I was in an aisle seat, so my view of the area was poor. There would be glimpses of landscape, then my seatmate would move and all I saw was his back and head as he craned for the best views, blocking me out like a perfect basketball pick. I saw enough to convince myself that the panorama was just the same as any other city in the world, but it wasn’t, couldn’t be. We were landing at Saigon, the capital of South Viet Nam, and in 1968 it was unlike any other city that wasn’t in Viet Nam.
The pilot announced our arrival and also announced that he wouldn’t be shutting the engines down or allowing anyone to re-board after disembarking. This is a war zone, he said, and we will be on the ground for only long enough for authorized passengers to de-plane. “Thank you for flying with us,” he said, “and may God bless all of you. Take care. Come back safely.”
On the tarmac, it was as hot as I’d ever been and the humidity caught my breath. I walked about 15 feet from the airplane and it began to roll away, taxiing toward the runway and a chance to go to a part of the world that made more sense than Saigon. As I turned to watch it abandon me, a jeep drove by. Its windshield was up and showing a neat line of bullet holes from this side to that.
I looked again for the plane that was leaving me, but it was too late. It was leaving and I was where I had been told to go. Damn, I thought, this isn’t going to be much fun. In the distance, propeller driven airplanes, known as A1Es, were flying over an area that I later learned was Cholon, a part of Saigon known for its Chinese population. The day I arrived, it was also known as a haven for Viet Cong, and the A1Es were dive-bombing it, trying with great sincerity to blow it to hell.
I stood there, hot and amazed at everything I saw or heard or smelled. “Get off the flight line, Sarge. Get a helmet and jacket. Now.” The military cop pointed to a building about a hundred yards away and said again: “Now.” This was the official greeting, given to all who didn’t have any idea what they were in for.
That was the first day, the first 2 minutes, and I still had a year to go. Clearly, I finished my tour of duty and was able to come home, but there were over 58,000 who did not. Most of these were kids of 18, 19, 20 who will forever be 18, 19, 20. When there is war, these are the kids who are told to go and fight and die. The young go to fight a war belonging to the generation ahead of them, two generations ahead of them, three.
The kids who fight are innocent and naive, and they die innocent and naive. The unseen and unknown who lobby for war, promote it, arm it, grow rich from it, risk nothing. They are comfortable and calm, and they don’t hear the screams and the crying, and they don’t watch as the only person they ever loved is taken, and no reason is given. The unseen and unknown were rich when their war began and they will be richer when it ends, as always.
They didn’t say goodbye when I went to their war in the jungle and they didn’t say hello when I came home, and they’re not doing it today, for the kids who go to the deserts. I am of the same age as those who lobby for war and benefit from it, but not of the same generation. My generation still wears jungle fatigues and refuses to forget the kids they loved in the highlands and the delta. My generation has dreams that can’t be understood or dismissed. My generation says no, don’t do this, don’t send any more kids to fight your fight. My generation cries easily. My generation has honor.