One of My Most Unforgettable Wartime Persons: John Paul Vann
Otis Willie PIO The American War Library
I apologize for not remembering the exact date but it was in June of 1970. I had volunteered for a special assignment in Cambodia during the brief Incursion for which I was originally ordered to Vietnam in the Autumn of 1969. (The Cambodia
�Incursion� was originally planned for October, 1970 but was delayed because Kissinger got cold feet and advised my boss to convince the president to postpone the invasion because Kissinger thought he could get a better deal when
negotiating with the North. History records that he didn�t.)
I had successfully completed my assignment and was heading back to my operating center in Bien Hoa. While walking along the highway as numerous US Army vehicles passed me without stopping to offer me a lift (which did not annoy me because
we were trained to work alone and depend on no one for assistance regardless the situation) a tan colored, two-door sedan passed me then abruptly came to a sudden stop about 30 meters to my front. Three men jovially climbed out of the
vehicle, one of whom waved to me with a wide and welcome smile to quick-pace forward. The men wore non-Army khaki-colored uniforms with no rank and no insignia. All were white and between 40 and 50 years of age. I saw no threat. I quickened
by step.
Upon approaching the vehicle one of the men had opened the trunk of the vehicle and welcomed me to toss my pack inside. I complied, keeping my M-16 on my shoulder. One of the other smiling men invited me to toss my M-16 inside the trunk as
well. I shook my head. The man insisted, saying �We�re friends... trust me.�. I complied. The words �Trust me� were recalled from my training as a verifier. (However, my unseen .45 under my jacket was not disclosed to my apparent hosts.
That was also my training.)
All three men then entered the vehicle to sit in the rear seat, offering me the front seat to �ride shotgun� next to the driver. (I suspected they knew about my undisclosed .45 and permitted me that exception.) During our several-hour ride
I was continually awed, impressed and inspired about the three rankless, middle-aged white men and their smiling driver driving along a lonely highway in Vietnam during the day fascinated me with endless curiosity, while at the same time
feeling some level of kinship with them. (The agreement with Charlie (North Vietnamese operatives) was that we Americans could own the highways by day if we allowed them to own them after dark).
As our vehicle proceeded at a leisurely 45mph drive with our ultimate destination being Long Binh, the three men sat in the back seat asking me questions about how I personally viewed the war, what I thought our (American) chances were of
ultimately succeeding in winning the war, and how much confidence did I have in our generals. The questions were common, they did not bother me. What did, however, puzzle me was the buoyant and optimistic personalities of my three hosts.
Typically, American managers in Vietnam were jovial, self-confident and easy to get along with, but none I had encountered until this moment, my 10th month in Vietnam, were as unusually pleasant as my three hosts who insisted on commanding
their driver to take me to any location I requested. I told them that anywhere in Long Binh was fine.
After arriving at a chopper facility in Long Binh each of my three hosts bade me a lifetime of success and happiness. When I thanked them for stopping to provide me a lift, one of the three, the shortest amongst them, replied, �Not a
problem. We were told to look for a young black soldier walking alone. If we picked up the wrong soldier the Army can sue us... but I think we got it right... you don�t usually find a lone black kid walking alone on a remote highway in
Vietnam.� He then patted me on the soldier with a fatherly hand and he and his companions drove away.
It was several years later when I opened my morning Los Angeles Times in San Pedro, California, although now officially out of the military but still under control at Fort MacArthur, that I saw a photograph of one of the men, the shortest,
who several years later gave me a ride on a lonely road in South Vietnam. Reading the print attached to the photo I learned of the death of an American warrior and hero named John Paul Vann.
I knew nothing of this man while serving in Vietnam, but I would be learning a lot about him in the coming days as I researched his history and telephoned the White House with feverishly anxious questions to my manager about this wonderful,
buoyant and energetic man who had just died in Vietnam. Mr. Haldemann answered all of my questions and ensured me that I would have an opportunity to attend one of several of Mr. Vann�s Army funerals.
I shall never forget Mr. Vann. Meeting him after a difficult assignment, and inspired by his optimism, helped me to realize that those of us who survived Vietnam must live for those who did not... although, I must admit... it had never
occurred to me that I would not be a survivor... or later make definite plans to be our Nation�s oldest surviving Vietnam vet... thanks to Mr. John Paul Vann for his words of encouragement, enthusiasm and energy during our three-hour
conversation.
And thanks also to my manager Mr. Haldemann who never took his eyes off ensuring the well-being of any of his �young roosters�. His parental worry over his twelve in Vietnam kept each and every one of us alive to return home... back to The
World.
Phill Coleman
Vietnam, 1969-70
My Favorite Wartime Person:
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-- Otis Willie (Ret.)
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