Fifty-five years ago, my cousin Nicky died in Vietnam.
The Army helicopter pilot had been in the country for just 11 days. In that time, he penned three letters to his parents, my Aunt Bert and Uncle Louie, back home in Malvern, Pennsylvania.
Louie was one of my dad’s older brothers, a World War II veteran who had driven firetrucks for the 8th Air Force’s 479th Fighter Group in England. Bert was Nicky’s stepmom.
Nicky planned to marry his hometown girlfriend Terri Pezick. A car enthusiast, he owned a 1968 Camaro SS.
He wrote first from Cam Ranh Bay after a commercial flight from Seattle. His best friend Tony Viall, from Rossville, Georgia, would be arriving soon. They had met in boot camp at Fort Polk, Louisiana, and gone through flight training together at Fort Wolters, Texas, and Fort Rucker, Alabama.
Nicky’s letter was dated July 5, 1969.
Dear Bert and Dad,
Well I arrived in this wonderful place called Viet Nam yesterday at three. There is fourteen hours difference between here and Seattle, Washington. I still don’t know where I’m going. Besides, I’m by myself and that’s plenty of help.
It was about 100 degrees yesterday. I still can’t believe I’m here. But when I look around, I get more assured I am!! … A warrant officer who was here for R&R told us it was good to see some new guys come in. He’s been here three months.
I guess they’ll ship me out tonight between 12:00 and 8:00 in the morning. I haven’t seen Viall since I left Seattle. But he should get here before I leave.
Oh I’m at Cam Rahn Bay replacement center right now. It’s about 150 miles from Saigon. It’s probably the safest place in Viet Nam. Too bad I can’t get stationed here. Tell Terri not to write till I send her my address.
Well I have to go to the PX and snack bar now. Later on I’ll go drink some beer for you, Pops!! So take care. I’ll write and let you know my address. OK? See you in 363 days.
Bye!!
Nicky
P.S. Don’t pick up too many women in that Camaro.
A C-130 transport plane took Nicky north to the huge U.S. coastal base at Chu Lai, headquarters of the Americal Division. He was starting a week of orientation when he wrote home on July 6.
Dear Dad,
I’m sitting at the combat center at Chu Lai. I’ll be here for about six days before I’m shipped out to my unit. I am assigned to the Americal Division in the northern (I Corps) portion of South Viet Nam. There are choppers and Air Force jets flying all over the place here.
I’m sorry this is a little sloppy, Dad, but it’s hotter than hell here. It makes Fort Polk seem air conditioned.
Well I’ll let you in on the situation up here, Dad. It’s not too good. There used to be only companies of V.C. [Viet Cong] around here, but now there are regiments and divisions of them. The lieutenant who briefed us said they expect an offensive, but do not know when. … That’s all I can let you know for now. Besides I wouldn’t tell you anymore anyway, because you’ll worry your head off.
How are my women and my car doing? You know you have to take care of both of them till I get home. If Terri needs anything, get it for her. OK?
Well I have to go eat, Dad. Take care and I’ll send my address as soon as I can. Take care, Dad, and don’t worry about me.
Take care,
Nicky
The danger Nicky faced in the I Corps zone wasn’t from the Viet Cong but the North Vietnamese Army. He wrote on July 7:
Dear Dad,
… Well, Dad, last night all hell broke loose. I was sleeping at about 3:00 in the morning when the mortars started coming in. I heard the first two rounds hit and saw everyone run like hell. So I rolled over in bed and after a while the alert siren blew [so] I decided I’d better find a bunker. You would of laughed if you saw Viall. He jumped out of bed, fell out the door, and low crawled to the bunker. That was the fastest I ever saw Viall move.
I forgot to tell you I met him at Cam Rahn Bay and he came up here [to] Chu Lai with me. But when we leave here, we’ll get separated for sure. …
So take care. I’ll send you my mailing address as soon as I can. See you in 361 days (I think).
Take care and tell everyone I said hello.
Bye!
Nicky
He would not live to write again.
On July 10, as part of their orientation, Nicky, Tony and a few dozen others were trucked off the base to a landing zone called Bayonet. They sat at tables in a plywood building for a lecture on grenade safety. But the sergeant who taught the class made a terrible mistake. Intending to see how the men would react, he unwittingly tossed a live grenade among them instead of a dud.
The blast killed one soldier instantly and mortally wounded Nicky and his friend Billy Vachon from South Portland, Maine, a fellow helicopter pilot. Nicky lost his left leg below the knee. Tony and a dozen others were seriously hurt. The Army said it was an accident.
Five days later, on July 15, 1969, Warrant Officer Nicholas L. Venditti – his surname was spelled differently from mine — died in the intensive care unit at Chu Lai’s 312th Evacuation Hospital. He was 20 years old. Billy, in the same ICU, followed him two days later.
I wrote about Nicky in my book Tragedy at Chu Lai, published in 2016 by McFarland & Co. Aunt Bert and Uncle Louie had given me his three original letters from Vietnam in 1995. The lined pages in blue ink have remained in a filing cabinet in my home office. But as Nicky’s last words on paper, a personal record of his brief service, they deserve more than just being tucked away for my eyes only.
(Chuck Zovko photo)
So in tribute to Nicky, and with permission from his brother, L.B., I’m sending them to the Center for American War Letters at Chapman University in Orange, California. There, they will be read, preserved and promoted as part of “an irreplaceable record of the sacrifices made by military personnel and their families.”
David Venditta 