My war story:Chronicling grandpa’s life in Vietnam

You see them every day. In the community, working, shopping, raising a family or possibly enjoying retirement. They could be neighbors or relatives, and often people you don’t know. They are the ones who once served in the armed forces.

They come from all walks of life, but they all possess one thing in common: one of the most important documents for a veteran of the military. It’s what you need to qualify for VA benefits: the DD 214, a veteran’s service record issued by the Department of Defense upon discharge from his or her term of active duty. All pertinent information relating to a veteran’s time in service is in there, listing things like name, rank and service number, dates of time served, last duty assignment, security clearance, decorations or medals, campaign ribbons, and so forth.

A few years ago, my grandson asked me out of the blue what Vietnam was like. I have to admit that at first, I had a sneaky suspicion that his dad had given him a geopolitical overview of the whole thing, but no, he just wanted me to give him the TL;DR (too long, didn’t read) version, as the internet would put it.

Frankly, TL;DR is how many vets feel about telling their stories.

I realized I hadn’t thought about those times in a while and pulled out my DD 214 in hopes of refreshing my memory. As for my grandson, I decided then and there to sit down and write out my experiences for him to read when he was older - four years in the life of grandpa.

It’s all in my records and funny thing; the more memories I wrote down, the more I started remembering.

The story I chronicled for him is, I suspect, not too far off from those of thousands upon thousands of others who served in the late 60s and early 70s; some stationed stateside, some in various foreign countries (like my brother in Germany in the Army), and some who were called to Vietnam.

All vets have their own “war story.” This is mine. Albeit politely abridged.

Not unlike other vets of that long-ago Southeast Asian war, in thinking about it, little bits and pieces crop up, significant events, jittery moments … along with maybe some nostalgia, surprisingly. But all the while, some measure of pride in wearing the uniform.

In my case, volunteering at the height of the Vietnam War (over 545,000 troops that year) in the late sixties sounded insane to some, what with all the student demonstrations at virtually every college campus but being brought up by a World War II veteran I didn’t think twice about it, even as I had already been accepted into the journalism program at the local university.

In 1968, when you’re 18 and want to get outta’ Dodge and see the world, signing up with Uncle Sam is a guaranteed way to get it done. And if you’re a not too smug or smart-alecky teenager it’s not too bad, basic training, that is. That’s when you have sergeants yelling in your face for no apparent reason other than to get a rise out of you so they can make an example of you by making you do twenty push-ups right there on the spot. Sir, yes sir.

No different that is what’s depicted in many a movie.

Basic training was memorable. Eight weeks of reveille at 4:30 a.m. with 30 minutes to shave, shower and get dressed for a 20-minute breakfast at the mess hall. Marching in formation, calisthenics, saluting a lot, not questioning orders, and learning to shoot a rifle ensue. While easier than boot camp in the Army or Marines, it was the toughest thing I had ever done at the time, but I was also in the best shape ever.

What followed for me was another couple of months of training at the intelligence school In Denver. I know, I know. Please spare me the old joke about military intelligence being a contradiction in terms, again.

I didn’t set out to be an Air Intelligence Specialist; that was my second choice when I enlisted. I wanted to be a journalist, perhaps writing for a base newsletter or, better yet, Stars and Stripes, the armed forces’ daily newspaper. But in those days, all one could do was salute and say, “Sir, yes sir.”

Once I graduated from intelligence school, me and a buddy were given our assignments, and within weeks we were on the way to the Republic of Vietnam via a Northwest Orient 707 with stops in Anchorage and Yokota, Japan.

We got off the plane at Quin Nhon Air Base on the South China Sea in Binh Dinh Province, about midway down the country’s coast. In short order, I found myself standing in a surge of dust by the side of the road with other GIs, lugging an overstuffed duffel bag, and looking to hop a ride to my duty assignment at Phu Cat Air Base 20 miles away, and it was hot and it was humid and I was perspiring—a beautiful late Spring morning. The two-stripers were sweating and the Sergeants were cursing.

The 19-year-old me was thinking, “What the hell was this? Do I belong here?” Oh yeah. Vietnam. “How the heck did I wind up here?” somebody said.

Long story short, I spent the next 365 days in a variety of tasks, including interpreting aerial photography and plotting enemy action on a wall-sized map of the country for our pilots’ morning briefings.

In between, there were frequent pitch-black midnight jeep runs to the end of the two-mile runway to pick up high priority aerial photography from the so-called small Scatback jet flying in from Udorn in Thailand. Out on the flight line near the base perimeter, that acrid odor of cordite and smell of jet fuel was ever-present. The Scatback handed off the box of film and turned around to take back off. The film was rushed as fast as I could get the jeep to go to get it back to the office to be examined with a stereoscope. The film was usually taken by unarmed F-101 and F-4 photo-reconnaissance jets flying missions over target areas immediately before and after a raid to photograph the damage so assessments of attacks could be made. The findings were marked on the operations map.

At Phu Cat and later at Phan Rang, we had Korean War era F-100 fighters taking off throughout the day, every day, with some loaded with a couple of bombs and returning empty-handed. Their primary missions were as forward air controllers, marking targets for other, more effective fighter-bombers like F-4As and F-101s, but were frequently requested by the Army to bomb or strafe other targets.

Another assignment I was given was debriefing those pilots as soon as they landed near the small debriefing shack on the flight line. A pilot would tell me what he was doing up there, whether he dropped his ordinance on an enemy convoy, say, or if he used rockets or the 20mm cannon mounted on the aircraft against NVA soldiers. More times than not, they reported “tree busters,” getting rid of their bombs regardless of targets and sometimes releasing them over the South China Sea. Conventional wisdom dictated that touching down on the runway with bombs under the wings was not a good idea.

It was basically an office job, but for us working on the ground on a smallish Air Force base, the threat was from above, in the form of frequent rocket or mortar attacks. When the rockets fell … boom … boom … boom, and the base-wide PA was blared, “Code yellow. Take cover,” all one could do was drop flat on the floor or on the ground. Sometimes nightly. Sometimes three times a week. Sometimes during the day. Sometimes through the roof. Several guys I was acquainted with bought it while sitting at their desks.

But life goes on. Keep your mind on the mission and focus on the job. Gallows humor prevailed.

Our free time was all about thinking of home, talking about girls and drinking beer. But that’s not all. Some buddies and I used a good amount of our off time keeping sane by spinning records on a home-built radio station, DIY style, broadcasting rock and roll to the troops of the 1st Air Cav Division over at An Khe, as well as Navy ships in the Sount China Sea. It lasted a good months before the authorities at MACV in Saigon gave us a slap on the wrist and shut us down.

My last day in-country was anything but smooth. The C-123 transporting me and some Vietnamese civilians with their pigs and chickens to Cam Ranh Air Base was hit by ground fire and had to turn back. The second trip was uneventful, and once arriving, found the terminal at Cam Ranh extremely hectic, as it was one of the main arrival and departure bases, along with Tan Son Nhut and Da Nang, for GIs coming in and going out of Vietnam.

After getting through all the processing, I learned that my flight back to the States was delayed until the next day. So, I spent the whole time on a wooden bench, waiting, eating, reading, worrying, and trying to sleep. I did fall asleep on the bench that night but was awakened by the all too familiar boom…boom…booms. By this time, I was getting a little frustrated and angry at no one in particular. I had had enough of Vietnam.

But the all-clear finally sounded, and blessedly unscathed I went to the terminal snack bar for a hamburger. Hamburgers represented home.

All went well the following day, and I was finally on my freedom bird, another Northwest Orient 707, heading home, the “land of the big BX.” We all feasted on cold hot dogs served out of a cardboard box, and cheered as the pilot announced we had left Vietnam airspace.

By the time I was released from active duty in 1971, I had spent two years overseas. My final tour was a year of working intel for the 8th Air Force on Guam, a far cry from Phan Rang or Phu Cat and not too bad an assignment. At the office, we received classified messages nightly coming from the jungle hill watchers back in Vietnam, and using those, target grids were plotted for the B-52 Arc Light bombing campaign in 1970. Aerial photography of the Ho Chi Minh Trail could be mistaken for craters on the surface of the moon.

At a SAC B-52 spit-and-polish outfit, great pride was taken to maintain a military bearing on or off base: spit-shined shoes, trim haircut, creased uniform trousers, proper saluting, respect for rank and the chain of command, unquestionable loyalty, and so on.

Over the years since separating from active duty, that four-year hitch was pivotal in my maturing from a kid to a fully functional adult.

In my years of newspapering with the Chieftain and before that at the Mountain Mail, I have had the privilege of telling the stories of several local veterans. The Pacific and European theaters of World War II, the Gulf War, Afghanistan, Vietnam, and one from the Korean War. I have nothing but abiding respect for each and every one.

These are people who served to do something they felt was right. Whether they were drafted or enlisted, makes no difference. If they enlisted, it might have been out of patriotism, to prove they could do it, or maybe just to qualify for the GI Bill once they got out (this is where the DD 214 comes in).

If they were drafted, they sure as heck weren’t among those who ran to Canada. Instead, they gave it their best and their all.

Those who served during wartime and returned home understand this more than anyone. While it’s true that vets who served in combat zones are understandably reserved when it comes to talking about their experiences, they usually don’t mind if you ask when and where they served.

In the end, there’s one thing they all share, and that’s the sacrifice they made for the rest of us.

This goes for all who have put on a uniform. I salute them all.

Oh, I’m leaving the medal I was awarded in Vietnam to my grandson.