A good friend who flew close combat missions in A-4’s out of Chu Lai in 1967 and 1968 recently sent me a copy of a fellow Marine’s recollections of Vietnam which I wanted to pass along to you with my recall of that experience. His descriptions offer a capsule summary of an aspect of the war that is rarely mentioned – the sensory observations- the sights, sounds, and smells indigenous to that country at that time.
Other than memories of the actual daily duties of fighting a war, anyone who spent time in that SE Asia theater has certain “sensory” memories of of South Vietnam that have stuck with them for over 50 years- namely, the foreign sights, sounds, and smells. Some of these were indelibly imprinted in their mind, others may have remained subliminal. The exposure to a foreign environment under wartime conditions offered a unique experience to the sights, sounds and smells of that country, that is if you paused or had time to reflect. That may have been difficult if someone was shooting at you, and in many cases, sensory events probably were not registered at that time when preoccupied with the mission at hand, but become pleasant to recall years later.
Some are worthwhile memories of an otherwise not a warm and fuzzy story- South Vietnam in the 1960’s. Think about your pleasant memories. I’ll recount his and mine.
This Marine who related his impressive recollections obviously spent time in the boonies while I spent time on flight lines as a flight surgeon. Needless to say, the experience was vastly different. His recollections jogged my memory of past personal events, some no more than subliminal background noise at that time. But, thinking back five decades later about my sensory experience I found it was indeed unique, just as his were remarkably special.
The sights, sounds and smells of South Vietnam varied with one’s military assignment obviously. Only a little over one in five faced actual combat duty while the others played a support role. This Marine fought in the jungles and rain forests while my squadron air evac’ed the wounded. I found his recollections moving and heartfelt.
I will recount them here in abbreviated bullet form and leave his name anonymous. I think you will agree this Marine captured some memorable highlights. I suspect he was attached to Special Forces if he was across the fence in Laos. Other touching observations indicate he spent time as well in Vietnam.
– The heat, humidity and dust interspersed between the monsoons.
– Standing on a mountain top in Laos hearing a tiger roar
– Elephants moving silently through the tall grass named after them
– The smell of Nuoc Mam (fish sauce)
– Hard eyes behind the servile smile of villagers.
– A young girl squeezing my hand while my medic delivered her baby
– The choking blue exhaust of cycles clogging the streets
– If you heard the gun’s retort, he missed
To his experience, I’ll add my own:
– The smell of pork fries and fried rice of a street vendor in Saigon
– The flowing Ao Dai of an attractive young Asian woman biking down Dun Tran Hung in Saigon
– The ubiquitous “White Mice,” Saigon’s police force in their air force sunglasses.
– Street vendors hawking their goods, bartering non stop against the traffic noise.
– Buddhist Monks with shaved heads dressed in their orange robes
– Tanks and military vehicles in downtown Saigon competing with vehicles of every description
– Jets roaring by overhead
To these observations above I’d like to add an excerpt from my historical narrative, RECALL. The scene takes place on the flight line at Tan Son Nhut airbase outside Saigon and features one of my lead characters, Roe MacDonald, who relates his impressions of Vietnam…. The sensory sensations he experienced were typical to flyers and gives you an idea what it was like over there fifty years ago on the flight line.
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Captain Roe MacDonald
Tan Son Nhut (TSN)
AB Flight Line
MACV Command Post, 7th Air Force HQ
CTZ III, 0540 Hours
Wth the rising sun, the stifling humidity picked up at the strategic airbase four miles north of Saigon. Steam rose from the Tan Son Nhut (TSN) tarmac. Soon, it would be like a sauna on the flight line. It was already ninety- two degrees with eighty-eight percent humidity.
The everpresent smell of freshly burnt JP- 4 aircraft diesel permeated the mugginess with a smell of kerosene. The pungent odor competed with the strong smell of mosquito repellent recently sprayed near Papa San’s flight line café. Neither smell encouraged an appetite. Fortunately, pleasant whiffs of breakfast cooking on Papa San’s grill made it tolerable for the flyers short respite.
It made Captain Roe MacDonald long for a breath the fresh salt air, the aroma of the Chesapeake Bay where he’d grown up. Though humid in August, it never got this uncomfortable back home. Not even close. He fought back a brief wave of nostalgia. Reverie must wait.
The captain had a job to do, with no time to reminisce. He wiped the sweat from his brow. His olive- drab nylon 86th MAC flight suit was already damp from perspiration, and salt stains caked the armpits. The flight surgeon had just joined his crew for breakfast at Papa San’s small flight- line café … nothing fancy, but suitable for a quick bite for those on a tight schedule. No time to be picky on short breaks between missions. He’d be back in the air in an hour or so. Time to chow down.
Loud Beatles music blared from Papa Sans’ radio tuned to his favorite station. The AFVN “Goooood Morning Vietnam” station pumped out GI favorites. He tried daily to drown out the sound of ramp compressors. They continuously pumped air to assist the APU’s cranking up the engines of large United States Air Force (USAF) transport planes parked nearby. The rotary- prop whomp- whomp of choppers coming and going overhead added to the constant noise. TSN was a busy 24/7 operation, and the racket on the ramp drove Papa San crazy.
Roe’s squadron’s C- 130 aircraft had landed forty minutes before, arriving from the Philippines’ Clark AB loaded with ammo and 81mm mortars. The loadmaster and his airmen busily reconfigured the cargo turbo jet for air evacuation missions after unloading the munitions. A normal routine for the military airlift command (MAC) crews: flying back and forth to the war zone, ammo in, wounded out, a day- after- day grind encountering just enough VC ground fire to break the tedium. Vietnam was a lot of things, but never boring.
Making that case, the sudden squawk of the café’s walky-talky intercom suddenly interrupted their meal and animated chatter.
“Attention all crew members, Pleiku is under siege. Hundreds wounded. Half of base hospital blown up. Your new 86th MAC orders are to proceed immediately to Pleiku with as many medics and medical supplies as possible. Assault- landing precautions advisable. Stay above fifteen hundred feet on approach to avoid small arms fire. No known enemy anti- aircraft capability. Pleiku’s runway intact, but many aircraft disabled and on fire. Take due caution. Out.”
“Jesus! No fucking let-up in this Godforsaken place,” one pilot bitched.
“Let’s roll guys. Move it out,” another said as he took a last gulp of coffee, crushed his cigarette, and rushed to file the new flight plan at base ops.
After drafting anyone around the flight line with a modicum of medical experience available on such short notice, the crew was airborne in less than thirty minutes.
They did not request F-100 Super Sabers from the 531st Squadron stationed at the nearby Bien Hoa AB’s Third TAC Fighter Wing to escort their C- 130 Hercules turbojets full of medical supplies and personnel. They were assured of a safe arrival at the besieged recon base in the northern highlands. The nearest MiG was 500 miles away in North Vietnam, and there were no VC anti- aircraft guns reported en route. They would face no danger until descending under fifteen hundred feet on approach to land at Pleiku, then ground fire might get dicey.
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Did you enjoy that excerpt? If you on looking for a good story with a historical background and more stories like that one, read my novel, RECALL.
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