Old soldiers will enjoy this description of Marine Corps field sanitation in
RVN and mention of the one 50 cal MG and one 106 mm RR atop Marble
Mountain . . . . . .xgrunt

Subject: Field Sanitation

I don't remember if I ever shared this "war story" with you all before but I
recently passed it along to another friend. Harry is my oldest surviving
friend: we went together through the Marines initial training for commissioned
officers, The Basic School, which in 1965 was geared to graduated 2Lts ready
to lead infantry. Harry opted to go to Ft. Sill to be trained as an arty
officer. When I got back off the USS Repose from my first WIA adventure, Harry
had joined our company, Lima 3/1, as our Forward Observer.
This little article tells a lot about my friend. He's a terrific writer and
observer of life, being an Alabama lad, grad of Auburn.
I thought it not an inappropriate article as we embark upon the Christmas
season, ponder our foibles, the never-ending attempts of man to understand his
world and meet the challenges presented, and give Thanks.
Semper Fi,
Tom E



Field Sanitation

By Harry Hooper

In mid-September of 1966 I was ordered to an observation post called Crow's
Nest. It was on top of Marble Mountain south of the airstrip at Danang. It
was the mission of the Crow's Nest observation post to protect the airstrip,
and to keep the Viet Cong from damaging the air-conditioned trailers of the
aviators, and the nice barracks of their support troops, by firing rockets
or mortars at them. The aircraft were a concern also. The mission was to
be accomplished by raining artillery fire onto the heads of any VC who had
the temerity to attack the big base and the Marine air base which was north
and east of the mountain.

Marble Mountain was actually several spindly shafts of rock. The highest
one rose 105 meters straight out of the sand just west of the South China
Sea and it was upon this rock that the Crow's Nest sat. The mountain was
mostly made of marble except that the marble became karst at the higher
elevations. The entire mountain was full of caves and tunnels. Most of
them were too small for a man to enter. I think if it had been possible to
saw it in half it would look like a plank eaten by termites.

At the summit was an area which was 20 feet at its widest and in length, it
was perhaps 150 feet. This was occupied by a wooden platform upon which was
emplaced a 106 millimeter recoilless rifle. The plan was that anytime the
wily Cong fired rockets at the airstrip, they would be engaged immediately
by the 106 while the FO, me, would send a fire mission to my artillery
battalion which would blast the offending VC into rubble. Since the VC only
fired rockets at night, and usually moonless nights, exactly how we were to
accomplish this was never revealed to me.

Life on Crow's Nest was not unpleasant. There were eight of us up there.
There was the 106 crew, a couple of machine gunners manning a single M-60,
my trusty radio operator, Lance Corporal Papkin, and my wireman, PFC Clapp.
Once a week a CH-34 helicopter would appear slinging beneath it a cargo net
containing C-rats, beer, and cigarettes. Prior lifts had delivered timber
and corrogated tin which had been used to construct a comfortable hooch.

We had all of the comforts of home and unlike home, we could wake up
mornings to a splendid view of the South China Sea and enjoy spectacular
sunsets over the Annamese Mountains. Moreover, we felt safe. The climb to
the top of Crow's Nest was quite difficult and entailed shinnying up a
hawser for part of the way. At night we would pull the hawser to the top
and we felt pretty sure that no VC could get to us, at least not without
working up a substantial sweat. Occasionally, at dusk, a sniper would crank
off a round or two in our direction and we would answer with a short blast
from the M-60. If we were feeling particularly surly, or if a round holed
our tin roof, we would reply with a 106 HEAT round.

It did occur to me that my military career would be in serious jeopardy if
some enterprising VC got to the top, swung the 106 to the north, and
proceeded to blast away at important people's command posts and trailers.
Consequently, every time we heard any strange sounds from the side of the
mountain we tossed grenades at them.

Days were spent eating, drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and listening to
a tape player which had a single Beatles tape. The album was called
"Revolver" and Eleanor Rigby was the featured song, or at least the only one
I remember. We must have heard it a thousand times. After enough beer I
would actually began to worry about Eleanor's plight.

On a typical day we would watch air traffic circling and landing at Danang.
One day we saw a B-52 make an unsuccessful emergency landing. Crow's Nest
must have been at least ten miles from the airfield but nevertheless, when
the wind was favorable, it was possible to hear C-130's revving up. At
night we would watch F-4's and F-105's scream overhead with their
afterburners flaring. One night we saw an F-4 get hit by an errant 105
millimeter illumination round and watched in amazement as the pilots
parachuted from the plane. More astonishingly, a little Kaman helicopter
was there to pick them up almost as soon as they hit the ground.

When vehicles traveled the MSR heading south, to what was then the 1st
Battalion, 1st Marines CP, we would watch closely for snipers shooting at
them. Occasionally we would see a small firefight between the Marines in
the vehicles and the VC. The 106 gunners, who were truly crack shots, would
fire at the snipers, undoubtedly scaring the bejesus out of the truckers,
and perhaps erasing a few VC.

The 106 had a .50 caliber rifle on top of the weapon. This was called the
minor caliber. The 106 itself, was called the major caliber. The gunner,
when he found the target with the minor caliber, would yell, "fire the
major caliber." The explosion from the recoilless rifle was like the crack
of doom. The difference between the minor caliber and the major caliber
was like the difference between a hand grenade explosion and the atom bomb.

We also had a dog which provided some entertainment. The dog was named Boom
Boom, either out of respect for the 106 or after entertainment of the same
name which was available for a few piasters from one of the professional
women who plied their trade in the village of Nui Kim Son. It was a nice
little dog and probably lived its entire life on top of Crow's Nest since I
am sure the OP was occupied by U.S. troops until the pullout. That is not a
lot of running room for a dog for an entire lifetime but it probably beat
becoming rotisserie dog.

One of the problems with eight Marines on a small piece of real estate was
that of field sanitation. This had been temporarily solved by placing a 106
ammo box, with an appropriate hole cut into it, over a shaft in the
limestone which was at least 12 to 15 feet straight down. It seemed to
angle off to the side after that and we suspected that it continued deep
into the mountain. When relieving oneself of C-rats washed down with beer,
the alimentary canal produced a product which resounded with a satisfying
splat as it bottomed into the abyss of the pit.

In time, the OP, especially at night, became redolent of sewage. As a
highly trained second lieutenant, having been a recent graduate of The Basic
School, Quantico, Virginia, I resolved to solve this. Someone could have
become ill as a result of this situation, or at least gag. Accordingly, I
contacted the S-4 on the radio and requested gasoline so that the offending
matter could be incinerated. In due time the supply helicopter arrived with
its cargo net and with it, four jerry cans of diesel fuel.

It may have been a product of our boredom or the excitement of having
something new to accomplish, but in any event, as soon as the cans were
unloaded, we removed the ammo box and poured twenty gallons of diesel fuel
into the pit. With great anticipation we threw a match into the pit.
Nothing. Then we lit a pack of matches and tossed it into the odoriferous
hole. Nothing. Then we lit a large splinter from an ammo box and tossed it
into the maw. It made a nice little fire for a while but the diesel didn't
catch. Next came an illumination grenade. The pit remained as fireless as
a tenderfoot with flint and steel. That is when we learned that diesel
doesn't burn, at least, it didn't on Crow's Nest. Our disappointment was
palpable.

This failure resulted in a radio call to the air officer requesting
gasoline. We were informed that the pilots thought gasoline to be unsafe
cargo when put in a cargo net which had to be deposited on a narrow rock
ledge. If the gasoline can collided with the rock, the whole helicopter
would erupt in flame, or so I was told. It was suggested that we should
climb down the mountain, walk to the CP, strap a five gallon can of gasoline
on a pack frame, and manhandle it up the mountain. This suggestion, it
should be noted, came from the air officer.

The situation was becoming one of those righteous welfare of the troops
issues and with all of the indignation that could be mustered by a second
lieutenant, I suggested that this was a matter which should be kicked
upstairs. Eventually, the battalion executive officer came up on the net
and we had a serious discussion about field sanitation and the lack of an
infantry battalion commander's power to order Marine aviators to do
anything.

The next week the cargo helicopter arrived and in the big net I spotted five
jerry cans. I knew right away they contained gasoline because the pilot
flipped me a bird right before he chopped back to the Marble Mountain
Airstrip. I don't know how battalion got it done but, in any event, we were
in business.

Into the abyss went twenty-five gallons of gasoline which mingled with the
diesel which had pooled there from the previous week's effort. It was late
afternoon. The sea breeze wafted in from the South China Sea, rustling the
hairs on our heads which were already tingling with excitement. I delivered
a safety lecture of sorts on the explosive tendencies of gasoline and
suggested that we ignite the gas with an illumination grenade tossed from a
safe distance.

A volunteer agreed to do the deed and pulled the pin from the grenade. We
watched over his shoulder as he tossed the device into the pit with
precision. For a moment, there was silence. Then the mountain began to
shudder and then to vibrate and then a loud roar split the silence of the
afternoon. Flame burst from the mouth of the pit like a mighty tongue, and
to our astonishment, additional blasts roared from the sides of the mountain
like fumaroles on the cone of an erupting volcano. It in fact was Vesuvius,
Krakatoa, and Pinatubo, rolled into one. We marveled at the magnitude of
our work.

The radio crackled to life immediately. It was battalion headquarters,
located in the flatlands some three miles away, excitingly inquiring as to t
he nature of the calamity. Flame and smoke, they stated, were coming
everywhere from the mountain. They demanded information as to the cause.
We were safe, we reported. We were just conducting routine field
sanitation.

In time the holocaust subsided to a mere roar. The air smelled of burning
petroleum products. By dusk the fire was out and the opening once more
sported the ammunition box with the hole in it, the box which was so
supportive of our daily life on the OP.

I never had the need to conduct field sanitation on Crow's Nest again.
Shortly after this event, I rejoined my rifle company and became engaged in
more serious business.

Thirty-four years have passed since that day and I still think of the Crow's
Nest every time I hear the Beatles wailing about Eleanor Rigby. It's the
nearest thing to a flashback I've ever had.

Never made it to the top of Marble Mountain, but remember it quite well. And yes, there were a few firefights in the neighborhood, and I remember them just as well.

Great story, hats off to you sir!

Great story! I worked on Monkey Mountain, next door to Marble Mtn in '70/71. On nights when we were not enveloped in a cloud, we would be outside on our breaks, enjoying the war. Super view from there, overlooking DaNang and the surrounding area. Almost nightly, we'd hear, and sometimes see rifle fire from VC Sappers shooting on Marble Mountain. Was glad they liked the Marines on that mountain, instead of the Air Force on Monkey Mountain.