Steve McArthur

War is just an airplane ride away

I had never flown before I chose the Air Force over the Army in 1967. Much like a guy who didn't know how to swim might have joined the Navy. I was being drafted and told I had to chose to become an officer in the Army or Air Force for four years or be taken now and not allowed to finish my last quarter of college. So I became a staff sergeant, with no duties, finished college and went to Texas, where I became a second lieutenant.

After almost two and a half years in the Air Force in Florida and California, I still had not flown anywhere. But in 1969, I and two other guys from my mountain top base just outside San Jose California, were told to report to Vietnam.

So after a 30 day R and R back in Richfield Minnesota, I kissed my wife and one year old daughter goodbye and boarded a civilian plane to Vietnam. My first flight.

We stopped in California to change planes and witness the hundreds of green uniforms also waiting to board the next plane. Many were sick and scared with frequent visits to the bathrooms with their heads in the toilets. I felt that I had made the right choice by not picking the Army and maybe avoiding the fate these fellow military guys might face. Army Second Lieutenants did'nt last very long in combat, I told myself.

But my head was still in Richfield seeing those I had just left behind now on my first commercial flight.

Then after 23 hours of flying we landed in pouring rain in Vietnam. The doors opened and all but the officers got out, with the others told to line up on the runway in the rain. The officers stood under a canopy. I realized I was no longer in Minnesota and would become someone different now.

My first night was spent near Saigon in a tent outside with mosquito netting. We were awakened after just a few hours of sleep to a blaring siren and the words "Rockets, Rockets, Rockets". I didn't die then or get wounded. Although I now read the statistics and know many men did die on their first night "in-country".

So I was not to stay in Saigon but my orders were to go to a place called Monkey Mountain. A hell hole, I was told. My year commitment was to be spent there, not six months as those before me, since it was no longer rocketed like it use to be, they said. So my second flight was to this place just 6 miles south of the DMZ. Upon landing we had to dive in aggressively the pilot said since the enemy likes to shoot at us on the way in. I had to get used to being shot at too, it seemed.

My third night away from home was spent alone in a concrete block house six miles from the enemy. And then the rockets they said were no longer coming, came.

Monkey Mountain was a series of block houses whose mission was to provide radar control to airplanes close to the DMZ. It was hot and sandy with the air-conditioners clogged and barely functioning. There were outside cold showers and no refrigeration. But stationed north of us were Marines in tents, so enough complaining.

I went into my assigned block house and realized my other personnel were all working the night shift. I was assigned a bunk with my name on it that was in the hall, practically out the door. Privacy was provided by hanging blankets and the fluorescent bulbs all had tape around them. Later I realized this was to catch them when the rockets came in.

So my third night away from home was spent alone in a concrete block house six miles from the enemy. And then the rockets they said were no longer coming, came.

In the middle of all it the phone began to ring. So I crawled John Wayne style over to the phone and it was my Captain speaking who told me to open the front door. Seemed like an odd request in the middle of all of this until he explained this would prevent the building from blowing up in a direct hit.

So I told myself this was going to be my life for a year in this hot, unrefrigerated, rocketed, cold shower place where the only forms of entertainment was a trip to the BX in the back of a dump truck.

Then new orders came in from a high Air Force command. "Send us the last three guys who reported in, back to Saigon". I was one of the three.

In Saigon I learned I was going to an airborne command post stationed in Udorn Thailand. So on my third flight I was on my way to a place where I would now fly in a specially equipped C-130, every other day at first, for 13 hours.

Our mission was to control the war over Laos. A secret war where we had to remove all insignia and if we didn't come back our loved ones would be told we died in Vietnam, not Laos. Our missions were classified with 18 of us on board a specially equipped C-130 by LTV so I could talk to pilots in small Cessna type aircraft living in Laos and Air Force and Laotian pilots.

Often times up to 350 airplanes a day would check in with us as to where to place their ordinance. Our team was often comprised of a general, full colonel, other officer and in particular various pilots who were assigned to us for a short period of time. Many times our fighter jets didn't come back and we would spend days in later missions to get them out.

I flew in one of those 13 hour missions, 109 times and then went home when my year was up. Only one member of our group died (who was actually with me in California). So we were lucky, considering the difficult conditions for controlling aircraft put us at risk at times for mid air collisions.

We flew low to allow communications to be effective but also for the ground artillery to reach us, but never did. Our planes were among the oldest in the Air Force but our maintenance team kept them safe for us.

So for a guy who never flew before, making that first flight into Vietnam, I came out alright. My dad's best friend' son did not, being killed just into his first month, nor as you know, many others. I was lucky maybe because I made some good choices, maybe not. At the time your in your twenties, you do what you need to do.