STAND TO ...:

Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our initial approach into Cam Rahn Bay, Republic of Vietnam. Please fasten your seatbelts.” An uneasy shuffle began throughout the cabin when the stewardess made the announcement. Everyone stretched, sat up, or moved so they could peer out the window at the country many of us had only seen on the evening news. The government-contracted Continental Airlines flight had been long and tiring, with only short stopovers in Hawaii and Japan for refueling. Cards in our pockets declared we were members of the Imperial Order of the Golden Dragon, since we crossed the International Date Line hours ago. I recalled the feeling I had as we crossed that line; it represented a change in my life, as if I’d crossed the line into adulthood. However, my journey wasn’t complete yet. My past two years were filled with changes. A couple of semesters at Florida State after high school graduation showed me that I wasn’t ready to focus on studies, so I tried working for Martin-Marietta, and even though the money was good for a nineteen-year-old, I felt an obligation to my buddy who had lost his life serving in that faraway country. A few days before Thanksgiving, I signed my enlistment papers. I left for basic training in early December 1966. My father didn’t want me to enlist in the army because he had served during World War II and still carried memories that haunted him. His brother, a glider pilot and my namesake, was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. Dad didn’t talk about his own service in the Pacific, and he carried wounds inflicted by an enemy grenade that rendered him completely disabled in his later years. It wasn’t until I completed Infantry Officer Candidate School that I began to feel he accepted my decision. I was surprised that his approval meant so much, because we weren’t close as I grew up. My sister later told me how quiet Dad was the day I left. He watched my mother crying at the front door when I drove off a few days before I got on the plane for Southeast Asia. Looking out the window as the aircraft descended, I was as anxious as he must have been when I told him I was leaving for Vietnam. He knew what jungle combat in the Pacific was like. My daydreaming was interrupted by a pretty, young stewardess holding aerosol cans and spraying over our heads as she moved down the aisle. “Don’t worry guys; this isn’t harmful. It will only kill any insects we have on board.” “In that case, Smitty, you’re done for,” joked a nervous private. “Bite me,” fired back the Coke bottle–eyeglass wearing Smitty from across the aisle. The uneasy laughter relieved some of the tension. “Ugly, isn’t it?” asked the captain sitting in the seat on my right. “Actually, sir, I think it looks pretty nice from up here.” “I don’t mean the country. I mean Cam Rahn Bay. All that barbed wire, dust, and tin roofs.” “You’re right. I was looking at the mountains and rice paddies.” “This your first trip across the ocean?” the captain asked. The row of ribbons on his chest indicated he had been here before. “Yes, sir. Guess this is old hat to you.” “Well, I’ve been to Germany and this is my second trip to Vietnam. I’m planning to get back to my old outfit, the Fourth Engineers.” It was mid-morning at Cam Rahn Bay as the ground came into focus. A tropical postcard view of tiny green islands scattered along the irregular coastline reminded me of Oahu. As the plane flew inland, the puffy white clouds and brilliant blue sky were reflected in the stagnant water of the geometrically arranged patchwork quilt of rice paddies below. In the distance, undulating mountain peaks silhouetted against the horizon beckoned. The ground came closer and I saw a long runway ahead. The large logistical facility was an ugly mark on the landscape. Barbed wire, metal planking, and squat huts filled the polluted scene. Fuel storage tanks were lined up in groups alongside the asphalt roads. Surrounding the strip were sandbagged bunkers manned by Vietnamese soldiers cradling M16 rifles. Armored personnel carriers (APCs) equipped with heavy-caliber machine guns were scattered around the edge of the runway. Interspersed around the APCs I saw several dusters. These deadly self-propelled armored weapon systems, outfitted with 40mm automatic cannons, were designed for antiaircraft defense, but their rapid rate of fire also made them extremely effective against ground attacks. As the plane touched down, the cabin became silent. I prepared to disembark as the other passengers began to stand, stretch, and reach for their bags. After receiving a short briefing on the plane, we were directed to buses that carried us on to the in-processing center. Except for the windshield, all the windows on the buses were covered by steel mesh wire. The captain I had sat next to on the plane explained, “The purpose of the mesh is to prevent grenades from being tossed in through the windows. Welcome to Vietnam.” At the in-processing center, we were divided into groups according to rank and began filing out the stacks of paperwork, turning in our personnel and medical records. Our greenbacks were exchanged for Vietnamese currency and Military Payment Certificates (or MPC). We were not allowed to use US currency in country. Several hours later, we were again loaded onto buses and taken to our temporary quarters. Most were exhausted from the long ride on the aircraft and collapsed onto their bunks for the remainder of the night. Next morning I arose to the smells of bacon and coffee. It was raining heavily outside, and I carefully walked on the planks between the tents while trying to keep out of the mud as much as possible. Our meal of scrambled eggs, potatoes, bacon, soggy toast, orange juice, and coffee tasted wonderful. The milk was the same reconstituted powdered milk that I recalled from my childhood in West Virginia. It still tasted terrible. That morning we were given our initial unit assignments and told that transportation would be available for those of us going to the Fourth Infantry Division after lunch. Later that day we loaded onto a C-130 aircraft for the short flight to Pleiku, squeezing into the nylon web seats that lined the bulkheads. The flight was loud since there was no insulation on the interior of the plane. Upon arrival at the Pleiku airport, we transferred to buses again for the ride through the city to Camp Enari, the division base camp. The next three days went by quickly as we in-processed and received briefings on the customs and traditions of the Vietnamese people and the various ethnic groups of the central highlands.