Specialist 4, 173rd Airborne Brigade, January 1968–March 1969
I volunteered for the paratroopers and received my wings on July 5, 1967, and was stationed at Ft. Bragg. I was assigned to the 82nd Airborne Division and I picked up a lot from the guys who had already served in Vietnam and were finishing out their last year of service. I listened to and learned from their stories, which did me some good when I finally had my chance. I believe I was more prepared than most guys sent right from jump school.
We were entitled to a 30-day leave prior to shipping out and I received mine about two weeks before Christmas 1967. In the 82nd Airborne we were expected to “break starch” every day, keep our hair very short, spit shine our boots, etc. Knowing my leave was coming up soon, I wanted to let my hair grow longer than allowed, hoping I would be gone before any brass took notice. I had a couple of close calls, but finally cleared post without a haircut and displayed a “normal” length of hair while home on leave.
Thirty days later, I landed at Bien Hoa Airbase right in the middle of Tet. While still in the air, we were told the Viet Cong were inside the perimeter and our “boys” were trying to take the airport back. When I crossed the tarmac to the terminal building—a small wooden shack—I noticed a few poncho-covered bodies that had not been collected yet. I tried to reassure myself: “This is OK, as we are now in a real combat zone.” And indeed it was OK—until I saw an American unit patch peeking out from one of the ponchos and it was of the 101st!
I then got orders to the 173rd Airborne Brigade, which was based north in An Khe province. At jungle school, I heard a sergeant say, “He looks like Tarzan,” referring to my long hair.
The enemy tried to breach the wire there on my third night, and I got into my first firefight, finally. I was choppered farther north with a few of my fellow troops, up to my battalion base camp at Pleiku. That is where I had an “Old Guy”—a trooper with more than 10 months in-country—go through my rucksack and toss out any and all items not needed in the “boonies,” such as toothpaste. “The smell could and would give away your position while trying to sneak through the jungle looking for the NVA,” he advised.
That night we took incoming rounds but “this is what I signed up for,” I thought. The next morning I boarded a supply chopper bound for my new company, Bravo, 1st Battalion. We landed in a very active firebase at Kontum and my baptism of fire was a nighttime human wave attack with a lot of incoming mortar rounds. I told myself to just get used to the idea that they are indeed trying kill me here.
After a few days in this firebase, I was able to jump on a supply ship that was heading out to where my new company was. They told me I was just in time to “assist” them in taking Hill 1000 back from the North Vietnamese. After a whole day of humping to get about three quarters of the way up the steep side of the hill, we were told to “straddle a tree for the night, get some sleep and be prepared to finish the hump and take the hill in the morning.” The next day we accomplished our mission, the first of many in Kontum before our company was flown back to An Khe in March or April.
Still my hair, getting longer and more uncomfortable, was never cut! But now, back in the rear, I marched to the barber shack where a young Vietnamese man was handling the scissors. I walked in and saw a GI in the seat getting his trim and announced to the barber, “I need same same.” He pointed to the wall, where about five or six other GIs were seated, waiting their turn. One of the REMFs looked at me, looked at his buddies and they all agreed that I could have the next slot. It was one of the nicest gestures I had received since arriving in-country.
A year or so later, my first two weeks back home, I was at a girlfriend’s house in the Bronx, when I decided that I needed a haircut. I strolled down the block to a barbershop, walked in, announced my needs and was offered a seat. Immediately, I had the cape thrown over my head and buttoned around my neck. As the barber started cutting, he asked, “Who the heck cut your hair last?” I chuckled, “Actually, I got it cut in Vietnam.” He looked surprised and then asked, “So when did you get home?” I told him, “A couple of weeks ago,” and he said, “Welcome home, and oh, no charge for the cut.” That was one of the nicest things that happened to me since returning home.
Originally published in the April 2014 issue of Vietnam. To subscribe, click here.
