Vietnam 1970.
I was a scared 19-year-old away from home the first time in his life.
I didn't expect to survive my tour.
I was completely ignorant about the Vietnamese culture. My training told me that the Vietnamese (NVA and VC) were subhuman.
I was a combat engineer (demolition) and spent countless hours minesweeping dangerous dirt roads.
I was assigned to the 442 Eng. Div., 31st Eng. Battalion, B-Company headquartered in Bien Hoa.
Besides minesweeping I did a lot of hard grunt work building firebases, digging trenches for sanitation and water pipelines to villages, and constructing buildings in Binh Duong and Binh Long near the Cambodian border.
Early May in Cambodia.
Initially my squad was attached to the 3rd Brigade of the U.S. 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile), but we were later transferred to several units (generally - and in one case with a group of Marines. We were assigned to rifle platoons where we used our skills to blow up underground caches of enemy supplies from food to weapons.
One day my best friend Rogers and I came under fire while helping haul bags of rice that were liberated from an NVA underground bunker.
He was killed. I was lucky. In that moment I was no longer a teenager - I was forced to become a man determined to live despite the horror of seeing bullets pierce Rogers body.
Marijuana in Country
There was one thing all of the pot smokers agreed on... the Vietnamese weed was the best we'd ever smoked.
I freely admit to smoking pot daily, along with the rest of my platoon. It was a way of coping with the hell we lived in. True statistic: the majority of grunts smoked pot in 1970.
It's been over a half of a century since my south Asian adventures, and I'm still (at times) haunted by the memories. I'm service-connected with PTSD and have spent years in counseling.
As it Stands, today my thoughts are with Rogers and the other young men who didn't make it back from that terrible war.