I have already posted the video of the take-off from Phu Bai, but it still deserves an explanation. We left our hotel in Hue for the airport at about 7:30AM, I think on January 28. I assumed that Hue actually had an airport and I dozed off on the ride. I awoke as the bus made a jarring left turn and realized that we were on the road into what had been the Phu Bai Combat Base. When I was there, there was a large sign over the base entrance that had all the major units located there-XXIVth Corps, the 101st and III Marine Amphibious Force. Under all that, it said, "Phu Bai Is Just All Right." It was sort of a lie, because we got hit there pretty regularly. In fact, the base was so huge that when the siren went off, unless the incoming was walking up our road, we would get up on the roof of our hooch and watch the fireworks, because everything on the perimeter would open up and gunships would take off and start firing rockets in the location of the enemy position.
Anyway, as we neared the terminal, I saw that it said, "Phu Bai International Airport." Who would have ever thought? When I got off the bus, I asked Song about the terminal and he said that it was built on the foundation of the terminal that was there when I was in the 287th. I already knew that the old runway was still a part of the newer, longer runway, but this was all just too much. Inside, of course, the terminal was very modern and not just full of military-type...well, everything. No guys in uniforms, running helter skelter, all rucked out in camo or green jungle fatigues and armed to the teeth. Just as I was every time I was going out on a mission from here. We usually took off from the XXIVth Corps or 101st chopper pads near our hooches, but there were also those times when we went by aircraft and through the terminal. And it was this very terminal that I went through when I left Phu Bai on March 24, 1970, to make my last flight home, that time on a C-130 that took me to Tan Son Nhat, where I caught a civilian jet to the States.
We boarded a bus, drove about 100 yards and got out. As we walked out across the tarmac to board our plane to Ha Noi, I saw buildings off the tarmac that I recognized as having been there when I was here 42 years ago. Something old, something new. I found my seat and immediately began looking out the window, making sure my camera was set to record a video of the take-off. I didn't have even a still camera when I left the last time, so I have no photographic memorial of that event. I wanted to make sure that I had one this time, especially because it was basically the same runway, taking off southeast to northwest as I did the last time. This time, instead of heading due south, I would head due north. As we sat on the tarmac, I was thinking of so many different memories of Phu Bai--but mostly about the men I served with and how much I loved them then and now. Many of us have stayed in touch over the years, and particularly since I tracked them all down in 2004 and even went and found almost everyone who had served in the 287th, before and after me, and helped organize a reunion in May 2004 at Eglin AFB, where the EOD training facility and our memorial are located. This past September, we had our National EOD Association convention right, here, in Central Oregon. Paul Duffy, Chuck Watson, Tom Miller and Dan Reese, our faithful clerk, made it and it was wonderful, as always, to be with them, along with my brothers from the 184th, Roger McCormack and Doug Rhodes and Danny Louwaerts, who I had been with in the States at Dugway Proving Grounds. Dan was with the 42nd at Bien Hoa. I wish they could all have been on this trip.
As we rolled down the runway, I have to admit that, as I was filming, I had a huge lump in my throat and, eventually, I could feel tears running down my cheeks. In fact, I'm kind of choking up as I write this. Maybe I'm a "Girly Man," but I make no apology for my emotions. When I left Vietnam on March 24, 1970, the constant thought I had then, as well as after I was back in the States, was that I was abandoning my team and that, somehow, something bad would happen to one or more of them if I wasn't there. Thank God that did not occur. However, in late-July 1970, Chuck Watson and Rod Wilkinson, Bob Lynch and the CO, Andy Breland, were all involved at various stages in the siege at Fire Support Base Ripcord, immortalized in Keith Nolan's spectacular book, "Ripcord." Bobby Lynch was wounded three times in two days and Watson and Wilkinson were wounded by incoming 120mm mortar fire as they were trying to be extracted. Wilkie was actually blown into the Tactical Operation Center, which then collapsed. The 101st reported to the 287th that Wilkie had been killed. Low and behold, several hours later, as they pulled the collapsed bunker apart, they found Wilkinson, alive. As he and Watson were attempting to take off shortly, thereafter, Watson turned to go back for something and Wilkinson said, "Fuck this," and grabbed Watson by the belt, pulling him into the chopper. Just as they lifted off, an 82mm mortar round landed right where Watson had been standing. I am so glad they all made it out alive.
As we continued to roll down the runway and pick up speed, I realized how big a part of my life Phu Bai had been, even though I was only there four months, having transferred in from the 25th at An Khe. When we lifted into the air, I felt as if more of the weight of my Vietnam time was being lifted away. During my time at Phu Bai, Paul Duffy and I cleaned up the remnants of Fire Support Base Rifle, a remote 101st base about 20 miles southwest of Phu Bai in low mountains. On February 11, 1970, Rifle had been overrun and when we flew in, I made the comment to Paul that is now the title of the book I am writing about my experiences in Vietnam as an EOD operator: "This is what hell looks like." The carnage and destruction we witnessed, both from the air and once we were on the ground, was devastating and I know that both of us were extremely affected by what we saw and did there, that day, and we talk about it when we are together. I talked about bodies, earlier, and Rifle was awash with them, both American and NVA. It had been a bloodbath for both sides and it had ended with hand-to-hand combat inside the perimeter. While we were there, including as we touched down, two more gun-battles erupted just off the perimeter and two members of a recon team were killed. We checked all the bodies for booby-traps and removed ordnance from all of them.
There is a picture at the bottom of the blog of Paul and me with some of the un-fired RPGs carried by rocket teams that had been blasted to pieces by artillery firing flechette (little steel darts, unleashed when the round blew open) rounds at point-blank range, and TNT blocks from satchel charges that had been duds because of bad fuses. Later, as we were waiting to be extracted, we were sitting on the lower LZ when a Flying Crane came in and landed on the upper LZ. If we thought anything, we figured it was bringing in a new 105mm howitzer and ammunition. During the attack, two of the three guns and a 4.2" mortar had been destroyed by incoming mortar and rocket fire. A few minutes later, we heard the Crane lifting off and as it gained altitude, we could see that all of the dead NVA were in a sling under the chopper. As we watched, almost in slow motion, the Crane flew out over the forest about a click and dropped the bodies. As I wrote in the draft of my book, "It was raining fucking dead," and it is a memory that neither Paul or I will ever forget. Notwithstanding all of the destruction we had witnessed that day, and in a dozen other places during my four months in Phu Bai, I felt much of that being washed away as my plane was finally at cruising altitude and headed for Ha Noi. Since I have been home, several of my friends, including fellow Vietnam veterans, have asked me how I feel now that I am back. I have been unable to describe how I feel in adequate terms, other than to say, "I feel lighter."
We landed in Ha Noi and the terminal was actually pretty quiet, unlike the bedlam in Saigon and Da Nang. We loaded onto our bus and headed for our hotel--the "Demantoid." I later said to someone, "So is this the house of Satan?" As we rolled into Ha Noi we were traveling on a dike shoring up the Red River and protecting Ha Noi, which is very prone to flooding during the monsoon season. You could see a lot of high-rise construction from numerous cranes in the sky in the part of Ha Noi that I guess you would call, "New Ha Noi," since we were headed to "Old Ha Noi." When we got to the hotel, because it was still in the AM, my, Vela's and John's rooms were not ready. Vela and I walked across the street and sat down at a table at a sidewalk coffee shop. Another thing the Vietnamese learned from the French was how to make really strong coffee. I have actually come to like the sweetened version that uses a sweet, thick milk. As we sat there, two things happened. First, as we watched the traffic, Vela turned to me and said, "Can you believe that we are in fucking Ha--Noi?" I looked at him and said, "It's pretty amazing and who would have ever thought..."
The second thing that happened was that as we both watched the flow of traffic, we realized that there was something important happening. There were thousands and thousands of small motorcycles, cars, small trucks, even buses, going by us at a constant speed of about 20-25MPH. As I watched, I realized that no one was yelling at anyone, no one was flipping the bird, even though there was a lot of weaving in and out, passing people on the left, cutting someone off. People were honking their horns at various intervals and places and everyone else seemed to understand why the honking was occurring and responded, accordingly. There was a complete Zen thing going on with the traffic, like so many other aspects of life in Vietnam, and all of this with few traffic signals and no traffic cops. In all the time we were in Vietnam, we saw only one accident and that was a truck that went off the road between the Delta and Saigon.
It was then that I realized what the difference is in what I was seeing and experiencing and driving in the US. In the US, many people who get behind the wheel of their car or truck, or the handlebars of their motorcycle, think the fucking road belongs to them, and them only. They are pissed of about something, probably their lives, in general, when they get behind the wheel and then they become a complete asshole. These are the people who cut you off, talk on their fucking cell-phones, or text while they drive, give you the finger when they pass you, if you're not going fast enough for them. Well, to them, I say, the road is not yours, it belongs to everyone and you should either stay off the road, or allow the rest of us to enjoy it without you being a total and complete asshole. This was today's short rant.
Our hotel in Ha Noi was really nice. The rooms were somewhat small, but more than adequate and we had WiFi in our rooms, so I was able to Skype with Mona every day we were there, which was really nice because I could share my adventure with her, as it was happening. Our time in Ha Noi was taken up mostly with meetings. We met with people from the National Youth Theater, the Ha Noi Writers' Association and herbicide victims, to name the major ones. Our group member, Brian, has written a play about a Vietnam veteran contemplating suicide. It's called, "Memorial Day." He was able to go to the playhouse and work with the people, there, so that he could perform a piece of it for us and the Vietnamese from the theater group. It was a longer version than what he had done for us when we were in the Delta at Tam Tien's place. It was incredible and with the right sound--not my computer, this time--and the offstage voices, it was extremely powerful and I hope that I am able to see the entire production when he takes it on the road and, hopefully, it will come to Portland.
We also met with the Ha Noi Writers' Association and many of the poets were veterans of the war. The poems they read were spectacular and it was clear that we all share the same issues when it comes to war and it's effects on the human soul and spirit. Vela, again, read his phenomenal poem that he had written for Peter's ceremony at Gio Linh. And Karen--Brian's wife--read a very powerful poem she had written called, "To My Husband on Veterans Day after 9/11." Brian was a witness to the first plane that hit the World Trade Center. Can you imagine? One of the Vietnamese poets read a poem entitled, "A Late Written Love Poem." This poet, a former NVA soldier, had written a poem to his wife, thanking her for putting up with all of his Vietnam-related trauma and loving him, nonetheless. It immediately made me think of Mona and how lucky I am to be with her, given the turmoil I have caused her on more than one occasion over the years. I think this trip will help me never to have her be the brunt of my anger, my down times, or other issues that relate to my Vietnam "thing." At the poetry readings, I read three pages from my book about my time in Vietnam as an EOD operator. When it was translated for the Vietnamese, there, heads were nodding with understanding because I was talking about the universal issues of being a man who had gone to war and come back an entirely different person. Ed later told me that it was the first time that prose had been shared with this group and I felt honored to have been able to do that.
I suppose, however, that the meeting we had in Ha Noi that had the most meaning and impact for me, even more than meeting with the herbicide victims at the museum in Saigon, was when we met with "The Vietnam Association for Victims of Agent Orange," particularly with their Vice President and Secretary General, Dr. Tran Xuan Thu. The meeting had been going on for some time when there was a slight lull in the conversation and I simply could not hold back any longer in terms of my feelings about the use of herbicides during the Vietnam/American War. I could no longer not say what was on my mind, particularly after seeing so many victims of the use of these poisons that were used with full knowledge, at least by the chemical companies, that this shit would kill people and would cause untold horrors by the diseases and deformations they were known to cause. I had not stopped thinking about the young child I had held in my arms in Song's ancestral village and probably never will. To say the least, my anger and vitriol simply spilled forth and, part of the time, I was on the verge of sobbing. I was biting my lip so I would not cry and so that I could say everything that has been bottled up all these years.
In 1983, I was diagnosed with bladder cancer, known to be caused by exposure to toxic chemicals, including the toxins used in the herbicides sprayed in Vietnam. I was lucky and was cured with surgery. Now, I have Type II Diabetes. I was one of the original plaintiffs in the Agent Orange litigation and, like most of us, got fucked by the settlement because I was, allegedly, no longer injured. In addition, the VA has never recognized bladder cancer as being presumptively caused by herbicide exposure because the fucking Institute of Medicine--an arm of the National Institutes of Health--has yet to find enough evidence of causation. Listen, here, you fucking losers--in my 34 years as a service officer, I have been made aware of dozens--dozens--of cases of bladder cancer among Vietnam veterans, many of them relatively young men--I was 35--when diagnosed. I've got news for you, IOM--bladder cancer is an old man's disease and everyone in the urology and oncology fields, apparently, except you, knows this. My urologist asked me if I had been in either the aviation or garment industry. Why? Because aviation fuel contains benzene, known to cause bladder cancer. Garments? The dyes contain aniline, known to cause bladder cancer. When I told him I had been in Vietnam, he immediately said, "It was caused by the herbicides you were exposed to." So, fuck you, IOM. In Vietnam, they assume that if you fought in the war you were exposed to herbicides and if you have some horrible disease, like bladder cancer, it was caused by exposure to herbicides.They don't screw around for twenty years while countless men die without compensation, often leaving their families in dire financial straits.
I finished my rant by apologizing to the Vietnamese for the position taken by the US government in the lawsuits filed against the chemical companies for the Vietnamese who have been injured and killed by the herbicides that have injured and killed tens-of-thousands--if not hundred-of-thousands--of us who served there. The government's position, that the courts used to dismiss the suits, is that because the herbicides were not deliberately made or used to injure human beings, therefore, there was no negligence. I'm sorry, but despite what the government and the courts have said, the use of herbicides in Vietnam was both a war crime and a crime against humanity, which means also against those of us who served there. This is just another version of the same twisted defense that the Nazis tried to use at Nuremberg and it was rejected, there.
The chemical companies knew, or should have known, that, as early as 1957, research showed that dioxin was deadly and that it was carcinogenic. I remember, back during the litigation while I was in law school, reading a piece of research from 1957 about workers in a plant in Italy where they made herbicides using dioxin. The incidences of cancers and other diseases was off the scale. Furthermore, I have recently learned that DOD specifically told the chemical companies they could not use dioxin. They used it, anyway, and lied. If this is true, therefore, they clearly did not make the herbicides according to contract specifications and should not have been allowed to use the government defense that you cannot sue for something that happens to you in the military. Now, you understand my anger and why I could no longer contain it during this meeting. As I did, there, I apologize for this rant.
During our time in Ha Noi, we, unfortunately, did not have enough time to really explore the city. Vela and I did, however, bow out of one event so we could spend the morning looking for things we wanted, like a VC flag, a better necklace for my chip of The Wall and gifts for people back home. Plus, we were both looking for Tet dragon tee-shirts. I had bought one in Hoi An and even though it said "L," I would be surprised if it's a medium. We both found what we wanted in a galleria--that was a complete madhouse--and from a street vendor and I found my necklace in a little shop, as well as a nice carving from a deer bone that I am also now wearing around my neck with my chip from The Wall. We went to the lake where the temple to the "Golden Turtle" is located. Prior to crossing the bridge to the small island where the turtle is ensconced, we stopped at a wonderful coffee shop on the water. I have pictures to the right of the floating garden near our table and the designs in the whipped cream on our coffees. There is artwork in so many things in Vietnam. In one of the bakeries I visited to get baguette, there were cakes in the case that were just--well, works of art, as the picture to the right shows. I could not imagine why anyone would want to eat them, but when I went back at the end of the day to get more bread, they were gone and, by now, no doubt have been eaten. Maybe someone took them home and put them in a hermetically sealed glass case like the one holding the Golden Turtle.
The lake is called Hoan Kiem Lake. The legend of the Hoan Kiem turtle began in the 15th century when Le Loi--founder of the Le dynasty--became emperor. According to legend, Le Loi had a magic sword given to him by Kim Qui, the Golden Turtle God. One day, not long after Le Loi had defeated the Chinese and they had accepted Vietnam's independence, he was boating on the lake when a large turtle surfaced, took the sword from him, and dove back into the depths. Le Loi acknowledged that the Golden Turtle God had reclaimed his sword and renamed the lake Hoan Kiem Lake, or "The Lake of the Returned Sword." On June 2, 1967, a Hoan Kiem turtle in the lake died and was preserved and placed on display in the pagoda on Jade Island, on the lake's northern shore. On March 24, 1998, a photographer caught one of the elusive turtles on film, proving they still survived. However, it is estimated that there are no more than five of the turtles left in the two-foot deep lake (200 meters wide, 600 meters long) that is, sorrowfully, horribly polluted. As of 2011, there were three of the turtles in captivity, two in China and one being taken care of in an enclosure on Hoan Kiem Lake because it was found to have lesions all over its shell. This turtle, believed by some to be the sole remaining one in the lake was eventually captured by a Vietnamese military unit on April 3, 2011, after coming ashore to sunbathe on March 31. The government is promising to clean up the lake, and has recently dredged it. Plans are underway to build an artificial beach to encourage breeding if they can find a mate for the one in captivity and in order to avoid extinction.
Vela and I visited the temple and, I must say, that the turtle in the case was quite impressive and very large, as my picture shows. It weighed approximately 440 pounds when it was found and embalmed. There were many Vietnamese and Chinese in the temple praying fervently as they placed incense in the burners spread around inside. It was crowded--very crowded--so, eventually, we had to leave for typical reasons known to Vietnam veterans and their families. All in all, it was a wonderful experience to see the legend in the...uh...shell. Some Vietnamese believe that this is actually the turtle that made itself known to Le Loi. meaning it would have been some 500 years old, at least, when it died.
During the afternoon of our last day in Vietnam, we met in the hotel restaurant for a last discussion of how we were feeling, particularly in light of the fact that we were heading back to the States the next morning. Ed, Kate and John were staying a few more days so that they could attend the festivities for the upcoming marriage of Ed and Kate's adopted daughter, Ngoc. Ngoc had been with us since we had been in Hoi An and she is a lovely, wonderful young woman who is a journalist in Ha Noi and is now working on her master's degree. As I sat at the table, I was lost in all of the things that had happened to us, and to me, along the way of the past seventeen days. As we passed the totem around the table, each of us spoke about our feelings on this last night together and, without going into detail, it is safe to say that some profound words and insights were spoken. To be honest, I don't remember exactly what I said when the totem came to me, other than to make some specific comments about the impact that members of the group had on me. I was really lost in my own private thoughts about all that I had experienced and I was wondering how all of this was going to affect me once I was back in the States.
I realized, sitting there in the restaurant in Ha Noi, that I was a changed person. I don't know if it will be something that others will be able to see or pick up on the next time I'm with them. I'm pretty sure my wife and son will notice the difference and I'm hoping that I'm able to retain most of what I learned about myself and life, I guess, while on this journey. Once, again, I found myself thinking about my private moment with the monk in Da Nang when he said, "I think I will see you, again, some day." Ed recently reminded me of something else he said: "Replace your anger with passionate love for the victims." Although, as I thought about this, at first, I thought he was talking about the victims of herbicides, I think he was actually talking about the victims of all wars, of all violence against otherwise peaceful individuals. Maybe even violence against the planet. Of course, if you listen to blowhard scumbags like Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich, none of that exists. The planet and all of the world's people are just hunky dory and God--their God, not mine--will take care of everything.
Which brings up an interesting point, at least for me. For many years, I think since shortly after getting to Vietnam in 1968, I have said that I do not believe in God, at least not in the sense that most people do and, certainly, not in the sense that I had been raised in a fairly religious Jewish family where we went to synagogue most Friday nights and where I was bar mitzvahed and, then, confirmed at 15. The reason for my change in belief was that within the first few weeks in Vietnam, I saw things that no human being should ever have to be witness to. As exposure to the horrors of war continued unabated during my time, there, this belief only hardened. If there is a God, how could (a) he, (b) she, (c) it, or (d) all of the above, let these things happen? If God, according to most organized religions is compassionate, where is the compassion? If Jesus was the true Messiah, where is the peace on earth we were promised? At least Jews believe that the Messiah hasn't showed up, yet, because, if the current state of the planet is "heaven on earth," then we are truly fucked.
Most recently, my take on life, the universe and everything--thank, you, "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"--was that there is a cosmic glue in the universe that holds it all together and makes things happen. Now, I'm not so sure. Don't get me wrong. I still do not believe in God in the sense that bat-shit crazy Christians, Jews and Muslims do--since they use that God as an excuse for crimes against people, the planet and everything in between. The Taliban and people like Rick Santorum and his followers are the same.They all believe that their way, their belief system, is the only true belief system and moral way of living and the rest of us are wrong, we're sinners and God or Mohammed hates us, we'll burn in hell and all the other fucked up things that will happen to us because we are not "true believers." The monks that we met with in Tay Ninh and Da Nang taught me, and, I think, the whole group, a different way of thinking and living. I'm not sure I can really describe it, but I guess the one word that comes to mind is "peace." Not just peace in the sense of "no war," but peace in the sense of life, the universe and everything. What a great thought that Douglas Adams came up with when he wrote "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." If you remember, the hero, Ford Prefect, learned that he had been asking the wrong question. It was not, "What is the meaning of life, the universe and everything." The real question was, "What is six times nine?" And the answer turned out to be, "Forty-two." As a result, Ford commented, "I've always known there was something fundamentally wrong," or words to that effect. We've always thought that 6x9=54, but, in fact, it's apparently 42. I guess this means that man has been "off" by 29%. That would explain a lot if you look at the history of the world and all of the wars, man-created pestilence and disease, genocide, and all of the haters on the planet.
We had a final dinner, together, that last evening in Ha Noi and it was very nice, even though I had to wait for twenty minutes for my chicken soup since I don't eat shellfish and the soup that came with the meal had crab meat in it. In fact, there was so much fish served during the trip, including whole fish with their eyes bugging out, that I may never go fishing, again. Not really, but, man, this was a very fishy trip. At dinner on the night before, Vela and I had gone to a nice restaurant near the hotel and he ordered eel in curry sauce. Eel!! And when we were at a restaurant in Saigon, they had lamprey eel on the menu. I have caught these ugly ichthyological vampires in freshwater lakes and...eating them? Well, whatever blows your skirt up, I guess. Anyway, the final dinner was both bittersweet and unifying in our joined sense of some kind of new beginning in our individual lives. At least, that's how I felt and I hope everyone else did, as well.
We were up early that last morning, had breakfast and loaded onto the bus. Ed, Kate, Song and John went with us to the airport, even though they were remaining behind. And Song--dude...none of this could have happened without your careful planning to ensure that we got to see these places that had so much significance in our lives. You are a true brother and you still have to come back to Oregon to finish becoming a cowboy. Just owning a cowboy hat isn't enough. There were many tears and hugs shared at the airport and, then, we were airborne for Saigon and our final flight home, again, through the Philippines, and into San Francisco. I can't speak for the others, but I was so exhausted, emotionally and physically, that I slept almost the entire time we were in the air, from Ha Noi to San Francisco. The lay-over in Manila was abysmal and the transfer terminal--this is directed at you, Phillipines Air--was despicable and disgusting. It was filthy, there were not enough seats for waiting passengers, no restaurant and rude people virtually at every place you went. The security precautions were ridiculous and when I asked one of the security personnel what the deal was, he said., "It's your US security people. They are making us do this." Why was I not surprised?
We arrived in San Francisco, I think after almost a total of twenty-four hours, and I was still worn out, even after sleeping for about fourteen hours. Vela and I had made arrangements to stay at a hotel near the airport and I was flying out the next morning. We caught a van to the hotel and then had dinner at the closest restaurant--an IHOP. It was good to see a menu that was not primarily filled with pictures of fish, eels, squid, octopus and mutant crayfish. Oh, yes, and freaking rice and noodle dishes. It was good to have a simple mixed greens salad with chicken. Vela and I said goodnight and we turned in. The next morning, we met for breakfast, although he had been up for several hours, watching the sun come up and walking around. We said our goodbyes--he was staying another day and headed for Golden Gate Park--and I headed for the airport, about three hours before my flight into Redmond. I used my time at the airport to work on my last blog post and to just sit, quietly, and read an old "Economist" magazine I had brought with me when I left back in January.
We took off from San Francisco in a small United jet that had us squeezed together like sardines. Not only that, these pricks charged me for both of my bags and it cost me $60. On the way down, I only checked one bag and it cost me nothing. As we flew over Northern California and into Oregon, I was quite moved by the beauty, even though I have seen this view many times over the past twenty years. I guess I just never really appreciated it as much I seemed to this time. Maybe that's because all of those other flights were probably connected to a murder case I was working on. Only time will tell if it had something to do with my trip to Vietnam, but I have a suspicion that it did. My good friend and fellow Vietnam veteran, Mike Taylor, picked me up at the airport--he had taken me, as well, when I left--and brought me home. I tried to explain a little bit about how I had perceived my trip, but I'm not sure I really got across what I was feeling. We left it at we'd get together soon to talk about it in more detail.
I immediately brought my doggies into the house and two of them--Lucy and Olive went nuts, just as they had when I returned from Afghanistan. Olive, our little English Bull Terrier was doing something like flipping around in circles and jumping on me and Lucy, our Lab-Pitbull, was trying to lick my skin off. Rosie, our shy little Blue Heeler-Aussie Shepherd, came up and gently licked my hand before returning to the cave she has dug under the dog house. It was good to get home and I went out to the corral to see the ponies before going in for good. I don't think they knew I had been gone. Give them hay and grain every night and they're happy. I unpacked, put a load in the washer and climbed on my Lazy-Boy recliner and flipped on the TV, first to the news and then, almost immediately, to Spongebob. I think it was still on when Mona got home. It was wonderful to hug her and feel her arms around me and I realized just how much I had missed little things like her hugs and the dogs licking me and barking their happiness at my return home.
Well, folks, that's it. I may come back to this in a few months and let people know how I'm feeling and whether I continue to be affected by the wonderful time I had in Vietnam and the friendships I made with my fellow travelers. I want to give a special "thanks" to my friend, Greg Walker. If it was not for Greg, none of this would have happened and I wouldn't be writing these last few lines. He knows Ed and Kate from Soldier's Heart and he talked to them about me and the rest is history. I love you, man, and I will always be grateful for what you did for me and for the work you continue to do for our fellow veterans, especially the wounded special operators to whom you give so much. This is EOD 6, signing off...
Anyway, as we neared the terminal, I saw that it said, "Phu Bai International Airport." Who would have ever thought? When I got off the bus, I asked Song about the terminal and he said that it was built on the foundation of the terminal that was there when I was in the 287th. I already knew that the old runway was still a part of the newer, longer runway, but this was all just too much. Inside, of course, the terminal was very modern and not just full of military-type...well, everything. No guys in uniforms, running helter skelter, all rucked out in camo or green jungle fatigues and armed to the teeth. Just as I was every time I was going out on a mission from here. We usually took off from the XXIVth Corps or 101st chopper pads near our hooches, but there were also those times when we went by aircraft and through the terminal. And it was this very terminal that I went through when I left Phu Bai on March 24, 1970, to make my last flight home, that time on a C-130 that took me to Tan Son Nhat, where I caught a civilian jet to the States.
We boarded a bus, drove about 100 yards and got out. As we walked out across the tarmac to board our plane to Ha Noi, I saw buildings off the tarmac that I recognized as having been there when I was here 42 years ago. Something old, something new. I found my seat and immediately began looking out the window, making sure my camera was set to record a video of the take-off. I didn't have even a still camera when I left the last time, so I have no photographic memorial of that event. I wanted to make sure that I had one this time, especially because it was basically the same runway, taking off southeast to northwest as I did the last time. This time, instead of heading due south, I would head due north. As we sat on the tarmac, I was thinking of so many different memories of Phu Bai--but mostly about the men I served with and how much I loved them then and now. Many of us have stayed in touch over the years, and particularly since I tracked them all down in 2004 and even went and found almost everyone who had served in the 287th, before and after me, and helped organize a reunion in May 2004 at Eglin AFB, where the EOD training facility and our memorial are located. This past September, we had our National EOD Association convention right, here, in Central Oregon. Paul Duffy, Chuck Watson, Tom Miller and Dan Reese, our faithful clerk, made it and it was wonderful, as always, to be with them, along with my brothers from the 184th, Roger McCormack and Doug Rhodes and Danny Louwaerts, who I had been with in the States at Dugway Proving Grounds. Dan was with the 42nd at Bien Hoa. I wish they could all have been on this trip.
As we rolled down the runway, I have to admit that, as I was filming, I had a huge lump in my throat and, eventually, I could feel tears running down my cheeks. In fact, I'm kind of choking up as I write this. Maybe I'm a "Girly Man," but I make no apology for my emotions. When I left Vietnam on March 24, 1970, the constant thought I had then, as well as after I was back in the States, was that I was abandoning my team and that, somehow, something bad would happen to one or more of them if I wasn't there. Thank God that did not occur. However, in late-July 1970, Chuck Watson and Rod Wilkinson, Bob Lynch and the CO, Andy Breland, were all involved at various stages in the siege at Fire Support Base Ripcord, immortalized in Keith Nolan's spectacular book, "Ripcord." Bobby Lynch was wounded three times in two days and Watson and Wilkinson were wounded by incoming 120mm mortar fire as they were trying to be extracted. Wilkie was actually blown into the Tactical Operation Center, which then collapsed. The 101st reported to the 287th that Wilkie had been killed. Low and behold, several hours later, as they pulled the collapsed bunker apart, they found Wilkinson, alive. As he and Watson were attempting to take off shortly, thereafter, Watson turned to go back for something and Wilkinson said, "Fuck this," and grabbed Watson by the belt, pulling him into the chopper. Just as they lifted off, an 82mm mortar round landed right where Watson had been standing. I am so glad they all made it out alive.
As we continued to roll down the runway and pick up speed, I realized how big a part of my life Phu Bai had been, even though I was only there four months, having transferred in from the 25th at An Khe. When we lifted into the air, I felt as if more of the weight of my Vietnam time was being lifted away. During my time at Phu Bai, Paul Duffy and I cleaned up the remnants of Fire Support Base Rifle, a remote 101st base about 20 miles southwest of Phu Bai in low mountains. On February 11, 1970, Rifle had been overrun and when we flew in, I made the comment to Paul that is now the title of the book I am writing about my experiences in Vietnam as an EOD operator: "This is what hell looks like." The carnage and destruction we witnessed, both from the air and once we were on the ground, was devastating and I know that both of us were extremely affected by what we saw and did there, that day, and we talk about it when we are together. I talked about bodies, earlier, and Rifle was awash with them, both American and NVA. It had been a bloodbath for both sides and it had ended with hand-to-hand combat inside the perimeter. While we were there, including as we touched down, two more gun-battles erupted just off the perimeter and two members of a recon team were killed. We checked all the bodies for booby-traps and removed ordnance from all of them.
There is a picture at the bottom of the blog of Paul and me with some of the un-fired RPGs carried by rocket teams that had been blasted to pieces by artillery firing flechette (little steel darts, unleashed when the round blew open) rounds at point-blank range, and TNT blocks from satchel charges that had been duds because of bad fuses. Later, as we were waiting to be extracted, we were sitting on the lower LZ when a Flying Crane came in and landed on the upper LZ. If we thought anything, we figured it was bringing in a new 105mm howitzer and ammunition. During the attack, two of the three guns and a 4.2" mortar had been destroyed by incoming mortar and rocket fire. A few minutes later, we heard the Crane lifting off and as it gained altitude, we could see that all of the dead NVA were in a sling under the chopper. As we watched, almost in slow motion, the Crane flew out over the forest about a click and dropped the bodies. As I wrote in the draft of my book, "It was raining fucking dead," and it is a memory that neither Paul or I will ever forget. Notwithstanding all of the destruction we had witnessed that day, and in a dozen other places during my four months in Phu Bai, I felt much of that being washed away as my plane was finally at cruising altitude and headed for Ha Noi. Since I have been home, several of my friends, including fellow Vietnam veterans, have asked me how I feel now that I am back. I have been unable to describe how I feel in adequate terms, other than to say, "I feel lighter."
We landed in Ha Noi and the terminal was actually pretty quiet, unlike the bedlam in Saigon and Da Nang. We loaded onto our bus and headed for our hotel--the "Demantoid." I later said to someone, "So is this the house of Satan?" As we rolled into Ha Noi we were traveling on a dike shoring up the Red River and protecting Ha Noi, which is very prone to flooding during the monsoon season. You could see a lot of high-rise construction from numerous cranes in the sky in the part of Ha Noi that I guess you would call, "New Ha Noi," since we were headed to "Old Ha Noi." When we got to the hotel, because it was still in the AM, my, Vela's and John's rooms were not ready. Vela and I walked across the street and sat down at a table at a sidewalk coffee shop. Another thing the Vietnamese learned from the French was how to make really strong coffee. I have actually come to like the sweetened version that uses a sweet, thick milk. As we sat there, two things happened. First, as we watched the traffic, Vela turned to me and said, "Can you believe that we are in fucking Ha--Noi?" I looked at him and said, "It's pretty amazing and who would have ever thought..."
The second thing that happened was that as we both watched the flow of traffic, we realized that there was something important happening. There were thousands and thousands of small motorcycles, cars, small trucks, even buses, going by us at a constant speed of about 20-25MPH. As I watched, I realized that no one was yelling at anyone, no one was flipping the bird, even though there was a lot of weaving in and out, passing people on the left, cutting someone off. People were honking their horns at various intervals and places and everyone else seemed to understand why the honking was occurring and responded, accordingly. There was a complete Zen thing going on with the traffic, like so many other aspects of life in Vietnam, and all of this with few traffic signals and no traffic cops. In all the time we were in Vietnam, we saw only one accident and that was a truck that went off the road between the Delta and Saigon.
It was then that I realized what the difference is in what I was seeing and experiencing and driving in the US. In the US, many people who get behind the wheel of their car or truck, or the handlebars of their motorcycle, think the fucking road belongs to them, and them only. They are pissed of about something, probably their lives, in general, when they get behind the wheel and then they become a complete asshole. These are the people who cut you off, talk on their fucking cell-phones, or text while they drive, give you the finger when they pass you, if you're not going fast enough for them. Well, to them, I say, the road is not yours, it belongs to everyone and you should either stay off the road, or allow the rest of us to enjoy it without you being a total and complete asshole. This was today's short rant.
Our hotel in Ha Noi was really nice. The rooms were somewhat small, but more than adequate and we had WiFi in our rooms, so I was able to Skype with Mona every day we were there, which was really nice because I could share my adventure with her, as it was happening. Our time in Ha Noi was taken up mostly with meetings. We met with people from the National Youth Theater, the Ha Noi Writers' Association and herbicide victims, to name the major ones. Our group member, Brian, has written a play about a Vietnam veteran contemplating suicide. It's called, "Memorial Day." He was able to go to the playhouse and work with the people, there, so that he could perform a piece of it for us and the Vietnamese from the theater group. It was a longer version than what he had done for us when we were in the Delta at Tam Tien's place. It was incredible and with the right sound--not my computer, this time--and the offstage voices, it was extremely powerful and I hope that I am able to see the entire production when he takes it on the road and, hopefully, it will come to Portland.
We also met with the Ha Noi Writers' Association and many of the poets were veterans of the war. The poems they read were spectacular and it was clear that we all share the same issues when it comes to war and it's effects on the human soul and spirit. Vela, again, read his phenomenal poem that he had written for Peter's ceremony at Gio Linh. And Karen--Brian's wife--read a very powerful poem she had written called, "To My Husband on Veterans Day after 9/11." Brian was a witness to the first plane that hit the World Trade Center. Can you imagine? One of the Vietnamese poets read a poem entitled, "A Late Written Love Poem." This poet, a former NVA soldier, had written a poem to his wife, thanking her for putting up with all of his Vietnam-related trauma and loving him, nonetheless. It immediately made me think of Mona and how lucky I am to be with her, given the turmoil I have caused her on more than one occasion over the years. I think this trip will help me never to have her be the brunt of my anger, my down times, or other issues that relate to my Vietnam "thing." At the poetry readings, I read three pages from my book about my time in Vietnam as an EOD operator. When it was translated for the Vietnamese, there, heads were nodding with understanding because I was talking about the universal issues of being a man who had gone to war and come back an entirely different person. Ed later told me that it was the first time that prose had been shared with this group and I felt honored to have been able to do that.
I suppose, however, that the meeting we had in Ha Noi that had the most meaning and impact for me, even more than meeting with the herbicide victims at the museum in Saigon, was when we met with "The Vietnam Association for Victims of Agent Orange," particularly with their Vice President and Secretary General, Dr. Tran Xuan Thu. The meeting had been going on for some time when there was a slight lull in the conversation and I simply could not hold back any longer in terms of my feelings about the use of herbicides during the Vietnam/American War. I could no longer not say what was on my mind, particularly after seeing so many victims of the use of these poisons that were used with full knowledge, at least by the chemical companies, that this shit would kill people and would cause untold horrors by the diseases and deformations they were known to cause. I had not stopped thinking about the young child I had held in my arms in Song's ancestral village and probably never will. To say the least, my anger and vitriol simply spilled forth and, part of the time, I was on the verge of sobbing. I was biting my lip so I would not cry and so that I could say everything that has been bottled up all these years.
In 1983, I was diagnosed with bladder cancer, known to be caused by exposure to toxic chemicals, including the toxins used in the herbicides sprayed in Vietnam. I was lucky and was cured with surgery. Now, I have Type II Diabetes. I was one of the original plaintiffs in the Agent Orange litigation and, like most of us, got fucked by the settlement because I was, allegedly, no longer injured. In addition, the VA has never recognized bladder cancer as being presumptively caused by herbicide exposure because the fucking Institute of Medicine--an arm of the National Institutes of Health--has yet to find enough evidence of causation. Listen, here, you fucking losers--in my 34 years as a service officer, I have been made aware of dozens--dozens--of cases of bladder cancer among Vietnam veterans, many of them relatively young men--I was 35--when diagnosed. I've got news for you, IOM--bladder cancer is an old man's disease and everyone in the urology and oncology fields, apparently, except you, knows this. My urologist asked me if I had been in either the aviation or garment industry. Why? Because aviation fuel contains benzene, known to cause bladder cancer. Garments? The dyes contain aniline, known to cause bladder cancer. When I told him I had been in Vietnam, he immediately said, "It was caused by the herbicides you were exposed to." So, fuck you, IOM. In Vietnam, they assume that if you fought in the war you were exposed to herbicides and if you have some horrible disease, like bladder cancer, it was caused by exposure to herbicides.They don't screw around for twenty years while countless men die without compensation, often leaving their families in dire financial straits.
I finished my rant by apologizing to the Vietnamese for the position taken by the US government in the lawsuits filed against the chemical companies for the Vietnamese who have been injured and killed by the herbicides that have injured and killed tens-of-thousands--if not hundred-of-thousands--of us who served there. The government's position, that the courts used to dismiss the suits, is that because the herbicides were not deliberately made or used to injure human beings, therefore, there was no negligence. I'm sorry, but despite what the government and the courts have said, the use of herbicides in Vietnam was both a war crime and a crime against humanity, which means also against those of us who served there. This is just another version of the same twisted defense that the Nazis tried to use at Nuremberg and it was rejected, there.
The chemical companies knew, or should have known, that, as early as 1957, research showed that dioxin was deadly and that it was carcinogenic. I remember, back during the litigation while I was in law school, reading a piece of research from 1957 about workers in a plant in Italy where they made herbicides using dioxin. The incidences of cancers and other diseases was off the scale. Furthermore, I have recently learned that DOD specifically told the chemical companies they could not use dioxin. They used it, anyway, and lied. If this is true, therefore, they clearly did not make the herbicides according to contract specifications and should not have been allowed to use the government defense that you cannot sue for something that happens to you in the military. Now, you understand my anger and why I could no longer contain it during this meeting. As I did, there, I apologize for this rant.
During our time in Ha Noi, we, unfortunately, did not have enough time to really explore the city. Vela and I did, however, bow out of one event so we could spend the morning looking for things we wanted, like a VC flag, a better necklace for my chip of The Wall and gifts for people back home. Plus, we were both looking for Tet dragon tee-shirts. I had bought one in Hoi An and even though it said "L," I would be surprised if it's a medium. We both found what we wanted in a galleria--that was a complete madhouse--and from a street vendor and I found my necklace in a little shop, as well as a nice carving from a deer bone that I am also now wearing around my neck with my chip from The Wall. We went to the lake where the temple to the "Golden Turtle" is located. Prior to crossing the bridge to the small island where the turtle is ensconced, we stopped at a wonderful coffee shop on the water. I have pictures to the right of the floating garden near our table and the designs in the whipped cream on our coffees. There is artwork in so many things in Vietnam. In one of the bakeries I visited to get baguette, there were cakes in the case that were just--well, works of art, as the picture to the right shows. I could not imagine why anyone would want to eat them, but when I went back at the end of the day to get more bread, they were gone and, by now, no doubt have been eaten. Maybe someone took them home and put them in a hermetically sealed glass case like the one holding the Golden Turtle.
The lake is called Hoan Kiem Lake. The legend of the Hoan Kiem turtle began in the 15th century when Le Loi--founder of the Le dynasty--became emperor. According to legend, Le Loi had a magic sword given to him by Kim Qui, the Golden Turtle God. One day, not long after Le Loi had defeated the Chinese and they had accepted Vietnam's independence, he was boating on the lake when a large turtle surfaced, took the sword from him, and dove back into the depths. Le Loi acknowledged that the Golden Turtle God had reclaimed his sword and renamed the lake Hoan Kiem Lake, or "The Lake of the Returned Sword." On June 2, 1967, a Hoan Kiem turtle in the lake died and was preserved and placed on display in the pagoda on Jade Island, on the lake's northern shore. On March 24, 1998, a photographer caught one of the elusive turtles on film, proving they still survived. However, it is estimated that there are no more than five of the turtles left in the two-foot deep lake (200 meters wide, 600 meters long) that is, sorrowfully, horribly polluted. As of 2011, there were three of the turtles in captivity, two in China and one being taken care of in an enclosure on Hoan Kiem Lake because it was found to have lesions all over its shell. This turtle, believed by some to be the sole remaining one in the lake was eventually captured by a Vietnamese military unit on April 3, 2011, after coming ashore to sunbathe on March 31. The government is promising to clean up the lake, and has recently dredged it. Plans are underway to build an artificial beach to encourage breeding if they can find a mate for the one in captivity and in order to avoid extinction.
Vela and I visited the temple and, I must say, that the turtle in the case was quite impressive and very large, as my picture shows. It weighed approximately 440 pounds when it was found and embalmed. There were many Vietnamese and Chinese in the temple praying fervently as they placed incense in the burners spread around inside. It was crowded--very crowded--so, eventually, we had to leave for typical reasons known to Vietnam veterans and their families. All in all, it was a wonderful experience to see the legend in the...uh...shell. Some Vietnamese believe that this is actually the turtle that made itself known to Le Loi. meaning it would have been some 500 years old, at least, when it died.
During the afternoon of our last day in Vietnam, we met in the hotel restaurant for a last discussion of how we were feeling, particularly in light of the fact that we were heading back to the States the next morning. Ed, Kate and John were staying a few more days so that they could attend the festivities for the upcoming marriage of Ed and Kate's adopted daughter, Ngoc. Ngoc had been with us since we had been in Hoi An and she is a lovely, wonderful young woman who is a journalist in Ha Noi and is now working on her master's degree. As I sat at the table, I was lost in all of the things that had happened to us, and to me, along the way of the past seventeen days. As we passed the totem around the table, each of us spoke about our feelings on this last night together and, without going into detail, it is safe to say that some profound words and insights were spoken. To be honest, I don't remember exactly what I said when the totem came to me, other than to make some specific comments about the impact that members of the group had on me. I was really lost in my own private thoughts about all that I had experienced and I was wondering how all of this was going to affect me once I was back in the States.
I realized, sitting there in the restaurant in Ha Noi, that I was a changed person. I don't know if it will be something that others will be able to see or pick up on the next time I'm with them. I'm pretty sure my wife and son will notice the difference and I'm hoping that I'm able to retain most of what I learned about myself and life, I guess, while on this journey. Once, again, I found myself thinking about my private moment with the monk in Da Nang when he said, "I think I will see you, again, some day." Ed recently reminded me of something else he said: "Replace your anger with passionate love for the victims." Although, as I thought about this, at first, I thought he was talking about the victims of herbicides, I think he was actually talking about the victims of all wars, of all violence against otherwise peaceful individuals. Maybe even violence against the planet. Of course, if you listen to blowhard scumbags like Rick Santorum and Newt Gingrich, none of that exists. The planet and all of the world's people are just hunky dory and God--their God, not mine--will take care of everything.
Which brings up an interesting point, at least for me. For many years, I think since shortly after getting to Vietnam in 1968, I have said that I do not believe in God, at least not in the sense that most people do and, certainly, not in the sense that I had been raised in a fairly religious Jewish family where we went to synagogue most Friday nights and where I was bar mitzvahed and, then, confirmed at 15. The reason for my change in belief was that within the first few weeks in Vietnam, I saw things that no human being should ever have to be witness to. As exposure to the horrors of war continued unabated during my time, there, this belief only hardened. If there is a God, how could (a) he, (b) she, (c) it, or (d) all of the above, let these things happen? If God, according to most organized religions is compassionate, where is the compassion? If Jesus was the true Messiah, where is the peace on earth we were promised? At least Jews believe that the Messiah hasn't showed up, yet, because, if the current state of the planet is "heaven on earth," then we are truly fucked.
Most recently, my take on life, the universe and everything--thank, you, "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"--was that there is a cosmic glue in the universe that holds it all together and makes things happen. Now, I'm not so sure. Don't get me wrong. I still do not believe in God in the sense that bat-shit crazy Christians, Jews and Muslims do--since they use that God as an excuse for crimes against people, the planet and everything in between. The Taliban and people like Rick Santorum and his followers are the same.They all believe that their way, their belief system, is the only true belief system and moral way of living and the rest of us are wrong, we're sinners and God or Mohammed hates us, we'll burn in hell and all the other fucked up things that will happen to us because we are not "true believers." The monks that we met with in Tay Ninh and Da Nang taught me, and, I think, the whole group, a different way of thinking and living. I'm not sure I can really describe it, but I guess the one word that comes to mind is "peace." Not just peace in the sense of "no war," but peace in the sense of life, the universe and everything. What a great thought that Douglas Adams came up with when he wrote "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." If you remember, the hero, Ford Prefect, learned that he had been asking the wrong question. It was not, "What is the meaning of life, the universe and everything." The real question was, "What is six times nine?" And the answer turned out to be, "Forty-two." As a result, Ford commented, "I've always known there was something fundamentally wrong," or words to that effect. We've always thought that 6x9=54, but, in fact, it's apparently 42. I guess this means that man has been "off" by 29%. That would explain a lot if you look at the history of the world and all of the wars, man-created pestilence and disease, genocide, and all of the haters on the planet.
We had a final dinner, together, that last evening in Ha Noi and it was very nice, even though I had to wait for twenty minutes for my chicken soup since I don't eat shellfish and the soup that came with the meal had crab meat in it. In fact, there was so much fish served during the trip, including whole fish with their eyes bugging out, that I may never go fishing, again. Not really, but, man, this was a very fishy trip. At dinner on the night before, Vela and I had gone to a nice restaurant near the hotel and he ordered eel in curry sauce. Eel!! And when we were at a restaurant in Saigon, they had lamprey eel on the menu. I have caught these ugly ichthyological vampires in freshwater lakes and...eating them? Well, whatever blows your skirt up, I guess. Anyway, the final dinner was both bittersweet and unifying in our joined sense of some kind of new beginning in our individual lives. At least, that's how I felt and I hope everyone else did, as well.
We were up early that last morning, had breakfast and loaded onto the bus. Ed, Kate, Song and John went with us to the airport, even though they were remaining behind. And Song--dude...none of this could have happened without your careful planning to ensure that we got to see these places that had so much significance in our lives. You are a true brother and you still have to come back to Oregon to finish becoming a cowboy. Just owning a cowboy hat isn't enough. There were many tears and hugs shared at the airport and, then, we were airborne for Saigon and our final flight home, again, through the Philippines, and into San Francisco. I can't speak for the others, but I was so exhausted, emotionally and physically, that I slept almost the entire time we were in the air, from Ha Noi to San Francisco. The lay-over in Manila was abysmal and the transfer terminal--this is directed at you, Phillipines Air--was despicable and disgusting. It was filthy, there were not enough seats for waiting passengers, no restaurant and rude people virtually at every place you went. The security precautions were ridiculous and when I asked one of the security personnel what the deal was, he said., "It's your US security people. They are making us do this." Why was I not surprised?
We arrived in San Francisco, I think after almost a total of twenty-four hours, and I was still worn out, even after sleeping for about fourteen hours. Vela and I had made arrangements to stay at a hotel near the airport and I was flying out the next morning. We caught a van to the hotel and then had dinner at the closest restaurant--an IHOP. It was good to see a menu that was not primarily filled with pictures of fish, eels, squid, octopus and mutant crayfish. Oh, yes, and freaking rice and noodle dishes. It was good to have a simple mixed greens salad with chicken. Vela and I said goodnight and we turned in. The next morning, we met for breakfast, although he had been up for several hours, watching the sun come up and walking around. We said our goodbyes--he was staying another day and headed for Golden Gate Park--and I headed for the airport, about three hours before my flight into Redmond. I used my time at the airport to work on my last blog post and to just sit, quietly, and read an old "Economist" magazine I had brought with me when I left back in January.
We took off from San Francisco in a small United jet that had us squeezed together like sardines. Not only that, these pricks charged me for both of my bags and it cost me $60. On the way down, I only checked one bag and it cost me nothing. As we flew over Northern California and into Oregon, I was quite moved by the beauty, even though I have seen this view many times over the past twenty years. I guess I just never really appreciated it as much I seemed to this time. Maybe that's because all of those other flights were probably connected to a murder case I was working on. Only time will tell if it had something to do with my trip to Vietnam, but I have a suspicion that it did. My good friend and fellow Vietnam veteran, Mike Taylor, picked me up at the airport--he had taken me, as well, when I left--and brought me home. I tried to explain a little bit about how I had perceived my trip, but I'm not sure I really got across what I was feeling. We left it at we'd get together soon to talk about it in more detail.
I immediately brought my doggies into the house and two of them--Lucy and Olive went nuts, just as they had when I returned from Afghanistan. Olive, our little English Bull Terrier was doing something like flipping around in circles and jumping on me and Lucy, our Lab-Pitbull, was trying to lick my skin off. Rosie, our shy little Blue Heeler-Aussie Shepherd, came up and gently licked my hand before returning to the cave she has dug under the dog house. It was good to get home and I went out to the corral to see the ponies before going in for good. I don't think they knew I had been gone. Give them hay and grain every night and they're happy. I unpacked, put a load in the washer and climbed on my Lazy-Boy recliner and flipped on the TV, first to the news and then, almost immediately, to Spongebob. I think it was still on when Mona got home. It was wonderful to hug her and feel her arms around me and I realized just how much I had missed little things like her hugs and the dogs licking me and barking their happiness at my return home.
Well, folks, that's it. I may come back to this in a few months and let people know how I'm feeling and whether I continue to be affected by the wonderful time I had in Vietnam and the friendships I made with my fellow travelers. I want to give a special "thanks" to my friend, Greg Walker. If it was not for Greg, none of this would have happened and I wouldn't be writing these last few lines. He knows Ed and Kate from Soldier's Heart and he talked to them about me and the rest is history. I love you, man, and I will always be grateful for what you did for me and for the work you continue to do for our fellow veterans, especially the wounded special operators to whom you give so much. This is EOD 6, signing off...
