Fire Base Kathryn: RVN April 1970

Fire Base Kathryn, Vietnam War

by Byron Edgington

I’ll never forget my first girl. I’ll never forget Kathryn, either. Kathryn—the name of a fire base in northern I-Corps in the Republic of Vietnam.

The stated mission that day was to put troops on her mountaintop crag. The real mission was to educate me, a brand new Warrant Officer pilot, on the professionalism and capability of my ‘enemy,’ the North Vietnamese.

April 10th 1970. Chief Warrant Officer Ray Woods was company flight lead that day. I was a new guy, “Still pissing stateside water,” as John Lipski, my left seater, said. 

Our string of Hueys laced across the sky in a circle, like charms on a bracelet. We were waiting for the artillery prep to end, so we could land on LZ Kathryn, dump our grunts, and go home.

In the twenty-four ship formation, I tried to ignore my place in the lineup. I was right-seater in bird number thirteen. Lipski and I followed the twelve Hueys in front of us like so many sheep in a line. Careful to avoid the artillery trajectory, the GT line, Woody kept his flight a mile north of Kathryn.

Round after heavy artillery round pummeled the fire base. Its cratered surface, mangled tree stumps, and arid ground resembled a brown blister festering atop the mountain. Artillery had pounded the fire base all night, before the mission. 

It was nine a.m., and still we circled, twenty-four Hueys cutting holes in the sky, turning jet fuel into noise over northern I-Corps.

We were waiting for Willie Pete, two final rounds of White Phosphorus. When the twin marking rounds of WP popped above the fire base, their presence marked the end of the artillery prep. Only then could we land.

Minutes dragged on. We circled. Radio silence. Watching shell after shell explode atop that ridge, I couldn’t imagine anything alive up there. I almost felt sorry for the bad guys, the ones the intel people told us were there waiting for us to land. Surely, I thought, they’d all be killed, or run off. Nobody could survive that massive bombardment.

But, I was a rookie, about to learn an important lesson. I was about to see how resilient the enemy was ...

At nine-ten a.m., only a few minutes late, two ghostly clouds appeared a hundred feet above LZ Kathryn like twin thought balloons. Willie Pete; the arty prep was done. John slid his visor down and locked his shoulder harness. “Okay, guys,” he said. “Let’s go to work.”

In the rear of the cabin, the crew chief and door gunner sat up, alert. Crew chief on the left, door gunner right, they cinched their monkey straps tight and swiveled the business end of their .30 cals up. 

“Ready in the rear, sir,” they said in unison. 

As the gunners’ weapons came up and their charging rods clattered, the grunts stirred. Five GIs flicked cigarettes out. Their M-16s banged against the floor of the Huey as they adjusted their backpacks. Time for them to go to work, too.

Woody’s ship angled off, aiming toward Kathryn, and lined up for landing. Two Cobra gunships slid into position near the lead Huey, one left; one right. The Cobras would escort Woody, as he neared the LZ, then they’d break off. Together, the three aircraft flew toward Kathryn’s ragged shell-shot surface.

Woody called his approach. “Thirty seconds out,” he said.

I watched from my aircraft, a mile behind, twelve UH-1's ahead of me.

“Short final,” Woody said, the rattle and pop of Cobra suppressive fire and his crew’s sixties barking in his radio call.

Woody’s Huey touched down on Kathryn and men streamed onto the fire base. Then a radio call that chilled my arms. Woody screamed into the ether. “Taking fire,” he yelled. “On the fire base. My gunner’s hit. He may be dead.”

John looked across the cockpit, and shook his head. “Son of a bitch.”

After an all-night bombardment, a pummeling no one could possibly have survived, an enemy soldier had leapt into the open on Kathryn and shot Woody’s door gunner. And the man was indeed dead, killed instantly. 

It’s gonna be a long year, I thought.

Our turn. John steered the Huey toward Kathryn’s landing spot. I watched the gauges, called out readings. “Torque’s good; rpm’s good.” I focused inside the cockpit, from fright, or denial, I’m not sure. 

I’ll never forget my first girl. But I don’t remember landing on Kathryn. Before I knew it, the Huey was empty and John had lifted off. 

We took no fire, no hits. Still, what I’d seen gave me a lot of respect for the enemy. That respect helped keep me alive in Vietnam, that and a simple rule: never underestimate the North Vietnamese.

Byron Edgington

Byron Edgington

The SkyWriter

Website
Blog
Byron's Book

Other Articles by Byron Edgington:

Bob Hope: Christmas 1970, Camp Eagle
History/Archival Sites for Vietnam Vets
Vietnam: Arriving at the Truth
Do Guns Equal Safety?
Laotian Rescue Mission
Ho Chi Minh
Terror and Hilarity
A Return to Vietnam
The War That Will Not Let Us Rest
War: A Waste of Youth
The Right Seat is the Wrong Seat
Jim, Frank, and The Snake
Smokey, The Alcoholic Pup

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Agent Orange: The Whole Story

Barrels of Agent Orange

by Frank Fox

After I came home from Vietnam, I worked for many years in the Environmental Health and Safety field.

While I was there, the puzzle finally came together ...

Back in the 60’s, companies made some fairly potent chemicals. 

That being said, what was lacking at these production sites was any documentation about it’s effects on humans -- by that, I mean there was no information available to give to workers who handled the chemicals, or for the public who sold them.  

That was pretty much the state of Safety in those days -- make it and then sell it. Once sold, it was up to the purchaser to use it as he wished. 

The company I worked for made the Herbicide 2,4,5-T, which was also known as Agent Orange. Monsanto and Dow originally made these herbicides (weed killers) for agricultural weed control and sold it around the world. It was a great herbicide -- and it was very effective.

During the Vietnam War, the DoD put the word out that it would be great if there was something available to defoliate the thick canopied jungles of Vietnam. 

Dow and Monsanto were looking for sales, so they said, "We have something."  There was a demand and they made it.  There were no questions asked, as to how it would be used.  They just filled the shipments for their newest customer -- Uncle Sam.

Agent Orange (Herbicide Orange) was only one of the herbicides and defoliants used by the U.S. military as part of its herbicidal warfare program, Operation Ranch Hand, during the Vietnam War from 1961 to 1967. For that, a mixture of equal parts of two herbicides, 2,4,5-T and 2,4-D was used.

The 2,4,5-T was shipped in bulk containers (55 gallon orange-striped drums, hence the name agent orange). The drums had no hazard handling labels, nor did the military train anyone on it’s safe handling, cautions, and proper use of PPE (personal protective equipment) while handling it. Back then, there were no cautionary measures taken, because it was not known that any were necessary.

As to the application of the chemicals, the military leadership was not yet aware of the environmental impact. To them, if a little worked good, then lets slap it on really thick to work even better.  Uncle Sam wasn’t in the chemical business and they didn’t know. 

It was probably one of those good ideas likely thought up by McNamara’s think tank.  Down the line, there was an order from above to handle, load, and disperse it until it could be seen as working in the jungles.

Applying Agent Orange

The pictures you may have seen of the military loading planes, or helicopters, with 2,4,5-T always showed G.I's stripped to the waist with no safety equipment, (suits, masks, or rubber gloves), and many were smoking cigarettes.

They got it all over them and on their smokes and they just puffed away as usual. 

There were no mandatory showers taken after handling the herbicide -- they may not have showered for days after.

The stuff is still toxic in the soil today. 

Impatient military leadership probably thought the action would be instant, but when it didn’t defoliate overnight, they likely hit it again and all the while, with unsafe handling.

Because it was happening in a land far away from the U.S., there was no alarm, nor monitoring. They just kept painting the jungle with it -- as well as animals, U.S. troops, and civilians. 

Now, of course, anything sold commercially has to have MSDS (material safety data sheets) that go along with every phase of handling it, for employees and for the public. There also must be documented training for employees in handling the material safely, as well as the use of PPE (personal protective equipment).  This must go along with the shipped bulk materials and it must also have warning labels.

I would like to think that these days, any company would require and document the training and safe handling of such toxic material.  At least I hope we handle toxic materials better today.  Sadly, it came too late for many who were exposed to Agent Orange, or any other chemicals. 

Just like anything else, AO affected everyone differently. Onset can be soon after exposure, or like what we're seeing now.  After lying dormant for decades, it is suddenly triggered by health, or immune system weakening, or maybe time itself brings it on.

Personally, I think the U.S. military leadership was only interested in the application of AO, not any lingering health issues. The DoD should be the donkey on this -- they were in love with destroying the jungle canopy at any cost. It was effective, but the casualties are still mounting up all these years later.

Frank Fox

Combat Medic
Sea/Air Rescue
US Navy with USMC
August 1964 – August 1970 (6 years 1 month)

More Articles by Frank Fox:

My Brother "Bear"
Vets Sharing Recipes: Breakfast Pizza
Old School Patriotism is Still Alive
Vets Sharing Recipes: Southwest Chicken
The White House Christmas Card
War: Some Are Better Prepared
Our Generation
The Marine and the Cure
More Thoughts on War and Youth
Opinions, Thoughts and Feelings
A Different Perspective
A Worthy Rebuttal to Mr. Garrison

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Black Velvet: by Jeanette Zobjeck

Black Velvet - The Wall

BLACK VELVET 

(Written in 1987)

IWVPA Double Tap Award for War Poetry: August 22, 2004 Awarded: August 22, 2004

What did I know?  21 years old, mostly a dreamer, filled with visions of moving and doing things to make a better, kinder world.

A believer, I was taught by loved and respected family members that the greatest good I could do in this world would be to fight with my every resource to make this a world where people are respected and treated with dignity.

Vietnam was a controversial topic, depending on where you were and who you listened to. It was anything from an outrage – to the devils work – to a great altruistic undertaking, and there were even people who paid no attention to it at all.  I fell somewhere in the middle.

I think John F. Kennedy’s line about what we could do for our country, what I might be able to contribute, had been guiding me for years and I just never realized that fact.

I knew there was a war; I knew people were dying; I was no stranger to death. When you have a big family, you attend lots of funerals as older relatives die off. The difference is that they were just that, old people who had been suffering for years with most of the afflictions of old age.  It was a release for them from the pain of living, a kindness, because at last they had rest; at last they had no pain.

I’ve already said I studied a lot of history. I knew about wars, from inside books, all the way back to the crusades. Nothing in books can prepare someone when it comes down to being in a war.

Being in Vietnam was worse. There was not even the preparation of association with previous wars. This was a war with no lines and you could not identify the enemy by looking at him. There were no “safe areas” and only some grease pencil marks on a plastic map showed where "the war” was going on.

The fact that those marks changed often, sometimes in the course of a day, was not a piece of information widely shared.  I was unprepared for the intensity, not only of the conflict, but of my reactions to it.

You have already read my baptism of fire. Draw in your mind, if you can, the picture of this young kid fired up, not just with the wish to prove that he was as good as grandfather and father, not just with a love of country that told him that his country could do no wrong, but with the fires built and banked by army training, just waiting for a chance to flare up. All that was needed was the fuel.

It wasn’t just the nightly harassment by Charlie that became a game, after a while. He’d drop a few mortar – enough to get us out of bed – and then stop and move on somewhere else, or just sit back and wait till the next night.

It even got to where we would set up a pool, with each of us drawing a time of day when the first round would land, because they rarely did any real damage. He just wanted to yank our chains and, like a nest of ants suddenly kicked open, watch us scurry around in useless circles.

For me, it was the times he’d only drop one or two. I’d sit there sweating and waiting for the next one to come, praying, “Please God let me live through this just one more time”, knowing that the spot I sat in was probably as well sighted-in, as if I had been sitting on Charlie’s sighting range.

Knowing he could drop a round on the thin sheet metal of the guard post, or into one of the sandbagged pits as easily as if he were standing there tossing it in as part of a game of horseshoes.  Day in, day out, although usually daytime was better, but then we made better targets as individuals during the day, so it’s hard to say.

In 1967, even the end of ‘67, things were, according to the media, all going our way. So much so, the US Army had decided that in a gesture of good will based on the power of being ahead in the game, they would allow the celebration of the TET holiday for 1968, complete with fireworks.

This was like giving Charlie a safe conduct pass to the places he most wanted to be, no questions asked. We used to joke about it, but at the 1st signal compound on plantation road in Saigon, we kept a field telephone on a post outside the compound hooked into the Army/ARVN switchboard. We knew Charlie used that phone, and we listened in. Of course Charlie never said anything that was important, but it was there all the same.

Each day brought new tensions.  After TET, it seemed like all hell fell through the bottom of the basket and ended up lying in our front yard, like something the neighbor’s dog left waiting for you to step into.

I had friends who were wounded, or killed, just like a thousand others, or more. I spent 8 hours on the order line with our compound at Hue, while half the operation’s building was gone from mortar and rocket fire. The only line they had to the rest of the world was the direct tie line between us that no one else could get onto.

The radio hop was Hue to Da Nang to Chu Lai, but the control circuits never broke out in Da Nang and they didn’t have the equipment to spare for repairs; I was already there, so I fed the information via teletype back to Washington through DCA Arlington. From there, it was sent back to Saigon and to wherever it was needed.

Because our compound was inside the walls of the city, it wasn’t as well revetted as those at Chu Lai who were more or less in the open and easy targets.

I think each day I aged a month; each time I went to Quang Nghi and didn’t lose a guard, or didn’t get hit, was more a miracle than normal. It almost seemed that at times Charlie left me alone on purpose, just to make me crazy; when would the second shoe fall? After a while. I began to think it was personal, but that’s the way the screwy situation was.

On the days when nothing happened, I still couldn’t breathe easy, because it wasn’t until the day was passed that the unbroken day counted. In the end, when I had a chance to leave, I took it without a second thought (at the time) and now I will never know if I did the right thing or not.

What if I had stayed that extra few days? Who else would I have known that died? Would I maybe have found my plot of ground somewhere on that road, or maybe in a downed 117 in the jungle between Chu Lai and Da Nang? I will never know.

But inside my head today, still the jungles of Vietnam and the fear chitter at me daily, telling me what I don’t know and just making noises in the night; noises that still frighten a little girl who never had a chance to grow up like other little girls because she got caught in a grinding mill with a war on one side and a deep dark hole on the other.

In the confusion of youth, I was torn on one hand by a part of me I really didn’t understand, and on the other, by a belief and a desire to serve my country, strong enough to take me into a war we could not win. The evidence was there, if I had known where to look and what questions to ask.

But I couldn’t and wouldn’t, because I was naive and idealistic and when you come right down to it, not very bright. Oh I’m smart enough, but I have a blind side (like a lot of other people – I have no corner on that market) when it came to my country. I hadn’t reached the point where I could admit that we could, as a country, make mistakes, make bad judgments, and kill thousands of our own troops, because of stupidity in the management department.

I’m older now. I know that we can and do make mistakes. We’ve still got the best game in town, but it’s not perfect, yet, and I pay a price each day. I share a load with thousands of others, knowing that there is no cure for the pain in my heart, an echo of those days of fear and stress and horror.

I am not special, but if my words are, then perhaps it is because it is somewhere written in some book that it is left for me to be a voice for those who cannot speak up; who cannot talk of their pain and how they feel and how they felt, and if I can say anything, if what I say can be placed against that wall of silence which holds so many others and keeps their souls from crying out and being heard and perhaps act as a listening post for them, perhaps it will do me some good, as well.

For 20 years now, more than that, but round numbers work, I have been alone. Oh, I have friends -- one yesterday told me that what I was feeling was all in the past and I should stop dwelling on the past and move ahead.  After all, Vietnam was 30 years ago for me and I’m not there anymore.

Of affection, love, and support, I can’t speak from firsthand knowledge, because I don’t have any – only the remembered echoes of a damaged 10 years after I returned; damaged by what I carried inside me and a fear that I would do untold harm to the very people I loved the most.

I think I may have used the wrong word: intense is a weak, watered down, politically-correct word for what Vietnam was to me. Hell would be the proper word.

Even that sounds insufficient, inadequate, as if there were a word which would, by its utterance, bring forth for any mind a picture of fear, a picture of destruction, a picture of death up on its hind legs and pawing at us, dragging us into the sticking, cloying, red mud of Vietnam – trying to bury us in blood and mud.

There is no one word strong enough, not in the American language, nor in any other that I have heard of, because words are woefully weak in describing the stronger emotions, good or bad. It is equally hard to describe love, but people are content in that, because this is an enjoyable emotion, one that every last one of us seeks in one way, or another.

No one, if they are sane, actively seeks out the experience I and others had, in Vietnam.  It remains difficult for me now, to use a singular in talking about the after-effects of Vietnam. I may be one person, my experiences were my own. The legacy of Vietnam is a shared commodity, shared by all the men and women who served there. I am not just one, I am part of the many and using a singular makes it sound as if I was the only one who suffered and the only one damaged.

I know that is not true. I cannot, in honest discussion, exclude those others, because they aren’t there to speak for themselves – but they need to be heard. Heard here, heard everywhere; yelled from steeples and towers and carved in six -foot letters on the sides of tall buildings for the entire world to see and to know and for those who don’t care to read and maybe feel a stirring of guilt in their souls for their indifference.

I went to war for you; I went through things which would make you sick and which you might discuss (but never over dinner or cocktails). I put my life on the line so that some stupid b3&#@*% somewhere could have a nice comfortable life, free from the raw details of death and mayhem.

I and a hundred, 500 thousand, 2 and a half million others, fought, sweated, cried; some died, not to protect a high ideal – the ones we took with us. We fought and cried and died so politicians could beat their drums, ring their welkins and point with pride at the generous and wonderful things the government of the united states (note the lack of caps) was doing for its beleaguered brothers in Vietnam.

Black Velvet - The Wall

The list of names on “The Wall” is longer than the population of many American towns. The number of those who served there could easily overfill many cities.

I grew up in a city whose population was 500 thousand. There were fewer people who died on the highways of the United States in all of 1968, than arrived in country in the month of January of the same year.

Even after “The Wall” was a reality, it was years before any monument was even thought of to honor the women who died in that war, and years more, before one was finally placed. Fittingly enough, since most of them were nurses, they were placed near the wall of names of the ones they were there to care for, the ones they had to hold, and smile at, as they watched them die.

I carry on as best I can today. Sometimes I feel I take more backward steps than forward, but I have never given up, although there have been times I wanted to. I get older and it gets more difficult to face each new day with a cheerful face, and many days see my tears.

Who am I that I should still be here? A question I have asked and heard asked for 30+ years. And I still am no closer to an answer. I only now begin to admit there is no answer.

In the eyes of one person, this one person, Vietnam was a terrifying experience. In the soul of this one person, Vietnam was a tearing, destroying beast which devoured much of the person I once was and most of the ideals I started out with.

Do I feel robbed? Yes. We all, somewhere in our lives, find that some of the things we believe in are unreal, unattainable, and unrealistic, and we discard them as useless baggage and find new goals to strive for. That is living, that is as it should be, to have them ripped away, stripped off, and then the remnant left exposed to senseless death of innocents as a mere tool to trap the unwary.

The constant knowledge that violent death laid a stone’s throw away and that at any given moment you could be greeted by a smiling person who, at that moment, the next, or perhaps that night, might be actively working to end your life.

I left home with a nicely inscribed book of rules for living. While I was there, I learned a new set of rules, hoping that when I returned home, I would be able to unlearn those and be able to fit back in where I came from.

While I was gone, somebody re-wrote the rule book. I could not use the old rules; they were lost to me forever. I could not use the rules I had lived by for most of a year -- they didn’t fit in a peaceful society; I didn’t know the new rules. I didn’t have a chance to learn them, so I wrote my own, again. I never have fit back into place.

I can’t walk away again. There were good things, even in war; you make friends who don’t die. Even in war, you have days when good things happen. If I strip away all of Vietnam, (if I could), I would lose those memories as well, and the memories which are all that remain of some who did not come back and I am the only one who remembers their last minutes – a legacy I cannot just throw away, because as long as one person remembers, they aren’t gone for nothing, they weren’t wasted. I know their courage and I know that they died with honor and I was the last person they saw before they died. I had to tell them they were going to make it and … I CARRIED THEM BACK WITH ME!

Live in the present, they say. My life, my world, is very much the present. Put Vietnam behind me and get on with my life! I cannot. It is not a thing you can put behind you.

Vietnam is, and remains, a living place which travels the roads with me, inside me. For good, or bad, it is there and while I would control my memories so that they do not run my life, I will not shed them, for I earned them, and for all the damage that they have done to me, they are also my testament of dignity and bravery for those whose memory I honor.

Thirty years have passed. Some have been happy, some sad, all growing, learning, maturing, so today I look back at Vietnam with different eyes. I see that kid climbing into that plane on a cold Chicago night, a plane load of strangers who would travel half way around the world together; play cards, get drunk, sleep, tell tall stories, or talk about their families. Some would even admit that they were afraid.

For 18 hours, they flew westward to Hawaii and the Philippines to Vietnam where, for the most part, they went their separate ways; most never saw each other again. Many never knew the names of the ones around them on that plane. It never occurred to anyone to ask. Brave, eager kids who had no idea what they were walking into.

A year later, in ones and twos, they trickled back home, the lucky ones, but they weren’t kids anymore and many times they proved their bravery during that year. The eagerness was gone and from inside, through their eyes, a different light shown out – older, changed, no longer the simple teenager who had left family, friends, or maybe a girlfriend, or a wife; someone different, but not different.

I didn’t see it in myself, but I could see the difference as I traveled home and came across those who were on their way to hell. You could tell by looking which direction they were going. It was in their eyes, in the way they walked, even in the way they talked.

The eyes are supposed to be the windows of the soul. Most of those eyes were empty, but in a few, a terrible light showed through, as if the gates of hell had been opened and the fires flared out through those eyes. Eventually, that light would break out from all too many, as we fell victim to our ghosts, some sooner than others, some lucky enough to conquer most of the ghosts and find some peace, others to survive for many years, before being struck down by Vietnam, but all casualties of the same war.

I can go no further. The thirty years have never passed.  But I am not the one who went to Vietnam; I am the one who returned. The young kid with a life and a world in front of him never made it. I cannot bring him back and he could not exist long in the struggle within me.

©Copyright August 2004 by Jeanette Zobjeck
Vietnam - Dec. '67 - Nov. 1968


Author’s Note: 

I volunteered for the Army and for signal corps training but, as things would be, I was also trained in 32d, (fixed station facilities control), originally 32C, (fixed Station Transmitter repair) Chu Lai.

U.S.Army Signal Corps 1st Signal Battalion North Danang 32d 20 f8.  The F8 for presidential communications was earned in 1969, when President Nixon went to Hawaii. I was the NCOIC in charge of facilities mainainence. 

Years ago, when I was just beginning to open up enough so that I could talk to other vets and friends of veterans, I was writing to a very wise woman about how I felt about Vietnam. The above narrative is the end product of some of my thoughts.

Since then, I have met many people, veterans, families of veterans, people who are trying, today, to understand the Vietnam experience. I have tried many ways to answer their questions, but in the end, I return to these thoughts, presented for your own quest to understand and live with Vietnam.

To clear any confusion, I was born Transgendered and I tried so very very hard to be "normal" for the era. It just didn't work, and in the late 1970's, I went through transition to female.

Visit Jeanette's Website


“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Navy EM Club and the Cattle Car

One Version of a Cattle Car

by Douglas Johnson

There were some moments in the Nam experience that can be reflected on with amusement and most of those moments were tolerated only because we were 19 or 20 and extremely resilient.

When I came down from the Cua Viet and Dong Ha area, we would go to the EM Club run by the Navy. (If you remember, Da Nang was a close city, unlike Saigon).

Most of us were not old enough to vote, and since we were under 21, we had to sit on the near beer side of the EM Club. It was the only alcoholic beverage we were allowed to drink. Only if we were 21 and over could we drink regular beer, or hard liquor. (I’m not sure, but I believe the Army regs were different in I Corp and their EM Clubs).

That just didn’t make sense ... only two days before, we were behind a 50, or tossing grenades. Now we were sitting in the only club we were allowed to go to, sipping on near beer, because the Navy decided we were not old enough to handle hard liquor ….

To liven up the story, when the club closed at 9 p.m., a cattle car was backed up to the door of the EM Club. They ordered everybody out of the club and we left via the door, walked up a ramp, and then they packed us into the cattle car. We had to stand the entire time, since there weren’t any seats in the cattle car.

Now, what you’ve got is a full load of men from age 19 to approximately 22 or 23, who are completely wasted and weaving and bobbing, since the road had numerous curves. (I still believe the driver made the trip even worse by his driving style, just to have his jollies).

Anyway, we had guys who were sick from the motion, occasional fights breaking out, and everyone packed in so tight that the 2 SP's couldn’t even push the crowd out of the way for any crowd control. Now top that off with the heat index making it stifling in there ...

When we woke up the next morning, we swore we would never go back to the Club again. But it was the only game in town, so we were back the next night, but only if we were still in Da Nang.

Another episode about the Navy EM Club in Da Nang and the cattle car express.

I was sleeping on the deck of my boat on the on the Marble Mountain side of Da Nang Bay. We had just come back from the Perfume River/Hue area and we were due to go back up North the next day to Dong Ha.

As I said, I was sleeping on the deck with a poncho liner as my blanket, when I heard a loud scream, "Look out! He has a frozen stick of Bologna!"

I jumped up from my sleeping position to see our Gunner's Mate, a scrapper from some unheard of parish in Louisiana, just as he was delivering a forceful upper cut to the crewman swinging the frozen bologna stick like a club.

The guy’s behavior while swinging the frozen stick of bologna was like a Berserker leading a frontal attack for the Vikings, thus the need of such a forceful action. He went down hard with one punch.

When we went up to him, not only was his mouth bleeding from the punch, but we noticed he had numerous cuts and abrasions on both arms, his legs, torso, and his clothing was torn and tattered.

The next morning when he woke up from his drunken stupor, he was moaning and unable to get up. We had to get him Medevac’d off the boat. He had a fracture of one leg.

One of the crew went over to the hospital in Camp Tien Sha to visit our bologna-wielding attacker later and he got the full story: the attacker was from Iowa and this was his seventh year in the Navy. While he was stationed in Thailand, (I never knew the reason why), he married a Thai woman.

We learned that on the night of the attack, he had just found out that afternoon via a Dear John letter from his wife that she was already married to a Bangkok policeman. She had only married him (our sailor), so she could get extra money. The letter also stated that her Policeman husband wanted an end to this arrangement.

So, to seek cathartic relief from the news, he went to the EM Club and got wasted. Since he was over 21, he could drink hard liquor.

Seems the club had a policy that from 8:00 p.m. until closing time, they would hit a bell and from that point until closing time, all shots were 10 cents. Those over 21 could pull out a one dollar MPC note and have ten shots put in front of them. Now you can understand why the cattle car was like a vomit comet when we were all loaded into it!

In leaving the EM Club, the Iowan bologna-wielding Viking sailor was totally wasted. Now, there were openings on each side of the cattle car and the truck pulling it would only slow down and discharge its passengers at six designated stops along the route.

Our shipmate got in the cattle car and he decided he was going to get off when HE wanted to get off -- and where he wanted to get off was at HIS own designated stop. (God only knows what his thought processes were in that condition), but he stepped off the car while it was still in motion.

When he hit the ground, the speed propelled him off the road and down over a hill, thus the mystery of why he was covered with cuts and abrasions over his entire body was solved. The fracture probably came from the impact of hitting the road when he exited the cattle car.

He never returned to the boat, because his leg was casted. None of us ever heard from him again, except for the one crewman who visited him in the hospital and solved the mystery of his injuries and actions.

I went through small arms fire, rocket attacks, and numerous mine explosions on the Rivers, but that was my first and only attack by a frozen stick of bologna while in Nam ...

Douglas Johnson, M.B.A.
Vietnam 1969 to 1970 - I Corp
Engineman Third Class: U.S. Navy
Navy Boats and Front Gunner

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

Old Vets: by Michael Lansford

Michael Lansford 

I have asked myself this question many times --  What is an Old Vet?

What is it that actually defines what an Old Vet is? 

Thousands of us began as fairly innocent young kids, (or men, if you prefer), who were sent off to do unknown things in a world few will ever know.

We became Old Vets long before our time, because we survived all the horrors of war in ways I still find hard to think about, let alone try and explain.

Those of us that survived -- and still survive today -- were already old by the time we were 18, (or whatever age fits).

We came back to a changed world from the one we remembered and longed to come back to. It was a world that had become not only tired of war, but tired of us, as well.

The world didn’t know a thing about the who, the what, or the why, of it all, and we couldn't explain it to them for many reasons. Some people had -- and still have -- closed minds to the cold hard truth of war. Some did try to understand, but we as "Old Vets" couldn't tell anyone anything.  We feared the reality of what society already thought of us.

The irony is, the world still thought of as kids, and we weren't allowed to do certain things, because we weren't "OLD" enough, or mature enough, to make decisions that impacted our lives (as well as those of society). In one respect, we were years ahead of the rest of the world. In yet another, we were years behind.

Nothing like being in combat with the permission and ability to take or save a life, call in air strikes, artillery fire, risk our lives in suicide missions, handle explosives and weapons, live like animals, or worse, and yet back in the world, we weren't even old enough to buy beer.

My biggest issue to this day was being told I couldn’t vote -- I wasn't mature enough to make decisions that affected the future of our country? We were sure old enough to go off to war …

So, we did what we had to do to survive. We withdrew and tried living in what the world perceived to be a normal life with all it had to offer. From where we came from, we never quite seemed to fit in, or adapt, to a changed world. From our viewpoint, we only exchanged one evil for another -- one which was much more dangerous.

A song, a picture, nightmares, sounds, or cross words spoken to and about us, all brought back the reality of our war, so we withdrew even more, some to the point of no return and no escape. Some blocked it out completely, but it was still there -- deep inside it still lurks, always.  Even now, as true Old Vets, we constantly live with our demons.

We were a generation that asked nothing for what we did, and we gave all we had to keep us alive and, in our minds, to keep America safe and free. For us, it was a small price to pay for freedom. Whatever it took, we stepped up and paid that debt in full -- some more than others.

We never failed, backed down, ran, or quit. What we were and are will be with us forever. We were willing to give our lives for our country, our comrades, and everything we considered right, and no one will ever take that away either.

We have survived to be where we are now, and we owe so many for the blessings bestowed on us by family and friends who never gave up on us.

For the most part, we as Old Vets have survivor’s guilt.  I do.  We have questions, too.  Why, how, and what were the ultimate reasons we survived?  There are no answers, just more questions.

At times, being old Vets makes us wonder what if?  What if we didn't come home?  What about those that didn't -- how would their lives have turned out? Would any of them have made a real difference back home?

Most of us can’t, nor will we ever, truly come home. Vietnam will be with us forever, like it or not. We lived it, breathed it, and we remember it, regardless. As long as one Vietnam Vet lives, who we were will never die.

We are truly one, no matter what branch, or where, we served. We are a band of brothers and sisters, just like it has always been said about past Old Vets. What we are in life reflects on who we all were and what we believe in, even to this day.

Michael (lying on belly) Awaiting Medivac after Hamburger Hill

How others see and hear us, shows we are many things they never knew about us and it represents us all, in one way or another.

What they see and read speaks volumes about us. We can't change outsiders’ opinions of us, but we can write the truth and hope they will listen to what we have to say. 

We are who we are and if they only knew we would give our life to save them, they might have a different view of us and our war – a war that made us such Old Vets to begin with.

Only we can know what's inside us from where we came. Some things truly can't be explained. Life isn't always fair, it's just life, and we live it every day, each in their own way.

I hope the next generations are, (and will be), learning more about the horror of war and combat, and how it changes someone from day one, for the rest of their life. Fact is, now days, society is seeing the reality of war, thanks to all the tech things out there. Real war comes face to face with them daily. They get a new look at what all wars really are, just sitting on the sidelines watching.

For us, we didn't necessarily have to be in actual combat, but we still had to show up. There were no timeouts, breaks, days off, or holidays. Combat was 24/7. There was no second place in war.

Being Old Vets, we have traveled many roads in our lives, both good and bad. We still feel we are at war, no matter what is going on. We’re still fighting for benefits that shouldn't ever have been questioned in the first place. We paid our dues and stand to this day by the Oath we took long ago.

Through it all, the only thing we ever wanted when we survived and came back to the world was a simple "Thank You". Money doesn't buy what that means to us -- it never will. The people we owe thanks to are fellow Vets, (past, present, and future), family, friends, our Combat Medics, Medevac's, doctors and nurses, as well as the Donut Dollies, who also showed up to give us hope and helped us remember the world we left behind. Even Bob Hope showed up. Now that's courage to boot.

So from one Old Vet to all my brother and sister Old Vets, I say thank you from the bottom of my Heart. It’s been a long and hard road -- but if any of us could do it differently, would we? As we learned from the generation of WWII Vets, let's hope this next generation will also learn from us ...

Remember, always stand up for what you believe in. Never second guess what you believe, or do, in life. Things don't always go as planned, but staying committed to what you believe in, is worth more than winning at something you don’t. Life doesn't always give you a do-over or re-do, whatever you want to call it. For some of us, we have been blessed with second chances. Learn to make life better, whatever you perceive it to be.

From just one of many "Old Vets",
Michael Lansford

Vietnam '68 - '69

Michael Lansford, an "Old Vet"

Other Articles by Michael Lansford:

Loved Ones We Left Behind
Combat Memories Last Forever
Life Changed Forever

Reflections

Promises Made, Promises Kept

Pilots and POW's

Remembering Comrades

The Last Firebase

Sayings and Poems

A Couple of Stories

The Last Road: A Vietnam Vet's Perspective

Holidays in The Nam

Dear Civilians

FNG Initiation and Humor

Life Prepared Me for Vietnam

Leavings at The Wall

Coming Home

Honoring The Wall

Life in the Jungle

In My Own Words: Part 1

In My Own Words: Part 2

Part 3: The KIA

Hill 937: Part 4

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

The Circle: by Lance Pinamonte

Lance Pinamonte

It was the fall of 1968 when I arrived in country.  I was a kid of barely eighteen.

My new unit was a small slick group of three flight platoons with seven aircraft each. I was assigned a ship within three days of my arrival.

The first thing I noticed was, we were flying a lot more hours than most of the other units around us, over a hundred hours a week on a steady basis. This gave the aircrews very little time off.  We pretty much lived in our aircraft.

I also noticed a group of aircrews that were ... different  They were cooler, kept their aircraft cleaner, took better care of their guns, equipment, and they always volunteered for the dangerous missions. In the early mornings, they would always be on time to the flight line, too.

These guys always wore sunglasses, always spoke with authority, and when everyone did find time off in the evening, they would form their old lawn chairs into a circle in the middle of the field behind the hooches.

I guess the first time I actually met someone from this group, was when he was refusing to fly with a pilot that was clearly still drunk. He did it with all the respect due this pilot's rank. The pilot finally backed down, staggered back to his hooch, and another pilot replaced him.

There was a lot of drinking in off-duty times, and a few of our pilots were flat out drunks. But you didn't see the guys in the circle  staggering back from the EM/NCO club late at night in a drunken state.  It didn't mean that they didn't drink at all, they just didn't care for being out of control.

I had been on my own aircraft for only a week, and the action taken by my door gunner (part of the circle) impressed me. He was full-blooded Indian and he had been in country four tours, three of them as 11B, a grunt.

He outranked me as an E-6, been wounded three times, refused to go back stateside, and he had volunteered to be a Door Gunner. He also called me "Kid".  It wasn't the best of nicknames, but it stuck -- I had been called worse.

Smoking Pot

My curious nature finally peaked.  One night on my way to the EM club, I stopped by the circle and I saw smoke rising from the group.

(Now, I was not ignorant of what was going on -- I knew they were smoking pot).

Everybody in the circle was a little paranoid of my joining this tight-knit group, so the pipes were put out, while they felt me out as either friend, or foe...

Finally, my gunner said, "He's cool guys.  Light up a bowl."

I decided to partake and, as I did, I heard my gunner say, "Now your cool, Kid." and it stuck. From then on, I was known as "Cool Kid" ... and I bought a cheap set of shades the day after.

Fast forward two years ...

I had gotten myself into some pretty big trouble, (another story, for another day), and I was on my way to another unit, up for a undesirable discharge.

So, I was walking through an administration building in DaNang, looking to report to a Captain there. As I walked into his office, I found said Captain wearing ... shades.  Well, he found me a safe haven for my last 90 days, and an honorable discharge ...

Over the years after that, I abused almost every drug their is, I over-drank, over-smoked, and finally, after sixteen years of abuse, I straightened my act out. But many times I think of those days, all the hard work, the danger ... and the guys in The Circle.

"Cool Kid"

Lance L. Pinamonte

U.S. Army - 1967 to 1970
67N30
Crew Chief/Door Gunner
Helicopter Mech.
Champagne Flight

Other Articles by Lance:

What's Wrong with Being Wrong?
Crew Chief's Memory of Thanksgiving '68
Enough
A Fearful America

A Nation Unwilling to Change

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. Only you can write the truth about the Vietnam veteran and Our War -- for America, and for history.

Send it to me in an e-mail and I will be proud to post it for you.

No Contact with Kilo 9

Russell (Russ) Wallace and "Tusky"

 by Russell (Russ) Wallace

Tracer rounds originating on Kilo 9 split the growing darkness and got the attention of the sentries in their towers.

“Bravo 2 to Base.”

“Go ahead Bravo 2, this is Base.”

“Shots have been fired on Kilo 9. There are outgoing tracer rounds.”

“10-4. Base to Kilo 9.”
.... (no answer) ....

“Base to Kilo 9.”
..... (no answer) ....

“No contact with Kilo 9.”

It was a very hot and humid August night at Phan Rang Air Force Base. The K-9 units were called to work early this night. Both the Early Flight and Late Flight stood guard mount together.

We were told the name of the North Vietnamese sapper unit which was going to attack us. We were told that the radio net was being jammed and we were only to check our radio if we thought it might have a problem. It was our routine to do a radio check as we were posted. This served two purposes; it let our Operations Center know we were posted, as well as insured the radio worked.

The Early Flight, which normally posted just after dark, was posting before dark. The Late Flight, which normally posted two hours after the Early Flight, began posting as soon as the trucks returned to the kennels.

I was on the Early Flight and assigned to Kilo 9. As instructed, I did not check my radio after being posted, because I was receiving all the radio chatter. It was just a little after 1930 hours and I passed the gate guard as I walked down towards the fence line. At 7:30, the double-gated entrance was locked and unmanned overnight. I had about 200 yards of perimeter to patrol, so I made a sweep of the area and it was secure.

Feeling happy and safe, I sat down on a rock and plugged my ear plug into my pocket transistor radio and tuned in the oldies on the Armed Forces Radio Network. Then, something I had never done before. I plugged an ear plug into my walkie-talkie, so I could still hear the radio transmissions. I felt good.  Both radios were working, not blaring, giving away my position.

I stood, and noticed Tusky was alerting towards the gate and the road towards the Strip, a village that had sprung up close to the base to service the needs of the off-duty personnel. I could hear the sounds of merriment wafting in on the gentle breeze.

I thought to myself, Tusky, you silly dog.  I can hear those sounds. too. They are nothing. True, the noises I heard were nothing, but the noises Tusky was alerting to were something. He had picked up the sounds and perhaps the scent of some people coming up the road towards the base.

The sky was barely light, still outlining the tree tops, but the tree line was plunged into total darkness. I was 30 feet from the gate and I could not see it. But I could hear the sounds of people approaching the gates, even though I could not see them.

It was time to call in my dog’s alert. I should have believed him from the start. He was trained to see, hear, and smell things my senses could not discern. He did his job, so I had to catch up and do mine, by calling in the evolving situation on my radio. I called it in and received a 10-4 from Base.

Little did I know, Base did not receive my transmission.  The 10-4 I heard was for someone else’s radio transmission.

I did not hear control dispatch the Security Alert Team for my back up, because they had not done so. I did not notice the omission, because I was busy focusing on what was happening right in front of me, about 40 feet away.

The men I still could not see were shouting and rattling the gates. It was an Asian language, and I remembered the briefing at guard mount about the sapper unit that was expected to attack us. We had been told that sapper units would probably be high on something which would help them overcome their fear of the dogs guarding the perimeter. These men had no fear of my dog who was being very vocal.

I found a huge rock to crouch behind just off to one side of the road. I still did not know how many men were out there in the darkness. I felt protected, and then they started climbing the first of two gates. I needed to inform the Control Center of the changing situation.

“Kilo 9 to Base.”
... (no response) ... 

“Kilo 9 to Base.”
... (no response) ... 

“Kilo 9 to Bravo 1.”
... (no response) ... 

“Kilo 9 to Bravo 2.”
... (no response).

The men climbed the first gate and were crossing the ten feet of open space to get to the second gate. The huge rock I was crouched behind shrank to the size of a pea in my mind. I ran back 30 yards and found a rock that was twelve feet high and had a shear edge like the corner of a house. My dog was barking out of control, his adrenaline rush probably comparable to mine.

I refocused on the sounds in front of me. The men were shouting and shaking the chain link gate. Then they started climbing the last gate. I tried my radio again, but first I pulled out the ear plug. It did not matter that it would blast out radio transmissions, because my dog was louder than the radio.

I tried calling Base and the two towers that were close to me, but the ear plug was not the problem. They still did not receive my transmissions. My radio’s battery was strong enough to receive, but not strong enough to transmit. A simple radio check would have resolved that when I was posted. I could not worry about that, because there was an unknown number of men walking up the road towards me.

Suddenly, two silhouettes appeared in the middle of the road. I gave them an order to halt and they did not. My dog was barking like crazy and jumping around wanting to get to them. My warning shot was straight at them. I continued firing and they both fell. Then one of them jumped up and ran for cover, and I shot twice more at him. He fell in the ditch at the side of the road.

I thought, how many others made it to cover in the rocks? I ran from my position and took up another defensive position further up the road. Tusky had calmed down and was not barking.

The tower guard called in the shots fired and Control tried to reach me. I tried to answer, but I could not. I heard Base dispatch the Security Alert Team and then I shut off my useless radio. The base went from Yellow to Red Alert.

I finally had time to breathe and think. My dog was calm, but alert. I began wondering how many men were part of this penetration attempt. One man was lying in the ditch moaning, the other was babbling something, probably giving information to his comrades who had made it to cover in the rocks.

I wondered how many times I had fired and how many rounds I had left. I was carrying a CAR-15 with 18 rounds in the magazine. I was firing it one-handed, like a pistol on semi-automatic.  But what if someone charges me from the rocks and I run out of ammo?

 I unclipped Tusky’s leash and took hold of his collar. He was easy to control, because he had calmed down. If I run out of ammo, I could let Tusky go and hopefully get my magazine changed while the person struggled with an 80-pound attack dog.

All stayed quiet. Two dog men from the Late Flight were posted at the perimeter road and shouted out to me as they approached. I was never so glad to see two guys as I was right then.

The supervisor for the Late Flight showed up next. He drove his jeep with its lights on right down to where the South Korean non-commissioned officer was lying in the road. Fortunately for him it was not an attempted penetration of the base by a North Vietnamese sapper unit.

Two South Koreans were late returning from the bars and whore houses of the Strip. The Korean compound had a curfew of 7:00 PM, the airbase, a curfew of 7:30 PM, and the two Koreans arrived at the gates at 7:45 PM.

Both Koreans lived. They were sent to do two years hard labor in a Korean prison. I had fired 8 rounds and hit each of them twice. I found that out, during my four-hour investigation by the Korean Military Police.  I had to explain to them exactly what happened and I made sure my explanation was in line with the MACV Rules of Engagement.

If I had shot the unarmed Koreans when they were outside the fence, I would have been the one going to jail. I could only shoot at them if they shot at me first, or if I saw them setting up a crew-served weapon to be used against the base. I did my job, scared as I was.

Well they did not shoot at me, so that took me to the next scenario: penetration of the base. But I still do not have the authority to shoot them. I must give them two verbal warnings. Well, I gave them one verbal warning in Vietnamese and English -- I figured my dog barking was an even bigger halt command than my verbal one.

That did not stop them, so I gave them a warning shot -- I just did not tell the Koreans that it was straight at them. I again figured that Tusky’s bark was as much a warning shot as a shot from my gun. The two Koreans knew they were crossing a secure post and failed to halt.

The Koreans, as they interrogated me, asked a couple of interesting questions. First, “Why didn’t I tell them to halt in Korean as well?”

Let’s see, I thought it was an attack by a North Vietnamese sapper unit. Why would I even think it might be Koreans? Besides, I was so frightened, I could not remember the Korean word for halt.

Second, they asked me if I walked over and shot the guy lying in the ditch, because he was shot once through the back.

Well, he turned his back on me when he was running for the rocks and I fired twice at him. Not an easy shot, shooting one-handed from the hip, while your dog is jumping around trying to get to the guy. But they already knew the answer. All of my casings were in the one spot where I stood and fired.

After I spent four hours giving my statement and a signed, handwritten, report to the Koreans, the U.S. Air Force spent three and a half hours interrogating me. There is nothing worse than putting your life on the line and watching the justice system decide whether you acted properly, or not.

That incident had to be one of the most frightening things to happen in my life. An almost equally frightening event occurred two nights later. The Koreans I shot belonged to a White Horse Division artillery battery.

The following night, I did not go to post, because I was up all day being investigated for any wrongdoing by the Koreans and the U.S. Air Force. I had the night off. The post I should have been on was shelled short by the Koreans. Occasionally, they do make an error in their co-ordinates.

The second night after the incident, I was back on duty protecting the base from intruders who wanted to blow up our planes and I was taking cover from the artillery rounds which shelled my post short for the second night in a row.

As was normal, I heard the howitzers firing, but unlike normal, they were not hitting a point 1500 meters, or more, off base. The three rounds were whistling in on my position. It was too late to get to a bunker, by the time I realized I was the target.

I hit the ground and tried to pull my dog down -- he wanted to stand up and howl at the whistling. We survived unscathed as the shrapnel whooshed over our heads. I could hear it pepper the tin that surrounded the sandbags in the tower close to my position.

The tower guard did not have time to get to his bunker. He ducked behind the sandbagged walls of the tower and escaped injury.

Our Operations Officer visited the Koreans the next day and told them, "Once might be a mistake, but twice is not."  He let it be known that it must not happen again. Thankfully it stopped.

My wife and I are campers. There is a firing range just over the hill from the campsite our trailer is on. I guess hearing shots being fired can trigger long hidden memories.

One evening, I had the most frightening nightmare I have ever had. I dreamed we were sitting in front of our fire pit enjoying a drink, when some rounds started whistling in on top of us. My struggle was not to get my dog down, but to convince my wife to get out of her chair and lie prone.

I awoke before it concluded, but it seemed as real as the event in Nam. I was shaken and did not sleep well that night. Every now and then, I get a crazy dream like that. I am thankful it does not happen often.

Russell (Russ) Wallace
USAF - Security Police
Sentry Dog Handler
Vietnam - February 1968 to February 1969

Author Note:  Memoirs From Nam inspired me to write this story about an event that happened in Nam. I was further inspired to begin my own blog, writing about my life, while I was in the U.S. Air Force.

If you follow by email, you will be given updates every time I add a new memory. 

Follow Me Here 

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable  sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

Loved Ones We Left Behind

Vietnam

by Michael Lansford

We left this country to be sent to a far off land we had only heard of on TV.  Still just kids, we had no clue about the impact it would have on us, or our loved ones, after the last time we saw them. 

With all the life changing events we endured, and growing up so fast and so soon, it was even harder to think about what our loved ones endured, sitting and waiting, only learning where we were and what we were involved in through the TV.

Impatiently, they waited to receive a letter from us just to know, even for a brief moment, that we were okay and still alive. 

For us, it was never possible to write and say exactly what our world had become -- no one would understand any of it anyway, least of all us. 

How could we tell loved ones about war and combat, the suffering and pain we saw, both in life and death?  What they remembered was, only a short time earlier, we were safe at home with them.

Before going, we had no clue what it would be like, nor did we know the impact it would have on us and them for the rest of our lives.  For them, seeing the war on TV and reading about it must have been very hard. Who knows what they saw on TV, heard from others, read in the newspapers, and lastly our mail.  

I believe their fears and anguish were as bad, if not worse, than our own. The fear of the unknown does strange things to people's minds. That had to take more courage than anyone could imagine. Through it all, they stood behind us, backed and supported us, and without question. That's uncommon bravery, unknown except to loved ones waiting for our return, safe and (hopefully) sound. 

Their fears were compounded by all the negatives they saw via protests, picketing, and flag burning. Imagine having a loved one fighting for what they believed in, yet watching so many others on TV marching and hating us without knowing the true story behind why we were there and who we were. 

Our loved ones became targets, or outlets, if you will, for the protesters' rage. It must have been easy for them to lash out, knowing they weren't the ones going to a foreign land with the possibility of never coming home.

How did our loved ones handle all that and maintain their hope and faith that we would be home soon? I still wonder. Through it all, they stood with us. That kept us going, plus it gave us our will to live so we would get out alive. 

Some didn't attain that goal.  Their loved ones' loss was (and still is) great.  That's very humbling to know their grief and suffering will always be with them. 

Even though we came home, we were scarred for life. Most of us couldn't tell our loved ones about anything we did -- there was just no way to explain war to someone who was not there. It was next to impossible for us to even put it into words.

This is one of the many reasons a lot of us withdrew from society after we returned. The fear of reprisal was great from those that hated us, but also, there was the fear that talking about it would hurt our loved ones even more than everything already had. 

In the end, it was our loved ones that were the true heroes -- at least for me. What they did can never be repaid, just learned from. 

To the ones who waited so long for loved ones to come home, only to receive a letter informing them of their loss, I am truly saddened for you. My heart will forever be scarred. We feel their loss almost as much as you do, just in a different context.

You see, we were often the last ones our comrades saw in life and we carry that image with us forever. We can't tell their loved one much about it, except that our only comfort is for them to know their loved one did not die alone. Someone was with them wherever they fell and they will always be honored. 

So this is for all the families, friends, and loved ones left behind --we never forgot you either. Thank you for always being there, even if it was thousands of miles away. 

God Bless and keep you all. Thank you from an old surviving vet. I owe you.

Michael Lansford

Other Articles by Michael Lansford:

Combat Memories Last Forever
Life Changed Forever

Reflections

Promises Made, Promises Kept

Pilots and POW's

Remembering Comrades

The Last Firebase

Sayings and Poems

A Couple of Stories

The Last Road: A Vietnam Vet's Perspective

Holidays in The Nam

Dear Civilians

FNG Initiation and Humor

Life Prepared Me for Vietnam

Leavings at The Wall

Coming Home

Honoring The Wall

Life in the Jungle

In My Own Words: Part 1

In My Own Words: Part 2

Part 3: The KIA

Hill 937: Part 4

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.

"Right or Wrong": by Jim Van Doren

Our Country - Right or Wrong

“Right or Wrong”

Jim Van Doren (2004)

“My country, right or wrong”?

It might be the title of a song

But for our People to be Strong

They need to know what’s Right, what’s Wrong.

Defending our Country is our absolute right.

But imposing our will – based on our might – 

Declares to the world that “Might makes Right”.

It puts our armed forces in an undeserved plight

As they question the instinct: “Fight or Flight”?

As a Citizen, what is my task?

As a Patriot, it’s my duty to ask.

As a Veteran, I will not only plead – 

I will demand of those elected to Lead:

What business have we in launching attacks

Based on suspicion, not founded on facts?

“Actionable Intelligence” must bear correlation

To hard Evidence with proven Corroboration.

Before launching any “pre-emptive” invasion,

We need hard proof, not just a persuasion

That the threat is more than a handy excuse

To sanctify our own “righteous” forms of abuse.

To question a leader who acts like royalty

Is our daily imperative, of utmost loyalty – 

To our Country, its People, and its Laws,

And to our culture, with all its flaws

But especially to those who’ve answered the call – 

Because they ... “All gave some, and some gave All”.

Jim Van Doren 

Dustoff Medic

Vietnam '65-'66

Also by Jim Van Doren:

Again and Again

"I was born in Ohio, but grew up in Vietnam."

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you want to share. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history.