Suzanne Rice

     Getting home was a full-time goal in July 1971.  It was on what I concentrated my thoughts and days.  I found out that I could get a “drop” of two days if I was able to get the direct flight from Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut airbase to McGuire in New Jersey.  There would be no need for another civilian flight from the west coast.  Battalion arranged it and I left early.

     We were flown from Phu Bai by C-130 to Saigon — my first and only visit to the capital.  It was a different Vietnam and seemed quite secure.  Troops were in Khakis and the roads were bustling.  We were billeted in barracks much like arrival at Long Binh as I recall and had a whole new out processing again that took several days – mostly because we all had to undergo drug tests.  If you failed, you were extended to rehab as the Army did not want to return current addicts to the states.  Some troops were a bit anxious as we waited the test results.

    We also were able to purchase new uniforms and put our ribbons together.  The climate played hell with mold and mildew on the stuff we brought with us.  I had several awards to which I was entitled.  Of course, I had the US Bronze Star medal with “V” for valor and Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Silver Star for Lam San 719 which I was proud to have.  Interestingly, I would later get the citations for each.  According to the US citation, I cleared numerous enemy mines – most all were Marine mines.  And the Vietnamese apparently divided the killed enemy and weapons captured in an operation among medal recipients – I got credit for 37 kills but killed no one I knew of in the operation. 

     I also had another Bronze Star and Army Commendation Medal from the division for service in a combat zone.  These two were called “roster awards” in the division.  If you kept yourself clean and alive for six months you got the Commendation Medal, for ten months the Bronze Star – they were for honorable service in the combat area and issued by roster lists — I did not think too much of them.  I also got the US Vietnam Service Ribbon and the Vietnam Campaign Medal for the same thing – being there.  I was really glad not to have a Purple Heart, but so very respectful and proud of those who did.  The guys next to me got hit, but for some reason God spared me.

     The third medal I was proud of was an Air Medal award.  In WWII you received an air medal after 30 combat missions in an aircraft (like B-29 missions over Germany).  In the airmobile Army, you got one for 30 combat assault helicopter flights.  Pilots and crews had dozens of awards – many oak leaf clusters.  All you had to do is keep track of the CAs (combat assaults) you were on.  LTC Rodolph’s staff had turned our officers on to the recognition and submitted our guys when we hit 30.  I had one award.

     I want to make something clear about military awards.  I was around some very brave men – men who acted without regard to their own lives and in defense of their buddies.  Sometimes, they get recognized with a medal because someone else takes the time to recommend them and write the justification.  That did not always happen because of time or circumstance.  With the exception of LTC Rodolph’s Silver Star, all the valor awards I saw awarded were earned – Chaplain Young’s stands out.  I guess service awards are for doing your job.  Not sure where that ends and exceptional effort begins.  There were a lot of exceptional and brave guys in Vietnam without many military awards.

     Anyway, we finally left Saigon on a commercial airliner and the cheer was deafening as the plane took off. 

We again flew for hours through Japan and across the polar ice cap.  I remember how beautiful the Great Lakes were from 35,000 feet. 

     We arrived at the New Jersey airbase and processed through customs.  I had no souvenir weapons or stuff, and my jungle fatigues and gear were taken from me at Saigon.  The customs agent at the base was very nice and he said, “Welcome home, Captain.”  That was my first greeting.

     Several family members met other troopers, but I knew I would be alone.  I had hoped to surprise Mary Ellen with my early return and planned to take a bus to New York and another to Teaneck.  She knew a “drop” was possible, but I still thought I could surprise her.  She knew the plane was down and I had returned.  In those days information was given out readily.

     I took the bus to New York’s Port Authority Building in Manhattan.  I was in clean Khakis with my ribbons and carrying my B4 bag.

To most everyone I was invisible.  Several in the station did look at me and then quickly away – one hippie- type spit in my general direction.  Homecoming was not so welcoming an affair from many of my countrymen.  On the bus to New Jersey, I sat near the driver — nice guy.  We passed some girls in hot pants (real short, tight pants) that had become popular while I was away.  I stared and he said, “Well, soldier, some things have gotten better.”  I agreed. 

     I got off the bus at Queen Anne Road and Cedar Lane as I recall and walked the several blocks to Grayson Place.  My pace quickened with each step, and I hoped that Mary Ellen and Sean would be home.  I rang the doorbell and her Mom answered.  I walked in and Mary Ellen leaped at me from the kitchen.  She was wearing a yellow hot pants outfit and I thought she never looked more beautiful – lucky guy I was, indeed.  We kissed and held each other like there was no tomorrow, and her parents retreated to the kitchen.

      Sean was not there.  Anne Marie and Kathy, Mary Ellen’s sisters, had taken him out for a walk in his carriage.  Soon they returned and I held him for the first time in my life.  What a feeling!

     After some calls to my folks and an evening together, we traveled the next day to Port Chester to see my Mom and Dad.  While the year had been hard on Mary Ellen and me, I really did not appreciate the tough time I had put my parents, brothers, and sister through.  We all enjoyed the reunion. 

     One of our neighbors down the street had penned a makeshift sign and put it on the lawn.  All it said was “Welcome Back Capt Murphy.”

This is the final chapter of a seventeen-part series, entitled “Pop’s War”, written originally for and dedicated to the Murphy grandchildren.

The time passed quickly as we finished the fortifications on Rifle and prepared a turnover to the ARVN.  The attack we had weathered was apparently more than an isolated action.  We were told that several firebases had been hit throughout Vietnam that night in some kind of celebration of Ho Chi Minh’s birthday month.  We seemed to have the fewest killed and division was happy about that, but we used a shitload of ordinance to get only seven confirmed kills.  They were not happy with that.

     My relationship with the men was very good and we had deepened our bond a little more.  You know the line about “he who sheds his blood with me” from Shakespeare and the Band of Brothers thing.  However, with another eight new guys about a third of the platoon turned over.  I try to recall their names.  I can see their faces, but maybe it was a defense thing that we just cannot remember each other.  The constant turnover contributed to the “detachment” I fear.  The WWII 101^st “Band of Brothers” went through training together and fought together for less than a year (Jun 44-May 45).   But they were kept together.

Anyway, other than my classmates, I really never saw any of my guys again.  That may be why my class from West Point is so cohesive – we trained, fought, and served together for many years.

     On 4 June 1971 there was a rather large promotion ceremony at the 326^th Engineers.  All the Class of 1969 made Captain.  The Army was hurting for officers at almost all levels.  We were one year to 1^st LT and one year to Captain.  (I would get an “early” promotion to Major seven years later in the drawn down volunteer Army – the end of the war really slowed promotions.)  Tours were very short in company command (six months) and even battalion command (one year).  Cohesive was not a term to describe any unit. 

     In any case, we had to move up – that meant leaving the platoon.  I think (rank of or description of) SFC Tietz was actually glad – he now could take it over without an officer “in the way.”  I still worked at Rifle for a while.

     On one afternoon LTC Rodolph landed and inspected the base.  It was a good inspection, and he was very pleased with our product and actions.  At this time, I was close to the men and had the same thoughts as they – get home and get out.  The Colonel offered me a chance at company command.  I would get a 30 day stateside leave but have to extend for another six months back in country.  He argued how great that would be for my career.  I told him as strongly as I could that my only “career” move was to get home to Mary Ellen and Sean. 

     He also held a 101^st Airborne Association membership form and an AUSA membership form.  He wanted 100% of his officers enrolled and had noticed I had not joined.  I told him I was in the field and not particularly interested – my Company Commander had not been very successful in his recruitment attempt.  He held an excellent Officer Efficiency Report in his hand and the applications in the other.  He told me I should not waste my efforts in-country with a silly mistake of not joining.  I joined – but became even more certain I was getting out of his Army ASAP.

      He did ask if I liked my next assignment (he was the former head of Engineer branch in DC) and I told him I really would have liked Ft Carson, but that Bragg and the airborne were fine.  He smiled.

     LTC Rodolph turned over command to LTC Sisniak in June.  LTC Sisniak was a good guy, but I was with him only a short time.  LTC Rodolph was quite an egotist, but also quite effective and with no lack of courage.  I think he just was feeling badly that this war placed him away from the action, and he longed to be a part of it.  I ran into him in Hawaii in 1978.  He was the head facility engineer in Oahu and I was in the Pacific Ocean Division of the Corps.  He had a beautiful home on the north shore, never made flag rank, and did his military retirement there. He passed in New Mexico in 2007.

     My duties in late June and July were as the executive officer of C Company, over slotted as a Captain in a 1LT position.  I ran the admin for the company and visited the platoon from time to time.  One duty had to do with “C Day” as I recall.

     In Vietnam the troops were not paid in US Dollars, but MPC (Military Payment Certificates) or script.  Most of your pay was in allotment home or to an in-country GI savings account.  Congress did not tax your pay while in a combat zone.  You drew MPC enough to buy sodas, PX items, haircuts (in the field we had a kit used by a designated trooper), etc.  The troops were not supposed to buy directly from the locals, but they did (prostitution, drugs, etc.)  Some guys made money gambling or selling drugs.

     To thwart these black-market dealings, we would have a C Day in-country.  A very highly classified day when in a 24-hour period all MPC would be exchanged for new MPC making the old stuff as useful as monopoly money.  There was a limit on how much a troop could exchange.  Bases were sealed and the exchange done.  Needless to say, a whole new market on exchange rates occurred.  Some ladies would even try to get through the wire to cash in old stuff.  If a troop was over his limit, only an officer’s affidavit explaining the overage allowed exchange – usual reason was gambling winnings.

     Anyway, for some reason, I got to bring the new MPC to our Camp Evans guys.  Also, for some reason, I could not get a bird and that meant driving there through Hue and up QL1 with all that “new” money.  That was a cool ride and passed the local university.  Different kind of ladies and gents at the university area – the traditional white dress over black outfits and conical hats you see in some movies.  Also, the girls of mixed race (mostly French-Vietnamese) were quite pretty and my driver liked the trip. 

     As we got near the bridge over the Perfume River in downtown Hue a firefight broke out between the National Police and troops of the 1^st ARVN Div.  Some kind of local dust up I supposed.  We sat back a ways and watched.  Several hundreds of rounds were fired – and not a single person hit.  Then things calmed down and traffic resumed. 

     This reminded me of an earlier trip in my tour.  I was traveling through a village south of Hue and traffic was heavy.  It was just me and my driver and we were stopped.  Just then a “slicky boy” and a compatriot rushed our jeep and literally ripped my watch off my arm.  He ran down a small street.  It was the watch Mary Ellen had given me as a wedding present and I was pissed.  I got out, charged my M16, and took a good aim at the running kid, about 12 years old or so.  I was contemplating firing when he looked back right down the barrel line and then threw down the watch.  My driver jumped out and charged his weapon.  The locals all were quite amused, to include the National Police officer in the crowd.  We moved our weapons back and forth and the laughter subsided a bit, and I walked over and picked up my watch.  The boy had literally run out of his sandals.  My driver picked them up and threw them in the jeep and we drove off as traffic had subsided.  We did not think much of the people that day.

     In the last few days in-country, I started to get short-timers syndrome.  I just did not want to get hit or killed with less than 30 days remaining.  So it was with some trepidation that I delivered the pay to our firebases.  Since Rifle had a road, I was to use a jeep again.  Driving that road and country where we had fought some skirmishes was kind of rewarding.  The road was quite passable now and there had been no action for some time.  We went alone with just me and my driver.

     We passed the last section of flatland and went through the low-water crossing.  We were aware of the reoccurring rumors of supposed NVA infiltrating in ARVN uniforms.  As we passed the crossing, we saw four ARVN uniformed troops with no gear crouching on the side of the road.  They saw us, stood up, smiled, and waved.  This was a bad sign for several reasons.  First ARVN troops were usually indifferent to US troops at best, and second soldiers were never totally without weapons and gear.  We smiled, waved, and hit the gas.  I reported this when we got to the hill.  No ARVN were supposed to be in the area.  Anyway, the trip back was a bit tense.

     My other duties were with the “problem” guys.  Vietnam took a terrible toll on the young men who served.  I estimated at the time that over 70% of troops had at least tried coke or marijuana with about 25% having a problem kicking it.  The gooks sold it at $2 a cap and things were bad in the rear areas.  The Army would fight this scourge for years.  Those discharged basically had to fend for themselves in the civilian world.  When we returned there was not much help for Vets in general and almost none for addicts.

     Other guys were really not supported from back home much at all.  Several got the standard “Dear Johns” as absence did not make the heart grow fonder.  Typical was my driver in the platoon.  He was a good man and my cohort at the Khe Sanh night mine sweep.  But he was all of 19 and had a 17-year-old wife at home (shot gun wedding before he deployed or face statutory rape charges from his father-in-law).  Anyway, she was running around and filed for divorce.  He was crushed – I had no idea what to do or say.

     The lack of communication back home was so hard to take – not knowing.