3G  LUCK AND SURVIVABILITY 12/69

When I first arrived in Vietnam, I never thought that luck would play a part in my return to the States alive.  As my rotation date was nearing, I began to think increasingly about my skirmishes with death and how lucky I had been during the year.  Even during my last two weeks in-country, I had incidents where luck had somehow saved my life, but unfortunately had cost the life of another soldier.  The random death of this soldier helped seal my decision to not extend my tour of duty in Vietnam, and to ultimately leave the Army.  As much as I liked to glorify being a soldier—the killing had finally begun to affect me, as death was always by my side.
I had spent nine out of my twelve-month tour living in the field—to this day I have never regretted it.  If, instead, I had spent those months in a large base camp, it may have appeared safer.  But you still had to endure the almost daily rocket or mortar attacks timed to inflict the maximum amount of U.S. casualties, and routinely accomplished during the morning reveille.

On one of my last days at Tay Ninh base camp, I got a call that I needed to sign some more release papers at brigade headquarters.  I decided to walk there and was joined by another short timer with the same needs.  About halfway there, the brigade signal officer caught up to me to discuss radio problems we were having at brigade, and I wound up going back there with him to correct the problem.  I hopped a ride back to the communications shack, and totally forgot about my paperwork.  Later that night, I found out that the sergeant I had been walking with was seriously wounded about five minutes after I had left him on the road.  The Viet Cong had randomly fired two 82mm mortar rounds into our camp, and a piece of shrapnel had hit him in his chest.

The next incident occurred a few days later, about an hour before my trip back to Saigon, and eventually to the states.  While I was waiting for my helicopter ride, a supply truck stopped by and the driver offered everyone a ride to the PX to kill time, as our helicopter ride was delayed due to weather-related problems.  Several of the waiting men jumped aboard the truck, but I wasn’t about to miss my flight, so I declined the offer.  Ten minutes had passed before I heard the explosion, then the sirens.  I saw the plume of smoke rising from the direction of the PX but thought nothing of it.  At the PX the truck driver had made a fatal mistake by staying with his truck while waiting for his passengers to return.  That morning the Vietcong had only fired one rocket at our camp, but it had accomplished its mission.  The Russian 122mm rocket impacted next to the truck, killing the waiting driver instantly.  When the men returned from the PX and told me the details about what had just occurred, I felt my vulnerability had just reached another level; I was having doubts as to whether I would beat death and make it home alive.

My last twenty-four hours in Vietnam were spent in and out of bunkers – and I must admit that unlike the other men on the “Freedom Bird,” I had never really relaxed after departing Vietnam until the wheels of the aircraft touched down in California, when I knew for sure that our aircraft couldn’t be shot down.  The very first thing I did after departing the aircraft was to drop to my knees and kiss the ground – Glad to be alive and going home!