A Short Review

Your book is by far the most realistic one on soldiering in ‘Nam I have read to date. It is very obvious (even to those who might not personally know you) that you were there and lived this. It is also really “close to home” for those of us who shared that experience. You really captured it – the good, bad and ugly – and poignant. It truly is a masterpiece and I thank you for writing it and for getting me a copy.

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."

In Praise of the USO

We just returned from San Angelo, Texas where our daughter graduated from the Air Force’s Intelligence School, and without the jokes about Air Force and intelligence, I must say that it was very difficult and the graduates awarded sufficient graduate credit for half a master’s degree.
When we arrived in Dallas, Laura told us to head on down to the USO. Now, despite over 20 years between active and reserve duty, I had never come across a USO before.
According to my father, it was really big during WWII and nearly every train station where troops would be stopping had one. Our town’s recreation center, where I learned the fine points of basketball and tried to avoid the mother mandated fine points of ballroom dancing, was, during the war, a USO building for the air crews stationed at Brunswick Naval Air Station. A fairly massive Quonset hut-like structure made of brick and wood, it still stands and still hosts activities for members of the community.
But during the Vietnam war, I personally didn’t even know it existed. The airports at that time were filled with young men (mostly) in uniform traveling either to somewhere they really didn’t want to be or coming home on leave from the same. Travel in uniform was mandatory, we had either “military reserved” or “military stand-by” tickets, which required us to do so. This was the way until it was discovered that American servicemen in uniform were easy targets aboard hi-jacked airliners. And while traveling in uniform, one was hardly likely to get a friendly greeting from anyone but a family member at arrival. Older folks were the only ones that were not overtly hostile or at best dismissive of the kid in his new army greens.
I guess the USO was there, and perhaps I just never flew through airports that had one. So when Captain Laura advised us to visit the USO because they had “free food,” I went. It is out of the way, in a quiet corner of terminal B. Upon entry, I was asked, as in most military, or military type places if I had an ID. Even my “gray card” for old timers is honored. Inside was a snack bar with various types of sandwiches, burgers and hot dogs, all frozen, but with a micro-wave available. By the micro was a selection of soups, and next door was a well air-conditioned theater with a big screen TV playing a movie to a bunch of folks awaiting their next flight. The fellow behind the snack bar, a really friendly guy, gave me two turkey sandwiches, bags of chips and sodas, so I could also provide for my wife (Man, the hunter) who was down at the gate guarding our luggage. After putting a generous donation in the box and cranking up the microwave, I went my way back to gate B-29 and the flight to San Angelo.
As I grow older I become less bitter about the way we were treated during the Vietnam era and up to Desert Storm, but there is still a lingering sadness to it. What is great though, is there are folks like those at the USO and even TSA, who thank you for your service when they see the retired ID card. The hurt is also eased by the knowledge that the kids (even full colonels were not in high school when I was pounding the sand!) who are serving in uniform are treated with the respect they deserve and the intelligence which they possess.
If you have an occasion to donate to the USO, I thank you.