Fort Bliss, Texas. So this is what an Army base looks like. The name of my new home kept bouncing around in my mind as I gazed at the dead, dry landscape surrounding the base. I failed to see anything that fit the name. I thought something like Fort Hot or Fort Dusty seemed more appropriate. Or maybe, Fort Bummer. Yeah, Ft. Bummer covered it pretty well. But hey, who am I to complain, now that I’m a buck-private who is given free clothing, free room and board and cheap haircuts?! On top of that, they’re actually paying me to have all this fun!

After a restless few hours of sleep at the reception station we were rudely awakened to much screaming and then formed into a motley looking formation in front of the building. Two drill sergeants were staring at us impatiently. We stood at attention, nervously waiting. Finally it came; a verbal dressing-down like I’ve never heard before. In a very colorful language the drill sergeants proceeded to tell us what they thought of us. Words such as, “scum-bags” and “maggots,” rolled off their tongues with amazing ease. And those were the more polite ones. Also, they noticed that a couple of recruits were carrying cameras, so they admonished us not to ever take a picture of a drill sergeant. If they suspected someone took a picture of them, the drill sergeant explained that they would open the camera and examine the film. If no drill sergeant pictures appeared, the camera would be closed and returned to the recruit (it seemed that some drill sergeants thought they were part-time comedians). Anyway, regardless of what the drill sergeants thought of us at the moment, the Army was about to begin an intensive 8 week training process that would transform us into real soldiers.

Next, it was off to get an Army regulation haircut followed by issuance of uniforms, boots and a few other odds and ends. I’ll never forget the odd smell of all the new clothing. And, nearly everything was green. Well, actually the color was olive-drab; fatigues, hats, helmets, ruck-sacks, duffle-bags, etc. Even the interior walls of our barracks were an odd shade of green. I was beginning to develop a strong dislike for the color. Anyway, now that we sort of looked like soldiers, we were given a small advance on our pay and then marched to a small PX (Post Exchange) so we could buy the customary toilet articles. After that, it was time to head to the “hill” as it was called and begin our initial training. No matter what you wanted to call it; Boot Camp, Basic, Boot, BCT (Basic Combat Training), this was it. As it turned out, a few weren’t going to make it.

It soon became apparent that barracks life does not lend itself to any form of privacy. Every aspect is communal; showering, sleeping, relieving and whatever. The rigorous training regime certainly made it easy to sleep though, despite the sometimes noisy living quarters.

Most of our training took place in the desert which was incredibly grueling in the unmerciful summer heat. Since most of the rifle ranges and related training facilities were located miles from our company area, we were often transported in what we called “cattle cars.” Basically, they resembled a semi-truck trailer, except the spartan interior was equipped with chromed-steel hand-holds that ran from floor to ceiling. There were no seats and very few windows. In fact, the “windows” were just small openings near the ceiling for ventilation. We were crammed into the cattle cars like sardines and despite the vents, it still got unbelievably hot inside. And since there were no real windows to look out of, the ride was usually very nauseating.

When we weren’t running, crawling, jumping, climbing, pushing, shooting, punching, swinging, falling, wrestling or marching we were cleaning, polishing, buffing, dusting, scrubbing or organizing in preparation for the never-ending inspections. Well, we were allowed to eat now and then, if we were good. Oh yeah, there was one other thing; the people in command never could make up their minds about the location of the white-washed rocks bordering the flag-pole and walkways. One day we would carry all of them down to the creek bed and the next day we would bring them back and line them up perfectly where they were the day before! This might’ve had something to do with training, but I vowed to never become a drill sergeant at this point.  

None too soon the 8-week basic training ordeal was over. Right after graduation ceremonies we were given our training orders for AIT, or AdvancedIndividual Training. This was the moment of truth for draftees as the Army now assigned their MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). For many (probably most), it was on to Advanced Infantry training. The remainder were shipped off to various other schools to become cooks, mechanics, clerks, field artillery gunners, engineers, armorers, medics and a multitude of other specialties that the Army needed. Generally, enlistees chose their desired MOS at the time of enlistment so there were few surprises at their AIT assignments. Still, there were many tears shed that day, particularly for those drawing Infantry MOS’s. With the war in Vietnam building it almost guaranteed duty there. For me, it was off to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma for 8 weeks of field artillery radar training. I felt Vietnam wasn’t in the cards for me. As it turned out, I could not have been more mistaken.

Summer, 1967. It was a week past my 20th birthday and I had just completed my second year at the local community college when the “good news” arrived in my mailbox. I clearly remember holding the unopened manila envelope in my hand, knowing full well what was inside. It’s difficult to fully explain my feelings at that fateful moment, but I guess numb would suffice. Dozens of thoughts started racing through my mind. I would have to quit my job and put school on hold. How will I tell my girlfriend and parents? As silly as it seemed, I even wondered what would happen to my car (I still had a few payments left). It was a very strange feeling to suddenly realize that I was now a conscript and my life would not be my own for the next couple of years or so.

I was majoring in electronics while working part-time at my dad’s TV store as an apprentice technician. My draft notice wasn’t a complete surprise, but the optimistic side of me kept thinking I might luck out and not get picked. Still, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I had already completed the pre-induction physical a few months before. And then there were my grades. Even though I was pulling straight A’s in all of my electronic courses, my lack of enthusiasm in all my other courses had pulled my GPA down to 2.0, not a good thing when the Selective Service is on the prowl. Student deferments had limits. A couple of my friends with better GPA’s had already been called up.

I packed up my few belongings in cartons, bid farewell to my roommates, and then drove to my parents home a few miles across town. They were away on a 2-week vacation to Canada so I let myself in and deposited the cartons in the entry way along with a short note about the draft notice (I later learned that mom cried when she read the note). I left my trusty ’64 Corvair in the side-yard driveway and then waited for my best friend to give me a lift down to the Greyhound Bus depot.

As we pulled away I suddenly felt very alone. I couldn’t say goodbye to my family. Even my girlfriend was away on vacation with her family. It was a bit awkward as my long-time school friend and I said our goodbyes. Although he had gone through the pre-induction physical his excellent grades kept him draft-deferred for the next 3 or 4 years (as it turned out, he completely avoided military service). Apparently, during this period of history, straight A’s had more value than just the honor of graduating Summa Cum Laude. Either that, or he had a disqualifying physical problem.

The bus was completely filled with draftees, each dealing with his plight in his own way. Most were quiet and gazed out the windows as if in a state of shock. A few were loud and boisterous and openly drank beer, much to the dismay of the bus driver. He pulled over at least once to toss empty beer cans onto the roadside.

After about 5 hours we arrived at the induction center somewhere in the central part of Los Angeles. We were immediately assigned a room in a dreary old hotel nearby. My roommate at the hotel was Ed Schultz, a former high school classmate. Although we both grew up in the same neighborhood, we were just casual acquaintances in school. The current situation brought us briefly closer together so we naturally spent part of the first evening talking about the Army and where it might lead us and of course, we talked about Vietnam. We both felt that the U.S. was doing the right thing in helping the South Vietnamese and if sent there, we would do our part.

Very early the next morning we began our exhaustive physicals. After two days of poking, prodding, blood-letting, etc., we were finally pronounced healthy enough to die for our country (I sometimes wonder why the poor quality hotel food didn’t cause us to flunk the induction physical). Shortly after passing the physical examinations we were assembled in a large room and duly sworn into the United States Army. Next, we were herded into another bus and taken to LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) where we boarded a red-eye special (night-flight) to Ft. Bliss, Texas, which was to be our new home for the next 8 weeks or so.

It was still dark when we arrived at the base and herded into the reception station. More paper work was completed. It was at this point that I made a fateful decision. I chose to enlist rather than remain a draftee. My reasoning was simple: draftees have no choice in their MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) assignment, while enlistees do. Probably without fully understanding the implications of my choice I picked field artillery radar (MOS 17B20). Of course, there was an obvious downside to this plan; enlistees have a 3-year active duty commitment while draftees have only two. In either case, the “fun” was about to begin.

I never saw Ed again. He was assigned to a different training company and eventually ended up in Vietnam as an infantryman. About 8 months later I received a letter from a friend, explaining that Ed had been killed during a battle north of Saigon. I’ll never forget that day.

For some reason, I like the green crackle paint job on the Chinese-made clock sitting just to my left. I don’t however, care much for what the hands are pointing to; 4:30 in the morning. I’m pulling my second and last shift on the radar, a ground surveillance doppler unit that allows us to detect enemy infiltration along the Cambodian border.

The small van that contains the operator’s end of the radar system is cramped and hot in spite of the 2 ventilation fans that are whirring away overhead. In the background I can hear chatter on the radio net, most of it official, some not. I check the target log for the night and see that a half dozen targets were detected and four were fired on. I make a mental note to scan those particular areas again during my shift.

Sweat trickles down my brow and I begin to stick to the metal folding chair. I feel very tired. I haven’t had an uninterrupted night’s sleep in 11 months. Eleven long months of being awakened twice nearly every night for radar duty, more if our camp is attacked. Sleep during the day is almost impossible due to the sweltering heat, even if I have time for it. But, I have work to do. The generator that supplies power to the radar has accumulated a lot of hours and it demands daily maintenance. It’s near the end of it’s tour, just like me.

Uh, oh… I hear something outside. I reach for the fan switches and shut them off. I wait, and listen… gunfire, but it’s in the distance… the FSB about ¼ mile down the road. Our ARVN camp is probably OK for the moment. It’s getting unbearably hot in the van now, but I decide to leave the fans off so I can hear what’s going on outside. This is when I really feel uncomfortable being on-duty in the van; I can’t tell what’s going on around our perimeter.

I try to focus on the scope and tune my ears to the speaker attached to the radar system. Being doppler makes the TPS-25 radar unusual. It generates incredible audio sounds from moving targets. Listening to a column of enemy troops walking down a trail is surreal, almost unbelievable. Their arms and legs make distinct “whooshing” noises, a sound that I’ll never forget.

My eyes are getting tired…I struggle to make them focus. There it is… the unmistakable “grass” is moving on the left side of the scope. I move the range gate to the flicker and listen carefully. Movement! I mark the spot that the bug-light has illuminated on the map located just above the scope and then record the coordinates in the logbook. I re-position the range gate and listen again as the column passes through the gate. I estimate 8 to 10 people moving in northwesterly direction. After recording this information in the log I key the mic and report the target to TOC (tactical operations center).

About 5 minutes pass before TOC declares the target a hostile and designates a fire base to fire on it. A few more minutes pass before I hear the anticipated word, “shot!” I acknowledge and wait for the howitzer rounds to impact. The seconds tick by, …there, I see it, the tell-tale puffy flickers on the baseline of the scope. The rounds have fallen short and to the left of the target. I compute the corrections and report the new information to TOC. A couple of minutes later new rounds arrive, this time right on the mark. All movement in the area has ceased. I know there will be no movement, even if we missed. A helicopter ride to the site later today will tell. I don’t want to go… maybe it’s someone elses turn.

It’s 06:00 now, time to shutdown the radar. This night has been a good one; our camp wasn’t hit and we found some good targets. I log the shutdown, then open the van door. The relatively cool morning air feels refreshing. I walk over to the generator, throw the circuit breakers and then shut it down. I give it a little pat of affection…and give silent thanks. I dread the idea of troubleshooting a balky generator in the darkness, not to mention the wrath from headquarters if we’re not on the air. I manage a small smile to myself as I think how seldom this happens. I’m on a good team.

It’s getting lighter now. I gaze up at our 84 foot tower that supports the radar dome. I never get used to the orange color of the tower. It just, well, sticks out so blatantly. Why does it have to be orange? And so tall? Heck, it’s not even an original part of the radar system. I think the original 15 foot mast worked well enough — and it’s sure a lot safer. We must be crazy for climbing on the tower. No one ever talks about it but I know we all think the same thing — the tower is an enemy sniper’s dream. Yet, we all share the duties of maintaining the equipment up there. I feel a shiver of adrenaline again.

Cramps! The cramps are coming back again! I run for the can — literally a small box-like structure that sits over a 55-gallon drum that has been cut in half and filled partially with diesel fuel. Because of the odor and smoke when it’s burned off, the can is located just outside the berm, near the wire. I always feel vulnerable out there. I peer through the cracks in the walls when sitting out there — for all the good it would do, but it makes me feel a little better.

After the can session I start thinking about my next meal. Wonder what I can scrounge up. I guess the C-rations aren’t that bad but I can’t help but notice that I’ve lost weight; I’m down to 122 pounds from my normal 140. I notice that the rats are scurrying around, no doubt looking for breakfast also.

After “breakfast” I walk over to the water well and begin the task of drawing water for our shower, a 55 gallon drum mounted on a stack of ammo boxes. In the evening, all of us will enjoy the luxury of a nice shower. Well, maybe it’s a luxury; I’ve picked up a nasty case of ring-worm on my right arm and upper back. Weird stuff.

I can’t help but notice that the children of the ARVN soldiers are beginning to come out of their bunkers to play. I’m amazed at how resilient these little rascals are; inventing games, running and playing with big smiles across their faces. I share some of the candy that we get in our care packages with the kids. Of the 12 camps that we’ve been based at this is the only one that has families with the ARVN soldiers — quite unusual. I figure that they have no where else to go. I can’t imagine raising kids in such an environment.

It’s time for me to service the generator. The spark-plugs must be thoroughly cleaned and the oil changed. At 2000+ hours, the engine is now burning enough oil to foul the plugs near the end of each 12 hour night. It won’t run through the next night without this service. I make sure there’s enough gasoline on hand for the next night. Just as I finish cleaning and servicing the generator the sky opens up and begins dumping an unbelievable amount of water on us. The rain feels good but it will turn our camp into a mud hole. The bunkers will leak and then the mildew will make its presence known in all clothing that isn’t quickly dried out. I pull the canvas cover over the generator and head into the nearby tent to sit out the storm.

Inside, I look over my rifle and equipment and see that it’s time to do laundry. The storm passes and I wander out to the well again and draw some more water. I collect my uniforms and grab the box of Tide ™ soap and head for a small cement slab near the water well. There, I find our washing machine; a green plastic tub. I pour in some water, soap, toss in a couple of pieces of clothing and then start stomping, just like making wine I think. I quit using the locals for a washing service as my uniforms were consistently returned with mildew, something I just can’t tolerate.

After my clothes are draped over the tower guy-wires to dry, I grab my letter-writing kit and begin my second letter this week to my wife of 13 months. Lord how I miss her! First, though I re-read her last 3 letters. For a few moments my mind drifts away from here, to another world… a dream.

I’m startled back to reality as the land-line barks it’s stacatto ring. Someone else is closer and picks up the field-phone. I ignore the rest and get back to my letter writing…oops, almost forgot my short-timer’s calendar on the back of my well-worn writing tablet. Its been a few days since I X’d off any days so it feels good as I mark off 3 more. Let’s see…I only have 27 days left! I’m getting more nervous by the day just thinking about actually going home. Later today I plan to add more sandbags around my sleeping area at the end of the tent. A little more schrapnel protection never hurts, especially when you’re getting short.

Shower time. I grab a bar of Lux ™ soap from the subsistence package and head for the make-shift shower clad in only my boxer shorts and flip-flop sandals. The shower isn’t enclosed so that vulnerable feeling creeps out of it’s box again as I wash my hair. I refuse to close my eyes. I look around as I wash. I can see the tree-line a couple hundred yards away. I wonder if charlie is watching me.

I hear Judy Collins. Don, a new guy, has a brand new Akai ™ tape deck with a nifty 8-track tape player in the side. With the sun on the horizon and the air temperature subsiding to an almost tolerable level, we gather up a few sorry looking folding chairs and sit down to enjoy the music. The mosquitoes and flies are out in full-force and compete for our attention as we listen. Later in the evening we will watch Laugh In on a black and white TV, courtesy of AFVN. Truly incredible.

Before I know it my section leader, a buck Sgt., has posted the duty roster for the night. It’s a simple system; everyone advances one shift each night. Round and round it goes. The early shifts are the best as we put the radar on the air at 18:00, so the first 2 operators avoid being awakened twice during the night. Just get up once, unless our camp is getting hit.

I’m on first shift tonight. Soon enough I have the generator on-line and the radar up. First shift is pretty slack because curfew is not yet in effect and all I can do is watch the farmers come in from the rice paddies. Funny how water buffalo look and sound like 2 people on the radar. I’m sure we’ve shelled a few water buffalo in the past few months. I feel for the farmers. But, they’re supposed to keep the animals penned up at night. Not my fault.

An hour and a half later, my first shift ends. My best friend Mark has the second shift so I find him and leave him to his troubles while I find something to eat and ready for some sack time. As I sit down to munch on some C-rations our mascot, Dog, shows up. I give him a customary cracker and he rewards me with a lick and wagging tail. Wish I could take him home with me. He sure is a good watchdog at night; good ears.

Time to get some sleep. I duck under the mosquito netting that surrounds my cot and stretch out on the musty poncho liner. I start thinking about my new bride again and wonder how things are going for her back in the world. Then I wonder how my folks are doing. Soon, the distant drone of the generator fades away and I drift into a fitful sleep.

I awaken for some reason. It’s now totally dark inside the tent. I don’t move. Just carefully listen. Then it suddenly occurs to me why I woke up; the generator isn’t running. I grab my flashlight and head for the door flap. As I walk, I keep my fingers over the end of the flashlight so only a trickle of light hits the ground. No sense making myself any more visible than necessary. Soon, I hear my buddy quietly cussing and swearing at the generator and mentioning something about empty gas barrels. Seems that he forgot to move the gas line to a full barrel during his shift. We unscrew the cap on another barrel and slip in the gas line. After a few pulls on the starter rope the generator is once again singing it’s tune. Since the radar was only down for a few minutes, nothing is said to the people back at headquarters. Why make waves? I head back to my rack, hoping I can get back to sleep before next shift. Everything fades away again.

“Incoming!”, someone screams. In an instant I’m awake. My heart starts racing as I grope for my helmet, M-16 and flak-vest in the darkness. I hear that unmistakable whistling noise as another rocket passes overhead. A second or two later I hear the explosion. That all-too-familiar feeling of fear starts to grip me again, but I do my best to fight it off. Everyone in our tent dives for the adjacent bunker. We wait and listen in the darkness. A few minutes pass. Nothing. Quickly, we gather up our gear and head out to the berm-line and hug the sandbags, shoulder to shoulder with the infantry troops. Every few minutes I hear the noise of a hand-launched parachute flare rocketing into the sky. I always marvel at the odd, moving shadows produced by the flares as they drift slowly earth-ward. Although the flares are well away from our camp borders I can still make out dozens of soldiers manning our perimeter in the dim light. We wait and wait. It doesn’t appear that Charlie is going to initiate a ground attack tonight but extra guards are posted and the rest of us head back to find some hole to sleep in. I feel drained.

Just as I drift off to sleep again some idiot starts shaking my elbow. It’s Dale. Time for my second shift on the radar. A few minutes later I join him in the radar van. As the door closes, the interior lights automatically come back on and my eyes squint involuntarily. Dale briefs me on the evening’s activities. Charlie has been active tonight; several targets were detected and a couple of them were fired on. I note the new grease-pencil marks on the map and the log entries. Dale takes a couple of more drags on his cigarette and then heads out the door. As he leaves I can’t help but notice that he looks quite a bit older than when he first came on the team 5 months ago. I wonder how I look as I turn back to the radar console. My ball game again.

We arrived at Tra Cu ATSB (Advanced Tactical Support Base) on a CH-47 Chinook helicopter. The pilot set the big helicopter down just outside the perimeter wire while the nervous crew waited as we hastily unloaded our gear and equipment. The pilot, in anticipation of possible hostile gun fire kept the engines and rotors at take-off RPM to help facilitate a quick get-away if needed. All he had to do is pull the collective to bug out. This was all fine and dandy except it made the already hot outside temperature unbearable in the area of the loading ramp at the rear of the Chinook. I would guess it hit 140° there. By the time we finished unloading the helicopter we were all absolutely exhausted and dehydrated.

During the unloading, the crew chief apparently didn’t think we were moving quick enough, so he started pitching the smaller items out the loading ramp. One of the items was a reel of communications (commo) wire. It bounced down the ramp and proceeded to unroll itself into a mass of tangled wire, creating an instant hazard to our team as we hand-carried the collapsed tower sections and other heavy equipment off the helicopter. Witnessing this, I stopped about 3 feet from the crew chief inside the helicopter and gave him a cold, hard stare. Probably the fact that I had the nerve to stop moving for a few seconds infuriated him even more. He didn’t touch anymore of our equipment. I hope that SOB enjoyed his nice, cement floor hooch back at the base camp later that day, not to mention the air-conditioned NCO club that evening with cheap drinks and quite likely a well known band or singing group from the states. I’d bet good money his given name was Dick.

Eventually, we managed to drag all of our equipment inside the perimeter wire and then begin the tedious task of assembling the radar tower. Set up proved to be very difficult. The mandatory guy wires seemed to interfere with everything in the narrow camp. And, if we got the tower too close to the river, the guy wire anchors would end up under water, which was absolutely unacceptable. After much discussion we finally decided on a site that the camp commander was in agreement with and we assembled the tower. We worked until about 2:00 AM getting the radar on-line. By then, fatigue was setting in and we started making mistakes, one that could’ve put the tower into the river, along with a couple of our team members. I found that one of the guy-wire jacks had an improperly mounted cable that was within a fraction of an inch of slipping off the retainer. We corrected the problem and labored on into the night.

A little earlier in the evening, one of our team members dropped a large crescent wrench while at the top of the tower. I heard it coming down, clanking off of various cross members. Not wanting to get our “bell rung,” all of us near the base of the tower ran for cover while hollering out expletives at the guys above. Tempers were getting very short.

The next morning we began tidying up our area and gear from the previous night’s chaos. I strolled over to see how the generator was doing and to check the gasoline supply. I found another big mistake. As I checked the braided fuel line to make sure it wasn’t resting on the bottom of the barrel I received a severe electrical shock. We forgot to ground the generator! I was very lucky, the shock didn’t cause any permanent damage to me and no sparks occurred that might’ve caused the half-full 55 gallon fuel drum to explode. After installing the grounding rod I found a place to sit down and think about that one for awhile.

Tra Cu camp was quite different than all of the other camps we were at. While most FSB’s were circular in shape, Tra Cu was long and narrow. Having one side of the camp bordering a river (Song Vam Co Dong River or one of it’s canals, I believe) probably had something to do with that. It was a very wet camp; mud everywhere along with the constant smell of rotting wood or lord knows what. Between the infantry, howitzer batteries and river boats, Tra Cu was a very active place. Charlie seemed quite interested in the place as well and would occasionally drop a few mortar rounds on us or probe the perimeter wire. We took 6 casualties on the worst night when a mortar round hit the make-shift mess shack, where some of the boat crews were sleeping. I’m sure you can understand why we were well motivated to return the favor.

On another memorable night, we detected some movement just north of the camp. As luck would have it, an AC-47 gunship (sometimes referred to as “Spooky”) happened to be in the area and was called in to suppress the possibility of a ground attack against our camp. Between the parachute flares and the AC-47’s incredible mini-guns, it was quite a show.

After the fireworks subsided and we began to relax a bit I noticed that my feet were feeling real uncomfortable. At about that moment a parachute flare popped out beyond the west perimeter wire and I could just make out my boots in the dim light. They were on the wrong feet! My best friend was leaning against the sandbag berm next to me so I pointed out my boot problem. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. What a night.

My team spent the first couple of nights at Tra Cu sleeping outside. We positioned our cots close to the operations bunker so we at least had a little protection. Eventually, we managed to squeeze into a nearby hooch, which was used by the infantry people. The hooch was at the end of a row and was built on posts to prevent flooding. Inside, near the peak of the corrugated tin roof, hung a ratty old mail bag that enclosed a light bulb. The well-worn mail bag allowed just a trickle of light into the room, but not enough to make us a target in the darkness. Things got a bit frantic when the mortar rounds started coming in and we scrambled in the near-darkness to put on our boots, helmet and flak jacket and then dive out the doors with M-16 and ammo in hand.

It seemed like there was always something interesting going on around Tra Cu. One day I noticed that the plastic impregnated window screens in our hooch were pulsating in and out. Within a few moments I found out why. B-52 bombers were unloading their bombs near the Cambodian border, just a couple of miles away. The rising shock waves were an awesome sight; like giant domes, rapidly expanding skyward. It just went on and on and on.

We didn’t detect as many targets along the Cambodian border from Tra Cu as the people back at HQ had hoped, so two weeks later they had us air-lifted out of Tra Cu and moved to a new location a few miles to the north. I didn’t miss Tra Cu.

Go Dau Ha ATSB (Advanced Tactical Support Base) was my first field assignment in Vietnam. The camp was on the northern outskirts of the village, which was about 30km northwest of Saigon and hugged the Song Vam Co Dong River. I arrived there about April 15th, 1969, after completing the mandatory 3-day indoctrination course (Charm School) back at our base camp in Cu Chi. I joined the existing radar team along with one of my buddies from our original team that shipped over from the states.

My first couple of weeks at Go Dau Ha included getting up to speed on the procedures for conducting fire missions in our area. I was assigned to an experienced radar operator and he showed me the ropes; what sectors we were to search, radio procedures and call signs, etc. It was quite interesting to be actually using the equipment after all of the weeks of training back at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma.

The radar team leader soon discovered that I had also been trained as a generator mechanic, so the care and feeding of our precious generator was handed to me. The generator was a trailer mounted, water cooled 10 KW model and I soon learned that it wasn’t functioning perfectly. It ran pretty good, but the governor was toast. This meant that the hand throttle had to be very carefully adjusted to get the correct RPM and resulting AC voltage frequency. Too high or too low could damage the radar system.

I scrounged around in a pile of spare parts but found no spare governor. This was a pain since the hand throttle had to be constantly checked and adjusted during the night. We did have the original, single cylinder 2-stroke generator that came with the radar system, but it was hard to start and just barely adequate to run the system.

When we got orders to move in the middle of June, we could not take the big trailer mounted generator with us (we were airlifted out), so we were then forced to rely on the cranky little 2-stroke generator.

Go Dau Ha wasn’t really a bad place to be, if one had to be in Vietnam. Word had it that the village chief had cut some kind of deal with the local VC and they pretty much left us alone (that still seems weird to me). We had fairly nice hooches to sleep in. They even had cement floors and one section had some sort of air conditioner. Also, we ate fairly well if we bothered to visit the Navy Sea Bee camp down by the river. Their chow sure beat the heck out of C-rations!

The locals would often hangout on the roadside near the main gate and sell Coca Cola and some sort of sandwich that resembled a submarine sandwich from the states. Interestingly, the coke came in glass bottles labled in French. One day, I made the mistake of buying a coke and using the vendor’s ice to cool the drink. I came down with a miserable intestinal disorder that lasted for about 2 weeks. It was the worst case of diarrhea I’ve ever had. It may have been dysentery, but I’m not sure. Also, I’m not certain just what kind of meat was in the sandwich, and I’m almost afraid to ask at this point in time.

Our radar was basically pointed to an area of nearby Cambodia called the “Angel’s Wing.” This area was a major infiltration point from the Ho Chi Minh trail. During the time we were in Go Dau Ha we detected many dozens of targets coming across the border and fanning out into the countryside. The targets were always detected at night and the NVA were pretty stealthy in their operations. We could easily detect much movement just across the border, which was officially off limits to U.S. operations at the time. Amazingly, we would often track the movement right up to the border and then it would disappear. We figured they were going into tunnels because we would often pickup targets out in the middle of no where later in the night.

The village of Go Dau Ha had the usual quarter mile no-fire-zone around it and this, of course, meant any movement detected within this area was off limits to artillery fire. The enemy knew this. Often, when we first fired up the radar system in the early evening, we would detect farmers coming in from their fields after a hard days work. Later, just after dark, we would again detect movement near the village limits. Amazingly, the targets would disappear from radar view right at the edge of the no-fire-zone. Obviously, these were enemy soldiers who lived in the village by day and fought against us during the night.

Go Dau Ha was the only camp we were at twice. By the time we returned the second time, the camp had changed considerably. Most notably, it had been turned over to the ARVN’s and they were busy installing gun emplacements (howitzers) on the northwest side of the camp.

Before they left, the Seabees had erected a water tower and also installed a water pump over the well to keep the water tank full. Unfortunately, the ARVN’s continually allowed water to get into the fuel system of the water pump engine, rendering it useless. I don’t how many times I cleaned the system and got it running again, only to find it the same condition a few days later. It was maddening.

Another problem we had with the ARVN’s was that they stole gasoline from us for their little Honda motorcycles. I wouldn’t really have minded giving them a little gas if they had only asked, but the stealing aggravated me no end. When we left Go Dau Ha we “accidentally” left behind a full 5-gallon gas can that had few cups of sugar mixed into it. Theoretically, sweetened gasoline will eventually cause a piston engine to seize up. I suppose this was an unkind trick, but we were the ones sticking our necks out to transport the gasoline from our base camp out to our field camp.

Meanwhile, two U.S. Army engineers were busy expanding the perimeter berm with their large tractor named, “Proud Mary.” They were real characters and as is typical of many enlisted men, they didn’t care too much for their immediate supervisor (a career Staff Sergeant). I think his name was Zanchuck, or something similar. Anyway, the two enlisted engineers called him “Sgt. Shit-f**k” behind his back. This brought quite a few chuckles in the ranks.

One evening we were sitting outside with the engineers and we heard a strange sound in the distance. One of them mentioned that the source was the infamous “F**k-you lizard.” What? Listen! I heard the sound again and sure enough, it sounded as if the lizard was saying “f**k-you!”

Folklore also had it that there was an indigenous bird in Vietnam the made a sound resembling “re-up,” but I don’t recall ever hearing one (“re-up” in Army jargon means to re-enlist).

Occasionally, we took advantage of the hot meals served at the small Navy station down by the river, near the far end of the bridge. One morning, my buddy Mark and I decided to make the short drive for breakfast. As we approached the bridge spanning the river (Song Vam Co Dong) we noticed a traffic jam and a lot of commotion. We got out of the truck and walked through the crowd to find that our end of the bridge was in the river! VC sappers had blown it during the night. Oh well, who wanted a good breakfast, anyway.

I served in the 25th Infantry Division Artillery as a ground surveillance radar operator from 4/69 to 4/70. Our base camp was in Cu Chi, however, we were rarely there. Our 5-man team operated the AN/TPS-25 battlefield ground surveillance radar system primarily along the Cambodian border, near the Angel’s Wing and Parrot’s Beak, AO’s (Area of Operation) of the 25th Infantry Division. These areas were major enemy infiltration points from the Ho Chi Minh trail. Our job was to detect enemy infiltration during the hours of darkness and adjust artillery fire onto the target.

Although we were attached to the 25th Infantry Division Artillery, we moved about independently, via helicopters or trucks, setting up the radar and tower at a dozen locations during my 12 month tour. These locations included Fire Support Bases (FSB’s), Advanced Tactical Support Bases (ATSB’s), Patrol Bases, ARVN Infantry camps, a couple of Special Forces camps and a 2 week stay at the base camp in Tay Ninh.

Under ideal conditions, the TPS-25 (Tipsy 25) radar had a maximum range of 11 miles (18 km). Also, the Tipsy 25 incorporated Doppler which allowed an experienced operator to identify the target by means of a characteristic audio return. Most targets were detected between 1/4 to 8 miles out. Range was usually limited by tree lines or other obstacles but we minimized this loss somewhat by mounting the radar dome on an 84 foot tower.

Power for the radar was originally supplied by a 1 kilowatt generator but this proved to be marginal in performance and reliability and was eventually replaced by superior 3 kilowatt model.

We operated the radar mostly during the hours of darkness, 1800 to 0600 (6:00 PM to 6:00 AM). Each team member pulled 2 shifts on the radar per night. Shifts were usually performed solo unless it was a new replacement in-training. When a target was detected the operator contacted TOC (Tactical Operations Center) back at our base camp (Cu Chi or Tay Ninh) via 2-way scrambled (encoded, decoded) radio, and give the coordinates, strength and direction of movement. TOC would order a fire mission on the target if there were no friendlies in the area. Somewhere along the line, someone decided what type of rounds would be used on the target. The choices included HE (high explosive), HB (high burst), Firecracker (6 grenade-like bomblets spring out of the warhead on impact) and WP (white phosphorus).

Targets varied in strength from as few as 10 troops and up to 100 or more, all strung out in a disciplined and well spaced column. We detected these infiltration columns almost every night, usually somewhere between the Cambodian border and 2 or 3 miles into Vietnam. On some nights, we detected as many as 6 or 8 targets or more. Most of our targets were fired on, often using the Howitzer gun battery in our camp. When a fire mission took place TOC would advise us the moment the artillery rounds were in the air (even if we knew this before they did). We observed impact and called in adjustments if necessary. When we observed rounds on target, we keyed the mic and said, “Rounds on target, fire for effect.” In the majority of cases, this sealed the fate of the infiltrators.

Although our primary mission was to detect infiltration from the Ho Chi Minh Trail, we often detected hostile movement near our own camp.  We quickly reported this information to our base commander, resulting in everyone going on alert and quickly hitting the berm line surrounding our camp, weapons ready, waiting for the shit to hit the fan.  And it often did just that. We were ready.

Every member of our 5-man team performed their duties faithfully, day after day and night after night, for one year.  I’m proud of the team I served with. We made a difference. I’ll let you do the math.

We were brothers and we have a bond that endures to this day. Above all, we did our job.

I found AIT (Advanced Individual Training) to be a pleasant improvement over BCT (Basic Combat Training). Although we still had to endure physical training from time to time, most of our time was spent in the classroom and field, learning about 3 different radar systems. In addition, Ft. Sill, Oklahoma had lots of magnificent trees and lawns, a huge improvement over the dead, dry landscape of Ft. Bliss, Texas.

I soon found myself engrossed in the radar classes to a point where I was earning high marks and the privilege of tutoring other students. I guess that I had decided to make the best of the time I would be in the military. One thing I did find rather odd was the fact that about ½ of our class was composed of Marines. Not surprisingly, this created fierce rivalries and occasional altercations. Generally though, the troops got along and directed their competitive energy in legitimate directions such as track meets and target rifle matches at the indoor rifle range down the street.

We trained on 3 different types of radar systems. The AN/MPQ-10 radar tracked artillery rounds. The AN/MPQ-4 tracked mortar rounds and the AN/TPS-25 was strictly for ground surveillance. The object of the artillery tracking radars was to detect a projectile in flight and then extrapolate the trajectory back to the source, thus locating the enemy gun position. The ground surveillance radar was solely for detecting movement of any type on the ground and providing the coordinates of the target to TOC (Tactical Operations Center). We were given a fair amount of practice in the field with all three types. All of this was crammed into 8 weeks of training.

I made a couple of new friends during the radar training course and by coincidence, all 3 of us ended up in the same outfit in Germany. Mark had a keen sense of wit mixed with a generous amount of sarcasm and these traits certainly helped all of us keep our sense of humor during the not-so-fun moments of being in the Army. Rick was an Army brat and was street-wise enough to teach us the finer points of dealing with local economy.

Graduation brought satisfaction that training was pretty much over, or so I thought. Right after graduation ceremonies, our school Commandant approached me and said he was recommending me for the NCO Academy. This really caught me off guard, so I told him I would have to think about it. Initially, the idea of being promoted from Private E-2 to Sergeant E-5 after only 90 days of additional training seemed very attractive. But then, I could not ignore the responsibilities that would come with the rank, plus I’m sure it greatly increased my chances of going to Vietnam. I tried to imagine myself as the section chief of a radar outfit in a war zone with zero time of practical experience. Decision: Forget it – I’ll work my up through the ranks in the traditional manner while gaining valuable, actual experience. The Commandant was very disappointed in my decision, but to this day I believe I made the correct choice (I did eventually make E-5 rank during my 12 month tour in Vietnam).

At least now I have an official MOS (Military Occupational Specialty), 17B20 Field Artillery Radar Operator. With Christmas near everyone sure wanted to be home for the holidays. Within days I had my orders for Germany and they allowed time for Christmas leave. I breathed a sigh of relief. I began wondering what Europe would be like.

I offer the following personal narratives about my experiences in the U.S. Army to those who are interested in the Vietnam era. From time to time I add to the narratives but I imagine they will never be complete. I have made every effort to keep my writings factual, but please keep in mind that is has been over 49 years since I was drafted and over 46 years since I returned home from Vietnam.

Many things still stand out vividly in my mind while other details have faded. Included with my narratives are some pictures that I took in and around various duty assignments, including Vietnam. If you should find something on my website that you believe to be inaccurate or incomplete, please send me an e-mail with appropriate details and any supporting reference material.

In reading my website you will find that my primary goal is to relate what’s it’s like to be a student one day and a soldier the next, soon to be shipped to foreign and sometimes unfriendly lands. Such an adventure evokes many feelings; a sense of adventure, friendship, loneliness, fear, apprehension and even a little optimism to carry one through tough times.

If I could sum up all of my experiences in the U.S. Army in just a few words, it would simply state that I came away with a genuine appreciation for our freedoms and what it continually costs to protect them. I hope that thought is contagious.