Welcome to Duong Dong

"Island of Paradise"


Guard post at the gate

Smity must have noticed the astonished look on my face. On the bumpy jeep ride from the air terminal, he started talking, and I relaxed a little.

"The Australians bring in the mail and passengers twice a week, great bunch of guys. We get a C130 landing almost weekly too, and they bring in mail too. But we're definitely off the beaten path."

He threw his head back, with an insane laugh...

"Your going to like it here."

We arrived at the orderly room where I was issued a steel helmet, and a flack jacket. The first Sargent then explained the rules, as he handed me my M16.

"This is your weapon, it must be at your side day and night. We are in a frontier area, here. If you are caught without your weapon, you will be punished. Are we clear on this?"

I nodded and he continued.

"If you go to the village you must have it with you at all times."

Again I nodded in agreement, his ominous tone was sobering in contrast to the general relaxed, "island paradise" attitude I'd already started to embrace.

Now what have I gotten myself into?

Over the next few days I got settled into one of the eight man hooches, and got acquainted.

From my new friends I learned some interesting history. The airstrip, was originally built during WWII as a Japanese fighter bomber base. The little village of Duong Dong was friendly, but of course it was off limits at night.

This was a Forward Air Control Post, or FACP for short. The radar operators functioned like Air Traffic Control does in the US, except we only handled, or "worked" military and combat operations.

At full strength there were only thirty-five airmen, and officers. The bare minimum needed to operate the radar 24/7. This included radar operators, we called them scope dopes, and the generator shack where I worked.

The day shift folks that kept it all running, included  radar and ground to air radio maintenance, supply clerks, our medical dispensary, and Smity the administrative clerk. There were no Army, or Marines on the island, we were it.

We had to be the soldiers here.

Posted on the bulletin board I noticed a New York Times clipping. It reported that Phu Quoc island, only 48 miles at longest dimension and 220 square miles remained in enemy control. The article pointed out the futility of the Vietnam war.

So here we are, on an island where crack Viet Cong units continued to operate. The enemy controlled everything outside the village.

What could possibly go wrong?

There was some help from local Vietnamese irregular forces. None of us expected or were trained for this so we had to learn fast. The site was activated six months before I got there, with security in mind. The 500' x 1000' compound was surrounded by layers barbed wire, trip-wires and mines.

At night spotlights on tall poles illuminated the outer perimeter. Sandbag bunkers and firing positions faced outward in case of attack. Two lethal 81mm  mortar pits were also encircled by sandbags. They could lob high explosive or white phosphorus rounds several miles. The mortars could also fire illumination parachute flares.

My second day there I worked my first shift at the generator shack. My friend Charlie got me orientated with all the systems. From then on I worked my shift alone.

One my new friends gave me a tour of the village of Duong Dong when we got a day off. After my experience in Saigon I wasn't sure what I was getting into. Once we walked out the gate we headed towards the village. About a hundred feet beyond the gate on the right was a little bar and we made a stop there.

"You know they wont let us out the gate without our M16's, but I'd going to show you how we get around that. Mamasan is cool, she lets us stash our weapons at her place, and then head on into town. We pick em up on the way back." I was happy to get rid of it and be on our way.



The bar scene and loud music wasn't my style, and neither were the aggressive hookers. Duong Dong was nothing like Saigon, not even a smaller version of it.The narrow dirt streets and small shops were clean, bustling with activity.

My friend took me to an outdoor cafe, his favorite lunch spot. We ordered the special, fried rice and each a warm bottle of Vietnamese beer in a glass with ice. That was the custom I guess. We leisurely enjoyed our lunch, watching people quietly go about their normal day. No Army trucks disturbed the low key island life.

No prostitutes trying to hustle us, and none of the heavy handed punks trying to sell me a watch. No pimps trying to sell me their sister. This village may have had sin somewhere, but it wasn't constantly in our face.

Children did come up to us and with a few Vietnamese words and their pigeon English. But these were friendly exchanges. Not complex conversations, but honest efforts, with smiles and laughter. 

Vietnamese kids are fascinated by hairy arms, and love to tug on it to see if its real. We just checked each other out, nobody selling or pushing anything, it was genuine and felt nice. The island seemed to be an unspoiled oasis in the middle of war.


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