I flew out of Saigon along with a dozen other new arrivals on an army CV-2 caribou. We shared the cargo space with a jeep and pallets of supplies. With its blunt nose, elevated tail section and olive-drab color, the plane reminded me of a giant grasshopper with no resemblance  whatsoever to its antlered North American namesake. 

Despite its awkward appearance, the plane would play a significant role in the war effort. A three ton payload and a rear-loading door, combined with the ability to land and take off from short unimproved air strips made it well suited for resupplying remote special forces camps. 

Approaching our destination we swung out over the coast before circling back for the landing. From my side window I could see the silver light of a full moon shimmering off the South China Sea. Morning revealed the stunning setting of what would be my home for the next year. 

To the west the city was encircled by a fortress of low, jungle-covered mountains. Off the coast quixotic islands protected the turquoise waters of Nha Trang Bay while gentle waves washed up against a three mile long crescent shaped beach. In a striking resemblance to the French Riviera, a palm-lined boulevard paralleled the sandy shore. 

Were it not in a war zone, I might have considered the area a tropical Shangri-La. If we prevailed, I envisioned the United States helping to transform it into a tourist mecca. As it turned out the Vietnamese were able to accomplish this on their own. Fifty years later dozens of four and five star hotels line the beach, including one only a short stroll from my former living quarters. 

Despite what the area has become I have no desire to return. My memories are of sweltering heat, humidity, monsoons and mold, loneliness and loss.