Parallel Worlds Intersect
The sound was different, distant, but looking up, the fighter jet, low and fast streaked over the rooftops followed a few seconds later by its screaming sound. Then, the pilot triggered the underwing ordnance that streaked ahead to some unseen distant target . . . It could have been the summer of ’65 (Jackson Browne sings that he was 17 in ’65).
The impact of the tank shells rocked the ground. The fact that man-made structures could withstand the constant pounding of the ground and the eventual quaking was surprising. It went on day after day . . . There’s no question that this was from ’63 to ’66.
The crackle of distant small arms fire was expected, it was a routine sound on a daily basis. And, this was stateside.
“Home” had addresses that included Ft. Jackson, Ft. Ord, and Ft. Knox—twice. There were other places that had names for army posts, but that would have been in Japan at places whose names pre-date my memory. Black and white still photos from the ‘50s tell me that those buildings in the background could only be army housing—at some point, you can just tell.
Army posts are a world unto themselves. Army brats, by the thousands, depending upon the post, could attend K through 12 on post. (There was no reason to mingle with abnormal civilian kids—what, you mean you’ve never seen a real tank with real army men? Why would I want a bag of plastic army men to play with when I can watch the real thing? At Halloween, why wear anything that looks like your dad’s work clothes? Doesn’t everybody where that to work?).
At Ft. Knox, the home of armor, the tackle football league for kids was called “Little Tankers” football, makes sense for a bunch of army kids.
The summer of ’63 to spring ’66 was a great time. It was the “normal” period. I played little league baseball (not well), football (better for a rotund kid who was better at taking up space than running) and seeing a lot of the same kids in school for a couple of consecutive years. I remember that Dave and Steve Zett lived in the end unit that faced our end unit (9111-H Estrada Avenue, Dietz Acres, Ft. Knox) and we were friends for three years until I moved. (As an aside, I’m sure that there may come a day when a housing area or something will be named after Gen. McCaffrey—that’s the way the army works. Street names, housing areas or a whole post bear names of soldiers).
On a nice summer day in ’64, my two much younger brothers and I were splashing around in one of those vinyl lined so-called swimming pools that is about 15 inches or so deep. For whatever reason, I could hear the TV through the back screen door and heard the news about what happened in Tonkin Gulf—at that moment, it was a piece of news, nothing more. But, eventually, more moving vans started to be seen parked in front of housing units. More classmates started leaving, not replaced by new faces. I’m sure you can guess where this story leads . . . . Despite that tidbit of news in ’64, we remained at Ft. Knox until around April ’66, which is when things changed.
By the way, I don’t recall conversations with my classmates about their leaving. They might say “we’re moving” and that was that. Well, of course, you’re moving. We’re in the army, none of us stays in one place anymore (wait, that sounds like words from a Carole King song). Then again, I don’t recall saying much when I was the one moving. It’s the army, you just move. You check out of a school one day and a few days later you check into another. No big deal.
The army knows when you are getting too comfortable in your surroundings and you need a change of scenery. So, in the spring of ’66 it was my (our) turn. But, this was a different kind of move. It wasn’t like the ’62 (from Ft. Jackson to a small town in Ohio while dad goes to Korea) or ’63 (return from Korea so we go to Ft. Knox) moves, possibly because I was older and, probably, because I understood just a bit better. There are things you hear, late at night when you’re supposed to be asleep, that may never leave your memory. How often does a boy hear his father admit to being afraid of anything? And once heard, is it ever forgotten? I’ve never forgotten-you try to smother it.
When we made that spring ’66 move, who knew that there would be three junior high and four high schools ahead of me? Change is good, but even I look back and wouldn’t wish this on someone else. If I had been really smart, I could have taken it easy, flunked a couple of classes, maybe whole grades and could have justified it.
During that first “tour” (you just have to love the terminology because it makes it sound like a fun family vacation, but I don’t like “deployment” any better, though it may be more accurate), only once did the absorption of the nightly news footage and a “bad” dream collide. I was in a frantic search before heading out to school, rummaging through drawers in the kitchen, looking under small appliances on the kitchen counter and anywhere I thought that telegram could be hiding or lost. I was convinced it had come. It took several minutes for me to realize it had been a bad dream. Bad dreams, there were a few, but only once did I get up and actually believe that it had happened.
But the first tour ended in the summer of ’67. It had begun, the almost yearly school changes. August of ’67: we hit the road. I believe it was a Mercury Comet stuffed with 5 of us going from Ohio to California, specifically, Ft. Ord (the two youngest weren’t born yet). It was a very cramped back seat for several days. There was no air conditioning in that car as we drove across Utah where who knows how hot it was, but heat rashes were visible.
It was back to an army post and on-post schools. The first day was interesting as I did notice a girl in home room who had been in my 4th grade class at Ft. Knox. Other than knowing her name (Amy Aoyama—for some reason lots of those names come back to me writing this), we never spoke to each other. It was a typical year on post, followed by a summer playing baseball (I could hit, but was a lousy outfielder).
One good thing was that I wasn’t as dedicated to watching the news for a year, but was certainly aware. How could you not be aware of the casualty totals as they mounted, but with the family “in tact” at Ft. Ord, the war got pushed aside a bit. I remember parties at the house where the DIs (gotta love those Yogi Bear hats) would come after a training cycle and, yep, there was a group of regulars including one young and, I might add, thin Fred Hall.
Fall ‘68 started right as I was starting school in the same place, but while it should have been expected, it still came as a bit of a surprise, maybe because it had been a mere 13 months since the last move. October rolled around and the orders came down. We moved off-post, no going back to Ohio this time. While my mother had her friends, moving off post, new school and all, I might as well have been a hundred miles from Ft. Ord. But, there were differences this time, my new best friend’s father was in the Air Force and in Vietnam, another kid’s father was retired army so some of that eased things.
But this time, the difference was not about friends and school. This time the things I thought about were different and what might happen. It was about those things you think about that you feel wrong to think about. It’s the anger you don’t show because this time you do believe your life and the family will be totally screwed up. You wonder how much luck can you have when you know how bad the war is going—just look at those weekly numbers of killed and wounded. You think about it, but NEVER talk about it. There’s guilt just thinking about it and there’s anger about the whole situation. Then, of course, there’s that other reality. Nothing you can do about it. So, here we go again. You have no choice. One day at a time. It’ll all be “normal”. Go to school, do things with friends as if everything is normal. Go back to other old habits: marking the calendar, recycling a map, watch the evening news as things deteriorate.
As I write this, there is one strange thought that comes to mind—more a question. Wouldn’t you think that a taxi driver delivering a telegram from the Dept. of the Army would ask if an adult was home before just opening the screen door and handing a telegram to a teenager then running back to the taxi? I really don’t believe I looked that old in March ’69.
By the time high school number 3 came around (1971), we were out of the army and, thankfully, no more tours of duty anywhere.
Things learned by experienced army brats, you know, those older kids, probably 12 and up. (Though, sadly, from watching the news since the Iraq/Afghan war started, we may have to lower this age to about 8.)
A friend is a kid who is around when the next school year starts. By the late 60’s, it was attrition. As casualties increased among senior NCOs, it meant fewer older army brats.
There is no rank in schools on army posts, even if you’re the commanding general’s kid—we’re all in the army.
You know what CIB stands for and why someone is wearing a Purple Heart ribbon on the uniform.
You find out that certain NCO dads do NOT want you to use “sir” when you answer.
Diversity? We (the Army) were decades ahead of the rest of the country, we just didn’t know it at the time. Of course there are white kids and black kids, but the unbelievable number of kids who are half this and half that made it so that the mix was incredible.
Something good and bad has happened when a classmate moved out at the beginning of the school year, but is back before the same school year ends: the good is that his dad is alive and whatever happened wasn’t so bad that he’s out of the army, the bad is that something bad had to have happened for him to be back in less than 12 months.
The war teaches you to take one day at a time—you mark the calendar one day at a time.
I learned geography. A map of Vietnam with its major cities, I mean two cities, was taped to the paneling in the kitchen (same map used during both “tours”) (we recycled early).
You watched the evening news. It was either Walter Cronkite or the Huntley/Brinkley report. (That’s all folks! — But it wasn’t as amusing as watching cartoons).
Watching the news, I’d look out for any unit designations and other indicators.
A good day is when a letter arrives or nothing arrives. We all know what a bad day is, no need to go there.
Here are the parallels.
I can’t recall conversations about the war with high school friends when we were still “in the army”. It was what it was. That’s just the way it is. We were “normal” within our world.
This may not be a parallel, but by the time 1970 came around, while I never said it aloud, I admit that I resented some of my classmates, those few army brats whose fathers had never gone to Vietnam while others of us had already gone through it more than once (I handle it better now. As an adult, I’m glad they never went through it. Wouldn’t it be great if no child ever had to experience a parent’s tour of duty to a combat zone?)
It wasn’t “fun” living amongst real civilians in the late 60’s.
As many of you have said at the reunions, you left Vietnam, the army and didn’t want to look back. It was done, it was something to forget, memories to smother. But, it is also something that may not be forgettable. At some point, something will bring it back to the surface.
On July 10, 1975, the moment after I was officially discharged from the army, I changed out of uniform into civilian clothes in my car in the parking lot of the Ft. Bragg commissary before it opened. I left the army that day and, frankly, after over 20 years of being around it and in it wanted to be retired from it (OK, I was only about 21 and a half, but I had had enough—where’s the pension check??). Other than occasional talk with my dad over a few cold refreshments and always about the comical aspects, the army became a non-topic and once done with college, getting married, I packed it away for good—or so I thought.
A quarter century later, I will not say that the first time I met any of the Bravo 2-7 guys was a positive event. It was high anxiety. I didn’t want to go back to the army in any way. I didn’t go to Vietnam, my army experience is a world apart, I’m an outsider to your experience. There’s something unwelcome about outsiders “listening” in on your conversations and I felt that it was wrong to intrude.
It is a slow process. The next “step” was being at the 2003 reunion at Squirt’s in Ohio. But, it still wasn’t very comfortable because of my own issues dealing with it: our experiences will never be the same no matter what. Nevertheless, Ed Holtz’s 2006 jarring remarks during the reunion ended my attempts to smother those 20+ years of being in and around the army. Those remarks took me someplace emotionally where I would never choose to go, but was forced to go. While the actual army experience is different, the war years are forced on us, though in different ways.
The army/the military is not made up of just those who wear the uniform, but made up of many more that are unseen and invisible and, in some cases, younger than we would like to think. It is a family that, in many respects, NEEDS to have people who fill all the many support roles.
You, who I see as my older brothers, and I experienced those years very differently, but endured them through a common link, my father, your “Top”.
Having attended the summer get-togethers the past two years and the DC reunions in ’06 and ’08, it feels better not to fight it anymore and to go back to what constitutes a part of my “roots”, the army. It is great to see Fred Hall—a DI in his twenties when I was in junior high in ‘67/’68, having nothing in common then, but seeing him 38 years later, both of us having been in the army and, now, seemingly closer in age with so much more in common.
The moments of wackiness mixed with emotion are the kind of sincerity that I’m happy to have the pleasure in sharing in with this extended family.
Something I can see now that wasn’t apparent then: It was more important that he was there with you than at home with us.
I can only hope that there will be future opportunities to spend time with my older brothers . . . JJeter, Ed Holtz, Dorsey, Don Zimmer, Snag, Squirt, Dykstra, JEckels, JGast, SMroz, PDecker and the rest of the cast of . . . characters where our parallel worlds intersect.
