The Hilton Inn
Seated in the back seat of the army transport van, I peered out of the back window at the car headlights following us. They were searching the highway for what I had no clue. As they passed, red taillights seemed to signal caution. It was twilight, and I was sandwiched between two worlds. The weather felt cold and damp against my skin for a change. Two hours ago, I had ingested a steak dinner, a welcome-home offering provided courtesy of the United States Army.
I was dressed in army greens, thanks to a newly minted uniform issued at Fort Lewis, Washington—earned ribbons, name tag, crossed rifles pin on the lapel, shiny black shoes. I’d stepped into a world that had lived only in my mind for the last twelve months. The pace, the fast-moving cars, everything out of step—everything was moving so fast. I wondered where they were going. Did they even know where they were going? Why were they going so fast? What was all that important? It just felt weird and foreign.
The flight from the Seattle-Tacoma airport to San Francisco was short compared to the long trip from Cam Ranh Bay. After checking into the Hilton and hauling my duffel bag up to the room, I decided to get a drink.
My eyes took in the rich and excessive atmosphere of the hotel restaurant—wrong somehow. A band was playing at the far end. A few other chaps like me floated about in similar garb, but most were in civilian clothes, living the good life. Out of danger and without a care in the world, fellow travelers were wrapped in a blanket of security, sipping highballs, the men playing pocket pool and laughing. I hated them. I should have gone AWOL in Japan when we stopped there to refuel.
As I found a stool and sat down at the bar, I stared at the image of myself in the mirror. I ordered a draft and my mind started to wander—the thought of the past year, the carnage. The image of a boy serving me my last beer in the Nam, his face melted by napalm, flashed through my mind. I studied my image in the mirror; the Air Medal on my chest caught my eye. I was proud of that one. You had to fly twenty-five missions for that one. Then the Combat Infantry Badge; you had to have been in combat for at least thirty days for that one. I was proud, conflicted, and confused; the beer in front of me seemed wholly inadequate.
As I looked around, I realized no one here really gave a shit. They were dressed in comfortable clothes, sipping their drinks, eating their steaks, and making their money with their only worry being investments.
“Can I sit here?” a voice asked.
I looked up and noticed a kindred spirit with sandy blond hair, a stocky fellow with a round face and innocent eyes, a fellow soldier, also slightly out of place in this opulent environment.
“Sure, have a seat,” I said.
He pulled out the stool and sat down. “Where you from?” I asked.
“Kansas, western Kansas. How about you?” he asked.
“Southern Cal, San Bernardino,” I answered. “What do you do there in western Kansas?”
“Mainly farming, wheat and cattle.”
From his single ribbon—Good Conduct—I surmised he was bait for the cause.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jerome, Jerome Richardson,” he said.
“Where you headed?” I asked as if I didn’t know.
“Vietnam,” he answered.
“Yeah, well, I just got back from there today,” I said.
“Wow, what’s it like?” he said.
“It’s no walk in the park, I can tell you.” I could see from the crossed rifles on his lapel he was infantry. Judging from his size, I figured a machine gun was probably in his future.
“Where’d you train?” I asked.
“Tigerland.”
“Me too.”
Suffering from jet lag and sleep deprivation, I thought of Japan and the restaurant on the top floor of the hotel where I was staying. Scott McKenzie’s song “San Francisco” flashed through my mind. “Gentle people with flowers in their hair.” And here I was, in San Francisco, having a drink with my replacement. Poor bastard.
“Scared?”
“Yeah,” he said, then fell silent.
“It’ll be all right,” I said, knowing 500 guys a week were being sent home in body bags. With the Tet Offensive in full swing, the whole fucking country was in flames. Yeah, it’ll be all right, my ass.
The band started playing “(Sittin’ on) the Dock of the Bay.” Wow, never heard that before. Shit, that’s good stuff. What else have I missed? Fucking weird, having taken a snapshot out of the window of a commercial jet with my Kodak Instamatic of two C-130s at the ready on the tarmac in Cam Ranh Bay on February 10, and—because of the international date line—being discharged from active duty and sucking up suds at the Hilton the same day. I woke up in the Nam and would be going to bed back in the world.
I glanced down at the ringworm on my hand—a parting gift, you might say—and I wondered if Jerome would make it. Would he come home in one piece or zipped up in a body bag? Would he be just another baby killer in the making? Maybe he’d earn the title and wear it proudly. And would he be able to survive the guilt if he did make it? Perhaps he’d be a stoner, a drunk, a rapist. How soon would the shackles of civilization peel away? Would his moral compass go south on day one or day three hundred? All I knew was he might get out of the Nam standing up, but he wouldn’t get away free. Like a cattle brand, images of horror, the smell of burning flesh and shit, and the cries of innocents would burn into his brain. It might scab over, but it wouldn’t heal.
We shared the expense of the room I already had and parted ways after breakfast.
“Good luck,” I said and slipped my name and address, written on the hotel notepad, into his hand. “Let me know where you end up.”
We shook hands. Looking into his eyes, I knew they’d see things only I and others like me would understand a year from now. Jerome left in search of transportation to Alameda and processing, and I went to find the PSA ticket counter to purchase airfare to LA.
