We spent a few days in Saigon, which at that time was known as the Paris of the Orient with its tree-lined boulevards, sidewalk cafes, and its French architecture and restaurants. It was quite a place. But, the party was over soon enough and we were on an airplane headed north to the city of Da Nang to start the job.

We were assigned to a training camp outside of Da Nang, with the mission to train some local mountain tribes people or "Montagnards" as they were called. This is where my training at Bragg first became a reality. We were actually training the fighting force that we would lead into combat as "advisors", and it was interesting to say the least. The Montagnards, (pronounced Mountainyards) or "Yards" as they soon became known to us, were short in stature and darker than the lowland Vietnamese and in many ways could be compared to the American Indian. They had no written language, wore loincloths, and - although they were a simple people - they were far from being stupid. They were quick learners and loyal. In short, we loved these little guys. Their problems became our problems, and when one of them died, we grieved for him as if he were one of our own.

There would be five more tours for me in Vietnam before our government decided to walk away from it, and every tour was the same, working with the indigenous forces and loving it. I departed Vietnam for the last time in the summer of 1972, but a piece of me remained behind. I have been talking about going back ever since. For what? I am not sure that I even know, but I think it is about the people. I missed them.

Returning To Vietnam - 2003

On March 20, 2003, I went wheel up out of Nashville, on time for a change, headed for Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) via Los Angeles and Hong Kong. Hong Kong still remains in my mind as the greatest city in the world when it comes to organization. However, this time I didn't leave the airport.

I touched down at Saigon's Tan Son Nhut Airport the morning of March 22 and, from looking out the window of the plane, pretty much found things as I had left them. Guards were sitting in guard towers that were left behind by the Americans in 1975, and planes and equipment were parked in hangars that were left behind by us. The Runway was in a state of disrepair as before. Of the three-man work crew that I saw, one was hunkered down in a full squat (what we called the Vietnamese parade rest position), one was leaning on a shovel, and one was pushing an empty wheelbarrow. I was glad to see that twenty-eight years of communism had done nothing to improve the Vietnamese work ethic, and after stepping out of the plane I soon knew why. I had forgotten how hot the place could be.

After clearing customs, I was met by McKenzie, Tennessee's Saigon connection, Mr. Andy Lam, son of the Lam family that owns the Chinese Kitchen on South Main Street in McKenzie. Andy was with his lady friend, Miss Snow, who presented me with a beautiful bouquet of roses. If that doesn't bring a tear to your eye, nothing will. I liked Andy from the start, and knew that he was going to be a great asset to me while I was in the country.

Andy had reserved a room for me at one of the many boutique hotels in Saigon and I was very pleased with his selection. It was small and clean, with all the amenities, and very reasonably priced. I made arrangements to have dinner with Andy and Snow that evening, went to my room, showered, cranked up the air conditioner, and slept. It had been a long trip and I was beat.

That evening, I explained to Andy that I wanted to go "up country" and retrace some of my footsteps. I had brought along some old black and white photographs from years past, and told him that I expected to see change, I expected to be disappointed, but I wanted to try and find someone that I had known from before. I also wanted to visit some of the old SF campsites. I knew this was a tall order, and I suspected that I would fail.

One person that I had been thinking of for the past forty years was a little girl that I rescued from her Montagnard village that had been burned. Her mother died before I could get her out, so I took the girl, who was about two years old at the time, to a small hospital in Quang Ngai and dropped her off. I returned one time to the hospital with some clothes for the girl, and as luck would have it, ran into noted photographer, Ms. Dickey Chapelle. Dickey was on assignment for National Geographic and took a picture of the little girl and me. It was published in National Geographic Magazine (vol.122, no 50) in November 1962, page 739.

Dickey Chapelle was killed November 4, 1965 while working with the Marines at Chu Lai, but here, many years later, I had a copy of that photo, plus several more of other people from the past, and my only motivation was to ask them if they have had a good life.

The following day was Sunday, and Andy had made arrangements for us to go to the beach resort of Vung Tao. It was an hour and fifteen minute trip by Hydrofoil and turned out to be a delightful day. We dined at an open-air seafood restaurant and Andy opened a bottle of French wine that he had brought along in his backpack. I started to tell him that Americans did not "do French," but he would not have understood my sentiments. So, I had some French wine, and it was good. Shame on me!

I was looking forward to our trip up country the next morning as we loaded into our chartered mini van. This was the only option as far as travel was concerned. The buses were overcrowded and were not air conditioned, so they were out of the question. The plan was to go up Highway 14 to Ban Me Thout, Pleiku, Kontum and on to Dak To. I remembered it as a dirt or gravel road after leaving the towns, with beautiful jungle on either side of the road most of the way up. It was about a four hundred mile trip, and the plan was to spend the first night in Ban Me Thout, and then continue on the following day.

Since the population of Vietnam has doubled since I last saw it, it took almost an hour and a half to clear the urban sprawl of Saigon. The wide expanses of jungle and open countryside that I expected to see had turned into rubber and coffee plantations and various other things that do well in the tropics. The jungle was gone, and the road was lined on either side with the houses of field hands and poor farmers. The natural beauty that used to be the Central Highlands was gone. I tied to locate the site of Bu Prang and Buon Sapar, a couple of SF camps from my past, but the topography had changed so much that I could not identify either place.

We arrived in Ban Me Thout after an exhausting eight-hour ride over two hundred twenty miles, and found that this once sleepy little mountain town was now a city of about a hundred thousand. This would be the story as we continued north, just more of the same. We didn't bother stopping in Pleiku but rather continued on to Kontum, arriving there early enough to check into the Dak Bla Hotel, which bordered the river of the same name. Since we had plenty of daylight left, we decided to continue north for another twenty-five miles to Dak To, which was my stomping grounds in '63. Finally, at last, I found something that was familiar to me. By looking at the profile of the hills to the west, I was able to walk to the old airstrip that bordered our camp, and was within fifty yards of where our main gate used to be. All the barbed wire was long gone, and there were a few cows grazing on the land. The hills on the other side of the river had been stripped of most of the trees. I stood there for a few minutes and took it all in, and then I was ready to head back to Kontum.

Kontum is the heart of the Banar Montagnard tribal area and I had brought along a photograph of a Banar nurse that had worked for me in '63. The "Yards" and the Vietnamese government have never seen eye to eye, so when the present government took over, they moved them from their outlying villages into collective villages on the outskirts of town. The next morning we went to the village on the west side of town and started showing the forty-year-old picture around. The lady that I was looking for was named "Ngeo," but since my fellow team members and I had trouble with that name, we just called her "Liz."

We had shown the picture to fifteen or twenty people and I tried to convey to them that she would now be an old lady. Finally, I mentioned that she had once been a nurse. "Oh," was the reply, "there is an old lady over there that used to be a nurse." They took me to the house where the lady lived, and I was excited. But when the lady came to the door, just one look told me it was not her. We showed her the picture and she squinted her eyes, then a smile came over her face, and she said "Ngeo." "Yes!" I said, "that's her."

The old lady was named "Flei," and she had worked for the legendary doctor, Pat Smith. I first met Pat in '63, and I cannot begin to describe this wonderful lady in a few words. Books could be written about her. I have been known to overdraw medical supplies just so I could pass them on to Pat. She hung in as long as she could, often working when she was sicker that the patients she was trying to help. The Vietcong finally raided her hospital and took a couple of her nurses away, never to be seen again. I do not remember what year it was when she finally pulled the plug, but even today the Banar are in awe of this lady. She is currently living in Washington State.

Flei dropped what she was doing and got in our car, directing us to the next village where "Liz" lived. We stopped and approached the house, and were met by a young lady holding a baby. She looked exactly like Liz did forty years ago, and I knew that she had to be her daughter. Liz was working in the fields, so the daughter went to get her. I was excited, but not prepared for what I was about to witness.

I recognized her the moment I saw her, but she did not know me. I had gained a lot of weight since she last saw me. She was thin, dirty from working in the fields, and threadbare. Seeing her like this brought tears to my eyes. She had been one of the most wonderful people that I had ever known. She was smart, hard working, loyal and fearless, and I loved her like a daughter.

An American in a Montagnard village was something you don't see very often these days, so naturally we drew a crowd. Within five minutes or so, we had also attracted the Secret Police. They "asked" Liz and me to come down to the police station. We complied and were hauled in before the main man. He began with me, asking why I was visiting Liz and what she was to me. I told him in no uncertain terms that she was my friend and had been so for the past forty years. He then turned to Liz and asked her the same question. She looked him in the eye, and pointed to me, and said, "He's my bac si." Bac si is the Vietnamese word for doctor, and although the SF medics were not doctors, the "Yards" always called us bac si. After writing my name and passport number in his book, we were told that we could go, and could visit while I was in town. Is communism great, or what?

I invited Liz and her family to dinner that evening and they all showed up except her daughter, who had to stay at home and nurse a sick baby. The food was good, and everyone had fun. I was able to talk with Liz in private, and she told me that life had been very hard for her. She had six children, and about ten years ago, her husband sold everything they had and ran off with another woman. She was forced to move in with her oldest son and his family and work as a field hand for sixty-five cents per day. She told me that she often went hungry because she could not afford to buy food. I slipped her some money in private and told her that, when I got back home, I would try to come up with a plan to improve her life. This brought a smile to her face. She thanked me for remembering her for all these years.

I said my goodbye to Liz the next morning and, after a couple of sips of rice wine that the Montagnards are famous for, we departed on our cross-country trip northeast to the coastal city of Quang Ngai, where I had dropped off the little girl in '62.

This leg of the trip was the most enjoyable so far. We were traveling over a new road that had only been open for three years. It was steep, and there were still patches of jungle they had not yet stripped. I was told there was a road leading off from this one going into Mang Buk, the place where I had rescued the little girl in '62. This bit of information was correct; there was a road to Mang Buk, but as luck would have it, it was washed out, so I was only able to get within fifteen miles of the place.

Quang Ngai, like every other small town from before, was now a major city, and the small hospital where I had dropped the child off was now a big hospital. We made our best effort the following morning to find someone that had some knowledge of events from forty years aback, but to no avail. We did, however, meet some very nice people in our search.

We departed that afternoon down the coast toward Bong Son. I was there in 1965, and had some very vivid memories of the place. Again, Bong Son-proper had turned into a big town, and I was unable to find our old A-team site. I was able to locate the hill south of town at Phu Ku pass, where our Company 883 (RFPF) stood their ground and fought to the last man against a North Vietnamese regiment. I stopped there to reflect, and rendered a salute to those brave men that died that day - to all the brave men - whether they be from the South or the North or my fellow team members that made the ultimate sacrifice.

We continued south, headed to Nha Trang. The 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne) had been located in Nha Trang during the war, which was always, in my mind, the most beautiful place in Vietnam. The beaches and the offshore islands are without equal. It still remains the most beautiful place in country, although more commercial than before.

While in Nha Trang, I hooked up with a friend of mine, Mr. James U. By, a Montagnard by birth and now a U.S. Citizen, who happened to be visiting the country. James showed us a good time. He knew where all the restaurants were, and for two days we lived large. But I was ready to head back to Saigon.

We booked passage on an air-conditioned bus for the trip back to Saigon and, after eleven hours on the road, I was back in my hotel. I still had another week to go on my vacation, but the following morning I was down at the airline office having my ticket re-written.

When asked why I was going home early, my obvious answer was, "I miss my wife and dog." But that is not all that I missed. I missed all my friends who were there with me before. All of them young men, living for the moment and loving it. Too many of them didn't make it home and I still see them in my mind's eye; they are still young, and still smiling.

As for the "lucky ones" such as myself who are left to face the indignities of old age, we get together as often as we can and talk about the past, and past operations. Not combat operations, but surgical. There is talk of heart bypasses, removed colons, prostates, and various other organs and body parts. On doctors' orders, most of these old hard-charging, two-fisted drinkers have slowed the pace down. Some, if not most, are sipping diet Pepsi now. But if they have a problem in this world, they would never tell you about it. They still laugh, have fun, and tell the same old stories, some which have gotten better over the years. However, they still have the same old go-to-hell attitude, and are still living for the moment.

IF YOU GO

If you are a Veteran and feel the need to go back, as I did, then do it. You are not getting any younger. You will be received warmly by the Vietnamese. Remember though, that things have changed. It will not be as you remembered it. As for the Central Highlands, unless you are looking for someone from the past, there is no reason to go there.

If you are an adventurous traveler and like the unbeaten trail, then grab a backpack and go. Just remember, Vietnam is a poor country and, once you leave Saigon, you will not find the amenities that you are accustomed to.

If you are just looking for some place to loll on the beach and soak up some rays, there is always Mexico. It is closer.