A Trucker's Tale – The Last Hoorah

Feb 20, 2025 - one year ago

Each morning at daylight, seven days a week, Army ordinance crews (mine sweepers) would clear Highway 1 before traffic was allowed onto the roadway.

A Trucker's Tale - The Last Hoorah — *Taking our equipment back to camp. Photo courtesy Ed Miller.*

I was usually waiting for our gate to open when the mine sweepers went by our camp, as I made the first part of my 150-mile round trip run for supplies in Danang. The worst part of driving one of the first vehicles on the road each day was the sight of the dead bodies laid in the middle of the road at each village, hamlet, or town. Depending how many Viet Cong, or suspected Viet Cong and sympathizers, were killed the previous night, the South Vietnamese Army (ARVN) soldiers placed the dead in the middle of the road leading into each village. There might be one body, or a pile of bodies placed on top of each other. It was necessary to slow down to drive around the bodies. I learned this practice was to make the statement of what would happen to anyone who aided the enemy. The sights of those bodies were a helluva way to start each day. I cannot say I ever got used to it, but the frequency caused me to view the practice as just another one of the terrible things that happened in that screwed-up war in Southeast Asia.

The final trucking story from my military service in Vietnam was certainly one to remember. Our detachment (of 12) had one last night at the Army camp south of Quang Tri, and if you will remember, this was the location where we had been enjoying the hot meals, complements of those Army officers. We worked from five in the morning, in alternating rain showers and bright sunlight, at close to 110 degrees, until the road closed at dusk. We showered and then had our last dinner with the Army officers. The officers bought us numerous beers to wish us farewell. Arriving back to our “hooch,” we then thought it only fitting to celebrate leaving this country by having a few beers (our last purchased from the little beer girls) while we rehashed some of our “in country” war stories. We had more beers, and the war stories probably contained many lies, as we continued celebrating.

We got a little more than carried away and our celebration lasted the entire night. Just about daylight, someone hollered, “Damn, look at Willie!” (You might remember that Willie was the one who used a dump truck for a completely different use other than hauling sand or dirt.) Editor's Note: See 'The Amazingly Versatile Multi-Purpose Dump Truck on page 46 of our October 2024 issue. We gathered by Willie’s bed as he lay flat on his back. By the looks of it, he had, for quite a long while, been placing his empty beer cans on his chest, and the large number of cans indicated that several others had added their own empties. He was bare-chested, owing to being in hotter-than-hell Vietnam, and his entire chest, stomach, and parts of his thighs were covered by empty cans.

We began applauding Willie’s efforts when the door of our hooch opened. Our battalion’s commanding officer strode-in, followed closely by his executive officer, and then more officers than I could count. We just knew our CO had come to thank us for completing this road project on time, and although I don’t remember his exact words after stopping at the foot of Willie’s bunk, I do remember his words as being far from complimentary.

To Willie’s credit, and to his sense of beer-can-balance, (or maybe because he was too inebriated to get up) he did not move and not a single beer can fell from where each had been placed.

I smile every time I remember the look on the CO’s face as he stood at the foot of Willie’s bunk as he looked down at all those empty beer cans perched on Willie’s upper body. I could swear his suppressed grin said, “Damn, I wish I could do that!”

If I had been sober enough to find my camera, I’m sure I would still be embarrassing Willie today. What a great last memory to carry away from South Vietnam. Truthfully, Willie’s story was just one of the many memories I took with me.

Our original orders for that morning were to pack up and leave Quang Tri, and to take all our equipment back to our base camp. To our dismay, we realized just how badly we had screwed-up (even though we all blamed Willie) when we were ordered to “go out there and act like it is just another workday.” Our punishment, even though none of us were anywhere close to sober, was to operate our heavy equipment in the 110° F to 115° F temperatures.

Mostly all I remember was sweating and wanting to hurl all morning, and we were told that we somehow had messed up some of the work we had previously completed. But orders being orders, we did our best! In the early afternoon, probably timed to coincide with when everyone was in reach of sobriety, we received the word to head ‘em up, move ‘em out, and that we could leave to go back to Camp Haines.

We arrived back to the camp to find our 850 fellow Seabees celebrating the awesomeness of leaving Vietnam the next day. They were having such a good time because the CO hadn’t found them inebriated at daybreak that morning. They had spent the day packing all their belongings, in addition to various types of contraband, such as M-16s, Colt 45s, bayonets, or anything else they could find, into duffle bags or footlockers. We 12, now sober but well hung over, were told that we had already celebrated, and we needed to use what time we had left “in country” to pack our own duffle bags. Our small detachment was required to turn in our Colt 45s and M-16s as soon as we returned to our camp. Sadly, we didn’t get to hide these contraband items in our duffle bags.

Early the next morning, we boarded Boeing CH-47 helicopters at Camp Evans, the Army base beside our Camp Haines, and we headed to Danang for our flight home to the Good Ole USA.

Ed Miller ([email protected]) has more than 40 years of management and ownership experience in the trucking industry. Today, he is a part-time tour bus driver, published author of “A Trucker’s Tale”, and regular contributor to Supply Post. He is a father of three and a grandfather of two, and lives with his wife in Rising Sun, Maryland.