On arrival in-country at Tan Son Nhut air base in Viet Nam, to begin my one-year tour of duty as a reconnaissance systems operator and navigator in RF-4C fighters, a brief period of orientation and familiarization with the area, and the so-called rules of engagement, was necessary. That indoctrination was required before flying our first combat missions.

I was scheduled for my first combat flight the next day. It was pretty exciting and I must admit to being a little anxious. After all I had been in Viet Nam all of two weeks and hadn't done much to help the unit yet. I was ready.

The afternoon before my big flight, I played volleyball in the squadron area. Our unit was housed in what once had been a small hospital, a cluster of one-story buildings surrounding a paved courtyard. The volleyball net occupied the most prominent part of that opening.

Just after lunchtime, I played a vigorous game with several other flight crewmen. Things were going quite well, until I went up high to attempt a spike of the ball at the net. When I came down something happened to my left knee and before I knew it I was writhing in anguish, my knee quickly swelling to twice its normal size. Boy, did that hurt.

"Doc" Williams, our resident flight surgeon and friend to all the pilots and navigators, happened to be watching the game. He quickly attended my knee and I was rushed to the dispensary. He didn't have much in the way of medical facilities on the base, just outside Saigon.

Some of my fellow airmen really kidded me, as they saw me hobble around the area the next day or two with my leg taped and badly swollen. "Boy, what some guys will do to avoid combat," one yelled across the room. "What's the matter, Phil? Chicken?"

The problem showed clearly on the X-rays. I had some loose bodies, bone chips or calcium deposits, between the members of the knee joint. Some pieces of material were the size of lima beans. They had apparently been there for some time and never bothered me, but moved in between the bones as I jumped to spike the volleyball. When I landed, my full weight compressed the chips and severely bruised the joint .. and my ego.

A week went by and things didn't improve. Doc Williams decided I had to be air-evacuated to Cam Rhan Bay air base, on Vietnam's southeastern coast. There was a combat medical unit there with a surgical capability. He thought that they could quickly remove the errant pieces and have me back on flying status in no time.

I was required to lie on a stretcher in the back end of the C-130 transport, along with a planeload of combat wounded. A dozen or so badly banged up G.I.'s traveled with me, attended by two or three Air Force flight nurses.

"Hey, buddy," the fellow next to me yelled. "How'd you get hit? Got mine from a land mine near Tay Ninh."

What could I say? I was too embarrassed to admit that I was a casualty of volleyball. So I just smiled, muttered something about "Good luck there," and rolled over in my cot. I kept hoping that the nurses wouldn't tell the others what my problem was.

At Cam Rhan Bay, a large military installation, the hospital was much like a state-side facility. They certainly had the equipment and manpower to fix me up. The problem was that they were swamped with combat casualties, seriously wounded men.

A number of doctors examined me, some unable to tell from my records what caused my plight. Again, I had the embarrassing chore of explaining to them what happened. I was not the casualty of enemy fire, land mines or the like. I was just a volleyball victim.

"Well, major," a doctor told me. "We can't do anything for you here. We're swamped with battle casualties. You've got two options. We can send you back to the states, Hawaii or the coast, and they can fix you up. Or, we can send you to Japan. The hospital at Tachikawa has a fine orthopedic unit. Which do you prefer?"

Before I could answer, the doctor added, "I see that your records indicate you're about ready to rotate back home." He noticed that my arrival and rotation dates were April, but he failed to note that it was this April that I arrived. "We could transfer you back to the states now for the operation and convalescence. Okay?"

"Sorry, Doc. Can't do that. I just got in-country a few days ago. Let's send me to Tachikawa to get the knee fixed." The doctor agreed and scheduled me for another medical airlift flight.

Once again, I found myself on a stretcher-type cot in the back end of a transport plane, loaded with genuine combat wounded. And, yes, once more I had to decline an explanation to a fellow passenger wanting to know how I got "hit". My state of embarrassment was becoming perpetual. I even considered making up a story about my "hit".

More embarrassment greeted me in Japan. During the latter days of my physical therapy, as I hobbled about on crutches, the opportunity arose to take a trip into Tokyo. I took the commuter train from Tachikawa to downtown Tokyo. Then I switch to the subway, those infamous crowded trains where they have uniformed "pushers" to cram passengers aboard.

On the subway ride, an elderly Japanese lady insisted that I take her seat. She did not want a "wounded" American to have to stand on crutches, yet. She reached up and pulled me into her vacated seat. My clash with Japanese traditions, her wonderful courtesy and my great embarrassment came together in that one moment.

A month in the hospital brought me to full recovery. It was after the first of July when they said I could be released back to my outfit. But, my problems were not over. The military travel orders which sent me from Viet Nam to Japan expired in June 30th and the funding authorization to fly me back to Saigon was now invalid. I was stuck in Japan.

To the rescue came my hospital room mate, the commander of a C-130 squadron at Tachikawa. He agreed to put my name on the flight orders as a spare navigator for a flight from Japan to Okinawa, and thence to Danang air base in Vietnam. From there I could continue to Saigon. His planes were to deliver vital military cargo to Vietnam, essentials like fresh vegetables and the "Stars & Stripes" newspapers, printed in Japan.

I arrived back at my unit in Saigon totally unannounced. They didn't know when, or whether, I was coming back. My pilot had already logged a dozen or more combat missions, flying with a variety of spare and headquarters navigators. I actually think he was glad to have his regular crew mate back.