When the first contingent of American troops withdrawn from Vietnam comes home in the summer of ’69 at McChord Air Force Base, General Richard C. Williamson, former Commander in Chief in Vietnam and then current Army Chief of Staff, is there to greet two-ninths of them with a handshake.
For many of these men (all sharp looking, all deeply tanned, all wearing highly polished combat boots and clean combat fatigues, sleeves rolled to the bicep), certainly for those who wear a small round button in their lapel that reads We Try Harder, the slogan of Avis Rent A Car, America’s second leading car rental agency, the greeting by Williamson, the highest-ranking officer they have ever seen, is particularly memorable.
Standing tall, every inch the picture of the nation’s top general, wearing no extra insignia save the gold and silver braid on the glossy brim of his high-crowned hat, the four silver stars on each collar of his summer dress blouse, and a single blue infantryman’s badge over his left breast pocket, Williamson’s firm grip, six-foot-one-inch height, and rugged face of hard jawline, lean cheeks, and massive black eyebrows accent his position of command and lend power to the solemnity of the occasion.
And when giving the last address of the afternoon to the entire contingent of 814 men, the sun hammering at his face, occasionally ricocheting off his stars, but never affecting his eyes, eyes protected by shadow cast from the brim of his hat, his bearing, to every man there, reinforces the words he speaks:
“I want to convey to you the appreciation of our nation—appreciation for a job well done.
“You have grown and developed while you have been in uniform. You will find yourself more mature, more dedicated to the service of others, more responsible, more realistic, and more practical than your contemporaries who have not served.
“You have served while others stood by, and talked, and demonstrated.
“But, of course, you have demonstrated too.
“You have demonstrated your responsibility by doing your duty for your country.
“Those who stay in the Army will benefit from your experience in Vietnam.”
Earlier in the day, shortly before the contingent lands in the nine silver C-141 transports, Williamson presides over another ceremony. Hatless this time but, as later, not seeming to look anywhere but straight ahead, surrounded by aides, base officers, their aides, doctors, military and civilian newsmen and photographers, Williamson walks through the wards of Madigan General Hospital and decorates six of the wounded already home from Vietnam.
For five of the men, all enlisted men, the hospital staff has made the normal frantic pre-inspection preparation: clean bedding put on all beds; walls, windows, woodwork, and floors washed; all tables, chairs, food trays, crash carts, bedpans and urinals, books, magazines, newspapers, and personal effects hidden away under beds and shoved into closets; each man given his personal uniform, cleaned and pressed, complete with rank and insignia.
The sixth man, a twenty-five-year-old Captain, presented presents a special problem. Struck by a Viet Cong mortar fragment, he now has a two-inch-long indentation on the top left side of his shaved skull and a steel plate beneath the indentation. Since his vocabulary is limited to one word, the word baa, and since he is neither able to eat nor dress nor get out of bed by himself, the ward attendants have to feed, shave, have his bowels move, and dress the Captain, as well as satisfy what other wants he might have, all at the proper time just before Williamson arrives, to prevent a possible breakdown in either his appearance or behavior.
The Captain, apparently upset, utters long and loud baas throughout his preparations. His father, a rancher from Nevada, stands on the right side of the bed attempting to calm him down as the attendants finish. He offers the Captain the urinal, to crank down the bed, to place him in the new electrically propelled wicker wheelchair on the left side of the bed. Each suggestion meets only with louder baas and agitated waves of the Captain’s hands. His father is asking him if he wants a hypo when Williamson and the entourage enter the ward.
Immediately the Captain stops baaing.
Williamson, looking neither left nor right, strides rapidly forward. The Captain remains quiet. Williamson reaches the bed. Everyone stops. An aide steps forward and begins reading the citation. Williamson steps up to the Captain, stopping before the wheelchair. He pins a Bronze Star, then a Purple Heart over the Captain’s left breast pocket. Six flashbulbs explode. He shakes the Captain’s hand. The aide finishes reading. Williamson reaches across the bed and shakes hands with the father. Tears appear in the Captain’s eyes.
Then Williamson salutes and moves away, the entourage following. The Captain jerks forward, then back, watching them go out along the row of beds. His right hand half rises to his forehead, then falls, and he begins baaing again, louder and louder, each baa gaining in speed and pitch over the one before.