Doug Bradley - Deros Vietnam

DEROS Vietnam:

Dispatches from the Air-Conditioned Jungle

Doug Bradley

To all those who served in Vietnam but didnt live to see their DEROS date.

Dog Tags

Everybody said the reason Murphy tried to frag Lieutenant Colonel Fraser was because of the chewing out and the court-martial. They talked about how Frasers face got right up next to Murphys the morning after Steve Wards DEROS party and how it changed colors when he let Murphy have it. Everyone agreed: that incident was what damn near did in the old Lt. Col.

I know different. I know because I dropped by Long Binh Jail during my last day off and got the real low-down straight from the mouth of Private Dwayne Murphy. He didnt try to off Fraser because of the ass chewing or the extra duty the Lt. Col. gave us for the bathroom graffiti. It wasnt the curfew restrictions or even how he busted Murphy with a court-martial after Wards DEROS party.

It was the dogs, Murphy told me. Everybody forgot about the goddamn dogs.

He was fucking crazy, he explained to me and the darkness. Out of control.

The two of us sat with a large black MP between us in the bowels of LBJ, Long Binh Jail, thousands of miles from our former lives back home.

Every fucking thing he did was part of some weird master plan, just like this goddamn war. All Fraser and the rest of the brass understand is winning, getting ahead. They dont know a goddamn thing about life. Only death. He paused. When he told us to kill the goddamn dogs, I knew that was it. He had to be stopped.

Things had been strange around our office ever since Colonel Brock left a few months before the shit went down. Back then, our IO unit ran like a well-oiled machinewe ground out the weekly newspaper, press releases, hometown tapes, and public and command information, all without a hitch. Not a week went by without the tiny, bald Brock strutting into our office, smiling around the room and congratulating everyone within earshot: Damn fine newspaper this week! Damn fine paper! He made us feel good about the jobs we were doing, even if we were in the Army.

Then Brocks tour was up and he headed back to the world. And Lt. Col. Walter Fraser arrived. It was like the air had gone out of our balloon and wed landed smack dab in Vietnam. Things changed for all of us, but especially Murphy. He and Col. Brock were tight. Theyd spent some time together statesideattended the same university before Nam. Everyone had their own version of the story about the savvy, fatherly colonel and the eccentric freshman from Minneapolis together at the radical hotbed University of Wisconsin.

Id never been anywhere near the Midwest, never been to college, but Id heard about the riots and antiwar activity. And right there in the midst of it all was good old Colonel Brock. A helluva place for an Army lifer, but that was the kind of guy Brock was. Hippies, teargas and all, he had Uncle Sam send him to Wisconsin to study public relations. Damned if he and Murphy didnt end up taking some of the same classes!

By the time Id been in Nam long enough to know my ass from a hole in the ground, the Brock-Murphy bond was common knowledge. Every time we had a DEROS party or holiday bash, somebody would egg them on to talk about their student radical days together in Madison.

There was a lot of good-natured joking and some intense political discussionMurphy didnt buy into Brocks analysis of Ho Chi Minhs propaganda strategy; Brock thought Murphys capitalist theory of Southeast Asian exploitation was navebut Murphy and the Colonel shared a real affection. They might have held very different ideas about the Army and the war, but they had a helluva lot of respect for each other. You couldnt miss it.

So, when they transferred the old man to the Army War College to teach the art of military propaganda or some shit, Murphy missed him way more than the rest of us. It seemed like part of him left. Maybe if they hadnt been so close, Murphy might have been better able to deal with Lt. Col. Fraser.

So much has changed. Since Fraser took over, the papers gone to hell, guys have gotten transferred or reassigned, half the old gangs DEROS-ed, and their replacements dont know shit. Makes it pretty tough for us short timers.

We figured we were in for it even before Fraser arrived. Sgt. First Class Kennedy had given us a background briefing, and it wasnt pretty. Fraser didnt have any journalism or information training; hed never been near an IO office during his two decades in the Army. In the last six months hed jumped from Da Nang to Quang Ngai to Soc Trang. It seems he was obsessed with earning a Legion of Merit citation and his colonels silver eagle. Even Kennedy, who prided himself on his commitment to military command and control, was a little apprehensive. Brocks laid-back policies made his job easier since we all behaved ourselves and he didnt have to get on our case.

For the first couple of days, Fraser faked us out. Somebody must have tipped him off because he came on kinda low key and friendly. But it didnt take long for his true character to assert itself. It all started on a fateful FridayJuly 19 to be exactwhen Sgt. Kennedy walked across the hall to our office.

Men, Ive got some new directives here from Lt. Col. Fraser. Ill put them up on the bulletin board where I want you all to familiarize yourself with them. Dont bother me with any bullshit questions. Just follow the rules and do as youre told. He turned on his heels and walked out.

We sat there, feeling a little woozy from Sgt. Kennedys out-of-character curtness. Finally, Conroy walked over to the board.

Jesus Christ will you look at this, Conroy slammed a fist against the wall. Commencing 1300 hours today, 19 July, all enlisted personnel in Command and Public Information will fully acquaint themselves with the barber shop down the hall.

Personnel are to pay particular attention to Army Regulations (AR) 614-30, table 7-2 which pertains to the length of hair and sideburns. All mustaches are to be trimmed and should not exceed the length of the upper lip. Boots are to be well polished and cleaned. Pressed fatigues must be worn at all times.

Sitting in the back of the room, Nevin gulped back a nervous laugh. Nobody said a word. Being in Vietnam was shitty enough. Now Fraser was ordering us to act like we were still in the fucking Army.

That night we sat around our hooch, letting off steam about the memo. Everybody except Murphy. Locked in silence, he took his share of lousy mess hall food, folded it up in his napkin, slipped it into his fatigues pocket, and took the grub to feed the dogs.

To the rest of us, the dogs were a bunch of dumb mutts. With Colonel Brock gone, they were Murphys only real source of companionship. There were hundreds, probably thousands, scattered around the base. Growing up in a civilized society you forget what its like in the jungle where everything runs wild. What with Sir Charles roaming the countryside doing what he fucking pleased, no one had the time, energy, or inclination to keep the dog population down, so there were packs of half-starved mutts all over South Vietnam. We were lucky that only three or four of them had taken up permanent residence in the living area outside our hooch.

Mostly we tolerated the mutts. Sometimes wed feed them scraps from the mess hall or grab a Frisbee and teach them to play catch like we wouldve with our pets back in the world. Murphy loved them. He fed them. He sheltered them during bad monsoon rains. Damned if he didnt even try to train them.