Name:  Thomas Hagar,                       Dec 01, 2010
Email:  
Comments:  I arrived at Tan Son Nhut the end of June 1968.  I was an A1C and assigned to base security through July and August.  Prior to departing for South Vietnam, during my physical at Whiteman AFB in Missouri, the Doctor asked me if I was allergic to anything and I told him, “mosquitoes, Sir.”  He quickly retorted, “Sure you are.”  The end of August, I was assigned guard duty at the Armory at Tan Son Nhut.  Our Squadron Commander, Lieutenant Colonel Carter, approached my post.  I saluted the colonel and his glance became a stare.  He assessed my swollen face and quickly asked, “Airman, what is wrong with you?”  I said, “Sir, I’m allergic to mosquitoes, Sir.”  “Mosquitoes?” he said, “What are you doing in South Vietnam?”  I said, “Well Sir, I guess the doctor at Whiteman didn’t believe me, thought I was trying to pull something, Sir.”  I’d been to the dispensary for medication but my face was swollen up like a pumpkin and I could barely see through my squinting eyelids.   Within a day or so I was given the opportunity to leave Vietnam for another assignment in SE Asia or Clark AFB in the Philippines.  I decided there were mosquitoes there too and since my buddies were here and I’d stay if I could.  A few days later I was transferred to Customs enforcement and completed my tour of duty.  Many of us arrived in Vietnam together and I was determined to return to the world together.

The plane erupted with cheers and pillows filled the cabin as the Captain announced we’d be landing shortly at Travis AFB.  We were back in the world.  Twenty-three hours going over and under eight hours coming back, we were home, back in the world.  Just a couple days earlier I stood on the steps of my barracks watching a twin-engine Chinook come into the heliport just across the road that ran the length of the 377th Squadron compound and just a few yards away.  After the Chinook landed a deuce and a half pulled into position.  The body bags were taken from the Chinook and stacked several deep in the deuce and a half.  This image has stuck in my memory more than any other over the years.  This war took 58,195 of America’s finest with tens of thousands more wounded and disabled.  But as the tires of the plane struck the runway, some of us were now home and life was good.  The elation lasted until we disembarked the Pan Am jet and stood on the tarmac.  Our greeting was simple, “When you get inside get out of your uniforms and into your civies, buddy up for the bus ride to San Francisco.  There are protesters at the bus terminal so stay together.”  That was it, a year halfway around the world and that was it.

No one spoke of the war and no one asked any questions.  Life was supposed to go on like nothing had happened.  For over twenty years life did go on until the Persian Gulf War or Operation Desert Storm, commonly referred to as … the Mother of All Battles.  Six months with overwhelming force from the air, the sea and on the ground, and it was over.  There were parades and celebrations galore.  Won three, tied one and lost one.  I wasn’t angry with the outcome but with the country’s response; what was all the hoopla about?  Within six months my 22 year marriage was falling apart.

After undergoing some tests at the VA Hospital a couple years ago the Doctor walked my wife and I to the elevators.  As we went our way the Doctor stood in place and said, “Thank you for your service.”  It took thirty-nine years to hear these five simple words.  I was blown away as I turned to look at the Doctor and with tears in my eyes I nodded thank you.

Thomas Hagar