Officially arrived

I deplaned in Vietnam, along with all the other Marines on the flight from Okinawa, at Danang Airport. It was late, maybe midnight. We tried not to look like we were affected by the fact that we were now in a war zone. A normal reaction might be to stand for minute and just look around, try to get one's bearings. We didn't. We focused on getting our gear and trying to act like this was just another military assignment.

After collecting our bags, we were directed to a tin roofed hootch where we were identified and our orders checked. Our arrival in South Vietnam was now official.

It was humid but cool. Having grown up in Florida, I was familiar with the humidity but others were obviously uncomfortable.

I was beginning to feel a little anxious about not having seen anyone I really knew for several weeks. I had left Jacksonville - New River, North Carolina, weeks before on annual leave and had reported 30 days later to Norton Air Force Base in San Barnardino, California. Now, finally back in the military environment, I was anxious to see some of my old buddies, guys I had been flying with in South Carolina (HMM 264) or knew from the Training Command. I knew none of the pilots I had met on the flight over and I could tell they were also getting a little nervous about which squadron they would be assigned and who they might find there when they reported in.

Eventually our group was separated from the enlisted Marines. I watched as they were lead off into a maze of partially lighted wooden buildings, each carrying the duffel bags that contained what they had brought from Conus. I wondered what would happen to them and what they were thinking. Did they have any idea what was ahead of them over the next 13 months?

We were directed to an area where we were told to wait for transportation to a place where we'd find some bunks and get some sleep. We were to report back at 0700 hours.

In the morning, we were herded to a chow hall for breakfast where full bird colonels and generals were sitting everywhere. I don't remember ever seeing so many majors in one place at one time before. They barely acknowledged us. We moved through the chow line quickly and found an area away from all the rank where we ate silently, each of us trying to find some rational link between what was our previous world and what was now before us. There was none.

That was my arrival to Vietnam. So far so good.

Most of that day was spent going here and there getting papers signed and stamped, I think. I don't reallyremember much about those first days. I do remember being asked which squadron I might want to be assigned. I said I'd like to be assigned to HMM 164 because Pat Connelly, a close friend, was assigned there.

Burning the "Honey Pots", Khe Sanh, summer '67.

H-46

The H-46 Sea Knight.

"Turning up" and awaiting clearance for liftoff somewhere off the DMZ. Summer - 1967

Welcome to Hotel Vietnam

Hotel Marble Mountain

Ville of hootches

I remember as our flight from Okinawa made its final approach into Danang, I could see flares off to the south and west of the airfield floating downward, rocking slowly ... strange smoking lights falling from a black, black sky. They seemed so far away.

As the pilot throttled back the 707's engines to make his approach much steeper than normal, we had no idea what awaited us ... but those flares drifting slowly down on that night with no horizon was clearly a first exposure to what would become our new reality.

I remember thinking how odd it felt as we touched down in that strange country, not knowing what was to come next, but, at the same time, not being afraid. It was an odd excitement. "State-side" immediately seemed far, far away, and everthing I knew there was transformed into memory as that reality was replaced the new.

We had left Norton Air Force Base in San Bernardino, Ca., and flown to Hawaii. There we stopped for less than an hour before heading on to Okinawa. They had given us just enough time to deplane, see what a lei looked like, and grab a pineapple rum toddy. Then back on board for the next leg to Okinawa. There we would stay the night and part of the next day.

On Okinawa, I somehow found my sister, Ginger, who was staying there with her Air Force husband on an "accompanied" tour. I remember walking in with my 2nd Lt. bars. Six months later I would return on "R&R" from Vietnam with Captain's bars. I know George, her husband, must've noticed but he never mentioned it.

When I had made promotion to 1st Lt., there was an administrative time lag before I would actually receive and be authorized to wear the silver bars that signified the new rank. Flying helicopters in Vietnam was hazardous duty. The life expectancy of a Marine helo pilot was very short. Since there were mostly captains flying helicopter missions for the Marines in Vietnam, the Marine Corps was finding itself with a shortage of captains. So, 2nd Lt.s being promoted to 1st Lt. were were simply promoted again within a few months to Captain. Many of us, consequently, never saw 1st Lt. bars. We went directly from the rank of Second Lt. to Captain.

It created an odd situation sometimes when a second Lt. that was used to saluting and saying "Sir" to a salty old captain suddenly found himself with the same rank. It was awkward for both.

I didn't stay with my sister for more than a few hours that evening. I had to get back to the base where we would be boarding another flight for Vietnam the next morning. After leaving their house and getting back to the base, I stowed my gear and found my way over the Officer's club with some of the guys I had met on the flight over from Conus.

There, we saw a number of helicopter pilots who had just completed their thirteen-month tours of duty "in country" and were now on their way home. They were a strange lot to us. Drinking heavily, sitting relatively quiet in groups clearly apart from us, the "newbies." We would see them glance our way ocasionally but mostly they kept their distance giving us looks that to me ranged from disgust to sadness. It was strange. We wanted to talk to them and ask a thousand questions, which is probably why they stayed away.

In any case, we had to turn in early. They stayed drinking early into the next morning, though, and when we saw them the next day they were red-eyed and weary. The few I noticed as we boarded our flight had a look about them that was confusing. It seemed to me they should've been happy to be headed home, and I'm certain they were, but that wasn't how they looked.

Eventually, we went our separate ways and didn't see them any more. The bottom line was that we were headed west to a reality we could not fathom at the time and they were headed east, back to the "real world" which they had left a very long time ago.

So, on we went to Hotel Vietnam where living would be world class at MCAS Marble Mountain and I would be assigned my first missions with HMM164 flying H-46's.

Marble Mountain

Any Marine helicopter crew member will recognize this place. It's the primary airfield used by Marine helicopter pilots for operations in the Northern I Corps, Marble Mountain.

All in-country Marine helicopter squadrons were located here except those temporarily aboard a ship. H-46's, Hueys, H-53's and the workhorse H-34.

This is where I checked in and was assigned to HMM 164, a squadron of H-46 Sea knight helicopters built by Boing Vertol. The field was located just east and south of the City of Danang. Just to the north of the field was a series of low mountains that had several distinct peaks jutting into the Pacific. This ridge was called Monkey Mountain and so, sometimes the airfield was called Monkey Mountain. Some of the guys claimed the reason they called it that was because that's what the locals called it. Some said the ridge looked like a monkey, but I could never see any resemblance.

H-46 Sea Knight

I met Pat Connelly while at my last assignment with HMM-264 in Jacksonville New River, North Carolina. He and his wife were really nice and we had become close friends. So when I was asked if I had a squadron preference, I requested his squadron, HMM-164. I even spent my last night in CONUS at their house. Pat was already in Country so Terry had her brother stay there that night with us. Having me there was a very, very thoughtful thing for them to do.

MARCAD Whitbeck!

When I arrived in Pensacola late that day in march 1964, my perception of the military was based upon what I had seen in the movies, in other words, fantasy. It came as something of a surprise, consequently, that the meanest, ugliest and biggest sonofabitch in the world would offer himself as the apparent, official welcoming committee. As a matter of fact, saying it was a surprise vastly understates the feeling that gripped me as he pulled his hulking mass onto our bus like a gathering storm and, with a roar that shook the dirt from under the fender wells, bellowed, "Get your shitbird civilian pansy asses off my bus and line the fuck up outside. NOW."

As my heart sank to the bottom of my miserable "civilian pansy ass" I realized that I had most likely made a very serious misjudgement and thought, as did the thirty or so other miserable humans on the bus with me, "What the fuck have I gotten myself into?"

As it turned out, those other guys would become lifelong friends, bound by the experiences we would share over the next 18 months learning to fly airplanes and helicopters as Marine Aviation Cadets in the U. S. Marine Corps. After flight training came fleet training and then Vietnam. While we haven't all stayed in touch since that time, even now, 41 years later, they are all special people, special friends, who will always hold permanent residence within my mind's reservoir of memories.

MARCAD Whitbeck, 1966

The military is all about war and what to do if found in one. The guys on that bus would come to share a comaraderie only those who have been in a wartime military can understand. Some of us would survive the consequences of the war experience and some wouldn't. Norm Whitbeck is one who has clearly survived in one sense, but in another he is yet still suffering the wounds of those lessons and experiences. His ultimate survival remains in front of him. He is an absolute and unflinching friend and I love him ... even though he's from Pennsylvania and talks like he's from Manhatten.

I hope to tell you about Norm in future postings as this site proceeds along. I have no experience with weblogs and hve no idea where it will take me but I'm sensing the pathway will reveal itself as I trek along its twisting way. I lost track of Norm for over 30 years only to have him stumble by accident back into my conscious world just a few years ago. Maybe he'll join me on this walk like he did when we first met in Pensacola that spring of 1964, and help me share with you what it was like being a Marine Aviation Cadet in the Naval Air Training Command, and preparing for what we've come to refer as being "in country."

Somehow ... we kept on smiling.

Somehow in the midst of it all, we could always smile. (Khe Sanh, summer '67)

38 years ago and today.

Today, my wife, Pam, and I were fortunate to have some very nice friends come by to see our vinyard. When I was in RVN, I could never have imagined how or what it might take for me to eventually, someday, find happiness, but now I do.

Jim Martin, wife Celia, son Devonte (I hope that's correct. He's ten.), and friends Particus and Clive dropped by to pick some grapes and share some of their wine. What fine people. We sampled wine they had made as well as some we had made. Having someone taste your very own wine is very scary. But their assessments were very gentle and sincere. After they left, Pam and I talked about how much we liked each of them and that we want them to come here whenever they can.

My life is so different from any I could have imagined 38 years ago when I was there "in country." I am so incredibly fortunate. War is such a lesson, a revelation, for those who survive the main event.

Mission over

Buddy, there ain't anything like gettin' back aboard ship ... alive ... and knowing a good hot meal and air conditioning were waiting. Not having to worry about "incoming" would mean a another safe night with comforts that the less fortunate guys stuck ashore could only dream of. It was a brief but greatly appreciated respite for the squadron. It never lasted as long as we all wanted. Morning would start the war all over again ... ashore.

End of a long day.

Sitting in that seat for 6-8 hours makes for a very long day when the cockpit temperatures routinely ran in excess of 100 degrees and the humidity over 90%. The "D" ring just to my right when pulled would release the heavy protective plates put there to protect the pilot from small arms fire, should he find himself in the water, allowing access to the safety release pin that, in turn, would open the door and let him "swim to safety." Yeah, right. That is, if you could also release and get free of the 40 pound chest protector plate which was attached to his upper body with monkey tape (velcro).

This shot was made just after touchdown aboard, I think, the LPH Tripoli after a very long day flying missions in the northern I-Corps area between Phubai and the DMZ. A San Miguel beer after a day like that, of which there were many, would be gone in one swallow. Seriously. They were so incredibly cold and delicious.

Monkey Mountain backdrop

Mission weary at Marble Mountain (Monkey Mountain in the background) just south of Danang. The 2nd Lieutenant bars were followed by Captains. I never saw silver 1st Lieutenant bars because they needed more Captains. New in-country. Late spring, 1967.

On Standby at Phu Bai

On Sparowhawk standby at Phu Bai, summer 1967.

... we were so friggin young.