[Penn]

Introduction

As the decent began through the clouds at 20,000 feet everyone, except those on a return trip, that could look out the small window to view the landscape below, did. The First banking turns over the turquoise blue sea dominated the view, as the plane continued its decent, an incredible jagged white line of sand came into view, separating the tranquil sea from the emerald green of the jungle. A panorama so beautifully set; it obscured the impending imminent danger it held.

On landing and rolling down the runway the view reviled an intensely busy airport, with planes taking off and others unloading their human cargo. Soldiers marching in single file across the jammed packed tarmac, while in the distance helicopters and fighter jets were silhouetted against the pale blue of the sky.

Mesmerized by the bustling activity, the dream state was brought to abrupt attention with the opening of the plane’s door, carrying the rushing scent of the country into the consciousness that would leave an indelible imprint, etched in the perception, you were a long way from home.

That sensual realization of arriving in a foreign land without a point of reference, dispelled the excitement of adventure with the uneasiness of the unknown. As we deplaned, everyone searched for the intangible consensus they were not alone in their thoughts, making small comments to the first of many lasting experiences as they strode down the long aisle, exiting into the harsh grey light of an early October afternoon in 1970, at Bien Hoa air base in the Republic of South Viet Nam.

The welcoming sign at Bien Hoa airfield, noted the airfield was first established by the French and had been in operation since 1953, and that the base had processed over 1million servicemembers. On the margin, an odious inscription penciled in by one of those soldiers from long ago, sarcastically stated you had 364 more days to go in the land of milk and honey.

The weight of that engraving was further amplified in the crossings path of in processors and out-processing soldiers, with the latter mocking the new arrivals time to go, by noting their days on rotating out or “shortness”. It was, by any standard, the beginning of a new in country vocabulary that was quickly absorbed and manifested to overcome the stigma of being a FNG.

The in-processing system, years in the making, was streamline and efficient. From clothing supply to in-country classes that broadly covered the demographic make-up of RVN, to instruction navigating mocked up trails, identifying tripwires, and where to go should the base receive incoming, was a 5day nonstop event ending with assignments, during that process you were offered the opportunity to request an assignment or unit. If the request met the needs of the Army, the assignment would be granted.
Two of my childhood best friends were already in country, both with the Americal Division, one was an Infantry grunt with one month in country and the other a gun truck driver with the 11th Inf Brigade well into his second tour. There was a rumor while in processing that a Spec 4 in assignments could help get you assign to any unit requested. Sought and found, my assignment came through to the Americal Division, 23rd Infantry Division, 11th Infantry Brigade.
 
Chapter 1

The straight-line of flight from Bien Hoa to Chu Lai is less than 200 Miles but became a day’s long flight as the C-130 Crisscrossed all the major airfields in between while delivering its cargo. The long journey brought a welcome relief from the previous 5 days of in processing. Allowing those on board to peacefully dose off between take offs and landing, reinforcing every soldier on board the increasing ability to enter the dream state on a moment’s notice, on any surface at any time.

Nodding in and out to the humming drone of the engines, reminiscent of the kitchen exhaust fans, I’m dreamt back in Dino’s restaurant in Wildwood, NJ., Mrs. Compare was right in front of me. I was on the beach, it was my 18th birthday, telling her I enlisted. She hugged me, said something in Italian, I could smell the red sauce with its oregano and garlic, remember the recipe of one onion to one head of garlic, sauteed and deglazed with one quart of red wine, one cup of sugar, reduced to half and then adding 1#10 can of Mazzarri tomatoes, and 2 of water, cook for 30 minutes and then remove from the heat. I could taste it! I could see the tiramisu on the white cloth table. Jarred awake by the hard landing swelled the confusion between the recent past and present.

Fully awake, my thoughts drifted back to those blissful summers, my childhood friends and I spent living at the beach. Teenagers, working in various restaurants each season in the late 1960’s, from 1967 to 1969, living in a rented beach house at 101 Hand Avenue, partying every night after work, intent on engaging in mankind oldest ritual.

Our schedules were all the same regardless of where we were employed. You signed in at 3pm, prepped your station, worked non-stop until 9/10 pm, signed out, went home, and began another night of dancing and partying to greatest music, usually ending around sunrise, with or without your latest crush; as the sun rose you made your way to the beach, sleeping there till noon or so, then home to shower and change for work. Every day a rerun.

It seemed so long ago, as I was now enroute to reunite with my beach bum buddy,10,000 miles from home. My mind roamed to the two men walking on the moon, one of which, far into the future, I would spend an hour alone with recanting this exact experience, relating my thoughts of flying to an unknown destiny, while our hometown City of Philadelphia was in flames, riots, and protest everywhere and four student dead in Ohio. Yet, I somehow felt strangely safe, knowing that if we could put footprints on the moon, I would come home.

The social unrest in America was deeply disturbing to me. Raised by two depression era parents who experienced all the hardships of the second world war, they presented an oral history at the dinner table to their five children, naturing a deep respect for country. There in our assigned seats, we would hear stories of their friends who served or made the ultimate sacrifice. My aunt Kitties fiancé Ray Welch, a Marine, who died on Guadalcanal manning a machine gun surrounded by 30 dead Japanese, or my uncle Joe, my father’s brother, who was one of the first Americans inside Auschwitz concentration camp, were two of the countless character-based stories that informed our world view and guided our future decision process.

Sitting in place, I looked back at my parents their position and place, incorporated into their respective upbringing. My Mother’s family spent the depression era, raise in two homes, one in the tony St. Monica’s Parish in Philadelphia during the school year, and in Atlantic City in the summer, with a household staff of maids and butlers to cater to her and her three brothers and four sisters. Though we were never told how all that was possible, except that my grandfather owned a trucking company that serviced the east coast from 1905 through the era of prohibition, until selling the company in 1955.

In direct contrast to that lifestyle was my father’s single parent family, his mother having died while giving birth to him, the last of 13 children, the family consisted of 8 girls and 5 boys, with two dying in infancy.

The storyline of my parents was so profoundly different that we were never confused by wealth or poverty. One example that is scared in my mind is the tale of my father at eight years of age kicking coal off a moving train to heat their house. Coal that was most likely loaded from one of my mother’s father’s trucks, as he held the contract for that section of the city. Those stories enforced a deep sense of self-reliance, to always believe in ourselves, to trust ourselves, and to do what was necessary to meet the day.

Compounding those early childhood experiences was a merit task-based system of responsibilities that each of us had to perform daily or as weekly chores. The chores consisted of every household duty, allowing for individual preference and ensured a reward when completed.

After dinner each night, we could choose whether we wanted to clear the table, wash the dishes, or dry and put them in the cabinet. At each point in the line, you could call for rejects.
If the one clearing did not remove all the remaining food particle from the plate and the dishwasher call a reject and the reject was certified by MOM, you not only cleared the table, but you washed and dried also. The reverse produced the same result.

The reward, after dinner each night we engaged in one of three games: chess, pinochle, or danced. It would be many years later, as a parent myself, before I understood the genius that my parents exampled and where I would fail miserably as a parent. Chess taught us strategy, pinochle taught us partnership, and dance taught us how to have fun.

The regiment of discipline was so readily enforced, that as I watch the movie play before my eyes, complying to the current demands of the moment was thoughtless, if not second nature. And somewhere, over that forbidden landscape, the memory of that long ago, short, loving time, filled with the laughter and the thrill of competition, from crying foul to winning, devolved into an induced state of hopelessness and homesickness that ate at the core of my spirit, leaving in its wake, a bile aftertaste of foreboding.