Monday, 19 January 2009
 

Bill Faith; My Buddy
Contributed by The Gray Dog

The following was forwarded to me from Russ Vaughn.  It is difficult to separate, Bill and Russ, as to  who did what first to give birth to Old War Dogs.

By Russ Vaughn

Bill Faith was my buddy, a term that has particular meaning for those who have worn a uniform in service to this country. And though I never met him, nor even heard his voice a single time, that’s how I will remember Bill, as my buddy, someone who served alongside me through victory and defeat, through thick and thin, but who always could be counted on to stand up and be counted when it counted most.

I must first apologize to Bill’s family and all of you out there for being tardy in posting my thoughts on Bill’s passing. Two months ago my wife and I were abruptly thrust into the role of primary caregivers for her almost ninety-year-old parents, a responsibility which has kept both of us away from our computers and me from my blogging efforts. It was only through an email from The Gray Dog, Mike Connelly, that I learned belatedly of Bill’s death.

I don’t even remember precisely when Bill and I became acquainted, just that it was sometime after John Kerry became the Democrat frontrunner in 2004 and this old Vietnam vet, like millions of my brothers, swore to do everything in my power to prevent that traitor from ever becoming commander in chief. Scott Swett, at Wintersoldier blog, first began posting my anti-Kerry rants, which were then picked up by the Freepers and spread to other like-minded sites. Shortly thereafter I received an email from Bill, telling me he would like to post my pieces at his Small Town Veteran blog. As soon as I visited the site, I knew I had found an ally, one who quickly became a long-distance friend and a valued editor of my sometimes rough expositions.

When Kerry was defeated in November 2004, Bill and I, like all our Vietnam veteran brothers who had fought to keep Kerry out of the presidency, were exhilarated and felt that at last we had been exonerated. In sharing that victory, we became buddies, and the bond became even stronger in the summer of 2006 when Bill became webmaster of our new blog, Old War Dogs, which may have been my brainstorm but was Bill’s baby from the outset. He built the pen and the doghouse from scratch and fed and watered that pup every day. And like most proud papas, he could get quickly cantankerous if he felt like someone was mistreating his dog, including me.

Bill kept OWD up and running all through this last election fiasco even though, like me, he was never more than lukewarm to the idea of John McCain as our candidate. But, good soldier that he was, Bill fought the good fight right up until the bitter end. And as bitter as it was for the rest of us, his email telling me that he was going to back away from daily blogging at OWD, made me aware that my buddy was battle weary and in need of some respite. I regret not then realizing just how badly needed it was.

Michelle Malkin’s farewell post to Bill includes my poem, The Sheepdogs, and I thank her for that because there was never a more dedicated Sheepdog than Bill Faith. He loved his flock, both the immediate, his family, especially his new grandbaby, and that much larger flock, his countrymen.

Bill, I’m gonna miss you, Buddy.

Russ Vaughn

Contributed by The Gray Dog on January 19, 2009 at 05:19 PM in Best of Old War Dogs, Bill Faith, Bill's Bites, Coming home, Current Affairs, Russ Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 13 June 2007
 

Victory? What Victory?
Contributed by 72nd TCS

The Jewish World Review has picked up the latest issue of Professor Daniel Pipes' newsletter--normally available to subscribers only. Find it here .  His column deals with a burning question, namely--

Can the Israel Defense Forces in fact disrupt Iran's nuclear program?

The lead sentence hints strongly that Israel is on its own in confronting the near-term prospect of the Iranian Holocaust Bomb.

Barring a 'catastrophic development,' Middle East Newsline reports, George Bush has decided not to attack Iran. An administration source explains that Washington deems Iran's cooperation 'needed for a withdrawal [of U.S. forces] from Iraq.'

If this unnamed administration source is anywhere near the Sec Def or Condi level, it would seem that the primary emphasis  has shifted from victory in the Middle East to withdrawal.  Has the message to Iran evolved from "Make nice, not nukes" to "Pretty please, just let us go quietly?"  Wiser heads than mine are needed to decrypt that sibylline utterance.  Even so, it is safe to conclude that the White House appetite for pre-emption has subsided to somewhere below the level of wishful thinking.

The main body of the Pipes offering concentrates on summarizing and analyzing a think-piece by a pair of MIT scholars who examine Israel's capabilities in depth.  Can the Israelis actually do it?  The short answer is "Yes," provided the government can steel themselves to face the kind of outcry that followed their attack on the Osirak reactor.  Their argument is well worth reading.

At the end, Dr. Pipes speculates on feasibility, and sees a fly in the ointment, a daunting question that planners  of such an operation must face and somehow resolve.

In the author's words, without serious comment here--

The great question mark hanging over the operation, one which the authors do not speculate about, is whether any of the Turkish, Jordanian, American, or Saudi governments would acquiesce to Israeli penetration of their air spaces. (Iraq, recall, is under American control). Unless the Israelis win advance permission to cross these territories, their jets might have to fight their way to Iran. More than any other factor, this one imperils the entire project. (The IDF could reduce this problem by flying along borders, for example, the Turkey-Syria one, permitting both countries en route to claim Israeli planes were in the other fellow's air space.)

Is he kidding, or what?  Your call.

Contributed by 72nd TCS on June 13, 2007 at 07:59 PM in Coming home, Current Affairs, G W Bush, Iran, Iraq, John "72nd TCS" Werntz | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Thursday, 15 February 2007
 

If Not Now, When?
Contributed by The Gray Dog

Can a debt ever be repaid to those not here to collect?  Can any act or deed we may do, be enough to mark that debt “Paid in Full?”  The simple answer is no.  The simple truth is that we must never quit trying.  “A Gathering of Eagles” has become a clarion call that rings in my ears and pounds in my chest.  For many, March 17, 2007 will be just one more time they have answered this call, for others this has become the last-best chance to stand with their brothers and sisters and place a down payment on that debt.  That is why I ask the question, “If not now, when?”

I began to write this post last Monday.  I have re-written it several times in the past few days. That happens sometimes.  I get hung up on a title I like, and then I can’t write something appropriate to match. The working title has always been “If not now, when?”  It was this morning while browsing through the forum for “A Gathering of Eagles” that I saw this response to a troll by the name of “Patrick Henry.”   Patrick had been goading forum members for several days with the statement “But, I still don’t understand your mission,” or referring to the Vietnam Memorial as a “black wall in a hole.”  There were several well reasoned responses worthy of mention, but the following one stuck with me.  It was written by a vet who professed to me “…writing has never been one of my strong skills…”  My response is, “Your English teacher may have given you a ‘C’ for this response, but your Civics, History and Ethics teachers would have given this an A+.  I did.”

The following is reprinted with full permission from the author, John Cut.  At his request I have modified minor typos.

Continue reading "If Not Now, When?"

Contributed by The Gray Dog on February 15, 2007 at 07:44 PM in Caring about our troops, Coming home, Current Affairs, Gathering of Eagles, Patriotism, The Gray Dog, Viet Nam | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Sunday, 11 February 2007
 

A Gathering of Eagles
Contributed by The Gray Dog

You may notice that for this particular post that there are a lot of 'categories' selected. The problem with BLOGs in general is there are often not enough categories.  For this one, I need to click over 58,000 more. 

By now, you have all heard about the veteran movement to defend the memorials in Washington D.C. on March 17, 2007.  If you are still undecided about making the effort to go, please watch the following:

A Gathering of Eagles: We'll be There!

Contributed by The Gray Dog on February 11, 2007 at 02:58 PM in Caring about our troops, Coming home, Current Affairs, Dem Dumbness, Gathering of Eagles, Music, Patriot Guard Riders, Patriotism, Peacenik Stupidity, Politics, The American Warrior, The Gray Dog, US Air Force, US Army, US Coast Guard, US Marine Corps, US Navy, Video, Viet Nam | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 27 December 2006
 

Nightmare, sorta?
Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf

I have a young e-friend in the Army. He's in Ramadi just now, but his unit is down to less than 60 days and counting. I've linked to him before... he is an odd duck to an old fart like myself, but his ass is out there in my place and I respect that down to my toenails.

Jeez, less than 2 months to go. The levels of stress really haven't been too bad out here either. I just seem to can't concentrate as well as I used to be able to, and I'm still trying to figure out why. Out on an earlier mission, we had a small incident, and I just couldn't focus..I don't know what the hell happened to me. I didn't panic. I just couldn't think clearly. Fortunately nothing happened. When we got back to camp, my squad leader pulled me asside from everyone else and asked if anything was wrong. I have no family problems back home, no issues or problems of anything really. From time to time I just feel drained and burned out from the year of being out here..

Read the rest.

My excursions to Viet Nam were not linked to the idea of some DEROS thing, his is... as it was for many of you. I don't even know his real name, but he's from Florida.

Drop him a comment, I told him to focus so I wouldn't have to bring flowers to his grave. Done that enough.

Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf on December 27, 2006 at 05:47 PM in Coming home, Iraq, The American Warrior, Zero Ponsdorf | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Wednesday, 13 December 2006
 

Spitting on Soldiers?
Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf

H/T to 'Old Fart' in our OWD forum

I don't recollect if one of these incidents has ever been raised to this level before. And normally links, as cited by OF, in many colors and lots of bold face are off-putting.

In this case a short Google excursion supports the info. The Jawa Report has noted the case.

As one who was spit at, not on, I feel it may be time to do something about this, 'Old Fart' offers some ideas.

Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf on December 13, 2006 at 05:59 PM in Coming home, Current Affairs, Zero Ponsdorf | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 28 November 2006
 

May It Be
Contributed by The Gray Dog

There are hundreds if not thousands of Flash tributes circulating the blogosphere.  Tonight I humbly offer mine.  The pictures are not mine, the music is not mine and the brave men and women who are the subjects of these images are not me.  I have simply combined the artistic photographs of others and a hauntingly beautiful celtic melody with the men and women of valor to produce this simple offering.

May It Be

Contributed by The Gray Dog on November 28, 2006 at 09:45 PM in Afghanistan, Caring about our troops, Christmas, Coming home, Iraq, Music, Patriotism, Thank you, The Gray Dog | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

A Silent Night...
Contributed by Bushranger

At about 10:30 this evening, while waiting for my computer to finish uploading changes to the IWVPA website, I took the opporunity to enjoy the garden that my wife tends with such skill, love, and joy. The wonderful ambience resulted in a rush of words... this poem is the result.

The photograph of part of Maria's beautiful garden was taken on October 13, 2005

HOME...

He sits beneath the Southern Cross on a wrought-iron garden chair
And ponders on the day's events and how tomorrow he will fare
With an inner smile to acknowledge a good day's work's been done
His thoughts turn to other things and the peacefulness he's won

The flagpole that he's dreamed of, now flies his nations' flag
The bronze plaque he once wrote about, exists and he is glad
The mates he went with to war call and visit when they will
Once part of life the storms have eased and the night is still

The scent of eucalyptus trees wafts on the night time breeze
And mingles with aromas of almond, fig, and apple trees
Roses of a hundred types, unseen but clearly there
Transmit their wondrous odour as he sits without a care

And Misty, who adopted him when she was pregnant and alone,
Purrs and brushes against him, content in her adopted home
The mopoke and the night birds call and flutter through the air
And Misty just ignores them. Neither they nor she despair

The bantams are on their night time roost, having laid their daily egg
The rooster (Russell 'cos he crows) keeps them safely in their bed
Enshrined in leaves of flowering bushes, grown with love and pride
An old man sits content, and revels in his love, his life, his bride

And 'neath the Southern Cross this night, the silence suits his mood
Because the old man knows the joy of life, and knows that life is good
Despite the shattering year of war that's lasted more than thirty years
The old man has come to realise that the past holds no more fears

He blinks away the teardrops, stands, and stretches stiffened limbs
And takes the first of several steps towards the love who waits for him
Contented, he's prepared for sleep and sleep will welcome come
Mares of the night still wildly range, but he has come back home!

©Copyright November 29, 2006 by Anthony W. Pahl, OAM

Contributed by Bushranger on November 28, 2006 at 08:20 AM in Anthony Pahl, Coming home, Poetry | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Friday, 10 November 2006
 

Tomorrow’s Veteran
Contributed by The Gray Dog

November 11th, Veteran’s Day.

This is supposed to be a day of remembrance; A day to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country.  Tonight, on the eve of this occasion, there is perhaps more than one soldier that tomorrow will earn the status of veteran the hard way. 

While a veteran of the Vietnam Era, I served my time from the relative comfort of being stationed in Alaska and finally at SAC HQ in Omaha.  I have been further blessed that both of my sons served without the need to face hostile fire. 

Entering the military by choice in 1970 was an oddity. A low draft lottery number was certainly a motivation.  I simply chose to be proactive in my experience.  Others had less of a choice than I, or perhaps no choice at all.  Many years later, as I sit behind the bully-pulpit provided by Old War Dogs, I constantly have to ask myself, “What right do you have to express an opinion that affects someone else’s life?”

I have no illusions regarding my service.  Like many who are in the military today, I had to balance the risk/reward equation.  There are many, far nobler than I, from my era and today.  I marvel at their attitude and dedication.  Even in light of this week’s elections, I feel the choice to serve now is driven by a far more obvious need than existed 35-40 years ago,

It is often said that, “old men declare wars, young men fight them.”  I guess with a head of gray hair and a face full of white whiskers, I know which side of that statement describes me.  With that admission acknowledged, let me say this:

With all of my heart, I wish I could take your watch.  I’d trade my life gladly to save one of yours.  I know these are hollow words spoken from the safety from my comfortable home.   But I had the unique experience of watching fresh recruits go to Nam while I was stationed in Alaska, and I had the most life altering experience of flying cross-continent in the back of a C-141 loaded with flag-draped coffins as those recruits returned.

Please know, that I will always think about you before my jingoist tendencies lead me to the absurd.  You are far too sophisticated and knowledgeable to be led down the primrose path by the likes of me. I hope you all become veterans the same way I did.  Survive your service.  We have quite enough to remember at this time.

Contributed by The Gray Dog on November 10, 2006 at 10:43 PM in Caring about our troops, Coming home, Current Affairs, The Gray Dog | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Sunday, 03 September 2006
 

Oh yeah!
Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf

A friend of mine dug up some quotes that we all can be reminded of from time to time:

It seems like such a terrible shame that innocent civilians have to get hurt in wars, otherwise combat would be such a wonderfully healthy way to rid the human race of unneeded trash. ~Fred Woodworth

(If you're interested, Fred Woodworth is an anarchist. Recently he's had to undergo some major surgery and bills are piling up. I'm pretty tempted to send him a donation, and make sure that he knows it's from that unneeded trash. If you're so inclined, do the same.)

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.
--John Stewart Mill--

  War is cruelty. There's no use trying to reform it, the crueler it is the sooner it will be over.
--William Tecumseh Sherman--

  Every man thinks meanly of himself for not having been a soldier. 
--Samuel Johnson--

Read the Post

Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf on September 3, 2006 at 05:56 PM in Coming home, The American Warrior, Zero Ponsdorf | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Saturday, 26 August 2006
 

Dreams 'n stuff
Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf

This isn't a generic OWD post.

A young friend is having trouble dealing with coming home from Iraq this past January.

So much of my Iraq writing has been moved to the private setting, as has much of my writing about the first few months when I got home. I've stopped writing about the dreams and about the desire to go back because I'm not sure that I know how to deal with it all.

There are times when I want to be out there, walking down the streets of Baghdad with some infantry unit or rattling along in the back of a Bradley.  There are days when I want to wander down the flight line and find Dave and OB, and see if they'd mind if I tagged along on a mission. 

There are days when I want to forget the stench of the slaughtering grounds, and the scorching heat, the pain that comes when you don't piss for 14 hours but you're still drinking enough water to float the Titanic. 

There are days when I don't know what I want.  There are days when I don't care about much and there are days when I just want to scream.

Anyone here that hasn't felt similar? The older I get the more the memory of dreams merge with real memories. What can one say other than she's not alone?

One of the things about Viet Nam and past conflicts is the way most vets have been able to compartmentalize and move on, others are still struggling. So I can't tell her it'll certainly get better.

I met WWII vets who still have nightmares, even helped a few with PTSD claims.

It comes down to this, I think, most (a huge majority) do get over it and move on. The overall experience most certainly will continue to shape our lives, but it's unlikely to be the prime mover for most.

Any thoughts?

[update] I wrestled with it, saved it as draft and fiddled some more. I just couldn't hit the nail on the head. Finally I gave up and posted it as is, with the question at the end.

This is an area where OWD might shine, doesn't matter much if I ain't driving. Some young warriors need some help, maybe it ain't 'carrying ammo', but it's no less important.

*** Bill Faith adds:

Zero, please forgive me for hitching a ride on your post instead of doing something separate; I promise not to do this sort of thing often. You hit me where I live and maybe I'm not thinking real clear right now. I'm also fixin' to violate a copyright law. What're they gonna do, draft me and send me to Nam? Maybe since all I have is a poor quality 3rd-generation monaural copy of something I originally bought on vinyl they won't hang me too high. F**k 'em if they can't take a joke.

You know how sometimes a song gets stuck in your head and you just can't quit replaying it in your mind? For me that song is "Still in Saigon." I doubt I'm alone, but some days it sure as hell feels like it. Give your friend a hug for me.

Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf on August 26, 2006 at 02:46 PM in Best of Old War Dogs, Bill Faith, Caring about our troops, Coming home, The American Warrior, Zero Ponsdorf | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBack

Sunday, 06 August 2006
 

A Slave to Fashion
Contributed by The Gray Dog

A "Best of Old War Dogs" featured post. The webmaster is backdating this post to keep it near the top of the blog for a while. Please scroll down for newer posts.

This item was originally posted 2006.08.03.21:52.

I have this old red, white and blue T-shirt with the caption “I’m Proud to be an American” blazoned across the front.  It’s typical of a thousand other similar shirts with similar sentiments that can be seen by all across this great country.  Every time I pull it out of the dresser, I actually hold it up in front of my eyes and take a long look at it before I put it on.  Unlike almost anything else in my closet, I am always aware of this particular piece of clothing when I am wearing it.  It almost takes me back more than thirty years when I last wore a military uniform.  Whenever I was wearing it off base, people always looked at me.  Sometimes it was just a furtive glance while at other times it was a broad smile. Sadly, it was often a smirk that communicated contempt.  If that person spoke they would be saying, “What’s wrong with that military freak?”  The reason for the looks was indeed varied, but they always were there. This shirt, like my uniform identifies me in a way that is instantly recognizable to anyone that looks my way.   

It became post 9/11 chic for many to wear a shirt like mine and I was happy for that.  I felt less alone and happy to be among new found friends.  The pride was stronger because there were many more among us to share it with.  And military uniforms, WOW!  Instead of a glance or smile, our men and women in uniform were getting standing ovations, rounds of drinks at the local pubs, and reception lines at airports.  A few smirks were still there, but usually went unnoticed.  And those of us with only our T-shirts looked at each other, nodded and smiled.  It was a two way street and we were glad to share the journey.

As the fifth anniversary of 9/11 approaches in just over a month, there are fewer American flags waving from cars, and my new found fashion friends don’t come out as much anymore.  More and more Americans are growing tired and impatient of our military involvement in Iraq.  Our troops come home to loving family and friends, but the organized receptions and the spontaneous applause at our airports has waned and a few more smirks have resurfaced.

Barbara Mandrell once had a hit song titled,”I Was Country, When Country Wasn’t Cool.”  I think that is a great analogy for many of us that served in the Viet Nam era.  We were proud to be Americans while many of our generation were burning our flag on college campuses.  For us pride in our service and country doesn’t come in waves of tragedy and triumph, but is an everyday way of life.  And while it may be a foolish dream to think that all Americans could feel this way, I am realistic enough to recognize that they won’t. 

Yes, I am proud to be an American, even though there are great numbers of my countrymen that qualify as somebody’s drunken Uncle.   You know the type.  Their opinions are always formulated during visual inspections of their large intestines.    These are the people with the new T-Shirts that smiled at me for a few days five years ago, but have since returned to their 9/10 world.

Then there are days when I wonder about the fate of this country and the feeling of despair I feel when I watch and listen to Jack Murtha, who once wore his uniform proudly but sold it for fifteen minutes of fame.  Or Cindy Sheehan, whose son fought and died protecting this country, while she subsequently denigrates his memory.

Yes, I am proud to be an American, even though I haven’t heard Lee Greenwood singing for quite some time.  I think its time to go to my dresser and pull out my shirt and take a walk.  All I need is a smile.

Contributed by The Gray Dog on August 6, 2006 at 01:30 PM in Best of Old War Dogs, Coming home, The American Warrior, The Gray Dog | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Saturday, 22 July 2006
 

Sound Track mini-project
Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf

We Old Dogs have each have a sound track we associate with our lives. For us 'Nam vets it's as varied as our experiences.

And it's still echoing. I am listening to Big and Rich - 8th of November.  This tune kick started a few synapses. It has nothing to do my experiences, but rings a bell. Shucks, everything from Barry Sadler's  "The Ballad Of The Green Berets"  to the Ditzy Chix's Traveling Soldier get me going in odd ways.

My pal Mike Morningstar (1st Cav) wrote this tune many years ago.

As I age the soundtrack keeps changing, but the Bellamy Brothers captured a moment with Old Hippie, and  Steve Earle's  Copperhead Road  was another snapshot.

Just curious? Does YOUR life have a soundtrack?

Should add, not restricted to 'Nam vets.

Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf on July 22, 2006 at 06:31 PM in Coming home, Thank you, The American Warrior, Zero Ponsdorf | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Friday, 07 July 2006
 

Where are we today?
Contributed by Steve Gardner

Where are we today?

Who could have known the impact of serving with an officer who was not a Gentleman? After returning to Conus in 1969 I just wanted to go and bury my head in the sand and not get involved in any aspect of politics at all. As a returning Vietnam Veteran I found myself in an atmosphere of mistrust and misguided ideals from individuals who had no idea who I was nor what I stood for.

To find myself and all other Veterans being called “Baby Killers” was such an insult to my own personal integrity that I immediately took out my anger on any person who used that word to describe me or any Veteran. This was not a pretty sight I can tell you.  It took me over three years to bury the anger and hurt of being ostracized by the very people we were told we were protecting. But, eventually you go on with your life and raise a family and become a citizen of the US of A again. Then along comes the presidential elections process. I’m setting very complacent in my own little world making a living and enjoying the Pursuit of Happiness. Not a worry in the world (I thought). When all of the sudden I start hearing rumors about some Massachusetts Senator named John Kerry running for President. I knew in my heart that I would have to step up and have my say about the integrity of guy they were speaking about. I was truly a” babe in the woods” when it came to knowing just how far John Kerry would go to discredit me.  The story every one knows, I’m sure, from there to its conclusion.

            My quest is for an answer to why a group of people who call themselves Patriotic citizens feel it is necessary to destroy our country in order to gain the decision making powers in our country. If you have such a unique grasp of what our people need then why not put forth your agenda and let the people decide. Instead you go to great lengths to hide the great strides our country is making every day in a NEW DEMOCRATIC Society in Iraq.. What kind of agenda leads people to hide this progress to further their own agenda at the cost of not telling our people the truth? When we should be applauding our troops instead, we have certain groups who prefer to try and tear down the fabric of what makes our country great. For one reason only, to further their own ambitions. When do we step up to the plate and say enough is enough. When we no longer have a free democratic country? When we no longer have the freedom of speech to say what is on our minds? Or when we finally realize just how poorly our country is being abused by these groups intent on taking control regardless of the damage it causes. I think it is time for all the people who believe in free society step up and let our voices be heard. Stop allowing lies and personal agendas to be spoken without recourse. It's time to start protecting our country not ignoring what we know to be happening.It's time to stop sliding the responsibility on someone elses shoulders and step up and be counted . It can be done .We've seen it in the past. Now it's time to put your duty to the test . Stop all the infighting and protect our country NOW!!!!!         

Contributed by Steve Gardner on July 7, 2006 at 09:57 AM in Coming home, Steve Gardner | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

Tuesday, 04 July 2006
 

Coming home :: A Series (Updated and bumped)
Contributed by Bill Faith

I may or may not do my own "Coming home" post later but for now I just want to point out there are some excellent ones on the site and that they'll make more sense if you read them in the order they were posted, not top to bottom order.

George Mellinger: Welcome home Dread Cow!

George Mellinger: Coming Home - The Last Days

Zero Ponsdorf: Coming home

George Mellinger: Coming Home-From the War Zone to the Combat Zone

I'll update and bump this post as appropriate.

Fellow vets, old and young: Consider this an open post. If you have a blog with a post in the Coming Home vein on it, please leave a trackback here or email me and I'll add a link to your post from this one. If you don't have an appropriate post up yet but write one later, same rules. If you don't blog, or even if you do, feel free to leave your story as a comment on this post and I'll turn it into a separate post as soon as I get to it. None of those ideas good for you? -- Email me your story and I'll turn it into a blog post for you and give you credit for writing it.

Whether it's been 60 years or last week, welcome home fellow vets.

***

I've added my meager contribution to the series here.

Contributed by Bill Faith on July 4, 2006 at 12:05 PM in Bill Faith, Coming home | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

"Will you welcome us home now?"
Contributed by Bill Faith

George thinks is would be a good idea for several of us to post our "Coming home" stories. Even if doing so wouldn't involve dredging up memories I'd rather leave buried I know I can't begin to compete with George as a writer anyway, so I'm going to settle for recycling something I wrote a while back; my feelings about matters haven't really changed since then; I suppose my hatred of Mad Jack Murtha is a little more active than my hatred of Jean Fraud Kerry at the moment, but after we redeploy Mad Jack this fall we'll still be keeping an eye on John Fraud lest he get any more big ideas. This was originally posted here in October of '04.

Will you welcome us home now?

I've been amazed, and humbled, by the number of people who have told me recently, in emails, comments on my blog posts, and messages attached to donations, "Thank you for your service." To each of you: You're very welcome. I didn't do a lot, but I take pride in what I did and the fact that I was willing to do even that much.

A clarification before I continue: As Russ Vaughn recently pointed out, heroes don't brag about it. That being the case, I'd be remiss not to point out that not everyone who doesn't brag is a hero. I'm not. Some of us just don't have all that much to brag about. We did our jobs and came home. Period. Personally, when I arrived in Viet Nam I shuffled papers for six months before I volunteered for duty with the potential of becoming a bit exciting. I didn't volunteer out of heroism. At the time I had a very sincere death wish, due in no small part to the activities of John Kerry and his sorry ilk back in The World while I was away. (Senator, are you proud of what you helped do to my marriage and so many others? Is it really so hard to understand why we hate you like we do?)

The day I arrived home from Viet Nam I walked the breadth of the University of Illinois campus, in uniform and blackened by the Asian sun, primed and cocked, hoping some sorry S.O.B. would have a problem with it so we could "discuss" it. No one was that foolish, but the silence was deafening. There were no parades when my generation came home from the war. We snuck back into society quietly, afraid to attract attention to where we'd been, for fear of the consequences it might have for our families. I had a brother in college and a sister in Middle School who didn't deserve to be scorned because I'd done my job when duty called. A lot of others had similar circumstances. I was one of the lucky ones. I came home standing up and my family, at least, made me feel welcome. Too many came home in coffins or on stretchers. Too many came home to find they'd become outcasts within their own families, shunned by parents and siblings, and even children, who believed what John Kerry said about them.

When you meet a Viet Nam vet, or discover that you've known one for years, by all means say "Thank you for your service" if you're so inclined. But if you only say one thing, please say "Welcome home." We were robbed of that, and it still matters.

Will you welcome us home another way? There's an election coming. John Kerry wants to be Commander in Chief. Please, help us thank John Kerry for the welcomes we didn't receive by showing him what you think of him on November 2. If you can't bring yourself to vote for President Bush, vote for Joe Lieberman, or Zell Miller, or Condi Rice, or Mickey Mouse if you must. Just don't vote for Jean Fraud Kerry. I trade emails with several Viet Nam vets and I read a number of their blogs. I sense a strong consensus among us that we'll be glad to treat President Bush's second inauguration as a grateful nation's "Welcome home" and consider a major debt paid in full. Will you give us that?

Bill Faith
14th and 8th APSQs
PACAF
Viet Nam, 1971-1972

Update: Thank you everyone for the "Welcome home" comments and email. I trust the other vets reading this will see the comments and understand they were meant for all of us, not just for me.

Contributed by Bill Faith on July 4, 2006 at 12:02 PM in Bill Faith, Coming home | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Coming Home-From the War Zone to the Combat Zone
Contributed by George Mellinger

In 1970, when I came home, it was US Army policy that anyone returning from Viet Nam with 150 days or less of remaining active duty obligation would be given an early discharge, as just not worth bothering with. That was one reason so many troops voluntarily extended their Vietnam tours by one to three months; the extension could save you push you just under the 150 day point and earn a speedy trip home. It was also policy that anyone being discharged immediately was to be processed, cleared, and discharged within 24 clock hours. Fort Lewis precessing center functioned on a three-shift basis. Part of the process was that everyone was supposed to receive a meal, steak and eggs, cooked to personal preference. (I told them I wanted my steak so rare it could chieu hoi, that is, surrender, and that's how I got it.) Of course this was still the army. First step was yet another obligatory shakedown inspection, presumably we might have acquired some contraband since the last shakedown, acquired it at 39,000 feet flying across the Pacific. And the sergeants were till rude, demanding and at least verbally abusive, though at least there was no PT. Right away, the formed us up into ranks and set us out marching to the depot where tailors would fit us with our new Class A Greens. As we marched someone at the front began the cadence "Here we go again, Same old shit again....One more day and we’ll be through..." And somebody else from the back of the column called out the command "Dou-bullle TIIIME!" And off we went. And it wasn’t cadre calling double time, neither. Then there were the other stops. And most of our marching was done at a double time. A quick medical check-up to establish the army was sending us home in the same condition they found us. Paperwork concerning any claims for lost property, or other reasons why Sam could stick his hand in our pockets, final finance and pay and settling up unused leave balances. More records processing, a trip to the travel office to get a ticket to your current home of record.

And of course the army specialties. There was a five minute adjustment lecture, to the effect we should forget we were soldiers because we’re not allowed to kill our civilian neighbors. We were told the classic "Pastor please pass the fucking potatoes, Sir" story. And a reminder that "Veterans are not very popular right now" as if we had to be reminded.

Then there was the re-enlistment talk, given to us by a Specialist 4, who was equal parts embarrassed, bored, and envious, "Now I know you don’t’ want to hear this, but its my job and I have to tell you, just in case any of you get a hair up your ass, during the next six months you can come back with full rank and restored benefits..." We did not receive him graciously. There had been several friends in my company in Viet Nam who had completed an earlier enlistment, including a prior Viet Nam tour, who had chosen to reenlist and requested Viet Nam. They said they just couldn’t adjust to civilian ways, and had to come back to what they understood. I was about to learn.

Then there was the trip to the barber, for one last taste of the only haircut the army knows. Even as they told us how unpopular veterans and soldiers were, they were determined to put and keep their stamp on us for as long as possible.

There was a rather threatening talk, reminding us that the Army still had jurisdiction over us for 24 hours after we got our final papers, or as long as we continued wearing the uniform, whichever was longer. So don’t get into any trouble on the way home, or you’ll be right back here. The message seemed clear, the cadre hated and despised civilians and considered all of us little better than traitors for wanting to leave them; but then they also despised us for not being senior NCOs either. This attitude reminder was going to provide some real moral stiffening in the coming weeks and months.

At the big steak dinner everyone bonded with everyone else, and I discovered among these people new "life-long best friends", whom I’ve never seen nor heard from again, and whose names I cannot remember. But morale was high, so high that even the army could not dampen it.

And we did get a couple hours in a barracks for the briefest of naps, and a chance to change into the new Class As, and to make a phone call home. Remember, in 1970 there was no internet, and not even a mobile phone; all phones connected through wires going into a wall. And finally got my call made to my parents, and told them when I was scheduled to arrive at the local airport.

And one last obscenity. The army lost my discharge papers, mine and the papers of three or four others. For only a couple of hours, but there was that shrieking terror; I’ll miss my flight. They’re going to keep me! For a year this sort of incompetent blundering had not been tolerated, had not been allowed me. So why should I have to tolerate it from them now! But this delay did not prove fatal, in fact it may even have saved me. Leaving for the airport after the others may have been what saved me from encounters with demonstrators on my first day. So I was not literally spit upon in uniform coming home. The hostility and abuse would come later, but last much longer. On October 13, 1970, I became officially a Veteran.

Without incident I made it "home". Well not really home. When I left for Viet Nam my family still lived in Minneapolis, but during the year, they had moved to Kansas City, and that is where I returned.

My father met me in the terminal at the airport. A year earlier when he dropped me off to fly to Oakland, My parting words had been "No matter what you may hear, I will NOT be a prisoner", and the ancient Athenian pledge "With my shield or on it". My first words on seeing him in the airport were "With my shield." I felt proud. I had confronted a number of challenges which I once thought might be beyond me, from basic training to war itself. Along the way, I had failed some of my tests, but passed others with flying colors. I had earned a medal even if it were not one of the major ones. I felt reassured that I was a Man, and would never again have to defend my claim to manhood - even though I also realized that I would need to continue living up to that standard. I would need to defend what I had just gained. And regardless of the outcome of the war, I had won my personal victory.

As for the war itself. When the war began I had been an enthusiastic supporter of any war against communists. My fraternity chapter had been a solid Goldwater house and had continued conservative throughout the middle 1960s, me with them. Only during the spring of 1968 had I begun to waver, finding myself drawn to the line that "If we’re not going to try to win it, then we ought to come home and stop pretending." I’d worked briefly for Gene McCarthy as an alternative to Johnson, but in 1968, cast my first vote proudly for Nixon. And during my year in Viet Nam, I had again become a whole-hearted believer in our cause, due to what I learned and saw, and my work and friendship with a number of Vietnamese. I came home convinced that we still could win, despite all our setbacks. I have not wavered since then. I still think we could have won, and should have. Nor am I willing to make my personal peace until the NVA give a full accounting of our missing and of the prisoners they murdered in captivity. And do justice. Of course these were not "socially healthy" attitudes to hold in 1971. But FIJFI- it de troot’ boss.

Perhaps one of my problems readjusting has been that from the beginning I was proud of my accomplishment and refused to apologize or even, for the longest time, to keep quiet. I did not willingly go into the closet. And I never apologized. A baby killer proud and defiant! So conflicts and disputes have followed. And today when people tell me "Welcome home", depending on who they are, I don't want to hear it. Its 35 years too late. And the half-hearted attempts at reconciliation with us Viet Nam Vets, sound to me far too much like an amnesty, a forgiveness. Thanks motherfucker, but I don't need your forgiveness; you need mine. Thirty-five years is a bit late. After all this time I still proudly flaunt the baby killer label my country once gave me. And I think I want to wait another 35 years before I do my forgiving. Now let me make clear that these sentiments do not apply to my fellow veterans, nor to the younger generations, too young to have been born yet. But for anybody born, say, before 1980, we need a little clarification. Who were you in seventy-two?

My mother waited in the car with the two dogs, Zsa Zsa and Eva, the Gebark Sisters. I was told that they sensed and began to get wild, even hysterical, while I was still out of sight, and over a block away. Its nice to be remembered; and even better to be remembered and appreciated. Wasn’t going to get much of that for a long time.

Some people, particularly Dread Cow, have noted the things they most missed, and what they were gladdest to recover. High on DC’s list was ice and cold beverages. Amen brother! Particularly water. When I went on my R&R to Sydney Australia, the very first thing I did when I got to my hotel room was run the tap and drink several glasses of cold tap water. Most readers cannot know the delight! The next thing on my R&R lsit was a juice stand for some real orange juice. And then a cold Coke. Those are still my priorities, and 36 years later I still keep a bottle of tap water chilling in the fridge, alongside the OJ and the Coke. And I never touch Fresca (see The Last Days). As for liquor and beer. I’ve got to say, I appreciate Dread Cow’s perspective, but think some of his favorites - Jaegermeister, Gin and such are revolting. DC, I hope one day we’ll meet, and I will begin your education into the finer beverages like good wine, Jamieson’s Irish, and brandy.

Another thing is cleanliness and civilized facilities. We didn’t have to play games with keys, but there was still the long walk to the four-hole, and the squat above the kerosene-barrels. Or the piss tubes. Even less fun in a monsoon downpour. Again, when I went on R&R, flying out through Da Nang, my first treat was discovering that Da Nang had flush plumbing. And the night before I flew to Sydney, while I was on the pot, we took incoming rockets. I decided I was not going to move; if anything were to hit really close, I was already in the best place for doing what would be natural. And in Viet Nam, all of us had the continuous shits, from the day we arrived until about a month or so after returning home. I think it was the anti-malarial tablets we took. So from my return home to present I have an uncommon appreciation of the inside, flush toilet. Ordinary people do not appreciate ordinary things. And also I appreciate cleanliness in general more than most people. Partly that is the standard Army conditioning, a desire te be STRAC. Partly it is Viet Nam.

In our part of the country much of the soil was red clay - laterite. It works into your skin and stay there. For months after I came home the red dirt was slowly working its way out of my skin, staining cuffs and collars, pajamas and underwear. Sometimes this red stain has proven impossible to wash from the clothing. And yes, Viet Nam also taught me both to appreciate the pleasures of personal cleanliness, along with a tolerance for its absence. If you’ve worn the same set of clothes for a up to month at a time, in a humid tropical land, wearing the same underwear for two or even three days hardly seems like a privation. But if its hot, and you’re at home, changing twice in a day is sure an enjoyable luxury.

I’d say that has been a core lesson of my war experience. I’ve developed a much greater appreciation for many ordinary things, together with the greater ability to do without. I appreciate good food, and have learned to know and appreciate haute cuisine, but I can also manage with almost anything you care to scrape off a road, and may of my favorites would qualify as simple food.

I am funny about smells though. Viet Nam had a peculiar and individualistic stink, a combination of concentrated sweat, burning shit, bad tobacco, rotting vegetation, and God knows what else. What we used for a blanket was a "poncho liner" made of nylon and polyester. In limited supply, you got yours reissued from someone else who has just rotated home - without it being washed first. And you never had a chance to launder it either, so over the space of a couple years of accumulated human sweat and stink, these things acquired a remarkable scent, more than slightly reminiscent of a concentrated essence of rotting peaches. In the spring of 1971, I found myself attending a conference in El Paso, and I went briefly across the River. Almost immediately, I was hit by a similar stink. I did not have a real anxiety attack, but I did hurry back to US of A. About that same time I briefly had a girl friend who was particularly fond of a perfume called "Jungle Gardenia" which she kept insisting I should buy for her. Sadly, I thought it smelled just like Mo Duc village. Our relationship was brief. But aside from Jungle Gardenia, I treasure after shave, cologne, and perfume, on myself or anyone else. I’ve snuffed enough stink for seven lifetimes.

Women, hot or otherwise, for me proved a most unfortunate situation. When I departed for the army the mood was still "summer of love", with skimpy clothes and the just do it mindset. The 21 months I was gone saw the institutionalization of feminism. In addition for a growing intolerance for guys with short hair, and my hair was nearly beanhead short. As my fortune had it, about a weeks after I came home, it was Minnesota’s Homecoming weekend, so I caught a plane up to visit old friends, staying at my old frat house. One of the brothers volunteered to set me up with a date, with one his girlfriend’s friends. Cool. We got dressed up and went to pick up our dates. After being introduced, I began to help Shirley on with her coat. I got a sneering response "Ahhhk don’t bothuh wit’ that shit, bud. I’m lib-uh-rated." that was the best part of the evening. The one thing we had in common was weed. At an after-party, she sort of nodded off into a smoky haze. I left her there, telling her semi-comatose body as I left, "You’re liberated, bitch, so take care of yourself." Very quickly, I found that far too many of the other women I tried to meet reacted badly to the idea of a Viet Nam Vet. Or short hair. Or to men who were proud of themselves and who they were. Relationships that did happen tended to be shallow and short. Truth is, this is a problem I’ve not yet solved. Eventually I saw so many vets getting divorced that I just ended up "getting divorced directly without the intervening step of a marriage first." Xin loi for me. But that’s fate.

Another of my dilemmas was that I no longer really fit in with many of my old friends who had enlisted in the hippie movement. But I wanted friends, particularly lady friends. So did what I thought I had to do. I went to parties and tried to socialize where I couldn’t. And to try to cover the fact that I felt awkward I’d bomb myself into oblivion with drink or weed. And end up not socializing after all because I was blitzed. Numbah 10! And very counter effectual. Don’t take this route. Eventually I abandoned the self-destruction, but never solved the other problems.

Emotions were another problem. You come home wired for certain situations. And initially there are incidents. My very first night at home with my parents, I was in bed sleeping, when a fire engine or ambulance raced down the street with siren wailing. I went on alert. Out of bed in a flash and running down the hall calling out "Incoming incoming ass out of bed let’s go". A few days later, I was walking past a construction site, when some workman used his rivet gun. Immediately I went horizontal and began to craw toward the gutter, before reality intervened.

Getting over this took me many weeks for substantial recovery. And traces remained longer. It really depends on the circumstances. The summer of 1972 I was a member of the Texas national Guard and training at Fort Hood. We were sleeping under canvas, and on top of canvas. First morning, about 6:00 AM, the post fired the reveille cannon. I got out of bed on the horizontal, and didn’t really get it back together till the bugle sounded. For the rest of training, every morning was marked by confusion - I knew simultaneously that I was in Texas, but also back in Vietnam, even if I couldn’t be in tow places at once. It has been years and years since I’ve dived or reacted obviously, and I love fireworks. But to this day, if the situation is right (or maybe wrong), and I’m in a tensed mood, I may still react internally. But there is another side to this phenomenon. When its SHTF time, I function at peak effectiveness. About a week and a half ago, at 1:15 AM, there was a domestic incident in my apartment building, when the husband beneath me got slashed. It was to my place he came, and I became the first response line, summoning EMT, etc. and did it all with complete calmness and efficiency. Those steel-eyes working. It was only after everybody had left and the incident was over for about an hour that the emotions kicked in and I found my asshole and stomach puckering. In the last 36 years I’ve been through a whole long string of emergency situations, ranging from natural to medical to criminal and in between, and always during the crisis my emotions turn off allowing me to function till all is over and I can have a quiet break-down at my leisure.

And you mention being very careful not to run over things in the street. Well, I have been subsequently very cautions about kicking anything on the sidewalk, or picking up and fiddling with anything that I don’t know what it is. On the other hand, there remains a positive aspect to this also. All my friends have noticed my uncanny ability to notice and fid loose change on the ground.

Rage and anger. You betcha. It started very early. Within a couple nights of my return my father showed how non-understanding he was, concerning my inability to turn off the "army language" like a light switch. Several of these incidents led me to seriously consider walking out, never to see him again and going back to throw myself back into the army. My first temptation came within less than a week. But then, the had been family conflicts predating my service, which were only resurfacing and attaching to new issues. But it did take almost a decade before the really bad feelings resolved themselves, and still more than 20 years after his death some things remain unresolved, But learn from my explorations; some of your problems may also be the result not of your war, but of pre-existing and unresolved conflicts in your personal sphere, resurfacing and attaching to your military experience. This doesn’t make any of it wrong or right. And certainly not sick. Its normal daily pathology, which we all can control better if we recognize it for what it is. And like your incident with the bank teller, sometimes you’re not the one with the problem. I have had incidents with car rental companies, airlines, and American Express among others. That check American Express gave me when I left Viet Nam? Their branch back home didn’t want to recognize or cash it. I had to go open some other account elsewhere, and deposit it in some other bank, and then wait for it to clear. I still have not forgiven American Express, and have a short rage reaction whenever I get their almost weekly credit card offer.

Other rage matters. During my first months back, I initially hung out around campus demonstrations, (DC You know the Washington Avenue bridge, don’t you?) trying to provoke arguments or even better to goad one of them to taking a swing at me. I never succeeded at that.

But later when I returned to graduate school, I had learned mostly to keep my cool. There were a couple occasions when I got into serious arguments with idiot grad students and professors, all of which I won, but none of which helped my abortive career.

But there was one episode I truly treasure. I was in my second year Russian language class, pretty good at keeping myself mellow and low profile. But one day, while waiting for the instructor to show up, and chatting with the other students in the section it just sort of slipped out that I had been in Viet Nam. One of the younger, hippie-looking youngsters responded

"WO-OW! Like you were in Viet Nam? Can I ask you something really personal? Did you ever, ...like...actually..... KILL....anybody?" I kept my cool, and to Beardo I said "No, I never killed anyone - but that’s not something I’m very proud of." A big Kumbaya smile blossomed across Beardo’s face, but a moment later it suddenly melted into a look of sheer horror as he realized the meaning of what I actually had said. After that he left me pretty much alone, an even better outcome that I would have dared to desire.

With the passage of 36 years, I have mellowed somewhat. That is most of the time. I still can get very mad, and flip into a rage reaction if confronted or emotionally pushed. I’ve learned how, generally, to control it. The one thing that personally trouble me is that sometimes I will experience unprovoked, self-triggering rage. It may begin with a sudden burst of rage, followed by obvious high blood pressure and a feeling as if I’m about to explode (I never do). Always this reaction is associated with something that really offends my senses. A police or legal injustice, or the wrongs done to one of our marines falsely accused, or, some other such. Or even my aged mother in her declining competence. Follows a desire to get into the face of the offender and give him a thoroughly vicious reaming. It is an internal temper tantrum, without external expression (Thank God!) But what I have learned to notice is that almost always it is the temper that comes first, unprovoked, and it goes on to find an object for justification and focus. This is something I do not like at all about me, but also something that I have learned to control. Is that a residual of my war? Or is something else at the root? I don’t know.

In summation, my years as a Viet Nam Vet have shown me a lot of confrontation, a lot of difficulty, and there have been many times when I’ve wished that I had ended inscribed honorably upon The Wall. But then I continue to take comfort in my pride in what I have done, even if diluted by the regrets that I might have done more. Could I go back and do it over, I think sometimes, I might have enlisted earlier and done multiple tours. But that would have changed everything else as well. Your record is what it is. And so is your fate. And when the times come that I wish I were already at Fiddler’s Green, I remember duty. As the Japanese proverb says, Death is the weight of a feather, while duty has the weight of the mountains. And then the down mood passes, and I remember that there’s still a lot of good left even for an Old War Dog.

You’ll have some rough days for the rest of your life. Read Lord of the Rings. Brother, you and I have been ring-bearers. We have been marked by the ring and can no longer be like ordinary people. Marked, as you noted, so that others need not know or understand. Take pride in our sacrifice. The emotional scar is as honorable as the physical.

-Rurik

Contributed by George Mellinger on July 4, 2006 at 10:20 AM in Coming home, George Mellinger | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Coming home
Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf

Inspired by Rurik.

Coming home involved several aspects; physically getting back,  NOT being in the Navy after almost 6 years, and dealing with having the word Vietnam attached to my name.

Flew from Guam to Travis AFB with a stop-over at Yakota in Japan. I remember little about the trip so it must have been uneventful. I had opted to out-process at Great Lakes so my route was: Travis to Treasure Island - Treasure Island to SFX - SFX to O'hare - O'hare to Great Lakes.

One of the tricks of memory is that from 35 plus years on, the trip itself seems to occupy little more space than that.

There is a single event that stands out though; while at SFX I was one of several in uniform who were spit at, cursed at, and called 'baby killer'. The crap wasn't aimed at me, but everyone in uniform. It had been going on before I passed though and, I suspect went on well after I was in the air.

I had checked around and found out that getting discharged at Treasure Island may have taken weeks. Then I would fly back to West Virgina via O'hare as a civilian.I figured that if I was discharged at Great Lakes it would be quicker and I'd wind up in the same place anyway.

Here too, a single event stands out. After running in circles and, jumping through a hoop or two, I was at the very last check out desk. The Yeoman stated that I had to get a haircut before I could turn in my ID and get my disharge packet. I stood there puzzled, I was about to take off my uniform and put on civies, after all. The reasoning was beyond me, but I did the deed and made my exit.

It was 1969.

In 1991 There was a parade where I was living on The Big Island of Hawaii for the Veterans of Desert Storm. The organizers invited Vietnam Vets to march along. I did, and I was finally home.

Contributed by Zero Ponsdorf on July 4, 2006 at 03:34 AM in Coming home, George Mellinger, US Navy, Zero Ponsdorf | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Monday, 03 July 2006
 

Coming Home - The Last Days
Contributed by George Mellinger

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 (1) | TrackBack

Welcome home Dread Cow!
Contributed by George Mellinger

For those of you who don't know him, Dread Cow is, or rather has been, a rifleman serving in Iraq, and he maintained a blog, Fun with Hand Grenades. Now he has returned home.  And he has posted two remarkable columns to his site on his reactions to re-entering the world. Read them here at Milk and Honey and then Reflection, part one I find it strange that the army prepares us for going over, but tells us noting about how to come home. and most vets tend to tell war stories and neglect the equally important coming home stories. At least since Homer wrote The Odyssey based on returning from the Trojan War. This Old War Dog intends to spend much of today preparing as a tribute, my own experiences. Meantime, go read Dread Cow. And if any of you other hounds feels moved to howl your own coming home stories, it will be good.

-Rurik

Contributed by George Mellinger on July 3, 2006 at 10:37 AM in Coming home, George Mellinger | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack