Me and Vietnam

I am, technically, a Vietnam veteran.  My discharge paper, my DD-214, says I earned the Republic of Vietnam Campaign Medal with Device and the Vietnam Service Medal with one Bronze Star.  Lest you’re tempted to be impressed, forget it.  Everyone who served in Vietnam got these; they were handed out wholesale, like popcorn  I saw miles and miles of Vietnam—and yet I never touched Vietnamese soil.  Instead, I cruised up and down the coast of Vietnam on my ship, the USS Galveston CLG3.

When I joined the Navy in 1963 I was only vaguely aware of what was happening in Vietnam.  I was 20 and hadn’t been drafted yet, although it was surely coming.  I was neither for nor against the war in Vietnam; I was “outside” politics.  I was, or was going to be, an artiste; I was above such matters.  I was a little unclear on the kind of artist I was going to be—musician, poet, novelist—but I thought Art was beyond the political.  I was a very stupid young man.  By the time I left the service, in 1967, my views had changed radically and I was vehemently opposed to the war.

50 years ago this month I was stationed on the Galveston, a guided missile cruiser, home-ported in San Diego.  We were preparing to leave for a six month tour off the coast of  Vietnam.  We departed June 4, 1965, and joined the 7th Fleet in the South China Sea on the 21 of June.  We saw our first action on July 8th.  The ship carried 6 inch guns in addition to the Talos missiles.  The missiles were only fired for practice; the guns we fired on a regular basis in support of troops, including Operation Starlight.  We returned to our home port of San Diego in December of 1965.  All the “action” the ship saw was was one-way: we fired hundreds (thousands?) of rounds; to my knowledge no one every fired back and certainly the ship was never attacked.

So, technically, I am indeed a Vietnam veteran, yet I am always quick to point out that my Vietnam experience had no relationship to those brave men who fought in the jungles and swamps of Vietnam.  I will not be wearing a “Vietnam Veteran” t-shirt as I don’t feel that I have earned that right, not when so many men went through the horror of real fighting in Vietnam—and dying in Vietnam.  They deserve those accolades, medals, and recognition.  Not me.

The hardest part of serving off the coast of Vietnam for us sailors on the Galveston was the lack of regular meals; we were constantly at battle stations.  For one period we were at sea for 40 days without going ashore; almost all of that time was spent at battle stations.  At first we were given C rations for meals, but I guess the captain realized that we weren’t going to be attacked, so we were allowed into the mess hall for regular food.

My battle station was Damage Control Central.  This was way down in the guts of the ship; in fact it was so far down that when we had abandon ship drills, those of us on that station just stayed there.  I guess the theory was that we would continue to try and control the damage and then go down the ship.  I tried not to think about it too much.

I manned a sound-powered headphone which was connected to another sailor on the bridge and I conveyed messages back and forth.  But since there was no damage to repair or report, I mostly read books.  When we were not at battle stations, I manned a typewriter in the Personnel Office.  When I had regularly assigned non-battle duty it was on another sound-powered phone on the bridge.  There was no reading up there as it was kept dark except for the red lights needed to read instruments.

So you won’t hear me bragging about my service in Vietnam.  I didn’t actually plan it to serve that way, although I did join the Navy for four years to avoid being drafted into the Army for two, so I had at least that much foresight; I expected to become a Naval musician (that didn’t work out, but I’ll save that story for another blog).  But I did as I was told and hope, although I have no way of knowing, that we helped in some way and that my minor bit of war service contributed . . . something.