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We sailors were all volunteers. Many of us were reluctant volunteers since the alternative was to be drafted into the Army. Or, as I found out on my induction day, December 14, 1967, into the U.S. Marine Corps. For many of us, it was the luck of the draw. When your time is up, it’s up. I personally knew no one in any service who died in Viet Nam. On the other hand, I had friends who were on the ground and in the shit who came home without a scratch. One friend died a week or so after he got home to San Diego. A municipal trash truck with a stone drunk black driver plowed into his VW stopped at a light and killed him and his new girlfriend. Another boyhood friend was in the CB’s in-country and was working construction in up-state PA. Nobody knew he was color-blind and he died in his truck going through a red light with the sun in his eyes heading for a job at the crack of dawn. The closest I came to dying was on my last night on my ship headed for Subic Bay. I was on the fantail contemplating upcoming civilian life. We were running totally dark at 22 knots, hit a rouge roller, and it knocked me aft. I couldn’t get any traction on the slippery deck with my leather soled work shoes and only the steel wire lifeline I grabbed saved my from Davey Jone’s locker. I thank God daily that I got home and am still able to type on this computer.