Next Stop: Vietnam!

Remember in my last blog I was all proud of myself decades ago when I had outsmarted Uncle Sam's draft without running off to Canada? Yeah, right.

Like war protestor-singer Country Joe used to sing, "Well, it's one, two three..what are we fighting for? Don't ask me, I don't give a damn, next stop is Vietnam!" (Country Joe and the Fish: I Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die)

You guessed it. After a luxurious two years in Japan (with short trips to Korea tossed in every couple of months), I got orders the the " 'Nam".

As I look back, I can't understand how I ever thought at the time that a weapons mechanic could avoid service in Vietnam. I mean, we were the ones they needed over there!.

I arrived in Vietnam April 1st, 1970. We landed at a large airbase at Cam Rahn Bay, and were subsequently ferried to Phu Cat Airbase to be assigned to the 412 Munitions Maintenance Squadron (MMS) in the12 Tactical Fighter Wing (TFW) as a weapons loader, with three stripes on my sleeve.

I remember Cam Rahn bay was a beautiful place. Phu Cat, however was just a small base with non-descript vegetation on our perimeter. We were never allowed to leave the base, so I can't tell you anything about its surroundings. The base was constructed in 1967 as part of the war build-up.

We lived in screened wood-framed barracks with no other form of air conditioning other than an electric fan, if you bought it at the base exchange(BX- aka: store).

We ate at Dining Hall No. 2 and worked on the flight line just up the dirt path about 200 yards. We were surrounded by barbed wire (concertina) wire with Korean troops on our west side in an artillery detachment. Their job was to fire their 105mm and 150mm cannon into a no-man zone on demand to keep the enemy infiltrators at bay. They also patroled the perimeter.

From the stories I was told about their famous acts of brutality, I was not surprised by their effectiveness. We were rarely attacked from close up. The enemy feared the ROK Marines more than they feared anything.

Captured-enemy interrogations, I was told, were carried out in helicopters hovering at lethal altitudes. The first one refusing to talk was simply invited to go for a swim(with a boot added to the invitation) -- into thin air over dry, hard land. The next person queried, supposedly, would suddenly confess all he knew.

I don't want to dwell on the macabre because there are enough other stories more interesting.

On occassions, Charlie (the enemy) would send us a present by air. They were known as 122mm un-guided rockets aimed and launched in our direction usually by what was called the "Kentucky Windage" method. ( Some readers are unfamiliar with the term "Kentucky windage." In this context it means putting your finger in the air, making a guess, and aiming left or right to correct for the presumed breeze on the way to the target.) This usually did nothing more than make a lot of noise and sent many of us scurrying for cover. At nights we would just roll out of our bunks and crawl under them and continue sleeping there.

On one occassion, however, their aim was devastating. They struck our supply depot and set fire to all the toiler paper we had on base. Now that was just damn mean! Literally hitting below the belt, if you get my meaning. Lest you think this was all fun and games, I hasten to add we did have some fatalities, and wounded. Never enough to make the six o'clock news in the states, but enough to keep us sober.

The Vietnamese people were a lot different than the Asians I was used to seeing in Japan and Korea. Far poorer than the Japanese, they ate simple foods, and had some strange habits, to wit: chewing betel nuts.

Now, the betel nut is a small nut that grows on trees in the Asian jungles and is peeled and chewed for its narcotic like qualities. Chew enough and you get a good buzz. So far as I know, no GI ever dabbled in this nasty habit.

First of all, the nut's juices were red and would stain the corners of your mouth revealing to all your choice of high. Secondly, its accumulitive effects left one's teeth dark black giving the illusion of being toothless whenever a smile was proffered.

Anyway, I remember the first time I came into our barracks. At the porch infront of the doorway to our barracks was where the house servants squatted to socialize on their breaks and shined our boots.

I remember one in particular who appeared to be advanced in years, and was squatted down (as only they could do), shining a long row of military work boots. As I passed by her, she looked up at me and said something akin (I'm sure) to 'good morning' in Vietnamese. She then cracked a smile which appeared to me to be toothless, at first glance. Then a I saw a red tongue with the unmistakable profile of teeth in front of it. I almost drew back in revulsion. I remember my first thoughts were she was spit shining our boots and must have gotten polish on her teeth. I found out later that the old mamasan was a betel nut chewer!

Did I mention these people don't sit? They squat whenever thay gather or wait in one place for awhile, or whenever the nature calls, if you know what I mean. Lacking ample backsides as we Americans seem to all have plenty of, they are able to squat for hours in such limber fashion and even do tasks that require them to be near to the ground. Tables aren't a necessity when you can sit back on your legs so close to the ground and use what God has made for your table.

I recall one time I was in the barracks latrine in what I thought was an empty row of stalls. Deep into my own thoughts I was suddenly startled to hear the toilet in the stall next to me flush. "What the...??" I said to myself, (or so I thought it was to myself). I looked down and saw two sandled feet alight on the crude concrete slab of the latrine floor in the stall next to mine. It seems one of the mama-sans had to use the toilet, and, in true Vietnamese fashion, had stood on the toilet seat one foot on the left side and the other on the right, to squat right over the bowl.

Not only was I taken aback by the fact she couldn't sit on a seat so generously provided by Uncle Sam, to go to the restroom, but she didn't give a flip over the fact that a man was in the same restroom and stall next to her!

Another time I was standing at the latrine sink lathered up and ready to scrape the stubble off my face after a nice cool shower. In the mirror I could see behind me the empty toilet stalls. Yep, you guessed it! They weren't quite empty. The sound of the toilet flushing, seeing two feet with red painted toenails descend onto the floor, and the stall door swing open made me quickly adjust my towel for proper decency. A young lady stepped unabashedly out of the stall and greeted me with a nod and smile, just as if we were meeting at the village bus stop! (Do you think Jerry Seinfeld could have used stories like these?)

I have other stories of the Vietnamese on our base. I remember watching them empty the trash cans around the shop and on the flight-line. They never picked up the can and dumped it into a hopper of trash without first going through it to see what was salvageable. Sometimes things would go into there pockets, other times they would eat it. How I remember feeling humbled and compassionate at those times.

Most of my time was spent working on the flightline preparing combat aircraft for their missions by loading them up with bombs, rockets and guns. You know, all those nasty little weapons man can devise to obliterate his enemies. My principal position was that of jammer driver (bomb lift truck operator) until I sewed on my 4th stripe.

Mind you, these little trucks had no cabin or cockpit nor any sort of windshield. You worked in the open air, and most of the time that was okay. (Monsoons and other weather conditions sometimes changed all that. ) You sat on a flat-cushioned seat with no back or sides and worked a steering wheel and levers. The floorboard had a brake pedal, clutch and gas pedal. On my right hip was the tranmission shift lever.

I would, at times, be required to drive the truck to the end of the runway whenever a fighter plane would return with a bomb that wouldn't release when pickled by the pilot. On one such ocassion I was enroute to the north end of the runway. Without warning a huge rice bug about six inches in length and 2 inches wide with a wingspan of a B-52 flew right in front of me. It struck me square between the eyes and I nearly tumbled backwards off my jammer seat. It then landed in my lap and began to crawl up my shirt. I was so repulsed by this ugly monster I nearly panicked with fear and jumped off the jammer.

I began to loose control of the jammer and started careening wildly in a zig-zag pattern. The whipping action nearly tossed me off the truck onto the taxiway. Finally I latched onto the gross looking bug with my right hand and gave it a wild toss to the right. I think I screamed.

Talking about these rice bugs reminds me of something. These ugly critters are a delicacy to the south east Asian people. During rice growing time these bugs invade the paddies and eat the green rice on the stalks. Whenever they can capture them, the people snap off their heads and suck out the green rice digesting in the stomachs of the rice bug. GROSS!

The flight line was an interesting place to work. You would see things you knew no one else would believe. One late night we were called to the end of the runway to meet another plane returning to base with a mechanical problem.

Racing down the taxiway in the darkness of the evening we caught a glimpse of something dead ahead in our headlights. It was a huge constrictor snake! We hit it and the step-van jumped a foot into the air. The driver, a black sergeant, turned white! We stopped and looked back out of the opened back doors. To our amazement it slithered across the taxiway into the vegetation, seemingly none the worse for wear.

In April,1971 I finished my required 12 months of duty and was shipped home. Eight days later I married my beautiful wife in the Los Angeles Temple. We are still happily married to this date.