“General William C. Westmoreland asked for 206,000 more American troops for Vietnam and the request touched off a divisive internal debate within high levels of the Johnson Administration.”
—New York Times, March 10, 1968
23
Revival
August 1968–July 1970
War still raged in Vietnam, but I needed a revival, a long, sabbatical to find myself again. The interval between combat tours served to refresh my spirit and substantially change my future. I carried with me from Vietnam in 1968 a sense of personal victory—not necessarily of victory in battle, but victory in merely having survived and prevailed, in establishing that human spirit transcends war. Resigned to the inevitability of war, I despaired that our tactical objectives in Vietnam and our national goals at home were not aligned.
My orders directed, and I eagerly accepted, training as an army Ranger. I prepared myself for the intense, vigorous training and discovered unanticipated weaknesses, which I had believed to be strengths. My feet, weakened from being submerged in water during my tour in the flooded Mekong River Delta, were quite sensitive to cold. I reached deep within for power to persevere, while taking special care of my tender feet. Despite my efforts my feet were frostbitten in Florida, but I left my hospital bed without being discharged, to finish training and earn the coveted Ranger tab. I was as proud of that accomplishment as anything else I had achieved. Rangers were the most aggressive and effective of soldiers. I yearned to be a member of that elite group and later would have the opportunity to help establish the first of the new Ranger battalions.
Following Ranger training I proudly reported to the 82d Airborne Division. With combat experience and Ranger qualification under my belt I expected a company command. I was chagrined when I was offered assignments at division headquarters as protocol officer or special projects officer. I absolutely refused both. After being bounced around for three days, I reluctantly agreed to go to G-3 operations to accept responsibility for the division’s training ammunition program.
The biggest problem was managing training ammunition forecasts. Battalions requested ammunition for anticipated training, but conflicting demands invariably prevented them from using all of it. Consequently far more ammunition was shipped to Fort Bragg than was used, and at considerable cost. I tried to convince units to forecast more realistically but failed to make any headway. So I arbitrarily reduced their orders based on my own assessment. I knew I could replace any shortfall from the unused forecasts of other units. I saved the division and taxpayers millions of dollars—more money for the war effort.
My heroics were soon discovered, but they didn’t garner the praise I expected. The corps commander actually commended the 82d for its successes in managing the recurring problem. When the division commander sought to find out how that had happened, he discovered that a young captain had done it on his own initiative. Instead of giving me a pat on the back, he locked my heels on the carpet in front of his desk and chewed me out for exceeding my authority. The peacetime army and I had issues to deal with. I was uncomfortable in the new reality, which was even more unsettling than the unreality of Vietnam. Which was real?
However, Fort Bragg offered needed change and restored my spirit. I was where I wanted to be—in the “shit-hot” 82d Airborne Division, jumping out of airplanes and hanging out with macho men. The spirit of the airborne raised my spirits above a troubled world and gently returned me to earth by parachute.
Two friends joined me: Nick, a crazy Special Forces captain, and Dave, another captain in the 82d Airborne. We rented a house in Fayetteville, and each rode his own Triumph motorcycle.
Fayetteville was home to many women who enjoyed good times with guys with money to blow. We believed we were on top of the world, and perhaps we were. As young, single men with few expenses and no obligations, we had money and time to spend, and we knew how to spend them both in style. Vietnam was half a world away, but shoved down deep, somewhere in our minds. We were lucky to have seen it, and now we had this to hang on to.
Life was fine in “Fayette-Nam.” However, an occasional loud noise caused me to drop reflexively to the ground, publicly embarrassing myself. I could not fully escape images of my year in Vietnam. They would suddenly coalesce as apparitions of the people I had met along the way—like Lieutenant O’Malley in the commander’s mess. When I had a bad night of “think back too much,” I struggled with my personal torments. Practically every soldier knew he was going back to “the Nam.” After Ranger training and a few months in the 82d, I was mentally and physically adjusted and prepared to return. I was determined to go to a U.S. Army division, one with plenty of support, especially artillery and helicopters. I talked with other officers with experience in various divisions, gathering their impressions. I decided the 1st Cavalry Division was my choice.
U.S. Defense Department sources disclose that the Army and Marines will be sending about 24,000 men back to Vietnam for involuntary second tours in a move made necessary by the length of the war, high turnover of personnel resulting from the one year tour of duty, and a tight supply of experienced officers.
Orders arrived suddenly. I was disappointed when my return to Vietnam was delayed by orders for the infantry officers’ advanced course at Fort Benning. I had mixed feelings about returning to academics, Ranger school was as intellectual as I wanted to get under the circumstances. I had already studied much of the advanced curriculum through self-study at Binh Duc. The war might end before I got back to complete unresolved issues, and not only the war, but my part in it. I was afraid the war would dribble to an end before I had finished soldiering. I wanted fulfillment, but getting my ticket punched at the Home of the Infantry was also important. It was a rite of passage for command, and I was convinced that it was the only route to the company command I sought. So I loaded everything I owned in my car, lashed my motorcycle onto a U-Haul trailer, and reluctantly drove to Georgia.
The course lasted nine months. The class was filled with transient officers, most en route from or to Vietnam, and many coming from and going back after graduation. I was in the group that was both coming and going. Some of us took our training seriously; others used the time to relax and try to get families, minds, and lives back together; some did a little of each. Others marked calendars to grow a baby in nine months. I intended to stay in good physical condition, keep my ghosts from Vietnam at bay, enjoy my respite, and learn something that might help me later. Nothing else mattered much. I had an excellent vision of where I wanted to go with my military career and was unconcerned about my personal future. I didn’t anticipate the one thing that would completely change my life and my plans.
President Johnson announced agreement with North Vietnam to begin preliminary peace talks in Paris. But, the President added, “There are many, many hazards and difficulties ahead.”
While holding onto life and advancing my career, I met someone. She was the kind of someone who, once you find her, you know you are no longer complete without her by your side. I had not planned for it, and my future was put in a new light. It struck so unexpectedly that I nearly made a mess of all of it. I had intended to concentrate on my career, lead U.S. soldiers in battle, and claim victory over the haunted battlefield of my psyche. I did not expect to fall in love. Neither of us expected it, but we were powerless to stop it. We tumbled into it together, complicating both our lives in ways we had not imagined.
It all began when my friend Dave from Fort Bragg joined me at Fort Benning for a later class. We each had separate apartments in Columbus, and since Dave had the larger apartment it was logical that I move in with him and use his spare bedroom.
One afternoon after class, I laced my jungle boots and jogged in an old rock quarry along the Chattahoochee River. After running, I found myself waiting near the front window for the blond in the apartment two doors away to come home from work. Sandy arrived in her old Volkswagen Beetle, which limped into the parking lot on nearly its last mile. A single mother, she dragged her groceries and lovely daughter, Paige, inside. She worked hard at the post hospital during the day and used evenings to prepare for the next day’s work. The scene drew me back to my window day after day.
One day I saw Paige riding her bike and I invited her to split a Popsicle with me. Sandy was suspicious of my attentions to Paige, and I was afraid she thought I might be a pervert. My world was actually much simpler. Paige was a lovely little girl who reminded me of the lost urchins I had seen in Vietnam. Children deserved better than that.
I asked Sandy out repeatedly. She turned me down each time, explaining that she didn’t want to get involved with anyone. She had suffered through several bad relationships and was not prepared for another one. I imagined that my prospects didn’t look very promising to her, either. I refused to accept her logic or her rejection, and I persisted until she accepted after my third try.
I made reservations for a steak dinner at the Coco Supper Club on Victory Drive. We both knew the Coco had great steaks and good service, and we dressed up for the occasion. We talked as we ate.
“I’m so hungry.”
“The steak is really good.” Pointless conversation.
“Mine is so good I’ll be indebted to you.” Sandy implied she would return the favor by cooking a meal for me.
The way she said it threw me off balance. I replied, “I won’t let you return the favor. I want you to be indebted to me!”
She blushed, stunned by my audacity. I was also surprised by my utterance and wondered what to say next.
After an awkward pause, she pressed me. “And what do you mean, you want me to be indebted to you?”
I felt my face flush; my heart throbbed; beads of sweat formed on my upper lip. I didn’t know exactly what I had meant, but I knew I meant what I said. We were amused and embarrassed simultaneously by the position we were in. We had arrived at a clear juncture in our relationship.
Sandy sensed we were on the verge of an important discussion, but I was in over my head. I laughed it off but I had already tipped my hand. Plans for my life had taken a sudden detour, and I didn’t know where it might lead.
I couldn’t imagine a day without seeing Sandy, and I couldn’t see her enough. We just couldn’t seem to get close enough.
Finding ways to spend more time with her, I bought two old bicycles from a used bike shop. We rode together to an Italian restaurant for spaghetti, or sometimes walked or ran together after work. Running was a new experience for her, but I was determined to get her into an exercise program. It was a great way to spend more time together. Somehow it justified my physical education major in college: I was transformed into the coach I had always aspired to be.
I knew Sandy needed me to express my feelings, hopes, and dreams. I sensed her fear that I would disappear, as soldiers often do. I wanted to understand her questions better but I didn’t know the answers. I was content for us to watch television together, enjoy Irish coffee and doughnuts on Sunday mornings, but most of all, just hold her. I never wanted to let go, but we knew that day was approaching.
Sandy wrote about that time in her own words:
My cousin Jan had come to live with me, deposited on my doorstep in Columbus straight from Saudi Arabia. It would be nice to have someone help with the rent and we would have fun. Fun had been absent from my life for a while.
My life was different from Jan’s. I was divorced, supporting a three-year old child without a clue how to do it. My life was dull; I was living in black and white, on the fringe of a more colorful world, wherein Jan dwelled.
She was cute, fun, and my ticket into the colorful world. She bought striped lawn chairs! In her world, people dressed in bright clothes, leisurely sunned themselves, and socialized around a grill sipping sweet drinks and making droll, witty conversation. This was a world where people did not work all weekend, the world I had dreamed of from the periphery.
I continued on with my life—daycare, work, daycare, home—weekends on call at the hospital. We were on separate tracks. Hers included tanning, shopping, and hanging out with a rock band while mine was head down and straight-ahead.
So, when I woke to find Jan missing, I was not surprised, but rather, dismayed. (Jan was heading to Texas in her Mustang.) She left with the rent due. The colorful life I had purchased by selling my furniture abruptly vanished. My technicolored world evolved into a whirling nightmare.
I was grateful for the simple existence I managed to carve out for us. I worked weekends and took in roommates to pay the rent and occasionally used the only thing Jan had left—lawn chairs—to sit in the sun.
One day after work, I limped home in my old blue Volkswagen; when I saw an all-American type with light hair, blue eyes, a sprinkling of freckles and athletic build, I took notice. He asked me over to watch a football game. I declined. Later, he came to borrow a bowl for chips, and asked me out once more. I declined again. The third time I finally accepted, running out of excuses.
I remember the words I could not believe he had uttered: “I want you to be indebted to me!” We fell in love on that first date and, as they say, the rest is history.
The dreaded day arrived. My class assembled in the auditorium at Fort Benning’s Infantry Hall for graduation. After the speeches and hoopla, I tucked my diploma away and Sandy and I ran away to Florida alone. The closer we grew, the more nervous I became. She made me feel warm and comfortable, I didn’t know how I could live without her. I pulled back; I had to clear my head and harden my heart.
We returned to Columbus quietly, issues concerning our future together unresolved. Sandy left for work, and I packed my belongings to stash for another year. We said farewell. But why was I leaving? I was running away from a relationship I wanted more than anything else. But I no longer controlled my future, the army did, and it was time to deal with that.
I left while Sandy was at work. I roamed about visiting family and old friends and preparing to return to Vietnam. I tried to escape the meaning of “I want you to be indebted to me.” I tried but I couldn’t shake it. I returned to Columbus for an honest discussion about us: who were we, where we were going, and the almost insurmountable problems we faced. We knew we had issues to confront, but we decided to tackle them together.
Sandy and I were married at the Kelly Hill Chapel on Fort Benning three weeks before I left for the war zone. I finally understood how significant commitment is. For the first time I was fully committed to someone, not an idea or a cause, but bound to another person.
President Nixon, in a nationally televised speech, announced he is sending U.S. combat forces into Cambodia to destroy Communist sanctuaries and supply bases.
These were stressful hours for us and we lived each day as though it were our last. We struggled with our new relationship, facing a year’s separation. Many of our friends’ days had been shortened by the war; announcement of each death surprised us. As the end of life was brought to the forefront, life itself assumed larger meaning. We were determined to live each day as if it were numbered, like a priceless possession.
The period between combat tours was a bridge. I had someone to come home to, and Sandy had someone to wait for. But, our union didn’t simplify our lives. I had not prepared myself for this psychologically, and my old career goals now conflicted with my new life goals. We were realistic about the difficulty ahead for both of us, but we were determined to hold our lives together somehow.
My first year in Vietnam had been a year of big battles. I had been a green lieutenant with limited experience and training. In the second period I was a different person altogether—more experienced, better trained, and changed by what I had experienced. It was also a different war. I would return to the war married and with a child due while I was overseas. I had chosen the army, but I didn’t know where a family fit into that plan.
We faced our challenge to build something from that fragment of time. Sandy accepted a husband whose commitment was suspect: I would leave in the first month of our marriage, but she would have to cope with questions of whether I would ever return. In my turmoil I had not articulated my deep feelings sufficiently, and that would plague us for years to come, an effigy of a time some would say is best forgotten but can never be.
The year ahead would prove the most difficult either of us had faced, or ever would again.
Sandy and I were married at the Kelly Hill Chapel on Fort Benning three weeks before I left for the war zone. I finally understood how significant commitment is. For the first time I was fully committed to someone, not an idea or a cause, but bound to another person.
President Nixon, in a nationally televised speech, announced he is sending U.S. combat forces into Cambodia to destroy Communist sanctuaries and supply bases.
These were stressful hours for us and we lived each day as though it were our last. We struggled with our new relationship, facing a year’s separation. Many of our friends’ days had been shortened by the war; announcement of each death surprised us. As the end of life was brought to the forefront, life itself assumed larger meaning. We were determined to live each day as if it were numbered, like a priceless possession.
The period between combat tours was a bridge. I had someone to come home to, and Sandy had someone to wait for. But, our union didn’t simplify our lives. I had not prepared myself for this psychologically, and my old career goals now conflicted with my new life goals. We were realistic about the difficulty ahead for both of us, but we were determined to hold our lives together somehow.
My first year in Vietnam had been a year of big battles. I had been a green lieutenant with limited experience and training. In the second period I was a different person altogether—more experienced, better trained, and changed by what I had experienced. It was also a different war. I would return to the war married and with a child due while I was overseas. I had chosen the army, but I didn’t know where a family fit into that plan.
We faced our challenge to build something from that fragment of time. Sandy accepted a husband whose commitment was suspect: I would leave in the first month of our marriage, but she would have to cope with questions of whether I would ever return. In my turmoil I had not articulated my deep feelings sufficiently, and that would plague us for years to come, an effigy of a time some would say is best forgotten but can never be.
The year ahead would prove the most difficult either of us had faced, or ever would again.