Happy Trails

Louie Louie, oh baby, take me where ya gotta go 
A fine little girl, she waits for me 
Me catch the ship across the sea
Me never think I'll make it home
—Louie Louie, The Kingsmen (1963)

My last day in Vietnam was November 3, 1970. I had to leave my TV behind. No big deal, all I ever watched was Hee Haw. Pathetic, right? Passed it on to J.R. for what I paid.

I put on my usual outfit of jungle fatigues and boots, stuffed my clothes into a duffel bag and my papers into a satchel.

My souvenir SKS carbine was in a soft black vinyl bag. I had a license to take it out of the country, but had no bullets for it then.

I said goodbyes to the guys in the barracks on a sunny day and got into a jeep for the last time.

Arlington is running out of space and I'm still in one piece.

We pulled up to the terminal at Bien Hoa at 10 AM. I carried my bags inside. A Freedom Bird (Northwest Airlines 727) was parked outside. 

For Christ's sake, it was sitting in broad daylight in the same spot where a couple of weeks earlier a Chinook helicopter took a direct hit in a rocket attack and burned up completely.

After my orders were checked to see if I was legal, the baggage handlers took my bags.

I made a last minute call to PFC Ferrara, the company clerk who had succeeded me. I wanted to wish all the best to the guys and to see if McCarty's verdict had come down or if his charges had been reduced. Nothing yet.

I walked outside to the plane and climbed the stairs into the cabin. Inside were marines, air force and army guys of all ages in fatigues, relief plain on their faces. The stews were gettin' hit all the time. I grabbed an empty seat and buckled in.

I kept looking around. It's not over until it's over. Scarcely any time to chit-chat before we taxied onto the runway. The planes wanted to spend as little time as possible parked as they were like sitting ducks. On the way to takeoff, the pilot came on the intercom with flight information. When he announced our destination, a big huge cheer went out.

He hit the gas and started down the runway, taking off at a extremely low angle. No shots, no rockets, a clean takeoff, but the plane wasn't climbing fast enough for me or anyone else. You could see the leaves on the trees plain as day. Shocking, knowing what we knew.

We could get hit by an AK-47 or anything.

Everyone was yelling and screaming, 

Get this fucking thing up. Get it up!

Finally, after we gained altitude, huge applause and big cheers of relief.

We were kept in food and snacks all the way. The bathrooms were going all the time. We stopped for an hour in Guam and then Hawaii for fuel. We remained on the plane. Both airports were very close to the ocean. You had the sensation of being over water and then bang, you were on the runway.

The World

We arrived at Travis Air Force Base in the San Francisco Bay Area at 4 AM, eighteen hours later.

The army had it figured out. They have a system for everything. We were taken to a huge complex. Showers. Bins for your clothing. I had to shed everything except my SKS. 

Clothing people measured you. They looked at your DD form 214 (military record and discharge) for awards, decorations and patches.

If anyone's hungry, we have steaks on the grill.

We blew it off because we wanted to get out of there ASAP.

The pay master paid you in cash or bonds. Most chose to take bonds and mail them home. Doctors were available to treat jungle rot, the clap and any other ailments.

After three or four hours you had a custom tailored Army green class “A” uniform (pickle suit), shoes, underclothes, white t-shirt, a tie and a hat. Unit patches with unit citations were on your chest, rank on your sleeve.

No counseling was offered. We were free to go, but there were drug addicts and PTSD candidates among us. Many became homeless, alcoholics and suicides. We all know the story.

I took a cab to the airport to buy a ticket for Minneapolis. There were no flights so I flew to the closest place—Chicago. When I landed in Chicago there was a big rigmarole. There were no direct flights to Minneapolis. I had to get a puddle jumper. After many takeoffs and landings, only two people were left out of the original twenty.

The pilot got on the intercom.

Anyone interested in Minneapolis?

Hey! Don't forget me. I am,

 I yelled from back of plane.

When I arrived in Minneapolis, I called my friend Jim to pick me up. I wanted to surprise my wife.

While waiting for him, I was sitting on the floor of the terminal with my duffel bag, satchel and SKS (Samozariadnyia Karabina Simonova Russian military carbine). The passerby's avoided me and averted their eyes. Nobody stopped. Nobody spit on me but neither did they greet me or thank me. Nobody asked about my experience. Strange.

I was an island.

This was to be the norm in the coming years, almost without exception. I shut out the year in Vietnam unless I was specifically asked for further information.

Jim picked me up and drove me to my wife's apartment. She had moved out of her sister's place into her own apartment. She seemed content.

My little girl didn't cry when I picked her up because she remembered me from pictures.

We got reacquainted fast.

A lot of guys getting out of the army at that time were ordering new cars and big ticket items with the pay they had saved up while they were in Vietnam, but our bank account had struck out. What happened to all the extra money I sent home?

Not only that, but my precious 1965 Impala S/S sat abandoned in a field next to the apartment complex.

Man, from the moment I got home, I couldn't stop staring at the new hairdos, miniskirts, tank tops and provocative clothing. Braless gals. Wow!

It was as if the world had changed while I slept.

Lone Star

I tried talking my wife into going to Texas, but she wasn't interested—she had a job with Honeywell and wanted to keep it. I would come home for Christmas and New Years instead.

I got the Impala running. I eventually traded it in on a 1968 Roadrunner—not a new car, but a fun ride.

I had been home for only two weeks before it was time for me to report to Ft. Hood, Texas. I flew from Minneapolis to Love Field in Dallas and then on to Killeen Texas, 130 miles South as the crow flies. A short cab ride took me to HQ HQ, 1^st Brigade, 2^nd Armored Division (Hell on Wheels). My dad was a tank driver for the same unit in WWII. Quite a coincidence.

I was in summer khakis, carrying my duffel bag. I entered the building and went upstairs to the main office and gave my orders to a heavyset Staff Sgt. at the front desk. He checked me in and introduced me to a 2^nd Lt. who assigned me an empty desk next to the Sgt. I didn't have to play army anymore because my secondary MOS (military occupational specialty) was administrative clerk. Amen.

Seven desks were arranged in no particular order in the open area where I was to clerk. A 1^st Lt., a lawyer who handled legal affairs, was at a desk sequestered by partitions. Surrounding the open area were private offices for the elites—the Cols. and Lt. Cols.

The building had its own food service, a mini mess hall with a grill where you could get burgers and fries. I ate my noon meals there.

Sgt. Major

A command Sgt. Major, the highest rank a noncom can achieve in the army, sat at a humongous desk behind a partition with lots of filing cabinets, a window and a couch for visiting dignitaries. He was a lifer with thirty years in. His hobby was keeping a file of 5x7 recipe cards.

He would invite me in to shoot the shit or give me a recipe to type. He probably felt close to me because I was a combat vet—more equal.

I wore fatigues in the office. The Sgt. Major wore khakis with all his awards and decorations, a ton of stuff, on his chest. Only my rank showed.

His pet peeve was saluting. He would call me in and go anecdotal,

McClish, it really really bothers me when you see guys crossing the street to avoid saluting an officer. For the life of me, I don't understand why these guys would go to such lengths to avoid saluting.

I laughed inside. Saluting is a submissive gesture. These guys were fighting their own war against the system, trying to get one up on the lifers. I agreed with him to avoid a huge philosophical quagmire.

A lot of warrant officers (pilots) would walk through our offices. I never did salute one because I was friends with most of them. They could give a shit. The Sgt. Major forgot that the big brass in our office would go out the back door to avoid salutes.

The Staff Sgt. was cocky. He thought he was better than me because he outranked me. He was way out of shape. I was hardened from combat. I worked out and lifted weights. He was no combat vet. I was. Although we tolerated each other, we never went anywhere after work together. He was older and moved in his own circle. Sometimes first impressions stick.

I was open to discussion, but none of the office people ever talked Vietnam with me.

My duties were rinky dink. Strictly delegated and dull as dishwater. I never even had to consult my decoder ring.

The 2^nd Lt. oversaw my activities, but he didn't push rank. He was kind of a friend.

Here, type these up.

File this.

I kept a lookout for the Colonels and Generals. I announced them when they came through the door.

Attention!

They shot back,

At ease

or 

As you were.

The Golfer

Shortly after I started, a SP5 (Specialist 5) from Vietnam took a desk in the office as assistant to the lawyer. Perfect. He was planning to go to law school when he got out.

He was a really good golfer with a reputation that preceded him. The brass envied him and would often invite him to golf with them. Nobody ever asked me. I hung out with him and sometimes golfed with him, but he was a fanatic. He practiced his swing all the time in the barracks. He had a driver that made a strange knocking noise when he swung it hard enough.

He kept his car on base and took marathon 24 hour trips commuting to his home in Michigan.

After work, I walked across a field to my new barracks. All the streets were blacktop. No snow fell here in Winter but rain combined with the oil on top would make the roads sneaky slick—like black ice. I never saw a tank in all my time at the fort because they were kept on the outskirts.

The barracks was a large two-story WWII type. You walked up a set of stairs in the middle to the first floor and took a left down the hall to the room I shared with a SP5, a non-vet.

Besides the usual shared bathroom and showers, the barracks had its own mess hall. Nobody cleaned the barracks for us, but we didn't stand inspection, either.

To the right of the entrance was an open room with fifteen guys, half pot heads. They steered clear of me because they thought I was a narc. The day room was further on down. Days of our Lives or sports might be on the TV, but the pool table was always busy. I was an active shooter whenever possible.

McClish there's an opening. Are you in?

Otherwise, I spent little time hanging there.

I had achieved my Sgt. stripes on a fast track thanks to Capt. Martinez. It paid dividends here, too—no KP, no details, no cleaning the barracks, and only occasional guard duty.

I never went to a movie and seldom went to the enlisted men's club—where you got hammered. Not for me. I never saw the Alamo or the grassy knoll. In fact, the only time I left the base was to go with the golfer dude on a couple weekend trips to Austin, Texas, home of the Longhorns.

I flew home for Christmas and New Years. My last ones were in Vietnam, so I really enjoyed the holidays at home.

I checked in with Peavey Company asking about my old job. The lab had moved from the downtown A-Mill to a new research facility, a Taj Mahal, South of Minneapolis in a rolling, picturesque area on the shores of Lake Hazeltine. The golf course, future site of two U.S. Opens, was located on the other side of the lake.

My old boss introduced me to my new boss, Dr. Jim Dietz, an ex Oregon State professor, who was head of chemistry,

What was possible?

You were promised a job where you left off.

Phew. I didn't have to go job hunting after what I'd been through.

Early Out

I flew back to Texas in a good mood and applied for an early out to go back to school. A headquarters clerk submitted the paperwork for me but it was rejected.

I couldn't believe it, so I went back to HQ and studied the army regulations at night. I got documents from the university and papers from the army—do this and that then that and this—and complied with all the mickey mouse shit. I hit the curve ball. My three-month early-out got approved.

I had to roll. I only had two weeks to process out, buy a ticket and fly back for Spring quarter. I walked all over the fort to get signed out. It was a mad dash, but worth it. I got back home one day before night school started.

Comin' Home

I took a deep breath and eased my way back into civilian life. I was grateful for civilian sheets, showers, beds, food and clothes. I took my uniform off and never put it on again. I was home a full week before I notified Peavey Company that I was ready to return to work.

When I reported to the Technical Center, I learned that my project, Tosta Pizza, was a flop. Peavey had staked its consumer footprint and future on a product that separated disastrously in a toaster. Peavey bought a lot of toasters before the roof caved in. Worse yet, it was the whole reason the Tech Center had been built.

Fortunately, other research projects had popped up and taken center stage. I began to handle all things computer at the Tech Center. It was the nicest place to work in.

I was back working days and going to school nights. I was extremely busy and had heavy responsibilities.

Meanwhile, my wife and I were trying to adjust to each other. I was relating pretty well even though I had been trained to kill and was not used to normality.

I remained constantly aware of my surroundings, of what's going on, of crowds and always aware of potential hazardous situations. Always on the lookout for strange sights, sounds and smells. Where was I? Do I have to fight?

Whenever I heard the chopper blades of a Huey helicopter, I stopped whatever I was doing and looked up or over my shoulder to see what was happening.

The 4^th of July meant something different to me than to average folk. The bombs bursting in air and the lingering smell of sulfur reminded me of incoming and outgoing artillery fire.

Twice a week I woke up in a major cold sweat. No particular dreams or nightmares, but I had to change out of a soaked t-shirt before going back to sleep or getting up. The doctors wanted to hypnotize me. I refused—who knows what it might do to me.

The Outing

Three months of working things out had gone nowhere fast. I was young and didn't think in terms of failure or even that something was wrong. My parents had their silver anniversary the previous year. Isn't there a lifetime guarantee?

There was a large family gathering of my in-laws clan on a weekend at Taylor's Falls, a picturesque favorite in Minnesota. Like many Vietnam vets, I didn't care for camping or hunting anymore. We had our fill.

Here I was camping again. It wasn't so bad because we were in a camper. I didn't object. It turned out to be a good thing.

During the outing, my wife was quietly acting out. Others saw how distant she was. 

Look how she's treating him.

I couldn't see it. I saw it as a long-lasting period of adjustment. I was too stupid to pick up on it. It flew over my head. She ignored me and I ignored it.

We Have to Talk

A few days later, my wife's sister and her husband called me and notified me that they wanted to talk.

I didn't realize that our relationship was the hot topic among her people. They knew something. They kept their mouths shut and their feelings in check during the weekend, but it boiled over when they got back home. They lived down the hall in the same apartment complex.

They were upset that I was getting a raw deal. 

Is that any way to treat a vet?

They respected me and spilled the beans. My wife had a boyfriend.

Her brother-in-law suggested, 

I think I know where he lives. Are you interested in going over there?

Things were adding up now. I had heard she had often sent our daughter Tami to her folks while I was in the army. Palming her off. Not a model mom. She never answered my letters. She was distant. Struck out the bank account. Drinking and drugs—she had problems.

Let's go.

My sister-in-law watched Tami while he took me to the house. My wife and her boyfriend were outside together in the front. So obvious. Her brother-in-law followed me as I approached the house, unannounced.

I didn't feel confrontational. I didn't want to get arrested for assault and battery. I had other things in mind. I walked up to the surprised couple and said to my wife, 

You just lost your kid.

Nobody said anything. Not her, her boyfriend or her brother-in-law.

After about twenty seconds, I turned around. We left. Just like that.

On the way back home, I learned that her boyfriend had been on the premises when I arrived at her apartment from Vietnam. He slipped out the back and took off. I hadn't seen him.

In basic training, the Drill Sergeant taunted us with,

Ain't no use goin' home. Jody's got your girl, drove your car, spent your money.

Well, it happened to me. All of it.

Well, the more I work, the faster my money goes
Shake, rattle and roll, Shake, rattle and roll
Well, you won't do nothin' to save your doggone soul 

—Shake, Rattle and Roll (1954), Big Joe Turner

When my wife returned to the apartment I talked to her at length. She knew she screwed up.

Her dad didn't know at first, but now both her parents were upset with her. My mother was angry. My dad was dealing with Parkinson's. Some families butt in, others let you resolve your problems on your own. My parents didn't want to get too involved.

I didn't know which way to turn. A friend of my dad's had been a court reporter. He highly recommended Kermit Gill. He had seen him in action. Mr. Gill was a no-nonsense attorney who handled criminal cases. Nothing fazed him.

At our first meeting, Gill opened up the possibilities. We could do this, we could do that.

Do you want to see if it's workable? Let me know.

I brought up counseling as a last ditch effort, but my wife wasn't interested. I got the impression she wanted out—too far gone.

I called Gill.

Start it.

After she got the papers, she came back with second thoughts asking for the counseling option. Nuts! She had put my face in it. I had reached my saturation point. I wasn't going to bend anymore. I didn't intend to spend my whole life groveling. It was time to move on.

I called Gill again.

Do you want the little girl?

Yes.

You could get child support from her. The door is wide open.

At that time in my life, custody was enough.

No. just end it.

Dr. Nelson

I got considerable empathy at Peavey. Dr. John Nelson, Director of Research and Development, was at the top of the list. 

Take as much time as you need.

On the way home, it hit me. I broke down in the car, sobbing. 

Everything was going down. Why me? 

The uncertainty was overwhelming.

I kept Dr. Nelson appraised of further developments, but two weeks later he suggested, 

Maybe it would be good to get back to work. It would help you and keep you occupied.

I did and it helped. He was a wise man.

After the divorce went through uncontested, my ex stayed away, making Tami a sad little girl. 

Where's mom?

When my ex started her visits, they were random and rare. When she dropped Tami off after a visit, Tami started crying again,

Mom's not here.

Here we go again.

Looking back, I'm glad I was out of the picture early. I would have found out later but I have always been grateful to her sister and brother-in-law for sparing me prolonged agony. We're still good friends. In fact, he considers me a brother. You don't hear that every day. Most important, Tami and I developed strong ties and a long-lasting friendship with my wife's parents. I've always been glad for that.