Yes Sir, Yes Sir, 3 Bags Full!

By Jerry Hall

The events that take place in this story are real. It is a personal account of what happened physically and emotionally to a handful of Air Force pilots from spring 1968 through the fall of 1970. Millions of dollars were spent teaching us to kill; not one penny was allocated to teaching us to cope. Therefore, we unknowingly created our own m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sundance Hall Publishing
• Release date: Sep 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997285611

Jerry Hall

Jerry Hall is an Oklahoma native, now residing in Tulsa. His dream in life was to be on the stage; either as an actor, singer, or comedian. Missing out many opportunities, Jerry decided to devote his efforts towards his degree studies in Hospitality, Travel, and Tourism Management. The only thing that allows him to maintain his sanity, is Disney vacations and laughter.

Book preview

Yes Sir, Yes Sir,

3 Bags Full!

Volume I

Flying, Friendship, and Trying to Make Sense of a Senseless War

by

Jerry Hall

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Praise for Yes Sir, Yes Sir, 3 Bags Full!

Yes Sir, Yes Sir, 3 Bags Full! is a deeply rich and personal account of a man’s lived experiences in the context of war. Jerry brings us closer to the realities of war through his relationships with those whom he fought side by side with and against. Jerry’s book teaches us the power and nature of all relationships. For clinicians, the indications are to invest not only in evidence-based therapies, but also in the healing possibilities of therapeutic and non-therapeutic relationships. Taking this cue from Jerry, as his therapist, the possibilities appeared to be limitless. 

—Taryn M. Jaramillo, LCSW

Trauma Therapist

Yes Sir, Yes Sir, 3 Bags Full! captures what living through Viet Nam as a pilot was like with an incredible degree of detail and accuracy—the emotional highs and lows, the boredom and bedlam we all experienced. In reading Jerry’s book, I relived the craziness of our performance and ultimate survival.

—Bill Healey (Father William)

Jerry Hall’s vivid descriptions of life in the military during war brings understanding to anyone whose loved one served during a time of crisis. Jerry’s incredible journey is one of survival, coping, and trying to make sense of the inhumanity of war. Yes Sir, Yes Sir, 3 Bags Full! is an important look at history and how war impacts those we ask to risk their lives as they struggle with the morality of taking the lives of others.

—Patti Frazee,

author of Cirkus and Out of Harmony

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This memoir is dedicated to my wife, Kay, and my siblings who have stood with me in sickness and health and worked tirelessly to make this a better read.

© Jerry and Kay Hall. 2016.

ISBN: 978-0-9972856-0-4 (print)

           978-0-9972856-1-1 (ebook)

Cover and logo design by Lori Hollifield.

Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love To Town

Words and Music by Mel Tillis

Copyright © 1966, 1977 UNIVERSAL - CEDARWOOD PUBLISHING

Copyright Renewed

All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Words and Music by John Denver

Copyright © 1967; Renewed 1995 BMG Ruby Songs and Reservoir Media Music; All Rights for BMG Ruby Songs Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC; All Rights for Reservoir Media Music Administered by Reservoir Media Management, Inc. (Publishing) and Alfred Music (Print)

All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Words and Music by John Denver

Copyright © 1967 (Renewed) RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT, INC. and CHERRY LANE MUSIC PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.

(ASCAP) RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT, INC.

Administered by RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT, INC., RESERVOIR MEDIA MUSIC (ASCAP)

All Rights Reserved

Used by Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

Hey Joe

Words and Music by Billy Roberts

© 1962 (Renewed) by THIRD PALM MUSIC

All Rights Administered by BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT (US) LLC 

All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

Words and Music by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil

© 1965 (Renewed 1993) SCREEN GEMS-EMI MUSIC INC.

All Rights Reserved International Copyright Secured Used by Permission

Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation

Some names and identifying details have been changed 

to protect the privacy of individuals.

Introduction

When I first met Jerry, he introduced me to the manuscript for a book he had initially begun to write five years after he left active wartime service in 1974. I picked up the book and was immediately captivated—enough so that I read it in one sitting. It was humorous, unsettlingly honest, and I was deeply moved as I witnessed the baring of his soul unfold before me. I laughed as I read his words, and when I was finished, I cried for hours.

As our relationship grew and we eventually married, a significant part of our journey as husband and wife involved Jerry’s lifelong struggle to come to terms with his experiences in Viet Nam.

Over the years, he told me many stories (often peppered with grins and asides). But as time passed, the post-traumatic stress disorder he suffered hit full throttle. As he witnessed the wars in Iraq unfolding through newspaper and television reports, the stories started to change.

As is the case for countless veterans, Jerry endured years of nightmares, thrashing about in his sleep, flashbacks as well as an ongoing anger and difficulty dealing with authority figures—vestiges of the experiences he describes in the pages of this book. For a time, it became overwhelming to continue documenting his story, and he set it aside.

Eventually, Jerry entered an inpatient treatment at the Veterans Administration hospital to help him deal with his condition and he began once again to write, initially composing a short story about his first day in Viet Nam. It was powerful but lacking the humor of his earlier writing. He continued to write more stories and soon rediscovered the wonderful gift he had lost for so many years.

In 2011, Jerry was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. The Veteran’s Administration decreed it resulted directly from his exposure to Agent Orange while serving in Viet Nam.

As he struggled with his cancer, it became his obsession to rewrite his original manuscript, add new material and see it published. He filled notebooks with phrases and names and memories. I converted his original typewritten manuscript to computer files so he could more easily work with revising and adding new material.

Together we continued our respective work—Jerry writing and revising, me providing the detail work of editing, serving him meals in front of the computer, keeping a supply of pens and pads in my purse to jot notes down when he was getting chemo, and always offering my constant encouragement and love.

Feeling it was at last ready, Jerry began to pursue what would represent the dream to publish his book. He had completed what he wanted to do his entire adult life since he had served in Viet Nam as a young man: to ultimately make sense of the experience that changed him forever. When he was in his final weeks, I read him the remarkable comments from the professional readers. He smiled and I cried. He made me promise I would bring the book to fruition. He didn’t even need to really ask me. He knew I understood what it meant to him.

For nearly four years it was what drove him and I believe gave him the strength to continue to battle his disease. He said over and over that he wanted people to understand him and what happened to his soul. His hope was that readers of his book would gain a stronger sense of compassion for those who went to war and the impact it had on their lives. He didn’t want sympathy, but rather the validation that his experiences could help others.

I believe Jerry needed a benevolent listener to hear his story, affirm he did the best he could, and rest in the knowledge that his soul was infinitely good, that he was lovable and his contributions to life were important. In gaining this reparation, he could feel accepted again by his community and by humanity.

Jerry was my soul mate—an inspiration to me, and all those whose lives he touched.

Always on the lookout for that vet who needed help, he left an indelible impression with everyone. I was constantly amazed how people gravitated toward him. I called it the Jerry Hall effect. At times, it exhausted him because he couldn’t stop giving. And after those times, we retreated to our nest at home and were quiet. Most people thought he lived to entertain. He was at his core a quiet, introspective man who found a peaceful easy feeling and worked to keep it.

This first volume of this memoir explores Jerry’s early experiences in Viet Nam. In Volume Two, his story continues to unfold in the balance of his tour of duty. The combined memoir only covers his training and first tour. Incredibly, he returned three more times to active duty.

My beloved husband, Jerry Hall, died on August 25, 2015. Although he was not able to hold this book in his hands, he did hear, before he passed, the words that brought him some peace, we’re ready to publish your book.

—Kay Hall

A Note from Jerry Hall

Names have been changed and characters have been consolidated, but the events that take place in this story are real. It is a personal account of what happened physically and emotionally to a handful of Air Force pilots from spring 1968 through the fall of 1970. Millions of dollars were spent teaching us to kill; not one penny was allocated to teaching us to cope. Therefore, we unknowingly created our own mentality and our own morality that allowed us to survive.

Some readers may be shocked by our choice of words, by our irreverence, by our humor; that’s understandable. But remember, we were kids split off from our society; submerged in a foreign culture; surrounded by people trying to kill us; and immersed in a war of deceit, hypocrisy, and injustice. Our moral compass was spun daily. Some combat veterans did not lose their souls in the battle for Viet Nam, but many did. For some, it happened while in-country, while others lost it upon coming home. For me, the shocking, immoral, and disgusting aspect of this war is not how we acted, but how America acted upon our return.

We survived to become the unwanted veteran, the forgotten product of the U.S. government and American society. We returned home to serve again, this time under contemporaries who had somehow escaped the call to arms. While we were being shot at, they were moving up the corporate ladder. Then we watched while our nation embraced the POWs, opened its doors to those who refused to serve, opened its shores to Southeast Asia refugees, welcomed home those who chose to denounce their citizenship . . . and turned its back on those who answered the call. Because we were soldiers, we suffered silently with our physical limitations, psychological and emotional scars, and diseases caused by chemicals used with reckless disregard for our lives. For many of us, the guns never went silent.

I’m sure every combat veteran’s story is different, but the cumulative effects are the same: fear, anger, disgust, despair while trying to survive. How could it happen? We all started out as the kid next door—the altar boy, the paper boy, the Eagle Scout, the star athlete, the student council president, the sons of veterans—who, after rejection by family, friends, church congregations, even previous war veterans, and our government, became disillusioned, bitter, cynical, hateful, and suicidal.

When I wrote of this experience, my companions were a jug for my whiskey and a cup for my tears. So hang on America, as I tell you a story as it happened to me. There will be no euphemisms or apologies. Hopefully, it will cause no embarrassment to my friends, family, or friends of family, for this story will have no value if it is tempered. There should be no adverse reaction regarding my upbringing or the town where I was raised, for the men depicted within came from throughout these United States; all experienced the same, many experienced worse.

As a clarification, Americans typically write Vietnam as one word. The Vietnamese use two words—Viet Nam—when referring to their country. Out of respect, I chose their version.

Acronyms are used extensively in the military. A glossary for the acronyms used in Yes Sir, Yes Sir, 3 Bags Full! can be found at the end of this book.

Part I

The Vortex

Chapter 1

In-Country

My God, it was beautiful!— golden beaches leading into a jungle lush from monsoon rains now forming a clear horizon after hours of seemingly seamless blue sea and sky. After 1,001 air miles from Manila to Saigon, I was descending into this alluring paradise, a paradise I would soon call a shithole. I tried to recall exactly when I had first heard of Viet Nam—no more than a couple of years earlier—but my memory was blurred by events that led me here...

It started in the summer of 1968, and it felt like I was sucked up and spinning uncontrollably in a massive vortex, a vortex that deposited me first in a west Texas town called Big Spring.

I stood there in this backwater Texas town, proud yet foolish and fearless, with my three classmates about to graduate from one year and one week of pilot training. We waited as our aircraft assignments were handed down: Pipeline Viet Nam was the sentence issued by a distant judge; 365 days duration. But the final adjudication was sealed; some would get life, others death.

Fellow students and instructor pilots sarcastically referred to us as the fantastic four, yet in our arrogance, we believed war would be exciting and we would be heroes on a powerful and undefeated team. Then our instructor informed us of the probability of survival for rookie pilots playing war games without home field advantage: one in three.

Look to your left, look to your right, he said, one of you will make the trip home in a metal box.

The four of us were cocky and confident that our skills would sustain us, so we scanned the room and debated the merits of each student. Would he make it? Maybe not, for he would panic. That one was uncoordinated. A third was slow to react. But the four of us, we would survive . . .

My window was in the fourth row of a DC-8 nicknamed stretch 8, since it was chopped and elongated to warehouse as many GIs as possible. It banked into its final turn. Final turn? I hope not, I thought. But there was finality. I had reached my destination and would soon be deposited into this Edenesque kill zone. Deep inside, I secretly hoped that my contribution to peace would be limited to 365 days. I covered any uncertainties with smugness, from a false assumption that there was status associated with wearing a uniform; adults would admire me, friends would think I was tough, women would take notice, my enemy would fear me, and the U.S. insignia would protect me. But I was blind. I hadn’t realized that American citizens in the summer of 1969 had their own ideas about men in uniform and, unfortunately, admiration, toughness, and sex appeal weren’t at the top of their list. I remembered a conversation I had with my uncle, a WWI vet, just before I left the States...

Why would you go to Viet Nam? he asked. Initially, I was stumped, dumbfounded even. He waited for an answer. I stretched my 5’8 body to maybe 5’8 1/2 and stated, It will be the first time I’ll get to fight someone my own size. He did not laugh. He did not even smile. It’s not worth it, but good luck to you, he said. Then he shook my hand, gripping it real tight, one combat soldier silently giving strength to another . . .

The plane bounced hard upon initial contact with the Saigon runway, landing once, twice, three times. Not bad. Not bad if we were landing on an aircraft carrier, I said to myself while laughing as the plane lumbered along the runway. Family, friends, faith, and all familiarity disappeared with the asphalt behind me.

Viet Nam. The French called it the Riviera of the East. The Pentagon must have agreed. Why else would they send me here, unarmed and alone, dressed in a starched khaki uniform, on a commercial airliner with sweet-smelling, sweet-talking, smiling, round-eyed, and curvaceous stewardesses? This wasn’t a war; this was going to be a vacation.

The pregnant aircraft stopped and began to disgorge passengers: Hundreds of troops, most just eighteen or nineteen years old who only knew that they would be scattered somewhere south of the seventeenth parallel for twelve months of their lives, or more, in the case of Marines. The stewardess must have agreed that we were here for some fun in the sun.

Welcome to beautiful Saigon, she said.

When I stuck my head out of the exit door, I encountered a stench so strong that it seemed to attach itself to my skin. What was it? I wondered. Dead fish? Decaying plants? Rotting flesh? I could not identify it. All I knew was that it smelled worse than a freshly spread field of pig manure on a spring day in Iowa.

One GI reached the top of the stairway and uncontrollably hurled Stateside food from his gut onto the pavement below. Even that smelled better.

And then a canopy of red-orange sun produced light and heat so oppressive that my eyes shriveled and my pores streamed saltwater.

Keep moving! someone yelled. I grabbed the handrail tighter; it was my cane until my eyes adjusted. I bumped along with the other GIs, all of us wrestling with duffle bags, all of us alone, all of us overwhelmed, all of us now brutally aware when someone in the line uttered This ain’t gonna be no vacation!

When able, I would steal looks into my left and right forward quadrants—nine o’clock to three o’clock for pilots, port to starboard for the Navy river rats who trudged beside me. I tried to locate the source of distant sounds: the roar of jet engines, the swoosh of rockets, the rat-tat-tat of small arms fire, the mutterings of a familiar language and the shrill and then guttural cackle of an alien language being spoken 10,000 miles from my place of birth.

Fifty yards ahead at eleven o’clock, I spotted bunkers and GIs shoveling sand into bags. The bunkers were flanked by rolls of concertina wire that forced us into a choke point—an attempt to establish order out of chaos. There, spit-shined Vietnamese soldiers, looking like kids with buckets on their heads, sat smoking and uninterested, while armed American soldiers stood watch over their country.

Ba-WHAM!

The concussion caused me to cower. Had my duffle bag been lighter, I would have brought it to my ears. Soldiers—both foreign and domestic—injected rounds in their chambers. Helicopters, as thick as flies in a dairy barn, rose from somewhere. Their radios blared as they banked no more than fifteen feet over my head and whop-whop-whopped their way toward the explosion. Our line continued its slog forward. We shuffled along like convicts in leg irons and chains.

My eyes were following the helicopters so I failed to notice that the extremely large soldier in front of me had suddenly halted. I crashed into his backside. He swung his head and shoulders violently in my direction. My silver bars stopped him from immediately stomping me into the macadam.

What the hell you doing, lieutenant? he asked. Better not to respond, I thought.

The shuffle continued until an American GI, who wore a floppy hat that read GO TO HELL checked my name tag against his clipboard roster and motioned me into a small building.

Inside things were no cooler and smelled no better. Got any green? a voice asked from inside a cage.

Green? I asked.

U.S. currency.

Yes, I replied.

Well give it to me!

It sounded like an order, but his two stripes ranked far below my silver bars, so it must have been a request. I pulled all the cash I had from my pocket and deposited it on the counter. It was the first of many things I would hand over in Viet Nam without question.

The voice counted out some funny-looking money with illustrations of soldiers and military hardware to differentiate the denominations.

What’s this? I asked.

MPC—military pay certificates.

Damn, I mumbled. The war is everywhere here, even on the money.

Next! the two-striper yelled. Then, with a finger that said get the hell out of my sight, he pointed to an exit sign.

I stepped outside and into a holding pen—the kind you might see at a feed lot— but there was no food or water here. I watched as war-weary soldiers passed by on their way to waiting freedom birds: their ride home. Most soldiers passed quietly. Some, however, were defiant.

F.N.G.s, one of them snarled.

What’s an F.N.G.? I asked.

Fucking new guy, he hollered, and those on his side of the fence laughed.

I’d been told that there are no stupid questions, but here in the Nam, all questions seemed stupid.

Several passing GIs flashed the peace sign: a V made with the index and middle finger. In WWII it meant victory, in Viet Nam, peace. Others countered with metallic WAR emblems that hung from cords around their necks. One wore a patch that read, KILL ’EM ALL AND LET GOD SORT ’EM OUT. Black GIs reached across the fence to do the dap, an elaborate series of fist bumps, handshakes, and finger snaps with incoming brothers. I stuck my hand out. I wanted some of that: A physical connection with those who had survived and a silent acknowledgment back saying: Good job, but you can go home now. I’m here to take your place. One black soldier reached for my hand and I reached back. But when I got close, he pulled his hand sharply back like a child touching a hot stove. Soldiers on both sides of the holding pen, those inside and those outside, roared with laughter. I laughed too, although I wasn’t sure why.

"I’m short, and I’m going back to the world, suckers!" one said.

I’m so short you can’t even see me, another said.

One, who did a soft-shoe while passing, sang, I’m a short-timer. I waited for someone to ask what short meant, but no one did.

Yet another GI with a clipboard appeared, checked my name off a list, and then escorted me, like I was a rock star, to a bus. I wanted to ask, Would you mind opening the door for me? then I realized there was no door. As I stepped up, I noticed there were no windows either. Woven wire replaced the missing glass.

I slumped onto a wooden bench directly behind the driver and watched as others boarded. I pulled my orders: A single piece of soggy paper that directed me to report to the 19th TASS (Tactical Air Support Squadron) as a FAC (forward air controller) with a DEROS (date eligible to return from overseas) of August 31,1970, which meant that I would leave Viet Nam 365 days after I departed CONUS (Continental United States).

The bus filled, I stowed my documents and surveyed my surroundings. My escort had traded his clipboard for an M-16 and two bandoleers of ammunition, and before I could ask another dumb question he spoke.

Listen up! The wire is to stop any satchel charges from entering the bus. If we get hit, don’t try to be a hero. Just flop on the floor and stay there. The big boys in the A.P.C.s in the front and back will take care of any situation.

A man raised his hand, but my escort never stopped talking.

A.P.C.—armored personnel carrier and the raised arm seemed to wilt. Secretly, I wished he had been able to ask his stupid question. I would have liked some competition.

No heroes! You hear me? And for emphasis he popped an ammo clip into the M-16.

You all will get plenty of chances later, he paused again.

"If anybody throws anything at you, don’t catch it! Bat it away! Don’t trust anybody—women, children, nobody. This ain’t the world. They don’t fuck around over here!"

He turned his back to us before anyone else could ask a stupid question and took a position at the front of the bus, where the door was supposed to be, and the convoy started to roll.

I had no sense of direction; I was disoriented in the Orient. Saigon boulevards were jammed with every conceivable form of conveyance: pedicabs and jitneys, bicycles and scooters, civilian and military trucks, jeeps and staff cars, limousines and buses, and the air was heavy with fumes. Several times I had to cough before my lungs and nose would accept the foul mixture of diesel fuel, cordite, urine, gasoline, and rotting garbage.

A stunning Vietnamese woman dressed in high heels, white silk pants, and a red silk top with sexy side-slits running from the pit of her arm to the tops of her feet turned heads throughout the bus. The driver tried to honk, but the bus had no horn.

"They call it an ao dai," he said, obviously reading my mind.

There were many checkpoints; most were passed with the wave of a hand, until suddenly a white-gloved Vietnamese policeman forced us to stop. He boarded the bus. What was he looking for? I wondered. He stopped and stared at me. I felt uncomfortable, so I turned my head and looked out through the mesh. I noticed a signpost with arrows pointing mostly in one direction, signs on the arrows read: Shea Stadium 8,892 miles; Haight-Asbury 7,826 miles; Ft Lauderdale 9,853 miles; Soldier’s Field 8,703 miles; Arlington Cemetery 8,762 miles. After much scrutiny, the policeman was apparently satisfied there were no mass killers on board, not yet anyway since we were all F.N.G.s. He got off the bus and waved us on.

The convoy crossed a river and into rural Viet Nam, the buildings now farther apart, the construction smaller and flimsier. Skinny old women wearing black pajamas and conical hats woven from fronds—the country’s latest in rain-or-shine apparel—waded and bobbed in dung-filled rice paddies.

Notice, on each side of the road, the driver said as he looked at my reflection in his mirror, all vegetation is gone. It has been burned or killed with herbicide, so the gooks can’t sit in ambush.

I noticed and nodded.

Periodically, children lined the roadside and waved as the convoy headed for Bien Hoa, R.S.V.N . (Republic of South Viet Nam), some thirty klicks or kilometers to the November Echo or Northeast. I realized that any noun that could be reduced or replaced by an acronym or phonetic alphabetic letters would be thereby creating a foreign language within my native language. It was like my first day at school, but Mother wasn’t here to hold my hand. The bus bounced along. Each bounce dislodged a drop of sweat from the tip of my nose, while the inside of my nose was dry with dust, which actually helped filter the stench that was unrelenting but different from city odors. Here, there was the stench of rotting plants and animals, fires burning, manure and sewage.

My tour was just beginning. I was far from home and trying to communicate on my own in a language filled with new words. I came here to help the oppressed, but right now I couldn’t even help myself. Life on the ground, as I knew it in the States, was useless here: the day and number of the month were irrelevant, questions were discouraged, good intentions seemed meaningless, information—that booth is closed—and status based solely on an officer insignia was non-existent. I was just a name written in grease pencil on a white-washed wall in an office commanded by a colonel who had never laid eyes on me yet had total control over my life. He took my name, compressed it so it would fit on a piece of paper, and then tossed that paper out the window where the giant vortex lingered. He sent me into combat looking like a doofus, by ordering me to wear khakis and low quarter shoes. I had no boots, no camouflaged fatigues, no go-to-hell hat, no weapon, no welcoming committee, and no friends. I was officially a nobody, and I stood before my fellow GIs essentially naked and wearing a sign that said kick me for I am a lowly F.N.G. and nothing more than a spare part for a grinding, military machine. My love of the military was beginning to wane.

The bus droned on, and so did several helicopters out on the horizon. I closed my eyes; heat, smells, and uncertainty kept me awake. Eventually the convoy screeched to a halt. My escort looked at his clipboard.

Lieutenant, grab your gear. This is home. I tossed my duffle bag to the ground, then jumped down beside it. The convoy started to roll, slowly at first, then picked up speed.

Where do I stay? I yelled.

Ask around, came the reply, gift wrapped in dust sent my way by the departing convoy.

I looked around. I had been dropped off near a sandbagged outpost that anchored a concertina-wire perimeter. A guard pointed his weapon toward structures in the distance. I shouldered my duffle and began the trek. Halfway, I stopped to shake sweat from my head, much like a dog emerging from a lake but without the cooling effect. I felt the sun was melting something on my body. Perhaps, I thought, I was still carrying some baby fat. Suddenly, out from under of a cloud of dust, a jeep emerged and skidded to a stop.

F.N.G.? the driver asked.

Yes, I answered.

Get in.

We traveled in silence. Demeanor and uniforms did all the talking. He was a captain, pilot, and combat vet; I was a green-weenie. I tilted toward him, thinking he may have missed seeing my wings. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. We traveled past buildings with tin roofs. The driver abruptly stopped in front of one, shut down the engine, wrapped a large chain around the steering wheel, and secured it with a combination lock. Viet Nam’s version of the club I figured.

Need a bunk?

I nodded yes.

"This is our hootch. We’re F-100 jocks, call sign: Buzzard." He spoke in clipped sentences, essential information only, just like he was talking to a control tower.

I grabbed my duffle and followed him down a long hallway. We entered what would be called a cell if the address were Leavenworth.

You can crash here, up top, and only for a short while. Replacements will be here soon.

He studied me by scanning the top inch of my head, left to right, then down an inch and left to right again, rapidly repeating this process down to my low quarters. Then he summarized.

Lose that uniform and get into a flight suit. You look like a fucking dork.

I pulled an Air Force-issued, olive-drab flight suit from my duffle and stepped into it. The pilot stepped into his; it was like none that I had ever seen: deep purple with embroidered white rank and wings. He turned to lace up his boot, and on the back of his flight suit there was a large circular patch. On it was a cartoon rendering of a buzzard with a gigantic grin. The buzzard lurked on the branch of a tree shredded by bombs. At the bottom of the patch, there was an inscription: Patience my ass, I’m going to kill somebody!

Lead had his finis flight today, my new hootch mate announced. Short-timer party tonight... He paused as if in deep thought.

"Tomorrow, he will be back in the world—the land of round eyes and pink nipples."

He seemed to lose focus with pink nipples but managed to get right back on topic, my new favorite subject: survival.

Important, he said. We’ve got good quarters here. He said it with a straight face that impressed me.

Disadvantage, he continued...Incoming rockets! He pointed under the bed to a couple of flak vests and steel pots.

The bunker is out the back door. He paused.

Questions?

He said it all real slow, like I was hard of hearing, or stupid, or both. He never asked my name or where I was from, or if I was married, or if I had children. And when I attempted more intimate conversation he shouted, Don’t want to know anything about you. Just shut up and listen! and he left the room.

I assumed I should follow him. The hallway continued with cells on each side, and then, at what looked to be the geographical center of the building, it opened into a large room that housed the bar made of a helicopter’s blade: its sloped edges and smooth surface perfect for thirsty pilots to lean on. The Buzzards were assembled around it. The light here was nearly non-existent and imparted no more clarity than the blinding outside sun. I stumbled.

F.N.G. in the house! my hootch mate announced.

All buzzing stopped and the burliest Buzzard of them all emerged with a can of beer in each hand and with welcoming arms outstretched, he bellowed, Let’s give the lieutenant a hymn! I felt a tinge of warmth, and then they all sang, Hymn, Hymn, Fuck Him-m-m-m-m.

And that was it. No handshakes. No pats on the back. No, here’s a beer. Nothing! The pilots turned and went back to their drinks.

At the end of the bar, in a far corner, I found an empty stool. A shapely Vietnamese barmaid approached, popped open a beer, and placed it in front of me. I noticed that when one of the Buzzards wanted a refill, he would take the can and slam it against his forehead, then toss it into a large bucket behind the bar. I decided to try it. I missed the soft center of the can, cut my forehead, and then sailed the empty far past the bucket. Blood trickled down my forehead, but no one noticed, or gave a shit, or admitted that they noticed, or gave a shit. Simultaneously, I felt something crawling up my leg and heading toward my manhood. It was large and slimy.

GODDAMN! I shouted as I spotted the flickering forked-tongue of a boa constrictor or python or anaconda or some other large and powerful snake. An F-100 jock rushed over, unfolded the serpent, and ordered me to kiss him. Completely intimidated, I leaned in.

No, not me! The snake, you dumb shit!

Be sure to tongue him, another shouted. And they all laughed.

I studied the snake. Timing the movements of his tongue, I darted in for a kiss. The room cheered and for the first time since I landed, I felt welcomed, and then immediately ignored. My combat cherry had not been popped. What could they talk to me about? After several more beers, I proclaimed, I’ll be going to bed now. I departed quite certain that no one missed me. I walked to the room, undressed, and crawled onto the top bunk. I anticipated the coroner’s report would read: Comatose due to asphyxiation and exhaustion.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! I sat straight up and smashed my head into the ceiling.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! Scared and now dazed, I looked to the bottom bunk for guidance. Empty.

WHAM, WHAM! What were his words? Just shut up and listen! No. No. What did he say before that?

WHAM! WHAM! Disadvantage: incoming rockets—bunker out the back door. I grabbed the steel pot and placed it on my head. I grabbed the flak vest, slipped one arm into it, and ran down the hallway. Where is everybody? What time is it? Why had they left me here alone? I wondered

Once again, I stumbled upon entering the barroom, the second time in less than—how long?—I did not know. I regained balance and looked up. Three Buzzards sat at a card table, their eyes locked on me, wondering, I assumed, what I might do next. I stood motionless in my underwear, pot tilted on my head, flak vest half on, looking back at the three combat vets. I desperately hoped this was all a dream.

"That’s outgoing. One, five, fives," one of the Buzzards stated calmly as he dealt another hand. They did not laugh. Had I been wearing pajamas, I am sure they would have laughed. I said nothing. I turned and scurried back down the hallway to my room. Then I climbed back onto the top bunk and pulled the covers over my head, hoping no one else had seen me. I shuddered with humiliation as I recalled how many times I had embarrassed myself. Now I just wanted sleep, but it wasn’t happening. I kept wishing I had conducted myself better; as an officer, as a pilot, as a man. I wished I could start this day over. I wished my brain could forget everything that had happened. I tried to laugh at my ineptness, and when that didn’t work I became angry. I was angry at all those who sent me here, like cattle in a herd, but without companions. I was angry because I felt defenseless and emotionally unprepared for rejection. I was angry because I had no control over what I encountered. I was angry because I could not drift into peaceful unconsciousness. I rolled from one side to the other for several hours and finally I may have drifted off, but if I did, it was short-lived...Loud voices in the hallway popped my eyes wide open.

Get out of my way!

This time I sat up slowly.

"Take it easy."

The words were whispered, and drawn out. Then I heard the reply, words that scared me.

I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch!

I looked over the side; no one was in the bunk below me. I dropped to the floor and tiptoed to the door.

"Easy does it, friend," were the soft-spoken words. Then more words, violent words, words shouted so loud my muscles contracted.

Get the fuck out of my way or I’m gonna kill you too!

Is there no place safe in Viet Nam? I wondered. I opened the door, an inch or so, and peered out into the hallway. My hootch mate was in a crouch, his back against the wall. He slashed the air with the switchblade open on his survival knife. Several Buzzards watched and spoke, quietly trying to comfort him. The light from the hallway illuminated my face, just enough so he recognized me.

Get that fucking weenie out of here before I kill him too!

My hootch mate straightened up and lunged at me. Two Buzzards moved in front of him. They distracted him. One turned and yelled at me.

Get the fuck out of here!

I closed the door and sat against it.

What had I done? I wondered. Why was he pissed off at me? Was it the booze he had consumed? Why would he want to kill me? These were all questions I could not answer. Then he lashed out again.

Goddamn him!

Did his wife run off with another man?

"It’s going to be okay. Trust me," said a soothing voice.

Goddamn this place!

Was it the war? Was he jealous because he wasn’t going home and his leader was?

"Try to relax. Can I have the knife?"

"Fuck you! Fuck him! Fuck the military! Fuck