screeched onto the runway. We were there. The pilots had made a hot approach (unusually fast), the breaks grabbed hold and the nose settled slightly. There was a tremendous roar as thrust was reversed to bring the aircraft's speed down quickly.
"Hot dang,” exclaimed someone just ahead of me. "Look at all those Slopes over there." (A Slope being another slang word for oriental individuals.)
"What did you expect to see, ASSHOLE?” yelled someone.
"Did you expect to see French or Germans or Dutch or some other people?” yelled a person even further up the line of seats.
We taxied over to the terminal building and came to a halt.
Saigon
The transition from the aircraft to the outside was almost too much. The heat and humidity were overwhelming to say the least. It reminded me of the feeling I had at Fort Jackson, SC only this was worse. The accumulation of heat from the sun, along with all the body heat from the crowded terminal building made an unbelievable combination of heat and sights and smells. Oriental eating habits are unusual to westerners, to say the least. There are fish sauces and other things which make the smell of their breath and bodies rather repugnant to the western nose. All in all the heat, humidity and accumulation of odors was something to experience, and not in the sense of a culinary delight.
We had disembarked amid a throng of Vietnamese (Gooks). I wondered whether they were working for the airline or the Air Force or maybe themselves. Who knew? With this "yellow horde" surging around us, it was easy to imagine how a great majority of goods, including personal items from baggage ended up either in the Black Market or with a Vietnamese vendor, on the street.
As our merry group that is my friends and I, preceded through the terminal building and to the outside, we were immediately accosted. There were beggars, panderers, shoeshine boys, and hucksters selling watches, which were displayed up both arms and inside of their coats, all probably all stolen. There were men selling pornographic pictures of "their sisters" they said (these were not just porno but perverted shots with almost anything of any shape or size being inserted into their vaginas). There were also children, women and various other marketable commodities on sale there at the airport.
Buddy and I dodged past this menagerie as quickly as possible to make a pit stop. There in front of the dingy gray-brown terminal building were two separate buildings which were small in size but plainly marked in English, "Men's" and "Women's,” just like in the states. We entered hurriedly, holding ourselves, aching for relief. I had to go so bad that my eyeballs were beginning to turn yellow and I got the impression that Buddy was in a similar acute condition.
Inside the building there was a single trough running near the front wall, along its entire length. I quickly unzipped and started to unload my burden. I had noticed an oriental near by when we entered, but in the rush to relieve myself had paid little real attention. As it happened it was a woman. She went on squatting over the trough and started to take a leak. Buddy was so embarrassed that he could not pee a drop, even with his bladder ready to burst.
"Maybe you should try the "Women's,” Buddy. Maybe you'll have better luck," I said laughingly; so much for our first taste of a different culture.
My friends and I would soon part company. Each of us would go to his assignment in a different part of the country. That, in itself, seemed strange remembering classes on strategy and tactics. There was no "FEBA" (forward edge of the battle area) like there was in Europe during World War II or even Korea.
We were not fighting for an entire continent with definite secure areas and definite battle areas. The battle area was everywhere, the entire country. There were even bases that were not secure. There were areas that were considered to be secured, but in actuality, the VC (Viet Cong) the enemy that looked, acted, smelled, talked, dressed and did almost everything the same as all the other Vietnamese, could strike a blow almost anywhere and at any time they wanted to. These and other thoughts jogged my mind as we approached a group of bicycle-powered jinrikisha’s.
We bid farewell to one another as we engaged jinrikisha boys to carry us to our individual destinations. As it turned out, Nathan's orders were taking him to report in at the Ninetieth AG Replacement Battalion for an overnight stay before shipping out to his unit. I considered this to be a superb chance for us to spend time together seeing the sights of Saigon.
I checked in at the 90th AG (Administrative Group, I finally found out) and discovered that I was to be assigned to "A" (Alpha) Troop, First of the Ninth Cavalry, First Air Cavalry Division. Now there was a unit with some history I told myself, and I was right. I was no longer in the dark. The CAV. was a unit that could make me proud.
One of the first things I was told was that I had been ordered to Alpha Troop, because they had just lost some more pilots. I was also told that this was a common occurrence with that particular unit. The idea was to engage the enemy and kill him, right? Well, they must be engaging the enemy. In any event I knew where I was going, which set me more at ease. I always get butterflies about new things, new jobs and assignments and so forth. It is an uneasiness that I have until I get to where I am going and get settled in, I really don't think that it is an uncommon feeling.
Nathan had checked in and then met me at the front gate of the compound. Outside the compound we again climbed on-board jinrikisha’s and started out through the throngs, headed for downtown Saigon. Before I had left home in Pennsylvania, I had purchased a .38 special revolver as a personal weapon to bear in Vietnam. I now carried the .38 concealed on my person.
Nathan and I were moving along slowly, but steadily with my jinrikisha in front. As we were coming to an obviously busy section of a street somewhere in Saigon, two oriental men on a motorcycle pulled up close to my jinrikisha. I didn't think much of it at the time and was sitting calmly with my arms crossed. Suddenly the motorcycle lurched toward me and the man on the rear of the cycle reached out and, expertly, ripped my watch from my arm, cutting my wrist. They then accelerated away rapidly through the crowd. I leaped from my jinrikisha, my arm dripping blood, scaring the jinrikisha boy, and ran vainly after the two thugs, through the loudly moving throng of people.
The thought crossed my mind to draw my revolver and waste both of those creeps, but with so many people in the way it would have proved to be the wrong thing to do, especially from a legal standpoint. The white mice (Saigon cops) would have hauled me away pretty quickly.
Minus my watch and plus my first injury in Vietnam, Nathan and I went on to a French restaurant for what we thought would be a good continental dinner. As it turned out our cuts, of what we thought would be beef, were actually water buffalo. My filet mignon tasted as if it had been rolled in sand before it was cooked. Considering some of the meat vendors that I had seen in the streets that possibility seemed even more probable.
After dinner we roamed the streets of Saigon, taking in the multiplicity of services and products available. You could, I imagined, buy anything at all in Saigon. Lights glittered, people milled around together in chattering throngs. The smells and sights challenged our senses. It reminded me of pictures I had seen of typical oriental markets in National Geographic Magazine. There were other commodities such as electronics and cameras and such. Here every doorway offered something: trinkets, electronics, foods, flesh in any manner you could think of, massages, hand jobs, and photos. If you could name it, you could find it there in Saigon.
As we rounded a corner, a taxi quickly screeched to a halt. The driver jumped out and calmly pissed against a tree then, just as calmly, returned to his cab. It seemed almost a circus-like atmosphere. Everyone was a performer grabbing for the golden ring of the almighty dollar.
Almost every storekeeper or vendor spoke enough English to make a deal of some sort. Small children shuffled around in the darkened streets amid the rank smells and filth, through puddles of urine and beer and heaven knows what else, hustling anything from pictures of their sister to shoeshine’s.
"You numa won J, Ia, you wana buy my siser?"
While still telling me that I was a number one GI the nine-year-old thrust out sample pictures of his supposed sister with her vagina held open. There were a variety of other poses to go along with the first ones.
I just could not get over the thronging humanity. We were supposed to be in a war-torn country, but here everyone was partying and making a fast buck, anyway they could.
Nathan and I said very little to one another. I believe it had something to do with the noise level in the street and in the shops. Time flew by and before we knew it was time for the evening curfew.
Gee, this really was a war zone. We were to be off the streets for our own good. I recalled the screened windows on the buses, to keep bombs from being thrown in, and other subtle reminders I had noticed during the day, recalling the piles of supplies and munitions at Ton Son Knut. I remembered having my sidearm and the small feeling of security it brought me as we realized we couldn't make it back before curfew time.
We continued to wander the streets taking in all there was to see. We had stopped at a massage parlor and sampled a famous oriental massage. Matter of fact, I think we tried two different massage parlors.
As the witching hour, of curfew approached, we found ourselves in what suddenly was a big, dismal, and very foreign city with a crummy, shabby, dirty hotel as our only refuge from being hauled in from the street.
"Some first night in country, eh Nathan,” I said.
"I guess you could say that, but we had better check into this dump. We only have a few minutes to go, Sam," said Nathan.
"Yea, I guess you're right. Let's plunge in and register,” I said.
We entered and paid our money, I don't recall how many piaster it was, but we weren't too concerned just then. We were shown to a room with two double beds. The walls were that same dingy gray-brown concrete as the airport and this building's exterior.
The air was muggy and stale and still in the room. A ceiling fan, near the bare bulb, in the middle of the ceiling didn't seem to be working properly. The blades barely moved at all. I washed up as best I could and lay in my bed staring up at the ceiling, sweating.
"I'll catch the light, Nathan," I said.
We lay silently in the moist air and damp sheets waiting for sleep to overtake us. Suddenly outside the door I discerned some girlish giggling. The door opened, two girls were silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. Slowly, shyly the girls came into the room. Apparently they had been included in the price of the room, without our knowledge.
I don't know what Neil did in the darkness of the room but I tried to ignore the girl and sleep. Neither of the girls spoke English beyond a few rude sentences. No matter how desirable the situation might have appeared, I was young enough and remembered the VD films clearly enough, along with my religious convictions, to stand clear. Really, lay clear would better describe my situation.
Occasionally the light in the room would go on and the girl beside me would remove a bedbug or some insect from the bed clothing. I gained very little rest that first night in country.
After staying awake for the entire flight from the east coast of CONUS (Continental United States) to Saigon and then touring the city, exhaustion was beginning to catch up with me. My adrenalin levels were beginning to run low. I almost longed for a routine, a schedule to become regulated to.
We woke early from a troubled sleep and left our hotel room. We decided to eat some breakfast in town before returning to the 90th AG Replacement Battalion.
Nathan and I said our good-bys to each other before we expected to. His transportation had been made available sooner than he thought it would be.
In 1966 the Army still did quite a bit of fixed-wing (that is conventional aircraft) flying. The Army flew small transport aircraft carrying tro and supplies. Even then there was talk of the Air Force taking over these aircraft. I had been told they were jealous because the Army had more pilots and more aircraft than the entire Air Force. I could easily see why they might be just a little jealous, if that was true.
Upon receiving a departure time I hauled butt and baggage back to Ton Son Khnut Airfield to board an Army Caribou that was headed up through country. The Caribou was scheduled to make numerous st along the way, dropping off supplies and replacements at each stop. The Caribou was a small to medium transport with STOL (short takeoff and landing capabilities). Our entire trip was a series of up and down, up and down, all the way to my departure point on the Golf Course at
Below us were expanses of flat farmland, broken into small fields by hedge rows. The lush greens of the tropical countryside gave no real hint that a war was being fought out there.
As we moved toward the Central Highlands the landscape changed gradually and became mountainous. These mountains were heavily treed with, in some spots, trees of enormous size and height; there were mahogany, teak, bamboo and other species. The valleys again were spotted with small fields, (paddies) broken by the ever-present hedge rows interspersed with palm trees.
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