Goin Up The Country, Don't You Wanna Go

So far, so good. Been "in country" for 3 whole days now and still alive. In the early days of the war, the replacement centers would sometimes get hit and some poor bastards were killed after only being there for a matter of hours or days. Were they the lucky ones?  Maybe they just got fucked up, didn't die and were sent home to a hospital to maybe recover. Just to be safe, I didn't stray too far from the bunkers.

. . . . .as long as I can still ride my motorcycle.. . . . .

But you block all of that out. And it's 3 days that I can deduct from my tour. Let's see, only 362 more days until I go home. Every GI there knew exactly how many days they had left. When you had less than 100 days, you were officially a "two digit midget". When you had less that a month to go, you were officially "short" and as such were entitled to walk around at yell at apparently intermittent  intervals, "SHORT" while also holding up your hand with your thumb and index finger about an inch apart. This is probably the only time that men will do this. Think about it.

. . . . . 362 days is not that long is it?. . . . .

Walk into a small office where a Captain briefly looks up and asks me to sit. No windows, pictures of the chain of command on the wall starting with Nixon and ending with the Replacement Center Commading Officer, some Major. Bare plywood walls. Gray steel government issue desk and chair. No windows. What's there to see anyway. Musty smell.

Piece of paper shoved in front of me. First Lieutanant P. Wise assigned to USACAV.

. . . . .sudden horrible chill, phone call at 2:00am type of chill . . . . .

What's USACAV? Isn't CAV short for Cavalry, like the first Air Cav. Something is terribly wrong, I'm not supposed to be going to the infantry. I was just told. . . . .

Lieutenant, we saw that you have an engineering degree so we're assigning you to USACAV, where you'll . . . . . .

Excuse me Sir, I heard myself say, but what is USACAV?

Oh, it's the U. S. Army Construction Agency Vietnam, thought you knew. Anyway, you'll be the new CO of the 46th Engineering Detachment. They do maintenance for the 173rd Airborne Brigade up north. We saw you have an engineering degree and you're in the infantry so. . . . . . .

. . . . . . . .uh, how far up north . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . In some weird way it probably made sense. . . . . 

Lt. Wise, be ready to go tomorrow at 1300, Smith will give you a ride to the airport where you'll catch a ride  to Qui Nhon and hook up with The Herd. This afternoon you need to get your insignias sewn on and get squared away. Any questions?

No Sir

 . . . . . still processing new reality. . . . .the Herd? . . . . . . 

And so it started.

Got my patches sewn on and got "squared away".

The 173rd Airborne Brigade, eh?

Pleasures of the Harbor

And the girls scent the air

They seem so fair

With paint on their face

Soft is their embrace
to lead them up the stairs

Soon your sailing will be over

Come and take the pleasures of the harbor

                                                                                              Pleasures of the Harbor - Phil Ochs

          I've always been a hopeless romantic, although some might be inclined to leave off  "romantic" and let it go at that. Nevertheless, I always try and find something beautiful and wonderful in my surroundings, wherever they may be. I also like to experience a lot of things and events, perhaps just once, but at least experience them. The fact that I am actually doing "this", whatever "this" is at the time, gives me a sense of satisfaction and adventure. A player on the stage of life in casting himself in lots of different scenes.Being in Jungle School was no different.

          Fort Sherman, where Jungle School was based, was actually very nice, located on the Atlantic coast at the entrance to the Panama Canal at the Gaton Locks. It was tropical, had nice warm beaches and at night you could look out on the water and see the lights on the many ships waiting to go through the Panama Canal. Across the water the lights of the city of Colon were beckoning and on a still night the sounds of music from the clubs could be heard. All very romantic and under the right circumstances could probably be very enjoyable. You know, moonlight walks along the beach, making love on a blanket under a palm tree and afterwards sipping chilled wine while watching the ships with their lights as they wait their turn to pass through the locks and continue on their way to adventure in foreign lands. Like I said, a hopeless romantic and dreamer. Every evening after chow, Army talk here, I'd stand on the beach, by myself and just lose myself in this scene, a young Lieutanant in a foreign land on his way to a war looking out over the tropical waters. It was my escape. Looking back, maybe I was confusing the phrase "hopeless romantic" with "out of touch with reality". Always have, though.

          Tomorrow was the individual daytime navigation exercise, where they dropped you off somewhere in the middle of the jungle with two canteens of water, a few C Rations, a compass and a directional reading and it was up to you to find your way out. It was also my 22nd birthday. Birthdays always have been very special to me and I wasn't going to let a little thing like this ruin it. Again, dreamer or delusional, you pick. So on my 22nd birthday at 0730 hours, I was rappelling down a rope from a hovering UH-1 Huey into the middle of the Panamaian Jungle. But to me it was the perfect day. It was my birthday and I was on an adventure. After the chopper took off and I could no longer hear it, I just stood there in a clearing. Beautiful sunny day, not too hot, puffy clouds and a vibrant blue sky. I could hear the sounds of the jungle all around me, I was not an intruder. I felt very much as peace. In a tall tree ahead of me I watched a couple of monkeys swinging between the branches. They stopped and we made eye contact for several seconds and connected, not in a threatening way, but in a knowing way. Again, peace in this most unlikely of all places. How cool was this, me standing in the middle of the jungle on my birthday looking at wild monkeys, not knowing where the hell I was, and not caring. An escape. Of course there was no one popping me with a pellet gun or otherwise shooting at me so that made a big difference. Dreamer but not stupid. I found my way out in about 3 hours which was good despite stopping along the way several times to take in the beauty and experience of what I was doing.

          The next day was Saturday and at noon we were off until roll call Monday morning. We had made it through 14 straight days of Jungle School and were due for a break. So what could a bunch of young Lieutenants about to go to Vietnam possibly want to do on their day and a half off? Lets see, the choices were (1) stay in Ft. Sherman and enjoy the beach, (2) take a tour of the Panama Canal, or (3) catch a train to Panama City and hit the brothels. Damn no brainer, as far as I was concerned. What an experience this would be, swaggering as a soldier in a foreign land into an international port city, drinking and hitting the brothels. My imagination was in high gear and my sense of adventure demanded that I do this. So at noon on Saturday, a couple of my buddies and I caught a taxi to Colon and bought round trip train tickets to Panama City. The train ride was fascinating, right through the middle of the jungle, took about 2 hours, since Panama City is where the canal empties into the Pacific at the Miraflores locks. Also rolling into Panama City by train fit in well with my fantasy which I was creating as I went along. You know, the old train, the sound of  steel wheels on the rails, old wooden windows lifted up and open letting in the warm tropical air, gently swaying cars, and heading to Panama City to see the girls after two weeks in the jungle. Doesn't get much better than that. I was in character playing a scene from a Henry Miller novel. Or so I imagined.

         
          We arrived at the Panama City station, took a cab to the Hotel Intercontinental Miramar which we heard was the best, checked into a very nice 3 room suite, took quick showers and headed downstairs for what we imagined would be a very memorable night on the town. Despite the bravado, none of us had ever done anything like this before. But like my experience on my birthday, I felt very much at ease and thoroughly enjoying the scene as it was unfolding, and being written, and watching my performance in it. We had the name of a couple of "houses" which were supposed to be pretty good, or so said most of the staff at Jungle School. At least they were probably safe enough since they wanted us to all come back more or less in one piece. The cab we caught was an old Caddy with worn red leather seats, swaying around corners and bluegrass music blasting from the speakers.The cabbie knew exactly where we wanted to go. You couldn't write a more perfect script.
          After about a 15 minute ride, we pulled up in front of what looked like an old hotel, which is exactly what it was. Painted baby blue with yellow trim around the windows. It's funny the details of that day that I remember. It was late afternoon maybe 6 o'clock or so. Walking up to the front door which was open. Music coming from inside. Perhaps a little nervous now, like any actor gets before a big performance, right? But I was ready and I knew my lines, or so I thought. We walked in, break a leg, it's showtime!
          Of course, I was the first one to walk in, no hesistation, like I've done this many times before. Nicely decorated, bar to the right with lots of stools, to the left was a lounge area that was probably the hotel lobby at one time. Very nice furniture, overstuffed chairs, a few couches, walls painted the same blue as outside, old Spanish architecture. Nice and comfy. Nothing sleazy about it. And the girls, ah yes, the girls.We all bought a beer at the bar and then had a seat in the lounge area, me and my Jungle School buddies.Then I saw her approaching me. She sat down on the arm of my chair, put her arm around my shoulder and just smiled. Slowly she slid down the arm of the chair and was soon pressed against me with her leg now across my thigh. She was very cute, no, make that beautiful. Not just imagining that - she was. She was wearing a red mini skirt and a white partially unbuttoned blouse that left very little to the imagination. No words were spoken, none needed, which was probably just as well since she didn't speak English, nor I Spanish. She and I were oblivious to my two friends seated nearby who didn't yet have any, uh, company. She had chosen me. I remember the way she smelled, her perfume. I remember the softness of her thigh placed across mine, the firmness of her breast as it pressed against me. I was into it, playing the role very well. All systems go. I treated her like a lady, not a port city prostitute which I'm sure she got a lot of. I remember kissing her cheek and again taking in her scent. It was all unfolding exactly as I had imagined it would. Ready for Scene 1, Act 2.

  After maybe 10 minutes, we looked at each other knowing what was next. In cute broken English she said, "We go?'' I nodded and willingly followed wherever she was to lead me. She took my hand and led me to the stairs. At the top of the stairs sat an old lady in front of a small table with a cash box. She looked very unhappy. It was here the financial transactions took place. The price was $12. I gave the gatekeeper the money and she gave my friend a key with a room number on it. My arm around her waist and hers around mine, we walked down the dimly lit hall to our room. The room was very small and well lit. It was also clean. There was a single bed in the middle of the room with a small sink and toilet off to the side. There was a red bedspread. We sat on the bed side by side. I ask her name, she replies, "Marisa". She is from Colombia. We undress each other. She then leads me to the small sink and gently washes my now very erect penis in warm water which besides being hygenic felt really nice.We return to the bed. We had sex and all the variations thereof for maybe 30 minutes. It was exciting and wonderful, a fantasy realized.

          
          It was all that I imagined it would be and more. But I found myself coming out of character at the end. I was no longer the detached actor in the Henry Miller novel. I was in a small room in Panama with a young girl from Colombia with whom I had just had sexual intercourse. At this moment, we were just two young people, strangers and worlds apart both culturally and geographically, both of whom didn't want to be where they were. Afterwards, lying together on the small bed we looked at each other and knew.We just lay there and held each other for a long time. It was a moment I'll never forget. It was not how I imagined the final scene. There was a last minute re-write that I didn't see coming. An alternate ending.
          When it was time to go, she again washed me, we dressed and returned to the lounge. My two buddies were there waiting, having long ago finished whatever it was they did. Marisa and I again looked at each other and then hugged for what seemed like minutes.We looked into each others eyes and said goodbye.         
          Me and my buddies went to one more house that evening but it just wasn't the same, don't even remember the young girls name that I was with. I was thinking about that brief connection with Marisa. We returned to Ft. Sherman the next afternoon and finished our last week of jungle school. But I found that I was no longer an actor playing out scenes. This was my life, it was very real and unfolding before me regardless of what role I chose to play in it.Cinema verite.

Epilogue

That was then, this is now, almost 40 years later and I often find myself thinking about that night. But not from the perspective of an immature 22 year old kid who was living out some fantasy, fully absorbed in himself. When I think of that night, I don't recall the sex or excitement of the moment. There is no Henry Miller novel. No, I find myself thinking about a young and beautiful girl in a Panama City brothel named Marisa. The knowing eye contact we had and the long hug goodbye. I think about the life she most likely had and how in a way I contributed to it. And I am not too proud of that. I hope she is still alive today, but I doubt it. Statistically she was lured there under the pretense of a good paying job which turned out to be prostitution. She was trapped and had no way out. She saved what little money she made and tried to send most of it home. She did not tell her parents what she was doing. My sweet Marisa, how many backstreet abortions did you have, how many STDs did you get and were they even treated? How many of the dozens of men you were with each week abused you?  You deserved so much more. If today I were to re-write the play in which I was acting back then, I would take you away from all of that, give you enough money to go home to Colombia where you belong so you could be courted and fall in love the way a young beautiful girl such as yourself should. But none of us can turn back time. We go on hopefully having learned from what we have done in the past. My sweet Marisa I am sorry.

The Day I Died in The Jungle

I'll never forget this day.

The torrential morning downpour had just ended. The jungle was steaming hot, no other way to describe it. Humidity probably 99%, temp not far behind. Great weather for throwing back a few margaritas on a Mexican beach, but for humping around the jungle? Not so much. Always thirsty. And tired. Not sleeping well at all, attention was not what it should be. And for some reason we all sensed that some bad shit was going to happen today. Sometimes you just know.

We were on patrol looking for "Charlie". In reality we were just a bunch of kids, albeit heavily armed kids, just trying to stay alive until we could come home.

Damn it's hot, fatigues soaked through from sweat and rain. We came to an open and fully exposed clearing, about the length of a football field. Really not good to be out in the open so we skirted around it to the north side off the high ground. Of course this now put us in mud that came over the tops of our boots. Deep mud that made a loud sucking sound every time you picked up your foot. Damn helmet not adjusted right and it's sliding around my helmet liner which is soaked with sweat. Continually pushing it up so I could see the top of the treeline. Just another fun day in paradise.

I was in the third position. There were 10 of us. I remember Anderson was on point. Don't remember who was between me and Andy. We're now out of the mud in a short clearing on the edge of the real jungle. Now walking through elephant grass, waist high and rajor sharp. Elephant grass. This is also where the Fer De Lance hangs. One more new worry. The Fer De Lance, one of the worlds largest and most poisonous snakes. Nocturnal hunter, sleeps in elephant grass during the day. Step on one and they usually get very pissed and you can get very dead in a matter of minutes. I would say pick your poison - big poisonous snakes, booby traps, land mines or snipers. Like I said, just another fun day in the damn hot tropical sun.

Bungle in The Jungle

At the edge of the elephant grass loomed the real jungle. Triple canopy, very dark, only partially filtered light gets in making everything blend together, heat is trapped and reflected making it like a sauna.

Anderson is at the treeline about to head in. No one talking. Lots of animal chatter from the birds and monkeys announcing our arrival. Who else is listening, I wonder. Attention is now fully focused, senses on high alert. I can be tired later, I figure. Adrenaline kicking in, natures way. Fight or flight. Unfortunately flight right now is not an option although I don't really fancy the fight option either. Very calm though. I remember everything about that day.

Trying not to sound like a herd of elephants as we make our way into the heart of the jungle. There's what appears to be a well worn trail to our right but we stay off it, great place for booby traps and mines they told us. Right. Yesterday a patrol from Delta Company got nailed by traps and mines just off the trail. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, now became, killed if you do, killed if you don't.

For some reason the jungle is now strangely quiet as we make our way into the towering triple canopy. We're half on and half off the trail. One slow step at a time. The ultimate multi tasking - keep an eye out in the trees for snipers who are fully camoflauged and perfectly still; be alert for any movement or unusual animal behavior; keep an eye on the ground ahead of you for trip wires made of mono-filament fishing line that is almost invisible in the filtered light of the jungle; look for signs of freshly moved dirt or grass that seem out of place since there's probably  a freshly planted mine or trap there; and finally watch Anderson on point for hand signals. Screw up and you're going to have one of the worst days of your life.

Welcome to the Jungle, we've got fun and games

Even more hot and humid inside this hell hole jungle now. No breeze. Still no sounds, it's completely silent. Something's going down.

A muffled "POP". I look up and see Anderson suddenly stand up and turn around with a puzzled look on his face. Shit, something's wrong. As taught, I move into the brush and crouch down. Another muffled "POP" and I feel a sharp stinging pain in the back of my right hand. Another "POP" and I feel the same pain on the right side of my neck. I'd been shot twice by an unseen sniper. Spurting blood from a pierced carotid artery, I bled out in a matter of seconds and died there in the jungle.

Then I hear a voice yelling in broken English

You're all dead, how does it feel ! 

What a strange thing for God to be saying I thought to myself and I certainly didn't expect God to have a latin accent. But it wasn't God yelling at us, it was First Sgt. Navarra, although at times he thought he was God.

Yes, I had been shot but not with an AK47, but with a pellet from a high powered air rifle.

No, I wasn't spurting blood, but sported two red welts on my hand and neck.

No, this didn't happen in Vietnam, but in the jungles of Panama where we had just completed a daylight patrol exercise as part of our three week Jungle School training which was required before the real thing in Vietnam.

Yes, our entire patrol had all been shot and killed, this time by the training staff with pellet guns. Next time?

Yes, I had orders to be in Vietnam in 3 weeks as an Infantry Platoon Leader. In three weeks this would not be a training exercise.

The reality of my situation had finally sunk in.

What The Hell Were You Thinking?

There are some times, in fact probably many times, when it's best to just STFU and don't get caught up in the emotion of what's going on around you since you probably aren't going to change a damn thing by spouting off and will probably feel really bad about it afterwards. And your big mouth could literally get you killed. Mine damn near did, really. You'd think that I would have learned from this, but in the years since it happened, old motormouth still has had a few shining moments of stupidity. But none like what happened on that Tuesday morning on May 5, 1970. Even now as I think back, my inner voice is saying, "what the hell were you thinking?" I wasn't.

I attended the Infantry Officers Basic Class (IOBC) at Fort Benning, Georgia, from September 1969 to December 1969. Most of us were then immediately assigned to stateside duty at a Basic Training Army base for around 6 months and then were shipped off to Vietnam. Stateside duty involved either being a training officer or an instructor. If you were a training officer you were with a company of trainees going through the 8 weeks of basic training with them, everything they did, you did. Long days. The trainees were made up of draftees, guys who enlisted, reservist weekend warriors and National Guardsmen. But basically if you were a training officer, your main job was to stay out of the way of the Drill Instructors and let them do their thing. The only thing the DIs hated more than a trainee was a 2nd Lt. straight out of Benning who they had to address as "Sir".

A much better job was being a rifle range instructor. A lot more fun and you got to fire up all of the unused ammo at the end of the day rather than account for it and fill out all the return paperwork. Put the old M-16 on rock n' roll and hang on. Especially fun when you did the night fire exercises and you could light up the range, and maybe the adjoining town, with tracers. As the range OIC (Officer in Charge), you really didn't like to see the tracers going down range at a 45 degree angle. But I digress.

So of course I was assigned to Fort Lewis, WA, as a training officer where I humped around the wet and cold of Washington state with the trainess, I mean, maggots, as the DIs called them. Hated it. Didn't like the job or the weather. I really wanted to be at Fort Ord just outside of Monterey, CA. This is where my home was, San Jose about 30 miles away.  However with almost obsessive determination, I managed to finagle a transfer to Ft. Ord. Very unusual for the Army grant it, but when I told a Major at HQ in DC that I'd pay for all my relocation expenses, leave Ft.Lewis on a Friday after work and show up for duty at Ft. Ord the following Monday morning, he said OK, cut my orders and gave me the name of the unit at Ft. Ord to report to at 0730hrs on Monday.

I'd done the impossible, California here I come. Loaded up the MGB and headed down Route 5 right after work on Friday, January 31, 1970. Next stop, Ft. Ord and Monterey Bay.

I've found that for the most part, when you do something out of the ordinary in any big bureaucracy, it usually throws the proverbial wrench into the works. Here's an example. I had an ex who would always order at McDonald's what they refered to as "special grills". Instead of ordering from the set menu, you tell the usually unintelligible voice in the box what you'd like instead. Much healthier that way, right? Anyway, instead of a regular old quarter pounder, she'd order a quarter pounder with just mustard and pickle. Guaranteed to really fuck up the old system. Guaranteed to get us a little red numbered cone to put on the roof of the car while we were banished to the outer regions of the parking lot to await the special delivery of our culinary creation.You could count on a 10 minute wait, and it usually wasn't right even when it did show up.

Same with the Army.

When I showed up at Ft. Ord at 0730 on Monday morning, February 2, 1970, they of course weren't expecting me. I did have a copy of my orders so they knew it was official. I sat and waited most of the morning. Only thing missing was a small red numbered cone on my head. Finally a Captain motions me to come over to his desk.

Well Lt. Wise, we weren't expecting you.

Really? How odd.

He continued . . . .

But since you're here, do you want to be a basic training officer or do you want to join the Committee Group and be an instructor.

Wow


So I became the OIC of Range 18. Oh yes, Range 18 was one of the beach ranges. Job on the beach teaching kids how to shoot an M-16. Like I said, sweet duty. Later I arranged to trade ranges with another lieutenant. I was now the OIC at range 37. This was the fun range where we blasted of all the tracers at the end of the day which was usually around midnight. We also conducted daylight training, so a typical day lasted 18 hours. Since these were long days even by Army standards, there were two OICs who worked this range every other day. Oh yes, weekends were off as well. So one week I worked 2 days and the next week 3 days. Always had a 3 day weekend. Good stateside duty.

Range 18

It was now May and a lot of my buddies who were with me in IOBC in October had already gotten their orders for Vietnam and were over there now. Even some in the class behind me were also now starting to get their orders. But nothing for me, which was just fine. Any day I expected to get the call. Then I finally figured it out what might have happened. By forcing the transfer to Ft. Ord,  I was out of synch with the system and flying under the radar. I was the Special Grill.

I had been an instructor at the rifle range for about three months when there was a little incident at Kent State.

The Kent State shootings, also known as the May 4 massacre or Kent-State massacre, occurred at Kent State University in the city of Kent, Ohio, and involved the shooting of unarmed college students by members of the Ohio National Guard on Monday, May 4, 1970. The guardsmen fired 67 rounds over a period of 13 seconds, killing four students and wounding nine others, one of whom suffered permanent paralysis. Some of the students who were shot had been protesting against the American invasion of Cambodia, which President Richard Nixon announced in a television address on April 30. Other students who were shot had been walking nearby or observing the protest from a distance.

There was a significant national response to the shootings: hundreds of universities, colleges, and high schools closed throughout the United States due to a student strike of four million students, and the event further divided the country, at an already socially contentious time, about the role of the United States in the Vietnam War.

Monday after work, May 4th. Watching the 6 o'clock news with Walter Cronkite. Four students were shot and killed at Kent State by members of the Ohio National Guard. Lots of anger. What the hell is going on in this country. Rage against the machine.

Gotta get down to it

Soldiers are cutting us down

Should have been done long ago.

What if you knew her

And found her dead on the ground

How can you run when you know?

Tuesday morning May 5th driving to work to teach National Guardsmen how to shoot and kill, still really pissed off. Not good. Warning signs.

Now I'm standing on the platform in front of a new company of trainees who had just marched in. I usually started my class with some crude jokes or just read the sports page to them. The trainees and the DIs all liked this. Today I didn't. Today I heard myself say the following, unable to stop, an observor.

Good Morning Soldiers

GOOD MORNING SIR !

So how many of you out there are in the National Guard? Raise your hands.

OK, that's good. Now all of you who just raised your hand I want you to listen closely today because when you're called upon to shoot unarmed students, I want to make sure you hit them.

Silence. DIs staring at me.

My mouth totally disengaged from my brain. Fuck.

Taught the rest of the class without further comment. Damage done.

An hour later I was odered to report to the Colonel to explain what the hell I was doing. Reality of my stupidity sinking in. Colonel was pissed, I was contrite. Again, damage done.

Two months later my orders for Vietnam showed up. I was to report to Jungle School in Panama in October and in early November would deploy to Vietnam. This would also mean that they were sending me there with less than 12 months to go on active duty. A standard tour in Vietnam was 12 months. War was winding down and they're sending me with less than 12 months to go. Someone  really wanted me there.

Did my ill advised comment get me sent to Vietnam? Maybe, maybe not, but there's a good chance it did.

To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of
a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying,

when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true

and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valor is

discretion, in the which better part I have sav'd my life.

Henry The Fourth, Part 1 Act 5, scene 4, 115–121

Brought To You By The Letter "W"

I honestly believe that I am still around because my last name begins with "W". Literally. Here's why and it's all true. I couldn't make up something like this.


Monday morning, October 12th in the year of our Lord 1970. The clock radio wakes me up at 5:30am, the Chambers Brothers are playing "Time Has Come Today". How appropriate I think. This afternoon I'll be flying to Vietnam as a totally unprepared ROTC 1st Lt in the infantry. In a brilliant display of logic when I was a sophomore at Santa Clara, I decided to join ROTC. It was a great sales pitch, since it was 1967 and Vietnam was raging. Like a carny barker in front of a faded carnival tent holding a smoking gun, Major Garcia said,


"Step right up, step right up and join ROTC. Hey kid, be an officer, get to choose what you want to do and where you'll go. All the girls like an officer, right Trixie? Besides you don't wanna get drafted do ya and have to go to Vietnam."

Made sense to me. Join the Army in the middle of a sensless fuckin' war so you wouldn't have to be in the Army in the middle of a senseless fuckin' war. Damn smart thinking. So here I was 3 years later just about to ship out to Vietnam. How this all happened and led to this wonderful day in my life will be material for several later blogs. But back to my savior, the letter "W".


I got out of bed feeling total detachment from my body, which is how I would feel most of the day. We all ate breakfast, not saying too much. My father was a career Army Officer and I actually think they were proud to have their son going to Vietnam. For some reason I'm hearing Country Joe. Funny thing is that we used to sit at Big Sur around campfires and sing his "Fixin' To Die Rag". Yeah, funny, give me an "F".


Duffel bag packed, some class As stuffed in, wearing my dress greens. Shiny black shoes, great for walking in the jungle. Your basic one each infantry 1st Louie ready to make the world safe for democracy. Still a feeling of being in a fog and just watching myself. It was a 3 hour ride from San Jose to Travis AFB. Overcast and gray day. Perfect. On I-680 the car in the right lane next to us, struck and hit a deer. It didn't register at all, I just watched as it flew into the air in a slow motion spin, legs straight out. I didn't think it was an omen. I just didn't think at all. "Purple haze all in my brain, lately things just don't seem the same." Amen to that.


We're in the waiting room at Travis. Chartered Pan Am 707 outside the door. Mother and father with me, no words spoken, no emotion shown. All these freshly minted 1st Lieutenants all ready to do their patriotic duty. The manifest said there were 220 of us. I should have made it 219. I had no idea WTF I was getting myself in for, nobody did, we just went along with the herd. Finally we were all checked in and accounted for and were told we "could board at our leisure", no assigned seats. I kissed my mother on the cheek, don't remember if I hugged her. Shook my father's hand and probably said something like, "I'll see you in a year", and then ran as fast as I could to be one of the first ones on the plane. "Look at that crazy mother fucker running to get on the damn plane. Crazy gung ho West Pointer can't wait to get there!" I'm sure several thought that. I would have. Actually, my logic was that there's no way I'm getting out of this now, I'm facing a very long flight and might as well try and get a first class seat. Unfortunately, there was no first class on this flying cattle car, but at least I got seat 1A, window with lots of leg room and a cute "stew" sitting right in front of me. Hey, you take what you can get I always figured.

and the band played "Waltzing Matilda"

Lift off, wheels up, we're on our way. I usually hate to fly, still do, can't stand it, but for some reason I just didn't care this time. Go ahead and crash, what do I care, I'm on my way to Vietnam. I chatted for a while with the very nice stew sitting in her jump seat right across from me. I'm sorry, make that Flight Attendant. In 1970 she was a stew though. I wonder what they thought when they ferried thousands of young men across the Pacific knowing that a lot of them would not make the return trip "seated in the upright position". The flight was very quiet.

It wasn't a direct flight. First stop was somewhere in Alaska to refuel. After that it was across the pole route to Japan for another pit stop. We were on the ground in Japan for about 2 hours. They let us get out and escorted us to a waiting lounge area. I looked for an escape route, there wasn't any. As we got off the plane we walked past a group of GIs who were waiting to board a flight home. "Go ahead and die for your counrty", one of them shouted. Still in a fog, didn't register, but something I'll never forget. Back on the Pan Am special, next stop Vietnam. Hoo-rah.

Welcome to Vietnam GI

The flight from Japan was about 5 hours, I think, since time really meant nothing anymore. It was also two days after I left Travis AFB since we crossed the date line somewhere along the way. The stew announced in her happiest voice that we are now over Vietnam. I looked out the window. All brown and mud. We had come in from the east over the ocean and made a very rapid descent as we approached the airfield to minimize our exposure over land. Across the landscape I saw plumes of black smoke rising from several scattered locations. Damn, there must be a lot of shit down there, look at all the smoke. Turns out I was half right. Later I would find out that all the black smoke was coming from 55 gallon drums full of shit, literally shit, being burned with diesel fuel. A morning ritual. I love the smell of burning diesel shit in the morning, reminds me of victory.

We landed at Bien Hoa. Very hot and humid. Air was foul and stunk. Got off the plane and walked to the in-processing center. No air conditioning. Dress greens were already soaked. God I don't want to be here. Names checked off the manifest, all 220 of us were still here. Loaded onto busses, herded through a hot, smelly building to get our jungle fatigues and two pairs of jungle boots. Final stop, the deployment center which would be our home for the next 3 days. We were sent to a big tent with rows of bunk beds and told to pick a bunk and stow our gear. Dinner was at 1700 hrs. Lying in my lower bunk, trying to sleep a very restless sleep. It was useless, reality now sinking in. Fog lifting. I'm actually in fuckin' Vietnam. Fuck.

The next morning a Major welcomed us to Vietnam. "Good Morning, Vietnam". The drill would be that the next morning our unit assignments would be posted on the bulletin board. We all knew what that meant. Who you got assigned to was beaucoup important. Some units you just didn't want to go to. The Americal was one, so was the First Air Cav, but for different reasons. The 1st Infanrty Division was OK but they were pretty much up north, the 25th "Electric Strawberries" operated in the Mekong Delta which was very hazardous to your health. "Step right up, a winner everytime", the carny barked.

We all knew this was going to be an eventful day in our lives. The day we all found out which fucked up combat division we were going to be assigned to. The reality of it all was sinking in. No more training games with BB guns, no more "do overs" on ambushes because we didn't do it right, no more small blasting caps go off if you tripped a booby trap. No sir, this was the real shit. We stood around waiting for our names to be posted. The guy next to me said, "I hope I don't lose my legs so I can still ride my motorcycle". For some reason, even now, I can hear my buddy saying this. If this were a movie right now you cue in some ominous music. Staff sergeant came out with a computer print out of all our names and where we would be going and where to meet up with your new units. Here it is folks, the big moment, and the winner is!

But my name wasn't on the list. I looked several times. Not there.What the hell does this mean? Maybe I've been selected for a top secret mission up north, maybe, maybe.. . . . Why isn't my name on the list?  It was a strange scene, some of the guys who landed the Americal were crying, most were just silent and slowly  walked away.

"Hey Wise, who are you going to?"

" I don't know, my name's not on the list!"

Several of us couldn't find our names and were just standing around. Slowly, very slowly, a good feeling started to well up somewhere inside me. Not sure why. The seargeant came out again and said if our names were not on the list, report to Headquarters Building at 1400hrs. Now you've really got my attention.

There were at least 50 of us who showed up at HQ to see why our names were not on the list. The Major addressed us, " Good Afternoon Gentlemen, you're probably wondering why your names were not on the assignments list this morning. Well, the Army is not perfect and we sort of screwed up so I'm afraid none of you will be assigned to infantry units. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?! Fuck, tell me more, I like the way this is going" I thought to myself.

"You see, every two weeks we request replacements for projected unit openings in the field and I'm afraid that when we requested 220 infantry Lieutenants, which is your group, it turns out that we actually had only 150 openings available. Again, I'm sorry. It's too late to adjust the next incoming group in 2 weeks so we need to find other openings for you here. Now, what we've done in the last day is to review your personnel folders and try and find suitable open positions for you in country based on your backgrounds. When you hear your name called, please report to one of my staff to discuss what your options are."

I raised my hand, "Excuse me Sir"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, so how did you determine which of us didn't get assigned to infantry units?"

" That was easy, we went alphabetically."

And there you have it. "W" saved my ass. I spent the war in charge of a Maintenance Unit fixing the General's flush toilet and building him a volleyball court. But that's another story for another day.

The Unlikely Lieutenant

I'm 64 years old and a Vietnam Veteran. I was there for 10 months, from October 1970 to July 1971. I was an officer, a First Lieutenant, and perhaps a gentleman. I commanded a detachment of 45 men, young boys actually, and an old first sergeant. I never was in combat, but easily could have been. Fine by me. More on that later.

I also ride a Harley. It's an old loud 1996 FLSTF "Fat Boy" model which my friends say is a very appropriate bike for me to be riding. I wonder what they mean by that? Hmmmmmm. Anyway, I have all the pre-requisite leathers, patches, bandanas and "look" to go with the Harley. Just another one of your middle aged, OK, upper middle aged, dudes who think they're cool while riding around on over priced and very loud motorcycles, all the while envisioning themselves as a bad ass biker. Many a therapist's own Harley has been paid for by countless sessions trying to analyze this phenomenon to a distraught wife who's MBA/Accountant husband now fancies himself as Captain America. Yeah, this is me below. See what I mean. Isn't that the baddest beancounter you've ever seen? Better not fuck with that guy, Mabel.

But I digress. The point of all this is that a big part of the biker scene for guys my age are the Vietnam Veteran clubs and organizations. There's a big national motorcycle club called "Vietnam Veterans MC" another one called "Vietnam Combat Vets MC" and a few others. Note, these are "clubs" and not "gangs" and if you forget this, you'll be reminded with extreme prejudice by some dude who really is a bad ass biker, or his old lady might do it, which is much worse. At rallies, the old "Vietnam vets" gather with a sense of brotherhood, which actually is really cool. When you meet someone who was in Vietnam, you shake his or her hand and say

"Welcome home, Brother (Sister)"

It's nice and makes you feel good. No one ever did that before.

But I didn't want to go, I hated it there, coulda been killed.

So why did you go? Were you drafted?

No, I signed up for ROTC while in college so I wouldn't get drafted (more about this brilliant logical move in a future blog).

So you signed up for the Army, you have nothing to complain about, you knew what could happen.

I know, but . . . . .

My blog, "How I won the war". What was it like for a young 23 year old guy to suddenly be in a real war zone. A lot of it was surreal, overused word to be sure, but pretty accurate. Not everyone who goes in the armed forces is a gung ho super partiot,

"And I went up there, I said, "Shrink, I want to kill. I mean, I wanna, I

wanna kill. Kill. I wanna, I wanna see, I wanna see blood and gore and

guts and veins in my teeth. Eat dead burnt bodies. I mean kill, Kill,

KILL, KILL." And I started jumpin up and down yelling, "KILL, KILL," and

he started jumpin up and down with me and we was both jumping up and down

yelling, "KILL, KILL." And the sargent came over, pinned a medal on me,

sent me down the hall, said, "You're our boy."

Didn't feel too good about it."

I'm sure a lot of the feelings I had, fears and craziness I experienced are also being felt by a lot of our citizen soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan today. I'm sure they are. I'm not bragging about having been, although it impresses a lot of my biker buddies. If only they knew, "the rest of the story". Hope you enjoy the journey. It's all true, couldn't make up shit like this.

Peace from the Group W Bench