Vietnam Photo Gallery | Rock 'N' Roll Soldier

My Tent

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 14:20:38 -0400

"Got a package for you, Kohler," the mail clerk said. He handed over a large box wrapped in brown paper. It was from Mom.

I opened it up right there. It was loaded with all sorts of goodies. A couple of jars of Tang; small boxes of Rice Krispies and Frosted Flakes, the single-serve kind; cans of my favorite mac and cheese and beef stew; a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies; a big jar of Ovaltine. At the bottom was a stack of music magazines, Hit Parader, Tiger Beat, Song Hits.

There was a card. I took my time opening it. Mail had been slow getting here; I'd only gotten two other letters – one from Mom and one from my cousin Cecil – and we'd been here almost a month. I wanted to savor it.

Dear Dean,

I hope this makes it to you in time for your birthday. We watch the TV news every night, hoping that you are safe.

The magazines are from Mary. She says to tell you that your car is fine.

I ran into Judy at the drugstore the other day. I gave her your address so she could write you. I hope that was the right thing to do.

We miss you terribly and can't wait until you come home so we can all celebrate your 21^st birthday together.

Love, Mom

I re-read the card a few more times, then carefully put it back in the box and carried the whole thing to Three Squad's tent. I slid the box under my cot, behind my duffel. For a second I thought I was going to cry.

"Hey, Kohler!" Dersheimer poked his head into the tent. He had his ski disc in his hand. "I don't have patrol till tonight. Com on man, let's take it to the beach. I gotta try this thing out."

I had the whole day off. Why not? Sure beat sitting around Dodge City feeling sorry for myself.

We grabbed some passes from Sgt. Hall and got a lift from one of the guys working motor pool.

The beach. Vietnam's best kept secret. For the most part, wish-you-were-here strands of golden sand and shimmering blue water, fishermen's sampans nodding and dipping in the distance. For the other part, glad-you're-not stretches of dead fish and garbage. We steered clear of "Sh-t Beach" and got dropped off at the harbor.

I hung around on the pier, and damned if the Navy guys didn't pull Dersheimer around on that thing with one of their swift boats. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it.

Then they went grenade fishing. Toss a concussion grenade in the water and the fish come right up to the top.

A brutal sport for a brutal place...

Heading Home

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 13:41:18 -0400

December 15, 1967.

I boarded a C-130 at the airbase in Quin Nhon, along with Sanino from Supply and McDaniels. It was a quick hop over to Cam Ranh Bay, where we'd catch a commercial airliner for the flight home.

Home. It still hadn’t sunk in yet.

They fed us lunch at Cam Ranh Bay. We walked into the mess hall, decorated with streamers and colored Christmas lights, and the first thing we noticed was half-gallons of fresh milk in the center of each table. Real milk. We hadn’t seen it in a year. I picked up a carton to see where it was packaged. Hawaii. The States.

Roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas, chocolate cake with ice cream. Paperwork. Sign here. Sign there.

And then boarding time.

I looked out the window. The mountains loomed gray in the distance, their dark secrets hidden behind a veil of silver mist. Missing limbs, pools of blood, gaping holes. Secrets that I locked away in my head, that I folded and buried deep in my heart.

The engines revved and the plane taxied down the steel runway.

A cheer went up as we broke through the mist. I couldn't speak. The mountains receded until they were mere bumps on a carpet of green and gray.

We refueled at an Air Force base in Japan, then it was a straight shot to Seattle. Early on December 16, we landed at Fort Lewis, Washington.

The United States of America.

I closed my eyes and inhaled. Held the breath deep inside of me. Let it out...

An Khe Pass

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 11:41:55 -0400

The mountains swallowed us and we kept climbing. And climbing. The road was steep and narrow, the going slow. The machine-gunners in front and in back of us kept their sights trained on the treelines above.

I wondered what a rocket attack felt like, how a mine blast sounded. Would it hurt? Would I see it? Would I know?

How does it feel to die?

Finally, we reached the summit.

“Mang Yang Pass,” Dirks said. “’Ambush Alley.’ See over there?” He pointed to a mountainside to the north. Impossibly green grass rippled across its face. But there was something else. White dots. Hundreds of them. In rows. Like a giant game of checkers.

“What are those?” I asked.

“Graves. French. The Viets kicked the living crap out of the French up here in the ‘50s, First Indochina War. French buried their KIAs right over there, upright and facing west.”

“Damn French, always dramatic,” Sugden said, huddled into himself.

I fought off a shiver and hugged my rifle more tightly.

Then we were rolling downhill, past dust-caked carcasses of burned out vehicles – trucks, jeeps, a tank. Metal skeletons scattered across barren cliffs, full of holes. The land was desolate, pocked and cratered. Shadows settled into the hollows.

It was like driving through a nightmare.

“Man, they don’t mess around up here,” Jessen said, then fell silent like the rest of us.

Thank you, Captain, for weapons.

We heard something from behind...

The Highway

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 11:23:10 -0400

A chunk of an Army truck, a deuce-and-a-half, just like ours, sat on the side of the road. It was the rear axle, plus the bed, or what was left of it anyway. Charred, with rust the color of blood, it looked like a wounded animal, some sort of weird sacrifice. Scraps of tire tread were scattered nearby.

“Not cool,” Jessen mumbled as we rolled on.

My mouth was dry. I took a swig of Kool-Aid from my canteen. It didn't help.

I was scared, but I didn't want to think about it.

“Hold tight,” Dirks said after another mile. “Here comes the Hairpin.”

We leaned into each other as Dirks rounded the snug U, narrow enough for only a single vehicle.

“What the hell?” Sergeant. locked up the brakes.

In front of our vehicle, a pillar of four armored jeeps rocketed straight for us, their M60 machine guns manned, windshields glinting. We could just make out the white stars on the doors – friendlies, Army.

"I hope they see us," I blurted. They didn't seem to be slowing. "There's nowhere for us to move but down."

"A long way down," Ioli added.

At the very last moment, the jeeps skidded to a stop in front of us, their tires smoking.

Dirks jumped out and dashed over to the lead jeep. He exchanged a few words with the driver, then climbed back in wearing a smile. “Relax, gentlemen, our escort has arrived.”

“Escort?" Ioli asked. "Like a convoy?"

Dirks nodded as he checked and re-checked his rifle. “Seems things have been jumpin’ up here the last few days. He says it’s been quiet so far today. They’re Roadrunners, B Company, 504^th MP Battalion. Highway patrol. He said they swept the road for mines first thing this morning, but they want to bring us into Pleiku, just in case.”

"Mines?" I didn't know why I was surprised. Hadn't we heard over and over what to expect? But talk was one thing. Being there was different.

“Escort sounds good to me.” Sugden slouched lower under the canopy.

The Roadrunners backed up a bit and let us through.

We fell in, two jeeps in front, two behind.

TDY

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 10:32:03 -0400

Sugden sat cross-legged on his bass amp and lit up a cigarette. "First time one of our gigs has ever been Army-authorized."

"First time for a chaperone, too," I said. I leaned my guitar case on my amp. "Sergeant Dirks is cool, though. He's been around."

Jessen set the organ in its case next to us. "Dean, you got those TDY papers?"

"Right here." I tapped the envelope in my shirt pocket.

Sugden flicked an ash. "Let me see."

I tossed him the envelope. He unfolded the papers and read. "From Headquarters, 93^rd Military Police Battalion, San Francisco. Temporary duty to Pleiku, Republic of Vietnam and return to Qui Nhon, Republic of Vietnam. Period of approximately 2 days. Purpose: Official duty."

Ioli did a little dance, his arms in the air. "Official duty. That's right. Rockin' in the jungle."

"Special instructions: Travel by government vehicle authorized."

"Finally," I grumbled, kneeling to check the microphone box.

"Authorized to carry weapons."

Everyone went quiet.

These weren't Leadbetter's rules.

It became crystal-clear. This definitely wasn't an Army doctor's party or a gig at the officers' club. This was serious. Officially serious.

Ioli let out a low whistle. "Guess even HQ in San Fran knows what's going on."

We continued loading the equipment out of the barracks in silence.

When we were almost done, Dirks and Leadbetter walked up.

“Men, there’s been a change of plans,” Captain said, returning our sweaty salutes.

“Sir?” I asked.

He pulled off his sunglasses and squinted at us. “No helos today. Charlie’s got air support all tied up. Seems it's a busy day in the jungle.”

“We're going some other time then?" I asked.

"Better start moving this stuff back in.” Sugden grabbed an amp.

Leadbetter put a hand on his shoulder. “Hold up there, soldier. You men have got to go today. TDY orders have been issued. They’re official, we can’t change them. Plus, I promised Captain Needham that you’d come play for his men. And I’m nothing if not a man of my word. "

The band exchanged uneasy glances as Captain went on.

“You won't be flying to Pleiku this afternoon. You'll be driving."

My stomach dropped...

Lynda

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 07:20:10 -0400

... I was still curious, though. And I knew I'd never live it down back at the barracks if I didn't at least meet this Lynda. She was probably some old, fat madame with warts and facial hair.

"I'm here to see Lynda," I told the waitress. "She asked me to come. I'm in a band."

I saw a spark of recognition in her eyes – she must've been at the MACV gig too. She scampered to the back.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Coke.

Soon Lynda came out. She wasn't old or fat. She was gorgeous. Blue-black hair down her back, a heavy fringe of bangs over inky almond eyes.

Lynda sat on the stool next to me and crossed her legs, the slit of her skirt revealing slender calf to thigh. I noticed her fishnet hose had a hole at one knee and the heels of her snakeskin stilettos were worn. She held a long cigarette between her slim fingers, the nails ragged red at the tips. I couldn't take my eyes from her. She looked mysterious. Dangerous. I wanted to touch her.

Trust no one. Isn't that what Wash had said?

"I am glad that you came," she said, and I felt like I was falling downhill, not able to stop. "I enjoyed your band very much at MACV. I was sad that I had to leave early to get back to the business here. That's why I sent one of the girls with the note. I hope that wasn't too forward?"

My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t believe it. She'd liked our gig, she was beautiful, she spoke excellent English, not the fractured pidgin of most locals. This wasn't what I'd expected at all.

Say something, Kohler.

"Forward? Oh, no, it was fine."

"How old are you – um – " She laughed. Not a coy bar-girl giggle. A woman's laugh. It sounded like a song. "I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."

"I'm Dean."

"Dean," she repeated slowly.

"I'm twenty," I said.

She tilted her head and gave me a teasing smile. "Oh, an older man."

I laughed. It sounded nervous. "Why? How old are you?"

"Nineteen," she said, soft and low...

Band Bookings

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:58:41 -0400

I kept track of our gigs in this notebook.

MACV Audition

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 06:35:45 -0400

I felt a nervous twinge in my stomach.

"Are we in the right place, man?" Sugden asked in a low voice as he pulled his bass from its case and started to tune up.

I locked my microphone onto its bamboo stand. "I think so."

I hope so. I looked around for Lieutenant Steinmetz.

Soon, other officers arrived, the higher ranks. They were escorting Vietnamese women all dressed up like they were going to a fancy nightclub – high heels, sequins, lots of eyeliner and red lipstick. They headed to the banquet table. Chairs scraped as the officers pulled them out for the women.

"Looks like they're expecting a really big show," Ioli said from behind the drums, his voice sounding unsure.

"Yeah, don't they know we're just a rock band?" Jessen asked. He was pacing behind the organ, his hair damp with sweat already. Rings of perspiration were forming under his arms.

I was starting to worry the Electrical Banana might not be up for this after all. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe we needed more practice. Maybe this was going to be another fiasco.

Where the hell is Steinmetz?

"Come on, guys, they want a big show," I said, trying to sound positive, "then let's give 'em one. We rock, remember?"

The guys exchanged uneasy glances. This wasn't looking too good.

I scanned the rapidly filling hall. Still no sign of Steinmetz.

"I need a beer," Sugden said, leaning his bass against the wall. He jumped offstage.

"Me too," Ioli said.

"Me three," parroted Jessen. He and Mike followed Jon like ducklings over to the bartender.

Great. Our first big concert date, and my band's at the bar.

The twinge turned to full-fledged butterflies as I checked and re-checked all the cord connections to the amps. The fluttering in my stomach reminded me of the first real gig of my life, with the Mustangs, at the opening of the neighborhood Little League baseball season. They'd set us up on two sheets of plywood out on the field, let us play three songs. I never forgot how it felt that first time. Climbing onto that makeshift stage to show the audience what you're made of. Scared as hell, hoping your shaking fingers will cooperate. Part nerves, part excitement – pure adrenaline. Like now...

Playing for the 127th

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 18:17:21 -0400

"Woo-wee, baby, we smoked 'em!" Ioli shouted as we wrapped up our third hour. He stood to stretch and he and Sugden exchanged high-fives.

"Rocked and rolled, buddy, rocked and rolled," Jessen said, coming out from behind the organ, grabbing Ioli by the neck and giving him a playful noogie.

Sugden put down his bass and sparked up a cigarette. "So, what'd you think, Dean?" he exhaled.

I shrugged. I didn't want to spoil anybody's post-concert high. "Yeah, it was good."

Ioli trotted over. "What, you don't think it was good? It was freakin' good! You don't think it was good? I'm telling you, it was good!"

"Yeah, I know, I know, it was good, okay?" I said, returning my guitar to its case. I slammed the case shut. Geez, enough. "Didn't I just say it was good?"

Jessen grabbed a beer from behind the Farfisa. "Well, you're acting like you think it sucked."

I took a deep breath and held it. Let it out. I unplugged my amp.

"It's just not the reaction I expected," I finally said, winding the cord.

"What? They dug it!" Ioli said. "Didn't you hear them clapping and yelling?"

I didn't say anything as I started breaking down my microphone.

"Oh, I get it," Jessen said. "You wanted them dancing on the tables, like back at Bragg."

"Swinging from the rafters," Sugden added. "Right?"

I didn't know what I wanted. Just something… more. What was wrong with these guys? Where was everybody? Didn't these ungrateful assholes get what had been done for them? We chased down all the equipment, invested our own money, practiced all these weeks. For what? To be the background noise at the enlisted men's club?

I didn't care if we ever played for the company again.

I grabbed my gear and turned for the door.

"Yeah. Something like that."

• • •

Ioli was walking back from the motor pool, hot and sweaty after checking in his patrol jeep. He was excited.

"I just talked to a guy who said there's a lieutenant over at MACV who handles the entertainment for all the Army clubs in the area," he said as he pulled off his helmet. "He said that this guy could probably book us into some clubs."

"Play other clubs?" I said. "For other companies?"

That was something I'd never even thought about. We weren't even sure the Banana was authorized to perform for Dodge City's troops, let alone any others. Yeah, Leadbetter was making it work. But I was pretty certain the Army Code of Conduct never said anything about rock bands.

And judging from the company's reaction to our first gig, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to play for military guys again.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder if maybe it would be different somewhere else… with a different audience…

I shook my head. "I don't know, man." We headed to the mess hall.

But I just couldn't let the idea go...

Band Practice

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 17:06:01 -0400

After a few minutes of limbering up, all faces turned to me.

Band practice. In Vietnam.

For a split-second, I felt like I was going to cry. Then the bandleader in me took charge.

“All right, let’s go!” I called out. “’Last Train To Clarksville'.”

Sugden and Ioli nodded, positioned themselves, waited for my cue.

Jessen’s eyes looked like question marks.

“The Monkees?” I prodded.

Jessen’s cheeks were flushed, his face blank. He shook his head. “Don’t know it.”

I wondered again if Jessen really knew how to play. I stifled a sigh.

“It’s easy,” I said. “Starts in G7, moves to C, back to G7. C again, then D. Then back to G7.”

Jessen looked bewildered.

Now I was sure he didn’t know how to play. Sugden looked down, pretending to tune his bass. Ioli fiddled with his snare. Leach shoved his hands in his pockets.

After a few moments, Jessen spoke. “You mean there are only three chords in the song?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Only three chords?” He scratched his head.

“Yes.”

I’d never had to kick anyone out of a band before the first practice.

Jessen gave me a long, empty stare. He blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”

I tried to hide my irritation. “No, let me show you,” I said, strumming a G7 as I walked over to the organ. I demonstrated the chord changes.

Jessen smiled when I was through.

“Man,” he said, sounding hugely relieved. “I’m used to having thirteen or fourteen chords in the first four measures. All right, let’s play!”

So I counted it off.

I knew I'd never have to worry about Jessen’s musicianship again...

My Calendar

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 16:49:59 -0400

It was a rare evening. So far, no ambushes. Just the nightly fireworks show, courtesy of tracers from Viet Cong gunfire high above our tents.

“You joking?” Sugden laughed, almost dropping the flashlight he was using to read in his rack.

“Hey, pipe down, we’re trying to get some shut-eye here!” somebody yelled out.

“Captain’s for real,” I whispered, trying to get comfortable in my cot, the sheets damp as always. “He wants us to play again, like back at Bragg. Only here.”

"Who?" Sugden whispered back. "You and Ioli and Voina?"

"I guess." I thought for a moment. "Ioli can handle it, I think."

"You could ask him in the morning. He's got the four to midnight tonight. What about Voina?"

"I don't know, man. I want to play stuff that's on the radio, new stuff. He likes the old stuff." I waved away a cloud of giant mosquitoes. "Besides, if I’m on guitar and Ioli's on drums, what we'd really need is a bass player. So what do you think," I whispered. "You up for it?"

"What? Hell, yeah!" he said.

"Hey, shut it up over there!" somebody else yelled.

Sugden lowered his voice. "But where the hell are we going to find instruments in this dump? Black market?”

“No idea,” I said, reaching for my pocket calendar and pen on the footlocker next to my cot. I squinted in the dark and crossed out another day. “I just told Captain I’d do it.”

“Even if we could find some, how we gonna pay for them? We ain’t got that kind of cash.” Sugden pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t know,” I said, using the point of my pen to silently count off my time left. Three hundred and six days to go.

“Sleep on it,” he grunted, snapping off the flashlight. He rolled over. Soon he was snoring.

The rumble of distant artillery rattled my cot. I didn't think I'd ever get used to it...

Guitars

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 09:06:40 -0400

Jon Sugden (left) and me with our papasan instruments.

Happy Birthday, January 25, 1967

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 09:04:41 -0400

The tent flap opened and one of the mess cooks walked in. He was carrying a cake, four layers, with white frosting and coconut on top.

"Happy birthday, man," he said and handed me the cake. "Captain says enjoy your day off." He flashed me a peace sign and left.

My birthday. I'd forgotten all about it. The two and a half weeks since we'd arrived had flown by. In addition to our patrols and guard duty, Captain Leadbetter had us doing work details around the camp. It seemed like he was intent on turning Dodge City into our own little mountainview resort.

First, there was electricity. One day a huge generator arrived on the back of a truck at the rear gate. Word was Captain had "appropriated" it somehow, since the army hadn't provided us one, and didn't intend to either. Then there was the shower. Somehow, somewhere, Leadbetter'd requisitioned a pump, which he had us submerge in an old well we found on the company grounds.

Captain had us replacing all the tents in the compound with wooden structures we built ourselves, too. These weren't any bogus half-baked hooches, either. These were the real deal, with cement footings and everything. And, man, we loved Leadbetter for it. We couldn't wait to get out of our dripping-wet tents, guys on top of one another in the mud, clammy uniforms, the soggy sheets.

I didn't mind all the work. I liked keeping busy. It kept my mind off other stuff. Like what I was missing back in "the world."

Like what was going on here...

The First Latrine

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 09:03:25 -0400

I followed Sugden down the pallet sidewalk.

"Looks like I missed all the fun," I said, pointing to the mess tent.

"That's not all," Sugden said, stopping between two GP Mediums. He pointed at thirty military jeeps parked in the mud. "New motor pool. Town patrols start tomorrow. They're teaming us with the outgoing MPs."

Terrific. My first interaction with the locals hadn't gone so well. What would town patrol bring? "Can't wait," I muttered. My mouth felt dry.

"Yeah, me too," Sugden said. "Guess it beats filling sandbags, though." We started walking again.

Sugden pointed beyond the mess tent. "Look over there." I could see a pair of large metal shipping containers, the kind that fit onto the back of a semi truck. "Our new ammo and supply sheds."

Definitely a surprise. But a good one. Back at Gordon and Bragg, the simplest things – getting new uniforms, requisitioning equipment – took forever. "Already?" I said. "This an army camp?"

As we neared the end of the pallets, I could see a couple of crude structures. To the left was a simple lean-to made of two-by-fours and a plastic tarp, with a plywood bench inside. Holes – butt-sized holes – were sawn into the plywood. Metal oil drums cut in half sat under the holes.

"I give you... the latrine," Sugden said, waving his hand with a mock flourish.

"Nice," I snickered. "Phew! Smells like it's been broken in already. Or is that the mud?"

Sugden fanned the air in front of his nose and turned toward the other structure. Sheets of plywood were fastened together into a screen. Corrugated metal tubing hung over it. My eyes followed the tubing back about fifty yards to a hillside, where I could just make out what looked like a small stream.

"And, behold... the shower," Sugden said. He reached over and opened a valve in the tubing. Brownish water trickled from a handful of perforations in the tin.

I chuckled. Back at training, we'd spent days, even weeks, out in the field with only water from our canteens to wet our faces and rinse our mouths. Now we were stuck in a stinking mud flat in the middle of Southeast Asia, but we had a shower stall with running water – such as it was. Pretty darn hilarious. And ingenious.

It felt good to laugh.

"Who came up with this idea?" I asked.

"Captain."

I shook my head and grinned. "Should've known."

We heard bootsteps behind us.

"Privates First Class Kohler and Sugden! Hate to bust up the coffee klatch, ladies, but there's work to do." Sergeant Hall, our platoon leader and the company's top sergeant, dropped a stack of empty burlap sacks at my feet. "Get shoveling."

Welcome to Dodge City

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 09:01:41 -0400

Christmas Concert, USS Upshur, 1966

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 09:00:26 -0400

Christmas Concert, USS Upshur, 1966

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 08:57:51 -0400

The guys ate it up, crowding in around us, shinnying up the cranes for a better view, hooting and hollering as best they could shoehorned in like sardines. Felt like back home, the Satellites packing the teen clubs in Portsmouth, Virginia, my hometown. My Uncle Roy, the Satellites’ manager, he’d have been proud. Just like Captain was that Christmas Day. For a few hours, at least, we didn’t think about what was waiting for us in Nam.

Well, except for one kid. He definitely thought about it. Too much. Zapped his mind, a real basket case, and sent him overboard – again and again. He’d jump, they’d fish him out. We had to make an unscheduled stop in Okinawa just to get rid of the guy. That’s when we knew we were getting close...

USS Upshur, December 1966

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 08:56:03 -0400

We shipped out from Oakland, California. It took a month to cross the Pacific. To kill time and tension, I taught Jon Sugden, my buddy from Fort Gordon, how to play bass on a pair of guitars we borrowed from the ship's chaplain, a former musician. Sug's not in this photo, but you'll see him in some others.

Farewell Party, December 1966

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 08:54:52 -0400

That's me on guitar, left, Ioli on drums, and Voina on the other guitar, right.

Basic Training, March 1966

Sun, 07 Jun 2009 08:53:32 -0400

Dodge City, January 1967

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 21:29:05 -0400

"You can be proud of yourselves, men."

We sat shoulder to shoulder on the pallet sidewalk that ran the length of our tent row. If Charlie was watching, he was probably laughing his butt off; we were a filthy, stinking, mud-encrusted bunch chowing on cold C-rations – packaged nourishment that vaguely resembled food – in the darkening mist, empty weapons at our sides. And at that point, I couldn't have cared less. i was so tired, my bones ached. I was too bushed to be scared. Looking around, I guessed the others were feeling about the same way.

Except the captain, pacing among us as we ate. I wondered if he ever shut off.

"Tents are up and fortified, the perimeter secure. You followed orders and did what was asked of you. In a single afternoon, you built a camp from nothing, from no-man's-land, from a bulldozed surarcane field. As you know, the 127th is a brand-new military police company, created for this very situation. You're pioneers, men. Mavericks. You are a credit to the army and your country. And in your honor I hereby christen this camp Dodge City."

I sure didn't feel like a cowboy.

This photo was taken our first week in Vietnam. It was going to be a long year...

The Satellites

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 20:32:44 -0400

Roy was good at making things happen. Like the Satellites' record deal.

Roy liked our songs from the recording studio so much that he took the acetate, our demo record, up to New York City. Just walked in the door at Capitol Records like he was some hotshot manager, told the folks there that he had a record they needed to hear.

Roy was relentless. Mom could tell you. He was her baby brother, but he was like an older brother to me; we were only twelve years apart. Roy was the type of guy that you know isn't going to go away, so you go ahead and listen to him just to get him out of there. And that's exactly what happened at Capitol. He got a "thanks, but no thanks" and was politely shown the door.

But Roy was no quitter. He got on the elevator with a lady from Tower Records, a subsidiary of Capitol. By the time the doors opened again, he'd locked up the Satellites' record deal.

I still couldn't believe it. Somebody thought my music was good. Good enough to put on a record for the whole world to hear.

Definitely not Dad. I wished he could be more like Roy. Wished he knew what it felt like to be up on a stage, making a groove, sharing your music. But Dad just didn't get it.

So Roy came home from new York with the record deal.

I showed him the draft notice. It had come just four weeks after my nineteenth birthday. The Satellites' golden opportunity, gone in an instant...

Bridge, Qui Nhon

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 17:56:53 -0400

"Bridge Nine's hit! Grab your gear! Move! Move! Move!"

I jumped from my cot, rubbing my eyes. The lights were on and Elmgreen was screaming through the tent.

I yanked on clammy fatigues and boots. Gabbed my helmet, rifle, and flak jacket and hurried into the drizzle with the rest. Three Squad piled into a three-quarter-ton truck and hurtled through the misty blackness to what was left of the bridge.

We were learning that the nights belonged to the Cong.

The rubble smoldered, orange in the wet. Smoke stung my eyes and burned my nose. I thought of Wash. He'd told us Charlie loved the bridges.

"Move out and drop!" Elmgreen yelled. "Go! Go! Go!"

We crouched in the paddies, sunk to our waists in the stinking mud, guns out of the water. Everything was wet, everything was black. Suddenly we heard popping noises. I could see muzzle flashes in the dark, on the far side of where the bridge used to be. We all dove into the slime and my heart felt like it was thumping all over my chest.

"Open fire! Open goddamn fire!" Elmgreen screamed.

M14s erupted around me, their deafening chatter rattling my skull...

Captain Richard A. Leadbetter

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 13:06:34 -0400

I was sitting on my cot, tipping my boots upside down, giving them a few good whacks. Spiders, as usual. Huge, hairy, ugly. They tumbled to the wood-pallet floor and scuttled off like overweight crabs. One month in-country and I still wasn't used to the monster bugs here, like mutant insects from another planet.

"Private Kohler, just the man I'm looking for."

Leadbetter. He grinned and gave me a friendly thump on the back.

"Captain?" I said, standing up and saluting.

"Instruments," he said, returning my salute. He fished his pipe and lighter from his pocket. "We gotta find you guys some intruments."

Instruments? He can't be for real.

"You serious, sir?" I asked him.

"Damn straight, Private," he said, snapping his Zippo shut, a halo of vanilla smoke rising to the tent top. "The new barracks are going in. We got the mess up. The Longbranch Saloon is finished. What we need now is some music. What the hell's a bar without a band? A bar's got to have a band."

"Yes, sir. Entertainment. Good idea."

Leadbetter wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his thick neck. "I don't care how you do it or how long it takes. Can I count on you to make it happen, Kohler?"

A rock band? In Nam? Not damn likely.

"Of course, sir," I told him. "You can count on me."