Racing Back to Vietnam Read online

  I was glad to have the opportunity to attend JSS. Search and rescue is a deadly serious business, and I paid close attention to everything I was told. Much of the training dealt with survival and rescue gear; items like radios, flares, and parachutes, the equipment that would help keep you alive if you were shot down.

  Probably the most important thing we practiced was calling in the HH-53 rescue helicopter, the Super Jolly Green Giant. These mammoth green choppers, the final link in the Search and Rescue (SAR) mission, pulled hundreds of downed airmen to safety during the Vietnam War.

  It was an interesting exercise. If you are shot down, the Jolly Green has to pinpoint your location in order to pick you up. As the chopper flies overhead, you direct it via your radio on the correct direction to turn: “Turn right thirty degrees, back left ten degrees.” It’s sort of like a game of “hot and cold.” You talk back and forth with the Jolly Green and, once he has a fix on your position, you activate your rescue flare (“pulling your smoke”). A large plume of smoke shoots into the sky, the chopper hovers overhead and lowers the jungle penetrator, a large cable with three arms on the end folded inward that is designed to break through the jungle canopy. You let the boom hit the ground, unfold the arms, fasten the sling, take a seat, grip the cable firmly with both hands, and away you go, up into the sky.

  We practiced in an open area rather than a triple canopy jungle, and everyone got to take a turn. The whole experience was new and different, rising into the heavens (though it was probably little more than twenty yards), holding on for dear life, hoping this was the only time you would ever have to do this. I could tell the Jolly Green crew was a little bored, even annoyed. Those men are genuine heroes, and this was a humdrum, tedious routine for them.

  Needless to say, JSS is staged in a jungle. Now, I like the outdoors, and I grew up in small town Mississippi, but the only jungle I had ever seen was in Tarzan movies. The hills around Clark AFB were the real thing: pristine, unadulterated jungle that looked as if no one had visited in centuries. Tall canopy forests, a lot of vines, plenty of strange insects, near constant animal noises, the works.

  The prevailing wisdom at JSS was that there’s plenty of food and water in the jungle…if you know where to search. I wasn’t sure I believed that, and I hoped I didn’t have to find out. We received briefings on what to eat and, in a few cases, what to never, ever eat. In the jungles of Southeast Asia, there were quite a few things that would kill you if you ate them. Everyone received a deck of cards with the various plants and their names pictured in bold green colors. Of course, no one seemed to take the deck of cards very seriously; it’s hard enough to memorize the names of foreign plants, and it wasn’t very practical to take along a deck of cards when you flew.

  The jungle itself wasn’t the only danger that downed airmen faced. If you were unfortunate enough to be shot down in Southeast Asia, you also had to know how to hide and evade the enemy until you could (hopefully) be rescued. For that reason, the JSS employed local Negrito tribesmen to teach evasion and survival skills. These short, dark-skinned aborigines had lived in the jungle for centuries. Reported to be loyal resistance fighters during the World War II Japanese occupation, the Negritos around Clark Air Base were accorded special privileges.

  Whenever we were in the jungle, the Negritos would be hanging around, squatting silently and safely away from any Americans. They spoke little English, and no one seemed to speak their dialect, but they always seemed to be aware of what was going on. The Negritos knew the jungle, and they were part of the great game we played each morning. Each of us was given a small marker or chit to carry in our pockets. We were sent into the jungle with a one hour head start, ahead of the Negritos. The object was to hide and avoid detection until mid-day. If the Negrito trackers found you, you had to surrender your chit without complaint. Each capture meant that the Negritos were a bag of rice richer.

  My strategy was simple. I headed out into the jungle at a brisk jog, carrying nothing but a couple of flasks of water. I felt that if I put a lot of distance behind me I could hide successfully while the Negrito trackers searched closer to home. I figured that even though the Negritos knew the jungle well, they would still need time to check the various hiding spots.

  There were no signs in the jungle, no roads, not even anything I’d call a well-worn path. I had run for nearly an hour when it occurred to me that I might have been better off putting as much effort in hiding as I had in running.

  I found a good tree with thick foliage. In reality, the jungle is full of “good trees;” what made this tree appealing were the sturdy, low-lying limbs that let me climb fifteen feet into the air. I settled on my perch, sipped my last bit of water, congratulated myself on being lord of the jungle, and waited for a couple of hours to pass before I emerged triumphantly from my hiding spot.

  Less than twenty minutes later, a pair of Negritos dressed in cut-off shorts, old tee shirts, and worn out sneakers came gliding past silently. They went twenty yards in the opposite direction, stopped, turned around, and came back to my tree. The pair looked up, grinned, and whispered, “Chit, chit, come, come.” I climbed down and handed over my chit. With one man in front of me and one behind, they led me back to the starting point.

  I had spent sixty minutes running away, but it took only twenty minutes of walking to get home. I must have spent a lot of time running in circles. I could tell that surviving in the jungle wasn’t one of my strong points; I hoped I never had to use these evasion skills in Vietnam.

  Da Nang Air Base was everything I’d expected: hot, humid, and loud. My new home was the epicenter of the air war in Southeast Asia, the busiest airport in the world—a land of barbed wire and sandbags, living from one disaster to the next. F-4 Phantoms flew around the clock and the smell of jet fuel seemed to linger in the air. There were no grass lawns and no trees, just ugly weeds lining the ditches. Save for the runways, the base had the impermanence of a movie set. Most of the buildings were prefabricated modular units that had been added as the war grew and grew. The whole complex was surrounded by twin security fences, separated by a heavily mined no-man’s land with guard posts manned by South Vietnamese soldiers.

  As I left the plane, already sweating profusely, an enlisted man helped carry one of my duffel bags. “Damn, Doc,” he said, “did you bring a load of bricks to Vietnam?”

  If you’re on flying status, you’re granted an extra hundred pounds of luggage, and I had used every ounce of my allowance. Since I would be starting my ophthalmology residency when my tour at Da Nang was done, I had brought along many of my textbooks to study. I was probably the first person to bring his library with him to the Vietnam War.

  Because I had arrived a few days ahead of schedule, there was no one at the arrival terminal to welcome me to Vietnam, no one to tell me what to do or where to go. I got on the phone, called my squadron, introduced myself, and told them I needed a lift. A short ride later, I was at my squadron headquarters, my new home for the next twelve months.

  The sign on the front said “390th Tactical Fighter Squadron” and featured a large oval plaque with a wild boar’s head. The boar was dark brown with wild-looking eyes and menacing tusks. The 390th was one of three F-4 Phantom squadrons that made up the 366th Tactical Fighter Wing (TFW), known as the Gunfighters.

  The Gunfighter name struck a chord with me. It seemed like a good name for a fighter wing; it had a Wild West aura, a certain panache, sort of like the shootout at the OK Corral.

  Of course, I soon learned that the Gunfighter name was due to the wing’s success with a 20 mm external mounted gun pod. Early F-4 models were forced to rely on radar-guided or heat-seeking missiles in aerial combat. The nose gun was a welcome addition for dogfights as well as for close air support of ground troops.

  Later, I found out there was a little more to the name. It turned out that part of the impetus for the Gunfighter tag came from a rivalry between two Air Force wings. The 8th TFW in Ubon, Thailand was led by one of the greates
t fighter pilots of all time, Colonel Robin Olds. Known as the “Wolfpack” and headed by the dashing, charismatic Olds, the 8th TFW seemed to garner all the publicity. In May 1967, the month with the most air-to-air engagements during the entire Rolling Thunder campaign, the 366th TFW (my new wing) had scored one more aerial victory than the 8th TFW, but didn’t get as much attention in the media as the Wolfpack. It was determined that what the 366th TFW needed to catch the public’s eye was a label that people could remember; a name, not a number. Thus, the Gunfighter moniker was born.

  The squadron barracks, or hootch as they were sometimes known, looked a lot like a low-class college dorm; a little basic, but not bad at all for wartime. Each room had two single beds, a couple of desks, wall-mounted closets, and linoleum floors. My bed had linen, a blanket, a pillow, a flak-jacket, and a steel helmet; all in all, not the usual recipe for a good night’s sleep. A small window about the size of a loaf of bread let in a glimmer of sunlight, and an air conditioner that rattled mercilessly was anchored beneath the window. A basic bathroom and shower was shared by two rooms. And, since in the vernacular of wartime I was an FNG (a “F—ing New Guy”) I drew a second floor room with a dying air conditioner.

  The two-story barracks were sandbagged on the outside up to around six feet in height. The outside of the top floor was bare, with no sandbag protection. The walls seemed barely thick enough to stop someone with a slingshot. I mentioned this sandbag deficiency to some of the other guys, but no one seemed concerned. In retrospect, I understand their attitude; this was my first day in Vietnam, and I was complaining about a lack of sandbags to men who were getting shot at over the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I kept my mouth shut and hoped a room on the ground floor would open up.

  Soon it was late afternoon, and after unpacking, I walked down to the medical dispensary, the spot where I would spend most of my working days. The 366th Tactical Fighter Wing was the main occupant of Da Nang Air Base, and was, in fact, the reason for the base’s existence. As a result, the Gunfighter theme extended to the rest of the base. The entrance to our medical complex had a sign that said, “366th Dispensary, the Germfighters.” What could be better? I thought; I was going to be a Gunfighter and a Germfighter at the same time.

  If I had walked a few blocks further, I would have found the base chapel, home of the “Sinfighters.” The military chaplains were there to help with the myriad of spiritual and social problems that arise in wartime. Everyone knows that Satan never takes a holiday, and the same can be said for the war. Since the conflict ran seven days a week, around the clock, the chaplains would post a sign in the front of the chapel on the Sabbath that read, “Today is Sunday.”

  Upon reaching the dispensary, one of the other flight surgeons took me around and introduced me to everyone at the dispensary. There were two or three other flight surgeons and three or four general medical officers on the staff. In addition to flying, the flight surgeons took care of the pilots and navigators, removing them from flying status when they were ill and clearing them to return to the air when they were well. Otherwise, a flight surgeon’s medical duties are much the same as a general medical officer. We had a lot in common: we were all just a year or two removed from an internship, not yet trained in a specialty, and used to long hours of work.

  Oh, and one other thing: no one had volunteered to serve at Da Nang.

  Everyone seemed glad to see me, appreciative of an extra hand to share the work, sympathetic for a man just starting a year-long journey, and happy to share insights on what to expect at Da Nang.

  When you first arrive at a new assignment, you are constantly meeting new people. Most of the other physicians were friendly and curious. We learned about each other’s family, friends, training, and future plans. A common theme was, “How in the hell did we end up here?” Few physicians ever joined the Air Force with plans to come to Vietnam.

  One or two of the people I met barely seemed to catch my name. Since I was a late arrival and they were scheduled to rotate home soon, I was a mere blip on the screen. It wasn’t worth their time or effort to befriend me, as they would soon be gone. These men were “short;” in other words, they were not long for the world of Southeast Asia.

  Everyone sent to Vietnam served a twelve-month tour. If you arrived on a certain day, your date of estimated return from overseas (DEROS) was one year later. Time worked backwards; days of the week had no meaning in wartime, only the number of days until your DEROS, hence the Sinfighter’s Sunday sign. Everyone had their DEROS tattooed on their brain. It was the most important date in the world. You might forget your wedding anniversary, but you never lost track of your DEROS.

  That night, I laid in bed, tired and a little depressed. I was the longest man in all of Vietnam; twelve months seemed like an eternity. The food at the mess hall was so bad that I could barely eat it. The troops eating field rations out in the jungle probably would have loved it, but I could barely keep it down. I really missed my wife and nine-month-old son, John.

  My first day in country set the tone for my entire time in Vietnam. For nearly a year, I was under-loved and underfed, the worst curses that any man can suffer.

  I laid in bed, brooding; a year to go in this distant corner of the globe, no family and food unfit for a dog. Self-pity flowed like a river. How could it possibly get any worse?

  It all began in the middle of the night. For a moment, I thought I was having a bad dream. Loud explosions rang out, the ground shook and rumbled, search lights and flares lit the sky, sirens wailed. A disembodied voice came over the loudspeaker confirming the obvious: “Da Nang is under attack.”

  The rockets came both singly and in groups. The attack would seem to be over, and then a latecomer would explode, an afterthought of some inconsiderate Viet Cong.

  Welcome to Rocket City.

  During the Vietnam War, Da Nang was attacked nearly a hundred times. Early on, there had been sappers and mortars, but now it was mostly rockets. I was well aware of Da Nang’s reputation. Before I’d arrived, I’d tried to learn something about rockets; I’d even tried to read a book about them, but I gave up after a few pages. The book was of little help to me; it seemed like a manual for people with engineering degrees.

  Everything I actually learned about rockets I learned from talking to other people at Da Nang. Everyone had a story to share; legends and myths blended in with facts. Apparently, most of the rockets being used were 122 mm Russian-made weapons with a range of several miles. Since launch sites were subject to retaliatory artillery or air strikes, the rockets were set up on earthen ramps with a timer to delay the launch, allowing the Viet Cong to safely escape.

  The main targets were the barracks, fuel storage areas, bomb dumps, and aircraft. By the time I arrived at Da Nang, most of the aircraft were parked in concrete revetments safely out of harm’s way. The people were less well-protected. Six weeks after I arrived, a rocket hit an enlisted men’s barracks, killing five and wounding thirty-eight. The whole experience of rocket attacks had a Russian roulette quality to it. Since an air base has a lot of open space, the rockets would sometimes only make a big hole in the ground or a crater in one of the runways, something that could be repaired in a few hours. Other times, they caused death and destruction.

  I’m no warrior; I was scared as hell. Only a fool would be optimistic in a spot like that. My instinct to stay alive was strong, but what could I do? Pretend it wasn’t happening? Hope it would go away? Drop down on my knees in prayer? I knew this wasn’t the siege at Khe Sanh and it wasn’t the Marines battling at Hue, but it felt real enough to me.

  It was a bad beginning to a long year. On my first night in Vietnam, I was cooped up in my non-air conditioned room, sweating in my underwear, blaming myself for leaving JSS ahead of schedule and cursing the IRS for enticing me to an early trip to a combat zone. I slipped on my flak jacket, strapped on my steel helmet, and cuddled up in the corner in the fetal position. It was impossible to think of sleep while wearing a helmet and flak jacket; real g
runts in the field may do it, but that’s not me. I was never cut out to be an infantryman. The terror of waiting out an artillery or rocket attack isn’t like flying fighters—you can’t dodge, and there’s no skill involved. If a rocket has your name on it, you’re done. I lay there wondering how many ways a man can be afraid.

  As I laid in bed, waiting for my number to come up, my roommate twisted a little bit, made some noises that didn’t really seem human, and rolled back over. I wondered if I should wake him and tell him to put on his gear. But I was the new guy, and I didn’t know my barracks buddy very well. Is there etiquette for rocket attacks? I wondered. Wake me only if you think I might be killed or injured?

  As I lay in bed, trying to remind myself that when something can’t go on forever, it will eventually stop, I eventually dozed a little, and before long, the morning sun was peeking through the window.

  At Da Nang, the rockets always came at night. I grew to love the light of dawn. I got out of bed with only 364 days left to go in country.

  My hour had not yet come.

  It all seemed grossly unfair. My arrival at Da Nang must have been badly timed, I thought. I had assumed that when you reported for war, you were given a grace period, a freshman orientation, a honeymoon of sorts, before the fighting began. Being shot at was an abstract concept that I wasn’t prepared to confront, much less deal with. For me, my first night in Vietnam had veered toward the apocalyptic. The best that could be said was that I was a wealthier man due to my early arrival in country. A solid $500 of income saved from the greedy claws of the IRS, plus an extra month of combat pay.

  This wasn’t the last time someone would try to kill me in Vietnam. I hoped that in the future, I could muster up a little more courage than I had shown my first day at war.