We do this escalating . . . U. S. military involvement in Vietnam . . . in order to slow down aggression . . . We will not be defeated. We will not grow tired. We will not withdraw either openly or under a cloak of a meaningless agreement.” President Johnson, April 7, 1965.
On the subject of Vietnam, one can find an argument for just about anything. But her beauty is not one of them. From tropical lowlands to densely forested highlands, the Annamite mountain range, the Mekong Delta, and the Coastal lowlands. Don’t forget the 12 great rivers and beautiful beaches on the 1,650 kilometers of coastline. Vietnam is beautiful indeed
I stand corrected; There is an argument. Some foot soldiers and Marines who weren’t used to seeing Vietnam from the air or treading the beaches disagreed.
All they remembered was dirt and mud, the jungle and rice paddies, squalid villages, ancient men and women, naked, dirty, hungry children. The bomb craters, barbed wire, sandbags, impenetrable jungles, soldiers burning shit, natives crapping in public, a lot of ugly things.
My purpose was not to enjoy her beauty or the ugliness of war, but to periodically go out with line units as a correspondent for AFVN An Khe radio news. There were deaths and injuries in battle on a few of my field assignments, like Combat Assaults and other skirmishes, where we rarely got a good look at the enemy. But there was nothing that compared to the Ambush on 20 March. (Chapter 17).
When I was in the field on assignment, I was realistically in the same danger as the grunts, except maybe the point man or RTO. I, too, was in the monsoons with mud sucking at my jungle boots and in the oppressive heat. I was there where insects, booby traps, ambushes, and snipers were plentiful. (See chapter 19).
The enemy didn’t know or care who I was, and I got hot, hungry, and scared, just like the foot soldiers. I had no advanced training in tactics or special weapons, and no buddy to keep an eye on me. I was most likely a distraction. Moreover, they didn’t know who I was, and if I’d met anyone, it was just briefly.
However, I was out with the infantry, aircrews, and other combat units maybe once or twice a month and for just a few days; I saw a tiny fraction of what they endured, lived with, and died with 24 hours every day for weeks, if not months, without respite from the rot of the jungle.
Disclaimer: My job as a combat correspondent was not even in the same universe as those in the line units.
Although I was assigned to AFVN in An Khe, I still had assignments such as recording Hometown News Interviews.
“This is Specialist 4 Don Swan near Bong Son, Vietnam, and today I’m talking with Sgt. John Gilliam of Columbia, South Carolina. John is a squad leader with A Company of the 1st Battalion, 9th Cavalry, 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile). Sergeant, what do you have to say to the folks back home about the work you’re doing for the people of Vietnam?”
After a dozen or so interviews, they were packaged and sent to the Hometown News Center in Kansas City (where I would later be assigned) for distribution to the radio stations in the soldier’s hometown.
Although not my favorite job in Vietnam, it was a good program. Citizens of the community got to hear from a soldier, perhaps one they knew, serving in Vietnam. For family and friends, no doubt, it was good for their morale, maybe even a source of pride.
Occasionally, I also got plum assignments, such as Master of Ceremonies, at Bob Hope’s USO shows in Vietnam. I interviewed the icon after one of his shows for AFVN. It was to be a greeting from Mr. Hope for those unable to attend the show (almost everyone).
Unfortunately, I didn’t get that message across in the interview. I still remember the producer’s words: “You got nothing here [fit to air].” It was one of my most straightforward assignments in Vietnam, and I blew it.
December had finally arrived, and I was officially Short with just thirty-six days (and a wake-up). I began to believe I would actually make it home. But maybe I shouldn’t have been so optimistic after hearing the story of one man’s last night in Vietnam.
A soldier who had already “processed out” would be heading “Back to the World” on a “Freedom Bird” early the next morning. He had only a wake-up remaining.
Tonight, he relaxed on his bunk, rereading the most recent letter from his wife and gently rubbing his index finger over a picture of the daughter he had never met.
He tried to stay cool and get comfortable with the feel of his OD boxers.** His jungle fatigues had already been traded in for khakis. Ribbons — the medals he’d earned here — were precisely mounted, pinned above his left front pocket, and his unit patch hung further below. Those khakis were neatly folded and rested atop his tightly packed duffel bag — his shiny-black low quarters sat nearby.
Late that evening, he had shaved and showered, one less detail for tomorrow morning. AFVN was playing Strawberry Fields Forever. When the call came, he would be ready in an instant.
Soon after, he fell asleep, no doubt dreaming about the small family that awaited him.
He unnecessarily rehearsed his first moves, like kissing his wife while caressing the soft skin of his baby.
His mind most likely wandered to some of the worst times in the field, but somehow, he overrode that vision. Instead, he continued with the good dream that in a few hours, he would leave Vietnam forever.
On the same overcast evening, somewhere in the darkness, less than a mile outside the perimeter of the airstrip, a small team of NVA/VC was setting up a tripod and adjusting distance and direction. At 0200-hundred a 60-mm mortar burst from its tube with a noticeable ssss.
In less than two seconds, a 12-inch rocket flying at 336 mph arced toward the tent of the man scheduled to leave in just hours. The mortar impacted near his cot — exploded in a ball of fire — shattering his dreams, charring his body, and extinguishing his life for all time.
VC mortar exploding in a tent, similar to the scene where a man perished on his last night in Vietnam.
(Courtesy C. Lee & Pinterest)
He would still be returning, just not in the cheering section of the jet with those pretty, good-smelling, round-eyed female flight attendants. The Vietnam veteran would be going back to the States, his first stop Dover, Del.
He died in this stinking, godforsaken country with just a wake-up remaining!
Incredibly, like the man above, 1,448 servicemen died on their last scheduled day in Vietnam, and 997 were killed on their first day In-Country!
“We have reached an important point where the end begins to come into view . . . I am absolutely certain that whereas in 1965 the enemy was winning, today he is certainly losing.” General William Westmoreland, 21 November 1967.
It was an unseasonably cool 70 degrees under a high cloud ceiling when I boarded my 707 Freedom Bird out of Tan Son Nhut on 7 Jan 1968. Ecstatic passengers and a happy crew; all seats were filled with cheering GIs for the roughly 17-hour flight “Back to the World.”
A couple of hours before we were scheduled to touch down at SFO, in our country, the land we had fought for, dreamt of, and yearned for more than a year. The pilot told us not to expect “Thank You For Your Service” but to be prepared for a welcoming from organized protestors shouting insults at us.
~
Hate the WAR, Might as well hate the WARRIORS; lump all the returning GIs together, including the drafted Conscientious Objector Chaplain’s Assistant.
One would expect such a grouping*** who had no doubt enjoyed the Summer of Love in San Francisco mere months before, to be in a mellow mood. But I sensed they enjoyed trying to humiliate us soldiers — many in our group draftees — calling each of us baby killers, spewing profanities, desecrating the US flag, and other vile and pernicious antics.
Welcome back to the USA, and welcome to San Francisco. Smoke ’em if you got ’em, indeed.
20
*Thankfully, the majority of my assignments did not include blood and battle.
**Most GIs who were in the field for extended periods wore no underwear.
***These pretentious people, probably living off a trust fund, no doubt still dropping acid and other mind-enhancing substances after the summer of love and screwing scores of like-minded ilk, would be mellow. And despite their egregious behavior and risky lifestyle, they remained healthy and became left-wing professors, politicians, and professional protesters. Am I bitter? Yeah, and I’m a bit jealous, too.
Swan's Song Series 