Chapter 10: Short Timer – Preparing for DEROS
DEROS meant Date Estimated to Return from OverSeas - Every GI was focused on the number of days left in-Country and many carried a Short Timer's Chain to signify their return to the States.
As time passed, we continued running convoys across all parts of III Corps and occasionally venturing into II Corps. By the end of 1970, I was asked to step into the role of acting sergeant, placing me in command of multiple convoys during that period. With this promotion, the weight of responsibility felt heavier, but I knew the roads, the patterns, and the dangers that came with them. We ran convoys regularly through the Iron Triangle, a notorious region, and frequently to Vung Tau. However, occasionally, we took on special missions that broke from our usual routine.
One such mission was escorting several vehicles from the Long Binh Depot down to Can Tho in IV Corps. It was a long haul through unfamiliar terrain, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle. Another time, we were sent to deliver supplies to a remote Green Beret base in the Central Highlands. Normally, this wouldn't have been much different from our usual operations, but mechanical issues complicated this particular convoy. One of our V-100 armored cars broke down in enemy territory, forcing us to spend the night with the Green Berets while awaiting parts.
That overnight stay was illuminating. The Green Berets lived an entirely different kind of war than we did. While our job was often about movement, pushing forward or pulling back, theirs seemed to be about holding down the most dangerous and isolated positions. The night was quiet, almost deceptively so, but the tension in the air was palpable. Even though we slept with one eye open, that brief time with them gave us a glimpse of the hard lives they led, constantly surrounded by threats but with an unwavering sense of purpose.
The next day, we got the V-100 running and made our way back, but the memory of that night with the Green Berets stayed with me.
Back in our routine, we would often make trips to Tay Ninh or Dau Tieng, close to the Cambodian border, continuing the supply runs in areas that still saw heavy enemy activity. While the action was ongoing, our routine remained steady—waiting outside the posts while the convoy trucks turned around. During those waits, local Vietnamese children would often approach us, curious and full of energy. Despite the language barrier, we connected with them. We'd share our C-rations, and in return, they'd share their smiles and laughter. Those small moments of connection, surrounded by the chaos of war, were grounding. It reminded us that, despite the conflict, life went on, especially for the children. Those little bonds we formed with them are memories I still cherish.
In October of 1970, I had the good fortune of taking R&R in Sydney, Australia, alongside one of my buddies, George Clegg. That break couldn’t have come at a better time. Sydney was beautiful—far from the noise and the danger of Vietnam. The weather was cooler, a welcome change from the oppressive heat and humidity of Southeast Asia. We spent our days exploring the city, taking in the sights, and our evenings enjoying the laid-back vibe of the locals. The Australians were warm, welcoming, and quick to invite us into their world, even if only for a short time. That week gave me a taste of normalcy, a brief reminder of what life was like outside of war.
When we returned to Vietnam, George received his orders to head back to the States. It was bittersweet. As the Vietnamization process progressed, more and more of the guys I’d come over with were being reassigned or rotated home. George was one of them. I was faced with a choice: take an early reassignment back to the U.S., or extend my tour in Vietnam and take advantage of the “Early Out” program. By staying on for a few more months, I’d be able to complete my service entirely in Vietnam and get out of the Army a bit earlier than the usual two-year commitment.
It wasn’t an easy decision, but I chose to stay. I felt I wasn’t ready to leave yet. Something about finishing my service right where it started made sense to me. I’ve never regretted that choice. Those extra months gave me more time to connect with my fellow soldiers and deepen my friendships with some of our Vietnamese counterparts.
One particular moment that stands out from that extended period was Christmas Day, 1970. I had the rare opportunity to attend a special dinner and dance with the Bob Hope USO troupe at the general’s mess on Long Binh post. It was surreal to be in such a lighthearted setting, sharing a meal, listening to music, and even dancing, all while knowing that just outside the base, the war was still very real. For a few hours, though, it felt like the world had paused, and we were back home, far away from the battlefield. Here’s how the day went.
On that Christmas day, I was assigned to the reaction force, fully expecting to spend the entire day baking under the relentless Vietnamese sun, perched atop my V-100, on standby for any possible issues during the Bob Hope show at Long Binh. It was the kind of assignment that you knew would be long and uneventful—hours of sitting, waiting, and sweltering, with the only relief being the thought of getting back to our hooches once it was all over.
To my surprise, one of the senior sergeants in my unit suddenly walked up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. "Go back to your hooch and get dressed in your best fatigues," he said, a smile creeping onto his face. "We have a surprise for you." I had no idea what was happening, but I did as I was told. I put on fresh, starched fatigues, spit-shined my boots to perfection, and waited. A staff sergeant was also dressed to the nines, and we both sat there, wondering what was going on.
Soon, we were picked up and taken to the officers' mess at Long Binh, where the generals dined. It felt surreal to be in such a setting, especially considering where I’d thought I’d spend the day. We were seated at a table in the dining area, the hum of conversation around us, but still, no one had explained why we were there. Then, to our shock and amazement, the entire Bob Hope troupe walked into the room after the show. There they were—famous faces, live and in person, taking seats around us like it was the most normal thing in the world.
At my table, I had the unbelievable fortune of sitting between two of the Gold Diggers, Johnny Bench, and Miss World herself. We shared a great meal, engaging in conversation that felt as natural as it was incredible. For a moment, the war seemed a million miles away. The highlight of the evening came when Bob Hope himself walked over toward our table, looking for the restroom. In his typical comedic fashion, he called out, "Hey, Reds, where’s the restroom?" Without missing a beat, I pointed over my shoulder to where it was. He nodded with a grin and said, “Thanks!” My buddy from A Company, who was sitting across from me, snapped a picture of that moment—a picture that I still treasure to this day, a brief, unforgettable brush with history.
After the dinner, the fun wasn’t over yet. There was a dance floor, and the troupe members mingled with all of us, enjoying the night as much as we did. It was an unforgettable experience—dancing, laughing, and soaking in an evening that felt completely removed from the reality of war. For a few hours, we were just regular guys having the time of our lives with celebrities who had come to lift our spirits.
That Christmas, like my time in Vietnam, is something I will never forget. It was a strange mix of war and humanity, fear and friendship, danger and the simple joys of connection. It’s those contrasts that defined my time there and shaped who I am today.
The next day, however, it was back to business. We continued running convoys as usual, and before long, many of my friends had begun to receive orders to return to the States. As part of the Vietnamization effort, more and more of our duties were being transferred to the ARVN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam), and the Army was consolidating MP units, which meant new arrivals in our ranks. These incoming MPs had to finish out their tours, so it fell to us to make sure they were properly trained and understood the unique challenges of convoy escort and security.
As we neared the end of our own tours, we were known as “short-timers.” Most guys nearing their DEROS (Date of Estimated Return from Overseas Service) carried what we called a “short-timers chain.” Each day, a link came off the chain, symbolizing one less day before we’d be heading home. We lived for that day when the chain was gone, and we’d be boarding a plane for home. My own DEROS was approaching fast, and though I was eager to leave, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of melancholy.
On one of my final convoys, I found myself reflecting on the relationships I had formed. I had grown fond of not just my fellow soldiers but also the Vietnamese people we encountered along the way. The children who would gather around us during convoy stops had become like family. We’d share our C-rations with them, and despite the language barrier, they always managed to communicate their gratitude and joy. They were a reminder that even in war, life continues, and small acts of kindness still matter. Leaving them behind was one of the hardest parts of leaving Vietnam.
Finally, the day came for me to depart Company A, 720th MP Battalion. I said goodbye to my colleagues, boarded a bus for Bien Hoa, and found myself at the replacement company, preparing to board one of the "Freedom Birds" home. Bien Hoa Air Base was the heart of Operation Ranch Hand—the nerve center of the Agent Orange operations. It was almost ironic, in a dark way, that after fifteen months of being exposed to Agent Orange on the roads, near storage facilities, and in the air, I would be leaving from the very place where it had all originated.
Before the flight, we were instructed to change into our khaki uniforms. They were short-sleeved, which wasn’t ideal considering the multiple legs of our journey would take us through drastically different climates. But I didn’t care. I was going home. Our first stop was Tokyo, then Anchorage, and finally, New Jersey. Each stop brought me closer to the end of a long, intense chapter of my life.
As I sat on that plane, I felt a mix of emotions. I was excited to get home, but part of me knew that I was leaving something behind—something I would never fully explain to anyone back in the States. Vietnam had changed me, in ways I wouldn’t fully understand until much later. But for now, I was just ready to go home.
Once we boarded the plane, the air buzzed with anticipation. Every soldier on that flight was aching to get off the ground and put Vietnam behind us. The plane was packed with GIs, all returning to the States, and you could feel the collective excitement rising as we taxied down the runway at Bien Hoa. The moment the wheels left the ground, the plane erupted in cheers. It was like we had all been holding our breath for 15 months, and now, finally, we could exhale. No one cared that we had 18 hours of travel ahead—nothing could take away the joy of leaving Vietnam behind.
Our first stop was Tokyo. We didn’t have much time there, but just stepping off the plane and walking around the airport felt like an incredible freedom. It was the first time in months that I could relax without the weight of Vietnam pressing down on me. I stretched my legs, looked around at all the unfamiliar faces, and for a brief moment, I forgot about the war.
Back on the plane, heading to Anchorage, Alaska, I had plenty of time to reflect on my time in Vietnam. My mind raced with memories—some painful, others filled with camaraderie. I thought about the friends I’d lost, the ambushes we barely survived, and the endless convoys we ran. But there were also memories of the good times: the bonds I’d formed with my fellow soldiers, the friendships I made with the Vietnamese, and the lessons I’d learned that would stick with me for life. I’d grown up a lot in those 15 months, in ways I hadn’t fully realized until that flight.
During the journey, I bumped into an old friend from basic training at Fort Bragg. I barely recognized him. When we were at Bragg, he was full of energy, always cracking jokes, always optimistic. But now, after his time in the infantry, trudging through the boonies, he was a different person. The light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a distant, haunted look. I didn’t ask, but I had a strong feeling he’d been through some serious stuff, and maybe even got caught up in the drug problems that had swept through Vietnam. It was a sobering reminder of how deeply the war had scarred so many of us. It made me grateful that I had managed to keep my head above water, though I knew I wasn’t the same person I was before I left.
When we landed in Anchorage, stepping out into the cold February air was like a slap in the face—in the best way possible. It was refreshing, a sharp contrast to the sticky heat of Vietnam. We had a longer layover there, but I was eager to get moving again, knowing that I was one leg away from being home.
The final flight took us to McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, and that’s when it really hit me: I was going home. After everything I’d been through, I was just a bus ride away from being back in Philadelphia. As we touched down, the emotions began to swirl. I couldn’t believe I had made it, that I was one of the lucky ones. I kept thinking about how close I was to seeing my family again.
After landing, we were bussed to Fort Dix for final processing. The last 18 hours of my Army career were a blur of paperwork, winter gear resupply, and physical exams. They poked and prodded to make sure I was fit to leave the service. Everything seemed fine, and I was handed my DD214—the golden ticket to freedom. At that moment, I had no idea about the long-term effects of Agent Orange or the toll it would take on my body over the years. To me, I was healthy, I was done, and I was going home.
Once I was cleared, I changed into my dress greens for the final leg of the journey. The bus dropped me off at a Greyhound station, and that’s where the euphoria of returning home hit a sudden bump. As I walked toward the terminal, I saw a young man approaching me. At first, I thought I recognized him—he looked like one of my old friends. But as he came closer, I realized I didn’t know him at all. He was wearing dungarees and an Army field jacket, with a scruffy beard. He asked me where I was coming from, and when I told him I had just returned from Vietnam, he spat on me. He called me a “baby killer” and hurled a string of insults at me as he walked away. I was stunned, standing there in disbelief as his words echoed in my ears. This wasn’t the homecoming I had imagined. But I wasn’t going to let that ruin everything. I wiped off my uniform, got my ticket, and boarded the Greyhound bus.
The ride to Philadelphia was bittersweet. I was so close to home, yet the encounter at the bus terminal gnawed at me. I couldn’t understand how people back home could hate us for doing what we were asked to do. But I pushed those thoughts aside. I was about to see my family, and nothing was going to take that away from me.
When I finally arrived in Philadelphia, I had to take a trolley and then walk the last few blocks to my house. It was late—around 8:30 in the evening. I stood at the front door, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, and knocked. My sister opened the door, and the moment she saw me, she screamed with joy. She yelled for everyone to come, and soon I was surrounded by my family, wrapped in hugs. My mom, dad, sister, and brother were all there, and it was one of the most incredible moments of my life. We stayed up all night, talking and catching up on everything I had missed while I was away. We didn’t talk much about Vietnam—there would be time for that later. For now, it was all about being home, being together, and feeling safe again.
Years later, my sister told me something that broke my heart. During my time in Vietnam, my mom had been terrified that I wouldn’t come home alive. She had a necklace with three gemstones on it, one for each of her children. Sometime during my tour, the gemstone that represented me had fallen off and disappeared. She took it as a sign that I might be lost to her. I had no idea she was going through that kind of anguish while I was away. I thought her tears when I came home were just the usual happiness of a mother seeing her son after a long time. But they were so much more than that. They were tears of relief—her prayers answered.
In the next chapter of my life, I would try to transition back to normal, or at least what passed for normal after Vietnam. But little did I know, the hidden effects of the war would follow me home. What I didn’t realize at the time was that the real enemy was still inside me—Agent Orange, silently waiting to show its hand. And it would be years before I fully understood the toll it would take on my health.