ET2 David B. Binder, U.S. Navy (1963 – 1967)

My four years in the navy included two tours of duty on the USS Hissem, DER 400 (destroyer escort) in Vietnam on Operation Market Time, which was the blockade of the entire 1,200-mile coastline of South Vietnam. We searched watercraft for arms, ammunition, and supplies that were being smuggled to the enemy; and did close in gunfire support with our three-inch guns and .50 caliber machine guns. My job was to hold the boat crews at gun point while the rest of the team searched and I also was a .50 caliber machine gunner while on patrol. I earned the Navy and Marine Corps Combat Action Ribbon.

As my separation date approached, I promised my parents that I would be home for Thanksgiving 1967.

After my separation on November 8, I left Treasure Island, San Francisco, and headed to Lufkin, Texas, to visit a family who had written to me during my two tours of duty. They wanted me to move in with them and go to college instead of going home to Pennsylvania.

Although I was tempted to stay, I said goodbye on the day before Thanksgiving, and flew to Philadelphia, about 50 miles south of my home in Allentown, Pennsylvania. We landed very early on Thanksgiving morning.

I traveled in my dress blue uniform. It was cold and rainy. I took the train to the end of the line, but was still about 40 miles from home. It was about 3:00 AM on Thanksgiving morning.

I decided to hitchhike the rest of the way. I spotted a telephone booth near the shoulder of the road. I got into the booth and closed the door. As a pair of headlights pierced the darkness, I stuck my arm out of the booth with my thumb pointing the direction I wanted to go.

A white Cadillac convertible stopped next to the telephone booth. I approached the passenger side door as the window went down. I could feel the warm air from inside the car blow out onto my wet wool jumper.

A voice from inside asked me where I was going. Allentown, I said. Then I told them thank you for stopping; but they didn t want me with my wet uniform in the car because of the wet wool odor. I would wait for a truck to come by. Nonsense!” the man said. We will get you home. He got out and put my seabag into the trunk. I got into the back seat with the young child of the family of three.

We talked as the miles went by. Then we stopped at a corner in Bethlehem, the town next to Allentown. I had 14 miles to go.
He said, This is as close as I can get you, as he got my seabag from the trunk, and I was thanking and saying goodbye to the wife and child. I then extended my right hand to the man as I thanked him for the ride.

What is this that he placed in my hand as we shook? A twenty-dollar bill. I told him that I could not take it. That he helped me enough with the ride. He said, I told you we would get you home. That is your car fare. Keep the change. Twenty dollars was a lot of money in 1967.

I caught a taxi the rest of the way home, getting there about 6:00 AM. I went into the house (we didn t lock our doors in those days), went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator for something to eat.

My parents and younger sister heard me and came downstairs for a joyous reunion.

I have never forgotten that act of kindness almost 60 years ago. It had a profound impact on me. It was certainly a better homecoming than most Vietnam veterans got.

Read the Military Memories of our Runner-Ups.