Chapter 9
Off to Vietnam ... Again
It was late in September when I actually received my orders to deploy to Vietnam. Two months earlier the Johnson administration had begun the process that would later be called Vietnamization, by replacing General Westmoreland with General Creighton Abrams. Johnson’s administration was still suffering from the lessons learned during TET, so they directed General Abrams to scale down American military operations and increase the efforts to prepare the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam or ARVN, to take primary responsibility for the ground war.
Abrams’ tactics differed significantly from those of Westmoreland. He preferred small unit patrols to large unit search and destroy sweeps. Despite the change in personnel and tactics, political unrest was still very strong, and the August Democratic Convention had been beset with clashes between antiwar protesters and police and national guardsmen.
I was mostly oblivious to the protests and changes in the political wind. It took all my focus to concentrate on my preparations for deployment. I tried not to think about the fact that I had joined the SEALs to escape from the Marines and Vietnam, and here I was headed right back to the killing fields. I told myself, this time would be different. This time I was part of a team of serious operators. Unfortunately, I was also newly married and facing a lengthy separation.
I didn’t really think about it that morning as I shipped Vicki off on the early bird flight to Chicago. She was going to be staying with her parents in Lake Forest for the duration of my tour. She had wanted to visit them for a long time, and I knew she would be fine there. But I could tell by the way she looked at me that she was worried for me—worried and trying like hell not to show it. I knew I would be fine, too. I just had no idea how to reassure her. So we both pretended that everything was perfectly normal, as if we were both just going off for a weekend visit. I didn’t even go in to see her off. That would have made it all into a big deal.
It wasn’t until I got back to our apartment and faced the empty rooms that the full impact of our separation hit me. I would not see Vicki for several months, and I would not be home again for at least six months. With her gone, the apartment no longer seemed like home. Just walls and a floor with my duffle sitting forlornly in the middle of the living room. She had spent much more time in it than I had, so the rooms were permanently connected to her in my mind. We had sublet our apartment for the duration, and the couple who rented it was due to move in the next day. All of our personal stuff was already gone.
I focused my mind on the task ahead, gathered my duffle and climbed downstairs to wait for Ric to pick me up. I got as far as the garage before I realized I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the real love of my life.
She was sitting up on blocks, her green paint job gleaming in the light from the window—my precious 1959 Corvette with her new 1969 Chevy Camaro Z-28 engine that I had installed myself. I lovingly stroked the sleek lines of her fender, then kissed her and covered her with a nice clean parachute I had liberated from the discards. I missed my wife, but I was really going to miss that car!
Ric picked me up thirty minutes later in his favorite ride, a beat-up Chevy van. We had been home from Niland for nearly a month, but it seemed like days. On the way to the Team area Ric took an unexpected detour by Sal’s Liquor Store. As we pulled in to the well-worn parking area I cocked an inquisitive eyebrow in his direction. I knew we were having a send off party that evening, but I didn’t think we had to supply the booze.
He grinned. “You don’t expect us to go to war with out the essentials of wartime survival, do you?”
I allowed that I hadn’t really thought about it. Ric’s specialty was enjoying liberty to the fullest, and apparently preparing for relaxation in a strange country was no exception. I happily helped him load bottles of tequila, jugs of wine, several dozen cases of beer, and some other necessities into the back of the van.
“So just how do you plan to get all this stuff In Country? The MP’s are bound to confiscate it before we ever leave the tarmac, and we will have wasted a hell of a lot of good booze.” Not to mention the cash.
“Gee, Doc, don’t you trust me? You should know by now that I always have a plan.” Ric had that familiar evil glint in his eye. I decided not to press him further.
Once we reached the Team area we began the daylong task of packing our gear. Unlike the rest of the platoon’s stuff, which was mainly ordinance and survival gear that was designed to withstand almost any hardship, our equipment was very delicate, requiring special care and packing. Neither Ric’s radio equipment nor my medical supplies took kindly to water, dust, or rough handling. We used the standard issue large Conex boxes and carefully wrapped everything to keep it as safe and secure as possible for the long trip. Each box was painstakingly packed and carefully stenciled with the unit designation.
When we were finished with our gear, Ric asked me to help him find one more container. Not sure what he was planning, I picked out a new gray Conex and brought it over to our work. Together we labeled it to match the others: SEAL TEAM ONE—ALPHA Platoon.
“Okay, let’s get the rest of our ‘survival gear”
“You mean the stuff we picked up this morning?”
“That’d be it.”
“Okay.” I started unloading our precious cargo of booze from the back of the van, “But I still don’t see how you’re going to keep the MP’s from confiscating everything when they look in this case.”
“That’s ‘cause they’re not going to look in it.” I gave him a puzzled look and he grinned evilly. “Get me the spray can and you’ll see.”
I grabbed the can of paint we had used to mark all the boxes. He pulled out another set of stencils he had stashed below his seat in the van, and below SEAL TEAM ONE he quickly added: “TOP SECRET. MUST HAVE AUTHORIZED CLEARANCE TO OPEN!” in large letters across the box.
We stood back to survey his handiwork. “Trust me, there is no MP I’ve ever met brave enough to open a box full of Top Secret SEAL equipment.”
I had to agree. Our stash was as safe as we could make it.
With the most important items of our survival gear thus secured, we carefully loaded all our boxes on the trucks for transport across the island to NAS North Island for our flight the next morning. The chores done, we headed off to the Trade Winds bar for our send off party.
The Trade Winds was a real high-class joint, located off the beaten path and perfumed with the smell of dirty mop buckets and aging puke. Okay, it was a dump, but it was our dump. There was an unspoken rule that the Trade Winds was reserved for Frogs and SEALs. Other sailors entered at their own risk. They rarely did so twice. The bar’s owner was an old gal I only knew as Lisa. No one knew who really worked there. Most nights would find SEAL team members doing duty behind the bar.
Tonight was no exception. Ric and I arrived to find two SEALs, Gary Shaddock and Gary Gallagher serving the drinks. The rest of the platoon arrived right behind us and seemed very glad to see me.
Preacher Richardson slapped me on the back and steered me right up to the bar. “Hey, Doc, as the new guy, you get the honor of buying the first keg.”
“Does the new guy always buy the first round?” I pulled some cash out and laid it on the bar.
“No,” admitted Gallagher as he quickly took my money. “But since you’re the one with all the extra pay, it’s only fair that you get to buy.”
I had not realized that the rest of the guys knew about the difference in my pay scale. As enlisted men each of the other members of the platoon received, in addition to their regular pay, $55 a month jump pay and $55 a month demolitions or “demo” pay. I was an enlisted member of the platoon, but as a corpsman the same international military protocols that kept me from attending BUD/S also contained agreements concerning what medics were and were not supposed to do. One of the things a medic was not supposed to do was blow things up. Because of this, I was not allowed to collect demo pay for blowing things up. Like them, I received the regular $55 a month jump pay, but since the Navy couldn’t pay me the demo pay, they paid me for diving. Standard dive pay however, was $75 a month. Twenty dollars more than the rest of the guys were making. No wonder I was popular. My teammates were not about to begrudge me my good fortune, but they were determined to relieve me of as much of it as possible in the name of team spirit. Or maybe that should be spirits.
We spent the bulk of the evening in the time-honored tradition of military parties everywhere—drinking heavily while swapping war stories. Most of these stories could be summarized as the old guys telling the new guys to keep their heads down and their powder dry. After several hours of stories and many more beers, I felt the need to be alone with my thoughts so I went out to the van to lie down. I was 20 years old and going back to ’Nam as a Qualified SEAL operator, but I couldn’t get the images of my last tour out of my head.
Ric must have understood, because he came out to the van a few minutes later.
“Hey, Doc, had enough already?”
“Yeah. Just wanted to think for a bit.”
He paused. I could tell he understood. Ric always understood.
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”
To Ric, “home” was a small alley cottage that more closely resembled a converted garage than a home. It was a classic bachelor pad with touches that made it classic Ric. An old parachute hung draped across the ceiling of the main room, rigged with twinkling Christmas lights shining through from above. He said it made him feel more as if he was outdoors. A clothing-covered lump along one wall that appeared to be a sofa, and the larger furry lump lying on it could only be Ric’s German Shepard, King. The smell of burning incense and the lingering scent of stale pot wafted through the air. Along with King, Ric shared his cozy hut with Sheila, a cute blonde hippie from California. She emerged from the kitchen dressed in one of Ric’s blue and gold T-shirts and welcomed me warmly. Sheila loved SEALs and Frogmen. As she pressed her warm curves against me in a very nice hug, I decided I liked having a fan.
She released me to welcome Ric home even more enthusiastically, and then went back to the refrigerator to grab a beer. I was still admiring the way the T-shirt clung to her shape when I realized the shirt was all she was wearing. She bent over to get the beer off the lower shelf of the fridge and greeting me with a lovely full moon. Ric came up behind her and gently slapped her on the ass, interrupting my appreciation. He grabbed her by the arm and the two of them disappeared into his bedroom.
“Goodnight Doc! Help yourself to the refrigerator!”
That figures, I thought. He gets nice, warm, sexy Sheila and leaves me with the dog and the refrigerator. Some friend.
I surveyed the room looking for a place to bed down. There was only the large cloth-covered lump I hoped was a sofa—complete with snoring German Shepard—and the floor. I decided to try my luck with the sofa.
“Well, King, looks like it’s just you and me.” I said as I shoved him over enough to make a spot to sleep. He yawned obligingly, and then made another, more obnoxious noise from his south end. I wrinkled my nose, trying not to breathe. From the stench, he must have had a couple of burritos for dinner.
Despite his personal habits, King was a great dog. He was originally trained to work with the SEALs, but we couldn’t use him in the Mekong Delta. The terrain of our planned operations area was very swampy and thick with jungle vegetation. An environment not suitable for man or beast, which is why the Viet Cong felt so safe there. After all, no soft American would dare try coming after them in the infamous U-Minh forest. I slept fitfully, dreaming of Sheila’s ass and King’s breath.
I awakened to the rattle of King’s dog collar as he climbed off the couch—and my legs—to push open the back screen door. As it slammed shut, I winced and groggily eyed my watch. 0530. We were due at NAS North Island by 0700 to board a noon flight to Hawaii on the first leg of the long trip to Saigon. I got up. Slowly. My legs tingled furiously as the circulation returned. Then the tingle hit bottom and bounced back to the top of my head in the form of a first-class hangover. I began to regret having quite so many beers the night before. A shower and shave helped considerably, if only because I didn’t smell like German Shepard any more. Donning a clean set of jungle cammies I neatly packed the rest of my stuff in the parachute bag that would serve as my personal suitcase until we got to our final destination in Vietnam. Ric emerged as I finished, neatly dressed in his own cammies, and looking as if his night had been much more restful than mine.
It was a typical beautiful late summer day in Coronado. The sun rose over the newly opened San Diego-Coronado Bridge, setting it afire. Everything seemed peaceful, almost surreal, or perhaps I was just absorbed in my own thoughts. I barely noticed the trip to the airfield until we were all gathered together on the tarmac, trying to figure out which plane was ours.
“Yep, you’ll be flying that C-130 with the VR-21. Squadron,” an older member of the ground crew said directing us to our plane. “And VR sure don’t stand for Very Reliable.” he added under his breath. Completely reassured, we took our gear to the huge plane and began the loading process.