A Vet’s Story – Bill Yokum Sr.

Chopper door gunner still haunted

At age 19 there was no room for argument. Bill Yokum was handed a machine-gun and was forced to adjust to a position he never expected. Fixing trucks and other vehicles was routine for field mechanics in the Army’s motor pool. But men like Yokum also were trained in combat, and they surely saw some in South Vietnam. Yokum wasn’t prepared for what his superiors one day called upon him to do. There was a shortage of helicopter door gunners and Yokum was asked to volunteer.

Bill Yokum Sr., an Allentown resident and Vietnam veteran, has agreed to share his war experiences. A big man with a tough voice, yet warm demeanor, Yokum, 53, has lived in Allentown his whole life. As a child his household wasn’t exactly loving or inviting. Not really much of a place to call home.

“My father basically let me know if I didn’t leave the house and go into the service he’d probably kill me,” Yokum said.

So by the age of 17, Yokum was out on his own. He volunteered for the draft and spent his 18^th birthday in Army basic training at Fort Bragg, N.C. He then moved to Fort Dix for specialty training in wheeled vehicle mechanics for six months. When his training was complete, he was shipped to South Vietnam in 1969. American troops were initially sent to Vietnam as early as 1964, Yokum had joined one of the longest and most politically controversial wars in U.S. history.

Several kinds of missions were standard for Yokum as a helicopter door gunner. One was routine flare missions, involving shooting flares out of the chopper for night vision purposes. Yokum also frequented Medevac missions, where he had to locate and rescue injured soldiers. One particular mission, however, became an unexpected, life changing event.

Yokum and 13 other members of his “pack” were flying a designated mission when they became target of enemy fire, eventually being shot down by enemy troops. Yokum describes the fact that the choppers flew so low as a lucky element, because as easily as they were a target there was still chance for survival from a crash. After the helicopter crashed to the ground there were only seven survivors, Yokum included. They had not only landed in enemy territory, but in the middle of a dangerous mine field. It took the men 14 hours to successfully weave there way out of the hazardous area, with one wrong step resulting in death. They encountered enemy fire along the way but managed to get themselves out danger.

To complicate matters, this all occurred during the Tet Offensive, the turning point of the war, where 70,000 North Vietnamese broke a lunar New Year truce and launched a surprise attack on American soldiers. Yokum and the other crash survivors eventually met up with a different platoon. At that time Yokum said that they were held down for two weeks before able to return to normal duty. Yokum said that no U.S. rescue attempts were made to save the group. It was clear that their lives were saved by the intelligence and endurance of the surviving unit. Yokum’s injuries were minimal and certainly not grounds for a ticket home. Instead, this crash was just the beginning of Yokum’s terrifying experiences in the air.

“After the first crash I swore I would never get up there again,” Yokum said. “But I try to explain it to people that it’s similar to a car accident. Sure, the next time you get behind the wheel you’re shaken up, but you still drive.”

In fact, Yokum’s helicopters were not merely shot down another time, but actually twice more. Climbing back into a helicopter after being shot down three times was less of an option and more of a command. However, the experience instilled in Yokum a lifelong fear of heights.

There was a sense of urgency every day. It was purely frightening for him to wake up each day truly not knowing if he was going to live or die. While some of the most terrifying experiences in his military career are obvious, some of Yokum’s best memories during his war time were spent no where near Vietnam.

“The only good thing about my time away was that the military gives R and R, rest and relaxation, to troops,” Yokum said. “Every six months you were allowed seven days rest to travel to anywhere in the world with the government paying. Some went to Hawaii and other places, but a bunch of guys and I wasted no time in going to Sydney, Australia. That time was definitely the only highlight of my time at war.”

There have been many Hollywood films and glorified stories describing the intense camaraderie that exists in the barracks at war. Even though Yokum got close with some, traveled to Australia with others, he paints a slightly different picture of the way he viewed friendship at war.

“You didn’t want to make too many friends,” Yokum said. “There was too much uncertainty involved. You didn’t get close with too many people because if you lost a friend, that was the kind of stuff that would tear you up and mess up your mind.”

With Yokum, it wasn’t exactly if he lost a friend, but when. There was a military protocol for identification purposes of fallen soldiers. Yokum explained how each soldier wears three dog tags. Two remained around the soldier’s neck and one was placed in his boot. If a slain soldier was to be left behind, his fellow soldiers would be responsible for ensuring his identification. One dog tag would be removed from the chain and placed in the deceased soldier’s mouth because the jaw and the mouth skeletal structures usually remain the most intact after a body begins to decay. Yokum further described actually needing to kick a fellow soldier’s mouth shut to secure his tag inside. The practice is also important because if he was left behind and his clothing and boots were later stolen, which often occurred, there would still be a way of potentially identifying the slain soldier.

Yokum broke his rule about caution regarding friendships with one man in particular, James Williams. In fact, he kept in touch with him after they returned home. Unfortunately, as the men grew older, they also grew apart. Williams lived in Columbus, Ohio, and the distance put an additional strain on staying connected. Several years ago Yokum became determined to once again connect with his old friend.

An Internet search for James Williams in Columbus, Ohio turned up 87 James Williamses. Yokum promptly sent out letters addressed to every James Williams in the city. His friend’s father received the letter and passed it on to his son who then contacted Yokum, extremely happy to hear from him after so long. Williams remains the only person with whom Yokum stays in contact from Vietnam.

Life after Vietnam was not the easiest for Yokum. While he was gone the war had provoked increasing opposition at home, manifested in marches and demonstrations. Some Americans were extremely passionate about their anti-war views. Much of that hostility translated into harsh and unreceptive attitudes toward the returning troops. Old newsreel clips show World War II veterans being welcomed home with parades, honors, and, most importantly respect. Vietnam veterans could not wear their uniform in public without being constantly harassed.

“They would spit on us,” Yokum said. “It was a real kick in the teeth for the veterans returning. There was no respect and certainly no praise.”

Yokum remembers being called names, including “baby killers.” Stories had been reported back to the United States, portraying troops as the killers of children in Vietnam, and were responsible for the harsh references. However, Yokum described the tactics that the Viet Cong, guerrilla soldiers who thrived on camouflage and confusion, would use to injure American soldiers. For instance, a young Vietnamese child, about 9 years old, loaded with hand grenades, would walk up to American barracks. The concept of “kill or be killed” left the soldiers with little choice when regarding children as probable human bombs.

The image of using an innocent child in war is powerful. Yokum excuses himself and draws his gray tee-shirt over his eyes. He falls silent for a moment to collect his emotions and thoughts. The process of reviewing his experiences has caught up with him and the lasting impact of Vietnam is obvious.

Everything in Yokum’s life is somehow affected by his experiences in Vietnam. After returning from war, Yokum says he slept with one eye open. He took a six-month break to get situated with being back at home. He described the violent flashbacks that have plagued him ever since his return. He will wake up in a cold sweat, screaming and swinging his arms. The flashbacks, common to many war veterans, have gotten so bad that Yokum has not slept in the same room, let alone the same bed, with his wife for the past ten years.

His flashbacks are sporadic and don’t occur only at night. They can come from different triggers; talking about events with veteran groups or even watching the events unfold in Iraq.

One clear pride of Yokum’s is his large family. With two children from his first wife and three from his second, Yokum now has a total of 12 grandchildren.

“Christmas is hell,” Yokum says with a smile.

It is not surprising to hear him describe his wife, Suzanne, as an extremely compassionate individual who tries her best to understand what Yokum is dealing with.

“She has talked to a lot of other veterans, mostly their wives,” Yokum said. “The wives can discuss similar experiences and they can understand a lot more through that.”

After returning from war, Yokum took a string of jobs throughout his life. He worked as a gas station attendant, at a company in Catasauqua and finally as a bus driver, the job which he retired from.

Yokum also meets with a group of Vietnam veterans twice a week to discuss the lasting impact of war on their lives. One discussion issue is the effect of Agent Orange on veterans today. Agent Orange was a defoliant that was spread across South Vietnam to deny the enemy cover. It has been linked to Type II Diabetes as well as forms of neuropathy, or nerve damage. Yokum has been struggling with Agent Orange’s effect ever since returning from war.

Currently, Yokum serves as commander of Veterans of Foreign Wars Post #13 in Allentown. The VFW is a national organization with a mission of “honoring the dead by helping the living.” During a recent visit, the post was currently decorated top to bottom for a Halloween dance. The main room is filled with cobwebs, pumpkins, and decapitated dummies, made years ago by Suzanne Yokum. This is one of the many holiday events that the post holds, including Christmas and New Year’s Eve dances.

The Post includes a bar area, with stools and drinks on tap. There are a pool table, jukebox and an open room filled with long tables and chairs. The heavily decorated walls add history and significance to the atmosphere. Yokum points to rows of pictures displaying previous post commanders, dating back to 1934. His pride for his position of three years comes through as he discusses the work it entails.

“It’s a place where a lot of people come in to drink, socialize, have fun and most importantly, get away,” Yokum said. “There’s also a lot of history here.”

One section of the walls displays newspaper images and articles from when the first body was brought back from Vietnam. The photos depict an elaborate event surrounding the first soldier’s death, a more fitting ceremony than most of the 55,000 fallen soldiers of Vietnam would receive.

Yokum is in charge of everything, from ordering food to keeping records of all of the locked up arms and ammunition. He is in charge of the rifle squad salutes that take place at veterans’ funerals. That includes being accountable for every shell, even the three that are placed in the folded American flag before it is presented to the widow of the solider.

There is a small sense of irony in Yokum’s daily surroundings. He says the post keeps his mind occupied and his schedule busy, but every glance, every task done, all serve as reminders of what he has gone through to get here today.

Alice Tyler is a junior at Lehigh University. Her hometown in Montclair, N.J.