Two Conflicts for the Price
of One
By Ken DeHaas
2/1 H&S 70-71
About the 1st week in
March 1971, I was summoned to the personnel office at Camp Lauer. Thought maybe I
was in trouble for this or that. Seems that
three Jarheads were needed to escort six Marine prisoners back to the
world. They were charged with doing
illegal drugs, being AWOL, and the questionable killing of Vietnamese
civilians. Upon reporting I was told
that a mistake was made. They didn’t
mean to call me. I wasn’t eligible for
this limited offer. Apparently I didn’t
meet enough of the requirements to qualify for this early trip back to the
world. All I knew was that I wasn’t
about to say O.K., do an about face, and dive back into that jungle soup
without a fight. Somehow I convinced the
office poges that since I was already here, why not let me go? After all who
would know? I sure wasn’t going to tell. To my surprise, they agreed. Guess it was way easier to let me pass than
to mess around with a paper work change.
Spent my last few days with 2/1
saying good-bye. As bizarre as this may
sound, my stay in the Nam remains to this day, the best and worst time of my
life. In retrospect I really doubt that
I shall ever entirely absorb the consequences of that surreal life / death
deal. Just the thought that I was even
over there is somehow way more disturbingly scary than the fact that I actually
was. Was so very hard to bid farewell to
my brothers. There are no truer and
stronger friends than those made in battle.
I remember a lot of their faces and have forgotten so many of their
names. I was headed back to the world
and leaving them behind. Man, I sure do
miss those guys! I have recently found
and reunited with a 2/1 brother, thanks to the power of the internet. The very first eMail I sent to him I closed
out by saying “I Luv Ya Brother”. He
responded with the same. As a foot note
he added “I don’t even say that to my blood brothers”. That declaration says beaucoup. What a bond we warriors have!
Once more I found myself on board
a C-130, with one huge difference. I was
going away from, not going to. Needless
to say my two fettered companions weren’t as eager to get back to the world as
I was. From Nam lift off to Okinawa touch down both my ears were bombarded with copious
threats of bodily harm. It was beginning
to look as though my chances of survival might have been better back in the
soup. What the hell kind of trick bag
was this?? Their goal was a whatever it took escape before reaching the brig in
California. My objective was
plain and simple. I just wanted to get
back home. Of course we had heard and
read about our homeland protesting and demonstrating against us! The Nam. Us Nam Warriors. Same,
Same. Hi Jane [Fonda]. How you doing? We’re not doing so well. You cut us to the bone and tormented our
souls. Maybe, but doubtfully, someday
I‘ll be able to forgive you, but please know that I’ll never, ever be able to
forget. Not ever. You hurt my brother’s way more than bullets,
booby traps, POW camps ever could. Yeah
as if you care, huh! Just remember these two words. “Karmic Debt”. In plain English this means “What comes
around goes around”. Better yet, how
about this crystal clear paraphrase?
“Payback’s a Bitch!”
I’m extremely nearsighted. Upon my departure from Nam I swapped my standard military issue dork glasses for a
pair of contact lenses that I had stashed for this momentous occasion. Keep in mind that this was thirty plus years
ago. These contacts were the hard version and were designed to be worn for only
a max of twelve hours at a stretch. From
the time I popped my lenses in to the time our prisoners were locked down at
the transient brig in Okinawa, well over thirty six hours had passed. Felt as if the granddaddy of all sand storms
was erupting on the surface of my eyeballs.
Knew I should have taken the contacts out way before then, but too late
now. Had to be able to resist and thwart
a likely escape attempt that my charges had me convinced was close at
hand. We checked our suspect evildoers
into the Okinawa Hilton. Whew!! Stage
one complete. Now, time to get my eyes
out of the hurt locker. Got to the
transient barracks and popped those bad boy lenses out. Couldn’t see!! Man, what a rush. Had a brother lead me to sick bay. Doctor said my eyes looked fine. Just the slightest sliver of light made me
want to howl in pain. But after all I
was a Devil Dog, so I just yelped a little.
The Doc sent me back to the barracks with instructions not to stare into
any light. Hell there was light
everywhere. Most myopic folks can see
like a microscope close up, without the aid of any corrective lenses. Went into the head and took a real close look
at my eyes in the mirror. I saw hairline
scratches on both my corneas. Had
another Marine guide me back to sick bay.
Told the Doc what I saw in the mirror and lo and behold he saw the
same. He covered both my eyes with
bandages and sent me to the base hospital for at least three days. After a couple of days the bandages were
removed. Not as painful but still really
sensitive to light. The decision was
made to reapply the dressings for another day or two. At about the same time this was going on, it
turns out that another Marine was designated to take over the escort of my
prisoners to the stateside brig. Good
Luck Bro!
Finally released from the
hospital. Had about a week to go before
the next flight back to the world.
Couldn’t wear the hard contacts anymore.
So I got some glasses that were way more flattering. Got my seabag out of storage. Had to get my uniforms cleaned and
pressed. Picked them up from the
laundry, tried them on and almost had the big one. My shirt, trousers, everything except my piss
cutter, fit like a burlap sack. Weighed
approximately 180 pounds before the Nam, seems I weighed in at about 150 pounds after. Got the alterations done in time. Almost time to leave. Remember doing beaucoup pushups. I wanted to look good for my triumphant
return. My subconscious was very uneasy
about the impending homecoming. My Nam consciousness was saying “Don’t mean nothin”. Just one more conflict to resolve.
On another Big Bird. Back to the World. I vaguely remember stop overs in Japan, the Philippines and Alaska. Disembarked at
Travis Air Force Base. The main thing I
recall about Travis is a military representative asking me what would be my
choices for duty stations after leave in order of preference. #1, #2, and #3. I chose (#1) Brooklyn Navy
Yard, (#2) Quantico, VA, (#3) don’t remember.
Was informed that unless I heard otherwise I would report for duty at my
number one choice, “Brooklyn Navy Yard”.
About three weeks into my leave I got a speed letter ordering me to
report to Quantico, VA.
Reported for duty at Quantico, VA
on April
23, 1971. Was wearing Tropicals, when I should have
been in Winter Greens. Great start
Ken. Learned that I was summoned here to
instruct newly commissioned officers in all aspects of field radio
operations. PRC-25 the World and PRC-25
the Nam, not the same!
Needless to say, I was not very enthused with my new assignment. But something didn’t seem sane here. It was as if the entire base was in some
weird state of dormancy. I found myself
pulling guard duty, mainly at the motor pool, at night. During the day I found myself in “Riot
Control” training. Half of us would play
the unruly, taunting anti-Nam flower children.
The other half assumed the role of the ultimate blockade. A violent hippy uprising was not an
acceptable option. Our fake protesters
ridiculed and spat at us. In return we
threatened them with jabs and horizontal butt strokes. On more than one occasion the play fighting
got out of hand. Many of us, on both
sides, were reprimanded for not exercising restraint. Hell, whadda you want?? Don’t know about you. But I just back from a war. Still really fresh in my mind.
On the nights that I wasn’t on the
guard roster, some of us went into DC.
More out of boredom than anything.
But also we wanted to check out our potential enemy. Man, they were everywhere! Hundreds and hundreds of them were
homesteaded around the Washington Monument. Went into their
midst a few times. Chugged more than my
fair share of Boones Farm “Apple” and “Strawberry Hill”. Jammin’ sounds all around. Very intense rhetoric. I had every right to be in their arena. If I hadn’t been in Vietnam, I probably would have been at Woodstock. Still, when all is
said and done, I feel positively dishonored by the brazen lack of support many
of our countrymen displayed for those of us who were willing to, and in many
cases did, sacrifice all for the perceived threat to America’s freedom.
Found a way to diffuse my active
participation in this unsavory issue about a month later. A Marine was needed for Marine Barracks San
Juan Naval Station, San
Juan, Puerto Rico. I had to request mast to get it. But get it I did!
That’s another story.