Life Didn’t Stop When I Left Vietnam.

🪖 Brothers In Arms • Field Notes from Those Who Served

Leaving Vietnam wasn’t the end of my military service.

In August 1970 I still had two years left on my four-year enlistment.

While many Marines were counting the days until discharge, I was reporting to a brand-new duty station on the opposite side of the world.

Coming Home

When the plane finally lifted off from Da Nang Air Base, headed back to what we simply called “the World,” it carried a cargo unlike any other.

The seats were filled with dirty, exhausted Marines and soldiers who had survived their tours and were finally going home.

Before boarding, we had been stripped of everything that might raise questions back in the United States. Weapons were turned in. K-Bar knives disappeared. Even photographs showing dead enemy soldiers were confiscated.

Looking around the cabin, I saw every emotion imaginable.

Some men laughed.

Some talked excitedly about home.

Others simply stared straight ahead with blank expressions, their minds still somewhere back in Vietnam.

No one knew exactly what waited for us in America.

One thing we all had in common was the position we were ordered to assume for takeoff.

Crash position.

Bent forward.

Head down.

Nobody complained.

We stayed that way until the aircraft finally crossed the South China Sea and was safely beyond the range of enemy rockets.

Then, almost as if someone had flipped a switch, the cabin erupted in cheers.

We were out.

For the first time in thirteen months, Vietnam was behind us.

Our first stop was Okinawa, where we were reunited with the civilian clothing and personal belongings we had boxed up before entering Vietnam.

Or at least, what was left of them.

Quite a few Marines discovered that some of their possessions had mysteriously disappeared while in storage.

Mine included.

We remained on Okinawa for about a week.

Because of racial tensions on the island, we weren’t allowed off base. After the freedom we’d experienced in Vietnam—where officers often thought twice before pushing combat veterans too far—it felt strange to be back under the strict routines of military life.

Boredom quickly replaced excitement.

When another charter flight was finally announced, nobody complained.

Before leaving, I bought a set of civilian clothes from a Marine headed in the opposite direction, into Vietnam. I wanted to be out of uniform as soon as I reached the United States.

We landed at Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco in the middle of the night.

The timing wasn’t accidental.

The military wanted returning Vietnam veterans to attract as little public attention as possible.

Our psychological screening lasted about a minute.

We were advised not to wear our uniforms while traveling home because anti-war protesters had been known to harass returning service members, sometimes even spitting on them.

So much for the hero’s welcome I had imagined.

Instead, we quietly boarded buses for Los Angeles International Airport to catch flights home.

When my plane landed in St. Louis, my father was waiting for me at the gate.

At first, he didn’t recognize me.

Thirteen months in Vietnam had changed me more than either of us realized.

Then we embraced.

On the drive home I thanked him for the letters he had written on my behalf after the murders in my unit. I have always believed those letters played an important part in getting me transferred out of Vietnam when they did.

When we pulled into my mother’s driveway, the rest of my family was waiting.

There were homemade “Welcome Home Richard” decorations.

A backyard barbecue.

Smiles.

Hugs.

For the first time in over a year, I was surrounded by the people who loved me.

I celebrated the only way a hungry twenty-year-old Marine knew how.

I ate everything in sight.

My stomach, accustomed to C-rations and military chow, immediately rebelled.

I got sick.

Everyone laughed.

It was worth it.

The first few nights were the hardest.

The silence felt strange.

Every unexpected noise still made me instinctively hit the deck before my brain had time to remind me I was home.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for my subconscious to begin accepting something it hadn’t believed for a very long time.

I had survived Vietnam.

I was finally home.

Thirty Days Home

One unexpected benefit of serving in Vietnam was that there was very little to spend money on.

As a Lance Corporal, my basic pay was around $200 a month. Hazardous duty pay and combat pay pushed it to nearly $300. With the Marine Corps providing my food, uniforms, boots, and just about everything else I needed, my only regular expense was cigarettes, which sold for about twenty-five cents a pack.

By the time I left Vietnam, I had managed to save more than $3,000.

To a twenty-year-old Marine in 1970, that felt like a fortune.

The first major purchase I made was a gently used 1969 Pontiac Firebird 400.

I paid about $2,500 for it.

It was a beast.

Four hundred horsepower.

Beautiful lines.

And insurance premiums that nearly matched the monthly payments because I was only twenty years old.

I didn’t care.

Every time I turned the key and heard that V-8 rumble to life, I couldn’t help but smile.

That car represented something I hadn’t experienced in over a year.

Freedom.

One evening my dad took me to a neighborhood tavern to celebrate my safe return.

The bartender refused to serve me because I wasn’t yet twenty-one.

My father wasn’t having any of it.

“If the United States Marine Corps thinks he’s old enough to fight a war,” he barked, “he’s old enough to have a beer.”

The bartender looked at me for a moment, then reached under the counter for two cold beers.

Dad won.

Another chapter of my life also picked up where it had left off.

About seven months into my Vietnam tour, the girl I’d been dating back home sent me what every serviceman dreaded—a Dear John letter.

Unlike some Marines, I didn’t lose my temper.

I’d seen guys react by smashing things, picking fights, or firing rounds into the jungle.

I figured there wasn’t much I could do about it from halfway around the world.

Besides, I was young.

I told myself there would be plenty of girls waiting when I got home.

Reality turned out to be a little more complicated.

Not long after my return, her mother contacted me.

She told me her daughter was seeing a musician she considered bad news and asked if I would be willing to see her one more time before giving up for good.

I still cared about her, so we agreed to meet.

It didn’t take long to realize the feelings we’d shared before Vietnam hadn’t completely disappeared.

Before my leave was over, we had made plans to marry, and she intended to join me at my new duty station at Camp Pendleton.

The rest of my thirty-day leave was everything a twenty-year-old Marine could have hoped for.

I spent time with my family.

Cruised the old neighborhoods in my Firebird.

Reconnected with friends from high school.

Took my girl to the drive-in movies.

Drank a little too much.

And, like so many Vietnam veterans, tried not to think too much about the war.

Eventually the leave came to an end.

Sometime in September 1970, I pointed the Firebird west and left Missouri in my rearview mirror.

My first stop was Oklahoma City, where I spent a few days visiting my sister and her husband before continuing the journey.

I wasn’t in a hurry.

I still had plenty of time before reporting to Bravo Company, 7th Engineer Battalion, at Camp Pendleton.

The Interstate Highway System was still under construction in 1970, so much of my trip followed the legendary Route 66—the “Mother Road.”

From Missouri I headed through Oklahoma and the Texas Panhandle, passed through Amarillo, crossed New Mexico through Tucumcari, Santa Rosa, and Albuquerque, then entered Arizona.

I made one memorable detour to visit the Grand Canyon before getting back on Route 66 through Winslow, Flagstaff, and Seligman.

Crossing the Colorado River at Needles, California, I turned south for the final drive to Oceanside and Camp Pendleton.

The war was behind me.

A new chapter in my Marine Corps career was about to begin.

Bravo Company, 7th Engineers

When I finally reported back to Camp Pendleton after my thirty-day leave, I discovered there really wasn’t a Bravo Company yet.

At least not in the way I expected.

Most of the Marines who would eventually make up the company were still scattered throughout the Far East, returning from Vietnam, Okinawa, Japan, and other overseas assignments by ship. It would be another month before the unit was back to full strength.

There was one pleasant surprise waiting for me.

While I had been home in Missouri, I had been promoted to Corporal (E-4).

I was now a Non-Commissioned Officer.

That single stripe changed my life almost overnight.

No more endless working parties.

No more picking up cigarette butts.

No more digging ditches or cutting firebreaks.

Instead, I was assigned a rack in the NCO quarters, told where the mess hall was, reminded to report to Battalion Headquarters every two weeks to collect my pay, and then given a sentence every young Marine dreams of hearing:

“You’re free until the company comes together.”

For nearly a month, Southern California became my playground.

Vietnam slowly faded into the background.

One morning, while eating breakfast in the mess hall with a road map of Southern California spread across the table, another corporal stopped to see what I was looking at.

His name was Steve Adams.

Like me, he had arrived early and was waiting for Bravo Company to be reactivated.

Unlike me, he didn’t own a car.

Within minutes we were making plans.

Steve was just getting interested in golf, and I was always looking for an excuse to explore California.

Before long we were spending nearly every free day together.

One of our favorite places was the Camp Pendleton golf course.

It cost only fifty cents to play eighteen holes.

The course itself was unlike any golf course I’d ever seen.

Rattlesnakes were common.

Tarantulas wandered across the fairways.

The biggest luxury wasn’t the scenery—it was a golf cart.

The catch?

Only Staff NCOs, E-7 and above, were allowed to rent one.

The rest of us walked.

Neither of us cared.

We were young, healthy, and finally enjoying life again.

Golf soon became only part of our adventures.

We volunteered during the Andy Williams San Diego Open at Torrey Pines and were rewarded by being invited to play the course the Monday after the tournament ended.

We drove north to Pebble Beach when two enlisted Marines could still play one of the world’s greatest golf courses for about forty-five dollars.

The U.S. Golf Association was already preparing Pebble for the 1972 U.S. Open, and those greens were faster than anything I’d ever putted.

Today, a round at Pebble Beach costs hundreds of dollars before you even think about a caddie.

Back then, it was simply another stop on two young Marines’ California road trip.

Steve’s sister lived in a beachfront hippie commune in Laguna Beach, and despite our high-and-tight Marine Corps haircuts, we were always welcomed there.

The contrast couldn’t have been greater.

One day we’d be standing in formation on a Marine Corps base.

The next we’d be sitting on the beach surrounded by hippies listening to the Beach Boys sing California Girls.

We admired plenty of bikini-clad beauties.

Whether any of them admired two jarheads with regulation haircuts is another matter entirely.

We also made regular trips to Hearst Castle, Morro Bay, Los Angeles, Dodger games, Monterey car shows, Disneyland’s midnight dances, and San Diego.

One evening, returning through Camp Pendleton’s San Onofre Gate, Steve and I decided to try a little experiment.

Military Police were using drug-sniffing dogs to search vehicles entering the base.

Neither of us used marijuana.

Still, after watching Cool Hand Luke, we wondered if sprinkling cayenne pepper on the floorboards might confuse the dogs.

Sure enough, we were pulled aside.

The handlers opened the doors and released the dogs.

Steve and I stood there trying not to laugh.

The dogs immediately reacted to the pepper.

The MPs weren’t nearly as amused as we were.

When asked about it, we innocently suggested the dogs might be smelling leftover taco seasoning from some fast-food wrappers in the car.

Whether they believed us or simply wanted to finish their shift, I’ll never know.

They waved us through with a warning.

Looking back, Steve and I packed more living into that single month than many people manage in a year.

After everything Vietnam had thrown at us, it felt wonderful to spend our days exploring California instead of simply trying to survive.

Eventually the ships arrived.

Bravo Company filled with Marines returning from overseas.

The vacation was over.

It was time to get back to being Marines.

Becoming the Admin Chief

As Bravo Company gradually returned to full strength, I was called into the company office to begin training as the replacement for the Unit Diary Clerk, who was nearing the end of his enlistment.

The Unit Diary Clerk was responsible for reporting virtually everything that happened within the company to Battalion Headquarters.

Who was on leave.

Who was in sick bay.

Promotions.

Transfers.

Disciplinary actions.

Anything of importance to the company.

The reports had to be prepared on special forms using a very specific military language and typed perfectly on an IBM Selectric typewriter. Every mistake mattered because the reports were read by computer.

Fortunately, all those typing classes I had taken in high school finally paid off.

Over time I became known for producing one of the lowest error rates in the battalion and received several awards for my work.

Eventually the Company Admin Chief completed his enlistment and returned to civilian life.

I was promoted to Sergeant (E-5) and became Bravo Company’s new Admin Chief.

For a former combat engineer, it was quite a change.

I spent more time behind a typewriter than behind a mine sweeper.

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Life Was Good

Being the Admin Chief had its advantages.

I was excused from many inspections and formations because someone always had to keep the office running.

My lunch hour often stretched from eleven until one.

The First Sergeant and I filled much of that time playing ping-pong.

I also played left field on the 7th Engineer Battalion fast-pitch softball team.

We traveled throughout Southern California playing Army, Navy, and Air Force teams and eventually won the Camp Pendleton Base Championship in 1971.

For the first time since joining the Marines, military life actually felt… normal.

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The Ripple Incident

Steve Adams and I never completely outgrew our talent for finding trouble.

One Saturday night we were running so low on money that we wandered through the barracks borrowing loose change from anyone willing to help.

Eventually we scraped together enough money to buy two bottles of Ripple wine and admission to the Oceanside drive-in theater.

That evening’s feature was The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

Somewhere during the movie we finished the Ripple and, in our drunken brilliance, decided we should drive to Hollywood and panhandle on the Sunset Strip for enough money to buy more wine.

It sounded like a perfectly reasonable plan.

At least after two bottles of Ripple.

About halfway to Los Angeles, Steve fell asleep.

Since I wasn’t particularly interested in begging for money by myself, I got off the freeway, turned around, and headed back toward Oceanside.

Steve slept through the entire debate.

Unfortunately, I was driving a little faster than I should have been.

A California Highway Patrol officer quickly introduced himself.

Within minutes we were both under arrest.

We spent the night in the Orange County jail doing our best to look like hardened criminals while sharing a drunk tank with people who actually looked the part.

The following morning we appeared before a judge.

Steve went first.

He pleaded guilty to being drunk in an automobile, paid a fifty-dollar fine, and walked out.

Then it was my turn.

The judge, who had shown remarkable patience with everyone before me, suddenly transformed into Judge Roy Bean.

After I pleaded guilty, he fined me two hundred dollars, suspended my driver’s license for a year, and sentenced me to thirty days in the Orange County Jail.

I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.

I quickly asked whether I could withdraw my guilty plea.

To my surprise, the answer was yes.

A trial date was scheduled for the following month, and I walked out of the courtroom.

That may have been the luckiest decision I ever made.

When I returned a month later, I arrived in my Marine Corps dress uniform wearing my Vietnam ribbons, accompanied by my commanding officer as a character witness.

This judge was completely different.

He smiled, looked over the paperwork, and announced that I appeared to be suffering from a serious case of “Rippleitis.”

The courtroom laughed.

He thanked me for my military service, reduced the charge to reckless driving, fined me one hundred dollars, gave me three months to pay it, and sent me on my way.

Lesson learned.

Ripple and good judgment don’t mix.

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One More Beginning

In March 1971 I returned to St. Louis and married the girl I had left behind.

Together we drove back to California and rented an apartment in Oceanside, where we spent the remainder of my enlistment building our first home together.

The Marine Corps repeatedly encouraged me to reenlist.

There were bonuses.

Promises.

Opportunities.

I appreciated the offers.

But I had already made up my mind.

One tour in Vietnam was enough.

In August 1972, after four years of active duty, I was honorably discharged from the United States Marine Corps.

I had entered as an eighteen-year-old kid looking for adventure.

I left as a twenty-one-year-old sergeant with memories that would stay with me for the rest of my life.

Some were wonderful.

Some were painful.

All of them had helped shape the man I had become.

The uniform was coming off.

A new chapter was about to begin.

Back to Civilian Life

When I was honorably discharged from the Marine Corps in August 1972, I returned home to Florissant, Missouri with a wife, a few dollars in the bank, and absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

I did know one thing.

I wanted a college degree.

No one in my family had earned a bachelor’s degree, and I was determined to become the first.

I enrolled at the University of Missouri and carried a fifteen-credit-hour course load so I would qualify for the full GI Bill educational benefits. At the time, that amounted to about $300 a month—enough to help, but nowhere near enough to support a young married couple.

Like many student veterans, I worked several jobs while attending school.

Classes occupied my mornings and early afternoons.

Four evenings a week I worked as a retail clerk at Radio Shack.

During the afternoons, I photographed homes for local real estate agents to be included in the Multiple Listing Service (MLS).

Then another opportunity came along.

The Dean of Admissions had received a grant to establish a Veterans Peer Counseling program and hired me as the university’s first veteran peer counselor.

My job was to help fellow veterans navigate college life—enrolling in classes, applying for GI Bill benefits, selecting courses, and simply helping them adjust to civilian education after military service.

The dean then gave me another assignment.

“Hire four more veterans.”

Together we built the program from the ground up and even published our own newsletter for student veterans.

One thing we all agreed on was that we had no interest in joining the campus chapter of Vietnam Veterans Against the War.

That wasn’t a criticism of those who did.

Every veteran had earned the right to speak his mind.

We had simply chosen a different path.

We had served our country, done our duty, and now wanted to build our futures instead of reliving the past.

Financially, life was busy but good.

My wife worked as a bank teller, and between her income, my jobs, and the GI Bill, we were able to purchase our first home—a three-bedroom, two-bath ranch house with a yard—for $19,000.

Looking back today, that sounds unbelievable.

At the time, it felt like a huge investment.

Most of my college friends had gone straight from high school to the university and received student deferments during the Vietnam War.

None of my close friends had served in the military.

Whenever we gathered at parties, the questions were almost always the same.

“So…what was Vietnam really like?”

I never talked much about combat.

I admitted that I had been scared more often than I cared to remember, but I rarely discussed the darker parts of the war.

Instead, I told the stories people could laugh at.

The giant rats.

The snakes.

The unbearable heat and humidity.

Going weeks without a proper shower.

The terrible food.

Mosquitoes the size of helicopters.

The practical jokes we played on one another to stay sane.

My R&R.

The strange rumors that seemed to spread through every unit in Vietnam.

Those were the stories civilians could understand.

The others stayed locked away for many years.

College passed far more quickly than I expected.

I eventually graduated with a Bachelor of Science in General Studies.

There was only one problem.

I still had no idea what I wanted to do for a living.

Someone suggested I try sales.

I interviewed with General Mills against nearly a hundred other applicants and, to my surprise, got the job.

Soon I found myself driving across Missouri selling Gold Medal Flour, Wheaties, Cheerios, Hamburger Helper, and a long list of other General Mills products to grocery stores and wholesalers.

It was a good company and the compensation was generous.

The people treated me well.

I learned a tremendous amount about business and sales.

I loved my boss.

But after a couple of years, I realized it wasn’t the career I wanted.

I was still searching for where I truly belonged.

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