It was April of 1966, and I was a senior at Gordon College when I received my draft notice. I was supposed to be a teacher like my mom, and if I was lucky, I might have a chance to coach basketball, too. I liked basketball a lot — played it in high school, played it in college, and eventually, I played it in Vietnam.
At least they let me graduate first.
My friends told me I should go to officer training school, but I’d seen the news, and I knew the officers got shot at first. 
I did my basic training at Fort Dix in New Jersey, a far cry from growing up in The County on a farm. After basic, they sent me to Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana where I studied information. I’d been at my first stateside assignment in Oklahoma for six or seven months when my name got called up.
I had a chance to see my family before I left. We drove down the coast of Maine, and I ate lobster. I boarded a plane to San Francisco convinced that would be the last time I would see my family or my home again.
I found my seat and told the attendant to leave me alone. I sat there crying and thinking for about half of the plane ride, but by the time I arrived, I had a new resolve. I would come home again. I would be a teacher. I would coach basketball.
Another plane ride took us to the Philippines where the crew disembarked the plane and said, “Gentlemen, you’re on your own from here.” They told us that we were headed into a war zone and they were not allowed to accompany us any farther.
The hottest day in Maine has nothing on the coolest day in Vietnam. I was just 22 years old and stepping off a plane onto a tarmac in Saigon. I was instantly drenched with sweat from the heat and humidity. My clothes clung to my body in the uncomfortable stickiness. I didn’t know it then, but eventually, when you’ve been there a while, your blood thins and you actually feel cold at night.
South Vietnamese troops, who were providing security for our arrival, taunted snakes on the runway. They stood there smoking and joking with each other, poking at snakes with the tips of their guns, as we arrived to meet our uncertain future.
I eventually ended up stationed at the Long Binh Post. I became a writer. I interviewed soldiers, or maybe flew out to the field if something was going on. I had articles put in The Stars and Stripes. It wasn’t so bad. In fact, I had a great gig over there for a while. I learned to love the country. I loved the people, and I loved the weather, except for the terrible monsoon season. Sometimes at night, I’d play basketball.
When you’re in Vietnam, it doesn’t matter if you’re a cook, a jeep driver, or anything. You’re a soldier first. I had to pull guard duty every night. Those of us on guard duty drew straws to see who would have to go out in front of the bunkers. I’d be outside the fences, laying on my stomach with my gun stretched out in front of me, barbed wire to the sides of me and a line of men with machines guns ready behind me. I’d lay there all through the black night, completely still. Waiting. Listening. Any noise I heard in the stillness might have been someone trying to ambush us.
On those nights, I would watch the amazing Pacific sunset over the South Sea and I’d pray, “Dear God, don’t let Charlie come tonight. I just want to get home to my parents.” I never wanted to have to shoot someone.
One of my jobs was away from the base. I’d drive alone in my jeep about five miles on a road that wound up a hill through an area we called Widow’s Village where local Vietnamese lived. In a building just past the village, I listened to a ticker tape of news from around the world. My job was to write up the news stories and print it out to give to the officers.
One night, as I drove up through Widow’s Village, a North Vietnamese battalion had moved in and were hiding out in the houses. They were threatening the women who lived there that they would slit their throats if they did anything to warn us, so they didn’t — because they were scared. Maybe, if I had been an officer, I would have met my end that night as a lone guy driving by in a jeep, but instead, they just let me drive by, not wanting to give up their position.
That was the night of the Tet Offensive. The ticker tape was running, and I could see down the hill as they were coming out from their hiding places to attack. I heard us get hit, and there was nothing I could do. It was three days later before I made it back to the base. Sometimes I wonder how I survived that night.
We did what we could to try and escape the reality of the war in the moments we could find to do so. One night, we were playing basketball with some really great players. Afterwards, we went to the Enlisted Men’s Club for some drinks. We were headed back out to the court and were about five yards away when a blast from a mortar shell took out the court in front of us. A short time earlier or moments later and we all would have blown up with it. You were never far from danger in Vietnam.
Even the children there were used as weapons against us.
This kid came up to some GIs and asked for a candy bar or something, we would often play with the local children, or give them candy, so it was normal. Only this time, he was trying to get close to a load of ammunition we had coming in on a truck. We didn’t know he was strapped with explosives. We watched in horror as he jumped onto the gas tank of the truck and exploded.
There were replacement depos, these two-story structures where they would cram in the new guys for their orientation when they first arrived in the country. I was about a half mile away when I saw one of those depos, full of men my age and younger who hadn’t even been in the country for two full hours, get blown to pieces by a 122 missile. About 200 men died in that explosion. Dozens more were seriously wounded. When we saw the explosion, we knew that nobody was going to walk out of there.
That was the worst thing I saw when I was in Vietnam.
Other than the day I got married, the day I left Vietnam was the best day of my life, but even that day was marred with a harsh reality. I arrived at Bien Hoa Air Force Base with 320 other men leaving that day. They made us give our weapons back, and they gave us clean boots to wear home. They stuffed us in one of those replacement depos, just like when we arrived, only this time, I was on guard, looking out the windows for incoming missiles because I couldn’t shake the image of the building blowing up from my mind.
When we finally boarded the plane, I noticed them loading a long line of bags into the cargo holds below us. I asked someone what it was they were loading, and I shouldn’t have been so curious. They were the bodies of the fallen. 321 of us came back sitting up in the top of the plane, and 321 went home in body bags in the cargo holds below us. Every plane that left Vietnam was the same thing. I could have been one of those body bags. Any of us could have been. So many people were.
The first thing I did when I stepped onto American soil for the first time again was drop to the ground and kiss the runway.
I was stationed at the Pentagon for the last seven months of my enlistment. I did some recruiting for the Army. On one trip to Michigan, a guy with a hammer came up to a booth I was setting up. He introduced himself and let me know he was going to tear my display apart. He said we were all baby killers.
I was so ticked at that guy, I could have just nailed him. I had friends who died over there. I fought over there so he could be over here protesting and doing what he wanted. Somehow, though, I kept my calm. I picked up my stuff and left.
I don’t care how many people called me a baby killer. I just did what I had to do for my country, that’s all. I came back to Aroostook County and a little neighbor girl who knew I was returning waited up in a tree in her yard for four hours to see me coming home. What that little girl thought of me, meant more to me than what all of the war protesters thought. She was so glad to see me come home, and that made it all worthwhile.
But we weren’t heroes. We just did our jobs like we were called to do. We were scared, just like everyone who was sent to Vietnam.
I wanted to be a teacher and a coach, and became both of those things after my detour through Vietnam. I’ve taught history for 32 years at Easton High School, and I coached basketball for 15 years and have served as an athletic administrator in Easton for 19 years. I served as the assistant men’s varsity coach at UMPI for a year, and I also coached boys basketball at Central Aroostook High School for four years. During that time, our team became the first in CAHS school history to win a Gold Ball.
My parents wouldn’t let me dwell on what I’d been through. The Army gave me six months to settle back to an ordinary life, but right away, my parents said, “You’re a teacher, now go get a job.”
Vietnam is still with me. I worry often about exposure to Agent Orange. But I thank God every day for being back.
Editor’s note: Steve Shaw’s story was delivered by Lloyd H. Woods, American Legion Past National Vice Commander, during the Sept. 25 Take Flight event at Northern Maine Regional Airport in Presque Isle.
