By Ed Fender
The Vietnam War—officially a “Conflict,” since Congress never declared it—has been written about endlessly. Rather than re-analyze it, I set down my own experience in a memoir titled Vietnam (1970–1971) – My Way, which now sits in the Hazel Braugh Records Center and Archives of the American Red Cross in Washington, DC. What follows is drawn from that personal account.
A knee injury in high school football had removed a piece of my left kneecap and stretched the medial-collateral ligament. Over time the ligament tightened somewhat, but the loose fragment of bone remains under the skin even today. At the Kansas City induction center, Army medical staff decided that jumping from a helicopter with an 80-pound pack would likely cause more serious damage. The conclusion was clear: I was a liability. I was classified 1-Y—drafted only if the enemy invaded the United States.
Despite that, my notice for Vietnam still came. I was among many recent college graduates of the 1960s who received that assignment. The difference was that mine came not from the U.S. military, but from the American Red Cross. That meant I could decline. My mother never let me forget this. Others I knew left for Southeast Asia and never returned. I could have simply said no. She thought I should.
Still, I accepted the assignment. I was twenty-three, drawn to the idea of challenge, service, travel, and decent pay. I believed I could contribute without facing much danger. I was told repeatedly that I would be protected by the finest military force ever assembled. Only later did I learn that “safety” in South Vietnam was a contradiction in terms. Agent Orange drifted through areas we worked in. Sappers and snipers worked in popular restaurants during the day and killed by night. The sandbagged bunkers at “protected” hotels in Saigon underscored the ambience of danger which was part of everyday life in beautiful South Vietnam.
My home in the United States was located at the 8,500 foot level of the Colorado Rockies, so when I stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhut airport in January, 1970, I immediately developed a heat rash that stayed with me most of the time I was in-country. The first olfactory impression of Saigon also stayed with me. The combination of odors, heat, and humidity created such a unique smell that I can still recall it many years later. Tens of thousands of poorly tuned 2-cycle engines spewing partially combusted exhaust fumes created a devil’s brew atmosphere that other pungent smells could overlay but never mask.
For travel and lodging, I was granted equivalent rank of lieutenant colonel. I was only twenty-three, so it felt surreal. With those papers, I could go anywhere in the Southeast Asian theater, and I often did. By the end of the year, I’d served in seven different locations. It often seemed that my real assignment was just South Vietnam since I was seldom anywhere for long.
Below is a review of each location, as I lived it.
TAN AN
Tan An lay in the Mekong Delta. Our camp had no permanent buildings, only tents. Every tent had a double row of green sandbags about three feet high. The shower water came from tanks heated by the sun. Because it rained so often, the sun rarely did its job. Cold showers were standard.
The food offered its own surprises. I developed a taste for SOS—creamed chipped beef on toast—which rarely drew a crowd. The cooks appreciated having at least one customer who went back for seconds.
We were close enough to the enemy that we were always on alert. More than once I had to jump into damp swampy smelling bunkers because mortars were landing too close. One of the officers was in the latrine during a mortar attack and suffered a non-fatal wound to his gluteus maximus. He got a Purple Heart for it.
Tan An was brief for me, and I didn’t mind moving on.
DIAN
I don’t remember much about Dian, other than it was small and I drove a “liberated” military jeep through what we called “shared” territory.
Liberated military equipment was everywhere. From pencils to deuce-and-a-half trucks, useful items owned by the US Army got stolen or bartered without benefit of paperwork. If your unit really needed a jeep, but couldn’t get the paperwork, someone would find you one. The jeep’s original owner would list it as lost, and the “ghost” jeep would be dropped from inventory lists.
Shared territory was an area held by both US and South Vietnamese forces during the day, and the Viet Cong during the night.
The object of my travels was Judy, a Red Cross woman, who lived in a nearby compound. I remember driving with her, and she got grossed out when we passed men and women going to the bathroom on the roadside. It was a different culture with different standards.
After our time in Vietnam, Judy and I reconnected when she was reassigned to Ft. Riley in Kansas. I took her to meet my grandmother in Abilene. My grandma fell in love with her. When a long-term relationship didn’t work out, Judy moved to Australia. My grandma never forgave me for letting her get away.
PHU LOI
Phu Loi stands out in memory as a high point in my tour. Our Red Cross office worked alongside the Army Quartermaster Corps, the branch responsible for inspecting regional food supplies. If there was any uncertainty about a shipment of steak or shrimp, they set the questionable items aside for “field testing,” usually on a grill behind the office. I ate more than my share, and since I’m still here to tell the story, the food must have passed inspection.
A young local hire named Tran Thi Bin worked in our office. Nearly fluent in English, smart, poised, and strikingly beautiful, she fielded marriage proposals from U.S. servicemen with quiet grace. She turned them all down. Her family depended on her, and she wouldn’t leave them. I often wonder what became of her. Someone with her talent could have thrived anywhere.
Phu Loi was also where I took a class in the Vietnamese language. I learned some useful phrases: “I am not a member of the US military forces.” “I am not an officer.” “I am not a doctor but I am with the Red Cross.” “I give up!”
We learned how important intonation was in this language. The word “ma” could mean seven different things–from “cow” to “ghost” to “mother-in-law”–depending on how you pronounced it.
I had just started to understand a bit of the language when our teacher, a translator for the US military, was reassigned to the front lines. He was a replacement for a translator who was killed in action. My teacher suffered the same fate and never returned.
QUAN LOI
Quan Loi sat in an area the U.S. military called the Iron Triangle. I assumed the name referred to fortifications that formed a triangle jutting into bordering Cambodia. When I arrived, I learned it described the land itself. The soil was so thick with iron that it stained everything deep red.
I swam in an old swimming pool left over from the French occupation, and the water was so red that it was like swimming in blood (Blood, indeed, has a metallic taste from iron in it.)
Though I was a non-combatant, one of the officers trained me on how to operate an M-16. Our base had a high possibility of being overrun by the enemy. As a friend pointed out later, when you are that vulnerable, no one is a non-combatant.
I never had to fire the M-16 in anger, and I left it behind when I moved on.
The highlight of Quan Loi was a training ride in a Cobra gunship. The low points were many—dust, danger, and the tension that builds from being confined to a small area with nothing much to do but wage war and swim in that miserable pool.
BIEN HOA
Bien Hoa was a major air base near Saigon, busy around the clock with combat sorties. I was part of a large Red Cross contingent but stayed for only a short while. One of the memorable parts of this assignment was that we were constantly scurrying for bunkers because the base was a favorite target for enemy mortars. They weren’t very accurate, but they didn’t have to be because anything they hit disrupted the 24-hour per day air support activity.
Once, I had to go into Saigon and was assigned a jeep with a driver and a heavily-armed MP. At a real ight, we pulled behind a flatbed truck carrying a dozen black-clad prisoners guarded by South Vietnamese regulars. As the truck lurched to a stop, everyone stumbled, and the prisoners used the diversion to escape. They leaped over the side and took off in all directions.
The guards opened fire. A few ran right past our jeep and the bullets made hissing sounds I could hear from my position on the floor between the seat and the dashboard. Our jeep was struck a number of times but none of us was injured. The action quickly moved away, and I looked around to find my driver frozen in his seat with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. My MP protector was plastered closer to the floor than I was.
My favorite restaurant was called My Canh, the “floating restaurant,” a riverboat permanently berthed in the Saigon River. As I type this, with my eyes closed, I can see the sun setting on the river from my table at the rail. The gathering shadows seem to make the small boats dotting the river bounce up and down. Now the evening breeze clears away the standard Saigon smell and swirls the scintillating aromas surrounding me as I await one of my favorite dishes. It is a tranquil scene that belies the reality of a city at war.
After leaving Bien Hoa, but before my next assignment to Cam Ranh Bay, I took an in-country R&R to Vung Tau.
VUNG TAU (R&R)
South and east of Saigon, Vung Tau was a coastal city that served as the budget R&R destination. The beaches were soft, the food was good, and if one ignored the helicopters patrolling overhead, the place could almost feel like a resort.
Many young women from across Southeast Asia came here to offer comfort and companionship to Servicemen and non-Servicemen alike.
CAM RANH BAY
Cam Ranh Bay was the farthest north I was permanently assigned, and it was one of the most memorable. On arrival, I was fortunate enough to be housed in a quonset hut on a sandy beach overlooking the South China Sea, a gorgeous setting. Quonset huts look like a large metal drainage pipe that has been sliced in half from end to end.
I enjoyed my beachfront stay for about one week before the typhoon of the century made landfall. Winds were estimated at more than 100 miles per hour. All night long, metal pieces of our building kept tearing off with excruciating, screeching sounds. Sand and rain were driven against the walls, raising a din that became so constant I finally fell asleep. Many people in the area died, and some buildings were totally demolished. We moved our sodden belongings out, and base command finished the job the typhoon had started.
My duties included supporting firebases toward the DMZ. One flight on a C-123 required us to land on the smallest runway I’ve ever seen. It was made of something called PSP, Perforated Steel Planking, that flexed under the wheels. When we touched down, the pilot immediately slammed the engines in reverse. Our front wheel dropped off the runway into the mud as we stopped. Taking off was easier since the plane had a light load and a jet assist for take-offs.
Cam Ranh sat near a long peninsula that ended in a freshwater spring known as Tiger Lake. Ice-cold in tropical heat, it attracted Americans eager for relief. Getting there, however, was not guaranteed to be safe.
Without a vehicle, I went to the main gate and hitched a ride with some local villagers who were approved to work on-base. I told them I would get out when the base access road dead-ended at the main road, and then I’d go left to Tiger Lake while they went right toward their villages. The driver nodded and said “OK,” so I climbed into the back of the truck.
As we approached the dead-end at the main road, the truck didn’t stop, but accelerated. I started pounding on the cab roof to get the driver’s attention. He slowed only slightly as we rocked through a sharp right turn and again accelerated.
Decision time. I could ride along into territory controlled by the Viet Cong and hope they would respect my affiliation with the Red Cross. Or, I could jump.
I chose the latter.
We were going 30-35 mph when I hit the gravel roadway and went into a series of “tuck and roll” somersaults. When I finally got myself together and stood up, my ride was far down the road. I had lots of bruises but no broken bones.
Maybe they just forgot I was there, and I jumped for no reason. Maybe jumping saved my life. I’ll never know.
I spent that afternoon alternating between the freezing water and scorching sand, collecting bruises, sunburn, and one more story.
Before my next assignment, I took out-of-country R&R—this time to Australia.
AUSTRALIA (R&R)
R&R travel was free, so distance factored into the decision. Australia was as far from Vietnam as one could go.
My week in Australia was amazing. I was the house-guest of a very nice husband and wife who owned a power boat so I got to waterski in the ocean near Sydney. They also took me to the world-famous Sydney Opera House with its distinctive architecture.
I don’t remember exactly how this worked, but I was matched up with a lovely lass for a date, through a group of young women who agreed to be temporary companions for young men who were on R&R from the Vietnam War zone. It was a wonderful thing to do, and I had a great time. I don’t remember her name.
One day involved a trip on a very small plane to the outback for a day in wine country.
The biggest adventure was a river cruise to an Animal Reserve. The river cruise itself was amazing because the river was filled with thousands of stinging jellyfish. The boat crew told us this was an annual occurrence that we happened to be experiencing. They threw shrimp and a variety of meats on “the Barbie” and kept us well fed both up and down the river. There was plenty of Aussie beer, too.
The animal reserve featured kangaroos hopping about and cute koalas in trees.
We had a lesson in how to throw a boomerang, and the instructor told us how a fellow in the outback had gone crazy trying to throw away his old boomerang. Some people laughed immediately while others had to think about it. I failed miserably in my throwing efforts so I could have easily thrown away my old boomerang.
Alas, this came to an end, but I will always remember the warmth and charm of the Australians and hope to return someday.
PHAN RANG AIR BASE
Phan Rang Airbase had the reputation of being as cushy an in-country assignment could be, so when my C-130 landed, I expected something special.
The first “really special” thing about Phan Rang was the strange looking, purple, oversized van against which two Red Cross Field Directors were leaning. This turned out to be the official Red Cross vehicle that was given to us by the base commander. It was left over from the time of the French Occupation and had been obtained years before from local Vietnamese officials in some sort of exchange. It was not a military vehicle, so the base command had no use for it. Since we were civilian, we could have it.
It was known as the “Plum” by everyone on base. We occasionally called it other names due to its tendency to malfunction. Our office was located in the base command building and our quarters were a half kilometer away. We always left the Plum parked at headquarters and walked to and from our quarters. One day, not long after my arrival, I had to go to my quarters, and it was raining. I decided to take the Plum since I had been practicing with it and didn’t want to get wet.
We lived on a little hill that strained the engine somewhat, but I made it. I soon found out why we always parked the Plum at the office and walked to and from our quarters! No one had mentioned to me that it was impossible to get parts for the brakes, consequently, the Plum was frequently in the shop for “adjustments”.
My ride back to the office down the rain slickened road was certainly invigorating. The Plum was a little top-heavy so I was a little out of control until I got to flat ground. I don’t know whether any of the wheels left the ground, but more than once I thought I would tip over while careening through corners.
That vehicle is probably still there, being cursed in Vietnamese now.
Phan Rang Air Base was truly remarkable. We had many buildings of permanent construction and a large geographical area with well patrolled perimeters. This meant freedom to move about the base safely and the construction of recreation facilities. We even had handball courts.
My worst injury in Vietnam occurred on the handball court. I tried to hit a ball while moving at full speed toward the sidewall. I misjudged the distance and slammed my left hand into the wall. I crushed the knuckle of my left little finger (called an “eggshell” fracture), broke the finger in two places, and dislocated it for good measure. I never played handball again.
I began running while at Phan Rang. I lost 38 pounds and became “lean and mean”. This I accomplished by going on a diet of fruit juice in the morning, tomato juice at noon, and a small salad with cottage cheese at the Officer’s Club in the evening – not much fun, but damned effective (as I recall, I also took vitamin tablets and salt pills). I would frequently run to the top of an on-base hill that offered a fabulous view of the entire base as well as the Coastal Mountains and the South China Sea. I came in 3rd in the annual “Commanders 10k”.
We also had a relatively safe roadway from the base to the white sand beaches and blue water of the South China Sea. This was so stunningly beautiful that it was hard to believe it was in the middle of a war zone. I wonder if it is still as beautiful now? Probably more so since we stopped bombing it.
I took my second out of country R&R while at Phan Rang. This one was to Hong Kong.
HONG KONG
One of my reasons for choosing Hong Kong was the hope of getting into China. Rumors were circulating that President Nixon planned to open relations, and I assumed it would happen soon. I went in early 1971; Nixon made his move the next year. The closest I came was a bus tour to the triple-strand barbed wire at the border. China lay just beyond, unreachable.
The bocce courts of Hong Kong impressed me more than anything else—dozens of them, full every hour of the day. I’ve never seen anything like it since.
I bought a few shirts and pants because the prices were low. The quality may have been, too. I still have a silver ring with a garnet stone that was my biggest purchase.
For some reason, I agreed to loan $20 to a soldier who had run out of money. He said he was in the Phan Rang area and would come by the Red Cross office to repay me. I suppose I knew from the beginning it was a grant and not a loan because I never saw him again.
Hong Kong harbor was full to overflowing with boats of all sizes. Many served as housing for families.
Soon enough, I went back to Vietnam. And back to the war.
POKER, FIRE, AND FLIGHT
Poker was a part of my everyday life at Phan Rang. I received two checks from the Red Cross. One week, I would receive my paycheck and bank the whole thing. The next week, I would receive my hazardous duty check and play poker with it.
We played every night from about 7:00pm to midnight at the 789 Club. This was a club restricted to senior enlisted, E-7’s, E-8’s, and E-9’s. As a civilian, I was sort of a wild card. Over the months I played, I lost $900, and won $1,200.
But this was still war, and every once in a while, we were reminded of it.
But reminders of war were constant.
One afternoon an explosion shook our office hard enough to drop people to the floor. Everyone waited for the second round that usually followed, but none came. Outside, a black column rose above the main runway. A C-123 loaded with Agent Orange had taken off, banked for a routine turn, malfunctioned, and driven itself into the ground. The crew died instantly. The toxic cargo burned fiercely, contaminating the air.
In another incident, I was riding in a two-man Loach, Light Observation Helicopter, when the pilot tapped a fresh hole in the Plexiglas floor in front of my feet and asked me if that had been there when we took off. I told him no. He pointed above my head at the exit hole and said we were under fire.
The pilot started evasive maneuvers that rivaled any ride I’ve ever been on at any amusement park.
The war never let you forget where you were.
FIELD PHONES & BAD NEWS
Our communication network in Vietnam involved a detestable apparatus called a field phone. It was a slight improvement over a piece of string stretched between two tin cans, but not by much. It required shouting into the speaker and pressing my ear tight to the receiver to hear the response. Since “b”, “d”, “t”, “p” and other letters sounded so similar, I had to learn the military phonetic alphabet. Those letters became “bravo”, “delta”, “tango”, and “papa”. If the connection was particularly poor, it might require an hour or more to complete a discussion.
The worst case I handled required that kind of clarity, and more.
A message arrived through Red Cross channels about a soldier in his early twenties at a remote firebase. His wife and twin boys had been in a freeway accident. One child was dead. The other two were hanging on. The family wanted him home.
The in-country locator system was always far behind due to the constant movement of thousands of troops. Finding him took hours. We finally got a message to his First Sergeant, and then had to wait for a helicopter to bring the young soldier back to Phan Rang. His command had already expedited Emergency Leave papers, and financial aid for stateside transportation was ready.
It was the next day when he finally arrived at my office . . . just thirty minutes after I’d received word that his wife and second son had also died.
I had to break the news.
He’d survived Vietnam, fighting at his country’s request to make the world a safer place to live. Now, he would spend an eighteen-hour flight home alone, carrying grief as heavy as can be imagined.
That moment convinced me I needed more training and skill in guiding people through such darkness. My sociology degree didn’t cover that kind of pain.
I applied to the Master of Social Work program at Denver University for fall 1971. Along with my application, I had to submit an essay describing my philosophy of life. Either my essay or the fact that I was in a war zone working for the Red Cross convinced them, and I was accepted. But they put me on a wait list, meaning I could start in the fall if a slot opened. If not, I’d have to wait until 1972.
No spot opened. At the time, I was disappointed. Later, I realized that graduating in 1973 brought me face to face with the woman who would become my wife, a twist of fate.
CLOSING DAYS & AFTER
I was invited to dinner by the local Vietnamese Red Cross leader. His house was spartan, but his neighbors probably thought he was doing well. I did not know what I ate for dinner. Not sure I want to know. The meat was flavorful, and the vegetables were mostly unrecognizable, but it was all good. Their Red Cross society focused primarily on medical services, whereas ours focused primarily on Health and Human Services.
I extended my Vietnam tour while at Phan Rang Air Base, so I spent a total of about seven months there. By the time I finally left in July 1971, the perimeter was weakening. Safe areas were shrinking. A few weeks after I departed, my sleeping quarters took a direct mortar hit and was demolished. No one was in the building at the time.
Another twist of fate.
EPILOGUE
Fifty years have passed, but time has not dimmed the memory of my time in Vietnam, nor of the impact that time had on me.
I was Red Cross, neutral in theory, but I served Americans, troops and civilians alike. By performing this humanitarian service, I helped everyone do their jobs better.
I experienced danger, but, unlike the real warriors, I was never sent to confront that danger in a life-or-death situation.
I believe the inner strength that has successfully guided me through life was forged in the crucible of my service in Vietnam.
There is a downside, however. I did my job, and I believe I did it well but what has haunted me over the years was how much more I could have done. I was in my early twenties, and I thought like a young man. While I was playing poker each night, how many battle injured soldiers were laying in the base hospital wanting to communicate with loved ones but unable to? What else might I have done to improve the lives of those military personnel around me? I never thought of those things because I was young and living in a dangerous place.
I will always regret that failure.
