Doug Rekenthaler

War Story

In early 1968, the “Tet offensive” was kicked off by the North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong, in a failed attempt to inspire insurrection by the South Vietnamese population. The NVA lost militarily, but succeeded politically, in that Walter Cronkite, John Kerry, and the Democrats in Congress capitalized on the event and swayed American public opinion.

I was living in downtown Saigon during Tet, doing a ground-based, pilot assignment. The Vietnamese celebrate Tet with continuous fireworks, which, early-on, masked the NVA gunfire. My villa came under heavy fire, but US Army Cobra helicopters hovered overhead and kept us from being overrun. At the outset, Armed Forces Vietnam Radio told those of us who were off-base to stay in their villas. However, within hours, that announcement was superseded, and everyone was ordered to report to their duty stations. For me, that was the Airlift Control Center at 7th Air Force Headquarters on Tan Son Nhut Air Base. It was normally a two-mile walk past the 5th Field hospital’s triage unit, through the old cemetery, and across the golf course–which had become tactical munitions storage and staging areas for the NVA. The bad guys staged a regimental-size attack against the base, eventually losing over 300 men before they disappeared into the city.

The Air Force base commander had a policy that those of us living in Saigon should not be issued side-arms, in a misguided attempt at precluding shootouts at the Crazy Horse saloon in downtown Saigon . . . booze, girls, guns, and horny GIs being a volatile mix. Fortunately, my mother, having seen enough movies to know the drill, had earlier mailed my .38 revolver in a box of (what else) popcorn, so I was armed. Two sergeants who lived in my sector in downtown Saigon joined me with their purloined AKs, and just before dusk, we set out for the base--low-crawling, dodging from villa to villa, and sprinting across streets, light fire at times but no real engagement. As we crawled along a binjo ditch in 100-P alley (100 Piastres being the going price for the girls on that street), one old lady--squatting in her black pajamas on the sidewalk, eating betel nuts--smirked and said as we crawled past, “Tonight you die, GI; tonight you die.” I thought she might be right.

Within minutes we faced the broad, open area in front of the main gate, brilliantly lit by klieg lights. I figured that we had two options: either being shot by the defensive forces inside the gate or being shot in the back by the NVA or VC. That was a fast 100-yard dash. I worked five days and nights without relief, fragging C-130 missions, briefing the command structure. We lost numerous aircraft when VC sappers threw satchel charges into our aircraft, which were parked in revetments and in orderly rows: shades of Hickam field during Pearl Harbor. In a final bit of irony, the base commander was, of course, promoted. There were fun times on the ground, just as in the air . . . .