War for the Hell of it: A Fighter Pilot’s View of Vietnam, by Ed Cobleigh.

Cheating Death, by George Marrett.

I had the honor of being invited to a very special event in October, 2016. The event entitled, “Veterans Tribute 2016” brought together over 300 veterans including those from the Vietnam War, WWII and Korea. Over 800 folks attended in all. This was the first veteran special event I’ve attended since returning home from Vietnam in 1970 and it could not have been better. I saw old classmates and made new friends. We listened to many fine speakers, two of whom recently published books about their Vietnam War experiences.

Each veteran had a collage displayed sequentially on four huge big-screens in front of the room, so we each had our few moments of recognition. Later, the MC called each one of us by name. As we stood to be recognized, a member of the Grizzly Academy brought us a beautiful Veterans Tribute 2016 plaque, a copy of our collage and 6 certificates of appreciation for our service, each signed by our various government representatives.

Finally, all of our local fallen veterans including four from my high school class of ’65 and one from the class of ’66 were recognized up front with photographs and collages detailing their service to our country. It was very touching to say the least.

The event lasted 4.5 hours, but it was so enjoyable it seemed like much less.

At last, a Home Coming after all these years!

Primary 3kw generator in the foreground powered our radar system. The 1kw generator in the background kept the batteries charged for our PRC-25 communications radio.

Ben Soi ARVN infantry camp, September, 1969.

I feel something touch my arm and I awake in an instant. It’s my buddy, Mark. I recognize his voice in the darkness. “Staff, Staff, you awake?” he whispers. “Yeah, I’m awake,” I reluctantly reply. As I come out of the fog of sleep, I realize I’m a bit irritated because Mark interrupted a nice dream. “You’re on in 10 minutes,” he says.

I can see Mark’s dim, mostly covered flashlight as he shuffles out of the tent and heads back towards the radar van, some 100 feet away. I push the mosquito netting aside and swing my feet over the edge of my cot, then grope around for my flashlight. Sandals or boots? My feet are covered with open sores from my ill-fitting jungle boots, so I take every opportunity to give them a chance to heal. Sandals win. I sling my M-16 over my shoulder, wait a few moments, then stand up and start for the tent door-flap, keeping my fingers over the lens of my government issue flashlight so only a trickle of light hits the ground.

Once outside, I breathe in the fresh night air and glance up at the stars. Millions of stars. About the only time I ever saw so many stars back home was when we went camping in the Sierra Mountains. I marvel at the stunning beauty of the night sky, even in this war-torn country.

The generator is singing its faithful tune in the background, somewhat muffled by the surrounding sandbag walls. As I approach the generator I give the 55-gallon gas barrel a push to one side to check its weight. It feels about 1/4 full, so we’re good for a few more hours before swapping barrels.

As I stroll along the path to the van I can see parachute flares off in the distance, plus some occasional bursts of red tracers arcing through the night sky. Off towards the Cambodian border I can see some large flashes, followed by the “fratch” sound of exploding artillery shells. I sometimes wonder how I manage to sleep through such crap. Am I really sleeping? I’ve lost count of how many times I’m awakened during the night. I guess after a while you get so tired that you just don’t care. You do what you have to do. Exhaustion wins out.

Moments later, I climb up some steps and then open the van door. There’s a switch rigged to the door, so the moment the door starts to open, the interior lights go off. Once inside, I close the door and the lights return. I squint in the seemingly bright light. Thanks to the many electronic equipment boxes inside the van, the air temperature is hotter than 2 hamsters farting inside a wool sock. Heavy cigarette smoke lingers in the air despite the two small ventilation fans whirring away near the top of the back wall. Camels. Unfiltered Camels. I smoke them, too.

“Get any targets?” I ask. “Is a frog’s ass water tight?” Mark replies sarcastically. “OK, OK, I get it. I’m still waking up. Gimme me a smoke,” I reply. Mark points to some new grease pencil marks on the plexiglass covering the area map and then shows me the new entries in the logbook as he hands me a Camel, followed by his Zippo. Busy night. The guys have hit 7 targets since my last shift. Mark makes a successful commo check after punching the new codes into the encoder/decoder at midnight; the encoder/decoder I signed for and subsequently chained to the van. There are millions of possible combinations, so punching in the codes can be problematic. I’m glad it worked the first time tonight. I had that chore last night.

Mark bids me goodnight and reaches for the door handle. I wish him sweet dreams and not to worry about Jody hitting on his girlfriend back home. I think I spotted a finger just as the door opened and the lights went out. I guess I can’t blame Mark for his sarcasm at times. Perhaps some of it stems from our extravagant Army pay. We make about $8.00 per day, which includes $2.00 Hazardous Duty pay. The Army views this as a 33% increase in pay. We view it as $2.00 a day.

I settle into the metal folding chair, if that’s possible. I look left to the logbook and review the recent targets again. We make it a habit to monitor previous targets during the night, on the chance of catching some possible stragglers. Next, I check the elevation on the radar antenna and bug light under the map, and then begin the all-too-familiar search routine along the Angel’s Wing portion of the Cambodian border, just a couple of miles away. I decide to search just a bit south of the previous targets. After cranking the antenna around, I switch the radar to automatic and sit back and listen while studying the scope. I light up another Camel and take a few, deep drags. I don’t see or hear anything unusual, but decide to stick with it for 10 minutes before selecting a new sector. Then I catch something. It was just a split second audio hint in the back ground noise. I move the mode switch from auto to manual, then make some small adjustments in range and azimuth while focused on the scope. I listen. Bingo! Movement!

I move the range gate to the leading edge of the target and watch and wait. I estimate 40 people, all in a well spaced column. The column is moving due east. I reach up and mark their position the bug light has illuminated under the map and plexiglass. After recording the coordinates, strength and direction of movement, I pick up the mic and make the report to TOC (Tactical Operations Center) back at base camp. The coordinates I provide are where I predict the target will be in 8 minutes; the time it takes to put rounds on target. TOC knows the routine. Minutes pass, then TOC acknowledges that this target will be fired on. A few minutes later TOC calls, “Shot!” I acknowledge, “Shot, out!” Moments later, I see the blooms on the scope. Six HE (High Explosive) rounds hit the target right on the button. I report, “Rounds on target, fire for effect.” Several more volleys follow. Scratch another NVA platoon. Or at least most of it.

After adding some additional details to our logbook, I light up another cigarette, hoping to relax for a moment. It’s amazing how absorbed and focused one can get during a fire mission. I well understand what just happened out there in the darkness, just a couple of miles away. I also know that they would do the same to us without hesitation. In fact, they try frequently by lobbing mortars and rockets at us. Then I recall what happened back at our base camp a few weeks ago when sappers breached the perimeter wire and berm. They got into a guard bunker and slit the throats of 4 sleeping soldiers. Yeah, there were only supposed to be 3 asleep. One guy fell asleep on the job, so 4 died. I have no regrets regarding what we just did to the infiltrators.

I swing the radar antenna to a new sector, then move the mode switch to automatic and begin the search routine once again. There will be more infiltrators. A lot more.

Boring topic, but still a critical part of the radar system. No power, no radar. No radar, increased enemy infiltration. I learned on my very first day in the field that no one wanted to be responsible for the generators. To them, it was like being relegated to KP (Kitchen Police). Probably the only detail lower on the totem-pole was burning shit.

My section chief soon learned that I had been trained on generator repair and maintenance back in Germany. I actually enjoyed the course and really didn’t mind looking after our 2 generators. One generator powered the radar system and the other, smaller generator kept our radio batteries charged.

When I first arrived, the main radar generator was a non-standard machine, mounted on a deuce and a half trailer. The governor was inoperative, so the hand-throttle had to be carefully adjusted for the correct RPM and then locked. The throttle had to be checked and readjusted frequently throughout the night. The supply folks back at our base camp never fulfilled our repeated requests for a replacement governor. I could have easily replaced it in the field.

We got orders to move about a month later. Our new destination was not accessible by truck, so we were airlifted by helicopter. The tired old trailer-mounted generator remained behind. We were then forced to rely on the cranky little 2-stroke generator that came standard with the radar system. That little single cylinder beast was rated at 1kw. Coincidentally, the radar system drew 1kw of power. No reserve, so that little generator ran at max blast in 12+ hour shifts. In the heat.

So, we continued to beg for a better generator. We finally got the attention of our mostly absent radar officer and he, in turn, got us a new generator. But there was a catch. The supply folks had to have a reason for the exchange. In other words, our old generator had to be broken or non-serviceable. Well, we solved that problem by “accidentally” forgetting to mix oil with the gas during refueling. Next, we fired it up during the day and just let it rip. Eventually, it seized up and became one piece of metal.

During the actual exchange, Jerry let slip what we had done in front of our officer, with the supply sergeant standing nearby. Fortunately, we already had the new 3kw generator in the truck, so we just blasted off. Tough bananas, guys. What are you gonna do, send us to Vietnam?

We managed to put 2500+ hours on that new generator by the time I went home. It was 500 hours overdue for exchange itself – well beyond overhaul time. I topped off the oil every other day and changed the oil in between.  Also, I removed and cleaned the sparks plugs every day, without fail. The generator was using enough oil during each 12 hour shift that the spark plugs would start to foul near the end of the 12 hour grind. It would just make it through the night.

During the one time our Commander of the 25th Infantry Division Artillery visited us (a full-bird colonel), he asked us if we needed anything. I piped up and mentioned that we sure could use a new generator. We never got it. Thanks for nothing, boss. One more reason I loved our intrepid leaders. What a screwed up war.

I did experience a little unexpected side benefit to my generator maintenance skills. While were based with the US Advisory team and ARVN infantry near Loc Giang (my last camp before going home), the Advisory team leader (a 1st Lt.) approached me and asked if I would be willing to take a look at their generator. It hadn’t run in months and no one knew how to fix it. As luck would have it, their generator had the identical engine to our radar generator. Only the generator output was different. While our generator produced 120 volts AC at 400 cycles, theirs produced 120 volts AC and 60 cycles – just like stateside power.

I got out my tool kit and started looking over the Advisory team’s generator. It didn’t take long to locate the problem. Someone had grossly mis-adjusted the dual ignition points, rendering the ignition dead. After a few adjustments, I had the generator singing away. Now that the Advisory Team’s convenience generator was working, we all got to watch their little B&W TV in the evening. Tuned into AFVN (Armed Forces Vietnam Network), we enjoyed Laugh-In several evenings a week. It was really a hoot to be able to watch TV way out in the sticks. We’d crowd into a small bunker and mostly forget about the war for 30 minutes. After the show ended, someone would turn on the single light bulb hanging from a post, only to reveal hundreds of cockroaches on the floor and coming out of the cracks in the sandbags. It was as if the strange light from the little TV attracted them. But no matter, Laugh-In was a nice break from reality.

The AN/TPS-25 “Tipsy 25” Battlefield Ground Surveillance Radar system was an incredible piece of equipment for its time. It was so effective that it was still in use during Gulf 1. The Doppler feature was probably the most significant part of the system. It allowed a skilled operator to identify the target via audio feedback. Moving things created a wavy “flaky” image on the otherwise green, straight horizontal line at the bottom of the small scope. Moving the flaky stuff into a 1/4″ wide range gate brought the Doppler feature into play. This was vitally important. Wind-blown vegetation could create the flaky image as well as moving persons. The swinging arms and legs of personnel created very distinct whooshing-like sounds in the radar audio system.  An experienced operator could easily distinguish between the wind-blown leaves and moving personnel.

Once we detected and identified a target, we could determine the strength (number of people) and direction of movement, plus the map coordinates. We could count on the enemy troop columns to move at pretty much the same pace and direction for a few minutes or more, so we could fairly accurately predict their location in say, 8 minutes, the usual amount of time it took to get rounds on target. And of course from there, we could call adjustments if necessary. More often than not, we put it right between their horns.

Our primary AO (Area of Operation) was near the Cambodian border with focus on two distinct areas known as the “Angel’s Wing” and “Parrot’s Beak.” Each border shape resembled their namesake, protruding into Vietnam. We spent most of our time at FSB’s (Fire Support Base) within a few miles of the border. We often observed enemy movement just across the border. Obviously, these were staging areas for enemy soldiers and equipment, just before they crossed into Vietnam during the night. We were within rocket range. They could shoot at us, but we weren’t allowed to shoot at them until they crossed the border. What a crazy war.

Each of our 5-man team pulled 2 shifts per night of about 1.5 hours each. That may not seem very long, but I can assure you that it is easy to start seeing and hearing things not long after that. We needed a break.

We kept a logbook at arm’s reach on the left shelf in the cramped radar van. On our right was a PRC-25 radio, complete with a magic KY-38 encoder/decoder unit. We reset the codes every night at midnight. As the SRO (Senior Radar Operator) and only person in the crowd with a secret clearance, I had to sign for the encoder/decoder box and also for the weekly new code booklet. I kept it on a string around my neck. I chained and locked the encoder/decoder unit to the van. I burned the previous nights code page, with a witness. I almost felt important.

Some of the guys on our team got pretty excited during a fire mission. Perhaps Jerry was the most enthusiastic of the bunch. He was a darned good operator and did his best to detect targets. He’d gleefully point to his entries in the logbook the next morning with great excitement. The rest of us got pretty excited too when we completed successful missions, but probably didn’t make such a big deal out of it.  But no matter. The point was, as a team, we were stopping a very significant amount of enemy infiltration along the Cambodian border from the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Not only did we increase our chances of surviving, I’m sure we made a positive difference for a lot of our buddies in the area. All of us are very proud of what we did. We had a non-glorious job; a job that is not well known and at best, very misunderstood. This is my attempt to change that perspective.

Garrett and I drew the short straw, so we prepared ourselves for the 30 km drive back to our base camp near Cu Chi from our small camp near Loc Giang. Mark was busy working on our deuce-and-a-half truck, so we had to take the well-worn 3/4 ton truck. It was pretty ugly: shrapnel holes in the tail gate; spare tire mount was missing in action (although the spare was in the truck bed); plus various drive-shafts that were so worn that the resulting vibration was like one of those coin-operated beds in a cheap motel. Oh yeah, the horn button was missing, but there was a little wire poking out of the steering column shaft. If you pushed it to one side so it touched the steering shaft, the horn would sound off. My childhood coaster had better options.

We loaded up two empty 55-gallon gas barrels, then mounted up. We grudgingly wore our flak-vests and steel pots (helmets). I say grudgingly because the flak-vests were uncomfortable and hot, not to mention that flak vests only stop schrapnel. They do not stop bullets. After mounting up, we hooked our M-16’s on the adjustable windshield wing-nuts and off we went in a cloud of dust.

As usual, we soon encountered the seemingly perpetual traffic jam at the single-lane bridge that crossed the Song Vam Co Dong River. This was always a major pain. We had to learn patience every time we crossed the bridge. Once past the bridge, our speed picked up to perhaps 25 MPH or so. The truck didn’t seem all that happy going much faster.

Eventually, we came to the end of the dirt road and turned onto a more-or-less 2-lane paved highway. There were just about every kind of vehicle imaginable on the highway including crapped out civilian buses, overloaded Honda motorbikes and long lines of military resupply convoys. Our route took us through the village of Trang Bang, a place that would become infamous 2 years later when a small girl was burned by an errant napalm strike by a South Vietnamese pilot.

Finally, the village of Cu Chi came into view and we turned off the highway for the base camp. The road leading to the base camp was liberally lined with dozens of street vendors, all trying to hustle their ill-gotten booty to passing GI’s. Some of the stuff was actually US government issue and appeared to be brand-spanking new. I even spotted PX type goods such as small fans and refrigerators. The black market was alive and well.

As we approached the main gate, we cleared our weapons and showed the gate guard the empty chambers.  He waved us on through.  There was a holding pen just inside the gate where enemy prisoners awaited transportation to some unknown destination. Sometimes the prisoners would glare at us. I tried to ignore them.

We drove straight to the POL (Petroleum, Oils & Lubricants) and refueled the truck and filled the two 55-gallon barrels. The POL was massive with huge sand-bagged bunkers containing fuel tanks or fuel bladders. About every 50 feet was a 10 foot high post with a fuel nozzle dangling on a hose. Self serve, of course.

After fueling up, we headed to the PX to pick up some personal goodies and perhaps a burger and soda. Our last stop was the orderly room in our battery area where we dropped off mail and hoped to pick up incoming mail.  Letters from home were vital to our morale. We even got lucky every now and then and received a “care package” full of goodies from home. Of course, we were expected to share these goodies with the team. We also checked-in with the 1st shirt (1st Sergeant) for any updates on the situation in our AO (Area of Operation). After that, we usually stuck our head in the door of the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) bunker, just to put a face with the voice on the radio, if nothing else. Also, it was interesting to look at the horizontal situation map in the center of the bunker, replete with various “game” pieces that represented various units in our AO. I always made it a point to look at ours, near the Cambodian border line on the map. It probably seemed a bit innocuous to those who pushed them around with sticks resembling pool cue’s. Sometimes I invited a bunker-bunny to join us at our little Shangri La out by the border for a few nights of fun, but they always declined.

During our routine we hoped to not bump into our radar officer. He was a career WO (Warrant Officer) who somehow wrangled a way to not join us in the field. Officially, he was supposed to be with us, but we were delighted that he played hooky. On the other hand, it irritated us that this fellow was living relatively well in the base camp battery area. I have no idea what his duties were. You might now understand why I didn’t think too highly of our leaders.

With the truck heavily loaded, it was now time to head out. It was my turn at the wheel. Once outside the main gate, we slapped a magazine into our M-16’s, chambered a round and hit the safety, then hooked the M-16’s handle on the convenient wingnuts on the adjustable windshield.

The trip back was going along in a fairly routine manner when all of a sudden the engine started surging and then slowing down. We were several miles down the narrow dirt road when it started flooding again (we had previously taken the truck to the motor pool shop several times for this very problem). Instinctively, I pushed the throttle to the floor in hopes that the increased air flow would balance the over-rich fuel mixture.  Too late. We gradually rolled to a stop in a cloud of raw fuel fumes. Garrett silently looked over at me as he drew his weapon off the wingnut. We didn’t have to say much. The situation was clear and it was not good. Garrett only had a few weeks left in country, so I’m sure he’s regretting going on this trip at the moment. To his credit, he stayed cool.

While Garrett stood guard, I lifted the hood and rapped on the defective carburetor with a crescent-wrench in hopes of dislodging the stuck float. The engine cranked and cranked but wouldn’t fire off. All we got was more gas fumes. As we’re contemplating our next move, we suddenly heard a truck coming from the opposite direction. It appeared around a bend and it was hauling ass. We flagged down the driver and he skidded to a halt adjacent to our truck. “Hey, could you give us a push?” The driver hesitated for a moment, then agreed. I could understand his hesitation because he had to jockey that big, 5-ton dump truck back and forth on a very narrow dirt road and it was getting late in the day. Once committed, he didn’t waste any time.

His bumper contacted ours and off we went. I put the 3/4 ton in second gear, let out the clutch and held the throttle to the floor. As speed increased, the engine started hitting on one or two cylinders and eventually all six. Saved! I never let my foot off the floored throttle. I put my left foot on the brake pedal and modulated our speed by braking alone. I was not going to give the engine a chance to flood again.

Meanwhile, I kept glancing in the mirror at our hero truck driver. My last image was him jockeying that big dump truck back and forth as we disappeared around a bend. I wish I had that soldiers name. And I hope he made it back to his unit safely. He probably saved our bacon.

Garrett remained uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of our trip. I could only imagine what was going through his mind. Perhaps it was the telegram that might’ve been sent… “We regret to inform you that your son was killed because the Army was too cheap and too inept to replace a 30-dollar carburetor…”

Short a radar officer. Short an authorized radar backup generator. Plagued with a defective carburetor. And the re-up officer sitting in his nice office back at the base camp had the nerve to ask me to re-enlist. What an idiotic war. FTA.

In terms of diseases, Malaria was probably our biggest threat. We swallowed a small, white anti-malaria pill once a day and choked down a huge, pinkish horse pill once a week. Considering the number of mosquito bites I endured, the pills must have worked. I didn’t get malaria, nor did any of my teammates.

Other dangers included poisonous snakes. There was talk about the so-called “Cigarette Snake.” Supposedly, if bitten by this snake, the victim had time for one cigarette before he died. Perhaps that was a myth, but we did know that there were poisonous snakes around. I recall seeing some snake tracks right under my cot once. Kind of “S” shaped. Glad he kept on trucking. I know there were poisonous banana snakes. Green in color, blending in with the bananas. We kicked the snot out of banana bunches before indulging in the fruit.

Water-borne cooties abounded. I got a royal case of ring-worm from some well water while based at an ARVN infantry camp. It invaded the injuries on my back from the tower accident. Also, ringworm invaded a lesion on my right fore arm. It seemed to take forever to go away. The lesion didn’t go away until after I returned home. I was never absolutely certain what it was. I was just glad that it eventually went away.

Another time, I came down with a severe case of the trots (quite possibly dysentery) after using some local ice in a Coke. I basically crapped water for over 2 weeks, yet somehow never missed my duties. When on radar duty and nature called, I slipped out of the radar van, dropped my boxers and did my chores in the near pitch blackness. I made it a point to pick a new compass heading on each excursion so as to avoid previous deposits. My biggest worry was if my lily-white moon could be seen by the bad guys. I mean, I had a great sun tan, but only to my belt line. I had nightmares about the bad guys possibly having starlight scopes mounted on their AK-47’s. Perhaps they should’ve been called moonlight scopes.

Rats were problem for us at most of the field camps (FSB’s and ATSB’s) we were based at. We knew the rats often carried diseases such as the plague and rabies, so we did our best to avoid contact with them. At times we also went a bit out of our way to get rid of them, or at least reduce their population.

We had a particularly rough time with rats and cockroaches while based at the ARVN infantry camp near Loc Giang. I remember one night when I was walking to the radar van to pull my shift when a rat ran across my foot. I was only wearing flip-flops at the time, so I could feel the rats claws. When I arrived inside the van, I sat down and examined my foot carefully for any scratches or cuts. I was a bit relieved when I didn’t find anything.

As the rats became more bold they actually tried to run off with a box of Ritz crackers that one of my buddies had received in a Care Package from home. It was at this point that I went to the trouble to set up a rather elaborate trap. First, I laid a 2′ by 2′ sheet of plastic on the ground near my cot. Next, I placed a mostly empty C-rations can right in the middle of the plastic sheet. I then carefully positioned the plastic so while laying in my cot, a pre-planned swing with my trenching tool would land right on the C-ration can. I would have to do this in virtually total darkness, so practicing the swing was necessary. I chuckled to myself when I envisioned the possible outcome.

Sure enough, later that night I heard a rat crinkling its way across the plastic, in search of dinner. I patiently waited until the rat was making munching noises and then swung my trenching tool with all I could muster. Blam! I heard a squeal. Got’em, I thought. I switched on my flashlight, but no sign of the rat. Oh well, I’m sure he’s at least limping a bit and probably will think twice about coming around here again.

One of my team-mates was also becoming very disgusted with the rats and managed to wangle a huge rat trap from someone back at base camp. It looked like a conventional mouse trap, except it was about 3 times larger and had semi-sharp teeth on the spring bail. He set it up one evening and baited it with a piece of ham and lima beans from the C-rations. Later that night we heard a loud snap. My team-mate let out the most sadistic chuckle I’ve ever heard. Morning light revealed our success. One down and hundreds to go.

Meanwhile, it seemed like the cockroaches were everywhere. They crawled out of the cracks in sandbag walls every night. We could spot hundreds of them in just one bunker. One of the NCO’s on the American Advisory team spent a great deal of time spraying the cockroaches with some nasty stuff provided by the Army.  All it did was encourage even more cockroaches to crawl out of the cracks.  Few of them died from the spray. Our only real defense was the mosquito netting surrounding our cots.

And then there was AO (Agent Orange). Of the four Corps areas in South Vietnam, our area (III Corps) was the most heavily sprayed. We occasionally saw low flying cargo aircraft in the in our region, but weren’t always sure what they were doing. Some of my teammates recall being directly sprayed, but I’m kind of drawing a blank there. In any case, at least 2 of my teammates are drawing VA benefits for health problems resulting from contact with Agent Orange. They are also receiving VA benefits for PTSD, but that’s another story…

I’m sure it is of little surprise to anyone that staying reasonably clean while in the field was difficult. When possible, we stacked up about 6 feet of empty Howitzer ammo boxes and then placed a 55-gallon drum on top, complete with a brazed-on faucet on the bottom. Most troops showered in their boxer shorts. Water was often trucked in, but we were forced to use well water at some of our more remote camps. Hoisting the water from 10+ foot deep wells was a bit of a chore, but the bigger problem was the water often contained bacteria or diseases.  We also used the well water for shaving.

Most of these make-do shower rigs just stood out in the open. We could see nearby tree lines while showering. I never closed my eyes, even while washing my hair. It seemed kind of spooky at times. I think just about everyone used the Lux bar-soap that was supplied to us in the so-called subsistence packages. I cannot stand Lux soap to this day.

Another ordeal was keeping our uniforms clean, and man, could they get dirty. Our washing machine was a small, plastic tub. Pour in a little water, add a bit of Tide and start stomping. Change water, rinse, then drape uniforms on the lower portion of the tower guy wires. Clean clothes were a luxury, but well worth the effort when we had time to do it.

Then there was our daily chores; urinating and defecating. Typically, there was the ubiquitous pee tube.  Basically, it was the shipping tube from a howitzer shell, partially buried in the ground. You simply walked up to the leaning tower of pizza tube and whizzed in it. No P-trap of course, so it smelled like heck after a few days.  Flies, too. You held your private part with one hand and swished away the flies with the other, while holding your nose with your third hand.

The crapper was a 55-gallon drum, cut in half, then filled about half-way with diesel fuel. Later, when it was just about topped off with numerous deuces, some low-level FNG had the honor of dragging it aside, topping it off with more diesel fuel, then setting it on fire.  You could see the smoke for miles and miles. Right up our noses. The smell and smoke were possibly more injurious to our health than Agent Orange. If nothing else, the enemy knew where we were located and that we were eating fairly well. If not well, at least fairly regularly.