“This week, American forces are to complete their withdrawal from Cambodia. “Cambodia is a mess,” one official commented, “but South Vietnam is still the main event.”

—Newsweek, July 6, 1968

24

Returning

July 1970

The clock ticked away our final moments together in Sandy’s apartment in Columbus. Silently we drove my Chevy to the Muscogee County Airport. The more things changed, the more they remained the same. Everything about this trip to the airport was different from my first one, but in a sense, everything was the same. This time I drove, but the car still was not air-conditioned, and the temperature was again above a hundred degrees. My khaki shirt stuck to my back as it had during the drive to the Jacksonville airport three years earlier. I carried a single canvas flight bag, a tie-down manila folder with my orders and records inside, and a lump in my throat.

I had placed a small notebook with handwritten instructions to Sandy in the glove compartment of the car. It included solutions to every problem I could foresee—problems with the car, the apartment, the army—but nothing about how to cope with the loneliest year of our lives. I knew of course that if I could foresee the problem, it probably wouldn’t be one; I hadn’t imagined the gaping hole in our hearts.

I had to leave, but parting was more difficult than I thought possible. Sandy would stay home alone and pregnant. Essentially I was escaping my responsibilities as a husband and father. I felt like a coward, not a hero. When I had volunteered a year earlier I had not planned on being married when I returned. I knew I was lucky to have survived my first tour, and perhaps I was pushing my luck too far this time.

I showed Sandy the notebook, knowing it was inadequate for her immense needs but hoping she would find comfort in knowing I had at least considered them. The notebook probably comforted me more than her; I tried to provide a thread to hold to when things became difficult. But she would have to be self-reliant to survive the year.

She handed me a small package, more precious than the book I had given her. Her present represented faith in the future, trust in something stronger than either of us, and her love. Inside the box, I found a silver Saint Christopher’s medal on a chain to protect a traveler on his journey. I was touched by it. I had always found it difficult to express my personal feelings, but I wore the medal every day I was away, next to my heart and alongside my dog tags.

The drive to the airport was difficult, simultaneously too short and too long. During our gut-wrenching farewell Sandy’s thoughts were her own and I was afraid to ask. I had already redirected mine to Vietnam.

I knew that once I was in a military unit I would be okay. I didn’t know how Sandy would cope with her isolation, and I felt awful about that. The army would keep me busy and give me a weapon, a place to sleep, food, and a purpose. I would be absorbed in a mission, justified in forgetting my responsibilities at home. Sandy would have to deal with her world alone.

We kissed at the runway gate. We regretted the way things were, already longing for each other before we parted and dreading the future. Her kiss burned my lips as I pushed away from her grasp to walk, unsteadily, toward the ramp to the airplane. It was the longest walk of my life.

Following tortuous army processing in Oakland, the plane landed in Honolulu at 8:00 A.M. We had time in Honolulu to wander about the terminal and stretch our legs before continuing our journey. Upon returning to the gate, our group was assembled for an announcement by the flight captain. “Gentlemen, we have a problem. We’ll be delayed in Honolulu due to weather,” announced the captain. “I know the weather here is beautiful, but a hurricane is lashing the Philippines, and Clark Air Force Base is closed. Trees have been thrown across the runway, the tower is closed and communications are out."

A faint cheer rose as the surprising news sank in. Unlike the others, I didn’t want a delay. I wanted to get to my destination as soon as possible.

“We don’t know how long this will be, but we’ll make you as comfortable as possible. Buses are coming to take us to a Holiday Inn. You’ll have to register with two people in each room, so buddy up. Pan Am will cover the rooms and meals at the hotel. You’re not restricted, but if you leave the hotel, all expenses will be yours. Check with the front desk daily for flight information. You’re responsible for making the flight. If you miss it, that’s between you and the army. Any questions?”

There were many questions, but cheering drowned them out.

Our brief delay stretched into three days. My roommate, a captain named Jim, convinced me to go in with him to rent a yellow Mustang convertible. These stranded days counted toward part of our year, and Diamond Head was much nicer than Monkey Mountain.

Thinking Sandy would be worried, I phoned her each day from Honolulu to update her on my situation. I praised the beauty of Hawaii, too much, setting the stage for our anticipated reunion.

When I called her on the third day her patience had been tested: “Don’t call me again until you get to Vietnam!”

On cue, departure instructions followed. I was relieved to be en route again. If I harbored guilt about leaving, I certainly felt it in Honolulu. Hawaii was halfway between heaven and hell. That episode foretold the future in ways I could not then realize.

We stopped at Wake Island and in the Philippines. I was more confident in myself this trip. Peggy had helped me through the first one, but I couldn’t think about her anymore. She was now a mysterious ghost of a memory, who had appeared when I needed her and then disappeared. That was another time, a different life.

I was fully committed now, torn between my love for Sandy and my desire to fulfill my soldier’s promise. While I had not anticipated balancing a family with soldiering, I soon discovered that family and career would always be in conflict. I managed both, but I never found complete synergy between them. Family usually took the back seat, while the army drove.

The Pan Am jet landed in Vietnam on the Fourth of July. I celebrated at the replacement detachment by filling out forms and waiting for an assignment. Jet lag roused me at 4:00 A.M. I wanted to walk around to clear my head, but I already had blisters on my feet from new jungle boots. I still hated the look and smell of new clothes in a combat zone. My uniform and boots were stiff, smelly, and too green. I was already experienced and didn’t like the label of newness.

I was also bored. Long Binh offered little except sleep, food, and beer. A Vietnamese band entertained transient officers at the club, but I wasn’t interested. My only two concerns were writing a letter to Sandy and getting a command in the 1st Cavalry Division.

At 7:00 A.M. on July 7 I joined other replacements at the First Team Orientation Center, where I met John Dodson from my Ranger School class. John had commanded a company in the 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry, in Cambodia, and was waiting to go home. He related stories of the Cambodia incursion.

John Whitley, several classes behind me at North Georgia College, was also waiting to leave. Whitley had been flying an L-19 out of Go Cong with the ARVN 7th Division. He had been a Swamp Fox pilot in the Delta and delivered a discouraging report that “the 7th ARVN Division had really gone to rags.” I was sad to hear that.

First impressions of the 1st Cavalry were encouraging. It was a professional fighting outfit and its training reflected it.

The first night at the First Team Officers’ Club I ran into Capt. John Fuller and Maj. Bob Reitz. It felt like a family reunion, and I knew I belonged. Both were from my class at Fort Benning. We had heard the same rumors and expected to be assigned to the 7th Cavalry, two battalions of which had taken heavy casualties in Cambodia. That was fine with me; I was eager to join a battle-tested unit anyway.

The next day we assembled in bleachers as we normally did for training. A solemn-faced noncommissioned officer informed us that the division’s commanding general, Major General Casey, had crashed in his helicopter and all aboard were lost without a trace. General Casey, admired in the division and a rising star in the army, was a caring and effective division commander. Although I did not know him personally, I knew his reputation and sensed the heavy loss. Casey’s death delivered another message to each of us: We were all vulnerable, and expendable.

Later, I bumped into Capt. Robert Powell, also from North Georgia College. Bob commanded A Company, 2d Battalion, 7th Cavalry, “Cold Steel Alpha.” I admired Bob; his strong sense of purpose had been an inspiration in college, and I was glad he was a successful commander in the division. If I could emulate him, I would also succeed in my command.

Lieutenant Colonel Ed Trobaugh, a no-nonsense guy, commanded the 2d Battalion, and Bob dragged me over to meet him. Our paths—Trobaugh’s and mine—would cross in the future, at Fort Benning and in the 82d Airborne during the Grenada invasion, as well as a few months later in Vietnam.

Finally, on July 9, I received my orders to the 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment. I was happy and skipped class to write home. Orders meant that we would ship out to U.S. fighting outfits. The war would start again for me the following day.

Dearest Sandy,

Last night I tossed and turned and had trouble sleeping. I kept thinking about you and prayed that you are okay. I know this is going to be a difficult year for you, but please be strong. I find my strength in you and I am counting on you to help me over the rough days ahead.