Loon - Jack McLean [38]
Now we’re coming down, my ears tell me, and in a minute we’ll see Saigon! Just three hours and we’ve had cocktails and lunch and a lovely smooth morning. I could go on! But I must powder my nose and be ready for the photographers at the airport.
My first flight to Vietnam from Okinawa, by contrast, was a comparatively short four-hour hop in a packed Pan Am 707 with several hundred fatigue-clad marines wedged shoulder to shoulder flying at thirty thousand feet—well above the ocean, well above the clouds, and completely removed from any hint of the reality into which we were about to enter.
My first sight of Vietnam occurred during our final approach as we made the slow bank toward Da Nang. I first saw the beaches—beautifully endless white sand beaches—followed by the emerald green of the jungle, bordered by a thousand rice paddies that stretched out to the horizon.
Vietnam seemed serene.
Timeless.
A thousand years of civilization lay simply before me.
Then we landed.
Instantly, the predominant color became red—red clay, red mud, red dust everywhere and all over everything. But at first there was a familiar feeling to what I saw. It was, after all, a United States Marine Corps base. All marine bases have a particular order and organization, whether in Barstow, Camp Lejeune, or Da Nang. The signs were all in red and gold; everything in sight—moving or stationary—had usmc stenciled on the side; people went about their business in a certain distinct marine-like manner. As such, Da Nang did not have the feel of a foreign country or a war zone. Looking out the small window, I could see that the marines weren’t even wearing helmets or flak jackets. I felt relieved that we would not be hit by enemy fire upon disembarkation.
The evidence of the rapid buildup, however, was palpable. The airport at which we landed was now the busiest in the world. I was one of four hundred thousand American boys to set foot in Vietnam in 1967. The number would be considerably higher the following year.
A quick scan of the grounds revealed concertina wire, guard towers, tank emplacements, flimsy wooden barracks, and hundreds of tents. Parallel to our runway, we could see F-4 Phantom jets taking off without break, one after the other. The late afternoon sun reflected blindingly off the bright silver napalm canisters that hung heavily from their wings. Several of the jets carried equally devastating payloads of two-hundred-fifty-pound bombs as they headed off to provide close air support for a marine unit under attack.
For the first time in my life I felt trapped. I could neither go home nor hide. For a United States Marine arriving in South Vietnam in November of 1967, there were only two ways out—in a Pan Am jet from Da Nang, or in a body bag from the field.
I couldn’t deny a twinge of excitement, however, as my foot touched the tarmac.
Our first stop was a large wooden shed on the edge of the runway. The inside was dimly lit by several fluorescent lights and was impossible to navigate because the tropical midday sun had temporarily blinded me. After several seconds, I discerned a long counter from which three lines of marines snaked around the room. At the head of each line was a sign hanging from the ceiling. Each appeared to designate a destination of some sort, although none was familiar to me—Phu Bai? Quang Tri? Khe Sanh? In my hand I carried a manila envelope with my official orders. I was to report to 1/4, the 1st Battalion of the 4th Marine Regiment of the 3rd Marine Division.
The 3rd Marine Division—Bougainville, Guam, Iwo Jima.
Iwo fucking Jima!
After