Swan's Song Series

Now we have a problem in making our power credible, and Vietnam is the place. — President John F. Kennedy, June 1961.

Warning: Graphic Images of Combat and Death in this Chapter.

Just before sunset, 20 March 1967, near the village of Tan An, Bong Son Plain, Bind Dinh Province, Central Highlands, South Vietnam.

Our exhausted platoon of 27 had just saddled up and was moving out. We were literally marching into the sunset and getting into the tempo of our column advance when our point man yelled Amb–! Instantly he was face-down dead

Quicker than a bolt of lightning and louder than thunder, the entire platoon was assaulted from our right flank. Weapons on full automatic tore into the men, spitting out tounges of fire, illuminating the impending darkness at twice the speed of sound. We were caught in an L-shape ambush courtesy of the lying-in-wait 18th NVA Regiment, estimated at 300. 

Men screamed and scattered as blood squirted, bones splintered, abdomens exploded, body parts disintegrated, skin burned, and the pink mist of pulverized brain matter sprayed from skulls — all in the blink of an eye.

Before I could react or grasp the melee and chaos that overwhelmed us, a concussion blast launched me into the air — separating me from my M-16 and helmet — and landed me hard, flat on my back, in a slight depression on the sandy field. The upper part of my chest was stinging like a nest of pissed-off hornets was trapped under my fatigue jacket.

My ears rang incessantly, I tasted blood, and my nostrils were overwhelmed with bitter arcid smoke and burning flesh from a blistering sting just below my neck where specks of flaming shrapnel had pitted through my jungle fatigues. I brushed off the minor wound with my right hand and patted out the smoke. So lucky to be alive, I reasoned.

Some of our men made cover behind grave mounds, small palms, anything as bullets mushroomed into muscle and flaring shrapnel cut down our men at lightening speed.

Soldiers were down all around me, most with obliterated viscera that no one could survive. A blood-covered pack of Pall-Mall’s lay alongside one of the men, probably the trooper who was on the chopper with me on the way in.

KA-KA-KA, RATA-TAT-TAT, PAP-PAP rang out in a deadly rhythm as bullets from Soviet PKM machine guns, and projectiles from recoilless rifles blindsided us from concealed, dug-in concrete bunkers, ripping and tearing into the men — spitting out death at 2,350 feet per second. 

KUNG, KUNG, KUNG echoed as snipers in trees aimed their K-44s with deadly accuracy, thumping and slapping bullets into the heads and necks of the platoon’s leadership.

Eighty-one-mm mortars with the force of small artillery hailed from above, ssss-WHOM, ssss-BLAMM, SPLAT. 

Shock waves generated an ominous snap as Russian RGD fragmentation grenades exploded BWOOM, unleashing shards of searing metal in a ruthless ring of fire.  Deafening cracks of man-made thunder tormented us.

Our senses were overpowered by the smell of sulfurous dioxide from the ordinance, the dreaded copper-metallic scent of blood, the despicable fetor of burning skin, and the sight of eviscerated organs, genitalia included.

And we were just ten seconds into the ambush. 

No one in attendance will likely forget this day. Not the Smell, not the Racket, certainly not the loud, deep, slapping sound of a bullet hitting flesh and smacking into bone.

                     Only the dead are out of war.

For us, Hell had become a place on Earth. It felt like the entire war was being fought right here, that all the NVA in Vietnam was out for us and not relenting until no American invader remained.

We would be overrun, our throats cut, our weapons seized, our body’s stripped and desecrated — our blood used to enrich the red on their NVA flag.  

I raised my chin toward the heavens, observed the darkening sky, and tried to take in more oxygen, only to inhale more acrid smoke. Then, I swept sand from my eyelashes and checked my body parts (The warm liquid running down my thighs turned out not to be blood.) 

Just a few meters to my right, I spotted an M-16 and helmet near a fellow soldier who lay still – dead or dying. I low crawled, collected them as my own, clutched the weapon to my chest, and lay dead-still but observant. 

For a brief moment — struck by fear — I couldn’t move. I was overcome with the emotional rupture of impending death. My heart pounded in my throat. Ricocheting bullets and whining lead snapped all around and ripped at my sanity.

My mortality was in grave danger, and I thought — death was imminent. What I was seeing and hearing erased any doubt. The sound of men yelling-screaming-crying-dying and the thunder from the weapons were irrepressible.

The Spc. 4 reacted instantly as his men were cut down. With no weapon of his own, he grabbed an M-16 from a severely wounded comrade.

One of his two machine gunners was KIA, and his Platoon Sergeant, like many others, was badly wounded. 

The Spc. 4 was now platoon leader!

Near where his lieutenant lay dead, he found his RTO wounded. After pulling him to a safer spot, he provided aid, then grabbed the PRC-25 handset and succeeded in reaching his Company Commander. Our medic informed the Captain of his platoon leader’s death and the grave injuries to his NCOs and that he’d assumed command.

Although they were in the shit too, the Captain said when he heard the din of battle (the ambush), he’d sent third platoon, but they couldn’t find him. “All hell is breaking loose, the ‘Ville’ is burning all around us, we have dead and wounded, we need help now, and they can’t find us!?” Astounded, Hagemeister shouted, “I’ll find them!” His face showed fierce determination. 

Our medic dropped the handset, wiped blood on his fatigues, took a breath, flexed his jaw muscles, rolled his neck, pulled his hands down his face, then promptly got back to the business at hand.

               In war, death leaves no room for rest. 

After reassuring his wounded radio operator that he’d be OK and help was on the way, he secured his medical satchel over his shoulder, shoved a fresh clip of 5.56 ammo in his M-16, and high crawled with it cradled in his arms.

Then the medic pulled himself up with one knee, secured a foothold, covered his advance with suppressing fire, ran a distance weathering a storm of bullets, and returned with men from third platoon to help us repel the ambush!

Hot, scared, and thirsty, I was nevertheless encouraged by our superhero. I had slithered a few feet from the fallen, hugging the earth, steel pot on, M-16 at the ready.  

I had no advanced infantry training or a squad leader anymore; what could I do? Lie still, keep my head down. No!

 Trained Killer: Swan dispatches his M-16 somewhere in the Binh Dinh Province, similar to the action at Ambush on 20 March 67. (U.S. Army PIO photo)

With the additional infantrymen on site, there seemed to be adequate firepower on the enemy emplacements to our right, which left our eastern flank unprotected. If the NVA encircled us from that direction, we would surely be overrun. Perhaps I could delay any such intent.

After quickly getting the go-ahead from a rifleman (who was none too happy to be interrupted), I chambered a round, switched to auto, aimed my M-16 to the east, and gently squeezed the trigger. Recoil pounded my shoulder, and a reverberating BRRRRRT, BRRRRRT, BRRRRRT rumbled as I unleashed three 5-round bursts of suppressing fire. 

With the ejection port on the right and me shooting left-handed hot brass flew into my face like confetti but stung like Mississippi fire ants.      

I loaded another clip and disgorged 18 more rounds of 5.56. Fortunately, the M-16 I’d found was an over-and-under with an attached grenade launcher (XM-203); I cocked and popped a 40-mm grenade into the blooper. Shss-Dook-Thump echoed as I triggered it. I continued firing both. It felt good.

Combat is utterly Astonishing, Terrifying, and Intoxicating.

In a piercing but comforting clatter, an M-60 pig just a few meters to my right sprayed 600 rounds per minute into the swarming NVA.  Another on full-automatic blasted 7.62 cartridge’s from its red hot barrel into enemy redoubts.. Reinforcements brought from other platoons were blasting M-79s, thumping in quick succession — wreaking havoc on everything within 60 meters — and employing lethal crew-served weapons.  Could the cataclysm be turning in our favor? 

Then I heard that beautiful sound: Huey’s in the distance, Dustoffs hopefully, gunships maybe.

Most of the dead and seriously wounded fell within the first minutes. Yet, the twenty-year-old draftee from Lincoln, Nebraska, held together for six more hours what was left of 1st Platoon as the darkness fell upon the fields of fire.  

Six of the 27 soldiers targeted in the initial ambush were killed right away. Just seven escaped death or serious injury. I was one of those.

As the intermittent battle continued into the evening, reinforcements from other platoons, brought in by Hagemeister, also suffered casualties.

I interviewed Hagemeister as soon as there was a respite in the battle in case we didn’t make it through the night; my recording might be found by friendly forces who would learn of the unselfish bravery and courage of our medic.

As I questioned Hagemeister, he echoed what many brave fighting men have said after superhuman feats on the battlefield: “You take care of what you’re supposed to do. You’re there to take care of your men; I was just doing my job, didn’t have time to be scared. But I’ve never seen so much fire in my life.” Then he added that the ambush had really pissed him off.

Few things are more lethal than an Air Cav trooper with sufficient weaponry who is motivated into action against an enemy who is slaughtering his fellow soldiers. Hagemeister had charged and decimated the NVA like he was possessed — possessed in a good way. 

Hagemeister was not about to let his guard down after the incredible feats he’d mustered to save so many of us. He assumed the NVA would hit us again. Artillery support would be an effective deterrent to keep them distracted had we not been too close to the enemy. But we were the Air Cavalry, and he was bound to get us some air support.

Despite others units requesting assistance, Hagemeister, nevertheless, contacted air support and convinced them to provide all available gunships to rendezvous near us and prepare for an assault on our ambush site.

Soon, a beautiful noise sounded from the east, a sound I was sure of, as seven gunships from the Air Cav Armada, led by the faster ACH-47, bolted toward us just above the palms at 130 knots on one of the first helicopter only, night-assault mission of the Vietnam War.

These bad boys, members of the formidable 227th, 228th, and 229th Attack Helicopter Battalions, were about to exact some payback on the enemy that remained in and around the ambush site.**

Suddenly, two recently activated Firefly choppers (above, top) broke formation, approached opposite ends of the ambush site, and flooded the fortifications with an estimated 64 million candlepower. Simultaneously, a pair of UH-1B gunships swept in fast and low over the targets, disgorging 30-mm cannons at 60 rounds per second.

In formation facing the target, the gunships, including the recently introduced ACH-47 Guns-A-Go-Go with 1.5 tons of armament (shown above), adjusted pitch attitude decreased RPM and settled in a nose-down hover. Simultaneously four attack helicopters unleashed a torrent of deadly firepower, spewing four-foot-long 2.75-inch rockets from their pods, thumping 40mm grenades from their nose, and a wall of fire from the machine gun’s 7.62 projectiles. At the same time, and for good measure, the loud burp of twin miniguns fired 6,000 rounds per minute — directly into the enemy bunkers. 

Founds, knobby stems, and sharp spines flew from swaying palms as we retreated a few feet from the reverberating-ear-splitting thunder and intense heat generated by the ordinance. As other gunships took turns, the ACH-47 remained, flaunting another half-ton of munitions, decimating and annihilating enemy redoubts and bunkers. Blasts raised huge chunks of earth and shook the littered field. Hellish flames triggered small fires. Finally, just small pieces of concrete and smoking rubble remained. During the two-minute bombardment, no enemy resistance was observed.

The display of firepower lighting the night and thundering the sky was a sight to behold.  For those on the receiving end, it was a decidedly different kind of awe. What remained of our platoon roared with gratitude. But, as uplifting as the display had been, we hadn’t forgotten the six dead and the seriously wounded taken away earlier by the medevac choppers.

After such devastation, it was impossible to verify enemy deaths precisely; their losses were believed to be twice what we suffered. This favorable ratio provided no solace for our dead or us.   

Despite the havoc wreaked by the gunships, they were gone, and we would have been foolish to assume that no enemy remained, like those who may have escaped deep into tunnels or blended into what was left of the village. And unfortunately, we had scarcely enough troops to set up or maintain a proper cordon and just three claymores to position around our night defensive perimeter.  As a result, sleep was sporadic, with one soldier always on full alert in each foxhole, the occasional AK-47 fire in the distance, and ominous sounds we couldn’t identify. It was a long night.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the tattered palms, the enormity of the ambush and ensuing battle revealed a hellscape where many of our men were cut down before they could fire a single shot. 

Just after dawn, another helicopter came calling with Maj. Gen. (former enlisted) John Norton, the 49-year-old commander of the 1st Air Cavalry Division and Army aviator, to pay respects to the fallen. A heroic airborne trooper himself in WW II, Gen Norton was an early proponent of the air assault concept. He stood six-foot in a slender frame, with a ruggedly handsome face, a slightly bulbous nose, and closely cropped graying hair. He holstered a Colt Commander .45 APC on his right hip, and his customary slender cigar hung loosely between the index and middle finger of his left hand.

Our memorial was on the battlefield where it went down, where our brothers in arms — our friends — had fought and fallen beside us.

As the battle-weary soldiers stood at rigid attention, some choked up as bayoneted weapons were spiked into the soil, helmets atop, boots in front. Heart in the throat raw with solicitude and emotion — a ceremony that no one in attendance would likely forget.

      The dead are out of war; the survivors never leave it.

After at-ease was called, and just as I was feeling a bit like an intruder, a couple of the foot soldiers approached and patted me on my back. These honorable soldiers, I would not see again nor remember their names.

After a respectful pause at the end of the ceremony, I taped a quick interview with Gen. Norton and saluted. 

I approached Hagemeister once more — his oval-shaped face finally relaxed — gestured to his Silver Star, and rubbed it between my index finger and thumb. We laughed nervously as we examined bullet holes in his rolled-up poncho in the small of his back. Hagemeister had not been wounded during the battle!  He had danced with death and never missed a step. A simple thank you for saving our lives didn’t seem nearly enough. But for now, that and a Silver Star were good enough for the man from Lincoln.

Thankfully, I was interrupted by Gen. Norton. He shook Hagemeister’s hand once more, saluted him, and said: “I’m about to rotate back to the states, and I’m gonna’ put you in for the Medal of Honor, boy.”    Smoke ’em if you got ’em, indeed.

In cities and towns across the United States, about 14 hours behind us, East coast time, a casualty officer and chaplain were getting notifications of the KIA last night.  

When teams were formed near the hometowns of the fallen, they were triple-checking addresses before ringing the doorbells where next of kin Mothers, Fathers, Wives, and others were about to get the worst news possible. “The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express his deepest regrets  . . .” That’s about all the next of kin would remember, once their loved ones name was uttered. Outside of yesterday’s ambush — these officers were tasked with the worst duty in all the U.S. Army.

It is sometimes said military service is the least “individual” undertaking. The individual must, of necessity, always remain “expendable,” to be sacrificed, if necessary, for the greater good — the mission must be accomplished for the nation to survive. Over time, that principle of supreme sacrifice by the individual has been turned on its head. The Vietnam War greatly precipitated that reversal. (Partiality from What Remains by Sarah E. Wagner.)

The whine of the turbine from the general’s helicopter brought me back to the reality of my job. It was time for me to move on to another story about the (quickly becoming) famous 1st Cav. So, I bummed a ride back to An Khe with the biggest scoop I’d get during my 12-month tour. 

After the pilot pulled the starter switch, twisted the throttle to 6,600 rpm, pivoted, and lifted us from the erstwhile battlefield at 2-Gs, an olive drab poncho liner fluttered among the dust and debris above the hallowed ground. 

I kept my eyes on the men — what remained of 1st platoon — until they shrank, then disappeared in the distance. For the brave soldiers who fought and died there, I will revere and cherish for all time.

##

When the battles of the Vietnam War were written, this ambush would hardly merit a mention, it had no name, and no hill was conquered.

We never reached the Cav company that was in trouble; however, they received reinforcements from other units and made it out with fewer causalities than expected.

My adventure in the field with a 1st Cav Infantry platoon when scores of NVA were intent on killing us all doesn’t make me a foot soldier by a long shot. Next time, though, I won’t stutter when an infantryman asks me, “You been out there, out there in the shit?” I won’t feel like an interloper, not like an intruder at all.

*There’s really no time to think, but in extreme peril, thoughts can be processed and recalled in a second. Wonder what my old drill sergeant (Staff Sgt Hicks) would do or where he was, for that matter, on a second tour in this Hellhole, maybe? What had I learned in BCT at Ft. Gordon to prepare me for such a moment, the dilemma of a deadly ambush? Not a damned thing, is the short answer. I believe it’s more of an individual thing, a reaction no one can be sure of until the bullets are blazing toward you. I was just hoping any training and discipline I retained would kick in as advertised — automatically and immediately.  Of course, an argument could be made that it did because I made it out alive without cowering in the face of death (though I may have pissed myself).

**Those who escaped into tunnels or blended back into the villages would live to fight another day, as so many did throughout the war.

Official records indicate that the 2nd Battalion, 20th Aerial Artillery, and 1st Battalion, 77th Artillery, also assisted after the Ambush.

With my book classified as Historical Fiction, I am allowed to and have taken, a few liberties in sequencing some events, including their operations and movements for continuity, dramatic effect, clarity, transition, and people’s privacy.  Therefore, not every detail, exact time and place, type of weapon, or conveyance would necessarily withstand archival scrutiny.

However, my narrative is based on actual events as I remember them from some fifty-five years ago. All people, places, and battles are real unless otherwise noted. There will probably be troopers who won’t remember the fights as I do. It is not uncommon that soldiers’ experiences are different, especially in the heat of battle, even in the same battle. To be sure, this is not an after-action report or an official record. It is Historical Fiction. (Not written by a lawyer.) 

“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 must have been 100 degrees. It was weeping humidity, a steam bath with no turn-off valve upon my return to Bong Son. My butt was chafing, and it was about to get worse with an unexpected ass-chewing, especially surprising since I was naively expecting a welcome back. Good thing I didn’t waste time worrying about someone patting me on my back (where I had been injured).

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

“Yes, but my tape recorded 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.

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

After my reporting 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 I had an advocate who would who would help me during this challenging period. I would find it to be none other than the two-star general who happened to run 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 shortly after the Ambush (Chapter 17) when I interviewed him. The General seemed sincere when he asked me how everything was going.  I stuttered with my response without anything 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 a 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 pronto with a return call. The difference in rank from a major to a major general is considerable.

I thrived at AFVN, An Khe. I dedicated songs to choppers 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. Chopper and other pilots could pick 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.”

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.

As for the over-hyped “Good Morning Vietnam” thing made famous in a movie of the same name by the late Robin Williams, many 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 an M-16. 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.

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 got current hit records and some oldies sent to us from Seattle’s KJR rock station. And unbelievably, by just writing a few letters, he convinced a popular production company (in the U.S.) into recording professional jingles for 1330 AM & FM AFVN, An Khe (valued at $2,000 in 1967 money).

He was a true radio guy and did a lot for the station and made our operation better for the troops we served. Late in his tour, he saved a cameraman’s life working with an NBC reporter he was hosting near Khe Sanh,* and Bagwell almost lost a foot in the engagement and nearly became a POW like three of his fellow AFVN members. (Go figure, the only real friend I had In-Country was almost captured and nearly killed). 

He 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.”

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 Larsen, Grizzle, Knelly, Basile, Ferrel, McGrath, and Jim Pruitt. (Not sure of all spelling.)

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.

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.

*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).

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, Coastal lowlands, 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 disagreed. All they remembered was dirt and mud, the jungle and rice paddies, squalid villages, ancient men and women, naked-dirty-hungry children, 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 work seven days a week in the monsoons with mud sucking at my jungle boots in oppressive heat where insects, booby traps, and snipers were plentiful.

I was still doing a few field assignments that occasionally included some blood and battle,* but nothing approaching the Ambush in Binh Dinh.

Although I was assigned to AFVN, An Khe, I still had assignments like 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 and 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.

I got some plum assignments as well, like Masters of Ceremony gigs at Bob Hope’s USO shows throughout 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 (which was almost everyone). Unfortunately, I failed to get that message across in the interview. I still remember the producer’s words: “You got nothing here [fit to air].” One of my most straightforward assignments in Vietnam, and I blew it.

Nevertheless, just before my tour was up, I was promoted to Specialist Five, perhaps as a reward for staying a PFC much longer than usual. Or maybe the U.S. Army thought my ingenuity and diligence with the Ambush scoop, Stream deed, AFVN talent, and so forth merited another promotion. (Nobody ever said the Army was perfect.)

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 sat on his bunk, rereading the most recent letter from his wife and gently rubbing his index finger over the 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, then pinned above his left front pocket, and his unit patch hung under the other. He had neatly folded his khakis, which lay atop his tightly packed duffle 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 his small family that awaited him and unnecessarily rehearsing 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 was leaving 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 VC was setting up a tripod and adjusting distance and direction. At 0200, a 60-mm mortar burst from its tube with an ssss.

(Courtesy C. Lee & Pinterest)

He would still be returning home. Just not in the cheering section of the jet with pretty, good-smelling, round-eyed female flight attendants. He died in this stinking, godforsaken country with just a wake-up 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, November 21, 1967.

It was an unseasonably cool 70 degrees under a high cloud ceiling when I boarded my 707 out of Tan Son Nhut on Jan. 7, 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 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 organized protests in San Francisco against returning soldiers.

*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.

There were no bunkers, no sound of canons or weapons, no booby traps to defeat.

No snipers in trees taking a peek.

Didn’t see any bodies without arms, legs, or feet.

No helmeted men with AK-47s jumping from the heat.  

No smell of sulfur in the air, none in the street.

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 soonest to Wilmington, North Carolina. With the unpleasant reception I had just encountered at the airport, 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) assembled a group of one hundred or more at the airport, where 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, 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, 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 was conducted in a spare bedroom of the preacher’s house who married us. There had been no bridal or wedding shower, no gifts of any kind, just advice.

All of three people attended. Unfortunately, one was Marty’s aunt Hill who kept squawking in her shaky ninety-eight- 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 for her to match the engagement diamond that she had already lost. She said it was swept up by the surf on the shores of the Atlantic 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 drove west through South Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama searching the airwaves for our songs (while 9,304 miles apart). Hits like You’re Mt Soul and Inspiration, Happy Together, Wouldn’t it be Nice, and Dedicated to the One I Love.

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 a decent otherwise and 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 to 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® hardtop, with little room for all our worldly belongings, no A/C, threadbare tires, and a broken gas gauge (we ran out somewhere in Oklahoma).

It was a nice car, but somehow she had managed to get saddled with a monthly payment of $105 (about $919 in 2023 money) on a car costing less than $3,000!

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 of January 1968 played as we searched for stations 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 site, Los Angeles; by far more lights than Marty had ever seen and, certainly, as many as I’d seen in large cities.

I’m surprised we found our way through the more than four-thousand square mile city that incorporated 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 — Marty not infrequently stopping at service station restrooms for me — to get to our destination in 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 in San Pedro, California. We bought new tires, California coverage for the Mustang, some Melmac® dinnerware, and a 23″ B&W Emerson® TV that 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 me from Vietnam. Not to forget — marriage. 

Peppy’s was a San Pedro restaurant with a reputation for excellent food. Although we had a great dinner there, including a good bottle of wine and dessert, it was $20, including the tip (about $172 in 2023 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 on which to subsist 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.

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 box. He smiled and said: “They must have really liked you.”  Inside were a Purple Heart and Air Medal (both unexpected) and an Army Commendation Medal. (Maybe someone put me in for those first two medals, knowing what happened with the Bronze Star below.)

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 for even sharing 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, under constant threat from snipers, ambushes, booby traps, and punji stakes.

Infantrymen in extreme heat or monsoons, in the on-again and off-again rain, men who were lugging 90 lbs or more in rice paddies, through elephant grass, mountainous terrain, and fording rivers and streams; this was their life day in and day out.

Many of the soldiers who did the actual work — the men I honor above —  didn’t get a recommendation for a medal 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 shout up and saddle up Trooper. Your night on LP, your turn on point, but ‘It don’t mean nothin.’      Jack “Boz” Parente.

*DEROS: Date Estimate for Return from Overseas.

**Most soldiers serving in a similar job as me in PIO were awarded the Bronze Star, 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 received the Combat Infantry Badge, not an insignificant award.

~~

I had nightmares about Vietnam, most every night during our honeymoon and months thereafter.* 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, not to talk that way to my wife.

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 dollar bills, 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 of Ft. Mac, 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 state of inebriation, if not 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 sometimes we were relieved at noon. We were also on constant alert because of the incendiary nature of 1968. Think Martin Luther King Jr. and Bobby Kennedy assignations, the Weathermen, Black Panthers, Bobby Seale, Huey Newton, Eldridge Cleaver, SDS, and Vietnam War Protests, as is oft said, “To name a few.”

There was a rotating on-call system for soldiers like me. Those living off base were required to arrive at our assembly point within a half-hour of notification. Even if not on ready-alert, one could be called and told to remain in place for standby. The Army required that you be reachable at all times, unless on leave or pass; check in with the Command Post before going out 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 check for $48. With that gig,  I’d have had a better chance at securing a prime-time slot — although 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.

**LA market became the second largest in 1984

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

Although I intend to remain faithful to my promise that I will 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 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 wife for more than 24 hours, and I sleep next to her warm body every night in a comfortable bed.”

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 on the second floor in the Awards and Decoration section one day in April 1968 when 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?

Turns out —  I kid you not — he was looking for the personnel office, so he could pick up his Medal Of Honor!   We were astonished when we found out he was not joking. 

While the Sergeant Major hyperventilated, 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 looking sharp is his Class-A uniform, stay a few minutes, and was gone the rest of the day.

Then I found out. He was occupied with notifying LA area next of kin of those killed in Vietnam. When a family is informed, the military member must be at least equal rank as the KIA. Most helicopter pilots in Vietnam were warrant officers. Our soldier of that rank, outside of bloody combat, was fulfilling the worst duty in the military — ringing those doorbells. This dreadful detail would not only continue, but increase. The deadliest year for U.S. 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 power steering, around the streets of LA.  The yellow three-inch tall lettering on the front doors read: “U.S. Army For Official Only.”

He was a great 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 U. S. Army for what it may have done 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, trying to hide from their front doors, but listening still, for that knock and praying that it never came.

Back in the States, away from the war, I hadn’t thought much about General Norton’s declaration  (in Chapter 17). That was until May 1968. I was out with four or five friends from the post, TV playing in the background, when the news came on.

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

Excited and surprised, I raised my voice over the din in 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. (Unfortunately, Hagemeister’s father would not live to see his son receive the monumental honor, he died when his only son was just four-years-old.) 

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, count 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" just doesn't have the same appreciatory ring. Instead, it might be appropriate to say of the "leaders" who sent us there: The only domino's 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. But it will be a source of reflection and discussion in the chapters that follow especially the next two: How We Could Have Won In Vietnam & The 1st Team In Vietnam.

 *(about $43 in 2023 dollars.)

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. It 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 formation at the Post 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, I had less than a year remaining on my enlistment; 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 U.S. Army for three more years! The good news was a re-enlistment bonus of about $1,800 (over $15k in 2023 dollars) and continued prenatal care.

My peers on the post thought I was a total idiot, called me a lifer (pejorative term) 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.

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 listened mostly to 93 KHJ on the way hearing songs like Do You Know The Way To San Jose by Dionne Warrick. No, we’re headed for Sacramento, thank you. Then we picked up KYA San Francisco with Magic Carpet Ride by Steppenwolf, 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. (Reagan 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 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, 351cid 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 with a wife and 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 U.S. 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 made up for some of the deficit. 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 and 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.