Someone might think that it was foreordained that I would become a Marine, given that my father, uncle, and brother-in-law all served in the Corps; and unquestionably, I was immersed in everything Marine from an early age. As a little boy, my buddies and I didn’t play Cowboys and Indians, we were Marines, dressed in a motley assortment of surplus cartridge belts, leggings, helmet liners, and utility covers, building makeshift forts out of lawn furniture, refighting the War in the Pacific, or battling the Chinese in Korea. Our “war games” were fueled by our perception of Marines gleaned from going to the Base Theater and watching John Wayne in “Sands of Iwo Jima” or “Flying Leathernecks”. I never heard my father or any of his peers discuss their service in World War II or Korea. They were silent on the subject. No one ever said to me, “Are you going to be a Marine when you grow up?”; however, it was clearly communicated to me that I had an obligation to serve my country.
I attended Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, in part because my father, despite being a fiercely loyal graduate of the Naval Academy, made the offhand comment that I should think about attending one of those “Eastern” schools. I applied and was accepted. I also applied for a NROTC scholarship but was rejected. I did not have the prerequisite 20/20 vision, but notwithstanding the rejection, I signed up for NROTC as a contract student. By sophomore year, and with each passing year thereafter, the mood of the students at Dartmouth changed and became more somber as the conflict in Vietnam escalated. Those of us in NROTC were rapidly coming to the realization that donning a uniform in service to your country wasn’t an abstract idea. There was an ever increasing likelihood that we were going to be involved in a shooting war, especially those us who had opted to become Marines. On June 10, 1967, I was commissioned and married, and the following day I received my diploma. Two days later I reported to Quantico and the Basic School, which started my journey to Vietnam.
Several Basic School classmates and I arrived in Vietnam the first week in January, 1968. It was going to be a very bloody year. We just didn’t know how bloody it was going to be. I was assigned to Fox 2/7, and my initial duties as a platoon commander were patrolling the “rocket belt” around Danang, a duty which paled in comparison to that of my classmates who were assigned to units that went into Hue City during TET or to Northern I Corps.
In February, my platoon assumed responsibility for the defense of Namo bridge, and we were there off and on until June, 1968, when the battalion was designated as the afloat battalion. After a brief deployment to the Philippines to refit and train, BLT 2/7 returned to Vietnam and commenced a seemingly endless series of search and destroy missions. On September 15, we were lifted into the area southwest of Danang dubbed “Dodge City.”
On the morning of the 19th, near the intersection of Route 4 and a railroad berm, the battalion encountered a large force of NVA hidden in holes and trenches concealed by tall grass, banana trees, and a treeline. Fox Company mounted an assault only to be hit by heavy fire from rifles, machine guns, mortars, and RPGs. In a brief period of time, we had twelve men killed and thirty wounded, of which I was one. One instant I was erect, and the next I was flat on my back, splayed out on the ground. A bullet had hit me and obliterated an inch and one-half of my right femur just below the hip. It was as if I had suddenly had an amputation without any anesthesia. I kept staring at my right leg, trying to figure out why it was on backwards, with my right heel inches away from my eyes. The bullet lodged in my left leg, severing a nerve. I was paralyzed, and as it was dawning on me that I might not make it, my right guide, Sgt. Benjamin, got to me and said, “We are gonna get you out of here Lieutenant.”
When I departed for Vietnam, I considered the possibilities of what my fate might be. I thought I might return unscathed, be killed, or perhaps be wounded, but if so, be patched up and return to duty. Not once did it cross my mind that I might be wounded and never be the same again despite the best efforts of some brilliant Army and Navy doctors at a succession of hospitals that began in Danang and ended at Quantico. After Vietnam, my “career” in the Marine Corps consisted of ten and a half months in a body cast, rehab, and limited duty prior to a medical retirement on June 10, 1970. Suddenly, I was adrift in a sea of civilians and in need of gainful employment.
Interviewing for a job, first on crutches, and then with a cane was a red flag for prospective employers. Time after time, major companies would inform me that I was a great candidate…but my injuries, especially the vascular damage to my right leg, precluded me from being covered by their medical insurance program and thereby disqualified me from being hired. Ironically, the one company that was willing to hire me was Prudential Insurance, the leading medical insurance underwriter in America. They waived their own underwriting requirements to hire me as a management trainee in their regional home office in Houston, Texas.
After a year, I was transferred to Oklahoma City, and it was in Oklahoma that I met Pete Dowling, a Senior Vice President at Liberty National Bank, at a social function. He was a former Marine, a tank officer, and he called me the next day suggesting that the bank could use someone like me, someone who had experienced the training and undergone the rigors of being a Marine. That chance meeting launched a career in banking spanning twenty-five years.
I finished my career as the President and Chief Executive Officer of the First National Bank of Edmond, Oklahoma. The Board hired me to rejuvenate a bank that was losing market share in the fastest growing city in the state. Upon my arrival, all employees were given a liberal dose of those long ago lessons from Basic School…leadership by example, the “7 P’s”, and adversity is just a challenge to be met and overcome.
My wife, Omea, and I are retired and living in Tellico Village, a retirement community in Eastern Tennessee. Omea hikes, plays tennis and volunteers while I pursue a lifelong interest in pottery…a case of the former “balls to the wall” Marine discovering his inner artist.
McClung, Michael Ervin (Mike), 3rd Platoon
ike most of us, I count my blessings that I had the privilege of being an Officer of Marines for 20 years. Vietnam taught us an awful lot of good about our fellow Marines, regardless of the bad times we endured. I have to say that my tours with Lima Battery, 4/11, and 1st Recruit Training Battalion were the most formative in my development as an officer, both working with 18-20 year olds in a combat environment, and working with DI’s in high stress recruit training, where DI teams would pick up new platoons 1-2 weeks before the previous platoon had graduated. I truly loved every assignment I had, but I always planned on retiring after 20 years.
I requested and received a 1302 MOS and with 6 or 7 others hung around Headquarters Battalion at Quantico waiting for engineering school to start. Between that delay and the 6 week school we missed the Tet Offensive into which the 0302’s were thrust. It was at LeJeune that we heard that Tom Pearson was killed at Camp Carroll from my old MOI Lt. Col. Cizek. That was a heavy blow. He had a great future in store for him and it was a shame he did not live to see it.
