By Vietnam Army Veteran Jim Janicki
After reading the “Coming Home After War” issue of VBC Magazine, I felt compelled to share my own story.
I enlisted in the U.S. Army on October 31, 1966, and served until September 17, 1969. I trained at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, and then at Fort Eustis, Virginia, where I learned to repair aircraft. In September 1968, I deployed to Vietnam with the 303rd Transportation Company (General Support) out of Fort Benning, Georgia. Two months later, I was reassigned to the 56th Transportation Company (Aircraft Direct Support), a recovery and repair unit responsible for salvaging downed helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft, fixing them, and getting them back in the fight.
We were based at Long Thanh North Army Airfield, about twenty miles northeast of Saigon and a few kilometers from Bearcat. Our mission was to return every aircraft to service within seventy-two hours. It was relentless work, and during my year there, our company repaired and returned 976 aircraft—a remarkable number by any measure. I made Specialist Five (E-5) before coming home.
My Vietnam tour ended on September 17, 1969. After a seventeen-hour flight, we landed at Oakland Army Depot. I was expecting a warm welcome home. Instead, we were met by a wall of protesters pressed ten deep along the fence line, shouting obscenities, booing, even spitting. Our officers told us to keep our eyes forward and not respond. I didn’t know much about the anti-war movement before then—but I sure learned fast.
Inside, I turned in my jungle fatigues, showered, shaved, and enjoyed the traditional steak dinner they offered returning soldiers. After clearing records and processing out, I caught a cab to the airport. The driver warned me to be careful wearing my new Class A uniform. He was right. More boos, more name-calling. In the terminal, people avoided me entirely—as if I were contagious.
It didn’t get better in Chicago on my connection to Pittsburgh. I tried to hitch a ride home, only to be met with blaring horns and middle fingers. One car even stopped, rolled down the window, asked where I was headed, then said, “F— you,” and sped off.
When I finally made it home, some of my own neighbors told my parents I was “damaged goods.” And when I went to join the local VFW, a group of World War II veterans told me to “get the hell out of here, son—that wasn’t even a war.”
That cut deep. It was bad enough to be shunned by the public, but to be rejected by fellow veterans hurt even more. I could’ve crawled away in embarrassment.
Some of my generation had better homecomings than I did. But I learned to keep my head up and move forward. That’s what soldiers do.
