“I wanted to kill the other medics who’d ripped it off twice a day,” Zinni says now.
After examining the wound, the surgeon explained what would be done. “In a couple of days, I’ll close the wound,” he said. “I’m going to reattach muscles in your back.” In other words, he saw no need to take muscle tissue from elsewhere in Zinni’s body. “If you’re willing to do serious physical therapy afterward, you can be back to normal. But it’s going to take a lot of work . . . not to mention good luck in avoiding infection.”
That was very good news. Zinni’s morale was instantly raised higher than it had been since he was wounded; and he began to give serious thought to recovering and getting back to his company.
Two days later, he was wheeled into the operating room. The operation was a total success, and the physical therapy soon started paying off—though he knew he had a very long way to go. His body was doing strange things; muscles and nerves were all mixed up; when something touched his back, he felt it on his chest. He had to get used to all kinds of new muscle “hookups.” But they worked!
During the next month, Zinni endured a few localized infections, requiring massive doses of penicillin, but at the end of the month he’d recovered enough to leave the hospital.
Zinni begged to go back to Vietnam. He knew that was where he belonged. His time in the hospital had convinced him more than ever of that. Though the doctor was very reluctant, he liked Zinni’s drive and his eagerness to get back with his guys. He gave in and released him to full duty, but with a promise to continue to work out.
Zinni promised.
His orders sent him to Okinawa . . . “a stop off on the way back to Nam,” he thought.
IN THE SPRING of 1975, Vietnam collapsed, abandoned by the U.S. whose people could no longer support the war.
The Vietnamese Marines were badly mauled in the final battles. The remnants fought on in the hills for a time, and then the Marines ceased to exist.23
CHAPTER THREE
THE POINT OF THE SPEAR
THOUGHOUT HIS CONVALESCENCE, Zinni remained unaware that the Vietnam War had ended for him when he was evacuated from the Que Son Mountains.
By late December 1970, he had recovered enough to be transferred to Camp Hauge on Okinawa, where every Marine posted in the Western Pacific (including Vietnam) had to go for processing. When he arrived, Zinni expected a short stay, swiftly followed by return to duty to his unit in Vietnam. But new regulations, reflecting the growing reduction in U.S. forces, ended that hope: Since he’d been wounded and evacuated for more than thirty days, he was not allowed to return to combat. Neither could he go back to the States, since he had convinced the doctors, despite their strong concerns, to release him to full duty. Nor, finally, could he be assigned to an infantry unit based in Okinawa, such as the 3rd Marine Division, recently returned from Vietnam, since they were potentially redeployable to Vietnam, and Zinni could not be deployed there, by virtue of the rule previously stated. He had learned firsthand about catch-22s.
Zinni spent the remaining eight months of his yearlong Vietnam tour in the 3rd Force Service Regiment (3rd FSR), a logistics unit based at Camp Foster, Okinawa.
He expected to be bored. He was wrong.
Camp Foster was not boring. In fact, if his wish had been for combat, then his wish was granted. Camp Foster proved to be not all that different from a “real” combat zone . . . in many ways tougher than Vietnam.
After a few days of administrative processing, he set out to report in to 3rd FSR. His total possessions included a Red Cross-donated shaving kit and civilian clothes purchased out of his meager pay advance from the tiny post exchange at Camp Hauge.
Late one night, he walked out of the main gate and hailed an Okinawan taxicab to drive him to Camp Foster to report in. As the little car headed up the island road, his mood could not have been darker, thinking about his Marines in Vietnam and his family back in the States. He had managed to miss going back to either of them.
OKINAWA— barely sixty-six miles long and perhaps nineteen miles at its widest—runs roughly north to south. In the north, the country is rugged, much of it jungle. The more populated areas are in the south. Its people are of mixed race—partly Chinese, partly South Pacific islander, and partly Japanese—with a complicated history. Before World War Two, the island had been occupied by Japan, but before that it had had an even longer history of independence. Okinawans have never considered themselves Japanese, and the Japanese in turn have always treated them like a poor sister. Most wanted a return to independence.
In those days, the island was still U.S.-occupied territory, governed by an Army three-star general—a situation much resented by Okinawans. (When the occupation ended, the U.S. returned Okinawa to Japan.) It was also crawling with U.S. military facilities—another cause of friction. Infantry units were located in the more remote areas in the north. Farther south were the base- and logistics-type units. Among these was Camp Foster, located in the southern third of the island near Kadena (the U.S. Air Force base) and the major city of Koza, one of the island’s two largest cities. The other, Naha, is the capital.
By 1970, this once-tranquil and beautiful island had become one large camp town for the American military. The devastation of World War Two had been followed by a huge influx of American military forces, and that in turn had been followed by seedy commercial strips, complete with bars, girly clubs, and pawnshops set up to service the troops. Women, booze, and drugs were readily available outside the gates.
As the cab entered Koza, Zinni noticed flames ahead; sirens were screaming. By the time they’d reached the main road in the city center, the driver had grown visibly anxious. For very good reason. A large, angry, chanting mob was roaming up ahead, many wearing red, communist headbands. Overturned cars were ablaze.
Some rioters, spotting the cab and the American inside, started running toward it. Without waiting for instructions, the driver threw the car in reverse, turned down a side street, and then raced through a maze of back-streets, his passenger bouncing around in the seat behind him. The driver was explaining all the while in broken English that the rioters were Okinawan communists, demonstrating against the occupation. Though he kept trying to reassure Zinni that they’d be okay, the whole city was in turmoil. They seemed to run into angry crowds at every turn, requiring yet another close-call getaway.
At last, with visible relief, the driver had them on the street leading to Camp Foster’s main gate.
His relief quickly evaporated. Massive numbers of Okinawans with red headbands and long bamboo poles were charging a line of Marine guards in riot control gear, using the poles like jousting lances to knock over the guards. The taxi again raced away, as the driver sought a safe way into the camp.
They eventually discovered a gate that wasn’t under attack, and the cab finally pulled up to its destination. Zinni rewarded his driver with a generous tip in gratitude for his courage and driving skills.
“Don’t judge all Okinawans by what you’ve seen,” the driver said in his broken English as he pulled away.24
ZINNI CHECKED in the next day. Since his evacuation had left him nothing from his last command, he had to get new uniforms and set up new records. Going about this business, he picked up interesting and disturbing information about his new assignment:
Though the previous night’s riot had been exceptionally bad, it was not uncommon. The race and drug crisis then coming to a head back in the States had reached Okinawa. Racial tensions were high. The threat of serious, large-scale violence was real. Between the communist demonstrations outside and the frequent race riots inside, the nights at Camp Foster tended to be exciting.
The race problems extended into the city. One Koza district, called “the Bush,” was dominated by the “Bushmasters” and the “Mau Maus,” gangs of black military men wearing distinctive gang garb. No white military man dared enter.
Inside the base, the gangs, in their gang uniforms, had taken to demonstrations—aga
inst real or perceived injustice, to let out rage, or sometimes just for the hell of it. Racially motivated incidents occurred daily. Some were minor, just knuckle-rapping displays and jive talk, but others were serious—like knifings. There was a white backlash as well—a Ku Klux Klan cell and cross burnings. And the racial divide was not simply black versus white. The Hispanics also had complaints, as did other minorities in the ranks.
Among the demonstrators were groups that were simply violent: gangsters and—literally—murderers. Other groups (largely out of the inner cities) felt oppressed, objecting not just to the Marine Corps but to society in general and its long-standing treatment of African Americans. Others saw everything white as an enemy, and still others had specific, military gripes of all shapes and sizes. One big one: Though the Corps was taking in ever-increasing numbers of young black officers, the senior officer ranks were still lily-white. The minority troops had reason to resent this.
Meanwhile, the Camp Foster guard force was unable to cope with the increasingly bloody racial incidents. Not only did other 3rd FSR units have to provide untrained, and therefore also ineffective, augmentation to reinforce it, but the 3rd Marine Division, located in camps at the northern end of the island, had to keep rifle companies on alert as reaction forces.
AS HE wandered around on his check-in rounds, Zinni noticed units practicing riot control formations and use of special riot control equipment. He knew that racial tensions were high throughout the military, made worse by growing opposition to the war and feelings of intergenerational betrayal; he was also aware of violent incidents in Vietnam and back home; and he’d himself handled a small riot as the officer of the day on duty in his battalion back at Camp Lejeune a few years earlier; but he’d never actually experienced significant racial problems in the units he’d commanded.
“This is a camp under siege,” he told himself. “We’re sitting on a powder keg.”
As the weeks passed, and as he came to personally face the problems of this command, Zinni grew to appreciate the depth of the issues he was then encountering for the first time.
The emerging Vietnam War legacy was evident.
During Vietnam, the need for bodies had been so great that recruiters were sending people into the military who never should have been there. The draft was in place (even the Marine Corps accepted draftees); the initial training was reduced; and, later, promotions came too fast—ignoring the normal leadership development. People were suddenly wearing grades they were too inexperienced to wear; they did not have the education and training needed to perform complex jobs. Many sergeants weren’t real sergeants; and many lieutenants, captains, and even higher should not have held those ranks.
There were also misguided attempts to turn the military into a big Head Start program for dropouts and other low achievers. Chief among these was Project 100,000—a Robert McNamara brainchild—which dumped a hundred thousand young failures into the military in hopes this would lead to a better society. Things didn’t work out that way. Project 100,000 simply unloaded the problems of society on the military. As if that weren’t bad enough, judges were using the military as an alternative to jails or rehabilitation.
The result of all this: The military were forced to accept below-standard troops, who were incapable of coping with the demands of service.
On top of all that, the growing drug culture had impacted heavily on the military. At Camp Foster—and at every other military facility—the number of troops caught, treated, and discharged for drug use was on the rise. This turned out to be Zinni’s first experience with it on a large scale. Like other leaders of his generation, drug use was alien to him. He was scrambling to understand it. “What makes so many people want to do this to themselves?” he would ask himself time and again. “Doesn’t beer do the job?”
Back home, wearing a uniform was not popular. Nobody was coming home a war hero; there weren’t a lot of ticker-tape parades. It was even hard to find Americans who’d actually chosen to fight in Vietnam. Most who served there had been forced to go.
AFTER WORKING through the administrative requirements and meeting the commanders, Zinni was assigned to command the Headquarters and Service Company of the regiment’s supply battalion—his fourth company command. Since command of a company was what being a Marine captain was all about, he felt grateful for that at least.
The H & S Company was a collection of troops with a variety of occupational specialties25 and technical skills, who worked in numerous units throughout the battalion. The computer data processors, the cooks, the motor pool, the maintenance and housekeeping people, and so on were all placed in the H & S Company for administrative and command structure and for military training and proficiency (since they were Marines, they were still expected to be able to shoot), but otherwise they’d all go off every day to their own various offices or workplaces.
It was clear to Zinni that this was going to be a difficult company to command and in which to instill a sense of unit cohesion. Though it was a challenge he was willing to take on, his attitude was improved by some good advice from senior officers. “This is a difficult assignment for an eager young infantry officer,” they told him, “but like every other Marine, these men respond to good leadership. It’s important for you to provide that without showing how dissatisfied you are to be in a unit outside your specialty. And,” they added, “the experience will give you a unique opportunity to learn something about the various logistics functions the unit performs. It won’t hurt you at all later to know something about that.”
Zinni did his best to take this advice, and to put aside his disappointment and immerse himself in the job.
Unlike an infantry company, where unit cohesion and unit pride tend to come fairly naturally, the H & S Company was a grab bag. Nobody felt like he belonged in it. The data processors thought of themselves as data processors, the motor pool guys went off to the motor pool, the cooks went off to the mess hall, and none of them thought of the company, H & S, as anything but an administrative element.
Coming from an infantry unit, however, Zinni wanted to try to build unit cohesion and unit pride. He knew this was going to be hard. Not only did everybody go off to their very different jobs every day, but there was a lot of friction between the company and the workplace.
For example: Every Marine has to fulfill specific military skill requirements. They’ve got to shoot their rifle. They’ve got to be in good physical condition. They’ve got to be capable of actually fighting. Zinni, a captain, was responsible for making sure they were proficient in such things—which was all well and good until the head of the data processing center, a lieutenant colonel, found that such training interfered with his guys’ data processing job.
Zinni did his best to minimize this friction and work out some kind of mutual understanding; but there was really no way to eliminate it totally. There was only so much time in a week. It was a zero-sum game.
In order to build unit cohesion and pride, he engaged with his guys as much as he could, to let them know who he was and to find out what made them tick. He organized more group events with the company—cookouts and sports and the like. He did what he could to look after their welfare, showing that there was command interest and proving that he was not just the administrative guy in charge but their company commander.
He was blessed in his support team—a feisty, hard-charging first sergeant who’d come out of Vietnam; an excellent gunnery sergeant who came from the Physical Fitness Academy and had been a drill instructor and on the Marine Corps shooting team; and a fine executive officer, a young lieutenant.
Over the weeks and months Zinni had the company, the unit began to come together in a satisfying way.
There were still worries. He wasn’t so naive as to believe that none of his troops belonged to gangs or took part in demonstrations or riots. Some troops were bad actors, and some had serious drug problems. By and large, however, they were mostly just regular Marines looking for leadership and directi
on and somebody to care about them; and everybody tried to work with that. Eventually, everybody’s hard work began to enhance the morale, the discipline, and the sense of a unit identity within the company.
IN THE SPRING of 1971, the rising racial tensions exploded. All during the winter, confrontations had increased; and the guard unit was increasingly incapable of handling them. A major eruption was inevitable.
Zinni was in his room at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters (BOQ) after a hard day when a call came: A riot had broken out near his company area. He rushed back to his company. On the way, he passed the scene of the riot. The guard was clashing with blacks wearing gang-logo jackets. It was a mess.
As soon as he reached the company quarters, he ordered the doors secured and a personnel head count. By good luck, few of his troops were away. After those on liberty returned, he stopped all further liberty for the evening. He didn’t want any of his guys anywhere near the riot. He knew some might join the confrontation; but he also did not want to add curious bystanders to the mess.
It was a tense night, made more tense as the confrontation grew worse and the camp guards lost control. Some of their own minority troops joined the rioters, or just walked away.
Inside the barracks, Zinni and his guys talked about nothing else, and listened as events got out of hand—the shouts and the physical clashes—all confirmed by phone reports. Rioters tried to enter the barracks and coax some of Zinni’s Marines to join them. They got sent away.
In the end, military police units and reaction forces had to be called in to bring back order.
The next morning revealed a scene of destruction and a sick bay full of injured people.
THE FOLLOWING night at the officers’ club bar, some of the younger officers were talking about the riot, when Zinni—his brain lubricated by a few beers—made the mistake of offering an opinion about the breakdown of the guard. “I can build a guard unit that can handle the problems we’ve got here,” he boasted.