Cpl David Mulldune, U.S. Marines (1967-1969)

It was May 1969 in Vietnam, after nearly 13 months as a combat Marine, when I was pulled back to battalion headquarters on Hill 55 to rotate back to the World. On my way from the mess hall, the clerk I always pestered about my flight yelled, Corporal Mulldune, how soon can you get your shit together? I got a flight for tomorrow if you can make it to Danang.

Watch my blur. I can make it! I was sky high. So many times in the bush I d watch freedom birds heading home and wish it was me. Now it was. I checked in my weapon, dumped my gear in a pile for the pogues, and said a few half-hearted goodbyes nothing like leaving my guys on Hill 10.

Climbing into the back of a six-by felt strange I was naked without my rifle. A couple of boots stared at me the way I once stared at grunts, awestruck and clueless about what was coming. I hoped they d make it.

At Danang, I showered for the first time in 13 months without rationing, staying under the hot water until I was a prune. Clean utilities replaced my filthy gear. For the first time in over a year, I wasn t sweating. That night, I watched Planet of the Apes and slid between clean sheets on a real mattress, the scent of Dial soap still on my skin.

The next day we boarded. At the top of the stairs stood a beautiful American stewardess. I wanted to say something flirty, but nothing came out. Once seated, she gave her announcements. We started taxiing, then paused. Engines roared, and as we gained speed, I looked out at everything rushing past. When the wheels lifted, the biggest roar I d ever heard erupted inside the cabin. I didn t know I could scream that loudly. Thirteen months of emotions flushed out of me. I ve never felt such an incredible high and never will again. Not even sex compares.

We landed in Okinawa to refuel and collect gear. On the next leg, everyone stuffed American Airlines blankets into seabags. In Guam, our last stop before the World, we killed time with cards and small talk. No one mentioned Nam.
On June 7, 1969, as we approached El Toro Marine Air Base, butterflies filled my stomach. At 2200 hours we touched down. We were told it would take 10 days to process out, with liberty in the meantime. I didn t call home I wanted to surprise them.

Though weekend liberty flights weren t allowed, I caught one to San Francisco, then a taxi to Tracy. I hadn t called Mama; I wanted her to open the door and see me. The hour-long ride was torture. At 5:30 a.m., I stepped out, paid the driver $65, and rang the bell over and over.

The door opened. Mama stood there with Philip, my five-year-old brother, both sleepy-eyed.
Mama, I m home, I said. She collapsed in my arms, crying.

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