On Leave I

     Back before we'd pulled out of Vietnam I'd brought my dress khaki pants to the local Vietnamese tailor to get them made stylish. Back in '69 that meant tapering them to the ankle in stovepipe fashion. Not too cool looking in the scheme of things but better than pants on the ground or white belt, white shoes and plaid jacket. Come to think of it, young fashion tends to lean towards Ringling Brothers. Back in Vietnam I'd tried on a set and they fit fine. I believe I wore that set on the flight to Hawaii. Should've checked them both.

     Come the stroke of midnight on leave day one, Bobby and I headed down to the office to sign out and not to miss a minute of what we had coming. Ten minutes earlier I'd discovered my second pair of pants weren't mine. Two inches too small in the waist and three inches short of shoe top. Way too stylish for the Army. Oh me, oh my. I wore them anyhow 'cause the other pair was dirty and crumpled up in the bottom of my duffle bag. By the time we reached the office my feet were going numb, as were my testicles. Yup, I was heading home more a numb nuts than a hero.

     This was back in the days before the internet. No e-tickets waiting to be had by a swipe of plastic. Just show up at the airport and get in the ticket line. One of the perks of being in the military back then, the other being able to crap in a room full of men who didn't much care one way or the other, was flying standby and rising to be first pecker in the pecking order should there be any open seats. And there were always open seats.

     Don't rightly remember but I must have been paid somewhere along the line before flight time. In the Nam I'd had nearly all of my pay put in a military savings account. They were paying ten percent. A heckuva rate back then. As a grunt, my needs were simple. Thanks to c-ration cigarettes and the Company fund, beer and smokes came to under five bucks a month. Food was free and worth every penny. But there's no way I'd have had enough cash to buy a ticket unless we were back to stateside payday which, as a Spec. 4, was about two hundred and fourteen bucks a month. 

     The plan at the airport was simple. Sit down and don't cross my legs and cover them black socks for six hours. 'Specially should an officer come pass by. There's no way I was going to let some gook shop screw up get my ass in a sling just 'cause I looked like a clown. 

     Amazing all the places a soldier's ass could end up. In a sling, a wringer, a bind, up shit creek. Good reason to keep your ass in a safe place. 'Specially when it was being given a snuggie by a pair of britches.

     I bought a book to pass the time. I believe it was The Hobbit. Over the hours I read and reread the opening paragraph a dozen or more times and had no clue what the words meant. Guess I had other things on my mind. Still have the book. Still haven't read it.

     A couple of times me and Bobby wandered over to check out the USO room. Seems like every time there's a war on, airports have USO rooms for the troops to pass the time. Inside they have all kinds of stuff to help a lonely GI not miss home too much. I got no farther than the mountain of Playboys stacked up on a table. Didn't need to read a word and I still got the gist out of the three page foldouts. Truth was, even that proved boring. War does funny things to a man. Not appreciating fine air brushed photos of young American womanhood shot from every conceivable angle wasn't something I'd ever have expected to happen. But it did. Maybe reality is better than fantasy.
     Bobby could've flown a half dozen ways to get to the Carolinas but chose connecting through Minneapolis. After running around Vietnam with Lois' name on my helmet I suppose he wanted to see what she looked like. Whatever the reason I was glad for the company.
     Sleep in the Honolulu airport had been impossible. By the time the two of us landed in Minneapolis it'd been about thirty-five hours since either of us had any sleep. Lois was there to greet us. Bubbly as all get out. I was like the walking dead. Guess that balanced us out just right.
     Should've spent more time with Woolworth but, what the hell, in a month we'd have plenty of time together. Didn't work out that way. Bobby never made it back to Schofield. As near as I can figure he was smart enough to go see his family doctor. No doubt it took the man less time to make up his mind about what to do than to count all the stitches in Bobby's legs. Two grenades had done the nasties to him. On the other hand they were his ticket out of the Army. Doubt the Army liked that but to hell with them. They got way more than their ounce of flesh out of Mr. Woolworth.
     Sometimes you don't know when an ordinary goodbye is a final goodbye. I believe he was the next to last member of Bravo Company I saw. He, Papa-san and Weasel were the men who mattered most to me. Haven't seen a one of them since.

Gruntland Redux

     Truly I expected nothing else. Bottom of the scrap heap was right up my Army alley and felt right at home. Actually I gave it no thought. All I was thinking was home on leave and being assigned to any kind of outfit was a step in the right direction. Gathered up my two duffle bags, my personnel files and hopped in the truck.
     Once there I grabbed my duffels, thanked the driver and reported in. It was there I realized my personnel files had flown the coop. Didn't know whether I left them in the truck or dropped them on the street. Or the fickled hand of Irony whisked them away. Oh well. So I did the only honorable thing and lied that they'd been lost in some kind of Army snafu back in Vietnam. That the Army screwed up was as believable a lie as possible. If they showed up later my plan was to play dumb.
     Playing dumb was a military skill of the first order. Used to call it tactical stupidity. I was just an E-4 enlisted man grunt. In a shooting army that's about the dumbest thing you could be. So a slack jaw and vacant stare was not only accepted, it was expected. Yeah, I was kind of proud about being smart enough to play dumb at the drop of a hat.
     My duffle of jungle gear was stored in the supply room. The other I dragged into my squad bay, stowed the uniforms and gear and was home. Shit. Call it the 5th of September.
     Next day who should come hobbling in but Bobby Woolworth. Felt like old home week even though it was only the two of us. Didn't have a clue who the hell the rest of the men were. Each time I scoped out someone new I checked to see if they had a CIB on their uniform. Especially the non-coms. 'Course I didn't wear one myself unless in dress khakis. Kinda funny how the brain works and how arrogant someone like me can be. A person could get his ass in a wringer with an attitude like I carried on my shoulder.
     Right off the bat both Bobby and I put in for the full thirty day leave. He got his. I got twenty-seven. That was a minor problem. When the orders came down I quickly called Lois so she could set a date for the wedding. What I didn't tell her was the leave was a tad shorter than expected. No problem. We settled on October 4th. That put it on day twenty-four of my leave. Didn't leave much time for a honeymoon. The plan was to not worry about the time till it was gone.

Killin' Time

     Us pretend MPs moved into a temporary squad bay and did what soldiers do best. We waited to be told what to do. In the group sat future grunts, cops and a whole passle of National Guard. The Guardsmen were waiting to be deactivated. My best friends were mostly in that group and not at all unhappy about their futures. Wouldn't be long till they were waking up in their own beds.
     Not sure what part of the Army all the rest of us were in. Seemed like we'd become part of the Hawaii National Guard, part of what was called USARHAW. That's Army lingo for Pineapple Army, which was GI lingo for being at Schofield back in the '30s.
     Now, what I like to recall as the truth, though it probably wasn't, but the thought gives me the tinglies, is that for a month or two we were all part of one of the most famous groups in WWII, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. The name was plastered up on one of the post's gates so it got me dreaming. The 442nd was made up of Japanese American volunteers from Hawaii, Nisei to be exact. They were the most decorated group in the big war or any war for that matter. Rescued a battalion of Texans who were surrounded during the Battle of the Bulge. That was the battle where the American commander, a Colonel Lundquist, was asked to surrender by the German commanding officer. The American simply said, "Nuts." Of course the kraut didn't know what the hell that was all about.
     Throughout the war the 442nd had a casualty rate of seventy percent. That's serious and the story has it a whole lot of them were pissed off 'cause of being treated like cannon fodder. Most any grunt can relate to that but seventy percent? Their bitch was on the money.
     The Hawaii National Guard continued to carry the name of 442nd RCT and was activated in 1968 for Vietnam. When us dog soldiers from Vietnam showed up, Schofield was already partially occupied by the Guard who hadn't bent sent to the Nam. The colors of the 9th Infantry Division were still in Vietnam. So were those of the 25th Infantry until they came back to Hawaii in December of '69. There's a blank in between that I can't fill in for sure. That's why I figure us Old Reliables were for a couple of months part of the activated 442nd.
     Kind of confusing and probably a lot of smoke being blown but that's about as good as I can figure it out.
     Took a while for the Army to sort us all out. In some ways it was just like Oakland Army Base and waiting on orders for Vietnam. Only now it was in reverse. So we waited. And started punching each other in the arm. Don't know how that got started and don't know how the rules came about. Nobody said nothing about it. We just did it. Somebody would walk up and whack you as hard as he could and you just took it. And said nothing. Then you wandered off and did the same to someone else. Weird shit.
     Most fun was when I got hit high on the shoulder and the blow kept coming. Hit me square in the jaw. 'Tweren't nothin'. Woulda made me feel just like one of the Greiner brothers in Deliverance. That is if the book had already been written. C'mon Jim Dickey.
     When my eyes stopped spinning and the stars set, I went up and gave Weasel what for. Yeah, we was some real tough guys doing what real tough guys do. Woulda made more sense had we been real smart guys doing what real smart guys do. But we didn't. And we waited.
     I still had a few dollars in my pocket so me and Weasel went out and played golf a couple of times. Didn't cost more than a two and a half bucks and included rental clubs. I kept pushing shots to the right. So frustrating it almost made want to go back to the Nam. One of the times we even played with Sgt. Heath. That man was one seriously good golfer. Figured.
     After a week and a half orders came down and I was off to a grunt unit. Damnation. A whole week's MP training down the tubes.
     Most every evening I'd call Lois collect. Word still said we'd get leave once we were assigned to a regular outfit. The two of us were planning a wedding and working on a date even though we didn't have a clue when I'd be coming home. Why not? There were still four months left in the groovy sixties when people built bridges without supports at either end. Nothing made much sense back then, so why not a wedding planned long distance and on short notice?

Hawaii

     We landed at Hickham AFB about the same time we left Vietnam. Guess that was a result of the way the British drew all those lines around the planet and it created a problem they never could figure out how to correct. If you lived right on the line and bounced back and forth it'd be possible to live two lives at the same time. Or none, I guess. Screwier than all get out but then, we were landing in Hawaii just like we'd said back when the Army gave us sunglasses back in AIT. Heaven and Hell. According to the clock, at the same time.
     In my case, all because of showing up at Oakland Army Base three days late. Fate or dumb luck? Guess I'll never know the answer. Only bad part was still bein' in the Army. 'Course I wouldn't have been there without the good ol' Army.
     The air smelled like flowers. Really it did. Dong Tam had smelled like burnin' shit and diesel fuel. The Delta like a swamp in July. Mostly 'cause that's what it was all year long. Most any other place would've smelled better than the place we'd left but not like flowers. If there's one thing I'll carry to my grave about Hawaii, it's the fragrance. Says, "Aloha," in the nicest possible way.
     No hula girls with leis to greet us. No stoppin' at the bar for a mai tai. No rent-a-car or hotel but at least there was a bus to cart us up and inland to where Schofield Barracks lay waiting.
     Schofield Barracks, damn. Imagine that. If you've ever seen the movie From Here to Eternity you know what Schofield looks like. Almost expected Burt Lancaster and Montgomery Clift to be there watching Deborah Kerr walk over to the Buick, skirt swayin' in rhythm with her hips, "Sheesss."
     Ever since I saw that movie as a kid Schofield held a special place in my mind. Since those days I've read the book seven or eight times. Great story. James Jones, the author, did his time there before the start of the war and later at Guadalcanal. Private Prewitt and First Sergeant Warden, the main characters, two sides of the same coin. Back when I was a kid I couldn't make up my mind which one I wanted to be. Didn't really matter, both of them, each in his own way, pissed on the system that was the U. S. Army. Didn't know it back when I was ten but that was my destiny. System Pisser First Class with two Oak Leaf Clusters. So I got the best of both, or worst depending on your point of view.
     Deep down inside I couldn't see any point to being in the Army after leaving the Nam. Hell, I was just drawing pay and filling a hole that didn't need to be filled. Sleep, eat, shit, wear green clothes and then do it again tomorrow.
     The base sits at the bottom of the Ko'olau Mountains more or less at the foot of Kolekole Pass (you'd think spell check would know what the hell that is but it sure doesn't). That's where one of the Japanese Zero flights came through during the Pearl Harbor attack.
     Across the highway on the other side of the base sits Kemoo farms on the edge of Wahiawa (I have to tell you, spell check's never been to Hawaii). Inside the base on the Kemoo side there sits the Offices Quarters slowly being eaten up by cock roaches and termites, married enlisted quarters being eaten up by bigger cock roaches and termites, a golf course, open fields, rifle range, PX, beer garden, headquarters buildings, a stockade and the quads.
     The quads were just that, four concrete and stucco buildings surrounding a large grassy drill field. Don't know how many quads there were. Enough to house a small division I suppose. Each quad was its own little world. Held a battalion of Infantry and whatnot. Like I said, from up on the third floor it looked just like a movie. Except all of us were really in the Army. The pretend Army that played war but mostly cleaned shit.
     But it was still Hawaii and I doubt anybody in the known universe would say it was anywhere near as bad as Vietnam. So I'll bitch a lot about my time there but really don't have much reason to.

The Infamous Lundsford Affair

     Outside of the fact we were facing to the rear of the plane 'cause that's the safe way to fly it was just like any other commercial flight without stewardesses and liquor. 'Course the metal and nylon webbed seats were extra special. I figured they made us face to the rear so there'd be less chance of gettin' our heads stuck up our's or anyone else's ass should we crash. I know that sounds like no big deal 'cause you'd be dead whether or not your head was up your ass or not but in my book that's a whole lot worse than bein' caught dead with dirty underwear. Outside of that, not a whole lot happened on the way to Hawaii beside our stop in Okinawa or Guam or some other place on which we had no reason to have an Air Force base. Unless of course we stuck ourselves into a land war in Asia which nobody in their right mind would ever do. That's when we came upon a plane load of Marines fresh out of training and on their way to where we'd just left.
     Now that's kind of funny in itself. We were on the way to the world 'cause the U.S. was pullin' out of Vietnam and their plane load of cannon fodder was on their way in. Something about that strikes me as a little strange. We were baggin' the whole thing yet these dudes were on their way into a one in ten chance of dyin'. Maybe one of 'em would be the last American to bite the dust in Indochina.
     And each and everyone one of 'em looked a little scared. Probably just like I'd looked five months earlier.
     None of us made a move to harass the jarheads. We knew the score. Then Lundsford, the company mascot 'cause he was a peril to each of us who patrolled the Delta with him, friendly fire in boots, walks right up to 'em with a grin on his face:
     "Howdy boys. I suspect you're on your way to Vietnam. You look scared and I sure don't blame ya. Ya got good reason to be scared. I know, I been there. By the way, when ya get there, whatever ya do, don't let the little man catch ya half-steppin' or he'll do ya a natural born J O B."
     Then turned and walked back to us. There was a moment's vacuum sucking the air out of the room, immediately followed by a roar of hysterical laughter from each of us who'd been in Bravo Company. Couldn't have picked a better man or more perfect phrase. Three cliches in one sentence. As far as I knew those cliches were Bravo Company's alone. Probably not but let me live in my dream world.

Time to Go

     All good things gotta end (seems I said that before). Even something as fun as bein' at the shootin' end of an immoral war. On the last night we made final preparations in the hope we'd look like clean, upstanding soldiers every mother'd want their daughters to go out with. Yeah, it was a ruse for sure but if lookin' upstanding and moral was what it took to get on that plane, we sure as hell were gonna do 'er.

     One of the brothers - brother being a word for a male African-Amaerican - was a master with a razor blade and a comb. Shaved all our heads down to the nubs for a buck a throw. Boots were shined and jungle fatigues starched and pressed. Strack. 

     Me, I was master of the sleeve roll. Uncle Sam said they had to be rolled. Took my time, pulled each fold full and flat. One of the E-6s liked my work so much he had me do his. Gettin' our asses out of country knew no rank.

     On a sad note I burned all of Lois' letters 'cause of the rumor mill. Story was every duffle bag was gonna be searched. And letters read lookin' for treasonous and seditious content. One bad word and it was hello new line unit. Can't say the letters Lois wrote had any of that in them but I decided to take no chances. This was no time to say f*** 'em if they can't take a joke. Letters were just paper with words on them. And it hurt like hell when I put a match to them in a waste basket. But that's just the way she was.

     Come the morning of August 27, 1969 we all boarded Chinook helicopters - we called them shit-hooks 'cause we were so clever - and flew off to Saigon and Bien Hoa air base. Second time I'd flown on a Chinook. First was leavin' Snoopy's Nose on the day Second Platoon was wiped out. That was a fine ride. This one was even better.

     At Bien Hoa we boarded an Air Force transport, big assed, four jet engine job. In the boarding line the E-6 whose sleeves I'd rolled said the obligatory "next." 

     Don't know about the rest of the men but I wasn't all that hepped up. Maybe I would have been had this been day 365 and not an early out. Maybe I was anticipatin' living the rest of my life knowing I didn't do a full tour. Didn't do my full penance for the stupidity that put me in the Army in the first place. Yup, I felt like a faker. Wanted to go and stay at the same time. Like I had a choice. And if I did, I'd a been a damned fool to stay. But I'd have thought about it. Weird, ain't it?

     

Duty and AWOLs

     All good things come to an end. For that matter, so do bad things. And that brings us back to good things ending. In this case it was time to pull some MP duty. Believe me, five days of training does little to prepare a person to become a cop. At least that was my case. Lucky me, Sgt. Heath and I hit it off. He saw something in me that wasn't there. An ability to be a truly fine MP. Must have been the way my German blood took to wearing a uniform. Or maybe my spit shined boots. No matter, on the first possible night shift I found myself in the passenger seat of a Jeep. Thank God the man in the driver's seat knew what he was doing.
     Not much was going on in Dong Tam. Unless you consider an AWOL or two wandering back onto the post something. I don't know how many GIs went over the hill in Vietnam. A little research hinted that the number might have been as high as four thousand. Like I've said many times, this wasn't a popular war. We even had one of them in Bravo Company.
     He was the guy with the machine gun hiding behind the dike when my squad was trapped in a bare paddy. Guess he figured it was better us dying than him. He was also the guy who couldn't get it up for a two dollar whore when we were pulling guard for an artillery outfit. It's actually a funny story in a cruel, sadistic way. With a touch of the irony I love so much.
     Joe was your typical horny GI. Actually we all were but a fair number of us kept our zippers up for a variety of different reasons. In this instance an elderly gentleman, more of an asshole pimp actually, brought a young lady over to our position, the idea being two dollars for a minute's lust venting. Not my cup of tea. Couldn't see much romance in it.
     So, as she backed up against a tree - I got this info second hand as I saw no point hanging around like a dog on the outskirts - a line formed and the old guy collected admission. Joe was about tenth in line and bouncing around in heat. Till his turn arrived and naturally he instantly went limp. A half minute of self stimulation got him up again and two strokes got him off. Here comes the ironic part: of course he got the clap. As did all the others. Yup, it was one weird war.  As usual, most of the problems were self caused.
     About the time rumors started about the pullout Joe disappeared. Never heard from him again. For sure he wasn't the guy we picked up on that first duty night.
     As time grew short, more and more filtered in. Who could blame them? Better to end up in the stockade than be left behind. Who knew what might happen when the war ended and the ARVNs lost?
     I knew for sure I wouldn't want to be a GI deserter when the North Vietnamese came marchin' into Saigon. Too bad for the AWOLs but they sure as hell screwed up. Life in a combat unit was tough but geez Louise, in Vietnam the grass sure as hell wasn't greener on the other side of the fence. No flag wavin' intended but once you took the oath it was a little late for protestin'.

Medals III

     Did some research on the welcome home parade and didn't find squat. Part of me thinks it might have been in Seattle but as I best recall, the rumors had it in San Francisco. Like either one mattered to us.

     Got a problem and have no way to find out the truth. Is my attitude normal for a combat vet, albeit short seven months of a full tour? Somewhere down the road I'm gonna drag this drawn out memory into my early civilian years. What can be said for sure is that I didn't seem to fit. Felt an oddball among the vets and an oddball among those who didn't go. 

     Got no problem with those who didn't go, so long as they made a stand and paid the price of admission. Good friend of mind was a conscientious objector. Had the draft card to prove it. And did two years with the Peace Corps in Afghanistan. Good for him. No problems either with those who fled across the border. Gutsy move. Or those who did their time in prison. 

     As for the Bill Clinton or George W. Bush types. Simple as pie, total assholes. No two ways about it. Says a lot about us that we elected them to the presidency. Or Richard Nixon. Or Ronald Reagan. Or George H. W. Bush.  Seems like us Americans have our problems when it comes to electing leaders.