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Coca-Cola

By Joseph Giannini

My battalion, the 1st Battalion 3rd Marines, AKA the "Home of the Brave," has been in the field for about 30 days. I've had the 1st Platoon in Bravo Company for five months. Our battalion is part of the Special Landing Force in Vietnam. We don't have a base camp "in country." We make amphibious or heliborne assaults from our ships. We're used in hot situations. We go to the rescue.

We have been operating around the Qua Viet River in Quang Tri Province. It's the monsoon season. We are cold, soaked to the bone and miserable. We have humped back to the Dong Ha dock area to meet our "Mike" boats, large landing craft that are used to carry Marines and tanks. We are waiting to go back to our ships offshore — LPDs, or Landing Platform Docks.

Two nights earlier Charlie Company took a beating. The battalion had set in on two hills: Bravo Company on a small hill, Alpha, Charlie and Delta Companies on a large adjacent hill. That night a large NVA force attacked the bigger hill and broke through Charlie Company's lines. The breakthrough occurred right in front of my platoon's lines, about 50 meters away. Bravo couldn't help them. If we fired we would hit our own men. All night long we heard them fighting, screaming and dying. There was nothing we could do. Charlie Company took the most casualties. Several of my friends were killed. Bravo One was sent out the next morning to pursue the enemy unit. We captured a few wounded NVA who couldn't keep up with their main force.

This night fight is fresh in our minds as my platoon waits for the "Mike" boats to pick us up. My platoon is tail end Charlie, the last of the battalion to leave. It's late on an overcast afternoon. We are strung out on the dock, a U-shaped bulkhead that extends out into the river. The platoon is very quiet. They're leaning, sitting and lying on the bulkhead. Some are sleeping. They're mostly teenagers, poor blacks, poor Hispanics and poor whites. Like a youth gang, I think, and I'm the warlord. I have no complaints about them. They've done things with me and for me. They trust me and I trust them. We love each other. We love each other to death.

Every Marine has an MOS (Military Occupational Status). We are 03s, Marine infantry riflemen — a badge of honor. We're exhausted, burned out mentally and physically. Our utilities are muddy, torn and worn. We have jungle rot, ulcerous sores all over our bodies. We don't know what's causing it. We smell like rotting foliage. We're all lean except for the FNGs ("Fucking New Guys"). Our skin is sallow. We have stubble on our faces and foul breath. We have dead eyes. In an instant we will be cruel, dangerous and deadly. Right now we're just exhausted and quiet.

Suddenly a large truck, a deuce and a half, pulls right up onto the dock and stops in the middle of us. It's a new truck, filled with ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) troops. They are wearing clean new utilities and brand-new flak jackets (which we don't have). Some are wearing cowboy hats. They're clean and dry, in a good mood, joking and laughing. All the noise and activity has stirred my platoon. We turn toward the ARVNs in our midst. The ARVN standing behind the driver's cab raises a can of Coca-Cola. Looking down on us, he says, "Hey, Marines. You want Coca-Cola?"

Now he's got our full attention. Holding up the can higher, he adds, "Marines, you want? Coca-Cola, one dollar."

Platoon Sergeant Head yells over to me, "Hey, lieutenant, do you believe this fucking shit? These fucking ARVNs wanna sell us our own fucking Coke."

I stand up, walk toward the truck and order, "Bravo One lock and load." Loud clicking sounds, metal against metal, as every Marine puts his weapon on safety and chambers a round. This is serious. This is what we do when we think the enemy is nearby. We are ready to kill for Coke. The ARVNs stop joking and laughing. They realize we're deadly serious. "Squad leaders, designate a fire team to take the Coca-Cola from these fuckers!"

Two fire teams — about ten Marines — descend upon our allies while the remaining Marines provide cover for them at gunpoint. We take the Coke — six cases — along with their flak jackets and cowboy hats. The ARVNs are terrified: caught up and paralyzed in their fear. They don't even attempt to back up or pull off.

An ARVN officer walks over to me. He must realize I'm the honcho. He's smiling and speaking at me, but I don't respond. Vietnamese men are physical with one another. They hold hands, put their arms around each other. The ARVN officer attempts to put his arm around my shoulder. I push it off. He backs away, turns and walks off.

The "Mike" boat pulls up to the bulkhead. Good timing. We back off, our M-16s, M-60 machine guns and M-79 grenade launchers pointed at the ARVNs. We embark on the "Mike" boat without firing and head out onto the Cua Viet River.

I'm lying by myself on the stern deck of the "Mike" boat as it starts to push through some swells near the river mouth. The sun breaks through. I haven't seen the sun for 25 days. I drift off into my Beach Dream, the one about being on a beach back home, when Platoon Sergeant Head approaches me. I rise up a bit. "Lieutenant, how come the ARVN have the Coke? We do all the fucking fighting."

It's not really a question. I lie back down to enjoy the sun as the "Mike" boat rises over a large groundswell and comes crashing down into the trough of the next swell. The boat shudders from the impact.