Fifty years ago, on November 1, 1969, I left Viet Nam for home. While out processing at MACV SOG Headquarters, I had my final out-briefing. At that briefing, I was told the same as I was told when I came to the 5thSpecial Forces Project SIGMA, and that was I could never talk about what I did or where I went while assigned to SOG. I signed the papers and went back upstairs to ask my friend Major Bob Dobbins to drive me to the airport.
While at the replacement company waiting on my plane home, there was a formation before we got on the planes. There were about 1,000 men in formation waiting to get on several planes to go to the good old U.S. of A. We would get on those commercial airliners dressed in our jungle fatigues for the flight to Fort Ord, California. The only headgear authorized to wear with that uniform at that time was either the Army-issued baseball-style cap or a green beret. However, in Viet Nam, some soldiers wore black berets, camouflaged berets, red berets, or short-brimmed field hats, and several soldiers were still wearing those as they stood in that formation. A colonel stood in front of our formation and said, “The only headgear authorized to wear on these planes are: The Army issued baseball cap or a green beret, and I see only one soldier in this formation wearing a green beret. So, if you have anything other than a baseball cap or a green beret on your head, you will not get on a plane home.”
At first, I felt embarrassed, and then an enormous sense of pride came over me, knowing I was the only person out of a thousand men standing in that formation who was a Special Forces soldier. We got onto the plane, and every seat was taken. The pilot and flight crew made their safety announcements before takeoff. No one whispered a word during the takeoff roll. You could have heard a pin drop inside that plane. As soon as the wheels lifted off the ground, there was a loud roar and all kinds of howling and whistles.
We landed at Fort Ord, California, after a twenty-four-hour flight from Viet Nam with one stop in Japan. After landing, the Army moved all of us to the reception station at Fort Ord, where someone took our personnel records from us and sent us to a large building where we were fitted for our new Class A uniforms. After that, the men being discharged from the Army went to one building, and that would be me, and the men going home on leave or further assignments went to another building. After completing all the paperwork and getting my discharge orders. I was sent back to get my Class A uniform. The Army can be very efficient. They had taken my military records to get my awards and decorations from it, and they put my award ribbons on my new dress uniform.
Wearing my new uniform, I was sent to my final briefing in the Army. At the briefing, we were told we didn’t have to wear our uniforms home. We could wear civilian clothes if we had them because of the war protesters that we would run into at airports and public places. I was thinking I had spent the last eighteen months of my life fighting for what I thought was the right thing to do and being wounded three times doing it. I would not let some longhaired hippie spit in my face and call me names just because I was wearing a uniform. What kind of welcome home was this? Several men did change into their civilian clothes, but not me. I wore my uniform and green beret with PRIDE, and I was waiting for someone to say something negative to me about the war in Viet Nam.
I got on a bus with forty other soldiers that would take us to the Oakland airport, where I would pick up a ticket to Oklahoma City. When the bus arrived at the airport, there were several hundred protesters outside the airport in Oakland waiting for us. The bus driver didn’t let us off at the location we were supposed to get off. He had to take us to another area away from the protesters and let us off. I couldn’t believe that the American public hated us so much. As we got off the bus I saw several protesters at the other end of the terminal. I got my bag and started walking to the terminal. When the protesters saw us, they started our way. I stopped at the door along with five other soldiers, and we just stood there waiting for them. We all dropped our bags and started walking toward the protesters. As soon as the protesters saw us coming for them, they stopped and called for two police officers standing close by watching what was about to happen. The officers turned and walked into the terminal with a big grin on their faces. We started walking faster toward the hippies. There were about fifteen of them and six of us. As we got closer and they noticed the police officers had left, they decided it was time for them to leave also. They turned and ran through the traffic to the other side of the terminal. The six of us turned and smiled at each other and without saying a word, went back, picked up our bags, and went our separate ways. So much for the brave war protesters.
I was lucky because I didn’t have to wait long for my flight home. No one spoke to me while I was waiting for my plane, and that was okay because I didn’t want to talk to anyone. When I got on the plane, all I wanted to do was find my seat and go to sleep. I was the only soldier on the flight to Oklahoma City, and I felt very uncomfortable. I could feel the hate in the air. However, before the plane took off, the pilot came back to me, asked to shake my hand, and said, “Thank you.” I thanked him because I saw a small Silver Star pin on the lapel of his pilot’s uniform, and I knew he had been there too. I felt proud of him and me. Everyone else on that plane could go to hell.
I arrived in Oklahoma City in the late evening. I picked up my bag and went outside to get a cab. There were several taxicabs waiting for customers, so I went to the first cab driver and told him I wanted to go to about two miles from the airport. The driver told me he was waiting for a fare that would make him more money, and I should try another cab. I went to the next cab, and he told me the same thing. I went to the third cab driver and told him I would pay him whatever he wanted to take me home. He said he would take $20. I paid him the $20 for the five-dollar ride home. No welcome home, no thank you, just give me $20 if you want me to take you home!
I didn’t tell my wife Shirley when I was going to be home because I wanted to surprise her and our three-year-old daughter Cindy. The cab dropped me off in front of my house. I stood there for a minute, looking at the house and thinking about how incredible it was to be home. I knocked on the door and waited. Shirley and Cindy opened the door. I hugged and kissed Shirley, but Cindy was afraid of that strange man. She wouldn’t come to me. That was disturbing to me, and I should have expected her to act that way, but I had not.
That was my welcome home 50 years ago. Does anyone else have a different story about their welcome home from Viet Nam?
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