Letters Home from Vietnam, Chapter 3 – Incoming

Four guys were killed when a rocket hit the chow hall. I don’t remember how many were wounded, that didn’t seem to matter. I can’t write home about the guys getting killed, that would be too upsetting. I need to say something humorous in my letters. Humor here seems to fill the gaps between absolute boredom and shear panic. Our humor is difficult to share with anyone back in the World. It can be mean in nature and other times it just sounds dumb.

We were stopped short of making our way back to the barracks after attending the mosquito flick. The VC had made it on base from the beach and we were unarmed. We had to rely on those that did have arms for our safety. We took cover behind some sand bags and waited until it was all clear. I remember hoping that the VC wouldn’t overrun our guys.

The military always had their official names for missions but we had other names for what we did. Mission names like “Search and Clear” became known as “Search and Destroy”. I trusted the military to know what they were doing but later learned that it was pretty much hit and miss.

Welcome to the jungle. Living in a barracks was a lot better than being in a tent but even the barracks didn’t stop the rain seeping in. I watched the steam rise off the jungle hills in the morning. How do you describe the smell of jungle heat?

I just worked 12 hours, loading planes with rockets, ammo, napalm and bombs, yet we are still getting hit. Maybe our pilots need to drop their weapons a little closer to the base. When President Johnson was here in ‘67 he said this was the safest base in Vietnam.

OK, if the VC don’t get you the chow hall will.

The event that would change my attitude about the war wasn’t going to happen until May of 1970.  Until then I just couldn’t understand the attitude of the students back home. Who do they think they are? We are over here fighting to keep them safe from Communism and all they can do is complain about the war in Vietnam. Just wait until I get home and let them know how I feel about their petty protests.

We don’t have a word for it yet. In WWI or WWII they called it shell shock. In 1980 we finally named it, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD for short. It doesn’t just happen to the guys on the line it also happens here on base. The nightly attacks and handling explosives during the day keeps everyone on edge.

I’ve been here for a couple of months now and the military doesn’t seem to care much about my needs. I filled my commitment by volunteering but why does this seem like a one way deal? I’m starting to feel a little different about this venture and it makes me start thinking about home again.

I’m getting ready to head off to Danang. The rumor is that whatever you load on the planes, you get to see dropped on the surrounding hills and in the valleys. Part of that sounds exciting and the other part sounds too close for comfort. I can’t write home about this either.