of these men was embarrassing.
After supper, the infantry first sergeant asked Bob if he needed any help, and Bob allowed as how he could use two or three KPs to help clean up. A formation was called and Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 8th Infantry, assembled outside the mess tent to hear the First Shirt ask for KP volunteers. All 120 men of the company raised their hands, officers and NCOs included!
* * *
BEFORE we leave the 6th of the 29th, we'd like to tell you something else about the amazing bunch of guys who make up this crackerjack outfit. The artillery battalion was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel El Nettles, a fine soldier who we have known and respected for many years and, by anybody's standards, a great guy.
In July 1967, their base camp was a place called Jackson Hole, not more than a score of clicks from Pleiku, and named by the men of the 4th Infantry Division in honor of the First Brigade commander, Colonel Charles A. Jackson.
By tactical necessity, the camp was situated in the middle of a Vietnamese cemetery, long left unattended and uncared for. Most of the markers had been damaged, destroyed, or removed entirely, and the graves themselves had all but disappeared amidst a wide assortment of weeds and elephant grass.
When the 6/29th moved in to set up camp, the men of the battalion used what little leisure time they had to beautify the site. It was through this process that the ancient graves were uncovered. Rather than destroy the sites entirely, the artillery-men set about a restoration program, repairing the stones, cutting and trimming the vegetation, and fencing in the plots. Within a few months, the job was finished, even to the erection of wooden crosses, carefully painted white, where there had been no markers before.
* * *
WHEN the 6th Battalion, 29th Artillery was at Tuy Hoa, the guys used to like to sing this one to the tune of "Banks of the Wabash":
When the lice are in the rice along the Mekong,
and Ol' Charlie's in there shooting out at you.
You can bet your ass I won't be there beside you,
I'll be shacking with your co in old Pleiku.
* * *
THIS sign was posted prominently in the photo lab of Commander Naval Forces Vietnam.
NOBODY IS PERFECT
Every man is a mixture of good qualities and perhaps some not-so-good qualities. In considering our fellow man, we should remember his good qualities and realize that his faults only prove that, after all, he is a human being. We should refrain from making harsh judgments of a person just because he happens to be a dirty, rotten, miserable, no-good, sonofabitch. ·
* * *
WHEN I met "Doc" Levy he was a private first class, a medic and a good one. Seemingly fearless under fire, he was also kind and compassionate with the ever increasing number of wounded he was called upon to treat.
Over 200 pounds before the swelter of Vietnam slimmed him down, he was jut-jawed and pug-nosed, looking more like a displaced Irish hod-carrier than the Jew he was. He was paired in Charlie company with another medic, a Negro, with whom he kept up a continual, not always good natured, exchange about their ethnic origins. They made a great team.
Soon after his unit began to see action, Levy started calling the numbers. "Joe is going to get zapped today," he'd say, and he was uncannily accurate. Joe would get zapped.
In August 1965, "Doc" Levy looked me straight in the eye and blandly announced that he would never get home to New York. His number, he said, was coming up.
For five months afterward he lived down his own premonition, though he risked his life daily to reach and treat the wounded on the battlefield.
In January 1966, in the Plain of Reeds near the Oriental River, "Doc" Levy's number finally came up.
* * *
THERE is a restaurant in Cholon called "My Chow."
* * *
WHEN we walked into the U.S. Mission Press Center looking for a sailor friend, we bumped into Air Force Major Lew Raines and inquired of our buddy's whereabouts.
"If you're looking for the Navy," said the major, "why don't you try the ocean?"
We were more than a little miffed at what we thought was curt sarcasm until we remembered that the "Ocean" is a beer joint directly across the street. Our buddy was there.
* * *
WHEN a unit of the 1st Infantry Division came under a night mortar attack at Phuoc Vinh in July 1967, a Chaplain (who must go nameless) clad only in his skivvies, ran into a sandbagged bunker, heaved a big sigh of relief, and blurted out: "Goddamn, that was close."
* * *
WHEN Newark News correspondent Vince Slavin finished a stint at covering the war, he was promised a rousing send-off by some of his many military friends in Saigon.
After checking in at the air terminal (which was badly damaged by a bombing in 1965), Vince and company returned to the parking lot, slid into the back seat of their sedan and proceeded to open a bottle of champagne. The dozing Vietnamese chauffeur didn't appear to notice their return.
When the cork left the bottle with a resounding "pop," Vince hollered "VC" ... and the driver dove through the open window to a neat belly-flop onto the pavement outside.
* * *
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER jim Hill was a Navy flyer aboard the attack carrier U.S.S. Coral Sea out in the Tonkin Gulf. When we spent a couple of days aboard his ship in the fall of 1967 we had many pleasant conversations with him and, as could be expected, much of the talk centered around the war, its consequences and probable solutions.
When he learned that we were permanently based in Vietnam his interest grew and he asked us about the liberty in Saigon. Was there any, was it any good, and were the Vietnamese girls really as pretty as everyone said? We answered in the affirmative to all counts and hastened to add that so long as a guy was careful and took no unnecessary risks he could have a pretty good time. We told him that despite its reputation for being a secure area, what with terrorists and all, Saigon was still a potentially dangerous and highly volatile city.
He became thoughtful for a moment, then said: "Well, a satchel charge tossed into a crowded night club isn't exactly my idea of a big blowout."
* * *
AFIRST SERGEANT friend of ours was making a courier run to Okinawa where, he knew, some of our hold baggage was stored. He asked if he could bring us anything back with him when he returned.
"If you can get into my luggage," I said, "bring my thesaurus."
"If I can't," the topkick said, "I have one you can use."
After he left, Jim Ryan, who was present, looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: "Gee, but it's refreshing to meet a first sergeant who doesn't
