Now, circling above Vietnam, Dawson still wasn't sure why he let himself get talked into it. He had been in the Navy long enough to know better than to volunteer for anything. Part of the reason, he thought, was a response like an old fire horse running in the pasture at the sound of the fire bell. But his primary motivation was a feeling of patriotism, of duty; and the desire to keep more people from falling under the Communist yoke. The challenge of the job added motivation. It had been a long time since he had been involved in a telephone project. He looked forward to working, on large scale, with communications-the technical field he preferred.

Working with Commodore Rhodes, his mentor of years past, was a definite bonus.

Dawson thought back to the first time he had served with, then, Lieutenant Commander Rhodes on Adak Alaska. At the time Dawson was a third class construction electrician, and Rhodes saved him from being placed on report by a shavetail ensign who thought all rules must be obeyed. They served together again while Dawson was still enlisted, and then shortly after he received his commission. In his mind, Rhodes was the epitome of what a Naval officer should be.

The pilot's voice on the intercom broke into Dawson's thoughts: "It's all clear below now. We'll be landing in a few minutes."

As they were landing, Dawson saw two mortar craters in the edge of the concrete runway flash by, and eight more craters near the runway. When they turned onto the taxiway, they passed near the gas storage area that had been hit. The fire was still burning, but appeared to be contained to the one tank.

At the bottom of the metal stairs, a sergeant in Air Force fatigues directed the disembarking passengers to one of the low, tin-roofed buildings near the taxiway. Dawson entered the building with louvered walls, and looked for a Seabee whom he expected to meet him. Not finding one, he asked the airman behind the counter, "Is this the Da Nang main air terminal?"

"Yes sir. This is it," the boyish-looking airman replied.

Dawson decided to wait until he had his baggage before calling the regiment. Maybe someone will be here to meet me by then. He was probably delayed by the mortar attack. The heat combined with high humidity made Dawson uncomfortable in his Navy blue uniform. Seems sort of dumb having to report in Blues in a place like this, Dawson thought, as rivulets of sweat ran down his face. He could feel one slowly trickling down his spine.

The men swarmed over the string of baggage gondolas, each man rummaging for his own. For five minutes they resembled a mass of writhing worms. Dawson waited on the outer edge of the mob until he saw his bags. Then he elbowed his way in to the gondola and dragged two bags out through the crowd and into the terminal.

A half-hour later, after all other arriving military men had departed in buses or cargo trucks, Dawson decided he had waited long enough. "How do I contact the Thirtieth Naval Construction Regiment by telephone?" he asked the Air Force airman behind the counter.

The airman hesitated, looking at three telephones on the long counter. One was a conventional black telephone without dial, the others, field phones with cranks. The man conferred briefly with another airman in the small room behind the counter. Then he told Dawson: "The easiest way to get them is to use the field phone at the end of the counter. You'll have to go through three switchboards. Our operator is Moment, ask him for Parchment, when you get him ask for Pitch Blend, and then ask for Zion-that's the switchboard at the Seabee regiment. And, Lieutenant... Good luck!"

Lieutenant Dawson gave the hand crank a quick twist and picked up the receiver.

A crisp, efficient voice responded, "Operator."

"Connect me with Parchment, please."

After considerable delay, a more distant voice answered, "Parchment."

"Connect me with Pitch Blend, operator."

"Yes sir."

Dawson waited several minutes with no answer. Trying to curb his impatience, he turned the crank again.

"Operator."

"Which operator are you?"

"This is Parchment operator."

"Ring Pitch Blend again, they didn't answer." The Parchment operator gave a long ring this time.

"Pitch Blend," came over the line.

"Operator, please connect me with Zion."

"Sorry, that trunk is busy."

"Do you only have one, Operator?"

"That's right. Sometimes we don't have that. Do you want to wait?"

"Yes, I'll wait." That he did for five minutes. He resisted several impulses to ring the operator, knowing it would ring all three switchboards he was connected through. Finally he gave the crank another twist, as he wiped sweat from his face.

"Operator."

"Operator, I've been waiting for five minutes, can you ring Zion now?"

"Sorry, but Zion isn't on my board."

"What? You... Five minutes ago you told me... Just a minute. Which operator am I talking with?"

"This is Parchment. Who do you want?"

"Ring Pitch Blend again," Dawson said in a barely tolerant voice, as he looked at the airman, who shrugged.

"Sorry, that line's busy."

"Busy? How in blazes can it be busy? You should still have me plugged in there."

"I pulled the plug to Pitch Blend when you rang me back.. Wait, there's an open line now. I'll ring."

"Another voice came through the receiver, "Have you finished?"

The color mounted in Dawson's face, "Finished? Hell no. I haven't even got started. Which operator are you?"

"This is Moment operator."

"Leave the line, Moment. I'm waiting for Pitch Blend to answer."

"This is Pitch Blend. What number do you want?"

"Operator, I am trying to get through to Zion. You left me waiting for over five minutes before. What's wrong over there?"

"You were number two waiting for that line. And then I got a disconnect before the other party was through. I can ring them for you now."

"Zion. What number please?"

"Zion, do you have a transportation section there?"

"No. This is the Regiment. You'll have to go through the Battalion for transportation."

"Operator, connect me with your Officer of The Day."

Lieutenant Dawson heard a loud click about half way through the operator's, "Yes..."

"I had to pull the plug on you. Sorry, but there was an operation-immediate call."

"I can't believe it! Which operator do I have now?"

"This is Pitch Blend. Do you want to hold till I have an open line again?"

"Yes, Pitch Blend, I'll hold. I doubt I could stand the stress of working my way back to you again. Please ring Zion as soon as you can."

Dawson looked at his watch. He had been on the telephone for more than ten minutes. I understand why Commodore Rhodes is frustrated with this system, he thought, taking another swipe at sweat running down his right cheek.

After a few minutes a voice came over the phone. "Zion, what number do you want?"

"I want to speak with your Officer of The Day."

"Command Duty Officer, Lieutenant Case speaking."

"This is Lieutenant Dawson. I'm supposed to report to your command. I'm at the Da Nang airport. Can you send someone to pick me up?"

"Sure thing. A driver will be there in half an hour."

Dawson was hot and tired and irritated after the telephone ordeal. Looking out across the large shed for a comfortable place to wait, he saw only rows of hard, unpainted wood benches without backs. He dragged his bags over to one placed against a wall and sat down resting his back and head against the rough board louvers. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his crew-cut; then closed his eyes, letting his thoughts roam undirected. Well you've had an introduction to the problem you're supposed to correct-Hmm, and it does need correcting-should have let some one else do it though-should have thought of that before. You're here now, and you got another big problem-keeping yourself alive.

His senses closed out more of the world, letting him slide into the fuzzy state between musing and dozing. He faintly heard sounds of men coming and going from the building, the sound of small engine-driven planes, and the roar of fighter-bomber jets taking off or landing regularly.

His mind dwelt on the communications mess for a few minutes. I wonder how long it'll take to get an efficient system installed. Well, there's nothing I can do about it now; I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to worry about that in the days ahead.

"Lieutenant Dawson?"

He came to with a start. "Yeah, you from the Regiment?"

"Yes sir. I'm Carney. Jeep's right outside the door. I'll take one of those bags for you."

From what he had seen from the air, Dawson figured they were skirting the business section of Da Nang. "How far to the Regiment, Carney?"

"About twelve clicks, Lieutenant."

"Twelve clicks?"

"You know, clicks-kilometers."

Dawson laughed, embarrassed at having forgotten American military slang for kilometer. His mind did some quick calculations: Let's see, a kilometer is five-eighths of a mile, so must be about eight miles-guess I'll have to get in tune with the metric system again. The hot air blowing through the open jeep dried the sweat and almost felt cool.

Carney wove skillfully through the maze of bicycles and pedestrians clogging the street at numerous points. The scene reminded Dawson of other parts of Asia where, as a career Navy man, he had been stationed in years past. The streets were narrow and without sidewalks. At sometime in the distant past they had been paved with a thin layer of asphalt, but weren't designed for the heavy military vehicles now using them. In places the pot holes seemed to occupy as much area as the smooth surface.

Other than military, there were few motorized vehicles. The people either walked or rode bicycles. A few motor scooters dodged around vehicles, and occasionally they passed a bus overflowing with people. The buses were mostly old, low-slung, converted trucks with a rear entrance and a large baggage rack on top. Some of the smaller ones reminded Dawson of jitneys in the Philippines.

On the surface, little evidence of a war in progress presented itself. They passed no bombed-out areas. But as they got out of the densely populated area an occasional crater in or near the edge of the road gave evidence of an exploded mine.

Children played in the streets with little concern for traffic except when it stopped. Then they swarmed around American vehicles, hands out, begging for gum, candy or cigarettes. An occasional young couple walked along hand-in-hand. Seeing many more young women than young men along the streets, provided a subtle reminder of war.

When they stopped and Dawson could study faces, the haggard, beaten look of the older people told of war. There was another look Bill Dawson couldn't identify. It wasn't the same expression he had seen on the faces of people in other war-torn countries. The expression was more disturbing, more perplexing than the look of defeat worn by people whose country had been conquered.

The suburbs of Da Nang were interlaced with flooded rice paddies, mounded graves and areas of natural vegetation. As they approached the beach area, Dawson watched the sand dunes grow. He breathed deeper, enjoying the fresh salt air. Just before they arrived at Red Beach, as they were leaving a small village, countless shacks sprawled across the sand on both sides of the road. They were made of cardboard and wood, of tar paper and tin, or other metal salvaged from every imaginable source. The shacks were strewn across the sand like a patchwork quilt. They were like unwelcome appendages to the village. It reminded Dawson of the depression-era hobo jungles he had seen around Omaha as a young boy.

"What's this area called?" Dawson asked.

"We call it Refugee Village. Most of the people living here are from North Vietnam. Some have been here a long time, but most of them escaped recently. Sad lookin' ain't it?"

"Sure is. Most of the people look hungry. What do they eat? Can they find work?"

The driver, gave a slight shrug. "They collect garbage from military bases. They scrounge through our dump for material to make those shacks. We hire some of them to work at the Regiment, but we got to be careful because some V.C. are mixed in with them, and can cause big trouble. They have to be screened first."

Old men and women, and children straggled along both sides of the road to Red Beach. Some dragged pieces of cardboard, tin, or bundles of small boards. Some struggled with cloth bags filled with junkyard minutiae. The old people didn't look up as the jeep passed. The shame and degradation of having to beg and scrounge for their existence was easier to bear with averted eyes. Only the young children showed spirit. They waved and called out as the jeep passed. They ran and pushed each other in play as they carried or dragged their booty home.

Dawson noted in detail the lay of the land as they approached Red Beach. They left Highway One, the main artery running the length of Vietnam, and turned right onto a gravel road leading toward the beach. After three hundred yards they came to the main gate and guard post. Heavy razor-wire entanglement protected the front of the search lights and sandbagged bunkers.

Carney took Dawson to the only two-story building and directed him to the CDO's office on the second deck. He was surprised to find a Pasco metal building in a forward war zone. The large building housed all regimental offices. Reaching the second deck, Dawson stopped and looked around. Desks and file cabinets clustered around a large open area in the center. The rhythmic tat, tat, tat of typewriters and chatter of a half dozen voices filled the air. Around the perimeter were rooms divided by partitions with space at the bottom and the top-no doors, just 2 x 4 entryways.

A lieutenant greeted Dawson, "I'm Roger Case. Glad to meet you finally, Bill. I'll get you checked in and squared away. The Commodore said he wanted to see you as soon as you've stowed your gear. Give me your orders and records, and I'll have a yeoman process them while we get your gear over to your room."

Case carried one of Dawson's bags across loose sand flanking the packed gravel road, to a long narrow building on stilts two-feet off the ground, sided with wood louvered strips. "I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast. I'd like a snack before seeing the Commodore," Dawson said.

"Sure," Lieutenant Case said. "Chow is over but I'll get a steward to fix you a sandwich."

Dawson followed Case into one end of the building, entering a corridor running the length of it. On either side were cubicles formed by plywood sheets, with a foot opening at the floor and open above the plywood to the corrugated metal roof. There were doorless entries to each of the small rooms. Case stopped at the second opening on the right. "You can have any room that's empty. I suppose there are half a dozen. This one's directly across the hall from my room."

"This is fine with me," Dawson said, dropping his bag on the plywood deck.

Case placed the bag he carried beside the other one and said, "OK, let's get you a snack."

They entered the kitchen end of the officers' mess, across the gravel road from the officers' barracks. Going through the kitchen and into the dining room, Case located one of the stewards and told him to fix Dawson a sandwich. He turned to Dawson. "As soon as you finish, come back to the headquarters building and I'll take you in to see the Commodore. Sorry I can't stay, but I've got a pile of work waiting for me. That's one thing you'll find no shortage of here-work."

Dawson had eaten half of his sandwich when in the distance he heard, whump, whump. Ten seconds later a siren sounded right outside the mess. He jumped to his feet. For a second, panic welled up inside-he didn't know where to go. When he saw the stewards heading for the back door, Dawson followed. He jumped into the mortar trench two seconds behind them-just as another pair of whumps sounded near by.

"Do all new arrivals get such a warm welcome?" Dawson quipped.

"No sweat, Lieutenant. Charley's shooting at the Marines across the road. But we gotta go on the alert just in case he misses." one of the men said with a knowing smile.

As Dawson squatted in the two-foot wide trench he thought, with a twinge of irony: When the Commodore told me what a good job I would have, he didn't mention the down side. Well, that's why they're giving me combat pay.