Part 1

I served in the US Army from September 1968 to September 1971. I enlisted, but not because I wanted to be a soldier. I enlisted as a survival tactic. in the late 60’s the Vietnam war was chewing up soldiers at an astonishing clip. We had gotten very good at throwing large numbers of young men at the “enemy” and the government had to keep young and healthy bodies flowing to replace the ones coming home in boxes. 

We did not have an all “volunteer” military then, nor did we have a lottery system. Instead the Selective Service would simply decimate entire neighborhoods in one cruel swoop. I should have been exempt from service, as I was considered prime college material, however our family construction business, apparently, needed me more than I needed a full time higher education. In those days, a young man did what his 

father told him to do. So I began my post High School life working 40-48 hours a week and going to school ( Temple University ) two nights a week. 

The Selective Service didn’t care about my needs or my family’s needs and I was designated as prime meat to go to “war” and rid the world of “Communists”. I didn’t really have a political opinion when I was 20 years old, in those days your politics were whatever your parents politics were. My Dad would be sorry to see me go, but there were “Gooks” that needed killing. My draft physical showed me to be sufficiently healthy to kill or be killed. One fine Spring Day, I received my draft notice. 

Now, I wasn’t totally clueless, guys my age talked about what the options were: 

1. Get drafted and go to war.
2. Leave the country.
3. Go to jail.     

OR you could join the military before you were drafted and open up some other options. The deal was, if you DID NOT open your draft letter, you could still go to the recruiter and sign up. That was the path I chose. By doing this I would serve 3 years instead of 2, but I’d be able to select any job that I was qualified, by testing, to do. I looked over the options and chose the Signal Corps and going to school in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey for about 9 months after basic training. My thoughts were that, the more valuable I was, the more likely I’d be to enjoy relative safety, as I wouldn’t be easily replaced. 

So, in September of 1968, I boarded a train and took the sad and bumpy slow ride to Fayetteville, North Carolina to be humiliated and abused for 8 weeks to prepare me to kill or be killed. It wasn’t all pushups, haircuts and sleep deprivation though. We were thoroughly tested to see if any of us might have a higher calling than basic cannon fodder. I was offered Officer Candidate School ( No thank you, Second Lieutenants had short life spans in Vietnam ) Helicopter School, Language School and a few other unappealing options. I stayed the course and survived my 8 weeks of basic training with little physical damage and the beginning of my own opinions on our American Culture. 

In mid November I “graduated” ( survived) basic training and was shuttled off to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey to begin my Advanced Individual Training. It was paradise compared to Basic Training. Although you were expected to be spit-shined, starched and shaved, there was little abuse except for the constant cleaning, living in a barracks with 50 or so other “men” aged 17 to about 22 or so and the work assignments apart from 8 hours of classes 5 days a week and several hours of study every night. If you failed your classes, the Army could re-classify you and there were lots of empty caskets waiting for the underachievers. 

Still, I was allowed to have my car, and with the $275 a month or so that I was being paid, I was able to go home some weekends and pretend that my life was normal. About two months into my time in school, I discovered the “Firing Squad”, groups of soldiers, like me, who would practice shooting their M-14 rifles into the air ( using blanks ) in an attempt to fire in perfect unison. You had to be willing to be even more spit-shined and starched than ordinary and be willing to sacrifice an occasional weekend to go fire your rifle into the air. The perks were assignment to a “Squad Room”, a jail cell sized room with only 3 other Firing Squad members, and exemption from “Kitchen Police” duties and other distasteful jobs. I applied, was accepted and began to hone my my marching and weapon handling skills, striving to fire volleys of blanks in perfect unison with my fellow squad members. Our squad clicked and soon we were firing our rifles as if they were Stradivarius violins and becoming one of the best squads on the base. 

In recognition of our ability to shoot these weapons in such a synchronized fashion we were soon being designated for assignment to events. This was the real beginning of my political awakening. The first Funeral I attended still brings a tear to my eye, 55 years later. We marched around, stood next to a flag draped casket, fired our guns in perfect unison and stood stone-faced as wives, parents, brothers, sisters and children wept openly as they traded a folded flag and the gratitude of the United States for their loved one. 

It’s not as if I was completely unaware  of the consequences of the war, after all, I had traded a year of my freedom to, hopefully, avoid being killed. But that funeral was the first time the war had faces for me, the first time I got to see the effect on other people and not just on my own predicament. 

There were more of those funerals, too many of them. I wasn’t just stone faced, I became stone hearted as well, the only way to deal with the emotional toll of standing in the sea of sorrow and pain at each event. Why the FUCK were we killing people? They weren’t in our country trying to kill us. What the FUCK is wrong with us to be doing this shit? Deep thoughts for a 20 year old. Thoughts I didn’t want to have. 

As much as I became anti-war, I still had the prospect of my own survival to face. My training was finite and soon I’d be getting my ticket to Vietnam to maintain Tropospheric Scatter Microwave Transmitters and Receivers. I was pretty good at it and actually enjoyed the challenge. Both dreading my future assignment and being anxious to just get the next part of it over with, my Fort Monmouth days were winding down. 

Near the end of one of our final courses of some high tech system, the instructors asked for volunteers to learn one more additional piece of equipment. nobody raised their hand, we were all veterans of that hard earned lesson of “never volunteer for anything.” Still, I was curious and, after class was over and my fellow students were filing out of the room to go to our lunch break. I lagged behind and asked the instructors for more information about this other piece of equipment. They told me that is was relatively stone age stuff and actually used tubes instead of transistors. It was designated as the LRC-3 system and was hated by most technicians because it needed almost constant tuning to function properly. The instructors told me that it was an additional 6 weeks of training and that the equipment was used only in Thailand. I told them that I’d think about it. 

I didn’t have to think for long. I knew that I would be accepted if I volunteered, since I had good grades in the school. I also was aware that if the Military was going to invest 6 more weeks of training in me, then I would surely be going where that equipment was. I volunteered the next day. About two weeks later, my class had a pathetic little ceremony awarding us certificates of competency in our MOS ( Military Occupational Specialty) and promoting us en masse to Specialists 4th Class. Whoopee! We also received our “Orders” with most being assigned to various bases in Vietnam following their two weeks of freedom before reporting to their next Duty Station. I received orders to stay put and start training in the maintenance of LRC-3 systems.

The additional training was pretty much routine. Most of my friends were gone, off to their two week respite before Vietnam. I knew a few of the other students from other parts of the school system and one other Firing Squad guy. Yep, the equipment was fussy and demanding, but fairly simple and easily mastered, more tedious than challenging. The weeks dragged by and, along with the other students, I speculated more on where I would land for my next Duty Station than my ability to yank out and replace vacuum tubes and adjust potentiometers. 

Eventually, my class received our modified Certificates of Competency for our updated MOS and my orders followed shortly after. I’d be reporting to some Army base in in California for transportation to Northern Thailand. Though I fully expected this, my relief was huge. I had avoided serving in Vietnam! I was probably going to live to be 23 and probably would get out of the Military with all of my appendages intact. 

My two weeks at home prior to deployment were a blur. My Dad told me I was lucky, my Mom told me I was smart. My friends made bad jokes about about my military haircut, which was like a tattoo across your face, making you unwelcome anywhere young antiwar people were gathered,  That’s where the wealthy kids and full time college students who escaped the draft were. The long haired denim clad young girls were with them…”Girls say YES to boys who say NO “ was the saying amongst my generation of the hip,,,,,I was not HIP, but I was going to survive. 

Part 2

After graduating from my training in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, I was “rewarded” with a few weeks at home before leaving for my year in Thailand. Most of the guys I went to school with had already departed for their assignments in Vietnam. I was aware that their time at home, for some of them, would be the last time they’d ever be there. I had manipulated the school’s program and had volunteered ( despite the “never volunteer” mantra ) for extra training in a system that only existed in Thailand. 

Home was bittersweet, my friends in school were uncomfortable around me and vice versa. A girl that I’d been dating had moved on to a guy who was there, not just around once in a while. My neighbors were grieving the loss of their youngest son, Michael. I used to play softball at the schoolyard with Michael. I felt pretty safe but was anxious to get started on my year or so in a foreign land and and get it behind me. The day came quickly for me to report to my duty station, so I boarded my first flight ever, to Oakland, California where I would connect to a chartered plane to Vietnam. 

The flight lasted forever, what laughter and camaraderie there was at the beginning was soon dulled by the monotony and fatigue of the 22 hour flight. Seemingly days later we landed somewhere in Vietnam. Those who were staying were shuttled off to other means of transport to their destination. I was dispatched to temporary quarters to await a flight to Thailand leaving the next afternoon. I was only required to check in twice a day at Headquarters, so I was free to roam the base and get a feel for the military scene in Vietnam. I went to the dining hall for dinner and then on to the EM ( Enlisted Man’s ) Club for some music and cheap, weak beer. No liquor was served. the place was alive with guys my age, trying to get a buzz on 3.2% beer and with young Vietnamese girls trying to lure a G.I. to part with some $ in exchange for whatever they could offer. 

The next morning I was informed that I needed to be ready to travel and present myself at 1300 hours at Headquarters after turning in my bedding at the temporary quarters. By 1400 hours about 25 of us were herded onto a small jet headed for Thailand. Our arrival in Thailand was quite different. We were greeted at the airport by smiling Thai girls offering us cold Coca Colas and warm washcloths to wipe our sweating faces down. We shuttled into Bangkok and were deposited at a large hotel. We were given room keys and instructions to be in the lobby at 1000 hours the next morning. an advance on pay was offered if anyone needed some $ to get them through the night. 

So, here we were, a bunch of 20-24 year old men turned loose in Bangkok with no place we needed to be and a pocket full of cash. It took no time at all for the vultures to arrive…”G.I.!! You want nice young girl? You want nice bar? You want Smoke?” Virtually every young man was scooped up and spirited off to all of the local purveyors of sin. The locals knew the drill and, while they were glad to take our $, they made sure to get everyone back to the “G.I. Hotel” more or less intact. The military had an understanding ( and probably a business arrangement ) with the vultures.

1000 hours came early the next morning. I woke up not sure where I was with my head pounding from too many “Sing Hai” beers and a vague recollection of some massage parlor. We formed lines to board one of three busses, depending on where we were being assigned. A few hours later I stepped off my bus at an airbase in Korat, Thailand pretty much in the middle of the country. At Headquarters, I was told I would be transported by “Deuce and a Half “ ( 2-1/2 ton truck ) to my final in country destination at a small base near Sakon – Nakon. 

Sakon – Nakon  Signal Corp Base was the smallest military establishment I’d ever seen. Perhaps 60 American soldiers and 20 Thai Guards and 20 or so “Housegirls” who did our laundry and kept our barracks clean. I was assigned to the LRC-3 Tropospheric Scatter building where we maintained a complex array of equipment the carried communications from the States and bases in Vietnam to our airbases in Northern Thailand to enable our planes to take out Vietcong using the Ho Chi Minh trail. I was required to work four twelve hours shifts ( 12 on / 12 off ) and then I’d have three days off. Each week we would alternate between day shift and night shift.  Additionally, once every couple of weeks we were assigned “Guard Duty” which meant you spend the night walking around to the Thai Guard Posts asking them if everything was okay. Mostly, you’d go from guard post to guard post and hang out with one of the guards and smoke a little weed. 

Nowhere near enough to do to fill the hours, work a little, go to the base “Club” and have a couple of beers, eat and smoke weed and listen to music. Once every couple of weeks you’d get a “pass” to go to town by military shuttle and smoke some weed with some different Thai people and get a $5 hooker, usually a shy, skinny, young girl of around 18- 20 years old. The hotel downtown was about $8 and they would provide a girl if you didn’t have your own. 

Amazingly, our equipment was pretty well maintained as we were coached by civilian contractors who assured us that, if we kept our stuff working right, no one would mess with us. I probably actually “worked” and hour a shift and spent the rest of the time hanging with the other techs and bullshitting. I liked the work and was good at keeping our ancient equipment tuned up. After a few months, we were judged to be the best performing station of our type in the country. I was given credit for being mostly responsible. 

Soon, I was approached by our commanding officer, known as Captain Crunch, with a request, if I agreed, to be relocated to an airbase that had equipment that was not performing well. I was offered a promotion if I could help turn it around. A few days later I clambered into the back of the ubiquitous “Deuce and a half” for the three hour ride to Nakon Phanom airbase to settle in to my new assignment. When I got there I was assigned to temporary quarters with the explanation that there was no permanent barracks for Army personnel. I’d be given extra allowance to secure a place to live downtown and expected to manage my housing and feeding myself on my own. I’d commute back and forth 5 days a week and was required to wear civilian clothes when off base. It was like Christmas! I found a great house in town with a couple of other guys and it was equipped with a house girl who cooked and cleaned for us. I was 22 yrs. old and given a lot of $ by Thai standards and almost no supervision as long as I showed up for work and made their equipment purr. 

Our house was filled with good food, good weed and willing “Poo-Yeng” and we were untouchable by any of the local bad actors by arrangement between the Army and the local chief of police. Any one of us could literally pass out anywhere and be delivered safely home without any repercussion aside from being separated from any cash you were carrying. I have no idea how the lot of us didn’t turn into drunken sex junkies. 

My new base’s equipment was soon purring smoothly and I was given the freedom to do anything I wanted as long as the systems stayed up. Well, almost anything…after I’d been in country about 10 months, I was summoned to Headquarters and told that the Military Police were not happy with our behavior and we’d better clean up our act. That was the extent of it. Nobody ever mentioned it again but, apparently our debauchery had been noted

.

My time in country was coming to an end. I had applied to extend my time in order to be eligible for an Early-Out. If I stayed an additional 6 months in country, I’d be discharged upon my return to the states instead of having to serve out the rest of my time there. 

My application was refused for, despite my acknowledged skills with the equipment, I was a known troublemaker spewing anti-military and anti-war  talk to anyone who wanted to listen. I was pretty much preaching to the choir, but had worn out my welcome with those who made the decisions. I was just one of the FTA ( Fuck the Army ) potheads that they hated. Somehow they never managed to catch me doing anything wrong or in possession and that pissed them off even more and they wanted me gone. 

Part 3

I received orders to return to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, where I would spend the next year teaching soldiers to do what I did…the electronics part, not the weed smoking or FTA ing. It could have been worse. I had survived and even had fun during my time in Thailand. I had been promoted and was now out of reach of most menial and distasteful tasks that the military had to offer, All I had to do was not to screw up and in a year I’d be free again. Free to do what? I wasn’t sure, I just wanted to not be a soldier anymore, part of the culture that I had come to be repulsed by. 

I was to fly, via a military chartered flight to Oakland, California. where I’d be allowed 30 days of leave before reporting to my next duty station. When I got to Oakland I was handed my orders, a paycheck for about $350 and told to put on my Class “A” uniform and go…Several of us shared a cab to the San Francisco Airport to arrange flights to our respective homes. I had never booked a flight for myself, had only flown on military arranged transportation. I didn’t know how to do it. I had about $500 in cash and a duffle bag of uniforms and civvies and absolutely no knowledge of how to be an adult civilian in the United States of America. It was overwhelming to walk around the busy airport, looking at American girls and American civilians, hardly a uniform in sight. I decided to go to an information kiosk to ask how to go about getting a flight to Philadelphia. We didn’t have cell phones or the internet in those days…..I approached a desk with an attractive young woman behind it. Her smile faded as she looked at me in my uniform, I was expecting this as the news had been full of stories of Lt. William Calley and the My Lai Massacre. Guys like me weren’t very popular in 1970’s America. I stammered out something like a request for information about flights to Philadelphia and was rewarded with a pretty smile and assurances that she’d be glad to help me….she glanced at her screen and told me that Eastern Airlines was on the next floor and had a flight leaving that afternoon. Then she said “How many babies did YOU kill?” I asked her to repeat herself, not believing that I’d heard that. She repeated it and turned away, eager to assist her next customer, someone not in uniform. 

I was stunned, I hadn’t killed anyone. I had barely even had to carry a weapon in the past year. The war had become unpopular in the States, I knew that, but “How Many Babies Did I Kill?”  Most people weren’t openly hostile, some people made comments about the war but, for the most part, people tended to look right through you, as if by denying the soldier in front of them, they could deny the grimy side of America’s war.

 Seeing a young person with long hair wearing remnants of a uniform was such a welcome sight. if they were a VET, then they KNEW. I wouldn’t have to feel frozen out. Of course, I had to go to work with my Dad, while I was home. Some people on the jobs were glad to welcome me home, but they were FOR  the war and I didn’t want to be their mascot. I didn’t fit in. I was actually glad when it was time to report back to duty, to be ensconced among people like me. Many of us were anti-war and just finishing out our time. Surreptitious peace signs were flashed amongst us, with FTA often muttered as we mingled. 

I enjoyed the teaching, as a Specialist 5th Class, I was allowed to live off base and have a car. I was able to get away with hair long enough to sort of look like a civilian, as long as I took care to grease it down when on base to teach. I pretty much avoided trouble, although after it was discovered that I had joined Vietnam Veterans Against The War, I was warned by my Company Commander to keep my Anti-War shit to myself. I didn’t take well to the threats and stepped up my protesting game, being reprimanded frequently, until the company commander realized that any action taken against me would  bring unwanted attention to his command. He had promotions in his future and he wasn’t going to let me fuck that up. Besides, I did my job and did it well. I trained my students in more than Electronics. I taught them what they needed to know to keep a low profile and get through their time with the least disturbance. 

America was turning against the war and many mainstream Americans were coming around to the idea that we, the soldiers, weren’t the problem. The tide was turning. I remember being stopped by a State Policeman in New Jersey on my way back to the base from visiting friends in Philly. It seemed that one of my passengers was “shooting” at people in other cars with a toy pistol. I didn’t even know he was doing it but the Cop was understandably very careful when he stopped me, patting us down and searching our bags. I cringed as he stuck his hand into my duffel bag, knowing he’d find a couple ounces of weed in there. He pulled it out, looked at me and asked, were you over there? I answered “yes” and he said, you’ve had enough bullshit then, get out of here and stay out of trouble. He took the toy gun away from my idiot passenger and sent us, gratefully, on our way. 

A couple weeks later there was an anti-war protest in front of the Art Museum in downtown Philadelphia. the same Art Museum that had become famous for having Rocky, scale the steps in his training run in the movie “Rocky”. I showed up for the protest in uniform, a big no-no for an active duty military guy. In uniform, I climbed the statue of some famous General nearby the museum where the protest culminated. I climbed to the top with a Vietnamese flag, briefly making the evening news. A week later, I went to visit my parents in Philly and my Dad asked me if the guy on the news was me. I told him yes, and he said “For a smart kid, you sure can be stupid, the war is wrong, but you’re almost done with it, stay out of trouble”. It was the first time my Dad ever admitted that the war was wrong. 

I stayed out of trouble, but jumped on the chance to get off of the base at Fort Monmouth. Civilian refugees from Vietnam were straggling into the States as it was becoming clear that we’d soon be abandoning the war. Refugees were being sent to Army bases to start their introduction to their new lives in the United States. It’s only now, as I sit writing this, that I see the irony in that move. Anyway, soldiers were needed to man a Company Headquarters to run one of the bases in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. I volunteered for the temporary duty assignment to work in that capacity. My Company Commander was only too glad to get rid of me and signed off on the move. 

Lebanon, Pennsylvania had no attraction for me except it’s relative proximity to Philadelphia. It was about an hour away by turnpike in a fast car. I had a fast car and knew how to use it. I had to be at Company Headquarters at 9 AM and was allowed to leave at 5 PM. I had a meal ticket to the mess hall and a bunk in a room I shared with a few other guys who were, for the most part, riding out their time like me. Three or four nights a week and every weekend, I’d be blasting down the Pennsylvania turnpike at 85-90 mph to practice being a civilian again. The closest I came to screwing up during that duty was, when I had a detail of low ranking guys that I had to oversee while they cut the huge lawn in front of the Headquarters building. I was bored and when they were done, I took the mower myself, lowered the wheels enough to totally scalp the grass, and cut about a 200 foot diameter peace sign for all the officers to gaze upon at the Headquarters. I worked great, the grass burnt under the summer sun and the peace sign was visible for the next 10 days or so. No one ever confronted me about doing that, although it was talked about at the NCO (Non-Commisioned Officers) Club for the next few nights. 

Part 4

I only returned to Fort Monmouth to process out of 442nd Signal Battalion in September of ’71. I had made it through without losing any limbs and with an “Honorable Discharge” in hand, although I somehow was NOT  awarded the ubiquitous “Good Conduct Medal”. My actual return to being a full on civilian was not as easy or happy as I had anticipated. Although I was eligible for Unemployment Benefits, it only paid $90 per week and I’ve never been the type to sit around too long. I didn’t feel like I fit in with some of the people I encountered. I never talked about being a Vet except with other Vets. I didn’t have the kind of PTSD that caused me to jump or seek cover at hearing loud sounds, although many of my friends did. I was disillusioned with my country and, as I realize now, mourning my loss of innocence. That our country would kill and allow it’s own to BE killed for the almighty $ was sad beyond words. I was angry and sad at the same time. Still, I was a healthy young man with raging hormones and it wasn’t long before I found wonderful “Hippie Chick” who was anxious to soothe me and indoctrinate me to the softer lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock n roll. 

Martha was my muse for the next several years, smart and funny and able to move easily through the civilian world that still seemed a bit of a mystery to me. As my hair grew out and I tailored my wardrobe as camouflage, I was soon a full on “Hippie Freak” which was pretty much what everyone my age was. The era of free love and everything all the time. I have always had that thing where I didn’t like to lose control, so I never missed work or got arrested or did anything else anti social enough to land me in trouble. I soon sold my hot Chevy II with the big engine and acquired a battered Impala more suitable for my new laid back lifestyle. I also acquired a BSA 650 motorcycle. 

A friend pulled some strings and got me a job working for the City of Philadelphia with the surveying department. The work was easy, too easy, and it paid well. I’d show up at the office at 9AM and walk to the garage where my crew’s surveying van was kept and drive it to the office. Then I’d go upstairs and the crew, two surveyors and two helpers would slowly meander down to the van, with the equipment that we would need and drive to wherever we were supposed to work on that day. By the time we arrived, it was time for coffee break, so we’d spend half an hour drinking coffee and bullshitting. then we would set up, work for maybe an hour and then break down for an hour’s lunch. in the afternoon, we’d go back, work for another hour or so and have an afternoon break. one of the surveyors would start sipping some whiskey as we approached 3 o’clock. by 4PM it was time to pack up and start to head back to the office and straggle upstairs with any equipment that couldn’t stay in the van. The surveyors  would copy their data into the system while I would return the van to the garage, come back and clock out. I was actually working about 3-4 hours a day. Although it paid well and had good benefits, I couldn’t stand it. I was gaining weight and feeling sluggish. I quit after about 3 months, and went to work in our family construction business at the behest of my middle brother, Gary. My Father had just died at 52 years old and the family needed all the help it could get. 

I hated that job, my brother had been married for a few years and had a couple of kids and was driven to succeed. he wanted me to work 60 hours a week. I wanted to go to concerts, smoke weed and make love to my sexy girlfriend. I left the family business after a horrible year and started working for myself. I had the skills and enough ambition that my carpentry services were in demand. I worked hard, but on my own terms and bit by bit, my military years became just memories. 

I realized years later, that getting sucked into that war shaped the rest of my life. I would probably never have had the adventures that I’ve enjoyed since then, had I not been alienated from the typical American lifestyle during those impressionable years.

Now, at 75, I’ve lived on tropical islands, built my own sailboat and traveled the Caribbean Islands while using my carpentry and construction skills to support myself. I’ve never had to work for anyone else again. I was married at 40, became a Father at 48, built businesses, learned another language and other cultures. At 50 I bicycled across the United States and have been to every state in America. My wife died of cancer when she was only 55, reinforcing my belief that there are no guarantees in life, it is what you make it. My daughter has inherited the best of her Mother and has even managed to make a few of my traits work for her. I hope that she lives through a period of American History where we can see peace and enlightenment and, most of all, that she lives an interesting and happy life.