I awoke in confusion, my mind scrambled to figure out where I was and why. I soon had it pieced together. I had been sleeping on the floor of a trailer home at Bien Hoa air base. I was there because I had brought in a convoy late the night before. Just four vehicles, two jeeps and two trucks. The trucks bore two huge boxes that contained the transmitter, generator and a work space for some kind of a secret super radio. I now had about 30 minutes to shower, shave, grab a cup of coffee and get out to the trucks and relieve the guard mount. I stumbled around in the unfamiliar space, locating a towel and my dopf kit in the process. Once showered, my mind cleared and I pulled out a clean set of fatigues to start the day. I found a rag to dust off my boots, bloused the pant legs so they made a neat crease pointing right down the middle of the laces of the boots. “Getting your gig line straight” was the way it had been taught to us by crusty old sergeants during officer basic. Then I rolled the sleeves on the jacket, again making sure the creases were centered to military perfection, pulled the jacket on and reached for the web belt and the holster for my .45. Now I smoothed the sides of my jacket back, the way you make a hospital corner with a bed sheet, and pulled the belt around, then smoothed out everything above and below the belt. I checked myself out in the mirror. I was straight. I looked military. I was ready for duty.
I poured a mug full of coffee from Captain Matthews pot and headed into the black of early morning, transferring the cup from right to left hand so that I would be ready to return the salutes that would greet me. The two guards were standing next to the front bumper of the second truck, enjoying a smoke and shooting the breeze. We went through our formalities at the end of which I pointed them toward the mess hall and shower point they were to use and then dismissed them. It was oddly quiet around the base. I could hear crickets, toads and lizards competing for territory and love along with the brave song of an early rising bird. From the far side of the base came the unmistakable prop and jet sound of a C-135 Hercules, taxiing in the dark to some unknown spot. I relaxed and took in the sounds, enjoyed the damp and musky morning breeze, and thought about home, wondering what friends and family were doing. It would be early evening back in Dayton. Mom and Dad would just be getting off work and beginning the rush hour commute. The sun began to make a crimson tear along the bottom of nights curtain and I turned my attention toward it, enjoyed it for a second or so and then walked to the other end of my precious cargo.
I felt in charge. Responsible. Respected. Capable.
Other sounds came from the buildings surrounding the base. The place was beginning to wake up and start another duty day. The gray light of early morning was now replacing the black of night, dimming the blue cast of the mercury vapor floodlights and throwing its own long shadows across the white expanse of the flight line.
From the front gate I caught the sight of headlights and the diesel hum of buses. There were four of them, linked as if playing a game of follow the leader, snaking their way around the base buildings and then finally heading toward me, single file. At about 50 yards from me I was able to make out the red cross emblem on the nose of the bus. The driver waved to me about the time I was able to clearly see his face. My eyes moved directly to the front seats on the left as if moving onto a new sentence while reading. I was instantly confronted by two faces. They stared right through me. The look was cold and distant, no sign of recognition; of me, the air base, of any time and place, faces frozen by some unspeakable memory and unable to respond. The face on the left bore a bandage covering most of his forehead. The bus rolled on and I turned my head to follow. I could see a different face pressed against each of the string of windows running the length of the olive drab bus. The faces were pale, even the black ones. Here and there I could pick out a sign of pain in the eyes or around the mouth. Most were swathed in bandages that covered arms, shoulders, perhaps an eye, another forehead . sometimes the bandages ended abruptly just below the wrist or elbow, a smooth round end where there should have been a hand or a forearm. The first bus passed by in what seemed an interminable slow motion parade, then came the second. Again, I saw the blank faces, the bodies wrapped in smooth white strips of adhesive tape. The eyes focused on nothing.
The ghastly parade would not speed up, indeed it seemed to slow as it passed me by. The middle two busses had litters in the back half, so that now I could see whole bodies, strapped down, wrapped like mummies, IV lines connected to arms, their heads turned to stare out the window, looking for something and seeing nothing, failing to react to the look in my eyes.
Zombies, strung out on powerful doses of morphine so that their minds could not feel the searing pain from their wounds.
I stood powerless and let them roll by me, roll over me it seemed, smearing me with the gore of their stories, forcing me to acknowledge what had happened to them. I couldn't ignore them. I was vicariously experiencing their fears. I began imagining the frightening moments when each had met the round with his name on it, imagining their cries for help, imagining that each explosion, each bullet, had torn through me instead of them. At last the final bus cleared my space and they all sat not more than 20 yards from my lead truck, well away from the passenger terminal where I had entered Vietnam less than 60 days earlier.
Now I knew. The army was careful not to spook the new guys coming in and so the well kept secret of what war really was sat on the Tarmac, just in front of my top secret convoy.
I looked away. I shivered. I sought to concentrate on something, anything, else. I tried to mentally walk through a list of the days tasks. I attempted to problem solve my conflicts with Majors Gonsaldo and Zaremski. I began imaginary letters to Mary. I wondered if the Buckeyes could beat Purdue this coming Saturday. My mind flitted from thought to thought, grabbed on for a second or two, but it had no staying power. I would not turn around and look at those rolling charnel houses but it didn't matter. I didn't need to. The sight was seared into my mind as if I had been branded.
The day moved on. Now the entire base was active. Jets screamed off for the first patrols of the day. Trucks came and went, jeeps bopped about the buildings, conversations began and ended. The promised flight for my cargo was still stuck in a hanger across the flight line from me waiting for a repair part. The busses continued to wait patiently in front of my trucks. Their air ambulance was delayed somewhere also. I could not escape but only stand and feel their presence. The wait got me. It may have been only minutes but it felt like hours and the while I could feel their eyes on me. I was sure they could pick out the newness in the dark green of my fatigues. In my mind I saw them focus on the starched jacket and pants with the parade ground creases. I felt the heat of the .45 on my hip. I felt the grime of the war on my freshly showered and shaved skin. I felt the weight of my lieutenant's bar on my collar bone, as if I alone were responsible for this mess, for all of their wounds. I suddenly felt foolish where I had felt heroic just moments before.
People ask me if I ever shot anybody in Nam. I answer them honestly. I shot at people on the rare occasions I had a duty to do so. I don't know that I hit anything but jungle, but yes, I shot at people. That seems to satisfy them and then the next question follows: “Did you see anybody get hit or get killed.” I know they don't mean any harm but I hear the question spoken as if Vietnam were some sort of accident on the side of Interstate 75, something to break the monotony of a long drive, to gawk at and wonder why. They don't seem to realize Vietnam as the collective pain of all those scarred, scared kids in those buses sitting on the side of Bien Hoa air base or the haunting memories of those of us who witnessed their suffering. The question invades my privacy, flashes me back to that humbling moment of self revelation. I feel all of it again. Feel it in my stomach, in the palms of my hands, see it on the back sides of my eyes, the screen only I can see. It's the question I won't answer then to anyone merely driving by.
© FORREST BRANDT, January 26, 1998