I certainly wasn't happy about getting orders to Vietnam. Aware that a high percentage of GIs who were drafted were put on the front lines, I tried to reduce my risk and limit my exposure. After much thought, my college roommate and I both enlisted at the same time in the U.S. Navy Reserve.
After flunking out of two colleges, I was afraid of losing my military service deferment. The war was dragging on, with no end in sight. The newspapers were filled with stories of U.S. firebases being overrun by Viet Cong. I was no hero and not ready to give my life up for some cause I didn't fully understand and appreciate.What I could appreciate was the fact that I came from a nautical family. On my father's side, men had gone down to the sea in ships for generations. Dad was, in fact, a Danish sea captain -- with permanent captain's licenses from Denmark and Panama. Also, I was a card-carrying member of the U.S. Merchant Marine, having shipped out on the S.S. Bradford Island sailing coastwise on April 28, 1966. I grew up on the Tampa waterfront and was comfortable around ships. What could be more natural?
I figured I was insulated from the war zone. I didn't think about the massive warships we had off the coast of Vietnam, pounding away with 16-inch guns, or the "brown-water Navy" comprised of river patrol boats (PBRs) and various kinds of landing craft. No, I was focused on getting that "Mediterranean Cruise." Ha! What a joke. And, what a fool I was.
First off, after graduating from a two-year "junior" college, I returned to my hometown and re-entered the university as a junior-level student. But I started back to school at the same time I committed to six years of military service. The Reserve obligation was actually only two years of "active duty." You attended meetings once a month for the first year (which would take me through my junior year in college), then you reported for active duty. After that, you were supposed to do two more years of monthly meetings followed by one year of no-drill/no pay.
I was "on board" with this arrangement, as you might say. Regular Navy, as well as other military branches, required a four-year stint -- all active duty. If I got that "Med Cruise" like I wanted, it was going to be a sweet deal.
July 1, 1968, was my date of enlistment. I had to attend "boot camp" for two weeks in late August of that year. I had 12 months to get my junior year of college done and I buckled down -- sort of. There were the occasional late nights out in the "hippie" bars near the university. Things were looking up and I was beginning to think I had made some smart decisions.
One day, while living at home with my parents and going to school, I went outside to the mailbox. When I came inside and opened a fancy-looking envelope (like the kind you get with an invitation in it), I started to laugh hysterically. My startled mother became alarmed and asked me why I was laughing. "I just made the Dean's List," I said, incredulously.
You see, I had never expected to become a decent student, much less make the Dean's List. My track record was horrible and all I wanted to do was make sure I wouldn't flunk out again and get drafted into the Army or Marines. Reading the card, at that moment I seriously doubted I had made any smart decisions.
I finished my junior year -- and the next letter I got was from Uncle Sam, saying "C'mon on. Time to go." I reported for active duty in Charleston, SC for active duty on July 10, 1969.
I remember Charleston was a sweatbox. Hot, humid and lots of thunderstorms -- much like Tampa. Each day we'd get up, report for some ridiculous work detail to kill time and go down to look at the bulletin board to see if our orders had come in. Day after day, sailors were getting orders to PBRs! That's right, river patrol boats deep in the interior of Vietnam. Now, this was something I had not planned for. A week passed and then there were a few days when the orders slowed down. Nothing was happening. SOMETHING was happening.
Then came the morning when I, with a group of anxious sailors, jockeyed for position to see the board. There, at long last, was my name. Next to it was the place where I was supposed to report for duty. It said "Danang, RVN." I must have reread it five times. My heart must have sunk. Later, after returning home, I would joke with friends that the Navy had apparently begun naming ships after cities in Vietnam because I couldn't believe I was going to Vietnam and not some ship.
When you get sent to Vietnam, you first get some special training. They send you to "Counter-Insurgency School." The point is to train you for if and when you get captured. Because the Navy felt sorry for me -- you know, I may never come back -- they gave me three weeks of leave to be with my family before reporting on August 26, 1969, to Little Creek, VA -- a Marine base. There the Marines ran us ragged, trying to harden what looked like Pillsbury Doughboys. We learned how to shoot M-16s, M-79 grenade launchers, M-60 machine guns and 50-cal. machine guns. And we got physically fit.
The Navy must have really felt sorry for me because they gave me another week's leave for a final goodbye. I said farewell to my friends and parents. It wasn't tearful, I don't think. I can't imagine what my mother must have felt. I recall standing in the living room, dressed in my crisp Navy whites. My mom took my picture. I smiled. I went to the airport.
In those days, the military chartered civilian passenger jets to move their troops around the country and in and out of Vietnam. My Tampa flight landed in L.A. where I hopped a chopper for Norton Air Force Base in San Bernardino. I climbed aboard an American Airlines 747, bound first for Hawaii, then Guam, and finally Danang.
The flight was long and grueling. I remember the stewardesses were nice, probably feeling sorry for us.
On touchdown October 3, 1969, I couldn't see much. We walked down the plane's stairs into a bright, sunny day. It was beautiful. There wasn't much to look at. The terminal was an open-air wooden structure built by the Americans for troop movement. I must have been in a fog, but I somehow got my seabag and followed directions with a bunch of other GIs.
I walked up a ramp into what almost looked like a cattle trailer, painted Navy grey. Pulled by a semi-tractor, we proceeded to wind our way through the crowded streets of Danang. There were seats all along the edge of the trailer, with hand-holds much like subway trains. The door was still open on the side, and I could see the scenery moving by in an almost dream-like stream.
In traffic, we came to a stop. I could see out the side door. Just a few feet away there was a young Vietnamese girl, wearing the traditional straw hat. Wow! I was really here. These people were beautiful. I was sure they were incredibly grateful for another truckload of soldiers, all willing to fight and die for Vietnam's freedom.
"Hey, Baby-san," yelled one GI from the cattle car. "Boom-boom?"
Little did I understand the slang, the lingo, the obscenities that GIs would use to address the locals. Nor could I believe how adept the little girl, working tirelessly in her garden beside the road, was with spoken English.
"Fuck you, GI," she yelled. Besides being fluent in English cursing, so too was she adept at finger gestures.
Good Morning, Vietnam! My life was about to change -- forever.
