Fortune Favors The Brave is an exciting fiction book with several twists. In the beginning they are two ninteen year old men who become best friends, dispite their different backgrounds, views and beliefs. Bob French is a Navy Corpsman that saves human lives and Perry McMullin is a Marine Sniper that takes those same lives. "Fortune Favors The Brave" is a story that will take you on a roller coaster ride of emotions; setting you up for a thrilling ending that you never saw coming.
Fortune Favors the Brave
Fortes Fortuna AdiuvatBy Perry McMullin Robert FrenchAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Perry McMullin and Robert French
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-2614-1Chapter One
FORTES FORTUNA ADIUVAT Fortune Favors The Brave
"Good morning, Lieutenant. Lance Corporal McMullin, Perry V., 1981844, reporting in accordance with my orders, sir."
"Good morning there, Lance Corporal McMullin. We expected you here two days ago."
"Yes sir, it seems that I came by way of Saigon instead of the direct flight to DaNang that I was expecting. I guess there was some big brass aboard that they made some special concessions for."
With the exchange of this near pleasantry, I began the process of checking into the Marine Corps Third Platoon of the First Reconnaissance Battalion, Third Marine Division. The Third Recon Platoon was just being formed on 15 July 1966, and at that time, it came under the command of Special Operations and the commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Good. This particular platoon was used for the most part for covert operations and was often deployed in several different locations at one time.
No one ever questioned who, what, when, where, why, or how we accomplished a mission, or for that fact, if we had even been out on a mission.
I had just turned nineteen years old after my graduation from boot camp in November 1965 at MCRD San Diego, and then I was off for two months of Vietnamese language school. That didn't make me a linguist by any stretch of the imagination, but I could communicate with some reasonable efficiency.
There was some talk about my attending a formal sniper school at Quantico, but instead I was taught sniping at the First Marine Division, Camp Pendleton, California. My MOS (military occupational specialty) was still that of a 0311 or basic infantry grunt; however, the prospect of serving with trained recon marines was thrilling for me, to say the least. Recon missions were much different than what the field grunts were doing on search-and-destroy sweeps or just their holding down some nasty-ass fire base in the armpit of Vietnam.
A regular 03 grunt was generally just a number to generals, colonels, and other high-ranking officers. It wasn't until you got down to your platoon or squad level that you actually became more than just another warm body dressed in Marine Corps green.
Because recon specialized in small-unit operations most of the time, I knew I'd be getting some quality trigger time while serving with these guys. Plus my chances of getting a decent personal medal or decoration while with the recon guys were a hell of a lot better. War may not be all about medals, but look at all of the ones that had been designed just for the brass. There was no way that the average jarhead would ever get one of those medals, because they were just chest fluff for colonels and generals. I want something on my chest to show that I did my thing when I finally do go back to the real world. Oooohrah, Semper Fi, do or die!
I finished checking into my unit, which actually turned out to be a hell of a lot quicker than any other admin procedure ever was stateside. I guess that my being in a real shooting war has changed all the fucking chicken-shit paperwork I had gone through back in the land of the round eyes. Even drawing my Remington BDL rifle was as simple as, "Sign here for the rifle, sling, scope, and one hundred rounds to sight you in, Lance Corporal."
I was anxious to get the official word telling me when I could go to the range and acquire the proper dope I needed to sight this thirty-aught-six bad boy in. Anything five hundred meters or less was like shooting the eye out of a fucking gnat with this beautiful customized weapon. Now, when you are talking about a thousand meters or more, that is where a sniper and a grunt parted company. Riflemen in the regular marines qualify at the two, three, and five hundred-meter lines only. I guess all of the shooting expertise I demonstrated on the rifle range in boot camp actually did amount to something here in the Green Machine.
One shot and one kill was the motto of sniper school, and there never was a limit imposed on the number of gooks I could smoke on any given day. Oooohrah and gung ho, it is the Marine Corps way, all day, every day!
On my third day at DaNang, I was getting really itchy to go over to the range and pop some caps to sight this baby in so I could apply the dope to my Redfield scope. I mean, what the fuck? I am here to shoot things, so what seems to be the holdup? I was gung ho and ready to lock and load on full auto at any time and any day. Either lead me, follow me, or get the fuck out of my way!
After morning chow, I wandered over to the admin office once again to see what was screwing up this whole range process. Go figure-the person I needed to see was out of the area for the rest of the day. It was to be standby to standby once again. The new butter bar lieutenant stood up and motioned for me to come over to him. "Lance Corporal, this is our new navy corpsman, Robert French. He's just off the C-130 from Okinawa, so you show him the ropes about getting his ass checked in, and then find him a place to rack in your hooch."
"Aye aye, sir, will do," I said.
"Oh hey, by the by there, Lance Corporal McMullin, you have a range time tomorrow from 0800 to 1200. Take this FNG swabbie along with you and teach him something about shooting. These fucking squids don't know which end of a rifle they need to use to kill the enemy."
Once again, I acknowledged with an, "Aye, sir, will do," as we boogied off and away from all the remefs sitting there on their royal red asses, looking so all-fired refined and important.
"So, Doc, you just got in country?" I asked.
"Yeah, I did, but I was told that I was going to be assigned to the base hospital or sick bay, so what is up with this recon outfit anyway? Somehow, I think it has something to do with my getting screwed up the ass again, big time!"
I filled Bob in on some things about the Marine Corps and specifically about recon. I guess if he expected to be at the base hospital or sick bay, this was going to be even worse than he could ever imagine. Recon was different than a grunt outfit, maybe better for him and maybe worse. "This may not be the gig you expected, Doc, but I'll tell you one thing for sure: recon marines are tight. They are so fucking tight that they're like a frog's ass, and that, my friend, would be watertight! Just go with the flow for a while, Doc, and well ... who knows?"
Getting Doc French checked in was done in record time because he got most of his stuff from the navy and not the marines. "After we get you a rack in my hooch, we'll stop over and get you a set of tiger-stripe utilities ordered up. The locals can measure you up today and then bring your finished set in tomorrow." The tiger-stripe cammies were not issued to U.S. troops, but the advisors and units of the ARVN wore them. They were a hell of a lot better than the crummy jungle fatigues that were being issued by our supply, because these actually allowed you to blend into the jungle. I don't think the regular marines could wear them, but if we paid for them out of our own pocket, no one said anything about our having or wearing them.
"Speaking of tigers, Doc, after we get you checked in, we'll go over to the 'E'club and each of us will have a big ole pitcher of Tiger Piss. Some people might call it beer, but I think you'll agree, it is really more like tiger piss once that nasty, warm shit hits your lips."
We sat under a tarp to keep the hot July sun off of us as we drank one pitcher and then another of something that was just warm and yellow. In the following three hours, we both knew everything that was worth telling each other about ourselves.
Bob thought the title of Doc was too premature, with his having just completed corpsman school, but I assured him that in the Marine Corps, every corpsman was called Doc.
Bob said that when he joined the navy, he wanted to become an assistant to a chaplain, but the needs of the military often led us in a different direction. If whatever the recruiter told you wasn't put into writing, then it didn't exist later on, and apparently that applied to all branches of the service the same exact way.
In the Nam, our real names were seldom used. Everyone acquired a nickname or tag name as it were, and that was who you'd be until the day you rotated back to the land of the big P.X. Because I was still an FNG myself, I wouldn't get tagged with a name until the salty recon guys came back from the field. It was too damn lame to pick your own tag name, and it was doubtful that it would ever be used if you did.
We were the only two in the hooch for four people, because the other two marines were out there someplace, beating the bush. It was somewhere near oh-dark-thirty when the two of them came rolling into the tent stinking of mud, sweat, and in general just the way the unwashed human body smells from the earth. Of course they turned on the light and were crashing about like two bulls in a china shop as they stowed their gear away. We introduced ourselves to them and asked to hear the scoop regarding their mission, but it was obvious that wasn't going to be discussed with us.
"Okay, you new guys, listen up: if you weren't out there with us, then you don't have the need to know shit about where we were and what we did."
That said, "Animal" introduced himself and then "Crooner" added, "Besides, if we told you maggots anything, then we'd just have to kill you. Then if we were to kill you both tonight, all you'd have was your chicken-shit fire-watch ribbon on your chest when they sent your scroungy-ass stinking body home to yo mama." They shed their foul-smelling tiger stripes and then headed off for the rain locker to shower off the crud from their bare-ass bodies. Well, naked that is except for their flip-flops.
Animal apparently got his tag from his last liberty in Oceanside, California, just ten days before coming to Vietnam. The story I heard was that he had thrown another marine off of the pier and into the ocean. I guess they had been drinking at a beach party and the other marine said something about Animal's girlfriend having loose morals or something to that effect. Animal wasn't just content with the thirty-foot fall into the cold Pacific Ocean that the other marine just suffered. He then began tearing off anything he could get his hands on and throwing it at the floundering man who was trying desperately to stay afloat. Apparently when the Oceanside Police finally arrived, Animal tried to dump them over the side too. He was let out of jail early to fly to Vietnam or he would have done another thirty days behind bars.
Crooner got his tag because he had a fledgling carrier as a singer before becoming a marine. The word was that he sounded a lot like "Ol' Blue Eyes," and he had even made a record that had done pretty well after hitting the market. I guess wanting to be a marine isn't just limited to those of us with no real talent, and it would be cool to say I knew Peter O'Connor when he was just a grunt like me.
When you came out of the boonies, a hot shower was generally priority number one. Number two was some hot chow and cold milk, chocolate if they had any. Number three was a trip into that shit-hole village for some stateside beer and this hour's new love of your life, either on top or underneath you for the next hour or so.
It was a strange phenomenon that we could only get some warm Ba Moui Ba or 33 beer at the "E" club, but there was always plenty of stateside beer available out in town. Just like we couldn't get some things issued to us at our own supply, but they could be obtained on the black market in the village. If you had the money needed, you could buy damn near anything, up to and including a new AK-47 in the village. It was amazing that things were never in stock at supply but they were for sale in the Ville. Someone besides President Johnson was getting rich from this war.
At 0700, Doc and I got some chow and headed over to the rifle range. Marine cooks must have been specially trained to take the same food the army, navy, and air force got and then turn it into something that resembled Alpo. The one good thing we had at morning chow was SOS, or shit on the shingle. That was probably a recipe that was handed down the day the marines were formed on 10 November 1775 at Tun Tavern, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I had acquired another hundred rounds of match ammo, so after zeroing in my rifle, Doc could get himself some trigger time in also. They didn't get to shoot much in navy boot camp, but if he was going to be a corpsman with a recon outfit, he'd have to learn to fire every stinking weapon system that we could ever even remotely come in contact with. That included all the stuff the VC and NVA carried also. By the time we left the range at 1200, Doc was already one damn good spotter and a fair 500-meter shot with my sniper rifle.
We would both spend the next week shooting and blowing up all sorts of things with any explosive that was available to us. Doc French fired the 3.5 rocket launcher, flamethrower, M-1, M-14, M-79, M-60, AK-47, SKS, 81, and 60-mm mortar. Then came the 1911A1 .45 pistol, 1921A Thompson submachine gun, BAR, and the Ma Duce 50-caliber machine gun. After throwing a half dozen Mark 24 hand grenades and a few lessons with his K-Bar knife, he was getting closer to being a real marine corpsman. Even Doc was saying Oooohrah now, and he was starting to like this gig a little better than being stuck with a bunch of uptight and outta-sight officers at the hospital. He was even starting to come up with marine terms like "Gung ho, Semper Fi, lock and load, 782 gear, and the more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war."
Both Animal and Crooner were salty corporals, and now they were officially short-timers in country. When you got short, they generally tried to cut you a Huss on not going out on dangerous missions. This allowed the salty guys to spend beaucoup time teaching us the fine art of snooping and pooping while in the bush. At least two hours a day were spent on the rifle range with us firing the Remington BDL and M-14 rifle. Doc French now definitely became the best spotter a shooter could have, but he wasn't just about the shooting either. He could pick up a one-to-fifty-thousand contour map and a lensatic compass, and then he'd throw you back a magnetic azimuth faster than any marine I ever knew.
Animal and Crooner both came strutting their shit into our hooch right after they had picked up their orders to return stateside. Animal had this shit-eating grin on his face like something was up and he was dying to tell us about it. "The time has come for us to pack our things and head back to the real world tomorrow."
Crooner jumped right in with, "Yeah, but you two maggots won't be here to carry our sea bags for us, because you both leave at 0530 for a week of survival school. Now isn't that a damn shame, Animal, because we have to hump those heavy old sea bags all by ourselves."
Animal was sitting on his rack and sorting through the clothing he would take home with him and things he would leave here. "Doc, I know you have never done anything that resembles survival school, so welcome to the Marine Corps. You will be eating and drinking things you never dreamed were eatable in just a few days. How about you, McMullin, you ever do survival training?"
"Nope, not really, Crooner. All I have done was just the overnight thing we do in ITR [Infantry Training Regiment]. I guess it is mandatory training before we can go out in the bush, huh?"
"Oh, you will love it, because it is seven days of being pampered in a luxury hotel with three squares served each day. What's not to love about survival training, right, Animal?"
These two assholes were in hog-slop heaven, pimping us about the rigors of this training. "The best part comes after the first two days in that open-air classroom that is swarming with thirsty mosquitoes. When you get captured-and trust me, you will-that's when the fun really starts."
And now Crooner had to put his two cents' worth in too. "You stay in the POW camp three nights, and then they sorta arrange for you to escape. You will live off the land with absolutely nothing to work with.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Fortune Favors the Braveby Perry McMullin Robert French Copyright © 2009 by Perry McMullin and Robert French. Excerpted by permission.
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