FOREVER YOUNG NUMBER 17 of a SERIES STANLEY CLAUS CAMPBELL – “STONEY” PART 2 Over the next few months, the MCB-7 Seabees at Phu Bai were on a building spree. They constructed living quarters for the Marines at a rate of 20 to 25 twelve-man huts a week, outdoor toilets and showers, an airstrip, and a causeway that jutted 1,500 feet into the South China Sea, along with facilities for themselves. They also built 44,000 cubic feet of cold-storage space, steel observation towers, a massive antenna field, and a top-secret electronics building for the 8th Radio Research Field Station (ASA) at Phu Bai. The men worked from sun up to sun down most days with a half-day off on Sunday. If a man was on a mortar squad and fired mortars at night, he might be permitted to sleep in a little later, but it was usually too hot to sleep after the sun came up. Stoney looked forward to Sunday afternoons and was always in the middle of whatever was going on. Sometimes the men would grill out, if they could find the steaks and beer. Beer was ten cents a bottle in the Punji Pit, their EM club, and it was a busy spot during their off-duty hours. The Army MARS radio station at Phu Bai was located inside the 8th RRFS compound. The station equipment and antenna field were maintained by Army Security Agency personnel, and could be used to place calls home. The “Spooks” were quite willing to barter their access back to the World” for whatever they could get, so they traded a month of priority placement on the call list to the local Seabees for a concrete patio and BBQ grill pit next to the station. The Army MPs were surprised when a concrete truck and a squad of Navy Seabees pulled up to the front gate of the top-secret facility. They were even more surprised when they were ordered to let them in. The MPs were not permitted inside the gate ... so much for security. Stoney had the opportunity to call home about once a month. The MARS guys would patch him through to a ham radio operator in the States. The radio op would get the Campbells on the phone and Stoney could talk to them. There was a twelve-hour time difference between Phu Bai and Kalamazoo, so if he called at 1900 hours in the evening, it was 7 oclock in the morning on the same day at home. Their only problem was saying “over, so the person on the other end of the line could talk. His mother never got the hang of it. He would tease her, and they would laugh. By August, Stan Campbell had been promoted to Steelworker (Erector) 3rd Class. That was the equivalent to petty officer 3rd class, the lowest NCO rank, and he was running the welding shop. If there was a need for general welding or structural repairs on the batch plant, asphalt plant, or rock crushers, he was on it, anytime, day or night. If something broke, there was no place to go for spare parts; Stoney improvised and made his “creative” fixes from whatever he could find. He loved the challenge of the job, and delighted in impressing the “old salts” with his ingenuity. He soon gained a reputation for the excellence of his work. It had been four months, and Campbell was still not acclimated to the red dust. The wind blew constantly and dust sifted into everything. His eyes were full of it; his clothes were full of it; his nose and throat were coated with it. Everything he smelled and ate tasted like Phu Bai dust. For someone who had spent his life in the lushness of Michigan, Phu Bai was truly a miserable place. The monsoon season was almost upon them. He had heard horror stories about the endless rain and the “sea of mud” Phu Bai would become, but at least the air would be clean. Work had been completed on their quarters, toilets and showers, so living conditions had improved. Their hootches were strongback-style buildings with concrete floors, plywood sides and corrugated tin roofs with wide eaves. They were screened under the eaves for ventilation, and sandbagged outside for safety. The huts were hot during the day, but were cooler than the tents. There was a trap door in the floor that opened into a ditch leading to a bunker in case of a rocket attack. Enemy action continued at night, and it was not unusual for the camp to receive thirty or forty rockets or mortars during an attack. Often, that was followed by harassment rounds fired into the camp every half-hour, for the rest of the night. Everyone dragged out of bed in his skivvies, scrambled in the dark for his weapon, helmet and flak vest, and crawled into the bunkers. That ensured the men got little rest, and they were all a bit jumpy. A security squad had taken out a water buffalo one night, when it strayed too close to the camp perimeter in the dark. It was a dangerous place to be. Stoney wrote to his family every week. He knew they worried about him, but he kept the mood light. He rarely mentioned the military action occurring all around him, or his involvement in it. He sent home photos of himself and some of the projects he helped build. He told them funny stories about happenings around camp, and came up with a joke or two. They expected nothing too serious from him, and he was happy to oblige. His letters were filled with joy, and always brought delight to their day. “That’s my boy,” his mother would say, smiling through her tears. She missed him so much. There had been an influx of new men coming into MCB-7 from the States. Many of the “newbs” (or “new Bees”) were just out of “A” school and having a tough time. They were young, homesick, and receiving the usual newbie harassment from some of their more senior shipmates. If they complained, the old salts told them: Quit griping; you sound like a fleeter! Stoney was too soft-hearted to give them a hard time, and tried his best to lift their spirits and help them fit in. The monsoon season was almost upon them and the camp had begun to receive downpours every few days. There had been a corresponding increase in humidity and morning fog in the gullies and low-lying areas around the perimeter. On 25 August, Campbells platoon drew early guard duty on the defensive perimeter. There had been a sapper attack shortly after midnight, and everyone was a bit uneasy. Stoney worked to calm the men in his squad, telling stories and reminiscing about home. They finally relaxed and the conversation trailed off as each man retreated into his own thoughts. A layer of ground fog had moved in from the China Sea; a slight breeze had risen, and wisps of fog swirled around their defensive position. Stoney could feel the mist on his face as he stared up at the moonless sky. With a slight smile, he recalled the old saying that it is darkest just before the dawn. Recent showers had given the air a freshness, and the youngster took a long, deep breath. The air had the loamy, sour-sweet smell of damp earth, and it reminded him of springtime in Michigan with fog coming in off the lake, and daffodils poking up through the soil. God, how he missed home. It was easy during the day to stay busy and crack jokes, and be STONEY, but at night after lights-out, this boy, who had voluntarily become the morale officer for the battalion, had all the same doubts, fears, and insecurities as his buddies in the bunks around him ... maybe more. Just before daybreak, Stoney confided to those near him that he needed to go relieve himself and was going behind some nearby bushes. Staying low, he quickly moved out of sight and disappeared into the misty darkness. Ten minutes later, Campbells squad heard a desperate voice yell halt!, followed by a blast of M14 fire. When they got to Stoney Campbell, he was already gone. An M14 round had pierced his heart and he was dead before he hit the ground. One of the new men was on sentry duty on the outer perimeter, and his nerves were on edge. He had yelled Halt three times, with no response. For whatever reason, Campbell kept moving forward in the dark, and the sentry fired. No one knows what Stoneys intentions were. He may have been playing a prank on his buddies and moving in to scare them. No one will ever know for sure. For those working in the communications center at the battalion command post, there was the unforgettable call, frantically pleading for help and shouting: Stoney Campbells been shot! That call would haunt those men forever. For the Campbell family, there was the terrible knock on their door at 2508 Vanderbilt Avenue in Portage, Michigan. They were told only that their son had died as the result of an accidental gunshot wound while returning to camp. For Phyl, part of her died that day, too. He was my incredible brother, she says, who did much for many in so little time. The impact this one young man had on an 850-man battalion is incredible. His constant efforts to entertain and uplift those around him had made Campbell a popular figure his entire life. It seemed there were few of his shipmates, even at the battalion level, who did not know him. During the toughest, dirtiest jobs and the longest, darkest nights, Stoney was the one who was always there to boost the morale of everyone around him. Stoney Campbell’s death was devastating, and on 30 October 1966, the assembled personnel of U.S. Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 7 paid tribute to him. In a brief, twenty-minute ceremony, their camp was formally dedicated in memory of their lost shipmate, SWE3 Stanley C. Campbell, who gave his life on the defensive perimeter of the camp which now bears his name. ...He died in the service of his country. Rear Admiral W. M. Heaman, CEC, USN, Commander, Construction Battalions, U.S. Pacific Fleet, spoke the dedicatory words, and noted that an appropriately inscribed plaque would be mounted permanently in the center of the camp Stoney and his shipmates had built. Also in attendance were Rear Admiral H. N. Wallin, Deputy Commander for Acquisition, Naval Facilities Engineering Command; Major General W. B. Kyle, Commanding General, Third Marine Division; and Captain P. E. Seufer, U.S. Navy, Officer in Charge of Construction – Republic of Vietnam. Camp Campbell ... Stoney would have loved it! He was nineteen-years-old. ________________________________ Copyright © 2014 Gary B. Blackburn [Sources: vvmf.org; virtualwall.org; gia-vuc; seabee-rvn; Have Gun Will Travel” by Raymond Cochran; mcb7; vietnam-era-seabees.org; history.navy.mil; homecast.net; “Dirty Dozen” by Raymond Cochran;msuweb.montclair.edu; mca-marines.org/leatherneck/1966; mcb121; Notes from MCB-7 veteran Jeffrey Caine CET2]
Posted on: Mon, 01 Sep 2014 19:28:49 +0000
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