VIETNAM ATTACK

The long flight to Vietnam from the States had been exhausting. I arrived at Phan Rang Air Base at about four in the afternoon, August 1967, had a meal at the mess hall and headed for the Quonset Hut Transient Barracks. Thick humidity hung on everything like a wet rag. For most of the past year, I had been stationed at Edwards AFB in the dry, high desert of California. The abrupt difference in weather had sapped me and I was perspiring profusely. Take a salt tablet every day, I was told and a malaria tablet every Monday. I had been in country over three weeks before I discovered I had been taking a malaria tablet every day and a salt tablet on Monday. I was further instructed that the change of climate and diet would cause diarrhea for about the first month. Unfortunately, malaria pills had the same effect, especially if taken more than once a week. To compound the problem, latrine facilities were primitive and consisted of a 50 gallon drum half at the bottom of an out house. These combined factors made my first month at Phan Rang a real, shall we say, gut wrencher.

The transient barracks bunks were situated in an open bay and all the mattresses were half thickness. This had to be since there was just enough room for one, average size person, to fit between the top and bottom bunks. The entire bunk bed had to be smaller to fit into the low ceiling of the Quonset huts. These were prefabricated buildings, invented during World War II. They consisted of corrugated metal, shaped like a half cylinder. The outer section of the hut housed the bunks and lockers and the inside contained the sinks and showers with signs that read, "Non-Potable Water."

I had been living in the barracks for a week and drinking the water, before I discovered the sign and was told that it meant the water was good for bathing but not for drinking. It turned out to be yet another reason for my wondrously painful intestinal cramps. Matters were made more interesting by the presence of a pet monkey running loose inside the hut. The animal had been left by some former resident and was free to run about in the hut as he pleased. Cruelty and teasing had caused him to be far from friendly and it was not uncommon for him to throw his own excrement at the unwary. Military barracks life is, at best, a pathetic way to live and add to that our combat zone location and you had a real resort lifestyle.

The green utility uniform or "jungle fatigues" was all we were ever allowed to wear, with green and black jungle boots and olive drab T-shirts and shorts and black wool socks. They were hot and uncomfortable. The spit and polish of stateside bases, with their white glove inspections and monthly parades were right out the window. At the chow hall, I had eaten with a G.I. who said he had been "in country" for 31 months. A normal tour was 12 months, so that had meant he had extended his tour twice. His reason for such a choice, evidently, revolved around money. After all, he was paid an extra $65.00 a month in combat pay. More than enough to make it worth his while to get shot at.

I had heard many stories about how people were getting killed here by the hundreds every day and I had seen the dead body canisters loaded into the huge C-141 cargo aircraft in route back to the States. A longing for home began to set in, big time.

Still, this was a gravy train existence compared to the troops in the field. They lived in tents in the jungle, ate mostly C- rations and were usually covered in red dust or red mud, depending upon the weather. They also saw the enemy, the North Vietnamese Army (N.V.A) or "Charlie" at much closer range. However, despite how "lucky" I was, to say I was apprehensive and fearful would have been a gross understatement.

That first night in Vietnam, in a strange bed, in a strange building, in a strange land, sleep came fitfully. A thousand unusual sounds and smells and sights and sensations stole me away from slumber. The oppressing heat; a monkey screeching; the slam of a screen door; pungent odors of diesel and jet fuel exhaust; sweat on damp, dusty sheets; the noisy din of drunken airman, swearing; squadrons of mosquitos everywhere, the itching their bites produced; and the creaking of beds; all combined into a swirling mass that finally led to an exhausted collapse.

Hours passed. Suddenly I was shocked into consciousness by a massive explosion. I raised up hard from my bunk, smashing my head, to the point of drawing blood, on the bunk above. As I looked out the window straight in front of me, I could see a monstrous ball of flame and it was moving. It’s form was blurred and I realized that my eyeglasses were off. Putting them on and covering my ears from the uproar, I now saw the cause of the outburst. A F-100, single engine jet aircraft was in full afterburner taking off from the airstrip which was just a few yards from our barracks. The plane was followed by three more of the same type that, one by one took off into the early morning sky on bombing runs. That first night in Vietnam, the only thing that was under attack, was my sanity.