“While a note of optimism is creeping into intelligence reports on progress of war in Vietnam, pessimism suddenly has taken hold in the U.S. The public is becoming more and more insistent that the war in Vietnam either be won, or be de-escalated by an American pullback.”
—U.S. News & World Report, August 28. 1967
August 23-24, 1967
An explosion welcomed me to the Vietnam War, but it was not the dramatic attack I had been trained to handle. I was fully prepared to defend myself, but I soon discovered that the enemy was everywhere, in our minds as well as our physical presence.
The final leg of the trip from the Philippines to Saigon was melodramatic. When I left Jacksonville, I’d anticipated arriving in Saigon with adrenaline pumping, all senses honed to a sharp edge, and keenly aware of all my training. I expected to rush from the airplane directly into a raging battle.
My imagined baptism of fire was built on a myth. In reality, I was dog tired from nearly forty-eight hours with virtually no sleep, emotionally wrecked by farewells with my parents and with Peggy. Frantic last-hurrah partying in Oakland had not helped, either. When I saw bursts of light through the airplane’s porthole, I didn’t know whether we were flying into a lightning storm or over explosions of bombs and artillery. I no longer cared. In my exhausted condition, I just wanted to end the long journey and face whatever was thrown at me. Most of all I wanted to sleep, and I desperately wanted to stretch my legs.
A gruff Air Force sergeant met us in the middle of the night. He lined us up, drill sergeant fashion, into proper lines for transportation to our next destination. I was dismayed to discover heat and humidity were actually worse in Saigon than in the Philippines. The passenger terminal at Tan San Nhut was austere in contrast to Jacksonville, Atlanta, and San Francisco; this facility made even the barren terminal at Clark Field appear elegant. We were standing in a tin barn with a concrete floor and not much else; this busiest airport in the world had all the ambience of a chicken coop.
Most of our group reported to a desk with a sign overhead reading “U.S. Army-Vietnam.” From there, transportation to Camp Alpha was arranged. At Camp Alpha the lucky ones were processed and transported to U.S. units. Twenty-five unfortunate souls reported to the MACV desk for routing to Koepler Compound in downtown Saigon. At the MACV compound we would go through roughly the same procedures as the blessed ones, except we were to be shipped on to advisory teams with the ARVN—the Army of the Republic of Vietnam.
Following instructions from our hard-bitten non-commissioned officer (NCO), we struggled to pile all our duffel bags into the back seats of the bus and then sat near the front. I didn’t want to be separated from my bag, but the driver announced: “Put your bags in the back and you sit in the front. That way you greenhorns won’t trip over your bags when you scramble out the doors if we’re ambushed!”
Maybe this was the real war after all. I felt naked without a weapon. Heightening my uneasiness, I noticed the windows of the bus had heavy wire screens over them and opened only a couple of inches to allow the hot, stifling air inside. Everyone in the bus tried to appear nonchalant, but I knew they were as nervous as I was—or at least I hoped they were. The bus moved forward, which forced hot air to circulate around us like a draft created when a door opens to a steaming sauna.
Our driver and sole defender picked up the only M16 rifle in the bus, dramatically chambered a round, and placed it back in the rifle rack mounted near his seat. He turned around in his seat and eyed us doubtfully. “Hang on. We’ll be driving through Saigon at high speed.” He shoved the gear of the idling troop transport into place and the vehicle jerked ahead, transmission grinding.
“High speed” was an understatement. We took the first turn so fast that our baggage in back tumbled across the seats to the other side. The steady drone and gentle bumps of the airplane were replaced by a bone-jarring ramble; everyone hung on for dear life. The rattling vehicle leaned precipitously with all its weight on one side. Saigon’s haunted streets were vacant, except for occasional policemen, like white mice with their small stature and white shirts.
Our bus clattered through a guarded gate at Koepler Compound somewhere in the middle of town. We had safely made it this far. A MACV supply sergeant, who issued each of us one sheet, one pillow, and one pillowcase as we stepped off the bus, accentuated the inauspicious arrival. “Find any empty bunk and get some sleep.” He pointed in the direction of a series of stucco buildings.
The new replacements scattered to search for unoccupied beds in dark rooms. I checked my Timex; it was already 5:30 a.m. I was exhausted from jet lag but believed I could muster enough strength left to crash into a bed. I had no other choice. I struggled with my duffel bag and the clean sheet, searching for any empty bunk to collapse on.
I realized the sleeping quarters were in an old hotel or office building constructed around a large courtyard. A high stone fence with barbed wire and glass shards buried in the concrete on top protected the perimeter. The barracks consisted of small rooms, each offering two sets of steel double bunks, and nothing else. I easily found an empty top bunk, dropped my bag on the floor, and attempted to spread my single sheet over the dingy mattress so that there would be something between my naked skin and the crawling things I imagined inside the mattress.
Finally, at long last, I stretched out on the musty mattress, which had welcomed at least a hundred sweaty soldiers to the war zone. I tried to close my bloodshot eyes as the first rays of daylight seeped through a screen door. A slow-turning ceiling fan revolved just over my head, offering a slight breeze. If I was careful sitting up I would not stick my head into the swishing blades. But my eyes would not stay closed. I was in Vietnam; I could not spend my first hours here sleeping. Lying on my back, pretending to sleep, I watched a gecko climb the walls and ceiling to catch flies, listened to the faint whir of the fan, and finally drifted into a gray zone between sleep and consciousness.
Then, movement in the dark shadows of the room yanked my untangled nerves into a knot.
Fatigue vanished and my senses surged into power drive. Using honed observation skills I saw a crouching figure skulk into the room, being careful not to let the screen door slam behind. The stranger was dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and the type of conical hat I knew was worn by the enemy. Hunched over, the invader stealthily slid a bundle into the far corner of the room and retreated very quietly out the screen door, once again careful not to let the door slam. I was still naked and without a weapon, my heart and mind racing.
My training kicked in. I responded without thinking. Rolling to the edge of the top bunk, I dropped off the bed, careful not to raise my head into the whirring fan. I hit the floor hard. Quickly on my feet, I grabbed the mystery bundle and rushed to the door.
I hurled the package through the screen door into the open courtyard yelling “bomb!” at the top of my lungs. I flung myself to the floor and covered my head with my arms, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
The explosion was not the Viet Cong bomb I expected; it was the shrill cries and curses of a Vietnamese cleaning lady as she gathered her lunch scattered about the courtyard.
Good morning, Vietnam!