Short Timer

Copyright © 2022 by RICHARD A. HENRY

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

ARPress

45 Dan Road Suite 5

Canton MA 02021

Hotline: 1(888) 821-0229

Fax: 1(508) 545-7580

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024901494

TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION 

INTRODUCTION 

CHAPTER ONE 

CHAPTER TWO 

CHAPTER THREE 

CHAPTER FOUR 

CHAPTER FIVE 

CHAPTER SIX 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

CHAPTER NINE 

CHAPTER TEN 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

CHAPTER TWELVE 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

DEDICATION

In memory of my father, Junius S. Henry, U.S. Army World War II and Fletcher J. Nowlin, Jr., Killed in Action in Vietnam, during the battle for Hamburger Hill.

This book is also dedicated to all the children, men and women who got caught up in the war for control of Vietnam. May the memory of those who died there serve as a constant reminder that there are no winners in war. May those who survived stand vigil, and do all in their power to see to it that America never gets involved in another Vietnam.

Last, but not least, this book is dedicated to my mother, Nancy E. Mitchell, who had sons serving in combat four and a half of the seven years that U.S. ground forces were officially involved in Vietnam.

A special thanks to, Biff for hanging in there.

INTRODUCTION

Where do you begin a story that began long before it actually happened? The bit of history I am about to tell is a mixture of perceived reality, wished-for reality and politically created reality.

It began with the Gulf of Tonkin incident; the now infamous event which happened and did not happen. The Gulf of Tonkin incident ended our unofficial involvement and marked the beginning of our official entry into what was alleged to be an official war between the unofficial-official government of The Republic of South Vietnam and the official-unofficial government of North Vietnam.

This is but a small part of the history of the War in Vietnam; America’s longest war, where soldiers of all ethnic backgrounds and colors fought side by side. It was a war being fought halfway around the world while at home a war against racism and injustice raged. It was a war where flashing the peace sign was perfectly acceptable while waving a clinched fist in the air, the black power symbol, was a court martial offense. It was a war where back at base camps, whites openly called blacks nigger, and blacks angrily cursed honkies. Vietnam was a war where racism reared its ugly head on far too many an occasion, and in many different ways.

The final statistics tell part of the tale. Blacks suffered a death rate that was almost four times greater than their percentage of the American population. Black Marines whose military occupations were cooks, drivers, supply personnel, etc., were routinely assigned to infantry combat duty. While on the other hand, white Marines who were 0311’s (Infantry Rifleman), or plainly stated, highly trained combatants, were routinely given choice jobs in the rear which greatly increased their chances of returning to the real world. Yet, when it counted most, in the heat of combat, there were no niggers, spics, wetbacks or honkies; just young American men barely past puberty, fighting and dying together while hoping to survive the nightmare of war.

Death is colorblind. Oftentimes the tears flowed freely and the pain was felt by all without regard for race, color or creed as men mourned and comforted each other over the death of a fallen comrade.

This story is without specific dates. To those of us who served our country in Vietnam, they are not that important. For us, Vietnam remains a vast period of time in our not-so-distant past, which still lives with us today and will be with us tomorrow. It is the story of the brave young American men of every hue who spent a lifetime in Vietnam.

This is not a political novel, nor is it an attempt to pass judgment on the issue of whether America’s military involvement in Vietnam was justified or not. If questions about the moral ethics of war entered the minds of those of us who served our country in Vietnam, it did so either before we arrived in country or after we returned to the real world. Surviving the horror that was Vietnam called for concentrating on making it from one moment to the next.

This story is dedicated to the Vietnam combat veteran. Filled with the pain, fear, suffering and the general discomforts experienced by the average fighting man in Vietnam, it also depicts the warmth, humor, and friendship that was necessary for survival in a crazy war that never should have been and never can be forgotten by millions.

CHAPTER ONE

It was anything but a dull trip. The train began its journey from New York, headed for South Carolina. It was a special train, filled with young men on their way to Army basic training in North Carolina or Marine Corps boot camp in South Carolina. The group of youthful men consisted of a mixture of blacks, whites, and a sprinkling of Hispanics. The proportion of blacks was far greater than the ratio of blacks to whites in the general American population. The stops made along the way could explain that in part. The first out of New York was Newark, followed by stops in Camden, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Richmond, and a final one, to pick up additional passengers, in Norfolk, Virginia.

First, I wondered why there were civil law enforcement officers along with military authorities at several stops. After engaging in conversation with a few of the passengers, I quickly found out. It seemed the recruits ranged from those who had volunteered for military service out of a desire to serve, to those who were drafted into service, and lastly, to those who had volunteered to serve their country in the military as an alternative to serving time in prison.

There was an abundance of interesting stories told along the way. The guys who had been solicited into the service of America to help stamp out Communism in South Vietnam, as opposed to stamping out license plates in prison somewhere in retribution for a wide variety of crimes, had the liveliest to tell. Although the tales differed, the storytellers all seemed to have one thing in common; the belief that they had beaten the system by agreeing to join the service instead of going to prison. Maybe some had, but for many, it wouldn’t work out that way. Their decision would cost them their lives.

Most of us were still youngsters, just out of high school or fresh from the streets, where we delighted in playing semi- grown-up versions of childhood games. It didn’t matter where we came from, or our present maturity level, because the reality of being an adult would soon hit us.

Almost six hours after departing New York, the train stopped in Washington, D.C., where another group of new recruits and draftees were ushered aboard. A few minutes later, we were rolling smoothly along the tracks to Richmond when a fight broke out between several white recruits. I have searched my memory, and I still can’t recall how it started. It just happened.

Within minutes, and for no apparent good reason, what started as a simple fight between two individuals, turned into a massive brawl between those of us destined to become Marines and those who were on their way to become soldiers. It was one hell of a riot, and our first experience at what hand to hand combat would be like. Weapons of all sorts seemed to appear out of nowhere. In what seemed like forever, a lot of blood was spilled, and many bones broken. The conductor must have radioed ahead to Richmond, because when the train pulled into the station, around twenty minutes after the fight broke out, dozens of military police boarded swinging their highly-polished, black nightsticks, and quickly put an end to the trouble. After taking the seriously injured off the train and tending to the lesser wounded, the MP’s separated the Marine recruits from the Army recruits. A contingent of MP’s remained aboard until after the Army recruits departed the train in North Carolina.

The remainder of the train ride to South Carolina was uneventful. Some Marine recruits napped. A few could be heard talking about what they imagined boot camp would be like. Still, others talked about how they couldn’t wait to get to Vietnam and kill some gooks. There was one recruit sitting directly behind me who kept staring at a picture in his hand stopping occasionally to wipe a tear from his eye. I got up and sat in the seat next to him to see what was wrong and comfort him if I could. He was holding a photo of his brother dressed in combat gear, holding an M-14 rifle. He explained that the picture had been taken six months earlier, in Vietnam, and that his brother had been killed two months after the picture was snapped.

He wasn’t crying because he was scared. It seemed important to him that I understood it was because he was angry with those slant-eyed, communist bastards who had killed his brother, and he couldn’t wait to pay them back. I had not had training in psychology, but knew enough to know that the guy had gone to lunch one day and never came back. With that in mind, I slowly got up and returned to my seat. The brother next to me asked me what was this guy’s problem? I told him the story as told to me. We just looked at each other and frowned as though to say, He’s gone already.

I had made friends with the recruit seated next to me back at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, New York. His last name was Jones. It’s funny how quickly one can become conditioned to a new way of thinking. We were sworn into the military for less than a day and already we were introducing ourselves and addressing one another by our last names.

Jones was born and raised in Harlem, a few blocks from the St. Nicholas Housing Projects where I grew up. He was among the group on board the train who was given the choice of either going to jail or to Parris Island. He chose Parris Island, South Carolina as the lesser of the two evils. He made it quite clear to me that he had no intention of finishing boot camp, much less ever going to Vietnam.

We were sitting in silence a few minutes, when suddenly Jones began to chuckle. I turned to him and asked, What’s so funny? His chuckle turned to a loud laugh. After a few moments of side-splitting laughter, he regained his composure long enough to tell me.

I was just thinking of that clown back at Fort Hamilton who tried to fake being deaf. Did you see that fool?

I sure did.

The incident that Jones had just reminded me of was pretty funny. Shortly after we arrived for our initial physical at Fort Hamilton they administered a hearing test to all the potential new members of the armed forces. This guy, named Furman, who up until that point hadn’t shown any problem with his hearing, suddenly turned to me.

Check this out, he said.

Check what out? I inquired. Before he could answer, a big, burly looking, bass-voiced sergeant called his name, and directed him to be seated for his hearing test. Furman took a seat next to the testing machine and placed the headphones over his ears, as instructed.

It was at that point that I realized what he had wanted me to check out. I mean, the guy was really good! He acted as though he couldn’t hear a sound. He sat staring blankly while the tester continually turned up the sound. I was standing a full six feet away from Furman and the machine and could not help but grit my teeth from the sound that I imagined by now was loud enough to burst the average person’s eardrums. Furman didn’t flinch an inch during the entire test.

After a few minutes, the tester yanked the headphones off Furman’s head, told him he had a hearing problem, and the service had no use for someone who was almost deaf. The sergeant then shouted at him to go and take a seat in the rear of the room. Furman headed to the back, turned toward Jones and me and gave us a quick wink as though to say, so long guys.

The battery of physical tests continued for the rest of us while Furman sat off to the side flipping through a magazine he had brought to the induction center. Around an hour after Furman failed his hearing test, a corporal carrying two large metal buckets sneaked up behind him. The corporal stopped just inches from the back of Furman’s chair and, with a pail held firmly in each arm, raised his arms high above his head. He stood there a second or two, then suddenly released his hold. The buckets crashed to the tile floor, making a loud clanging sound. Everyone in the room, who hadn’t seen what the corporal was up to, was startled, except Furman. He didn’t flinch at all.

Man is he good, I commented to Jones.

Several hours passed. It was somewhere around noon when a sergeant announced that we would take a break from our physicals for lunch. I followed the sergeant with the rest of the men facing military service. On the way out of the room, I glanced over at Furman. He appeared to be napping. Another corporal seated at a desk, which was at least fifteen feet from where Furman was seated, announced in a lower-than-normal voice, Mr. Furman you can go home now.

Without hesitating a second and obviously without thinking, Furman sprung to his feet. Thank you! Furman responded and took a step towards the door before he stopped dead in his tracks. He realized that he had just made a major blunder. Two MPs walked over and escorted him into another room. We didn’t see him after that.

After recalling the incident, I joined Jones in laughter. We continued to laugh as we reminded each other of another of the day’s more humorous events. Back at the induction center there was the big husky guy from Flatbush who looked like he ate steel for breakfast. When he stripped down at the start of the physical, he was dressed in a pair of red, women’s bikini underwear, with matching bra. Once the recruit stepped clear of his pants, he lifted the doctor standing in front of him off his feet, planted a whopping kiss on his lips, put the doctor back on the floor and spoke in a high pitched voice. I can’t wait to join the Army and get my hands on all those gorgeous young men.

Everyone in line broke out in a riotous laughter. We laughed so hard that the jock, who had obviously undergone much painstaking planning on his scheme to get out of military service, couldn’t restrain his own. Needless to say, he finished the physical with flying colors.

Jones and I spent the next half-hour recalling a few other funny incidents that had taken place that day. We were chuckling almost continuously, until we noticed a guy hobbling down the aisle of the railroad car. We looked at one another, turned back to the guy, then eyed each other again. We were momentarily confused. Obviously, someone had made a mistake. How in the hell did he pass the physical? I asked my newfound friend. Jones just looked at me in utter disbelief and shrugged his shoulders. We figured that maybe the guy didn’t belong on the train.

That’s it, I thought, and turned to Jones. I have to ask him if he’s going where we’re headed, or somehow got on the wrong train.

No you’re not, Jones replied, challenging me to do so.

I didn’t need to be dared because I already had every intention of asking. I climbed over Jones’ out-stretched legs and walked to where the subject of our conversation had taken a seat.

Excuse me, I said, as I sat down on the arm of