Tag Archives: Vietnam

Where were you when …

Most of us remember where we were when the Twin Towers were attacked on 9-11. For folks my age or older, we remember the Kennedy assassination.

Fifty years ago, Apollo 11 roared into history as I arrived in Vietnam. I wrote about those days in my embellished autobiographical novella entitled “Gonna Stick My Sword in the Golden Sand.” Here’s a snippet. Pardon the vulgarity and self pity.

There were no Charlies [enemy soldiers] in Cam Ranh Bay after all, but plenty of sorry asses like me, spending the first day of three hundred sixty five: July 17, 1969. Mounds of white sand dunes surrounded low-lying gray buildings with tin roofs held down with sand bags. And potable water and non-potable water, but I could never remember which one was for drinking. Back in Fort Lewis near Seattle, the army spent a couple of days processing me into Vietnam, and now that I was here, the army spent a few more days of processing, but that was fine with me. Standing in line was better than getting shot at.

A new patch on my fatigues said I was a PFC, private first class, just like all who had completed the Eleven Bravo infantry training at Fort Polk, but then I got promoted for a few hours by somebody who needed a drinking buddy. We had been standing in a line together. The silver bar on his collar said he was a first lieutenant, and he invited me to have a drink with him at the officer’s club; when he offered me his jacket with silver bars to cover up my PFC patch, I thought … what the hell? Turns out the officer’s club was air conditioned, and we spent the afternoon drinking scotch whiskey while a Filipino woman belted out sultry jazz. I drank mine straight because I was worried about potable or non-potable water.

After Cam Ranh Bay finished its processing, they decided to send me to the 4th Infantry Division up in the central highlands. Next stop, Camp Enari outside Pleiku. More processing. And rain. And mud. It was the midsummer monsoon of July 1969. In many places, plank boardwalks kept you out of the slimy red clay that caked your combat boots. When it stopped raining for a while, they loaded us into trucks called deuce-and-a-halfs and took us outside the perimeter for M-16 rifle training, part of the in-country welcoming festivities. There was a gully there, a drainage ditch or something, and I pictured a horde of Charlies lurking in the tall grass. I was an Eleven Bravo, and I already knew how to use an M-16, but the clerk-typists–Remington Raiders who were sent to shoot for the one and only time in their whole damned tour of duty–needed protection, I figured, so I kept a close eye out for Charlie, but the only real danger was if one of the desk jockeys shot himself in the foot, or worse.

More processing. My new buddies drank beer, we spent one day at the steam bath, and, of course, there was the PX with a TV and an ice milk dispenser, except it was never cold enough to cool the mixture beyond a runny, slurpy mess that spilled over the top of the soggy cones. There were great bargains on electronics, but what would I do with a goddamned reel-to-reel tape deck out in the boonies? We started planning for when we’d get our first combat pay, military payment script they called it. My buddies went to look some more at the stereos, and I went to get some soft, real soft, ice cream.

I thought of the sky-blue waters of the ten thousand lakes of Minnesota, I wondered if Twins ballplayer Rod Carew swiped home that day, and I worried that my girl would have second thoughts if Jody was to come around (it was always Jody they warned you about—“Jody’s gonna get your girl,” the drill sergeants teased). A small crowd gathered around the TV that hung high on a wall, and I stood at the back and watched and listened while ice milk dribbled down my wrist.

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

What the fuck? The TV announcer said some swinging dick was walking on the moon, and the whole world was watching. Did I give a rat’s ass? What about me? Did anyone care what I was doing? Where I was? Somehow, I felt abandoned and much farther away than the man on the moon.

ELIJAH FIRE: Coming to a Theater Near You

Probably not.

I received an email last night from a wannabe movie producer who sought permission to use Elijah Fire, the fifth and latest installment of my Vietnam short stories, as the basis for a screenplay and movie.

“Of course,” I said, “and here’s where to send the royalty checks.”

Though the prospects for success are pretty unlikely, it is still gratifying to be asked.

According to an account in the Old Testament, the prophet Elijah called for fire to rain down upon his enemies. “If I am a man of God, let fire come down from heaven and consume you and your fifty.” 2nd Kings 1:10. This installment of Vietnam short stories is about the firepower at the disposal of LRRP teams, scouts alone in the boondocks, that included artillery, Phantom jets, and especially helicopter gunships, the Cobras. But, a team calling down hellfire risked getting burned.

Eleven Bravo and LRRP Rangers of Vietnam: First review

Reviews—necessary but scary. I’m reminded of the analogy told by a fellow writer who compared the process to dropping one’s pants in public and then listening politely and silently as the bystanders offer comments.

Eighteen months ago, the first reviews of my soon to be released novel, A Wretched Man, a novel of Paul the apostle, were published based upon advance reader copies . They were favorable, and I was relieved, flattered, and more than a little surprised. A writer may hope, but self doubt is omnipresent.

I am now in the same posture with the release, in serial fashion, of my short stories of Vietnam. The series is entitled LRRP Rangers Vietnam, and the first three installments have been published as eBooks. Today, the first review of the first installment was published online, and I am experiencing the same response as earlier–relief and surprise at the flattering comments, and so I boast …

Ms. Sheila Deeth read and reviewed the first installment, Eleven Bravo. She introduces her review with this summary:

Eleven Bravo, by R.W. Holmen chronicles the beginning of a young man’s experience in Veitnam. With pitch-perfect dialog and stunning descriptions and commentary, he brings a time not too long gone to life and clears the way for a series of literary vignettes to come–short, but bold, dark and intense, so read it with a 5-star coffee.

Her full review is reprinted below.

“Somehow, I felt abandoned and much farther away than the man on the moon,” says R.W. Holmen in his short story Eleven Bravo.

The author conveys that abandonment beautifully, setting the Vietnam war into personal and global context with vivid details and telling comments. Characters and place come to life with the words, dialog is pitch perfect, and there are haunting comments I’ll remember long after the story’s done. From FNG (f** new guy) to savvy vet in twenty-three days, from one land to another with various stops for training along the way, from safety to horror, the author shares the experiences of war, bringing sight, scent, and sound into stunning perspective. Climbing in mud with eighty-pound packs, fools on the march while the “fool killer” trails, clearing brush with machetes, arranging mines… the bond and the folly of immortal combat ring loud and clear from the page, and the story’s told with all the realism, language and pathos of experience.

Eleven Bravo is the first in a series of Vietnam vignettes, autobiographical fiction based on true events and bound by story arc into literary gems. The writing is confident and clear, hauntingly honest, brutally true. The story completes a young man’s transformation and leaves the reader eager for the next installment. If this piece is anything to go by, this will be an excellent series of honest depiction and wise commentary, and I’m humbled to have read this first chapter.

Sheila Deeth, writer, illustrator, and prolific book reviewer