Fort Nowhere, Vietnam

By Arthur Wiederhold

. In the fall of 1970, a young reporter, eager to learn what the Vietnam War is really all about, gets himself sent to a small forward Army camp in the Central Highlands that the men have dubbed Fort Nowhere. As time passes and he becomes more and more involved with the men and their mission, he realizes that this small company of dedicated soldiers are the only ones standing between the friendly people of the village and the murderous Viet Cong who want to wipe them off the map.

Along the way, he learns about life, love, courage and despair and discovers something about himself that he'll forever wish he hadn't as he becomes a member of this unusual brotherhood.

Fort Nowhere, Vietnam, is based on actual people, paces and events that occurred between September 1970 and March 1971. It is a hard-hitting, often heartbreaking story of men in combat and the lives of the people they touched and vividly depicts the ways that the horror and chaos of combat brings out the very best--and worst---of the men who endure it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491791868

Arthur Wiederhold

The author of more than thirty novels, the Brooklyn-born Art Wiederhold has worked at several professions, including as a pro baseball player, soldier, sailor, international reporter, war correspondent, and paranormal investigator. He currently lives in St. Louis with his wife, son, two insane cats, and several documented ghosts.

Book preview

You wanna go where?

Fort Hamilton was a pre-civil war harbor defense fort that sat on the tip of Brooklyn near the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. In the 1970s, it was the major induction and recruiting center for the New York Area Command and the home base of several support companies that shuttled soldiers to and from other areas of the world.

It was also the home of the New York Area Command Army Personnel Center, which was one of the busier offices during the war.

It was mid September in 1970.

And America was in turmoil.

Race and draft riots had reduced parts of Detroit, Chicago, Los Angeles and San Francisco to ashes. The anti-war movement was picking up a full head of steam, fueled further by the horrid My Lai massacre and a not so subtle pro-Communist press. It also appeared that President Nixon was about to cave under the mounting pressure and was seeking an honorable way out of this so-called unwinnable war.

Strategic blunders by the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam forces had highlighted the utter futility of the Vietnamization efforts and added to the illusion that it couldn't be won. The high command at the Pentagon also realized that the only way out of the war was to leave and throw the South Vietnamese people under the bus. Most were reluctant to do this. They feared the dreaded Domino Effect. The war had already spilled over into Laos, where the Vietminh had all but overthrown the government, and into Cambodia. Everyone feared that Thailand might be next.

The press had a different take on it all. By then, the media and most colleges had fallen under the control of very leftward leaning reporters and professors who helped fuel the riots of the anti-war movements.

Art was different.

Unlike his fellow journalists, Art believed that we had to win the war at all costs. We had invested a lot of lives, money and time in Vietnam. He felt that walking away from it would be a shameful waste.

He was also patriotic. After all, he'd come from a long line of military men. His uncle Sam had just returned from a tour of duty in Vietnam. Sam had also served as an infantryman in the Korean War. It was he who told Art that everything he'd been hearing or seeing about the war on TV or reading in the papers was pure bullshit.

If you want to know what that war is all about, you need to go there and see for yourself, Sam had said.

Art didn't want to enlist. Not yet anyway. He wanted the freedom to roam around and see everything he could. He also wanted to write about it and photograph it. Sam advised him to try and get a job as a journalist with a wire service and ask to be sent to Vietnam as a war correspondent.

That will give you all the freedom you need to see what this is really about, he'd said.

So Art applied to UPI for a journalist position. He didn't think they respond to his letter. After all, this was a long shot and he had very little training or experience in the field.

To his shock, they actually hired him and signed him to a six month contract. He then requested to be sent to Vietnam. They agreed to send him to their Saigon bureau, which would make him the junior reporter in a vast pool of reporters. Most likely, he'd end up as a gopher and he'd never get out of the city.

That didn't appeal to him, so he asked if he could go where the action was, on his own. His editor agreed that he could go wherever he wanted as long as he sent back photos and articles for publication. They'd pay his way there and make sure he got his monthly paycheck while there. Where he ended up was left to his discretion. And if he happened to get himself killed, oh well. The life span of a combat journalist was the same as that of an infantryman. There were more reporters where he came from. They'd just replace him and move on.

After doing some research, Art decided to visit the personnel office at Fort Hamilton, which was a short train ride from his apartment in Brooklyn. He was sure that someone there would be able to steer him to where he wanted to go.

Only a few weeks ago, he was sitting in his history class at Bushwick High School listening to an ongoing discussion about the war. Most of the others kids were against American involvement and were quite vocal about it. The teacher, Mr. Sett, had sparked the debate as usual to breathe some life into his class. He noticed that Art seemed unusually quiet. He normally jumped into the middle of historical discussions and normally, held the class's attention. He walked over and looked at Art.

What do you think of the war? he asked.

You mean politically or personally? Art asked.

Let's start with politically, Sett said.

Okay. I'm not sure if we should have gone into Vietnam in the first place. Now that we're there, we need to go all out to win it. If we leave now, it sends a wrong message to our allies and potential enemies. Both might take that as a sign of weakness. We'd also stab everyone in the back who has fought and died there. We'd be saying that their sacrifices were meaningless. We'd be an international disgrace, Art said.

Sett smiled.

Now, let's talk about personally, he said.

Art sat back.

I'm from a long line of soldiers. We believe that when our country calls, it's our duty to answer it---right or wrong. My lottery number is 345, so I have no chance to get drafted. But I still plan to go to Vietnam, he said.

Can you go deeper? Sett asked.

Sure. Unlike most of the people in this class, I don't believe everything I see on TV or read in the papers. I think the press has been lying to us since 1968, so I take everything they say with a grain of salt. In short, I don't trust the media, he said.

He looked back at the rest of the class.

Unlike you cowards, I'm going to Vietnam. I intend to see first-hand what it's like over there while you clowns play it safe and sit on your asses here, he said. If any of you were really patriotic, you'd come with me.

His challenge was met with silence. Art smiled.

I thought so, he said as he faced Sett.

Sett applauded him. He was a Korean War veteran and also had no use for anti-war protesters. Art's challenge had stung the rest of the class into silence. Not one other student had the guts to rebut him.

Now, here Art was at Fort Hamilton. He was ready to put his money where his mouth was.

Colonel Martin Holtz was reading the sports pages of the Daily News when he heard a knock at his door.

Come in, he called as he put down the paper.

An average sized young man with dark brown hair entered. He approached the desk and handed Holtz a press ID card and a letter. Holtz perused the letter and handed it and the card back to him.

The letter says you've been assigned to the Saigon Press Bureau at the Embassy, he said.

That's why I'm here, Sir, Art said.

Oh? So you don't want to go to Vietnam. Is that it? Holtz asked as he leaned back in his chair.

"I want to go to Vietnam. I just don't want to go to Saigon, Art said as he sat down. I want to go somewhere no reporters have been before. I want to go where I can be with combat soldiers and learn what this war is all about, without having to put up with all the political bullshit at the Embassy. I want to experience the same thing soldiers do and write about the war from their perspective and the perspective of the Vietnamese people."

Holtz looked him in the eyes. The kid's gaze was steady and sure.

You want to go where the war is? The real war? he asked.

Art nodded.

You have any kind of combat training? Holtz asked.

None, Art replied. I'll pick it up as I go along.

If you don't get yourself killed first, Holtz said. I've read that combat photographers last about 45 minutes on a battlefield when the shit hits the fan.

I know, Art said.

And you still want to go where the action is? Holtz asked.

Yes, Art said. Where can you send me?

Holtz got up and walked to the large, detailed map of Vietnam on the opposite wall. He folded his arms across his chest and studied it for a few minutes. Art watched as he placed his finger on DaNang and moved it south then west.

"I may have just the place for you, Art---if it's still there. Let me make few phone calls and get back to you," Holtz said.

Art handed him another card with his home phone number on it. Holts put it into his Rolodex and shook Art's hand.

You're 100% certain you want to do this? he asked.

Definitely, Art said.

His tone was somewhere between humble and Brooklyn-cocky.

Why are you so adamant about going to a hot spot? Holtz asked. "I mean really."

"Patriotism. Family tradition. Call it whatever you want. But this is something I feel that I have to do," Art replied.

He went on to explain that he didn't trust what he saw on TV or read in the newspapers. The American people were being fed a line of bullshit by the pro-Communist left who had hijacked the press and the pacifistic hippies had fallen for it.

"I want to know the truth. I want to experience Vietnam and the war from the point of view of the soldiers and let the people here know what this war is really all about," he said.

Will UPI publish your stories without changing them? Holtz asked.

I don't know, but I have to give this a try, Art said.

"I hope you're successful, son. Our troops are getting a bad treatment in the press. They get spat on and called rapists and baby killers and anything else you can think of. We need more people like you out there to tell the real story of Vietnam," Holtz said.

He sat back and smiled.

Why don't you just enlist in the Army as a journalist? Holtz asked. You take the ASVAB?

Yes. I took it when I was 18, Art said.

What did you score? Holtz asked.

I scored 139, Art replied.

Damn, son! That means you qualified for every MOS in the Army! If you'd have enlisted, you'd be an officer by now, Holtz said. Why didn't you?

I got an offer to play Triple A ball for the Yanks, so I signed with them instead, Art replied.

So what made you become a reporter? Holtz asked.

My season ended with an injury and the Yankees released me. Writing is a passion of mine, so this seemed like a logical choice, Art said. If I like what I see over there, I'll probably enlist later.

I used to feel that this country needed more good men like you. After two tours in Nam, I'm not so sure anymore. You can still change your mind about this. Saigon isn't so bad. At least you'll stay alive there, Holtz said.

But Art shook his head and stood his ground.

Okay. It's your decision. I'll call you in a couple of days, Holtz said.

As Art left, he passed a Master Sergeant who had just entered the office. They nodded at each other. He watched as Art left and walked over to Holtz.

Who's the kid? he asked.

A reporter from UPI. He's been assigned to the Saigon Bureau but he doesn't want to go there, Holtz said.

He wants to avoid Nam altogether? the Master Sergeant asked.

"To the contrary, he wants to go to Vietnam---but only where the war is. He wants to experience everything combat soldiers do so he can write about it first-hand without the political bullshit," Holtz explained.

Now that's a first! the Master Sergeant said.

It sure is. It's kinda refreshing, too. With an attitude like his, he'll make great reporter one day, Holtz said.

Yeah---if he lives, the Master Sergeant said.

Yes. There is that, Holtz said. It's too bad he's not enlisted. I have a feeling that he'd make a really fine soldier.

Yeah. He's not one of those hippy types, the Master Sergeant agreed.

Art took the subway home from Fort Hamilton. As he boarded the train at 95th Street, he glanced up at the Army recruiting poster above the opposite seats. This was a time when the Army was trying to change its image with ads aimed at high school kids about to graduate and were wondering what to do with their lives. The Army played up the G.I. Bill education funding big time and tried to drive the point home that there were other careers available besides combat soldier.

They had even come up with a slogan: FTA. It meant Fun, Travel and Adventure. The soldiers put their own twist to the anagram as usual. To them, FTA meant Fuck the Army.

Even so, the vast majority of soldiers fighting in Vietnam had actually enlisted in the Army for a variety of reasons. And almost half of them had also volunteered for Vietnam. The left-leaning, liberal anti-war and anti-military media twisted the numbers to make it look like they were all unwilling draftees in order to suit their own agendas. It was one more lie in a long series of lies.

Art wasn't into lies.

He wanted to learn and write about the truth. So he finagled a job with UPI and requested to be assigned to Vietnam. They gave him orders for Saigon, where he'd just languish with all the other press people. When he told his boss at UPI he wanted something different, he told Art he could go anywhere in Vietnam he wanted for the six months he would be there as long as he churned out stories and sent in photos.

That's when he decided to visit Col. Holtz at the Fort Hamilton Personnel Center.

Five days after his initial visit, he received a call from Holtz...

If you still want to go to a hot spot, I've got just the place for you, he said.

Of course I'm interested, Art assured him.

Great. How soon can you leave? Holtz asked.

Any time. I have my passport and UPI sent me an open ended ticket to Saigon, Art replied.

Okay. You're in. I had to pull a few strings to get you there. Shit, nobody knew if it was still up there, so finding it took some effort, Holtz said.

Where is it? Art asked.

The Central Highlands, Holtz said. This will give you a real taste of the Vietnamese people and culture and what we do there. It's hard core and from what I've been told, it's really off beat.

Thanks, Colonel. I owe you one for this, Art said.

The only thing you owe is to yourself. Just get back home alive, Holtz said. And good luck.

He hung up the phone. His grandmother had been standing nearby and heard part of the conversation. He smiled at her.

I got it, Ma. I've got what I want, he said.

What did you get? I heard something about a passport and leaving. Where are you going? she asked.

Vietnam, he replied.

She stared at him as if she hadn't heard right.

Why on Earth do you want to go there? she asked.

Sit down and I'll tell you about it, Art said.

His grandmother sat and listened while Art explained his decision. She'd heard this before. All five of her sons had enlisted. Three had fought in World War II. Her youngest had fought in Korea and the early years in Vietnam.

All had survived.

Art's mother was just 16 when he was born and not ready by any means to be a mother. So she gave him to her mother to raise. His father was killed in action less than a month after arriving in Korea. They never found his body.

Just a few scattered pieces of it.

Now, here he was, about to follow in the family tradition. Another in a long, long line of Wiederhold family soldiers---except he wasn't going as a soldier.

What about Mayumi? she asked. Did you tell her?

No. She hasn't answered any of my letters. She's too busy with school to bother with me now. There's no need to tell her anything. This is my decision. It's something I feel that I need to do, he said.

And you're going to Vietnam? she asked.

I insisted on it, he said.

She nodded.

When do you leave? she asked.

Next week. I fly out Wednesday morning. he explained. I'm not coming home for seven months or more.

She nodded and hugged him.

Do me one big favor. Promise me that you won't tell anyone where I went, he said.

Why? she asked. What if they ask?

Tell them I went to Japan. They'll believe that. I want to keep this quiet for a while, he said.

Again---why? she asked.

I don't want anybody to worry about me or send me letters but you. I especially don't want my friends to know. Not yet. Hell, Ma. I might never tell them, he smiled.

Please come back to me, she whispered as she kissed his cheek.

I will. I promise, he assured her.

In country

Tan Son Nhut was the busiest airport on Earth. Not only did it serve all of the international flights going into and out of Saigon, but it also was the home of several U.S. military flights and air wing units. At the height of the war, it averaged over 4,500 flights per week.

Art's World Airways flight landed on the runway at 5:45 a.m. He was with a dozen Army newbies, most of which were draftees. When the 747 rolled to a stop on the tarmac outside the terminal, Art and the rest of the passengers grabbed their carry-ons from the overhead bins and shuffled toward the door.

He waited until the workers rolled the stairs into place. He heard the door open and nearly reeled as a wave of heat rushed into aircraft and quickly displaced the cool air. It was as if someone had opened the door to a blast furnace.

He walked to the door and took a deep breath. His lungs filled with warm, moist air which quickly raced through his entire body. He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand and walked down the steps.

When he left Brooklyn, the early autumn temperature was a balmy 66 degrees. He'd heard that Vietnam was hot and humid. He just didn't know how hot and humid it would be until now. The intense sunlight baked the tarmac which sent waves of heat upward. This caused a rippling effect that distorted the scenery beyond the wave. The phenomenon captivated him as he walked down the steps. He had seen this in movies about the desert. He never imagined that he'd see it up close like this.

He looked at the young soldiers. The heavy humidity and heat was already taking its toll on them, too.

It never gets this hot in Idaho! he heard one kid say.

Or Brooklyn, he thought.

When his feet hit the ground, he felt the soles of his shoes grow warmer and warmer as he walked through this thick curtain of humidity. He'd never felt this hot or moist before and he was covered with sweat by the time he reached the terminal.

The terminal was air conditioned---barely. It was cool enough inside to send chills through his sweat covered body. He stopped to hold the door open for one of the stewardesses who had been on the flight with him.

Where to next? he asked.

Please wait here, Sir, the stewardess said. Your connecting flight will leave from this runway in two hours. Welcome to Saigon.

He smiled and put his bags down on the nearest chair. He spotted a small kiosk down the way and strolled over. The young woman behind the counter waited as he studied the drink menu above her head. It was in English and Vietnamese. She figured he'd order a Coke, like most Westerners.

I'll have a large cup of durian juice, he said.

You know durian? she asked.

Yes. I like it, too, he said.

She filled a large cup halfway with the juice and looked back at him.

You want ice? she asked.

Yes please, he replied.

She turned around, opened a lower drawer and scooped out several cubes with a metal spoon and put them in the cup. Then she finished filling it with juice. She handed it to him with a paper straw.

How much? he asked.

Ten thousand Dong, she said or 50 US cents.

He handed her a dollar and told her to keep the change. She smiled.

Welcome to Vietnam, she said. I hope you like my country.

If everyone here is as nice as you, I'm sure I'll have a wonderful visit, he said.

He went back to where he'd left his bags and stood at the window to watch the flights. During the next 30 minutes, he counted 21 flights either landing or taking off. Some were so close to the terminal that the building rumbled under his feet whenever their wheels hit the ground or they flew directly over.

Most, he observed, were civilian airlines.

He saw KLM (Netherlands), Air Canada, JAL, TWA, PanAm and Air France.

Despite the war, Saigon and Vietnam's other coastal cities, attracted a lot of tourists. Most of the fighting was taking place up north in the Central Highlands or in the DMZ. Or to the west of Saigon along the Cambodia/Laos border. The only indication of a war in Saigon was the number of American soldiers stationed in and around the city.

Saigon was relatively peaceful---if you didn't count the street criminals, like muggers and pick pockets. Even with them prowling around, it was a lot safer than most American cities. Art had to smile at this.

The Saigon police were notorious for beating up criminals. His uncle told them that the soldiers had nicknamed them white mice because of their all-white uniforms. He'd also said that many of them were as corrupt as all Hell and had their fingers deep into the black market and drug trade.

He didn't care.

Saigon was just a place to change planes.

He turned away from the window just as a pretty maid walked past pushing her cleaning cart. She stopped and smiled at him. He smiled back.

She could tell from the way he was dressed in his blue jeans, sneakers and short sleeved safari shirt that he wasn't a soldier. He also had two bags with him. One was a black, medium sized canvas bag with a shoulder strap and handle. This contained several sets of underwear and three changes of clothes and his shaving kit. The other was a small, black leather bag that contained his camera, two lenses, multiple light filters and several rolls of film and an electric flash.

Hello, she said.

Hello, he replied.

You tourist? she asked.

No. I'm a reporter, he said.

That's good. So you will stay here in Saigon? she asked.

No. I'm heading to a camp in the Central Highlands, he replied.

That's where the war is. Your company sent you there? she asked.

No. I volunteered, he said.

You crazy! Oh, well. I gotta go now. Good luck, she said as she walked off with her cart.

Thanks, he said as he watched her wiggle away.

He went back to watching the flights.

He was told that he'd be given uniforms, jungle boots and whatever else he needed when he reached his final destination---wherever that was. He also knew that wearing an Army uniform also made him a target for enemy soldiers. That made him wonder how he'd react if and when he got fired at.

He still had no real idea where he was going. He just knew that it was to a forward camp somewhere in the hot zone. He expected to see action. He just never imagined what that would be like.

A group of young soldiers shuffled into the terminal. Art nodded as they walked past him carrying their heavy duffel bags over their shoulders. They were all around his age. All were bound for units scattered through the country. They were dressed in khakis. Each one also carried a folder containing his orders.

They looked to be a cross between cocksure and scared. Four were Black. Two were Latinos.

How many of you guys enlisted? Art asked.

Eight of them said they did.

In my case, it was either this or prison, one sandy haired kid with a Texas drawl said. So you could say I volunteered.

They laughed.

Such enlistments happened a lot. Young men who got into trouble with the law were often given such a choice by the judge. Most of them opted for the military. Many of them decided to make careers of it rather than return to the slums and the lives they had before. If they survived their tour in Vietnam. Those kids weren't given a choice.

A sergeant came out and told them to wait right where they were. A few minutes later, a cart drove up with several duffel bags. The driver stood up and shouted for them to put their bags on the cart NOW!

They did as they were told. Once all of the bags were loaded, the cart left. Art looked around. The airport was indeed hectic. He watched as several more civilian airlines circled and came in for landings while several others took off. People and workers were everywhere. He checked his watch.

7:12.

A small yellow bus drove up. It stopped in front of the terminal. A corporal stepped out and entered the terminal. He called out names from a clipboard he carried. Seven of the men who were with Art got on and the bus left.

8:04.

A second bus rolled up. The driver opened the door. He looked at them.

Which one of you is Art? he asked.

I am, Art replied.

You wait here. The rest of you guys, get on the bus. Move it! the driver barked.

He watched the bus drive off. Seconds later, another bus rolled up. The door hissed open and he got on. The driver smiled.

Welcome to Vietnam, he said.

The driver took him to another terminal. This was decidedly military. There were MAC SOG emblems everywhere and everyone was in fatigues. When he got off the bus, a Staff Sergeant looked him over.

You Art? he asked.

Yes I am, sergeant, Art answered.

Your connecting flight to Da Nang leaves in one hour. It will be on the runway behind the terminal, the sergeant said as he looked over his file. It says here that you asked for this slot. That true?

Yes, sergeant, Art said.

The sergeant smiled and extended his hand. Art shook it.

I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, son, he said. That's in bandit country. You'll see all kinds of action up there.

That's why I'm here, Art said.

God bless you, son---and good luck, the sergeant said.

Da Nang.

It was 9:47 when Art and several soldiers stepped off the connecting flight from Saigon. They stood on the tarmac and watched as several VNAF fighters took off on another run into the Central Highlands. In the distance, he saw several Hueys lift off and a local civilian airliner come in for landing.

At the time, Da Nang was almost as busy as Tan Son Nhut. Only in this case, most of the traffic was military. Da Nang was the home to the VNAF and three Tactical Fighter Squadrons (TFS), a permanent USMC battalion, and companies of Army, Navy and Air Force personnel and an equal number of South Vietnamese soldiers and airmen. The TFS flew F-4Es armed with missiles, and machine guns. The VNAF guys had inherited a squadron of Douglas AC-77D armed with Spooky cannon, also called Puff the Magic Dragons. When they swooped down and opened up on the enemy below, nothing was left standing.

Twenty-minutes later, a 2.5 ton covered truck pulled up. The driver leaned out and called out a unit number. The soldiers climbed aboard and away they went. Art was conspicuously the last man left.

It was another 20 minutes before two soldiers in a jeep drove up. Each was dressed in jungle fatigues, a helmet and a bullet proof vest. They were both armed with M-16s. The guy riding shotgun looked at Art.

Get in, he said.

Don't you want to see my orders? Art asked as he tossed his bag in the back.

You Art? the soldier asked.

Yep, he replied.

Then I don't need to see your orders, he smiled. Put on that steel pot and vest. This ain't no Sunday drive in the park.

Art climbed in and put on the vest and helmet.

By the way, my name's Randy, the driver said as they shook hands.

I'm Lou, said the other soldier. Welcome to paradise.

Paradise? Art asked.

That's our little joke for it. In some ways, it is a paradise when nobody's trying to kill you, Lou said. People back home must think we fight all the time---but it's really not like that. You'll see once we get to the camp. I don't know how you found out about it. It's not exactly on the beaten path.

Shit. It's not even on a path, Randy added as he started the Jeep.

He looked at Lou.

I brought us up here. You take us back, he said as they switched seats.

How far away is it? Art asked.

We'll be there in about four hours, Randy said. Unless we hit a mine or something.

Yeah. Then all bets are off, Lou smiled.

They left the airport and made their way to the highway. The further away from Da Nang they got, the lesser the traffic became. A few miles out, cars and trucks gave way to bicycles and motor scooters and even oxcarts.

They talked along the way.

Art learned that both soldiers were single and had Vietnamese girlfriends. Both had seen a fair share of action. Randy was normally a radio operator. Lou was a mechanic.

But out here, we're mostly infantry. That's the only MOS that matters, Lou said. We carry a weapon whenever we leave the camp or village. You probably will have to do the same while you're with us.

Yeah. Up there, you won't be a journalist. You'll be a grunt with a camera, Randy said.

Art smiled and nodded.

That's exactly what he had hoped for.

The highway leading from Da Nang to Pleiku was a typical two lane paved road. Every once in a while, they had to drive around a deep pit or rut.

Those are bomb craters. The NVA Artillery sometimes shells the road when they notice one of our convoys on it. Mostly, they miss us. Along here, we have to watch out for Charlie. He likes to come out of the jungle and fire RPGs at us, so be alert, Lou said as they hit another bump.

They left the main highway near Pleiku and drove northwest along a heavily traveled dirt road that was riddled with ditches, holes and rocks.

More bomb craters? Art asked.

No. This is from wear and tear over the years. This road probably was here hundreds of years ago when Pleiku was connected to several outlaying villages by a series of dirt roads. This was mostly for trade purposes. It's still used for that, but the war has cut back on the traffic. Nowadays the farmers bring their goods to the village markets. It's safer that way, Lou explained.

It was a long, hot and sometimes bone-jarring ride through some serene and picturesque countryside of small villages, rice paddies, water buffalo herds and locals trying to sell them food and drinks from roadside stands. They did stop at a couple for cold sodas and some grilled meat on a stick that Art found to be spicy and delicious.

You'll love the food here---as long as you don't ask what the meat is. It's better not to know sometimes, Lou said.

The first thing he noticed was how small, sexy and cute the Vietnamese women were. Most had ready smiles and waved as they drove past. The kids were adorable, too.

Vietnam is a beautiful country, Art. If it wasn't for this fuckin' war, it would be a great tourist spot, especially for Americans in search of pretty women to marry, Randy remarked.

A man could get lost here, Art said.

Roger that. A lot have. This place gets under your skin. It becomes a part of you. You'll learn to like and appreciate the people, the customs and their culture after a little while. If you treat them with honesty and respect and try to learn their customs and language, they'll love you, Randy said.

"The people are friendly. The food's great and the country is beautiful. It has everything a man could wish for. Hell, I might settle down here after the war. There's nothing back home that I want to return to,'' Lou added.

The dirt road wound through a picturesque countryside of tall palm trees, tropical brush, rice paddies, fields of other crops, stilted wooden houses, fish ponds, small streams and open, rough ground. They passed people on oxcarts laden with crops, people on bicycles, pedicabs and a multi-colored, dust covered bus like vehicle packed with people. Many of the people smiled and waved at them. Lou responded by honking his horn.

Art took it all in enthusiastically. He even attempted to take a few photos, but the road was bumpy at best and the near constant jostling ruined all of his chances.

This was certainly alien territory for him. The crowded, dirty streets of Brooklyn starkly contrasted with the scenery of Vietnam. The country looked clean and spacious with deep, multiple shades of green under the deepest blue sky he'd ever seen.

Even though it was a war zone, it looked like a living post card. He knew that before the war, it had teemed with tourists. He wondered if it would ever be like that again.

This was a Vietnam no one in the States ever heard or knew about. All they saw were battle films and photos of burning villages and dead bodies. They didn't know about this Vietnam.

Beyond the cities was a wonderfully beautiful country filled with friendly people---who remained friendly despite the war going on around them. But they'd been at war with someone for more than 30 years, so they were accustomed to it now.

The entire time, the sun beat down on him and sent sweat cascading down his face and body. He'd never felt so uncomfortable before. This was far hotter and way more humid than the worst Brooklyn summer and the humidity made him feel like he was moving through water. The vest and helmet upped his body temperature even further and he wondered how the soldiers could bear it all.

It's damned hot here, Art remarked.

Randy laughed.

That's what I said when I got here three years ago. You'll get used to it after a while. It rains a lot here, too. We get at least one good downpour each afternoon. Then there's the rainy season, he said.

You've been here three years? Art asked.

He nodded.

I re-upped to stay here. You'll understand why later, he said.

What regiment do you guys belong to? Art asked.

Beats me. We're kind of a mix of the cast-offs of several regiments. Nobody cares about that shit out here, Randy said.

We're kinda different from other Army units, Art. It's hard to explain, Lou added. Maybe the CO can explain it because I sure as fuck can't. We just are. That's all.

I'm from a town in Louisiana called Houma, Randy said. So this is the way it is back home. After you've been here a few days, you'll get used to the heat. Hell, ya have no choice.

He handed Art a canteen.

It ain't cold but it's wet, he said. We'll stop along the way and get something to eat before we get to camp. You ever eat Vietnamese food?

Some. There's a restaurant in Chinatown that has several Vietnamese dishes on the menu. So I decided to try them all before I left. The stuff's great, Art said.

There's several small family owned restaurants and cafes in the village next to the camp. They're all really good, too, Randy said. Li's is our favorite.

How often do you guys eat in the village? Art asked.

Every day. You'll understand why after you see what passes for a chow hall in the camp, Randy said with a laugh.

They soon came to a narrow wooden bridge that crossed over a river filled with all sorts of floating plant life and alga. Lou slowed down as they drove over the uneven boards. A few more minutes of driving and they came to a small, picturesque village.

We'll stop here and get some chow at Phan's, Randy said. He runs the only café in the village.

What's the name of this village? Art asked.

Phuoc Dak something-or-other. We call it Fuckaduck, Randy said with a grin. A lot of these village names sound alike, so we gave them all our own twists.

The village consisted of about two or three dozen wooden, stilted houses with pitched roofs clustered around a common area. There were about 20 people working in the nearby rice paddy. Almost all of them were women in their traditional leaf hats. A couple of the villagers stopped and waved as they drove past. Lou stopped the jeep in front of a one story, long white building with a Coca Cola sign nailed on the side. There were six small round tables outside and several chairs. The dining area was under a thatch canopy, which gave the place the look of a Hawaiian tiki bar. They got out and sat down at one of the tables.

A middle aged man hurried out and greeted them with a big smile.

Hello, Randy! Hello, Lou! Long time no see! How are you been? he shouted happily as they shook hands.

We've been fine, Phan. How are you and your family? Randy replied.

We doing good. Who your new friend? Phan asked when he saw Art.

This is Art. He's a reporter. He'll be staying with us for a few months, Lou said as Art shook hands with Phan.

I know he's not a soldier. I can tell by the haircut, Phan said. I hope you will like my country. Maybe you meet nice Vietnamese lady and stay here.

Art smiled.

Maybe, he said.

Bring us three of your specials, Randy said.

Okay. Three specials coming right up. The beer is cold today. I put on ice this morning, Phan said as he went inside.

This is simple country style food. His wife and daughter do the cooking and they're very good at it. The beer here is called Ba mi Ba. That means 33. It's good when it's cold, Lou said.

We stop here whenever we make a run, Randy explained.

Phan came out with a tray that had three bowls of steamed rice topped with spicy vegetables and three bottles of beer. He put it in front of them and handed them each chop sticks. Randy and Lou watched as Art reached into his shirt pocket and took out a set of brightly painted chopsticks. They and Phan watched as he proceeded to eat without any sign of trouble at all. Phan smiled and patted him on the back.

Where'd you learn to eat with those? asked Randy.

In Japan, Art said. That's where I bought these.

You're gonna do just fine here, Art, Randy assured him.

Yeah, Lou agreed.

Their conversation was interrupted by the roar of jet engines. They looked and watched as a flight of six F-4 Phantoms zoomed northward and quickly faded from view.

They're heading for the DMZ, Randy said. Probably making a napalm drop or rocket run.

There's always shit going on up there, Lou added.

Either of you ever been up there? Art asked.

I was there in '69. The regiment I was in slugged it out with the NVA for six days and nights before both sides got sick of it and withdrew. That was more than enough for me. I took a rifle shot in my right arm. It was just a scratch but my CO put me in for the Purple Heart anyway. That's a hard way to earn a medal, though, Randy said.

I ain't never been up there and I ain't in any hurry to go, Lou said. Fort Nowhere is hot enough for me.

They finished their meal and got back onto the road.

We'll be at the camp in another hour or so, Lou said. I know you're not in any huge hurry.

That's fine. I'm taking in the scenery, Art said.

It gets better as you go deeper into the highlands, Lou said. If you head south about a hundred miles, you come to this resort city called Da Lat. I was down there about a year ago for R and R and I really loved it. You need to see that place while you're in Nam.

It's on my list, Art said.

They drove several more miles and came to a river

The river meandered lazily between the jungle and Fort Nowhere, then veered north and sliced through the rice paddies and fruit orchards. Two wooden foot bridges, about 10 feet wide, spanned the river and connected the paddies to the village.

The river was slow moving, colored a murky green, and no more than 100 feet wide at some points. The water was waist-deep at best and the bank on either side was thick with reeds and other vegetation.

Some of the villagers washed their clothes in the river. Most hauled water from it daily and boiled it to kill all of the nasty things that lived in it. Only the best of homes had running water and indoor plumbing. Homes on the outskirts of the village didn't. But since they had lived without it for generations, that didn't seem to matter.

It was what it was.

After another hour's drive, they reached their destination. The drive took them along a meandering dirt road and past trees, rice paddies, and several varieties of huts and across two rivers. The road was bumpy and pitted.

Not the best conditions for a jeep ride, especially if one was in the back seat.

The road entered the village from the east and merged with the main street which ran north and south. They turned right toward the camp.

The camp, which the men called Fort Nowhere, was set up just outside the small, neatly arranged village. The village had a Catholic church, a school that looked like it was built by the French decades earlier, a small hospital, a large Buddhist temple, a good sized open air market and several cafes.

On the northern end were a series of rice paddies and fruit trees with several small houses. Beyond that stood a line of trees that marked the beginning of the jungle. The village was south of the paddies and the base camp.

They drove through the village and over a small wooden bridge to reach the camp. An alert-looking guard waved them through the gate, which nothing more than a 15 foot gap in the sand bag wall, and shook his head. Art knew why, too. He'd seen others, just like him, come through that gate. Art wondered how many were still alive inside.

The base camp was located 22 miles west and south of Chu Lai and 20 miles to the north of nowhere. The provincial capital, Pleiku was to the south. Dak Toy was almost 12 miles directly west.

The camp was surrounded by a barbed wire perimeter and a sandbag wall. There were two watch towers looming above an open central area and two dozen metal Quonset huts. The sign over one read: Mess Hall---Enter at Own Risk. Right next to that, appropriately enough,