CHAPTER
1
Leaving on a Jet Plane
After having been up what seemed like
all night, the sun began to peek through the light clouds. It was going to be
a bright, sunny day just south of Harrisonville, Missouri. Soon the sun would
begin to warm the surrounding air, but no matter how strong, it could not touch
the coldness in my heart.
That day, the farmhouse south of Kansas City,
Missouri was filled with my wife's family. Her sisters, their husbands, her mother,
and even her father who had taken the day off work ate quietly around the huge
kitchen table. My mother-in-law, Mary McVay, was nicknamed "Sarge" by
her three son-in-laws who were in the military. As always, Sarge directed the
meal preparation and clean up and pushed us out of the kitchen so a carload could
begin the long drive to the Mid-Continent International Airport in Kansas City.
As
the chill began to burn off the outside air, we stood around as long as possible.
We exchanged hugs, deeply locked our eyes for a few brief moments, and somehow,
in this special way, conveyed a profound depth of feeling and concern. My father-in-law,
George McVay, whose parents just didn't express emotions, could only reach out
with his huge hand and say, "Good luck, boy." For some reason this time,
being called "Boy" didn't even bother me. George had served in World
War II. He had faced a Kamikaze attack on his ship in the Pacific. He had fought
on-board fires caused by attack aircraft, and while his ship was cruising in full
blackout conditions in the dark of the night, he fell through an open hatch crashing
to the deck below. He had no broken bones, just a very serious head injury. Now
this combat veteran was sending me off to war.
Now it was my turn. It was
time to load my large, olive drab, Army-issue canvas bag into the trunk of the
car. For the next year, that canvas bag - with my name stenciled neatly in black
- would be with me and would hold all my personal possessions. It would hold the
letters from my wife, the extra pair of combat boots, the socks, and even the
olive drab, government-issued underwear.
The shutting car doors seemed
to slam unusually loud that day. Perhaps it was because they contrasted so with
the silence inside the car. What do you say as you ride north to the airport to
meet the plane that will take the newest member of your family into the highly
protested and mixed-up mess know as the Vietnam War?
For the last time
in hopefully only a year but perhaps for the last time in my short life, I drove
down the highway. Now, oh so many years later, I cannot recall the details of
the trip. The trees flew by, the farmhouses sat quietly in the emerging greenness
of their Midwest fields, and the Angus cattle seemed to stand unusually still.
However, I do recall, in the hurry to get this trip completed, I drove faster
than I should have. I was in a hurry to get to the airport so I could kiss my
bride, Marilyn, over and over again. I longed to hold her in my arms as long as
possible.
I drove with haste because I had lingered too long and waited
to leave for the airport until the last moment. I sought out one more hug and
one more stolen moment of peace. My mind jumped from fear of war and death to
the immediate pain of separation from the one I had come to love so dearly in
just a few months of marriage. The flood of these emotions and the daze of it
all clouded my judgment. It could have all ended on that road as I drove far too
fast and foolishly passed one car after another.
Oh too soon, Marilyn and
I stood in the airport terminal, waiting until the very last moment to say that
long-feared goodbye. Then, over the airport sound system or perhaps it was from
a nearby radio, came the strands of a popular song. As the soulful words penetrated
the air so dense with emotions, Marilyn and I began to cry. I will never forget
one line from that song. Just before our last parting kiss I heard, "I'm
leaving on a jet plane; don't know if I'll be back again."
What did my
fellow passengers think? Was this whimpering and teary-eyed, second lieutenant
the best our country had to offer? Oh sure, I looked crisp and clean in my second
lieutenant's uniform. Of course, I was lean; toughened by 44 weeks of the some
of the best military training in the world. However, that morning on the way to
Vietnam, I quietly, softly, and so deeply sobbed. It was hard to wipe the tears
before they could flow down my cheeks. There I sat a reluctant, but fully trained
infantry officer. Soon I would depart to fulfill my duty to my country. My journey
was oh so different, but in many ways the same as those of other generations of
soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines, who went before me. War after war, far
too many of our brave "GIs" returned to their loved ones wounded and
maimed for life. The lucky ones came home outwardly whole and only inwardly scarred
and shattered. Some of our country's bravest young men and women went off to war
in a faraway land and came home in a coffin to lie beneath row after row of silent
white crosses.
These, and many other thoughts, raced through my mind as
the Midwest prairies and the rugged mountains seemed to somehow zoom below the
plane in which I rode. Never before on previous trips to California, had the hours
of the flight gone so quickly. Somehow, I settled into that strange inner space
into which we can enter when emotion and the stress are so overwhelming. Here
in this noisy jetliner, I wanted so badly to find a peace, a feeling of comfort,
a spiritual rest, or perhaps even a deep quiet. Instead, the roar of the plane
and my own fears of unknown horrors yet to be faced, brought to me visions of
war.
Returning to the reality of this plane, I looked around. I could see
salesmen getting ready for a major presentation, businessmen on their way to meetings
and discussing corporate plans, and a few grandparents no doubt on the way to
see their own children and grandchildren. The nice elderly woman who I had helped
stow her carry-on bag slept quietly beside me. The couple with their two toddlers
was busy keeping them entertained. Then I noticed the young couple snuggling as
close together as the airline seats would allow. The unwelcome pain of my own
separation and the reality of my flight with an ultimate destination into an area
of war and of death again stirred my emotions.
I had flown enough times
in my young life that I could sense when a commercial plane began to slow down
and start its gradual approach to the airport. Now, feeling those sensations,
I knew that soon I would be landing in San Francisco. If it were not for the fog,
my fellow passengers could have watched as the costal mountains slid under the
plane. As the plane crossed over the central valley area and began its descent,
they would have been able to watch the beautiful city of San Francisco appear.
In only a few seconds, they would have gotten a glimpse of one of God's most beautiful
creations as we flew over the dark blue waters of the San Francisco Bay. However,
this day and this landing - much like the next phase of my life - were shrouded
in a gentle mist and a thick fog. As the plane descended, the clouds seemed to
thicken and just rush by the plane's windows. Suddenly, we broke through the clouds
and there below us was the salty and chilly waters abutting the airport. Little
did I know that sudden landings like this would become commonplace and a regular
part of my life in Vietnam.
As this jetliner, this winged cylinder of life
that whisked me away from my bride, approached the terminal, I half-heartedly
listened for the instruction of which baggage carousel would have my large, olive
drab, Army-issue canvas bag. My orders were to report to the communications center
for departing military personnel. Even at that time, the San Francisco International
Airport was huge by Midwest standards. Perhaps it would be hard to find; perhaps
I would need to ask someone to help me locate the next station in my departure
to war. If I were lucky, instead of my olive drab, Army-issue canvas bag being
misplaced by the airlines, the military personnel waiting to send me off to war
would misplace me.
However, I should not have worried. Not far from the baggage
claim area, I could see two lines of GIs. One line wound around and curved back
around as grim-faced men waited their turn to use the pay phone. The other line
looked so much unlike all the other lines I had stood in during my short military
career. The expression on the faces of the GIs here was different. The air above
these soldiers was heavy and still, yet I could hear a nervous chatter. A few
GIs greeted old friends, some played cards in the midst of the uncertainties they
faced, but most stood or sat, or even slept on the cold, hard floor in eerie silence.
This
line was not the one we stood in for hours to have our head nearly shaved as recruits.
This line was not the one with medical personnel on each side using a large stainless
steel gun to give us all kinds of injections. This was not like the chow lines,
nor was it like the lines at stateside mail call. For the first time in my military
career, I stood in a line with women waiting quietly beside other GIs. While the
women were young and fit, the GIs hardly even noticed them. This line, which was
the gateway to war, moved faster than any military line I had ever seen or would
ever see again.
The soldiers would step forward and give their name and
serial number. They were swiftly given a meal voucher and three sets of orders.
The first set of orders was to board a shuttle bus at 14:30 hours (2:30 p.m.)
for a bus ride to Travis Air Force base. The second set of orders were to board
a plane at 18:30 hours, and the third set of orders (in triplicate) were to be
retained and submitted to the officer in charge of the plane taking them to Vietnam.
Upon landing, one copy was to be turned over to the officer in charge after landing
in Vietnam. For one brief moment, I wondered what would happen if I would just
"lose" my papers. Instead, I held them tight as if doing so would bring
me a better assignment or some kind of good luck.
Now with my orders in
hand, it was my turn to join the line of other grim-faced GIs who were waiting
to make that last quick call. It seemed like hours but soon my turn came, and
I first made a local call to my parents who lived in Martinez, California just
across the San Francisco Bay. They were almost within eyesight of where I now
stood ready to ship out, to fly off to a faraway war. What do you say to your
father under these circumstances? What can you say to the woman who gave you birth,
who nursed you, who mended your small wounds, and who dried your tears? How does
a tough GI say goodbye to his mother? What words can be said in a mere three-minute
call? All too soon, my time was up. With one final goodbye, the phone clicked
and the line was silent.
Even as those behind me grumbled, I made one more
call. Once more, I wanted to hear the voice of my bride. We had only three minutes
to talk. We could not touch, we could not hold hands, we could not kiss, and we
could not even look into each other's eyes. I don't remember what we said. I don't
know what promises were made. No doubt, I promised to come home. No doubt, I promised
keep myself safe. No doubt, I promised to stay away from danger. Marilyn, who
was wise beyond her youth, knew that fulfilling these promises was beyond my control.
As I hung up the phone, the tears flowed. Even as I wrote about this simple phone
call almost 40 years, the page upon which I wrote blurred as again the tears flowed
freely.
Standing there amidst hundreds of other GIs and feeling somehow
weak and unmanly, I wept. They stood aside and let me pass. No one chided or teased
me for my show of weakness and sorrow. They too had made their last call. They
had said their last goodbye and were waiting in dazed and dead silence. Those
large, olive drab, Army-issue canvas bags were everywhere and no one seemed to
mind as I threw mine upon that stack that was already chest high and growing rapidly.
A few of the GIs went for a smoke. Some sat and read. A few tried to make lively
conversations and joke. Somehow, the conversations always ended quickly and the
jokes fell upon deaf ears. As these young GIs faced a future unknown and fraught
with deadly danger, they were not in the mood for humor.
We were off to
serve our country. We were young, we were brave, and we were some of the best-trained
GIs America had ever sent off to war. Getting ready to ship out, I knew that I
was just fulfilling my duty as an American. It never really occurred to me that
I could walk out the door, buy civilian clothes, sneak off to Canada, and avoid
the war. I had been given a draft deferment to allow me to finish college but
was denied one to attend graduate school. In the Midwest, getting into the National
Guard was very difficult. Without family or other special influence, the waiting
list for enlisting in the National Guard was nearly a year. I did not know people,
nor have family members with power and influence who could save me from my fate.
I was going to Vietnam.
In true military style, the bus that would take
us to Travis Air Force base was two hours late. Some of us hoped that the military
had forgotten us and that they would just send us back home. Of course, that was
not to be. At that time the military may have been slow, it may have not been
equipped with high-speed computer or cell phones, but orders to Vietnam were not
forgotten and never rescinded. Now as the chill of a San Francisco night settled,
in the U.S. Air Force big gray bus arrived.
There was no pushing, there
was no hurry, and some GIs even tried to hold back as if somehow being the last
one on the bus would give them one more moment of peace. All too quickly, the
doors closed and we were off to another staging area for GIs. As we pulled into
the unloading zone, GIs were everywhere. As at the San Francisco airport, occasionally
two GIs would recognize each other. During the Vietnam War, enlisted personnel
who had trained together often shipped out together. Some lucky GIs were able
to share memories of their basic and advanced military training. These experiences
rushed to fill the silence and the fear of the moment.
Nevertheless, even
the intense training experiences these GIs had undergone had not prepared them
for, nor given them the power to overcome, their fears of the future. It was eerie
how after just a few hurried moments of comradeship, a deep hush filled the air.
Many of those I had trained with in Basic Training had long since received
their orders and were lost somewhere in the mass of humanity that was the Army.
Nearly all of those who had entered Basic Training with me at Fort Dix, New Jersey
were somewhere else. I looked over the mass of GIs to see if I could find someone
with whom I had attended Advanced Infantry Training. Seeing none, I guessed they
had left for Vietnam already. As large as the Army is, I thought for sure that
I'd see at least one other second lieutenant who had graduated with me from Officer
Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia or who had trained with me in Jungle
Warfare School in Panama. Through the dense air, I saw no one I knew.
As
a second lieutenant, the government had spent so much on my training that it wanted
to get a few months of stateside duty from me before I shipped off to Vietnam.
Being an officer, I was often segregated from most of the GIs. As a young second
lieutenant, I did not have enough rank or years of military experience to earn
significant special privileges. I had not been in the military long enough to
form the bonds that come from the comradeship of years of military leadership,
military command, and combat. Somehow, in the midst of this sea of GIs, I was
all alone.
At sometime in the middle of the night I heard a grizzled old
master sergeant roared out "smoke 'um if you got um and hit the latrines."
A warrant officer much more quietly informed the group of officers that it was
time to head out. The darkness of this California night was broken now by bright
lights which shone on a huge jet liner and on the lines of GIs grimly climbing
its aluminum steps, ducking their heads, and beginning the flight to the most
dangerous stage of their young lives. Only one or two of the flight attendants
were young; the rest were indeed attractive but went about their work with a skilled
professionalism. They knew how to joke with a plane of GIs going off to war. Only
later would I would learn that each crew made multiple trips to and from Vietnam
each week.
The normal airplane chatter was subdued and as the lights of San
Francisco disappeared, a deep and almost depressing hush settled in. Oh, there
was the occasional attempt at humor, the quick, almost-halfhearted brag of one
last night of drinking, bar crawling, and female conquest. Somehow, these fell
on deaf ears. The plane was loaded with young men off to a country of which they
knew nothing to fight an unpopular war for reasons they did not understand. Some
of them would be "in country" only a few days before they would be sent
home in a coffin without having even known why they had been sent off to war.
A few of the GIs had tried college, some were high school graduates, but most
were high school dropouts. Stateside, they could not get a real job until they
completed their military obligation. So now, they were off to a land unknown -
a country that was mysterious and clouded with fear. Now they were off to face
and hopefully avoid death.
How long was the flight to be? When would we arrive?
Quietly and gently, the flight attendants deflected these questions. Hour after
hour, we shuffled to and from the four small toilets on this plane. Gradually,
I again sensed that the airliner in which I was flying was beginning to slow down
and start its gradual approach to a distant airport. As we broke out of the clouds,
the sight was surrealistic. It was impossible but I could swear that a deep fresh
blanket of snow covered the ground! As the plane began its final approach, the
co-pilot announced we were landing in Alaska.
Alaska? The quiet within
the plane was quickly replaced by a buzz of speculation. Had the Army changed
its mind? Were we all going to be assigned to Alaska? What would life be like
here and how would it compare to the dreaded Vietnam where we had all been assigned?
A curious grin began to show on the face of some of these GIs. They could handle
this. Would it be Alaska or Vietnam? Wow, what a choice! A few minutes later,
the major who was the ranking officer onboard came on the loudspeaker and, with
but a few words, crushed the momentary hope of an entire planeload of GIs.
We
were ordered to remain in our seats. The major read the very short list of the
lucky GIs who were to deplane. The rest of us were to remain in our seats until
they had departed and their seats were filled. As these lucky few almost leapt
down the aisle, they were cheered and jeered. The cold that came in through the
open plane door was nothing compared to the almost frozen chill on the face of
all those who boarded this plane from Alaska to Vietnam. They had faced frozen
tundra and had endured cold. Now they would soon face a new fear. Instead of worrying
about keeping warm and avoiding the freezing chill of Alaska, they would feel
the heat of Vietnam and face the fear of bullets, rockets, mortars, booby traps,
and death.
All too soon, the plane's door was closed and latched and we
were taxiing down a runway again. The planeload of GIs gave an almost united groan
as the plane lifted up into the dark sky and turned southwest. Hour upon deadly
quiet hour, the plane flew. As we flew, the sky became clear and we could see
the ocean below. Once again, I sensed the plane begin to slow down and begin its
airport approach. Surprisingly as we neared the airport, all I could see was water.
Again, the voice of the co-pilot brought us to a realization of how totally unpredictable
our lives as GIs would be. We were landing in Guam! The process was the same as
Alaska. A few lucky GIs got off the plane and a few unlucky ones got on the plane.
This stop was very short and once more, we were off into the skies heading toward
Vietnam. There were to be no more unexpected landings. CHAPTER
2
Welcome to Vietnam
The next time the plane descended, it was the fastest
landing I had ever experienced in a large jet. The angle of decent was steep enough
that nearly all the GIs held onto the seatback in front of them. The pilot reversed
the plane's jet thrusters, braked hard, and swiftly turned the plane at the end
of the runway. Welcome to Vietnam!
Here on the tarmac of Tan Son Nhut
airport and with a depth of emotion that we could sense even through the sound
system, each member of the flight crew came on and wished us good luck, God speed,
and a safe return home. The flight attendants did all they could to remain calm
and smile knowing that soon we would begin to face the realities of war in this
country called Vietnam.
Before us, crowding and eagerly waiting to board
the plane we had just left, was a horde of bedraggled GIs. At that time, most
GIs only stayed in Vietnam one year. Only one year of war, one year of combat
had changed these GIs. They all had a faraway look in their eyes; they seemed
stunned, sullen, and unusually quiet. Occasionally, one would yell out encouragement.
As we neared the terminal building, we could hear them. "Keep your head low."
"Good luck newbies." One sang out louder than the others, "Watch
your backside, and protect your buddies. With their help and a lot of luck, you'll
make it home in one piece."
Now it was our turn. We walked past those
who had served before us. We looked down with fear as they looked up with anticipation
at the plane that would "take them back to the world." I could see a
few with wounds, some on crutches, and a few in wheelchairs. They were going home
and I was going into I knew not what and facing dangers of which I had no real
awareness. Even the best military training in the world doesn't really prepare
anyone to face the horrors of war. Would I be brave enough? Would I have the leadership
skills I needed in combat? Would I lose fellow soldiers? Would I be wounded? Would
I survive to stand like those tired GIs before me awaiting my flight home to freedom?
Or would my number be called resulting in a return trip home in a flag-draped
coffin?
In the military, being an officer has it advantages. Most of the soldiers
on my plane were enlisted men and even with the rank of private first class or
specialist, they had few privileges. They were all ordered into a briefing area
to begin that tried and true military tradition of "hurry up and wait."
Of course, none of them was too eager to get on to their assignment. For most
of them, they would be in a combat unit in a few days, under enemy fire, and facing
death the very day they arrive at their units. However, as an officer, I was "asked"
to join the other officers who had come in on the flight before mine. The GIs
assigned to "process our paperwork" were friendly and respectful. In
a little under an hour, all the officers were ushered to an air-conditioned bus
and taken to our officer's barracks.
As we got off the bus, we could see
sandbagged "bunkers" scattered around the area. No doubt, this was just
a bit of over-zealous caution of the military. Certainly, here in the middle of
this large Air Force Base well inside the city of Saigon, we would be safe. In
the barracks, we were assigned a bunk, given a footlocker, and shown the mess
hall. Every morning, we were to report to the headquarters building and see if
our assignment orders had been posted. As evening approached, some of us went
off to the officer's mess club for some great grub. After the long flight and
wolfing down a steak, I was ready to catch up on some much-needed rest. Moments
after falling onto the bunk - perhaps even before fully laying down - I was sound
asleep.
Barracks where incoming and outgoing GI stayed awaiting orders
or transportation back to the USA. Note: sandbags only go part way up the sides.
The
confusion, sirens, noise, explosions, dark, these new surroundings - I awoke and,
for a moment, I forgot where I was. Then reality came home in the form of another
explosion that sounded like it was just outside. What should I do? I grabbed my
brightly shined combat boots, ran, and fell confused into to the nearest sandbag-covered
bunker. As quickly as they had started, the explosions stopped. As I would learn
later, the silence after incoming rounds always rings hollow. But now, we carefully
walked back to our barracks and fell trembling onto the bunks. Sometime in the
night, sleep returned and the sound of revile being played over a loudspeaker
woke us up. A quick shave, a cold shower, and I was off to the mess hall.
Outside
the barracks, I had my first taste of war and it was horrible. Before me, the
realization of last night came into view. Only two barracks away, mortar rounds
had come through the roof. While only one officer was killed, three had very serious
wounds. One night in Vietnam, one infantry officer died, two infantry officers
would never lead in combat but after medical treatment would be on the way to
months of rehabilitation in a stateside military hospital. In a flash, in the
dead of the night, they had faced the hell of war and lost. One life was snuffed
out and four purple hearts were "earned."
I can't remember what was
served in the mess hall. I can't remember much that happened that day. I know
that when I arrived at the headquarters building, my orders were not posted. The
clerk I talked with said, "Sir, just relax, take it easy, read a book, go
to a movie, or rest up. Your orders will come soon." How do you entertain
yourself on a huge military fortress in the middle of Vietnam? I wandered around,
and roamed too close to the fence line. Suddenly, a very angry and excited German
Shepard guard dog and the huge military policeman (MP) who handled him startled
me. I listened as the guard explained how last night in that area of the compound
three Viet Cong sappers had slipped through the tangled wire perimeter with satchel
charges of explosives. Their success meant that tomorrow one more of America's
best who had, no doubt, been in Vietnam just a few days would begin his flight
home in a flag-draped coffin.
The MP went on to explain that these sappers,
one of whom had been wounded and captured as he tried to get back through perimeter,
went to pre-targeted buildings. They would quietly open a door of one building,
throw in their explosive charge, and quickly and silently run between buildings
throwing their second satchel charge. Then, in the confusion of the explosions
and death they had left behind, running in the shadows, they would race to escape
to try again the next night. The night before, as I huddled in a bunker thinking
the exploding mortar rounds near me killed officers, these sappers they were killing
other GIs. That night, they killed four and wounded seven GIs who were asleep
in their barracks and disrupted one of the communication bunkers.
The
MP explained that here in this "secure base," sappers all too often
succeeded. However, their wily ways much more often caused significant death on
fire support bases out away from Saigon. He explained that far more often than
was reported in the press, good GIs died because their comrades on guard duty
failed them. Instead of vigilance, they slept or succumbed to the blurred perceptions
and dulled senses of marijuana. Now in the stifling heat of Vietnam and in the
humidity so high that you could almost see it in the air, I was chilled to the
bone.
With nothing else to do and wanting to get the information I had
just learned off my mind, I returned to the barracks and located a stack of paperback
books that had been left behind by other officers awaiting their orders. I tried
a few games of pool, but lost so badly that I lost interest. I even found a nearby
chapel and as I entered, I met one of the Chaplin's assistants. He was busy with
paperwork but stopped what he was doing and showed me where I could sit to meditate
and pray. What could have been an uneventful day brought me only fear of what
the night might bring.
As the night before, there were sirens, explosions,
and officers running to the bunkers. I learned afterwards that these bunkers could
protect us from shrapnel, and could withstand a mortar shell, but they could not
withstand enemy artillery and they certainly were not safe from enemy sappers
who could penetrate our fences - our "defensive wall" - almost at will.
The sappers were very effective because they were dedicated to kill and maim as
many GIs as they could in a short time. They knew it was not likely they would
make it out alive, but if they could, they did. The next night, they would sneak
in to kill and maim all the GIs they could. Even today, decades later, our military
and police forces have so little that they can do to protect us from fanatics
willing to die to carry out their mission to kill and maim.
Decades after
my time in Vietnam, even as a combat veteran, I will never understand how quickly
we humans go to war to settle our differences. I don't understand how going into
another country and killing those who live there will create trust in Americans
and freedom for those whose country we have invaded. I know that in some cases,
war must be fought. In some cases, a superior force has crushed their weak neighbors,
and they are marching to conquer and enforce their will on the world. I know that
we can and must defend our loved ones and our homeland. However, it is beyond
me how decades after I served in Vietnam, thousands of GIs and millions of others
are being killed in the name of religion?
While I waited in this base camp
for my combat orders, day after day and night after night, the routine was the
same. The explosions might be nearby or they might be across the base camp. Of
course, every night, there was the sound of our own "outgoing" artillery
firing on some unseen enemy. Only later would I learn how our radar system could
pinpoint the spot from which mortar rounds had been fired and, within seconds,
return fire was on its way to the spot from which the mortar rounds were launched.
Every
night, sometimes once and sometimes two, three, or four times, we would awaken
to the sirens, move with haste and some fear into the nearest bunker, wait out
four or five mortar barrages, and return to the barracks. In the bunkers and with
explosions going off outside, there was no rank, there were no designation of
"officer: or "enlisted." We were all GIs huddling in fear and praying
that no one we knew would be hurt. Every time we would leave the bunker, we would
look for damage in our area and tend to any who were wounded. I was lucky; the
mortar shells that came in silently but killed with their deadly explosions never
fell on my barracks or near me again while in this base camp. Even these almost
sleepless nights helped prepare me for the endless nights and the horror of "incoming"
I would soon experience at another base camp further out into Vietnam.
After
six days "in country," everything changed. When I arrived at the headquarters
building, my orders were posted on the bulletin board. My orders had arrived.
I was not assigned to a headquarters company; I was not assigned to a logistics
center. I was not assigned to process incoming or homebound GIs. I was assigned
to B Company 4th Battalion of the 23rd Mechanized Infantry Brigade of the 25th
Infantry Division. I was going to be an infantry platoon leader in a combat zone.
As I stepped inside and picked up the triplicate copies of my orders and turned
to depart, the clerk simply said, "Good luck, sir."
Good luck?
Good luck would have been an administrative assignment, a desk job, or even working
as an assistant hospital administrator - not an infantry platoon leader. Yes,
I had been trained for that role, but there was no way I could see a combat assignment
as good luck. Later, as my yearlong taste of war wore on, I would know how very
lucky this assignment was. However, it was now time to once again cram all my
possessions into the large, olive drab, Army-issue canvas bag and head "upcountry."
Now
with that bag on my back and almost ready to step out the door to a whole different
experience of war, I paused. Setting down that olive drab bag, I picked up a pen,
sat on a bunk bed, and wrote a note of welcome and wished for all who would follow
me in the barracks. I wished for them protection from harm and a gracious acceptance
of the duties, fears, and horrors they would soon face. Then, not knowing if I
was writing a wish I would never myself realize, I finished the note and wished
them a safe return to family and friends back in "the world."
excerpts
©Copyright 2006 by William H. Powell |
