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. 

Greetings

Secretary McNamara and General Taylor reported their judgment that the major part of the U.S. military task can be completed by the end of 1965, although there may be a continuing requirement for a limited number of U.S. training personnel.—White House statement October 2, 1963

I was twenty-one, married with an ten-month-old baby girl, going to school days, working nights, when I was swept into the army in June, 1969.

I watched the nightly news but I wasn't thinking about the war. I half expected it to be over any day now. What? Me worry? My deferment kept me out of it. Actually, it would have, if I hadn't lost it to a thief in the night.

When I opened the thoughtful letter from the President, the most memorable letter I ever received, I was shocked, I tell you. Shocked.

     The President of the United States,

          To

               Terry Lee McClish

     Greeting:

          You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States

The Selective Service vultures had pounced. 

Why me? What about my personal situation?

I called the draft board immediately.

For crying out loud, are you so hard up that you need to take people with a wife and a baby?

No use.

We need bodies.

Canada went into my mind and then out. The war couldn't go on forever. Lots of my buddies had been drafted and come back OK. So I went along and didn't run for the border. Nevertheless, Vietnam increasingly preyed on my mind.

Now my wife and kid would have to move in with my folks. We had just moved into a brand spanking new apartment in St. Paul a month before I was called up. 

I reported to the Federal Building downtown Minneapolis. I stood in a line for the doctor, turned my head and coughed. The ones that passed, like me, lined up in the hall and counted off in fours.

All those with the number four step forward. You are now marines.

Some guys teared up because they figured their life had ended then and there. Some were right.

The rest of you guys follow me.

We shuffled after the sergeant to a room where we took an oath.

You're in the army now. Report back in two weeks. Don't bring a lot of stuff, just a shaving kit and a towel.

During my last week, I had lots of dinners, my friends took me to a strip club and I said my goodbyes. 

Lots of support from everyone.

Come back in one piece.

When I reported back to the Federal Building, they carted us off to the train depot. We took the scenic Empire Builder route overnight, cruising through the Dakotas and the Rockies, to Tacoma, Washington. My first ever train trip.

I shared a cramped compartment with another guy. One slept up, the other down. All the draftees on the train were from the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. I knew a few. On the way, we picked up a few more en route from brief stops in the Dakotas and Montana until we had about fifty. Most got totally blitzed in the lounge car. I didn't, because I didn't know what was in store for me when I got off the train.

At Tacoma, they put us on a bus to nearby Ft. Lewis and stuck us in a “temporary” WWII barracks in a obscure corner of the fort. We had been yanked out of our lives, out of everything recognizable. No house, no car, no family, no friends no sex, no booze. We were stranded in a vast military reservation.

We were in the shark tank, but where were the sharks?

We didn't wait long. Early the next morning, the drill sergeant Bowman showed up and began processing us.

You pieces of shit! Scum bags!

You look like monkeys trying to fuck a football!

You assholes, git your swinging dicks movin'!

Straight from An Officer and a Gentleman (1982). Our prospects were dim. Our lives were worth less than a goat.

During the next two days, we were bused around to get our uniforms, equipment, a standup locker, a foot locker, a scalped haircut and shots.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

This was the 1960s. After the cut most guys were unrecognizable. Distinctive hairstyles were gone. The shoulder-length hair was lying on the cutting room floor. We were a completely different group of people. Another leveler—everyone more or less looked the same. But we accepted it because it was inevitable. The name tags on our shirts allowed us to sort out who was who while we laughed our asses off.

We were corralled in a two-story wooden WWII barracks in a populated area next to a parade field. Mt. Rainier was visible everywhere. Each floor had a long center aisle bordered by bunk beds. Your plywood footlocker was at the foot of the bed, the metal standup locker against the wall behind the bed.

 Mt. Rainier

Gang showers and gang toilets. No privacy. Six shower heads, four stools, six sinks for shaving and brushing teeth.

The snack bar next door was off limits. Rare luxuries such as soda, ice cream, candy and snacks were so close, yet so far.

Our unit was Charlie Company 4^th battalion 2^nd brigade. Our rant was

C42 Chargin' Charlie, Rah!

Bowman, an E6 lifer in his thirties, wasn't Mr. Tough Guy. He didn't beat the hell out of us. He used psychology—be a coach, a friend, a disciplinarian.

He wore a Smokey the Bear hat. His E5 assistant, a fit Vietnam combat vet, wore a baseball hat.

The vet was a short-timer, living in a little room full of psychedelic paraphernalia up on the second floor by the stairs. He was our barracks sergeant. After he was busted for smoking dope and lost his stripes, we peons mocked him, 

Re-up (reenlist) and get your stripes back, sergeant.

He took it in stride.

Barracks life was rough and talk was coarse, but slowly and surely I made friends. Two were pretty unique.

Charlie, a quiet guy from Montana, had the upper berth in the bunk next to me. He was an Indian, a champion rodeo rider.

Each person had a half hour fireguard shift during the night. Trouble was, Charlie would wake up swinging. It was easier for someone to take his turn instead of trying to wake him and suffer through a wild west show.

Craig's girlfriend followed him from Minneapolis and lived off base. He bitched about Vietnam and worried about his girl. An assistant drill Sgt. looked after her.

We had settled in, but the days were going to be a lot longer during the next eight weeks. 

The Basic Idea

Our day began when the fireguard on the last shift woke us. When reveille sounded, we were already straightening, dusting, cleaning windows and mopping floors.

Our bunks had to be made up so a quarter would bounce off the top blanket. If not perfect, the barracks sergeant ripped it up and threw it onto the floor. Don't worry, you could start all over.

The oldest guyin the barracks was a twenty-six-year-old teacher, Roger Wallenstein. Everybody treated him like a grandfather. He was a liaison between us and drill sergeant Bowman. They put him in charge of everything.

You do floors, you do windows.

My job was shower walls. They had to be spic and span without a single water spot.

Not what I expected from life. Better days would beckon.

One asshole was not doing what he was supposed to. He expected others to do his work. To bring him in line, the barracks gave him a blanket party. I didn't participate. Late at night, they threw a blanket over him while he was sleeping and beat the livin' shit out of him. He couldn't fight back or identify his assailants. Problem solved.

I must emphasize how clean the barracks was. Our mothers would be shocked. Better be, it was inspected every day except on weekends. Each barracks strove to be first.

After we donned our fatigues, we mustered outside in formation for a headcount and inspection. You had to be clean shaven—if not, they would make you dry shave. Only then would they march us to the mess hall.

We ate by platoon. If you couldn't recite your service number at the door, you went to the end of the line. If you sputtered or stammered, someone behind you would yell out, 

Come on, lets get the fuckin' ball rolling.

Every freaking day after chow, we assembled to police up the area. Not a cigarette butt, not a speck of anything could be left on the grounds.

If it doesn't shit or bleed, pick it up.

Afterward we formed up again outside the barracks at attention, at arms length from your neighbors on all sides. An “expert” led us through the “dirty dozen” PT (physical training) exercises. Pushups, situps, jumping jacks, you get the idea. Seen it a million times.

You had to assume the correct starting position for each exercise or you did twenty pushups.

No, no! I ain't mad at you,
Well then don't be mad at me,
Gonna change the way you do.

—I Ain't Mad at You, BigMaybelle, Newport (1958)

They held the whip hand and beat you down like a dog. Everybody came under the scanner. They taught you how to salute, how to stand at parade rest, how to stand at attention and how to march. Our simple civilian ways were broken and discarded in favor of a killer lifestyle. Cogs in the army killing machine.

I didn't take well to threats.

They're not God. I'm stronger than that. I'm not gonna give in to that bullshit. This is my way of winning.

One nice thing? Our day was planned.

After our hair started growing out, Bowman offered to cut it for a dollar a head. He guaranteed that our hair would be one-quarter of an inch longer than any other trainee hair. All of us lined up in the barracks for this little bit of freedom. Our hair was the envy of the neighborhood.

The Basic Knowledge

We jogged everywhere or commuted in trucks, buses, semis. Whatever they could drum up. Before going to the rifle range, we jogged across the street to the armory to pick up our long weapons, the M14 rifle (no ammo). In Medieval times, it might have been crossbows.

Lots of times, when we were sitting or standing in a truck, we would start mooing until we sounded like a cattle car. Funny? You had to be there.

We attended beaucoup seminars. How to handle weapons. How to take cover in an open field.

We were at the rifle range practically every day, if only for an hour. Ammo was assigned to you there. Shootin' at Ivan all the time.

The instructors showed you how to handle the bayonet, but for the drill we used broomsticks with pads on each end. We spent an hour a day, three times a week, stabbing each other, thrusting like gladiators. I didn't like it—you got dinged up on the head and body. 

Why are we spending so much time on Ivan and this? It's not WWII, it's Vietnam.

However, hand-to-hand combat was very impressive. I never forgot the rear strangle take down, a quick, effective way to kill an enemy by breaking his neck. We paired off and went through the drill in slo-mo, stopping just before any damage was done.

Thank God I never found an occasion to use it.

Hand grenade practice was done from the bottom of a pit. They would be the ones killed in case of a SNAFU.

We also spent some very useful time learning how to setup Claymore mines, an indispensable skill in Vietnam.

Gas

For the gas mask training, you put it on and entered a room full of tear gas. All the instructors had theirs on. You took yours off and had to say your name, rank and service number. The gas and I did not mix well. I choked my guts out. After a successful recital, you ran out of the building gasping for air.

When we were finished, come to find out a smart ass had pilfered a couple of atropine syringes. Bowman went ballistic. When nobody owned up, everyone had to put on a gas mask and march back to the barracks double time. Problem was, I couldn't breathe out of the dang contraption.

Back at the barracks one of the guys came up to me, 

Did your gas mask work?

No.

Tear gas doesn't bother me. I don't need one. Wanna trade?

Yes!

He was immune!

I heard later they offered him OCS (Officer Candidate School) in chemical warfare. 

We marched to the first aid classes over by Puget Sound.

If you see a soldier with his intestines hanging out, whatever you do don't put them back. Wrap them up in a t-shirt and tie them off until a medic arrives.

Sure, sarge.

Fright Nights

Live fire was when you cradled your gun in your arms and crawled on your belly under live M60 machine gun fire at night. Before we started, the instructors pelted us with a constant stream of dire warnings. Partway through, I turned over on my back and saw the red tracers far above me. Great. I crawled on my hands and knees the rest of the way. Easier, cleaner and quicker.

The escape and evasion exercise was cut from the same cloth. They hauled us out into the middle of the woods and dumped us off at some bleachers to hear a lecture on the do's and don'ts.

Don't get captured at all costs.

The goal was to get back to the starting point of the course in the pitch black darkness.

Some friends and I took a shortcut across a highway into the woods. It was out-of-bounds. We were bopping along a ditch when some aggressors came out of the bushes.

You're under arrest.

They led us back on the course to a pickup point. A bus was supposed to take us to a makeshift prison camp for mock interrogation and torture. I heard if you went along with the whole program, they stuck your head in a 55 gallon drum full of snakes.

Screw this.I 'm not gonna be a prisoner.

I saw a chance when they weren't looking and booked it. I ignored their pleas of

Come back!

I'm gonna make it to the end myself. To hell with them.

I meandered around the course until I saw a bonfire in the distance, marking the finish line. From there, I took the next bus back to the barracks while most guys were in the woods, hiding behind trees & bushes.

I still use some of the Boy Scout tricks I learned in basic like map reading and navigating by the moon and stars at night.

Send in the Clowns

One of our barracks comedians was a native of Superior, Wisconsin, my wife's hometown. Despite being short and fat, he cut others down to size with his wisecracks, like Don Rickles. He got along fine with everybody except the army personnel. They gave him dirty looks or ignored him instead of piling on punishment because he was so out of shape. They couldn't let anyone get away with shit or they'd lose control and it'd be all over.

Of course, he was very concerned with meals, like the rest of us. It just so happened that a set of monkey bars was installed outside the mess hall. To earn a place in the chow line, you had to go from one end to the other shouting

C42 Chargin' Charlie, Rah!

No sweat for me, but for the clown, big sweat. I had a sports background and lifted weights, but the clown needed our help. He couldn't reach the bars or do more than one or two on his own before he fell off.

The other joker was the exact opposite. He was a chicken farmer from Minnesota, in fabulous shape but one fry short of a Happy Meal. He specialized in physical humor. His backward salutes and goofy gestures pissed Bowman off. Crazy. Why would you tell a mad dog to bite?

Trainee, give me ten [pushups].

Do you want me to do more, drill sergeant?

Give me twenty!

Silence.

Never a dull moment.

Mooned

The one bright spot? Watching the first moon landing in the day room on Sunday, July 20, with a few other trainees. The rest didn't consider it a high priority. It was a curiosity for me, but to one of the guys in the room, it was a downright fascination, if not an obsession.

AIT

After eight weeks of basic, it was on to eight weeks of Advanced Infantry Training (AIT). I walked across the parade grounds with my duffel bag of belongings to my new barracks, my pleasanter and nicer home. Weird, like walking through a Star Trek portal.

Let's get the ball rolling so I can finish this shit.

AIT was more intense, but with less harassment. If you had any questions, now was the time. The last chance saloon. Questions or not, we stayed in shape.

Instead of heavy M14 sniper rifles, we used lighter M16 assault rifles, the weapon of choice in Vietnam. The semiautomatic AR-15, the civilian M16, is a favorite for going postal here in the States.

We also got our hands on the M79 grenade launcher for the first time.

Oh freedom (freedom), freedom (freedom), freedom, yeah freedom—Aretha Franklin, Think (1968)

More freedom, too. I hurried to the forbidden snack bar that had been off limits and downed my first treat in eight weeks—a chocolate malt. Fantabulous!

On our first weekend, a bunch of us got a two-day pass and took a bus into Tacoma. We split up into twos. Finally, I could drink another beverage of my choice. But freedom can be dangerous—two of the guys got rolled.

Some things never change. Our barracks Sergeant got busted, not for drugs, but for giving unauthorized haircuts.

Departures

After graduating from AIT, I guess I had what it takes. I was breathing. I still thought I might be shipped out to Korea or Germany or even stay in the States. No such luck. In basic, our barracks had been number one in everything, but it came back to haunt us. The contest had really been between lifers. They punched their tickets but our whole barracks went to Vietnam.

I went home for two weeks to get ready. My welcome home was great. 

I was gone constantly when I wasn't busy looking after my wife and baby. Would I ever see them again? When I left for basic, my daughter was ten months old and had taken her first steps. Now she was fourteen months. What a change. I wanted to spend some quality time with them. 

I tried to fix the money situation by having extra pay taken out for my wife. She had left my parents house and moved in with her sister, but would still be living on bare bones.

It wasn't long before I sent a telegram to the army that

I was taking two more weeks.

Seemed like a reasonable gesture to me. Was I nuts? In any case, I got no response. At least I made the effort.

One more thing. I undertook a diplomatic mission to Craig who had been in basic with me. He also had orders for Vietnam but wanted to go to Canada in the worst way. I went over to his house to talk him out of it. I thought there wasn't much Vietnam left. We parted friends, but I never saw him again.

Time flies. Before leaving my comfortable suburb for the last time, I said goodbye to my wife, parents and baby daughter.

I'll be back in a year if I don't get shot.

Until we meet again.

When I reported back to Fort Lewis, they stashed me in a temporary barracks. I was in limbo until my legal status was settled. Papers were served on me. I collected an Article 15 for my tardiness, a mere formality. One week's pay, no court, no time in the stockade.

Coincidentally, J. R. Olson, from Lanesboro, Minnesota, the moon man, was in the same barracks with me again. I had lost track of him since basic and now we were both waiting to be shipped to Vietnam.

J. R. had marital troubles. He was so smitten with his girlfriend, that he stayed with her instead of his wife when he went home after AIT. The army had offered him a hardship discharge, but he turned it down. Made no sense to me.

I'm leavin' on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go.

—Peter, Paul & Mary, Leaving On A Jet Plane (1969)

A couple days later we both got orders to fly out on Flying Tiger Airlines. Stupid me, I thought I was going on a WWII fighter. Confusing? Yes, until J. R. and I boarded one of their regular passenger jets, bound for Vietnam.

We had a ticket to ride.

Lucky, huh?