Chapter One
The Agent Orange
Country Club
“Some things never leave you no matter how hard you cry.”
—Me
I should have known back on May 23, 1945, that the first slap on my bottom by the delivering doctor would be only the first of many to come. The day I got shot down wasn’t the first time—and wouldn’t be the last—that I would have to rely on my grandmother’s prophetic words. But it was one of the most memorable moments. Like your first kiss.
It started out as a regular sweltering day during the height of the Vietnam War in 1969. The day sucked from the moment I tried to scarf down some dry scrambled eggs and sausage from the mess hall. A far cry from my grandma’s favorite bacon and biscuits that I remembered from boyhood back in Rutland, Vermont. But the dehydrated eggs were at least filling for a quivering stomach. I’m not sure how Clint Eastwood can look so cool in his tough-guy scenes because I sure as hell never could.
The war in Vietnam was an everyday nightmare. I was a navy pilot flying combat missions over South Vietnam in an F-4 Phantom. Frightened and scared weren’t sudden emotions that crept momentarily into each and every day. They were the status quo, but of course no one could admit that, not even to themselves. Ever been so cold and wet you felt the weather in your bones? That’s how deep the terror went. But you learned to swagger and hang a Marlboro cigarette off your lower lip. Your face and swaggering walk said to all your crew and fellow pilots, “Yes, I am a true badass!” The only one who knew it was all crap was you.
Thunderous noise, bells, whistles, and blaring loudspeakers made up the cacophony of aircraft launches from a carrier. No way to hear your stomach’s gurgle from the dry eggs and sausage. But the smell! No one who has lived an aircraft carrier life ever forgets the smell of JP-4 jet engine fuel wafting through the air. It was a narcotic. It enhanced your fear but kept bringing you back, like a wicked lover.
As for me, once I was airborne and had glanced down at the aircraft carrier falling behind me, I was always taken by how small it was, getting even smaller as I climbed to altitude. Did I actually have to land back on that little postage stamp? It reminded me of the Revell plastic models I had built as a young boy. But it wasn’t plastic, and it wasn’t a model. It was home. It was another gut-wrenching gauntlet to deal with after the mission.
When we returned from a mission, all of us had learned to walk and look like members of the aforementioned badass club. I don’t know what my comrades did when on board and back in their cramped, smelly cabins, but as for me, I hit the “head” for a mandatory and uncontrollable bowel movement. I’m not sure that even the real Clint Eastwood could fake it. Then, time to hit the rack after a dinner of mystery meat and mashed potatoes from an ersatz gourmet buffet.
The glamour of a navy pilot at war was a crock of crap. And what a mind game. We were playing a political game for men who were cutting into a filet mignon at the 1789 Restaurant in Georgetown, DC. All of us knew of hostile hit sites to attack in Vietnam, but we were ordered to stand down. Politics, corruption, and money all ruled the war, and then there was my favorite aspect. The morass, with a pulse of Agent Orange. This delightful toxin was used as a defoliant. The bad news is that it never leaves the universe; it’s still in Vietnam. Over time, it is responsible for diabetes, cancer, heart disease, kidney failure, and a host of other lovelies. Why was it my favorite disaster of the war? Because later that day I would have the joy of taking an unscheduled swim in a rice paddy laced with Agent Orange. The real karma of that? I ha
