1970's glimpse of Long Island and Vietnam

Life from the U.S Post Office to Cam Rahn Bay in Vietnam

About photo: Of the 4000 Military working dogs that served in Vietnam, 281 were killed in action and only 190 war dogs were returned to the United States. The rest were euthanized or died of natural causes. How these dogs were treated is a stain upon the U.S. military and especially the leaders. They saved and estimated 10,000 service members from death. By alerting their handlers in advance to imminent danger inflicted countless casualties on the enemy. The Viet Cong respected the dogs abilities to the extent they placed a bounty on each dog killed. These animals also provided a measure of humanity to those soldiers lives they touched.

My dog Giant, A905, was destroyed at Cam Ranh Bay for no other reason he was excess equipment. It haunts me to this day.

Chapter 3 Vietnam    It was late in the summer of 1970 my life was about to take an abrupt turn. I had been in the US Post Office for almost 4 years. Despite some early missteps, I had moved up in the pecking order from Temporary Indefinite Substitute to Career Substitute. In Post Office parlance I had a lifetime job. I was officially a government hack. The next step in the progression was career carrier and my own permanent city route. Pauline and I were happily married, my father in law had the son he never had, and I had a father surrogate to replace the early loss of my own dad. We were living downstairs in his house paying a decent rent and helping him with the routine maintenance. It was not exactly the Walton’s, there was to be sure tension at times, but it was more than comfortable. My brother Rick was living with us. He was in main living area, with Bill, Marty and Francine. With 3 different families living together there was always something going on.

John, my brother, had been talking to me for quite some time about the advantages of working for a union. He was very pro-union and was gung ho for the company he worked for, American District Telegraph or ADT as it was more commonly known. John who was never shy about voicing his opinion thought the Post Office was a half assed dead end job and that a better career path for me was at ADT. The company was a leader in the installation of security and sprinkler systems in commercial buildings and exclusive residential homes that time. John was doing very well there and made a rather persuasive case for the change.

Up until this time the selective service was more of a nuisance than anything else. While I did not have guardianship of my brother, my sister did, that circumstance and my position in the USPO seemed to shield me from a lot of harassment. That was all about to change in ways I could not imagine.  So, in July 0f 1970 I said adieu to the P.O and started working as an electrical apprentice reporting each day Farmingdale NY out on the island. My pay was significantly cut as an apprentice you would not make real money until you became a journeymen which took about 4 years.

My first couple of days would start in at around 7:30AM at the regional office, filling out paperwork, learning policy and procedures and being introduced to various people. Management wanted to assign me to a crew so some of the time was spent trying to look busy waiting around for job, assignment which could take 45mins or so. Many of the crews went directly to the jobs, but in my case I was under a short leash, and the boss wanted to assign me to the “right crew” for on the job training being John was my brother. The guys during these waits drank coffee told insider jokes, most of which I did not get and played grab ass. At last, I was assigned to a 3 person crew for the next phase of my training.  This particular job was some distance away on Northern Blvd, toward NYC, near Manhasset at the Castro Convertible furniture warehouse. By the time we arrived it was about 9:30 or 10AM, so being a union shop, obviously, it was just in time for the coffee break. We might have actually started work around 10:20 or so. The labor lasted about an hour or so and then there was break for lunch. The guys would kid around with each other, being new I kept my mouth shut. Some of the humor was more racist than I cared for. I do not mind a Polish or Jewish joke or black joke occasionally and would tell some myself, but these were more visceral and mean. Every office or worksite has it’s own tempo and pace and you learn to adapt. This seemed alien to me.  Around 12:30 or 1PM we would resume work.  Around 2:30 or so take a break for a half an hour or so and then at 4:30 or so quit for the day. The supervision was minimal, it was all on the job training with no classroom instruction of any kind at least at that point.  The journey man would say tie off the black on black wire and the white on white connections at the junction boxes so after a little instruction I did what I was told, not knowing the mechanics behind it. Working with Bill, my father in law, who was an electrician, did give me some rudimentary knowledge.

Almost from the first day I knew I had made a huge mistake quitting the Post Office. The union guys would tell me to slow down, my pace and when the ADT supervisors would come out. They would grouse about I was too slow and holding them back. I would get a mild reprimand.  I soon recognized that these guys were flunky’s and probably could not hold down a job at the Post Office.

It came to a boil when one day they asked me to run an alarm cable for the entire length and breathe of the building.  Some of the areas had fork lifts scurrying about, raising and lowering their lifts. All I had to do was connect aluminum clip with a loop on the bottom to the steel I beams and as I went thread the cable through the loop. A simple enough task the hardest part was constantly moving the ladder. Climbing up and down to me was good exercise that I missed from my Post office days. I asked the foreman in light of the folk lifts do you want the cable above the steel beams or strung below. He indicated since the job was behind schedule let’s put them on the bottom. Putting the cable above the beam was considerably more work or so it seemed.  Fine, I was only the lowly apprentice what did I know. The building was rather large, and it involved constantly going up and down the ladder. After about two days a fork lift snagged the wire yanking out about a days’ worth of cable. The foreman, Carl, was fit to be tied and tried to pin it on me as it meant having to reposition the loops and put them on top of the beams in certain areas. I recognized these guys as weasels, but I was in a fix at least for the time being.

As if my life wasn’t interesting enough, around this time I got my regular “Greetings Letter” from the Selective Service. This time the tenor had changed and my appeal to maintain pseudo guardianship of my brother, Ricky had fallen upon deaf ears, without the shield of the Post Office job protecting me to a certain extent, I knew the jig was up. I was to report to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn ASAP. It was near the VA hospital grounds where my father had passed away 12 years earlier. The Army post sat literally at the base of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, connecting Brooklyn to NJ.  I arrived for my physical exam where everyone had reams papers to be filled out and questions to answer. The ultimate humiliation culminated when the potential candidates had to stand in line drop our pants cough, bend over and “Spread em!”. The Physician who was doing this nether region exam was going so fast I could not know if he was changing gloves between selectees or throwing caution to the wind as he was so studiously examining our asses. Back in the 1970’s hand sanitizer was yet to be developed.                                                                               2. 

A few days later, as luck would have it the blood pressure results from my physical exam came back abnormally high approx. 190 or so over 100+. For a guy of 23 physically active and not overweight that came as a surprise. I thought this was my ticket out of the draft, going from 1A, prime beef one minute, the next, I was headed to the 4F file, the military equivalent of week old stew beef. Life was good. A short time later, however, I was again ordered back to Fort Hamilton to double check the BP readings, as it was not unusual in those days for young men to artificially alter their blood pressure. Once again, the reading came back high. I was immediately whisked off to Saint Albans Naval Hospital in Queens to spend 72 hours under observation. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. I could, however, make a phone call to my wife, telling her of my predicament.

I felt like a prisoner which in essence I was. It never occurred to me to ask am I getting paid for this little adventure or to tell them to kiss my ass, I am not going. I dutifully yielded to the authority figures just as my mother instilled in me. I arrived at this hospital that looked like it was built 100 years prior. A sprawling two story affair that seemed like it would have been more at home in the Panama Canal Zone, rather than Queens. The place was surprisingly empty though clean. They had a cafeteria of sorts. They did give me chits for meals. At times the naval corpsmen would bark orders hand me a mop and bucket to clean the floor or some other menial tasks. At night around 11PM and on every subsequent hour on the hour someone would grab my arm put on the blood pressure cup and take a reading. Not surprisingly at the end of the 72 hours I was a new man. 1A!  Shortly thereafter I got my induction notice into the Army.                                                                           

Meanwhile, my final job at ADT involved working at a movie theater once again stringing wire for an upgrade to the existing security system. This was an old single screen movie theater that could hold a thousand or so people. These were ornate affairs built at a time when going to the movie was an occasion unlike today’s cookie cutter multiplexes. The on the job supervisor said run the wire to the far end to a predesignated spot. Not one to complain I climbed well above the relatively low hanging suspended ceiling in the lobby utility room and started running the cable following the various beams. Toward the end of the run one of the ceiling tiles fell out for one reason or another and I realized I was no longer 12 or so feet above the floor, but more like 50-60 feet above the seats in front of the screen! I took it in stride as I was almost to the end of the run. Ignorance was bliss, so why panic at that point.  That pretty much ended my career at ADT. As to put a final period at the end of this portion of my life, it was around this time I received my pension proceeds from the Post Office on the portion I paid in. There was no going back!

Although at the time I was Rah! Rah in favor of the war and loathed the antiwar protesters I did not want to go to Vietnam or be a combatant. So, I did what I thought I had to do. I went to Doctor Resnick to prescribe some blood lowering medication, so I could pass the physical for the Air Force. In all the turmoil surrounding the conflict, he admitted many had asked for a miracle pill to raise their blood pressure, but this was the first time in his career that someone had asked him to lower it to get into the military.

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My logic was less than impeccable, I thought my chance of going to Vietnam were less going into the Air Force. Apparently, I was the victim of unclear thinking as the Army was largely in withdrawal mode and the Air Force was sending more boots on the ground to act as rear guard during this slow withdrawal.

With my medication in hand, I went to the Lynbrook Air Force recruiting office and told them my situation and they were more than happy to accommodate me. Since I already had the exam and the results from the Blood Pressure results from St Albans, the need for the medication did not really enter the picture.

I did do very well on my aptitude test, especially in career fields that did not require me to carry a gun. I put in for Fireman, Medic and air traffic control. I felt I was not a coward, but the insecurities my mother had instilled in me kept telling me to be afraid of guns. I did not take myself to be a leader of men or nor did I want a position of authority. One of those very people my mother dreaded, for so much of her life. I wanted to blend in and get the 4 years behind me.

Everything in life happens for a reason, perhaps the career specialty notice I received was God’s attempt at humor or an effort to make me more than I thought I could be. In any event I was in Security police, a career field that I would later find out was considered lower than whale shit. I was soon back at Fort Hamilton to be sworn in, bags packed and off to Texas and Basic Training.

In the span of 3 months I had resigned from the Post Office took a job I detested at ADT and now I was about to enter the Air Force. I would not see my wife, Pauline, for roughly 3 months. Thus began my 8 year tour of active duty in the U.S. Air Force. Prior to this the only time I stepped foot out of New York was a week’s trip to Massachusetts’s, a trip to the Bahama’s and some side misadventures to Connecticut with my parents on those infrequent visits to grandma Francis’s house.

Early on in this process, when Pauline and I knew the jig was up, we got a puppy and named him Bandit as he had stolen our hearts. He was Terrier/Boxer mix perhaps, but very feisty. He would share our journey together for that next eight years providing us with boundless joy and some interesting stories. Once again I had a dog in my life and it felt good leaving a piece of me with Pauline. My life was whole.

Ricky was also on our minds as Pauline and I were thinking that down the road should we take him with us when we were stationed at a permanent duty assignment rather than leave him with her father. In all the turmoil, not much thought was given to Rick, he was a kid of about 13 who had known nothing but insecurity most of his life and was once again feeling abandoned in a situation over which he had no control. Pauline was barely 23 herself, was already a strong figure, who willing take on the task of caring for Rick, and who, herself, was dealing with her own issues of me leaving.

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Unbeknownst to any of us at the time my little brother was to become another case of collateral damage of the war.

So at Fort Hamilton, I had completed the paper work and was set to swear the oath to protect defend the Constitution a document of which I knew little. It was ungodly hot, and to say the least I was nervous. Mid way through the affirmation, I fainted and collapsed hitting my lower lip and teeth in the edge of the podium near where the presiding officer stood. The lieutenant, playing by the book, recognized quickly I could not receive military medical care until I was sworn in.  Immediately he instructed the other recruits to pick me up raise my right hand and pledge I would defend the country against all enemies foreign and domestic and say, “I do!” Immediately I was rushed over to some enlisted troops apparently Army medics who stitched up my lip all the while doing Daffy Duck and Goofy imitations. They had a nice bed side manner which lightened my mood. It certainly had to be in the record books as one of the fastest uses of medical benefits in the history of the military.

The flight to Texas was uneventful. Late that evening, we shuffled off the plane to the waiting arms of a drill instructor. He read off our names on the manifest. The instructor got to me saw my 5-6 obviously fresh stiches and asked. What the hell happened to this one?

Air Force basic was not the Marine Corps, but it was rather rigid. We marched, did PC and learned the finer points of being in the military. It was strict and several in our flight (another term for platoon) of troops disappeared over the span of the 8 weeks. I was firmly ensconced in the middle of the group neither wanting recognition nor scorn. My goal was to be the Ensign Pulver on the flight to which I was assigned and to remain invisible and leave the role of Mr. Roberts to someone else.

There were those times though that I would screw up and my cloak of invisibility came off. The rule while waiting your turn to be served in the chow line during mess, seemed simple enough or at least one would think.  You would be in the at ease position when the line was still and as it moved along you would snap to attention take a step or two and resume that at ease position. Regardless each person was heel to toe and always staring at the back of the head of the fellow in front of you. If your eyes strayed, you would incur the wrath of the all seeing drill instructor. On this day an unusually attractive girl was sitting a scant few feet from the chow line. She was a tender morsel who was not part of the menu. My eyes strayed once too often and suddenly I was visible to all the wrong people. “AIRMAN  PEARSALL”! Boomed the drill instructor so the whole room knew there was a fuck up in their midst. He stood near the girl. He asked me if I was ogling this young lady. Which I said “Sir!”  “Yes sir!” Why lie, the jury had rendered its verdict.  At a loss I apologized for my transgression. “What do you think you are airman?” “A lighthouse?” “No sir I said” “We’ll see about that” “Show this young lady what a good light house you are”  Turn 6 times slowly and say ”BEEP! BEEP! I am a lighthouse” and then apologize to this young lady. I started my chore and the instructor told me to say it louder! 

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No one snickered at this outlandish display lest their invisibility cloak would too be removed. Finished, I apologized to the girl and I returned to the back of the line humiliated. Later I found she was a plant and would be inserted to snare young recruits.

As luck would have it …or not, the next day another poor slob would be the target his scorn for some other transgression. Most days you fell into a routine and if you paid attention you would pass unnoticed and unscathed. There were those days when on the march or hike people would do the dumbest things. During the respites, the drill sergeant would say ‘lightem up if you gottem!” Since carrying cigarettes was strictly forbidden, this seemed like an obvious gottcha moment. Sure, enough some dumb ass would pull out a butt and light up. A fiendish smile would cross the sergeant’s lips as he shook his head in disbelief as he bellowed “AIRMAN!” as a collective groan came from rest of his peers. If this happened once, you could chalk it up to inexperience. Sure, enough during the early part of training several people succumbed to lure of the weed. The punishment ranged from some pushups to running around the parade field with backpack and weapon.

Weapons training consisted of firing an M-16 and a 38 revolver. It turned out not to be such a big deal, I soon got used to it. I was never a great shot, but always got a Marksmen’s medal. I attributed some of my short comings to my glasses that would distort my vison when I would hold the rifle close to my cheek as I looked down the sights. Nowhere was good order and discipline more pronounced than on the range.  One of the hazards warned about was the expended hot shell casings that were ejected from the M-16’s. These would fly out and hit the guy in the next slot.  Every so often and errant casing would find its way down your shirt.  I always held fast in situations like keeping the gun point down range, but a guy or two would start flailing his weapon around trying to dislodge the hot round. The range instructors dealt seriously with them. During instruction, a recruit might refer to his rifle as a gun and the drill instructor would make him repeated this clever ditty. “This is my gun (grabbing his groin) and this is my rifle. This is for killing this is for fun”

By the end of the training marching had become fun, singing songs to keep the cadence. You could usually tell you were all in sync by the click of the heels. Periodically the guys would unintentionally start bobbing. Instead of looking like a well-oiled machine the march started to look like army of wobbling Weebles. The Sarge would intone “Yer Bobbin!” “Settle down men” “Concentrate on your heels”. For a change of pace and as a reward for doing well we would practice doing monkey drills, a primitive form of marching Rockettes. While marching the clicking off the heels did have a soothing effect almost hypnotic.

There were classes as well teaching Air Force history, the meaning of the Constitution, customs and courtesy along with firearms. 

                                                                              6.

On Sunday, there was more free time, much of it spent preparing for Monday. In eight weeks I got one pass to go to San Antonio for the day.

We had two Drill instructors. One was always assigned to the flight and slept in the Barracks. One person on the flight was assigned security during the evening and was in charge of insuring no inmates escaped from the asylum and the barracks did not catch fire. Walking the aisles, I would periodically lean over feeling the electrical outlets for excess heat. These were two story wooden affairs that were built during WWII and would make great kindling in a fireplace. Newer concrete dorms were being constructed, but not every unit could get one. The drill instructor had his own room off the main exit. The flight consisted of about 45 souls.  We slept in double bunks with footlockers at the end of each. There were 2 rows of bunks separated by an aisle.  Each morning around 5:30 we would get up and prepare for the day, making sure our foot lockers were inspection ready and our bunks were tight. I had the bottom bunk, as time was at a premium, rather than make the bed each morning, I would place my hands on the rung above my pillow and slowly insert myself between the sheets akin to a letter being inserted into an envelope. The next morning, I would reverse the procedure and pull myself out. That way in the morning if I hadn’t tossed or turned. I could just tighten it up rather than reinvent the wheel. It saved a lot of time   We all shared a community latrine which we were responsible for along with the rest of the building and grounds. It was Late Autumn, the nights were cool and the days very hot. The final day consisted of graduation and marching on the parade field for the dignitaries, families etc. I was promoted from Airman Basic to Airman and was awarded my mosquito wings. I was a one striper. I was allowed a couple of phone calls home during basic and obviously letters.

Following basic was a couple of weeks called casual status where you were waiting for a slot to open as in my case Security Police training. During this time, you were assigned to various details such as chow hall KP. The cooks apparently never heard of electric dishwashers. They had some huge pots and since the cooks were not cleaning them, they did not really care how much food fused to the metal. Weeds and seeds was enjoyable enough allowing you to be your own boss, picking up stray butts, litter and doing some menial manicuring of the grounds. It was make work, but it was better than loafing.  Much of the free time, however, was spent in the barracks waiting for your turn to attend school and listening to the transistor radio, getting your gear ready and shoes shined.

I was finally was admitted to the Security Police School. Still at Lackland AFB It was a 6 week course of instruction that concentrated on Military law (UCMJ) and learning about the various forms of Security the Airforce provided, Aircraft, Conventional, Missile and Nuclear Security. The big gorilla in the room was Vietnam and most of the training was geared toward parameter security and resource protection like planes. Much of this involved night time training which was a pleasant change.  Since real airplanes were at a premium, we guarded large plywood mock ups. The instructors conducted drills on security scenarios, such as terrorist attack.

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There might be 6 “planes” lined up in a row each with an airman protecting it. The instructors would slowly walk up and down the row and on occasion run toward the aircraft to gauge the response and make corrections. If he walked by your aircraft you breathed a sigh of relief, knowing it was only time before it was your turn. Soon you learned that war maybe hell but security is a bitch. Long hours standing guard, by yourself, with an occasional relief truck bringing water. Now it was a treat to go to the firing range.

 We still fired the M-16, but received additional training on the 60-caliber machine, the 50 caliber machine gun. We had instruction on the handling and training with hand grenades. I threw one and wanted to admire my handiwork, interested to see what they looked like when they went off. So I stood there. The instructor had no such curiosity and yanked me into the pit. We also had some training on grenade launchers as well.  The training went by quickly and for the most part uneventfully. Around the 5^th week they asked people if they wanted to volunteer for K-9 duty. I jumped at the chance anything but aircraft security.

It meant another two to three weeks of casual status and 12 weeks of schooling, but I thought it was worth it.  Prior to the casual status I had earned 2 weeks leave and was allowed to go home. Pauline and I had communicated, and we thought if possible, she could come back to Lackland with me. Since my record was clean, the commander said I could live off base with Pauline. It was a request rarely granted and if I screwed up it would be revoked. So we packed a few things and Bandit and took off back to Texas.

My forlorn brother felt abandoned and was left with my father in law in Island Park. At 14 years old It was the beginning of a long downhill emotional period for him. My father in law was a good man, a product of the depression, a coal mining parents and WWII but like most of his generation had his demons and took on a task for which he was not well equipped to handle. We made the best of the 10 days or so we had at home, saying goodbyes an enjoying the late Long Island summer. 

Finally we packed up our 1968 Chevy, with Bandit and we were off for Texas. The drive was uneventful for the most part. We wended our way southwestward.

We rented a furnished garden apartment less than a mile from the back gate of the base. It was almost exclusively Air Force members with some Army personnel, so we felt right at home or at least I did. This was Pauline’s first big adventure outside of Long Island. Since we only had one car we had the foresight to take my bicycle with us from Long Island. The same bike I used to ride with Karen.  Bandit was always game and fit right in and quickly adapted.

Since we were living off base I received extra pay for food and housing allowance which helped. Pauline almost immediately landed a job at Model Industrial Laundry, she, working in book keeping. Being in San Antonio and her ability to speak English fluently was really a benefit. The pay was low, but we enjoyed our time there.

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Our K-9 instructors were firm but fair. Many of the trainees had come from urban areas and did not have the pleasure of eating local fare from Texas. So one day the instructors cooked up a batch of rattle snake and brought it to us as we broke for lunch which consisted nothing more than sandwiches and a drink. Most everyone had some and it was not bad, but for a while broke up formality between the sergeant’s and the troops. I was starting to feel like I fit in. Then it was back to business 

My pick-up point for dog school was about 2-3 miles from the Apartment. Since we had to be there at 6:00AM for the bus it required me leaving around 5:30AM. I would lock up the bike on the corner and wait for fellow K-9 troops to pile out of the barracks. I was there like clockwork and for the first week or so, so was the rest of the class. Sporadically and then more frequently they would be late as they would party all night into the wee small hours.                                                                          The sergeant, at first, would roust them out and raise hell. Finally, a light bulb went off in his head that since I was always there early, it became my job to get there even earlier to make sure these clowns got up. So now I had to leave at 5:00am to insure they were there on time. I was not happy at this prospect, once again my anonymity was compromised. I rose to the occasion and got the job done.

The school itself was at the furthest reaches of the base and was a joint inter military school, where all the branches sent representatives. The majority were Air Force, we had a Marine in our unit others had Navy and Army.  The vegetation such as it was consisted mostly of small half dead trees and shrubs that looked like they had seen better days. Interspersed between the plant life was large patches of dusty fields where the training was conducted, being Texas, there were rattle snakes, scorpions and a nice assortment of spiders.

The kennel facility was very large with I would guess some 100 -200 cages. The dogs themselves were mixed breads, with mostly German Shepherd ancestry. The Air Force got these animals from a variety of sources, they came from every corner of America. Each dog has a case history as to where it came from, none to my knowledge were the type of designer dogs you see today. Class started with basic obedience commands like sit and stay and building trust with the dog.  They emphasized how a dog responds to voice commands. Deep voice for obedience and high pitched for praise.

I soon learned that K-9 handlers were considered a breed apart.  When you spent that much time with a dog, you soon are imparted with many of their characteristics mainly smell, but even some of your more normal everyday habits like sanitation fell somewhat by the way side. Comments were often made about our “cologne”.  We were a grizzly lot at the end of the day. On those days we were not actually training the dogs, the kennels were virtually empty, several of us had the pleasure of spending the day cleaning and sanitizing the kennels while the rest were doing work with their animals. A certain small percentage of the dogs had artistic talents and were known around the kennels as finger painters.

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These dogs would smear their fecal matter up and down the chain link which would quickly bake in the warm Texas Summer sun as would the pee.  Texas it seems has two seasons, summer which is ungodly hot and winter which is mildly hot. Unsurprisingly we all groused at that duty, but the biggest surprise was the Marine who thought it was beneath him somehow to clean up after the K-9. Perhaps he did not think it through that when he volunteered that the dogs might actually crap. I wasn’t sure, he acted like he was better than us. Since we had so many troops in the kennel the work was spread around you might have to do it every 2-3 weeks. It wasn’t a big deal.

Training was thorough and one of the first things you were taught was how to break up a dog fight. It was tricky as there are so many dynamics to it. The first rule was never, never yank on the leash as that would lead to more serious injuries as the dog would not release and you would be pulling flesh for the one being bitten. Rather you walk up the leash and grab the collar and then choke the dog off his victim as then he would open his jaws to breathe. One such occasion, early in training a dog was biting another handler and the dog’s handler in a panic did yank the dog off showing vividly what a dog’s clenched teeth could do. It was a lesson well learned at a price.

I especially enjoyed the work of being the agitator, the one who purposely initiates aggressive contact. Most times I would be in a full padded suit or others with just an arm wrap. The suits were worn day in and day out by different people and the suits were aromatic to say the least. It was tiring work getting hit by the dogs while at full charge and the sergeants would monitor the dog’s potential and the handlers as well. In 1971 the USAF was trying a new concept of patrol dog which was a more multi-faceted dog. Prior to that the Air Force had Sentry dogs, which were basically guided missiles. The USAF still had many Sentry dogs in the inventory they were trying to reprogram. One such dog was named Thor after the Norse god of thunder 90 pounds of mean. He was a difficult dog indeed, but they insisted he could be rehabbed.

One particular day I had only the arm wrap and in this exercise the idea was for the handler to keep the dog in the heal position. I would run up to the dog and slap him on the snoot with the padded hand. I would then run  about 50 or so yards, the handler would shout “gettem!” releasing the animal. Upon hearing that, I would turn toward the dog and stand perfectly still, arms at my side. The patrol dog was trained only to attack if there was an aggressive move. A Sentry dog would bite you regardless. Thor being no dummy was highly annoyed and still had some of his old traits. He slowed and walked up to me and buried his snoot in my crotch attempting to knock me down which in doggie logic would be interrupted as an aggressive move. This looked highly amusing to my fellow trainees from afar who were shouting cat calls, but the instructor saw the severity of my plight was yelling at me to stand fast and don’t move, at the same time shouting at the handler to get his ass over to assist me.

                                                                              9.

 The handler meanwhile was running toward me shouting in the highest pitched voice he could muster to Thor to “Heel!”, “Come!” “Sit!” “Stay!” “Fuck!” He said just about out anything to get back in control of his errant projectile. The handler arrived and leashed Thor and a crisis was averted. The instructor came over and indicated that could have been ugly to which I agreed. He patted me on the shoulder and said good work. Anyone would have been proud to have Thor at the other end of that leash.       

All the dogs were worked for a variety of tasks to include tracking, bomb and narcotic detection etc. Their charts were noted as to what dogs excelled in the various categories My Dog, Bon, did not like to bite and showed a distinct lack of aggression. Finally, in an attempt to get him motivated one of the instructors approached him from the rear as he was being distracted and gave his testicle a sharp slap. Bon from that day forward was excellent and displayed all the traits you could want. While other guys had dogs named Hercules, Titan or Sheba. I thought being named “Bon” was a bit gay for my taste and besides he only had one testicle.  Thankfully, he was starting to learn fast.

Meanwhile, Pauline, my wife, was working at the laundry and money was very tight. Entertainment was simple and many times consisted of pot luck dinners in the Apartment’s common area, usually on a Friday night.

It was a great time to relax, unwind swap a story or two.  An airman’s salary was about $130 a month and the off base housing and food allowance probably came to another $125. Pauline was being paid perhaps a little over minimum wage.  I was low on the totem rank wise, this was a place you could go and let your hair down and laugh.                                                                            

Bandit was a constant source of amusement and you could never tell what he would do. While helping with the laundry in the separate laundry facility, Bandit who was outside and clearly visible through the window. I told him to “Hup” or jump onto the clear folding table. He instead opted to pop up through the neighboring window where a woman had her laundry all neatly arranged. The woman was startled and so was Bandit. He showed every tooth in his head as he smiled which with that trademark grin of his.  Since everyone in the complex almost all knew each other at least casually, no harm done and the lady at the folding table laughed. I was there to give him a hug

On one morning prior to going to K-9 class I took Bandit for a quick walk so Pauline could sleep in. It was still rather dark and took my buddy for a walk in the scruffy field next to the complex. I came back in and to my astonishment he was holding a scorpion by its tail just south of the stinger. I instinctively said drop it to wit the scorpion scurried across the living room and into the bedroom where Pauline was sleeping. I went in the room trying to look for it without raising alarm but to no avail. Recognizing I had to leave, kissed Pauline good bye and casually mentioned that she might want to be careful when she gets out of bed mumbling something about the scorpion in our midst. 

                                                                    10.

As I slithered out the door, I could hear her cursing. “Hon, It is nothing to worry about! He is more scared of you then you are of him” I came home that night and Pauline indicated that she had no idea where he went. We both laughed. She was a good sport.

Sometimes I would give Bandit some cheap exercise by riding my Bike up and down small dusty moguls that surrounded the complex and he would trot a long side. He was game for about anything.  We were to have many more adventures with him.

K-9 usage in the military goes back thousands of years, predating the Roman molossus, dogs of war.  One AF sentry dog whose name was mentioned often was, Nemo, a legend who almost single handedly prevented many casualties a Tan San nught Air base. It was up until that time the largest coordinated use of Military working Dogs in history. Eventually all the dogs were retrieved thinking the Cong were either all killed or captured. Nemo who was not responding to commands knew there were more.  He flushed out another group of Viet Cong hiding and charged them followed by his handler. Both the K-9 and the handler were badly wounded not before Nemo severely mauled several combatants. Nemo was medivac back to the states where he retired as a hero at Lackland AFB.  Later, I was to find out, that most of the Dogs sent to Vietnam were not afforded that decency.

Once in a while the canine in class became rather shall we say “unruly” The females and males worked side by side. They were unneutered so sexual tensions at times became less than desirable. So the instructor usually a Tech Sergeant (E-6) would order the offending male dogs off the field to be given “relief”. So we would be given a quick class on  doggie masturbation, we were quick studies as it seemed to have an uncanny resemblance human masturbation. Again, a few weeks later it happened again, this time the difference being we were now pros, we had appointed a judge and placed bets on which dog would be the first to respond to “therapy” I felt Bon should be given a couple of stroke handicap since he only had one nut but I was overruled. The Marine had all he could take, finally losing control, saying we were all fags and he was not going to participate in the festivities. The instructor who was not all that fond of the lad, escorted him away and I believe that was the end of his being a MWD handler.

There was a saying in the school, “That the dog was only as good as the handler and that it runs down the leash” It is true. I saw the flip side of that often where the dog was much better than the handler. If being in MWD School taught me anything, never under estimate the intelligence of your dog or over estimate that of the handler.

In addition to hands on training there were the inside classes that include lessons in anatomy of a K-9, sanitation, disease, tick prevention measures and animal to human transmission of disease and parasites or Zoonosis as it was called. We were even shown up close and personal videos of the dog’s ass and what the male anal sac looked like and when it needed to be “expressed” a euphemism for being squeezed and drained.

                                                                       11.

I was getting way too intimate with the affairs of this beast. The humor as you might suspect was bawdy but it built teamwork and made the day more interesting

While in training one of the trainees found a small disfigured pup at the training site. He had only one useful eye his limbs were distorted and he had mange just to mention a few of his ills. Pauline and I decided, since we were the only one with our own place to take him in. We named him Ug. We had him for a few days, he was a happy little guy. We decided to take him to the base Vet where since we did not have much money and they provided this service gratis, he would evaluate our new friend. The news was not good as in addition to the ailments listed he had major heart damage. I do not know if the vet was trying to spare us the expense or Ug really was that badly broken. He convinced us in the end to put him down. It was not an easy choice, he never really had much of a chance. 

My training was winding down at K-9 school and the realization that I would be getting my orders to my first really duty assignment which in all likelihood would be somewhere in Vietnam. It was July and Texas was hot as hell and I was tired of it. We had gone to San Antonio several times walked the river walk which was beautiful and visited the Alamo of course. Texas just wasn’t home, so for us departing came was not such sweet sorrow. Pauline weathered it all like a trooper and was starting to develop a fondness for the people in the military. Then the final course was AZR, I have not any idea what that stands for other than it was more in depth training for Vietnam providing guidance on base perimeter security all done at night.

Vietnam-Phu Cat

Pauline and I once again packed up the car and head back to Long Island where Pauline, Bandit and   Rick would be staying at her father in law’s home in Island Park for the duration. The time went all to quickly and soon Pauline was driving me to Kennedy for my departure West and ultimately to Vietnam, roughly 24 hours later. Arriving at TonSan nuht AFB,  on the outskirts of Saigon I was given overnight accommodation and the next day whisked off with some others to my duty assignment on a C-130.

 The base was called Phu Cat, and I was assigned to the 12^th Security Police Squadron it was inland approximately half way between Siagon and the North Vietnamese border. I was in Trundled onto a 21/2 ton truck or deuce and a half as they were known, a bunch of us newbies were assigned hootches. I was officially assigned to the Security Police Squadron/Military working Dog Section or SPS MWD section. I unpacked which was a simple exercise of boots, fatigues and more fatigues. No civilian clothes or dress blues needed for this was to be my ensemble for the next 12 months. The next day I was taken to the kennel to meet the kennel Master and get assigned a dog. It was not at all the way it is portrayed in the movies where the handler and the dog train together and jet off to war. Bon was long gone  assigned somewhere else.    

                                                                                 12.

I was assigned a dog named Thunder, an old Sentry dog with severe hip dysplasia. After a short period of familiarization, I was to report to the kennel for a skills evaluation which consisted of some routine commands with the dog, it was obvious the dog was not in any condition to do much of anything. Not knowing what to do, not wanting to hurt the animal, I froze. The Kennel Master knew my predicament and said Ok, dismissed and that was that. I was assigned to listening posts that did not require much walking so Thunder would not be under strain. I felt next to useless. Onetime I attempted to  lift him as he could not get up on his own apparently causing him great discomfort. He took my whole forearm in his mouth and start squeezing.  He certainly hadn’t wanted to bite me but his pain had gotten the better of him and in a few weeks poor old Thunder was put down and I was assigned a new dog Giant A905 and the revolving door continued as some other handler transferred out. Giant lived up to his name. He was half German shepherd and half Great Dane. He was about 120 pounds of fighting dog in his prime. I could not help but wonder that his name was derived from the huge set of testicles this animal had. God, those balls would have made any guy proud.  From poor Bon with one testicle now to this bruiser.

The perimeter had some really swampy areas. One in particular comes to mind amounted to nothing more than a path way through a swamp to a small dry piece of land surrounded by more swamp. Another Tango (tower) 19 was similar the main difference is this piece of swamp had a tall sentry tower that was not normally manned and was positioned well out from the regular perimeter. These were more listening posts than anything else. There was no way you could position your dog to take advantage of the prevailing terrain. This was real life  meeting up with class room theory.

Still some other posts were barren of much terrain as they were basically leveled by bulldozers if that were not enough some of the areas had been defoliated with agent orange as well. Still others were low level run off areas from the main base where the excess water could drain. The monsoons would form gigantic ravines scoured out by the water. They were ruddy and any rain at all turned them soupy. A number of the posts had perimeter lighting some electrified from the base proper many others illuminated by noisy and fume producing light all units run by fowl smelling diesel engines. Again, this all but negated any use of having a patrol dog team. For the most part all the teams were connected by a system of dirt paths just big enough for a jeep or tracked vehicle to negotiate. To top it all off some nights the jets would be taking off and landing constantly further making much of what we did rather pointless. The landing strobe lights would come on and the noise and jet fuel would fill the night air with fumes.

Since Phu Cat was originally a French base, a remnant from their colonial days and from the late 1940’s when they too were fighting to maintain their empire. Many of the posts had old austere concrete bunkers on them.

                                                                     13.

 They were good in the pinch, but they were largely taken over by snakes, some very large spiders and very wet. Going in them required a leap of faith and good going over with a flashlight.

Was it a letter of rejection from some distant lover, or just depression being 10,000 miles from home, I will never know. Shortly, after arriving, in the stillness of a very quiet night, not even the F-4 Phantom jets were active. There was no distant shelling and even the Motorola radio was unusually still. At about 2AM I heard a solitary rifle shot off some distance, and then silence. Some things you instinctively know in your gut, the hair goes up on the back of your                                                                                                   highlight in the recruiting brochures. It was a dirty little secret like so many things in Vietnam no one like to talk about.  There was a slight pause, as if everyone out on post that night knew and were reflecting about events.                                                                            

After a time, Security Policeman called in reporting the shot. I muttered to myself that some poor bastard had just killed him self. Almost immediately  the Security Controller came on the air and requested radio silence. Although we didn’t yet know who, we all knew what had just transpired. In somber tones, he went through the security check of each post. “Tango12(tower} secure?” “Secure” came back the Retort   and this went on “Bravo 6 (Bunker), secure? Again the response “Secure” “Kilo(K-9) 10, Secure?” Once again the appropriate reply. As there could be 100 different posts, the security controller had a general idea of the location, it still could be time consuming even with the roving patrols also checking on the guys.  Eventually, there would be that one position who didn’t respond to the call. “Tango 14, secure?  pause……Tango 14 respond” more silence. “Sector 6 leader respond to Tango 14 and come up via lima lima (landline)”.   

The rest of the evening you conjectured if it was a person you knew, probably not as this guy worked perimeter security and each security section was fairly clannish.  Later, perhaps, you would meet up with another dog handler and ruminate with each other about the events that transpired wondering what that person was like, was he married with kids.  I would hear that sharp crack of gun fire again at least once more that year. Knowing that once again a life had just expired. There is perhaps no more enduring haunting sound than that of that lone gun shot. This was repeated throughout the theater of operation over and over again, nameless souls in different branch’s each with a story left untold. The following night at guardmount, there would be no mention of the previous nights events, secrets are like that

I was the type that usually fit in with just about any crowd, but there was a different dynamic at Phu Cat.  Certainly there were enough groups in the Security police unit for just about anyone’s fancy. There were the Bible Thumpers, inner city blacks, southern red necks, whites who were not lucky enough to get a draft deferment and so on. The clans seemed to inhabit the same hooch’s, an informal segregation as it were.  I was a little old to have the low rank I did as I was 22. Most were 2- 3 years my younger and were either airman 2^nd class or Sargent. Most everyone was on marijuana or something worse, with the exception of the thumpers and they too were  high on end times . I minded my own business figuring at some point it would click. After a month or so on base several K-9 handlers with whom I was acquainted said they wanted to have a chat. They asked me why I did not have a joint whenever they had one. I indicated it was not my thing. The guys indicated maybe I ought to make it “my thing”. I got the subtle undertone of where this was headed. They handed me a joint and at first I refused and then it got a little more serious.

                                                                    14.

I finally relented and took a deep drag as I inhaled almost gagged. They laughed and loosened up and said they all thought I was working for “The man” undercover. I said no, they had assumed since I was older and of low rank, I must have been a plant. I would prefer to tell this as story as a “Profile in Courage” but these were my mates for the next year and the ones I would have to depend on if the need should arise. This was not a game.

Several times during my tour I saw how serious this all was and how drugs and contraband had corrupted so many in the military.

Awhile later, after my “initiation” I had a chore to do in the K-9 kennels and observed the drug dog handler disciplining his dog and “un-programming” him not to sniff for drugs. The kennel master was not around. A bounty was put on the handler’s head and his dog if he showed an alert. He was a dead man for all practical purposes. Who placed the bounty I will never know?  It was real enough to the handler to take remedial action. After my prior “chat” with the other handlers I knew there was an underlying current. How deep did it run and who could you trust? I felt pity for the dog and anger at the handler. But I knew the reason and I did not see the need to humiliate him as to what he was doing as I might do the same thing in his position.  

Another case in point was our New Base commander, who took it upon himself to declare a war on narcotics at Phu Cat.  He had several meetings with troops swearing to send to Leavenworth anyone caught with drugs. A short time later an inert mortar round went through the roof of his quarters, sending him a clear message that it was time to end his campaign of morality. He did.

I soon succumbed to the weed and for that whole time I was there never paid a dime for the stuff. It was potent, plentiful and free. As an airman, I was not privy to how the drugs were getting on base. After what I had seen I was not all that curious. There were forces at work bigger than any of us knew. Drugs had proliferated the whole base, nowhere more than in the Security police units.

On duty and off it made no difference. It was a surreal world. It was New Year’s Eve at Phu Cat and the troops were feeling rather jolly, joking on the Motorola radios, and sending slap flares skyward. The base was lit in more ways than one. I was on post with Giant and my area supervisor, a lieutenant who I had never seen before, came by and told me to help myself. The back of the jeep had a foot locker filled with every imaginable type of intoxicant. Jim Beam, Marajuana, needles and more. No questions were asked.

My drug days fortunately started on Phu Cat and for the most part ended there. A new type of drug concoction was got around the base. It was call skag and was a mixture of Marajuana and heroin. It was potent and addictive.

One evening as was the custom K-9 units would get together on one post to shoot the shit and to smoke and then leave to go back to post. This particular night, there were 4 k-9 units and we had unknowingly smoked the Skag, leaving us all debilitated and in a hallucinogenic state. We all fell asleep missing our pick-up points that was at approx. 6:30 AM.

                                                                          15.

It was approximately 8AM and several miles from the Kennel. No one reported us missing. The radio chatter was not unusual.  Initially panic ensued, knowing what the consequences could be for the various infractions. Soon we calmed down and turned it into a plan to simulate we were training.  So the Sargent of rank took charge as we got into cadence and marched back to the kennel in plain sight put our dogs up and turned in our guns to the armorer. Everyone acted like it was just another day in the office and it was. Everyone knew, but no one ever mentioned it

Marijuana had infiltrated almost every part of our daily lives. We made improvised brownies from the sea rations as well as pasta sauce. It was a joke that no one ever gets punished.

The final nail in the coffin occurred when a fellow K-9 handler was taken away in a straight jack from having overdosed. I informed everyone I was done and several others felt likewise. From that point forward, although drugs were around, I chose not to notice and did my best to assist others where I could at least stay out of trouble. I was now one of the good guys. I was OK!

Later I would find out it was our own CIA through Air America who was dealing these drugs on the Air bases and elsewhere throughout Vietnam in covert operations to launder money by buying up the illicit cash crops of the Cambodians. They(Cambodians) in turn would work for us.                                                                 

Contraband, selling off government equipment was another popular form of recreation. In addition to American G.Is and airman, Phu Cat had a small contingent of South Korean troops who had their own compound inside the perimeter. These guys were grim and didn’t have much of a sense of humor. This was evident when an American airman had stolen one of their jeeps and sold it on the black market.  Day after day the Korean’s scoured the base looking for it until they realized it was fruitless.  

Apart from the drugs there were other aspects of my tour there. Camp Fidel was an Army Post a short distance from PhuCat.  The bases were separated by Jungle which was a free fire zone. Both sides utilized it at times, when friendlies were not in the area. On such night the army requested to fire the quad 50 caliber machine guns. The permission was routinely granted. Immediately I knew I was in trouble as I could clearly see the tracers and hear the rounds hitting. I took off with Giant calling on the radio for them to cease fire. I jumped into an active bunker that was occupied by another Security Police airman. He told me to get the fuck out as he did not appreciate the unmuzzled dog. I told him he was out numbered and if anyone was leaving it was going to be him. Shortly thereafter the firing stopped followed by a verbal apology from the Army.

The monsoon season tested everyone’s patience, months of constant rain. Although the temperature probably was in the 60’s, the humidity made it seem colder than what it was. Night after night on post trying to stay dry was an exercise in futility. If you wore a poncho the mosquitos would find a wonderful refuge. Everyone was miserable. Some posts were so water logged all I could do was sit on your bucket with Giant.

                                                                                        16.

He and I both under the poncho shivering listening to Armed Forces Radio with Wolfman Jack or Casey Kassem on the transistor radio.  Finally I wrote home asking for long Johns. They were incredulous, inquiring about me being in a jungle paradise where it is always warm.

We were fortunate as we had our hooch’s we could go and sleep during the day. Although the structures water tight  the humidity was such that your bedding was always damp and clammy.  During the monsoons, the rats invaded the living quarters.  I had the top bunk and the ceiling was only 24 inches or so above my head. I could hear them scurrying about above me. The plywood ceiling had some gaps and from time to time they would either fall through the openings or crawl down and sleep with me to keep warm.  One evening I had one nestled between my legs. Recognizing the bulge down there obviously was not me, I fell out of the bunk waking up my bunk mates. They thought I was having a bad dream and laughed. Slowly others were infested by our not so little friends. The second time my arm was cocked under my head, and a rat, nestled in my arm pit, his face was inches form mine. He had red eyes.

The frustration was mounting as these rats were taking over.  The base vet had set traps around the cantonment area to monitor them for rabies so one morning during a lull in the downpours, some of the southern dog handlers rounded up all the trapped rats and placed then in a large 55 gallon barrel with the lid on poured lighter fluid into the drainage hole and lit the barrel on fire. One guy kicked the barrel over the rats who were on fire scurried away inflames some ran between the concrete revetments and the hooch’s starting small fires which necessitated the fire department to respond. The rats got their revenge as after a few days there dead carcasses still lodged behind the concrete began to stink up the hooch area. You had the ungodly cold, the monsoon, the humidity and now the stench. I felt pity for the cruelty of alighting the rodents, but it was short lived.

The hooch’s themselves held 8 guys total 4 on each side with a small common area in the middle that had a makeshift bar. It barely held the eight guys, but it worked. The buildings were made of wood and had huge eves for the torrential rains to run off. The upper most two feet of wall were open screened windows all around and solid wood below. All the hooch’s had rocket proof concrete bomb revetments to protect the huts from near hits. On those cold mornings we would many times gather up the canned rations and make ‘recipes’ out of the ingredients and cook it on a small sterno. One idea involved powdered creamer, granulated sugar, cocoa mix and powder milk and water. I think we heated it slightly to make it more creamy and to meld the flavors for a rich hearty experience.  Mixing the ingredients together to make an icing for the 10 year old  pound cake that came with the rations. Although the food was less than gourmet, it was enjoyable talking and building relationships some of which I have to this day. There was booze as well as marijuana to liven up the festivities. Of course there was a stereo often times playing Kenny Rodgers and the first Edition                                                                                        17.

We were lucky enough to have a Mama san who cleaned the place and washed our laundry and iron. Her nick name was 40 Mike Mike she had some disfiguring scars on her face, from shrapnel for a 40 millimeter round. She was sweet and everyone to my knowledge treated her  respectfully. She was a hard worker.

For some unknown reason the chow hall was built in a low lying area and would flood with about 6 inches of water on the floor during the rainy season. The troops would slog through the water and sit there and eat. At times the chow hall would be closed, I presume for safety and sanitary reasons during these periods.

One of the worst nights on post was during typhoon Hester in October of 1971. The wind was about 80-90 MPH the rain was literally coming down diagonally in buckets. Giant was walking in muck up to his chest and me up to my knees. There was no place to go to shield yourself from the elements. At approximately midnight the call came in to pull the dogs. “Thank God” I said. After a while I struggled to the pickup point only to be told the dogs were coming off post and the handlers would remain on duty.

Every so often a number of B-52 would fly over head at night and shortly there after the ground would quake even though the bombloads were dropped quite some distance away. Depending on the ordinance dropped fires would spread from the napalm, night after night the fires would rage outside the base perimeter going up and down the hills. At times the fires would get too close and the base would take preventive measures by removing the brush and plant life. During these saturation bombings I felt pity for the poor souls on the receiving end. If the wind was blowing in the right direction you would smell like smoke at the end of the night.   

Most nights were quiet. Some K-9 posts had directional specific perimeter lighting point outward others had those damn noisy and smelly light all units that ran all night. They were gas operated and used is specific high security  areas or where it was too wet to use the perimeter lighting The negated the whole purpose of using a dog. In fact most of the posts were not K-9 friendly. Some posts at the end of the run way used strobe lights for approach lights for take offs and landings, combined with the F-4 with their afterburners. A handler could have been standing next to Charlie and wouldn’t have noticed. For the most parts Dogs and the handlers thorough out my 8 years were almost never utilized properly. Perimeter security does not allow the dog top take full advantage of the wind and depriving the dog of his most valuable tool, his nose.

The lighting did serve two strictly non security purposes. . The ambient glow allowed you to read a book. I would walk with Giant for a while, stop pull out a Taylor Caldwell novel and lean up against the pole. When you were on a post that had a light all unit you could heat up your rations on the motor. Reading a book by the light all was all but impossible, with the noise and vibration.

                                                                                     18.

On other posts when conditions allowed you would light a small fire and sit with Giant picking off ticks while talking to him. Some nights another K-9 would show up and we would talk for a while.

Ticks  were and off and on nuisance. They dogs would be walked through the tick dip. I would swear the ticks brought their straws with them and make it an insect luau as it had absolutely no affect. We would stand in the tick bath about knee deep at times rubbing the dogs down trying to soak them in it hopping it would afford them some protection. Some nights you could pick 50-80  ticks off your dog. In the morning your hands had blood spots all over them. You couldn’t help but wonder where you had put your fingers that night.

One night while on post Giant caught a scent and alerted me as to the direction. I called it into to CSC (Central Security Control) and gave them the approximate location. Often they would ask stupid questions like “How far out are they?” The standard answer would be I don’t know they didn’t issue the dog with a tape measure”  All you could give is a best guesstimate which took into account wind speed humidity and etc. So the mortar team went into action and started lobbing shells. After a bit there were some secondary explosions, and quite a bit of chatter on the mobile radios. But that was the end of that and I never got any feed back as to the status.  That is the way it was, each night was compartmentalized. I was always amazed by the pot heads, stoned in their towers or bunkers. They hated the war, the United States and any authority, however, when something was going down you could hear those charging handles going back on the M-60’s and they were ready for bear. The thought of getting shot at, apparently, was very sobering. I never saw anyone no matter how anti war that wouldn’t kill any bastard attacking the base.

Night vision goggles were coming into their own and were still a novelty. They were expensive and only the towers would have them assigned.  The story went, look into them for too long and your retinas would become ash. One evening it was quiet and this tasty tid bit of news came across the radio.  Tango 19 to control “Pleased be advised that kilo(K-9) 6 is beating off on post.” Well that lit up that radio with sarcastic comments like who is he jerking off himself or the dog? etc. The handler was not too keen about having his little love secret revealed to the whole base and he wanted to kill the tower guard.

Relief usually was a blessed affair that meant barring unusual circumstances you got picked up. Some remote hard to reach posts got picked up by jeep. Most of the relief involved flat bed trucks that could accommodate 8-10 dog handlers, dogs and their equipment. Most times the trucks had the slats installed providing protection from falling off. At minimum it gave you something to hold on to especially if you were one of the last ones on. The roads were 3^rd class dirt roads and very bumpy. One night I was the last man on and the damn truck did not have its sides installed which meant besides holding on to the dog and your bucket the only other means to secure yourself was to have your fingers in the holes where the slats were supposed to be.

                                                                                 19.

The trucks travelled at a good clip of 25 -30 miles an hour. Giant suddenly bounced off the truck. He was dangling about four feet off the back of the truck having on a choke collar means he was probably strangling. He was secured to my wrist by the leather leash.                                                                  

 I immediately jumped off the moving truck with the AR 15 across my chest. We bounced around for what seemed like eternity coming to rest battered and bruised but OK. We got back on the truck and returned to the kennel amid some heckling.

Upon return to the kennels, you would put your dog up for the day, clear, clean if needed return you weapon to the armory. Somedays you would return for training, but mostly it was sleep time.  

Near the hooch was a small canteen where you could pick up a burger, soda, usually staffed by a young Vietnamese girl. On afternoon before going to duty.  I bought a hot dog and coke and was sitting there eating it. Several troops came in and started to hassle the young girl at the cashier’s counter.  I was perturbed they were intimidating her, but did not say anything until one tried climbing over the counter.  “Hey you ass holes leave the girl alone!” I blurted out. Their attention now was directed at me and it appear we were headed for an altercation. I was seething apparently the three airmen knew it, as one made a comment to that effect. After they left, I went over to the girl and asked her how she was, she thanked me as she was shaken slightly. I do not like bullies and will from time to time drop the invisibility shield.  

Slowly Phu Cat was dying as more and more personnel and the various squadrons went to other bases. The Motorola radios I believe had 5 channels. One was assigned to Security, another to avionic, supply and so on. As these squadrons left the channels went silent. Eventually Security occupied more of them in an unofficial capacity. There was the soul bros frequency, the uplifting Bible thumpers talking about end times and the Red Necks chatting about the south and the Civil War.  It was mostly humorous commentary, some was racist from both sides. If there was an security incident, you could hear the clicks as the troops went back to the security frequency. We took some rockets during this period. The Vietnamese were notoriously bad shots, but still there were those troops who had their babies, the Akai Tape players or Kenwood receivers bought at the Exchange waiting to be shipped home. You never could tell, Charlie might get lucky and land one on a hooch.

The chow hall finally closed, not that it was missed all that much. At that point the contingent left on base was so small the security troops and other organizations were allowed to eat in the officer’s club mess. It was not the typical slop. It was very good and the atmosphere was much improved. The floors were dry unlike the enlisted man’s chow hall..

                                                                       20.

Phan Rang AFB:

It was now November, 1971 and with Phu Cat phased out, I, along with Giant and some of the other K-9 handlers was transferred to the 315^th SPS at Phan Rang AFB about a 90 minute bus ride on dirt roads through rice patties and small villages.

Phan Rang too was being phased down and would be my home for the next 2 months or so. I assume rather than bring in new K-9 units from the states, they reconfigured the troops they had in country.  The most imposing feature of the base was a large hill off to the side but well within the base confines. The hill was put to good use with mortor pits and housed a huge spot light that could illuminate just about any part the base and beyond. I often thought to climb up to the summit, but didn’t quite get around to it.

My memories of Phan Rang are not all that vivid. By this time I was in the daily grind. One issue that was getting to be a sore spot between me and Pauline was R+R. It was difficult to transmit to her, that all the nonessential support elements of the base had departed.                                                                                      

While at Phu Cat I attempted on numerous occasions to arrange for these request, the paperwork did not appear to be processed. By the time I arrived at Phan Rang it was in a similar state. Pauline had discussed the two week furlough numerous times in letters and the couple of time I could chat briefly on the MARS system. Each time we discussed it, it became an irritant.  I was in country over 6 months by the time I arrived at Phan Rang, this simple task should have been a no brainer. 

(Military Affiliated Radio System) MARS was a half short wave radio, half telephone system as I understood it. There were phone receivers at both ends, but there were delays requiring to say “Over” at the end of each sentence. This cued the other person that you were finished. It was cumbersome to used and certainly not personal. Personnel had to stand in line for up to 90 minutes just to talk for 3- 5 minutes roughly. You had a shot at it once a month or so. Today I marvel at the ease at which soldiers can contact their loved ones and chat like they were right next door.

Written letters, too, also had their limitation’s, sometimes with funny results.  Not all letters arrived back and forth in a smooth  chronological order.  On one such instance, Pauline, wrote me saying she had just come back from “The funeral”.  Assuming I had received the previous letter stating the details of the event, she omitted the name of the guest of honor. I would write her back, “Who Died?” then in a day or so the missing correspondence would appear providing the missing information. Sometimes you were asking questions that were already answered and other times providing answers to questions that were no longer relevant.

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There was something quaint about the way things were communicated, that is missing in this day of instant messaging, video and all the assorted ways we have to communicate. People had to take their time to write and ponder, send the letter and wait a couple of weeks in some cases for a reply. Yes there is a reason why it is called snail mail today.  I look back and think it was a better way to relay your thoughts and dreams. The anticipation of mail call was palpable. Packages made it even sweeter, crammed filled with all kinds of treats, mostly edible, but some things more practical. The base had many more men than women, so at times the letters got steamy to the point of porn. And early form of sexting. I imagine the censors who read some of these literary erotic masterpieces got an eyeful.

Yes, there were ways to release “the tension”. One such establishment was run by the BX and was a massage parlor or euphemistically known as the steam and cream. The primary purpose was a primitive spa, where for an extra gratuity you could get a hand job or what ever. One such patron asked for the deluxe package, the masseuse tending to this young lad apparently had a rather strong grip at the till and popped the veins in his penis causing him to spurt blood to the point he needed medical attention.  When word of that got out attendance dropped for a time. I figured I could take matters into my own hands and did not need any assistance in that regard. At Phu Cat there were some semi private stalls to relieve yourself, one in the far corner was even dedicated to the proposition of self release. It had all kinds of “reading materials” and a fair amount of poetry on the walls and rather graphic artistry to set the mood. The only thing missing were some candles. Sadly Phan rang was a more open community and there were no individual stalls to relieve one’s self.  The toilets were lined neatly up against the wall for all the world to see. I do not remember taking a crap there for the whole 3 months I was there. One oddity of the commodes where the outlines of bare footprints on the seats, some facing forward, some facing backward. As I worked nights, for the most part I missed the Comings and goings in the latrine as I slept much of the time.

One day however there were a group of Vietnamese cleaning the place, could not help but notice that unlike Americans who prefer a more intimate experience with the throne, the natives prefer to dive bomb from the squatting position. Some preferred facing forward and for a unique perspective some preferred to face backwards.

The hooch’s in Phan Rang were very much like the accommodations a “The Cat”.  Sex on this base  a little more promiscuous than my prior base, perhaps I was just more aware of it. My best recollection of this is illustrated while out one day having to do administrative work or training. I got back to the hooch to see a line of airmen mostly dog handlers. I enquired as to what was going one and they said there was a hooker inside.  When I went in there she was on my bunk, surrounded by guys taking their turns. I was not a happy camper, but it was what it was. I was not there to defend my turf, so I was odd man out so to speak. No sense crying over spilt semen. 

                                                                                          22.              

One night just after day break I was heading toward my relief point and spied a helicopter hovering just beyond the perimeter fencing. I thought it was rather odd and started examining it a little closer. The door was open and you could see people actively doing something, I was not sure what it was. The copter was holding steady at about 100-200 feet above the ground. Then what appeared to be a duffle bag fell out of the copter and suddenly sprouted arms and legs. Now they had my attention and watched further only to see a second “duffle” bag being thrown from the copter door, this time there was no mistaking it for a duffle bag. The guys inside were asking questions of prisoners and if they weren’t getting the right answers out they went. I believe it was a Vietnamese helicopter, but I would not stake my life on it. There was no third body, in a few seconds it flew off. I went to the relief truck. I had heard about this, but it was the first time I had seen it up close and personal. Curiosity naturally wanted me to go over there and look, but these bases were surrounded by minefields and Claymores laid down by the French and Americans over 30 years. I wasn’t about to risk life and limb just to satisfy some morbid curiosity.

Like at Phu Cat incidents would occur on occasion, a fire fight, mortars attack or a suicide attack, nothing was ever mentioned, or a briefing given. It was just another day at the office. It was like it never happened. Guardmount  was the time prior to posting you would get the threat briefings which were useless, various updates, confirm post assignments or some dirty Joke the Sergeant would tell  to lighten things up. But to my recollection the previous night’s events were forgotten.  Then were would be dismissed and go to our dogs and load up on the various trucks, jeeps etc.

While on perimeter, once in a while you would see a rocket flash coming from off base and we were supposed to call in incoming, so Central Security Control/CSC could sound the base alarm, perhaps giving the base a few extra second to find cover. It took only 30-40 seconds for a rocket to splash down. I called in one, by the time I got to my radio and called it in the base alarm had no sooner sounded than the rockets landed. I was a little hesitant as I had never seen one before. CSC thank me for all of the 1 second advanced warning. The likelihood of actually hitting something of value or killing someone was remote. I grew to underestimate the rockets and considered them nothing more than a primitive oddity, like some large fire cracker, a estimation that almost cost me dearly later on. In order for these types of rockets or mortars to be effective is to have pre planned grid coordinates, with sectors laid out. Fortunately for us the North Vietnamese soldier did not have this ability. The did try to obtain this type of information with informants who worked on the bases, but with little success.                                                                              

Giant was a great comfort. The dog’s value on Airforce bases were more psychological than anything else. They were not being used the way they should have been, it is not to say they did not have value, but the Airforce’s philosophy was to get as much security out there as possible, rather than maximize resources. Still the Viet Cong feared the dog’s to the point of placing a bounty on each ear with a tattoo brought in. 

                                                                                       23.

Despite everything I was still very patriotic, and loved my country deeply, but there was a growing resentment of my government. The drugs, the contraband, corruption and sheer waste was staggering this form the point of view of this Airman 1^st class.  There were people in intelligence and other organizations, who permitted this and probably profited mightily.

Phan Rang had a large storage area, as most bases did, where general supplies were stored. This too was patrolled by K-9 units. One evening the area was looted to some degree by several industrious Vietnamese as one part of the perimeter paralleled the outside of the base and the adjoining village. The story got out that the handler was lured to the fence by a young girl and started to give him fellatio for a few bucks. She then bit down on his penis, while her cohorts spent a few rewarding minutes throwing base supplies over the fence to waiting helpers. The dog handler, his AR-15 strapped diagonally across his body, could not be brought to bear due to the close proximity of the fence and his dog unable to provide much in the way of assistance. Dog handlers did not carry side arms, so he was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Apparently, he did not use his radio as he was concerned as to what she might do to his privates. It was kept under wraps as the only certain thing was the area was robbed, the details were shall we say never revealed fully and the handler was not talking much. He did require some medical treatment, so the story it was believe came from the medics who treated him . I am not sure it he received a purple heart for being wounded in combat.

My time at Phan Rang would only last 3 months, I still had no R and R and Pauline was duly annoyed to no end at me thinking I was trying to put it off. I really thought I might have a short tour of duty in Vietnam and be sent home as the rumor mill was working over time. The base perimeter was shrinking and some Security were headed back to stateside. As luck would have it I got a set of orders deploying me to Cam Rahn Bay, to the 483 Security Police squadron at that point the busiest sea port and airbase in the world. Giant and I flew into the base on a C-130 prop driven transport plane

Cam Rahn Bay AFB

Cam Rahn was a sprawling multiservice base with Army, Navy and Airforce working side by side.  Compare to the other sleepy hamlets I was in this place was a bustling 24/7. It was a dog handlers paradise; the dogs could be used to a better advantage and the security was excellent. I was totally out of the drug scene by that time and this base seemed to have its act together more than the others.

Giant and I had posts often that looked out over the South China Sea. The beaches had enormous sand dunes that gave you a huge advantage of field of view. The sand being white highlighted anyone coming and going. In the low lying areas between the dunes. You could gather firewood(if it was available)  and make a small fire to cook and keep warm. While it was a long slog to the post in the sand, it was worth the trip. The posts were so expansive you rarely saw another dog handler.

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The Chinese/Vietnamese Junks sat off the cost and were not permitted to come closer than several hundred yards.

If they did not heed the warnings Security would periodically fire the machine guns to shoot near the boats to insure they moved to the proper distance. No one was shot, to my knowledge but it did give the locals pause to consider vacating the premises.                                                                                  

These dunes gave you a really good view of the base as well. This came in useful one evening when a K-9 unit called that there was  “Incoming” I casually stood up on the dune to observe exactly where the rockets would land. I was astonished when it exploded 200 -300 feet from me!. My curiosity was suddenly satiated as Giant and I dove for cover. It was a lesson learned. No harm was done as the sand largely absorbed the shell and explosion. I thought back to that night in Phan Rang when I was dismissing the rockets as an oddity. Central Security Control did a check of the posts in the area to ensure everyone’s safety.

Most nights were quiet, these posts, were nothing like the one at my prior duty stations. Some of those posts could give you the creeps . These patrol areas in contrast were serene, at night often time the moon would rise over the water, as day light approached the sun made its spectacular appearance over the South China Sea. This was good duty.

The base itself was almost a 24 hour Sodom and Gomorrah. Cam Rahn and the town were almost one and it was rowdy to say the least. The American girl’s or round eye as they were called, usually, came at a premium price if they could be had at all. The going rate was your combat pay or $50 or so I was told. On the other hand, the Vietnamese girls bartered using the time old tried and true system of capitalism. I liked the girls and always treated them with respect. This is not to say I was holier than thou, I was tempted to be sure but all my money went directly to Pauline and she would send me $25 or so to keep me going for the incidentals. God know she was working her tail off. Her father was very supportive. All my needs such as clothing, food and housing were paid for, many trinkets I could write home and they would send me a care package of essentials and goodies. So all needed was an occasional burger and a movie now and then and pay the mama-san for housekeeping. I believe that was $5 a month. Remember there were 8 guys in a hooch and she may have had 2-3 hooch’s. They were sweet girls.

 I kept to myself, many of the dog handlers I knew and were friendly with were heading back to the states as the war was being consolidated to more confined areas. The food was good the hooch’s were comfortable. There wasn’t any rain, no rats or no mud, just sand.  Since I was in roughly my 9^th month, I ceased inquiring about that elusive R+R writing it off as a lost cause and concentrated on the prize. Getting back stateside. With so many troops leaving and some with less time in country than I had I thought my notice to go home was imminent.

                                                                         25.

Each night was starting to look like every other night. Walking, picking ticks off Giant, sharing my boxed lunch with the dog talking to him about life, thinking what will become of Giant after I leave. Occasionally I would get a visit from a supervisor if the terrain allowed or read for short periods if lighting permitted or when it didn’t chat with neighboring K-9 briefly. I was restless.

The routine was soon broken one evening by a Dog handler who called in a strong alert his dog was indicating in the bomb dump. He was radioing that the area was being penetrated. I was on patrol in the harbor area. Across the rather wide channel was the weapons storage area (WSA), it was a gigantic place filled with all kinds of ordinance. Surrounded by chain link and barbed wire It was one of the main depots that supplied the whole country with the stockpiles of ammo needed to conduct the war. Though not visible by me directly, you knew where it was from the lights that illuminated every square inch. The base sirens sounded and every available unit was sent to the scene. Less than 2 minutes after the alert was relayed the whole place started to explode. Sappers or suicide bombers were throwing exploding satchels into the various reinforced open air bunkers.                                                                 

Some of these bunkers would explode not unlike like dominoes one falling against the next would detonate the one closest in proximity. This went on for hours well after the perpetrators were dead or escaped. Frequently some heavy ordinance went of sending strong shock waves across the channel. I knew there were daisy busters in there, 15,000-pound behemoths, that could level 2 acres of jungle and make an instant landing zone for helicopters. I waited for them to go off, but they never did.

A steady stream of….

I stopped the writing here as it was getting to painful to continue. Giant was euthanized as were many dogs in the kennel.

                                                                                             26.