At Da Nang, the CSC Radio Operator would give a "India Poppa Tango Alpha" (It's Party Time Again) radio message at the end of Tiger's Flight Shift (the midnight shift). Dog handlers were often considered to be a rowdy group.  I never thought of us as being rowdy, maybe the politically correct thing to say would be "disciplinary challenged). But dog handlers do know how to party. 

By 1968, Security Police lived in a compound between the base headquarters compound and the main AF compound. Originally, the Squadron lived in tents, but we lived in old barracks that had been built by the French. We went out on patrol at night and worked along side Marines, but came back in the morning to the infamous luxuries of the Air Force side of the base. The section had two huts allotted for handlers to live in. Handlers lived in one of two huts. One hut was for the party crowd, the other for the more sedate handlers. The party-hut had a "get together" every morning. A few drinks (the definition of a few drinks varied for some of the guys!) and we would hit the rack and attempt to sleep until the heat of the day and aircraft noise woke us up. We would go have our evening meal in the chow hall, then started getting ready for posting.

Our weapons were kept in our wall lockers, at least until a SP shot up the NCO hut. The gunplay took place in the hut, next door to the K-9 partying hut (Hut # 6). An armory was quickly (late 69) built thereafter, and we had to turn in all our weapons and check them in and out.

By late 1969, most airmen lived in open bay barracks. Most barracks were divided up into cubes consisting of a pair of bunk beds facing two metal wall lockers. Industrious individuals attempted to scrounge or make furniture to fit into the space between the lockers. Plywood was almost impossible to find and seldom seen in the barracks. Of course we had a source for plywood and other lumber. One of our dog posts bordered on a supply yard that contained lumber. So needless to say, our huts were finished a little nicer in our quarters from recovered stuff dropped by those thieving Viet Cong. We had walls between cubes and wood flooring over the concrete slab. The floors raised us above the "high tide" caused by monsoon flooding.

A new base commander decided that all the barracks should be changed back to the open bay design and ordered the "cubes" removed. Of course, the Security Police Squadron Commander was the first to jump on it. All the other units dragged their feet. Our Commander directed all cubes removed within a week! Every hut started tearing down the cubes a little bit every day. Except the K-9 Party Hut . . . we had a few drinks every morning and watched everyone else tear down their cubes. Everyone had worked so hard to have a little piece of the world in the form of a cube. When the last morning arrived, we held probably the most destructive K-9 party ever. Well, they did order us to tear down the cubes.

You know what happens when you tell a dog handler to destroy something. Non-dog handlers walking past the doors paused to watch the festivities. Soon lumber, beer cans, and liquor bottles were being ejected out the door in a contest. Our version of "mine is bigger" was changed to "I can throw my cube farther than you can throw yours." Complaints were made to the proper authorities, in reference to irreverent comments and actions being observed. Law Enforcement (Security Police) responded but only peeked in through the open doors.

One handler (unnamed to protect the guilty) sang loudly as he sat atop the revetment surrounding the hut. He taunted non-canine-types by betting them $20 they couldn't make it unscathed through the hut and out the other end! No one took him up on the bet. The irreverent crooner was also the obvious source of rude comments to anyone passing near his revetment post. The First Sergeant, who happened to have bright red hair and no sense of humor, responded to restore order. This handler sang him a little song at maximum volume in a slurred voice that was not well received by the First Sergeant. Its more polite lyrics (this is a family page) consisted of, "I'd rather be dead . . . than red in the head . . . like the **** on a dog . . . woof, woof." I was told the performance was rather well received by everyone else. The First Sergeant did not have any sense of humor at all, according to bystanders. I don't remember too much of what occurred at the end of the party (don't read too much into that), except the song became a new standard (at least out of the First Sergeant's hearing).

When the hungover dog handlers started waking up in the late afternoon, the current Kennelmaster, SSgt Frederick Doctor, met us. He was moving into the hut as ordered by a certain individual whose hair matched his anger at the disrespectful dog handlers, who were in need of close supervision. The kennel master was not pleased to leave the comforts of the NCO hut and being forced to live with us. We were severely chastised for his embarrassment caused by our actions. Our response was to wake him with a welcome party the next morning when we returned from post. Alcoholic beverages were not banned from the barracks area. I guess that the powers-to-be preferred our parties held in the compound instead of the Airmen's Club. Oh, by the way, the Base Commander canceled his order to tear down the cubes. We never returned the hut to its previous glory.

The Infamous Hut # 6:  Decorated for Christmas 1968

Photo by Greg Dunlap