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It was April 1965. My year was done and I was finally going home. I was still nineteen and finishing up my year in the "Nam". An old nineteen maybe. After six months on Okinawa with the 173rd drinking beer at the Ebb-Tide every night and working hard during the day my five foot eight had blossomed to 155 lbs. Now, a year later, I was a rock hard skinny 120lbs, burnt brown by the sun. Not what you’d want your daughter to drag home from a date.
A quick forgettable turn in of weapons and gear and a bus ride to Camp Alpha. A search of my few remaining possessions and some E-7 taking my PX bought hunting knife. Can’t take something like that back to the states, or maybe he just wanted my knife. Probably had a war story all put together. Assigned a flight number or something and a day or two wait for my turn to leave. Holding my breath. Waiting for the final shoe to fall. Never actually believing I’d live this long. Too many nights that had lasted a year. Too few of us left. Too much blood. Too much of everything. Too much, too much. And then, too many beers at the club and a Vietnamese band that did a good job of sounding like the Beetles.
Then "chuck" mortared us that night. Sitting with our backs against the side of the building. Unarmed. Listening to the load speaker and the shaking voice of the Camp Alpha Duty Officer as he tried to explain to the Cadre were the arms conex is. "The arms conex is in the back of the compound not the front, the back of the compound." Hearing two cadre hiding on the other side of the wall discussing how they hear machine gun fire and how "their not going out there."
Course jokes by my building mates and the cynical evaluation of rear echelon troops by combat troops. The biggest war talkers of the day now laying on the floor under mattresses, some sobbing with uncontrollable jerks as more rounds landed. The "herd, and the "Cav." and the "Big Red One" guys quietly smoking, waiting as they had for almost a year for whatever to happen to happen. The fatalist that know if its your turn, its your turn and there’s not much you can do about it. Found out later that they weren’t aiming at us at all, but the helicopter pad located next to Camp Alpha. Someone said they had the tubes set up on the Saigon Gold Course. Don’t tell the mother’s and wives of the what was it, five killed and fifty six wounded that it was just a mistake. "Dear Mom, arrived in Viet Nam today and got may first Purple Heart." " Dear Sweetheart, I was going to PCS from the Nam today, but I got killed instead."
I got a window seat. When the plane left the ground a half-hearted cheer went up. Most didn’t participate. I looked out the window at the country side covered with bomb craters and quietly raised my right hand and extended the infamous middle finger to the window, the country, the people, and felt a terrible emptiness. A long plane ride where we drank all the milk on board before we were half way to Hawaii. Sat next to in those days a "Negro", SP/4 from the 1st Cav. I think he was even more messed up than me. Old stewardesses, God love them. They knew what they had on board. I don’t think some 21 year old "Barbie" would have enjoyed the trip. In and out of a fitful sleep and a bumpy landing at Traverse Airforce Base.
Caught a cab with a couple other guys and rode to San Francisco International. Looked out the window and saw a car load of Orientals. The strangeness of looking at a small hill beside the highway and not seeing some sandbagged position with a Vietnamese flag flying. The sudden realization that I probably wasn’t going to be ambushed. That I was actually going to live through Viet Nam and my body starting to relax like some giant spring slowly uncoiling. The realization that where I had thought I was never really afraid; when in actually I had always been afraid. The emotion had been such a constant companion that I hadn’t even realized it was there.
A quick change of Khakis so I wouldn’t look like a ragbag when I got home, and running into some other 173rd guys. Someone suggested a quick drink while we waited. I said I’ve have a coke. Didn’t really want to see my Mom after 18 months with booze on my breath. The cigarettes would be enough for her to stand. We went into a bar decorated with bamboo to imitate some jungle motif. How fitting. The waitress asked for ID’s. I told her I wasn’t 21 but I just wanted a coke. She told me I couldn’t sit there unless I was of age. I guess the good citizens of San Francisco didn’t want my morals to be corrupted.
Another flight a welcome home kiss from my mom and a shake of the hand from Dad when he got home from work. A call to my best friend and a dance to attend that night. Why did the participants look so young or why did I feel so old. Why did everyone stare at me like I was a chaperone or something.
I don’t think I belong here anymore.
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