Nam Sense

by Arthur Wiknik, Jr.

  As the plane’s engines began to spool up, our merriment dropped off to whispers. Then the aircraft nudged forward and slowly taxied to the end of the runway where it turned around and stopped. At that moment, all talking ceased and time stood palpably still while we waited for clearance to take off. Then, after what was an agonizing wait, the engines revved faster and louder as the event we had only dreamed about was about to begin.

  The pilot released the brakes and the plane lunged forward. The accelerating takeoff roll glued us to our seats. Rumblings and vibrations echoed louder and louder until…AIRBORNE! The moment we lifted off the ground every GI let out a war whoop that out-roared the aircraft itself. As we climbed out of South Vietnam’s airspace the men cheered with delirious joy. To us, leaving Vietnam was like being released from prison for a crime we had not committed. Whatever misfortune brought us there, we were now safe from the war.

  When the commotion tapered off the Captain announced, “Gentlemen, you have spent one year in Vietnam and may never see it again.”

  More cheers erupted.

  “I’ve been requested to circle back and give everyone a final look at the country.”

  Our loud reply was a unanimous “FUCK YOOOOUUUU!” With that, the plane continued straight across the South China Sea.

  After the aircraft leveled off, a Paymaster 1st Lieutenant worked his way down the aisle exchanging MPC for good old American greenbacks. The money felt like a long lost friend. As the exchange continued I leafed through my military records to see what the Army thought of me. The paperwork consisted mostly of routine forms except the Article 15 I wrongly received for sleeping on guard duty at the beginning of my tour. The document, with its $50 fine, had not been processed, so I removed it from the file and flushed it down the plane’s toilet.

  The first six hours of our journey brought us to Haneda Airport in Tokyo, Japan, where we refueled, changed crews, and took a stretch, although we did not dare lose sight of the plane. Within an hour we were airborne again, flying over the 6,000-mile expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The mood on board was festive, yet relaxed, so I was able to sleep for several long stretches. Oddly, the stewardesses stayed hidden for much of the trip, appearing only for meals. The cocky attitude of the more boisterous GIs obviously scared them off.

  Even though I understood their bravado, the war had gotten so much publicity that I wondered how things might be when I got home. Would I ever see my girlfriend again? Would my family and friends expect me to resume civilian life as if nothing significant had occurred? Or would they think I might go berserk at the slightest irritation? I knew I had changed in some significant ways. A lifetime of extreme ordeals had been crammed into a year. Who would not have changed? I tried not to think about it.

  GIs wandered freely around the plane talking about everything and anything. However, most conversations focused on the same issue. Everyone was glad to be out of Vietnam, but resentful of the several months of stateside duty facing them. They rightfully felt that Uncle Sam had already gotten enough of their time. As for me, I listened quietly to their lament, feeling smug that the extra time I had put in during my stateside training prior to leaving for Vietnam left me only hours away from becoming a civilian.

  As the day faded to night, the sunset at 30,000 feet was breathtaking. When it was too dark to see outside most of the men migrated to their seats to nap or read. Meanwhile, against the backdrop of the engine’s steady droning through the blackness, I imagined that the airplane could easily have been a spaceship bound for planet Earth. After all, we were going back to the World.

  Several hours later, the calm was broken when the FASTEN SEAT BELT sign flashed, signaling our decent to the American West Coast. Everyone quickly found their seats and silently buckled up. A lone stewardess walked down the aisle spraying insecticide to destroy any exotic insects we might be carrying.

  “Do we have cooties?” a voice asked.

  “It’s probably Agent Orange,” another whispered.

  The Captain broke the silence, announcing that the State of Washington shoreline was directly ahead. We craned their necks toward the windows, straining for a first glimpse of our homeland in nearly a year. Suddenly a voice proclaimed, “I see lights!” Others joined in. “Lights! Lights! It’s the World!” A flurry of cheers and bobbing heads confirmed that we were only moments away from landing.

  The Captain spoke again, “Gentlemen, in a matter of minutes we will be landing at McChord Air Force Base.”

  More cheers erupted.

  “Please remain buckled in your seats until the aircraft comes to a complete stop.”

  “Cold LZ!” a lone voice yelled, exciting another round of cheers.

  As the plane descended, the cabin was once again eerily quiet. Everyone sat still trying to sort out the myriad of emotions racing through our minds. For a moment it was as if every GI sent out the same silent prayer: “Please God, let this be real.”

  Then, like a giant phoenix, the DC-8 touched down with a simultaneous thump, screech of tires, and howling deceleration of reverse thrust. Before the plane had even slowed to ground maneuvering speed, pandemonium erupted. The joy of landing on American soil was celebrated with euphoric war whoops, hats tossed in the air, and the popping of airsickness bags. GIs ran up and down the aisle, climbed over seats, and stomped their feet.

  The enormity of surviving emotionally overwhelmed more than a few as they sat half-grinning with tear-filled eyes. Others shook hands, hugged, or raised a victory fist skyward. It was the single most moving experience I had ever witnessed. We were strangers by name, but as war veterans we were linked through savoring this moment of absolute survival.

  “Gentlemen, Gentlemen,” came the Captain’s stoic voice over the intercom. “This is my seventh return trip from Vietnam and I never get tired of making the same announcement: Welcome home.”

  At his words, everyone hesitated as if to say, “Thank you, Lord.” I know I did.

  March 28, 1970, 7:25 p.m., Pacific Standard Time.

  Home at last.

  “After my experience, I have come to hate war.”

  – Dwight D. Eisenhower

  Epilogue

  There is a telling quote borne of the Vietnam War: “You’ve never lived until you’ve almost died. For those who fought for it, life has a flavor the protected will never know.” This quote exemplifies the unique bond and perspective on life shared by wartime veterans. But the meaning of the quote also reflects the feelings of those who waited at home, for both soldier and civilian witnessed the grim reality of life’s fragility. Both learned that the cost of protecting our freedom, or freedom of the oppressed, carries with it the highest cost of life itself.

  We should not debate over which war was right or which was wrong. To do so only clouds the meaning of sacrificing one’s life. Anyone who dies in the service of our country deserves our utmost respect and gratitude. For it is we as a nation, we as a community, and we as family and friends sending men and women off to war who are fully aware of what the consequences may be.

  Most GIs arrived in Vietnam as boys, and left Vietnam as men. A lifetime of experiences compressed into a year snatched our youth and left some emotionally scarred. Yet, to serve in combat alongside these brave young men was a unique life-experience that created a bond shared only by those who have “been there.”

  When I was still in Vietnam, I read stories and heard rumors of how badly some GIs were treated upon their arrival home. As a result, many GIs chose to return under the cover of darkness, shedding their military garb as quickly as possible before re-visiting their old haunts. I assumed these were isolated incidents, and not in any way possible in my home state of Connecticut.

  I arrived at Bradley International Airport in uniform, my chest full of campaign ribbons and bursting with pride befitting a soldier returning from war. I sat in a large waiting area while travelers filtered in. I was the only soldier in the room. As the area filled, empty seats near me were left vacant until, eve
ntually, people stood against the wall rather than sit beside me. The room was eerily quiet as nervous glances were exchanged. I was the center of attention and suddenly realized that what I had heard was true: Vietnam veterans were as looked upon as though they had the plague. Although I never experienced being spit upon or heckled, this quarantine in the airport was, to me at least, even more telling. I was just as alone and vulnerable coming home from the war as when I left to fight in it! I was both sad and disappointed that this treatment of returning GIs was typical of our national abandonment.

  Luckily, the rest of my homecoming was a better experience. When the Army gave me the nine-day early release, I decided not to tell my parents I was leaving Vietnam ahead of schedule. I thought it would be more memorable to surprise them by me unexpectedly walking through the front door. As it turned out, we all got a surprise.

  My cousin Donald secretly picked me up from the airport and on the way home we fantasized on how I would make my entrance. When we arrived at my house, it was locked and no one was home! My family had taken a trip out of state and was not expected back until late that evening! Unsure of what to do next, I decided to get out of my uniform and change into civilian clothes. I did not have a key, so the only way I could get into the house was by crawling through an unlocked window. Once inside, a warm and inviting feeling rushed over me: I was really home! I fondly inspected the familiar surroundings and was happy to see that nothing had changed; even the clothes in my closet were just as I had left them. The only thing different was a map of South Vietnam hanging on the kitchen wall identifying all the places I had written home about. I still wanted to keep my arrival secret, so I decided to spend the night at Donald’s. I was careful not to disturb anything or leave any evidence that someone had been in the house.

  Shortly after midnight, my tired parents shuffled into the house and my mother suddenly proclaimed, “Artie is here! He’s home!”

  Whether or not there is there is such a thing as mothers’ intuition, she had somehow detected my presence. Knowing that I was not due home for at least a week, my father laughed at the notion and told my mom she was simply tired from the road trip. She insisted I was hiding in the house and called for me to come out. When there was no response, she began searching every room. After checking the closets, under the beds, and even in the attic, mom finally gave up and agreed I was not home, but she was unable to shake the sensation that I was near.

  Her antics put the family on edge. Although no one said anything, they shared the eerie feeling that perhaps I had come home—but not in the flesh. They began to worry that I might have been killed and that my spirit returned to say goodbye. Their night was a restless one.

  Early the next morning, Donald called my parents to make sure everyone was awake because he wanted “to drop something off.” When I triumphantly walked through the door, my father, sister and brother gawked at me without speaking a word.

  “Hi everyone,” I cheerfully sang out, only to be confused by their silence and darting glances as they recalled mom’s announcement of the previous evening.

  “What’s the matter with you guys?” I asked, noticing that my mother was not in the room. “Hey, where’s mom?”

  “Still sleeping,” my father sputtered, choking on the words as his eyes followed me down the hall.

  The moment I stepped into my mother’s room her eyes opened and she tilted her head back as if she was expecting me.

  “I’m home, mom.” I almost whispered the words.

  Mom gently replied, “I know. You were here last night.”

  Before I could ask how she knew, she leaped from the bed and crushed me with a giant hug to make sure I was real. Tears rolled down our faces as she cried. “I knew you were safe. I knew it all along.”

  Though I had accidentally given them one more night of agony, my parent’s year of torturous waiting had ended far better than 58,209 other parents whose sons and daughters served in Vietnam.

  America’s role in this long, sad war became more confused and painful as it dragged on. When our involvement officially ended on January 27, 1973, there were no parades, no heroes welcome, and no monuments. The country collectively closed the door to slip into a state of amnesia, preferring not to see or hear about Vietnam.

  More than nine years later and despite a divided nation, Vietnam veterans rallied their resources to build the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. It was dedicated on November 13, 1982. This marble legacy known as “The Wall” has become a focal point for helping to heal the scars of the most nationally disruptive war modern America ever fought.

  Glossary

  Definitions and Combat Slang

  AFVN: American Forces Vietnam Network.

  AK-47: Communist infantry rifle.

  AO: Area of Operation.

  Article 15: Official reprimand.

  ARVN: Army of the Republic of Vietnam.

  AWOL: Absent With Out Leave.

  B-52: Long range, high altitude bomber.

  Bandoleer: Cloth belt with pockets for carrying rifle magazines.

  Body count: The number of enemy killed, used to track the war’s success.

  Boom-Boom girl: Vietnamese whore or prostitute.

  Boonie Rat: Grunt, infantryman.

  Boonies: The bush, the field, the jungle.

  Brass: High ranking officers.

  C-130: Military transport airplane.

  C-rations: Military canned food.

  Charlie: The enemy (taken from Victor Charles in the phonetic alphabet).

  Cherry: New combat soldier.

  Chicom: Chinese Communist.

  Chieu Hoi: Vietnamese for “open arms,” to defect.

  Chinook: Twin rotor transport helicopter.

  Claymore mine: Anti-personnel explosive (command detonated).

  Cobra: Bell AH-1G Huey helicopter gunship.

  Concertina wire: Spooled wire with razor barbs.

  Conex: 4x4x8 foot metal container for freight storage or transport.

  CS: Chemical Substance, tear gas.

  CP: Command Post.

  DDP: Daytime Defensive Position.

  DEROS: Date Eligible for Return from Overseas.

  DMZ: Demilitarized Zone.

  Door-gunner: Machine gun operator posted at a helicopter door.

  Enlisted Man: All ranks below Sergeant.

  Entrenching tool: Compact folding shovel used by infantrymen.

  ETS: Elapsed Time in the Service.

  Firebase: Artillery or mortar support camp.

  Fire fight: Brief infantry battle.

  FNG: Fuckin’ new guy.

  Frag: Fragmentation hand grenade.

  Fragging: The killing of officers/NCOs by their own men, usually by hand grenade.

  Freedom bird: The plane taking a GI home from the war.

  G-2: US Army Intelligence.

  Ghoster: An infantryman who passes time without being in the field (a goldbrick).

  GI: American soldier from the World War II expression “Government Issue.”

  Gook: Dehumanized name for the enemy, also called Dink.

  Grenadier: GI who carries the M-79 grenade launcher.

  Grunt: Infantryman, ground-pounder, boonie rat.

  Hooch: Sleeping quarters, jungle hut, poncho tent.

  Hump: Trudge in the boonies.

  Instant NCO: A GI who jumped from the rank of Private to Sergeant after a 90-day training course.

  Jungle rot: Festering body sores.

  Kit Carson Scout: A former VC or NVA who defected to the allies rather than fight with the South Vietnamese ARVN.

  KP: Kitchen Police.

  Lifer: Derogatory nickname for a military career man.

  Loach: Nickname for the Hughes OH-6 Cayuse light observation helicopter.

  LP: Listening Post.

  LRRP: Long Range Recon Patrol (elite observation team) pronounced “Lurp.”

  LZ: Landing Zone.

  M-16: Standard US infantryman’s rifle (light-weight, magazine fed).

/>   M-60: US portable machine gun (weighs 23 lbs., belt fed).

  M-79: US grenade launcher (single shot).

  Magazine: Detachable bullet holder (an M-16 magazine holds 20 rounds).

  Medevac: Air ambulance.

  Montegnard: Vietnamese hill-people or tribesmen (French for “mountaineer”).

  MP: Military Police.

  MPC: Military Payment Certificate (GI money).

  NCO: Non-commissioned officer, a sergeant.

  NDP: Night Defensive Position.

  Numba one: Vietnamese expression meaning good, best.

  Numba ten: Vietnamese expression meaning bad, worst.

  NVA: North Vietnamese Army.

  Old-timer: A GI with more than six months of combat duty.

  PFC: Private First Class.

  Piasters: Vietnamese money.

  Point or Point man: The first man in a patrol.

  PX: Post Exchange (military store).

  Quoc-Lo 1: Vietnamese Highway (Route 1).

  R & R: Rest and Relaxation (vacation).

  Rappel: Exit a hovering helicopter by sliding down a rope.

  Rear: Base camp (out of the field, a safe area).

  Recon: Reconnaissance.

  REMF: Rear Echelon Mother Fucker, derogatory term for soldiers stationed at base camp.

  RIF: Reconnaissance in force.

  RPG: Rocket Propelled Grenade.

  RTO: Radio Telephone Operator.

  Rucksack: Backpack.

  SERTS: Screaming Eagle Replacement Training School.

  Shake-n-Bake: A GI who jumped from the rank of Private to Sergeant after a 90-day training course.

  Short: The downhill side of the required tour of duty.

  Short-timer: Less than 100 days left to serve in Vietnam.

  SKS: Communist assault rifle.

  Slick: Bell UH-1D utility or assault helicopter.

  Smoke: Smoke grenade (emits various colors).

  Socked in: Closed in by bad weather.

  Specialist: Specialist Fourth Class, equivalent to a Corporal (“Speck 4”).

  Spider hole: Concealed one-man fighting position below ground level.