Fortune Favors The Brave is an exciting fiction book with several twists. In the beginning they are two ninteen year old men who become best friends, dispite their different backgrounds, views and beliefs. Bob French is a Navy Corpsman that saves human lives and Perry McMullin is a Marine Sniper that takes those same lives. "Fortune Favors The Brave" is a story that will take you on a roller coaster ride of emotions; setting you up for a thrilling ending that you never saw coming.
Fortune Favors the Brave
Fortes Fortuna AdiuvatBy Perry McMullin Robert FrenchAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Perry McMullin and Robert French
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-2614-1Chapter One
FORTES FORTUNA ADIUVAT Fortune Favors The Brave
"Good morning, Lieutenant. Lance Corporal McMullin, Perry V., 1981844, reporting in accordance with my orders, sir."
"Good morning there, Lance Corporal McMullin. We expected you here two days ago."
"Yes sir, it seems that I came by way of Saigon instead of the direct flight to DaNang that I was expecting. I guess there was some big brass aboard that they made some special concessions for."
With the exchange of this near pleasantry, I began the process of checking into the Marine Corps Third Platoon of the First Reconnaissance Battalion, Third Marine Division. The Third Recon Platoon was just being formed on 15 July 1966, and at that time, it came under the command of Special Operations and the commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Good. This particular platoon was used for the most part for covert operations and was often deployed in several different locations at one time.
No one ever questioned who, what, when, where, why, or how we accomplished a mission, or for that fact, if we had even been out on a mission.
I had just turned nineteen years old after my graduation from boot camp in November 1965 at MCRD San Diego, and then I was off for two months of Vietnamese language school. That didn't make me a linguist by any stretch of the imagination, but I could communicate with some reasonable efficiency.
There was some talk about my attending a formal sniper school at Quantico, but instead I was taught sniping at the First Marine Division, Camp Pendleton, California. My MOS (military occupational specialty) was still that of a 0311 or basic infantry grunt; however, the prospect of serving with trained recon marines was thrilling for me, to say the least. Recon missions were much different than what the field grunts were doing on search-and-destroy sweeps or just their holding down some nasty-ass fire base in the armpit of Vietnam.
A regular 03 grunt was generally just a number to generals, colonels, and other high-ranking officers. It wasn't until you got down to your platoon or squad level that you actually became more than just another warm body dressed in Marine Corps green.
Because recon specialized in small-unit operations most of the time, I knew I'd be getting some quality trigger time while serving with these guys. Plus my chances of getting a decent personal medal or decoration while with the recon guys were a hell of a lot better. War may not be all about medals, but look at all of the ones that had been designed just for the brass. There was no way that the average jarhead would ever get one of those medals, because they were just chest fluff for colonels and generals. I want something on my chest to show that I did my thing when I finally do go back to the real world. Oooohrah, Semper Fi, do or die!
I finished checking into my unit, which actually turned out to be a hell of a lot quicker than any other admin procedure ever was stateside. I guess that my being in a real shooting war has changed all the fucking chicken-shit paperwork I had gone through back in the land of the round eyes. Even drawing my Remington BDL rifle was as simple as, "Sign here for the rifle, sling, scope, and one hundred rounds to sight you in, Lance Corporal."
I was anxious to get the official word telling me when I could go to the range and acquire the proper dope I needed to sight this thirty-aught-six bad boy in. Anything five hundred meters or less was like shooting the eye out of a fucking gnat with this beautiful customized weapon. Now, when you are talking about a thousand meters or more, that is where a sniper and a grunt parted company. Riflemen in the regular marines qualify at the two, three, and five hundred-meter lines only. I guess all of the shooting expertise I demonstrated on the rifle range in boot camp actually did amount to something here in the Green Machine.
One shot and one kill was the motto of sniper school, and there never was a limit imposed on the number of gooks I could smoke on any given day. Oooohrah and gung ho, it is the Marine Corps way, all day, every day!
On my third day at DaNang, I was getting really itchy to go over to the range and pop some caps to sight this baby in so I could apply the dope to my Redfield scope. I mean, what the fuck? I am here to shoot things, so what seems to be the holdup? I was gung ho and ready to lock and load on full auto at any time and any day. Either lead me, follow me, or get the fuck out of my way!
After morning chow, I wandered over to the admin office once again to see what was screwing up this whole range process. Go figure-the person I needed to see was out of the area for the rest of the day. It was to be standby to standby once again. The new butter bar lieutenant stood up and motioned for me to come over to him. "Lance Corporal, this is our new navy corpsman, Robert French. He's just off the C-130 from Okinawa, so you show him the ropes about getting his ass checked in, and then find him a place to rack in your hooch."
"Aye aye, sir, will do," I said.
"Oh hey, by the by there, Lance Corporal McMullin, you have a range time tomorrow from 0800 to 1200. Take this FNG swabbie along with you and teach him something about shooting. These fucking squids don't know which end of a rifle they need to use to kill the enemy."
Once again, I acknowledged with an, "Aye, sir, will do," as we boogied off and away from all the remefs sitting there on their royal red asses, looking so all-fired refined and important.
"So, Doc, you just got in country?" I asked.
"Yeah, I did, but I was told that I was going to be assigned to the base hospital or sick bay, so what is up with this recon outfit anyway? Somehow, I think it has something to do with my getting screwed up the ass again, big time!"
I filled Bob in on some things about the Marine Corps and specifically about recon. I guess if he expected to be at the base hospital or sick bay, this was going to be even worse than he could ever imagine. Recon was different than a grunt outfit, maybe better for him and maybe worse. "This may not be the gig you expected, Doc, but I'll tell you one thing for sure: recon marines are tight. They are so fucking tight that they're like a frog's ass, and that, my friend, would be watertight! Just go with the flow for a while, Doc, and well ... who knows?"
Getting Doc French checked in was done in record time because he got most of his stuff from the navy and not the marines. "After we get you a rack in my hooch, we'll stop over and get you a set of tiger-stripe utilities ordered up. The locals can measure you up today and then bring your finished set in tomorrow." The tiger-stripe cammies were not issued to U.S. troops, but the advisors and units of the ARVN wore them. They were a hell of a lot better than the crummy jungle fatigues that were being issued by our supply, because these actually allowed you to blend into the jungle. I don't think the regular marines could wear them, but if we paid for them out of our own pocket, no one said anything about our having or wearing them.
"Speaking of tigers, Doc, after we get you checked in, we'll go over to the 'E'club and each of us will have a big ole pitcher of Tiger Piss. Some people might call it beer, but I think you'll...
