Sweet Escape

by William Bartsch

This war novel is unlike any other. Interweaving first-hand accounts with fiction, the author irreverently exposes the incompetence of America’s political and military leaders as well as their futile attempts to wage war. Set in the madness of Vietnam in the mid-sixties, the book portrays a young Marine’s journey into insanity, beginning with his naive, patriotic zeal and ending in his passionate lust for the thrill of the hunt and the kill in the jungles of Vietnam. Neither for the squeamish nor those who believe our leaders have the well-being of America’s youth at heart.

ISBN 978-1-59431-763-7 War / Action Adventure

Also availaable in RTF and HTML formats

Chapter 1

The Birth of John Wayne

Billy Sledge wasn't a strong youth, just of average build, and he worried if he'd be able to survive the three months of physical and mental torture that lie ahead. He wasn't at all concerned about some little war that had just begun in some tiny country named Vietnam. He looked at his reflection in the window of the train as it idled awaiting more passengers. He considered himself a fairly good-looking youth, with a firm jaw, an easy smile revealing an even set of healthy teeth, a slightly turned-up nose, and long eyelashes under which his bright blue eyes held a mischievous spark. His love of fishing and swimming in the East River which ran alongside his Bronx neighborhood had bronzed his face and bleached his dirty blond hair, which he kept long and combed into a ducktail. Sledge winced when he thought of the barber awaiting him with an electric shaver in hand, eager to destroy within seconds what took him a year to carefully grow and groom.

In about six hours he arrived at Yemassee, South Carolina, and was herded with a bunch of other nervous teenagers onto a bus that took them to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island. Once there, they settled into Quonset huts, semi-circular structures made of corrugated metal, which would be their homes for the next three months. 'P.I.' was a hot, hostile place, mostly flat and surrounded by swampland. The swamps bred tiny sand fleas that seemed to be everywhere, eagerly biting anyone in sight. The dank smell of heat and swamp permeated the air. No better location could have been chosen by the Marine Corps to introduce its recruits to the rigors of military service and weed out the physically and mentally weak.

Sledge was now a member of Platoon 197 with 60 other teenagers. His senior drill instructor, a tall, rawboned staff sergeant named Halston, hailed from North Carolina. He was a tough but relatively fair man. However, his junior D.I., a buck sergeant named Wilson, was a short, wiry, mean person. His nose was flattened, obviously broken at one time, and his cold, dark blue eyes were set in a bony face wrinkled from too much sun, making him look much older than his 30 years. Wilson was born and raised in Boston and spoke in a dry, crisp nasal voice.

Contrary to his fear that he may not cut it in boot camp, Sledge did very well. He slowly gained muscle strength and handled all the physical training with relative ease. The mental torture was a bit harder to accept, but he swallowed his pride and allowed the D.I.'s to insult him and slap him around. He didn't take it personally because they did the same to all recruits.

Nothing was left to chance in the training agenda for would-be Marines. Two hundred years of programming the minds of teenagers had honed the Marine Corps' training skills to perfection. Any hint of free thinking was immediately and often violently squelched, for thought meant individualism, a threat to any military unit required to unhesitating follow orders. Sledge quickly memorized his serial number, his rifle number, and the Marine Corps General Orders, and was able to instantly recite them when ordered. He wound up shooting Expert with both the M-14 rifle and the .45 caliber pistol and was proud of that. For some reason, more than half his training related to developing marching skills. He found that odd, but easy, and enjoyed the marching drills, taking great pride as he and his fellow recruits stomped along the roads, each man snapping his heel down at the precise moment as the others. However, he was a bit disappointed they didn't sing songs as they marched, like they did in most of the Marine war movies he saw back home, especially his favorite ones, 'Sands of Iwo Jima,' starring John Wayne, and 'Battle Cry,' with Tab Hunter.

The three months went by in a blur, with only one memorable incident etched in Sledge's mind. It involved a personal run-in with Sergeant Wilson during rifle inspection on the parade field, about two weeks before graduation. When his turn came, Sledge sharply pulled back the bolt of his rifle and presented the weapon to Wilson. The D.I. grabbed it smartly and pointed the butt into the sunlight so he could squint up into the barrel and look for dust. Wilson apparently found a speck somewhere and went berserk. He screamed a string of obscenities at Sledge and threw the rifle back at him, but before Sledge had a chance to firmly grasp it, the barrel hit him in the mouth and chipped one of his front teeth. Sledge instinctively thrust the rifle butt towards Wilson's face; it moved just a millionth of an inch before he instantly brought it back, yet Wilson noticed the infraction and became further enraged.

"You wanna fight me, you shitbird!?" Wilson barked angrily, his face inches from Sledge's own.

"Sir, no Sir!" Sledge nervously replied, as he stood stiffly at an order-arms position, his eyes staring straight ahead, trying to avoid Gleason's.

"I think you need some personal bayonet training, Sledge!" Wilson said malevolently, his thin lips twisted in a tight smirk. "And I'm gonna be the one to give it to you!"

Sledge was scared. Bayonet training was a one-on-one melee, with no holds barred. Each man wore a football helmet and was armed with a pugil stick, a long broom-stick with padded ends. Sledge held his own during past fights with fellow recruits, but he knew he was no match for Wilson. He resigned himself to getting the daylights beat out of him.Wilson marched the platoon off to the bayonet training area and placed them around a small circle where the fight would take place. He gave Sledge a pugil stick and took one for himself. Sledge looked around for the helmets, but there were none.

"No helmets, Sledge!" Wilson grinned evilly. "Take your stance!"

Just then, Sergeant Halston walked over. He beckoned to Wilson and the D.I.'s walked out of earshot of the recruits and chatted for a few minutes. Wilson came back alone, but carrying two helmets.

"You're a lucky little maggot, Sledge," he said. "You can thank Sergeant Halston for saving your sorry ass."

"Sir, yes Sir!" Sledge replied. He thanked God that Halston came along when he did, for he knew the senior D.I. wouldn't allow a skilled fighter like Wilson to take on a recruit.

"But you're not out of the woods yet, Sledge," Wilson grinned. He then pointed to Private Anderson, a blond, blue-eyed youth with a jutting jaw and a Roman nose that made him look like one of those marble sculptures one sees in a museum. Anderson also happened to be the biggest and strongest man in the platoon. He was a former Ivy League football player who flunked out before he finished college. His size, education, and leadership skills were recognized by the D.I.'s so they made him the platoon's leader. None of the other recruits liked him. He seemed too impressed with himself.

"Put on the helmets!" Wilson snapped. He handed Anderson a pugil stick and glared at him. "I expect you to do what I planned to do, Anderson. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yes Sir!" Anderson answered, a smug, eager look his face.

Before Sledge had a chance to fasten the helmet straps under his chin, Anderson violently thrust one end of his stick into his forehead, spinning Sledge's helmet into the air. Sledge staggered backwards but remained on his feet. Anderson immediately followed up with a quick jab into his nose and then a slashing blow to his temple. Sledge fell to the ground, face up, and stared dizzily at his opponent. He feebly held his stick over his face, hoping to ward off the next blow. Anderson straddled him, snarling, a sadistic look in his eyes, and raised his stick high into the air, as if holding a baseball bat, preparing to bring one padded end full force onto Sledge's bare head. Sledge leaned back on his elbows and with all his remaining strength thrust his right foot up towards Anderson's groin. His heavy combat boot made contact and Anderson doubled over. He dropped his pugil stick and slowly collapsed onto the ground where he instantly curled up into a fetal position with his arms covering his face. Still dizzy, Sledge got to his feet and stared at him for a few moments. He then furiously began pummeling him, jabbing the padded ends of his stick into his head and ribs. Anderson brought one arm down to his ribs to protect them, leaving one side of his face exposed. Sledge took the opportunity to jab his stick into it. A faint crunch was heard which immediately unstraightened Anderson's Roman nose. Anderson was now moaning helplessly, unable to ward off the blows. Sledge then brought his stick high in the air, ready to swing one end down onto Anderson's head, but Sergeant Wilson intervened and grabbed it, holding it in place.

"That's enough!" he bellowed. "The fight's over!"

Sledge stood still, breathing heavily, with blood gushing from his nostrils. Wilson helped the pained and sheepish-looking Anderson to his feet and ordered a man to escort him to his hut. He then dismissed the entire platoon except for Sledge. Once the two were alone, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Sledge.

"Wipe your nose, maggot!" he muttered. "And get out of my sight!"

"Sir, yes Sir!" Sledge replied, holding the handkerchief to his nose. As he began to walk off, Wilson grabbed him by the arm.

"Nice fightin', Marine!" he said, barely hiding a tight grin on his lips. "Now get the hell out of here!"

Sledge was elated. Wilson called him a Marine and he hadn't even yet graduated! He strutted proudly into his hut and was greeted warmly and with admiration by his fellow recruits.

Two weeks later the platoon graduated. Only seven recruits didn't make it. They were either discharged for physical or psychological reasons or left back to join another platoon and try again. It was a proud moment for the rest of them. The cherished Marine Corps globe and anchor was pinned on their collars. The band played. They marched proudly. They were strong. They were invincible.