Doug McComas Books

In April of 1975 I was a thirteen and was considered wealthy by my friends because I had a paper route. Serving seventy-five households in North Tacoma, I could complete my route in thirty-five minutes and pocket about seventy dollars per month. I enjoyed the job except for the end of the month collecting. Like most unpleasant memories, they fade, but one particular month I will never forget.

The usual routine of collecting for the paper went like this: I would knock on the door, an adult would let me in, I would watch the evening news, usually with the man of the house, and the wife would scrounge for the four dollars and fifty cents or write me a check. What stood out about this month was that in each house the same vivid footage was being shown on every TV: The Fall of Saigon to the North Vietnamese Army (NVA). The footage I remember most was not the helicopter evacuations from the American Embassy Compound, but one of the last battles between the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) and the NVA. I recently found it on YouTube. A platoon strength ARVN unit was defending a bridge. The footage contained blood, confusion, and lots of spray firing.

In each house I can remember none of the usual words of greeting, just a straight face, a signal to enter, and then being left alone to watch. The man of the house did not turn to see who had entered his home, much less to greet me. I received few, if any, tips that month.

I was born in 1961 just as American involvement in Southeast Asia was ramping up. By the time I entered kindergarten, the US military was fully engaged. In sixth grade (it would have had to have been about February of 1973) I remember a Weekly Reader article telling about the withdrawal of all US combat forces from Southeast Asia. I have few other memories. My parents, somewhat, kept up on the war. I remember newscasters Cronkite, Huntley, and Brinkley speaking, all three with the latest casualty figures on a board behind them. I remember watching a special about an army unit fighting in the Central Highlands. I remember a man at my church who had lost his leg below the knee. He never said he lost it “in Vietnam.” He said he lost it “over there.” I never found out how because I knew it was impolite to ask. My last memory was of a Vietnamese family my church sponsored; they were real Boat People. All were quiet and shy but intensely hard working and very generous with everything.

Since then the war has received comparatively little notice. I guess most want to brush bad memories aside. At the bookstore about a twentieth of the space dedicated to World War II is reserved for the Vietnam War. This is understandable because most of the books concerning combat in Vietnam are about Search and Destroy missions which are not nearly as exciting as airborne drops into the French Boscage during World War II. For the reader interested in the political side of the Vietnam War, many titles are so full of finger pointing and venom spitting that it’s difficult to form an accurate representation.

Having written on World War II and the Korean War, I have decided to take a crack at this war. I admit I am entering it as a rabid anti-communist and not very kindly disposed toward those who protested the war, but I’m older now, ready to make peace with an era my children know pretty much nothing about.