“I am not going to lose Vietnam. I am not going to be the president who saw Southeast Asia go the way China went.”  Newly inaugurated President Lyndon Johnson, November 24, 1963.

It had to be over 100, with humidity to match, an oven with no turn-off knob upon my return to Bong Son. My butt was chafing, my shrapnel wounds were stinging, and my ingrown toenails were punishing me with a burning sensation, more painful with each step.

And it was about to get worse with an unexpected ass-chewing, shocking since I was naively expecting a welcome back. Good thing I didn’t waste time worrying about someone patting me on my back (where my shrapnel wounds were).

“I don’t know what kind of shit you pulled in An Khe, but I’m still your boss when you’re out here. Did you get the interview?” Lt. Blankenship greeted me upon my return to Bong Son.

“Yes, but my tape recorder was KIA, sir, though I may have saved somebody’s life,” I answered. He countered, “Yeah, yeah, OK, so you didn’t get the story, and you destroyed government property. Is that about right, Swan?” I didn’t answer.

“Alright, get outta here and get back to work and be sure to take care of your wounds,” he snapped sarcastically.*

After I reported on the Ambush, I noticed that Lt. Blankenship was treating me differently and not in a good way. I could not fathom why. Now it was getting worse (like the condensing greeting above). Understandably, my morale was low.

Little did I know that someone would come to my aid during this challenging period. I would find it none other than the two-star General who happened to command the 1st Cavalry.

I had the occasion to interact with Maj. Gen. John Norton, not long after, my lieutenant had dressed me down. He was giving his last interview as commanding General with a reporter, where I was present, hosting the newsman.

He remembered me from the field where he presented the Silver Star to Hagemeister the morning after the Ambush (Chapter 17) when I interviewed him. The General seemed sincere when he asked me how everything was going. I stuttered in my response, saying nothing specific. I believed he sensed something was amiss.

Within a couple of weeks, I was promoted to Spc. 4 and called back to Camp Radcliff with a new assignment. I was to be the Morning DJ on the recently reactivated AFVN in An Khe!

I suspect the General had an aide call Major Witters, head of PIO, and ask to speak with him presently or for an immediate return call. The difference in rank from a major to a major general is considerable. The General probably suggested I get a break from the field.

I thrived at AFVN, An Khe. I dedicated songs to chopper pilots, artillery, engineers, infantry, and men like the ones I had met in the field. The soldiers who were doing the real work.

Of course, men who were in the shit would not be listening to AFVN. But in the field, somehow, the troopers found a way to listen to the hits emanating from An Khe.

There were reports from GIs in the field; their transistor radio was second only to their M-16, and music was like the comfort of a pet. Chopper and other pilots picked up my broadcasts on their FM frequencies.

It was good for morale; songs they had listened to with their wives and sweethearts, like (You’re) My Soul and Inspiration by the Righteous Brothers, When A Man Loves a Woman by Percy Sledge, and Cherish by the Association. But, most importantly, they were reminded of what awaited them back in the “World.”

Occasionally, I got fan mail from women who lived in nearby villages. One, in particular, asked me to play songs for GIs she’d met, I can only surmise, while they were in the village of An Khe, aka Sin City (probably when they were picking up their laundry).

I didn’t dedicate the personal — “From Kim to Larsen and Knelly”— but I did play the songs she requested, doing my part for “Winning the hearts and minds of the people.”

There were no Arbitron ratings in the combat zone. But among the 25,000 or so GIs who had access to my show, it was estimated (tongue in cheek) that I had almost as many listeners as Hanoi Hannah.

About the over-hyped “Good Morning Vietnam” thing made famous in a movie of the same name by the late Robin Williams, most GIs detested the “greeting.” In some rare cases, grunts after hearing “Goooooo-o-o-o-o-od Morning Vietnam” one too many times, promptly shut down their radios courtesy of their M-16s.

Obviously, these men found no “Good” in their morning and didn’t need some smug DJ sitting in the comfort of an air-conditioned studio in Saigon telling them it was.

There was no Good Morning in Vietnam despite the movie that portrayed Vietnam as a place to be romanticized, in my opinion, and a soundtrack that included What A Wonderful World!”

As for our little station in An Khe, my only real friend in Vietnam, John Bagwell (1st Cav PIO), was enthusiastic about our operation and did many things to improve it. He talked Seattle’s KJR rock station into sending us current hit records and some oldies.

And unbelievably, by just writing a few letters, he convinced a popular production company (in the U.S.) to record professional jingles for 1330 AM & FM AFVN, An Khe (valued at $2,000 in 1967 money).

Bagwell was a genuine radio guy who did a lot for our station and made our operations better for the troops we served. Late in his tour, he saved a cameraman’s life while working with an NBC reporter he was hosting near Khe Sanh. Bagwell almost lost a foot in the engagement and nearly became a POW.

Bagwell received the Bronze Star for Valor and Purple Heart.

“John, I will never forget you and the good you did in Vietnam. You never got the credit you deserved for your deeds in An Khe and other efforts.

I hardly made any friends because I traveled so much, but with so few, thank goodness, I had a friend in you.”***

Go figure, on 5 Feb 1968, the only real friend I had In-Country was almost captured and nearly killed. (A priest helped hide him in his church, separate from his weapon.)

But the bad news gets worse, on that February day: Six of his PIO comrades were captured from the Hue AFVN facilities. Steve Stroub, a recent colleague, an An Khe DJ, was executed by the NVA shortly after he was taken prisoner. Two more soldiers were killed during the attack on the AFVN studios. And the remaining five PIO members that were captured at Hue became POWs and spent five years in captivity!

When a fellow vet notices my Cav patch. I’m immediately asked what unit I was with. When I reply 15th Administrative Company. It doesn’t sound nearly as impressive as the 2/7 Seventh Cav. They are apt to think I was a REMF (Rear Echelon Mother F–ker). I ask them to read my book.

I was proud to be recognized for my efforts at PIO and AFVN, An Khe. Here’s a clipping that ran in the 1st Cav’s official newspaper in 1967, The Cavalier.

Incidentally, the same Mike Larson who pinned the above has written Heroes, A Year in Vietnam With the 1st Cavalry Division. Published by and available from iUniverse.

Songs that stand out from my time as a DJ in Vietnam are Happy Together by The Turtles, Strawberry Fields Forever by the Beatles, 96 Tears by and The Mystreians, and naturally, We Gotta Get Out Of This Place by the Animals.

Although I had an easier job now (and no interference from Blankenship), I was anxious to get home to Marty. Unfortunately, I still had a long eight months

remaining. I used to pinch myself — yeah, I’m really in Vietnam.

*Unfortunately, some Officers and NCOs in Vietnam were quick to display condescending behavior toward low-ranking GIs like myself. In my experience, they were in the minority.

**I was back in the states when I received a letter from Bagwell, who was still in Vietnam, telling me that my replacement was killed shortly after their move to Khe Sanh (I had missed Khe Sanh and Tet by just a couple of weeks and I would have been in Hue).

***Although I didn’t get to know many of the men — remembering what my 1st Sgt. said about not making too many friends — here are some who were with PIO, An Khe: Maj. Witters, Capt. Coleman and Master Sgt. Bradley. Others whose ranks I don’t remember are Larson, Grizzle, Knelly, Basile, Ferrel, McGrath, and Jim Pruitt. (Not sure of all spelling.) Many members of PIO went on to distinguished careers in journalism, including Donald Graham (before my time with the Information Office), who eventually became publisher of The Washington Post!

I don’t remember where I was on July 27, 1967, even though I would turn twenty in a few days. But many Sailors would remember where they were on that dat, andetheyy would never forget. One hundred and thirty-four gave their lives fighting the fire aboard the USS Forestal (aircraft carrier deployed near the coast of Vietnam). About 167 were horribly burned, with many experiencing a lifetime of pain.

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).

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.

(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.

I slept through the night, I got through to the dawn
I flipped a switch, and the light went on
I got out of bed, and I put some clothes on
It’s a pretty good day so far

I turned the tap, there was cold, there was hot
I put on my coat to go to the shop
I stepped outside, and I didn’t get shot
It’s a pretty good day so far

I didn’t hear any sirens or explosions
No murders coming in form those heavy guns
No Army tanks, I didn’t see one
It’s a pretty good day so far

No snipers in windows, taking a peek
No people panic, running scared through the streets
I didn’t see any bodies without arms, legs, or feet
It’s a pretty good day

There was plasma bandages and electricity
Food, wood, and water, and the air was smoke-free
No camera crews from my TV

It was all such a strange sight to be home
Nobody was frightened, wounded, hungry, or cold
And the children seemed normal, they didn’t look old
It’s a pretty good day so far

I walked through a park, you would not believe it
There in the park, there were a few trees left
And on some branches, there were a few leaves

I slept through the night, got through to the dawn
I flipped the switch, and the light went on
I wrote down my dream, I wrote this song
It’s a pretty good day so far

Loudon Wainwright Pretty Good Day lyrics © Spirit Music Group

I had made it back to the Promised Land. Finally, I was on United States soil!

Judy In Disguise (With Glasses) played as I rushed through the corridors at SFO for a commercial jet that would get me to Wilmington, North Carolina, as soon as possible. With the unpleasant reception I had just encountered here, I’m not sure I would have worn my uniform on the flight had it not been required to get the substantial military discount.

When I called Marty from the airport, she didn’t recognize my voice; she hadn’t heard it in more than a year.

Knowing the date and scheduled time of my arrival, Marty’s family and local citizens (remembering I’d worked in Wilmington less than two years ago) assembled a group of one hundred or more at the airport. There, they gave me a hero’s welcome. 

I awoke from that dream not long after I touched down. It was just Marty at the airport, and that was good enough for me; I could touch the girl I’d been dreaming of my entire time in Vietnam.

After more than a year apart, the girl who had waited for me was now standing in front of me. Even more beautiful than I had remembered. Marty was tall and thin, with sparkling blue-green eyes and short bleached-blond hair. And was in love with me. She was 18. I was 20.

We were wed the next afternoon, one day after my arrival. The ceremony would be held in a spare bedroom of the preacher’s house, who, in the eyes of God, was about to bind us in holy wedlock. There had been no bridal or wedding shower, no gifts of any kind, just advice. (Little did I know that Vietnam veterans suffered a divorce rate of more than 50%.)  But it wouldn’t have mattered to me at that time.

All of three people attended. Unfortunately, one was Marty’s aunt Hill, who kept squawking in her shaky, 98-year-old-sounding voice, “Don’t forget to pay the preacher.” Then, in my ear one minute later, “Don’t forget . . . .” To get her to shut up, I palmed him a five-dollar bill before the vows.

Marty was not in a formal gown, but radiant. She had a nice yellow-gold wedding band for me. I had the small silver-gold ring to match the engagement diamond she had already lost. She said it was swept up by the surf on the Atlantic coast while playing with her little niece.

We headed south out of North Carolina and began our mini-honeymoon with our first stop at the new Holiday Inn® in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. (The city had ways to go before becoming the trendy tourist attraction it is today.) 

On the way to see my parents in Mississippi, we searched the airwaves for our songs now that we were together, not 9,304 miles apart. Hits like You’re My Soul and Inspiration, Happy Together, Wouldn’t it be Nice, and Dedicated to the One I Love.

After we rode through the rest of South Carolina, I sped up as we bypassed Augusta (Ft Gordon) and continued through Georgia. But we slowed in Alabama when we ran into an unexpected light dusting of snow in the little Mustang with well-worn tires.

No shower or wedding gifts in Mississippi, either, just advice. But we were given the use of Aunt Dara’s unoccupied house, sans indoor toilet. It was quite a way to make an impression on a new bride. But it was decent otherwise, and a free place to extend our honeymoon.

Seven days after leaving North Carolina, we had gone through Marty’s small amount and the $200 or so I had brought. For my one year in Vietnam (where my income was just over $3,000).

I spent money on my R & R, paying off Marty’s engagement ring, savings bond debit, a small allotment sent to my folks back home, and Marty.  Still, I managed to save $300.00, which the bank sent me before our cross-country trip continued.

We extended our honeymoon, enjoying the benefits of sleeping together as husband and wife and resting in cheap motels along the 1,958.3-mile route to California for my next assignment.

We’d already driven 900 miles from North Carolina in Marty’s Springtime Yellow 1967 Mustang GT®, with little room for all our worldly belongings, no A/C, threadbare tires, and a broken gas gauge (we ran out of gas somewhere in Oklahoma).

It was a nice car, but somehow, she had managed to get saddled with a monthly payment of $105 (over $900 in 2025 money). This was on a car costing just less than $3,000! About 30 payments remained. I’ll bet that was a lot of undercoating and zero down.

Angel Of The Morning, Young Girl played as we motored through Arkansas, Kind Of A Drag, Magic Carpet Ride rang out in Oklahoma, Green Tambourine, I Wonder What She’s Doing Tonight in Texas. Itchycoo Park, Bend Me-Shape Me, Spooky, in New Mexico and Arizona. And all the hits from January 1968 played as we searched for stations that were playing our songs on the long trip west.

Much of our travel West on I-40 ran parallel to Route 66 in many places. We went through cities like Tulsa, Amarillo, and Albuquerque and towns like Shamrock, Tucumcari, and Needles.  Our one tourist stop was just a 12-mile detour down old Route 66 to see the three-quarter-mile-wide Barringer meteor crater near Winslow, Arizona. Impressive.

Early in the evening, after three days of travel, we rolled into big LA. A spectacular sight, Los Angeles; by far more lights than Marty had ever seen and, indeed, as many as I’d seen in large cities like Saigon.

I’m surprised we found our way through the city, covering more than 4,000 square miles and incorporating some 80 municipalities. As soon as we hit city limits, now a passenger, I began celebrating with a 40oz can of cold Colt-45.™ We had to traverse most of LA to get to our destination, Marty frequently stopping at service station restrooms for me. Finally, had made it to San Pedro, near the Port of Los Angeles.

Newlyweds, Don & Marty, at Cabrillo Beach, San Pedro, California, in early 1968. (Swan Archives)

We settled into a “furnished” one-bedroom apartment across the street from the hospital at Ft. McArthur. We bought new tires, California coverage for the Mustang, some Melmac® dinnerware, and a 23″ B&W Emerson® TV. It came in a wheeled cart.

After getting my travel pay, we decided to celebrate a bit. After all, we had made it across the country, and I from Vietnam. Not to forget — marriage. 

Peppy’s was a San Pedro restaurant with a reputation for excellent food. We had a great dinner there, including a good bottle of wine and dessert. The cost: $20, including the tip (about $186 in 2025 money).

There would be no more outings like that because, on day one, we were in trouble financially.  My base pay was $226.20 monthly, plus a $105 housing allowance. (Average income for civilians was around $750.) So, after rent, car payment, insurance, and so forth, we had just over $100 to subsist on for 30 days.

The $300.00 we left Mississippi with and the travel pay were almost gone. I procured toilet paper from work. We made love as Love Is Blue played on KHJ. An hour later, we agonized over money. And she wondered why I wore no underwear. I told her it was to save money before I told her the real reason. GIs in the field typically ditched their shorts (going commando) to prevent chafing.

At Ft. MacArthur, a few weeks after I reported for duty at the 37th Command Information Detachment, the officer in charge handed me a tattered parcel. He smiled and said, “They must have really liked you.”  Inside were a Purple Heart, Air Medal (both unexpected), and Army Commendation Medal. Maybe someone recommended me for those first two medals, knowing what happened with the Bronze Star below. (All are recorded in my DD 214.)

I was, of course, honored and also a bit disappointed. I’d heard from a friend in Vietnam that Lt. Blankenship, before his DEROS,* had told the sergeant responsible for enlisted awards, “No Bronze Star** for Swan.” I have no ill feelings for the man; Blankenship will self-destruct all by himself if he doesn’t get his insecurities under control.  But as for myself, I’m disappointed to have even shared this story. Why?

Soldiers doing the real work were the men in the bush, grunts walking point, pulling Listening Post duty in the middle of the night. They were under constant threat from snipers, ambushes, booby traps, and punji stakes. Then there was the not uncommon diarrhea, especially among troops in the field, the kind that ran down their legs.

Infantrymen in extreme heat or monsoons, in the on-again and off-again rain. Men who were lugging 90lbs or more in rice paddies, through elephant grass, mountainous terrain, and fording rivers and streams. This was their life day in and day out. And the most horrific face of war: holding a friend in your arms, severely injured or dying.

(Below) Unidentified 1st Cav RTO M-16 is “checked up” while moving cautiously with members of his qsuad somewhere in Binh Dinh province in 1967. (US Army photo)

1st Cav trooprers srtrain to carry body of a dead comrade, 25 clicks north of Bong Son in 1966. (US Army Rick Merron)

Many of the soldiers who did the actual work — the men I honor above — didn’t get a medal recommendation at all.*** Most were sent home as E-4s, a rank lower than I achieved.

And I carp about not getting my Bronze Star!

A 1st Cavalry trooper stationed in Vietnam with the 7th Cav wrote about a common refrain used by many GIs, “Don’t mean Nothin’.”

We said it every miserable day of our miserable lives. It became our mantra. We said it in all kinds of situations for all sorts of reasons, and we said it a great deal, most often when we were miserable, which was pretty damn often . . . .  We said it when it rained, and when it didn’t rain and when it was really hot and when it was even hotter. ‘It Don’t Mean Nothin’ was said a lot.’

We said it to keep from crying, we said it when we stopped moving and when the bloodsucking insects attacked in swarms, and our faces swelled and our hands swelled, and our lips swelled, and our ears swelled and when we thought we were getting malaria, (Should we quit taking our pills?) and we thought about how good that would be because you got out of the boonies if you got malaria unless you died from it. Dying from malaria sucked . . . but the prospect of staying inside the wire, sleeping on a cot off the ground, under a dry tent at the hospital, with hot chow, clean sheets, and nobody shooting at you made the risk of a slow, agonizing death from a deadly tropical disease seemed totally worth it. How bad could it be? We were kids. What did we know?  ‘It don’t mean nothin.’

Something just don’t feel right. So shut up and saddle up Trooper. Your night on LP, your turn on point, but ‘It don’t mean nothin.’      Jack “Boz” Parente. (From Caviler,1st Cav newspaper, 1968)

*DEROS: Date Estimate for Return from Overseas.

** I was told I had been recommended for a Bronze Star just for actions in the field (chapters 17 & 18). Furthermore, most soldiers serving in a similar role to mine in PIO were awarded the Bronze Star, which is higher than the Army Commendation Medal I received.

***There were two medals (“Vietnam Service & Vietnam Campaign”) that were automatic for those who served in Vietnam, needing no recommendation. In addition to those medals, Infantry soldiers who spent the required time in the field as an Infantryman received the Combat Infantryman Badge, not an insignificant award.

~~

I had nightmares about Vietnam almost every night during our honeymoon and months after that.* And I had turned into a wimp, a side Marty had never seen, and a disposition I never had. One day, we were having a get-together with some of my buddies from the post; Marty was acting a little testy, and one of the guys turned toward her and said, “What’s the matter, you on the rag or something?” I laughed with them instead of telling him to knock it off and not to talk to my wife that way.

I was acting like a wuss (Marty called it cowardice), and she was very disappointed in me. It was a problem in our relationship. In a few years, I did an about-face, eventually to the point of wanting to rip off somebody’s face. (Marty called it backbone.)

Just back from Vietnam, I wasn’t trying to live high, but after the mess I’d been in over there, maybe dinner with drinks once in a while.

But that wasn’t to be. After the $20 outing when we first arrived in LA, the luxury of dinner and drinks was over. Der Wienerschnitzel™ once in a while, maybe.

By the 20th of most months, down to just a few dollars, we were looking for change in the sofa and between the car seats. One day, while leaving our apartment, I found a five-dollar bill lying flat on one of the steps. Nobody was around. With that five, I got three or four sacks of food from the commissary.

Then, a week or two later, I was on gate guard duty (graveyard shift) at a satellite location in Ft. Mac, (top side) primarily used for reserve training.

Listening to (Sittin’ On) The Dock Of the Bay on 93 KHJ. At about 0200, a carload of reservists, who had apparently taken advantage of being away from home, appeared at the gate.  I was about to motion them in when the driver palmed me a twenty-dollar bill.  I assume he thought I was overlooking a missed curfew or their possible intoxication, or both. My only orders were to determine that a vehicle and its occupants were authorized on the post.

Twenty dollars; that, for me, was a lot of money, especially when you’re broke. Did I feel guilty (no) or tell anyone? No. I splurged with a fifth of Canadian Club®. Marty got her hair done at a salon, and I still had money for groceries.

We had been in California for just a few months, and Marty kept saying she’d been out with girls again and “Everybody’s Pregnant.”

I had a lovely stay-at-home Mom and no baby.  Stay tuned.

We had work duty on Saturdays at Ft. MacArthur, though we were usually relieved at noon. We were also on constant alert because of the incendiary nature of 1968. Think of the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy, the Weathermen, the Black Panthers, Bobby Seale, Huey Newton, Eldridge Cleaver, SDS, and the Vietnam War protests; as is often said, “To name a few.”

There was a rotating on-call system for soldiers like me. Those living off base had to arrive at our assembly point within half an hour of notification. Even if not on ready alert, one could be called and told to stay in place for standby. The Army required you to be reachable at all times, unless on leave or pass; check in with the Command Post before going to a movie.

Not for those restrictions; I had a chance (after an audition) to be an on-air DJ covering two six-hour weekend graveyard shifts at the Number 1 Rock station in LA, 93 KHJ, and a $100 check for the weekend. With that gig, I’d have had a better chance of securing a prime-time slot — though still a long shot — in the highly competitive LA market, the third-largest in the U.S.**

I’d make it from AFVN An Khe to LA, just not to KHJ. It could have all ended right there.

*Still do sometimes.

**The LA market became the second-largest in 1984.

Twelve months had passed, just a year, since the horrific ambush at Binh Dinh — 7,800 miles away from LA.

An hour of sunshine remained on this beautiful March afternoon in SoCal as I eased Marty’s springtime yellow Mustang GT off the post from another tedious day at Ft. MacArthur.  I took a right on S. Pacific Avenue and headed to our tiny apartment in San Pedro. Marty would have a Swansons® TV dinner and a Tom Collins ready. She would be bored and happy to see me.  Same here. I’d have something for her as well. We could catch the sunset at Cabrillo Beach another time. 

Life was pretty good.

But, after Vietnam, my expectations may have been a little high. Life would not be perfect, nor close to perfect. The ice cream I’d dreamed of for a year didn’t taste as good as I remembered. 

Although I intend to remain faithful to my promise to write honestly and give you the unvarnished version of how I was feeling, reacting, or coping at any given time. I believe I complained a bit too much in the previous chapter.

Rather than sniveling, I should have said: “I’m out of Vietnam, back in the World with no worry of being shot by a Kalashnikov, no booby traps — no incoming. I have no field expedition requirements, and despite my on-call status, I’ve not been apart from my pretty blond wife for more than 24 hours. And I sleep beside her warm body in a comfortable bed every night.”

SoCal is a Hip-Laid Back megalopolis, and we had already visited Disneyland. Ft. McArthur was a beautiful and historical post, named after one of our most famous generals. It was a great assignment.

I was working in the HQ building (at Ft. Mac) on the second floor in the Awards and Decoration section one day in April 1968.  I heard raised voices from downstairs, a slight commotion. Someone was yelling, “Where the f–k’s personnel?”

It was a young man in civilian clothes, a bit scruffy with an attitude, standing near the Sergeant Major’s office.  With no authority over someone he didn’t know to be in the military and not in uniform, the senior NCO was in no position to dress him down, but he was doing so anyway. The man had walked into the HQ of an active army post using profanity, after all; what gives?  He was looking for the personnel office to pick up his . . .

                     WAIT FOR IT  . . .

                    WAIT FOR IT . . .

. . . Medal of Honor!

We were astounded when we found it to be true. At least I was, the Senior NCO, a bit more, after chewing out a recipient of the military’s highest award for bravery. Uttering the F-bomb on Post, had the NCO known, might have been excused.

While the Sergeant Major stood with his mouth agape, I began chatting with the Vietnam veteran. He wanted no ceremony, no publicity. I asked him if he had considered staying in the Army, as the Medal Of Honor (MOH) would surely be a boon to his career. "F--k no, are you dinky dau?" he snapped, "I'm hanging drywall, making five dollars an hour."*

I considered telling him about President Truman, a combat veteran, who, upon presenting a soldier the Medal of Honor in the White House, remarked: “I’d rather have [earned] that medal than be President.”

Oh, well.  This superhero, presumably, returned to his apartment in Downey, tossed his MOH in a drawer, got up the next morning, and went to work — hanging more drywall.

On the subject of work, I wondered what plum assignment a warrant officer in our section had. He would come into the office early in the morning, looking sharp in his Class-A uniform, stay a few minutes, and be gone the rest of the day.

Then I found out. Our warrant officer was occupied with notifying the LA area next of kin (NOK) of those killed in Vietnam. When a family is informed, the military member must be at least equal in rank to the KIA. Most helicopter pilots in Vietnam were warrant officers.

Our soldier of that rank, outside of bloody combat, or Graves Registration in a combat zone, was fulfilling the worst duty in the military — ringing those doorbells. This dreadful detail would not only continue but also increase. The deadliest year for US troops in Vietnam was this year, 1968, and that included lots of helicopter pilots.

I can imagine him wheeling a big olive drab ’65 Ford Custom 500 staff car, without A/C or power steering, around the streets of LA.  The yellow three-inch tall lettering on the front doors read: “U.S. Army For Official Use Only.”

He was an excellent target for citizens, who occasionally gave him the finger. It may have come from those active in protest movements, or people who just hated the US Army for what it did to them or their families. 

With likely outdated paper maps, he crept slowly through neighborhoods looking for that address. Spotted by service member wives, daughters, sons, or parents, they pointlessly retreated to the back of their houses. They were trying to hide from their front doors, but listening still, for that knock and praying that it never came.

A team member notifying NOK told me a story about arriving at the home of a KIA and finding a 3-year-old boy running toward him, thinking he might be his dad. The excited child jumped into his arms, sat in his lap, and, through tears, begged him to “Go over there and bring back my Daddy.”

~~

Medal of Honor recipient Charles C. Hagemeiester, a medic with the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile) earned for actions during an ambush in Binh Dinh Province March 20, 1967. (U.S. Army photos)                                                                                                              

Charles C. Hagemeister  Aug 21, 1946 – May 19, 2021  

Back in the States, away from the war, I hasn't thought much about General Nortons declaration. That's until May 1968. I was out with four or five friends from the post. The TV was playing in the background, when the news came on.

I saw President Johnson at the White House place the Medal Of Honor around Hagemeister’s neck!  

Excited and surprised, I raised my voice over the din of the club, “Hey, I know this guy, I was out there with him. That’s Chuck Hagemeister!” The guys were twisting their faces, “OK, Swan, OK, sure, all right then,” they protested — never looking up from their game of pool. I tried once more, “No, really,” and then just gave up.  

Imagine earning the most venerated medal for bravery in all the military — The Medal of Honor — in what was, for most, an atrocious and despicable war. That’s what we have here. But it’s not antithetical to Hate the War while also saluting and celebrating our Warrior.

A

I often think of that day in 1967, about Hagemeister, about the brave men who got no medal at all, and about those who gave it all. Now I live secluded near the ocean, counting my blessings every night in a comfortable bed. I’m no longer worried about taunts from my fellow citizens — like those at the airport the day I arrived from Vietnam — or incoming from the enemy we fought for so long, so long ago, so far away.

As for those who may have said, “People who served in Vietnam were Suckers.” I disagree. “No Thank you for your Service Suckers” lacks a speaker’s natural, sincere, and smooth delivery; it doesn’t flow well.

Instead, we should be saying to the “leaders” who sent us there: “The only dominoes that fell were on the 58 thousand plus souls sacrificed and the survivors, many of whom are still suffering.”

This concludes my In-Country chapters on Vietnam. However, it will be a source of reflection and discussion in the following chapters: How We Could Have Won In Vietnam & The 1st Team In Vietnam, and others.

~~

 *(about $45 in 2024 dollars.)

I stayed in the US Army for a few more years until I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. I had a particularly nasty case and endured several surgeries, one of which resulted in a colostomy. I squeezed every bit of my GI Bill and obtained an undergraduate and a Master’s from the University of Denver. In that city, I was a popular DJ, worked in Public Relations, and dated scores of beautiful women.

What’s a young married couple, just starting their lives together, struggling financially, and repeatedly arguing to do? Have a baby, of course.

I was awakened by our alarm clock radio playing Honey by Bobby Goldsboro. happened to be Marty’s favorite song. I quietly eased out of bed and was in the bathroom shaving when Marty pounded on the door.

Her morning sickness had begun. There was no time to comfort or contemplate. I had to make the formation at Ft. MacArthur in half an hour.  I left her in our 400 sq. ft. apartment, throwing up. Marty was 19 and away from home for the first time, 2,623 miles apart to be exact.

It was July ’68, and I had less than a year remaining on my enlistment. That was too short for another tour in Vietnam, but, hopefully, enough time left to see Marty through a complicated pregnancy. No civilian doctors were apt to treat her at this stage, and besides, we had no health insurance once my enlistment ended.

Essentially broke and worried about Marty’s pregnancy, I did what a year ago was unthinkable — subjecting myself to another tour in Vietnam — reenlisting in the US Army for three more years! The good news was a reenlistment bonus of about $1,800 (over $16k in 2024 dollars) and continued prenatal care.

My peers on the post thought I was a total idiot, called me a lifer (pejorative term), and ridiculed me even after our top Sergeant told them to knock it off.  “Swan, I never saw you as being that stupid,” was one of the milder comments. But none had a wife pregnant with twins!

We made arrangements with the company that financed Marty’s Mustang for an uncontested repossession. Then, with some of the reenlistment money, we bought a slightly used pale blue ’68 Chevy Impala, 4-door.

November 28, 1968, Thanksgiving Day. Twelve hours of hard labor, seven minutes between baby one: Lisa (pseudonym), 6 lb 8 oz., and the breech birth of baby two: Laura (pseudonym), 7 lb 9 oz. Fraternal twin girls — squalling and screaming.  Luckily for me, fathers-to-be weren’t allowed in the birthing room. Marty was in no mood for visitors, especially me.

Family leave hadn’t been invented in 1968, so I took all the regular leave I had to assist in round-the-clock duty for the twins. Lisa and Laura overwhelmed Marty and me. With two babies, it was always somebody’s turn.

Imagine young first-time parents with twins waking up at different times during the night, whimpering and wailing. For the first few months, we got little sleep. We did not have the convenience of disposable diapers, and there were no relatives within two thousand miles. Neither of us got a break from the twins, not even a half-hour.

Now I had a lovely stay at home, miserable mom.

---

Not long after the twins were born, I got a Permanent Change of Station (PCS) notice, thankfully not for Vietnam. We were leaving hip SoCal for the Sacramento Army Depot. We packed all of our worldly belongings in the 327cid Impala, traveling for the first time as a family of four.

We mainly listened to 93 KHJ on the way, hearing songs like Do You Know The Way To San Jose by Dionne Warwick. No, we’re headed for Sacramento, thank you. Then we picked up KYA San Francisco with “Magic Carpet Ride” by Steppenwolf and “Spooky” by the Classics IV. The twins were finally asleep, and I dared not turn up Hey Jude by the Beatles.

In Sacramento, we would have no trouble getting around after navigating big LA for a year. We rented a small furnished 2nd-floor apartment near the Capitol. I was assigned to the 317th Maintenance Co. at Sacramento Army Depot. It was a phantom unit and a cover for the classified work a small group of us were conducting around Gov. Reagan’s residence. (He lived in the governor’s mansion for just four months.)

I was also an operator-technician at the Military Auxiliary Radio System (MARS) site at the Army depot. Our 24-hour facility took calls from stations overseas, which we transmitted via a commercial telephone line. The person receiving the call, say from Vietnam, would only pay the toll from their phone in the USA to Sacramento.

---

In less than a year, we departed the Depot for another PCS to Ft Lewis, Washington. We headed to the Pacific Northwest in our brand-new ’69 Mustang Mach 1, 351 cid, with rim-blow steering wheel and AM/FM radio.

Why? I still had a few reenlistment dollars and traded the ’68 Impala. I figured the army was a pretty secure job, and we just did it. A smaller car and a larger car payment. It sounded fine to us.

During our drive toward Tacoma, somewhere along the Pacific coast — listening to In the Year of 2525 by Garz & Evans — I saw where the sea and the mountains converge and thought that would be an ideal place to live someday, maybe during retirement.

I might be getting a little ahead of myself. I was 21, married, with two infants and a career to create.

On the four-speaker Mach 1 radio, we listened to Sugar Sugar by the Archies, and wow, two hits by Elvis, finally: In The Ghetto and Suspicious Minds. The latter was his first top ten hit since Crying In The Chapel in 1965.

---

At Ft. Lewis, I was assigned to the Visitors Welcome Center, part of the Post Headquarters. The Officer in charge of our small unit said he had heard good things from visitors and others about my public relations skills; that I had represented Ft. Lewis and the US Army well.

A couple of months later, I was told to report to Post Headquarters.  Major General Willard Pearson called me to attention and pinned on staff sergeant stripes.  A below-the-zone promotion to E-6 conducted by a General officer!  I had been in the army just over three years. Such a promotion usually took six years or more, and certainly not in a ceremony with the Post Commander.

My monthly basic pay (in early 1970) was $372.98, and soon I began receiving tax-free Proficiency Pay of $50 a month.*  A sign over our front door read: SSG SWAN. Inside was our spacious three-bedroom duplex in base housing, no rent, no utilities. As a family of four, our income tax was minimal, and Marty had been doing some babysitting.

---

D. B. Cooper had recently jumped from a 727, possibly within a few hundred miles of us, but we never attempted to score any of the $200,000 that may have been scattered in the forest. We went instead to Beneficial Finance and left with a check from a high-interest loan we used to purchase household furniture, new pots and pans, and a Philco®-Ford™ Console Color TV.

My monthly salary was still well below the $806 median income for civilians, but “free” health care, tax advantages, and living quarters helped offset some of the shortfall. Finally, our finances were in decent shape, and we would not be getting any more cars that we couldn’t afford.

Marty still struggled with the twins. A  quick way to strain a friendship, we learned, was to have them watch Lisa and Laura for an hour or two. But I wasn’t on alert status at Ft. Lewis, so I had more time to help with the girls. The Pacific Northwest, with the Puget Sound, snow-capped or covered Mt. Rainier, and rugged forests, made for a magnificent year-round spectacle. Life was pretty good.

It wasn’t to last. We would be leaving the beautiful Pacific Northwest for another PCS and even farther from Marty’s family. A lot farther — 4,309 miles precisely.

*Awarded to enlisted men who scored in the top ten percent on their annual exams and efficiency reports.

 

A light dusting of snow covered the Puget Sound just as Spring had arrived in March 1970.  I was sitting on a single sheet atop a cold metal table. I was in a medical suite somewhere in Tacoma to get fixed, sniped, you know, a vasectomy. I figured a set of twins was enough. I didn’t think the U.S. Army would perform such a procedure, and I didn’t even ask. Today, they pay for sexual reassignment.

When I returned to my office the next morning, there was a call for me from a captain at Post HQ. “Congratulations, Sergeant Swan, you’ve been reassigned to Germany.”

Congratulations, eh? We didn’t quite see it that way. We were comfortable at Ft. Lewis. It was a major move, especially with two infants to tow. It required 2,861 miles just to get to the point of debarkation. And then another 3,857 over the North Atlantic to Frankfurt.  Luckily, we were afforded concurrent travel which meant the entire family would be together for our trip to Germany.

There was a lot to be done before we left for Deutschland. We needed immunizations, passports, and briefings. We also needed to out-process, arrange for our household goods for pick-up and so forth. We also needed to liquidate the Mach 1. Ford™ bought it back at Kelley Blue Book® value. Since it wasn’t paid for, they didn’t allow the car to go overseas and out of their control.

We flew from Sea-Tac (SEA) to see my parents in Mississippi. I picked the 1966 VW that Dale had refurbished with parts from the one I had wrecked in 1964. This time I would buy it.

My parents thought the twins looked sickly, too skinny, and wondered why they cried so much. Of course, they were proud to see their first Grandchildren and gave us lots of advice.

From there, we headed to North Carolina in the noisy non-air conditioned Beetle to visit Marty’s folks. American Woman by the Guess Who droned from the small speaker and War by Edwin Starr was played often. It was no Mach 1 but there were no care payments either.

Marty’s parent’s patience was tested, as well, when these first-time Grandparents wondered why they cried so much. Lisa was way too skinny, were we feeding them properly?  They worried about our trip abroad with the twins, and then we got lots of advice.

We picked-up 1-95 North for the ten-hour drive and soon were getting tired of Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water, and Everything Is Beautiful by Ray Stevens. We rested overnight near Newark.

The next morning, we dropped off the little VW at the Bayonne port for its boat ride to Bremerhaven in Northern Germany. Later that day, we took off from Newark International (EWR). It was scheduled for a roughly nine-hour (non-stop) flight over the Atlantic.

As the 707 (300) ascended into thinner air, our eighteen-month-olds and other small children cried out as their eardrums popped. Then they cried on and off for the entire flight, I guess that’s what young children do on airplanes, eardrums popping or not.

We landed at Rhein-Main in Frankfurt. There, in our temporary lodging, Marty and I contracted food poisoning. In my opinion, that’s about as sick as one can get without dying.  Caring for two small children when that ill, very challenging.

Intriguing medieval bridge houses in Bad Kreuznach,* built around 1300. The town itself, famous for its spas, dates back to the Stone Age. In the 5th Century BC, it was occupied by the Celts and Romans. Its population in 1970 was around 40,000, not including 8,000 U.S. troops. (Photo courtesy Wikipedia)

I was stationed with the 8th Infantry (Pathfinders) in the Public Affairs Office at Rose Barracks in Bad Kreuznach (BK) for a three-year tour. We were in Germany to discourage any over-the-border attack from the East, and the Soviet Block controlled East Germany. The Berlin Wall was a 96-mile zigzag border between East and West Germany. It included 27 miles that separated East and West Berlin and were fanatically controlled by the German Democratic Republic (GDR). Their definition of democratic is undoubtedly antithetical to most of the Western world.

The last time there were no U.S. troops in Germany, a World War broke out. Interestingly, as part of my job at the Public Affairs Office, I arranged Berlin Tours for U. S. military members. That included the Brandenburg Gate, the East-West checkpoint.

Our quarters at Bad Kreuznach were in an old five-story building circa 1935. Fortunately, we landed a 2nd-floor unit as there were no elevators.

The Armed Forces Network Europe (AFNE) did not broadcast TV to BK, just radio.  Local phone calls were 25 cents.

Marty didn’t bother to get an international driver’s license. She took a taxi to the commissary, PX, or taking the twins and herself to the dispensary. She was stuck in our dour apartment with two two-year-olds — All day. All night.

Marty soothed her loneliness somewhat by ordering lots of stuff from the Spiegel catalog, listening to AFNE radio, writing letters home, and seeing a psychiatrist. Taxi service — in a Mercedes diesel no less — to the hospital, commissary, post exchange, and around town was very reasonable.

I was part of a small Civil Affairs (G-5) team at my new post. It was the army liaison with local property owners. They were reimbursed for farmland we damaged and chickens we killed with our tanks on maneuvers.

I was also responsible for scouting locations for public affairs units around Baumholder. It was the main area where we trained with our Allies.  As was the case in Vietnam, I was anxious to get out of the rear echelon Public Affairs Office. I wanted something more exciting here as well.

I requested and was accepted to attend the selective Seventh Army NCO Academy in Bad Tolz. It was the oldest and most highly regarded in the U.S. Army. Graduating from this intensive eight-week course was usually a ticket for a below-the-zone promotion. The 10th Special Forces Group stationed there was our advesary in war games. Little did I know it was a school within a school.

Upon arrival at the academy, the commandant congratulated us on our acceptance. Then he informed us that anyone who completed the course in the top ten percent would be eligible to apply for a special assignment. The candidate also needed a top-secret clearance and some language proficiency in Deutsche.

What was it? Those showing interest were told something none of us had heard of, Operative Protection Specialist (OPS). It was a solo assignment to shadow Operatives in the field. This undercover operation that came with $65 per month of extra pay, excitement, and special weapons.

It seems there was a shortage, and the DOD asked the Academy if they could recruit and train a few for these special missions. Those selected would attend a rigorous training regime. Throw down that gauntlet to a group that included some young, fearless, egotistical, combat-tested soldiers. You get volunteers. Ten, to be exact. One of whom was me.

Seventh Army Academy gained my release from Public Affairs back in Bad Kreuznach. They granted an open-ended Temporary Duty (TDY) assignment.

You may remember from an earlier chapter that I was wimpy shortly after returning from Vietnam. No more. After eight weeks of Special Forces-led rigorous physical, specialized, and firearms training. I graduated well enough to qualify for the three-week OPS course. And it was grueling; half of our group either withdrew, were injured, or failed. Unlike the Academy course, for those who didn’t finish, nothing negative was entered in the soldier’s 201 file.

Graduating from OPS was an amazing confidence-builder, and my 6′ 3” frame was buffed to a solid 229 lbs. I became a credentialed and sanctioned OPS and was sent to Frankfurt for orientation and assignment.

*On or about April 4, 1945, Lieutenant George S. Patton, upon leaving Frankfurt,  stopped in Bad Kreuznach to find some American soldiers wounded. An Officer and some enlisted admitted their wounds were self-inflicted to get out of fighting. Unsurprisingly, the general was not happy and summarily chastised the soldiers while reminding them of those who bravely fought and died.

It was with a sense of pride that I took another look at my confidential orders. They confirmed my new assignment and officially declared me an OPS. I took the A95 and motored through Munich and Stuttgart. Then I picked up the A8 and finally B428.

I took in the beauty of Bavaria and other sites (though the autobahn is not the most scenic route). During the journey, I recalled some history of the last hundred years in this part of Germany. During my six-hour drive on the mostly no-speed-limit autobahn, cars flew by, trucks too, leaving the old Beetle that maxed out at 115kph.

I was happy to see Marty and the twins at our quarters in BK. She was impressed with my physique and anxious for us to have some time together. But it was not to be; I had just one day to spend. She was understandably stressed and could use some companionship and help with the girls.

We were still involved in field exercises with the well-known REFORGER (Return of Forces to Germany) training, I told her. “That’s the price we pay when on active duty in the U. S. Army. This is far from Ft Lewis, not just in distance. We are patrolling soldiers who are patrolling us. It’s a Soviet Bloc country that, with just one provocative move, would heat up the Cold War.  I love you and the twins and will, hopefully, see you soon. For now, duty calls.”

Before leaving, I purchased a beige 1969 VW® Squareback with an automatic transmission. I left it with Marty, just in case she decided to get her International Driver’s license. She didn’t.

The Wonder Of You by Elvis played on AFNE radio as I motored NW from Bad Kreuznach in the old black Beetle. Why wasn’t I in that sterile and safe studio in Wiesbaden introducing the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll? I could be talking about Elvis’ recent meeting with President Nixon at the White House. Because I wanted something more exciting, something a little more hands-on in our effort to discourage East Germany from crossing the border into West Germany.

What had I gotten myself into? It became clearer after my final briefing in Frankfurt, when I was issued a “Do not Deter, Detain or Disarm Document.” It was signed by the Supreme Allied Commander Europe (SACEUR)* and authorized by NATO.

Facsimile of OPS Document (Unclassified version).

By order of NATO and Supreme Allied Commander Europe: The holder of this Document is on an assignment of great importance and shall not be Delayed, Deterred, or Disarmed. Individual is authorized to carry special weapons and other lethal devices and is entitled to special access up to and including TOP SECRET CRYPTO. If deceased, this Document is to remain with the corpse.

BY ORDER OF:

*DONALD SWAN, SACEUR OPS*

(I carried my Operative’s Credentials)

Unauthorized use of this document is a serious Federal Criminal Offense, 50 U.S.C. Sec. 38

DO NOT COPY

After my briefing at the I.G. Farben building, I was picked up by a driver from the Federal Republic of Germany (FRG) in a black 1970 Mercedes® 220.  He recommended that I sit in the front passenger seat — not chauffeured — making me less of a target. Whoa, okay. In jest, I asked Karl if lying flat in the back seat would be even safer.

As we sped down the autobahn, I joked with him about a possible detour to Scotland, where the Rolling Stones were about to perform in Glasgow. He didn’t appreciate the juxtaposition and maintained his heading south on the A5. He kept the Merc at a steady 130kph on the way to meet my charge.

The Renown I.G. Farben building near Frankfurt is the headquarters of the Supreme Allied Commander Europe. Gen. Eisenhower occupied this building as Commander from April 1951 to May 1952. I was here on temporary duty several times in 1970-72 when Gen Andrew Goodpaster was Commander. (DOD)

When I tried conversing with Karl in just Deutsch, I did not do well. It was embarrassing, actually. Thankfully, the trip was soon complete, and I bid my “Chauffeur,” Auf Wiedersehen.

Awaiting me at my destination was a gray 1968 BMW® 1800 containing the very weapons I’d trained with in Bad Tolz. Also included was considerable ammo, a life-saving kit, and a TAR-224A crypto radio. Several hundred dollars in cash in three currencies were provided. Finally, there was a specially tailored 42L trench coat. It would conceal a twenty-four-inch weapon.  And my charge?

I didn’t know the man I was to protect or for whom he worked.  Unassuming, he looked like a manager of a carpet depot in Tacoma. We would collaborate over the next few weeks and rehearse enough stratagems that I realized he was — a spy.

He worked unarmed and had diplomatic cover; I carried his DIA credentials, and we wore German civilian attire. I thought he deserved protection just for the amount of cash he possessed in Deutsche Marks, French francs, and U.S. dollars.

Once operations began, there was no commingling.  We communicated just enough that I was cognizant of his missions and that we were vigilant of each other’s whereabouts.

I had just one job: protect my asset, up to eliminating the threat, with extreme prejudice. As for who would protect me, I was on my own. My only contact other than the Operative was a source at SACEUR in the I.G. Farben building in Frankfurt. This was classic Cold War.

Armed with a D2 K-Bar,™ silenced H&K™ VP70z** with an 18-round magazine, and a subcompact SIG Sauer™ for backup. I stayed close and shadowed him everywhere, which seemed to be every club and brothel in the cities we worked.

By now, I knew my man (code name Hans) was a Defense Intelligence Agent (DIA). But I was no spy and never a part of any intelligence-gathering or recruiting. Eye on my Operator, concealing my hand cannon, ready to dispatch it in a split second, kept me occupied.

During the more than three months of shadowing my operator, I never fired either weapon in anger. But I could do a mean stare-down. A working girl feeling me up was tricky. And some other encounters had forced me into revealing one gun while at the ready with the backup.

My weapons were always at condition one, as neither had a manual safety. I honed my shooting skills off-duty and was fanatical about keeping my weapons at peak performance. Still, I worried about screwing up. I worried about my family.  Sometimes I vacillated from being lax to getting jumpy and anxious.

If a suitable replacement were available, I could resign if not under investigation, since this was a volunteer, high-stress assignment.  The Operative could relieve me at any time. Efficiency reports were straightforward; he rated his OPS to SACE as “Satisfactory.”

OPS was an engaging, exciting experience. My per diem was generous and without scrutiny. I stayed in good hotels, ate well, and visited fascinating cities and areas pivotal in the Second World War.

But 100 days were enough for me, and a replacement was available. I contacted my source at SACEUR and requested relief and permission to return to my previous assignment. (DIA began using its own resources in 1972, and active duty army involvement was discontinued.)

Several weeks later, I walked into the Public Affairs Office (where I was initially assigned) at Rose Barracks. Still buffed and back from TDY. I felt the presence of someone approaching my six.*** I swiftly swung toward him, about to execute a crushing elbow thrust to his neck and a quick and stiff knee to his groin. I realized, just in time, that it was the lieutenant colonel in charge of public affairs wanting to give me a hug from behind.  

The reunion was nice, but I was looking for a way to get out of Germany. I had over a year left on my tour.

As for the joys of touring Germany, France, and other European countries, we did some (see photos). But my work, finances, and the twins prevented us from traveling more.

Two great opportunities arose after I returned to BK. The first was a message from Washington, D.C., for qualified enlisted personnel. It was a fully funded Environmental Science and Engineering program at Texas A&M University. Upon graduation, the member would become a commissioned officer.

I started my application immediately. It was a daunting and drawn-out procedure. The packet (needing to be perfect) contained about a dozen pages, including attachments. I received lots of encouragement, culminating in the Commanding General of the 8th Infantry Division endorsing the application with: “Highly Recommend Approval.” Off the packet went to D.C.

The second was an opportunity, a few weeks later, inviting qualified enlisted to apply for Recruiting Duty. It came with a choice of station. That meant we could go to North Carolina and be near Marty’s folks.

The other good news is that if selected, we could leave Germany presently, a year early. It wasn’t like becoming an officer, but it was a great opportunity with $75 a month in incentive pay and a chance for early promotion.

After Marty’s two years, mostly alone in Germany with the twins, I was willing to and did withdraw my application for the engineering program and give up my chance to become a commissioned officer.

My recruiting application was approved. 

*Although DIA reports to the Secretary of Defense, SACEUR is the host and must be aware of activities within his domain.

**Just released and known as a Machine Pistol, it had a detachable 8″ stock and was capable of a 3-round burst.

***Six 6 o’clock is directly behind, and 12 o’clock is directly in front, commonly used by fighter pilots and others in the military