But all that doesn’t change the fact that today, here in San Francisco, it’s been a great day!
I love you so much, Andrew
Friday, Jan. 10, 1969 - San Francisco
Dear Janice:
It’s Friday evening. I’m at Oakland Army Base. I changed my plans. I reported for duty this afternoon rather than wait another day.
I’m sitting on a cot in a mammoth warehouse. There must be over a thousand cots in here with a soldier or a duffle bag on every one. Everybody’s waiting to go to Vietnam.
Today Eric and I were in a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown for lunch when I started feeling strange. I realize now I was getting scared, but at the time I didn’t know it. Couldn’t get my breath. Started sweating. It was bizarre. Never in my life have I had a feeling like that.
I tried to stay seated, but I had to move. I had to knock over a table, kick a chair, break a window. Do something. So I got up, paid for both our meals, and darn near ran out of the restaurant.
I knew I had to face this thing and not put it off. Putting it off would just make it worse. I had to face it.
I went back to the hotel. Left money on the bed for my part of the bill. Grabbed my duffel bag. Called a taxi. And told the driver to get me to Oakland Army Base. Fast!
I’m calm now, but I still feel funny. Nothing seems real. It’s like a dream. I keep shaking my head. I can’t believe this is happening.
If you were here, I could talk to you and hold you and walk around with you, and maybe that would help. But you’re not here, and the feeling—I’ll be honest with you—the feeling hasn’t left yet. It’s like a pressure on my chest. It comes with a “thud” every time I think about what’s waiting for me.
Love, Andrew
Sunday, Jan. 12, 1969 - Flight to Vietnam
Dear Janice:
I’m on a plane bound for Anchorage, Alaska.
I spent two nights on a cot in that huge warehouse waiting to board a plane to go to war. It was awful. Lights on all the time.
They told us if we missed hearing our manifest number we’d sit on our cots another twenty-four hours.
My stomach stayed clenched the whole time. I barely slept.
The plane we’re in is commercial. It carries 219 soldiers (or so they told us) plus stewardesses and pilots. Every seat is filled. So far I haven’t seen anybody on the plane I recognize.
Everybody’s jittery. The stewardesses are friendly and pretty, but too happy-happy. The guys are talking ’em up a lot, so maybe I’m being unfair.
After breakfast I read a long article in The New Yorker I purchased in San Francisco. It was about protesting the war. The guy on my right next to the window leaned over and said, “They should be lined up and shot.” I asked what he was talking about and he said, “Them, the protestors.”
If I hadn’t been drafted, I might have been one of those protesters. Strange world.
I’m bored.
_____________________
Hi again. We’re beginning our descent into Anchorage. We’ve been told the total trip to Vietnam, including stops for fuel, will take 23 hours.
I’ll write more later.
_____________________
We’re back in the air and on our way to Japan.
We didn’t get off the plane back in Anchorage. It was just a fuel stop.
The book of short stories I bought in San Francisco is a hit among the other guys. Few if any of them brought reading material and now they’re going crazy strapped in their seats with nothing to do. I have my New Yorker so I’m letting the book circulate.
It’s Sunday. I hope you’re having a good day.
I guess I’ll read some more. By the time we get to Japan—certainly by the time we get to Vietnam—I will have read every word of every article and advertisement in The New Yorker five or six times, probably more. Actually, the advertisements are quite interesting. Everything is presented as the optimum in casual sophistication. It’s nauseating, but enticing, too.
I’m alternating between feeling giddy, fearful, excited, and needing to go to the bathroom.
Be back in a few.
_____________________
I’m back. Actually I’ve been back for quite awhile.
Drank a couple cups of coffee in the last thirty minutes. Woowie! I’m in the stratosphere. Higher than the plane. Way too much coffee. Been asking for extra cups the last few hours. Gotta stay awake for Vietnam. Why? I don’t know. No, I do know. Don’t want Vietnam sneaking up on me. Of course, we’re not even to Japan yet, so I don’t know how that could happen….
_____________________
We landed in Japan. I’m writing this at a table in the airport. We’ve got a 90-minute layover here in Yokota.
The mountains of Japan are staggeringly beautiful. The most beautiful are sharp jagged edges rising up out of the ground. We saw Mount Fuji. It was more cone-shaped, like most volcanoes.
Japan would be a great place for a vacation.
Here in the airport, the designs of everything—tables, chairs, decorative things—are uniquely (we’d say) oriental. Bamboo, fish, and cloud-shrouded distant mountains are the primary motifs I can see from this table. Lovely stuff.
_____________________
Back in the plane. Next stop Vietnam.
Everybody is tense and bored, too. My book of short stories circulated back to me a while ago. I tried to read a short story or two, but I can’t hold onto the meaning of the words. They look like black marks on paper. I’ve flipped from one story to another, but I can’t find anything that holds my attention. I put the book down … well, in the pocket of the seat in front of me, and then I pull it out again.
Writing helps pass the time, but I have nothing else to say. Guess I’ll write you something a little later.
_____________________
Hi again. I’ve been getting leg cramps. Dad called them “Charlie horses.” Even my arms are getting cramps in them. I guess it’s from the stress of … what? Maybe flying to war?
I’m going to get up and walk to the bathroom. Might help. We’ll talk later.
_____________________
I’ve been back awhile. Decided to write a little more.
Everybody’s coiled tight as a spring.
Seems hot in here. Maybe that’s just me. The guy next to me is shivering.
Hold on … A stewardess started crying! Unbelievable! Hugged a guy in the aisle … mascara’s dripping down her cheeks. Walked to the rear of the plane. Hands over her face.
This her first trip? Not good.
_____________________
Hot news: Blond stewardess walked down the aisle holding the hand of a guy walking behind her. What’s that about? Now a bunch of guys are raising their hands and wanting to hold the blond stewardess’s hand walking up and down the aisle.
Ha! And she’s doing it. Taking turns with them.
_____________________
Just woke up.
Everybody’s talking really loud. Excited. Must be close.
How would they know? Maybe the pilot announced something while I was asleep?
Guy in the seat next to me, on the aisle side, grinned and told me he’s going to call the stewardess….
Oops! Cancel that.
Pilot announced we’re off the coast of South Vietnam!!
Our plane is descending. Men piling up at windows.
_____________________
Wow. Hope you can read this.
I’ve been looking out the window.
Hazy air. Wispy clouds.
Looks like a rumpled green blanket down there. Tiny little fires like sparks. Smoke columns trailing up.
Winding river. Maybe Saigon River??
Now I can see helicopters. Way, way down there … like low flying insects.
Wish me luck.
Andrew
PART TWO: VIETNAM
INCOUNTRY
Monday, Jan. 13, 1969 - Long Binh Base Camp
Dear Janice:
We landed on an airstrip at Bien Hoa Air Force Base. It’s pronounced “Ben Whah.”
The humidity and heat hit us like a wall when we walked off the plane. It was early evening. Still light. Humidity so thick I couldn’t get my breath.
Looked around in all directions. Saw lots of planes on the tarmac. Jets. Cargo carriers. Helicopters further off from the runway protected by free-standing, six-foothigh walls on either side of every chopper. Hueys with side doors off or slid back. Giant double-rotor Chinooks. Jeeps and gas tankers and tool trucks running everywhere.
Further off, lots of Quonset huts and one-story wood buildings. Screened windows run the full length of the wood buildings and downward slanted wood slats cover the screens for protection from sun and rain.
Men walking around without weapons. Must be safe here?
Workers pulled our duffle bags from the plane’s cargo locker and dumped them on the tarmac a little distance from the plane. They turned on two mobile flood lights—getting dark fast—and set us loose looking for our duffle bags.
Carrying our duffles, we boarded seven buses. A sergeant in our bus stood up front and yelled, “We’re driving between base camps to Long Binh.” He pronounced it “Long Ben.”
Guy in the back of the bus yelled, “Why you got heavy fence mesh over the windows for?”
Sergeant yelled back, “So the VC can’t throw a grenade through the windows, Private Low-Watt.” The sergeant must hear that question every trip.
Black tape on the bus headlights reduced them to bright slits. An armored jeep with a M60 machine gun mounted on a post led the way. Another jeep, similarly equipped, followed at the rear.
Took at least forty-five long minutes in the dark driving to Long Binh. They assigned us barracks. Said we’d stay at Long Binh at least a week doing perimeter guard duty until we’re assigned our permanent units somewhere out across the countryside.
Love, Andrew
Monday, Feb. 10, 1969 - Cu Chi Base Camp
Dear Janice:
Got your letters. Dozens of them! Had a great time reading them, smelling the Tabu Perfume, kissing your lipstick smootches. Here are the answers to your questions.
The office I work in (S-1) is the central office of the 182nd Engineer Battalion that’s comprised of seven hundred men organized into six companies designated by letters of the alphabet (except for Headquarters Company I’m in). We refer to those companies by using short-wave radio designators for the letters. Alpha Company, Bravo Company, etc.
Our building has a cement floor. The walls are plaster board and painted light green. In our office we have five green metal desks that have four-inch deep rectangular depressions in them for our Remington Manual Typewriters. My desk is at the back of the office, furthest from the door.
Behind my desk a short hall leads to a narrow room containing ditto and mimeograph machines on a long, narrow table. The rest of the room is filled with reams of paper and double-sheeted ditto and stencil masters, and cans of chemicals for the duplicating machines.
The open doorway at the front of our office leads to a corridor and an outside screen door. Follow the corridor to the left and it takes you to the Personnel Office. That office maintains personnel files on all the men assigned to our battalion, including the colonel and the major. Personnel has ten desks for nine clerks and a warrant officer who’s in charge of the office.
Cu Chi Base Camp gets its name from the nearby town of Cu Chi. The camp itself is enormous. Must be over a mile across. Studded with barracks and office buildings. Mess halls. Outhouses. Machine shops. Repair shops. Medical services. An asphalt plant. Heavy equipment yards. Truck yards. Howitzer enclaves. Ammo dumps. Chopper pads. Plane hangers. And a runway in the middle of the camp!
The 25th Infantry Division (also called “Tropic Lightning”) is the main military unit at our base camp. I’ve been told Tropic Lightning has thirteen thousand men in it, but most of them are out in the boonies or stationed at fire bases. Fire bases are small camps with big artillery guns that provide support for infantry in the field.
Our battalion provides engineering support for Tropic Lightning by paving roads, building chopper walls (“revetments”), constructing buildings, and paving and repairing the base camp’s runway for fixed-wing aircraft (vs. helicopters).
No, our letters aren’t censored like GI mail in WWII. At least that’s what the adjutant told me.
Yes, I come back to the office at night to type my letters. The adjutant and Major Roberts said it’s okay.
Love, Andrew
UGLY TRUTH, UGLY JUSTICE
“Specialist Jones died proudly serving in America’s military struggle against communism and for the preservation of freedom for the South Vietnamese people and the citizens of the United States of America.” That’s the kind of thing I type over the signature of the colonel and send to family members of men who’ve died as a result of enemy action—even if enemy action means the poor guy was stoned and stumbled into a known enemy minefield to take a piss.
Being in charge of processing awards is interesting, frustrating, and emotionally challenging work. I know who, when, where, how, and why any man in our battalion is killed or injured by accident or by enemy activity. I help type letters of condolence to the families of those men, and I type Purple Heart recommendations for men injured but not killed by enemy fire (KIAs are automatically issued Purple Hearts by higher headquarters based on the “cause of death” listed on their death certificates). I also review, edit, and often compose and type (for illiterate NCOs and officers) recommendations for medals awarded to our men for meritorious achievement and heroic action.
Letters of condolence are the worst things I deal with because they’re the most troubling and troublesome to edit and type. The colonel and his editor/typists (we clerks) bury ugly truth under euphemisms and generalities in our letters to grieving families. Some people might call those letters “cover-ups,” especially when we obscure facts about men who died from friendly fire (that’s when GIs mistakenly fire on their buddies).
Most people don’t realize friendly fire happens all the time in a war zone. When we tell these naïve civilians that their son or husband was killed by friendly fire, they get outraged and want to know how this could possibly happen. But it’s not difficult to figure out if they’d stop and think about it a minute or two.
Imagine how many mistakes are made each day by professionals in a big corporate headquarters building or a big department store. Not everybody, but a few of those people make fairly serious mistakes every day. Not enough to screw up the whole corporate operation, but enough to fuck up a shipment, or screw up a contract, or shelve the wrong gadgets on the wrong shelf and create serious problems for at least a handful of people. I’m not saying this because I’ve taken a survey or read about it somewhere. I’m saying this because it’s been true everywhere I’ve worked, and everyone I’ve talked to says it’s true everywhere they’ve worked. People are prone to making mistakes. I figure I’m doing well if I get away with two fuck-ups a week, and often it’s more than that. Now multiply two fuck-ups a week times the number of people who work around you, and you have your average fucked-up day. And you know a lot of people make mistakes every day driving the highways of most cities because you hear the ambulance sirens.
Now imagine how often mistakes are made by heavily armed soldiers juiced up with fear and excitement. Their blood pressure pops out their face and neck veins, they have tunnel vision, some are pissing their pants, and they’re so strung out they can forget to flip off the safety on their M16s and can’t figure out why their rifle won’t fire. Combine that with the fact that grunts out in the boonies often can’t see past the foliage in front of them and will fire at almost anything that moves or makes a sound, including a lost GI squad that’s trying to follow a map in a thick jungle. Now add on the mistakes made by officers and NCOs planning military operations and calculating artillery and bombing coordinates. So injuries and death from friendly fire are f
airly common. Civilians back in the States don’t hear much about it because everybody in a combat zone wants to save the guy who killed his buddies from punishment and further disgrace. They figure he’ll be fucked-up for life anyway. And it could just as easily have been them. So the guy’s buddies cook up a story in the field and higher headquarters never finds out what actually happened, and a Purple Heart is issued for the injured or killed victim.
So, we write letters of condolence to the families of guys we know died from friendly fire, but we don’t award them Purple Hearts—and I therefore don’t have to type the their recommendations—because one of the criteria for receiving a Purple Heart is that injury or death must come from enemy fire. You’d think that would be a big clue to the families of guys killed by friendly fire—why no Purple Heart?—but you’d be surprised how many families don’t pick up on it.
Anyway, our so-called “cover-ups” in condolence letters for friendly-fire casualties (and stupid accidents not related to friendly fire), are acts of kindness for the families, not just acts of bureaucratic self-protection. When we receive letters from home asking for more information, and we seldom get such inquires, we send back additional facts in measured doses commensurate with the demand.
Here’s the core of the problem I’m trying to get at. How can a parent, wife, or child share with family and friends the obscenity and indignity, even stupidity, of how some of these men die? Imagine a mourning widow telling her husband’s parents, “The Army says he broke his neck falling off the back of a truck while returning from the local massage parlor.” In many cases, it would be downright cruel to tell family members the truth. So we don’t. We obfuscate the hell out of it.
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