Two Conflicts for the Price of One

 

By Ken DeHaas

2/1 H&S 70-71

 

About the 1st week in March 1971, I was summoned to the personnel office at Camp Lauer.  Thought maybe I was in trouble for this or that.  Seems that three Jarheads were needed to escort six Marine prisoners back to the world.  They were charged with doing illegal drugs, being AWOL, and the questionable killing of Vietnamese civilians.  Upon reporting I was told that a mistake was made.  They didn’t mean to call me.  I wasn’t eligible for this limited offer.  Apparently I didn’t meet enough of the requirements to qualify for this early trip back to the world.  All I knew was that I wasn’t about to say O.K., do an about face, and dive back into that jungle soup without a fight.  Somehow I convinced the office poges that since I was already here, why not let me go? After all who would know?  I sure wasn’t going to tell.  To my surprise, they agreed.  Guess it was way easier to let me pass than to mess around with a paper work change.

 

Spent my last few days with 2/1 saying good-bye.  As bizarre as this may sound, my stay in the Nam remains to this day, the best and worst time of my life.  In retrospect I really doubt that I shall ever entirely absorb the consequences of that surreal life / death deal.  Just the thought that I was even over there is somehow way more disturbingly scary than the fact that I actually was.  Was so very hard to bid farewell to my brothers.  There are no truer and stronger friends than those made in battle.  I remember a lot of their faces and have forgotten so many of their names.  I was headed back to the world and leaving them behind.  Man, I sure do miss those guys!  I have recently found and reunited with a 2/1 brother, thanks to the power of the internet.  The very first eMail I sent to him I closed out by saying “I Luv Ya Brother”.  He responded with the same.  As a foot note he added “I don’t even say that to my blood brothers”.  That declaration says beaucoup.  What a bond we warriors have!

 

Once more I found myself on board a C-130, with one huge difference.  I was going away from, not going to.  Needless to say my two fettered companions weren’t as eager to get back to the world as I was.  From Nam lift off to Okinawa touch down both my ears were bombarded with copious threats of bodily harm.  It was beginning to look as though my chances of survival might have been better back in the soup.  What the hell kind of trick bag was this?? Their goal was a whatever it took escape before reaching the brig in California.  My objective was plain and simple.  I just wanted to get back home.  Of course we had heard and read about our homeland protesting and demonstrating against us! The Nam.  Us Nam Warriors.  Same, Same.  Hi Jane [Fonda].  How you doing?  We’re not doing so well.  You cut us to the bone and tormented our souls.  Maybe, but doubtfully, someday I‘ll be able to forgive you, but please know that I’ll never, ever be able to forget.  Not ever.  You hurt my brother’s way more than bullets, booby traps, POW camps ever could.  Yeah as if you care, huh! Just remember these two words.  “Karmic Debt”.  In plain English this means “What comes around goes around”.  Better yet, how about this crystal clear paraphrase?  “Payback’s a Bitch!”

 

I’m extremely nearsighted.  Upon my departure from Nam I swapped my standard military issue dork glasses for a pair of contact lenses that I had stashed for this momentous occasion.  Keep in mind that this was thirty plus years ago. These contacts were the hard version and were designed to be worn for only a max of twelve hours at a stretch.  From the time I popped my lenses in to the time our prisoners were locked down at the transient brig in Okinawa, well over thirty six hours had passed.  Felt as if the granddaddy of all sand storms was erupting on the surface of my eyeballs.  Knew I should have taken the contacts out way before then, but too late now.  Had to be able to resist and thwart a likely escape attempt that my charges had me convinced was close at hand.  We checked our suspect evildoers into the Okinawa Hilton.  Whew!! Stage one complete.  Now, time to get my eyes out of the hurt locker.  Got to the transient barracks and popped those bad boy lenses out.  Couldn’t see!! Man, what a rush.  Had a brother lead me to sick bay.  Doctor said my eyes looked fine.  Just the slightest sliver of light made me want to howl in pain.  But after all I was a Devil Dog, so I just yelped a little.  The Doc sent me back to the barracks with instructions not to stare into any light.  Hell there was light everywhere.  Most myopic folks can see like a microscope close up, without the aid of any corrective lenses.  Went into the head and took a real close look at my eyes in the mirror.  I saw hairline scratches on both my corneas.  Had another Marine guide me back to sick bay.  Told the Doc what I saw in the mirror and lo and behold he saw the same.  He covered both my eyes with bandages and sent me to the base hospital for at least three days.  After a couple of days the bandages were removed.  Not as painful but still really sensitive to light.  The decision was made to reapply the dressings for another day or two.  At about the same time this was going on, it turns out that another Marine was designated to take over the escort of my prisoners to the stateside brig.  Good Luck Bro!      

 

Finally released from the hospital.  Had about a week to go before the next flight back to the world.  Couldn’t wear the hard contacts anymore.  So I got some glasses that were way more flattering.  Got my seabag out of storage.  Had to get my uniforms cleaned and pressed.  Picked them up from the laundry, tried them on and almost had the big one.  My shirt, trousers, everything except my piss cutter, fit like a burlap sack.  Weighed approximately 180 pounds before the Nam, seems I weighed in at about 150 pounds after.  Got the alterations done in time.  Almost time to leave.  Remember doing beaucoup pushups.  I wanted to look good for my triumphant return.  My subconscious was very uneasy about the impending homecoming.  My Nam consciousness was saying “Don’t mean nothin”.  Just one more conflict to resolve.

 

On another Big Bird.  Back to the World.  I vaguely remember stop overs in Japan, the Philippines and Alaska.  Disembarked at Travis Air Force Base.  The main thing I recall about Travis is a military representative asking me what would be my choices for duty stations after leave in order of preference.  #1, #2, and #3.  I chose (#1) Brooklyn Navy Yard, (#2) Quantico, VA, (#3) don’t remember.  Was informed that unless I heard otherwise I would report for duty at my number one choice, “Brooklyn Navy Yard”.  About three weeks into my leave I got a speed letter ordering me to report to Quantico, VA.

 

Reported for duty at Quantico, VA on April 23, 1971.  Was wearing Tropicals, when I should have been in Winter Greens.  Great start Ken.  Learned that I was summoned here to instruct newly commissioned officers in all aspects of field radio operations.  PRC-25 the World and PRC-25 the Nam, not the same!  Needless to say, I was not very enthused with my new assignment.  But something didn’t seem sane here.  It was as if the entire base was in some weird state of dormancy.  I found myself pulling guard duty, mainly at the motor pool, at night.  During the day I found myself in “Riot Control” training.  Half of us would play the unruly, taunting anti-Nam flower children.  The other half assumed the role of the ultimate blockade.  A violent hippy uprising was not an acceptable option.  Our fake protesters ridiculed and spat at us.  In return we threatened them with jabs and horizontal butt strokes.  On more than one occasion the play fighting got out of hand.  Many of us, on both sides, were reprimanded for not exercising restraint.  Hell, whadda you want??  Don’t know about you.  But I just back from a war.  Still really fresh in my mind.

 

On the nights that I wasn’t on the guard roster, some of us went into DC.  More out of boredom than anything.  But also we wanted to check out our potential enemy.  Man, they were everywhere!  Hundreds and hundreds of them were homesteaded around the Washington Monument.  Went into their midst a few times.  Chugged more than my fair share of Boones Farm “Apple” and “Strawberry Hill”.  Jammin’ sounds all around.  Very intense rhetoric.  I had every right to be in their arena.  If I hadn’t been in Vietnam, I probably would have been at Woodstock.  Still, when all is said and done, I feel positively dishonored by the brazen lack of support many of our countrymen displayed for those of us who were willing to, and in many cases did, sacrifice all for the perceived threat to America’s freedom.

 

Found a way to diffuse my active participation in this unsavory issue about a month later.  A Marine was needed for Marine Barracks San Juan Naval Station, San Juan, Puerto Rico.  I had to request mast to get it.  But get it I did! 

That’s another story.