Category Archives: Authors

The Homecoming

Somehow one more day and night managed to slip away and mark its moment in timelessness. Jimmy Taylor let his dream of home linger behind his closed eyes a little while longer. He struggled to keep the outside world away, but it was proving to be a losing battle as the clamor of the day pried its way into his ears, and shadowy light slipped through his closed eyelids. It was another shit day in-country.
The hooch came slowly into focus as he reluctantly let go of his reverie and willed his eyes to open, leaving the comforting images of home and family to slip into a safe harbor for another time.
Jimmy shared the hooch with nine other enlisted men of the 174th Assault Helicopter Company. It wasn’t exactly designed for comfort, but it offered a comparative luxuriousness not available in the sand bagged bunkers on LZ Sue that he called home before coming down to LZ Mustang. He wasn’t sure at first if transferring to an AHC was a smart move, but he was tired of the rats and filth, and days on end without ample water to clean himself. His arms and legs tingled and burned from the numerous yellow pustules that covered them; the only little relief coming from rainfall showers, or a quick dip in a river while on a walk in the boonies.
His bed was one of ten Army cots lined five to a side in the dusty, oblong, screened building. A scrounged sleeping bag and poncho liner served as mattress and blanket. Wooden ammo boxes served as cabinets and drawers for personal items; a scant attempt at order and sanity in this hell-hole existence. And, as it might be mistaken for, there was a shower room which was nothing more than a wooden box with an open water tank perched high on one side that collected rain water heated by the sun and gravity fed to six shower heads. It was the only thing close to heaven, and his sores, properly treated, eventually healed and disappeared.
Jimmy brought his hands to his head and rubbed gently. His head ached sharply and felt as though it were going to burst. The headaches had become a daily ordeal over the last few weeks. He had been x-rayed by the docs, soothed by the chaplain, and probed by the shrinks, but nothing of medical, spiritual or psychological concern was found. Yet the headaches persisted.
The incessant slapping clatter of choppers hammered into his aching head and rattled the hootches as they ferried men and material to the bush. The olive drab Hueys rose slowly, but gracefully in spite of their loads, and drifted quickly towards the jungle and waiting troops on the hunt for an elusive enemy.
The morning sun sliced its way through the rows of wooden buildings and onto Jimmy’s gaunt and unshaven face. It had been a long time since he slept that hard, the last interruption coming in the middle of the night forty-eight hours earlier when eight mortar rounds slammed into the compound; missing anything of importance. No one had been killed…this time.
Jimmy was exhausted and felt old beyond his years. Having turned nineteen four days out of Qui Nhon in September, 1967, he spent that morning in the galley of the USS Gordon nursing a cup of coffee; watching mesmerized as the horizon rose and fell through the rain streaked porthole, contemplating what fate might have in store for him. He wasn’t anywhere near old enough to vote or buy a beer, but he was old enough to kill…or be killed.
Jimmy was a door gunner on a slick, a Huey designed to carry men and supplies to battle. Since the TET offensive, their missions had been frequent and fierce as they sought and made contact with Viet Cong and NVA units. The war was definitely building up, and more times than he cared to count, all hell broke loose as they dropped into hot LZ after hot LZ.
His crew had flown missions day after day for…for God knows how long. “Too goddam long”, he thought to himself. Three weeks earlier the unit lost two ships and all crew with the exception of one badly wounded Pilot, Warrant Officer Dave “Pops” Fuller.
Squad sized elements of Task Force Cooper, separated into patrols, had been on the ground in a week long operation to surround and flush out a suspected VC and NVA enclave on the Batangan Peninsula in Quang Ngai Province. For several days they had encountered small arms fire and lost several men to bullets and mines as they approached the hamlets, only to be told by the very young and old occupants, “No VC. No VC.” Was it truth? Or was it fear of reprisal?
Two days later the word came from division to pull back to the LZ for pick-up. Frustrated and bloodied, the grunts moved out; eager for the end of the hump and a ride back to Mustang. The platoon was about one-hundred and fifty meters from the hamlet, when a command detonated 155-milimeter artillery shell ripped through the middle of the column, sending body parts and dirt in all directions. Pitiful cries and screams of wounded men were quickly muffled by the frantic crackle of AK-47’s and M-16’s. The ground shook as grenades flew back and forth and the air was filled with guttural howls and terror filled curses as men on either side fell. They had walked into an ambush.
The choppers were redirected to a secondary landing site while gun-ships raced to the site of the melee. One slick was on the ground and Pops bird was settling in for landing when the secondary site exploded into mayhem. Charlie had anticipated and planned on this move.
The first bird had taken an RPG directly into the cockpit and burst into flames. Pops, acting on instincts, began to reverse his landing when his ship was riddled by small arms fire and an RPG slammed into the rotor housing, nearly snapping the bird in two, sending it crashing hard into the ground. Jimmy’s bird was third in line. Hutch and Ketch pulled the Huey away while Jimmy and Cousins sent death into the tree line. In a matter of minutes both ambushes went silent.
Their Huey now on the ground, Jimmy ran to Pops shattered slick, found him to be barely alive and pulled his mangled and bloody body from the wreckage. He should have died that day three weeks ago, but somehow he hung on and was med-evaced to Chu Lai.

But for today, Jimmy was bone-weary tired. Sleep was what he wanted, but it was not his to have. He slowly rolled over on his side, sat upright, set his feet on the floor and rubbed the burning fatigue in his eyes and the explosive pounding hell in his temples. He sat quietly for a long moment, tempted to lie back down and retreat into his dream once more, but other necessities beckoned him.
He stuffed his feet into his boots and reached for his cigarettes. Lighting his smoke, he inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, and exhaled slowly, letting the gray vaporous cloud escape his lips while his eyes roamed the room.
Door gunner Henry Cousins was still sleeping two cots down. A relaxed, slow talking twenty year old from the South Side of Chicago, Henry was a fast witted joker with a permanent smile and infectious laugh. He was a replacement, joining the 174th in mid-December. Assigned to the same bird, Henry and Jimmy had become friends and flew with pilots Ketchum and Hutchins. Henry had been home on leave before shipping to Nam and had married his high school sweetheart on Thanksgiving Day.
“Ketch” was from Montana and “Hutch” from Wyoming. Both were raised on a cattle ranch and of course were known as “The Cowboys.” Under fire they flew their Huey with a wild grace and finesse that only bronco riding cowboys could manage. They were good, real good.
Jimmy grabbed toilet paper from the ammo box cupboard and ambled out the hooch door.
Shuffling towards the latrines, laces trailing behind, he spotted Riffenbach and Hart, two medics with the 3rd Infantry, running and lugging their gear towards the helipad and their Dust Off chopper. Riffenbach called back to Jimmy as he ran past. “Alpha walked into a two hundred-fifty pounder up a goddam tree. The whole platoon is down. Jee-zus!” They turned the corner at the last hooch in a full run and disappeared as Jimmy approached the latrine.
The latrines were being cleaned and the shit burners were busy down wind. This job usually fell to the villagers who worked every day inside the compound. Jimmy thought this was not a good idea as it was common knowledge that several of the workers were either VC or VC sympathizers. Since coming from the boonies, it always made Jimmy uncomfortable to see the compound busy with villagers. He knew that more than one would be taking notes, counting paces and drawing mental maps. No matter, the compound “city folk” did not want to do the labor, so the villagers came every day, and mortars and rockets fell somewhere on the compound every night.
Jet fuel cocktails burned like giant wickless candles in halved fifty-five gallon drums filled with human waste, sending black putrid smoke into the air. Doc Richards, who was tagged to supervise the Vietnamese crew, sat with Peanuts, an older and crippled farmer in his late sixties who wound up the “foreman” on most details. Doc and Peanuts were leaning against a jeep exchanging English words for Vietnamese, Peanuts barking out intermittentent singsong instructions towards his charges. Jimmy waved as he passed.
Entering the screened wooden box that was the latrine, he peered down the first hole to see if the drum was in place, dropped his shorts and sat gazing out towards the village. The locals were up and working in the fields. He could make out movement in the village through the trees. A young boy of about ten, in black shorts and tan shirt, rode placidly on the back of a water buffalo across the open field to his left. How odd it all seemed. The day was unfolding as easily if it were in his home town, belying the reality of the war torn landscape.
Sitting there, staring out into the early morning, his thoughts drifted to his Illinois home, and to Marci. They were engaged with no date set for a wedding, and now the Army set the date further back. Jimmy smiled as he recalled their last night together. His parents not objecting, she had spent the night with him. It had been a gentle and passionate night filled with loving… and unspoken fear. She nestled up against him and he softly kissed her while they both let their tears fall silently.
A muzzle flash winked a cruel reminder in the tree line and a split instant later the whizz of its savage messenger passed nearby. A shift in the wind stung his nostrils with the pungent fetor of flambéed excrement. Yep, another shit day in Vietnam.

By the time Jimmy reached the mess tent, Staff Sgt.Willie Thomas had already served breakfast and all that was left were a few pieces of bacon, the clumped cold remains of powdered eggs, and coffee. The rest had either been thrown away or was being added to whatever was to be the next meal. It didn’t matter, coffee was what Jimmy wanted and most needed. He sipped the thick brew and watched the cooks clean and prepare for the next meal.
Willie walked up to his table, sat across from him and they made small talk for a while over their coffee. Willie told Jimmy that he heard “Pops” had died at the Army hospital in Yokohama, Japan two days ago. Both men sat silent for a few moments then renewed their chatting.
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by a loud tlang! A bullet struck the bumper of a passing deuce-and-a-half which was quickly followed by a sudden burst of laughter as the vehicle sped off. Willie shook his head, “Someone needs to find that son-of-a-bitch.”
Finishing his coffee, he picked himself up and left the mess tent and headed for the aid station. He was curious to know what had happened with Alpha Company. He passed the burning half-drums and saw that Doc Richards was gone and had left Peanuts to mind the store; his spindly and twisted arm, the result of a WWII wound, meandered wildly as he pointed, emphasizing his prattled instructions.
Mike “Doc” Richards had come down from LZ Sue the week before. He had been Bravo Company’s second platoon medic since the brigade arrived, but had come down to Mustang before being sent to serve as battalion casualty reporter in Chu Lai. It would be his duty to assess and evaluate the WIA and KIA and report to S-2.
Doc had no idea what was to come. He soon would see hundreds in the battalion, many of them friends, come to the hospitals bloodied and dazed, or delivered to Graves Registration, their still warm lifeless bodies stuffed into olive drab body bags. His ears will ring from the frantic, desperate screams and cries of torn and dying men. His lungs will fill with a foul slaughter house stench and his throat will burn from the acrid taste of death.
Jimmy and Doc did their basic training together at Fort Knox, Kentucky. They had become good friends, and then went separate ways for AIT, Doc to Fort Sam Houston, Texas and Jimmy to Fort Benning, Georgia. They bumped into one another again when Doc climbed into Jimmy’s chopper at Mustang on the way up to LZ Sue. It was a reunion of old friends.
The Aid Station at Mustang was well sandbagged. Everyone called it “The Castle” as it stood impressively and nearly impregnable with its triple rows of sandbags neatly stacked around the hootch. Everyone may have joked at its immensity, but it was all in jest. They knew this could be their one hope should they need medical aid. The medics were determined to protect themselves and their patients.
Jimmy passed the “Old Guard” sign, pulled the screen door open and walked in. Doc was sitting with a few other medics on the left who were watching while he wrapped Lt. McKay’s swollen ankle; twisted while on ambush the night before.
Jimmy sat on an ammo box, propped his arms on the table and listened as LT talked softly about his wife and newborn child. “We named him Roy McKay the third.” His eyes closed and his hand went up to his face to wipe a tear. “I can’t wait to see him. My wife says he’s beautiful” Doc finished his wrap and gently tapped LT.’s calf. “Okay here…you’ll be fine, Sir.”
Lt. McKay stood and smiled. “Thanks, Doc,” he whispered and limped out the door. He would die in a firefight six days later.
“What’s up, Jim? How’s that headache?” Doc said putting supplies away.
“Hurts like a bitch” he said rubbing his temples and forehead.
“You should talk with Bennett” Doc suggested, filling his aid bag.
Paul Bennett had been majoring in psychology at the University of Indiana. With one year left to graduation, and suffering from burn out, he dropped out and was drafted soon after. The army of course did not want to waste any part of his education and stuck him into a four-deuce mortar platoon while the brigade was still stateside. The battalion doctor pulled some strings and had him transferred into the medical platoon.
“Is Paul here? I thought he was in Chu Lai?”
“He’s over at the 6th Support Hospital right now. You should talk to him, Jim.”
“I might do that, Mike” Jimmy replied. “I just might do that. “What’s up with Alpha? I ran into Riffenbach and Hart”
“First platoon. They were on the beach, I think, and headed for a tree. Charlie set off a big fucker. The last we heard was nine KIA. Everyone else is wounded, four pretty bad.
“No shit?”
“Yeah, the whole platoon is down.”
Jimmy grabbed a cigarette from an opened pack on the table, lit it and let out a long sigh.
“What the hell where they doing going to a tree?” Jimmy asked in disbelief.
Doc shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
A long pause in conversation was finally broken when Jimmy asked, “Have you heard anything about Holmes?”
“Not yet. I would guess he’s stateside somewhere. He might even be home by now.” Doc answered.
Just days before TET, while on patrol with Delta Company, medic Eric Holmes stepped on one of Charlie’s home made toe-poppers. He was fortunate that it was a small device; he only lost part of his foot, if you want to call that fortunate. I’m sure he’d say it was…he went home
The talk went on for a little while longer. It was the usual chatter about home, wives and girlfriends. Mason and Miller from 6th Support car talked. Parker was cutting Lt. Tanaka’s hair and passing gas. Both men were laughing hysterically. The quick flutter of a lone projectile hissed overhead.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Will someone cap that asshole already,” Miller barked.

Jimmy made his way back to the hooch, lay back down on his cot, and thought about anything but the events of the day. The remnants of his earlier dream and thoughts replayed behind his closed eyes. Cousins was gone and all was strangely, but gratefully quiet. He drifted into that ether world where reality and dream almost become one. All things there are serene; clear and still. He could almost see it, feel it. If only he could drift a little further he was convinced he could really be home.
His silent reflection was shattered by the frantic stomp of boots running towards him. His eyes flew open as Henry crashed through the door.
“Jimmy,” Henry struggled, nearly out of breath, “Reef and Hart went down!”
Jimmy bolted upright. “What! Henry, what!?”
“Deef and Hart…their bird went down. I think they’re all dead”
“Did they get to Alpha?”
I don’t know…I don’t think so. We’re sending another chopper. Ketch wants us on the 60’s.”
Jimmy had his flak jacket half on and was reaching for his helmet as Cousins was talking. Both men sprinted out of the hooch and toward the helipad.
The bird was already fired up and six grunts were already on board. Ketchum and Hutchins were hastily doing a flight check. Ketchum waved them on board. Jimmy jumped in and pulled Cousins inside just as the bird lifted and swooped across the helipad.
They were flying full speed at tree top level. Everything below them was nothing but a maddening blur while they readied themselves for the coming melee. So much for the day off, Jimmy said aloud as the ground, trees and village sped by below them.
Fifteen minutes out they banked to the left and Hutchins pointed downward. Jimmy was on the port sixty and spotted the downed Dust-Off chopper. He stared into the thick tree line below. Nothing. The bird suddenly slipped tail out and nosed up as they banked right and changed directions for an approach. Dropping in from the Southwest they took ground fire. Ketchum leveled out, banked right and began to climb. Henry opened up sending burst after burst into the shadows. On the return pass, Jimmy did the same.
The tell tale tic-tic-tic of VC ground fire hitting the chopper sent the bird into wild gyrations as Ketchum manipulated the controls and pedals. The big slick screamed and shrieked as it yielded to the pilots’ evasive commands.
Jimmy fought to keep his rounds headed into the tree line. He could see the muzzle flashes blink in the dark foliage as they sent their hellish death towards them. Turning his head to check on the pilots, he felt a hot searing pain tear into his thigh. “Shit! I’m hit. I’m hit!”
Henry Cousins, secured by his harness, sat slumped, his sixty now silent. A bullet had ripped through the last thoughts of his new bride, his dead body flailing with the convulsive motions of the Huey.
Jimmy shifted to check on the pilots again. CW2 Sam “Smiley” Hutchins had turned to check on his door-gunners and smiled when he saw Jimmy. He suddenly grimaced in surprise, and then pain as a round hit his elbow, throwing his arm wildly up and into the back of Ketchum’s head. His face went blank as a second round passed through his chin and out his headgear.
Ketchum glanced quickly at his co-pilot and hit the mic switch with his foot and breathlessly called out, “Henhouse six, this is Red Tail…over”
“Go Red, six Oscar, over”
“We hit a hornet’s nest. Two down. One wounded”
Tic-tic. Tic-tic-tic.
Ketchum continued to yell status into his headset as he coaxed the green ship into wild twists, dives, and turns. Jimmy felt the sting of another deadly intruder, then another. “God, Please, God. No.” He slumped back into his seat, his body useless. The pain was hard and brutal and he felt himself slipping away. He managed a last fading glance towards Ketchum as round after round now struck the bird. Tic-tic-tic. She was going down. Ketchum fought the controls, but it was useless…it was done. Jimmy passed out.

Jimmy stood for a long quiet moment at the end of the street. It had been a long while since he was home. It was almost too good to be true. He tensed for a moment, but now as he walked down the familiar street leading to his boyhood home, he let himself feel safe. The early morning was clear and beautiful; the late summer air sweet and cool. Serene, clear and still. The mayhem and madness of Vietnam was finally over. It was just an experience waiting to become a memory.
Nothing appeared to have changed much in the time that he was gone. It all looked the same as it did on the day he left. A small gentle breeze washed over him. His gait was slow as he made his way up the street. His heart beat with the anticipation of being with his family again.
Passing the empty lot where as a young boy he played ball with his friends he noticed that the Porter’s living room window was broken again. How many times had he and his friends sent a ball through that window? Countless times, he thought to himself. Jimmy smiled at the thought of the next generation stepping up to the plate. The Porter’s must be on vacation and in for a surprise when they returned. He was just three houses from home.
Jimmy walked onto the driveway, stopped, set his duffel bag down, and stood in grateful silence and let his eyes consume the womb of his youth, the safe haven of his boyhood. That boy was different now…forever changed. There is no way for the innocence of youth to remain unspoiled by the irreparable realities of war. Every combat veteran who makes it out alive is wounded, wounded in ways that are not visible to the civilian, and in many ways that are not immediately recognized by the veteran himself. The beast burrows deep inside the folds of memory, hiding, waiting to ambush and devour sanity. No one…not one walks away without a wounded spirit.
He was overcome with a warm and emotional peace as the familiar comfort of home welcomed him. He slid his hand back and forth over his thigh. Nothing, he thought to himself. He was surprised that he felt no pain. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the thought. His wounds were spirit deep. “God”,…he silently prayed, … “Thank you.”
Grabbing his duffel bag, Jimmy made his way up the driveway, onto the walk and up the stairs. He peered through the screen door and saw his mother at the table. He stood watching her for a long silent moment, a warm smile on his face; his eyes taking in the familiar surroundings. It was good to be home.
“Ma”, he called softly.
She did not move.
“Ma,” he quietly called once more, “I’m home.” But again she did not move.
Only now did he see that she was weeping, her head resting in her left hand, her sobbing deep and mournful. Her right arm hung limply at her side clutching a photograph. It was his.
“Ma,” he cried out. “Ma? Ma!”
She slowly looked in his direction but her eyes did not see him. Tears fell slowly down her cheeks as she softly wept.

The gunship circled above the two downed choppers while the Medevac chopper held back. Drawing no fire, they descended rapidly and set down in the tall grass. Half the team set up a perimeter, the other half headed towards the smoking wrecks. Several bodies had been thrown from the Hueys on impact and it appeared that all had been killed.
An eerie silence entombed them as they warily approached the wreckage. It was the perfect set up for an ambush, but it appeared that Charlie had gone.
“We have one here, sir!” an excited grunt called out. “I think he’s alive!”
The wounded man was barely alive, his eyes locked on an inner vision, his mouth trying to speak. Leaning closer, the grunt heard the barely audible last words of Jimmy Taylor.
“I believe he’s calling for his mother, Sir… he’s calling for his ‘ma.’

© 2006 Richard Raitano

RIP – David W. Powell

David W. Powell (1941 - 2011)

David Powell was one of the first Viet Nam veterans diagnosed with PTDS to benefit from Traumatic Incident Reduction (TIR). Out of this experience came his book, My Tour in Hell, A Marine’s Battle with Combat Trauma, published in 2006. David was a tireless advocate for veterans and for Traumatic Incident Reduction, giving live talks and interviews as well as appearing on radio and TV programs.  An excerpt from David’s book, “An Office in Hell”, appeared in the anthology More Than A Memory: Reflections of Viet Nam published by Modern History Press.

In recent years he trained as a TIR facilitator, wrote a workbook for people dealing with post traumatic stress disorder, and was planning on attending and presenting at the 2011 annual Technical Symposium in Ann Arbor. To our great sorrow, we lost David this year to a sudden illness, shortly before the publication of Reboot! Confronting PTSD on Your Own Terms (Forward by John Durkin, PhD). He will be missed by all who knew him.
Ragnhild Malnati writes:

“David Powell did the TIR workshop with me as his Trainer about 2 years ago. In the workshop the other students loved hearing David’s stories about how TIR had helped him with horrendous war experiences. After the Vietnam war, David suffered from PTSD and after trying all kinds of other helping methods in the VA to no avail, he came across TIR and he was cured of PTSD. What was most remarkable about David was his compassion and genuine interest in others. We deeply mourn him and wish his family the best.”

On Sunday morning of this year’s Symposium in Ann Arbor, MI on October 2nd, 2011 at 9:00am there will be a brief memorial service for David for all who wish to attend.

REBOOT! Confronting PTSD on Your Terms: A Workbook
REBOOT! Confronting PTSD on Your Terms: A Workbook

David’s final work, Reboot! Confronting PTSD on Your Own Terms (Loving Healing Press) a 38-page workbook is available through and other fine online retailers.

Burgers and Southern Belles

Burgers and Southern Belles

September 15, 1968 / Cam Ranh Bay RVN

Stepping off the C-130 that carried us from Chu Lai, we were herded onto a waiting deuce-and-a-half and made our way through the compound. Cam Rahn was another large military installation filled with “rear area” activity. It was a bustling city filled with officers and EM in clean, starched fatigues and polished boots…and the always present Vietnamese locals. Those of us who were here to make our way back home stood out like folks from across the tracks; our fatigues and boots bore the wear and tear of red dirt and lack of spit and polish from places other than the rear. It was like the war was somewhere else or maybe hadn’t existed at all.
The deuce-and-a-half delivered us to the holdover quarters where we would wait until our flight left. We were met by a spit and polish staff sergeant whose last assignment must have been one that had him greet new recruits into army life. He barked out orders like an eager DI and directed us toward the building that would house us until it was time to leave. No one paid attention to him, and he seemed to pay no notice to us. He was content to pretend he was important. Once inside, he informed us that our flight was due to leave around eight p.m. that night, and that he’d return in a half hour to put us on a police detail. Police detail!?
Our jaws dropped as we watched this REMF NCO swagger out the door. We stared in disbelief at one another. You gotta be kidding me! Did we hear that right…police the goddam area? Bullshit…there was no way in hell we were we going to clean this guys area of paper and cigarette butts. We didn’t expect, or want, preferential treatment. Maybe a little respect for having spent time outside the wire-we just wanted to leave Vietnam-and the sooner the better. And no police detail.
We took a quick vote and six of us decided to take off to go find something to eat. It was after 10:00 in the morning and most of us hadn’t eaten since the night before. So, with orders in hand we walked out the door and headed in the direction of the PX.
We found a Burger Bar. I mean an actual Burger Bar! All that was missing were sweet teenaged girls behind the counter flashing their sweet teenaged smiles. What we got instead were the grumpy, unsmiling privates in green fatigues. But, we did get a good hamburger…with fries and a Coke, or maybe it was a Pepsi. No matter, it had been a long time since our last journey to a burger joint. For all we knew, the meal was the worst ever.
After wandering around for a couple of hours and assuming that the “detail” was done, we made our way back to the holdover hooch. It seems that after we left a few others decided to escape the detail also, and those that remained confirmed that the NCO did return and have them police the area. Our stomachs satisfied, we stretched out on the cots and waited for our ride to the airstrip later that evening. We might have caught some Z’s. Don’t recall. When the long-awaited ride did come, it was another NCO, just as spit and shine, but much more cheerful, who gathered us up, loaded us up, and wished us well. Nice.
We were giddy with restrained excitement and disbelief as the deuce rumbled through the compound and made its way to the airstrip. We were that much closer to going home…but we weren’t out of Vietnam yet.
The deuce stopped and we were guided into a small Quonset hut where others were waiting for their trip home. What came next was our “debriefing.” An officer entered, smiled, and welcomed us. He then began to tell us that once we get home we would find things “different.” Different!? God, I hope so. Although, with the Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy assassinations just a few months earlier, the joke was we’d be allowed to take our weapons with us so that we could fight our way home if necessary. However, those killings did leave so many of us with doubts of what “home” really was. Violent and deliberate death is an everyday event in a war zone. You accept that. You live with that reality moment to moment and you find a way to deal with it. Home was supposed to be the refuge away from that reality. Home was the safe zone. Home was the “world” where our lives would resume; pick up where we left off.
The debriefing lasted around thirty minutes of which maybe five were heard. Our thoughts and attention were not on the officer lecturing us. Blah-blah-blah…good luck men. Dismissed. That was it. Thirty minutes and we were ready to live our normal lives again. It was that easy. So they thought. And, so we thought as we marched to the hut that served as terminal, show your orders, receive a flight voucher and head out to the flight line and the waiting Freedom Bird.

We made our way up the portable passenger stairs and boarded the plane that had come to take us home. It was a civilian plane, Central Airlines I think. The image of that plane sitting on the runway is stuck in my memory like an old rumpled photograph I carry around in my wallet and I just can’t find the heart to toss it.
It was around nine p.m. The stewardesses were all young, beautiful southern belles with soft, lacey “y’all” accents. They looked so good to us and smelled just as nice. Other than the nurses and the occasional visits from the Red Cross “donut dollies,” these lovely and graceful ladies were the first non-military American women we had seen in a very long time.
You would think that being in the presence of those lovely ladies would have turned us into drooling, silly seventh grade boys. But that was not the case. We shared a common, ever present thought that stayed with us our entire tour: would we live to see this day? We were more concerned about getting off the ground and into the air.
We knew we weren’t safe yet. There were many incidences of mortar or rocket rounds killing troops who were homeward bound. To have survived your tour only to be killed on the way out was the final insane absurdity delivered by the beast. Working hurriedly, but gently, they got us seated; they didn’t want to hang around any longer than we did. We were just as anxious as they to leave that goddamned place with all its death and misery.
With everyone belted in, the plane taxied into position. Given final clearance for take off, the plane lurched forward pushing us back into our seats. I had a window seat and watched as the runway lights raced past, faster and faster. The plane rotated upwards and we left the ground…Vietnam was now rapidly slipping away under us.
I’ve heard stories of flights that erupted into roaring cheers when the plane left the ground, but not this one…not this time. It was stone quiet as we climbed higher and higher into the black night.
Through the window I saw explosive flashes and lines of tracers arcing through the void. Down there the war still raged. Down there someone was still dying. And we were on our way home. The plane banked and we headed out to sea. We had survived our tours and were headed back to the world. I leaned back into my seat and let silent tears fall as Vietnam disappeared.

Doc Rich R

Richard Boes Memorial Award-Winning Book 2010

Richard Boes (R.I.P.)
Richard Boes (R.I.P.)

The 2010 Richard Boes Memorial Award goes to Charles Joseph Fickey for his book Sworn to Secrecy for Life: A Young American Spy’s Odyssey through War-torn Germany and Russia (ISBN 9781432761189)

The award is a $200 cash prize for best debut book by a veteran (fiction or memoir) and is sponsored by Modern History Press. The contest is administered by Reader Views Inc., which includes a general book award contest as well.

Richard enlisted into the US Army and served in Vietnam in 1969 – 1970 with the First Air Cav. He is the author of two books, The Last Dead Soldier Left Alive (2007) a firsthand inquiry into why thousands of Vietnam veterans have committed suicide and Last Train Out (2008). Right up to his death Richard was writing a third, In the Valley of Dry Bones. He passed away on Feb 21st, 2009 at the VA Hospital in Albany, NY.

I am a soldier

I am a soldier

I am a soldier,
One of America’s own.
Child of the father’s before me
Whose sacrifice I owe a debt
Which can never be repaid.

I stand ready to honor that debt
When called upon. I will take arms
Against those who would seek to
Cage liberty and set fire to peace.
My life for these I do pledge.

All that I ask…
Do not deceive me. Do not send
Me to distant places to stand
In harms way for falsehoods and
Riches earned by the letting
Of my blood.

Do not dishonor my sacrifice
For the gains of your purse.
Let not my life be your reward.
I am a soldier,
One of America’s own.
Father to those to come after me.

Rich Raitano

The Watch

The Watch

 I saw them come in numbers,

More than anyone

Should ever have to see.

Fresh from the battlefields

Of slaughter;

Their bodies torn, shattered,

Ripped apart and mangled,

Eyes, wild with fear

Or empty dead stares,

Told their story of raw horror.

Frantic strangled cries gurgle

From their blood filled throats;

Calling for wives or mothers…

Or God.

But they have come to face the beast

With its fetid smell of death

On its angry dragons’ breath.

There comes no mercy…

No peace…

Nor holy, saintly knighted savior

With sword of life in hand

Riding nigh.


…And only this…

To stand a silent vigil

And to watch them slowly die.

Richard Boes Memorial Award Winning Book 2009

Richard Boes (R.I.P.)
Richard Boes (R.I.P.)

The 2010 Richard Boes Memorial Award goes to Charles M. Grist for his book My Last War: A Vietnam Veteran’s Tour in Iraq (ISBN 9781440152689)

The award is a $100 cash prize for best debut book by a veteran (fiction or memoir) and is sponsored by Modern History Press. The contest is administered by Reader Views Inc., which includes a general book award contest as well.

Richard enlisted into the US Army and served in Vietnam in 1969 – 1970 with the First Air Cav. He is the author of two books, The Last Dead Soldier Left Alive (2007) a firsthand inquiry into why thousands of Vietnam veterans have committed suicide and Last Train Out (2008). Right up to his death Richard was writing a third, In the Valley of Dry Bones. He passed away on Feb 21st, 2009 at the VA Hospital in Albany, NY.

Hush puppies, hookers and hammocks

Hush puppies, hookers and hammocks

By Tom Skiens

I bought a pare of size 8 1/2 hush puppies at the retail shop on the ground floor of the Singapore Ambassador hotel. The hush puppies were the “in thing” on my 21st birthday, June 21st 1968. I also bought a Hammock, a 4X4 orange tarp and a hooker of Indian nationality. In order to make my 21st birthday complete I visited three Indian snake charmers with a cobra in a jar and a bag of weed in their hand. I stayed away from the snake but I took possession of the weed.

As the day moved on I traded in my Indian nationality hooker for a younger model. The mommasan pimp didn’t mind. Her standard advertisement was, “you like boom boom number one cherry girl, she love you long time”.

The Ambassador hotel was filled to overflowing with G.I’s fresh out of Vietnam and all of them were looking for the same thing. Showers, flush toilets, clean sheets, music, booze, women and a telephone call back to the world. The kind of a call where after you finish speaking you must say “over” and then after your mom on the other end of the line finishes talking she must say, “over”. This makes for a difficult conversation but talking to my mom on my 21st birthday from Singapore, priceless.

The hotel was making a mint off the American servicemen on their one week escape from Vietnam. It made no difference if the G.I. job was in the rear with the gear, humping the bush, hurling 60 tons of steel down highway one, a cannon cocker, a rotor head or a rubber tired mine magnet, the goal was the same. Get laid before you get laid and get drunk while you are doing it. Everybody at the hotel got rich and the G.I had the best R&R story he could ever have dreamed of. I did not make friends with the other G.I’s at the hotel. I would say Hi in passing and that was about it. I felt like all my friends were dead and so was I. The most conversation I had was with college students who played music at the bar. The students were in the middle of a revolution, declaring Singapore a Free city state and breaking away from China. I found out years later that they were successful.

I told my hooker friend a story about my life. It goes like this. I wave goodbye to my mother and thank her for washing my Basketball uniform as I open the door of the “47” Ford I bought for $50.00 with money I had earned thinning trees with a chainsaw the summer before. “If I didn’t wash your uniform, who would”, she says. I smile and say, ” Sorry mom, I will give you more warning next time but they just told us about the pictures this morning. I have to go, the Varsity photos are scheduled in less than 10 minutes. By, love you”

I back out of the driveway being careful not to scrape the white picket fence. I drive 1/2 of a mile north on Egan street and take a left on W. Tyler street. It is five blocks from here to Hwy. 395 and then less than a 200 yards to the high school. I travel four blocks and begin to slow down for the approaching intersection. All of a sudden the front of my car explodes, my windshield is shattered but still intact. What the hell has happened? My car glides to a stop. I try to open the drivers door but it is jammed. What the hell has happened?

I slam into the door as hard as I can with my left shoulder, the door begins to move with the metal on metal scraping of steel bent against steel sound. I hit the door again and it opens enough to allow me to exit. My windshield is broken with a thousand lines going off in as many different directions. What the hell has happened? I turn around and see a Honda motor bike lying twisted and broken on the road to my east. I walk four steps toward the rear of my car. I see the legs of a person on the pavement. I take two more steps. I hear a girl screaming and I see her boyfriend, the senior class president and honor student lying on the ground. Randy will lay there forever. The ambulance will come and take him to the hospital. Randy will die a week later, His family will grieve and the ramifications for the other lives involved will begin to mature.

My mother will tell me as she dies of cancer how she crossed the street for more than 20 years to avoid coming face to face with Randy’s mother. On one occasion, Mrs. Russell followed my mother across the street and cornered her in an isle of a store. She begged my mother to quit avoiding her and said that she held no blame for anyone in our family concerning her son’s death. My mother and I both cried together.

I am tasked to ask the question,” why him and not me”? I will go to war to search for the meaning of life. I will come to know death in the war but I will struggle to have a relationship with life.

I ask my hooker friend what she thought about my story and she said,” I no understand English so good. You want boom boom now”. I was glad she neither spoke nor understood English. I needed to tell someone about Randy who would not attempt to absolve or blame. She was the perfect listener. I gave her all my money when I left town.

The return flight from Singapore to Vietnam is filled with a ghost like silence. Everyone partied hardy the last night of the R&R. Leaving no drink standing, no hooker unrewarded, no laugh repressed, no lie untold, we did our job well.

I have made love, not to the one I love. I have slept with, showered with, not the one I love. I return to a place where I know I will die. It is just a matter of time. It is more certain than the notion of living. I can visualize my death but I cannot visualize my life.

The Asian heat of Singapore is similar to that of Vietnam. It sucks the air from my lungs, sticking to my body like Elmer’s glue. The heat and memories of a weeks worth of sex, a hangover, a meal plus the steady rhythm of the jet engine lead me to a dream filled sleep.

In my dream it is April 19, 1968. I am the fourth person back in the left column. The other column is less than 10 yards to my right. We should not be this bunched up. God knows we have hit enough booby traps to learn. I see and hear an explosion to my right front less than 15 yards away. I drop to the ground but before my stomach touches I am on my way back up.

I know what this is. It is the same thing as January 13, 1968. A Bouncing Betty leaves us with two dead and eight wounded. Zimmerman and I are the next two unwounded in the column and we must walk the line. (See: “Betty“.) Today is not much different.

I move to the right column, drop my rucksack and get the PRC 25 radio from my radio telephone operator. 0900, grid square BS 533853, Company C request dust off for two KHA, two WHA result bouncing Betty. I move into the zone making sure the path is clear for the medics. A fucking new guy walking point in the left column has hot steel in his stomach.

The F.N.G. came in on the resupply chopper the night before and has been with the company less than 14 hours. The company put him in first Platoon and first Platoon put him on the point in the left column. First day in the bush and the F.N.G. gets hot steel in his stomach which may result in him going home. The guy at my feet, dead. The next guy, dead. The next guy, Platoon leader, LT. his right foot is blown off and his right hand doesn’t look good, he will probably lose it. He is moaning from shock and pain. His weapon has been thrown to the right, it is destroyed, useless.

I yell at the F.N.G. to stop running around because he may set off another mine. Sgt. Don fox and Zimmerman talk the F.N.G. to safety. In three days Zimmerman and I will be on our bellies crawling over to Sgt. Fox who will have a bullet in his belly that pentrated through his weapon befor entering his body. Higher/higher said it was Auitomatic weapons fire but I was standing next to him and only remember 1 round. Two days after the Sgt. Fox dust off Zimmerman will be involved in another Bouncing Betty and I will on the radio calling in another dustoff. Charlie 1/1 is getting beat up.

A medic asks me to help put one of the dead on a poncho so we can drag him to the approaching chopper.

I rifle through the guys rucksack to get a poncho while the medic rolls him onto his back. I find pieces of bone and blood on the inside of the grunts rucksack. For the first time I look at the dead guys face. It is my friend John John.

I am stunned, shocked. This is the day, the hour, the minute and the grid coordinates where the American dream dies for me. Dark clouds invade my mind, a deep numbing pain penetrates my soul. The medic wants me to lift the right side of the body. John John is pulverized flesh from head to toe, like the Gook on the receiving end of a B-52 package. Concussion and shrapnel have transformed his body to the consistency of firm Jelly. I can’t find anything solid enough to lift.

A year passes, then two, finally I see the middle finger of his right hand, I test it to see if it will stay attached to his body as I lift. I grab a hand full of bloody pants leg with my right hand and lift the lower part of his body off the ground. I pray that pieces of his body do not come off in my hands as I lift my dark broken friend high enough to set him on the poncho.

April 19, 1968, 0900 hours, grid BS533853, I died, the dream ends, no preparation, I be zombie. I died because it was the easiest and fastest way to deal with my problem. I could not move forward while packing the weight of the dead and I could not leave them behind. I must sacrifice a part of my soul so my body can move on. I don’t have time to morn, only to tuck the memory of the mangled bodies into the corners of my mind and keep on humping.

The corners of my mind will meld over time
The visions of the dead come more often
I’ve recorded their names and absolved them of chains
While I’m busy constructing my own coffin

A zombie gets off the return flight from the Singapore R&R in Chu Lai July 3rd 1968 and finds his company waiting on the tarmac for a C-130 to take them north. He goes to the orderly room and puts together his gear including: Rucksack, weapon, ammo, C’s, smoke grenades, steel pot, Poncho, Pancho liner, Jungle knife, 4 canteens, smokes, matches, Bug juice, TP and lots of shoe strings because they are the only thing in this Army that you can get plenty of and they always work.

I use shoe strings to tie around my legs, above my calves so that they will keep the leeches lower. Shoe strings to tie the souls of my boots on when they come apart in the jungle. Shoe strings to tie my poncho to stakes and pegs to make a hooch for the night. Shoe strings to tie the PRC 25 mike close to my ear so only I can hear. Shoe strings to tie my socks to the outside of a rucksack so they can air out. Shoe strings for splints and slings. The strings that keep the grunts alive exist only because the black market finds no profit in them.

I packed my Hush Puppies, the Hammock and the orange 4X4 tarp. The C-130 takes us north about 45 minutes and lands at a well developed fire base. These guys have the works, tanks, APC’s, bunkers with 5 sandbag roofs, NCO club, showers plus heavy artillery like the 175 MM and the 155 MM Howitzer.

We would spend some days here and then choppers would take us to a place not so developed. The Zombie doesn’t know he is dead but he knows how to act like he wants to die. He wears the 4X4 orange tarp on the outside of his rucksack. Sticking up above his head is the antenna from the PRC. 25 radio he carries. He sometimes walks point adorned in this fashion. The orange tarp and antenna a tempting piece of sniper bate.

I had planned to use The Hush Puppy shoes I bought in Singapore when we dug in for a couple of days near a water source. I hoped to get out of my boots for a couple of hours, go down to the water hole in my Hush Puppies, steel pot, M-16 and nothing on but the armed forces radio network. I never did find that waterhole.

At the first opportunity I dug out the Hammock and tied it between two trees. I quickly realized that if we were to get hit the hammock would be the worst possible place to be. I chucked the hammock and went back to sleeping on the ground where all grunts belong, near a foxhole, curled around a rock with the edge of my steel pot as a pillow.

I used the Orange 4×4 tarp as ground cover for a time. I think it wore out. If I packed it on the outside of my Rucksack much it would not have lasted long. The jungle would surround, choke and destroy it like it did everything else. I think the jungle ate my Hush Puppies.

A final word on the Hooker. I didn’t even know her name. When I left Singapore I did not promise to write her and she did not promise to write me. We both kept our word. If either of us had tried to write I am certain a letter addressed to ” Hooker ” or “GI from Oregon ” would have a difficult time finding the RIGHT “Hooker” or “GI from Oregon.” I for one have never received such a letter.

Richard Boes Memorial Award – call for entries

Richard Boes (R.I.P.)Richard Boes Memorial Award

The award is a $100 cash prize for best debut book by a veteran (fiction or memoir) and is sponsored by Modern History Press. The contest is administered by Reader Views Inc., which includes a general book award contest as well.

Richard enlisted into the US Army and served in Vietnam in 1969 – 1970 with the First Air Cav. He is the author of two books, The Last Dead Soldier Left Alive (2007)  a firsthand inquiry into why thousands of Vietnam veterans have committed suicide  and Last Train Out (2008). Right up to his death Richard was writing a third, In the Valley of Dry Bones.  He passed away on Feb 21st, 2009 at the VA Hospital
in Albany, NY.

Entry Fee

$65.00 per title (for the initial category) if postmarked before October 31, 2009, $75.00 if postmarked November 1, 2009 or later. $20.00 for each additional category or regional/global entry. Entry fee must be in USD via U.S. check or international money order payable to: Reader Views.

Submission for more than one category or area is acceptable. Submit two copies of the book for the first category, and an additional book for each other category to be considered. For example, if you enter your book in the “Fiction – Historical” category as well as “Young Adult” and “SW Region” you must send in four books.

All books entered will become the property of Reader Views and donated to local charities after the awards program is completed. Submissions received without the entry fee will not be considered.  Entry fee is non-refundable.

Registration Deadline

Authors are encouraged to submit their entries as soon as possible but postmarked no later than December 15, 2009. Any submission postmarked after this date will not be accepted. (Help us prevent judge burn-out and submit your book early! Hint: our judges read the book in its entirety – give them plenty of time to read the book.) We will confirm your entry via e-mail so print your email address clearly.


Registration form may be downloaded here.  Be sure one form is included with each title submitted.  If submitting more than one title or in more than one category, one check or money order may be included for all submissions.

Be sure to send appropriate number for books. (Two for the first category, one for each additional category.) Registration form must accompany each title and sent to:

Reader Views Literary Awards 2009
7101 Hwy 71 W #200
Austin, TX 78735

Richard Boes – Above The Line

Richard Boes (R.I.P.)
Richard Boes (R.I.P.)

This just in from Marc Levy:

Regret to inform you that Richard Boes, whose work opens More Than A Memory: Reflections of Vietnam passed away on 21 Feb 09.

Richard Boes died yesterday at the VA Hospital in Albany NY. Richard enlisted into the US Army and served in Vietnam in 1969 – 1970 with the First Air Cav. He is the author of two books, The Last Dead Soldier Left Alive (2007) a first hand inquiry into why thousands of Vietnam Veterans have committed suicide and Last Train Out (2008). Right up to his death Richard was writing a third, In the Valley of Dry Bones.

You can read Richard’s recollection “POW Remembered” which was published in the VVAW publication The Veteran in Fall 2004 (Vol. 34, No. 2)


“Above the line I know enough to know I know nothing. Less is missing, no greater than the whole, hole I’m in, bullets, buttons, and apart from. I’m dumber than a stone like a crumpled page, blood for ink at the price of fleshy gooseflesh. It’s a beautiful day, yeah, but I only want out. A simple song, a clear view to the bottom, out from the glass. The water’s deep, wiggles and divides, I’m a stick in the mud, a new-found mind set. And the gold finch in a feeding frenzy smacks up against itself. All vanity is glass. There’s no one I’m looking for, but most likely Myles is dead like all us good soldiers.”
                                                                                     –Richard Boes, Last Train Out