By Gerald McGill

In October of 1968, I was getting ready to rotate home.  I wasn’t expecting to fly out of Danang for a few days but I was notified that space had opened up on a flight leaving in a few hours if I wanted to take the seat.  Saying “yes” was the easiest decision I’d made all year.

I left so quickly that I didn’t even get to change out of the field uniform that I’d been wearing for a few days.  The first flight was to Hawaii, then to the army base in Oakland, California, then to LAX in Los Angeles and a final connection to New Orleans. 

I could not get a flight reservation out of New Orleans to Pensacola, which is about 200 miles east, but I knew that if I could get that far I could get home even if it was by bus.  In those days active duty military personnel in uniform could fly “military standby” for one half the ticket price, so that was my plan.

On the flight out of Los Angeles, the older woman sitting in the aisle seat looked up as I moved past her to the window seat.  She was not excited about me sitting next to her and I didn’t blame her.  It had been a while since I’d taken a shower.  When the plane was in the air and the No Smoking sign went off, I grabbed my carry-on bag and headed to the forward bathroom.  I took as much of a towel bath as possible, shaved, combed my hair and changed into my dress uniform and shoes.

I folded my field uniform and put my boots on top. When I came out of the bathroom, I ran into a stewardess and asked her for a garbage bag. I stuffed the whole uniform, including my boots, into the bag and asked if she would take it and get rid of it. She took the bag and looked at me puzzled, “What do you want me to do with it?”

I told her, “I don’t know. You can burn it for all it matters to me. I don’t have any use for it anymore.”

When I returned to my seat, the lady in the seat next to me stood up and moved into the aisle so I could get to my window seat.  She smiled and now was quite friendly.  Either she didn’t recognize me as the same person who had sat by her earlier or she appreciated my effort to “clean up my act.”

Once we arrived in New Orleans, I was able to get a seat on a flight to Pensacola. I called home collect from a payphone. My mom gladly accepted the call, telling me that she hadn’t expected to hear from me for another week or so.  I asked her if she would be able to meet me at the Pensacola airport.  “Of course!” she replied and asked when she should be there.  “In about two hours” I said, laughing.

When we landed in Pensacola, I was met by my Mom, Dad, and younger sister, Jeannie. They had brought the family toy poodle, Pepe, who to my surprise remembered me.

In 1968, Pensacola was a small Regional Airport so all luggage was loaded on an outdoor carousel.  We claimed my seabag and headed home to Perdido Bay.