A Close Brush With Death at An Koa Combat Base
by Mike Galyean
It’s pretty well-known that the Marine Corps is a microcosm of society. To an extent that is true even in a combat environment. During the late 60’s and early 70’s, especially following the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, there was racial tension and even rioting in cities across America. There was discontent and mistrust among the black population and intolerance among those in power. Vietnam was not isolated from this discontent, and we were often dealing with issues stemming from racial distrust and unrest.
Karl Marlantes wrote a book in 2011 called Matterhorn. Matterhorn was hailed as “a brilliant account of war” (New York Times Book Review). Karl Marlantes was a highly decorated Marine who fought in the mountainous jungles along the DMZ in northern I-Corps of Vietnam. One of the themes that ran throughout the novel was about the racial tension among some black Marines and some prejudicial officers with little patience toward them.
Reading Marlantes’ book really struck a chord with me because one of the closest times I came to dying in Vietnam was in a racial confrontation in the rear area of An Hoa combat base located in Quang Nam province of Vietnam in late 1969. Someone, probably accidentally, fired a round that went through the tent of a group of black Marines. (In the rear areas, folks generally kept to their own). The 20 or so Marines billeted in the tent went on a rampage. They were led by a particularly hotheaded black Marine and were all yelling that they were going to “kill every white beast at An Hoa.”
Karl Marlantes wrote a book in 2011 called Matterhorn. Matterhorn was hailed as “a brilliant account of war” (New York Times Book Review). Karl Marlantes was a highly decorated Marine who fought in the mountainous jungles along the DMZ in northern I-Corps of Vietnam. One of the themes that ran throughout the novel was about the racial tension among some black Marines and some prejudicial officers with little patience toward them.
Reading Marlantes’ book really struck a chord with me because one of the closest times I came to dying in Vietnam was in a racial confrontation in the rear area of An Hoa combat base located in Quang Nam province of Vietnam in late 1969. Someone, probably accidentally, fired a round that went through the tent of a group of black Marines. (In the rear areas, folks generally kept to their own). The 20 or so Marines billeted in the tent went on a rampage. They were led by a particularly hotheaded black Marine and were all yelling that they were going to “kill every white beast at An Hoa.”
“Black Liberation and the Vietnam War” — from the National Museum of African American History and Culture in Washington, DC
As I was watching a movie in the staff & officers’ club, word came that there “was trouble in the troop area.” I grabbed my flak jacket and helmet and went running down the muddy path to the area, thinking that the others were right behind me. Wrong! When I encountered the group of armed, locked & loaded, black Marines, I was the only white face around. I knew immediately, however, that this situation had to be defused, or there was going to be considerable bloodshed. I also knew that there was a black Marine Captain in a nearby unit that was respected by everyone, black and white, who could get them under control. But, somehow, I had to contain this until he got word and would get there.
My initial approach was to be “investigative,” but it didn’t take long to realize that approach wasn’t working. I could tell who the leader was, a Marine from another platoon who I only knew by reputation. I got in his face, threw my helmet down, ripped off my flak jacket and threw it into the mud with my helmet. I told him if he was going to start killing white Marines, he’d have to start with me. He and I stood nose to nose cursing each other, while all the other black Marines surrounding us were yelling for him to “shoot the white (expletive).” I knew, however, that none of them would do it, because it had now come down to me and him. As long as I could keep him yelling and cursing at me, that was more time for the Marine captain to arrive on the scene. Eventually, minutes? Hours? Seemed like an eternity... he arrived, and with his hand on my shoulder, said “Lieutenant, I’ll take over, now.” The situation was defused.
A couple of things happened later that night that I want to add. A black Marine had been put in my platoon several weeks before. PFC Jimmy Jones, had been kicked out of several other units because of his racial activism. I had a talk with PFC Jones and let him know that I was from Mississippi and had graduated from Ole Miss. I also told him that I’d thrown bricks and bottles when James Meredith integrated Ole Miss. I went on to let him know that, several years later, I’d been at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis 3 days after Martin Luther King was assassinated there, representing the YMCA and trying to bring peace to a violent Memphis. I told him the reason I was telling him all of this was to let him know that people can change. I’d changed from when I was a hot-headed college student. I also told Jones that, perhaps something he would do might mean whether I lived or died. But I knew for sure that what I did every day as his platoon commander would determine whether he lived or died in Vietnam. I suggested that we work together to make sure we both got home alive. I’m proud to say that PFC Jones performed to the standards I expected all my Marines to perform, and even carried my radio during my regular radio man’s R & R.
During the incident described above, I looked past the group of Marines who had encircled me, demanding that I be shot, and saw PFC Jones sitting by himself strumming on a guitar and staying away from the rampaging, threatening Marines. Weeks earlier, he’d probably have been at the front of the group. I went up to him after peace had been restored and thanked him for not getting involved. He told me, “You know, Lieutenant, that I couldn’t come help you.” I said I understood, but appreciated that he wasn’t one of the ones wanting me shot. We shook hands.
Also, after things had settled down, the leader of the black Marine group that I’d confronted came up to me and said, “Lieutenant, you know I could have shot you back there.” I responded, “Yes, but you didn’t and that’s all that mattered.”
I guess Karl Marlantes’ novel really hit a nerve. We fought side by side ... whites, blacks, Latinos ... but when we got to a rear area, when we didn’t depend on each other for our lives, there was still tension. My Vietnam experience helped shape my belief of equality and respect ... but, I’m sure others were affected differently ... who knows why. I only know that when I look back on my Vietnam experiences and the many times I looked death in the face, my experience at An Hoa is one that will stay with me, and I give thanks that I survived.
My initial approach was to be “investigative,” but it didn’t take long to realize that approach wasn’t working. I could tell who the leader was, a Marine from another platoon who I only knew by reputation. I got in his face, threw my helmet down, ripped off my flak jacket and threw it into the mud with my helmet. I told him if he was going to start killing white Marines, he’d have to start with me. He and I stood nose to nose cursing each other, while all the other black Marines surrounding us were yelling for him to “shoot the white (expletive).” I knew, however, that none of them would do it, because it had now come down to me and him. As long as I could keep him yelling and cursing at me, that was more time for the Marine captain to arrive on the scene. Eventually, minutes? Hours? Seemed like an eternity... he arrived, and with his hand on my shoulder, said “Lieutenant, I’ll take over, now.” The situation was defused.
A couple of things happened later that night that I want to add. A black Marine had been put in my platoon several weeks before. PFC Jimmy Jones, had been kicked out of several other units because of his racial activism. I had a talk with PFC Jones and let him know that I was from Mississippi and had graduated from Ole Miss. I also told him that I’d thrown bricks and bottles when James Meredith integrated Ole Miss. I went on to let him know that, several years later, I’d been at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis 3 days after Martin Luther King was assassinated there, representing the YMCA and trying to bring peace to a violent Memphis. I told him the reason I was telling him all of this was to let him know that people can change. I’d changed from when I was a hot-headed college student. I also told Jones that, perhaps something he would do might mean whether I lived or died. But I knew for sure that what I did every day as his platoon commander would determine whether he lived or died in Vietnam. I suggested that we work together to make sure we both got home alive. I’m proud to say that PFC Jones performed to the standards I expected all my Marines to perform, and even carried my radio during my regular radio man’s R & R.
During the incident described above, I looked past the group of Marines who had encircled me, demanding that I be shot, and saw PFC Jones sitting by himself strumming on a guitar and staying away from the rampaging, threatening Marines. Weeks earlier, he’d probably have been at the front of the group. I went up to him after peace had been restored and thanked him for not getting involved. He told me, “You know, Lieutenant, that I couldn’t come help you.” I said I understood, but appreciated that he wasn’t one of the ones wanting me shot. We shook hands.
Also, after things had settled down, the leader of the black Marine group that I’d confronted came up to me and said, “Lieutenant, you know I could have shot you back there.” I responded, “Yes, but you didn’t and that’s all that mattered.”
I guess Karl Marlantes’ novel really hit a nerve. We fought side by side ... whites, blacks, Latinos ... but when we got to a rear area, when we didn’t depend on each other for our lives, there was still tension. My Vietnam experience helped shape my belief of equality and respect ... but, I’m sure others were affected differently ... who knows why. I only know that when I look back on my Vietnam experiences and the many times I looked death in the face, my experience at An Hoa is one that will stay with me, and I give thanks that I survived.
