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The Force Logistics Command was established on March 15, 1966. The unit was made up initially of the 1st and 3rd Service Battalions and the in-country elements of the 3rd Force Service Regiment, out of Okinawa.
 
FLC operated out of Camp Books, near Red Beach, a few miles northwest of Da Nang in Quang Nam Province. Our base commander at the time was Brigadier General Mauro J. (Joe) Padalino.
 
FLC was tasked with providing the Third Marine Amphibious Force (III MAF) with supply, maintenance, and service support. FLC was comprised of 396 Marine and 18 Navy officers, and 7,391 Marine and 145 Navy, en­listed men, most of whom were concentrated aboard Camp Books, but operated out of various other locations as well. FLC was  under the operational control of III MAF, and the administrative control of Fleet Marine Force, Pacific (FMFPac). 
 
The major units that comprised our command within the confines of Camp Books were: Headquarters and Service Battalion; Supply Battalion; Maintenance Battalion; the 7th Motor Transport Battalion; and the 1st and 3rd Military Police Battalions. (The MP units were under III MAF "operational" control.)
 
Under Marine Corps doctrine, a force service regiment (the nucleus that FLC was based on) furnishes all types of logistic support to a division, a wing, and force troops when deployed, and when reinforced, provides the nucleus for a MAF logistics group. The FSR requisitions, stores, and issues all classes of supplies to the ground forces and to Marine airbases.
The Provisional Rifle Company of FLC was the first line of defense for all of those units aboard Camp Books against the Viet Cong, our main threat in the area at the time, and/or the North Vietnamese Army regulars, if that scenario should ever arise.
  
We looked and acted just like any other "Grunt" infantry outfit in Vietnam looked and acted. We were constructed in the same manner as them. We carried what they carried with regard to weapons and equipment. Our tactics were exactly the same as the regular infantry companies, battalions, and regiments serving in South Vietnam around us at the time.

The only thing that those grunt units carried that we did NOT carry was the 0300   "Infantryman" Military Occupational Specialty (MOS). Some of us had the 0300 MOS as a secondary MOS, maybe carried over from the days when some of us used to be in an infantry outfit, but, generally speaking, we tended to carry MOS's like the 0100 field (office personnel), the 1300 field (engineers), the 2500 field (communications), the 3000 field (supply), and the 3500 field (motor transport), and with a few other MOS's thrown in for good measure.

But - and this I can flat out guarantee - when one of us got shot, or was wounded with fragments from a hand grenade or a booby trap out in the jungles and rice paddies of our TAOR (Tactical Area Of Responsibility), it was pure "infantryman" Military Occupational Specialty "0300" blood that was coming out of our bodies at that time. Some of us didn't even report the injury to higher headquarters. There were no "Hanoi John Kerry's" in our midst. We had no "band-aid types" in our midst. Not even one. We were Marines. We were the men of PRC.

Without purposely trying to disparage anyone else's MOS, I need to explain something else here. We were all volunteers, each and every one of us, to the last man. Had we not volunteered to join the PRC we would not have been out in the bush, the jungle, the plains, and the rice paddies. A lot of kids joined the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War years without really knowing what they were getting themselves into once they got in, finished boot camp, and then joined an infantry unit that was soon to be in the heat of battle in the jungles and airspace of Vietnam.

We were different! We knew just exactly what we were getting into. We knew all about the Viet Cong forces and how merciless they were. We knew about the leeches and the B-52 size mosquitoes, the 10 to 12 foot long King Cobras, and the bamboo pit-viper called the "three stepper," because that's about how many steps you had left before you keeled over, dead in your tracks. It's venom was neurotoxic, extremely deadly. "Neurotoxic" meant that the snakes venom would attack your nervous system. Your nerves would all just begin to start shutting down, one by one. Not a nice way to go. Know how big this guy was? He was only about ten to fifteen inches long, and green in color. He sort of blended in with all of Vietnam's flora and fauna.

Most, if not all, of our Staff NCO's and Officers in PRC had some experience in the infantry at one time or another, and one of the things we learned real quick from them after we volunteered for PRC was that "the actions of ONE can get MANY killed!" That was one of our platoon sergeant's favorite sayings. That, and, when we might be going off into our own separate ways on patrols: "You guys be careful out there!"

During the heat of the summer the temperatures and the humidity were almost running neck and neck with each other, and normally hovering around the 90 to 100 degree mark. If you were not very careful, and if you did not watch out for each other very carefully, there would be heat related causalities. That was a given. You could count on it. That is just one of the reasons we are called a "Band of Brothers." We looked out for each other and made sure that didn't happen.

And the monsoon rains. During the monsoon rain periods when the rain wasn't coming down by the bucket loads it was coming down in a light to medium drizzle that might last for days, or maybe even weeks on end. It would almost drive you crazy. During the night while you were laying in an ambush site you could not even wear your helmet because of the constant beating noise of the rain against it. The rain was all that you could hear while wearing it, and that was a very definite no-no. Your eyes and your ears were your life in the bush. Those, and your weapon and ammunition.

The rice paddies were really something. Ever smell one, really up close and personal? We all sure did. The smell is almost indescribable. Human waste was used to fertilize the paddies. "Night soil" some of us called it. They used that, and they used water buffalo dung, and they used whatever "other" dung they could find. The stench was almost over-powering. But, the good news was, in a few short weeks you no longer smelled it at all. You would be going out to an ambush site somewhere a click and a half away and it would just occur to you all of a sudden that you were no longer offended by the pungent stench. It was sort of like your smell machine just no longer worked with regard to rice paddies. Thank God for little favors.



The atmosphere of my war, Vietnam (Tet 68) and the war of today are very similar. Our country is in trouble. As a Marine I willingly joined the Corps. I felt confident that based on previous wars, WWII and Korea, that I would one day become a "Combat Veteran", like those I saw in the movies. However, the movies cannot show "Mind numbing fear". Just like a carpenter, painter, or plumber, I was paid to do a job. I tried my best to do it as well as I could. I often feel I failed, which is a burden many Vietnam Veterans feel. And like the Warriors of today, and those past, we ask the question "Why did I survive?"

I am certain that our men and women returning from the combat zones today are or will suffer the same fate as did so many before. Sadly, not all veterans who receive care for post traumatic stress disorder get better. Up to 10% may experience PTSD symptoms for years later. Those who do receive care will experience better family relationships, less smoking and more life satisfaction and happiness in general. I know, I am one.

"My marriage is falling apart. We just don't talk any more. Hell, I guess we've never really talked about anything, ever. I spend most of my time at home alone in the basement. She's upstairs and I'm downstairs. Sure we'll talk about the groceries and who will get gas for the car, but that's about it. She's tried to tell me she cares for me, but I get real uncomfortable talking about things like that, and I get up and leave. Sometimes I get real angry over the smallest thing. I used to hit her when this would happen, the kids aren't sure what to do either when I get angry, but lately I just punch out a hole in the wall, or leave and go for a long drive. Sometimes I spend more time on the road just driving aimlessly than I do at home.

"I really don't have any friends and I'm pretty particular about who I want as a friend. The world is pretty much dog eat dog, and no one seems to care much for anyone else. As far as I'm concerned, I'm really not a part of this messed up society. What I'd really like to do is have a home in the mountains, somewhere far away from everyone. Sometimes I get so angry with the way things are being run, I think about placing a few blocks of C-4 (military explosive) under some of the sons-of-bitches. A couple of times a year, I get into fights at bars. I usually pick the biggest guy. I don't know why. I usually get creamed. There are times when I drive real crazily, screaming and yelling at other drivers.

Sound Familiar?

A Soldier's Wife (A Must Read! Army, USMC, doesn't matter, this applies to all!)

By Georgie Hanlin
Saturday, July 4, 2009



My childhood friend of 31 years visited my home on base, in Quantico, a few months after I gave birth to my first baby. As we took a leisurely stroll one evening through the lingering humidity of early September, I explained to her how different military life is from the world in which we grew up in San Francisco. We passed rows of colorful houses on the tree-lined, manicured blocks and gazed at the playgrounds around the neighborhood, ready to welcome the children of the officers who live there. American flags hung from virtually every front door. The occasional "My daddy fights for your freedom" bumper sticker adorned some vehicles. As we looped around the bend toward my house, my friend turned to me and asked, "How do you accept what your husband does for a living?"

I glanced at her, startled. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"I guess I just don't know how to accept it. I don't believe in war," she responded, matter-of-factly.

My husband is an infantry captain for the U.S. Army. This week, he left on his sixth combat deployment with the 2nd Infantry Division's Stryker Brigade. He is to be gone for one year to launch Stryker vehicles into Afghanistan under President Obama's new surge. My husband served with the 1st Ranger Battalion in Savannah, Ga., for 2 1/2 years before attending the Marine Corps' Expeditionary Warfare School.

We have been married for three years; he's been deployed for half that time. My husband loves his country and serves it proudly, and for that I love him. Is being an Army wife easy? Not at all. The moving, the worry, the separation, the danger, the evening news and the politics of having your spouse risk his life for wars that most of us don't understand or don't accept certainly does stir something within me.

Since we married, I have been introduced to and lived in a community of honorable people. Do I have everything in common with them? No, but I learn from them every day. Military life and married life have been an adventure; overall, they have most definitely taught me to truly value the vows I took on my wedding day. As an Army wife, I've learned the meaning of the expression "HUA" (heard, understood, acknowledged). I can now recognize an improper salute. I basically understand rank and protocol. I am beginning to know the acronyms, even though they seem to be endless. I've watched my husband parachute and fast-rope out of planes while training. I have attended military balls. I have hugged him goodbye and wondered way too many times if I would ever hug him again. I have seen soldiers break down. I have seen wives break down. I have made several friends and left several friends. I have been to an award ceremony at which a young Ranger received a Purple Heart; he lost a leg, but he stood proudly in front of the audience. I have heard horror stories about wives receiving word that their husbands were killed in action and I have thanked God that it wasn't my husband. I still get butterflies when I pick him up after each deployment. That feeling is indescribable.

So how do I accept what my husband does for a living? Quite easily. He serves his country and does so courageously, next to other respectable men and women. He represents America with the utmost dignity while overseas. The Army is lucky to have him, and so am I. While people sit back and criticize what soldiers do, my husband risks his life over and over again. Let's be honest: It's a job that most people don't want. Many don't think about it because other people do it.

Other people do it.

Instead of trying to figure out how to accept or justify or understand what my husband does because you don't believe in war, I'd beg you to know that no one wants war; no one likes war. We'd all love a perfect world, but we do not live in one. Our country is at war; two of them, actually. Soldiers, my husband being one of them, have to deploy. We, as families, have to worry and wait and hope.

I believe that the next time somebody asks me how I accept what my husband does for a living, I will simply tell that person to appreciate my husband's service and to enjoy his or her freedom while my husband does what his country asks of him.


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