SAIL ON SILVER GIRL

Do you remember the song “Bridge over Troubled Waters”, by Simon and Garfunkel? Part of the hook in the song goes,

“Sail on silver girl,
your time has come to shine,
all your dreams are on their way,
see how they fly,”

It is one that I will always identify the most with my Vietnam experience. There were two Boeing 707’s (silver birds (girls) in my mind - to make the analogy work) that flew into and out of my life almost exactly one year apart. The first a classy champagne filled Pan Am flight - white with blue lettering, and the second a sleeker looking Northwestern bird - silver with red lettering. One took me into the shadow of evil and the other brought me out; a little different, but alive.

I suppose time passes so slowly in war zones like these, because you are aware of each minute you are alive. Aware of each hot muggy breath you take, and each minute you lie on dirty damp sandy sheets and try to sleep during the day or night. Aware of each minute you fight off sleep on post, and the sound of each close “kachunk” during unfriendly fire, even the muffled thuds thirty miles away. It is the awareness that someone who does not even know you, wants to kill you just to survive themselves, and it puzzles your every waking moment. Awareness of one friend lost and another wounded. It could have been you. You are always aware of the darkness and the present silent danger.

It seems to take an eternity just to fill in Miss FIGMO’s head, but you religiously visit her locker-alter each day - paying homage and penciling in a daily sacrifice to help get you to the next day - one more closer to going home.

Time goes by so slowly (and time can do so much) that you again feel you have always been there and that home is only a dream. You begin to feel you will never leave. One way or the other you are not going to get out of there alive. It was predestined - what was meant to be all along. That is why having a car, maybe a wife and some kids, seems so unobtainable to a 19 year old. It is because you were not meant to have those things. You were meant to come here and die. The mind plays funny games with you under this kind of isolation and stress.

Nevertheless, one day, you are actually SHORT and you shout it for the first time! It feels good, at least as long as the beer last. When you are alone it actually scares you. You hear stories of guys who were shot in the back getting on the plane, so you’re afraid to push your luck by celebrating too confidently. The numbers actually begin to scare you around 70, then 50, then 30. You eat less and sleep less - its paranoia at its best. “Oh my precious Lord…please let me make it out of here. Please!”

The day finally comes and you have 3 days left. You shout silently inside as you board the plane for Saigon, to await the “silver bird” that will take you home to the round-eyed women. You color in number four and board the plane.

You also get to shout “SHORT and FIGMO” at some green weenies, but the boasting is shallow. Deep inside you know how they feel, but you do not want to show your fear for, or to them. You are an American man, a war worn veteran, and you have to keep up appearances, so you mock them and let them know the hell they face and that you are “short”. They did it to you, so you do it to them.

As you can see, you never leave Vietnam. It is with you all the time, just waiting for a moment to spring back upon you and make you remember. It all survives - the good and the bad.

The last good was the Northwestern “silver bird” that sat cautiously at the end of the runway on day number 1. The engines run up to speed and then the clacking sound, as the wheels pass over the breaks in the runway. It gets faster and faster, then silence as the wheels leave the earth. However, there are snipers sometimes, so every breath is held until the steep climb seems high enough and is finally punctuated by the rumbling thud of the wheels retracting and sealing off the rushing air.

NOW YOU CAN SHOUT, “SHORT!” Everyone leans over for one last glimpse and cusses the fading land behind them. Relief overwhelms you. The weight of the world is lifted you want to cry and hug everyone, but you cannot. You just shout “SHORT!”

Our “silver girl” was sailing on. Her time to shine had come, and all our dreams were on their way!

The way the world is today, war is ever present – a way of life for each successive generation. Sometimes I think we are all getting short. I just wish that all the world leaders could experience a SHORT TIMERS CALENDAR just one time in their life. It should be a prerequisite! Maybe then, we would never again have to make copies of FIGMO calendars for our children to take into war.

SWEEPING OUT THE CORNERS OF MY MIND - 2

I am preparing to leave Vietnam - still attempting to sweep out the corners of my mind. However, I have few documenting photos left to illustrate my memories. Just thoughts, wispy memories of things I saw and that will always be there waiting to be conjured up by some déjà vu phrase, smell, or shadow.

I remember receiving my “VC Kill Card” upon arriving at Da Nang. Col. Phillips made sure each Security Policeman carried one and could recite it by heart! I think it was pride he tried to instill by insinuating that the SPs were somehow better than the Marines…’cause if the VC got through them…they were dead!

I remember witnessing real “missing man” formations of flights coming back from missions north, and how the F-4 engine can be so throttled back that it barely hangs in the air, yet moans the grief felt by its pilots, as it crosses the length of the flight line and then around west so that the sound echoes off Hill 327. It was almost as if the plane itself mourned the lost of its sister ship!

Maybe the next day the normal sounds of the base would be broken by a low flying jubilant pilot who had moments before scored his first, or maybe his fourth MIG! The screaming sound overhead causes you to nearly squat then look skyward as the F-4 pulls straight up at full afterburner, rolls to the right, and disappears above the clouds just as his wingmen fly overhead in a staggered formation. The celebration of proud yells from their ground crews begin just after the event is punctuated by the double clap of the victor breaking the sound barrier on his decent from the clouds.

The entire base stops and revels in the moment…a moment it seemed to share. We had not flown the mission, but we worked on the craft, refueled it, loaded its weapons, and fed the crew, or guarded the plane. It was all our victory!

I remember a proud red-headed pilot with a huge handlebar mustache, that a few hours before had rumbled by my post and saluted me by tapping two gloved fingers to this helmet, but was now sitting with both elbows on the sides of his cockpit, as if he sat on a throne, turning into the revetment area waving to his friends.

He was a flamboyant pilot that I remember personally armed himself, reminiscent of George Patton, with an ivory handled .38! He was Da Nang’s resident “hotshot,” scoring his third before going home.

I remember champagne being waved and a guy with a stencil and a can of red spray paint running out to apply the fourth badge of courage to the side of the F-4. What a glorious day that even I remember with pride!

And so it was – there were good days and there were bad days, but we all made the most of it.

We all fought our own demons of fear and loneliness, but we made it. I do, however, remember an instance that took me to the edge of sanity. I can only think that God pulled me back and changed the situation for me.

There was an inconsiderate pilot, who, I have no doubt saw me, that stopped his F-4 one night just twenty yards from my extreme south end post, that was nothing more than a foxhole, and ran his jet up and down for what seemed like forever. His bright front wheel landing light was on and blazing a hole right through me. I just knew that “Charlie” could see me plainly, and was at the moment ringing my head with crosshairs of his scope. I was getting angrier by the second!

I began to make “turn if off” motions by drawing my hand across my throat, but he ignored me. In reality, he was probably going through countless points on his pre-flight check list, but to me he was doing it on purpose.

My blood pressure rose and my anger heightened until I found myself raising my M-16 and pointing it right at the blinding light! By this time I was screaming for him to “TURN IT OFF YOU SON OF BITCH,” but of course my voice was being drowned by the engine noise.

I remember pulling the slide back on the M-16 and taking aim…I would have fired, I am quite sure, in a few more seconds, had he, for whatever reason, not cut the light.

I sat down on the ring of sandbags and cried from the terror of the moment. It bothered me that I had almost lost it, but mostly if bothered me that it was the first time I had admitted my anxiety on post. All I know is that I wanted to make it home and this “asshole” could have ended it for me…at least in my mind.

Why I wasn’t reported I cannot image, unless of course, he never saw me at all.

I remember not eating or sleeping well during the last 60, then 30 days. It was too close and yet too far away. I became paranoid and would not eat in the cafeteria, for fear the “gooks” would poison me! I ate only beanie weenies, potted meat, or whatever I could buy at the BX…nothing more, and little of that. I arrived weighing around 180 and would arrive home just under 150 – so thin my mom did not recognize me, and swore I had been in a “concentration camp!”

I also did not sleep well, lightly if anything. It was paranoia at its worst.

MONDAY…I do survive…at least physically!

SWEEPING OUT THE CORNERS OF MY MIND - 1

It is hard for me to come to terms with the fact that it has been over forty-one years since I left Vietnam (at this writing – Nov. ’07). If I may borrow a few lines from Bob Seger:

Twenty(forty)years now
Where'd they go?
twenty (forty)years
I don't know
sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they've gone

And sometimes late at night
When I'm bathed in the firelight
The moon comes callin' a ghostly white
And I recall

When I think back over all that has happened since then, I start to realize, at least a little of where the time has gone. There sure has been a lot of water over the proverbial dam, but damn how quickly it flowed.

I am preparing to leave Vietnam now, although, something inside me is not quite ready to give it up. Oh, I longed, back then, for that day to come, like an inmate awaits his freedom, but now, there is a lump deep within, and I cannot put my finger on it.

So, before my last post on the subject, I am attempting to sweep out the corners of my mind where something might be hidden, something yet untold, but do not get your hopes up that you will find something written within this post that is awe inspiring, or that a secret will finally be revealed – I am afraid that will not happen. However, let us continue to walk down this path and see what happens.

The very first time I came “under fire” was not from Viet Cong or from North Vietnamese Regulars. Nope, it was from the South Vietnamese Army!

On March 10, 1966, South Vietnamese Prime Minister Nguyen Cao Ky removed LtGen. Nguyen Chanh Thi from his position as ARVN I Corps commander. As a result, there were a series of strikes and much political unrest especially within I Corps which saw a succession of I Corps commanders well into June of 1966. Much of the heaviest unrest was in the Da Nang sector.

Ky saw himself as a hotshot air force pilot and this unrest pitted him against Colonel Dam Quang Yeu who lead a large army contingent near Da Nang. Therefore, it was the South Vietnamese Air Force against the South Vietnamese Army for about three days.

Things almost escalated out of hand, as evidenced by this article in the April 22, 1966 issue of Time Magazine.

What the history books do not tell is that shots were actually fired!

I remember standing post in the Alpha Area, south end of the airbase, and watched A-1A Skyraiders rollover, dive, and strafe army positions between the base and the city of Da Nang over this little political disagreement. The grrrrrooowll of the radial engine in a power dive, punctuated by the deep rattle of its four 20mm cannons was very frightening, especially to a young troop just fresh off the plane!

The Vietnamese Army returned fire with either tank or cannon fire (it was never clear to me), which meant they were firing straight up into the air with the airbase as the unintentional target!

I watched as one of the Area Patrols high-tailed it past my post and on down past the last revetments at the extreme south end of the base. I got word through the field phone, again from Boyce, who was working the switchboard that particular shift, that a tank or artillery shell had landed just feet from one of our post. The shell was a “dud” (unexploded), but when the Security Policeman turned and saw the shell sticking in the ground just feet from him, he passed out cold! Hell, who could blame him?

Then there were the two nights I pulled Area Patrol in the “bomb dump” and had to deploy on what was reported by the South Vietnamese as “intruders!”

In the first deployment I was designated as the “high eyes” for the mission into the area suspected of being infiltrated. I pulled myself up through the tall grass to the top of one of the dirt berms, which covered an explosive vault, and hunched over trying to sneak along unseen, and watching ahead of the route being traveled by the six-man team below. Without prior warning, someone popped a hand flare that lit the area and exposing my position on top. One of the Security Policeman and two of the South Vietnamese guards quickly swung their “locked and loaded” weapons on me. There was no doubt in my mind that they were going to fire on me!

I hit the grass and before I could stop myself rolled all the way down the berm and lay at their feet. There were a few seconds of fright that crossed their face, as they realized they had almost shot a “friendly,” before everyone broke down laughing. Damn it, I was so pissed! In the beginning, my mind had seen this whole operation as my “John Wayne” moment – something to tell the grandkids. Instead, here I lay the object of a joke! I wanted to kill them all! “How could they be so damn stupid,” I thought?

I do not think it was more than a week later that I understood. This time, someone else, unbeknownst to me, was deployed to the high line, while I inched along in the dark, safety off, selector on full-auto, finger along the trigger guard, waiting to encounter my worst nightmare. When suddenly someone near me popped off a flare, I caught the figure of a man, a Vietnamese troop at that, out of the corner of my eye. I came up, finger on the trigger, and aimed square in the middle of his chest! Damn! It was close, but I suddenly realized the real stupid one was the NCO who had failed to let everyone know his plan of action.

These were the things that I thought about as I sat in the hooch, or outside in the fresh air, before reporting to Guard Mount. What would the shift bring? What would the night bring? How many days remaining?

It begins to weigh heavily on you as the days, nights, and shifts go by. The closer you get to that “short” date, the more you worry, become paranoid, and begin to analyze everything. The first days are long and hard on you because it is new and scary, but as you become experience they drop off one by one until one day you realize you only have a hundred days left.

As you visit Ms. FIGMO and begin marking off the days, they again slow down. Every minute is an hour, every day a month, and every month a year – or so it seems.

So that was what was in one corner – no, it was not much, but something is still hiding, something wants to be found.

I think it is just that it was so long ago, so deep into my youth, so entwined in my conscious and subconscious that the experience will never let me go. It will always be there. It will be in that next hot humid day, in the next mortar shots for the next Fourth of July fireworks show, in the slamming of a trunk, or in that next sixties song. It will always be with me, and I don’t really care.

The lump leaps to my throat when least expected - the playing of the National Anthem, watching war footage or movies, hearing the brave words of heroes about losing friends, when visiting The Wall, in my grand babies’ eyes, a lyric from a country song, and hell yes, even when I read my own posts. There it is again.

PLEASE GOD, JUST LET ME DIE

Staying sane in Vietnam was very hard because there was little to do. During the time I was stationed at Da Nang, the Air Force was restricted to base. I never got to go downtown and really experience Vietnam as a tourist. I spent a lot of my off time taking photos of aircraft along the flight line.

Occasionally, they allowed us to ride on our “confiscated” 6X6 down to China Beach for a day of R&R. We rattled along through Susie’s village and threw things off to the kids that ran along beside the little convoy. Once there, most of us passed out on the blazing white sand and later paid doubly for our boozing.

Once I got water blisters so bad that I could hardly walk, but since it was a courts-martial offense to damage “government property” I hid my agony under the bloused and rice starched fatigues and reported for work!

We also rode the “duce and a half” to the firing range, yes, we still practiced shooting even in a war zone! This truck actually belonged to the Army, but our crazy Lt. Col. (Phillips), dressed in fatigues, walked onto a C-141 that was off-loading the heavy truck for the Army. Phillips began yelling “It took long enough for ‘my truck’ to get here,” and intimidated the Load Master into signing the truck over to him. No one ever noticed the subtle differences between an Air Force and Army officers uniform!

The vehicle was brought back to the Security Police* Compound, painted Air Force blue, and given a fictitious serial number, which was painted in yellow on both sides of the truck. It was ours from that moment on!

*Incidentally, I have never explained that the Air Police officially became the Security Police in 1966. It was about that time that we changed from the .45 to the .38 sidearm, which was a mistake!

As frequently as possible, we had a party! We got steak or hamburger from our contacts at the mess hall, beer from Marine beer dump, which we conveniently guarded within our bomb dump, ice from the mess hall or NCO club, if either had it, and we got the liquor ration cards from all the non-drinking NCOs!

The party was on…everyone showered and shaved (just made you feel better), and planned to be up all night eating, drinking, and playing cards! These parties provided the few departures from reality available. I thank God that the VC never attacked the base during one of these parties. We would have been useless!

Card playing was about as far out there as you could get from reality. Your belly was full, your mind was numb from beer and/or whiskey, and your concentration was solely devoted to winning the next hand. There was no room for thoughts of where you were or about home.

There was one troop in our outfit (you can see the back of his head in the next two photos) that was on his third tour in Vietnam. He was a professional card player, of sorts, and for the first few nights after payday, he would pay people to stand his post while he remained in the dayroom playing cards. It was told that he sent several hundred dollars a month home.

It just so happen that ol’ Mushy once sat in on a game where he dominated play. However, ol’ Mushy had a secret weapon – alcohol! With my mind numbed, I could put on the best “poker face” ever to stare back across a table. Somehow, I bluffed him and won a $300 pot! To this day, I do not remember the sequence of events, but I have never come close to duplicating that feat again! Oh, and that guy never liked me anymore after that, probably because I raked in my winnings and went to my bunk. He never got the chance to win it back!

Then, of course, there was the Army’s NCO club. From the outside, the club looked like a command bunker, the roof stacked high with sandbags and everything painted a dark brown, but inside, it was as nice as any sports bar I have ever been in since. There were all sorts of brightly colored flashing lights, pin-ball and poker machines, pretty little Vietnamese girls parading around in American style dresses and short-shorts, and a stocked bar from hell! Everything a GI could possibly imagine or ever wanted to try.

I do not remember how I got invited to the Army’s NCO Club, but there I was and I was celebrating with someone (his face is blurry now) who was “short” and buying drinks for his friends. I suppose I was one of those – who knows!

I remember starting the day off in the dayroom sucking down a few cool, cooler than air temperature, brews, and then going across the base to the club. By then I barely weighed 150 pounds soaking wet, having become too paranoid to eat the grub from the chow hall, because the Vietnamese that worked there might poison it!

I am sure my tolerance was reduced by my weight loss, but that did not stop me. On top of the beer, I had at least 3 bourbon and Cokes, then someone popped a bottle of champagne and gave me a couple of glasses. Someone else got the bright idea to introduce me to Scotch – red label Johnnie Walker no less! Probably the worst Scotch I have ever tasted.

Sometime later, I remember hanging over a roll of concertina wire and praying, “Please God just let me die!” I do not know who poked my stomach back down my throat, but I do know they had been rough in doing so.

The last thing I remember is that two guys lowered me somewhat and pitched me into the lower bunk I called home. Keller, my cubicle mate, looked down from the top bunk, shook his head and went back to sleep.

The next morning I woke to Keller banging the side of the metal wall locker, shocking me awake, but not yet sober! I crawled out of my bunk through the bunk area behind our bunks, which was the opposite way I was supposed to go. I stood there looking for my wall locker until one of the aggravated guys took me by the arm and led me around to my cubicle!

Somehow, I managed to get dressed and make it to Guard Mount, where we reported for duty, got our post assignments, our weapons, and were inspected before being transported to our post.

Every time I took a drink of water that day the world began to spin again. It was horrible! Not only was it hot and humid, but I was sweating out the alcohol from the night before through rice starched fatigues. Huge salt and/or rice starch rings formed under my arms, around my neck, down my chest and back. However, I survived to fight another day!

Luckily for me, Boyce was on the Area Patrol that day and the team kept coming by filling my water bottle and offering salt tablets. Had it not been for that, I might have passed out on post and either died, or been court marshaled, or worse! Until long after the sun had gone down that evening, I was still wishing I had died hanging in the concertina wire.

IF ROCKETS WERE NOT ENOUGH

Fred Cone probably still tells the tale about a Da Nang takeoff attempt, in 1967, which almost killed him. How could the Marine A-6 pilot forget the night his aircraft, which was carrying 500 lb. bombs, hit a C-141 transport carrying acetylene tanks. He and his bomber, Doug Wilson, were in the process of getting the aircraft airborne when the two planes collided.

Da Nang airport was the busiest in the world in the late 1960s and early 1970s, with a landing and takeoff every 30 seconds. In 1967, Cone was part of the “Rolling Thunder” operation. His A-6 was full of bombs he was scheduled to drop on Hanoi.

It was about 3:45 a.m. on March 24, 1967, and his A-6 was maxed out carrying 15,000 pounds of bombs and 15,000 gallons of fuel. He had reached about 100 miles per hour on one of two parallel runways when he spotted the C-141 cargo plane taxiing across his runway directly in front of him.

The C-141 pilot had never been at the Da Nang airport and didn’t realize it had dual runways. To make matters worse, it was raining and overcast.

The C-141 was the biggest aircraft in the Air Force arsenal at the time and Lt. Cone was about to see it up close. He pulled his power, dropped the arresting hook, blew both tires stomping on the brakes and went off the runway.

The five people in the cockpit of the C-141 didn’t see Cone’s A-6 at all. They died instantly when his aircraft hit the larger cargo plane. The A-6 went right through the cockpit. Only the loadmaster lived, having jumped from the lowered loading ramp beneath the tail section.

The impact flipped the A-6 and left Cone upside down, burning and disoriented. Only the discipline of escape training saved them that night. Luckily for them both, one the many explosions actually blew out most of the fire allowing them to escape death.

Since this was less than a month (26 days) after the February 27, 1967 rocket attack, we rolled out of bed an onto the concrete floor of the hooches. I peered up at the night sky through the screen wire of the hooch and watched large red-hot pieces of either bomb or acetylene shrapnel whip through the air making a threatening whistling sound.

As the explosions continued, we all wondered why the barrage was continuing so long. Finally, someone ran into the hooch and shouted, “It’s okay, it’s just an aircraft crash!”

“Fuck you,” was the unanimous reply, “we’re staying right here!” If rockets were not enough to keep us awake and paranoid, then this comes along!

We felt safe on the floor, below the newly stacked sandbags that we had erected on off-shift along the outer walls of all the hooches, and under the mattress and springs of our bunks.

The base came alive with emergency vehicles running toward the flight line, their lights flashing and the eerie sounds of the sirens in the darkness before dawn, but we did not move until the eruptions stopped.

That evening, I drew the lucky card. I stood guard in the base scrap metal and garbage dump, in the dark at the north end of the base, over what was left of the mishap – the huge tail section of the 141, which showed no signs of the earlier destructive explosions or resulting fire. Of course, there were piles of charred aluminum and twisted metal parts from both aircraft, but only the tail section was recognizable. Someone had to guard the mess until the final accident investigation ended.

At the time, I did not think to be scared of ghost that might still be wondering around looking for their body parts, it was the “pitter patter” of large rodent feet that kept my mind occupied and alert! These were not the average field mice, or even the large alley rats from back home, these were grotesquely sized jungle rats that would scare the hell out of any normal sized house cat!

I ran through all the batteries I had with me that night, just from frequently flicking my flashlight on and off – checking to see how close they were.

So, there I was, at the time, very “short,” just days from going home, and there was no doubt in my mind that I would be eaten alive in a dump in Southeast Asia!

Before that night, I held the majestic C-141 in high regard. I often created very good likenesses of the sleek bird using the aluminum foil I scavenged from my C-Rations, and wiled away the time admiring its beautiful lines. Some ten years later, my brother would be a loadmaster on a 141, but since that night, I can only think of the darkness, the sounds, the smells, and the insecurity of that night I spent listening to the “pitter patter” in the dump.

DAMN DOG!

The bomb dump at Da Nang was a lonely place, even on day shift. The post I drew the most sat looking back east toward the Airbase, across both runways, where the control tower sat almost directly in front of the post. The posts in the “dump” area were very far apart, and there was no one hooked up to a field phone in this area. All communications was by radio, or face-to-face with either the K-9 troop who came on at dusk, or with the three-man “Area Patrol” that came by to offer lukewarm coffee and companionship once every hour or two.

Once the night came and filled in and expanded the shadows the base lights were about all you could see. Sometimes during the monsoon, the little blue taxiway lights were all you could see in front of you. I remember staring at these lights thinking that if anything got between me and lights I would know it when the light went out. It was a blue fiber of hope that I staked my entire existence on for hours at a time.

I always felt uncomfortable standing inside the little wooden shelter, surrounded on three sides by sandbags stacked hip high, so I often lay in the tall grass about ten yards behind the guard shack. The low advantage silhouetted the shack against what little light there was in the sky and from the base. I would be able to see “them” before “they” saw me I assured myself.

One evening shift, just about an hour after full darkness, I began to relax and stare straight out toward the base. I often sang Righteous Brother songs out loud, without fear of being heard, to pass the time. Then I would take a break and light a cigarette, squatting down inside the shack surrounding to light up and prevent anyone from zeroing in on me. The old superstition of “three on a match” was placed in my head by old British movies I used to watch!

Pulling the comforting smoke deep inside my lungs, I leaned over on the shelf that crossed at the back of the shack and thought of home. I watched the little blue lights, and drew in another deep draw from cupped hands, and exhaled. At times the anxiety of being thousands of miles from home, in a strange land, and in a war zone, gave way to the solace of being alone with my thoughts.

Suddenly it dawned on me that one of the little blue lights had gone out. Strange I thought for about a second, and then it hit me that there must be something between me and the fence. “Got a light buddy!”

“Son of bitch,” I shouted!

An unseen dog in the darkness lunged at me, growling, barking, pulling its leash taunt, and attempting to get at me over the top of the sandbags! The shock of his voice and the angry dog drove me backwards as I groped for my M-16, and I struggled to regain my balance. It then came to me that this was the local K-9 handler.

Again I greeted him with “You son of a bitch! Don’t ever walk up on me like that!”

“Oh, sorry man, I just needed a light for my cigarette.”

I nervously reached into my pocket for my lighter, but when I came up over the sandbags and held it out toward the Airman, the dog lunged again! “Grrrrrr!”

“Get the fuck out’ta here man!” I motioned aggressively with my M-16, almost pointing it at him. He did not say another word, just stomped off into the tall grass and back toward the fence line.

My heart pounded for minutes after he left and I could not relax the rest of the shift, expecting him to return, or the dog to grab me at any moment. I was no longer looking for VC. I was looking for that damn dog!

A few days later, I pulled Area Patrol duty, where I usually rode in the back of the Kaiser Jeep, ready to grab the mounted M-60. I always felt like I was on “The Rat Patrol,” a TV series back in the 60’s, and pictured myself firing the heavy weapon as the jeep rose and became airborne over a sand dune! However, the duty was not that glamorous…mostly helping SPs fill there cup with cold coffee from the stainless thermos that was strapped to the rear of the vehicle.

We also would ride around with several post’s C-Rations on the manifold in order to provide them with a hot meal! At first some exploded, before we learned to put a tiny hold in the cans using our P-38s.

[The photo at right is a self-portrait I made on this post. Note the light green coffee cup…it hung on this ammo pouch for the full year of my tour, never being washed, outside a quick swirl of coffee before filling the cup. The coffee was rarely warmer than air temperature and had a crunch from the sand that got into everything.]

It was during an Area Patrol shift just a few days after the dog incident that our little Jeep pierced the darkness of the bomb dump with its headlights. We rounded one of the high dirt berms and the lights fell upon the K-9 troop that had visited me days earlier. His dog just sat there, ears alert, red tongue out panting, looking at the bright lights excitedly, but not making any attempt to awaken his handler.

Finally, the dog decided he had better do something so he barked and scared the K-9 troop awake. He looked in our direction, made a move toward his weapon, that lay beside him in the grass, but then he relaxed, seeming to understand the situation.

“Damn dog,” he shouted and jerked hard on the leash. What else could he do – he had been caught asleep on post!

I only felt sorry for the dog that took a hard slap across the top of the head. It was not the dog’s fault at all.

Luckily for the Airman, the staff sergeant with us decided it was not his place to discipline the K-9 troop that was not in his outfit. I guess he figured that if this Airman was that secure, or stupid, he would be caught sooner or later by his own superiors.

DINAH WON’T YOU BLOW

The second time I was under hostile fire was on 3/15/67, as I have stated before, just days before I was to leave for the home. Only 10 rockets hit the base this time, but these came in slowly, walking ever closer to my position, giving me too much time to anticipate the consequences.

They came slowly because they were being guided by a spotter who hung on the fence somewhere, directing the fire closer and closer to the desired target. Someone finally spotted the black-pajamaed guy/gal and requested that they be allowed to fire. The reply was, “Can you see a weapon?” The spotter replied, “No.” So, the return comment was, “Then do not fire!” Thus were the rules of engagement in Vietnam.

Like I wrote before, I dove, headlong, under the first bunk I came to, and lay there shaking. My eyes focused on a large rat shaking and hiding in the far corner under the same bunk! We watched each other cautiously, as the rounds exploded singularly, the “kachunk” “walking” ever closer to where we took shelter. Neither of us dared move until the impacts passed us.

What I did not tell you was what woke me up prior to the incoming rounds - a barrel-chested black staff sergeant singing:

Can't you hear the whistle blowing

Rise up so early in the morn

Can't you hear the captain shouting

Dinah, blow your horn

Dinah, won't you blow

Dinah, won't you blow

Dinah, won't you blow your …

I do not remember his name, but he was a fun loving guy who was always singing or cracking a joke around the hooch. This particular time he was returning to the hooch, rather wasted, after a late night of card playing and beer drinking. Just as he sang the last “won’t you blow” the first round hit somewhere about a quarter of a mile from our position.

The drunken sergeant literally fell in the hooch, causing the screen door to slam loudly against the first wall locker on the left as he entered.

“Damn,” he breathed out, as he was falling to the concrete floor, “somebody don’t like my singin’!”

Had the situation not been so serious, the entire hooch would probably have erupted in laughter. As it was, the second round hit as everyone dove beneath their bunks and waited for the next concussion.

Previous to the attack on 2/27/67, the Air Force decided to remove a small unit of men that manned a “small projectile” radar system that sat near the south end of the two runways. Since it had been over a year since the last mortar attack on the base, some “wisenheimer” decided the base no longer needed defending!

However, with the first rocket attack in the books, the Air Force decided that maybe the radar installation needed to remain in service.

Therefore, by the time the forth or fifth round hit Da Nang, the location the projectiles were originating from was radioed to Hill 327 where the Army had a battery of 105 MM guns. Return fire was almost immediate and the sounds were so comforting to us.

Everyone in the hooches began yelling their approval and screaming “Kill’em! Kill the bastards!”

There were a total of 10 rockets that hit the base that night, but once the position came under fire from Hill 327, it ended. Soon “Puff” (the magic dragon – a C-47 equipped with mini-guns and aerial flares was over the area where the VC had staged their attack. The aircraft was equipped with three rotating six barreled mini-guns, reminiscent of the Civil War Gatling guns. These 7.62 mm guns were capable of covering every square foot of a football field with one round, in one minute. Red streams of hot lead rained down on the area as the flares lit the area with their phosphorescent yellow glow.

[Photo at right is of Da Nang Airbase taken from Monkey Mountain. The arrows are pointing to tracer lines coming down from “Puff.” Tracer rounds are placed every 7^th round in the mini-gun belts. However, the rate of fire is so fast that there appears to be a solid line coming down from the sky – a long finger of death. You do not want to be on the receiving end!]

[Photo at left is looking across the Da Nang runways toward Hill 327 where the Army “firebase” was located.]

We were going wild with the adrenalin that rushed through our veins and we so desperately wanted revenge for our fallen comrades.

As I sat on the side of my bunk and dabbed at my bleeding knees, I contemplated the realization that I too could kill, given the opportunity. Men do not fight wars for governments. They fight wars for each other, for revenge, to protect those around them. They fight to live and to get back home. They could care less about the politics involved.

Someone began hollering about bleeding from his heel, after stepping on a hot piece of shrapnel, and another had cut his head diving under the bunk, and the sergeant that fell in to the hooch had scraped his elbows. Soon, there were several who headed off to the dispensary.

When these guys returned, they where talking about being put in for Purple Hearts! “Why didn’t you go man? You could have gotten one for those knees!”

Somehow, it just did not seem right. I mean, in the war movies they actually got shot or hit with shrapnel, but for scrapping my knees? I lost a little respect for medals that day. Now, when I see a Purple Heart license plate, I wonder if they actually earned it. Well, yes, I suppose they did…they went and served and got shot at, so I suppose that is enough. However, I do not regret not getting a Purple Heart for spending a little quality time with a rat!

To hear what an actual rocket attack on DaNang sounded like, go here: http://youtu.be/T5K7UFimao4http://youtu.be/T5K7UFimao4