By Vietnam Marine Veteran Rich Thurmond
We called the United States “The World” in Vietnam. That’s how it felt. Vietnam seemed like another planet altogether, and “The World” was the distant place we dreamed of going back to.
My return home almost didn’t happen on schedule. Two days before I was supposed to leave, an ammo dump in Da Nang caught fire and started sending bombs and rockets flying across the airfield. Planes couldn’t land or take off until the runways were cleared. I had already turned in my rifle, helmet, and flak jacket, so when the explosions started, I thought Da Nang was under attack. My first thought was: Great. I’ve made it through my whole tour just to get killed at the end.
Eventually, the airfield reopened, and I boarded a flight to Okinawa, where I spent several days before catching another plane bound for home.
On the morning of May 1, 1969, we landed at El Toro Marine Corps Air Station in California. A red carpet literally stretched out to greet us, and crowds cheered as we disembarked. A proper Marine Corps welcome. After processing, I received orders to report to Quantico, Virginia, but first I was granted a 20-day leave.
Within an hour, I was on a civilian bus to Los Angeles International Airport, where I bought a ticket to Chicago. Late that night, I caught another flight to Champaign, Illinois, the closest I could get to home that day. I called a childhood friend to pick me up, so we could surprise my parents in the early morning hours.
I spent another fifteen months in the Marine Corps, traveling frequently in uniform. Across all those airports and flights, only one civilian ever spoke to me about my service. He was curious and respectful. I never heard a disrespectful word, and none of my fellow Marines at Quantico or Camp Lejeune ever mentioned being treated badly either.
There were no “Welcome home” signs or “Thank you for your service” greetings in those days. But there was no hostility, either. Just quiet, polite indifference.
