Hey, there was a war going on

In the summer of 1967 the flight operations officer one day said, “Sgt. Merriman, a helicopter is going to Vung Tau today at 1400 and I don’t want to see you for three days.” Vung Tau was a former French resort city at Cape St. Jacque.

I spent my two-plus days enjoying the sight of the ocean, meals in a real restaurant and the low cost of beer.

On the third day I went to the airstrip and asked to use a phone to call base camp to find out when my ride would arrive. A Vietnamese woman showed me to an office.

Now, at base camp we were in the partly Stone Age in telephoning. A caller picked up the phone and waited and after a while someone at the main switchboard would plug in and say “Long Gaio” and the caller would say “Blackhorse Three-Zero,” or whatever.

So I was in the office at the airstrip. I picked up the phone. I waited for an operator. And waited. And waited.

The woman in the office walked over and gave me a “You dumba$$ Americans” look, stuck a finger in the O and slowwwly turned the dial, all the time giving me that look.

I felt like a dumba$$ American.

I mean, I had traveled all the way across the Pacific to save the Vietnamese from the perils of Communism, but I didn’t know how to dial a freaking telephone.