My Vietnam "Date of Estimated Return from Overseas" better known as DEROS was imminent and I was as antsy as if I'd been inoculated with caffeine. Over the past few of months I'd downed a 40 ounce bottle of Seagram's VO, thus "earning" the right to wear the ribbon from the bottle in my top button hole for my last 30 days in country, announcing my status with the "Short-Timer's Ribbon." Every noise in the distance made me jump. There were too many stories about guys "buying the farm" on their last days in country for any of us to ignore.
My boss took me to Base Operations in an Air Force pickup and after hanging with me until he knew I was on a flight manifest, shook my hand, said "See ya again," and went back to work on Peacock Hill. A short time later, I was on the rumbling C-130 on my to Danang.
Once there, I checked in at Ops to make sure I was really scheduled on the next day's Freedom Bird, then caught a ride out to my headquarters at the Monkey Mountain base camp, a 10 mile or so trip that took about 30 minutes. There, I checked in at the Orderly Room, got a some bedding, found out when and how to get back to Danang in time for my flight, and found an empty bunk. I pulled my best 505 uniform out of my duffel bag and asked the hooch mama-san to iron it for my trip back to the land of the big BX. We'd been told for a year not to tip the ladies who cleaned our hooches, washed and ironed our clothes, polished our boots and made our bunks, but I gave this one a some piasters because I hadn't been charged anything to cover her pay, and besides, my tip was not going to damage the South Vietnamese economy that much.
At the chow hall, I ran into a couple of guys I knew, including one who had gotten drunk with me in California a year earlier when our flight to 'Nam had been delayed a day for some mechanical problem. He was scheduled on the same flight I was in the morning. After eating, I walked over to the VNAF Club, but the pounding of the music was too much, so I had a beer and left, stopping at the USAF club for another brew, before returning to the hooch.
Around 10:00 PM, I went to bed after telling the NCOD where I was and that I needed to be on the 4:00 AM bus to Danang. He said there were several guys going and he'd make sure I was up. I didn't want to miss that bus.
I needn't have worried, though, because a little after 2:00 AM, I woke to the sounds of war. Several explosions seemed to be coming from the direction of Danang. I rolled out of the bunk and slipped into the same fatiques I'd worn the day before, walked outside in the starry night and toward the main gate to ask the guards if they knew what was going on. They said there was some sort of firefight at the bridge into Danang and they thought that what I'd heard was mortars. I went up on the berm that surrounded the base to see if I could see anything, but it was apparently all over. I returned to the hooch, but found it impossible to sleep, so I went back outside and sat on the berm worrying that the bridge would be out.
At 4:00 AM, dressed in my freshly ironed and starched Class B uniform, I dragged my bag out to the bus, and in minutes was on my way home. There were several guys on the bus, but aside from acknowledging each other at the bus stop, none of us spoke, each lost in the thoughts of finally leaving the "Nam and going home. Crossing the bridge was uneventful and there was no indication of any sort of battle. We entered the massive base at Danang and drove straight to the flightline and base operations. We checked in and were told our aircraft was inbound and that once it was unloaded and cleaned up, we'd be called to board. The room was large and GI's from all branches of service were filling the space rapidly, each dressed in their service-prescribed travel uniform.
In a short time, a Continental Airlines 707 landed and taxied toward the building we were in, rolled to a stop where the Airman with the yellow wand flashlights directed, and with a long sigh, shut down the engines. More Airmen rolled out the stairs, the doors opened, and soon the Soldiers, Sailors, Marines and Airmen began streaming off the aircraft and into the end of the building where I'd first gone a year ago. Our replacements were here.
Just before daybreak, there were several loud explosions from incoming rockets and sirens went off, screaming in our ears. That big room emptied in seconds with every single one of us following the signs to the large bunker just outside. Our last day in country and Charlie was trying to kill us. The attack didn't last long and the bunker seemed too stifling, so we slowly emerged, glad to see that the big bird was still there.
About an hour and a half before our scheduled departure we were advised to prepare to board immediately. Apparently the Continental aircrew didn't like their big shiny target sitting in the middle of the tarmac and they'd decided to take off right away. It was nearly daylight by the time we taxied away from the terminal at Base Operations. I'd scored a window seat and watched several fully armed F-4 Phantoms streak into the sky ahead of us, their exhaust belching flames, and then it was our turn.
The big bird rolled out onto the active runway, stopped for just a moment, then the pitch of engines increased and we began to roll. The entire cabin seemed to hold its collective breath until the nose rotated upward and we lifted off. The pilot came on the PA and said, "Let's go home."
If it seemed like we were holding our breath, now it seemed like the entire cabin was erupting with cheers. I looked out the window to watch Monkey Mountain pass below and with it, Vietnam. Perhaps an hour and a half later, the pilot announced that we'd just passed the Point of No Return. The cheers we'd heard at liftoff were nothing.
Another hour and a half passed and the airplane began to lose altitude in preparation for landing at Kadena AB on Okinawa. After touching down, the plane rolled to the end of the runway and turned onto the taxiway. Out my window I saw a strange looking aircraft with maintenance trucks and several security police vehicle surrounding it. All black, a long nose on a fuselage that seemed to flatten along both sides, rather short delta-shaped wings and two huge engines combined to make it the most unusual plane I'd ever seen. I pointed it out to my seatmates and neither could identify it.
At the terminal, the pilot announced that we would extend our stay on Okinawa by an hour to make up for taking off early and to get us back on original the flight plan. While we were in the terminal, the aircraft would get the cleanup that had been cut short when Charlie lobbed those rockets at Danang. Two hundred GIs descended on the terminal with its small cafeteria and BX, milling around for three hours, anxious to get on with their trip home, not really interested in the goings on in the western Pacific. I bought a couple of magazines to help pass that interminably long flight across the ocean.
Loaded back on board, the buzz in the cabin decreased to murmurs and relatively quiet conversation as the aircraft taxied out to the runway and turned to begin its takeoff roll. Out my window, that long black airplane was still parked with its umbilicals of support connecting it to equipment on wheels, but only the security police remained, guarding whatever it was.
The engines revved up to take-off power and our big bird rolled, picked up speed, and finally rotated and left the runway. Next stop - America.
The stewardesses pushing their drink cart came around serving coffee, tea and soft drinks - I'd bet the government had vetoed selling beer, wine or spirits to GIs coming home from war. An experience much, much later told me why, but I'll save that for another one of my yarns.
With a drink and a snack on my tray and an expected fifteen hours in that same seat, I lowered the seat back a bit and pulled out my magazines. I thumbed though the first one and a photo immediately caught my attention - a photo of a black aircraft with a long nose on a fuselage that seemed to flatten along both sides, rather short delta-shaped wings and two huge engines. I think the article referred to it as the YF-12A and identified it a a super-secret, high-flying spy plane. Secret it may well have been, but I'd just seen one parked on an isolated ramp on Kadena AB in Okinawa.
- As an aside to my tale, I've since learned that on that very day, an SR-71 from Kadena AB on a photographic mission over North Vietnam was the target of two surface to air missiles, the first time the an enemy had ever tried to shoot one down. Camera video showed the closest SAM exploded harmlessly about a mile behind and away. I wonder if that plane I saw was the one fired on.
The California coast came into view and finally, eleven or so hours after leaving Okinawa, we could see the country we'd gone to war for, our home, the US of A. It was probably around noon when the big bird's engine sighed to silence and the doors opened. My seatmates and I had already decided that we'd share a taxi for the drive to Los Angeles International, so as soon as we could grab our bags, we hurried outside to the cab line. Back in the 'Nam we had been advised to change into civilian clothing before taking commercial transportation, but we all had seen that there were flights that we could get on if we got there in time. The driver put our bags in the trunk and away we went, telling the driver which terminals we needed and what time each of our flights was. Mine was the earliest, so we agreed to drop me off first then the other two.
Somewhere along the four-lane highway, we came across a grass fire that had engulfed a small knoll immediately adjacent to the roadway. Several firetrucks were parked on the shoulder with hoses running over the guardrail, but traffic continued at a speed that made me a bit uncomfortable after a year of jeeps and deuce and a half trucks on narrow roads crowded with motorbikes and big military vehicles.
A bit further on, several motorcycles rolled past us, the riders wearing spiked Kaiser helmets that we immediately noticed and began to poke fun at. Our driver seemed to panic a bit, I guess fearing that the bikers would notice and bring on the wrath of the Hell's Angels or Hessians or whatever club they represented. We cooled it, figuring the driver knew more about the risks than we did.
At my terminal, I said "See ya next time" or something similar, took my bag from the cabbie, paid my share and added a decent tip because it appeared that I'd make the next flight to Denver. Inside I checked in, gave up my bag, learned which gate I should go to, and took off at a near trot. Over the years, I've thought of myself dashing through the airport, leaping over luggage carts like a running back. In reality it was just a quickened walk and I got to my gate with a couple of minutes to spare.
Getting a seat on that flight meant accepting a center seat and I'm certain the two business types I was squeezed between took a jaundiced view of this disheveled Air Force NCO who hadn't shaved or showered in nearly 30 hours, whose once-crisp uniform now wrinkled and hung limply. Actually, I don't think they even noticed me. They certainly didn't ask me about my journey. The only one who spoke to me the whole flight was the stewardess asking if I would like a drink. I'd just spent a year in a faraway place in the name of my country in a war that presumably was intended to bring liberty to the citizens of Vietnam, and nobody cared. Oh, well, I thought, at least they didn't spit on me.
Weeks earlier, I had told my wife that I'd call her from LAX, but there hadn't been time, so immediately upon landing at DEN, I called her. She asked what time I'd get in to Denver and I responded that I was already there. She said she leave right away and I told her I'd wait outside on the curb. Our rented home in the south Denver suburb of Littleton was at least half an hour away, so I went to a restroom and washed up a little and brushed my teeth. We were both smokers, but I didn't want our first kiss in twelve months to taste like an ashtray.
I was waiting curbside when she pulled up, stopped and got out and met me in the street. Oblivious to the fact that the car was partially blocking traffic, we kissed and hugged in the street. I tossed my duffel bag in the trunk and got in behind the wheel as if I belonged there. Automatically I buckled my seatbelt, something we never did in the "Nam because we never knew when we might have to unass our vehicle quickly.
In a short time, I pulled up in front of the little house on South Prescott Street. Waiting for us were our three children, Sheila 5, John 3, and Shannon 20 months, with my wife's grandmother, Buddy. Sheila came running and jumped in my arms right away, but the other two held back. They weren't certain of my identity. After all, I'd been gone for twelve months, over half of Shannon's short life, and we didn't have the instant communications available to troops in the war zones of the 21st century, so they'd only known their Daddy by the letters and a few photos I'd sent.
In the house on the couch, Sheila snuggled with me, and John, apparently satisfied that if I was OK to Sheila, I must be the fellow he only vaguely remembered, and soon was on the couch with me, too. He fingered the short-timers ribbon in my button hole, so I untied it and let him have it.
Shannon, on the other hand, didn't fully trust me for nearly two more days. I didn't push the issue, but on the third day, I was on the couch with her brother and sister and she stood in the entry to the hallway, a bit downcast as if she was sad at being left out, but still not sure if I belonged. I grinned at her and held out my hands, encouraging her, and finally, she came and stood in front of me. I hugged her and pulled her up in my lap. I was finally home.
Great story. Thanks for sharing, and a belated WELCOME HOME !!
ReplyDeleteThanbks
DeleteI came back a month later. Forgot all about Tet 68. It's just an interesting story. I was at Tan Son Nhut
ReplyDeleteThankful that things worked out for you Jim. A troublesome time to live through.
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