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War Story Ubon – 1967

  • Written by Marc Holt
  • July 3rd, 2007
  • 10 min read




This is a chancre, the medical officer said, pointing to a gruesome picture on a flip chart at the front of the room. If you go unprotected with the girls in town, this is what you risk catching.

This is gonorrhea, another nasty disease that is prevalent here. There is a new strain called the Black Widow that is impervious to our antibiotics. Catch that and you will rot to death…slowly.

I was sitting in a hot corrugated tin shack in the middle of who knew where. It was 1967 and the Vietnam war, as we called it, was raging just north of us. At least, that’s what we liked to think. The reality was that the war was right there with us.

On the day my small contingent of RAAF personnel flew into the dusty US air base, a security patrol found six mortars set up at the end of the runway in the jungle. They were aimed at strategic targets like the fuel depot, the staging area, the officer’s mess. All the Thai Cong had to do was sneak up to them any time, drop in their little mortar bombs, and they would be gone before the first one hit its target.

The Ubon US air base was a huge, sprawling collection of huts and a runway. The RAAF base was a small pimple on the outer perimeter. Every twenty minutes a flight of seven F-4C Phantom jets would take off loaded with bombs headed for Hanoi or other targets. You could time them. Every twenty minutes, all day, all night, every day, ever night. Off they would go, taking their loads of death and destruction. The roar of their afterburners was a constant reminder that the war was right there among us.

Of course, Murphy was there too, and sometimes the death and destruction came home with the returning planes.

One night we were sitting around a table playing cards at 3 AM. It was a pay night. It had to be. That was the only time we ever had any money spare. Suddenly, our world rocked. The hut we were sitting in rocked. I was almost thrown onto the floor. Other guys did hit the floor.

Then the rain started. Pieces of shrapnel, bits of destroyed aircraft, slivers of steel from exploded ordinance rained down on the roof. I found out later that one piece, about a foot square, pierced the doctor’s roof and sliced into his pillow. If he hadn’t already sat up at the huge noise, he would have been decapitated.

An F4-C Phantom had come in with a hung front wheel. It had careered down the runway and ploughed into the base rocket dump.

So, why were we sitting in that hot hut listening to a lecture on the horrors of sexually transmitted disease just after we had got off the plane?

That was our welcome talk. The base medico was there to warn us of the dangers of sex, especially unprotected sex with the local girls. We didn’t know what waited for us in town, so this lecture was designed to scare the pants of us, not literally of course, and make us refrain from the wild delights out there.

It reminded me of the day when I was a young teenager in Penang, Malaysia, where I was living with my parents at the time. One day, we were driving down a back street in Georgetown. My mother pointed out an ordinary looking building and told me never to go near there. When I asked why she told me it was a house of ill repute.

I had no idea what that was, so of course my curiosity was aroused. As soon as I got home I dived for the dictionary and learned for the first time that there were girls available for hire. Wow! At my age, a mere fourteen, this was a revelation indeed. My hormones were in full charge.

It didn’t do me any good though. I never plucked up the courage to go to the house of ill repute to see what pleasures it might offer. But I sure did dream about it.

Now we were sitting in a hot tin shack learning that these delights were available just outside the gates of the air base. Never mind the gruesome pictures up there. We were young. We were horny. And we just knew we would never get any of those horrible diseases.

Next, the base chaplain got up to tell us that God was watching over us and he would not approve of us consorting with women of ill repute. That must have been a favorite term for the God-fearing and pure of heart. I guess it’s hard for the moralists to call a spade a bloody shovel. I remember sitting there thinking that if God really loved me, why had he sent me to hell already?

The local Indian tailors in Ubon town even sold a beautiful black satin bomber jacket embroidered with a devil’s face, or perhaps a roaring tiger, or a rampant dragon. Lettered at the top and bottom of the picture were the words, “When I die I’ll go to heaven, because I’ve already been to hell in Ubon.”

But the real warriors wore another jacket embroidered with the immortal words, “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…for I am the evilest bastard here.”

We were at war and almost anything would make us laugh. With the horrors going on around us, laughter was the only way to cope. Maybe that’s why the Thais laugh so much even today. Who knows?

Yeah, we were in hell alright. Looking outside the windows of our tin barracks, the red dust swirled around painting the sky and the buildings this dull, awful red color. The dust got up your nostrils, down into your lungs. It permeated everything. Even the seams in your clothes took on a red lining.

We were billeted in corrugated iron huts, about 30 men in each one. We were hot all the time. The sun beat down on us, on the hot tin roofs, into our heads without respite. Our huts were a divinely inspired heat torture instrument. The few rotating fans attached to the rafters merely circulated the hot air, but never cooled you down. We would lie there, panting from the heat. Until someone would say, “Fxxx this! Let’s go to town and find a cool bar.”

That was the cue we had all been waiting for. We would pile out of the main gate into the waiting trishaws, and tell the Thai drivers, “Bai bar lao, lao!”

They didn’t need to be told where. They knew that any bar would do. There weren’t that many to choose from anyway. Ubon was a small town back then. The main shopping area was a square of shophouses down near the riverside market. Those shophouses are still there today.

Sometimes, if we’d already had a few at the base canteen we would tell the drivers to sit in the back and we would jump in the saddle. We’d race each other down the road, rarely getting far. Those damn trishaws are not easy to steer. We would career all over the road and fall into ditches. Or we would pile into each other laughing manically as the owners screamed in horror. Their bicycles were bent and mashed. But it didn’t matter. We would pay them for the damages and look for more mischief when we got to town. We were at war and we took what we could from life. There was no telling if we’d even be there tomorrow.

When the bars had not opened yet the local bowling alley was very popular. Now, forget the super slick alleys with all that automated machinery you see today. Our bowling alley was in a tin hut. But wasn’t everything in Ubon those days? The alleys were crude planks of wood planed to relative smoothness. Boys set up the pins. Then they would scramble to sit on a plank above the pins before we bowled.

As we played we were drinking. So sometimes, just out of sheer boredom, we would send a ball screaming down the alley before the boy had finished setting up the pins. He would hear the ball rushing towards him and scramble up onto his plank of wood just in time to avoid having his legs broken. It seemed funny at the time. We were, after all, just young kids aged from 18 to 25. And we were in a damn war!

Of course, after that introductory lecture, we were all keen to get out into the town and sample the forbidden delights waiting for us. But the RAAF bosses weren’t stupid. So new arrivals were confined to the base for the first 14 days. Talk about priming the hormones. We were hot to go at the end of our quarantine period.

I don’t remember much about my first night out. All I do remember is waking up the next morning beside a skinny brown girl with a breath that would have peeled paint from the walls – if there had been any on her little wooden hooch. My head was thumping. My eyes were bleeding. Luckily, I had brought a bottle of the local rice whisky back with me. I opened the top and chugged it down until I started to feel almost human again.

God knows how they brewed that whisky. It was vile. But it did the trick and I managed to stagger to the hong nam (bathroom) and sluice myself down from the large water jar. My companion for the night joined me and we spent a pleasurable time washing our backs and getting to know each other. I’ll never forget her name. It was the first time I ever met a girl called Porn.

Well, after our shower I had to find out if she lived up to it. We jumped back in the sack again.

She did.

That afternoon she poured me into a local taxi and I finally made it back to base. Way back then, most of the people in and around Ubon had never driven a car before. The taxi drivers had never taken a driving lesson either, except from each other. Obviously, the first bloke had only learned how to put his car into top gear, and he passed this essential knowledge on to all his mates.

They would get into top gear, pop the clutch, and push hard on the accelerator. If they were lucky, the engine would catch enough gas to cough and sputter and lurch forward, and we would be away. Whenever we came to a corner, the driver just kept his foot on the gas and around we went, juddering and shuddering until we built up enough speed again on the straight for the engine to run fairly normally. We tried teaching them how to change gear, but they just smiled and said, “My pen rai.” What can you do in the face of those immortal words?

Whenever I hear those old war veterans try to tell you that war is hell I have to laugh. We know. If you haven’t lived through a war you have no idea what hell is. But to tell you the truth, my war was fun. Scary hell-type fun. You don’t get that sort of thrill from a local fairground hall of horrors. You have to wait for your government to give you the real thing. And that’s why they call me a veteran. It sure ain’t because I was out there shooting a gun. But you don’t have to be under fire to be in a war. I’ll tell you more about what I did do soon.

Stickman's thoughts:

Great story.