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Vietnam and the Appalachian Trail (Part I) My relationship with the Appalachian Trail is closely bound to my experience as an infantryman in Vietnam. I discovered the AT not long before I went to Vietnam in 1970. I was a senior in college about to lose my student deferment and armed only with a low number in the "possible draft" category. It was a nervous time. But life went on despite the uncertainty. Friends invited my girlfriend and me to join them on a day hike up Humpback Rocks on a beautiful spring day. I was fashionably dressed in moccasin boots that were woefully inadequate on the rocky trail. Somehow I climbed to the rocks and looked west over the Shenandoah Valley. I was enraptured by the view and the sense of vast space within my gaze. The day is one fondly remembered, not only for the joy and wonder at the time but also for a vision that may have saved my life and sanity in Vietnam. Perhaps it was a gift from the gods to help me through my upcoming ordeal. Barely a month after graduating from college, I was a Private, E-1 in the U.S. Army. I knew that the draft was almost inevitable once I graduated. I also knew that I was not going to leave the U.S. or refuse induction if drafted. I hadn't tried to claim a conscientious objector status on my belief that the war was wrong and probably a crime against the Vietnamese people. I volunteered for two years, hoping that I would luck out on an assignment, rather than enlisting for three years and choosing an assignment. Basic Training at Fort Campbell, Kentucky was a tough environment for a skinny, out of shape college boy. I made it through. Barely. My assignment: Infantry. I was headed to the killing zone. I went to Fort Lewis, Washington for infantry training. Like any Army environment, it reeked of regimentation and stupidity but it was more relaxed than basic training. I had some small opportunity to carve out a bit of mental life for myself. Fort Lewis introduced me to the landscape and forests of the Pacific Northwest. Experiencing the area as a civilian would have been more fun. But, regardless, I saw and felt the land. The weather was dry throughout a beautiful September and into October and, Army bullshit aside, I enjoyed being in the woods. When the rains came, Army life was pretty dismal but even then, I saw beauty in the rain and its transforming effect on the landscape. Throughout my training, I thought of the day, not that long before, when I marveled in Shenandoah's quiet beauty. Those thoughts allowed me to transcend grim reality. Finding the wonder in beauty around me was perhaps the most valuable lesson I learned in infantry school. I graduated (if that's the right word) as a Light Weapons Infantryman, military occupational specialty 11B20. Thirty days later I was in Vietnam. The real thing. I went in-country ten days before Christmas 1970 with buddies from infantry school. We were temporarily assigned to guard duty at the Bien Hoa replacement station. I guarded an enlisted man's club building from midnight to 6:00 am armed with a baseball bat and transistor radio. At the end of two weeks, I was assigned to the First Cavalry Division. Another three days at the division's in-country training center reviewed basic infantry skills and jungle warfare. The training included rappeling from a 50 foot tower, which I knew would kill me. I was terrified at the prospect. I spent two days marching past that tower, my fears adding up. On the day of the rappel, however, I climbed the tower, harnessed up and jumped. Not quite without a thought but certainly not much thought. I braked and lowered myself well. It would have been fun to go back but I did not try again. From the firebase, the jungle, what I could see of it, was an exotic, seemingly impenetrable wall. Our only access was by air. We were small compared to the land. Next morning, we loaded into Huey's and flew out, my first combat assault. My chopper rose above the jungle and the land spread out before me. To the extent I wasn't petrified at being in a bucking helicopter with a screaming turbine and no doors, the land looked peaceful, calm, lush. On the ground, the land was less peaceful, more difficult. We were in the mountains. Hard going, no trail, breaking brush through the jungle, camping each night in a defensive perimeter ringed with claymore mines and trip flares. But I kept up. We named one area Happy Flour Valley for the food caches we found in abundance. The stream there was pleasant and cool in the jungle heat. Wonder and joy was there before my eyes, even in the most bleak, most dire straits. As long as I could find that wonder and joy, I knew I would survive. And when it was not readily apparent, I thought of Shenandoah, family and friends to create my own wonder and joy. It kept me from being afraid. As an infantryman, I was passable but I always felt ill-suited for the task. I was also incredibly lucky. My unit didn't see much combat; some brief skirmishes but nothing like the ambushes that left other companies in the battalion with dead and wounded. After about ten weeks, I was volunteered out of the platoon when the Captain needed a new radio operator. It was good move for both my platoon and me. The command post moved less than the platoons, often remaining in a perimeter secured by one platoon while the other two platoons ran ambush patrols. Aside from making me more of a desirable target (commander's radio) and likely target (fixed position), being in the command post gave me time to reflect on the jungle that covered the mountains where we worked. It was densely vegetated, thick but not impenetrable. It didn't feel too much different than Virginia woods. It somehow felt familiar and comfortable despite the incredible circumstances. My luck really improved when I was assigned to the rear as company clerk in June. My field days were over. Now came the psychological challenges of living in a desolate landscape populated by career Army types. It was far less dangerous than infantry patrol and eased my mind greatly. As in the jungle, I looked to the world around me for beauty but found mostly barren vistas. Behind me lay a city of plywood, canvas and dust, the sprawling Bien Hoa Army base. Across an empty valley, planes landed and took off from the large air base. In front of my area was the Green Line, the outer perimeter of the base and beyond, a vast, empty field of fire. My newfound sensibility was jarringly aware of the emptiness in which I lived. In contrast the jungle was rich and full of life, whatever its risks. And, no, I never once wanted to return to the jungle. I would deal with the emptiness by creating other mental diversions. The "some" came in the next few years. I began hiking more regularly again in 1977 and even more after my divorce a few years later. I hiked about 80 miles of the AT along with many other trails in the Blue Ridge and Shenandoah Mountains before moving west in 1982. And, always, on those hikes, I thought back to my experience in Vietnam. The simple act of walking in the woods conjured up memories of walking in the jungle. Not the fear and tension of combat but rather, the everyday activities of life in the woods. Much of my camp routine and technique was based on the routines I established on combat patrol. If the going became difficult, I told myself that it was easier than Nam. Looking back, my passion
for hiking and adventure was a continuation of my Vietnam experience.
I "proved myself as a man" in Vietnam by meeting a life threatening
challenge head on. True, I was incredibly lucky; my fate was largely due
to chance rather than my skill. But I did master my fears and showed myself
capable of successfully surviving an extremely hazardous challenge. Hiking
and backpacking allowed me to demonstrate my continued strength and fortitude.
Moving to Arizona gave me the opportunity to take on more challenging
hikes and to risk my life on several occasions. To be continued in the next issue... Mark Fleming
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