The Woodstock Generation

I have often been asked if I attended the concert at Woodstock, and have been told that it "made us what we are today." To the former, I answer truthfully, "No," and to the latter, I politely reply that it has nothing whatsoever to do with who I am now or was at that time. You see, even if I had wanted to hitch a ride and sit in a rain soaked field to listen to music, I probably wouldn't have, although the free love part seemed intriguing, but I wasn't available at the time. I was in Vietnam, and not just In Country, but out in the middle of the jungle, as part of an infantry unit that basically lived there just as did our North Vietnamese colleagues. We did not watch the news on TV, did not get so see Bob Hope; none of that. That was for the REMF's, the Rear Echelon Mother, (you get the rest) So actually, we did not even know what it was or that it was even happening until the Special Services sent out a Life Magazine, which they did from time to time. You see, other than counting the days we had until we could get on the freedom bird back to The World, and letters from home, which arrived every two to three days, we were absolutely ignorant of anything going on outside of the grid square we happened to be located in at any given time.
It was the rainy season, and in the late afternoon, the skies would darken and open up in a deluge you might experience in a brief thundershower here, but over there, it lasted all night. It was rain that drowned out all sound in the complete darkness that was the jungle at night. Conversation was even difficult above the roar. For days at a time, we were soaked to the skin, covered with sores and depressed. So when the magazines arrived showing pictures of young hippies huddled under plastic bags at an event they voluntarily attended, we were less than sympathetic. There was no "wow" factor, only my medic's sardonic comment, "Ain't that some shit." To which we all responded with our form of agreement, "There it is."