My last days in Viet Nam were some of the worst, even though I was by now a REMF. First of all, most of your best friends have rotated home, and you are left surrounded mainly by FNGs, many of them whose names you don’t know, and some so dense, you doubt they know their own names. And the changes of command from First Sergeant on up to Battalion commander have all been much for the worse. It was obvious that the war was winding down (nobody saw Spring 1972 ahead), and Nixon was no longer interested in anything but getting out; no reason to stay. So you get the FIJFI attitude (Fuck it just fuck it).

Finally I was FIGMO (Fuck it Got My Orders). I was to show up at DaNang on, I believe, October 11 for rotation home. Now I was a single-digit-midget, so short that I had to use a step ladder to get into my shower thongs, and climbing into my pants qualified as an Obstacle Course event. And nobody’s supposed to bother the short timers. And things were unusually quiet anyway. Our company had been sent out onto the Batangan Peninsula to build a dirt road - with army logic, immediately preceding the arrival of the monsoon season. Btu the whole company was out there save for the absolute minimum of Headquarters, commo bunker, supply, and motor pool (me) that had to stay behind to function. But there were still a couple of tests.

It was Sunday morning, and all was quiet. And the new Captain ordered Hinson the supply clerk to drive out to the company’s forward position in the bush with a resupply of C-rats and stuff. I shared my opinion of sending him out all alone and volunteered to ride shotgun for him, since I had all my parts clerking work done. Permission granted. At least there would be two of us. Some thing you just do. Shit, it hadn’t been that long ago, that Sergeant Muffley had sat down by my side waiting to share a frag which never came. Hinson was not a close friend, he was a real caricature of the fundamentalist prude; he even moved out of the hooch and lived by himself in the supply room, listening to his gospel music tapes. No drinkee, no smokee, no drugs, no "boom-boom", porn, swearing ... but he quietly did his job, and bothered nobody. If I’d let him go out all alone, I’d have had to frag myself from shame. On the way out, the truck overheated, and while we let it cool, we were sniped, and I crawled in a ditch looking unsuccessfully for somebody to shoot. Then Hinson got the truck started again, and we drove on to the Company NDP - the Night Defensive Position. A small raised hillock covered with foxholes and surrounded by a single strand of concertina wire. Because of the time, we were to stay over night and drive back the next morning. I went back and attached myself to my old line squad, and though they told me that I didn’t have to do a turn on guard rotation, I told them it was only the right thing to do, anyway. That night I feasted on cold spaghetti and franks from a green can, and hot Fresca. A memorable meal, and my last ever from out of a green can. At least it wasn’t ham-n-mammies. It may surprise you, but its been almost thirty-six years, and I still have not again drunk Fresca, and if I don’t continue that record for another 36 years, you can know that I died of old age in the attempt. That night, we watched. All around us, every other base, every NDP got hit. And we hunkered in our holes and watched the red and green balls flying back and forth around all our neighbors, and the red rain falling out of the sky, while we waited for our turn. A single strand of concertina wire. And I thought very little of DaNang. This is what they call beaucoup pucker factor. The worst times are before it happens, while you await the inevitable, or afterward when you’ve got time to contemplate. Fortunately, our turn never came, because one reinforced VC squad would have been able to overrun our sorry-assed excuse for a position. Next day I was safely home back in Chu Lai. Did I say home? That just shows what perspective can do. My last day of ass in the grass.

A few days later, the monsoons arrived early. This was the reason I thought that building a dirt road out into Injun country in early fall was such a monumentally incompetent idea. For days the company was totally cut off by ground and by air, and of course unable to conduct their mission. And everyone was puckered that while the company was cut off the VC would do the obvious thing. But maybe Charlie was also flooded out, or was also commanded by an idiot who didn’t know how to seize an opportunity for a cheap massacre.

Meanwhile my clock is winding down. DEROSing (Date Eligible for Return from Overseas Service) is not so simple as just hopping on a plane to DaNang, and then hopping another plane to The World. First you must jump through numerous hoops and clear numerous stations, including most important the American Express office. One of the features of US presence in Viet Nam was that in order to keep us from destabilizing and inflating the local currency, and to keep dollars from getting into the hands of the VC, we were not paid in dollars, but in military scrip, and were encouraged to have most of our pay deposited automatically in a special bank account maintained by American Express, which paid a premium rate of interest. You had to visit their local office where you would be given a check cashable upon return to the US. Oh, and their office was closed on Sundays. So if I did not complete my clearing by Saturday, or earlier, I would not be able to depart on the 11^th, and that would mean missing my scheduled return home. And also being liable for an Article 15 punishment for missing my DEROS.

And then there was yet a little more harassment. I was expected to train in on the complicated parts supply system the FNG who was supposed to replace me. And then, I was tapped yet one more time for perimeter guard duty. At least the rule of the game stated that after a night on guard, you were entitled to be off-duty the next day till noon. Time to process! I’m gonna make it after all!! Now I’m so short I need a foot stool to reach the first rung of that step ladder that I’m using to get into my shower flip-flops! Last night on Guard duty!! Numbah One! And it was a quiet night as well. In fact the monsoon even broke. For a few days. And this led to a problem.

As soon as the rains lifted, a rescue operation was organized to retrieve our company out in the field. Just getting off guard duty and coming back to company area, I was intercepted by Sergeant Valente. "Mellinger, get the fuck out of here NOW! Di di mau! They’re rounding up every warm body." An expedition was being cobbled together composed of cooks, clerks, mechanics, every REMF left at company headquarters, who would foray out along the road to meet the rest of the company coming back in. Nobody knew what might happen. It could even turn into a massive ambush and massacre. And Valente knew that if I was seen, I’d be conscripted for this expedition. And I was now a three day midget. Of course I was totally within my military rights, I’d been told by my immediate superior to vanish, and had not received any orders from higher commanders to participate, and wouldn’t unless they saw me first. Here’s a dilemma; what do you do? If you’re a hero you say FIJFI, that’s my buddies, I’m going with, and fuck clearing. Fuck DEROS. That’s what a real hero does. I’m not a hero. I di di Mau’ed. Army taught me Escape and Evasion, so I used it. I wasn’t afraid of the danger, of a Groupe Mobile 100 massacre, though I did smell the sour aroma of a major cluster-fuck assembling. What I did fear was the loss of time, of not making my check-out and my DEROS call. Faced with a chance of a truly serious fear or the certainty of an inconvenience, I chose to fear the minor certainty. And I did clear all my out-processing stations.

And yes. Intuition was right. The rescue expedition was one more major circle jerk. The entire dirt road had been turned into a sea of mud. And all those nice engineer vehicles, 5 ton trucks and deuce-and–a-halfs, and dozers and everything bot bogged down, strung out all along the entire length of what had days before been a road several miles in length. By that night there was not even a perimeter which could be formed. Our guys spent the night in little clusters of spread out twos and fours at widely space intervals. There were no attacks, but everyone spent the night unfed, and unslept, awaiting the massacre. I’m sure the only thing that saved them was that the VC were busy laughing their asses off and believed that this somehow had to be a trap. The next day M-88 tank retrievers helped out and everyone made it back to the QL-1 highway and then back to Chu Lai by evening. Everyone was exhausted, wired, and surly. I was relieved that everyone was back safe, and both glad and ashamed that I missed the big fiasco. I count this as one of my tests I failed. The day after was my last full day in the battalion.

But even that last day, there was still one last reminder. I was chatting with my friend the company clerk while he did the daily document burn. And somebody had put something, probably an aerosol can in the burn barrel - doubtless itended for the new first sergeant who was justifiably unpopular. But it almost got me instead, as the "whatever exploded, sending out pieces of burn barrel shrapnel which considerately ignored me. Such shit gets old real fast.

Next day I was given my ArComm, without ceremony, and Dribble, the CO’s driver, and one of my remaining friends, gave me a lift to beautiful Chu Lai Municipal Airport. Within an hour or so I was on the plane to DaNang. I was here only briefly, overnight, as they issued us with new Class B Khakis and manifested us onto flights. The center was frustrating with formations called every couple hours to a new manifest call, and the reminder that if you missed your name you were screwed, and might never get home, certainly not without a court martial for disrupting their system. In between formations there were opportunities to encounter some old friends wh were also going home about the same time as yourself, to compare notes and learn the news. To learn the names and fates of old friends and others. So Montgomery got killed; Oh shit! He wasn’t a bad guy, and I recalled he had a stunning wife awaiting him. Bailey, and others. I learned that Lieutenant Fink, my Tactical Officer during my brief OCS mistake wouldn’t be going home either. Now that I considered truly good news. I learned that the dipshit, who looked like a more muscular Michael Kinsley, and took a perverted joy in hazing and harassment, had arrived, with no experience and nothing on his right shoulder, and tried to bully and harass his new platoon of field-experienced troops as if hey were trainees. They fragged his stupid ass. Thirty-six years later, I still cannot feel any sympathy for the dumb SOB, even though I know I should. Xin loi.

Now I hear my name! Really! At last! Yet one more shakedown inspection to make sure we were bringing back no drugs, no weapons, no jungle cammies or anything else. It was pro forma but with a lot of threats. I do recall that toothpaste tubes were squeezed and probed, and a couple guys from our flight were taken away when dope was discovered. Xin loi. After a year, you get pretty blase about everyone but your own circle. If I’d known how slipshod the shakedown was going to be, I’d have brought home my Kabar knife instead of giving it to Al Banks, and a few other things as well. But at least I did bring back all my jungle boots and cammies, even my boonie hat with the grenade rings on it. I score me 90% on this one.

And now we’re walking across the runway and up the stairs and into a big white Trans-International Airways jet. About 1:30 in the afternoon. WOOO! HOOO! Now we’re in the air. Yes, its really real. I made it!!

The civilian stewardesses treated us really well. From wheels up it was barely controlled celebration all the way home. They fed us, gave us all the soft drinks and juice we wanted, but wisely nothing alcoholic. As if any of us needed it. Now there’s commotion in the aisle. One of the stewardesses seems to be having some trouble, and is scurrying up and down the aisle with a tray clutched tightly against her bottom. Seems one of the other girls had stuck a sigh on her back reading "Pinch me, I’m Italian". And everyone with an aisle seat was doing his best to oblige. PAR-TY! PAR-TY!

Including a brief refueling stop in Tokyo, the flight takes about 11 hours, and due to time zone changes, we get to Seattle International an hour before we left. The door opens, the officers and senior NCOs in Business Class disembark first, and now us. And at 12:23 PM October 12, 1970, I dropped to my knees and kissed the tarmac.

-Rurik

Contributed by George Mellinger on July 3, 2006 at 11:26 PM in Coming home, George Mellinger | Permalink

Comments

Posted by: Bill Faith

Abso-frickin' excellent post, George. I may still do 10 posts to your one, but one of yours is worth at least a dozen of mine. Blog on!

Posted by: Bill Faith | Jul 4, 2006 12:58:14 AM