War is for the Wicked. Violence. One man arrives at the War in Vietnam. (standard:action, 8284 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 06 2020	Views/Reads: 1350/957	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A typical story of a young soldier’s arrival in-country during that long-gone war.

It was an uncomfortable flight from Oakland International Airport to the
war in Vietnam. I was on board a Flying Tiger aircraft, a Boeing 707. 
There had been a little trouble back in California. We had to wait a 
few hours for our plane because it had engine problems at a prior stop 
in Thailand. When it finally landed at Oakland, it hit hard and busted 
four tires. 

Then, when I finally made it onto the US Army chartered flight to Nam, I
happened to get a window seat with a cracked window. There were at 
least two layers, presumably thick, but I still didn't like to be 
sitting next to a broken one. As 707s went, this wasn't one of the 
best. The upholstery was dirty and torn, with the corner of the -- it 
turned out to be defective -- personal air outlet above my seat coming 
loose. The paneling set up an almost constant rattle whenever the 
engines missed a beat, like a faltering heart threatening to quit. 

If I thought I'd be more comfortable on landing, I was disappointed. The
airplane landed in Vietnam by plunging from a height down to Tan Son 
Nhut military airstrip, reminding me of a hawk diving after a pigeon. 
It was done without warning, almost bringing the in-flight meal back up 
my throat and into my lap. 

Once my heart and stomach settled down, visions of anti-aircraft
missiles filling a nimble mind, I grabbed a flight bag from an 
over-seat compartment and waited for the craft to taxi to a jerking 
stop. When the door to the air-conditioned aircraft opened, cold air 
seemed to be sucked out immediately, leaving me sweating before 
arriveing at the front exit door. At that time of year, one-hundred 
degrees was considered a cool day. It was, oh-so-much hotter than I'd 
ever seen in my hometown in Ohio. 

Upon stepping out onto a wheeled metal staircase shoved against the
doorway, the heat of that sun hit me, full force. Even basic and 
infantry training hadn't been anywhere in that temperature range, in 
summer yet. Here it was -- January. The twenty-eighth of that month, in 
the year 1968. 

Being shoved by those behind me, I stumbled down bare metal steps,
looking around at my new surroundings. We stood about 25 meters from a 
huge and sprawling unpainted wooden one-story building. In two 
directions, huge aircraft were either parked or taxiing from one spot 
to another. 

“Okay, form up in front of me, twelve across,” a lieutenant in full
dress uniform screamed at us, “facing the aircraft.” 

We did so, a hodgepodge of troops; non-coms and officers mixed in with
us privates. We were wearing everything from civvies to winter dress 
uniforms; whatever we happened to have on when we'd left our last duty 
stations. Me, I wore khaki fatigues and shiny black combat boots. 

A few jeeps came toward us from the terminal, closely followed by
several three-quarter-ton trucks. All were sporting green and brown 
jungle-camouflage paint and open to the elements. 

When they arrived, several high-ranking officers were called by name and
left in the jeeps. I could see the three-quarter-ton vehicles, looking 
somewhat like pickup trucks, park under and around the airplane. Three 
soldiers in strange-looking jungle fatigues -- some shirtless, a no-no 
in the States -- opened up the belly of the craft and started a line, 
shuffling duffel-bags and suitcases out, throwing them to heat-softened 
asphalt. 

Most actual suitcases ended up in the backs of the trucks; probably
belonging to officers, I thought. The rest of us stood and waited, 
watching as what looked like thousands of identical canvas bags hit the 
cracked surface. I could feel the sun scorching my head and searched my 
carry-on bag for a cap. Stopping that sun from cooking my brain made me 
feel much better. I just wished I had brought along something liquid 
for a sudden thirst. 

Finally, the bags stopped flying out and the large belly hatches slammed
shut. During all that time, the plane's jet engines had been whining, 
not completely shut off. 



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