I really started to get emotional on that last leg. You’ve got to remember Monday, May 9th had begun some 26 hours ago and it was only 5:30 p.m. local time. So I was allowed a little liberty from flight fatigue. I pictured my wife smiling in the lobby and running into my arms. Then I would be surrounded by family and friends all welcoming me back home to Montana. I even imagined that my friends would have arranged for a piper to play a tune with my entrance. As I sat on that plane, filled with those visions, emotions started to swell up in the chest. I couldn’t wait.

The plane landed 15 minutes early. I was the fourth person off and anxiously walked toward the entrance anticipating a scene worthy of Frank Capra. But it was just like my first return 37 years ago. There was no one waiting for me then and now. Talk about a reality check. There I sat at the baggage claim, sitting on my bags, with no change to call home. It was Mother’s Day Sunday and mostly empty. About 15 minutes later, my wife and mother-in-law came through the door and laughed at the pitiful sight. Suddenly, it was my fault for arriving early. Then it was my turn to laugh. I was home and I liked that it was still the same.

Probably the most difficult thing in my life since I’ve returned is responding to these questions:

• “Well, how was it?”
• “Was it worth it?”
• “Did it help?”

It’s been two months and I still don’t know how to answer. Words don’t seem to paint the pictures or the feelings that come to mind. I think I need to tell the story. Talk about the trip and about my life. Neither is especially eventful, but the 37-year span is unique and perhaps even timely. My 2004 days in Vietnam were mostly emotional experiences of sadness and resignation. While there were a few similar reflections, the overall experience was very different. But both of the “coming home’s” were very familiar.

When I came home for the final time in the ‘60’s, our Country was polarized, angry and absent of consensus on the majority of issues. The exclusive assemblage of wealth during the Vietnam War had found the means to make their money grow while the working class were beginning to see their rise to the middle class, during the ’50’s, begin to slip away as they slid into the era of reduction in force. Social Darwinism was clothed in hipper wrappings, but it remained the underpinning of economic controls and designs.

Coming home in 2004, the same things are happening. Civility in Congress and the White House is a courtesy of the past. News show-hosts yell and call their guests gutter names. The racial factor is more prevalent in politics today than it was 1969. It’s all black and white and nobody’s allowed to play in the gray. And the youth of America is still fighting a war where they’re not sure who the enemy is and they die every day. Just like before. Uniforms die while shirts debate and defend what’s gone wrong and who’s to blame.

That’s why I think that I have to write the story in the hope that I may find and share the answers to the questions. I know now that the war in Vietnam is over. I know that Vietnamese people aren’t mad at me. I saw Vietnam in peace. It isn’t a perfect model, but it isn’t war. But here at home, war is still being waged. I think that it’s just like the one being waged when I came home in 1967. I’m afraid that America’s long lasting fight with itself has screwed me up just as much as the traumas I found in the war in Vietnam.

It was raining as we taxi’d into the Inchon airport. My dad came landed here long ago. I’ve never seen Korea before and I’m not really seeing it now. I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for quite a while. I’m travelled out. But I left Vietnam this time with nothing amiss, unsaid or unfelt. There’s been no miracle, but there have been discoveries.

I guess I wanted to remember me. What was I like as a young 21 year old Marine sgt? How did I walk? Talk? What did I want to be? Well, I don’t think I got all of the answers, but I got some and I got to say goodbye. If the answers aren’t altogether clear, the understanding is taking shape. I’ve learned something important. I’m just a man. Less than heroic, more than common. I’ve had somethings pass me by, but I’ve also been given an express ride to witness some big happenings.

I got to learn Agape love with the Franciscans. I got to march all over the world with the finest, even though I had one of the shortest tours in the history of Embassy Duty and I found it too hard to carry the baggage of loss. I got to sit behind a U.S. Senator for two years and watch some of the great ones under the guidance of Mike Mansfield. I got to work in the mines and Teamster a cab in a the city. I got to help brother vets and they helped me. I got to graduate from Carroll College, teach and coach young exciting people. I got to be a city commish and learn from others that saw things differently. I got to be a labor educator and take the story of workers all over the state. I got to fight and stand up for people’s rights. And I got to emotionally collapse five times into rubber rooms and finally got sober. And each time that I fell, there were hands to pick me up.

When I was 21 and landed in Vietnam those many years ago, I didn’t have the slightest idea what I wanted to be beyond getting back home. I thought that some of me never did make it back, but I was wrong. All of me came back. It’s just scrambled up and some new filters made me see things differently. Different, yet the same. I just can’t hack the long haul. And the crash landings of the short trips take me to very frightening places. But I have life and I want what I have. If some one would have given me this rundown as I was on that C-130 flying into Da Nang, so long ago, I think I would have said, “Wow!”

I sure hope that May 10th gets here.

S’lan,

Tom

Last night, I watched the news and fell asleep as Rumsfeld and the “general pool” began their remarks to the Senate Committee. Throughout the week, watching the story unfold, my heart goes to the men and women in uniform in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the mountains of Eastern Europe. For I fear that now, along with the shadows of trauma, lost comrades, and the struggle between fight and flight, they too, might be stained by the tainted brush of judgment.

I wish that we could have a National Referendum in the U.S. that would initiate a National Policy for the Executive and the Legislature: “If you make war, you’re in uniform, armed and on the point for the next six months.” Far too often in our recent history, the makers of war have never shared the cup. The reality of the horror for them are scripts or novels in the comfort of their homes. A little taste and I suspect that our Nation’s diplomacy and statesmanship will improve dramatically.

Turning to the domestic, we could insist that they all experience a six month tour of life in the hood on subsistence and food stamps if a certain number of U.S. jobs are lost or workers laid off. They need to feel what America feels. If they increase the National debt, they forfeit two/thirds of their pay and allowances for six months. On and on. These leaders (sic), have to get real, now!

Earlier in the evening, there was a report on how Great Britain receives her dead servicemen from the gulf battlefields. From their arrival to burial, the rites of honor our viewed by the public each and every time. At each funeral, among the mourners are ranking members of their service; members of parliament, and even the royal family. The bell of honor tolls for them at home as well as in heaven. They pointed out the differences in the reception in the U.S. of our dead.

I’d like to suggest that we refuse to keep the arrival of our dead quiet. The administration says that its out of respect for the families. I’m thinking that it’s more the fear of public opinion with another war’s casualties coming into the every home, every day. If a son or daughter of your community comes home under the draped flag, give an hour of honor to the deceased and support for the grieving. Everyone try to go to the assembly for the rite of burial. If they request privacy, nod, and express your sorrow for their lost. We can handle it emotionally and the heroic deserve it.

The Brotherhood of the Paddies understands full well that the brush of judgment paints all besides the guilty. So much so, that each begins to take on the guilt. Understand, my friends, that these young people will already bring home the shadows and the shakes. Don’t let them see the furtive glances or hear the whispers or become alienated by our apathy. The most maddening advice to hear is, “It’s over, get on with it.” Some times, it’s just too damn heavy, man. If we paint the stain on anyone, we need to paint each other as well. Don’t make the young carry a burden that belongs to us all. When they come home breathing, greet them with all of the love and respect you can muster. Let them see your tears of happiness that they made it and are valued now even more than when they marched off. Tell them how glad you are for their survival. tell them that for a year or a life-time.

Our government needs to get honest, quick. I don’t think that we’ve trusted them since Wagner-Peyser became Taft-Hartley; the Vietnam War; the Nixon White House; the “Trickle-Down” theories; or that globalization is good for America. In the streets of urban and rural America, we know that the revised labor laws stole fairness for workers. The second was built upon lies. Nixon was a crook. Trickle-down is like pissing up a rope, and while globalization is great for the boardroom’s parachutes, it’s screwing the life-blood of the Nation.

Just after mid-night, tonight, I take the first leg of 18 hours of flying time to return to Helena, Montana. I will have lots of time to think about the past two weeks and a half. I will be glad for six pm to arrive and I know that I will cry long before I see my wife. After I arrive and sleep a long time, I’ll share that part of the story with you and reflections. I’m already beginning to feel the familiar pangs of nervousness. With a computer, I can speak to a world that I’m always going to be afraid of, yet remain safe. I figure if I’m as honest as I can be, words won’t hurt. Outside of my safe world, I lose myself to the past.

Thank you, Kathleen, Jims, and Marty, for creating this safe, but curtained bridge for me to step outside during this journey. For the brotherhood, and our included sisters, if you still hurt, ask for help. If you don’t know where to go, use the link or send me a message. To Doctors’ Lewis, Blake, Jenkins, Hettinger and all their fellow staffs, thank you and know that I will always need you in my life, espeically now, more than ever cause I want to see the mornings. To my brothers, I really miss the weekly sessions. To Victor, I love you, man! And to Fish, “Whew!”

S’lan,

Tom

There’s a lot running through my mind. It started as I boarded the boat for the ride back to Hoi An. I think I’ll let a lot of it work itself out overnight and share more reflections tomorrow. My flight home begins 10 minutes after midnight tomorrow, so I have the whole day to ponder. The self-talk’s okay.

I arranged to rent a big boat this time with an engine and all. My confidence grew as I boarded successfully. Then we were putt-putting our way west. The helmsman and I didn’t understand a word we said to each other, yet we chatted continuously for the first hour. Just in case, I wore the bare minimum and carried only floatable items.

Scenes touched the memory bank after about an hour and a half into the trip. I could see the tall mountains of Operation Independence and Missippi backgrounding the lower hills of An Hoa. There were lots of operations, but I can’t remember their names. I saw them listed once on a copied page from my service record in my VA claims folder, but nothing clicked. But floating along, I remembered those two. We had long passed the bridges of highway one and under the rail bridge about 10 K further on. Then, it just felt right.

I pointed to a bank and the skipper understood and nodded. He steered me close enough to jump in and wade ashore. He anchored the boat and brought me my chair and pipe. Then he walked away, understand my need to be alone. Up on a rise by the bank, there was a pile of stones,…a perfect shrine. I began lighting one incense stick at a time, placing them together, between the stones. With a slight breeze, Fred’s moved a little to the right, joined, but aside. Each stick represented Marines who died; events shared; disappointments; regrets; my parents; the walking dead; brothers gone from Menlo; another from Boise; one for Ron; one for Victor; one for Ooga; one for Fish; and one for me. As I sat there remembering days and nights, I smoked the pipe to all.

It was quiet on the trip back to Hoi An. It was getting toward dusk and we still had a ways to go. I saw some smoke along the shore and smiled. As it got darker, I saw a continuous flash from a hooch to the right. I smiled. For a long time, these settings and surprises would bring panic, sweats, rapid pulse and retreat. I smiled because they didn’t. I know now that the war here, is over. The smoke was a farmer’s brush burn and the flash from home-welding. All along the river bank, children played, waved and hollered out, “Hello!” Cattle munched their supper, and the ducks quacked. I will always carry my wounds, that’s how it is, but I’m not dead. It was very dark when we finally pulled up to Hoi An’s dock.

I woke up slowly today, knowing that all I had to do is catch a two ö’clock flight out of Da Nang back to Hanoi. The driver took me to the airport in an A/C van and I just sat for an hour and relaxed. It’s only an hour flight to Hanoi and the hotel boys were waving when I came out of Hanoi’s terminal. I’m going to go eat now, stroll back to the room, and sleep.

S’lan,

Tom

Since I’ve been here, the 3 day election cycle, the 3 day holiday for Liberation Day and May Day, and the 50th Anniversary of their victory at Dien Bien Phu tomorrow is certainly cause for their flying it. Nevertheless, in my mind, I can rationalize all of it, but that flag of my former enenmy started to cause a gut wrench seeing it so much. So, here’s what I did. Since they’re the same colors, I just replaced the gold star with a gold eagle, globe and anchor in my mind. After that, I’d smile at the thought that Vietnam has such a graceful heart, that she flying the Marine Flag, Nationwide, in honor of my return visit. You see, the VA keeps me heavily medicated.

To be a Marine is something that is very difficult to put into words. Eleanor Roosevelt was reported to say that U.S.M.C. stood for Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. I admired that woman immensely, so I’ll believe that she said that with a twinkle in her eyes. Her son was a Marine Raider who landed in the Solomons during WWII.

No matter what your life offers after leaving the Corps, it never leaves you. Unabashedly, I admit that I love the Corps. In my six years, my behavior disappointed some and pleased some. I had a skipper once write in a fitness report that in combat, he would request me, but in peacetime, he would hide me. Most of the bad times had to do with booze. I was well on my way to becoming a full-blown alcoholic as a young Marine. After a horrible day years ago in this Vietnam Province, I began to use to lose. A habit that would damage too much of the next twenty-five years until I got honest and asked for help.

I’m going to be getting back late from another boat trip today. I’m going up the river that runs by Hoi An. It’s the Thu Bon and it intersects through the Province between the former Marine locations of An Hoa, Dai Loc, Hill 55 and Hoi An. Just south of us is Chu Lai and My Lai. When the 3rd Marine Division started moving north to Quang Tri Province in 1966, the 1st Marine Division moved up from Chu Lai throughout Quang Nam and the Army back-filled in both Provinces. There’s a memorial in My Lai, but I don’t need to see it. Like many vets, I’ve carried it inside for a long time.

When the story broke in the press, I was a UCLA student taking undergrad breath courses, one of which was Political Science 101. It was an interesting class, I finally was told why we made a combat landing in Santo Domingo (their election results conflicted with our policies). The undergrad classes at UCLA were so large that they broke us down into smaller weekly study groups led by teaching assistants. One day, the group met out on the lawn and the TA asked me if I would talk about My Lai and if this sort of thing went a lot over there. I looked at the students and the TA a long time. Then I got up, shook my head, drove to the beach, and smoked a joint. How do you talk to anyone about something like that.

This afternoon, I’m going up river for me and mine. Since it winds through the Province, I’m going to stop mid-way and sit. There I will remember an early morning along this river’s bank and the day that followed. I will give thanks for knowing what being “tight” means. I will remember the uglies, the rains, the games, and the greatest bull sessions ever in the CP’s bunkers. One night, we were discussing if reincarnation was real and what did we want to come back as. The replies were good, but none more so than the gunny’s. He said, “I want to come back as a crab on a Vassar toilet seat.” Sorry if that’s offensive, but it sure made good sense that day.

Also this afternoon, I will remember my friend, Sgt. Fred Ratliff. He died out here. We met in Camp Pendleton’s tent Camp Horno, as part of the new cadre for the recalled 5th Recon Battalion. We were the first two NCO’s reporting in. Fred had been there for a couple of days before me and we both were just coming off our leaves after returning from Vietnam. Our 1st Sgt., Maurice Jacques, who retired as a Sgt. Maj., was a legend in recon ranks and was in on the Marines only jump in Vietnam. Sgt. Jacques took a liking to Fred and I, even though we were different. He was quiet and I was brash. When his current enlistment was up, Fred wanted to return to Colorado and get his degree and be a math teacher and I can still picture my vision of him back then with a short sleeve white, button down shirt, a clip-on tie, and pencil/pen holder in his pocket. But he was one hell of a Marine.

Jacques sent us to scuba school in San Diego and jump school in Georgia. He improved our night ops and we drilled in every insertion and extraction techniques imaginable, over and over. We spent so many days and night in those damn IBS’s that I started dreaming of 29 Palms for relief. We repelled off every point and did hydrographic surveys at midnight. We became pretty good recon Marines.

My home was in LA then, so every liberty weekend, I’d pile into my ‘66 volkswagon and head home. One day, before leaving, I saw that Fred had just taken off his boots and crapped out on his rack. I asked him what he did every weekend while I was gone. He said that he did his laundry, went to the club or occasionally, he into Oceanside to catch a movie. I told him to grab his ditty-bag and come with me. We became god friends. He became the brother I didn’t have. He admired me and I admired him, both for different reasons, I’m sure. Fred was the only person that I told about the fear behind the mask that still tightened my gut. You see, everyone thought that I loved it and was the poster-boy marine. But Fred knew the truth. When I got married to Cheryl and we rented a place in San Clemente, Fred was with us a lot. After a while, they pulled Fred into headquarters and gave me the rec room and the battalion football team.

Then Fred called me and told me a billet had just come in for a Sgt. for Westpac, and there was talk of giving it to me because they thought I wanted to go back. He said that he was going to take it. He only had about 5 months left on this enlistment, so it would be a short tour. He wasn’t going to reup and I had just gotten married and my place was with my wife. About 4 weeks before he got home, he wrote and asked if he could stay with us for a few days before he went on home to Colorado. I wrote back immediately, telling him yes and that he could stay for as long as he wants. His bottle of Jim Beam was on top the fridge with a ribbon.

I was called into the CO’s office during luchtime. The First Sgt. was there and handed me the teletype list of Marine KIA’s. There was Fred’s name and serial number. They asked if that was him and I nodded. I wrote to his CO and asked what happened? He wrote back and said that Fred had received my letter and even shared some of it with them. They were on a battalion movement (I later found out that it was called, “Taylor Common”) and A. Company, 1/7 was on point and walked into a V ambush against a potload of NVA regulars with two .50’s beating them hard in a cross-fire. He said that Fred led the assault on the one gun and they took it out with multiple dead and wounded Marines from the effort. He said that Fred was shot in the hip during that assault, but rallied the men and started after the other deadly gun. Fred was then mortally wounded in the neck and that he was putting him in for the Navy Cross.

I’ve not carried this cross very well for a long time. Terry, the honcho at the VA Vet’s Center in Boise and a team member of Dr. Blake’s PTSD program found out for me where Fred was buried: Fort Logan in Denver. I went there to talk to my old friend and met his younger brother, Willie, who was 9 when Fred died. He now has a young son around that age. I sat and talked with my old friend and listened to what he had to say. Then I got to know his brother and his son. Life was not kind to either Fred or Willie in their younger years and Fred’s loss left Willie alone at a very young age. He has honored his brother’s memory for a long time. I hope Willie knows now, that should he need, he still has an older brother.

Fred’s decoration was downgraded to the Silver Star and I have learned recently that far too many Marine’s heroics that day, deserving of recognition, were unfortunately smothered beneath an inquiry into the commander’s actions. I have written to Senators Kerry and Burns for help in working with the Corps to perhaps right an injustice. If you feel so inclined, a note or message to either or both, encouraging support for the men of A Company, 1/7, on Taylor Common, 1968, Quang Nam Province might help. The surviviors are holding a reunion this summer and it would be great if the many deserving received their just rewards.

So today, I’m going up river to smoke with the spirits and to express my thanks to an old and dear friend for giving me life; to say goodbye to a platoon, and to make peace with an old deceased enemy. Then I’ll return and begin to start my goodbye to Vietnam.

S’lan,

Tom

It’s also been nice to get around Hoi An. This is a special and historical place in Vietnam, just inland a click from the ocean and resting along a river. The historical landmarks, temples and pagodas draw Vietnamese pilgrims all year and tourists from around the globe to her gates. It’s relatively small and cars are not allowed inside of the historical section (most of the town). You can stroll from one end to the other in about 15 to 20 minutes and the crafts and tailor markets are famous. When we drove in Monday on the bus, we passed the old compound where I fought along side of the 51st ARVN’s against an unusual daylight attack by the VC. For the most part though, this unique and beautiful community escaped the ravages of the French and American War.

Today, I took advantage of this tourist’s Mecca and ordered my family’s wish lists at a very nice and helpful tailor shop. I even ordered me a very large black kimono with an embroidered shamrock. Then I picked out a special graduation gift for Tara Morgan Bangs who is graduating with honors from Montana State University this coming Saturday. After the shopping, I just strolled along the river thinking about all of them. My family: my daughter, Amber; two step-daughters, Tara and Erin; two grand-daughters, Alyna and River (but I call her the boot, cause she was born on the Marine Corps birthday); Amber’s mate, Rich (who I really do like) one special mother-in-law, Lois (Go Jazz!) and my beautiful wife, Nanette.

The girls are all very special. God brought Amber Dawn and I together 19 years ago. The circimstances belong in our gift box and can only be felt, not shared. She has given me two beautiful grandchildren, has a good mate, Rich, raises a whole village and still manages to continue work at MSU towards her Nursing degree. “You go, girl!” No father could be any prouder. Tara Morgan Bangs is about to finish another goal and has prepared wonderfully for medical school. Secretly, I’m hoping she opts for psychiatry and can figure me out. Erin Ashley Bangs is just finishing up her freshman year at the University of Montana and sincerely cares about people with her whole heart. I’ve been able to watch Tara and Erin grow into the beautiful women they are these past ten years. Their father Ed and Nanette have raised two great kids. “Congrats, Tara!”

My wife’s family has given me kindness and acceptance since our beginning, some ten and a half years ago. That’s the kind of people they are. We lost her father a while ago, but it’s nice to have in-law’s and neices and nephews (who haven’t had a belly-bounce in some time). My wife and friend, Nanette was only in my dreams until we met in Helena, Montana. She has stuck by me all the way, and some of that has been very rocky and lonely for her. My wounds are not easy to see, but they often lead me to “bunker down” away from family and friends. There have been long stretches where she and I have lived alone together, but she’s still there and supportive. Getting the VA’s help at Menlo Park and Boise is helping me stay in a world of family, friends, and safe places. Walking this morning, I realized just how much I love them all, especially you, dear Nanette.

For the rest of today, I’ll enjoy this peaceful place and buy a few more gifts. I’m quite fond of the laughing Buddha. Tomorrow, I’m going out into the bush of Quang Nam Province and visit a hill, a river-bank ville, and pick a spot to smoke the spirit pipe with the memories of 1/9, 2/9, 3/9, 1/26 and a special bowl for A Company, 1/7 who were with my best friend, Sgt. Fred Ratliff, who gave his all one December day in 1968. It will not be hard. It will be an honor.

A special note in signing off to Sgt. Maj. Fisher. I’m doing all right, bro. I feel your support.

S’lan,

Tom

Pho took me to the Da Nang Hotel which was the hangout for MACV, CIA, Red Cross and AID boys and girls during the war. The advisory team that I was with as part of the Marine Liaison Team to the 51st ARVN’s kept a suite of rooms there. They would rotate every six or seven days for a night. I was sitting at the bar my last night in Da Nang with my team’s XO, an Army Captain, listening to these civilians cracking fun at the grunts and bragging about how much money there was to be made. I figure that if I didn’t get out of there right then, I was going to shoot me another rat.

My last night in Vietnam this week, I tried to retrace my walk that night a long time ago to say “I’m very sorry” to a young mother who was pimped by her younger brother. The guilt of that occasion has always seemed out of reach of an “Act of Contrition.” I found the block and the group of houses around a central garden, but nobody answered the bell. I put a note on the ground with some money hoping that it might help someone. I hoped it would help me. The next morning I woke up very sick and purged a lot over the next two days. I figure that may be my real penance.

S’lan,

Tom

P.S. I guess you all certainly know about the internet worm. It has shut down many cyber cafe’s over here. I think that it also must have jumped out of the internet into me. I arrived in Hoi An about noon Monday. Since then, until this morning, I have been very sick and staying in bed trying to drink as much water as I could. Except for two rolls, I haven’t eaten until breakfast today. I’m hoping that I’ve turned the corner, but if this suddenly stops, I must have a few more miles to go.

One thing, I didn’t mention about Da Nang was my nightly visitor. It started the first night. The room was a suite with a sitting room in front and two beds in the other room. I was half sitting, half laying in the bed closest to the hallway, watching the BBC channel on TV. Suddenly I saw my univitied guest scramble from under the other bed to under mine. At first, I thought that I was imagining things. Then the bugger came back out midway and took a good look up at me. It was gray, about 5 and half inches long and was grinning with bucked teeth. I think that I woke up the hotel yelling, “HEY!” It scrambled back under my bed. That’s when Hua came to my aid once again. Remember that walking stick she gave me the day of the river dunk? Well, I went for it with gusto and sent the univited guest packing. The hotel is right on the river, so it comes with the territory. It visited every night. By the last night, I just said, “hello” and went to sleep.

The last time that I was visited by a rat in Vietnam, was a night on Hill 55. We were pulling a rotation security gig during the rains and the bunkers were just muddy sandbag stacks covered with a temporary roof of ponchos. I fell asleep around midnight and woke with a start. That happened a lot over there when your internal alarm went off. Resting atop of my right boot, was the biggest rat I’d ever seen. Acutually, it was the only rat that I had ever seen. I just about shot myself in the foot with my .45 cal. trying to kill that son of a gun.

Da Nang has been a hard visit. I did go to Marble Mountain and the beach on Sunday. By the way, it was “Monkey” mountain that had the NVA underground hospital and that’s where Mike Foster was stationed atop. There’s still antenna domes up there. I finally located Hill 326 also. Just below there was 3rd Recon and 3rd Amphib’s. I found an exhausted Sgt Fisher there one day, trying to catch some zzz’s. He’d been out in the bush a long time Mike and I walked alot of miles together in 1/2 and volunteered for Nam together. Marble Mountain was the chopper base. When Pho and I arrived and I saw the dunes and remembered my second day in Vietnam.

Marines used to come to Vietnam through Okinawa and we flew to Vietnam in C-130’s with inward and outboard web seating. There was time to put in a lot of last minute thinking, cause it was too loud to talk. Then you hit the ground and the tailgate lowered and you walked into a strange and different world. When the heat and hunmidity hit,there was no doubt it would be a difficult tour. You filed over to the transient hut to find to whom you were assigned. Then you waited for your regimantal 6×6 truck to pull up and haul you away.

I had friends in 1/9, who were still guarding the air field, so I got in a visit while waiting. Finally, the 9th Marines’ truck pulled up and took us to their C&P at the edge of Dog Patch II. That was the beginning of “Booby-Trap Alley.” It was there that you were isuued your weapons and 782 gear. Back then, we were still wearing our stateside utilities and carrying M-14’s. Jungle “utes” and boots would come in a few months. The plastic wrapped toy guns would come much later and the first issues jammed up on the grunts trying to take Hill 881. It took the DoD a long time to own up to that truth, but I wonder if they compensated the battalion commander who was replaced for refusing to order his men up the Hill for a second assualt.

The Sgt. that I was replacing was glad to see me. He was rotating home the next day. He took me down to the ville to purchase the rest of my gear. The Vietnamese made great foot-locker boxes out of c-ration cans. Along with the box, you purchased a matress pad, to make your cot more comfortable when you were in the cp, and a pair of Ho Chi Minh sandals. He explained that I would catch the mail run the next day out to the company compound. A chopper would land every day at Regt. and pick up the mail bags, rations, ammo, etc. for the battalion and company cp’s.

The next morning, I boarded the chopper and sat on some crates in the bay. I thought it was an old CH-37, but it may have been a ‘34. We used to call the 37’s, “Google-Eyes” for the cross eyes that were painted on the fuel tanks. The Chinooks hadn’t arrived in Vietnam for the Marines yet. We made about two stops and after lifting off from the last one, the war said “hello!”. I was so new, at first I didn”t know what was happening. I could hear the rounds zinging and then I saw the asst. Crew chief fall off his gun and hit the deck. The Crew Chief hollered and pointed to him as I was reaching for the gun. But the wounded marine came first. I had never seen blood come spurting out like that. It was so powerful. He had been shot in the groin, the worst fear of every Marine, and an artery was cut. All I could do for him was try to grap the ends and squeeze while he just stared at me.

The bird immediately flew to Chalie Med and the triage team took him off. Then we lifted off and headed for Marble Mountain. I was sitting back on my crates trying to figure out too many things. We landed at the edge of the tarmac and the Crew Chief almost threw me out and said to go and sit about 100 yards off. So there I sat on the dune. Two PC’s emerged quickly and personnel began going over the chopper very carefully. A while later, the crew chief came over to me carrying a cannister tube that 81 mortar rounds came in. He showed me the crease up the side that one of the bullets from the ground the VC caused. I had been sitting on three crates of 81’s. As I sat there on the dunes Sunday, I remembered that day. That was the day that the war became very real.

S’lan,

Tom

First off, the traffic in Vietnam has earned a special note. While the traffic in Hue and Da Nang is much less than in Hanoi, they all seem to follow the same rules. Rule number one is that there are no rules. I’ve learned that the center line is a guide rather than a rule. Also, there’s hardly any cell-phone using drivers, because one hand drives and the other honks. A cyclo really is the way to go. That’s an open chair in front with the driver pedaling in the rear. There have been moments that I’ve approached the on-coming traffic with the same courage I did with my first five jumps at Bennings…with my eyes shut!

Now, I’ve been blessed with the finest wife & mother-in-law combination in the USA. But the two of them get scared to death when I drive, even in the driveway. I pray that Father God may yet bless me with the opportunity to bring my wife, mother-in-law, and oldest daughter to Vietnam some time in the future. I just can’t wait to put them into a cyclo at about 0800 in the morning and watch their eyes. From that moment on they will think that I’m Barney Oldfield’s wiser big brother.

I want to also share my experiences at the Cathedral last night and this morning. Mass last evening was at 1700 and it was celebrated outside. The altar was placed inside of a stone grotto and small stools were placed in rows the length of the church with a center aisle. What I was about to enjoy deserves another kudo to Pope John XXIII. The procession began with the echo of the dong and the priest stopped numerous times. In the grotto preparing for the Mass, was a youthful chorale-movement group singing a swinging praises of joy and thanksgiving. The teen boys were dressed in white and the young ladies all wore the traitional au dais of white and blue. With the Mass, the language and music reflected the culture of Vietnam, but the rite was universal and welcoming. It brought tears and thanks to an old man with his petitions.

This morning, I started with a good breakfast. I don’t know if I have ever mentioned it before, but most of the hotels serve a complimentary breakfast of fresh rolls, eggs of choice and great fruit. I’ very glad for that, because I usually forget completely about lunch while visiting. But having seen my picture, you know that I don’t ever miss the dinner bell. Last night, I have to admit that I passed on the delicious cuisine of Vietnam and fell happily into the menu of my roots. After a bowl of crab-asparagus soup, I dug into a plate of beef steak and spuds. Pure joy.

Mass this morning was inside the Cathedral with all of the side doors open and fans strategically placed high on the pillars. The first 3/4 of the church was filled with the children with the youngest in front. I got a seat in the rear and noticed that the stools of last night were placed just outside of the opened doors for the parents and grandparents. During the homily, the young priest grabbed his microphone and spoke to the kids walking up and down the center aisle. He was asking the children questions. They jumped up and down with their hands held high and when chosen, they would speak hesitently into the mic. If they were wrong, they received a gentle thank you from the priest for their courage. If they were correct, they received a reward of a brand new pencil. The participation was wonderful. The gentleness of the celebrants last night and this morning reminded me of Father Tom O’Donnell of St Cyril’s and Methodius in East Helena. I was blessed by your peers a long way away, good priest. It makes me miss all of you a little less today, but miss you I do.

I hope that all of my brothers and sisters of the paddies who would like to return here do. Start by getting a copy of the Vietnam version of “The Lonely Planet.” Discuss it with your support groups and your families and begin the planning. On the internet, you can get the instructions and download an application for obtaining a visa from the Vietnam government. With your self-addressed envelope, my visa came back inside of two weeks. Then, using the planet, send messages over the internet to the e-mail addresses of hotels, travel bureaus and cities enclosed. It was their answers and questions that made my excitement and determination grow. You will be welcomed if you say hello. Sure, there are some that want the dollar, just like we in Montana want Californian’s dollars. But they are welcoming and graceful by culture and peace is here. With all of the cities noises, I sleep good.

There was Huong in Hue and now there’s Pho. He’s put Marine decals on his cyclo as he moves me about. This afternoon, Pho and I are going to the beach.

S’lan,

Tom

I already know that this has all been for good. I also know that I’m not alone here.
This afternoon, I will probably go past Marble Mountain and head to China Beach to burn the daylights out of my Celtic skin, but I will smile a lot. Tomorrow, I head south for a short trip to Hoi An. I loved this town in my youth and I’ve been excited about going there since all of this started to take shape.

Until you look at their faces. To the citizens in DaNang out in strength last night, this is their 4th of July. Absent, noticeably, were the faces of my age and older. When I did see them, they were subdued. To them, like me, it’s a day filled with memories. Thoughts filled with longings and sighs of resignation.

This day is a continuem of their celebration. This is May Day, a moment to celebrate the workers and the values of their achievements. This is a day for most of the population, the workers, and China Beach is full of families. This is a world-wide holiday, except in the U.S. It’s not celebrated at home due to the lasting odors of Senator Joe McCarthy and his gang of miscreants. That prompts me to speak about one of my “why’s” of April 30th. If it hadn’t been for the “stink of pink” after WWII, my life and the lives of so many others would have followed different paths.

During the war, while Japan invaded China and bombed Pearl Harbor, IndoChina and the Phillipines were next. The allies were fighting to hold India and Burma, but were losing ground. We desparately needed pressure put on the Japanese in IndoChina to allow for the Marines to begin the long road back, first in the Solomons and then for MacCarthur to return to Manila. So the OSS made contact with Ho Chi Minh in Vietnam and made an agreement. We would send arms and supplies to the Viet Minh for them to fight against the Japanese in IndoChinca. In return, we would support Vietnam’s Independence after the war and not support the return of the Colonial French. They did and we didn’t. Hence, Dien Bien Phu and April 30, 1975 and the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution and March 5, 1965.

But you know, as soon as a Marine, Sailor, Soldier or Airman stepped on Vietnam’s ground or sailed her waterways, politics had no scent. From the first moment, the Brotherhood of the Paddies ruled and rolled over the other “reals.” The rally cry was, “I got your back, bro!” and “It don’t mean nothing!” I miss that kind of “tight.”

I have found today that it will be easier to get to Hill 55 from Hoi An, so that’s what I’ll do. For the rest of the day, I’ll sit along the river and next to the port and watch the people and the country. Tonight, I’ll go to Mass at the old Cathedral and swim in China Beach tomorrow.

S’lan,

Tom