FicWad

Chapter Two

Arriving In Country

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Somewhere around the first of June, nineteen hundred and seventy, Doggie Dobbs and I made the trek overseas from Bragg by plane. We were all on a United 707 that the Air Force had commandeered for troop transportation. Can you imagine? There were only forty-four guys, all of us wet behind the ears snake-eaters. And they sent a whole jet airliner for us... complete with pretty airline stewardesses and all!

Wow! For a second, I thought we were flying to war in style! All of us probably looked out of place, with our OD green utilities on and sleeping with our packs and M-16 rifles propped up in the adjacent seats. I'm willing to bet half the guys took up smoking, just to make points with the blonde who was offering us cigarettes and refreshments during the flight. Me, I prefer redheads, as you well know...

Unfortunately, the airliner didn't take us all the way. We stopped on the West Coast and switched to a large Military Airlift Command C-141 transport for the run into Saigon. And boy, was it a run! We flew for damn near twenty hours straight, stopping off once in Hawaii for gas, sandwiches and pineapples, and once at Clark Air Base in the Philippines for gas and some sort of watery local stew. At both airfields, a crew of nasty-looking Military Policemen kept everyone from sneaking off the transport. Can you imagine?

The pilots claimed that the cops were for our protection, from peaceniks, terrorists and the like. I still believe that they were gonna shoot anyone who decided that the war wasn't for them and preferred to take a little island getaway instead.

Air Force pilots seem to always be able to lie to grunts with a straight face. Just ask Ace. Or all the Joes he cheated at poker.

None of us liked the trip on the Starlifter. We rode in freakin' cargo nets, fer Chrissakes! And we slept on our packs, 'cause that was all there was, other than the steel floor! Maybe that was an Army plan too... they made us really uncomfortable on the ride over, so that we'd land so angry we could piss fire and kill every slant-eyed Commie in sight.

Yeah, I felt that way when the C-141 went wheels-down at Tan Son Nhut. At least, I felt that way when I wasn't dry heaving my guts out in the airplane's bathroom, after the realization hit me that I was actually going to war.

Sure, you're gonna tell me that I'm some natural combat soldier. Yeah, I could be a real-life John Rambo, even. And I say you're full of shit. When I started out, I wasn't a natural born killer. The only things I killed were insects on the sidewalk, canvas sacks full of hay on the Fort Benning bayonet courses, or fellow trainees during hand to hand combat training. And those trainees were "simulated" deaths.

I personally think that if a soldier is faced with the choice and doesn't have to kill, then he performed his job better than if he did take a life. But that's just my humble, professional military opinion. You can take it or leave it.

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Tan Son Nhut Air Base

Saigon, Republic of Vietnam

02 June, 1970

The American airbase at Saigon's former international airport was as busy as any domestic commercial airfield. Planes of every shape and size maneuvered around the taxiways and among the clutches of tall, spreading palms that filled the unused grassy spaces.

From the smallest Piper Cub, used for aerial reconnaissance, to roaring Phantom, Thunderchief and Super Sabre fighters, and the large transports, everything moved at a steady pace. Quickly and efficiently, but not outside of safety standards.

However, there was one major and noticeable difference about Tan Son Nhut. As the traffic moved around the sprawling airbase, the larger aircraft, mainly American second-line airliners pressed into troop transport service and USAF cargo planes, always rolled around the field escorted by squat, green M-151 "MUTT" utility trucks mounting medium machine guns.

The new Special Forces men crowded around the handful of porthole-style windows in the C-141's cargo bay, elbowing and shoving each other innocently for a chance to peek out at the "Jewel of Southeast Asia" and get their first good look at Vietnam. What they ended up seeing was the vehicles of their flight's armed escort, manned by tired Air Force security policemen. The airmen looked like they had started out young and aged many years in one single tour of duty.

Grim-faced and alert, the escorts seemed to be looking everywhere at once, training their guns to shoot on sight. Somehow, it appeared to Staff Sergeant Hauser that the men were on a hair trigger. One false move or a sound out of place, and they'd be popping caps.

"Holy--" Staff Sergeant Dobbs whispered, pressing his face against the porthole window and shouldering Hauser to the side. "This is some serious shit we've landed in. Do you think the VC are about to invade?"

"Didn't you pay attention to the State Department briefing before we left Bragg, Doggie?" Hauser asked in an exasperated tone. "This is a guerilla war. The enemy is probably already around us."

Dobbs grabbed his M-16, yanking on the charging handle once and waving it around like a Hollywood cowboy. "Well, let's jus' see what these Vietnamese do when they run into The Duke and his sidekick!" he exclaimed, drawing glares from some of the other men. "We'll take all of 'em on and come out smilin'!"

Hauser swatted the end of Doggie's rifle barrel, pushing it in a safe direction. He noticed that there was a magazine slid into place on his buddy's weapon. "Henry! Put that fuckin' thing down, troop!" he growled. "And what is all this noise you're talking about?"

"You're The Duke, and I'm your sidekick, Conrad," Dobbs said. "Don't tell me that you just forgot about liking John Wayne movies as a kid!"

Hauser's mind was surely farthest from his childhood memories. He was thinking more about life and death than the fictional adventures of John Wayne. Even though he still fancied the nickname in the back of his head. In the places only dreams and nightmares dared to tread.

Eventually, the C-141 Starlifter found its assigned parking spot on the Tan Son Nhut apron, and the whine of its turbine engines diminished to a whisper. A young Air Force loadmaster, who normally hid near the cockpit and kept the fresh coffee flowing in the plane's tiny galley, strode past the Special Forces men, tapping silently on the top of his head while talking with the cockpit on a small intercom headset. He was signaling for the soldiers to don their government-issued, M-1 steel combat helmets.

Tucking his green beret into one of the fatigue uniform's cargo pockets, Hauser felt the smooth helmet and its cotton camouflage cover before resting the liner onto his head. He didn't bother to buckle the chinstrap, because the trainers at Bragg said it would take longer to help someone who was shot in the head by a VC sniper if the medics couldn't get the steel pot off.

With his gear in place, Hauser found his own M-16 rifle, charged it with a full magazine, and then slung his combat rucksack over one shoulder and an Army duffel bag over the other. He chose to keep the rifle in both hands instead of slinging it, just in case.

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I'm The Duke, and Doggie was my sidekick. Truer words were never spoken, I guess.

We walked off the Starlifter's cargo ramp together, feeling the warmth of the sun touching our newbie skin. I was willing to make a bet that Vietnam would only be idyllic during two times in our tour. Once when we got there, and once when we left. Everything in between would either be dusty, stinking fighting camps or steamy jungle. And it would surely stay hot... hot... hot!

The one thing that struck me the most - and it probably struck every replacement over there the same way - was the sight of the soldiers marching out to catch the "Freedom Bird". The C-141 we had arrived on was taking a load of returning soldiers back to the Philippines on their first leg OUT of the war zone.

Do you think the men looked happy to be going? Hell, yeah! They looked downright morose! Each and every one of them was just like the Colonel described. They were soulless shells of men, worn down from fighting and seeing their buddies killed. Their eyes were sunk deep, and they stared off into nowhere. The ones that still talked, and bragged, were chiding us.

"Don't let the VC shoot off your balls!" one of them had said to Doggie. I got a colorful tidbit about Vietnamese whores from a black guy who was stoned on something. I didn't envy them for going home so much as I envied the fact that they found a way to make it through their tours.

Many of them didn't get on that Starlifter unscathed. A couple hobbled on crutches, or swung partially amputated limbs around in the air, shouting warnings about the punji stakes or land mines. Were they trying to scare us, or save us? If you ask me, I think both.

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Someone from the Tan Son Nhut ground staff led the arriving Special Forces men across the paved tarmac of the USAF parking ramp towards a squat, concrete reception building. The small cluster of men still marched in a tight, neat line, two abreast, like they had been taught in Infantry Basic. They passed groups of tired, doggedly worn out soldiers that trudged about in more of a loose gaggle than anything, lacking discipline and ignoring orders from the military policemen to move in an orderly manner.

Without any sort of warning, a single explosion rocked the parking ramp, sending every person in sight scurrying for cover behind ground equipment or vehicles. In the space of a few seconds, a mechanical siren began to sing its low warble across the air, and anyone with a weapon had it out and at the ready. The arriving soldiers were the slowest to get behind cover, many of them glancing at each other instead of worrying about where to point their rifles.

The sound of a second explosion rolled across the airfield. Hauser and Dobbs ducked behind a parked jeep and looked for the fastest route to the concrete building. Following their drills, the men scanned the area to seek out anything suspicious. They kept the sights of their rifles pointed in the direction their eyes were looking and itchy fingers fumbled at their rifle triggers. The low, oscillating siren sound was replaced by a higher-pitched AWOOGAH from the concrete reception building.

"We have zips in the wire!" a voice said over a loudspeaker, from parts unknown. "Zips in the wire! All reaction force teams to sector six! Incoming mortar attack!"

With the roar of gasoline engines, a motley convoy of vehicles lined up from every direction. M-151 jeeps, boxy armored personnel carriers, and strange-looking airfield defense armored cars formed up quickly and roared off in the direction of the supposed enemy movement, bristling with guns. Distant pops and thumps signified the American units' engagement with the elusive Viet Cong assault force.

Staff Sergeant Hauser stood up from behind his cover and shouted to a passing vehicle's commander, asking if he and Dobbs could help.

"Negatorie, new guy!" the M-706 armored car's commander replied. "They don't have death paper on you yet! Go inside the building and get processed, slick!" Any other words the commander might've had were drowned out by the armored car's diesel engine, growling as it carried the vehicle away in a swirl of thick, brown dust.

"How the hell did that guy know we were fresh meat for the grinder?" Dobbs asked, shrugging his shoulders as the ground staffer waved for the men to move on, albeit more cautiously while the firefight raged surreally in sector six.

"We probably look the part, walking in neat lines and wearing clean uniforms," Hauser said, tugging at Doggie's sleeve to urge him on. "Let's go see where we're going, and fill out some of this supposed 'death paper', okay?"

"Whatever you say, Duke," Dobbs replied with a smile.

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I wrote myself a note on the very day I arrived in country with Doggie Dobbs. It was my fourth or fifth entry into this pseudo-diary that I've been keeping since. You wanna know what I scrounged up to put my thoughts down on?

You guessed it. I stole an extra copy of the Army's standard "Next of Kin" update form. It was the "death paper" that the armored car commander was talking about. I stole an extra one because I goofed while filling my original out. Instead of writing my mom's name and address, and Joe's name, I had unconsciously scrawled "Staff Sergeant Henry Dobbs, Special Forces Camp, Republic of Vietnam".

I think Doggie had to re-write his too. I can't remember for sure, but I seem to recall him writing my name down. Not like he had anyone else to put on the paper, anyway. I guess he made something up to make the personnel hermit happy.

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