A Walk on the Sidewalk

I sat on the window seat on the right hand side. It was one of largest planes that I had ever been on. The flight was filled to capacity. With the TWA logo on the tail section it could have been any other commercial flight flying towards a popular tropical area or vacation spot. The difference was that it was a military charter. And with the exception of the stewardesses and the flight crew, all on board were wearing dark green jungle fatigues. The passengers were male and in their teens or early twenties. But we were not heading for a vacation spot. We were in route to a war zone.

The trip lasted about eighteen hours. The civilian flight crew seemed exceptionally attentive. Having made these types of trips many times before they did what they could to make us as comfortable as possible. From decks of cards to copies of magazines such as Life and Popular Mechanics. From pats on the shoulder to small conversation. A stewardess who told us she was from Green Bay Wisconsin mentioned that her younger brother was just drafted and that she hopes he will be okay. Although a number of meals were served during the trip I didn’t have much of an appetite. Time seemed to move quickly and conversation began to circulate among some of the crew members that we would soon be entering the airspace that encompassed the area of South Vietnam. Looking out my window darkness was giving way to sunrise. From this distance, the panoramic view of the jungle slowly came into focus. I experienced a multitude of emotions from excitement and curiosity to tension and fear. Did that small village below belong to the enemy? From the air, the spectacle of the land below was a far cry from my old neighborhood in Westchester County.

The first clue that we were arriving in an unfriendly environment was the landing itself in Bien Hoa. We seemed exceptionally high and not at all lined up for a landing. Surely, there must be another landing area that I could not see from my vantage point. It was then that the captain made the following announcement: "Good morning everyone, we hope you had a restful trip. I have just been notified by ground operations that the welcoming committee this morning is not a particularly friendly one."

I heard a few halfhearted chuckles from the forward cabin and some strained laughter when a soldier shouted out that he may be shot at and killed on the very first day. I remember thinking how I despised inside jokes, especially if it pertains to someone shooting at you. The captain continued, "We had some earlier reports of scattered sniper fire, along with a few RPGs." (I would learn later that RPG stood for Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers, the weapon of choice used by the enemy. The target of choice; anything that flies.)

The dramatic reduction in the speed of the plane was at odds with the increased thumping of my heart. And the only thing dropping faster than our altitude was my morale. How the hell did I wind up here? I had a choice. Did I make the wrong one? I had the chance. Why didn’t I run? Why didn’t I hide? After all, compared to war, how bad could Canada have been? The captain continued, " So at this time, I’m gonna ask the flight crew to take their seats so we can get you on the ground and out of here as fast and quickly as possible." His comments left little to the imagination; our plane had the potential of being a target.

The next few moments were nothing less than terrifying. The captain was making a sharp right turn in order to line the aircraft up with the field. The decent was fast and steep. When we touched down, the flight crew scrambled towards the forward doors. Two attendants per door unfastened the latches and partially opened them as we sped down the runway. It was at this moment that the full reality of what was to lie ahead had finally hit me. For sure we were not arriving in a place I wanted to be.

We were ushered off in quick formation. The heat and humidity was our first formal greeting. A somewhat impassive air force sergeant was our second. Rushed along, we were led into a large hanger type area that was heavily fortified with sandbags on all sides, with a roof of reinforced steel. The sergeant stood in front on top of a large staging area and did his best to welcome us into the country that would be our new home for the next 365 days. He informed us that over the past 24 hours, the air base had been receiving incoming mortar rounds along with sporadic sniper fire.

Speaking in steady monotones, he clearly cautioned us as to some of the many hazards that were to lie ahead. "When in the swamps, don’t be surprise when your body is covered with blood-sucking leeches. When in an open field that might remind you of a place back home, be aware that you may find yourself to be the target of an enemy sniper or even the focal point of a series of incoming mortar rounds." He also said he believed we were well trained by the United States military and that we should be able to handle whatever situation might arise. Our group of 350 plus, from differing backgrounds, walks of life and education listened intently as the sergeant gave his oration about health and safety and the extreme conditions that we were about to face. For a brief period of time he spoke about wounds that he himself had suffered. And even briefer on the subject of the recent death of a friend. Without exception, we listened to every word. His comments led us all to the realization of one simple fact; from here on in, our lives were truly at risk.

The sergeant held a clipboard and some large folders in his left hand. A 45 caliber automatic hung on the right side of his belt. (His face told a story in itself; eyes darting from left to right, a number of wrinkles that you would not expect to see on someone of his age gave him the impression of being overwrought.) I wondered why he appeared to be so haggard at this time of day. I had wondered if it was something more menacing. He also said if anyone were to call out the word ‘incoming’ we should immediately run for the underground bunker that lay directly behind him. Adding that if we did get hit with incoming mortar fire, the only thing we would see prior to the explosion, would be his "f---ing ass’, as he’d be the first to dive into the bunker. (So much for pleasantries I thought). "Another words gentleman, if we take a hit, I am not going to hold your hand and lead you to safety. YOU ARE OFFICIALLY IN A COMBAT ZONE," he shouted. "Some of the big wigs back in Washington call this a conflict. Some are calling it a skirmish. Call it what you will. But make no mistake, this... is... a war!"