shelter-half tents, made a mess of their perimeter, and then, just like that, we were gone. Chaos reigned. We were everywhere and no-where.

There were multiple groups of 600 Marines at different stages of the Staging Battalion training syllabus. Once training got geared up, we were sometimes doing two or three attacks in a 24-hour period on two or three different groups at different stages of their training. We got so we slept in our clothes all week long and only washed off our face paint and took a shower when we got liberty starting Saturday afternoon.

Attacking different groups at different locations at different times of the day or night meant we were constantly moving around. Most of the time our attack group was moved around in big 6 x 6 trucks. The first six came from the fact that the truck had six wheels. The second six came from the fact that all six wheels were powered. The truck was a beast. It could go almost anywhere on almost any terrain in any weather. Many nights or days the trucks were hauling us up muddy roads in the pouring rain. The big diesel engine had tremendous torque and could haul huge loads.

But sometimes we just had to hump it. We got in great shape, legs of iron like a mountain goat. We got pretty salty with not changing clothes, not showering and or shaving, and sleeping in our clothes. By Saturday liberty, the four of us were ready to rip. The four of us packed into my '56 VW, we would pull into the first liquor store we hit off base. Four bottles or rather four jugs of red wine, then we headed into Oceanside – the biggest town near Camp Pendleton. This became our weekly blow-out.

Three or four weeks into this routine, we got a little out of hand. We put a pretty good dent into half gallon jugs of red rot gut. I was driving as usual. It got later and later.

Next thing I knew, it was first light. I couldn’t believe how lousy my car was driving and at a strange angle. I had no idea where we were. Then I noticed the flashing red light of a police car in my rear-view mirror. His loudspeaker ordered me to pull over. I did as ordered and came to a full stop and shut off the engine. A police officer approached from each side of my car. After I gave the first officer my license and my proof of insurance, he told all four of us to get out of the car.

It was only then that I realized I had not one, but two flat tires both on the same side of the car. That explained the odd angle of my car. My right front headlight was smashed and out and I had white paint smeared on the right front and right side of my car. Needless to say, I was clueless how all this happened.

Maybe because we were obviously Marines, he gave us a break. He gave me a ticket for open container which is not a moving violation.

We spent the rest of the morning first changing one flat tire, then finding a service station that could fix the other one. Then we limped back to base. We slept all day Sunday. Late afternoon, we cleaned up and went to evening chow.

This was pretty much how things went for the six weeks or so I had left on my six months of active duty. Come June 30, 1965, I signed the paperwork, got my travel voucher and started my 460-mile drive home. It had been an amazing six months.

End of June. The weather was sunny and beautiful. It was a perfect day for driving north on the 101 freeway going north. The California coast was stunning. Times like these makes one feel grateful to be alive. My faithful red 1956 VW was humming along on a couple of new tires. I stopped and had bacon and eggs and pancakes at a roadside diner courtesy of the Marine Corps. At 21, life seemed pretty terrific at this moment. All I could say out loud was “Thank you, thank you.”

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Joe

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