Remembering Nguyen

By Ken Brawley

"REMEMBERING NGUYEN" is about my first trip to South Vietnam in the early 1960s. And just in case you were not aware, Nguyen is pronounced as "When" in Vietnamese. I personally feel that this is a damned clever play on words. The book is a chronicle of events through out that 13 months tour of duty but it is different than most other books about the Vietnam experience. "REMEMBERING NGUYEN" looks at the country, the people and the strife through a more humorous eye, or so I fervently hope. So, If you are looking for a breathtaking story of heroism and hair raising adventures, then I fear you should look elsewhere. But if you would like to know what a rather nave boy found that forced him into man hood and perhaps have a good laugh or two, then "REMEMBERING NGUYEN" is the book for you. Thanks and enjoy.

Ken Brawley

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410720979

Ken Brawley

Ken Brawley was born in Roscoe, Texas, in September of 1943. He grew up mostly in and around Roscoe but did travel across the world a bit more than the normal cotton farmer’s kid from West Texas. His world travels took him all across the USA and around the world two and one half times. Today he lives in Ft. Worth, Texas, with his family and works in the Civil Engineering/Surveying fields.

Book preview

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Chapter 1 – Remembering Nguyen

In December 1963, life in a west Texas cotton-farming town of 1200 people suddenly became a lot less exciting. Having been born and raised in what is known as the Blackland Divide area of Texas, I was destined to have a close personal relationship with cotton, one of natures more ignorant plants. And after emotionally unfulfilled years of planting, cultivating, chopping & hoeing (and there is a difference), fertilizing, dusting, picking, pulling, hauling, ginning and storing cotton, I decided maybe I should change my profession. Let’s face it, cotton farming, despite it’s allure, sucks.

In the heart of the Blackland Divide, opportunities for employment outside the cotton industry were limited at best. Fortunately, the area was not that large. A mere seven or eight miles south lay opportunity by the sack full. Choices were cattle ranching and sheep ranching. At that time, sheep ranching was still looked upon as a relatively low class profession, so being more accustomed to the status of cotton farmer, I naturally chose the more glamorous life of cattle ranch hand.

Now, right off, I want you to know that I have never been accused of being a rocket scientist, so it took me a little longer than most to figure out that ranching wasn’t really that much more rewarding than farming. In fact, neither field offered emotionally satisfying employment. That and the fact that the cricket season had passed added up to a 50% reduction in interesting things to do in and around town. Cricket season was the absolute pinnacle of the Spring Social Scene. During this roughly three weeks in the springtime, there were crickets by the millions in town. The streets would be black with crickets. During this time of social plenty, sometimes as many as four cars would be parked near the town street light. People would be out sitting on the hoods andfenders, sipping Pearl and diligently watching the cloud of flying insects in the glow of the street light, searching for mid-air cricket wrecks. Some of which were quite amazing. A good cricket season was a joy to behold and since that had passed, all that was left was drinking bootleg beer and anticipating the Bi-Annual Christmas Firecracker Fight. Then one night as I sat downtown under the street light drinking beer and thinking about the firecracker fight, it came to me that there was more to life than Pearl Beer and bottle rockets. So the next day, I sold my car and bought Christmas presents for my family. Then the day after Christmas (two days after the firecracker fight) I presented myself to the U. S. Army on the condition that I could go to that grand place I had always heard about-OVERSEAS. In 1963, mothers and grandmothers always spoke the term like it hurt their mouths to say it, usually with downcast eyes and definite irritation. While grandfathers, fathers, uncles and big brothers spoke glowingly about adventures OVERSEAS. And when the moms, wives and grandmas weren’t around, it really got to be an interesting place. So I had to see this lotus garden. Yes Sir, Mr. Recruiter, Send me OVERSEAS.

Next stop, Fort Polk, Louisiana. Exotic as Leesville, Louisiana was, it just didn’t hold much appeal, nor did Fort Polk and neither did the army. But it was a necessary first step to OVERSEAS and had to be endured. At Fort Polk, I learned to be a soldier and my transition from civilian to warrior was not without its moments. The first really spectacular event happened during the first of eight fun filled, action packed weeks of Basic Combat Training. By this time, I had been at Fort Polk just over two full weeks. Just long enough for my initial letters to friends and family telling them of my new home and address to be answered, as indeed they were. One letter in particular was of tremendous importance. All through high school, my best friend was a gentleman lovingly known as Snake to the whole of Nolan County and points East and South. He gained this moniker after having lost a dodging contest with a diamondback rattlesnake in the Blue Bonnet fields of South Texas. Actually, Snake stepped on the snake and said snake took offence. Anyway, Snake was on my list of people who should know where I was, Company I, 3rd Training Battalion, Fort Polk, Louisiana. And it had been our custom over the years when either of us wasat some far distant place to correspond by mail. Snake’s letters were always entertaining and good for at least one laugh. And they were mostly about what boys of 18 years generally considered worthy of comment. They always started with the latest news from home and then there was the recounting of this adventure or that in the late night cotton field behind the ball field, and most always a secret of such import as to be tagged with a (speak of this to no one) admonishment. So I knew Snake owed me a letter and I knew it was probably on the way and I also knew it would probably be a welcome change of pace. Boy, little did I know.

My friend Snake was never one to let a well-turned insult linger on the tongue. Nor was he one to pass on the chance to put friends and acquaintances in awkward positions. And he was also given to exaggerating the facts to stress a point. That was a big problem. I got that letter and it got me damn near court marshaled. My good friend had addressed this gem to General Brawley-BIG MISTAKE. I was hauled into the orderly room and stood at attention before the Company Commander, the Executive Officer and the First Sergeant. They were all three just steaming, red faced, mad as hell. The Company Commander was holding the letter in a clenched fist, waving it around like he was swatting flies, yelling at me through clinched teeth. And I swear I heard a couple of Amens from the Exec and the First Shirt. I was told in very direct terms that I was a Private of such lowly status I wasn’t even authorized to use the PVT. abbreviation as yet. My friends should be informed of this and right away. The fact that Snake had even thought of the rank of General and my lowly whale shit self in the same three-hour period flew in the face of military men everywhere. With that, the CO slammed the letter on his desk and told me to get my ugly Private ass out of his sight and to stay out. Needless to say, my next letter to Snake, written that very evening, expressed my pure joy at that very professional and thorough ass chewing he had caused. I thanked him profusely and threatened to tell just who that was in the ball field cotton patch with him that night if such joy was ever realized again. Must have worked because I never had any more problems at mail call.

Basic Training as a whole was miserable for the most part. One of the very first things was the feared PT Test. This was aphysical ordeal of five separate events. These events were the Monkey Bars; Run, Dodge and Jump; Low Crawl; Grenade Throw and One-Mile Run. There were standards to be met on each event and the total score per event was 100 points. Therefore a 500 point score on the whole test was perfect. The average score for my particular batch of killer trainees was in the low 200’s. Damn, another collective ass chewing. That seemed to happen a lot. But we were Private E-1’s and nothing was ever done by us correctly or even remotely near it. Private E-1’s were the absolute bottom of the military barrel. Every human on the earth and quite a few warm-blooded animals outrank Private E-1’s.

Finally the weeks passed and so did the indignities. All the time I was skeptical as to the true worth of this ordeal. I never really believed we were accomplishing much, but I did notice a definite gain in weight. The really sloppy fatigues of just weeks ago were fitting much better. There was more of a spring in the step and the tough physical things just weren’t as tough anymore. The proof in that pudding was the final PT Test given at the very end of Basic displayed a marked difference. The average score for Company I at that time was in the 480-point range. And I could now address my letters as PVT. Brawley.

At Fort Polk, I first heard about the Beatles and someone mentioned someplace called Vietnam. Now, I remembered from high school geography that there was once a region of the world called French Indochina. One of my teachers had told us that although the text books did not say so, this region was no longer under the French influence but was instead four separate countries: Laos, Cambodia, North and South Vietnam. That was my complete and total knowledge about any nams, Viet or otherwise.

During the four months of basic training at Fort Polk, stories about Vietnam were everywhere and they were all bad. What was going on there was something that the military did in combat comic books and movies. I heard terms like Special Forces, MACV, Viet Cong and Advisors, all damned interesting stuff. Then it came to me, I was in the military and Vietnam was OVERSEAS. Holy Shit! What the fuck have I done?

Anyway, the day finally came when basic training was over and we all got orders to report to this place or that. Orders to report to a named military installation meant stateside duty; however, APO numbers meant OVERSEAS. Orders to report for duty to APO New York meant going some place that you had to go east to reach, while APO San Francisco meant west. It was at that moment that I grasp the true concept of OVERSEAS. I guess that up until then I had thought OVERSEAS was just some nearby hard to find town where anything was cheap, legal and available.

My orders read APO 96, San Francisco, California. By this time, I had grown enough intellectually to realize that I wouldn’t be buying season tickets to Giants baseball games. Since APO 96 was an address, it seemed logical to assume that someone at the post office would know where in fact it was. Ah, pay dirt, APO 96, Yes Sir, I know APO 96, I was stationed there and it’s great. You will love it, I was told, OK, I’ll love it, where is it? Well, Korea, it’s a little village about 90 miles south of Seoul. Great climate, you will love it."

Korea, hell I love it already. By now, the newspapers had discovered Vietnam and were having a field day. Madame Nu had become a household word. But, wow, did I love Korea. I called my parents with the good news, then told them I would be home in a few days for a 14-day delay in route to Oakland Army Terminal. Now there are those who would say that 14 days is not very long to spend at home before embarking on a trip half way around the world. One from which I would not be returning for over a year. Those who do say that have never been to the heart of the Black Land Divide. Me, I love Korea, I want to get there.

Fourteen days later, the arrival at Oakland Army Terminal was a jolting experience. Upon checking in, I handed my orders to the Sergeant on duty; a kind, sympathetic man who really enjoyed practical jokes. As he looked upon my orders he said, Another young man for Vietnam, to which I replied, Not so Sergeant. That’s APO 96 and that’s a little village just a mere 90 miles south of Seoul, Korea, and boy, do I love Korea. Really, how can anyone of so limited knowledge ever rise to the exalted rank of Sergeant E-6,-Incredible. Private, APO 96 is located in Soc Trang, South Vietnam, a quaint little village in the Mekong Delta region and it’s a mere 90 miles south of Saigon, you’ll love it. EGAD-Vietnam-Me-I’m going to Vietnam. What’s worse, I’m going OVERSEAS to Vietnam and I do so love Korea. Jesus, I’m dead. They are real pissed at guys in green clothesthere and they either shoot them or blow them up. All I got is green clothes. Damn, South Vietnam-Soc Trang, South Vietnam-OVERSEAS Soc Trang, South Vietnam. No matter how I say it, I knew I wasn’t going to love it as much as Korea. In fact, the Black Land Divide was looking real good right then.

When the realization that I was going to Vietnam instead of Korea fully set in, I was shaken to the roots. While I was home between Ft. Polk and Oakland, stories of Vietnam were more prevalent and much more intense. All the time I was home, everyone I talked to said how very lucky I was to not be going to Vietnam. Bad place that Vietnam.

I was really somewhat dazed by the unhappy news. Well actually, scared completely shitless would be closer to the truth. I might add, an unhappy condition that hung around for a few days as it turned out.

When I was able to speak coherently again, I called my Mom to share my sad news. She of course wasn’t thrilled but did assure me everything would be fine. No big deal, she said. Well, pardon me, but it is one hell of a big deal, Mom. I did feel somewhat better after talking to her and I still remember the last thing she told me that evening. Be careful and do your job, we’ll see you when you get home. With those words in mind, I made my way to a large hall full of army bunk beds; some occupied but mostly empty. I noticed an empty bunk near the windows right next to a tall, skinny dark headed fellow. Not really wanting to be alone in my misery, I claimed the lower bunk right beside him and introduced myself. And to my amazement found that he too was on his way to APO 96. Only difference being, he knew all along that it wasn’t in Korea. We had spoken for just a very few minutes when I felt an instant liking for this man; common, down to earth type fellow. A Kansas wheat farmer and while wheat farming was decidedly lower class than cotton farming, it was still a connection in spirit and right there in Oakland Army Terminal, Oakland, California, on that less than happy evening, Alan E. Fisher of Glen Elder, Kansas walked into my life. Little did I know what that would bring.

Eight days later and the army still had not changed the color of our uniforms so I still had green clothes and I was still on my way to-to-to-there. Only difference was, now we were getting on a converted air force tanker, which was a converted

Boeing 707 to begin our journey, and this is where it gets confusing. The plane left Travis Air Force Base at 5:00 PM Friday. After nearly 6 hours in the air we landed at Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii at 7:00 PM Friday. After a 5-hour layover, we left Hawaii at midnight Friday and flew 10 hours at astronomical altitudes. Frost was forming on exposed metal inside the airplane. We were allowed one blanket and it was a nice wool blanket, no problem there. However, the seating in this flying gas station was lacking. Seats were made of woven nylon straps and while the blankets kept the top part of you warm, there were one-inch squares of frostbite forming on your ass. I was glad to finally land in Okinawa. Now, bear in mind, that we left Hawaii at midnight Friday and flew 10 frigid hours. How in the hell we landed at Kadina Air Force Base at 3:00 AM Sunday morning is still a mystery to me. As I pondered on that, I remembered an episode of the TV show, Twilight Zone. In this particular episode, a World War I pilot had flown into a cloud and upon flying out and landing, found himself at a 1960 era Air Force Base. Perhaps I had stumbled onto a loophole here. This missing day could be my saving grace, but I noticed that I was still wearing green clothes. Soon I learned a new term-International Date Line. It seems that crossing this line headed west and a day disappears, disconcerting thought that. Even more extraordinary, crossing going east and you live the same day over. Boy, there was never anything like this in West Texas. As I sat and tried to think of some way a fellow could live on that line and never get old. It suddenly dawned on me that here I was on my way to South Vietnam with a sack full of green clothes, facing certain death and somehow someone had stolen a day of my life. Only a few more days before I was blown up and someone takes one. Now I’m really pissed. Got to be a loophole here somewhere.

Twenty-four hours later, at 3:00 AM Monday (by some folks reaconing) we departed Okinawa on the last leg of a journey froth with both legal and moral technicalities. My argument that 10 hours from midnight Friday plus one full day layover would make it actually 10:00 AM Sunday, despite the fact it was dark as all hell outside, and to continue a flight scheduled to depart at 3:00 AM Monday was a gross violation of the temporal right of every man aboard fell on deaf ears. We left Okinawa. Three hourslater, at 6:00 AM (at least I scared them enough to stop this screwing around with time thing) on the morning of May 13, 1964, We landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Force Base and International Airport on the west outskirts of Saigon, OVERSEAS, South Vietnam.

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Chapter 2-OVERSEAS

Whump. Touchdown. I have officially arrived OVERSEAS. The anger I had felt about the elusive Saturday suddenly became outright fear. Here I was, dressed head to toe in green, no gun and I have to get off the plane. Past that door lay sudden death at every turn. The only way to avoid it was not getting off the airplane. Well, that didn’t work either. Being informed that as far as I myself was concerned, this had been a one-way flight, a truly thought provoking idea that. All too soon I was at the door and it was with great apprehension that I moved through it into the early morning heat and stench of the Pearl of the Orient. Boy, the oyster must have been dead two weeks before they removed the pearl. The smell was incredible.

Stepping through that door was like stepping into a blast furnace. Already it was 100 degrees and only 6:00 am. We were lead across acres of soggy asphalt to the arrival lounge. Actually, it was a sheet metal building and I had only thought it was hot outside. Once inside the stench became less noticeable. I’m not really sure why. Either I was getting used to it or my nose hairs were boiled senseless. Either way, it was miserable, smell or no. I was immediately drenched in sweat and the two ceiling fans in the lounge did little more than stir hot air, offering no relief at all.

The whole purpose of this trip to the arrival lounge was a two hour In Country Orientation. We were told all kinds of neat stuff like even though it was already 100 degrees, it would get only one or two degrees hotter as the day progressed and since it was the dry season, the humidity would absolutely go no higher than its present 90%. But at night there was some relief. The temperature would plummet to around 96 or 97 degrees, but alas, the humidity would remain constant.

We were shown a film on the horrors of V. D. and informed that every known strain plus at least a dozen unknown varieties were abundant and readily available at bargain basement rates. The Orientation NCO’s exact words were 98% of the women in Vietnam have V.D., the other 2% are under 5 years old. Great. I could now look forward to getting it shot off or having it rot off, a choice that would require considerable thought.

On and on it went. Don’t go to town alone. Don’t ever congregate in groups of more than two off base. Don’t eat the local food. Use only the blue and yellow taxicabs. Don’t drink the local water. Always use condoms. Don’t wear your uniform downtown (These people hate green clothes). Don’t patronize the flourishing black market. Don’t use unauthorized moneychangers. Don’t buy watches from street vendors. However, sweat all you want and welcome to the Republic of South Vietnam, you’ll love it.

Orientation over, it’s time for in-processing. If there are more frightening words in the English language, I don’t know what they might possibly be. In-processing is the living, breathing, ultimate example of the military phrase hurry up and wait. Two hours of in-processing is roughly equivalent to 18 days of freshman college registration. Standing in line outside a hut, in direct sunlight for hours is 98% of in-processing. When you finally get inside, its to answer one or two questions, sign your name and add another sheet or two to the records folder you are carrying. Which, by the way, is now sweat soaked and dissolving. Then move on to the end of the line at the next hut.

Four hours later and I am officially in-processed and ready for in-country distribution. Well, back on the bus, a school bus that has been drafted and painted blue, with heavy wire mesh over the windows. I was thinking that the OVERSEAS mosquitoes must be the size of crows if this measure of window screening was necessary to thwart their voracious appetites. However, the actual fact was that this screening was to prevent hand grenades from entering the bus via the windows. It seems that explosives were somewhat scarce, so the Viet Cong urged efficiency in their use. Thus the reason for never gathering in groups of more than two, three on the outside, down town because the Viet Cong, affectionately referred to throughout the country as VC or Charlie, didn’t waste a perfectly good bomb on just a couple of

Americans. As I looked around the bus and noticed the presence of at least 50 people beside myself, I couldn’t help but feel that putting the wire mesh over the windows was a real neighborly gesture on the part of the