Midlands Voices: Reflections on Vietnam remain vivid 40 years later

The writer, of Omaha, is Douglas County assessor. He is a Vietnam War veteran.

It was Aug. 16, 1969, my date of estimated return overseas. I was sitting on the airfield tarmac waiting for the Freedom Bird to take me home. I had survived the jungle for 365 days.

It had been a year since I arrived in Vietnam with a hundred other new guys. As we deplaned, I wondered how many of us would not make the flight home.

We marched in a single line to a holding area. Another single line of soldiers going home walked parallel to us, going the other way to board the aircraft we had just left.

I heard one of them shout over our silence: “Hey, cherry boy, you’re taking my place!” Another yelled, “Keep your head down!” Still another said, “I’ll tell your girlfriend I saw you!” As new replacements, we were referred to as FNGs (funny new guys). There is another term, too, but not one used in a family newspaper.

A year later, I looked up in the sky for that silver bird. When I didn’t see it, I began to reflect on my last 12 months. I knew I’d never forget this land I was about to leave behind.

I remember that first night in combat. Sappers had infiltrated our small airfield, inflicting moderate casualties and destroying several helicopters. Although I wasn’t involved in any of the initial action (the contact was on the other side of the airfield), I was nonetheless involved in bringing some of the wounded to the aid station.

At first, it was like a John Wayne combat movie. The flares, the explosions, the machine guns, the cursing, the chaos. I learned that a “cold one” was a dead body and a “hot one” was someone who needed immediate medical attention and possible evacuation.

That night, a black soldier tore at my fatigues and begged me to tell him his white friend was “going to be all right.” His friend was cold. After it was all over, my stomach burned, my head ached, and I vomited.

I thought of death several times during my tour. I didn’t fear it, primarily because of my faith in God and a better world in the next life. This is not to say, however, that I was never afraid. I was.

The life-and-death conversation became a popular topic with the de-escalation of the war. I’d hear the question asked: “Did you ever stop to think that you might be the last one killed in ‘The Nam’?”

It was a time when many soldiers felt betrayed by people back in the United States, the anti-war protesters and our government. Maybe Ben Franklin was right when he said, “There was never a good war, or a bad peace.”

Boredom filled a lot of those 12 months. Most often, nothing ever changed except the time, and it moved too slow. And the weather was always hot, even during those monsoon months when it rained continuously.

Being in the “boonies,” we learned to appreciate and share the little things. We thought of small luxuries we hardly if ever got: pizza, ice cream, french fries or just an ice-cold beer. As a matter of fact, we would have paid for the luxury of a piece of ice. Little things mean a lot when they’re things you haven’t got.

I dwelled on some of the leadership lessons I’d learned during those months.

— Stay calm with a clear mind.

— Surround yourself with loyal and competent noncommissioned officers.

— Make critical decisions based on what your instincts tell you.

— Think through the “what- ifs” and anticipate problems.

— Teamwork is very important.

— And yes, always keep your head down.

That morning, I looked in the mirror; I looked older, but didn’t consider 25 to be old. Most of us came “in country” as kids but during our year had lost that innocence of youth. I wanted to laugh to keep from crying, but I couldn’t do either. I was going home.

I wondered how I had changed. I wondered how the “real world” had changed. I read in the Stars and Stripes military newspaper that a big concert was going on in Woodstock, N.Y. And the paper kept reporting about Neil Armstrong becoming the first man to walk on the moon just three weeks earlier. Wow! We could put a man on the moon but couldn’t have peace on earth.

I awoke from my thoughts and saw we were ready to board our Freedom Bird. We walked parallel to another line marching off the plane. I heard somebody in my line yell, “Hey, cherry boy, you’re taking my place!” Someone else behind me said, “Keep your head down!”

I smiled. That was something I hadn’t done much of during the past year.

After we took our seats on the plane, it became silent. The engines roared, and as we ascended a deafening cheer went up.

We jumped from our seats, patted each other on the back, hugged each other and ordered cold beers. It was fini Vietnam. We were proud of having served our country, and we were going home.

Aug. 16, 1969, was one of the happiest days of my life.

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