September, 1967. The Viet Nam War is in full swing. I was 18 with the maturity of a 12 year old, more interested in the Beatles and psychedelics than watching the news.

A disappointment to my parents, I spent the summer bumming on Cape Cod with my friend, Nicky Russo until he joined the Marines. I couldn’t believe it. Just like that, my life as a beach bum ended. What’s a go-nowhere teenager to do? I joined Nicky for the physical. Within a couple of days I was on a train to Parris Island, South Carolina.

So much happened during my time in boot camp and little of it very good, especially the gas chamber. We heard about this part of training and I, like everyone else dreaded it. Now it was my turn. I was going to learn the importance of carrying a gas mask at all times.

We were herded into the building, gas masks securely placed over our faces. The drill instructor yelled at the group through his mask, “Attention! Right face! Grab the belt of the Marine in front of you. When I give the command you will sing the Marine Corps Hymn while marching around the room! Remove your mask! Forward march!” I took a very deep breath then removed my mask. I didn’t sing a word until I passed by each of the door guards. All they heard was, “zuma”, “battle”, just enough to make them think I was singing while saving my breath.

Around the room we marched until everyone had to take a breath. There is absolutely no oxygen in a gas chamber. No matter how desperate you are to breathe, no matter how much you think you could squeeze one tiny bubble of air, you cannot. Nothing! The only option is to expel every fluid in your body, snot, puke, drool, everything shoots out. It was the closest thing to death I ever experienced. I got the point. Never will I go anywhere without my gas mask. Never!

In the Marines, your rifle is your life. I could take it apart and put it back together blindfolded. I was transforming into a human warrior and excited about graduating as a full fledged US Marine. Qualifying on the rifle range was a prerequisite and one of the toughest challenges. The week leading up to Qual Day recruits practice target shooting intensely. As luck would have it I caught pneumonia during that critical week.

South Carolina is a popular place for hurricanes and the night before Qual Day we had a beauty. I was sick and weak. Having missed practice week, I hadn’t learned anything about actually shooting the rifle. Qual Day was windy with torrential downpours. I pleaded with the medic to clear me for qualifying. He obliged but only if I returned to a Jeep out of the weather at every stage, then back to bed immediately. I was relieved and grateful.

I took my turn in the standing, sitting, prone and kneeling positions and hurried back to bed. A week later we’d find out who starts boot camp over and who moves on.  Out on the parade deck in uniform we stood at attention. There are three tiers of qualification, Marksman, Sharpshooter and Expert. Most recruits qualify as Marksmen which is the lowest of the three tiers. A few make Sharpshooter with fewer attaining the coveted Expert status. Nobody expected to make expert because of the horrible weather on Qual Day.

The Colonel addressed the platoon congratulating us for getting this far and proceeded to call out the names of the Marksmen. I stood there in quiet agony waiting to hear my name. He called the names alphabetically so there was no denying my fate once they got to the D’s.

Dalton, Dillon, Drake, ….I began to go deaf. I was in my own world wondering what my afternoon was going to be like. He went on to the Sharpshooters. Four of them. That was it. I was immersed in fear and shame. A short silence followed. Then he said, “We do have one expert. Platoon 1023 is proud to award private Cormier”…I almost fainted right there……”the Expert award for excellence on the rifle range.” Amazing! It would come back to haunt me.

I graduated with Mom and Dad applauding proudly in the stands. The next thing I knew I was on a C-130 troop carrying plane to Da Nang. When I got off the plane it was like a furnace. We went to a supply tent, were given our gear, rifle and gas masks and were immediately choppered out to our units in the jungle. I was dropped into a hot zone and took fire as we landed. Under surreal circumstances I met the buddies I would fight alongside for the next year.

I was trained to be on a 106mm recoiless rifle team. The 106 is a smaller artillery cannon that can be mounted on a jeep or carried by four men in the field. Our 106 field unit consisted of 2 riflemen, one M79 grenade launcher, machine gunner with assistant, one marine to fire the 106 and another load the breach. I was one of the two riflemen on the team.

I carried about 55 pounds of personal gear, two bands of machine gun ammunition and one 106mm round across the back of my shoulders, almost 100 pounds total. I only weighed 129 pounds at the time.  Everyone carried the same load so I didn’t complain.

Depending on the firefight all of us at one time or another assumed the others’ position. Except for basic grunt training I had little experience in any of the other positions. In the heat of battle I became an A-gunner on the 106, shot the M-79 and manned the M-60 machine gun many times. Because of my size I was the only one small enough to fit into tunnels when they were discovered, one of the scariest things in life. I still can’t believe guys did that every day. Those are some brave men.

It was a typically hot and humid day when we set up camp. Two long mountain ridges formed a 3 mile long trough with the valley below. The mountains reached about 1,000 feet above the valley floor. Enemy NVA troops snaked supplies from one end of the valley to the other. Our mission was to stop the flow.

In the middle of the mountain ridge was our forward observer, also a sniper. His job was to spot enemy troop movement below and radio it into us. Most movement occurred at night. While peering through a night vision scope on the edge of a sheer cliff he’d fire at any officer he could identify, the one everyone saluted.

On the 3rd day he killed an NVA officer. Unfortunately, his muzzle flash was seen from below and within an hour he was also killed. We fired the 106 up onto the hill to clear the enemy in order to recover our fallen comrade. We also needed that position badly. When the smoke cleared a chopper landed at our small outpost. While it was whirling and blowing dust into our faces my platoon leader said to grab my gear because I was the only expert in the group and I was to be the forward observer’s replacement.

It took me totally by surprise. How the hell did they know I was an expert? They handed me a rifle I had never seen before with a night vision starlight scope attached. They told me I would be alone on top of the mountain for 3 days and to bring the minimum gear, and enough food and supplies.

Within about 8 minutes I was lifted into the chopper and flown up to the top of the ridge. The pilot never actually landed. He hovered about 5 feet off the ground while the co-pilot pushed me out onto the brush below and off they went. It was an eerie feeling when he left. I immediately started communicating on the walkie-talkie.

I talked to base camp a lot for the first hour but needed to save battery life on the walkie-talkie. Darkness set in. No moon. I couldn’t see the ridge top of the mountains directly across from me.

The first night was awful. Looking through the starlight scope I watched NVA troops take advantage of darkness as they moved through the valley. I called in enemy positions and watched 106 shells rain down in spectacular glory from high above. Every explosion lit up the area. The NVA were scrambling like c***roaches when the light goes on. Soon after, I saw my buddies running toward the enemy for the kill, engaged in a nasty firefight. It was an ugly perspective rarely witnessed by human beings.

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. It was safer sleeping during the day despite the unbearably heat. I recounted last night’s scene over and over in my mind, particularly the chilling moment when I had my sights set directly on an enemy officer and didn’t pull the trigger. Who would ever think after barely getting through the rifle range at boot camp that I’d be a sniper on top of a mountain? Not me.

The next night was a repeat of the first. This time I pulled the trigger. It made me puke right there on the spot. When I saw the officer fall I could only think of his family and kids. I was so distraught I could barely breathe. Is this what men are brought to in war? I swore I would never do that again. It was no consolation to the man they were saluting that night. I did it. I’m ashamed of myself as a human being and have never forgiven myself for it.

He never knew it hit him. They looked in every direction for the source of the shot. I was sick and scared to death at the same time. I prayed they didn’t see my muzzle flash. I was very, very alone and deep in my thoughts. How could I ever reconcile this? I would’ve gladly been set back in boot camp if I knew this would happen.

All the next day I sat in the blistering sun unable to sleep. Nothing would stay down when I ate. I just kept replaying the scene over and over in my head. I tried to justify my actions in every way but failed miserably. Every now and then base camp would contact me to see how I was doing. They knew I was a mental wreck but also knew we took six casualties in the skirmishes. Their emotional support helped but I still felt very lonely.

Dark came quickly the 3rd night. It was cloudy. The breeze started to kick up. I kept looking through the starlight scope hoping I wouldn’t see any enemy. Midnight came, then 1 o’clock, then 2 with no action. Around 3am I heard rustling in the bushes behind me. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe I was just spooked from last night. I don’t know. But it definitely wasn’t the breeze blowing those bushes. There was too much noise.

I was camped right at the edge of a thousand foot sheer cliff. When I turned back to the sloping woods behind me I felt like my back was against an empty wall. There was no going any further back. I stayed ducked down low trying to see anything move. The starlight scope helped but every time I heard the brushes move it was in a different place. By the time a swung my rifle and scope the rustling stopped.

I was absolutely scared to death. I tried once to call base camp but the squelch was too loud and I knew my position would be revealed. My rifle was single shot so I knew I had no chance to take on any more than one or two. As the rustling drew closer and closer I began to consider which death would be preferable. I looked down over my shoulder at the prospects of jumping. Would that hurt more than taking bullets or getting my throat slit? I feverishly considered my options. There was not a lot of time to make the decision.

In seconds I make my decision. I had to fight it out. There was no chance if I jumped and I really didn’t know what I was facing if I didn’t. I needed to know exactly where they were so I could throw my grenades and begin firing. I looked around frantically for something to throw like a rock or a stick. The wind was blowing up the slope towards me. I was sweating so hard my t-shirt was soaked. I knew the moment was at hand when something had to happen. Everything was in slow motion. I started seeing my family in the dark, my girl friend, my Mom and Dad. I realized I was about to experience the end of my life.

My hand reached down to my belt to grab a grenade and noticed it didn’t have the checkered ribbing like a normal grenade. It was smooth and round.  It was a GAS grenade. I freaked out. Gas was the exact thing I needed to flush them out. How perfect. I immediately pulled the pin and lobbed it in the direction I last heard the rustling. Off it went into the darkness. I knew that in a just few seconds I would be engaged in horrific fireworks. POP! It went off. I heard the hissing sound of the gas releasing but nothing else. Oh my God! I missed my one chance and now they know where I am.

I swung my rifle to the right. I was so focused everything became incredibly clear.  My hearing, my sweat, my sight peering into the darkness, my sense of smell as I get my first whiff of ……….GAS! The breeze blew the freaking gas up the hill directly into my face. Panic set in instantly. I reached down to the side of my belt where my gas mask had been attached as if were an appendage to my body. I carried it faithfully everywhere I went even with enormously heavy loads on my back.

Why would I ever need a gas mask up on top of a mountain? So wrong! I began choking profusely, just like in training. I took off my tee-shirt and poured my canteen all over it soaking it like a washrag and put it over my face. I was blind and making enough noise to call the enemy up from the valley. It was over for me and I couldn’t even see the cliff I wanted to jump off.  I GASSED MYSELF! In the heat of battle I GASSED MYSELF! My greatest fear was happening to me and I did it to myself. Not only that I did it with the enemy watching me. This is sweet revenge for shooting their officer for sure.

I cried and screamed and cried and screamed and pleaded for them not to shoot me or take me prisoner. I cried and screamed and cried and screamed and cried and screamed and nobody came. When my eyes stopped burning enough to see I didn’t see anyone. Nobody was going to kill me. I was still alive. I couldn’t believe it.

I nestled down behind the rock again with my rifle and grenades in hand waiting for something to happen and it never did. Not another sound was heard other than the breeze blowing through the trees. I trembled for another 3 hours until daybreak. At the first opportunity I called base camp and told them what happened. The sent a killer team up in a chopper to scope the area. The chopper escorted me back to base camp where I just wanted to go home.

Two hours later the killer team returned and told me what happened. In certain parts of Southeast Asia there are animals called Rock Apes. They have been known to pick up grenades before they explode and throw them back like rocks at troops. There was dung found among the broken branches in the exact area I was posted. It turns out I almost jumped off a cliff because some monkeys went foraging in the night. I was never so embarrassed and when my comrades heard what happened they never let me live it down.

I shook for days. A chopper picked us up and dropped us into Antana Valley where we began Operation Pipestone Canyon. No relief. Just one jungle to another. Heavy packs, rice paddies and jungle hills. I slept with my gas mask every night. I would not again leave home without it.

Thank you for reading my true story.