Going back in time

I sat down at my computer this morning, and the word "patience" came to mind. Then I thought of all the times I needed patience and for some strange reason, my thoughts went to my first days in Viet Nam. I don't know why. I've highlighted a portion of my third day there.
________________________________________
I was one of three "FNG’s" riding in the back of the deuce and a half, the Army’s version of the multi use work truck. It was dirty, OD green, (as I’d seen in countless WWII movies) riding from the US Air Force’s airfield in Pleiku, Vietnam, to the US Army’s Camp Holloway, my assigned duty station several miles away. I was readily identifiable as an FNG because of the brand new jungle fatigues I was wearing. (I had to ask what FNG meant two days earlier after I landed at Saigon Airport and was teased by those already "in country" on my way to the temporary barracks.) There I saw sights I’d never seen before; water tanks on wheels with "potable water" stenciled on them, (I had to ask what that meant, too.) sandbags around Quonset hut type buildings and a momma-san walking into the large shower room I was using and nonchalantly squat a few feet away, hand-washing a basket of another GI’s dirty laundry. She was a ‘hootch maid', one we all had to hire for such tasks. I had quickly learned the faded fatigues are worn by seasoned troops or "short timers." I stood out in my new fatigues and felt very vulnerable. I wondered if I would live long enough to wear faded fatigues. A year is a long time for a 19 year old. Patience needed.

It was a muggy day in mid April, 1968. Humidity I had never experienced before. It was a time in my life I later tried hard to put behind me, now trying to recall long-ago details, some not hard to remember, others successfully forgotten. The back of the truck was open, no canvas cover, making us feel exposed to all but able to witness the passing countryside, but it was no doubt cooler this way. We sat on the wooden bench seating, stoic and looking at each other, the countryside, our shiny boots and the duffle bags with our only possessions of individuality as we bounced and swayed with the motion of the truck. (One of those other two guys came home in a coffin. I can't remember his name; frustrating.) The truck had terrible shock absorbers, if any at all. It was as if the truck driver was inaugurating us to Viet Nam in his own, demonic way.

Within minutes, us three strangers had formed a bond as we introduced ourselves the way all military personnel do – with your name and home town. I was sharing the truck with a guy from "up-state" New York and the other from Michigan. (I’d never been to either, they’d never been to Vegas.) I noticed how green the country was with a mixture of red dirt, patchy grass fields, paved narrow, litter-lined roads leading over distant hills, an occasional building and sporadic trees. Heavier forests were nearby. Hiding places for the Viet Cong Guerrillas? Very simple buildings made of concrete walls and metal corrugated roofing. Wooden doors and window frames that all looked in need of repair. Some walls had numerous chunks of concrete missing – evidence of prior bullets or bomb fragments? I was in a war zone after all. But none of us had any weapons - except the driver. He told us we’d get one issued later at Holloway. (Issued. Everything was army "issue" with strange nomenclatures: blanket, one each, wool, green; underwear, briefs, OD green, men’s, size 28-30 waist, etc.) His rifle rested upright from the floorboard, leaning against his right leg, barrel pointed up. Was he expecting to use it as he transported us FNG’s to Camp Holloway? One M-14 rifle for all four of us? I was uncomfortable in many ways.

Driving through the town of Pleiku, the truck slowed and I took in the sights. Not anything like I’d seen back in America, "The World" I soon learned it is called. More simple buildings posing as markets, recognizable Coca Cola signs, bars, shacks, road-side carts/vendors selling food and drink, small motor scooters, rows of concrete buildings lining the red dirt sidewalks, various colors all in need of paint, all connecting somehow as if holding each other up, a few parked 50's American made cars, infants on backs of women, small children walking alongside wearing only shirts and sandals, old men hunched over hand carts, and everyone in the same baggy, black pajama-type pants and wide, coned straw hats strapped under their chins. A pungent odor hung in the air. I saw a woman squat on the side of the road, pull up one baggy pants leg, defecate and get up and walk away. A dog ran over and had its dinner. The heat, sights, smells and ride was making me sick. I wanted to be back home in the worst way. But I got what I had asked for. Rather than be drafted, I volunteered, enlisted, in the US Army. I had arrived at what my ignorant bravado had gotten me to: I was in Viet Nam to kill the enemy. It’s what John Wayne, Audie Murphy, Lee Marvin and countless others had done in WWII movies I'd seen growing up. Its what Dad had done. It's what I thought was the right thing to do. College deferment wasn't for me.

Then the truck pulled into Camp Holloway, the gate guards saluting us through, and I saw the CH-47 helicopters I'd initially perform maintenance on and later fly in. My stomach flipped: they were all much dirtier and more oil stained than those I trained on in Ft. Eustis, VA. What have I gotten myself into? I was on my mission. . . right? I'm lucky to be here.