Chapter 21: A Bigger Picture 090125

      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. Back 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 airstrip, while the CDIG forces were still clearing out enemy conscripts hiding in those abandoned bunkers inside the perimeter of the airstrip. As I have already mentioned, the Montagnard fighters and the Vietnamese Rangers made 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 from one of those rockets. Those hapless conscripts had been too scared of being shot by their own communist cadre to withdraw earlier, without orders. Their cadre, however, knew a little more about how the game was played. When things got hot, they fled like scared rabbits.

     There was no one to shoot them, and they could later tell the story anyway they saw fit. So, those conscripts in the bunkers became trapped, while the rest of the 273rd Regiment 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 further, the commander of the II Field Force, Lt. Gen. Fred Weyand, transferred operational control of the 2/12th Battalion to my "Big Red One". On November 2, they were inserted northeast of the airstrip. That Battalion was a part of the brave Oliver Stone's 25th Division.

     Looking back over fifty years at the bigger picture, it's easier for me to understand now how easily the North Vietnam leader at the top, Le Duan, was able to move forward with his plans. History records that those in his inner circle who opposed his grand battle plans were eliminated. As with the mafia and all communist governments, Duan was subject to very few time-consuming restraints. The people had no power. Duan sent as many of his teenage conscripts to their deaths as needed for him to stay in control and possibly win the war. Actually, he was using his conscripts as a distraction, a red flag, if you will; something for us Americans to chase through the woods.

      Meanwhile, his "made guys" clamped down harder and harder on villages and towns, extorting their help in preparing for a fake uprising. It was all an illusion, but one which our brilliant Secretary of Defense, Robert McNamara, was fooled by until the day he died. In late 1967, Le Duan could not be more pleased with the way Westmoreland was taking the bait. The bullish Westmoreland was mindlessly hooking his horns into Duan's red flag, ripping it to shreds, but leaving Duan's shadow government intact. So far, the man who looked like a general, talked like a general, and walked like a general was not disappointing Duan.

     Nevertheless, the II Field Force, under Weyand, performed magnificently. It was a daunting task to accomplish what Weyand's people accomplished in counterattacking Hoang Cam's late October attacks on remote outposts, such as Loc Ninh and Song Be. There were few roads to bring in resupplies, and those were vulnerable to constant attacks. We had the mobility of helicopters to move troops and supplies in and out of remote areas. Still, it took a tremendous effort by our logistics personnel to keep those helicopters flying. It also required a lot of thoughtful tactical savvy to ensure they entered and exited landing zones safely. The logistics needed to service, repair, and provide fuel for them were mind-boggling.

     Recorded statistics say that 19 enemy combatants died for every one American killed. My research and experience in the field suggest that the number was at least double, if not triple that number. Whatever the number, however, this statistic was meaningless. Westmoreland never understood the following simple truth. That truth says that it is possible to do something exceptionally well, and yet that "something" can be precisely the wrong thing to do. If one's efforts do not move one toward a desired solution, then those steps are the wrong steps to take, regardless of how good the results make us feel. Feelings are based on many things that have nothing to do with hard, cold facts. By the end of 1967, we had become very proficient at doing precisely the wrong thing. We became very skilled at chasing down and ripping apart the enemy's red flag every time. Each time we did that, it made Westmoreland feel good. Westmoreland kept pulling down every red flag Duan waved in his face while Duan just kept pulling out another one to distract Westmoreland from the real play.

     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, would they have known any better than Westmoreland, what course to take? At this point, I believe that it was too late to stop this runaway train by changing commanders.

     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 broader context, these weapons had a much more significant purpose than we could have ever imagined. Besides being used to kill us, they were show-and-tell props for the pep talks Cam's cadre routinely gave his teenage 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, the fear of dying could cause untested fifteen-year-old conscripts to break down in disastrous ways, even if their photo ops made 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 facilitated by a national press corps growing increasingly devoid of spiritual 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 October 29, no longer needed those endless carrot and stick pep talks by their cadre. The miracle of surviving these first soul-shattering events on the Loc Ninh Air strip worked to quickly harden their immature minds, making them like the very same evil that had victimized them in the first place. Between now and the next battle, the drugs provided by their handlers would help speed up that transformation. Actually, preparations for this transformation began much earlier, even before these hapless youngsters embarked on their journey from North to South Vietnam. The communist military could not so soon have turned rice farming teenagers into what they wanted the world to believe was an army of invincible immortals. It took a cradle-to-grave process for that to happen. North Vietnamese leader and Recipient of the Order of Lenin, Le Duan, understood that this was a process. It's a process that never changes for those who crave the power of life and death over their neighbor. First come the community activists with their constant appeals to those disgruntled and politically ignorant individuals, usually those on the lowest rungs of a free society. Organized demonstrations are the next step. Support for this is garnered from wherever it can be found. Often, that support comes from wealthy individuals who believe their financial status qualifies them to contribute to improving the human condition. Both the "haves" and "have-nots" are highly susceptible to being manipulated by the same community organizer, who is solely motivated by the desire to gain power for himself. As this amoral power broker grows in financial strength and political influence, they then gain the ability to control a church, a school, a town, and eventually an entire free nation. The result is that no free nation that allows this process to continue will remain free. The only antidote proven to be effective against the spread of this cancer in free societies is the Church of Jesus Christ. 

     Cam's people have just added the final touches to this age-old malignancy. In North Vietnam, it was a process that, by now, was being carried along by a bureaucratic conveyance of rules governing every aspect of young conscripts' 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, no Mr. Johnsons are teaching this subject in our high schools today, but guess who is there in ever-increasing numbers, tutoring our children and giving them their version of the truth? 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 that 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 October 31, the NVA 9th Division's 272nd Regiment made another assault on the 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 Force's more deadly C-47 "Spookys". (We also called them "Puff, The Magic Dragon") They gave up their positions in the night sky as they fired glowing red tracer rounds toward the dark earth. Later, a veteran forward air controller stated that the NVA's 208th Regiment put out the heaviest antiaircraft fire he had ever seen. However, it was to no avail.

     The battle on the 31st was repelled, with the NVA incurring huge losses. Of course, those numbers were underreported by the ever-cautious 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 that Mac's C Company of my Dogface Battalion had sent packing on October 29. The 165th was ordered to join the attack on the 31st but failed to arrive at the fight, as it became lost in the rubber trees en route 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 that 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 programmed to become cannon fodder.

     Of course, the senior communist leadership, from Cam's position on up, was as hardcore as it could be. However, no matter how dedicated they were, their commitment alone would not be enough to help them win this battle. Later, they publicly acknowledged this. Even as early on as this first Battle of Loc Ninh, Cam probably knew, and his boss, Hoang Van Tha, definitely 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 then be 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 very strong but very vain winds. Our vain effort did eventually beat itself to death upon the shores of Vietnam, and sadly, we are still repeating those same vain actions in many other places around the globe. 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 that is precisely what will happen.

      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. The attack on Jim Kasik's Black Lions and the Loc Ninh airstrip had failed just as had the one on the 29th. The 105 mm guns behind Mac's C company position had hammered away all night in support of the Loc Ninh air 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-pound 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, Fee, and the others at the Dogface NDP were now being made by the big Chinooks bringing in resupplies shortly after dawn. I was at the airstrip in Quan Loi early this morning as well, to transfer a couple of cooks onto those helicopters, along with some hot donuts and fresh coffee for my boys in the field. I had no idea what they were going through, nor did most others in my B Company. My entire company was enjoying the fact that they were chilling out with me at Quan Loi, telling war stories and watching another episode of "Combat" projected onto a bed sheet each night. 

      If this day were to become a welcome break for Dick and the other three companies of my Dogface Battalion, it was to become an even better day for my B Company. B Company was "sitting pretty" and removed from the entire mess going on in and around Loc Ninh Air Strip, some twenty miles away. They were in Quan Loi with me, where I, too, was "sitting pretty" and intending to keep it that way until my tour of duty was over, in less than a month. Little did I know that this great job, which I had landed, was well on the way to getting me killed quicker than I could have been if I had been with Cavazos at Loc Ninh. This day was going to become one of the most dangerous days of my life, and I would be powerless to do anything about it. 

      For many years, this is how I remember this most eventful day. First Sergeant Pink Dillard put things in motion late in the day when he cornered me and then gave me a straightforward order. He then turned around and walked away. Now, I had successfully avoided every sergeant and every officer in my unit since accepting this new job. I worked hard at keeping it that way until my tour was over. Sergeants were people to be avoided like the plague. If I had learned anything in the Army, it was this. These feelings about sergeants were even more intense for officers. When I think back, there was really only one authority figure in the entire unit who made me feel differently. What I am about to say seems strange, but it is nevertheless true. I did not feel this way about our "Ole Man", Dick Cavazos.

      Now, Pink had caught me flat-footed. He showed up in the mess hall tent, and he wasn't looking for a snack. He was looking for me. When he saw me, he made 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, I suggest not following Pink's example. 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. I now know that Pink had not the slightest idea what danger he was putting me in. At first, neither did I. However, it didn't take long for me to realize the risk when I learned how far I would have to travel. It was with this realization that I began to think that Pink might be 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 ensuring that these young women were not required to stay in camp overnight with a group of young men.

      The gravity of my situation was now really starting to sink in, and with it came the swift blow from that two-edged sword which defined my paranoia. One edge caused me to feel a particular disdain for sergeants, as well as the military in general. The other edge made me second-guess my own status within the unit. Was I being viewed by Pink as a slacker because I was obviously a grunt working with the support troops? Pink had not joined Dogface until late in my tour. He probably knew nothing about my walking point for nine months. While mulling over these thoughts, I became fraught with faulty thinking. I started to believe that I was being singled out. My paranoia was now slicing up my thoughts, going and coming. It's an unfortunate way to live one's life. My mind raced.

     "Why was Pink picking on me?". I knew my lane, and I was staying in it. "Did Pink know about my article 15”? "Did word somehow 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”. "No doubt, it was a version which didn't paint me in such a favorable light”. "Were there other reasons that I had not yet thought about that could have caused Pink to punish poor, pathetic, paranoid me"? These were the kinds of thoughts that went racing through my mind as Pink walked away, and they ran through my mind like a runaway train.        

     First Sergeant Pink Dillard was pretty 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 up in the performance of everyday matters. That was a tall order. There were numerous routine duties to be addressed. However, Pink Dillard was second to none in following through with these duties. In a perfect world, first sergeants should have known something about our kind of tactical maneuvering. They should also have been skilled in coordinating artillery and airstrikes. However, I doubt that Pink was. Most first sergeants were not. RTOs, like Fred Walters and David Eaton, were usually much better at this simply because they got more practice.

     Handling the radios required excellent communication skills and a good speaking voice. With my southern dialect and introverted personality, I would not have made a good RTO either. Pink hated having to take on that radio. Walters and Eaton were Yankees with bright minds and outgoing personalities. They made a great RTOS. That position also allowed them to learn a thing or two about tactics. Radio communications were at the heart of everything. However, First Sergeant Pink Dillard's job kept him busy elsewhere. He did what most other good first sergeants did during a fight. He was experienced enough to keep his head down and let the rest of his men handle the situation. By October, Dick had systematically accumulated a stack of good leaders at all levels, and Pink was one of the best; otherwise, he would not have been there. It's just that simple. Pink was fortunate to be part of a well-oiled machine at this point. That allowed Pink to focus on using his valuable skills where they were most needed.

    Simply put, that was being the "bad cop" for Captain Caudill when it came to enforcing routine regimens throughout the company. Unfortunately, all my grunt mind could see was the “bad cop”. I was blind to those other skills that he possessed. Besides harassing grunts like me, Pink also enjoyed harassing new 2nd lieutenants. I am sure many of them also had a hard time appreciating Pink's experience and foresight in dealing with the many personnel situations that could arise in a unit like ours. Pink 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. 

     There was less than an hour of daylight left. It was that and the realization that the one woman lived far away, in An Loc, which made my gut begin to tighten. I also knew that all patrols and road guards would soon return to their positions inside the wire. The road between Quan Loi and An Loc would then become a very lonely, uninhabited ghost road, with the very real possibility of a big boogie 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-sized 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 several patrols around Quan Loi earlier in the year, so I had firsthand experience with the extensive 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. The long distance I needed to travel to drop off the third girl 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 did not have 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 I was about my plight. Every single man was fully aware of the danger. That was soon made 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 had hesitated in deciding to go with me. I still struggle to understand their selfless motivations for what they were about to do. It's possible that they volunteered to go with me because they remembered things that had gone well for us while I was walking point for the squad, and perhaps thought I had been responsible. However, I am here to reiterate that every good outcome we shared was the work of the Holy Spirit.

     Nevertheless, it was obvious that a bond had been forged between us. None of the cooks volunteered to go. It was only those men who had faced death over and over again with me who were now going with me. Once more, every one of those men had to know that they would possibly face death on that road which we would be traveling down. 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 stated that he was going to ride shotgun. He then raised his pump shotgun as he climbed into 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. I don't think they did because there wasn't a single sergeant around to see us off. I do remember vividly 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 well-suited for jungle firefights, but it 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 were brushed aside.

     We had already determined that we would use these 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, so that 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 Nicholson 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 some Hollywood thriller. He had received that first Dear John letter during Operation Junction City, and since then, his wife had divorced him, taking the children with her to live with 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 evoked another memory of those final scenes from "The Wild Bunch" for me. His facial expression seemed to say, "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. 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 the old truck could muster, while listening to the gears whine, I managed to stay focused on the task at hand: 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 utterly alone on the road. I saw no one walking. There was not a single bicycle or even a single three-wheeled Lambretta. That empty highway 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 in the car was fearful in a normal sense would be wrong. We were all old 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 that 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 that 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 gullible viewing audience. However, when it comes to capturing the real feelings of the average combat grunt, those portrayals are usually wrong, wrong, wrong.      

     As we approached the outskirts of An Loc, the road from Quan Loi snaked to the right and down a rather steep incline, before opening 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 vast esplanade, and vendors were crowded together along its length. They were selling a wide variety of foodstuffs and other merchandise. Their products were displayed on a variety of structures. There were several large trucks, as well as several Lambrettas, squeezed in between these structures, loaded with mostly vegetables and fruits, but some also carried other merchandise. Off to the right, a line of single-story huts stood, their rusty corrugated tin roofs rising above the items for sale at their front. I am sure that these tin huts served as both the owners' residences and their stores.

      The high-pitched whine of the truck's gears took on a lower tone as I shifted into a lower gear. 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 usually did. The three girls were now beyond emotion. 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 clenched 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 an AK-47 or an M1 carbine 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 obvious that they were working out in their minds 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 a heart-numbing effect, causing these would-be attackers to 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 clenched 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 about 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 help getting 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 that 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 handouts. They were throwing rocks, 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 could be categorized as a Mexican stand-off. As tensions subsided, the girls who were still on the truck started chatting again, while I began to ponder what had just happened. I have not stopped pondering more than fifty years later. Until this day, I can never forget those few seconds while I was sitting still, surrounded 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. 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-justify 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 firefight had ensued, children and civilians would have been 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 mingling 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 that we were very naïve. 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.

     Significant events were unfolding in that marketplace before our very eyes. Those events were much more critical 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 inadvertently witnessed the workings of a shadow economy in full swing. It was a shadow economy that significantly contributed to the support of the large main force units stationed throughout South Vietnam. Rice production figures fell considerably during 1967, not because we Americans were trampling through a few rice fields or because we dropped a few bombs in those rice fields, but because farmers everywhere were transacting deals to siphon off significant portions of their production to be delivered into the hands of communist support troops. Deals were made at night in towns across South Vietnam, such as 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. Very few food supplies came from across the border. That rice was consumed to get 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 significant 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 significant 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 the storehouses in South Vietnam. Food growers were glad to do business with COSN. Why not? It was a relatively safe way for Vietnamese farmers to support their families. 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 than that other enormous 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 significant undertaking, but it was feasible. Petraeus did that very thing in Iraq, and it effectively halted the insurgency. 

     The short of it is this. One cannot hope to win a war if one does not possess the will to maintain 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 that 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 that does not enslave its people. History has repeatedly proven that my words are valid. 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 the 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, can wear the ring of total power, not even Frodo.