I was safe at home at the time. Home was the Harding Hotel in Saigon where the officers in my squadron were billeted. The time was about four o’clock on an April morning, 1966.
The hotel rooms were modest: two beds, one dresser, a table and chair, with a shared bathroom. I was asleep and so was my roommate Larry, the navigator in my crew. I heard the bathroom door open. Light surged across my bed.
“Vedros is dead,” broke into my awakening.
Raising my head from my pillow and looking towards the light from the bathroom, I saw Jim standing in the doorway. Jim was in another flight crew and staying in the neighboring room. “Huh,” was all I could respond.
I heard Larry moving around, and then say, “What’s up?”
“They killed Vedros. There was an attack. They hit our flight line. Some of our other guys were wounded. The planes were also hit,” Jim continued in a monotone voice.
Our squadron was flying out of the Tan Son Nhut air base. Now being fully awake, my mind started working. I knew we had six aircraft stationed at the base; five planes were parked on the flight line and one was in the air. Early in the morning, the ground crew would be out on the line getting an aircraft ready for the seven o’clock takeoff.
“I can’t believe that Vedros is dead,” Jim said still without emotion.
“Which one was Vedros?” I asked. Our squadron had fifty officers and three hundred enlisted men. I knew all the officers and most of the enlisted men, but I didn’t know Vedros.
“He was a second class machinist mate; he was ground crew,” Jim answered.
This told me that Vedros was one of the enlisted men who worked on the airplane engines and not a crewman. Since I was not a pilot, I had only limited contact with the enlisted men who were mechanics. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t fit a face to it.
“No, I don’t think I know him,” I said with a little regret. Then realizing that I should have said “knew” him.
“You would if you saw him,” Jim replied, but quickly added, “Well, that’s not going to happen.” Now there was some anger in his voice. “Vedros was married, but I don’t think he had any children.” It was obvious that Jim knew Vedros fairly well.
“How are the other men?” Larry asked from his bed.
“Don’t know,” Jim answered. “Look, I’m sorry that I woke you guys up,” and turned to go.
“No, don’t go. We’re awake now,” Larry said while turning on a lamp by his bed. “Pull up the chair,” he nodded towards the chair by the table. Jim seated himself and Larry and I sat up in our beds. It was obvious that Jim needed to talk about Vedros.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“Not sure. They believe that it might have been rockets or mortars. We were getting briefed for the morning flight when we got the news of the attack.” I then remembered that Jim was in the crew that was scheduled for the seven o’clock flight. Our briefings were held in Saigon and not on base.
Jim then provided us with us some of the more mundane information: the ground crewmen were now checking the damage done to the planes, his flight was rescheduled for noon, and the crew currently flying would stay up several hours longer, fuel permitting.
We talked until sunlight. I don’t remember all the things we talked about, but I do remember that Jim described Vedros as “Good People,” high praise in Navy.
Later on that morning Larry and I decided to go to the base to check out our aircraft. Our crew was scheduled to fly the following day and we wanted to make sure that the plane was operational.
Luckily our squadron airplanes received only very minor damage from scrap medal, 
but there were tiny holes all over the aircraft. These holes were temporarily patched up with duct tape. The results were almost comical: the patchwork looked like Band-Aids.
But along the flight line, next to our aircraft, three planes were totally destroyed. There was nothing comical about this damage.
The attack took place about two o’clock in the morning – “To give them enough time to sneak in and sneak out under the cover of darkness.” A total of seven American servicemen were killed in the attack. Larry and I also found out that the other ground crewmen in our squadron were not seriously wounded.
Apparently Vedros ran for cover just like everyone else on the fight line, but unluckily for him he received a direct hit – killing him instantly. Not a very heroic way for an American hero to die.
I never was able to put a face to Vedros; I never did see a photo of him. Over the years this has always haunted me and I’m not sure why. Maybe it is just that when a comrade dies, you should know who he was.