Army service during the Vietnam era brought together a great number of volunteers and a smaller number of draftees. There appeared to be no discernible difference in the training, assignments or promotions of these two groups. Unless a draftee told you he had been drafted, you would most likely never know. Whether draftees or volunteers, none of my friends in combat never expressed to be serving out of patriotism or love of country. Those of us not drafted served perhaps because this was the only job available to us at that time, and assignments with all their complex fears of combat, the brutality and outright horrors of firefights, rocket and mortar attacks were all an acceptable risk of having the only job available to us. These men, my brothers, all served in Vietnam, and we developed a brotherhood and friendships that continue to this day.
I was pumping gas at a local Murphys some months back. An older veteran probably my age walked over to me from about three lanes over. "I noticed your DV plates,"1 he said. "I was in 'Nam, too. Just wanted to shake your hand." With that done, he walked back to his pump.
On another occasion, I was again pumping gas at an Austin Costco. The person behind me left his pump running and came over to me. "I noticed your DV plates. We're scheduling an Honor Flight2 to Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. It's all free to you. Here's my card. Call me if you would like to go." He was also a Vietnam veteran and executive director of the Honor Flight Foundation.
At least three times in the past year I've had veterans salute me in different parking lots when they noticed my DV with Air Medal plates.3 As I was getting into my truck at Fry's Electronics in Austin, a veteran approached me with, "Sir, can I show you something?" My alert meter took over thinking it was some type of scam. I responded with "Naw, thanks anyway."
"Sir, I just want to show you something on my truck," he replied.
His truck was two spaces from me so I followed him to his truck. He showed me his DV with Air Medal plates. "I just wanted to show you my plates. Yours are the only one I've ever seen with plates like mine. What a coincidence, huh?" he said. "Before, mine were the only ones in town. Now I see you hav'em too." We shook hands and both went on our way.
Veterans make up the biggest fraternity in the world, and meeting another new veteran is like meeting a brother you never knew you had.
Jay Stevens lived on a farm in Missouri. He was in high school and working on his stepfather’s farm. Plowing his stepfather's large field adjacent to a neighbor’s field, Jay stopped his tractor when he saw his neighbor motion for him to join him. His neighbor offered him a beer from a cooler under a large shade tree.
“Goddamit, Jay,” said the neighboring farmer, “Every goddamn time I look out, I see you working your ass off in that tractor. Where’s your damn stepfather, anyway? Don’t he ever help you?”
"Naw, “ said Jay. “And the sonnavabitch don’t even pay me. He says I’m lucky he provides me food and a place to sleep.” They kept drinking.
“And just what does your stepdad do, anyway, Jay?” asked the neighbor farmer. “I never see his truck there every time I drive by your house. Does he have a job in town?”
"Well, I don't rightly know. Mom thinks he's working at his brother's hardware store, but I never see him there. And when he gets home, he's reeking of beer and cigarettes. I've thought of getting the hell out of here, but I'm concerned for Mom."
"You know, son, that farm is actually yours, not your stepdad's. It's been in your family for several generations."
"I don't want anything to do with that farm, neighbor. I wasn't cut out to be a farmer, actually. He can have it and all the misery that comes with it."
"I really miss your old man, Jay. He was a good man. We sat under this same here tree and chatted for hours - and had a beer or two, of course. You were just a kid then when your dad had that terrible accident. I put him in my truck and rushed him to the doc. I really miss your old man."
"Yes, sir. Ma always remembers how you and wife helped her out after dad left. It's a shame ma married this asshole, but I can't blame her. She needed someone to help around the farm. But now taking care of the farm's become my full-time job. It ain't fair."
“Neighbor, would you drive me to the recruiting station?” Jay asked of the farmer neighbor.
“Are you sure you wanna do this, son?” asked the farmer. “What about your school? You'll be graduating this year, won't you? And what about the tractor? You can't just leave it there. Are you gonna return it and tell your mother at least?”
"No sir,” said Jay. “Truth is I'm really not doing so good in school anyway. And the old man can come get the tractor by himself. They don’t need to know anything more about me. Don’t tell them anything, please.”
"Look, son," said the neighbor farmer. "Think this over. Now is not the time to enlist what with that goddamn war going on over there and all those young boys getting killed and all. Don't go make some rash decision, son. Or consider joining the Navy or the Air Force so you won't be getting shot at."
Jay's mind was made up. The navy and the air force both required a high school diploma. The army was the quickest way out of the rut he was in. He enlisted that same day. He stayed in town with a friend until he shipped out for basic training. He was trained as an infantryman and became one of the security guards on my shift at Advisory Team 51, 21st Vietnamese Infantry Division at Bac Lieu, Vietnam.
Nieves was a fellow Mexican from Rio Rancho, New Mexico. He was at a dance and decided to dance with the prettiest girl at the dance. She was there with another Mexican well-known as a tough guy and gang member from nearby Albuquerque. Nieves didn’t care; besides, he was emboldened by the several hits of mezcal he had before the dance. Alcohol heightens the courage meter. To avoid a scene, the pretty girl danced with him tremendously angering her boyfriend.
Tough guy grabbed Nieves by the back of the neck and forced him outside. On his way out Nieves grabbed a metal folding chair, pulled himself away from tough guy and began beating him with the metal chair then kicking him and punching him till he was half dead.
Nieves grabbed pretty girl and went back to dancing until police arrived and arrested him for assault and battery. Justice was swift. Going before a judge a few days later, Nieves was found guilty then given the choice of enlisting in the army or going to jail for a couple of years. Nieves took the army route and wound up serving as an infantryman with an element of my Advisory Team 51 at Bac Lieu, Vietnam.
Whenever he had free time, Nieves would come to our Advisory Team 51 compound and spent a day or two drinking at our NCO club. Today he was walking at a fast pace towards the NCO club. I asked where he was going. "I'm going to hide out at the NCO club. The First Sergeant is looking for me," he said. "I took a jeep and drove downtown with my dog Tripper looking for a girlfriend."
"Whoa, wait!" I said. "You're the one that took that jeep? You didn't take it, Nieves - You stole it! I had my guards look all over the compound for that jeep. It belongs to the Signal Platoon, and they are pissed!"
"I just borrowed it," said Nieves innocently.
"And you were looking for a girlfriend? You didn't need a jeep for that!"
"Well, anyway, I found a couple of them, but they just started giving us all kinds of shit and yelling at Tripper and me and throwing rocks at us, so we got the hell out of there and rushed back here. I didn't stop at the front gate, and your security guard was shouting at me. I think he called the First Sergeant. Now he's looking for me. Help me out, hermano," he pleaded.
Nieves was trying to devise a plan to walk out the front gate unnoticed to return to his battalion advisory team. I asked Nieves to wait ten minutes then walk out the front gate. I walked to the front gate and asked the security guard to take a thirty-minute break. "I'll watch the gate for you," I said. As Sergeant of the Guard, I often did that for guards who needed a break. As planned, Nieves walked out the front gate smiling at me and flashing me the peace sign. The First Sergeant never did find my Mexican friend.
Nealey was from South Carolina and still grieving from a serious relationship gone bad. Just days before marrying his high school sweetheart, he learned he had caught a serious disease from his fiancé. His doctor confirmed his self-diagnosis. He called off the wedding much to the fury of his parents.
His would-be in-laws demanded to know why he would change his mind at the last minute after all the money they had invested in the wedding plans. Nealey never revealed the reason except to his would-be bride. She denied the charge and threatened to ruin him financially and in any other way she could.
Since they shared a bank account, he emptied their bank account leaving only a dollar. He gave himself a vacation to the United States Virgin Islands staying there until he ran out of money then got a job as bartender at an establishment catering to tourists from cruise ships stopping there. He lost his job when the cruise ship trade slowed. When he was down to his last few dollars, Nealey went to the US Army recruiting office on the island and enlisted. The only slots available were in the infantry, but he was desperate and down to his last few dollars.
He joined, trained as an infantryman and joined our Advisory Team 51 in Bac Lieu, Vietnam, as a security guard supporting the 21st Vietnamese Infantry Division.
"This army is my new home now, Nealey once told me in a drinking session we once shared. "No way in hell can I go back home. My folks loved that bitch, so I'm sure I can never go back home."
I empathized with Nealey, and I admired him for not revealing to his family and her parents the reason for the breakup. Walking away and finding a new life for yourself is sometimes the best available option. The army afforded him that opportunity.
I met Will Morris while on assignment to a government contract. We needed someone for our Laser and Metrology Lab and Will had the basic skills we needed. We worked together for several years and I learned much about him. Will grew up just south of Fort Jackson, South Carolina, where both his parents were federal employees. Will and I shared similar situations upon graduating from high school. We had neither the financial nor the academic means for college. He applied to several colleges but was accepted to none. His parents arranged for Will to drive an irrigation truck working for the post's Facilities Maintenance Division. Will knew he would be drafted at some point, but he was desperately hoping the draft would somehow overlook him. Meantime, he was enjoying his job driving a tanker loaded with 'brown water' irrigating trees, grass and shrubs along Fort Jackson's roads. He would report in to the motor pool, pick up his tanker and drive to the sewer plant to fill up his tanker then commence to irrigating all greenery along the roads. He controlled the sprayer from his cab and turned off the sprayer on intersections and people areas then turn it back on for greenery.
Everything was going well until that fateful day at the end of that workday. He parked his tanker at the motor pool. Some furiously enraged guy pulled up alongside him, jumped out of his car and raced over cursing at Will. "You sonnavabitch, you've been spraying that shit for the last two miles. I'm gonna have a word or two with your supervisor! Get him out here!" he demanded. It then dawned on Will that he had forgotten to close the spray stream. He had been spraying brown water over roads, cars and anything and anyone in its path. Rather than face the supervisor's rage, Will walked into his supervisor's office and calmly told him, "There's some asshole outside who wants to talk to you. And here are the keys to the tanker. I quit!"
To keep from being drafted, Will joined the Air Force. "I just knew I wouldn't be getting shot at if I were in the air force," he told me. "I was trained as a Radio Operator, Maintainer and Driver (ROMAD).4 I loved the job until I got orders for Vietnam right after completing my training. I was needed in the Mekong Delta. I had not been in-country a week. I signed for my jeep with radio pallet and reported to a forward air controller captain whom I was gonna drive around. We signed in to the army's 9th Infantry Division headquarters, so we basically became army. We wore their shoulder patch, ate their rations and traveled all over hell providing ground-to-air support between the army ground forces and air force pilots. We got shot at, was twice wounded," he told me. "I felt really betrayed by my air force. It was not supposed to go down like that. I should have been in some rear support maintenance facility. I completed my Vietnam tour and transferred to Bergstrom Air Base in Austin, Texas."
Will checked the labor market for a job with his air force skills, but it was a soft labor market, so he reenlisted in the air force while at Bergstrom and bought a Harley with his reenlistment bonus. He was accepted into Los Bandidos Motorcycle Club and rode with them while in the Austin area. By his own testament and in his role as a Bandidos member, he committed crimes that became increasingly difficult to hide from his military life. Primarily for that reason and after meeting his future wife, Will petitioned the Bandidos organization for voluntary dismissal from membership.
The price for dismissal was having his hands tied behind his back and having two members beat up on him. He paid with two loose teeth, a concussion and a dislocated nose for his dismissal session. The air force medical unit wanted to know how he got hurt. Will's answer was, "I fell off my bike."
Will hadn't been married long when he received orders for Germany. She would not accompany him. She didn't want to leave behind a federal job at Bergstrom Air Force Base because, "I love my job and my boss. He's a real good guy," she told Will. Will came home on leave after twelve months and found her being six months pregnant. Her boss was the baby's father. Will filed for divorce and returned to Germany.
Will exhibited several of the PTSD5 symptoms which I experienced. I tried to talk Will into enrolling in the Veterans Administration Mental Health therapy sessions. "Hell, no, there's nothing wrong with my mental health! I don't need no goddamn therapy sessions!" Will yelled out to me. "I'm just fine with my mental health! It's all those other assholes who have issues. Not me!"
Will was a cherished and honorable friend, the type that one runs into by circumstance and the friendship grows as the years pass. Sadly, Will passed away last year. I was searching for him online when I came across his obituary. Rest in Peace, my brother.
Roger Holtz was in my Electronics Maintenance Section at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. He loved his beer more so than his wife. Brenda tried to get Roger to cut back on his beer. It didn't work. She would call in some mornings telling me that Roger would be coming in late because, "He partied again too much last night." We all tolerated Roger because he was a good electronics technician and the only technician certified in the repair of Mine Detectors. Having served two tours in Vietnam, he had multiple wounds which made life miserably difficult for him. He would come in telling us, "That bitch of mine called again complaining about my drinking, didn't she?"
Brenda nursed him back to health during the several months he spent recovering from his wounds, and it was during this recovery period that he took up binge drinking. He could not drive during his recovery, so he was dependent on Brenda to drive him to work, to his many appointments and to bring him his beer. Brenda had had enough and refused to go for his beer one weekend. There was a terrible fight, and Brenda told him, "I've had enough of you and your bullshit. I'm getting the hell out of this miserable marriage. I'm moving back in with my parents in Charlotte!"
"You do that, and I'll get someone to drive me there and set things right!" Roger threatened.
Brenda left. Roger called his next-door neighbor who agreed to bring him some more beer.
That next day Roger called Brenda, but she would not talk to him. His mother-in-law picked up the phone and apologized to him. "Ma, you tell Brenda that if she won't talk to me, I'm gonna kill myself," said Roger. She still would not come to the phone. After a few more minutes, Roger informed his mother-in-law, "Okay, Ma, this is the last chance before I kill myself. Ask her to come to the phone."
Brenda would still not come to the phone, so Roger pointed his shotgun out the window and fired a shot then let the shotgun and phone fall on the floor. The mother-in-law panicked telling Brenda about Roger killing himself. Roger could hear their panic through the speakerphone. He heard Brenda yelling, "Mom, call the military police at Fort Belvoir and tell them to send an ambulance. I'm driving there now!"
Once the phone went dead, Roger composed himself and called his neighbor buddy to come over to pick up the shotgun. "Now, if anyone asks, you didn't hear any gunfire," Roger informed the neighbor then proceeded to tell him what had just taken place. Military Police showed up at Roger's door to investigate someone killing himself at his house. "I'm the only one in this house, and I sure the hell did not kill myself!" Roger informed the MPs. He asked them to come in and check. They declined.
Brenda showed up some hours later to find Roger watching TV and sipping on a beer. She never asked Roger about the shotgun firing. Roger never discussed it. Brenda never again left after that wild incident. Our shop had a 30-minute break every morning at 0930 hours. It was during one of these breaks that Roger told us his story. I attribute Roger's drinking and poor judgment to PTSD.
Daryl Harold was a motor vehicle mechanic with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam. He didn’t like his job and tried unsuccessfully to switch to an infantry assignment. When he could not get an infantry assignment, Daryl volunteered for the LRRP6 team. Some weeks later the LRRP team was out on patrol one night when they were attacked by a band of North Vietnamese regulars, and a furious firefight ensued. The radioman was incapacitated during the attack. Daryl made his way to the radioman, grabbed the mike and called in artillery to his position then helped the radioman to a safe area away from the pending artillery shelling. Daryl received minor wounds during the firefight but safely guided his team back inside the 101st Airborne perimeter.
In 1973 I was assigned to the consolidated maintenance division of the Engineer School at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and met Daryl who was working as a motor vehicle mechanic. During a break one day, Daryl noticed my 101st Airborne right shoulder patch and the conversation let us to share stories about our time there. One of the stories he shared was about his ordeal with the LRRP team. “That was some bad shit,” he said. “And I sure the fuck would not go and volunteer for that shit again, but I was bored being a grease monkey, so I volunteered. But I did get a Silver Star for that. Of course, that Silver Star and a couple of bucks won’t even buy me a fucking cup of coffee.”
One day just after the 4th of July weekend Daryl did not show up at work. His supervisor tried to contact him and Daryl never responded, so the supervisor went to Daryl's assigned family housing to do a welfare check. Daryl never responded, but one of the neighbors told him that Daryl, his wife and four kids packed up his station wagon and left Fort Belvoir for West Virginia.
Daryl’s supervisor was assigned to go to his family quarters, do a complete inventory of everything then arrange for a team to come and pack all his family belongings to be placed in storage. His supervisor shared with me that Daryl had unplugged his refrigerator full of food and meat. When he opened the refrigerator, the stench was overpowering. It seemed he had left in a rush since most of his and his family’s clothes and belongings were still there.
Whenever conversation begins to get dull, I normally ask “How is it you wound up in the army?” Daryl’s reply was, “Well, what the fuck was I gonna do? I was drafted, then they waved a couple of thousand dollars in front of me to re-enlist. I needed the money for my family, and jobs are pretty scarce in West Virginia. I re-enlisted, and here I am.”
After thirty days, it was evident that Daryl had gone AWOL and was not coming back. He was listed as a deserter. I left Fort Belvoir a few months later and never heard any more of Daryl. I attribute Daryl’s desertion to his PTSD probably going back to the night he sustained wounds at the hands of the North Vietnamese regulars. PTSD is a cruel mistress that’s hard to shake off.
Randy McKnight joined the army to avoid the draft. He grew up just outside of the Fort Campbell, Kentucky, border. His father had been killed in Korea during that war when Randy was not old enough to remember him. According to Randy, his mom was a very pretty lady who never remarried. She worked on Fort Campbell and would bring home soldiers who would spend the night. Randy was instructed to call them 'uncle', so he had a lot of uncles growing up. It was not until Randy was in his teens that he realized his 'uncles' were actually suitors courting his mom, and she had a lot of them according to Randy.
While processing into the army in basic training, a corporal sitting behind a typewriter asked Randy his full name, serial number, date of birth and next of kin. Randy gave him his first and last name. "And what is your middle name, private?" asked the corporal.
"I don't have a middle name," replied Randy.
"No, the army doesn't operate that way, private," said the corporal. "The army needs you to have a middle name. So what is it?"
"I don't have one. My parents did not give me a middle name."
"Well, goddamit, you need a middle name, so what's it gonna be?"
"I don't know," replied Randy.
"Okay, it's gonna be 'Buddy'. Buddy will be your middle name," said the corporal as he proceeded to type 'Buddy' in the middle name block of all the army forms. From that day forward Randy's full name would become 'Randy B. McKnight'.
Randy served two tours in Vietnam and retired as a First Sergeant after serving a 20-year career. Randy B. McKnight went back to his Tennessee home thinking he would have no trouble finding a good job since he had retired as a First Sergeant; however, that part of Tennessee was still a depressed area. He read in the paper about two possibilities for employment. One company was hiring workers for a project building some type of nuclear power plant. The other was hiring recently-retired electronic-communications veterans to work as advisors for the Saudi Arabian army. Randy was not about to go to some far-off land, so he interviewed for the local job and had no problem getting hired immediately. On the first day on the job, he was bussed to a worksite in an open field where there were nothing but bulldozers and building cranes. He was issued a hard hat and a body strap and hooked up to a crane hook which lowered him down some one hundred feet into a hole about the diameter of a small car.
"When you get down to the bottom, you will be shoveling all that loose dirt at the bottom into that large bucket sitting there waiting for you," his foreman instructed. "When you fill the bucket up, radio the operator to raise the bucket. He will empty the bucket and send it back down. Now, you make sure you stay alert since that bucket can malfunction and fall on you crushing you flatter than a pancake."
Randy was terrified. He ate his lunch there during the bucket-emptying process and thought about his predicament now realizing he had made a bad choice. When he was lifted back to the surface at the end of the day, his foreman told Randy "Well, Randy, how did you like your first day on the job?" then without waiting for a reply, he continued, "You did well, Randy. Tomorrow you'll be doing the same thing, and you can see all those markers around here. They are all holes that need to be cleaned out. See you tomorrow bright and early, Randy."
Randy learned all the holes were to become the support beams for the nuclear power plant foundation. They were needed in case of earthquakes or other earth movements. Randy woke up that next morning and called the recruiting team for the Saudi Arabian army. He was in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, just days later and spent the next fifteen years working as a Quality Assurance Electronics Inspector for the Saudi Arabian National Guard. That's where I met up again with Randy. I ran into him while I was working as a Quality Assurance Inspector for the Saudi Arabian Ministry of Defense. I had served with Randy in Germany several years earlier when he was a Sergeant First Class. I was a Specialist 6th Class.
Barry Carpenter grew up in black bear country somewhere in West Virginia. Having graduated from high school in the mid-sixties, Barry felt a sense of certain doom in his future. "I often thought of just failing my subjects so I would not be drafted at graduation," Barry once told me. "But failing meant another year of support from my parents, and they were both eager to get me out of the house early as possible. We were a large family, and Dad's little farm produced just enough food for our family. When my uncle died, Dad took his job delivering food to the area schools. That provided another opportunity for food, but the food he brought home was either outdated or stuff no one else would eat."
"So you graduated in '64, Barry. How long before the draft caught up with you?" I asked.
"Well, they didn't," he said. "But I knew it was just a matter of time, so I went to the air force recruiter and took the first available slot winding up in Texas for basic training then to train in aircraft armament systems. I failed twice and was reclassified into ground radio communications then sent to Da Nang, Vietnam. it was a pretty safe assignment, so I extended my tour twice and stayed in ground radio communications. When Vietnam was getting too hot for me, I rotated back to Keesler Air Base in Mississippi then left the air force to return to my family farm. I was basically a lost soul with no purpose or direction in life."
"So how was life back home after your air force time?" I asked. Barry went on to tell me how he just could not adjust to life back on the farm. "I went into a depression that I just could not shake. I found myself down at the town dump nearly every day. My brothers and I would find refrigerator-size carboard crates that we'd drag around looking for black bears who were rummaging for food. I look back now, and I see how it was a dumb thing to do. We would throw rocks and anything that would piss off the bear. When the bear came charging, we would jump inside the cardboard crate and let the bear claw the crate until he got pissed and walked away."
"So how did it happen that you wound up back in the military, Barry?" I asked.
"The girlfriends I used to have were now either married or moved away. So, I was unable to adjust to life on the farm. I went to the army recruiter and retrained into Microwave Systems. I asked the recruiter what the chances were of me going back for another Vietnam tour.
"Well, even if you go," said the recruiter, "You'll be in a safe area since you'll be working on microwave radios. These are the guys who work in air-conditioned repair facilities, so you'll be ok."
Only weeks after completing his training at Fort Gordon, Georgia, Barry wound up at Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam. He felt comfortable with army life, so he stayed in and retired as a Master Sergeant with twenty-three years of service. He never did go back to his family farm in West Virginia.
While working on a prime contract for the US Army at Fort Hood, Texas, I had a number of electronic equipment maintenance positions for which I was hiring. Barry came to his interview dressed in a sharp-looking 3-piece suit. "Now, Barry, you do know that this is a maintenance repair position for which we are hiring, don't you?" I asked.
"Oh, I know that, but I just didn't know the dress code. I overdressed, and I apologize." It was clearly evident that Barry was somewhat embarrassed at the dress code issue, but he was totally focused on presenting his qualifications. Barry turned out to be one of the most knowledgeable and productive technicians in our maintenance facility.
Even after serving three years in Vietnam, Barry never exhibited any adjustment issues upon getting back to the world. Barry was the exception to the rule regarding Vietnam adjustment issues. For the three years I worked with him, he never brought up any Vietnam topics except to answer questions addressed to him. He became a good friend and one of my most trusted employees.
I had already served two tours in Vietnam when the Army Security Agency recruited me and sent me to Fort Gordon, Georgia, to train in Radio Repair and Speech Security Devices. I spent about seven months there and became friends with Wayne who was a Private First Class and assigned as the company's Morning Report Clerk. Wayne had been a Specialist Fifth Class but was reduced in rank for failing a urinalysis test during an Operation Golden Flow check. A welfare check of his room followed and several hits of weed already packaged for selling were discovered . His court-martial was quick and unmerciful. Wayne had just reenlisted for three more years and had bought a new Dodge Roadrunner. He had to sell his Roadrunner since he could no longer afford it on his Private First Class wages.
I had a Volkswagen Beetle at that time. Wayne borrowed my Volkswagen to take a friend to the airport. Before his friend's flight, they decided to go to our favorite drinking spot downtown Augusta and drank a bit too much. They made it to the airport but as he was pulling into a parking space at the airport he turned too wide and hit another car that was also trying to find a parking spot. A large man and wife jumped out of their car and raced over to Wayne demanding to see his insurance and driver's license. Wayne panicked and floored my Volkswagen leaving the scene of the accident with the couple chasing them on foot and yelling at them.
Wayne parked in another area of the parking lot, handed my keys to his friend and asked him to call me and tell me where the car was so I could pick it up. His friend apologized, said he would leave my keys under the seat, and told me Wayne had planned on going AWOL7. He was already in trouble for the Golden Flow episode and was certain to land in jail if caught intoxicated and leaving the scene of an accident. I asked to speak to Wayne, but Wayne had already fled and his friend had no idea where he was headed. I picked up my Volkswagen that same night and found a small dent in the driver's side door.
Some five months later, Wayne came to visit me in my barracks room. He told me the whole sordid story in detail and apologized profusely telling me he was going to pay for the repair. I would not accept that and told him the damage was no reason for him to have gone awol. He agreed saying, "Yeah, I know that, but I was drunk and not thinking right." Wayne told me the story of being on the run for the five-month period until local police somewhere in Tennessee stopped them in a Limousine his new Lieutenant friend had stolen from a restaurant in Georgia.
Wayne met his new friend at a truck stop restaurant. They started talking and turns out his new friend was a 2nd Lieutenant who was also AWOL. He had been commissioned after graduating from Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia, and loved the army until he got orders to Vietnam. He refused to go to Vietnam. Wayne and the Lieutenant had been taking rides from truckers, but when they noticed a Limousine driver pull into the restaurant parking lot, they followed him into the restaurant asking him for a ride. "We just sold this Limousine," the driver told them. "I'm delivering it to Charlestown." Wayne and company agreed to the Charlestown destination. Before leaving, the driver pulled up to the gas pump. He filled up the tank then went inside to pay for the gas in cash as was the practice back then. The Lieutenant saw an opportunity, jumped into the driver's seat and took off leaving the driver stranded.
It was several days before they were caught somewhere in Tennessee. When Wayne was in my room telling the AWOL story, I noticed he was wearing tennis shoes without shoelaces and his zipper was open. "Wayne, your fly's open," I said. "And what happened to your shoelaces?"
"I'm under house arrest," he replied. "I can't even leave my room, actually. But I just had to come over and apologize for all the shit I caused. The MPs removed my shoelaces and zipper. I can't have anything on me that I might use to kill myself. Can you imagine that?"
I left for my third Vietnam tour a couple of weeks later. Wayne was still waiting for his court-martial date. I attribute Wayne's bad decisions to Vietnam PTSD. He had served as a Cobra helicopter crew chief in Vietnam and lost a Cobra to ground fire. PTSD is a damning and cowardly affliction that invades the mind and refuses to leave.
I served with Marty Gibbons in a Signal Battalion assignment in Germany. He was a Specialist Five Ground Radio Repairman on his second enlistment. He was married, had two young daughters and an alpha-female wife who managed every aspect of Marty's life and the girls. They were from a very depressed area of Vermont where Marty worked for the Salvation Army, had been accepted as a Candidate and on track for Commissioning as a Salvation Army Officer.
Money was tight, but his whole family ate all three meals at the Salvation Army dining hall and got discounts on clothes and accessories purchased at Salvation Army. Finally, Martha had had enough. "Marty, you will never get commissioned, so I talked to the army recruiter. He wants you to call him." Marty was upset. Marty begged Martha saying, "You know how long I've worked for this, and I'll be making Sergeant in a year or two. Besides, what about Vietnam? Right now I have a deferment with the Salvation Army position. I'm not joining the army!"
Just days later Marty resigned from the Salvation Army and his dream and joined the US Army as an infantryman. There was a critical need for infantrymen, so that was the training offered to him. Right after basic and advanced infantry training, Marty wound up with the 25th Infantry Division at Cu Chi, Vietnam, where he earned his Combat Infantry Badge and his Purple Heart.
Marty had a plan. He was going to complete his army enlistment and go back to his Candidate position with the Salvation Army. Martha had another plan. Marty was going to reenlist in the US Army but retrain out of the infantry specialty.
Martha's plan worked out, and Marty retrained as a Ground Radio Repairman which is how I first met Marty while assigned to a Signal Battalion in Germany.
Marty had some difficult experiences as an infantryman in Vietnam, but Marty never showed any effects of PTSD. He was always a quiet, peaceful person who never got rattled in the most difficult situation. He was on my field support team where we often had to deploy to parts unknown on two-hour notice. Marty never complained even when I called him in at 0200 or 0400 hours on weekdays or weekends. I could always count on Marty.
What amazes me about Marty is that he went through very difficult times with the 25th Infantry Division in Vietnam, yet, to the day I last saw Marty, he never exhibited any signs associated with PTSD. It is quite possible he was carrying what's known as 'repressed PTSD' to be triggered by some future event later in life. Marty was a socially amazing person.
I met Larry Walters while on a contract with the Saudi Ministry of Defense. I was the Communications-Electronics and Target Acquisition Radar Inspector on the Quality Assurance Directorate Team. We would visit Saudi Army and Saudi Air Force units and perform quality assurance inspections. The Operations Research Section needed a tech writer with experience in target acquisition radar. It was a position that had been offered to me but I declined because of its lower salary.
Some eight resumes for the position were channeled to me for evaluation simply because I had the only target acquisition radar experience on the Saudi contract. None of the candidates had any experience in radars, but Larry Walters showed previous experience as a 286A (Communications-Electronics Warrant Officer). I took interest because I had also retired as a 286A Warrant. I recommended him for the position, and he was subsequently hired.
Larry and I worked closely together when I was not traveling on inspection tours. Larry got a still from a departing Brit who completed his contract and was going home to England. Larry set up the still in his closet and started brewing Sidique, a colorless potent alcohol that turns milky color when mixed with water. During a Sidique drinking session, Larry laid out his life story.
Larry had been appointed Warrant Officer while in Vietnam. He didn't tell his wife about the promotion and that his tour had been shortened by a month. "I arrived at my house in Tucson just after midnight. I didn't have my key so I rang the doorbell several times until a man answered the door. "Can I help you?" he said.
"Well, now, who the hell are you? And where's my wife?" asked Larry. Just then his six-year-old son came running up to Larry hugging him. His wife showed up, too. "Larry, you didn't tell me you were coming," she said. "Why didn't you call me?" At that point the man went back into the bedroom to get his clothes and brushed past Larry and his son. Her lover left in such a rush that he left his expensive watch behind on the nightstand. "Look at it," said Larry. "It's a hell of a souvenir."
The whole Warrant Officer surprise now blown, Larry took his son to a hotel that night and began divorce proceedings that next day. "Life has been both a blessing and a cruel bitch," Larry shared with me. "My son's the blessing. Guess who the cruel bitch is." I opted not to guess.
A few months into his Saudi tour, Larry took his first trip to Bangkok, Thailand. He fell in love with the place and found a Mexican restaurant to eat his favorite Mexican enchiladas and tacos. I had asked him to look for the Mexican restaurant of my Vietnam days with a midget wearing a Mexican serape and Mexican sombrero. He failed me.
Larry made two more trips to Bangkok over the course of his tour and came back to me with a plan. He had managed an Asian restaurant in Tucson, Arizona, with his then-girlfriend, a Chinese lady. He knew restaurants and suggested we move to Bangkok after completing our contract and open up a Mexican restaurant in Bangkok. "You just can't find good Mexican food in Bangkok," Larry said. "I have a Thai girlfriend there who can help us find a place and get it going. Everybody loves Mexican food. We'll make a killing!"
"But, Larry, who are you going to get to cook the food?" I asked. "I don't know how to cook Mexican food. Do you?"
"Not a problem," said Larry. "We'll just go down to Nogales, Mexico, find a good cook, double her salary, and pay for her apartment in Bangkok. Let's do this, Tony!"
"Naw, Larry, I won't do that. I'll be completing my contract in a few months, and I need to go back home to Texas and my family.
Larry tried in earnest to change my mind. I never budged.
A few weeks after I came back home to Texas, Larry wrote to me from Bangkok. He saved enough money in Saudi Arabia to retire in Bangkok. He married his Thai girlfriend and moved back to Tucson with his new bride some two years later. Sadly, Larry Walters passed away sometime about two years ago. I was searching for him online and found notice of his passing. Rest in Peace, my Warrant Officer Brother.
1 Disabled Veteran license plates.
2 Honor Flight Foundation gives World War II, Korean and Vietnam veterans the opportunity to share this momentous occasion with other comrades, to remember friends and comrades lost, and share their stories and experiences with other veterans. All honored veterans travel at no cost to the veteran.
3 Disabled Veteran with Air Medal
4 ROMAD - Air Force enlisted man assigned to an Army unit acts as liaison on the ground assisting the Forward Air Controller.
5 PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
6 LRRP - Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol
7 AWOL - Absent without leave.
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