A Special Day and Time, and a Special Friend

It was 4 o’clock on Thursday morning when the telephone rang. Although the ringing jarred me from a sound sleep, I knew who was calling and why.

“You know what time it is?” asked the voice on the other end.

Without hesitating, I replied, “It’s 4 in the morning. It’s Sept. 28, 1971, and we just landed at the airport in Los Angeles. We just got back from Vietnam. We made it home, Johnny, we made it home.”

Twenty-four years have gone by, but Johnny Morris and I usually connect by telephone on the anniversary of our return home. Whenever we talk, the question about time--how it passes, what it changes--is still foremost in our minds. We conclude happily that we still have time.

*

I met Staff Sgt. John Gage Morris of Oxnard at a bar next to an Army out-processing center at Cam Rahn Bay on our last day in Vietnam--Sept. 28, 1971. He was at the end of his second tour in the ‘Nam and he was pontificating, as he still often does, to some buddies about why he hated officers. Whether it was a lieutenant or a general, he thought we were part of an outmoded U.S. military that failed the nation in Vietnam. “Officers are No. 10,” he said, invoking a time-honored scale used by Vietnam grunts. Cold beer, a letter from home or good news was always No. 1, the best. The other end of the scale was reserved for, well, you get the picture.

He gave the first lieutenant bars on my jungle fatigues that hardened look of disgust when I happened by. “No. 10,” he said bitterly. “Right on,” I said brightly and bought him a beer.

He growled at me, but he accepted the Schlitz. From that moment on, we didn’t call each other “Sergeant” or “Lt. Ramos.” Instead, we were “Johnny” and “L.T.” We became friends.

We boarded the same “freedom bird” jetliner at Cam Rahn Bay and argued, laughed and cried all the way to Ft. Lewis, Wash., where we formally left behind the Army and the saluting of officers. It wasn’t until we were civilians again that we realized that it was still Sept. 28; we had crossed the international dateline on the ride to the States, allowing us to relive the day and its significance.

Johnny and I vowed to keep in touch as our plane taxied up to the gate at LAX at 4 a.m. on the 28th. “Let’s make it SOP,” I said, slipping in military lingo. “Let’s talk at 4 a.m. on the 28th, wherever we are. . . . “

We have.

In 1979, he ran up a huge phone bill because we argued about disco music for nearly three hours. He hated it and I defended it. Johnny got a measure of satisfaction when I admitted years later that disco was yet another stupid fad that meant nothing. I was wrong. Disco did suck.

And four years ago, we brooded about anything connected to the name Mary Ann. Johnny lost two buddies at Fire Base Mary Ann in the Central Highlands when North Vietnamese regulars overran it in a surprise attack in ’71. Ironically, I led a unit ordered to retake that firebase. More than half of the troops I commanded were killed in the process of reclaiming Mary Ann, and I started to wonder why anyone would fight for a military objective with such a non-threatening name.

“Well, L.T.,” Johnny finally asked, “what time is it?”

Before I could say anything, he was ready with the answer. “It’s 4 a.m. on Sept. 28, 1971. We made it. We’re home. We made it back. We’re home.”

*

Usually, Johnny is the talkative one when the day comes around. But when the phone rang Thursday morning, I guess I was ready to vent.

Even in faraway Oxnard, Johnny knew I was frustrated and was ready for me.

“I’m getting sick of this town’s nuttiness,” I said. “I’m tired of O.J. I’m tired of all the punks in Cypress Park and everywhere else. I’m tired of people claiming the police chief got free rooms in Las Vegas. I’m tired of the police chief saying he got no free rooms and was ready to sue the city to prove it. I’m tired of people already scheming to pick the next police chief. Johnny, I guess I’m another Vietnam veteran who’s about to freak out.”

I talked nonstop until Johnny interrupted me around 7:30. He asked a question I hadn’t expected.

“Are you happy to be home?” he asked.

“Of course,” I snapped back.

“Then,” said the former sergeant, now a truck driver and an aging veteran of the Oxnard surf scene, “act like it. We made it back. We’re home. Keep fighting. We fought over there. We’ll fight here. It’s 4 a.m., Sept. 28, 1971--or whatever day you want it to be. But keep fighting.”

That’s the thing about time. Until we die, there’s still time to ask a friend, “You know what time it is?”