The morning of the 29th of October, My Dogface Battalion was the first of several "Big Red One" units to land in what was called "blocking positions" around Loc Ninh airfield. Two companies of Jim Kasik's 2/28th Infantry Battalion were sent to the airstrip itself, about 3 miles away. Both units arrived at their destinations the morning after that first attack earlier in the night. Kasik's men dug-in outside the existing perimeter around the air strip, while bunkers inside the perimeter were still being occupied by NVA conscripts trapped there during last night's attack. These teenaged conscripts had initially sought the safety of these abandoned bunkers to avoid proximity shells bursting in the air all around. Later, when most of their comrades finally heard the order to retreat, those in the bunkers did not. They would have been too scared of being shot by their own communist cadre to withdraw, without orders. So, they stayed and became trapped. The rest of the 272nd retreated. The Montagnard fighters and the Vietnamese Rangers made a "quick work" of those left behind in the bunkers. Kasik's men shoveled a little faster each time they heard an explosion of a rocket shell coming from the light anti-tank weapons (law) being used to complete that work.

     Greg Murry's 1/16th was later landed in an LZ (landing zone) several miles northeast of Loc Ninh. The Blue Spaders (1/26th Infantry Battalion) were also inserted a few miles north northwest of Loc Ninh. The commander of II Field Force, Lt. General Fred Weyand, transferred operational control of the 2/12th battalion to my "Big Red One. That battalion was a part of the very brave Oliver Stone's 25th Division. They were inserted several miles north of Loc Ninh. The next day, on the morning of October 31st, the 1/28th was inserted just east of the air strip and ordered to chase down the 272nd. The 1/28th ran into and destroyed a few enemy patrols but anyone who thought that an American Infantry Battalion could "run down" an NVA Battalion was dreaming. There were just too many crisscrossing trails, which could be used as swift evacuation routes and the inexperienced NVA conscripts had experienced local guides, who knew those trails well. A large unit like the 272nd could divide conscripts up into smaller units to be led in several different directions at once. Even if we had destroyed a few of their hide-outs, there were numerous base camps throughout War Zone C stocked with food and medical supplies. The hardship situation imposed earlier in October by the Big Red One on Triet 's conscripts of the 271st was an exception rather than the rule. Even after being almost completely annihilated, this unit was reconstituted in less than a month.
    
     To make matters even better for our enemy, there was very little red tape to slow down a "course of action". In other words, there were few restraints and time-consuming moral arguments, to prevent the use of those teenaged conscripts being used anyway that they needed to be used. They were a distraction, a red flag, if you will; something for The Big Red One to chase. Le Duan knew this. Duan's thoughts were to let the bullish minded Westmoreland hook his horns into that red flag and even rip it to shreds as long as he left Duan's "shadow government" intact. So far, the man with no real infantry combat experience was not disappointing him. He was performing just as a raging bull would be expected to perform.

     Nevertheless, the II Field Force, under Weyand, performed magnificently. It was a daunting task to accomplish what Weyand's people accomplished to stem Tran Van Tra's attacks in late October on remote outposts like Loc Ninh and Song Be. There were few roads to bring in resupplies and those were vulnerable to constant attacks. Sure, we had the speed of helicopters to move troops in and out of remote areas, but it took a tremendous effort by our logistics people to keep those birds flying. It also took a lot of thoughtful tactical savvy to make sure they got in and out of landing zones safely. Never mind discussing the logistics required to service, repair, and provide fuel for them.

     Recorded statistics say that 19 enemy died for every one American killed. My research and my experience in the field says that the number was at least double, if not triple that. Whatever the number, however, this statistic was meaningless. Westmoreland never understood a simple truth. That truth says that it is always possible to do something very, very well and yet that "something" can absolutely be the wrong thing to do. Our type of fighting, from the very beginning, was a worthless endeavor. However, by the end of 1967 we had become very proficient at ripping the enemy's "red flag" to shreds. To make matters worse, my research suggests that the very astute Lt. General Fred Weyand knew we were pursuing a wrong course, but like Westmoreland's old boss, James Gavin, and even Secretary McNamara, they were powerless to stop this runaway train. The Devil had hijacked the controls, and this train was being driven by the hounds of hell.

      October 31, 1967 brought more fighting, of the type, which I am sick of writing about, and yet, I must. The Loc Ninh air strip was again assaulted by battalions of the 272nd Brigade shortly after midnight. Mortar fire led the attack. Then came the ground attack. Cam had “some” new toys to play with. He had “some” Chinese 122 mm rockets, which were being used for the first time in the 3rd Corps area as well as “some” recoilless rifles and flamethrowers. Before the attack, he had been anxious to "show off" these weapons to his new NVA conscripts, for a reason, we Americans would never quite comprehended. You see, while Westmoreland's mind was still stuck in his past war experience in Korea, Le Duan was squinting to see the big picture. In this bigger picture, these weapons had a much broader purpose than we could ever have imagined. Besides being used to kill us, they were “show and tell” props, for the "pep talks" Cam's cadre routinely gave his teenaged conscripts. Cam had no illusions about these weapons being able to win the day for them, but that didn't matter. His cadre of "pied pipers" bragged them up anyway. Here's why. You see, fear of dying could make fifteen-year-old conscripts break down in disastrous ways, even if they were dressed up in brown or green uniforms with little pith helmets on their head. For the camera, these uniforms made their formations appear monolithic, but they were not monolithic. They were kids and under similar circumstances, they could have been our kids. We Americans saw what the communist manufactured illusion wanted us to see, and it was helped along by a "national press corps" growing ever more devoid of godly understanding. These weapons bolstered the nerve of these immature and unaware conscripts, plain and simple. These weapons were not going to save a conscript from a grisly death. However, new conscripts didn't know that. These weapons gave them hope. It was false hope but "so what"? This false hope made them easier to control, as they were herded into position to make one more suicidal "human wave" attack onto the "killing caldron" of Loc Ninh airfield. The truth is the entire communist ideology then and now is built upon false hope and self-delusion.  

     Interestingly enough, the survivors in the 272nd NVA Regiment, who lived through the last maniacal attack on the 29th of October did not need this kind of false hope. The trauma from having already gone through a soul-shattering event had transformed them into the very same evil, which had victimized them in the first place. The dope and the prostitutes provided by their handlers helped deaden the raw pain of that transformation. Actually, preparations for this transformation did not begin with their sojourn From North to South Vietnam. The communist military could not "so soon" have turned rice farming teenagers into what the world would perceive to be an army of "immortals". It had to be a "cradle to grave" process for that to happen. North Vietnamese leader and "Order of Lenin" award winner, Le Duan, understood this process well. Cam's people just added the final "before the grave" touches to it. It was a process which had been carried along by a bureaucratic conveyance of rules governing every aspect of their short lives. I was fortunate enough to have a high school civics teacher named Mr. Johnson, who took a semester to explain the truth about this evil process. Sadly, I would be willing to bet that there are no "Mr. Johnsons" teaching this subject in our high schools today, but guess who is there in ever increasing numbers, teaching our children. Above all, however, without God's timeless rules for life, war unearths the lowest forms of depravity in the human soul. That depravity reaches down and touches the very gates of hell, itself.   

     Just after midnight on the 31st of October, the NVA 9th Division's 272nd regiment made another assault on Loc Ninh air Strip. Jim Kasik's Black Lions had by now moved their positions inside the wire and were ready and waiting. The NVA 9th Division's 208th Antiaircraft Battalion took positions around the Loc Ninh air strip to "have a go" at The Big Red One's deadly helicopter gunships and the Air Forces' more deadly C-47 "Spookys". (We also called them "Puff, The Magic Dragon") They gave their positions in the night sky away as they slung glowing red waves of tracer rounds toward the dark earth. Later a veteran forward air controller said that the NVA's 208th put out the heaviest antiaircraft fire that he had ever seen. However, it was to no avail. The battle on the 31st was repelled with huge losses incurred by the NVA. Of course, those numbers were underreported by the "ever so careful" Westmoreland. Only nine people were killed on our side and not a single American aircraft was shot down. The 165th was supposed to join the attack. That was the same unit, which Mac's C Company of my Dogface Battalion had "sent packing" on the 29th of October. The 165th was ordered to join the attack on the 31st but didn't make it to the fight, because it got lost in the rubber trees on the way to the assembly area. That speaks volumes about the incompetence of the core elements of this NVA unit. Did no one in the entire unit know how to use a compass? Perhaps the reason for getting lost was because my "Dogface" had taken out most of their experienced local forces and guides? These local "card carrying communists" were the hardcore sociopaths who "greased the wheels" of any NVA unit. As I have said before, the bulk of the uniformed NVA conscripts were nothing more than young rice farmers programed to become "cannon fodder".

     Of course, senior communist leadership, from Cam's position on up, were also as hardcore as hardcore could be. However, no matter how dedicated they were, their commitment alone was not going to help them win this war either. Later, they publicly admitted "as much". Even as early on as this first Battle of Loc Ninh, Cam probably knew, and his boss, Hoang Van Tha, certainly knew, that they were not going to be able to take the airfield at Loc Ninh. If they did take it, they knew they couldn't keep it. However, the "Henchmen of Hanoi" also knew something else. They knew that America had come across the sea and onto the land like a mindless "class five hurricane" and hurricanes cannot be stopped. However, if America could be withstood long enough, to allow her to beat herself to death upon the land, then Hanoi also knew that America would fade away, leaving a dysfunctional codependent South Vietnam government in its wake. That government would be a government severely weakened by the whole affair. It would be then that Duan, with the logistical support of Russia and China could easily march in and take possession of the land. It's a recipe that our enemies have been using ever since and it's a Real Estate play, plain and simple. When a few people have dominion over the land then those living on the land will be forced to dance to every tune they play. How hard is that to understand? Every word I have said in this paragraph is true. It can be summed up this way. During this period in our history, the growing godless thinking in America was turning our country's foreign policies into nothing more than a vain wind. That vain wind did eventually beat itself to death upon the shores of Vietnam, and other lands since, but the bigger question is this. Have we now become so vain, that we shall soon beat ourselves to death upon our own shores? Here is the answer. Without a return to God and our Judeo-Christian values, we surely will.

      As dawn broke on the 31st, everyone in the 3 companies of my Dogface Battalion at Loc Ninh got some welcome news. The night attack on the airstrip had failed again. There would be no company sized patrols today for Dogface A, C, and D Companies. The 105 mm guns behind Mac's C company position had hammered away all night in support of Captain Kasik and the others as they repelled the attack on the airstrip. The noise of the guns made it hard for some of the newer men in Dogface to sleep as those gunners inside Dogface NDP kept the firing up until dawn. Older (in time served) grunts could sleep within earshot of almost any noise. However, if they were awake,  I'm sure this night brought back memories of Fire Support Base Thrust and the battle of Ap Gu. like here at Loc Ninh, those "Spookys" and gunships worked their deadly business close enough for us to see them peeing red tracers toward the earth and hear the groan of Gatling guns. At the same time, those big self-propelled guns at Thrust blasted away in the "wee hours", helping save Lt. Colonel Alexander Haig's hide. Now, as the sun was coming up on "Dogface" at Loc Ninh the guns "fell silent". The loudest noises now were made by the big Chinooks bringing in resupplies shortly after dawn. This day was to become a welcome break for Dick and his Dogface boys. However, it was an especially good day for my B Company. Capt. Caudill's men continued to "sit pretty" out of the fighting in Quan Loi and "of course" I was there, intending to "sit pretty" until my tour of duty was over. That would happen in less than a month. Little did I know that this day was to become one of the most dangerous days of my life.

      For many years, here's how I remembered this most eventful day. First Sergeant Pink Dillard put things in motion late in the day. When Pink set those events in motion, my immediate thought, then and years later, was that Pink had absolutely too much free time on his hands to harass grunts like me. To make matters worse, I had always seen him and every other sergeant as being people to avoid. Then, again, this feeling was even more intense for the officers. When I think back, there was really only one authority figure in the entire unit that I didn't feel this way about. That man was our "Ole Man", Dick Cavazos. Also, in my paranoid mind, it was only natural to think that most field NCOs, like Pink, would, by default, carry a certain amount of disdain for rear echelon people, like me. Pink had not joined Dogface until late in my tour, so Pink had little opportunity to witness my performance in the field, as a point man. "Like I said", this was my faulty thinking and the paranoid way I thought for years, until I allowed the Holy Spirit to repurpose my thought-life. By default, I just naturally felt that I was being singled out for some kind of punishment anytime any authority figure asked me to do something a little out of the ordinary. It was a very sad way to live my life. Having said this, when Pink did what he did, it set my damaged mind racing. Another thought which quickly followed that first thought was this. "Why did Pink hate me"? I knew my lane and I thought I was in it until this happened. On and on my damaged mind raced, like a runaway train. "Did Pink know about my article 15, and did he have me down for a "slacker"? Did word reach his ears about me giving "Donut man" a mud bath? Perhaps others or maybe "Donut man", himself had gone to "Pink" with a different version of the story. Maybe it was one which didn't paint me in such a favorable light. Were any of these enough reason for Pink to punish "little ole poor pathetic and paranoid me"?

       Although I had learned a few things about fighting VC, while in the field, my twenty-year-old brain knew next to nothing about the world of sergeants, and as the reader can see, much less about how to relate to them. One of the big lessons that the Holy Spirit teaches a believer is how to deal with authority. However, I had turned my back on God. Now, as I was misreading Pink Dillard, I was also failing one of the most important lessons in leadership 101. That lesson teaches us to always allow the Holy Spirit to develop in our minds an understanding of what the boss is really going through. Instead, I focused entirely on myself. It's hard to build a working rapport with others, when one feels nothing but contempt, yet that's what takes the place of empathy and compassion in self-centered people and self-centeredness is at the heart of what I am talking about here. Contempt is a fruit of self-centeredness. That contempt not only destroys a good working relationship between a subordinate and his superiors, but it also fosters division between the person and anyone who does have a good relationship with the boss. For years I not only felt contempt toward Pink but also for one of the best young leaders in my battalion, Mac McLaughlin.
        
     Now, let's put that sermon side, and back up for a minute. When I had left the field, I soon settled into my rear echelon "gravy train". That world in the field quickly faded from my thinking. It’s much easier for the young to refocus on the "here and now". Yet, I did visit with my old squad, on those occasions, when they were in the rear and now that they happened to be at Quan Loi with me for more than a day or two, I visited a lot more than usual. They had no problem talking about their latest exploits with me, because I was still the oldest grunt (time served in combat) in my squad.

     I never thought for once that I was undeserving of my knew assignment but more importantly neither did my former squad members. I would have “picked up” on the "vibes" if they had. When driving through the countryside, dodging people, Lambrettas, buses, and ox carts, I began to feel like I was in control of my life again. No one was eye-bawling my every movement. The people I worked around seemed very "task driven" to complete their own work. They left me alone. It was wonderful. Once in a while I would be asked to run an errand which was out of the ordinary, and which I was happy to do. I had considerable free time, as long as I made sure the hot mess hall food was delivered to the airstrip mornings and afternoons, for the troops in the field. When running the roads, I would pass American soldiers, tanks, and other supply trucks along the way and sometimes I would get a glimpse of something that I never expected to see, like the Koreans, who were called "Rok Soldiers". They were "some bad dudes". The enemy did not like to tangle with them. The roads were always crowded with vehicles of all types. There would always be large numbers of civilians and kids. Actually, this gave me what I now realize was a false sense of normalcy and security. If I had known how many enemy combatants were mixed in with those civilians and others and in the woods nearby, I am sure that I would have begged to be sent back to my squad.

       It's common knowledge now, that from July, on, the North Vietnam leaders were amassing men and materials in hidden strongholds all over the countryside from Loch Ninh to Saigon, itself. They were preparing for the Tet Offensive. There was a "heck of a lot more" enemy activity around, not just around Loc Ninh, but Quan Loi, An Loc, and Song Be too. Enemy base camps were being built and improved "all along" Thunder Road and that was our major resupply route to Loc Ninh. I drove that road quite often, as far as An Loc. Loc Ninh was ten miles farther north. Once in a while I ran "lone ranger" errands during the day for the supply sergeant. The VC exerted almost total control over the villages which I drove through. Yes, some of our enemy melted into the jungle during the day, but many did not. They felt extremely comfortable intermingling with the masses of people in the same villages which I passed through. They traveled the same roads I traveled.

        Joe Boland of C Company gave an account years later of his experience one day while driving a truck to pick up supplies. As he was driving along, unexpectedly, a group of maybe 20 or 30 Vietnamese dressed in black pajamas crossed the road in front of him. They carried AK 47’s and were following along in single file. He waved to them, and they waved back. Arvin soldiers wore green uniforms and did not carry AK’s. So, there is a 99.9% chance that this was an enemy patrol, crossing the road in front of his truck. The stark truth about the security of rear echelon Americans serving in Vietnam was that we were in much more danger than we realized. We were very naïve about what was really going on all around us, and the enemy knew it. The enemy's activities were much more sophisticated than we ever imagined. I find it remarkable that rear echelon grunts were not taught to be more aware, but the truth was our intelligence operations were not that good. For the most part, it was the blind leading the blind. Localized enemy forces were not like the NVA conscripts. NVA conscripts had not volunteered to be there. They had a psychological make-up more like a long-term hostage than a soldier. Conscripts were almost never left alone, without overseers. Local VC, however, were "card carrying" members of the communist party, looking to gain as much individual power, for themselves as possible. They had a criminal gang mentality and were amoral. The only human life which they valued was their own and possibly a few family members. They were comfortable operating alone or within the ranks of an NVA battalion. This patrol, which crossed paths with Boland, knew that they had nothing to fear and were extremely comfortable being around American soldiers. Listen to what I just said and let it sink in for a minute. They owned the countryside and the roads at night but had no problem getting business done, in daylight, right in front of our eyes.

     First Sergeant, Pink Dillard, was fairly new in the unit, but he was no novice. He was a Korean veteran. Our very astute company commander, Watts Caudill, thought very highly of him. Now, the First Sergeant’s primary duty was to use his experience to keep the people in his unit lined-out in the performance of everyday matters. That was a tall order. There were a lot of routine duties to be addressed and Pink Dillard was second to none, in following through with his duties. In a perfect world, first sergeants should have known something about our kind of tactical maneuvering and coordinating artillery and air strikes. However, most didn't. RTOs, like Fred Walters and David Eaton were usually much better at this simply because they got more practice using the radios and good radio communications were at the heart of every battle we fought. First Sergeant Pink Dillard did what most other good first sergeants did during a fight. He kept his head down and let the rest of his men take care of business. By October, Dick had systematically accumulated a stack of good leadership at all levels and Pink was one of the best or he would not have been there. It's just that simple. Pink was also blessed with the good fortune to be part of a "well-oiled machine" at this point in time. That allowed Pink to focus on another part of his job which he dearly loved. That part was putting new 2nd lieutenants in their place and dealing with possible pending issues before they became a problem. He had at least 120 men under his wing and a skinny paycheck to go with that responsibility. I now realize that he didn't have time to keep a case file on me. 

     Here is what happened in the late afternoon on or around the 31st of October. Pink, himself, showed up at the mess hall and he wasn't looking for a snack. He was looking for me. When he found me there was no "small talk". "And come to think of it", that's another reason why I hated authority figures in my life. Most had made me feel like a "thing" instead of a person. Dick didn't do that. If the reader wants to be a great leader, then don't do that. Take thirty seconds to make "small talk". Pink just stopped and looked me straight in the eyes. He was a scary fellow when he gave someone that "evil eye". Then, he curtly commanded me to round up the women helpers in the mess hall and drive them home. That was it. He turned around and walked off. He had not the slightest idea what danger he was putting me in. At first, however, neither did I. I have thought about this moment for many years, and for many of those years, I must admit, that I thought the First Sergeant was out to get me. I now realize that was a ridiculous notion coming from my paranoid mind. None of us, including Pink, knew at the time he gave that order, that one of those girls lived almost 8 miles away in An Loc. All Pink was doing was making sure that these young women were not having to stay in camp overnight with a bunch of "horny" young men. There were three young women who needed a ride and the first two lived close by.

     There was maybe an hour of daylight left. It was that and the realization that the one woman lived in An Loc which made my gut begin to tighten. I also knew that all patrols and road guards would soon be returning to positions inside the wire. The road between Quan Loi and An Loc would then become an "uninhabited ghost road" with the very real possibility of a big "Boggy Man" lurking in the rubber trees somewhere between Quan Loi and Loc Ninh. My stomach tightened even more. It was at this point that I felt I had been thrown to the wolves. Enemy regimental size units surrounded Quan Loi. It was located just a few miles from the Cambodian border. On July 11, 1967, the enemy had launched a fairly large raid on Quan Loi. I had been on a number of patrols around Quan Loi earlier in the year, so I had experienced firsthand the enormous amount of evidence of enemy activity surrounding Quan Loi Air Strip. Enemy sappers continually plied their deadly trade every day, in the rubber trees, along the roads, and they owned that stretch of road which I would be traveling after dark.

     The first girl lived just outside the perimeter of Quan Loi. There would be little danger in dropping her off. The second girl lived just a couple miles, or so, down the road from there. It was the long distance I needed to travel, to drop the third girl off, which presented the problem. If I didn't get moving soon, darkness would fall, and the road guards would be gone for the night. There was a good chance that I would be driving into the large town of An Loc, at dusk, with no other Americans around, whatsoever. Every American soldier, who had been in country as long as I had, knew that no American in his right mind would ever venture out this time of day, to gallivant across the country in what was essentially only a pickup truck. Even armored units didn't travel these roads this time of day unless they traveled in force and were loaded for bear.

     Fortunately, my company was not having to pull perimeter guard and so my old squad members were close by. Somehow, they got the word and must have been as alarmed as me when they heard what I was having to do. Remarkably, I did not go to them, myself, to ask for volunteers to ride along. I had turned my back on them, so I didn't expect any sympathy. Much less, did I expect them to volunteer to go with me. Yet, that's exactly what they did. One of them must have been standing within ear shot when Pink gave me those orders and then spread the word. Anyway, within just a couple minutes every one of my old squad members who weren't off doing something else showed up. One of them declared that they were going with my "sorry behind" so I wouldn't get lost. The most outspoken was that "cussin red-faced guy. He quickly declared that he was going to ride "shotgun". He then raised his pump shotgun as he climbed in the front seat. The rest wasted no time gathering up their weapons and “plenty of ammo”. For years I have replayed this day in my mind. I have pondered whether or not these guys got permission to go with me or not. I don't think they did because there wasn't a single sergeant around to see us off. At least four, maybe five, of my grunt buddies showed up. One brought along an M-60 machine gun and four or five cans of ammo. Another brought along an M-79 grenade launcher. The rest of us had the "sorry excuse for a weapon" M-16s. I remember that the "cussin soldier" had that kind of look on his face that said, "I'm going out in a blaze". That pump shotgun he carried was not particularly good in the jungle, but perfect for this occasion. As a side note, I am sure that the "cussin soldier" was still "reeling" over his wife leaving him for another man. He seemed to have that same “devil may care” disposition after all these months of being abandoned by the love of his life. His suicidal mood, however, was absolutely perfect for this particular road trip.

     Without any fanfare the rest of my guys climbed in the back along with the three girls and off we went, through the gate and down a little bank toward a row of ten huts maybe a half mile outside the air strip perimeter. Just outside the perimeter of Quan Loi, as we arrived at that first little village, one of the girls started hollering to be let off. She realized that I was not slowing down for her stop and then started screaming. We could see the fear on her face as she began to cry. There was sheer terror in her voice as her screaming turned into a loud moaning. She had no idea that she was only giving us more confirmation that we were doing the right thing when we had decided to drop her off on the way back. I punched the gas pedal to the floor and kept rolling. Several of the guys riding in the back tried to explain to her what we were doing. Their explanations “fell on deaf ears”.

     We had already determined that we would use these he girls as an insurance policy against an enemy ambush. Yes, they were human shields, but at minor risk to them because we were not a "high value" target. The enemy would not want to kill them, just so he could kill us too. We were just not that important. If we had not taken that precaution, I am convinced that our "little joy ride" would have turned out to be "the ride from hell" quicker than it takes Mel Tillis to say, "On top of Ole Smokey". Shortly after passing the first girl's stop, all the girls became noticeably quiet, and they sat very still. The next girl in line to be let off sat silently as we passed through her village. Tears were still streaming down that one girl's face but at least she was quiet.

     As I said, my red-faced companion was riding on the passenger side. On the final leg of our journey, after a "hush" had settled over everyone in the rear of the vehicle, he calmly pulled a cigar out of his fatigue pocket and lit it. What a scene It made, as I watched him take his first slow puff. He then turned his head slowly toward me, and grinned like Jack Nicolson did in "The Shining". Instead of an ax, though, he was carrying that pump shotgun. "Yes, he was definitely suicidal", I quietly reaffirmed to myself. The entire scene was surreal. It could easily have been a build-up to a climax in a Mel Gibson or Clint Eastwood thriller. He had gotten that first "Dear John letter" during Operation Junction City, and since then his wife had divorced him, taking the children with her into the home of her new lover. It now seemed as though he had little to live for. The wild-eyed expression on his grinning face said it all. His demeanor oozed a recollection of the Wild Bunch" with matched expression silently saying, "Why not go out in a blaze of glory?". I must say that I did love the part about "glory", but I was really having a problem with that other part about "going out with it".

     After taking those first few puffs on the cigar, my friend took the shotgun, which he was clutching in his other hand and gently laid it across his lap. On we went. Both his and my heads were pointed to the front now, while the guys in the back scanned our flanks.  Rows of rubber trees flew by us in a blur. Although I knew exactly what this crazy "red faced" partner of mine was thinking, I don’t remember exactly what was going on in my own mind. Obviously, it was a tempered version of his thoughts, but I also know that it had something to do with a feeling of absolute and utter helplessness. Squeezing everything that the “ole truck" could muster, while listening to the gears whine, I managed to stay focused on the task at hand, which was to get there as quickly as possible and do the same coming back. Truth is, at this moment, I would have gladly given this truck driving job up in a second to be walking point again, in pitch black, with my "trusty" M-14 in my hands, and Dick Cavazos watching my back.

     We were completely alone on the road. I saw no one walking. There was not a single bicycle or even a single three-wheeled Lambretta. This was a bad sign. It was "down right" spooky. I knew any enemy patrol would be able to hear my truck coming for miles. That would give them more than enough time to set up an ambush. However, to say that I or anyone on the truck was fearful, in a normal sense, would be wrong. We were all “Ole” guys to combat which meant that each one of us had been pushed beyond the limits of fear on multiple occasions. There was a place in each of our minds which had already been hardened to endure more readily what we might now soon face. It's not easy to describe. The fear we felt was more a "knowingly apprehensive" type of fear rather than a knee-knocking fear. Everyone who has gone through repeated exposure to combat knows what I am talking about here. There is a hardened place in a combat veteran's mind which allows him to do what needs to be done. That hardened place shuts down all normal thought processes in the brain. That includes all thoughts of home, family, allegiances, friendships, and yes, even the mind-numbing fear of living or dying. In turn, it heightens the senses which help recognize and eliminate the threat. Hollywood war stories have rarely, if ever, gotten this right. Today's tantalizing media creations are masterfully mesmerizing, and also very persuasive to a naive viewing audience. However, when it comes to capturing the real feelings of the average combat soldier, those portrayals are usually wrong, wrong, wrong.
      
     When we approached the outskirts of An Loc, the road from Quan Loi snaked to the right and down a rather steep incline, before it opened up into a large market square on flat ground. The street was wide and packed with people. To my left, the center of the street had a very wide esplanade and vendors were crowded together up and down the length of it. They were selling all kinds food stuffs and other merchandise. Their products were displayed on many varied types of structures. There were several large trucks as well as a number of Lambrettas squeezed in between these structures, and they were loaded with mostly vegetables and fruits, but some had other merchandise too. Off the street to the right was a line of single-story huts, with their rusty corrugated tin roofs rising above the items for sale to their front. I am sure that these tin huts were permanent residences as well as the owner's store.

      The high-pitched whining of the truck gears took on a lower tone as I "geared down". Every man could sense that something wasn't right. Every weapon except mine was "at the ready". Both my hands were glued to the stirring wheel. One could cut the tension with a knife. No children were running toward my truck looking for handouts as they normally did. The three girls were beyond emotions now. They each had a more permanent wide-eyed and frozen look of fear on their faces.

     As I entered the crowded market square, my red-faced companion rose from his seat, with the cigar butt still clinched between his teeth. The canvas top on my truck had been removed before we left Quan Loi, so it was easy for him to stand and position his shotgun, pointing outward over the windshield. I brought the truck to a complete stop. There were scores of armed men scattered around us on all sides. Unlike us, however, they did not appear to have been indoctrinated into the same American ideals of truth, justice, and the American way. All were wearing black pajamas, and all had AK-47s or M1 carbines slung over their shoulders. Several guys to our front started slowly moving from the side of the street to positions directly in front of my truck. They were obviously not going to let me pass. Another man came out into the street, from a tin hut on our right. His AK 47 weapon was unslung but pointed down. He joined the others blocking our front. It was quite obvious that they were "working out things" in their minds on how to make this our last day on earth. Our last day, that is, without causing a mess in the marketplace.

     My red-faced companion started traversing his shotgun back and forth, briefly stopping and shaking the barrel at each man blocking my path to our front. This act had the "heart numbing" effect of making these would-be attackers freeze in their tracks. I am sure that they realized what buckshot could do to a person at this close range. “Come on! just make a move! And I’ll let you have it”! my companion repeated over and over in a loud but distorted growl. His voice was distorted because the stub of that cigar was still clinched between his teeth. With each jerk of his gun barrel a glowing red ash would shake loose and float down across my truck's windshield. At this point, in sight of hundreds of onlookers, there could be no doubt in our "road blockers" minds that we would exact a costly price for our lives. The blood red "number one" on each man's left shoulder removed all lingering doubts, of that. Fortunately, he took his "posturing" just far enough, without "winking", as Doc Holiday had done in the movie, "Tombstone”. His actions slowed the cognitive thinking of these fellows just long enough, without triggering a deadly reflex in return. It was years later, before I realized what a masterful job my red-faced friend, flaunting his shotgun, had done that day. Maybe he wasn't so suicidal after-all.

     The one girl who lived in this town had a rather large bag to gather up and she needed to be helped down from the truck, so it took a few seconds. They were the longest few seconds of my life. When I heard someone in the back yell, “Let’s go!”, I quickly gassed the truck and immediately cut the wheels to the left. I made one of the sharpest U turns I had ever made in that truck. As I straightened out, heading in the opposite direction, several armed men in black pajamas jumped to my right and out of the way. I am sure that my boys in the back were making gestures to them, which made them think twice about doing something which could ruin their dinner plans. I gunned the truck for everything it was worth. Now, kids were running toward us, but not to ask for hand-outs. They were throwing rocks and sticks and anything else that they could get their “hands on”. It was just another verification that these were Viet Cong, which we had just encountered, and not South Vietnamese special forces. The kids were showing off to impress them. During the day, I had driven through An Loc and these same kids were as friendly as could be. I couldn’t help but think, as I topped the hill, and headed out into rubber tree country again, “What duplicitous little rascals they really were".

     We left the outskirts of town without a shot being fired, but it was definitely what one of Hillary Clinton's "politically incorrect deplorables" would call a "Mexican stand-off". As tensions subsided, the girls who were still on the truck started chatting again, while I started pondering what had just happened. I have not stopped pondering that over fifty years later. Until this day, I can never forget those few seconds while I was sitting still, surrounded on all sides by scores of enemy soldiers in black pajamas. I remember looking at my hands at the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions on the stirring wheel and thinking this was the way that I was going to die without any chance whatsoever of defending myself. Obviously, these Cong had come in from the boonies to take a little break and do some shopping and obviously they had timed their shopping hours to coincide precisely with the American withdrawal of daytime security on the roads and in the town of An Loc, itself.

     Now, years later, it is easy to “armchair” reasons why we did not get killed that day. For one, they had no idea we were coming so there was no time to prepare an ambush. Number two, if a fire fight had ensued, children and civilians would have gotten killed, including the remaining girls on the truck. The collateral damage would not have been more than any surviving Cong, standing in our way, would have wanted to explain to his superiors. Furthermore, these were local forces, so they had family and friends mingled amongst them. Of course, there was another nagging question to be asked. If we were smart enough to make the girls ride all the way over and back, why didn't we also think to stop at the top of the hill and let the girl out there instead of driving down the hill into the crowd? Here is my thinking on that. The reason we didn't do that is because we were very naive. Like I said, I had driven through this town during the day by myself. We expected a possible ambush on the road, but we never expected the enemy to be crawling all over the marketplace. Here is another disturbing thought about what we witnessed on that day so long ago.

     There were significant events taking place in that marketplace, unfolding before our very eyes. Those events were much more significant events than "Charlie" buying banana bread for "dear Ole Uncle Ho". You see, Vietnam was invaded and dominated first by the Imperial French and later by the expansionist Japanese. Both occupations, one after the other, created an almost perfect learning environment for the Vietnamese to become adept at running, not only a shadow government, but also a shadow economy, while coexisting with their much more powerful enemies. My research suggests that on this particular day, while I was "moon lighting" as an Uber driver, I just happened to witness the workings of a "shadow economy" in "full swing". It was a "shadow economy" which contributed greatly to the support of the large main force units located throughout South Vietnam. Rice production figures fell significantly during 1967, not because we Americans were trampling through a few rice field or not because we dropped a few bombs in those rice fields, but because farmers everywhere were transacting deals to siphon off large portions of their production to be delivered into the hands of communist support troops. Deals were made at night in town all across South Vietnam like An Loc. In my III corps area, this rice was then transported by support troops, at night, to cache points throughout War Zone C and D. As I sat for those few seconds, helpless, in that driver's seat, I was looking at the first link in an enemy “logistics chain” carrying on its business in that An Loc marketplace. That “business began at dusk, within minutes, not hours, after we Americans went home for the day. This particular “logistics link” began at An Loc and ended up feeding and resupplying NVA conscripts, who were trying to kill Dick and my boys at Loc Ninh. What I have just described was happening all over South Vietnam. Hardly any food supplies came from over the border. That rice was consumed just getting those warm bodies down the Ho Chi Minh trail and into South Vietnam. For rice to make it from local growers to the mouth of an NVA conscript, however, hundreds of transactions on price, delivery and quantities had to be continually negotiated between local farmers and buyer agents for COSVN. We had just witnessed some of those negotiations taking place and they had twelve hours out of every day to carry out these business deals. 

     An army runs on its stomach. Shutting down access to these marketplaces, by providing twenty-four-hour security would have been a major step in shutting down large scale enemy operations in South Vietnam. No, it would not have been the only step needed, but it certainly would have been a major step and a much more effective step than the shedding of American blood in those horrific "Search and Destroy" operations. Essentially, Westmoreland gave our enemy 12 hours out of every day to raid "store house South Vietnam". Food growers were glad to do business with COSN. Why not? It was a relatively safe way to go, for Vietnamese farmers to be able to generate a living for their family. COSN was not going to harm the hand that fed them, and we Americans were oblivious to the problem, so I say again, why not sell their goods to the communists? Sure, shutting down these markets for our enemy would have required a massive effort but in the “long run”, it would have been more effective, then that other massive effort that we were already exerting, to blow up things and kill more people. Retraining and repurposing the Arvin Army to provide twenty-four security would have been a big job, but it was doable. Petraeus did that very thing in Iraq, and it stopped the insurgency "cold in its tracks".