“We are not about to send American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to be doing.” President Johnson, October 21, 1964, two weeks before the presidential election.

One of the world’s most vibrant, beautiful, and intriguing cities was socked in on a chilly January day in 1967. But I wasn’t in San Francisco waiting for the fog to break or the Summer of Love. I needed to put that picturesque city in my rearview. I was already a week late for my assignment in Southeast Asia.

I was sleep-deprived and anxious as I boarded the sleek USAF C-141 out of Oakland* for our 7,824-mile overseas flight. With 80,000 pounds of thrust from each of the four Pratt & Whitney turbofans, we quickly pulled up and out of the fog. When I felt the wheels retract into the fuselage, I knew I was leaving the United States, a first for me.

My fellow passengers, mostly silent like me, must have contemplated what awaited us at our destination as we sailed at 567 mph, six miles above the Pacific, with no land in sight.

Repartee was virtually non-existent among the 154 of us, and especially quiet as we got closer to that place, a year before, few had heard of. No young ladies to impress with bravado; our flight attendants were junior enlisted men who served us box lunches.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk with the passengers headed to war or making any friends, either. A few soldiers aboard were returning from 30 days’ leave in the States. That was one of the incentives for volunteering for another tour in Vietnam.

Others were heading back to the war zone after emergency leave. I had no desire to chat with them either, or to hear their take on living in a Third-World country or on the war. But several lined up to ask “what it was like.” When I reached my unit and the people I’d be serving with, I’d have plenty of questions.

We’d been flying about 10 hours facing backward, in the canvas seats. A day was lost when we passed the International Dateline just before touching down at Wake Island. There, we got fuel and a fresh crew. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.

After seven more hours of boredom and another stop, that I don’t remember, and on-and-off naps, I was awakened by the Aircraft Commander, announcing thirty minutes to touchdown. We would land at our destination, Tan Son Nhut, at 1400 local. No one applauded.

I felt the huge jet rapidly losing altitude as the pilots prepared for a tactical approach, an exceptionally steep descent, for our landing in the Republic of South Vietnam.

As we entered the hot, dense air over the South China Sea, an F-4 appeared at about a hundred yards starboard. The Phantom II rocked its wings, went wet with afterburners, and disappeared in an instant. An impressive welcome indeed, and a free flight over, courtesy of the USAF.

USAF F-4 Phantom II goes wet with afterburners, welcome to Vietnam. Similar to our escort, Jan 1967. (Photo courtesy Wiki Commons) >

Fifteen minutes later, I stepped from the cool comfort of the Starlifter into a blazing sun, saturated with a blanket of stifling heat and humidity. (Maybe we had landed on Venus, the hottest planet in the universe.) The smell was also pretty bad, like vomit, rotting fish, and raw sewage.

Unless severely wounded or killed, this was my home for the next 365 days — or 364 and a wake-up from Jan. 7, 1967.

Subject to duty for every second of the next 525,600 minutes or so, my compensation of $193 a month (including hostile fire pay of $65). I calculated that to be about 27 cents an hour for the remaining 8,726. But it was not without benefits: Free postage on outgoing mail, room and board (such as it was), and complimentary helicopter excursions. Plus, we got to carry some wicked weapons and kill communists.

~~

The DU** Field House was bustling with activity and crowded on a hot afternoon, in the early fall of 1978. Students were selecting courses for the next quarter.

I had just finished talking with my VA representative when a young man behind me with a beard and long hair asked if I was a Vietnam vet. (In the 70s, serving in Vietnam was not a topic for discussion in mixed company.)

He had accosted me for one reason: To tell me why Vietnam had been good for him. He said it was worth all the sacrifice because that’s where he was Saved and found the Lord. If not for the Vietnam War, he would never have found Christ and Salvation, as I understood him.

I was tempted to tell him to di-di-mau (get the f–k away) because I didn’t have the inclination or time to challenge him.  As usual, I was in a hurry, college full-time, working full-time, and being a single parent of twins full-time. I was trying to get home before they did from Lewis Ames Elementary.

Unlike the veteran above, the Vietnam War had the opposite effect on me. I didn’t find salvation there; that’s where I lost it! I suppose War is a good enough reason as any to give up on religion or, at least, a reasonable excuse to question it. I would wonder how “God knows Best” or if it was “God’s Will” even when wicked things were happening to decent people.

I didn’t give up on religion without some soul-searching. It didn’t happen in a blasphemous rage.  It was not an insouciant decision.

There are some who would say it is easy to find God in war; at the boiling point of battle, when the heat becomes overwhelming, any hope of salvation and survival comes in turning your fate over to a higher power, even if it isn’t the one you intended to find. (From Keregg P. J. Jorgenson in Very Crazy GI.)

Maybe, if I were bleeding out and alone, with no medic or dustoff in sight, I might have seen religion from a different perspective. I might have been begging for God.

Reflecting on my time in Vietnam at nineteen, I was too young for honest introspection or to vote (had to be 21 then). Nevertheless, I know what I saw, and it affected me intensely. It also tested my religion mightily.

What I saw in Vietnam were young men and boys dying. (Twelve 17-year-olds and a Marine, aged 15, perished in Vietnam.) Many away from home for the first time, flying for the first time, some still virgins screaming, “Mom, Mom!” and seconds later lying motionless. Others were convulsing uncontrollably; blood spurting, teeth shattering, bowels exploding, limbs annihilated, bodies obliterated — All dying. Up close and Personal, I wasn’t prepared for the reality of war; I never saw it coming, somehow analogous to the projectiles these baby-faced 18-year-olds never heard. And I was alive to think about it — remember it — forever.

Only the Dead are out of War. Survivors never leave it.

Boys and young men were dying at an alarming rate, an average of thirty-four a day, the year I served. Sixty-one per cent of US troop deaths in Vietnam were 21 or younger. The average age of the enlisted GI in Vietnam was my age, 19. 

~~~

On the same tarmac where we had just arrived were the GIs departing Vietnam. The men in that group looked much older than they did a year ago. Eventually, we would become them, but they would never become us again.

They yelled, “ Shooort,  Shooort!” ensuring we knew their status.  Soldiers with less than 60 days were short. These guys had less than six minutes. I watched the long line of happy souls disappear into their “freedom bird” headed “back to the world.”

More than 58,000 young men and eight women would die in this Godforsaken country. Most would return, just not in the cabin, with those pretty good-smelling, round-eyed flight attendants. Their destination would be Dover, DE.

Standing here amidst the chaos, soaking in the heat and smelling stink, I had a bad feeling. And I thought I needed to get out of Mississippi.

Advancing with the others in my khakis and low quarters, I tried to aerate some of the stink and heat. The manila envelope encasing the orders that sent me here was an insufficient fan. I don’t know why I thought that would help.

We were quickly and efficiently rushed onto what looked like Prisoner transport buses. Never mind, the sides read “US Air Force.”  The steel netting around the windows was for our protection. We didn’t want an injury from a satchel charge before getting a taste of the jungle. Someone on the bus had a transistor playing Daydream Believer. The driver said to turn it down.

Taking in the scenes and scents of a Third World country, Vietnamese were all around us. There were mostly old women and children; not many looked to be of combat age, but I would learn later that it included children.

They wore black clothing that resembled pajamas, and conical hats covered most heads. They sold a variety of wares from roadsides and crapped on the ground in public. Repurposed beer cans covered walls on many houses that read: “Carling Black Label.”

Their language was loud and harsh, as if spoken with a pinched nose. In an uneasy sing-song rhythm without pauses.

Like so:

“ThongDangDongChowThongDangThongDangDongChowThongDangDongChingChowThongDangDong” is what I constantly heard. Their tonal language sounded mumbly and nasally, too.**

Scooters were everywhere, spewing pungent blue smoke. They buzzed around like scurrying rodents, dodging pedestrians, maneuvering around rickshaws, competing for space, with horns reverberating.

Surprisingly, during the few minutes I observed, it appeared they made it around everything, including three-wheeled Lambro and Simca taxis, without a significant crash. 

Women carried heavy objects on their heads. Others rested springy bamboo poles around their necks. They balanced a heavy load on each end. Most were spitting betel juice.

Young girls squatted flat-footed, one in front of the other. They took turns picking lice from each other’s heads. They then cracked them with their teeth.

A short bumpy ride later, I disembarked at the Long Binh reception station.

My overloaded duffel bag dug into my shoulder as I stood in the long, slow-moving line, sweating with the others. Soon, everything would get hotter and heavier. 

After finally convincing the sergeant who greeted me that I hadn’t been AWOL, I showed him my note from Columbus AFB (where I’d been hospitalized).  I was given a new assignment.

Maybe it was because I was late reporting. Who knows. But here’s what happened: A master sergeant called me over, “You’re not going to the 196th Light Infantry. You’re going up to Cowboy and Indian Country; you’re headed for the Cav son,” he said, smiling. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.

(Now that I’m In-Country, I’ll start counting in meters and Kilometers as we did.)

   Ammo dump at Long Binh after an enemy attack in 1967 (Courtesy Hero Browse)

That night at Long Binh, my first night In-Country, I was awakened by a siren to Whoomp, Whoomp, Woosh, Wham, Splat, Splat, over and over.

Mortars landed close to the tents where we were sleeping. Although I didn’t hear of any injuries, it was a good time to change out of my khakis. AFVN Saigon was playing 19th Nervous Breakdown.

First welcomed by a fighter jet from friends, and now by rockets from foes.  I suppose the latter makes it official. Welcome to Vietnam. Indeed.  

If you’re reading Only the Vietnam Portion of this Book, scroll to Chapter 15. 

13

*Flying out of Oakland is my recollection; I am not 100% sure.

**University of Denver

***I’m sure the Vietnamese had an opinion on our English, as well.