A Veterans Day Special to all. (Very, very, very long!)

Nov 11, 2022, 9:22 AM

Two Men Dancing
-or-
How I Found Sunshine

You may have seen the helicopters of Vietnam whipping the elephant grass with turbulence, dropping into an opening marked by colored smoke, filled with infantrymen and surrounded by jungle. You may not have known about the radio man in the tree line communicating with the crew commander, or the guy who popped the smoke grenade, “goofy grape”, “goblin green” or “raspberry red”. If you looked closely enough you would have spotted one brave soul, standing in the middle of the landing zone grasping his M-16 high above his head, signaling the center spot for the choppers to set down. Everyone had a job; I carried the radio and a boy from California lifted his rifle.

Everyone also had a name, but not necessarily the one stamped on his dog tags. Nicknames were common and monikers like “Cotton”, “Frog Man”, “Rock” and “Slim” signified the physical or behavioral attributes of their owners. I do not remember exactly when I met the laid-back Californian, but his easy disposition made our friendship inevitable and we soon called him “Sunshine”.

They say shared suffering binds people together like almost nothing else, and I expect this is true, especially in a war zone. Leaches, ticks, blister beetles and snakes were ubiquitous. The ants and mosquitos were legendary and always hungry. Day long patrols in humid heat and underneath a 70 pound knapsack were followed by drenching monsoons that soaked into the night. Sleep on the ground was marginally better in the dry season, but still doubtful. The sporadic firefights in our area were frightening, but everyday burns, cuts and gashes from life in the woods were nearly as bad. As our tours of duty stretched out and then shortened, our common hardships united us in our main objective which was, on an appointed day, to climb onto a freedom bird and head back home.

As this blessed event crept closer, our division pulled out and handed its operations over to the army of the people who possessed the land. Many of the friendships we had built over the previous year paused at this time as troops were reassigned to other units. A few of our “short-timer” compatriots were sent home. This might have happened to Sunshine and me, but for the several commendation medals we had been awarded, acknowledgement from our country and its military leaders that our service had been exemplary. We had been good soldiers.

So, instead of the jet, we crawled up into a “Jolly Green Giant” Chinook helicopter and flew out of our firebase to a rear base camp closer to civilization. The division was returning to the United States and we, two “grunts” from opposite ends of the country, had been selected to serve on the honor guard that would retire the colors of the 25th. It sounded regal, we thought, and was sure to be accompanied by perks we had missed out on for most of our tours, so we consented to the assignment, though I am not sure we had much choice.

We drilled mornings standing at attention in formation, presenting arms and looking the part of STRAC troopers. Afternoons we cleaned equipment that would be transferred to ARVN and attended to other chores. My favorite task was the laundry truck run to Bien Hoa, in which we sat on mountains of jungle fatigues in the back of the two-and-a-half ton truck, absorbing the sights and sounds of the country we had come to liberate. It wasn’t bad duty. As the days passed, we found time to sun ourselves from the top of a bunker, listening to the Temptations and Smokey Robinson and making plans for life after the freedom bird took us home. And home was where we were headed, just as soon as we could get this honor guard thing out of the way.

Then, a dog changed everything. To pass an evening away, several of us walked around the perimeter road and mounted a guard tower which offered a commanding view of the area. It also contained a 50-caliber machine gun that we liked to handle. As daylight dwindled and the conversation cooled, the group broke up and headed back to the barracks with Sunshine and me lagging behind. Just after we left the tower a mangy mutt, having somehow made his way through the trip wires outside the berm line, meandered through the tangle of concertina wire directly toward us. As we watched his progress with deepening curiosity, suddenly and without any warning he hit a trip wire and the flares went off. And that was the moment when the MPs drove up.

What had we been doing outside the wire? Nothing, we said, because we didn’t come through the wire, the flare was tripped by a dog, who by now had trotted off. Besides, why did we need to breech the perimeter when there was a perfectly good gate we could use? No matter how much we protested, the armband boys would not accept our explanation. And because there was no dog there to testify in our behalf, they invited us into their jeep for a ride with them to HQ. An hour later the captain came down to spring us loose. He said he believed us, but several days later we were released from the honor guard and our orders were cut for home. Since we had looked on the whole affair as an unwelcome detour, neither of us was very disappointed.

Sunshine and I made tentative plans for the future, the kind that hardly ever come to pass, and said goodbye. He went back to California, I flew to South Carolina and 50 years blew by.

As we neared 30 years of publishing the Next EXIT, I began to wonder how many times I had driven past an acquaintance on my way to anywhere. How close was I to comrades without ever knowing it? You meet a lot of people in your life and if you are lucky, by and by you will actually have a few friends, if you make the effort. For this reason, I went looking for Sunshine and found him just a few feet off of I-80, in an area I had visited dozens of times.

I went to his house, but he was gone. Leaving a note was the best I could do, so he called me the next day and we talked. And talked. It was great, but only intensified our want for a real visit. The next year while driving a monstrous yellow truck filled with my daughter’s worldly goods away from California, I pulled over and sent a text just after daybreak. “Sunshine!” it said, “I know it’s early, but I don’t know when I will be back this way. Would you be up for a visit?” His quick reply was “yes.” I told him to look for a yellow moving truck, asked the phone for directions and headed his way.

As I exited the mother road and wound through the neighborhoods approaching his house, my excitement could hardly be contained. Turning onto his street, I saw that he had placed orange traffic cones in front of his home, making sure I had a safe place to land. There he stood on the center line of the road with his clenched fist raised high, minus only the M-16. I set down in the zone and pulled the brake.

What happened next cannot be described from the inside out, but this is what Sunshine’s neighbors saw that morning: two mature men running toward each other, laughing, crying and hugging as they danced around in the middle of the avenue. Eventually we took the party inside and reminisced for a couple of hours, as if two score and ten years could be covered in only a few minutes. Nevertheless, we did our best, reliving events from way-back-when and making sure we had our stories straight, just in case anyone ever decides to investigate.

Then came the time we both dreaded because neither of us has another 50 to burn. We made more of those plans that seldom come to fruition, vowed to keep in touch, embraced and said farewell. There were long looks as each of us tried to memorize the moment. I ascended into the cockpit as he stepped back into his tree line and I lifted off, headed back to Interstate 80 and points east.

My heart was happy that morning and anytime since when I have recounted our reunion. Shared experience, good or bad, is seldom forgotten and creates a bond that can last forever. And friendship is too precious a commodity to allow little things like years and distance to fade it out. Half a century sure is a long time, unless it seems like yesterday.

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What a wonderful story! I have kept in touch with a few of my classmates from Quantico, but do not know the whereabouts of any of the men in my first platoon in Viet Nam. It is funny, but I have all of their 3x5 cards in my office desk. I am looking at one now!

L/Cpl Hawn, J.F. 2509XXX
Rifle # 3022048
Boots !!W gas mask S Cover S
DOB Oct. 1947
State NC
RTD July 28 70

Lance Corporal Hawn was a farm boy from rural North Carolina. Private Emil J. Glenn was a young black man from Charlotte that had two bullet wounds, both from his youth in Charlotte. Lance Corporal Taylor was one of my truck drivers whom I had to threaten to shoot his foot if he did not slow down driving through the villages close to our compound in Tam Ky. PFS Wesley L Swearingen was my 5'7" 50 Cal. machine gunner from Georgia whom I had to kick squarely in the a$$ one night when we were receiving incoming fire and he just let loose with the 50 Cal. having no idea what he was shooting at. PFC James Keith, a young black man fro Orangeburg was probably the best couple of Marines I had in my platoon.

All of these guys are our veterans who I may never see again, but would love to knowa what they are doing and thank them for their service.

Semper Fi and thank you to all who served in every branch!

A Veterans Day Special to all. (Very, very, very long!)

Go Tigers AND a happy Veterans Day to all Vets!******

Re: A Veterans Day Special to all. (Very, very, very long!)

Re: A Veterans Day Special to all. (Very, very, very long!)

Re: A Veterans Day Special to all. (Very, very, very long!)

Re: A Veterans Day Special to all. (Very, very, very long!)

Thanks for posting - but especially "Thank you!" for your

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