Vietnam War

Few days pass when my mind doesn’t return to something I learned during that year in the sun, mud, and rain.

Dealing with still-drunk combatants who often outranked me and wanted a second round with the bouncer was never easy.

When a deafening roar woke me on the morning of Dec. 18, 1972, I raced outside and watched in awe as wave after wave of KC-135s headed off the island.

I wondered whether the lighter bags held small soldiers or only body parts. I kept no count of the work. I still don’t know how many we carried.

The ships with our 437 helicopters would reach Qui Nhon harbor in about four weeks. They needed a place to land.

As I brought the jeep to a screeching halt in front of the terminal entrance, I noticed the colonel’s face had drained of color.

In that instant, for the first time, I truly felt like a member of the Marine air/ground team.

“Memories of Sam’s death haunted me for decades,” writes a former Army public affairs officer about the death of a journalist during the Vietnam War.