The SEGway News Issue 33, 25 May 2017 | Page 4

May 25 , 2017 The SEGway News Page 3

Personality

Why I fought in Vietnam … and why I ’ d do it again

By Dennis E . Hensley

I have only seen my father cry twice . One time was at his mother ’ s funeral . The other was on the day I left for Vietnam .

Dad accepted both situations with resolute understanding . This was the way life was . Old people died . Good men fought against evil . Neither was a preferable circumstance , but both were necessary if the world was to continue with balance . You could cry about it , but you couldn ’ t run from it .

He hadn ’ t . At his mother ’ s funeral , despite the wrenching personal agony he felt , he personally saw to it that every detail was attended to with dignity , loving tribute , and in a manner my grandmother would have found tasteful . Dad was fifty-one at the time .

When he was seventeen , he had stepped forward to join the Navy , to fight against the enemy . It was 1944 . He was told he was too young ; that he would need his father ’ s signature on a release form . His father cried that day . But he signed the form . There was no avoiding it . He understood his son . This was the way of good men . They always came forward when needed to fight against evil . Fathers had no right to restrain them . His hadn ’ t .

Twenty-one years later , mine hadn ’ t either .

It was January 2 , 1971 . I was a PFC at home on leave after seven months of duty at Fort Knox , Kentucky . The family Christmas back in Michigan had been wonderful . But today was my mother ’ s birthday and I was catching a plane to California en route to my new duty station in Long Binh , South Vietnam .

As I rechecked my orders , I wasn ’ t even sure I was pronouncing the name of my new duty station correctly . I had studied Spanish in college , not Vietnamese . Perhaps now that seemed like a poor choice . But at least it had been my choice . Like joining the Army . I hadn ’ t been drafted . That hadn ’ t been necessary . Good men always came forward to fight against evil . It was the way .

As a PFC , my military code was 71M20 , “ Chaplain ’ s Assistant .” The position had come to me almost by process of elimination : I could type ; I had a college degree ; I was a trained musician ; and I was not a conscientious objector . Those factors made me eligible for a 71M20 slot . What probably clinched it , however , was my psychological profile interview . I don ’ t think the poor psychologist knew where else to assign me .

“ These are general questions we ask all new soldiers ,” he explained to me . “ It ’ s my job to find out something about you — your personality — and then to suggest some job assignments with which you would be compatible .” I nodded . “ Tell me , Private Hensley , how much social drinking do you do ?”

“ Abstainer since birth ,” I replied .

He stared at me for a moment , as though he had never heard that expression before . He pondered it , but then wrote down teetotaler . “ Do you smoke ?” “ No ” “ Use profanity ?” “ No .” “ Like to gamble ?” “ No .” He paused a minute , scratched his cheek , and glanced down a list of military job categories . It was obvious I wasn ’ t going to be material for motor pool or drill sergeant schools .

“ Have you ever considered Officer Candidate School ?”

“ Forget it ,” I said . I then remembered I was no longer a civilian . “ I mean , no , thank you , sir .”

“ Are you bitter about being in the Army ?”

“ I can ’ t tell …,” I said honestly .

He wrinkled his forehead questioningly .

“… I ’ ve only been in four days .”

That made him frown .

“ It ’ s been fine so far though ,” I added , trying to appease him .

“ Tell me this ,” he said , putting his pen aside and leaning back in his chair . “ How do you feel about war , about people killing other people ?”

“ Which question do you want me to answer first ?” I asked . “ How I feel about war , or how I feel about people killing other people ?”

“ You don ’ t equate the two ?” “ Do you ?” “ I ’ ll ask the questions , please .” Again , I nodded . “ Right .” I took a moment to collect my thoughts .

“ I ’ m a linguist by training ,” I said at last . “ I study and analyze words . It ’ s my job to plumb the real depth of a word ’ s meaning before I use it . When you ask how I feel about people killing people , I have to ask you to clarify yourself . I have completely different views and opinions on such things as murder , assassination and execution . Which do you want to hear first ?”

The psychologist reached over and turned off a tape recorder .

“ Look , “ he said , “ these are only supposed to be fifteen minute interviews . Just tell me if you have any qualms about fighting the Communists in South Vietnam .”

“ No ,” I said . “ That ’ s why I enlisted .”

Why was it that the obvious seemed so hard to comprehend , I wondered ?

“ All right then ,” he said , rubbing his hands . “ I ’ m going to suggest that you agree to serve in the Chaplaincy Corps as a chaplain ’ s assistant . By the way , how good are you with a rifle ?”

“ Sir ?” I said , somewhat confused by the contrast of the question .

“ Are you a good shot or not ?” he repeated .

I shrugged my shoulders . “ I grew up in a suburb ,” I said almost apologetically . “ I ’ ve never fired a rifle , except for a . 22 at Boy Scout

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“ Then a word of advice , soldier ,” he said . “ Pay close attention to what those D . I . s teach you during the next six weeks . Very , very close attention .”

At the end of basic training , I was given orders to remain at Fort Knox for OJT ( on the job training ) at Triangle Chapel . I reported to Chaplain ( Major ) Merrill O . Challman on August 1 , 1970 . He waved off my salute , motioned for me to stand at ease , and looked me over .

“ How good are you with a rifle ?” he asked , first thing .

Déjà vu , I thought . Here we go again . I said , “ Marksman , sir .” “ Not Expert ?” he pressed . “ No , sir . But I only missed it by two points .”

He smiled at that . “ Well , that ’ s impressive . You ’ ve had a lot of experience with rifles then ?”

I shook my head . “ No , sir . Not until six weeks ago . But that worked to my advantage . I had no bad habits to break . I just did exactly what the drill sergeants said to do . I learned by the book . And the book was right .”

“ Good ,” he said . “ Okay , here ’ s a rundown of your duties around here .”

I scanned a typed piece of paper which contained a list of such chores as cleaning the altar silver , waxing the floor , answering the phone , typing correspondence , and setting up counseling appointments .

“ And I want you to spend two hours each week on the target range ,” he said . “ After you finally qualify as an Expert with the M-16 rifle , I want you to move on to the M-50 grenade launcher and M-60 machine gun .”

I looked puzzled . These seemed odd requests from a “ man of the cloth .” I ventured , “ In all due respect , sir , why do I need to become a weapons expert just to be the chapel ’ s janitor and receptionist ?”

“ You ’ ll know soon enough ,” he said .” Trust me . It ’ s important .”

It was important . In fact , it was a matter of life and death … or shall I say lives and deaths — my own and the chaplains ’ I would be protecting .

Like medics , chaplains in Vietnam were “ excused from ” having to ( read that forbidden to ) bear arms , even in combat situations . However , they did have one direct source of protection , besides prayer : the chaplain ’ s assistant . Wherever the chaplain went throughout a war zone , his assistant went with him , usually with an M-16 rifle in hand and a crisscrossed set of ammunition bandoliers draped over his chest .

In effect , the same fellow who had been a receptionist and janitor while serving stateside quickly became a bodyguard when he arrived in Vietnam . If he was a good bodyguard , the chaplain he was assigned to would make it through the war . If he was an extremely good bodyguard , the assistant would make it through the war , too . And that was why Chaplain Challman saw to it that I became an extremely good bodyguard .

While at Fort Knox with Chaplain Challman , I was part of the Armor Corps . When my orders for Vietnam came through , I was reassigned to the Military Police . Chaplain Challman gave me some simple advice on the day we parted company . “ Pray for protection of God ,” he said , “ but never forget the wickedness of man .”

My father said something similar to that when he hugged me on that last day . His eyes were red and a tear was rolling down one cheek . “ Keep your Bible and your rifle in ready reach at all times ,” he cautioned .

I promised I would . And then he let me go .

The flights to Vietnam were long . I had the chance slowly and carefully to replay the memory tapes of my life in an effort to discover how it was that now at age twenty-one , of my own choosing , I was en route to a country I had never visited , yet planned to defend against an invader with my life .

From Michigan to California I pondered the problem . From California to Hawaii I eliminated the obvious answers and simplistic explanations . Much later , somewhere over the Pacific Ocean between Hawaii and Vietnam , I found my solutions , I ultimately decided that it all came down to my fourth grade Sunday school teacher , Joe Jenkins , Jr ., and a 1966 trip I had made to East Germany . An odd combination of factors perhaps , but then what in life isn ’ t ?

When I was nine , I had had perfect attendance for a year in Sunday school . My teacher , Mr . Jenkins , had given me a New Testament as a reward . He had admonished me to put it in my hip pocket and to carry it with me every day wherever I went . One never knew , he told me , where God would direct , and it could very well be that there would be many chances to witness to people if I would just keep that New Testament handy . “ The word of God is living and active , sharper than any doubleedged sword ,” he quoted Hebrews 4:12 to me .

I was young and I took his words literally . I began to carry that New Testament in all my clothing — in my school trousers , in my summer baseball uniform , and in my Sunday school dress slacks . Years passed and I maintained the practice , more out of habit than conscious effort . We moved from Detroit to Bay City , and the New Testament also moved ( on my person ). It was always with me .

Just as Mr . Jenkins had predicted , chances to witness did arise — sometimes at school , sometimes at summer camp , sometimes at college .

Though not consciously knowing it , I had become a

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