This is primarily a travel blog in which I write about traveling in our motorhome. Our travels have

Nacogdoches, TX, United States
I began this blog as a vehicle for reporting on a 47-day trip made by my wife and me in our motorhome down to the Yucatan Peninsula and back. I continued writing about our post-Yucatan travels and gradually began including non-travel related topics. I often rant about things that piss me off, such as gun violence, fracking, healthcare, education, and anything else that pushes my button. I have a photography gallery on my Smugmug site (http://rbmartiniv.smugmug.com).

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Uncle Sam Ain't Released Me Yet...Memoirs of a REMF, Chapter 21, The Oakland Repo Depot





Uncle Sam
Ain’t Released Me Yet

Memoirs of a REMF



Copyright© 2016 by Robert B. Martin, IV
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. I have attempted to recreate events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them.


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Chapter 21
The Oakland Repo Depot
“We are not about to send American boys nine or ten thousand miles away from home to do what Asian boys ought to be doing themselves.”...............Lyndon Baines Johnson
On July 23, 1969 I was on a non-stop flight from Atlanta, GA to San Francisco, CA and the Oakland “Repo Depot” (Army Replacement Depot). A song was stuck in my head (not uncommon for me) and it was all I could hear for most of the flight. The song was, “If You’re Going to San Francisco” (be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair) by Scott McKenzie. He sang about the summer of love and San Francisco where it all began. It was summertime all right and I was going to San Francisco, but I damn sure wasn’t going to a love-in.
My orders included a phone number to call upon arrival in San Francisco to arrange transportation from the airport to the Repo Depot. The deadline for reporting was midnight on July 23. I was in no hurry to get there before midnight and stretched my freedom out as long as I could. I dialed the number around 2330 hours (11:30 PM) to request my transportation and was told something to the effect, “Well, you just did make it on time.” I couldn’t help but think, “What could they do to me if I was late, send me to Vietnam?” My ride soon arrived and I was delivered to the Repo Depo where I began standing in the usual “in-processing” lines. This lasted from about midnight to breakfast. I had been without sleep for 24 hours by this time and was beginning to tire. I hoped that breakfast might help me recoup some of my lost energy.
I was standing in the breakfast chow line and quietly minding my own business when a sergeant walked by, tapped my shoulder, and said, “Follow Me.” He had pulled me and several other guys out of line for a “special detail.” I was fed a quick breakfast in the kitchen before riding around all morning in the back of a laundry truck picking up bags of dirty linen and delivering them to the laundry in the basement of the Army’s Letterman General Hospital in San Francisco. The University of Georgia’s pharmacy school had not prepared me for this side of healthcare.
 At some point (I don’t remember exactly when), during my brief stay at the Repo Depot I was issued new clothing to better suit the climate and environment of Vietnam. The dorky-looking ball cap was the same I had worn in AIT but the jungle fatigues were quite different. The olive green cloth of the jungle fatigues was a much lighter cotton poplin, which would be cooler and dry faster than our old fatigues. There were large pockets in both the “jungle jacket” (shirt) and the “jungle trousers.” The jacket was allowed to hang outside of the pants instead of being tucked into the pants, as required with our other fatigues. This uniform would be cooler and allow for greater and easier range of motion. Also, unlike the old fatigue shirt, the sleeves on the jungle jacket were rolled up above the elbow.
Our black leather combat boots were traded-in for the much more comfortable and lighter “jungle boot.” The pant legs of the jungle trousers were “bloused” at the top of the boots. “Blousing Garters” secured the bottom of the pant leg to the top of the boot, causing the pant leg to “balloon” out around the boot top. The boots had black leather toes and heels with green nylon-duck sides and uppers. They also had drainage eyelets in the sides to allow the foot to breath and allow water to escape. In the sole of each boot was a thin steel plate to protect the foot from Punji Sticks. These were sharpened stakes of wood or bamboo that were placed upright in the ground, usually in a shallow pit, in hopes that an American soldier would impale a foot on one of the sticks. Human excrement was commonly smeared on the sticks to insure infection, should someone be unlucky enough to step on one of these stakes.
We were also issued olive green boxer shorts, olive green T-shirts, and olive green boot socks. For the less common cooler temperatures, which were mainly during the rainy monsoon season, we received an olive green field jacket made of nylon cotton sateen (per the label). The jacket had a hood for cold and/or wet weather.
After handling dirty laundry all morning, I returned to the Repo Depot and after lunch was assigned a bunk, into which I quickly collapsed. I was able to nap for no more than an hour when the PA system’s loudspeaker interrupted my sleep. It called everyone to the second of three mandatory daily formations. I dragged myself outside and stood in the formation as names were called out. These were the names of guys being sent to the POR (Processing for Overseas Replacement) barracks, putting them a step closer to Vietnam. These formations were akin to torture. Hundreds of guys were required to get up, go outside, and wait in a formation while names were called out over the PA system, which could easily be heard in the barracks. Why was it necessary for everyone to come out for a formation? Why didn’t they just announce the names and have those guys go outside for formation? I guess that would make too much sense. Remember, this was the U.S. Army. They enjoyed making everyone do things the hard way. My name was not included in the list and we were dismissed to march over to the mess hall for dinner.
It seemed like things were going from bad to worse as I was once again pulled from the chow line for another “special detail.” I tried to explain to the sergeant that it wasn’t fair, but the Army doesn’t like whining. I was marched over to the “Vietnam Returnee’s Steakhouse” and placed on all-night KP duty. I didn’t have to work in the kitchen, although my assigned duty was not exactly pleasant. All night long I waited tables and served steaks to planeloads of GI’s just returned from their tour in Vietnam. I was forced to listen to their stories, laughter, and jokes. They were probably the happiest people I have ever seen in my life. Their time in hell was over and mine had yet to begin. I was not ready for this morale-killing assignment and was in a dark mood throughout the night. I was released from KP duty after breakfast and made my way slowly back to my bunk without being singled out for any more “special assignments.” I had been awake for 48 hours by this time and had no trouble falling immediately to sleep.
I had been sleeping soundly for about an hour the morning after my all night KP duty at the “Returnee’s Steakhouse” when that damned PA system came to life. They must have read my earlier thoughts because this time there was no formation called. Instead they announced the names of the guys who were to report to the POR barracks. My name was one of those announced.
The POR barracks was a huge windowless warehouse filled with thousands of GIs. Once inside, the only way out was by boarding a bus for Travis Air Force base. Signs were posted cautioning that photography was not allowed inside the building. Bunks were stacked three high. Lights burned around the clock and the PA system continuously blared out names and assignments. Meals were boxes of C-Rations tossed from a passing cart. There was no way to tell day from night without a watch. We were quarantined from the world. On July 25, 1969, The “Nixon Doctrine,” advocating U.S. assistance to nations around the world fighting communism, was made public, but those of us in the POR barracks never heard about it.
The POR barracks was the last place for any “out-processing” to occur before being bussed to the airbase. This included a last minute check to make certain all of your records were in order, especially the shot record. Missing or incomplete shot records meant multiple injections would be administered in a very short time. I had clung tightly to my shot record, but I did observe at least two soldiers receive multiple injections in both arms because they had lost or forgotten their shot records. I’m sure they were sore and probably sick as hell shortly thereafter.
I finally managed to find a phone booth and make a quick call to Carol Ann. By then I was going on three days with almost no sleep and had reached the point of exhaustion, making it impossible for me to control my emotions. I broke down and cried in the phone booth as I related to Carol Ann what I was going through and how tired I was. I hadn’t slept more than an hour or two in the past three days and I was leaving for Vietnam with no idea how I was going to maintain my sanity. If I couldn’t hold myself together while still on U.S. soil how would I find the strength necessary to endure the coming year? I said a last goodbye to Carol Ann and reluctantly went back to my bunk and waited. There was nothing else I could do. It wasn’t long until my name was blaring from the loud speakers. I headed to the final checkpoint before boarding the bus.
On July 26, 1969, dressed in my newly issued, bright green, stiff jungle fatigues and jungle boots, I grabbed my duffel bag and was herded aboard a bus for transport to Travis Air Force Base. I remembered how faded and soft the fatigues of the GI’s in the Steakhouse had looked. I couldn’t wait until my shiny new fatigues were dingy and faded.
The latest Gallup poll reported that 53% of Americans approved of President Nixon’s new war strategy. I was going to his war and didn’t even know what the new (or old for that matter) strategy was.
Out on the highway it all began to sink in. I was really on my way to Vietnam and a real shooting war. My head swiveled almost continuously, letting my eyes drink in as much as possible through the bus windows. I would not see the USA again for twelve long months, if ever, and wanted to remember as much of everything as I could.
The bus took us right out on the tarmac and parked close to a chartered AIRLIFT INTERNATIONAL Boeing 707. We “dismounted” (Army talk for “unloaded”) the bus and boarded the Boeing 707. There were no first class or business class sections. The entire aircraft was configured as economy class and approximately 260 of us were packed in like cattle.
I was very surprised to discover real “stewardesses” (they were not yet liberated and thus were not called ‘flight attendants’) welcoming us aboard. For some of the men this would be their first time in an airplane and these stewardesses were the last American girls they would ever see.
We flew the Great Circle Route that took us first to Alaska and then Osaka, Japan for fuel stops before reaching Vietnam almost 9,000 miles and 20 hours later. There was very little sleep on the airplane. Everyone was both excited and frightened at the same time. Some men talked and laughed loudly as others attempted to concentrate on reading or playing cards. There was no alcohol served on board but there was plenty of food and beverages available during the flight.
We were not allowed to deplane the aircraft in Alaska, but we were allowed to get off and stretch our legs in Osaka while the aircraft was serviced. I don’t remember the time of day; only that it was a hot and humid night. I was surprised at the seeming lack of security or customs officials around the airport. I walked off of the tarmac, through the airport terminal, and right out the front door where I stood on the sidewalk and looked at the neon lights of the city. I could have just walked off into the darkness had I wanted.
After departing Osaka, we flew south, skirting Red China and North Vietnam. The closer we got to the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam), the quieter the cabin of the airliner became. You could tell there was a lot of thinking going on. I have often wondered how many men on that airplane made it home alive.
I pulled out a small notepad that I had brought with me and began to write. A GI sitting next to me asked what I was doing.
“Starting a journal to document my year in Vietnam.”
“You can’t do that! It’s against regulations.”
“Why?”
“Because if you are killed or captured the VC can use that for propaganda. They could call or write to those back home whose names you put in the journal. They could tell them a lot of bad stuff about you being a prisoner or how they killed you.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that” I said and put the notebook away. I never did keep a journal or diary in Vietnam. I wish I had been sitting next to someone else and had never heard what he said. It would have made writing this memoir much easier. But I was a “by the rules” kind of guy.
It was still dark, around 0300 or 0400 hours (3:00 or 4:00 AM) local time when the captain’s voice came over the intercom instructing us to turn off all cabin lights and lower our window shades. He turned off all of the airplane’s exterior running lights and explained that he would be making a steep spiraling descent in order to present less of a target to anyone on the ground. “Jeez,” I thought. “You mean there is a chance we could be shot down?” He wasn’t joking; the descent was very steep and the aircraft was banked in a tight spiral. It was like sliding down a giant corkscrew. It was obvious that he wanted to get the aircraft on the ground as quickly as possible. Against the captain’s orders, I raised the shade an inch or two and peaked out into the darkness. Off in the distance I could see red tracers arcing up into the night sky. I was going into an actual war zone for the first time in my life, which was both exhilarating and terrifying. We had arrived in the Republic of Vietnam and were landing at Bien Hoa Airbase on the outskirts of Saigon. I have since heard many Vietnam vets talk about how much fun they had in Saigon. For me, Bien Hoa was as close as I would ever get to the city.


Continued in Chapter 22, Good Morning, Vietnam!

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Uncle Sam Ain't Released Me Yet...Memoirs of a REMF, Chapter 20, Next Stop Vietnam


Uncle Sam
Ain’t Released Me Yet

Memoirs of a REMF



Copyright© 2016 by Robert B. Martin, IV
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal. I have attempted to recreate events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them.


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Chapter 20
Next Stop Vietnam
“Maybe I’m old school, but I always thought you honor a contract.”.....Brett Favre
Our orders for OCS arrived about four or five weeks before graduation from AIT. Almost two-thirds of the class received orders for Field Artillery OCS. The rest of us were divided between Combat Engineer OCS and Infantry OCS. I was in the group with orders to report to Fort Benning, Georgia, home of the Army Infantry School. I don’t know how the assignment process worked. All of us were “supposed” to go to Field Artillery OCS. I don’t believe the selections were based upon grades because I was not in the bottom third of the class. It’s just how the Army seemed to work back then.
In no time at all I was standing in line at the First Sergeant’s office to sign the papers declining Uncle Sam’s kind invitation to Infantry OCS. The First Sergeant explained that I did not have a contract as the recruiter had led me to believe. It seems the paperwork I signed when I enlisted merely indicated my preference for Field Artillery OCS (even though the form, of which I have a copy, was headed “Enlistment Contract”). Therefore, the Army had made me no promises, said the First Sergeant. I told the First Sergeant that there was no way I was going to Infantry OCS. He was very quick to inform me that I would be breaking MY promise to Uncle Sam and would therefore be sent to Vietnam as an enlisted man in the field artillery. That was OK with me. I really did not want to go as an Infantry Second Lieutenant, yelling “Follow me!” while being the first off and the last back on the helicopter in a “Hot LZ” (a Landing Zone under enemy fire). By remaining an enlisted man in the artillery I would be in a Tactical Operations Center (TOC) bunker somewhere in the rear listening to the Artillery Second Lieutenants calling for fire support on the radio. I would also be out of the Army in two years as opposed to the three that would be required if I were an officer. It would mean not going to the “O” Club, but, although disappointing, I could survive that slight.
As a consolation prize I was offered the opportunity to stay at Fort Sill a little longer and attend an NCO “shake and bake” school. Graduates of the six-month training program received the rank of SGT (Sergeant E-5). I declined the offer because it would prevent me from being home for my son’s birth in July.
As promised, my orders for Vietnam arrived just before graduation from AIT. I would get a thirty-day leave after graduation and then proceed to the Republic of South Vietnam via military transportation. I would not be transferred into the Medical Service Corps to serve as a pharmacist. Uncle Sam, as his representative explained to me once more, had spent thousands of dollars to train me as a 13E20 and by God that was what I was going to be.
I asked my AIT commanding officer if there was any way I could at least get the orders delayed until my baby was born. Carol Ann’s due date was about three weeks after I was scheduled to leave for Vietnam. “Sorry” he said, “See what the Red Cross can do.” Nothing, I found out. They were sympathetic yet helpless.
I began my thirty-day leave after graduation from AIT but it would be over and I would be in Vietnam before our baby’s due date unless I could somehow pull a rabbit out of the hat. The Army certainly wasn’t helping and the Red Cross couldn’t do anything. It was time to call in the big guns, the Senators from Georgia. Richard B. Russell and Herman Talmadge. I couldn’t pick up the phone and call them but mine and Carol Ann’s parents could. My dad had campaigned for Sen. Talmadge and was an honorary Colonel on Talmadge’s Gubernatorial staff before he became a U.S. Senator.
I don’t know the specifics but something did happen and it happened quickly after our parents contacted the senators. I received a phone call from an Army Lieutenant Colonel in the pentagon. He identified himself and confirmed that I was indeed Private Robert B. Martin, IV. I could tell from his tone that he was highly pissed off at having to speak to me, a private soldier, on the telephone − especially at the behest of a U.S. Senator. He asked if Toccoa was near any military installation. I told him that Atlanta’s Fort McPherson was the closest, only ninety miles away. He said I would soon be receiving new orders for Vietnam. I thanked the Colonel and thought briefly about asking him to give my best to Senators Talmadge and Russell but decided that would not be a good idea.
 I received my new orders a few days later. I was to report to Atlanta’s Fort McPherson for six weeks of temporary duty (TDY), which would begin at the end of my current thirty-day leave. This was no small victory. It was pretty big but I had a lot of help. I still chalked it up as another win for me against the machine.
At the end of my thirty-day leave I drove to Atlanta in Carol Ann’s new 1969 Buick Grand Sport, which her father had given her to make my leaving a little more palatable. When I reported in at Fort MacPherson (aka, Fort Mac) the personnel officer asked for my MOS.
“13E20,” I replied. “Fire Direction Control.” 
He quickly informed me that there was no artillery unit on post to which I could be attached. I mentioned that I was a pharmacist so he assigned me to the post hospital where I would work in the pharmacy for pharmacy officer CPT Joseph H. Thompson. The Army would actually put my five-year university degree to good use for at least six weeks, even though they had spent thousands of dollars training me to be a Fire Direction Control Specialist.
I enjoyed working in the hospital pharmacy and it was where I could be of the greatest help to the Army, whether they knew it or not. I discovered that the Army was actually short of pharmacists. They were hiring civilian pharmacists as contract workers! Not only at Ft. Mac but also in plenty of other Army hospitals. Let’s review. I was a pharmacist. I was drafted and being paid a little over $100 a month to be an artilleryman. The Army didn’t have enough pharmacists and were paying civilian pharmacists about ten times what they were paying me. It just didn’t make any sense at all. But hell, that was the Army!
CPT Thompson proved to be a really nice guy and allowed me to leave work on Thursday afternoons and not return until noon on Mondays for the entire six weeks I was there. I would be in Toccoa early on Thursday evenings and not leave until the following Monday morning. I was assigned to a barracks but I only spent three nights a week in the barracks and four nights a week in Toccoa. Other than working in the hospital pharmacy, I didn’t attend any formations or participate in any other activities at Fort Mac. What could they do? Send me to Nam?
I was driving the Grand Sport on post one day when I was stopped by an MP who said I was speeding. He had clocked me at something like twenty MPH in a fifteen MPH zone. I was given a citation and told to see the Provost Marshall about it. It didn’t seem like that big of a deal to me and I didn’t even know what a Provost Marshall was, so I figured, “what the hell,” I would soon be out of there and on the way to Vietnam. So I just ignored it. Bad decision. CPT Thompson received a phone call a few days later. He called me into his office and told me that I was to report to the Provost Marshal’s office ASAP. That’s when I found out that the Provost Marshal was equivalent to a Police Chief in the civilian world. I got directions to his office and hurried over to see him. He gave me a very real reaming out for not coming to see him immediately after receiving the speeding ticket. Fortunately, I managed to get off with only a verbal reprimand by playing my Vietnam and baby cards.
For my entire six weeks at Fort Mac, CPT Thompson and the hospital’s Commandant never stopped trying to have me reassigned to Fort Mac’s hospital as an enlisted pharmacist (see CPT Thompson’s letter in Appendix A). All of the requests made on my behalf were denied because of “the thousands of dollars that had been spent to train me as a Fire Direction Control Specialist” even though the Army was being forced to hire civilian pharmacists. Because my training was in artillery and since there was no artillery battery at Fort Mac I was not allowed to stay.
CPT Thompson had me write a “narrative resume” to use as an attachment to his requests. I was somewhat embarrassed when I re-read this “narrative resume” for the first time after so many years. It really wasn’t very good. I don’t believe it would have impressed anyone in the Pentagon. However, re-reading it after so many years did help bring to mind a couple of things I had forgotten. The first was that I had actually contacted my local draft board in October of 1968 and learned that I would soon be drafted. The second was remembering that I had written letters to the Surgeons General of the Army, Navy, and Air Force about the possibility of a direct commission into the Medical Corps. I never received any replies.
I received my draft notice much sooner than the “few months” mentioned by the clerk of the board. The notice had to have come almost immediately after my contact with the board in October of 1968 because of the “approximately one hundred days” delayed entry I was given before being sworn in on 30 January 1969.
My son, Robert B. Martin, V, was born on July 17, just six days before I left for Vietnam. We named him Robert the fifth because we weren’t sure I would make it back from Vietnam and also because we didn’t wish to disappoint my father, Robert the third, whom we thought may have been expecting us to carry on the dynasty.
Knowing Carol Ann and our baby were safe with her parents, I was as ready to leave as I ever would be. It would be a long year but I knew that I was not the first man to leave a new mom and baby behind in the service of his country. My dad was sent to the Pacific during WWII before I was born and he didn’t see me until I was almost three years old. Still, I did not want to go to Vietnam.
I remember Sunday, July 20, 1969 very well. I was standing in the door of my in-law’s bedroom watching a historical moment on their television. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin of Apollo 11 had landed on the moon. I watched as Neil Armstrong took his giant leap for mankind and thought how I would rather be on the moon with Aldrin and Armstrong instead of leaving for Vietnam in just three days.
I would have the opportunity to vividly relive those memories during the Christmas holidays forty-two years later when I had the honor of meeting and chatting with Buzz Aldrin at a small cocktail party in Sun Valley, Idaho. That’s the only time I have ever talked “rocket science” with anyone.


Continued in Chapter 21, The Oakland Repo Depot