FIREWORKS

Life at Phan Rang Air Base, Republic of Vietnam, had been relatively peaceful since I'd arrived two months before, in August of 1967. We had not been seriously attacked by the enemy and my job, as a mechanic at the jet engine test cell, though exhausting and dangerous, became routine. I was far from enjoying myself, but at least my life was not directly threatened. That was about to change.


It all began with a wristwatch that decided to quit working. Instead of just stopping, it suddenly began to run seriously slow. This caused me to be late for work twice, a grave mistake in a combat zone, especially. The military is a dubious master. It sometimes grants great concessions in time off and benefits and on other occasions it can be extremely harsh and unforgiving. The latter was exercised on me in this instance. Headquarters had requested two mechanics of my specialty be transferred to Da Nang Air Base, up north, near the enemy.

Supervisors always look for "problem" airman to transfer away, sort of passing the buck. I was new, I was late twice and I was chosen. I'll never forget the smashing sound of that old wrist watch as I threw it, with a rage, into an empty metal garbage can.

The next day, after a hasty C-130 flight, found me lugging a 100 pound tool box and a military B-4 bag suitcase along a road on the way to the 366th Field Maintenance Squadron (FMS) jet engine maintenance shop at Da Nang. The adjacent flight line and main road I walked along were among the busiest thoroughfares in the world, with traffic and noise and exhaust fumes in abundance.

The temperature and humidity of the day were, as usual, about the same number, 100. It was there that I learned the true meaning of sweat. I spent the next 11 months at that location. My life in Phan Rang had been rough but bearable. It turned out to be a leaping luxury compared to Da Nang days. I had been trained for a month, prior to coming to Vietnam, at Clovis AFB, New Mexico. There, I had learned how to maintain and repair the F-100 aircraft & J-57 jet engine. Abruptly, I found myself at Da Nang, working on the F-4 aircraft and the J-79 jet engine, for which I had no training. Not only were the conditions at Da Nang much worse, but I had not a clue of what I was doing. I became an instant hit with my boss. Nevertheless, I began to learn what I could about my work assignments through on the job training.

Working conditions were crude. We were usually filthy and unkempt because of the serious shortage of such things as shaving gear and bar soap, easily accessible on the black market at many times the regular price but almost non existent at the base exchange store. To wash up our hands and arms from the oil and grease, at the end of a day, we used garbage cans filled with rain water. Sand & dirt from the ground was our soap. We picked up a handful of dirt, rubbed it on our wet hands and then plunged it into the rain barrel water. The water was black colored in short order.

In those days there were no camouflaged green T-shirts to wear under our utilities but white T-shirts, instead. They became gray & black from the oil and sweat. Our hands were cut and marred from busted knuckles and scrapes that engine mechanics get and it was during these conditions that we were taking our ten minute afternoon break, when a window of opportunity opened in my direction. I had scored much higher in administrative duties than in mechanics but the Air Force needed mechanics in Vietnam, worse than they needed clerks so that's what I had been trained to do.

I was an E-4 Airman First Class and I happened to hear a Chief Master Sergeant, E-9, talking to a Technical Sergeant, E-6, about the serious problem they were having since their clerk typist had been transferred back to the States. I spoke up and said I'd be glad to take his place. "Can you type?" was the query. "You bet Chief!" was my reply. "Report to my office at 0600 tomorrow morning!" And that was that. For the remaining ten months, I never turned a wrench until I returned Stateside myself. I worked alongside the Chief, a second lieutenant, an E-6 and an E-5 in an air conditioned office, when the power from the generators was working. The grease faded from beneath my fingernails, hands and arms. I had my own key to the office and when the night temperatures and humidity were particularly unbearable, I would bring my pillow and sleep in the office, quiet and cool.

Still, we were working six, sometimes seven days a week, twelve hours a day. There was little time for anything but eat, sleep and work. At the close of a long day, after about a month in Da Nang, I drifted off into deep slumber but was awakened by a loud "woompff" sound at about midnight. This noise was followed by the base warning siren which was supposed to sound before the attack, but never did. A thousand bare feet from all directions could be heard running for the sandbag bunkers, buried beneath the ground. The barracks were located right across that main road where I'd carried my toolbox a few days before.

The enemy would shoot 122 mm rockets from the foothills, six miles away. Often they would overshoot, hitting our barracks or Quonset hut latrines. The open bay configuration of our barracks made them conducive to attack and more airmen were hurt from accidents in running to their bunker, than from bombs.

Mishaps included running headlong into the middle of floor beam posts that supported the upper level, smashing into five gallon potable water glass jugs, that spread broken glass and water everywhere, (making traction a joke), colliding with someone in the dark, running or being knocked off the second floor staircase, tripping over personal belongings left in the aisle and half suffocating from too many people crowding into a hot, sticky bunker, while several lit up cigarettes for all to choke on. After awhile, it became safer to lie in your bunk during an attack than get maimed trying to get to the bunker.

However, on this particular night, I remember panicking to find my glasses and then making my way past the obstacles toward the bunker. As I rounded the staircase, I could see the sky all lit up with rockets, search flares and explosions. It was like fireworks on the fourth of July. Two fools were sitting on the railing in a drunken stupor yelling at the enemy. No big deal, just a few folks out celebrating. Right. After about 30 minutes, the all clear siren sounded and we all returned to our bunks, save a few that were so scared that they slept in the bunker the rest of the night.

The smell of "fireworks" was everywhere and mosquitoes were enjoying a feast. In all my glorious 13 months in Nam, three things stand out in my memory: sweating, scratching mosquito bites and running to the latrine with diarrhea. We had 32 rocket attacks while I was in Vietnam but none were more memorable than that first one because I didn't know what to expect. I'd heard stories but the unknown always plays havoc with the imagination.

The next morning I surveyed the extent of damage from the night before on my way to work. One aircraft had been totally destroyed while parked in its revetment. (A revetment was a steel casing wall, 12 feet high and two feet wide, filled with sand, surrounding the aircraft on three sides. Such protective walls lessened the chances of one aircraft explosion spreading to another aircraft.) A barracks had caught fire and been leveled and our own jet engine shop had been peppered with shrapnel. As I went to work that day, looking at the holes through our shop walls, I thought to myself, not only are living conditions lousy here but, you know, a guy could get killed.