Juris first noticed the “rust dust” of Viet Nam even before he shipped out, when he was assigned to process returning soldiers at Travis AFB, north and west of San Francisco. This comes from the diary he started at Travis and took with him to Viet Nam:
“The closest we come to Frisco is the damp chill from the bay. Restricted to the tiny debarkation point. The trick, of course, is to duck the daily formations and the details that go invariably with them. A real drag in themselves too, the roll called for those who will ship, the chaplain’s welcoming message—the same hearty spiel each formation, and then the details.
“The place is overflowing with GIs going out, over a thousand in the daily formations. Only a handful, it seems, coming in. They trickle in at odd hours of the night, shivering in their khakis, tanned with white eyes, their uniforms and boots tinged with orange, dust perhaps. We are detailed to help process them. Health check, showers, new green uniforms and out.
“They seem such a passive lot, oblivious to the snap-to-it stateside manner. Some of the young, green GIs pulling detail are downright brash and rude, but their cocky ill manners go unnoticed by the higher ranked veterans killing the last few hours before freedom. Leaves, separation for many—home. “At five the beer halls fill up quickly. The whole place is so small and seems so removed from the rest of the world. We are close to the pier and physically it is not a small spot but so much of it seems idle.
“Sleeping in the warehouse the last night. Like something out of an old D-Day movie—one vast hall full of bunks and milling bodies, packing, sleeping, bent over books, dog tags jingling, the snap of metal lighters, jittery bravado and solitary contemplation of the ceiling that envelops the entire scene like a second sky. Huge and ominous.”