Chap 21 The Bigger Picture 123024

     The next day after my Dogface boys ran the 165th NVA regiment off Hill 203, they got a break. Nothing but routine patrolling happened for them on that day. By now, they also had a lot of company in the general area. On the morning of the 29th, two companies of Jim Kasik's 2/28th Infantry Battalion had been sent to the airstrip itself. Kasik's men dug-in outside the existing perimeter around the air strip, while the CDIG forces were still clearing out enemy conscripts hiding in those abandoned bunkers inside the perimeter of the airstrip. The Montagnard fighters and the Vietnamese Rangers made a quick work of those wretched souls. Kasik's men had donated the rocket launchers which they used to complete that gruesome task. Kasik’s men shoveled a little faster each time they heard another explosion. Those hapless conscripts had been too scared of being shot by their own communist cadre to withdraw, without orders, in time to save themselves. Those withdrawal orders never came. So, they stayed and became trapped, while the rest of the 273rd retreated. Greg Murry's 1/16th 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. To beef things up even more, the commander of II Field Force, Lt. General Fred Weyand, transferred operational control of the 2/12th battalion to my "Big Red One”. On the 2nd of November they were inserted northeast of the airstrip. That battalion was a part of the very brave Oliver Stone's 25th Division.

     Looking back over fifty years at the bigger picture, it’s easy to see now that everything was progressing relatively smooth for Le Duan. To make matters even better, 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. The communist could use these teenaged conscripts anyway that they chose. They were a great distraction, a red flag, if you will; something for The Big Red One to chase and Le Duan could not be more pleased with the way Westmoreland was taking the bait. 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 counter Hoang Cam’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 mobility of helicopters to move troops and supplies 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. The logistics required to service, repair, and provide fuel for them, was mind  boggling.

     Recorded statistics say that 19 enemy died for every one American killed. My research and my experience in the field says that number was at least double, if not triple that. Whatever the number, however, this statistic was meaningless. Westmoreland never understood this one 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. If a solution does not produce the desired results than it is no solution. However, by the end of 1967 we had become very proficient at chasing down and ripping apart the enemy's red flag which he kept waving in front of us. 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, he was powerless to stop the madness. If those men had been given the power, however, the big question is this. Would they have known what to do to turn things around? At this point Vietnam was a runaway train, and the devil had hijacked the controls.

     October 31, 1967 brought more fighting. 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. One of those toys was the Chinese 122 mm rocket, which was being used for the first time in the 3rd Corps. He also had 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 never quite comprehended. You see, while Westmoreland's mind was still stuck in his past war experience in Korea, the little-known leader of North Vietnam, Le Duan, was embracing a bigger 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 untested fifteen-year-old conscripts break down in disastrous ways, even if their photo ops did make them look invincible in those brown or green uniforms with the little rounded pith helmets. Yes, 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 communist illusions wanted us to see. Those illusions were helped along by a national press corps growing ever more devoid of godly understanding. These new rocket weapons bolstered the nerve of these immature and very naïve child conscripts, plain and simple. They 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 into 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, the survivors in the 273rd NVA Regiment, who lived through the maniacal attack on the 29th of October no longer needed those endless carrot and stick pep talks by their cadre. The miracle of surviving these first soul-shattering events on that Loc Ninh Air strip worked, to quickly harden their immature minds into becoming the very same evil, which had victimized them in the first place. In between now and the next battle, the dope provided by their handlers would help speed up that transformation. Actually, preparations for this transformation did not begin with these poor youngster’s sojourn from North to South Vietnam. The communist military could not so soon turn rice farming teenagers into what they wanted the world to believe was 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. It’s a process which never changes for those who crave to have the power of life and death over their neighbor. First comes the community activists with their carrot and stick pep talks. Next comes the submission of the weak-minded falling prey to those pep talks. As these numbers increase, then comes the power to govern as one sees fit. It’s a process which works every time, whether it is used to control a church, a school, a town, or an entire nation and its armies.

     Cam's people just added the final before the grave touches to this age-old process. In North Vietnam it was a process, which, by now, was being carried along by a bureaucratic conveyance of rules governing every aspect of young conscript’s 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 and giving them pep talks. Without God's timeless rules for life, this process cannot be stopped, and it always starts with just a few community organizers feeding like parasites on the very freedom which they seek to destroy. In the end it will surely unearth the lowest forms of human depravity just as it did in Loc Ninh in the late fall of November, 1967.     

     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 Mac’s Dogface boys 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 battle. 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? Things 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 vain winds. Our vain effort did eventually beat itself to death upon the shores of Vietnam, and sadly is still repeating those same vain actions in many other places around the globe since. Have we now become so vain, that we shall soon beat ourselves to death upon our own shores? Without a return to God and our Judeo-Christian values, I believe the reader can correctly guess my answer.

      As dawn broke on the 31st, everyone in the three companies of my Dogface Battalion at Loc Ninh got a welcome break in the fighting. There had been another night attack on Jim Kasik’s Black Lions and the airstrip at Loc Ninh, This time Cam sent two battalions of the 272nd to attack the air strip. The attack failed just as did the one on the 29th. The 105 mm guns behind Mac's C company position had hammered away all night in support of the sir strip so the noise of the guns made it hard for some of the newer men in my Dogface Battalion to sleep. 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. As with Fire Base Thrust, Mac, Fee, and the other men of Dogface could see and hear in the distance those "Spookys" and the chopper gunships plying their deadly business around that airstrip. Just like at that Battle of Ap Gu, those gunships would have been peeing red tracer rounds toward the earth. The groan of Gatling guns and the explosions of five hundred pounds bombs could also be heard in the wee hours of that night. Now, as the sun was coming up all was quiet. The loudest noises to be heard by Mac and Fee and the others at the Dogface NDP were now being made by the big Chinooks bringing in resupplies shortly after dawn. This day was to become a welcome break for Dick and my Dogface boys. However, it was an especially good day for Captain Caudill and my B Company. B Company was sitting pretty and removed from the entire mess going on in and around Loc Ninh. They were in Quan Loi with me, where I too was intending to sit pretty until my tour of duty was over, 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. This feeling was even more intense for the officers. When I think back, there was really only one authority figure in the entire unit in whom I didn't feel this way. That man was our "Ole Man", Dick Cavazos. 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 I assumed that he had had no way to know that I had walked point for nine months of my tour. Like I said, my thoughts were fraught with faulty thinking, until I at last 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. "Why was Pink picking on me?”. I knew my lane and I thought that I was staying in it. 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 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 the greatest tutor in the world. Consequently, I was misreading Pink Dillard. I was also failing to realize one of the most important lessons in leadership. That lesson teaches us to always allow the Holy Spirit to show us what others are struggling with, especially those in authority over us. Instead, I focused entirely on myself. It's hard to build a working relationship with others, when one has no empathy for what others are going through. In self-centered people, feelings of contempt will soon fill that void. 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 the ability to feel empathy, but it will also sow seeds of discord in an entire organization.           

     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 those vibes if they had.

     Looking back now, I realize that the bond forged between us was much deeper than any of us were able to comprehend at the time. At the same time, in my new job, driving through the countryside, dodging people, Lambrettas, buses, and ox carts, I was spending a lot of time alone and unable to form bonds with those in the rear areas although I saw most of them every day. You see, like me, they were task driven to complete their own work, so there was not much time to stop what they were doing to get to know me or I them. Actually, I spent more time getting to know Tex the donut man then anyone. 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. The conversations were pleasant but that was the end of it. I was now spending a lot of free time alone, which was not necessarily the best thing for a loner to be doing. My job did allow me to witness daytime activities across the countryside. 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, experiencing this activity did give me a sense normalcy and security even if it was false. However, though I didn’t realize it at the time, no amount of time spent in this great new job would ever take the place of the deep bond which had been formed with the other members of my squad while in the field. I was so out of touch with myself, It would take a strange coincidence to reveal to me that this bond even existed. 

       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 Joe 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. A 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. 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. Most sergeants including Pink did. If the reader wants to be a great leader, then I suggest not doing 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. He then 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 did not have 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. As I have already said, 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 very lonely 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 after dark they owned that stretch of road which I would be traveling at twilight.

     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, one of them learned of my plight and passed along the situation to others in my squad. Five or six of them soon showed up armed to the teeth. Every man there seemed as alarmed as me concerning what the first sergeant had ordered me to do. It was also apparent that every man there was fully aware of the danger. It was apparent because they had brought extra ammo, a thump gun and even an M-60 machine gun. At the time, I am sure not a single one of those men could have rationalized their decision to go with me. I cannot remember any of their names. Yet, I now know that they were propelled to do what they were doing by something else which no human can fully understand. They were doing what they were doing in response to a bond which can only be forged in the fires of hell. None of the cooks were volunteering to go. It was men only those men who had faced death over and over again with me, who were now going with me once more to possibly face it one more time, when they could have stayed home. 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 about ten boxes of extra 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. I do vividly 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 for jungle fire fights but was 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 be in that same devil may care mood after all these months. In most cases that kind of mood could be disastrous. However, being suicidal was just an absolutely perfect attitude to have on this particular little 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. Those ten huts were in the first village where one of the girls lived. As I was driving through it, the girl 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 I was doing the right thing when I 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, 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 in "The Shining". Instead of an ax in his hand, he was carrying that pump shotgun. Yes, as I glanced over at him, I was definitely convinced that he was suicidal. 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 squeezed from me another memory of those final scenes from “The Wild Bunch". His facial expression said, "Why not go out in a blaze of glory?". I must admit that I did love the part about the 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 downright 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, got 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 grunt, 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 things out 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 might 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 they 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 have been too much, for such a small prize. 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 letting 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 just 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 moonlighting 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. And it wasn’t just rice. Commodities of all kinds were being acquired in this and other marketplaces across the country.   

     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-hour 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. 

     The short of it is this. One cannot hope to win a war if he does not possess the will to possess the contested lands twenty-four hours a day, providing rule of law for everyone living there. Communist regimes still have the will to do that, but communist ideals create laws which strip their occupied lands and the people living there of all inalienable rights. Those inhabitants of that forcefully occupied land then become slaves to the decisions of those few at the top of the political ladder. Outside of a world ruled by Jesus Christ, himself, enforcing laws based on Judeo-Christian principles is the only way to maintain a civilized society which does not enslave it's people. History has proven over and over that my words are true. Even if those at the top of that political ladder start their reign as the most fair, honest, and just administrators in the world, no human being will ever possess the wherewithal to protect those inalienable rights. Only enforcement of a written constitution based on Judeo Christian ideals can do that. I certainly cannot do it, nor can the reader. No one, but Jesus Christ is able to wear the ring of total power, not even Frodo.