Behaving Responsibly - 9. Hell Yes, War Is Hell

Our lives settled into a regular routine at Ubon Royal Thai Airbase. From there, bombers took off for the short flight over Laos to the airfields and cities of North Vietnam.

I have to confess mixed emotions about what we were doing. The enemy hid troops and insurgents inside civilian buildings such as hospitals, schools, and churches. We all knew it was impossible to go after them without involving and quite often killing innocent men, women, and children.

Some people on our side rationalized those deaths by insisting that all North Vietnamese supported the overthrow of the government of the South by any means necessary.

I called bullshit on that, but I never said so, not even to my best friend, Cal. My job as a team leader was to inspire my men to bust their asses loading the goddamn weapons of mass destruction into the biggest aircraft ever built, and not to think about where they were going or how they were being used.

One evening after dinner, I was strolling around the base smoking and trying to clear my head. I gazed up at the star-studded sky and wondered to myself how this world became so fucked up. A voice I didn’t recognize intruded on my silent contemplation, “Got a light, Airman?”

I turned and said, “Sure, buddy.” In the shadowy dusk, a tall man held a cigarette to his lips, waiting for me to flick my Bic.

I struck the light, and the man leaned in. In the brief glint of the flame, I was shocked to see two shiny gold stars on the epaulettes of his shirt. When he inhaled his first drag, I stepped back, came to attention, and gave him a crisp salute.

“General Stockton, Sir!” I had just lit the cigarette of the U.S. commander of the Ubon airbase.

The official base commander was the Thai general whose country allowed us to use their facility under a “gentlemen’s agreement.” The U.S. Government paid Thailand several million dollars a year for the dubious privilege.

“At ease, Airman—?”

“Stimson, Robert, Airman First Class, Sir!” I barked, following military ritual.

“Good to meet you...Bob, is it?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

“Let’s tone down the formality, OK, Bob? I’m just out here enjoying a quiet evening and smoking where my wife won’t catch me. Mind if I join you?”

I moved into the parade rest position holding my cigarette behind my back. “Fine, Sir, uh...General.”

He nodded and smiled. “Stimson, you said? I used to know a Bill Stimson. I think he’s back home building atom bombs or something like that.” He wrinkled his brow at me. “And I think I said ‘At ease,’ didn’t I?”

He smiled his approval as I relaxed and took a drag on my smoke. “Colonel Stimson is my father, General. He’s the base commander at Oak Ridge, Sir, but they don’t make the bombs—just the fissile material that goes into them.”

“Ah, yet another distinction without a difference. I remember your father as a fine officer, and I see you were either brave or foolish enough to follow him into the Air Force.”

“Uh, Sir, I’m glad I followed him—”

He laughed. “Of course you are, Bob, and I was just shitting you. I would be honored to have a son who followed me into the service. However, Mabel and I only have daughters.” With a sigh of resignation, he added, “There’s no bigger worry in life than a daughter, and I have it times four.”

“I bet they’re all happy and proud of you, Sir.” I winked. “And I know a bit about the kind of headaches daughters can bring.”

He grinned back at me. “And that would be because you’re in love with somebody’s daughter?”

The blood rushed to my cheeks. This was a hell of a lot more personal than I wanted to be with the base commander. “No, Sir. Not at the moment. I left a girl back home, but she, uh...broke up with me when I came here. She went to college.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Bob. And I didn’t mean to mess with your brain. Knowing your father, I have no doubt you’re a decent, honorable young man.”

I blushed even deeper. “Well, I’m not positive about that, General, but she and I were in love, and Dad made sure I behaved responsibly.”

“Ah, yes. Young love. What a wonderful and terrifying thing it is.”

My only option was to nod in agreement, wondering how the hell I was going to wriggle out of this uncomfortable conversation with the head of the whole fucking operation.

Stockton took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke into the air above us. “Please forgive the ruminations of an old man, Bob. I didn’t mean to pry into your personal life.”

“It’s all right, Sir. No harm done.”

He lowered his cigarette and made eye contact with me. “Do you wish you were back home with her, Son?”

I realized I’d gone from being “Airman” to “Bob” to “Son,” and I worried I might fuck up this whole conversation by saying the wrong damn thing.

“Uh, of course, General—in a way. But I’m committed to serving my country and damn glad I joined the Air Force, Sir.”

“And what do you do on my airbase, Bob?”

“I’m a squad leader in the Forty-fifth Squadron, Sir. We load bombs onto the planes.”

“Do you like doing that?” The look on his face told me he expected the answer to be “No.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m proud to be here, serving in the war, and proud of the men I lead. What we do is secondary to all that.”

“So, you don’t have some plan for advancement.”

I was stymied. What should I tell The Old Man?

“Well, Sir, yes I do. I’m working hard toward a career in the Air Force in the hope I’ll someday reach my father’s rank.”

“Bird Colonel?”

I blushed and lowered my head. Then I straightened my back and faced him almost defiantly.

“If I can, Sir, and—begging the General’s pardon—I’ll bust my ass to make it happen, if that’s what it takes!”

The old general beamed at me and chuckled. “Sorry, Son, that’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard in quite a while, but I appreciate that you honored me with it.”

I stiffened, offended. “Begging your pardon again, Sir, but it’s the truth. I love what I’m doing, and I want to do even more for my country, my Dad, and myself. I’m sorry if it sounded like bullshit, Sir, but it’s true, even if it isn’t believable...Sir.”

The base commander scrutinized me for several heartbeats.

I thought, Well, you’ve really fucked it up now, asshole. Don’t be surprised if the general throws you in the brig and then calls Dad to tell him what a dumb shit you are.

Stockton pulled a last drag of his cigarette, pinched it off, and put it in his pocket. He looked me straight in the eye.

“Bob, I want to thank you for the honest answer. It’s rare that I hear such frankness from the people around me. I promise you I’ll find a way to let your father know what a fine Airman he’s raised, and I expect he’ll give most of the credit to your mother.”

My shoulders dropped and my face fell. “Uh, thank you, Sir. My mom died four years ago. Dad’s done everything for my brother and me by himself since then.”

“Oh, shit. I’ve really stepped in it now, haven’t I, Bob?”

“Not at all, Sir. You couldn’t have known.”

“But that’s just the goddamn point, isn’t it?”

He shook his head in dismay. “I’m here, in command of two thousand airmen, and there’s no way in hell I know anything about the vast majority of them. Then you come along and have the balls to tell me the truth.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “For that, I am grateful, Airman Stimson. Very. Fucking. Grateful.”

“Uh...you’re welcome, Sir. I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing.”

“No, Bob. You said exactly the right thing.”

He peered into the surrounding shadow and realized his guard detail was only steps away from where we were standing, keeping a close eye on him and a wary one on me, since I was wearing the required sidearm.

He turned toward them as he spoke to me. “I’d better get back to work, Airman, or these fellows might just drag me off.”

One of them coughed, masking the word “Bullshit,” and the other spoke openly, “General, we’re here to keep you safe.”

“And I thank you, gentlemen. You’re doing a fine job.” Turning back to me, he stuck out his hand. “Bob, it’s been a real pleasure meeting you. Your father has every reason to be proud of you. Good night, Son.”

I shook his hand. His grip was firm but caring. Then, I stepped back and saluted. “Good night, General Stockton, Sir. It’s been an honor to meet you.”

After the commander and his security detail faded into the darkness, I returned to my barracks. I didn’t tell anyone about the brief encounter, but I smiled, thinking about the headaches the old man must endure with four daughters.

I thought about Angie, and how she and I once enjoyed an active sex life, right under the noses of our parents. Either they looked the other way, or they remembered what it felt like to be in love and envied us—or both. And how I missed her.

And I also thought about how happy I was, serving in the United States Air Force.

********

A couple of days later, I saw Cal Rouleau outside the Enlisted Men’s Mess, where he was catching a smoke. He called out, “Hey, Boss, how’re you planning to spend your fuckin R&R?”

I walked over to him and shrugged. I lit a cigarette and took a thoughtful drag. Exhaling, I shook my head. “Oh, I dunno. Probably hang around town and avoid the goddamn base for a few days.”

He exclaimed, “Man, that sucks like a fuckin cheap whore. Why the hell don’t you come with us?”

I was suspicious. “Come where?”

He grinned from ear to ear. “You ain’t gonna believe it, man, but there’s a beach down on the coast called Fuckit.”

Frowning, I told him, “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

He was adamant. “I ain’t shittin you! That’s the fuckin name. You can look on a map—the place is called Fuckit!”

I shook my head. “Bullshit.” Then, I became concerned. “Wait a minute! What goddamn map?”

He leaned to the side, peered behind me to make sure the coast was clear, and surreptitiously drew a folded paper out of his pocket.

I recoiled and quickly looked around to make sure no one saw us. Maps were strictly prohibited, so that if we were captured the enemy couldn’t use them to locate and attack our bases.

“Shit, Cal, you fucking know we’re not allowed to have maps of any kind. You’ll land both our asses in trouble if the Lieutenant catches you with that—you for having it, and me for not confiscating it."

“Keep your cool, Almost-Sergeant Stimson. I’m not gonna get fuckin captured or nothing. There’s a lot of these floatin’ around.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, “The worst they do if they catch you is take it away and put you on guard duty for a week or so. They can’t afford to court-martial men or throw their asses in the brig and lose ’em from the work crew over a goddamn piece of paper.”

“I dunno. I don’t wanna mess with shit like this. I’m trying to keep my nose clean.”

“Yeah, you’re up for promotion again, but just take a look at the map. You’ll see—Fuckit.”

I confirmed we were alone, or at least so distant from anyone else that nobody could observe what we were doing.

“OK. Give it to me.”

Cal folded the map so only a narrow strip was visible and showed it to me.

Pointing to a tiny spot on the coast, he crowed triumphantly, “Here. You see...Fuckit!”

I took the chart and studied it closely. Then I snorted and gave him a dirty look. “You dumbass. It’s not Fuckit, it’s Phuket. It’s a beach resort on the Andaman Sea.”

I shoved the map back at him with a shake of my head. “Goddamn, Cal. You’re one stupid sonofabitch. Now hide this fucker before we’re both in deep shit over it.”

Cal hooted with laughter as he stuffed the map into a pocket. “Well, Fuckit or Phoo-ket like you say, it don’t fuckin matter. Us guys’re goin’, and there’s gonna be pussy, and we’re gonna fuckin get laid—over and over. You in or not?”

Shaking my head, I told him, “I don’t think so, Pal.”

His face filled with pity and concern. “Shit, Bobby, I know you’ve gotta have blue balls, just like the rest of us. Why the fuck won’t you come with us and let off some steam?”

I wrinkled my brow at him. “Come on, Cal. You know you’re gonna get all drunked up and start a fight with some goddamn sailor or Marine and end up with your ass in jail. And you’ll probably take half the damn squad with you.”

“Right. And that’s fuckin why you’ve gotta come. You’re the only one who won’t be fucked up and’ll be able to stop us from beatin’ the shit out of any asshole who looks at us cross-eyed.”

I scoffed, “Oh, so I’m only invited so I can keep your sorry asses out of trouble. Thanks a hell of a lot, but no thanks.” I started to walk away.

Cal stepped in front of me, which always meant he was being serious—or as serious as Cal ever got.

“No way, Bob! You work your fuckin ass off, day and night. You need to take some time off before you explode or have a goddamn stroke. That’s what R&R stands for—rest and...and—”

“Recuperation,” I supplied with an eye roll.

“Yeah, one of them goddamn ten-dollar words. Why can’t they just fuckin say ‘rest’ and leave it at that?”

I thought about it for a minute. Although I hated to admit it, Cal was right about me. I was working myself like a goddamn robot.

On arrival in Thailand, I got promoted to Airman First Class, but Cal insisted on calling me “Almost-Sergeant” when it was just the two of us. In my short-term career plan, I hoped to make sergeant within a year, if nothing changed—and if I was still alive.

To tell the truth, a few days of peace and quiet sounded great. Fuck. Who was I kidding? The men would be raising holy hell twenty-four hours a day!

Nevertheless, I might find an out-of-the-way corner of some beach where I could sit and chill. I’d join them for meals and keep an eye on things without joining in the debaucheries they were all so intent on enjoying.

I was tempted, but I needed to position myself out in front of the other squad leaders, so my superiors would feel justified in promoting me.

Why is a promotion so important to me? Am I trying to catch up to Dad? It took him thirty years to be where he is today, so why am I in such a goddamn rush? Fuck it! I need a rest, just as bad as my men do—maybe more, so why the hell shouldn’t I take it?

“All right, Cal. I’ll see if I can get leave.”

He guffawed. “Bullshit! You’re the one who assigns it to everyone.”

I nodded and laughed with him. At that instant, sirens went off all over the base.

“Shit. Another goddamn drill!” Cal complained.

With concern on my face, I disagreed. “If it is, it’s not on the fucking schedule. Let’s haul ass, Buddy!”

We headed for the shelter, which was nothing more than a big igloo made of hundred-pound sandbags. We ducked through the three-foot-high opening that faced west, away from the runway—the likely source of incoming munitions.

In the semi-dark, I saw my crew was already inside, and I did a mental roll call. One man was unaccounted-for.

As my eyes acclimated to the dim illumination coming in from the entrance, I called out to my men. “Where the hell is Carter?”

“He drove a truck over to the Armory to pick up a goddamn load of bombs,” one man answered.

“Shit.” The Armory was over a mile away. I only hoped he’d abandoned the bombs and hauled his ass to the nearest bunker.

If whoever was attacking us possessed reliable intelligence, they’d know where the fucking armory was and try to target it with everything they’ve got.

A direct hit on it would likely take out a significant portion of the airbase, as well as crippling our ability to attack them.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on, Bob?” one of my team members brought me back to reality with a shaky voice.

I tried to keep my voice calm. “If it’s a drill, I wasn’t informed.”

“How fuckin likely is that?” Another demanded.

Hoping to soothe my men, I lied, “Shit, you never fucking know around here. Let’s hope it’s all this is.”

My hopes were dashed seconds later when the first explosion shook the ground. I have no idea where the goddamn North Vietnamese got weapons like this, but China or Russia was a damn good guess.

The barrage started with a few widely spaced mortars that must have come from somewhere inside Laos. That goddamn country officially declared its neutrality in ’62, but the Pathet Lao Communist revolutionaries were unofficially allied with North Vietnam.

Their leader, Prince Souphanouvong, rebelled against his cousin the king and allowed the Viet Cong free passage through their territory. Now, it appeared they also allowed the motherfuckers to launch attacks on us from there. I was sure they would be made to pay dearly for that.

We were fifteen miles from the border, so in order to reach this far, the source of the firing must be right on the line (the Mekong River), unless they’d crossed into Thailand.

If that was what they’d done, it wouldn’t sit well with our hosts, who were comfortable observing the war from a safe distance. Hell, they might even kick us out if they suffered too many casualties.

The bombing intensified, and soon we were hit by more goddamn explosions than we could count.

“It sounds like most of them are hitting the runways,” Cal opined.

“That would be lucky for us,” I replied, mentally crossing my fingers.

We were not lucky. The shelling got louder, and the ground under us trembled like an earthquake that wouldn’t quit.

“Goddamn! When will they fucking stop?” one of my men exclaimed with agony in his voice.

“Just keep your cool and your asses up tight against the sandbags, men!” I shouted over the cacophony of destruction.

I thought that we might just come through this OK when a deafening explosion came from less than a hundred feet away, which was how far apart the bunkers were.

A split-second after the boom of the exploding artillery, the air was filled with the screams of men who’d been hit.

I saw nothing but raw terror in the eyes of my fellow airmen. One guy, Sal Bianchi, started praying out loud, “Hail Mary, full of grace—” I was reminded of the old maxim, “There are no atheists in foxholes.”

We listened without speaking, hoping Sal’s prayers would be answered. Instead, the answer was more seismic explosions all around us. They seemed endless, but the after-action report said the entire attack only lasted a little more than five minutes.

The bombing ceased as abruptly as it began.

An eerie silence hung in the air as though time had come to a halt, only to be instantly replaced by moans and cries for help from the wounded.

A few moments, or hell, it could just as well have been a few hours later, the all-clear sounded, weaker than before because many of the loudspeakers were now out of commission.

I realized I was holding my breath and took a couple of deep gulps of air before I surveyed the interior of the bunker.

All my men were accounted for except Carter, and I hoped to hell he found shelter somewhere. Their faces were pale, and most were shaking as adrenaline wore off.

My leadership training covered this, but only in theory, since there was no way to practice with real emotions. I needed to take charge and speak with calm confidence in my voice. Only, I wasn’t sure my vocal cords would work.

I became aware of Cal right next to me. I realized he’d stationed himself where he could do everything in his power to protect me and keep me alive.

His voice quavered. “You OK, Bob?”

I sighed and turned to face him. “I about shit my pants, but I’m still here.”

He chuckled, “Me, too. Good thing I’m wearing my goddamn skivvies today.”

I snorted, “Hell, I don’t even want to picture that. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“You’re The Man, Boss. We need your sorry ass.”

I nodded and focused my attention on my team, who were all still pressed against the sandbag walls. “Let’s go, men. They fucking need us.”

The long hours of training paid off as my men came to life and gathered the things they brought with them. In the chaos of the alert, each man either dropped whatever he had in his hands or held tight to it without thinking.

I observed which ones thought to grab a rifle, which of them held wrenches or other tools, and which ran for shelter empty-handed. I made a mental note to drill them on the proper response to an attack alert.

After I confirmed that everyone was alive, alert, and mobile, I squatted down and went first out of the access hole, followed one-by-one by the men of my squad. I got to my feet next to the entrance.

As they emerged, I assessed the impact of the attack on each man.

Most were shaken by the near-death experience, but I was glad no one came out of the dark bunker looking too worse for wear. True, one or two of them had piss-stains on their pants, but I paid no attention.

We fanned out to the nearby bunkers and checked on their occupants. It was a macabre duty, assessing who was still alive and passing by those who were gone.

More than one of my men gagged or threw up, and most of us had silent tears in our eyes as we faced the dead or mutilated bodies of men we knew and respected.

We’d received first-aid training, and several of the injured needed immediate assistance to stop bleeding or assist with breathing. I was proud of how my team sprang into action, saving the lives of those they could.

Medics arrived, and we joined them in extricating the wounded and loading them into American, Australian, and Thai ambulances.

I sent three of my men to be checked out. Shell shock and battle fatigue were real threats, and I wanted them to receive help as soon as possible if they needed it.

I finally had a moment to survey my own thoughts.

Goddammit! We’re supposed to be far enough from the goddamn border to keep this from happening. What went wrong? Why didn’t anybody pick up on the enemy’s preparations for this? They must have moved heavy equipment into position. With the fly-overs by the fucking high-altitude reconnaissance planes, it should have been noted, and we ought to have been warned.

Shit, we should have fucking bombed the hell out of them before they could attack. How the fuck did the goddamn enemy get so close to a major U.S. airbase? What is being done to make sure it doesn’t fucking happen again?

It was above my pay grade to ask these questions, but I intended to bitch to my father the next time we spoke. I knew he couldn’t do anything about it, but I wanted a sympathetic ear.

About an hour later, the CO summoned me to HQ with the other squad leaders, and we compiled detailed reports of the damage and casualties. We lost eighteen men, and twenty-two were injured enough to be transferred to hospitals in the capital city, Bangkok.

The enemy destroyed sixteen aircraft, including two B-36 bombers, and put almost thirty more out of commission but reparable. All of the runways were pock-marked with bomb craters.

It would to take days or weeks to restore the base to full service. Instead of loading planes, we were about to be converted into a fucking construction corps.

As I looked around the room, I realized I wasn’t the only man who wanted to know what the fuck happened. All we got were assurances that the security team was looking into the matter.

I returned to my team’s quarters and found them all sitting in nervous silence. In the aftermath of the near-death experience, most were chain-smoking. I ignored the bottle of whiskey they were passing around. They instinctively turned to me for information.

I was limited in what I was allowed to reveal, but I inhaled a deep breath and recited the stats on the attack.

Met with their silence, I offered, “We got lucky. It could have been a hell of a lot worse.” Their faces told me they didn’t believe a goddamn word of it, and neither did I.

********

Back in the U.S., the joint North Vietnamese-Pathet Lao attack made headlines, and I figured I was going to hear from Dad, who enjoyed the rank and influence to reach out to me.

Sure enough, I was summoned to HQ the next morning for a phone call.

“I’m fine, Dad. You didn’t need to break every goddamn rule in the book to check on me. They would’ve informed you if anything happened to me.”

“You’re right, Son, but I’m just a meddling father who abused his authority to get you on the horn.”

I chuckled. “Well, I’m not sorry you did it, but if word gets out, I’ll be on everybody else’s shit list.”

“I think the deputy commander will keep it confidential.”

We both went silent as everything unsaid hung in the void of the thousands of miles between us.

I tried to speak with confidence, although we both knew I was faking it. “I’m all right, Dad. It was living hell for about five minutes, but my men and I are all OK.”

“And what about the rest?”

“You know I can’t say anything about that, Dad, but I’m sure you’ll see an official casualty report in a day or two.”

“And base ops?” He caught himself. “Don’t answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I can say operations are normal, and my crew is busy patching potholes.”

“And that gives the goddamn Commies a break from the bombing.”

“Not too much of one, Dad. We’re far from being the only bomber base around here.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Son.” He coughed loudly for several seconds.

I couldn’t hide my concern. “Are you OK, Dad? Did this throw you for one? How about Teddy?”

“First, I’ve been in combat in Europe and Korea. I know how it goes, so I did the only thing I could.”

“And what is that?”

“I chain-smoked and drank Jack and Coke until I heard something.”

I laughed. “I wish I could’ve joined you!”

“It’s not the recommended approach in such situations, but it helped a little. I got the word pretty soon after the attack.”

“And Teddy?”

“He was at school, so he didn’t find out until he got home. I think he smoked as much as I did after I told him, but I limited him to plain Coke. We sat on the patio and watched the goddamn birds in the back yard.”

“I understand. It’s frustrating as hell when you can’t do anything.”

“Which is how it must have been for you. You made it to a bunker?”

“Can’t say, Dad, but my men and I are safe.”

“Understood. I’m glad you didn’t lose any.”

“A few needed to change their underwear, is all.”

Dad laughed and then coughed again. “I almost ended up that way when I the goddamn phone rang.”

“Come on, Dad. You know they wouldn’t give you bad news over the phone.”

“Of course not, but my heart still skipped a beat when I heard it ring.”

His voice took on the military sternness I knew all too well. “Any word on how the hell this happened? What about our reconnaissance? Did somebody drop the ball and let the sons of bitches get so close to you?”

I hesitated. My father knew the line was monitored, and that I wasn’t allowed to say anything at all about the military situation.

“Cool it, Colonel. You know I can’t say shit about that, or anything else.” My voice softened. “I get it, Dad—you’re pissed, but just don’t say any more about it, OK?”

He took a deep breath and coughed several more times.

“You sure you’re OK? I don’t like the sound of that cough.”

“Of course. You’re right, Son, and I know damn well I shouldn’t have asked—” he raised his voice a little for the benefit of the censor monitoring our call, “—even though I’m cleared at the highest level of security!”

He sighed in the way that only a parent could. “I’m just glad you made it through, Bobby, and I hope like hell it never happens again.”

“Confirmed, Colonel, Sir.” I changed the subject. “What’s with the cough, Dad? You all right?”

“Thanks, Airman. I’m fine. Just a little allergy.”

I gave him another few seconds to focus.

“Well, Dad, I better get off this goddamn phone, which you weren’t supposed to call me on anyway.”

“It helps to have friends in high places.”

I laughed. “I hope they don’t take it out on me now.”

“You just let me know if they do!”

My voice turned somber. “Dad, this is war. Shit is gonna happen, and we’ve been luckier than we deserved. Don’t worry. I’m doing every goddamn thing I can to stay alive, and keep my men safe, too.”

It was my turn to take a stab at an authoritative tone. “And Dad, I don’t want you fucking calling me after every bad news story. Most of them are bullshit that’s wrong or exaggerated. OK?”

“I hear you, Son, but I’m not promising anything.” I heard him take a long sip of his drink. “Take care. OK, Bobby?”

“You got it, Dad. Always. Give my best to Teddy. I’ll write when I can—and you have a doctor check out your goddamn cough, for shit’s sake!”

“Thanks, Son.” I detected a hitch in his voice that I knew came from holding back tears.

When Dad hung up, I promised myself, “I ever have a son, I’ll move heaven and earth to keep his ass out of the military.”

********

My squad and I were transformed from bomb-packers to diggers and movers of the shit the bombardment destroyed. The fucked-up runways were top priority, and we found ourselves clearing debris and filling craters for the next couple of weeks.

Over the next days, more than half a dozen other airbases launched bomber attacks. The North Vietnamese suffered even worse punishment in retaliation than they’d been getting before the bombing. I tried not to think of all the civilians those bombs were falling on.

Whoever said, “War is hell,” must have taken a private tour like Dante’s visit to the Inferno below. My men were quiet, lost in their thoughts much of the time.

I did my best to inspire them, but I had my own demons to wrestle with. For many nights, I either couldn’t fall asleep or, worse, woke up dreaming of bombs falling all around me.

As they restored the alert sirens, the base was careful to give everyone notice of any testing. The higher-ups seemed to realize the sound might trigger panic attacks or other emotions.

I made a point of joining my men whenever they got leave to go into town. I nursed one beer for the whole evening, doing what I could to keep morale high and telling every dirty joke I knew.

Steering them away from the whorehouses would have been impossible. They needed the physical release, so I looked the other way. There was no such release for me, though.

They thanked me for being in the bunker with them, and many also asked how I was handling it all. I assured them I was fine and kept a close watch over my behavior, so as not to give away how much the attack affected me.

As ground crew at an airfield hundreds of miles from the fighting, we’d become numb to the possibility of actual combat. Of course, we knew it could happen, but months of monotony lulled everyone into a false sense of security.

When the attack came, we reacted as we were trained, but nothing prepared us for the deafening noise and petrifying tremors that endangered our very existence.

The seemingly endless barrage stripped away at our mental defenses and exposed every one of us to fear, doubt, and desperation.

We were all required to spend an hour with a shrink, and more than a few were referred for extended counseling. Some refused it, which was their right, but I kept a closer eye on them for the next few months.

My father and brother wrote to me more often after the attack, and I did my best to carve out time to answer them. I even got a “Thinking of You” greeting card from Angie.

War has a way of intruding into entire families and shaking up the lives of loved ones thousands of miles away. I wished to hell it would be over soon, but I saw no reason for optimism.

The North Vietnamese seemed unstoppable, and every assault on them just ended up in defeat with more American men and boys going home in coffins. Of course, a lot of Vietnamese people on both sides were dying, too, including innocent civilians.

To make matters worse, opposition to the war was mushrooming back in the U.S. Our superiors made every effort to keep that news from us, but it always managed to trickle down to the last man.

Dad and Teddy never mentioned it—it would have been blacked out in their letters by the censors anyway—and yet we all knew that what we were risking our lives for was quickly becoming unpopular.

But what the fuck could we do? We were stuck there, half a world away, bound by oath and duty.

We had no input into the strategy or politics of the goddamn conflict, so we just did what we were told and tried to bury our doubts with booze, tobacco, and women.

I tried to set a good example when it came to booze and women, but I was smoking two packs a day and wanting more.

I was so tired all the time that merely thinking about finding a sexual partner wore me out, and casual sex with a stranger was something I intended to avoid.

I spent what little spare time I had reading great literature. I went through almost everything Shakespeare wrote and then tackled nineteenth-century American writers like Emerson and Thoreau.

One afternoon, I lobbed my volume of Emerson into the wall across the room after reading words that only could only be written by a man who has never fucking been near a war.

“War educates the senses, calls into action the will, perfects the physical constitution, brings men into such swift and close collision in critical moments that man measures man.” What fucking bullshit!

Thoreau was the opposite extreme. He went to jail rather than pay the poll tax that helped support the Mexican-American War. I may not like this war, but I volunteered to be part of it, and I damn well intend to give it my best.

Despite my reaction to some of it, reading helped occupy my thoughts a little, but the imminence of another attack, or worse, an invasion, was always in the back of my mind.

I'm going to interrupt the factual reporting right here to express a personal opinion. Feel free to treat it as bullshit.

Looking back now, nearly fifty years later, I have no regrets. Sure, the U.S. getting involved in what was in reality a civil war propping up a corrupt regime was a bad idea, right from the start.

It all began with a false report of an attack on an American ship and was justified with some bullshit theory about dominoes and stopping the spread of Communism.

Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn’t it? But once we committed to it, we owed it to their country and ours to do everything in our power to win the goddamn thing.

I signed up understanding I would have to do things that no civilian would ever be asked or willing to do.

Starting from that knowledge, I made it my job to protect my men and the others around me. Holding onto that narrow focus, I was able to survive—in mind and body—some of the most brutal shit I ever faced in my life.

I find today that I’m not in favor of war anywhere, but it saddens me to admit that sometimes there’s little choice.

No matter how high our ideals or moral objections to going to war may be, our enemies feel no such compunctions and strive to force us into either surrendering or fighting back.

Cal liked to say, “Life’s a bitch, and then you die,” but I refuse to accept that.

Life is what you make of it. Nobody gets all the breaks, and the measure of the man is how and what he does when he has no other choice. Amen...end of my goddamn sermon!

I survived, and my story continued, for better or worse.