Vietnam: A Soldier's Journal

PREFACE

Survivor's Guilt

I SAT ON THE STEPS of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., looking in the direction of the Vietnam War Memorial. I wanted to go, but I couldn't. I feel that I'm not worthy.

I trained to be an infantry officer. I received six months of infantry officer training in addition to Basic Combat Training and Advanced Infantry Training, eight weeks each. However, towards the end of it all I was asked to volunteer for the Adjutant General's Corps, to be a commissioned officer in charge of a clerical staff, and, I still don't know why, but I did. It's obvious why they asked. I was several years older than my classmates and had a post graduate degree. There was at least one other officer candidate who encouraged me to take the branch transfer because he didn't think I could kill. Sadly, I knew I could.

That decision has haunted me ever since. Many of the young men I trained with died. I didn't. No one succeeds and graduates from Infantry Officer Candidate School without bonding with the other candidates in their class. We supported one another. We bore the same tests and harassment. We struggled, sweat, and hurt side-by-side. Less than half of us who started completed the course, and those who graduated and were commissioned shared a peculiar bond meant to bear us throughout the crucible of war. We would never fail or abandon a comrade. But, I feel that I did. As they marched to the front, I marched to a division headquarters. They wore the crossed rifles, the insignia of infantryman, and I wore the Shield of Shame, the insignia of the Adjutant General's Corps. They had one MOS; 1542, Infantry Platoon Leader. I had two, 1542 and 2200, Administrative Officer.

I could have avoided all that strain and pain, and taken a direct commission. I was offered one, to be a commissioned officer in the Judge Advocate General's Corps, the Army lawyers. I voluntarily enlisted in the Army after graduating from Law School in 1965. I would have been a captain had I served as an attorney, but would have been obligated to serve on active duty for four years. I graduated from OCS as a lieutenant with just a two-year obligation. The funny thing is that I ended up serving for more than five years and even tried to become a lifer (one who serves until retirement after 20 or more years).

The error of my decision began to press on me just a few weeks into my tour of duty in Vietnam. I had arrived in-country shortly after being commissioned. My classmates arrived several months later inasmuch as they had been given short term assignments stateside before being deployed. I suppose this policy was created in recognition of the fact that infantry lieutenants had a life expectancy in combat just short of the common housefly. They were very expendable. I met one at the Post Exchange (PX) at our division headquarters shortly after he arrived in-country. He was on his way to take command of a combat platoon. I can't remember his name, but I remember meeting his young wife at our graduation ceremony. That memory would later haunt me as I wrote her of her husband's death in combat. I was in charge of casualty reporting at that time.

My guilt drove me to embark on many adventures that were outside the scope of my duties in the rear with the gear. I suppose that I exposed myself to some unnecessary risks in a vain attempt to expunge the regret. Here I am, more than 40 years later, still trying to reconcile myself to that decision.

However, my age and education, as well as my vantage point serving at an infantry division headquarters, provided me with insight into aspects of the war that were not available to those fighting for their lives. Their vision was often limited to the view through their gun sights, and their attention was riveted solely on survival. I, on the other hand, could indulge my curiosity.

I was also given many opportunities to travel around our division's tactical area of operations, to investigate and report on acts of heroism. My law degree attracted the attention of the division's Judge Advocate General, and I was assigned to serve as defense counsel at courts martial. The Provost Marshall, commander of the division's military police, engaged me in hearings on the status of prisoners of war and criminal investigations.

History has been a passion of mine all my life, especially military history, and this has helped broaden my perspective. Whereas most of this book is based on personal observations and experience, the last chapters include information that I could not have possibly learned in Vietnam. However, my experience there inspired questions that I was compelled to study and answer in later years. Why were we there? Why did our nation revile us when we returned? Did we accomplish anything worthwhile even though our government abandoned the South Vietnamese? Why does the tragedy of Vietnam continue to influence our foreign policy and make us timid in prosecuting war against our enemies?

My conclusions are not popular. They are contrary to the lessons being taught in our schools and propounded in our popular media. I won't ask your forgiveness if you are offended. I will simply be offended if you dismiss me as wrong without empirical evidence.

I propose to correct history.



CHAPTER ONE

A Little Detour

I SPENT A YEAR getting ready to go to Vietnam as an infantry officer, but was commissioned into the Adjutant General's Corps at the last minute. Along with my commission, I was handed orders to report to the 185th Military Intelligence Company in Saigon after a brief, six week, stint at Fort Benjamin Harrison, Indiana to learn how to be an administrative officer.

During a week layover at home, I reconnected with my girlfriend - the one who had sent me a Dear John while in Officer Candidate School - and we reconnected. Yes, I was really that dumb. (That last statement shouldn't require any explanation if you think about it.)

When I arrived at Ben Harrison, I was told that there was only one room left at the Bachelor Officer's Quarters on post. I slipped away and didn't return until after another lieutenant had taken it. That way I was able to collect a substantial amount of TDY (Temporary Duty) money for living off post, and was able to replenish my savings that were sorely depleted after I had to buy new uniforms as an officer.

I met up with three other lieutenants who had graduated from Officer Candidate School with me, and we found a two-bedroom apartment to rent by the week. It was located in a building filled with a surprising number of young women. Only one of the other lieutenants was married and we became popular additions to the community.

The girls took pity on us, and we were treated to many home cooked meals. Unfortunately, most were pretty bad and the guys insisted that I do the cooking. (I had been cooking since I was eleven years old.)

A trio of young women lived across the hall, and I became friends with one of them. Unfortunately, I maintained a hands off policy in deference to the girl back home (yeah, the one who had sent me the Dear John and who would repeat the performance while I was in Vietnam. Now you must understand the part about me being really dumb.)

We took weekend trips. A young man we met in Cincinnati introduced us to a couple of his girlfriends, and we drank and danced at the Whiskey A Go Go in the Metropole Hotel. There were girls in scanty costumes and boots dancing in cages, but we missed any of the famous bands that used to play there. We drove the girls to a roadhouse in Covington, Kentucky the next night, Sunday, and drank and danced there until after midnight. It was a race to make it back to Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indianapolis in time to report for duty Monday morning. Needless to say we weren't at our best that day.

We visited Chicago. I remember quite vividly the elevator ride to the restaurant at the top of the John Hancock Center in Chicago, and the descent, especially the descent. We were crammed into the car with far too many other passengers, and someone found the Go button. It only had two stops: Street and Restaurant. We dropped 108 floors faster than I could have fallen had I jumped off the roof. It was similar to riding in a dive bomber. (I know, I rode in the back seat of a U.S. Navy Dauntless built by Douglas Aircraft Company during World War II. The father of a friend had flown them during the war and had restored one for his personal use.)

I also remember well driving on the Interstate Highways to Chicago. The potholes from that winter's plowing had not yet been repaired, and we hit a few that I thought might swallow the car.

I had rented a Chevrolet Chevelle during the six weeks that we were at Indianapolis. However, we used the cars that the other lieutenants had brought with them for our trips since I had to pay mileage. Renting cars in those days was different than now. You paid a flat rate per day plus mileage. It was the first time I had ever rented a car and discovered that it was an opportunity to try things that I would never do with my own car, like placing the transmission in Park while it was still moving. (You're dying to know what happened, aren't you? Well, it made a ratcheting sound until the car had slowed to a crawl and then engaged. The car stopped suddenly and rocked back and forth a few times.)

After learning the intricacies of Army paperwork and the Functional Filing System, I went back home to dump my excess gear and have another week with my girlfriend. Despite all the young women I met in Indianapolis and on our road trips, I had remained true. What an idiot.



CHAPTER TWO

Too Much to Drink

I ARRIVED IN Oakland, California, on the date specified in my orders and reported to the Army Terminal for transportation to Vietnam. The sergeant at the reception desk scanned my orders, handed them back, and told me to return the following morning.

What was I supposed to do? He gave me a tired look and explained that he didn't have a seat for me that day. He might have one the next day. I guess he had repeated that explanation countless times every day and didn't have the patience to recite it for another idiot lieutenant.

I knew a girl who had moved to San Francisco about the time I joined the Army, and I decided to look her up. She grabbed her boyfriend and a friend to be my date, (here I am again with another girl and too stupid to take advantage of the opportunity), and we went out on the town. They had me return my rental car and threw my duffel bag in the trunk of their car. The party lasted until they delivered me back to Oakland the next morning.

They waited while I checked in and learned that they still didn't have a seat on a flight for me. I was again instructed to come back the next day.

It was April, 1967, and a chartered flight was taking off every twenty minutes, 24/7, and I still couldn't get a seat. It was the height of the Vietnam buildup.

The party continued another 24 hours and I was begging for a seat the next morning. I didn't think I could survive another day. If I was going to die, please let it be in Vietnam where I could at least be decorated with a Purple Heart.

The last thing I remember was a kindly policeman coaxing me to return the stone cupid I was carrying out of some park, somewhere, sometime in the middle of the night. The sergeant at the Oakland Army Terminal took pity, and I joined a queue headed towards a bus.

Unfortunately, I was yanked out of line at the last minute. A corpsman asked if I had my vaccination record. No. Well, it wasn't in my medical records either and I had to be re-inoculated before I could get on the plane. The bus was loading as the corpsman pumped me with seventeen different injections, all in the left arm. I decided that I needed at least one good arm to salute with and also to defend myself when we arrived in country.

It was not a comfortable ride from there to Travis Air Force Base where a World Airways Boeing 707 waited. You never heard of World Airways? They did a lot of charter service for the Air Force in those days. Indeed, I think that the Air Force was chartering just about every available plane that could make it to Vietnam.

There was no separation of cabins. The plane had been fitted with passenger seats in every available space. The front row was jammed against the bulkhead that formed one wall of the latrine. As an officer, I was allowed to board first and made a beeline for the window seat next to the emergency exit over the wing. It was the only seat with any legroom.

You could almost feel the aircraft settling on its undercarriage as the men loaded and took their seats. Someone once told me that a Boeing 707 could fly even if you filled the fuselage with water. I think we severely tested that theory that day.



CHAPTER THREE

Where is Vietnam?

I REMEMBER ONE of the young candidates in Infantry Officer Candidate School who thought that Vietnam was somewhere in Europe. I wish it were. It would have been a helluva lot shorter flight

There was no functioning entertainment system. No music and definitely no movies. A young soldier sitting near me asked a stewardess about it. She replied that she was the entertainment. She wasn't very good at it.

Travis was built with extra long and wide runways to accommodate B-52 bombers. We needed them. As our plane began to roll we looked at each other. It didn't take an experienced flier to realize that we were carrying the maximum load. The plane floated on its suspension. Every seam in the taxiway caused the plane to dip and float slowly back. The cargo compartments must have been even fuller than the passenger compartment.

When we turned onto the runway, the pilot took us to the very end and made a u-turn so that we could take advantage of every inch of pavement to accelerate and get airborne. He set the brakes and revved up the engines until they were screaming with white hot fury. The plane rolled from side-to-side, and we expected to take off as though launched from an aircraft carrier catapult. Instead, when the pilot released the brakes, we surged ahead like a giant glob of molasses pouring from a jar in January. We were worried. Well, I was. I had flown enough to know that we needed speed to lift off. However, I swear that birds were passing us on the runway. And they were walking.

Towards the end of the runway there were signs warning that we were approaching the end. (I'm not saying the end of what.) 5 - 4 - 3... I don't know how far apart they were, but the plane still hadn't rotated - the nose wheel was still firmly planted on the ground - when we passed 2. I don't think the plane ever rotated. I believe that the pilot simply raised the landing gear like a woman might raise her skirts to cross a puddle, and we cleared the chain link fence at the end of the runway.

We circled until we gained enough altitude to clear the mountains circling Travis before heading northwest to Alaska. The planes headed for Vietnam alternated routes with the first stop being either Alaska or Hawaii. My plane went from Alaska to Japan to Guam to Wake Island to Bien Hoa, Vietnam. We were allowed to deplane and stretch our legs at each stop. I was comatose most of the time - almost 24 hours total, sleeping off a hangover and recovering some feeling in my arm.

Our first stop was in Alaska. I pointed my Yashika 35mm Single Lens Reflex camera out of the window and began snapping pictures of the mountains. I still have them. It was early evening and the shadows defined the ruggedness of the terrain in stark relief. Fortunately, the cold air in Alaska was heavier than in California, giving the aircraft more lift, and we touched down more or less normally.

The cold air gave us reason to put our heads down and make a dash for the terminal when we deplaned. We had to wait inside while the ground crew refueled it. I remember running headlong into the terminal before looking up into the gaping jaws and outstretched forelegs and claws of a giant Alaskan brown bear. The taxidermist had done a good job. For an instant, I thought that I was about to be consumed. Although, given the ache in my arm, I might have welcomed it.

The landing at night in Tokyo was similarly sane. No bears though. We reached Guam in the daylight. It seemed that the runway there spanned the whole island. It was another designed