58,000.

That’s the population of the cities like Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Bozeman, Montana. Sanford, Florida.

It’s also the number of names carved into the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.

58,000 Americans who didn’t come home.

This is Memorial Day. Time to honor those fallen service members and all who have fallen while serving to protect and defend the freedom of those of us lucky enough to call ourselves citizens of the greatest nation on earth.

Nha Trang, Circa 1966

Vietnam was a primary focus of about 10 of my 30 years in the Air Force. 1963 to 1973.

In 1966 I witnessed something that made me fervently wish that conflict would end. Quickly.

I was the navigator on a C-130 aircrew, grounded in Nha Trang, waiting on some maintenance. I walked out to the flight line.

Another C-130 was loading body bags for transport home.

The stench was terrible.

As I approached, I saw the tags. These are not the real names but names like these:

Sgt. Charles Smith, 23, St. Louis, MO

Pvt. Joey Jones, 18, Charlotte, NC

Cpl. Sammy Cohen, 22, Newark, NJ

The ages.

The ages struck me to the core.

What the hell were we doing?

When will this war end?

It Did Not End There

Not for me.

I flew several more airlift missions. Then I served a full year in-country, summer 1969 to summer 1970. Over 100 recon missions as navigator on the venerable C-47 “Gooney Bird.” The oldest aircraft in the USAF inventory.

I followed that with four years at the Air Force Accounting and Finance Center in Denver, administering pay accounts and helping the families of our POWs and MIAs.

The most rewarding and entangling assignment of my 30-year career.

The Price

58,000 lives was only part of the story.

Over 300,000 service members were wounded. More than 150,000 needed hospitalization. About 75,000 were permanently disabled. And Lord only knows how many of us came home carrying some form of PTSD.

We also burned billions of our national wealth on a lost cause.

Then came 1973. The end of hostilities. The return of our POWs.

A highlight of my career.

The war itself didn’t end until 1975. Hardly any of our MIAs have ever been found.

Korea

As brutal and tragic as Vietnam was, there is another war, nearly forgotten now, that was even more deadly.

Korea. About three years. Over 36,000 American lives lost.

The 58,000 we lost in Vietnam came over fifteen years.

Korea took 36,000 in three.

Let that sink in.

May God bless and protect all of our fallen military brothers and sisters, our first responders, and their loved ones and families on this Memorial Day.

In our great nation.

Amen.

An F-15E Strike Eagle, shot down over Iran. Both crew members ejected. The pilot rescued within hours. The second airman, a Colonel, spent more than a day evading capture in the treacherous mountains of southwestern Iran, Iranian forces closing in, a bounty on his head. The CIA ran a deception campaign to throw the enemy off. U.S. special forces went in with heavy air cover and pulled him out of a mountain crevice.

“God is good,” he’d transmitted from his hiding spot.

He followed the principles of the Survival Course to a “T” even while seriously wounded from the ejection. And he survived.

This news of the daring, successful rescue struck eerily close to home for me. Not because I was downed and rescued, but rather because that never happened to me. Thank Heaven.

HOWEVER; As a C-130 airlift navigator, I flew 2,500 hours all over the globe, including in and out of that jungle paradise called Vietnam. But not before taking a short, but extremely rigorous Air Force Survival Course. Actually I completed two Survival Courses; the big one at Stead AFB, Nevada and a shorter, targeted course in Jungle Survival at Clark AB in the Philippines. The latter one was just before reporting to Vietnam for one year as an EC-47 Navigator. (And 1,000 hours at 1,500–2,000 ft over the Vietnam jungle in the oldest aircraft in the Air Force inventory; the venerable “Gooney Bird”, the C-47.)

Although it was over 50 years ago (yes, I’m old) the experience is indelibly etched in my feeble brain.

Both courses included a bunch about evading the enemy if you are forced to leave your aircraft. Getting hit by gunfire and being forced to violently eject from an F-15 fighter jet at high airspeed and altitude is a helluva way to leave it.

Our downed airman’s ordeal will be engraved in all future Air Force Survival School agendas.

Get away from your parachute landing place ASAP. Hide, but get to a high elevation to be seen and caught by friendly forces, not the enemy. Avoid people. Did I mention, “Hide”? Try to communicate so you can be identified. (In 1969 there were no iPhones or any pocket-sized phones one could carry into combat. How about a small glass mirror one could turn toward the sun and aim at an aircraft to get a pilot’s attention.) Stay calm and alert. Easy to say. Hard as hell to do. Hide and wait. Rescue will come.

It did.

Amen.

Here are some of my forever learnings from the “School” experience.

First. Don’t get captured.

The mock POW training taught me one major thing. They have total control over you. Food, drink, sleep, mobility, etc. Forget the John Wayne movie stuff. Try “name, rank and serial number” after no sleep, food or water for two days. And a few gun butts across your jaw. (They didn’t do that but they coulda.)

What else did I learn? Forget fairness.

After evading successfully, I was rewarded by 3 days in a mock POW camp. It was very real, but what made it “mock” was that it was for three days. You can stand on your head for three days. LOL.

Seriously, knowing it’ll end in three days or even three months means you can put up with a lot of punishment if you know it’s gonna end. If you’re a real POW, you don’t know if or when it’s gonna end. Big difference.

So do your damndest to evade capture. I demonstrated that in the Philippines, when during an evasion exercise, I hid in a clump of jungle and watched quietly as searchers almost stepped on me. I did not get caught, but was almost eaten alive by skeeters.

Lastly.

Make sure you have a good grip on the rope ladder when being pulled onto your rescue helicopter. I know of one MIA who was rescued and then lost his grip on the rope ladder about 10 ft from the helicopter entry, but 1,000 ft from the ground.

He wasn’t found.

Definitely enuf.

You might remember that line.  “I’d walk a mile for a Camel.”  Way back when, like about 70 years ago, that was a famous ad line for Camel cigarettes, a major, popular brand of unfiltered, strong cigarettes that could speed your way to an early, painful death from lung cancer. Nobody knew that then.

But I’m not talking about cigarettes.  How ’bout a real camel?

Those big, but cute/ugly animals that look like wrinkly horses with ugly faces and one or two humps. Almost every zoo had a sure-fire money-maker for the kids: Camel Rides

I even rode on one, as an excited 8-year-old at the Bronx Zoo. The camel’s owner held the reins and led me and camel around in a 50-ft circle. Maybe two or three times. That was it.

Fast forward 15 years.

I’m a USAF 1st lieutenant navigator. Our C-130 had just landed in Karachi, Pakistan. As we taxied into our parking spot, our aircraft was suddenly surrounded by angry-looking Pakistani soldiers with AK-47’s.

Uh oh. Not a good sign.

Our Aircraft Commander radioed Command Post nervously.

“What the hell is goin on?”

Turns out, due to an Air Force screw up, we’d landed without the proper diplomatic clearance, because another crew ahead of us had used our clearance. Guess we were kinda illegal.

Our aircraft and crew were impounded in Karachi for three days.  Poor us.

No Pakistani jail for us, though. We were released to the custody of our US Air Force Attache who gave us a custodian (Tour Guide) for the duration.

How terrible. LOL. I learned more than I needed to know about Karachi and Pakistan over the next 3 days. Two highlights stand out.

Day 1 – Camel Ride, Karachi-Style

We were taken to a big beach on the Arabian Sea. We came upon a familiar sign.

Camel Rides

“Hey Scooler,” said our Aircraft Commander, “you look like you could ride a camel. I dare you.” I thought back to my camel ride at the Bronx Zoo and answered, “Why not?”.

So I mounted the camel unsteadily but cautiously, expecting another slow walk around a 50-foot circle.

Not so much.
As soon as I was mounted somewhat securely on the cute little camel, the owner slapped the camel on the rump so hard I could feel it. My new camel friend took off in a beeline toward the water.

H O L Y   S H– I held on for dear life, yanking on the reins and yelling “Whoa, camel!” I didn’t know its name. I pulled so damn hard the camel’s head turned all the way toward me. But he kept runnin like hell toward the water.
When its hooves splashed into the surf, it immediately did a 180 and headed back up the beach to the owner. When it reached him he went down from his hooves to an almost splayed position so I could get off. I slid off as quickly as my trembling legs would allow.

No, I didn’t soil myself.

Day 2 – Cobra vs. Mongoose
Camel rides were not the only “attraction” in Karachi. Do y’all know the relationship between a cobra and a mongoose? I wasn’t sure at age 23, but I learned really quick. Some more mature aircrew members told me they were arch enemies. And almost incredibly, the mongoose could kill a cobra in a battle.

On our second day, we met a snake charmer. We stopped to watch him with his horribly poisonous pet. After his little show, he asked us if we wanted to see a cobra battle a mongoose. Only $10 US. A lot of money to an aircrew in 1962. After a quick huddle, we responded,  “Yes”.

So, after we handed the charmer his $10, we witnessed a very quick pitched battle between his cobra and his pet mongoose, the money maker. The cobra never had a chance. The mongoose was super quick and he hopped around a bunch before grabbing the hapless cobra in his teeth and ripping it apart. A rather short but telling episode of life and death in the animal world.
I asked the charmer why he charged so much for such a short fight. He told me, nervously, “Now, I gotta go catch another cobra.”
Our tour guide confirmed that the life of a snake charmer can be quite short.

Enuf

So what the hell is a gooney bird. It’s a freakin albatross. A clumsy looking bird on the ground, but elegant in flight. A great place to see em is Midway Island, an atoll just a couple hours flying time west of Hawaii. Many years ago, I spent several amusing minutes watching them clumsily land and navigate around Midway. They would land and frequently do a sort of somersault after landing.

The gooney bird or “goon” for short, was also the nickname we Air Force dudes gave to the C-47 aircraft, our version of the Douglas DC-3, a commercial workhorse of the 40’s. (God, I’m old)
The gooney bird and I had an eerie but close relationship during the early part of my Air Force career. (and even before).
Circa 1958, I was a sophomore AFROTC cadet at Queens College in NYC. About ten of us had a training/orientation flight in mid winter from Mitchel Field on Long Island to Bartow AFB in Winterhaven, Florida. Our instructors put us all on a C-47. It looked old then. It had been around for at least 15 years and was a workhorse for us during the Big War. We flew at an 150 mph for about 4-5 hours in that dirty old two-prop-engine jalopy.
All of us young lads with heads fulla mush thought, “We’re goin to Florida. It’s bathing suit time”. WRONG- It was about 50 degrees and cloudy. Still beats 20 degrees and cloudy.

Time passes.
It’s now 1961, and I’m a brand new 2nd lieutenant on my way to James Connally AFB for 10 months of navigator training. JFK to Dallas on American Airlines 707.  Ooh, a jet. Yay. Now it’s time to go about 100 miles south to Waco and James Connally.

Hello DC-3, AKA C-47, AKA gooney bird. So a gooney bird brought me to my first Air Force active duty assignment.

Time passes again.
It’s now 1969 and I am s senior navigator and an Air Force captain with over 4000 flying hours in C-130 and C-141 aircraft, a true airlfter with global airlift experience (Central America, South America, Europe, Africa, South Atlantic Ocean, and even Asia).
Naturally, I was assigned to Tan Son Nhut AB, to navigate (guess what?) the venerable C-47. The goon and I spent over 1000 hours, 143 recon missions and one year together in lovely Vietnam. Who’d a thunk I would spend that much combat time in the oldest aircraft in the Air Force inventory. Our Squadron nickname was “Antique Airlines”.
Fred MacMurray and Claudette Colbert had “The Egg and I”. I had “The Gooney Bird and I”. Hollywood anyone? Enuf.

These are the life moments when you’re about to start an entirely new adventure or journey and you have great expectations but extremely limited knowledge of how the new journey will end.

Here’s my first one. I’m a street kid from Flushing, Queens, NY. It’s 1961. I just graduated from Brooklyn College with a Bachelors degree in French. Just what you need to prepare for a career as an officer in the United States Air Force.
I was a Distinguished Military Graduate and commissioned 2nd Lieutenant from Brooklyn College Air Force ROTC. Not a mecca of military prowess, like West Point or even The Citadel of South Carolina.

I had orders to report to James Connally AFB, Waco, Texas for Navigator Training, a ten-month assignment.
Several of my college friends accompanied me to JFK International Airport for my flight to Waco.
When I got on that commercial flight to Dallas, TX, the only stop before a final hop-skip to Waco, I was leaving the chaotic, sometimes unfriendly, but always exciting world of the largest city in the US.
I was heading to a tiny city in a big western or southern state, which I knew nothing about.
Waco, Texas. As I climbed down from the little low and slow DC-3 aircraft I rode in on from Dallas, I was amazed to see the sky came all the way to the ground as I turned 360 degrees. Not like New York. (Irony Alert:  about nine years later, I flew over 100 Viet Nam combat missions in the C-47, the military version of that same DC-3)

I was also surprised when strangers actually spoke to me. Howdy. How’s it goin? Etc. (Not exactly like New Yawk) I needed to make my way to James Connally AFB, just 20 minutes away, where I was to be stationed for the next 10 months to earn my coveted navigator wings.
That was the beginning of a 30-year career in the US Air Force, and a rather scary, wonderful moment.

Here’s another one. It’s only three years later. I’m an honest-to- goodness Air Force Navigator. I’m at the Charleston AFB Chapel, standing near the altar with my good friend, Scotty. (yeah, he was my Best Man)
I look toward the rear of the chapel and see a large “EXIT” sign above the rear door. (Scary). The door opens and I see the most beautiful lady in the world come in with her dad. The chapel is full of my best friends from New York, (all 6 of them) looking all swarthy and Mob-esque. On my southern belle fiancée, Marjorie’s side, all the lovely ladies are in pastel colors and all the young men are clean cut and Walton-esque. (more than 6)

OMG. I’m gettin married! The first day of over 60 years and counting. Yes, a wonderful, scary moment.

My final scary, not so wonderful, moment occurred about five years later. Summer, 1969. A large commercial jet, contracted by the Air Force, lands at Tan Son Nhut AB, Republic of Vietnam.
I deplane with about 100 other nervous passengers. My sponsor officer meets me and hands me a flak jacket. He says, “Put it on.” He also asks, “What’s your DEROS?” I don’t remember exactly what that acronym stands for, but it’s your date of return to the US.
I said, “August, 1970”. He retorted, “If my DEROS was August, 1970, I’d slit my wrists.” I said, ”Really, what’s yours?” He answered. “June, 1970 “. LOL
That was my first day of 365 in Vietnam. I returned home safely in about a year after over 100 combat missions and only one rocket attack.
My life has been chock full of “wonderful, scary moments.” These are three that jumped out at me for this story. More later. Enuf

My next example was also from a training exercise in escape and evasion. It was about three years earlier than my first example. I was a senior cadet from Brooklyn College AFROTC. In other words, I didn’t know s—t yet. We were at an Air Force Survival Training Center in Nelsonville, Ohio
It was a night exercise and dark as pitch. Again I brushed aside a large bush. Instead of a beautiful deer, I came face to barrel with a machine gun, manned by my instructor/pursuers.
Luckily it was loaded with blanks. They opened up on me and I think I soiled myself. Yes, I was that scared. I still vividly recall the loud noise and bright light flashes associated with facing a machine gun at point blank range. Lesson learned. Don’t rush into an area, night or day, without checking out what or who may be awaiting.

The next example was what I recall as my coming of age moment. As I said before, my mom was an attractive widow lady who had several gentlemen friends who visited.
One such gentleman had a bit too much to drink before he arrived. It was Christmas time and he had been celebrating. I was at home in a different room. But remember, this is New York. Apartments are small.
I couldn’t help but notice their conversation was a bit loud and they weren’t happy with each other. I also noted his language was quite abusive in my rather young judgment. I entered the room they were in and stated, “ Frank, I think you’d better leave. You’ve had too much to drink and should go home. “. Let’s see. He was about 6’2” and 250 lbs. I was about 5’7” and 150. In other woids ( New York lingo). He coulda killed me.
Instead, he looked at my mom and asked,” What do you say?” She said,”You heard him. “. And made my buttons pop. He was not a murderer, so he left. I’ve remembered that moment for 69 years.
My last example for this writing was when I turned 18. That’s when young men got their draft cards and were considered adults, even though our heads were still full of mush. We knew very little.
But, with a draft card, you could buy booze. I was working part time at the Post Office, so I had a little money. I gingerly entered a liquor store and bought a pint of Imperial whiskey, so my mom could fix herself a “ high ball”. That was an occasional splurge for her and I was proud to be able to do that.
I think it’s a bit unique for a young son to see that as a memorable life moment. It just sort of explains the unique mother/son relationship we had as survivors in the Big Bad City. Enuf for now.

In every person’s life there are dates or events that leave an indelible mark; and that shape their life opinions, beliefs, and very personalities.
Those are dates for which everyone remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing when the event occurred

For me, those dates are November 22, 1963; September 11, 2001; September 21, 1989 and September 21, 2000. The assassination of my beloved President John F Kennedy; the horrific terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in the heart of New York City; the date Hurricane Hugo hit my home at Charleston, South Carolina; and, very personally for me, the date of my first and worst heart attack, which thank God and the great doctors of Roper Hospital, I survived. Those dates are not in chronological order cause I wanted to keep you awake LOL.

This post will focus on my perceptions
and personal impacts of Hurricane Hugo, a catastrophic, Cat 4 hurricane as it hit my new home of Charleston AFB.

Marjorie and I arrived at Charleston AFB in early September, 1989. We had come from a long eight-year assignment at Scott AFB in Illinois. I was to be the new Deputy Commander for Resource Management (RM). I reported to the Wing Commander with oversight responsibilities for Finance, Supply, Surface Transportation and Logistics Plans.
We moved into our house on base without our mostly grown children. Christine was living in Oblong, Illinois. Jim was recently married to his beautiful bride, Kiersten and was either on his way or already in Seattle, starting his career with Boeing. Jeffrey was in Columbia starting at the University of South Carolina.
We hadn’t yet unpacked all our boxes and I was learning my new job and meeting my team. We had some early reports of a major storm in the Atlantic aiming at the east US coast. Not an immediate threat.
Our own Wing meteorologist then said we were in the potential strike area, so we started our countdown for preparation. When the storm became named Hurricane Hugo, we were very much in the cone of probable impact. That was about September 14, one week from impact.
Our preparation included evacuating all operational aircraft out of Charleston. By a few days prior to impact, which was now certain, our wing was effectively operating airlift missions from Lockbourne AFB, Columbus, Ohio. Non-operational aircraft were hangared in relatively safe environs.
On the day prior to impact, Senator Thurmond called my wing commander and told him to make sure the planes were evacuated. We chuckled silently, of course, at the Senator’s attempt to run an Air Wing from the halls of Congress. He was pleased to learn we had taken care of that detail.
By the time Hugo hit us, the entire base was battened down, including our house, but none of us even imagined the devastation that was about to occur.

The morning of September 21 was eerily quiet. It was cloudy, but no rain yet. Not much wind either. What storm? People were still racing to get needed supplies. Some family members evacuated inland to escape the storm. Several went up north to Charlotte, NC.
They didn’t expect the damn storm to follow them and dump rain and 80 mph winds on them in Charlotte. OMG. Marjorie decided to stay with me and weather the storm at Charleston AFB. I’m sure glad she did.
I provided all support possible to my Supply and Transportation squadron commanders, Comptroller, Contracting Officer and Chief of Plans to batten down. I then closed up my office and went home to my wife at about 5 PM.
It was raining and a bit windy, but the whole base was eerily quiet cause everybody was either gone or ensconced in their homes.
The TV was still on and I recall the announcer say “If you haven’t left yet, stay put. It’s too late to venture out”.
In answer to the question, “What should we do, then?” The announcer said “Pray”. Not a good sign.
By 9 PM I thought I’d better move my chair and me away from the window a bit. By 11PM, Marjorie, me and our dog, Teddi, were huddled in a small hallway with bedroom doors closed. We were hoping and praying our house would not collapse upon us. We experience the eerie feeling of negative pressure and it was like living in a vacuum cleaner.
I then did something that seemed right, but was incredibly stupid. I heard a window break in our bedroom. My goodness, water will get in. I must do something. I know; I’ll get a big sheet and put it over the broken window. Not smart. When I held the sheet up near the window in 100 mph wind. It became a sail and almost pulled me through the wall. Glass was blowing all over. I quickly dropped the sheet got the hell outta the room and closed the door. Smart move.
At about 2AM it got very quiet. Several of our neighbors and I went outside and looked up at stars in the sky. Wow! We were in the eye of the hurricane. It was eerily clear and calm, but we knew it was short lived. Someone called it “halftime”. We went back in the house and waited for the winds to pick up to over 100mph again, but from the opposite direction. As sure as shootin, that’s what happened. We took about 4 more hours of battering wind and rain, until about 6am.
My car ride at about 6AM down to Base Operations and the Crisis Action Center was reminiscent of Berlin at the end of WW2. The base looked like it had been bombed all night.
As I sat with the wing commander and senior staff at the Crisis action Team, everyone’s eyes looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. We hadn’t slept much and didn’t immediately know what to do. Enter a Wing Disaster Check List. Planning ahead sure helps. I raised my immediate concern. I stated I expect a phone call from Command Headquarters shortly. They will ask me, as the money man, “What’s the number?” What’s the estimated cost to recover? That’s the number they will ask for. Don’t try to raise that number after the ask. So you better ask for enough. With the extensive research of my drive to the Ops Center, I said about $50 million dollars. ( Remember, it was 1989). That’s what we got to recover Charleston AFB.
It can be said, so I’ll say it. The actual experience of the hurricane is certainly frightening, but it’s also a rush of possibly deadly excitement.
On the other hand, the recovery is a tedious, frustrating, horrible experience of seemingly endless hard, boring work.
We were without power for at least 3 weeks. Grilling outside and candlelight dinners every night got old fast.

By the way, my Air Force life didn’t pause while we recovered from Hugo.
In December, 1989, our wing was part of the Panama conflict, rescuing that country from the tyranny of the thug, Noriega. Then, 8 months later, we were part of the Persian Gulf War , rescuing Kuwait from an invasion from Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. My final career assignment at Charleston AFB 1989-1991 was certainly a busy one. I earned my keep.

The tedious recovery from Hugo had some very positive effects. Charleston AFB never looked better by late 1990. Almost every building that suffered damage underwent major repair and remodeling.
Downtown Charleston, that was nearly destroyed by Hugo, also got a new look by 1991, even though some reconstruction and repair was still in progress. The condo I bought was still a work in process when I obtained it in September, 1991. We are still living there in September, 2024. Yep, that’s 33 years. Enuf

From 1965 to 1967, at the height of the Vietnam conflict, I served as a C-141 Starlifter navigator. That aircraft, the C-141, is the first unsung hero of this posting. A typical C-141 mission started right here at Charleston AFB with high priority cargo destined for Vietnam. The 141 and cargo would steadily continue to Nam, with only breaks to refuel and perhaps, change aircrews. It would arrive at its Nam destination in a couple days. Our aircrew would crew rest as necessary and probably change aircraft several times.
After we offloaded our cargo in Nam, a ground crew would often reconfigure the C-141 into an aeromedical evacuation aircraft for its flight back to the US. It could carry over 100 litter (medevac lingo for “laying down”) and/or ambulatory patients. The C-141 aeromedical evacuation system could take a critically burned soldier from the Vietnam hellhole to the Brooke Army Medical Center, San Antonio, the premier burn hospital in the US, in two to three days. That system, featuring our unsung C-141, saved countless US lives from 1965 until the war ended in 1975.
Of course, the 100+ combined litter and ambulatory patients required medical care during the quick but arduous route to a premier US hospital. Enter our second unsung hero of this true story, the Air Force flight nurse.
She (remember it’s 1965-67) would, many times, be the top level of medical care for those 100+ patients. There was rarely a doctor aboard. I was continually awed by their professionalism, poise, strength, and quality of care they gave to those hero patients. They were true “angels” of the air.
My favorite monument at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC is the sculpture honoring the Nurse Corps. It is a nurse tending to a wounded soldier and it is in a pose eerily similar to Michelangelo’s wonderful “Pieta”.
I can’t think of a more fitting honor to our unsung hero, the Air Force flight nurse. Enuf.

”This is a f—d up war. But it’s the only war we got.” That is a quote I heard many times in my early career with the US Air Force. Undoubtedly, combat experience can enhance a military career. After all, that’s what the military is all about. In my 30-year Air Force career, I spent only one year, 1969-1970, in actual flying combat. I was assigned as an EC-47 navigator in a combat recon role, at Tan Son Nhut AB near Saigon. I was well recognized by the Air Force for my service that year. A Distinguished Flying Cross and four Air Medals, among other service medals, were far more than enough for me.
However, saying I only served one year in Vietnam, though true, totally understates the impact of Vietnam for me.
As a matter of fact, Vietnam was the central focus of my Air Force service for far more than that one year. Let’s talk about 1963-1973.
My first experience in spring, 1963, was a classified airlift mission to a place I never heard of called Danang. I was the C-130 navigator. Not many folks knew we had a presence there. We landed on a PSP runway (kinda temporary), and were met by a green beret officer, who oversaw the cargo being unloaded. On the ground less than an hour, then off to the safe environs of Clark AB, Philippines. The pace of Vietnam airlift missions continuously increased to the point in 1965 at which, we had a continuous flow of C-130 then C-141 (bigger and faster) missions from Charleston to Alaska to Japan then to somewhere in southeast Asia. That continued for me until I left Charleston AFB in late 1967 for Ohio State University where I was assigned to earn my MBA in about 1 and 1/2 years and then serve at least 6 more years in Air Force financial management. BUT. Not until I paid my dues with a one year tour at Tan Son Nhut in reconnaissance. Yay.
So—- I survived my year in Nam, returning stateside in summer 1970, to a place called the Air Force Accounting and Finance Center (AFAFC) at 3800 York Street in Denver, Colorado. You see, navigation and financial management have much in common. We both make a detailed plan and then deviate from it.
What do you think my specific job was at AFAFC? Managing the pay accounts of over 300 MIA and POW Air Force members in Vietnam. So Nam was still my primary focus for another 3 years.
One of the proudest periods of my career was to be involved with Operation Homecoming, the return of our POWs from Vietnam, in 1973. The Air Force finance world I was a part of met and briefed every returning POW on their pay and how we helped their family during their absence. With very few exceptions, the feedback from them was extremely positive. They had heard through their POW grapevine that the Air Force was managing their pay and working closely with their families to ensure pay was not a matter of concern. I’m so glad I could be a part of that. Enuf.

Congressional records indicate over 2.7 million Americans served in uniform in Vietnam. Did all of them serve an entire year in country? I dunno. I do know that I did; specifically June, 1969 to June 1970.
All who served a one-year tour were entitled to a one week vacation with a significant other, about half way through the tour. This was called R and R (Rest and Relaxation). Destinations included Hawaii, Hong Kong, and Australia.
I was anxious to tell my wife, Marjorie, the planned dates as soon as I knew them. I also asked for dates more than half way through so I would only have a short time before coming back to the “world” after R and R.
So—- I wrote Marjorie a letter with my planned dates for our romantic R and R. She wrote back. “Oh that’s great , but is it possible to move it back a week. I’ve got tickets to a Roger Williams concert that week “. Of course, her request was logical. Roger Williams, for you young folks, was a great, popular pianist and showman of our time.
So I spent one extra week in the combat zone before R and R so Marjorie could see Roger Williams. What a nice husband am I. (LOL)
R and R in Hawaii was absolutely wonderful. We stayed at The Ilikai, a grand hotel made famous as the opening scene of TV’s “Hawaii Five O” with the star, Jack Lord, standing on one of its balconies. “Look it up, young people”. We went sailing, attended a luau, did the hula, ate and drank a bunch, enjoyed Waikiki Beach ,and loved each other for a super memorable week.
We also learned a valuable lesson. While there, we saw many, many elderly visitors with serious mobility issues and not able to truly enjoy a visit to Hawaii.
We decided definitely to do everything we could to make our “bucket list” items happen before we were too old to fully enjoy them.
Our low cash available and relatively high credit card balances over our healthy, younger years are evidence we tried to follow our own advice.
After a “mahvelous” week in beautiful HawIi, we tearfully parted, but I only had three months or so to do in Nam. We could do that “standing on our heads”. With God’s good grace, I returned safely home to my wonderful family in a Short three months. Enuf