Happy Hour at Naval Detachment Dong Tam Enlisted Men's Club

The time was approaching 0900 hours 26 March, 1969 and to the casual observer Boatswain Mate 2nd Class Ron Zurco's unhappiness might be attributed to his current whereabouts, which was riding the coxswain flat on a United States Navy River Assault Craft.

More specifically, Zurco, the twenty-two year old boat captain, was guiding fifty six feet of heavy armored and armed steel boat weighing seventy seven tons at five knots exiting a narrow canal and entering a major river, the Song My Tho, in South Vietnam's Mekong Delta. The troop carrier, or Tango boat 91-74 as it was referred, was carrying a crew of seven and a platoon of ninth infantry grunts. The remainder of the crew were exiting from their respective gun positions. Jim Handerson, the Gunners Mate 2nd class was lifting himself from the upper 20mm cannon turret. Les Smith, the radioman, and Brian Janes, a boatwainmate striker, were standing in their adjoining .50 caliber turrets. The Engineman 3rd class Brian Wiley was down below trying to get one of the two 64HN9 Detroit Diesel's to run smoothly. He suspected water in the fuel and hoped for a bad fuel injector. The two Seaman deck hands, Javier Sanchez and John Wilson, were down below in the well deck securing their battle stations, the four .30 caliber Brownings, which were affixed to the gunnels of the Tango boat.

"Hey Boats", Wiley yelled up to the coxswain flat. The name "Boats" was moniker for," Boat Captain Boatswain Mate 2nd Class" . Zurco didn't answer. He was deep in thought about the shit his life had become. He should be playing college football right now for the Academy, instead of being on some polluted canal in Southeast Asia. He had the talent as a linebacker, but just not the luck or the family connections. He wanted Annapolis and got the rivers. To make matters worse, he received a "Dear John" letter two weeks ago and was still stewing about his girlfriend of 4 years, Jane, dumping him while he was away serving his country. She said they should date other people. He knew from other's experience that was an euphemism for I found someone else and have been sleeping with them on a regular basis. Her kiss off letter didn't really surprise him. The recent correspondence had been increasingly distant and questioning his participation in the war. She was a student at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, so he figured her attitude was related to that anti-war environment. He had started the response letter; not able to get past the greeting: "you bitch, who in the fuck am I supposed to date over here...." He knew that he would not become one of those "Dear John John Waynes" who volunteered for every suicide mission just to get the pain of rejection over with quickly; staying drunk seemed like a much better idea. Being drunk or badly hung over had pretty much been his waking state for the past two weeks. It was not improving his mood.

"Hey Boats", Handerson yelled toward the coxswain flat.

"What the fuck do you want", Zurco didn't appreciate being disturbed from his deep thoughts which took him away from this crew and this place.

"Wiley wants you, he's been yelling for you, maybe it's about the engine," the Gunners mate persisted as he aways did with matters between the Engineer and the Boat Captain, who didn't seem to have a real good chemistry going. Handerson, unlike the rest of the crew, had a couple of years of college behind him and through that experience learned to diplomatically navigate difficult relationships.

"What do you want Wiley", Zurco looked to the aft deck of the boat, where the 21 year old blond and thin as a rail Engineer had now positioned himself to better communicate to the Boat Captain. He had spent the past two hours down below in the engine room where it was 120 degrees and he was sopping wet standing on the aft section of the boat, the fantail.

"Port engine ain't gonna make it", Wiley yelled up to the coxswain flat. "We're gonna have to run back to Dong Tam on the starboard engine."

Zurco's thoughts drifted and he didn't respond immediately. When he did respond it wasn't to the immediate situation at hand. "Ya know Wiley it is a long standing tradition of Naval Sailors to imbibe in alcoholic drink. The wooden sailing ships of old were plied with rum rations for the crew and exploits of sailors on shore leave are well known."

Wiley knew and lived the story. More importantly he understood the Boat Captain. The tradition of the U.S. Navy in the 1960’s forbade the possession and consumption of alcohol on the vessels in the fleet, however, there were some exceptions on the mobile bases, and all shore installations provided well stocked Officers and Enlisted Men’s Clubs. In Southeast Asia and particularly in Viet Nam most bases possessed, at the very least, a club run by the U.S. Army to serve the troops; many had both an Army and Navy club...Officers and Enlisted Mens.

This was the case at a base located in South Vietnam’s Mekong Delta. Dong Tam was a joint Army/ Navy base located 45 miles southwest of Saigon in Dinh Tuong Province. A dubious distinction is that Dong Tam lay immediately northwest of the Song My Tho's {river}Thoi Son Island. To the combat troops in the area this was known as V.C. Island. From this parcel of land the Viet Cong produced mines and launched attacks on U.S. Naval Vessels. A Viet Cong sapper group received credit for planting two five hundred pound bombs under the starboard side of the USS Westchester County, a navy supply ship on the morning of November 1, 1968. The resulting explosion killed 25 of the crew, five U.S. Army Ninth Infantry soldiers, a Vietnamese Tiger Scout, and Vietnamese sailor in their sleep.

Wiley had vast experience in this area; a veteran of many combat operations during his two years in-country. To the immediate west was the Con Son and Ban long Secret Zone, where in the mid to late 60’s the U.S. Navy Assault Boats loaded with U.S. 9th Infantry and ARVN Infantry would knock on the door of this V.C. stronghold and announce they were taking over the neighborhood. The winding Rach Ba Rai {river}, in confluence to the Song My Tho, allowed the troops access deep into the Con Son area known as Snoopy’s Nose. This comic strip dog’s snout leapt into your mind as the area was viewed on a map or from the air. To a riverine sailor on the deck of an assault boat this area also looked of impending danger and nightmares. It would smell of cordite, diesel and death. The 9th infantry grunt found it to be all that and deep sinking mud, menacing punji sticks which could incapacitate infect and kill, impenetrable fortifications, leeches, jungle rot, and humping through some of the deadliest terrain in the delta. Snoopy Nose Veterans would recall the V.C. setting up on the land in the middle of Snoopy's upper nose, the backward bend in the river, springing an ambush only to have the river flotilla firing on friendly boats as they rounded blind bends in the river; a place where battles were not measured in hours but days. There were times when every boat -no matter the largest assault boat or the smallest Boston Whaler-in the riverine force was used to shuttle troops and ammunition from the supply ships on the Song My Tho up the winding Rach Ba Rai.

Kinh Xang Canal lies to the Eastern Border of this area and runs northwest of Dong Tam and is known as Rocket Alley due to heavy enemy contact for transiting Riverine Forces. Not since the American Civil War 100 years ago had the U.S. Navy been involved in this type of close up riverine warfare. Troops dreaded the oft repeated order from the commanders, "We're going back to Snoopy's Nose".

The Tango boat's position was ten miles west of Dong Tam and they would ride the current of the Song My Tho to reach the base. With one engine it would take four to five hours depending on the current, which was now flowing in their favor. The navy mission had already been aborted due to low water conditions on the canal they were to enter. There would be one boat accompanying them as escort, but the other boats on the operation would head back to the mobile base, anchored five miles east of Dong Tam. The escort boat was an Assault Support Patrol Boat(ASPB). She was six feet shorter in length, but carried no Army troops. The ASPB provided fast fire support to the other boats of the Riverine Force. She had 2 12V71 Detroit Diesels which could run the boat a maximum 16 knots. The crew of six was armed with twin .50 caliber, 20mm cannon, and 2 Mk-grenade launchers. Only problem being some of these boats sunk when they ran to maximum speed then backed all the way down on the power, as the wave created by the boat would wash up on the shallow aft deck and flood the compartments. That would not be a problem today, as they would be drifting at less than 5 knots with the Tango boat. Hopefully, they would not have to provide a tow; that just complicated driving these boats in the swift current of the Mekong river system. Tango boats were difficult to maneuver in the best of conditions, with one engine out Zurco was pleased they would be going to Dong Tam rather than docking at the mobile base. The current would not be a factor at Dong Tam and he would have plenty of room to avoid "bumper cars" and the embarrassment of most of the 91 Division crews watching his attempt to tie up to the floating ammis which constituted the floating mobile base. In Dong Tam the Tango crew would drop the Army platoon on the main dock. They would eventually be transited by choppers to the combat zone.

Wiley recalled being told that Dong Tam was an invention of U.S. Army Commanding General, William Westmoreland. In 1967 he needed to develop a terra firma area in the watery Mekong Delta to support his Ninth Infantry Division. When deciding on a name for this vacant rice paddy 5 miles west of My Tho, the general looked to his Saigon based translators at MACV for a name meaning unity, they came up the name Dong Tam; literally meaning, unified hearts and minds. To troops living on the base it could have easily meant place of snakes, dog sized rats, steaming sand, and constant Viet Cong attack.The base was also to be built up as a major shipping facility for South Vietnam. The base was one square mile in area....built up by the Corp of Engineers and possibly Viet Cong posing as innocent peasant workers -from river dredgings The base lay north of the main shipping channel of the Song My Tho. Boats transited a watery entrance having the approximate dimensions of a high school football field...60 yards wide, a 100 yards in length. Upon completion of the base and so typical of most areas in Vietnam the original villages were sealed off by concertina wire and declared off limits to U.S. Military personnel. Highway 4 was the one main road leading out of Dong Tam to Saigon... best traveled in heavily armed convoy. To keep Dong Tam Base secure it was necessary to run frequent riverine operations into this area.

Dong Tam Army/Navy base supported the artillery troops of the U.S. Ninth Infantry, U.S. Navy River Patrol Repair Facility, and several other classified small units. This pile of river bottom sand was also home to the Tango boat crew's unit which was the Mobile Riverine Force/River Assault Division I. They spent little time there as they lived on and patrolled the rivers of the Mekong Delta. Riverine mobile bases were self supporting with supplies and artillery, so they traveled hundreds of miles from the Dong Tam base in Dinh Tuong Province to areas of operation in Kien Hoa and Go Cong Provinces.

Zurco, from his own inner world, added, " when in the neighborhood, we find our way to the base and a little makeshift bar that was comfortably an all Navy Enlisted Men’s Club." For the past few weeks Zurco had been substituting Jim Beam for milk on his breakfast corn flakes and where he would get his next drink was constantly on his mind. Word has it when the base was built one of the first structures to go up was this hole in wall lean to type of building. It wasn't very large and at times felt like being in one of those cardboard refrigerator containers. Space limitations dictated most of the patrons remained outside.The E.M. Club, as it became known, was sandwiched between Navy barracks and a machine shop. Originally built by and frequented by Navy Seabees, it eventually became a hangout for mostly river crews or river rats as they became affectionately known. The Seabees had the unit logo of a an oversized black and yellow bumble bee holding a Tommie Gun and wearing a World War II style helmet. The River Crews’s logo was the comic book character, Biggy Rat holding an M-16 wearing a boonie hat on his head and a bandolier filled with ammo across his chest. They were painted on opposite sides of the outside door. The Riverine Sailor's occupation of the shack was a deperate act to be somewhere not surrounded by water. Base personnel didn’t feel the need to come and rub elbows with folks that didn’t shower that often and frequented the larger and more civilized Army club, which sometimes had one of those metallic off key sounding Asian Rock and Roll Bands flown in from Thailand, Taiwan, or Japan performing. It also had black tile floors compared with the Navy's wooden decking and a fully stocked bar with beer and whiskey; a juke box; and a bouncer in the form of an Army M.P.

Zurco was thinking, but kept the thoughts to himself, as he was the Boat Captain and didn't want to sabotage morale any more than already existed. He found a certain disconnect in the wisdom of The Command to offer a place for nineteen and twenty year old testosterone and adrenaline addled sailors whose career was to run cramped in gun turrets with fully loaded automatic weapons down small river living in pure terror of what lies around the bend in the river...to offer them unlimited quantities of alcohol to be drunk in the hot sun. He would reconcile those thoughts by figuring this is the same command that sent them down these small river, so felt that pretty much said it all. Usually it didn’t take very long at all for one of these sailors, just a couple of brewed and canned in 1955 Carlin Black Labels, in the 104 degree sun and standing on the dredged river sand with the sun and heat reflecting up like some kind of blow furnace in all it’s sweltering fury to start feeling just downright mean. To take that fear and that rage lying right beneath the surface and put it right out there on your sleeve. When that happened nothing was safe. It would start off with someone saying something innocent enough which usually just got blown off. In that oppressive heat with the golden black label flowing though your blood stream it just did not set well at all. Soon it would be fist a cuffs and drunken sailors like so many before would be off to the fights brawling bar room style. Busting up stuff and each other. Then as quick as it started it would be over...no Shore Patrol...no Military Police to break it up..it would...just..be over..then men back to drinking and laughing. The Ninth Infantry at Dong Tam had an artillery unit, which often would be firing barrages while the navy party was in full motion.Those shells were heading out toward the Viet Cong who felt the need to fire rockets and mortars in return. Often it was the other way around. The V.C. would start it and the Arty Guys would try to finish it. This was not a rare occurrence. In fact in the middle of the night as they lay fast asleep on their base anchored in the middle of the river they would get caught in these little disputes between Charlie and the Ninth Infantry Artillery boys. This loud and chaotic interaction would result in a scramble the boats alert. Boats would scramble and position for fire missions in the total darkness of the night and trying like hell to get out of the intersecting fields of fire..sometimes they wouldn’t move fast enough and get barraged by either Charlie or “friendly fire”.When on shore and in the middle of the day when these artillery interchanges took place the crews would usually retreat to sandbagged bunkers until the firing died down, then like the river rats they were would slink out of those darkened tunnels and slither up to the watering hole for their next round of flat, warm swill.

"Ya know", Handerson, the philosopher and poet laureate of the crew re-entered the conversation,"while on month long patrols in the GoCong and Kien Hoa Provinces the Riverines would long for returning to the Dong Tam E.M. Club, and meet with fellow travelers who had been on operations elsewhere. It was a time to catch up on who was still around, who had been killed or wounded, or for just back in the world. We cherish those times like nothing else in this small piece of hell. Often you would have the most personal conversations with someone you just met. You were so totally focused on the same reality...the war..the experience..the waterways..the machinery and mechanics of this war. It was like you could be having this conversation with someone and pick it up where you left off with someone else. You would share much with someone and then never see them again...occasionally wondering what became of them....did they survive..make it back to the world..did they die alone in some rice paddy...what...when..where...what for?"

The crew within earshot mulled what Handerson had to say, but did not respond.

"There were times they reunited with guys they went to school with from the same home towns or met guys from the same state." Henderson continued not certain nor caring whether anyone was listening.

Zurco, who was from Green Bay, Wisconsin, not participating in the conversation at this time thought it seemed like the population of the whole damned state was there with him on the rivers. Sometimes the guys from Wisconsin would fight with the guys from Illinois over the Packers and the Bears. That's the way it was with Zurco and Wiley. Zurco from Wisconsin and Wiley from Chicago with a natural rivalry of professional football teams, geography, culture and lifestyle. When the alcohol went down the gloves came off and there was no navy, rank, or boat crew, just the two of them fighting one another in the sand. "Mainly, the crews just enjoyed themselves the best they could under the circumstances...laughed as much as they could...and cried when they drank too much", Wiley mused.

Sanchez who had been listening to the conversation from a standing position next to Wilson on the outboard starboard side of the coxswain flat whispered out of earshot from the Grunts,"We wear the standard army jungle fatigues and boots. It is all Army issue and there being a long standing tradition of Army and Navy rivalry, often we got the short end of the deal. So, when at the base, after visiting the club for awhile several drunk sailors would sneak in the back way of the Army supply shack and requisition -oh a couple hundred or so new sets of jungle fatigues and boots. These were new fatigues, not the second hand one the Army gave us, which usually had several holes in places that you just didn’t want to think about and made you a bit uncomfortable."

Wilson nodded to the affirmative, recalling his sojourn into the supply shack and wondering if Sanchez was so drunk that night he did not recall they had been together on the raid.

He recalled how they would, occasionally, during a rocket attack just slip quickly away from the base on the boat and enjoy the peace and quiet of the dark night and mysterious river. Listening only to the reliable hum and rumble of the boat’s diesel engines as the sound of the firing barrage receded in the distant night.
The crew, to a man, was anticipating the excitement of getting to the base and drinking some cold beer. The early morning temperature was already climbing to the high 90's with the promise of oppressive heat and humidity. The engine repair would probably take several days. Two or so days of unscheduled in country R&R would be a real treat.

Conversation aboard the boat had ceased as each man was thinking about the break from action which awaited them in Dong Tam.

The Radioman , Smith decided to tune in the AM radio and listen to Armed Forces Radio Vietnam (AFVN) as they drifted into Dong Tam. The crew really enjoyed listening to the music of The Doors and the Animals. He thought the all time favorite song was We Gotta Get Outa This Place. There was not music this morning as D.J. Specialist 4th Class Bruce Dadd was announcing the death of IKE, the former U.S. President, General Dwight Eisenhower. Handerson started to comment on the military industrial complex which inevitably only he would understand the meaning of how this related to IKE. Smith was moving to turn the AM radio off and fire up his tape player, which contained many of the songs AFVN didn't or couldn't play, when the AN/VRC 46 boat radio started to hum with radio traffic. He tuned the squelch and the volume up to better understand what was being said and he realized the 74 boat call sign was being repeated by Dong Tam Naval Detachment. " Dragonfly Tango 74...Dragonfly Tango 74 this is Whiskey Boxer over."

Zurco picked up the mike responding, " Whiskey Boxer...Whiskey Boxer....this is Dragonfly Tango 74 over..."

"Dragonly Tango 74 this is Whiskey Boxer..interrogative on your intentions for today over", the Dong Tam operator responded.

"Whiskey Boxer this is Dragonfly Tango 74, my intent is to dock for repair in several hours over," Zurco replied, puzzled as to why he was being called. It was a fairly ordinary event to go into Dong Tam and did not require clearance.

"Dragonfly Tango 74 be advised that Dong Tam suffered catastrophic loss early this morning. This is Whiskey Boxer out." It appeared the Dong Tam operator was having a difficult time holding himself together to talk and just wanted to end the radio transmission.

The crew would learn from monitoring radio traffic that about 2 a.m., the usual time for incoming at Dong Tam, nobody knew much about the details, Charlie was real busy and launched a murderous bombardment of rockets and mortars onto the base. He hit the ammo dump. The explosion and ensuing concussion was so tremendous that it took down a chopper flying in the vicinity. The crew looked toward Dong Tam and saw that the black smoke from the ammo dump could be seen for miles. That was bad enough but they also came to understand their little E.M. Club took a direct hit. as did several other clubs and the base liquor store. There were several personnel on the navy side of the base killed and wounded. Their little E.M. Club was no more. A radio operator from the mobile base broadcasting the news speculated this event caused a hush thoughout the river division, as though an old friend had died. Soon the scuttlebutt spread that Charlie did it on purpose, his sole purpose for the raid that night was to blow up the club. It was an act of psychological warfare they were told. Most believed that to be the truth.

Handerson, now standing close to Wiley on the fantail, was visibly shaken. Two good buddies of his were stationed at the Dong Tam navy side; he worried about their welfare.

Wiley, having trouble comprehending this evolving situation muttered to Handerson, "I don't think Boat's mood is going to improve anytime soon."

Zurco was staring off into the distance at nothing in particular as Dragonfly Tango 74 drifted aimlessly with the current. MUSIC Roadhouse Blues,The Doors.

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The Denizens of Riverside Park

Riverside Park is situated on the south side of Riverside Blvd. and occupies the blocks of SE 1st east to 3rd. Old growth oak trees line the boulevard inside the boundaries of thepark. An ornate activity building with restrooms sits on the southeast end and to theimmediate west is a baseball diamond. Bushes line the south border along a fence which separates the park from an industrial area.

The baseball diamond is the home field for Riverside High School and the Riverside American Legion team, and is used by adult league baseball. It is a hopping place in the summer with players’ friends and families occupying the limited bleacher seating. There is another group of more frequent attendees of these games, who are dubbed the “Denizens of Riverside Park.” They have attended every game played at Riverside Park and are true baseball fans.

Calvin looked out from the home plate bleachers at Riverside Park. He was homeless and lived on the streets, under the bridges,and in the bushes. He liked Riverside Park for its foliage lined boulevard, clean restrooms, roomy bushes and frequent baseball games. His buddy’s, Clyde and Floyd, were sitting with him, in a stupor, drunk from cheap fortified wine and malt liquor. The family and friends of the ball players always talked with them as they had a common language of baseball, yet there remained a socioeconomic distance, reinforced by the lingering smell of stale alcohol and body odor.

Calvin had been drunk and on the street so long he could barely recall when he played youth baseball, but he remained a fan. He was at Riverside for every single game played there for the past 15 years. He was there for celebrations, the fund raisers, the clean up, and the field dedication. He thought of himself as the “First Citizen of Riverside Park.”

Today he was watching the ball game and monitoring his buddy Clyde who was in and out of consciousness and mumbling something about giving them the money for R&R. Clyde,a combat veteran of the Vietnam War, was often overcome with emotions from that experience and received solace to his jagged nerves from cheap alcohol and drugs.

Today, unlike other game days, the bleachers were filled as it was a warm and sunny Father’s Day, an event celebrated enthusiastically by the young adult league players and their dads. Calvin thought that was a pretty good deal for them and he didn’t want anyone upset by his buddy’s flashbacks. He was the unofficial spokesman for this small band of friends; as the leader he maintained a peaceful coexistence with the other regulars at the park.


Calvin recognized the guys on the ball field from their younger days and individual style of play. Jason was the long ball hitter and when batting he would often send a ball soaring through the trees in the outfield, over the fence, and onto Riverside Blvd. Sometimes the balls would hit the trees and bounce back on the field. This lead to an animated discussion about whether it was in fact a home run or an automatic double. Jason played two years of ball in the Southwest United States, but returned to Portland to marry his long time girlfriend Sally, who was now pregnant with their first child. Jeremy was the speedster, when he got on base he was a constant threat to steal. Age and repetitive injuries may have slowed him some, but he was a contender on the bases. He preferred soccer to baseball and also played on the Scorpions, an adult league soccer team. He worked as a mechanic for a Mercedes Benz shop and often helped his team mates repair their vehicles. Andrew was a fast ball pitcher. He was an awesome pitcher and Calvin figured he was born with a baseball in his hand, as throwing came so natural.

Calvin often pondered what it would be like if second base could talk. The base has such an excellent vantage point of the field, sitting right there in the pinnacle of the infield, the center of so much base activity. It would probably observe how the players had aged,some getting slower, but still maintaining their inherent baseball characteristics. It would complain about getting kicked by base runners or knocked asunder when a runner came plowing into it on a full body slide. It would reminisce about all the pick offs it was a part of in hotly contested games. The base would evaluate the play of the shortstop and the second baseman, and figure out whether they covered the ground balls and the throws correctly. It would be there during the no hitters and the blow outs. He wondered if the bases would compete against one another. Would first base think it was superior because it was first or would third base think it was better because it was the last one until home plate. Calvin thought that was a pretty good deal to be a base. He would joke with some of the people in the stands about reincarnation and if he came back it would be as a base, probably second base.

He was awakened from his thoughts by the excitement around him as the father of the shortstop, Jason, stood up and cheered as his son made a great flying catch of a line drive hit between short and the second base. Jason was dusting himself off and his dad was accepting the congratulations of the other fathers. Calvin yelled out, “great catch,” and they high fived. They had talked often at the games, mostly about his son, the shortstop. While in middle school it was about how talented he was and what a promising career in high school he would have, then in high school it was about college and his prospects. Calvin thought he was a great player and always enjoyed those conversations. He knew that Jason’s father was a corporate attorney and had played ball himself at Stanford, was drafted by the Giants, but due to injury never played professional ball. He appeared to respect Calvin’s knowledge and dedication to the game. They had spent many a late afternoon together watching games and now that Jason had finished college and returned home, without a pro contract, they would watch the adult league games together.

Calvin very seldom thought of his own father or his child long ago lost in a custody battle, it was too difficult to think about and usually drove him to the bottle or the meth. When he did talk about his family it had the familiar ring of someone talking about their last oil change on their car, or sweeping the sidewalk. The conversation was devoid of emotion and his affect was flat, seemingly detached from any feeling. He constantly fought demons and tried to focus on the positive in his life, such as pleasant parks, loyal friends, baseball games, and fellow fans to shoot the breeze with about baseball. Today being Fathers Day made it more difficult to focus on the positive, but he was making every effort, with this small community of fellow fans.

The Riverside team was moving ahead, they were getting their “A Game” going and it was looking like a certain victory. The game was in late innings and the fathers and mothers and girlfriends were in those last stages of the game, talking of the great plays, and about the post game activities. Their cell phones lit up as they made arrangements for the dinner barbecues this day.

Calvin was monitoring his friend Clyde who was becoming quite agitated, flailing his arms and talking under his breath. Calvin was worried he would escalate and scare the folks attending the game. He looked over at Floyd, who was resting his head in his hands which were positioned in a V shape under his chin, and decided to let him sleep. Floyd was not one to make much of a fuss. He enjoyed the ball games, even though he slept through most of them, but he just like to hang out and be a part of something. He noticed and sometimes mentioned that Calvin often left him behind. Calvin would chuckle and tell him that was because he usually couldn’t wake him up. Calvin patted Clyde on the shoulder and motioned to him that it was time to go. Clyde, like a well trained dog, stood up and followed him out of the stands to the exit of the park. It was Sunday night and they needed to get busy. Tomorrow was recycling day in East Portland and they needed to get to their jobs as “ independent contractors,” collecting beer and soda containers to turn them in at the local supermarkets for a nickel each. The Riverside Warriors could win without them today.

They shuffled out of the park slowly as Floyd slept on the bleachers, the ball players wrapped up the game, the fans packed to leave and finalize their plans for the evening.

The sun was lowering in the western sky and the temperature was cooling to a very
comfortable sixty degrees. It would be a pleasant west coast evening in Portland.

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The struggle of the Northwest Salmon

The very last day that I piloted my 22 foot Salem Dory through big lumpy to the Rockpile five nautical miles west of the jaws of Yaquina Bay the salmon season ended. It ended in the most ignoble and unusual manner." It was the early 1980's and the coho quota for California, Oregon, and Washington had been met. I had been off the ocean for two weeks making repairs on the my boat the Yahoo. That is Yahoo as in "yahoo I am back in port and can now get my jaw rewired from the overbite I got from getting slammed around on the waves hitting the flat bottom of my boat."

I had been on the fishing grounds for about an hour when out of nowhere comes the U.S. Coast Guard and the National Marine Fisheries Agency in their patrol boats and low flying C130s, announcing all commercial salmon fishing was to cease immediately. It was not a fun moment, as failure to comply would result in boat seizure and hefty fines. Fortunately for me, I had an eager prospective fisherman, waiting on the dock back at Newport, holding a cashiers check to purchase my commercial fishing boat and license. So, the second happiest day of a boat owners life had arrived, the first being the day he buys the boat.

It was a bittersweet moment as I really enjoyed the lifestyle of commercial salmon fishing, but it no longer made economic sense in my priorities at the time. I did, however, stay in touch with the industry and continue to enjoy a day, every once in awhile, on the ocean fishing. I have followed the plight of the salmon over the past two decades and have seen the ups and downs of the runs. Although nothing like the grand days of old, the salmon somehow keep coming back and thriving.

Today, I learn the latest fate awaiting this great fish... global warming.. biologists predict the temperatures to rise an average of 0.2 to 1 degree per decade over the next century and this will probably wipe out some fragile runs of salmon. Heat waves will multiply and less snow will mean more rain which will flood out streams and wash out eggs. The noted culprit dams play a part too by slowing water flow, allowing it to warm and the loss of plants that shade tributary streams keeping them cool also contribute to the problem. Temperatures above 70 degrees are lethal to salmon and by the years 2020 to 2040 are going to see August mean air temperatures covering most of the Columbia Basin.

Salmon adapt and are resourceful and one of the wild cards for their survival is the way they handle and adapt to climate change. As a biologist observed,"If they weren't tough, they wouldn't still be around.

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Recent results of study on PTSD medication

Researchers at Oregon Health and Sciences University and Portland Veterans Affairs Medical Center released findings that a drug typically used to treat blood pressure is effective in treating and minimizing brain damage caused by the release of steroid hormones associated with PTSD. The drug is Prozosin. This drug, according to Dr. S. Paul Berger of the Portland, Oregon V.A protects the brain from being damaged by excessive levels of corticosteroid stress hormones. Elevated levels of these hormones are linked to atrophy of nerve branches and nerve cell death. Prozosin has been found to reduce nightmares and improve sleep which is crucial for overall well being.

This study was presented at the annual Society for Neuroscience conference in San Diego in November of 2007. For more information reference your local Veterans Administration or your personal physician.

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War Stinks

This is a version of one of my stories first published in the 1997 edition of Mobile Riverine Force, America's Mobile Riverine Force Vietnam, by Turner Publishing Company.

It was night in late June 1969 when a Japanese freighter rounded the corner of Nha Be to head up river to Saigon. It didn't make it. There was a mine waiting for it and when it was all over, the freighter lay on its side in the murky river water. I was on the APL 30 approximately 50 meters away and slept right through the event. The first clue I had that something had happened was in the morning when I was drinking my morning coffee along the starboard rail. I looked out on the base, which we were moored to, and saw about 20 Japanese tourists sitting on their suitcases. I then saw some small boat movement on the river and noticed the ship lying on her side. We had just arrived in Nha Be and several of us stayed with the APL to prepare for a tow to CONUS ( Continental United States ). When this task would be completed I would be assigned to Nha Be. One of my duties would be to take a Boston Whaler out at night and patrol for illegal crossings of sampans, anti-swimmer patrol, and look for and detonate mines. I would be stationed at Nha Be for three months, bringing to a conclusion my 12 month tour in Vietnam.

The freighter was loaded with rice and diesel fuel and as the months passed without it being salvaged, that combination created a very distinct and sickening odor. By the time August and September arrived you did not require night vision devices or a map to find your way around the river. You knew right where you were as you approached the distinct odor of the flooded and capsized freighter.

The following is a story that I received through the Mobile Riverine Force Association on Feb. 26, 2008. This relates to this story as well as " A Night in the Forest of Assassins". Sources are identified:

Mine Warfare in South Vietnam
Return to Naval Historical Center home page. Return to Wars and Conflicts of the U.S. Navy


DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY -- NAVAL HISTORICAL CENTER
805 KIDDER BREESE SE -- WASHINGTON NAVY YARD
WASHINGTON DC 20374-5060
Water Mine Warfare in South Vietnam
By Edward J. Marolda

The Vietnamese Communists employed thousands of mines against U.S. and allied naval forces throughout the conflict in Vietnam, much as they had against the French during the First Indochina War. Between 1959 and 1964, Viet Cong mines, often homemade devices, took an increasing toll of naval vessels and civilian craft on the many rivers and canals of South Vietnam. This threat ended commercial traffic on some of the country's primary waterways.

As U.S. naval forces deployed to South Vietnam in the mid-1960s, moving into the watery environment of the Mekong Delta west and south of Saigon, they took steps to counter the enemy's mine threat. The danger was especially acute on the waterways near Saigon, South Vietnam's most important port. Viet Cong closure of the Long Tau River, which followed a meandering, forty-five-mile course through the Rung Sat swamp on its way to the capital, would have put an enormous strain on allied logistic resources in the southern regions of South Vietnam.

As a result, on 20 May 1966 the Navy established Mine Squadron 11, Detachment Alpha (Mine Division 112 after May 1968) at Nha Be. The minesweeping detachment operated 12 or 13 57-foot, fiberglass-hulled minesweeping boats (MSB). The MSBs fought with machine guns and grenade launchers and carried surface radars and minesweeping gear for clearing explosives from the rivers. The Navy also set up three-boat sections at Danang and Cam Ranh Bay. Detachment Alpha's strength increased in July 1967 when the first of six mechanized landing craft, minesweeping (LCM(M)) reached Nha Be.

Despite the presence on the Long Tau of Mine Squadron 11 and other river warfare forces, in the second half of 1966 and early 1967 the Communists mounted a serious effort to interdict the waterway. The Viet Cong employed mines, 122-millimeter rockets, rocket-propelled grenades, recoilless rifles, machine guns, and small arms against American and Vietnamese naval forces and merchantmen. In August 1966, Viet Cong mines severely damaged SS Baton Rouge Victory, a Vietnamese Navy vessel, and MSB 54. Then that November, the enemy sank MSB 54. In February 1967, Communist direct-fire weapons and mines destroyed MSB 45 and heavily damaged MSB 49.

By the spring of 1967, however, the tide began to turn. Allied naval units moved in force into the Rung Sat area, refined their mine countermeasures tactics, and brought better weapons and equipment into play against the enemy sappers. Vietnamese Regional Force, U.S. Army 9th Division troops, and Navy SEAL commandoes, working with helicopter, river patrol boat, MSB, and LCM(M)) units, scoured the shorelines. During the next year, Communist guerrillas periodically ambushed ships on the Long Tau, but the fast and devasting reaction by allied forces kept casualties and damage to vessels relatively light. Often, the minesweeping force swept up mines before they could do damage or river patrol boat and SEAL patrols disrupted enemy attack plans. The upshot was that the Viet Cong were unable to cut or even seriously slow logistic traffic on the Long Tau, even when their comrades were fighting for their lives in Saigon during the Tet Offensive of early 1968.

During 1968 and 1969, the Navy also deployed strong mine countermeasures forces to the Cua Viet River, just south of the Demilitarized Zone, and defeated the North Vietnamese Army's attempt to cut the vital waterway.


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Sources:

Marolda, Edward J. By Sea, Air, and Land: An Illustrated History of the U.S. Navy and the War in Southeast Asia. Washington: Naval Historical Center, 1994.

Schreadley, Richard L. From the Rivers to the Sea: The U.S. Navy in Vietnam. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1992.


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Run Aground (A Story About a Big Fish)

It was early June, 1969 and we had just turned RivRon 9 over to the South Vietnamese Navy through the Vietnamization Program ordered by recently elected President Richard M. Nixon. Some of the sailors would be returning to the world, most would be re-assigned to in-country duty in Vietnam. We were all feeling happy and relieved to be leaving Dong Tam which had the feeling of ground zero in the Delta War. Our immediate plans were to ride a navy barracks ship to the port town of Vung Tau along the South China Sea. We would go on five days of in-country R&R, then report to our permanent stations to finish out our tours. We were about 100 miles up river and because the barracks ship was not self propelled we would be towed by a navy tugboat. This would be a slow trip and it was expected that we would be at it most of the day. Our escorts were four Division 151 Navy River Assault Craft, heavily armed and armored. We were at battle stations, mine being a fortified M60 machine gun on the top deck of the ship. My ammo loader was a good buddy by the name of Adkins. We had gone through training and most of our Vietnam tour together. He had, just the day before, bought a brand spanking new Nikon 35mm camera from the PX at Dong Tam. It was a good thing he got lots of film because he was taking pictures of everything.

The sun was shining, sky was clear. It was one of those magical scenes you often saw in Vietnam but didn't stop to appreciate. The beauty of the deep blue sky just sort of coming down and touching the land, and the sun... the hot sun... melting it and melding it all together. I suppose that I noticed it today because Adkins was constantly pointing to something or another and saying look at that before he shot a picture. It was early morning and already temperature and humidity were reaching the range of unbearable.

Our voyage that day was to be a bit of a back track as we headed northwest on the Song My Tho away from Dong Tam to the confluence of the My Tho and Ham Luong River. At the confluence our tug and ship then set course southeast for the South China Sea. Vietnam is known for her narrow rivers, and surprise groundings, as the river bends can get shoaled in with sand from the fast moving current. But the Ham Luong is a relatively wide river, at places 100 meters wide, and navigation is not too complicated. We would be passing some of the most hostile areas of the Mekong Delta through the Kien Hoa Province. As such, it was real nice to be floating on solid steel. It would have been even better if were going faster than 10 knots.

Running aground at slow speed on a big steel ship is not that noticeable. I was on the uppermost section of the ship and only noticed because of seeing the engulfing black cloud and smelling the distinctive choking diesel fuel coming from the tug boat stacks as it tried to chug chug chug like the little engine that could. Only it couldn't, and soon the ship and crew of 25 were at a total unmistakable standstill. We were not stuck at the narrowest part of the river, but not the widest either. There were a lot of trees lining the shoreline and so the officer in charge ordered all hands to the side of the ship opposite the closest shore to guard against a sniper attack. He then arranged for the escort boats to cover the shore with their 20 mm cannons and 50 caliber machine guns. The firepower we on the ship had to offer was a couple of M60's, 2 81mm mortars and a whole bunch of small arms. The skipper of the tug and the Captain conferred and decided, due to the tide change, we would be high and dry for about six hours.

There are any number of things you can normally do when you run aground, but in a combat zone your options dwindle exponentially. Pulling the ship off the sand bar was no longer an option as it was pretty well ensnared already and any further effort would make matters worse. In the US Navy there is always painting to be done, but that didn't seem a wise thing to do at this time. Swimming wasn't really a possibility either because of the current, water bacterial content bordering on deadly, and very real likelihood of becoming a waterborne target. Adkins of course took pictures...of us...stranded....and the shore line. Then that got old. He got bored and started digging around in one of the life boat lockers. I don't know why, perhaps he thought of taking pictures of life jackets or something. He found fishing poles and gear. What surprised me is that he found a lot of it and none of us could figure why it was stored in those lockers.

My father, in his letters, often asked me whether I was doing any fishing. He read in National Geographic that the Mekong river systems had some of the biggest and varied species of fish in the world. I never explained to him that we were throwing concussion grenades and dynamite in the water every 20 minutes to keep Viet Cong swimmer sappers away from our mobile base and that it probably pretty much screwed up the fishing. He bought me a Mitchell 300 reel and accompanying rod when I was 10 years old. I was fishing the Wisconsin River every summer day as a kid and missed it quite a bit. I was thinking of the Blue Buffalo Carp I caught when I was ten. I hooked it in on the Sauk City bridge which was 25 feet above the river, but couldn't land that 30 pounder, so I put out line and walked off the bridge and onto the beach. It was quite a feat. I was so proud of catching that fish that my buddy Mike and I dragged and carried it the two blocks to my home, filled a metal wash tub with water, and carted the fish all over town, pulling it in my red coaster wagon and showing anyone who was interested. There were several Mitchell 300s in Adams booty and I claimed one for myself. The Captain gave us the OK to fish and so we loaded the hooks with cheese from the galley and went fishing off the "safe" side of the ship. It was getting to be mid-afternoon and fishing was not that good, but we were having fun. I was thankful that Smitty, a gunners mate, didn't like fishing and relieved me on the M60. As we got into early evening the tide was flooding which meant the ship would soon float free. I didn't know much about tidal fishing at that time but noticed the fish were starting to bite. At first they were light nibbles and no real strikes, then one by one, we would start hooking mostly carp or small catfish. The sun was getting lower in the sky and a red shade reflected off the river. It was stunning. I was so happy just fishing and enjoying the magical setting. A breeze set in and the humidity and heat were displaced by cool air coming in from the sea. I could feel the ship move and knew we would be free soon. I just wanted to stay and fish. I had placed my fishing rod along the rail of the ship and was sitting on the deck with a life jacket as a cushion, leaning against the bulkhead and smoking a Marlboro. Suddenly, I heard the whine of fishing line spooling off my Mitchell and the pole jumped up, headed toward the river. I leapt and caught the rod by grasping the reel and rod between my index finger and thumb of my right hand. With my left hand I grabbed the rail to steady myself. I could tell it was a big fish by the way it took off with the hook and line. It headed for the bottom and I knew there was going to be a fight to land it. Adkins had positioned himself on the outside of the rail to take this action picture of, as he announced to all, "The Great Mekong Fishing Guide landing the world's largest catfish." No sooner had he lifted himself to the water side of the rail than the ship broke free and seemed to rise several feet in the water. This motion threw Adkins off balance and into the coffee colored brown rolling river which was now flowing at several knots. I saw him go under, then I saw his camera come up over his head and float with the current for several seconds before quickly sinking to the bottom. Adkins was not wearing a life jacket and those of us along the rail scrambled to throw him life jackets, life rings, anything else that would float. I was still holding onto the fishing pole with my left hand, listening to my line go out as the fish continued his run. After what seemed like hours, but was merely several minutes, one of the assault boats came alongside and plucked Adkins from the water. We were all cheering and very thankful for his rescue when I noticed the boat was backing down on my line. I jumped up on the rail, yelling and waving for the boat crew to change direction, but they were all involved in checking out Adkins and didn't see me. I felt slack in the line and knew at once the boats propellers had cut my line.

When Adkins came back on board he was bitching and moaning about losing his camera. I knew he paid a bunch of money for the thing and really loved taking pictures, but I was not feeling too much sympathy, as I had lost the biggest fish in the whole Mekong Delta because of him and his stupid camera. During our trip to Vung Tau, Adkins and I resumed our battle station on the upper section of the ship and enjoyed one the most stunning sunsets I have ever seen. We arrived after dark and were tired. I was still ticked about the fish, but was feeling a little more sympathetic toward Adkins and his camera. We went out on the town and somewhere between a beer and six beers with a shot of Jack Daniels I found my humanity and generosity and gave him half the money for a new camera. I never went to bed that night and at sunrise I cast a line from my newly acquired Mitchell 300 into the South China Sea. Four days later Adkins went to his new duty station up on the Cambodian Border and I went to mine in the Rung Sat Special Zone. That was the last time we ever saw or heard from one another.

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A Night In The Forest of Assassins

A sub title for this story could be: "When You are Up to Your Ass in Crocodiles it is Hard to Remember that Your Objective is to Clear the Swamp".


I had just thrown open the door of the Armory at Naval Detachment Nha Be, Vietnam and at that very moment Gunnersmate Brian Smith shot a round from my Tommy Gun into the blast barrel in the rear of the Armory shack.

"Hey Smitty," I yelled above the radio blaring songs from Jimi Hendrix.

"Hey Sarge," Smitty smiled. He always found it strange to refer to a Navy Petty Officer as Sarge, but acknowledged the nickname my father gave me was novel enough to honor.

"So how does she work," motioning toward my submachine gun which he was now holding at port arms. " I'm meeting Kunzie for patrol in an hour and--" Smitty cut me off.

"Looks real good, fires fine, here take it away," as he handed me the gun.

" Okay, thanks a lot man." I threw him a carton of Marlboros that I was carrying in the cargo pocket of my fatigues, turned and walked out the door and down to the boat basin where I found Kunzie waiting patiently for me.

Kunzie and I had been pulling 12 hour night patrols since we met each other 2 months earlier. He came to Nha Be via the YRBM 16 up on the Vam Co Tay River, I after we turned River Division 9 over to the Vietnamese Navy through the Vietnamization Program. We both survived the rumor wars of Vietnamization: "You're going home...early out program... going to the Cambodian border... going to Saigon... gonna be an advisor to the Vietnamese Navy."

Every three nights for the months of June and July 1969 we took up our post in a 20 foot Boston Whaler. We were one of two Whalers, our call sign being Whiskey Foxtrot 1. The other boat was Whiskey Foxtrot 2.

"Kunzie," I yelled from a 50 foot distance. He waved and smiled. As I approached I noticed that he had already stowed on the whaler the PRC radio, a box of concussion grenades, and the 12 gauge Ithaca shotgun loaded with 00 shot.

"Ready to rock and roll Sarge?" Kunzie motioned toward the boat.

"Yep," I nodded. "Hey, I told Reynolds we would run him out to one of those Australian ships in the anchorage basin for a bottle of Ten High..some sort of high stakes poker."

"Sure," Kunzie smile and added, "I lined up a race with Whiskey 2. Kinglsey is driving...bottle of JB on the line."

"You know I hate that shit; let's make it Old #7," referring to Jack Daniels whiskey.

"Okay with me." Kunie looked away to find the radio handset.

"Oh yeah Kunie good idea, let's broadcast on the net by calling Whiskey 2." I replied with a sarcastic tone and raised tilted eyebrows.

" Ok, tell you what, after we drop Reynolds off, we will run up on Whiskey 2 and tell them." Kunzie motioned toward the ships two miles from our position.

We took Reynolds from the dock to the Aussie ship, collected our bourbon bounty and headed up the Saigon River to join Whiskey Foxtrot 2. It was early evening, the extreme heat of the day was cooling to a comfortable temperature, the river was flat like a mirror and the sun was starting to form a majestic red tinted sunset. We raced them for ten miles, the boats with their twin 50 hp mercs running out perfectly. We won. We then resumed our night time routine, which was to run into the darkness of the Rung Sat Special Zone, known from ancient times of smuggling and piracy as the Forest of Assassins, and seek out illegal sampans, floating mines, and sapper swimmers intent on blowing up ships, navy bases, and river patrol boats. Most of the evening was uneventful. We turned a sampan with a woman and child aboard away from the base and back to their home. No one was to be on the river after an 1800 hours curfew. Most knew. Some didn't. Some tried anyway. I drove most of the night and Kunzie watched. Next time he would drive and I would watch.. Usually, I was trying to figure out what exactly we were doing on these patrols. The instructions had never been real clear and as usual we seemed to be making it up as we went along. So I would listen to the radio traffic, watch through the darkness to see if anything didn't look right, and try to stay awake. During those dark lonely hours on this night my thoughts turned to home and how much I missed the life I had before Vietnam. I was trying to figure out how exactly why my navy career took this turn which sent my here to this river, being in this mangrove swamp, breaking into my training to be an electronics technician, which ultimately would have me stationed on a Destroyer or Cruiser sailing the seven seas. I could never find the exact answer for that question and contemplating the solution usually frustrated and angered me. To learn, prepare for college, and to keep my mind occupied with something other than war, I recently began a correspondence course on Diesel Engineering through the University of Wisconsin. At 0200 hours we received a call from command to report to the boat dock at Nha Be.

"Kunzie wake up!" I threw a pack of Marlboros at his head and connected. He jumped with a start and struggled to find the shotgun.

"What the fuck," he muttered, still mostly asleep.

"They want us at the dock...don't know why," I whisper yelled over the outboard motors which I now had on full throttle. We were at the vicinity of the Old French Fort and would be closing the 5 miles to the base in no time flat.

As we approached, we caught sight of three navy personnel standing on the dock looking toward the river, where 25 meters out a large clump of brush moved slowly with the current toward the dock and 20 patrol boats. I recognized Freschee and several other's whose names I could not recall.

"Sarge, lasso that tree trunk and see if you can get secondary off it," Freschee yelled to me. I knew what he meant and immediately instructed Kunzie to take the boat controls as I located our lasso from a storage compartment. I was feeling fortunate that among other skills my cowboy father taught me was how to lasso from a moving horse. I perched on the bow of the boat and twirled the rope. Right away, we had the brush captured in the lasso and maneuvered to the middle of the river channel a half mile from the boat dock. We were positioned near the spot where one month before a Japanese cargo ship had hit a mine and turtled unable to entirely sink in the shallow river. No fatalities from the crew or the 20 tourists on their way up river to Saigon. Although it was dark, I could tell our location from the sweet putrid smell of rotting rice mixed with the spilled diesel fuel entrapped in the ship's compartments. It's interesting what goes through your mind at times like this. I was thinking of Freschee and that he was about 35 years old, had been in the Navy for 15 years and was only an E-5. Why was that? Lack of intelligence? Fuck up? Bad luck? Yet, he was the one issuing orders to someone who was the same paygrade with two years in and happened to be holding the rope with the bomb at the end of it. My thoughts were interrupted by my crewmate.

"This is my favorite part," said Kunzie, smiling as he racked a shell into the Ithaca.

"Okay buddy, let me get some slack in this rope so we aren't on top of the brush if a mine blows." I quickly let out the rope and selected reverse on the shifter to make some distance, wishing Kuni wasn't so hyper. He shot. Nothing. He jacked another round into the Ithaca. Shot. Nothing. Jacked another round. Shot again. Nothing. The boat was now drifting toward the brush pile. Suddenly, he threw the shotgun down onto the deck, grabbed a grenade, pulled the pin and launched it as I hit the gas to get as much distance as possible in the 200 foot rope. We were about 20 feet away when the explosion occurred. It was a large blast and the water wave flooded our boat and knocked Kunzie back onto me at the steering station.

"You okay man?" I yelled in his ear as I could hardly hear anything.

'Wet", he indicated, laughing hysterically. "Good thing these whalers are unsinkable. Guess we have to bail the water though."

"Unsinkable like the Titanic huh....start bailing buddy and I'll try to get us on step to drain the water. Better call it in," I told him. "Let them know we're okay." Kunzie called the base and reported our activity. I pulled in what remained of my lasso rope while getting some speed on the boat. We were advised to resume our normal patrol, which we did until our patrol ended at 0530.

As we approached the boat ramp on the side of the fuel dock I noticed an ambulance parked with the double rear doors open. A PBR crew was unloading two litters with someone on them into the back of the ambulance, which then slowly drove away. I , for a brief moment thought of the constant and often anonymous flow of dead and wounded through the meat grinder of this place, this war.

"So Kunzie...after we unload the boat ya wanna grab some chow", I turned to him as he watched the ambulance drive away.

"Yeah", he replied looking distant and with flat affect. The constant loss and stress of the war was wearing on Kunzie and he was constantly fighting to maintain his upbeat and happy go lucky personality. Sometimes his true emotions betrayed him and he became very lonely inside and distant.

"What are you doing later", I asked.

" Gonna workout with weights then hit the rack. You?" he answered flexing his biceps and smiling.

" Think I'll drop in on the engine shop. They're overhauling a Rolls Royce Engine from one of the minesweepers, and I may never get another chance to work on one of those so I might as well take my shot at it."

"You still taking that USAFI class on Diesel Engineering", Kunzie never could get over me taking a college class from the University of Wisconsin while fighting on the swamps of Vietnam.

"Yep", I replied as I watched Kunie unload our gear from the boat. "You don't know the half of it. Not that long ago I was sitting in a classroom at the Naval Reserve Center in Madison studying electronics from a Petty Officer who was a teacher at the University. So, I ask you what exactly is out of place: Me being here studying diesel engineering through a correspondence course, or me in Madison studying electronics and being sent here to hang out with your ugly ass, driving a boat around a mangrove swamp all night?"

We walked the short distance from the boat dock to the mess hall, stowed our gear outside the door, then headed in to eat breakfast.

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My Heros Have Always Been David Halberstam

I began writing this in early April,2007. The original title was going to be, My Heros Have Always Been Writers and I was going to discuss Hemingway, London, Vonnegut, Halberstam and others. However, after really thinking it through, I decided that my hero's have for some time been David Halberstam. The title has been pilfered from the country western song by Willie Nelson, My Hero's Have Always Been Cowboys. On April 23, 2007 David Halberstam, writer, author, historian, political commentator, and war correspondent was killed in an automobile accident in California.

I first experienced David Halberstam's writing in his book The Best and the Brightest. He had me in rapture with the opening sentence, "A cold Day in December. Long Afterward, After The assassination and all the pain, the older man would remember with great clarity the young man's grace, his good manners, his capacity to put a visitor at ease." Halberstam wrote as though he was there in the room with subjects. A fly on the wall watching history in the making. I read this 700 page tome over a period of two days, enthralled, not able to set it down.

I do not recall how I learned of a short novel he wrote, One Very Hot Day. I read it. It touched me deeply.It is a story about an American Advisor in the early days of the Vietnam War. He knew the story well. He had been a correspondent with an ARVN unit operating out of My Tho, South Vietnam. I knew the territory as I served with a U.S. Navy Riverine Division in that area during 1968 and 1969. His writing was so descriptive it transported me back to that place and time. He also explained very succinctly why the war was such a mess. This was no small task, as if anything, the Amercian involvement in Vietnam is very complex and fills many books the size of The Best and the Brightest and One Very Hot Day. The book was published in 1968 and was soon out of print. It was a time of too much media saturation of the real war and Vietnam War fiction wasn't selling.It was published again in 1984. In the afterward of this book Halberstam writes "..... I retain a secret affection for this book, probably the least known of my works on Vietnam. It still seems to me now, on rereading, what I had wanted it to be when I first wrote it -small and true". As for myself, I have re-read the book many times and it is always worth it.

He wrote many articles and books on sports and politics, 9/11, and post 9/11. . I read an op-ed piece which was printed in the Oregonian some time after 9/11. I was watching alot of the 9/11 coverage, quite frankly, thinking I would like to take a missile and personally deliver it to one of two Osama body orifices. I knew that wasn't going to happen and felt somewhat helpless in not being able to do something meaningful. Halberstam was writing to me when he described his own feelings of helplessness from his vantage point of Manhattan, NYC. He said, "We do what we do and I write". He then wrote a book about the Firehouse next to his residence, which suffered the most losses of any 9/11 Firehouse in the city. I thought, I do social work. The Red Cross was looking for Disaster Mental Health Counselors, so I signed up went through training, and deployed to Manhattan where I served the needs of the community for two weeks. I no longer felt helpless and was grateful for the opportunity to help at that difficult time in American history. Although the work that I performed in NYC was the most exhaustive of any I've performed in mental health I continue to look back on it as very personally and professionally satisfying work. I would not have gone had I not been for being inspired by David Halberstam.

One day in October, 2002 my wife was reading the activities/entertainment pages of the Oregonian and found out that he was coming to Portland State University on a speaking tour following the release of his 2001 book, War In A Time of Peace, which is about global politics during the Cold War. I went. My that time I had his book on the firehouse on my reading table and dug out my copies of The Best and The Brightest, War In A Time A Time Of Peace, and One Very Hot Day. I thought I would take them to get autographed. Then I thought," geez isn't that a little like an infatuated groupie", so I stuffed the small paperback novel in my pocket and ventured off to listen to his speech. I ran into several friends and felt even sillier about the autographs. I sat with them during the speech. I was struck with how Halberstam carried himself, he seemed speaking to a group of mostly intellectuals. He just seemed to be so much in a different league than the correspondent who 38 years earlier had been wading through paddies in South Vietnam. From my perspective he was in that rarified atmosphere, the arrogance, of the east coast elite. He was talking to his people and doing it very nicely, like a dance, very personable. The audience was asking such intelligent questions and his responses waxed of eloquence. Following the speech I was waylaid by my friends who wanted to talk about something which I don't recall, no matter, it was irrelevant to my mission that day. I ended up in the back of the line to get autographs and feared that because I hadn't bought a boat load of books he was selling I would not be admitted. I clutched my paperback in my left hand as I approached him. He was seated and smiled as I approached. He looked exhausted. I introduced myself and asked if he wouldn't mind signing the little gem he might not recognize. He said that he hadn't seen the book in a long time and smiled broadly and perked up.

I volunteered, "I was there".

" Where?" he said.

"The Delta," I said.

"Damn," he responded, his facial expression now turning more serious. "Where in the Delta?"

"My Tho,"

"Shit", he smiled seemingly surprised, "when?"

"68"

"You poor bastard", he blurted out, Vets know that 1968 was not a good year to be in Vietnam. "what unit?"

"Navy Riverine" I responded , realizing that he had left the eloquence and intellectualism of the previous hour.

"Jeez Chrise", he was becoming very animated.

"I worked with the ARVN", I added. He knew the implication of this statement, In A Very Hot Day he chronicled the why of the ARVN ambivalence to the war, which on the surface represented a reluctance to fight and frustrated many American troops.

"Oh fuck," he blurted. I was thinking ok, he's still got that grunt thing working for him. He had now placed his head in his hands with elbows perched on the table and looking at me sideways was shaking his head back and forth. No pretense, just being with his emotions about the war.

We talked awhile about the war, My Tho, and the Delta. I felt fortunate that I was the last in line, as I was able to spend some extra time with my writer hero. I was also happy that I brought this book for him to sign. However, we both seemed to forget that our mutual mission was for him to sign that book.

He told me that he was happy that I made it back ok, " you did make it back ok didn't you?" We were now there like a couple of Vets, and I was feeling more comfortable talking with him.

I told him that I thought I did. As I started to walk away I remembered the book in my hand and turned to him. He smiled and signed it, "For Bob, with best wishes, David Halberstam, Oct 22, 2002." By this time he was standing and as I turned to walk away he gave me a pat on the back and we bid farewell. As I left the lecture hall the campus I felt really good, as though I had encountered an old friend and we had reminisced about a shared experience which is never far from the emotional surface and consciousness. I thought, as I walked away, that I forget to talk to him about New York.

This probably would have been the end of the story had he not been killed in the accident. He was working on a new book, The Game, about the 1958 NFL championship game between the Baltimore Colts and New York Giants, often called the greatest game ever played. I regret that I will never be able to read the book, it sounds like a good one. We now have 24 hour cable news and it certainly hasn't covered his story very much, but I have learned way more than I want about all the losers on the TV entertainment program American Idol. I wish he would be around to write about that phenomena.

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First post - Introduction to blog

Welcome to my blog!

I created this blog to publish my short stories about the military (often related to my personal experiences in Vietnam), current events, and insights gleaned from my training and over 30 years of work experience in clinical social work.

The names of individuals have been altered in the stories. In the stories with pictures or video attached and where I use names(mostly use initials) in referring to the picture or video, it would be accurate to the best of my memory (the pics and video, Super8 8mm film transferred to DVD are ones I shot.) It's been almost 40 years since I saw these guys, so I am making no guarantees on the memory piece.

These are factually based stories, although in some I exercise a poetic license. Example: there is a war story which is also a big fish story.

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