A Trucker's Tale – Seabee Memories

Apr 23, 2025 - 4 months ago

I began PART TWO, THE MILITARY YEARS, by stating that I did not die in Vietnam because I had been fortunate enough to join the Seabees as a truck driver, and I stand by that statement.

A Trucker's Tale - Seabee Memories — *The ubiquitous Vietnamese 20 passenger bus.*

If you have been reading my Supply Post articles for the past 13 months, I sincerely thank you! These articles chronicled my time spent in the US Navy Seabees while serving in Vietnam. These “in country” stories and memories, I must admit—hell, I agree with you—that many of those memories were either caused, or made much more hilarious, by the enjoyment of alcohol, mostly beer. Without the beverages, those memories would not, without a doubt, have been worth the time you spent reading them. What would I have written? “Arrived at convoy point; had to sit for five hours with nothing to do; read some and smoked cigarettes; tried to sleep in 100+ degrees temperature.”

I’m not sure why, but the group of guys I worked with, and called friends, never smoked pot, otherwise I could have sat at the convoy point in the middle of a purple haze. A lot of our guys smoked, what they claimed to be, was the best s_ _t they had ever had, and maybe it was, because many Army and Marine soldiers seemed to enjoy it themselves. I suppose drinking was good enough for us. (A very wise man once told me, “Whatever it takes to get you through!”)

To be quite honest, we probably drank so we would not be plumbed-scared-to-death of being killed. If I had been drafted and had become a ground-pounder, I think I could have handled actual combat, but waiting around to be shot at, or hit by mortars, or hitting land mines, just left too much to contemplate and worry-about. The beer helped, and my memories lend me all the confirmation I have ever needed to support my belief that alcohol was necessary at that time in my life.

Being able to drive trucks while in Vietnam permitted me to observe quite a bit of the country’s sights and culture while driving back and forth over about one hundred miles. The following observations are some of the memories I carried home:

The South Vietnamese, other than its military members, were a very gentle people, and they mostly seemed at ease and happy. I suppose the fact that their country had been at war for so long that they were indifferent to all the brutality surrounding them.
Most younger women were quite beautiful. I suppose the hard labor the women did took a toll on their looks later in life.
Chewing betel nuts made their teeth red. The nut is the seed of the areca palm, and it has a narcotic effect. (Could this be why they were such gentle people?)
The coastline, especially along the mountainside was beautifully picturesque, as I looked down while traveling over the Hai Van Pass between Danang and Hue.
All the kids were very curious of, and wanted to learn about, us Americans. They were ever present as they watched us building roads and bridges. They loved the chocolate and crackers we gave them from our C-Rations.
The ever-present smoke caused by deriving charcoal from the burning of various types of roots. Men, and mostly women, balanced fully loaded, four-foot-tall baskets of roots on their shoulders. The shoulder harness looked like a long piece of wood with strings on both ends. The strings were attached to the baskets, and they hung down very close to the ground. I doubt that I could have carried the weight those folks did every day. Additionally, small, old women could carry more on their shoulders than most big GIs. Sometimes, we would see them with two pigs, or two wired cages full of chickens. They didn’t have pickup trucks, so this was their mode of transporting many commodities.
Twenty-passenger buses probably carried at least 40 to 50 people, in addition to the passengers’ kids, chickens and pigs, as the riders held onto the sides or sat on top of the buses. It was hilarious each time I passed one of these buses because most of the passengers on the outside and top smiled and waved like they were having the time of their lives. I still chuckle when I remember them.
Daylight on the concrete wall along the Perfume River in Hue, across the river from our barge facility, as hundreds of Vietnamese, of all ages, hung their bare asses over the wall to take their morning constitutionals. Wondering, as my grandfather, Obie, would have phrased it, “How in the damned hell did the putrid and stinking Perfume River ever get its name?”

From the same barge-unloading facility in Hue, observing a sampan, on a tributary of the Perfume River at daylight, after a woman completes her morning’s constitutional off the leeward side, then dips a pan to draw water from the wayward side to use for fixing breakfast.
Living on soil so porous that trucks created dust only 30 minutes after it had literally rained every single day for 40 days.
Danang’s China Beach was the nickname for My Khe beach, having been given the name by American, English and Australian soldiers during their relaxation time in Danang, as they swam and surfed. Ironically, the beach was also the site of the first U.S. troops landing in Vietnam in 1965. Although I was not yet in the Seabees. I am proud to say that the battalion I was in also landed with the Marines on China Beach.
The thump, thump, thump, thump was loud as B-52s dropped their bombs along the Ho Chi Minh trail in the A Shau Valley 20 miles west of our camp.
The unmistakable sound of the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, as the 16-inch shells fired from the USS New Jersey went flying over Danang headed for the A Shau Valley.
Holding open the screen door of our chow hall for a heavily laden Army soldier to enter. Damn! It wasn’t just any Army dude. It was a friend and neighbor who grew up half a mile from me, although we were both now 13,000 miles away from home.
The heat took a long time to get used to, especially when trying to sleep while sweating. Many of us purchased fans for our hooch’s, but they were not very effective because our bunks were enclosed in mosquito netting. Conversely, the winter temperature never went below 50F, but we were still cold, having been used to 100+F.
The beer girls were always smiling and happy, as they knew a lot about customer service at their young ages.
I tried to write home every couple of weeks, and I usually included a photograph in each envelope. My dad eventually replied with a request to send “your mother” some pictures without a beer can in my hand.

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.