There's no place better than a library. Except maybe one with a gorgeous view. This is what Spokane Public Library visitors see from the north-facing downtown windows: the Spokane River as it heads under the Monroe Street bridge. I'm pleased to report that it's the latest library to have a copy of "Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War" in its collection. Because if there's anything better even than a library with a view, it's one containing a book with my name on the cover! Grady Myers would be so pleased that his memoir can be checked out there. He and I worked for awhile at the Spokesman-Review newspaper a few blocks away. He later followed the river 40 miles to the east, putting his artistic talent to use for the U.S. Forest Service in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Grady's favorite reading material? Books about collectible cars, fantasy/science fiction, military history. I hope folks who want to read his story -- which one reviewer called "part 'M*A*S*H' and part 'Full Metal Jacket'" -- remember that they can ask their local library to order it. That makes it a gift to the community. Which is the literary version of having your cake, and eating it, too.
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Ken Rodgers at Khe Sanh
It's not pro-war. It's not anti-war. It's just a story about what happened. It could have been me saying that about the Grady Myers memoir that I co-authored, Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War. But the words were coming from Ken Rodgers. He was in my living room, talking about the documentary Bravo! Common Men, Uncommon Valor. The book and the film have a lot in common. "Boocoo Dinky Dow" got started decades ago when I asked Grady, then my co-worker and later my husband, if I could write down his intense but sometimes comic stories about his Army training and the combat experiences that almost cost him his life. "Bravo!" emerged from annual reunions of Ken and his fellow Marines who survived the battle of Khe Sanh. Hundreds of Marines and thousands of North Vietnamese died in the 77-day siege. It began in January 1968, nearly a year before Grady's boots hit the red soil of Southeast Asia. Betty Rodgers attends those Khe Sanh reunions with her husband. After hearing the veterans' stories year after year, she asked if anyone had recorded those dramatic first-person accounts. Not really, she was told. So the couple plunged into the world of film production. After a tremendous amount of interviewing, writing, research, travel and fund raising, the documentary emerged. Now, Betty says, she can rest easy because "the history of the men of Bravo Company at Khe Sanh will be preserved forever, no longer evaporating into thin air after each telling." Ken and Betty Rodgers Ken is a right-brain, left-brain kinda guy, with degrees in accounting and fine arts. His varied career has ranged from sheep herding to selling real estate. He has a penchant for writing poetry and taking eye-popping pictures. Betty is also a lifelong photographer, a "Jill of all trades" and, clearly, a force of nature. "Bravo!" was their first video project. They live in Boise, Idaho. That's where Grady lived when he was drafted, where he and I met after the war, and where he died in 2011. Ken and Betty have been traveling the country, showing "Bravo!" in town halls, campus auditoriums, conference rooms ... even a prison. They get much the same response from audiences that I get at "Boocoo Dinky Dow" book readings. Veterans open up with their own stories, or sit quietly in the back and nod. Baby boomers from all walks of life come forward to share their own stories from the '60s and '70s. Younger folks are polite, curious. Veterans of more recent wars compare their experiences to those of their elders. Veterans sometimes share their political views as well. As Ken notes, their perspective of politics, past and present, doesn't always match his. Nor mine. It doesn't matter. What matters is shared memories, mutual respect, and a story that is true. Just how true? Ken and I talked about our struggles to confirm the details of battles when even the men who fought side-by-side disagree about what happened. When the public records are vague or incorrect. But he and Betty and I believe the stories we preserved are true in their essence and scope. We've honored the sacrifices of Grady and the other men in his Charlie Company, and those who suffered and died at Khe Sanh. All these years later, some of them still suffer -- as the emotional interviews in "Bravo!" attest. The high-quality documentary is now available on DVD. It is deeply moving and sad. Watch it. Then, if you need a chuckle or two, you might want to pick up a copy of "Boocoo Dinky Dow."
Walt Morrow is third from left and Grady Myers is second from right in the front row
Basic training came as a brutal shock to the systems of what Walt Morrow calls "a bunch of freewheeling Boiseans" -- the group of 18 or 19 young Idaho men who were drafted together one summer day in 1968. The draftees included Grady, who recounts his U.S. Army experiences in "Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War." And they included Walt, who remembers Grady as smart as well as funny. "He was a guy with great intellect and a really dry sense of humor," says Walt, recalling that the other trainees had to pay close attention to catch the double meaning of what Grady said within earshot of the drill sergeant. They'd be marching along and suddenly get the joke. "Then you'd have to keep from smirking or you'd be down doing pushups." Walt's fun times at Fort Lewis included huddling near the barracks coal furnace with Grady and other trainees. All eyes were on a cake that Bob Ramsey's mom had brought him. "Bob stabs a pocket knife in it and it goes 'clunk.' She had put a pint of whiskey in the center of the cake. Each guy took two pulls on the pint and it was gone." Given the chronic hunger of the trainees, the cake no doubt disappeared just as quickly. Like Grady, Walt was an M-60 machine gunner in Vietnam. He survived 13 months, while Grady served three months before being seriously wounded. Grady, awaiting evacuation, crossed paths with Walt in a field hospital. In "Boocoo Dinky Dow," he recalls it this way: I’d spotted Morrow, who was in the 1st Air Cavalry Division, pulling himself on crutches through the ward. He told me that he arrived at his first firebase assignment only to have the company pack into helicopters and fly away while he and another replacement continued to stand O.P. for no one. It was a full, fearful day after they were abandoned before they frantically flagged down a passing Huey. The suspicious gunship pilot circled for a long time and called in another Huey before a third chopper was summoned to rescue the stranded soldiers. Walt remembers the encounter, but not being on crutches that day. Asked about his wounds, he allows that there was "some shrapnel stuff." And, later, "some poisoning stuff." "I don't have any bad memories of that time," says Walt, who lives in Meridian, Idaho. "Just interesting memories." His stories from the war years are full of resilience and humor. Like the one about being in the San Francisco airport, in his dress greens, coming home from 'Nam. Fresh from primitive conditions in the field and having enjoyed a cocktail or two, he didn't think twice about using a newfangled airport urinal. Two years later, he had a flush of enlightened embarrassment when he saw another hand-washing sink. Grady would've liked that one. What a shame he and Walt didn't connect after the war. Fourth Platoon's new lieutenant, writes Grady Myers in Boocoo Dinky Dow, "was a stocky Californian with a thick moustache that curled up on the ends. He told us how he used to live on the third floor of a warehouse in L.A." His name was George and he was "so mature, a natural officer." George was also one of three men who were killed on March 5, 1969. That's when members of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Regiment, 4th Infantry Division, walked into an ambush near the Cambodian border. He is the only soldier lost that day who is mentioned by name in the book -- and then, only by his first name, because that is how Grady remembered the popular platoon leader. In the ambush chapter of the memoir, he recalls how the last words the lieutenant said may have been some good-natured ribbing that he gave Grady. And he recalls the impact of George's death. The medic returned to bandage my arm, rewrap my leg wounds and tear open my bloody shirt to look for more damage. Then he moved on to another wounded man who was lying a couple of yards to the left. To my right was George’s body. George’s death had devastated the radio operator, who had been his friend, assistant and roommate for nearly a month. I could hear the big RTO crying like a kid into the phone as he called in air strikes. His sobs were more easily understood than his directions. George was dead. The lieutenant was gone. I'm grateful to Charlie Company veteran Bob Robbins for supplying George Callan's last name, as well as the name of that heartbroken radio operator: Dennis Harris. I'm grateful to DelShahn, the volunteer at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, who sent me an etching of Lt. Callan's name as it appears on the Wall in Washington, D.C. Most especially this Memorial Day, I am deeply aware of the sacrifices George and the others who died in Vietnam, and of men like Grady, who suffered greatly because of the war but lived to share their stories. By Julie Titone Through the plexiglass door window, I could see the pilot throw back his head and laugh hysterically, delighted with his own aerial acrobatics. Until he took his helmet off—revealing a bald head and his most distinctive features, a long, hawked nose and a white scarf, worn tied around his neck. “Holy shit, man! Man, we knew you’d be back!” Guys were walking hunched over under the rotating blades to the pilot door, which Hawk had opened, and were giving him the soul fist and patting him on his head. After a brief bit of banter, Hawk squawked, “C’mon, let’s go!” Grady Myers, aka Hoss, knew many soldiers in Vietnam only by their nicknames. I've often wondered about their real names, most especially that of Hawk, who is featured in Grady's art on the cover of "Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War." Maybe someone who reads this will know the U.S. Army pilot's identity and drop me a note. The scene from the memoir that is quoted above takes place in January 1969 as members of Charlie Company are about to be choppered away from Fire Support Base 30. The colorful pilot pops up again on March 9, 1969, when Grady is wounded during an ambush in the Plei Trap Valley of the Central Highlands. As I waited and listened to the screams of a wounded Vietnamese, a helicopter appeared in the patch of sky that broke through the tall trees above my head. The small, hornet-like Loach chopper, with its mini-guns, was moving in a tight circle. I was relieved, especially when I saw Hawk’s long scarf dangle as the pilot stuck his head out the window. The cavalry had arrived. I'd like to give a shout-out to the many brave soldiers who flew in 'Nam, including folks in the Vietnam Helicopter Crew Members Association. They served in the first conflict that saw wide-scale tactical deployment of helicopters, which served as troop ships, warships and ambulances. Had it not been for the helicopter that whisked him off the battlefield, Grady might not have survived to tell his stories. 'The Mascot' by Grady Myers As I prepare for this Saturday's reading at the National Veterans Art Museum, I have been having a flashback to the 1980s. I am in the rotunda of the nation's Capitol where I'm viewing, with a combination of sadness and fascination, a traveling exhibit organized by the Vietnam Veterans Art Group. Sadness because so many of the works depict violence and loss. Fascination because the exhibit, "Reflexes and Reflections," has many excellent and compelling images -- including three drawings and a collage created by Grady Myers. Grady and I were married then. I don't recall how he connected with the Chicago-based art group; we lived in Boise and Spokane during the '80s. He was excited to create work for the show. It was the first time he had tackled Vietnam War art since illustrating "Boocoo Dinky Dow," the memoir that we wrote together in the late 1970s. While the book manuscript was packed away and not published until after Grady died in 2011, the Vietnam Veterans Art Group kept evolving. The traveling art exhibit found a permanent home in Chicago's Loop and became the Vietnam Veterans Art Museum in 1996. Its mission expanded to included artists from other wars and in 2010 it was renamed the National Veterans Art Museum. Last fall, the museum moved to a new Chicago location. You can read more about it here. Take time to nose around nvam.org. The museum's entire collection of art is available online. Of course, there's nothing like seeing art in person. Tours are free. Grady's drawing titled "The Mascot," shown here, is a favorite with young museum visitors. At the April 20 reading of "Boocoo Dinky Dow," the museum collection will expand with the contribution of his original art from the book. Victor with Julie at Pullman reading Bridging the gap between composition explosives and literary composition, Victor Villanueva Jr. survived combat in Vietnam and went on to become a distinguished professor of English. Not bad for a high school dropout. When one of his colleagues at Washington State University told me Victor served in the Army in Vietnam, I contacted him out of the blue and asked if he would be the guest reader at "Boocoo Dinky Dow" book event at the Neill Public Library in Pullman. I explained that I always invite a man, usually a veteran, to join me at readings to give voice to Grady, who died in 2011. Victor graciously agreed. When he read Grady's memoir, he was astounded to realize he may actually have seen Grady in Vietnam. "I was in country August 1968 to September 1969. Grady and I were in the same place during much of the same time! This is eerie!" Victor's 13 months in country -- six months as a grunt, the rest as a clerk -- overlapped with Grady's three months. He'd been to Fire Support Base 30, where Grady's squad leader gave him the nickname Hoss and made him an M-60 machine gunner. He was also at Blackhawk, a camp where he heard the explosions that Grady describes in "Boocoo Dinky Dow," one of the many exploits that cemented Charlie Company’s reputation as Combustion Charlie. It was, officially, C Company, 1st of the 8th, 4th Infantry Division. Victor's best friend was its clerk. "His name was Charles Shinedling, so we called him Shingaling like the song and the dance," said Victor, whose own buddies called him Vanilla Wafer, a riff on his Puerto Rican last name. Victor was also a clerk in the first 1st of the 8th, working for Delta Company. Before that, in combat mode, he carried a radio with an antennae that extended above his head. It was heavy. Victor, who is not a big guy, laughed as he recalled falling backwards onto the ground every time he hopped off a helicopter. Grady's story brought back intense memories for Victor. Such as seeing a buddy die, intestines spilled onto the ground. He described how his squad once fired madly at night-time movement in the jungle, discovering in daylight that they had decimated a record-sized Bengal tiger. Victor's stories, along with his thoughts on the draft system and racism’s role in war, enriched the Pullman reading. At the upcoming "Boocoo Dinky Dow" event at the National Veterans Art Museum in Chicago, the guest reader will be a veteran who was too changed by Vietnam to finish college and live out his dream of being a teacher. Now, he uses art to teach younger generations about the impact of war. Grady in his beloved Willys Jeepster "No one who knew him will forget the late Grady Myers," writes columnist Tim Woodward. "He was an imposing figure: 6-foot-4 with merry blue eyes, strawberry blond hair and a Yosemite Sam mustache. He was, among other things, a combat veteran, a gifted artist and a collector of preposterous vehicles, from British Morgans to an ancient, hulking Imperial." I'm sure far more people knew about Grady's passion for cars than knew about his Purple Heart. As readers of "Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War" will recall, he bought a white 1955 Thunderbird while he was still recovering at Fitzsimmons Army Hospital. He called it "a respectable little sports car." His next car love affair was with a 1965 Morgan 4/4. His hobby went like this: He'd buy a vehicle in need of rehabilitation; expend countless garage hours, dollars and swear words restoring it; glow with pride and show it off at car shows; then sell it and buy something else. Grady had a bumper sticker that said "All parts falling off this vehicle are genuine British made." But it wasn't the country of origin that lured him as much as the desire to drive something unusual and story-worthy. One of the most peculiar, fun and impractical was a three-wheeled Morgan. His final cars included a '63 Sunbeam Alpine, a Morris Minor from the '50s and a 1948 Plymouth business coupe. The big guy actually fit in those last two, as he fit in the bright yellow Jeepster he owned in the early '80s. The wife and kids pose in Grady's Morgan three-wheeler. Julie, Megan and Jake in 1983. Maree McHugh is a good-hearted Idaho nurse who loves being a weekend deejay. One of her heroes is Adrian Cronauer, the inspiration for Robin Williams' character in the 1987 war comedy "Good Morning, Vietnam." It stands to reason she would like "Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War," which is punctuated by Grady's humor. She said it's the only book she's been able to bring herself to read about the war. I've also heard that from some veterans. Maree interviewed me about the book on January 20, 2013. She really did her homework, and started the live interview with a quick recap of the war. She asked me to read several passages and to give some personal perspective on Grady, to whom I was married in the 1980s. And -- this was totally cool -- she interspersed our conversation with songs from the soundtrack of "Good Morning, Vietnam." The hour-plus interview is archived on the website of KRFP, Radio Free Moscow. You can listen to it here. Or you can listen to an eight-minute excerpt and see some of Grady's art in this Youtube video. Maree isn't a veteran. In fact, she protested America's involvement in Vietnam. But she is eager to thank veterans for bearing the burden of our wars. Many thanks to her for helping me share Grady's stories. On the air, Maree read this Richard Nixon quote, which I'm doing my small part to prove wrong: "No event in American history is more misunderstood than the Vietnam War. It was misreported then, and it is misremembered now." Grady Myers in Vietnam What war story would be complete without expletives and acronyms? In the latter category, the word DEROS is key to understanding the entire Vietnam War. In his memoir "Boocoo Dinky Dow," Grady explains its meaning and importance soon after his boots hit the red dirt of Southeast Asia: On the way to our own barracks, we encountered soldiers with their own theme song: “Short, We’re Short!” They were short-timers, their Date of Estimated Return from Overseas close at hand. Or, at least, they wanted us replacements—who faced a year in Vietnam before our DEROS—to feel bad. When a soldier stepped onto Vietnamese soil, he was shorter than the man getting off the plane behind him. Men counted their 365 days. I've wondered why the Army limited soldiers to a year "in country," when that's not how it worked in wars before or after. This is on my mind because I just came across The Vietnamization of Public Education. in which Washington Post blogger Steve Cohen cites Tom Rick's new book, "The Generals." Cohen writes: Those in command positions generally served for six months in a staff position and six months in the field. When individual stints were up, officers and soldiers left the field and substitutes arrived. Back in the field, no community was built. No sense of allegiance to each other emerged that was as strong as that which had helped soldiers and officers survive so many other conflicts. ... As one historian noted, it meant that rather than having an Army in Vietnam for eight years (1965-1973), we had an army in Vietnam for one year eight times. My curiosity about this led me to Mark DePu's Vietnam War: The Individual Rotation Policy. Here's a snippet: When defending the policy, the Army's senior leaders invariably cited their desire to create an equitable system of treatment for all soldiers. That was the sentiment expressed by both Generals Westmoreland and Johnson. 'The one-year tour was adopted primarily so that the hazards of combat might be shared by more that just a limited number of people,' explained Johnson during an interview in 1973. Westmoreland asserted that it "spread the burden of a long war over a broader spectrum of both Army Regulars and American draftees…I hoped it would extend the nation's staying power by forestalling public pressure to 'bring the boys home." But, as the thought-provoking article explains, that logic only went so far in explaining what became, in the 1960s and '70s, a national fact of life (and death). |
Julie Titone is co-author of the Grady Myers memoir "Boocoo Dinky Dow: My short, crazy Vietnam War." Grady was an M-60 machine gunner in The U.S. Army's Company C’s 2nd Platoon, 1st Battalion, 8th Regiment, 4th Infantry Division in late 1968 and early 1969. His Charlie Company comrades knew him as Hoss. Thoughts, comments? Send Julie an email. Archives
November 2018
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