The World Airlines charter skipped once and then settled onto the runway, and I leaned forward for a first glimpse of Vietnam as it rushed past.  At first blush, it didn't look so exotic . . . or dangerous.  Don't believe everything you hear about first impressions. 

Subsequent impressions -- the oppressive tropical heat and the pungent smell that greeted me as I stepped off the plane -- proved truer. 

I was, as they say, in the moment -- a moment that I had dreaded through four years of R.O.T.C. and a year of active duty.  I was "in country." Vietnam.  A narrow ribbon of anonymity hugging the South China Sea until it was overtaken by the Cold War.    

Since 1965 when American combat troops began arriving there in the thousands -- and later hundreds of thousands -- Vietnam had become the subject of a bitter and protracted debate at home.  A debate that I left behind at the water's edge.

It wasn't just the scenery that had changed; the stakes had too.  The war was no longer distant and abstract -- a nightly vignette played out on the evening news and relentlessly parsed in college dorms and congressional committees.  

It was suddenly as real as the sandbagged bunkers guarding the airstrip and as close as the mid-day heat washing over me.  Standing on the tarmac at Bien Hoa Airbase, squinting in the harsh glare of the tropical sun, I thought of life and death and duty -- and of going home.

We were herded into a vast make-shift terminal -- actually a huge tent -- and seated in endless rows of metal chairs.  Across the way, another group of GIs watched as we trooped in.  "You'll be sorry," one of them said in a stage whisper as we marched past.  We surveyed them warily.  They were who we wanted to be.  Survivors.  Their war over.  Their Freedom Bird waiting.    

After a perfunctory briefing, we boarded a bus for the short ride to the 90th Replacement Co. which bordered the sprawling American base at Long Binh.  The 90th Replacement was both entry and exit point for much of south central Vietnam, and the mood was predictably manic depressive.

Someone took my personnel file, handed me a malaria pill, and pointed me in the direction of a hooch -- a dwelling -- where I would find a cot.  Then, in classic Army fashion, I waited.  And, waited. 

Three days later, my name appeared on a list.  At the appointed hour, a deuce-and-a-half pulled up and I climbed on board along with a half-dozen other replacements for the short ride to the headquarters of the Saigon Support Command, which was nowhere near Saigon but deep within the bowels of Long Binh. 

I was a Signal Corps officer, and my orders had directed me only as far as the 90th Replacement Co.  Where I went from there and what I did was anybody’s guess.  Expecting the worst, I imagined myself marooned on a remote hilltop waiting for the inevitable visit from the local guerrillas.  Now, I knew at least that I was being assigned to the Saigon Support Command -- whatever that was. 

As I soon discovered, the Command provided logistical support for a vast region that stretched from Cambodia to the South China Sea and from the Mekong River Delta to the Central Highlands.  Why it was called the Saigon Support Command was beyond me.  But, I was only a lieutenant. 

As it turned out, my new friends and I would be scattered far and near -- from coastal Vung Tau to Me Tho on the edge of the Delta to Tay Ninh City near the Cambodian border.  Much to my surprise, I was assigned to headquarters as the S-2. 

Dumfounded might be a better word.  The S-2 is the Intelligence Officer, and while I knew little enough about the Signal Corps, I knew next to nothing about Intelligence. And, I was a first lieutenant.  When I mentioned these things, the S-1 (Personnel officer) glanced up, his mouth twisted into a half-smile, and said, "Sounds like a personal problem to me."  And, oh, by the way, you have two weeks to learn the job before the current S-2 catches his Freedom Bird home.  

My primary responsibility was a daily intelligence briefing for the Commanding General and headquarters staff.  Besides the General, there was a Colonel, a motley crew of Lt. Colonels, and a Major present.  And me of course.

Every morning -- that's every as in seven days a week -- I arose long before dawn and circled the post collecting the stuff reported overnight that was the raw material for my briefing.  Ready or not, the briefing began at precisely 7:30 every morning.  We joked that you could set your watch by it.  In fact, the whole thing was carefully scripted. 

I usually arrived first, around 7:15, since I had to set up for my slides.  Everyone else was in their place by 7:25, and the General marched in at 7:30.  Not 7:31 or 7:29.  In all the time I briefed, nobody ever came late.  Who knew what would happen, but it wasn't worth the risk. 

Long Binh hadn't been attacked -- other than the occasional rocket or mortal -- since Tet 1968.  Why would we want to risk being reassigned?  The Command ran convoys throughout the Mekong Delta, a backwater teeming with Viet Cong.  And, it operated the docks and warehouses on the Saigon River.  Viet Cong sappers were attracted to those warehouses like lieutenant colonels to a flame.    

At the General's entrance, everyone rose except me.  Don't jump to conclusions.  I was already standing.  Lieutenants are not allowed to sit in the presence of field grade officers.  I'm kidding.  I think. 

The General stopped behind his chair -- at the head of the long conference table -- and nodded to the Chaplain, who proceeded to ask for divine guidance.  Of course, that was a bit disingenuous.  Generals don't really believe in a higher power.  It wasn't entirely wasted though.  Lieutenant colonels can use all the help they can get. 

That bit of theater finished, the General eased into his chair -- followed by everyone except me -- and nodded almost imperceptibly in my direction.  It was Showtime.

I stood behind a lectern at the foot of the table with my notes spread out before me and a screen for the slides looming over my right shoulder.  I usually managed to distill what had taken hours to collect and scrutinize into a fifteen-minute briefing. 

The General watched and nodded -- again, the slightest of movements -- and the Colonel -- his Chief of Staff -- occasionally jotted something down in a notebook.  I never knew what or why.  After a while, I even stopped wondering.  For all I know, it was a reminder to restock the General's Scotch. 

They seldom asked me direct questions.  I assumed that was a result of the thoroughness and clarity of my presentation.  When I finished, I collected my notes and slides and stole away.  The meeting usually continued for another hour or so without me. 

What they did after I departed wasn't a mystery.  Each of the lieutenant colonels reported on his daily contribution to the war effort.  Even now, almost forty years later, it's hard to write that with a straight face.  Since they were all desperate to make colonel, I imagine that it was quite a show.  I do know that there was more angst in that room than at an Edvard Munch retrospective. 

As S-2, I worked in a section officially dubbed SP&O (Security, Plans, and Operations), and our boss...