cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
It's all about luck. You're a second lieutenant cutting travel orders for grunts and sailors at Seatac Airport and somewhere in the bowels of the Pentagon, three thousand miles away, a clerk picks up a message from a unit in Vietnam that says, "we need a 95 Alpha in exactly 179 days." He shuffles through a stack of personnel records, picks up a paper with your name on it and the magic "95 Alpha," notices that you're up for reassignment in 180 days. Voila! He slaps the two pieces of paper together and you, Second Lieutenant Forrest G. Brandt are headed off for some place called Long Bihn Logistical Base.
It was a fat job: eat in clean messhalls, sleep in a dorm with running water, ride a bus to work, sit in an office and shuffle paper, try and not get down range of the two majors who want you to be their DLJO, Dirty Little Job Officer. You look around and wonder how you're going to survive 365 days of aimless bull shit without going bonkers.
More luck. a chief warrant officer who "works for you" (a real laugh as those with military experience will note) knows the Public Information Officer for all of Vietnam. He makes a phone call, you make a visit, your boss, a lieutenant colonel, and the two majors have a shit hemmorage, "you won't leave here until I release you," but in the end you win because the PIO's boss is a 4 star. Pure luck.
Just like that, you're out of the base camp and into tent city at the forward base for the Firsty Infantry Division, Lai Khe, Vietnam.
I arrived on Novemebr 15th and began a tour with the division's Public Information Officer, Major Bob Chick, incredible photographer, writer, editor and a mentor to young lieutenants.
Lai Khe, 3 December 1968: It was supposed to be the start of dry season, but the skies darkened, the daily temperature dropped and the country seemed to be much more hospitable. This third night in December was marked by a steady rain. It beat down on the tops of the tents in a drone of drum taps. Ruts in the oiled streets turned into puddles that shimmered in paisley patterns, reflecting the lights of the jeeps and trucks that splashed around the base camp roads.
I came back to the office after dinner, retrieved the swivel chair from Sgt. Jay Smith's desk, and spent some time catching up on letters home and trying to get a handle on the General's Christmas letter to his staff. Major Chick, whose office was in the adjacent tent, had asked me to put something together and I was stuck in a groove. The only idea I could come up with was the Dickens' line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." I twisted it around in a dozen different ways and each time Chick would call me over to his tent. "This isn't what the general wants to say, Forrest. You make it sound as if all any of us think about is being home."
Well, I thought to myself, isn't that the issue here?
Chick was becoming exasperated, I was becoming frustrated and the project was nearing deadline.
Definitely the worst of times.
Someone brought Charlie Gibbon, our pet monkey, into the office. It was a mistake. He began his visit by climbing up into the tent's rafters and gorging himself on all the goodies he could find in the spider webs that filled each junction in the roof including a few of the spiders themselves. We all knew that he would soon get sick and puke those same tidbits down onto someone's desk. Since he was nowhere near my desk his upset stomach was not my concern.
I fooled around with the General's letter some more and then set it aside in anger. The problem was that I could not, would not, let go of my values and see and say things in the language of a career officer. I wanted to be home. Christmas time made that wish all the more poignant. I was sure that the "lifers" were here willingly doing their career work. In my mind they didn't miss home. They really wanted to be here and they wanted us to be there with them.
My mood began to turn into something dark and brooding, something as black as the evening sky that surrounded me. I began a long letter to Jan Kihlken, the girl I had dated through my senior year. She was teaching fourth graders and had asked me to write to them. I filled a page or two with idle chit chat regarding the Buckeye's forthcoming Rose Bowl game. Then something snapped inside me. I decided it was time for 9 year olds to get the straight skinny about war. "Learn the truth now before you go off to college, join ROTC, and end up being a PIO officer in Bumfuck, Egypt or Lai Khe, Vietnam!" My pen sped across the paper, anger and cynicism foaming up in a hostile brew.
About this time Gibbon up chucked all over PFC Clark's drafting table. Never the most stable member of our jolly crew, Clark flung his reading glasses across the tent, "Gibbon, you son of bitch!" he screamed, his face turning crimson. He shook his fist at his tormentor, "Get your ass down here!"
Gibbon stared at Clark for a long second and then relieved himself, the urine falling on the edge of Clark's desk and the floor. Clark John Wayned the table and stormed out into the night, not even bothering to grab his poncho.
Maybe what I had was contagious.
Specialist Dominic Sondy and I cleaned up the mess. Despite the pouring rain we put Gibbon back on his chain and sat him back on top of the bunker. Gibbon tested his tether in the hope that he might be able to reach back into the tent, howled when he could not, and finally resigned himself to his fate and crawled into the shelter.
"That's enough for me tonight," said Sondy. "See you tomorrow, Sir." He put on his poncho and headed off in the same direction as Clark.
That left me alone. I continued my letter to Jan. I wrote about some of the horrible scenes I had witnessed since arriving. I threw in a set of 8 X 10, black and white glossies, photos taken by Sergeant Jay Smith and Sondy, from the battle at fire support base Julie. They weren't the worst ones I could have picked but they didn't leave much to the imagination as to the ferocity of that battle.
It was a pissy thing to do. I knew Jan could not read the letter to her kids or use the photos in her classroom. She was hoping for a cheerful letter from a college friend telling the kids something about a strange and distant land, a note free of the cares and worries I was so anxious to unload. She was hoping for photos of smiling GI's and happy Vietnamese kids, maybe a truck and a jeep or two, and perhaps a single, staged, photo of a platoon just starting out on patrol: starched fatigues, polished boots and smiles on their faces. PIO bull shit. Safe for public consumption. No blood or body parts. "Here you go kids, wholesome entertainment for the family, and all brought to you by the fine folks in your United States Army."
I had boxes full of that kind of stuff. The office churned it out everyday, along with the harder stories, but I wasn't about to deny myself. I let my misery take over. I wanted to punish Jan and her class for my being stuck in Vietnam. I saw no glory here. I saw no reason for our being here, my being here.
I wanted out.
I wanted home.
I wanted this over.
I sealed the envelope, addressed it, and then set it aside to mail the next morning. Then I pulled my rain gear over my fatigues, pushed the swivel chair under my desk, turned out the lights, and stepped into the pouring gloom, heading toward the O club. A double scotch or two would either break me out of this mood or turn it into a really fine funk.
Happy fucking Holidays
It was a fat job: eat in clean messhalls, sleep in a dorm with running water, ride a bus to work, sit in an office and shuffle paper, try and not get down range of the two majors who want you to be their DLJO, Dirty Little Job Officer. You look around and wonder how you're going to survive 365 days of aimless bull shit without going bonkers.
More luck. a chief warrant officer who "works for you" (a real laugh as those with military experience will note) knows the Public Information Officer for all of Vietnam. He makes a phone call, you make a visit, your boss, a lieutenant colonel, and the two majors have a shit hemmorage, "you won't leave here until I release you," but in the end you win because the PIO's boss is a 4 star. Pure luck.
Just like that, you're out of the base camp and into tent city at the forward base for the Firsty Infantry Division, Lai Khe, Vietnam.
I arrived on Novemebr 15th and began a tour with the division's Public Information Officer, Major Bob Chick, incredible photographer, writer, editor and a mentor to young lieutenants.
Lai Khe, 3 December 1968: It was supposed to be the start of dry season, but the skies darkened, the daily temperature dropped and the country seemed to be much more hospitable. This third night in December was marked by a steady rain. It beat down on the tops of the tents in a drone of drum taps. Ruts in the oiled streets turned into puddles that shimmered in paisley patterns, reflecting the lights of the jeeps and trucks that splashed around the base camp roads.
I came back to the office after dinner, retrieved the swivel chair from Sgt. Jay Smith's desk, and spent some time catching up on letters home and trying to get a handle on the General's Christmas letter to his staff. Major Chick, whose office was in the adjacent tent, had asked me to put something together and I was stuck in a groove. The only idea I could come up with was the Dickens' line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." I twisted it around in a dozen different ways and each time Chick would call me over to his tent. "This isn't what the general wants to say, Forrest. You make it sound as if all any of us think about is being home."
Well, I thought to myself, isn't that the issue here?
Chick was becoming exasperated, I was becoming frustrated and the project was nearing deadline.
Definitely the worst of times.
Someone brought Charlie Gibbon, our pet monkey, into the office. It was a mistake. He began his visit by climbing up into the tent's rafters and gorging himself on all the goodies he could find in the spider webs that filled each junction in the roof including a few of the spiders themselves. We all knew that he would soon get sick and puke those same tidbits down onto someone's desk. Since he was nowhere near my desk his upset stomach was not my concern.
I fooled around with the General's letter some more and then set it aside in anger. The problem was that I could not, would not, let go of my values and see and say things in the language of a career officer. I wanted to be home. Christmas time made that wish all the more poignant. I was sure that the "lifers" were here willingly doing their career work. In my mind they didn't miss home. They really wanted to be here and they wanted us to be there with them.
My mood began to turn into something dark and brooding, something as black as the evening sky that surrounded me. I began a long letter to Jan Kihlken, the girl I had dated through my senior year. She was teaching fourth graders and had asked me to write to them. I filled a page or two with idle chit chat regarding the Buckeye's forthcoming Rose Bowl game. Then something snapped inside me. I decided it was time for 9 year olds to get the straight skinny about war. "Learn the truth now before you go off to college, join ROTC, and end up being a PIO officer in Bumfuck, Egypt or Lai Khe, Vietnam!" My pen sped across the paper, anger and cynicism foaming up in a hostile brew.
About this time Gibbon up chucked all over PFC Clark's drafting table. Never the most stable member of our jolly crew, Clark flung his reading glasses across the tent, "Gibbon, you son of bitch!" he screamed, his face turning crimson. He shook his fist at his tormentor, "Get your ass down here!"
Gibbon stared at Clark for a long second and then relieved himself, the urine falling on the edge of Clark's desk and the floor. Clark John Wayned the table and stormed out into the night, not even bothering to grab his poncho.
Maybe what I had was contagious.
Specialist Dominic Sondy and I cleaned up the mess. Despite the pouring rain we put Gibbon back on his chain and sat him back on top of the bunker. Gibbon tested his tether in the hope that he might be able to reach back into the tent, howled when he could not, and finally resigned himself to his fate and crawled into the shelter.
"That's enough for me tonight," said Sondy. "See you tomorrow, Sir." He put on his poncho and headed off in the same direction as Clark.
That left me alone. I continued my letter to Jan. I wrote about some of the horrible scenes I had witnessed since arriving. I threw in a set of 8 X 10, black and white glossies, photos taken by Sergeant Jay Smith and Sondy, from the battle at fire support base Julie. They weren't the worst ones I could have picked but they didn't leave much to the imagination as to the ferocity of that battle.
It was a pissy thing to do. I knew Jan could not read the letter to her kids or use the photos in her classroom. She was hoping for a cheerful letter from a college friend telling the kids something about a strange and distant land, a note free of the cares and worries I was so anxious to unload. She was hoping for photos of smiling GI's and happy Vietnamese kids, maybe a truck and a jeep or two, and perhaps a single, staged, photo of a platoon just starting out on patrol: starched fatigues, polished boots and smiles on their faces. PIO bull shit. Safe for public consumption. No blood or body parts. "Here you go kids, wholesome entertainment for the family, and all brought to you by the fine folks in your United States Army."
I had boxes full of that kind of stuff. The office churned it out everyday, along with the harder stories, but I wasn't about to deny myself. I let my misery take over. I wanted to punish Jan and her class for my being stuck in Vietnam. I saw no glory here. I saw no reason for our being here, my being here.
I wanted out.
I wanted home.
I wanted this over.
I sealed the envelope, addressed it, and then set it aside to mail the next morning. Then I pulled my rain gear over my fatigues, pushed the swivel chair under my desk, turned out the lights, and stepped into the pouring gloom, heading toward the O club. A double scotch or two would either break me out of this mood or turn it into a really fine funk.
Happy fucking Holidays
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