Young Man In Vietnam Part 9

The next day the adjutant tells you that a lieutenant colonel in charge of transient personnel is looking for an officer to take over the R and R Center for troops from Vietnam. You're to report to him at noon at Camp Butler.

You like the colonel. He tells you what has to be done - what he expects - but he leaves the details to you. The R and R Center will be located at Camp Hauge and will be the only billet there. You like that too.

A flight departs Okinawa every other day returning a planeload of personnel to Vietnam. They have had five days of R and R in Okinawa. The plane will pick up a new R and R load in Da Nang and Chu Lai and return in the evening. You brief the troops on what they can do and where they can go; you give them a quick medical check and a.s.sign them a rack and a wall locker. Then you turn them loose.

Your admin chief is" a gunnery sergeant from a Force Recon unit near Chu Lai. He was wounded there - his fifth Purple Heart in four wars. The gunny has a problem with liquor, but he likes the troops and he always seems to get the job done. You think how you would have never tolerated drinking on duty a short while ago. Vietnam has a way of loosening things up.

You usually go with the gunny to greet the new arrivals at the air station. There isn't much to do and you like to see if you know any of the incoming R and R personnel.

Most of the troops are so anxious to get out on liberty that they don't take the time to eat or lock up their valuables before they go. Every flight has its share of men getting drunk and being rolled on their first night of liberty. With no money, there isn't much to do but send them back to Vietnam on an early flight.

You arrange for box lunches to be placed on the buses. You know the men won't take the time to eat once they're given liberty. But they might eat the lunches on the bus and that might help them stay sober a little longer.

You have been on Okinawa for about a month. It's a Thursday evening and a light rain is falling. The flight from Vietnam is late. You and the gunny are sitting in the flight terminal drinking coffee and watching the rain bead on the windows. When the corporal at the desk tells you that the plane is landing, you put on your cap and raincoat and walk across the runway to meet the aircraft.

The troops stumble out of the belly of the transport plane. They don't know where they're going, but they only have five days and they're in a hurry. You watch the gunny directing them to the buses when you hear your name called softly behind you.

You turn around and find a young Negro sergeant facing you. He's one of your old squad leaders. He salutes and you shake hands and walk with him toward the buses. The headlights cut sharp paths through the rain and within the beams the water seems to be exploding in all directions.

You are happy to see the sergeant. You talk over old times, and he hands you a small package and tells you it's from a staff sergeant in your old company. You ask him what it is, but he just smiles.

You wait until you have briefed the troops and released them before you go into your office and open the package. There is a note stuck in a corner of the package and you read it before you untie the box. It says simply: "This one's for you, Lieutenant. From the old India Company."

India Company was your first company in the Marine Corps. Some of the men from that company are in Vietnam now. You know what's in the box even before you open it. You used to joke with some of the NCO's in India Company about how the Turks accounted for enemy dead in Korea - by cutting off ears. You remember a staff sergeant visiting you in the field hospital before you were evacuated to j.a.pan. He had said he'd get you an ear.

You open the package. Carefully wrapped in waxed paper is a small and very shriveled ear. The blood on it has dried to a brown stain.

You rewrap the ear in waxed paper and retie the packet.

You don't feel horrified at the ear on your desk. You feel very humble. You feel very proud. It is a tribute to you. If you were a girl you'd cry.

The gunny comes in and sees you sitting there, staring at the package.

"Everything all right?" he asks.

You hand him the package and the note.

He opens the package and reads the note. He looks at you and nods very slowly. "That's very nice, sir." He understands.

You go back to your quarters and pour yourself a brandy. You think of the old days - with India Company. And you think of Vietnam. But it all seems so far away. You're due to be rotated to the States and released soon. There will be no more India Companies, no more Vietnams for you. You realize that a part of your life has gone and that it can never return. You open your desk and take out some graduate school brochures. You are looking at universities in several different areas of the country. You think you might like Los Angeles.

16 THE HOMECOMING.

From thirty thousand feet the Pacific looks like an unending sheet of corrugated metal. The waves are the bulges. You can't see them move at all. But you don't care; you're going home.

You don't feel excited. You don't want to kiss the ground when the plane lands at Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco. You thought it would be different - like it was the first time you returned from Okinawa. You were excited about coming home then. You felt like kissing the ground, although you didn't. You felt like telling everyone you met that you had just returned from fourteen months in places like j.a.pan and Okinawa and the Philippines. You wanted to tell them about the things you'd seen and done. You wanted to hear what was happening in the country you hadn't seen for over a year. You were proud and happy. You were glad to be home, but you missed the Orient. It's different this time. You're just tired.

The check-in procedure is routine and dull. A couple of bored clerks stamp your orders and you stand in line and wait to hear a major tell you to report to Treasure Island for mustering out. He says it will take them about a week to give you various medical exams and process your records. He doesn't seem interested and you can't decide whether he doesn't care about any transient or whether you have been singled out because you're leaving the service in a few days. He says a bus will be leaving for TI in about an hour, and you had better make it because it's the only bus today.

The ride from Travis to Treasure Island takes several hours. You are sitting next to a Marine sergeant who has just returned from Vietnam. You catch him looking at your medals and you smile and offer him a cigarette. He takes it and thanks you and asks which unit you were with. You tell him and he asks about some friends of his who had been transferred to your outfit, but after you were wounded. You tell him you have just come back from three months in the hospital in j.a.pan and that you haven't been in Vietnam for about five months.

The sergeant had been stationed at Chu Lai and he was in Vietnam for a full tour - thirteen months. He's glad to be home. He tells you about his family and asks what you are going to do. You tell him you are leaving the Marine Corps and going to graduate school at UCLA. He says he doesn't blame you and he wishes he could go back to school, but he's got a dozen years in the Corps and he has a wife and three children to worry about.

You talk about how different the States look and how fast the cars seem to move. You talk about the weather and how cool it is. You talk about the sergeant's next duty station - Quantico, Virginia. You don't talk about Vietnam. Neither of you wants to. Neither of you has to.

The BOQ at Treasure Island is full. They are hosting a conference of supply officers and there is no room for you. The Filipino steward tells you you should have made reservations -i- that there is nothing they can do now. You'll have to check into the Marine's Memorial Club in downtown San Francisco. They will give you a special per diem allowance to pay the bills. They have a room at the BOQ for tonight, but you'll have to share it with two other Marines. And you'll have to check out in the morning.

You're too tired to argue about it or to worry. You carry your suitcase to the room they a.s.signed you and you collapse on one of the beds. You don't bother to undress and the next thing you know it's three hours later and there are voices in the room. You sit up and you feel your skin tingling as you search for your pistol and you can't find it under your bed where you always used to keep it. Suddenly, you remember you don't need the pistol anymore and you lean back and stare at the voices.

"Sorry, sir, we didn't mean to wake you." The speaker is a very junior second lieutenant. He and another lieutenant are standing by the door and seem worried about having disturbed you.

"Relax, Lieutenant," you tell him. You introduce yourself and tell them you've just gotten back from overseas and you're getting out of the Marines in a week and all you want to do is sleep. But you're not tired anymore.

"You were in Vietnam, sir?" one of the lieutenants asks.

You nod. You know they want to hear some of your experiences, but you don't feel like telling them sea stories. It won't make any difference; they'll have to learn things the hard way. You suggest that you all go down to the bar for a drink. You b.u.t.ton your uniform coat and you smile to yourself as the lieutenants sneak a glance at your rows of ribbons. Junior officers, you think, are all medal-crazy. You were. But you aren't that way anymore. You know what medals mean.

You order a gin-and-tonic and you watch as the bartender squeezes a lime onto the ice. The ice steams and crackles and the drink is very good. You couldn't get limes on Okinawa and you had forgotten how much better a gin-and-tonic is with limes. You down the drink in two gulps and ask for another. "Who were you with, sir?" one of the lieutenants asks.

You haven't been a captain very long and the sir bothers you. You tell the lieutenants to call you by your first name, that you won't put them on report.

They both grin. They have just graduated from Officers' Basic School at Quantico. They are en route to Vietnam for their first a.s.signment. You don't envy them. At least you had eighteen months of the infantry before you went into combat. You finish your second drink.

You tell them who you were with and what they can expect. You tell them that you can't say how it will be for them because it is different for everybody. You tell them to remember their training because it is good and because they'll need it. You tell them about b.o.o.by traps and where the VC like to place them. You explain what they should do when they get their first a.s.signments - probably as platoon leaders. They want to know about snakes. You resist the temptation to tell them there are cobras and vipers everywhere. You laugh and say that everybody worries about snakes, but you never saw more than two the whole time you were there. You tell them about the heat and the dysentery and you tell them not to worry about either because there's nothing they can do about them.

As the gin begins to take hold you feel less and less like talking. You remind them to look after their men and that if they do they'll be all right. You tell them the most valuable thing they can take to Vietnam is a good sense of humor. You finish your third drink and tell them you have to go out to dinner with a friend. You lie because you want to be alone.

They are different than you are - they haven't been to Vietnam yet. They haven't seen combat. You know their questions are sincere, that you felt the same way only a year before, but you don't want to answer them. You belong to different worlds.

You change into civilian clothes and walk across the base toward the bus stop. The sun is beginning to go down and there are sailboats completing a race on the bay. You look toward San Francisco and watch the boats until the bus comes. You take a seat in the very back. You still don't like people behind you.

You walk to Union Square and stand near the St. Francis Hotel and watch the people and cars moving past. You are amazed at how well dressed the people are and at how s.h.i.+ny the cars are. The streets are clean and the square is very green. You watch a group of people gathering near one corner of the square. Some of them are carrying placards, but most are simply standing there. You can make out the lettering on one placard. It says: "Get out of Vietnam."

You cross the street and move into the outer reaches of the crowd. The people don't seem to be as well dressed as most of the pa.s.sersby, and you feel out of place in a clean s.h.i.+rt and coat and tie.

There were many reports overseas about the peace movement back home. Most of the men didn't think much about it. You were usually too busy or too tired. When it was discussed, the peace movement was usually the subject of a certain amount of derision. And it was usually dismissed as being conducted by people who were ignorant about what was happening.

A bearded orator - about your age - regales the pa.s.sersby with tales of napalmed villages and maimed children. Some of the crowd nods in agreement. The orator builds to a fever pitch and his arms flail and his body shakes with righteous indignation as he tells the people of San Francisco the war is immoral, illegal, and unjust.

A girl stands near you. She is pretty with long hair hanging to the small of her back. She is holding some posters and seems to be dressed better than the others. You ask her who the speaker is. She tells you he is from UC, Berkeley, and that he is a member of the Students for a Democratic Society. You ask her about the maiming and napalming and she hands you a printed circular with some grisly photographs of flaming houses and burned children. You ask her if the orator has ever seen any flaming houses and burned children. She recoils slightly and c.o.c.ks her head to one side and stares at you before she says he is only a soph.o.m.ore at Berkeley.

You walk across the square and down the hill to Powell Street to get a cable car. You ride the car to the outskirts of Chinatown and stroll slowly along streets crowded with oriental shops and restaurants until you get to Grant Avenue. People are everywhere and everyone seems to be rus.h.i.+ng. You stop at a small restaurant and have a martini. You decide you aren't hungry and you finish the drink and leave.

You catch a cab back to the bus station and wait a few minutes before the Treasure Island bus arrives. A couple of drunken sailors are waiting too and they are telling each other the best way to sneak off the base. The discussion ends when one of the sailors gets sick.

The two lieutenants are gone when you get to your room. You're glad. You decide on a nightcap before you go to bed and you walk slowly through the lounge to the bar. There is a large bulletin board on the wall next to the bar, and you remember the peace rally as you pa.s.s it. You take out the circular with the photos of burned children and tack it on the board next to an announcement of the supply officers' conference.