Jamie

The great question is: How can we win America's peace? 

—Richard Milhous Nixon, Address to the Nation on the War (November 3, 1969)

Strangers in a Strange Land

November 19, 1969. J. R. and I took a small step onto the world stage when we hopped off a Flying Tiger 707 at Cam Ranh Bay, 180 miles North East of Saigon, on a bright sunshiny day.

The communists weren't coming for us; we were coming for them. Neither poets nor conquerors, we were gonna make a statement, even a bad one. We weren't exactly gung ho, but we had been tasked to stop communism here and now, before it spread. At least the weather was nice.

They directed us to a two-story barracks, home until new orders came; you can't go anywhere in the army without orders. We shared a floor with fifty guys and picked out beds from the many empties scattered around. Our clothes and equipment were stashed in duffel bags because lockers were nonexistent. Replacements like us checked in and out every day.

Every morning after chow, the guys in the barracks lined up outside in roll call formation while a bitch box (bullhorn) called out 10-15 names. If you didn't hear your name, you were done for the day.

We lazed around, swam in the South China Sea at the beautiful white sandy beach. Old concrete pillboxes (emplacements) on the beach stared out at the ocean like the heads on Easter Island.

Cam Ranh's military history goes way back. The French used it as a naval base during colonial days. The Russian fleet operated it in 1905. The Japanese Navy used Cam in WWII. The U.S. destroyed most of the Japanese facilities in 1944 and didn't return until 1964 to redevelop the site as a humongous air, army and naval base – the main base in Viet Nam.

The Bay's two ten-thousand foot runways, deep-water port and large stores of ammo and petroleum were open invitations to the enemy. They accepted our offer to die often, without any effect on us.

Ah, let's go to the hop—Danny and the Juniors

At the afternoon rock concerts on the base, the Asian cats and half-naked foxes did a decent job covering American songs like Leaving on a Jet Plane or Green, Green Grass of Home, despite their accents. How they picked the very songs that made us homesick, I'll never know.

Nighttime, we pulled a couple of hours of guard duty in one of the fifty-foot high guard towers. We had guns in our hands again, but no ammo! They didn't trust us.

What use is guard duty without ammo?

Even the traditional Thanksgiving feast with turkey and all the trimmings was very, very good.

Was this a war zone or The Twilight Zone?

After two weeks, our names were called at the morning formation,

You are assigned to Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry of the 1st Cavalry Division currently situated at Fire Support Base Jamie. Get your gear and report back at 1400 hours. May God rest your souls.

May God rest our souls? WTF?

J. R. and I were picked up in a jeep, driven to a chopper and flown west to 1st Cavalry Division in Bien Hoa for a day of indoctrination. To practice abseil (bailing out of a chopper by rope in a combat assault), we climbed up a fifty-foot tower and rappelled down. My harness was attached to a rope with a D-ring. The harness squeezed my gut so tightly I thought I would die. Afterwards, I stashed the D-ring in my backpack. Never needed it again, thank God.

Huey (Doug Howe MP 146th Aviation Company RR)

Jamie

The next day we piled into the back of a Huey with a gunner manning a free gun (a modified M60 machine gun attached to overhead with bungee) at each door. When it landed, we were members of Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry Regiment, twenty miles north of Tay Ninh in the middle of the jungle, five miles from the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

I eyed Jamie, my new home away from home. The hundred-yard oval was enclosed with concertina wire. No gate, no structures, nothing but a mess tent. Everything dusty and dirty from chopper blowby. Far off in the west, Black Virgin Mountain was barely visible.

This is where we split. I went to 2nd platoon and J. R. to 3rd. Until now, the war had been a curiosity, an unknown, a head trip. No longer. The lights were on now.

After introductions to Bob Jackson, Sam Kuehn and the rest of my squad, I ventured,

Can you use a hand like me on the ranch?

Still shittin stateside chow, Jody? 

No, I've been here two weeks.

Sgt. Dunnuck came over—"Killer," for tossing grenades and pumping 16 into NVA taking a bath in a bomb crater.

Gooks won't bother you none. Let's find some gooks and we'll kill 'em. 

 Everybody listened to Dunnuck,

Guess you could say it's a job to do, that's all. Don't mean nuthin. Maybe you get killed or kill him. Better off him than me, any day. You see a dead gook, it don't mean nuthin. Only time you really feel anything is when you see a G.I. messed up. Then it sorta hurts you. 

Favorite phrase?

It don't mean nuthin.

No beads and sandals for this one and—don't, don't, don't take baths in the bush. 

Me in a B-52 bomb crater

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for I am the baddest motherfucker in the valley.—Anonymous

I was the FNG (fucking new guy), an old geezer at twenty-two. The guys explained what to watch out for, how not to get shot or better yet, how not to get someone else shot. They did the talking and were so pleased about me sharing point that I imagined myself in the middle of a highway with a bulls-eye painted on my chest.

Our squad slept in the open or under curved corrugated steel sections covered with sandbags until we built a decent bunker out of ammo boxes and runway steel plates. A firing hole in front faced the wire. Stairs led down to three bunk beds we had made from ammo box wood. But it wasn't completely satisfactory. At night, I could hear pitter-patter and feel rats running over my body like miniature Chihuahuas. It took my breath away. Bob took the hint and slept outside.

We jerry-rigged a can with holes as a shower head. Our showers were warm, courtesy of ol' Sol.

A fire support base is home to artillerists and they counted on a company like ours to provide twenty-four/seven security. A battery of 105 mm and 155 mm howitzers and a mortar section sat in the center of the compound, surrounded by piles of sandbags and ammo boxes filled with dirt. I overheard that Agent Orange (a dangerous herbicide) had been used to clear the base and keep the jungle back.

We made gaps in the concertina wire during the day to let our patrols come and go. The formidable-looking wire was not so secure because the enemy's favorite method of breaching the wire and penetrating the base was to throw ladders or woven mates over the wire or throw themselves on the wire and let their buddies climb over them.

I didn't join the poker games because I didn't want to be broke. Some guys wrote home, others shot the shit, but we all cleaned our weapons assiduously, especially the M60 gunners. The M60 had gobs of parts and fired tons of bullets. During contact, we were more dependent on it than on our M16s. We could not chance it jamming.

The dark silhouette of the Black Virgin Mountain stood out clearly in the blood red sunset. For the evening's entertainment, we took the cheese out of our C rations, smeared it on blasting caps and stuck them in the concertina wire. We hooked up wires to the blasting caps with a clacker (detonator). When the base shot off flares to illuminate the area at night; you hit the clacker and blew away the rats eating the cheese—don't tell PETA.

A small support crew stayed at Jamie. CS Mike was a real joker, driving around in a junky minigun jeep before dark, firing random bursts from his M134 Gatling gun into the woods at 4000 rounds a minute with a great sense of style or dispensing CS (tear) gas into the distant tree line so it would blow through the woods. I always kept track of him because I couldn't handle the blowback. Whenever he got upwind, I scurried away.

We pulled first light and last light patrols at Jamie for the next five or six days. On one of my first patrols, somebody pointed out that the skeletons piled up at the wood line were the remains of human wave attacks against Jamie. They had been doused in diesel, burned, and bulldozed into this appalling mass grave.

Greetings

Secretary McNamara and General Taylor reported their judgment that the major part of the U.S. military task can be completed by the end of 1965, although there may be a continuing requirement for a limited number of U.S. training personnel.—White House statement October 2, 1963

I was twenty-one, married with an ten-month-old baby girl, going to school days, working nights, when I was swept into the army in June, 1969.

I watched the nightly news but I wasn't thinking about the war. I half expected it to be over any day now. What? Me worry? My deferment kept me out of it. Actually, it would have, if I hadn't lost it to a thief in the night.

When I opened the thoughtful letter from the President, the most memorable letter I ever received, I was shocked, I tell you. Shocked.

     The President of the United States,

          To

               Terry Lee McClish

     Greeting:

          You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States

The Selective Service vultures had pounced. 

Why me? What about my personal situation?

I called the draft board immediately.

For crying out loud, are you so hard up that you need to take people with a wife and a baby?

No use.

We need bodies.

Canada went into my mind and then out. The war couldn't go on forever. Lots of my buddies had been drafted and come back OK. So I went along and didn't run for the border. Nevertheless, Vietnam increasingly preyed on my mind.

Now my wife and kid would have to move in with my folks. We had just moved into a brand spanking new apartment in St. Paul a month before I was called up. 

I reported to the Federal Building downtown Minneapolis. I stood in a line for the doctor, turned my head and coughed. The ones that passed, like me, lined up in the hall and counted off in fours.

All those with the number four step forward. You are now marines.

Some guys teared up because they figured their life had ended then and there. Some were right.

The rest of you guys follow me.

We shuffled after the sergeant to a room where we took an oath.

You're in the army now. Report back in two weeks. Don't bring a lot of stuff, just a shaving kit and a towel.

During my last week, I had lots of dinners, my friends took me to a strip club and I said my goodbyes. 

Lots of support from everyone.

Come back in one piece.

When I reported back to the Federal Building, they carted us off to the train depot. We took the scenic Empire Builder route overnight, cruising through the Dakotas and the Rockies, to Tacoma, Washington. My first ever train trip.

I shared a cramped compartment with another guy. One slept up, the other down. All the draftees on the train were from the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. I knew a few. On the way, we picked up a few more en route from brief stops in the Dakotas and Montana until we had about fifty. Most got totally blitzed in the lounge car. I didn't, because I didn't know what was in store for me when I got off the train.

At Tacoma, they put us on a bus to nearby Ft. Lewis and stuck us in a “temporary” WWII barracks in a obscure corner of the fort. We had been yanked out of our lives, out of everything recognizable. No house, no car, no family, no friends no sex, no booze. We were stranded in a vast military reservation.

We were in the shark tank, but where were the sharks?

We didn't wait long. Early the next morning, the drill sergeant Bowman showed up and began processing us.

You pieces of shit! Scum bags!

You look like monkeys trying to fuck a football!

You assholes, git your swinging dicks movin'!

Straight from An Officer and a Gentleman (1982). Our prospects were dim. Our lives were worth less than a goat.

During the next two days, we were bused around to get our uniforms, equipment, a standup locker, a foot locker, a scalped haircut and shots.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

This was the 1960s. After the cut most guys were unrecognizable. Distinctive hairstyles were gone. The shoulder-length hair was lying on the cutting room floor. We were a completely different group of people. Another leveler—everyone more or less looked the same. But we accepted it because it was inevitable. The name tags on our shirts allowed us to sort out who was who while we laughed our asses off.

We were corralled in a two-story wooden WWII barracks in a populated area next to a parade field. Mt. Rainier was visible everywhere. Each floor had a long center aisle bordered by bunk beds. Your plywood footlocker was at the foot of the bed, the metal standup locker against the wall behind the bed.

 Mt. Rainier

Gang showers and gang toilets. No privacy. Six shower heads, four stools, six sinks for shaving and brushing teeth.

The snack bar next door was off limits. Rare luxuries such as soda, ice cream, candy and snacks were so close, yet so far.

Our unit was Charlie Company 4^th battalion 2^nd brigade. Our rant was

C42 Chargin' Charlie, Rah!

Bowman, an E6 lifer in his thirties, wasn't Mr. Tough Guy. He didn't beat the hell out of us. He used psychology—be a coach, a friend, a disciplinarian.

He wore a Smokey the Bear hat. His E5 assistant, a fit Vietnam combat vet, wore a baseball hat.

The vet was a short-timer, living in a little room full of psychedelic paraphernalia up on the second floor by the stairs. He was our barracks sergeant. After he was busted for smoking dope and lost his stripes, we peons mocked him, 

Re-up (reenlist) and get your stripes back, sergeant.

He took it in stride.

Barracks life was rough and talk was coarse, but slowly and surely I made friends. Two were pretty unique.

Charlie, a quiet guy from Montana, had the upper berth in the bunk next to me. He was an Indian, a champion rodeo rider.

Each person had a half hour fireguard shift during the night. Trouble was, Charlie would wake up swinging. It was easier for someone to take his turn instead of trying to wake him and suffer through a wild west show.

Craig's girlfriend followed him from Minneapolis and lived off base. He bitched about Vietnam and worried about his girl. An assistant drill Sgt. looked after her.

We had settled in, but the days were going to be a lot longer during the next eight weeks. 

The Basic Idea

Our day began when the fireguard on the last shift woke us. When reveille sounded, we were already straightening, dusting, cleaning windows and mopping floors.

Our bunks had to be made up so a quarter would bounce off the top blanket. If not perfect, the barracks sergeant ripped it up and threw it onto the floor. Don't worry, you could start all over.

The oldest guyin the barracks was a twenty-six-year-old teacher, Roger Wallenstein. Everybody treated him like a grandfather. He was a liaison between us and drill sergeant Bowman. They put him in charge of everything.

You do floors, you do windows.

My job was shower walls. They had to be spic and span without a single water spot.

Not what I expected from life. Better days would beckon.

One asshole was not doing what he was supposed to. He expected others to do his work. To bring him in line, the barracks gave him a blanket party. I didn't participate. Late at night, they threw a blanket over him while he was sleeping and beat the livin' shit out of him. He couldn't fight back or identify his assailants. Problem solved.

I must emphasize how clean the barracks was. Our mothers would be shocked. Better be, it was inspected every day except on weekends. Each barracks strove to be first.

After we donned our fatigues, we mustered outside in formation for a headcount and inspection. You had to be clean shaven—if not, they would make you dry shave. Only then would they march us to the mess hall.

We ate by platoon. If you couldn't recite your service number at the door, you went to the end of the line. If you sputtered or stammered, someone behind you would yell out, 

Come on, lets get the fuckin' ball rolling.

Every freaking day after chow, we assembled to police up the area. Not a cigarette butt, not a speck of anything could be left on the grounds.

If it doesn't shit or bleed, pick it up.

Afterward we formed up again outside the barracks at attention, at arms length from your neighbors on all sides. An “expert” led us through the “dirty dozen” PT (physical training) exercises. Pushups, situps, jumping jacks, you get the idea. Seen it a million times.

You had to assume the correct starting position for each exercise or you did twenty pushups.

No, no! I ain't mad at you,
Well then don't be mad at me,
Gonna change the way you do.

—I Ain't Mad at You, BigMaybelle, Newport (1958)

They held the whip hand and beat you down like a dog. Everybody came under the scanner. They taught you how to salute, how to stand at parade rest, how to stand at attention and how to march. Our simple civilian ways were broken and discarded in favor of a killer lifestyle. Cogs in the army killing machine.

I didn't take well to threats.

They're not God. I'm stronger than that. I'm not gonna give in to that bullshit. This is my way of winning.

One nice thing? Our day was planned.

After our hair started growing out, Bowman offered to cut it for a dollar a head. He guaranteed that our hair would be one-quarter of an inch longer than any other trainee hair. All of us lined up in the barracks for this little bit of freedom. Our hair was the envy of the neighborhood.

The Basic Knowledge

We jogged everywhere or commuted in trucks, buses, semis. Whatever they could drum up. Before going to the rifle range, we jogged across the street to the armory to pick up our long weapons, the M14 rifle (no ammo). In Medieval times, it might have been crossbows.

Lots of times, when we were sitting or standing in a truck, we would start mooing until we sounded like a cattle car. Funny? You had to be there.

We attended beaucoup seminars. How to handle weapons. How to take cover in an open field.

We were at the rifle range practically every day, if only for an hour. Ammo was assigned to you there. Shootin' at Ivan all the time.

The instructors showed you how to handle the bayonet, but for the drill we used broomsticks with pads on each end. We spent an hour a day, three times a week, stabbing each other, thrusting like gladiators. I didn't like it—you got dinged up on the head and body. 

Why are we spending so much time on Ivan and this? It's not WWII, it's Vietnam.

However, hand-to-hand combat was very impressive. I never forgot the rear strangle take down, a quick, effective way to kill an enemy by breaking his neck. We paired off and went through the drill in slo-mo, stopping just before any damage was done.

Thank God I never found an occasion to use it.

Hand grenade practice was done from the bottom of a pit. They would be the ones killed in case of a SNAFU.

We also spent some very useful time learning how to setup Claymore mines, an indispensable skill in Vietnam.

Gas

For the gas mask training, you put it on and entered a room full of tear gas. All the instructors had theirs on. You took yours off and had to say your name, rank and service number. The gas and I did not mix well. I choked my guts out. After a successful recital, you ran out of the building gasping for air.

When we were finished, come to find out a smart ass had pilfered a couple of atropine syringes. Bowman went ballistic. When nobody owned up, everyone had to put on a gas mask and march back to the barracks double time. Problem was, I couldn't breathe out of the dang contraption.

Back at the barracks one of the guys came up to me, 

Did your gas mask work?

No.

Tear gas doesn't bother me. I don't need one. Wanna trade?

Yes!

He was immune!

I heard later they offered him OCS (Officer Candidate School) in chemical warfare. 

We marched to the first aid classes over by Puget Sound.

If you see a soldier with his intestines hanging out, whatever you do don't put them back. Wrap them up in a t-shirt and tie them off until a medic arrives.

Sure, sarge.

Fright Nights

Live fire was when you cradled your gun in your arms and crawled on your belly under live M60 machine gun fire at night. Before we started, the instructors pelted us with a constant stream of dire warnings. Partway through, I turned over on my back and saw the red tracers far above me. Great. I crawled on my hands and knees the rest of the way. Easier, cleaner and quicker.

The escape and evasion exercise was cut from the same cloth. They hauled us out into the middle of the woods and dumped us off at some bleachers to hear a lecture on the do's and don'ts.

Don't get captured at all costs.

The goal was to get back to the starting point of the course in the pitch black darkness.

Some friends and I took a shortcut across a highway into the woods. It was out-of-bounds. We were bopping along a ditch when some aggressors came out of the bushes.

You're under arrest.

They led us back on the course to a pickup point. A bus was supposed to take us to a makeshift prison camp for mock interrogation and torture. I heard if you went along with the whole program, they stuck your head in a 55 gallon drum full of snakes.

Screw this.I 'm not gonna be a prisoner.

I saw a chance when they weren't looking and booked it. I ignored their pleas of

Come back!

I'm gonna make it to the end myself. To hell with them.

I meandered around the course until I saw a bonfire in the distance, marking the finish line. From there, I took the next bus back to the barracks while most guys were in the woods, hiding behind trees & bushes.

I still use some of the Boy Scout tricks I learned in basic like map reading and navigating by the moon and stars at night.

Send in the Clowns

One of our barracks comedians was a native of Superior, Wisconsin, my wife's hometown. Despite being short and fat, he cut others down to size with his wisecracks, like Don Rickles. He got along fine with everybody except the army personnel. They gave him dirty looks or ignored him instead of piling on punishment because he was so out of shape. They couldn't let anyone get away with shit or they'd lose control and it'd be all over.

Of course, he was very concerned with meals, like the rest of us. It just so happened that a set of monkey bars was installed outside the mess hall. To earn a place in the chow line, you had to go from one end to the other shouting

C42 Chargin' Charlie, Rah!

No sweat for me, but for the clown, big sweat. I had a sports background and lifted weights, but the clown needed our help. He couldn't reach the bars or do more than one or two on his own before he fell off.

The other joker was the exact opposite. He was a chicken farmer from Minnesota, in fabulous shape but one fry short of a Happy Meal. He specialized in physical humor. His backward salutes and goofy gestures pissed Bowman off. Crazy. Why would you tell a mad dog to bite?

Trainee, give me ten [pushups].

Do you want me to do more, drill sergeant?

Give me twenty!

Silence.

Never a dull moment.

Mooned

The one bright spot? Watching the first moon landing in the day room on Sunday, July 20, with a few other trainees. The rest didn't consider it a high priority. It was a curiosity for me, but to one of the guys in the room, it was a downright fascination, if not an obsession.

AIT

After eight weeks of basic, it was on to eight weeks of Advanced Infantry Training (AIT). I walked across the parade grounds with my duffel bag of belongings to my new barracks, my pleasanter and nicer home. Weird, like walking through a Star Trek portal.

Let's get the ball rolling so I can finish this shit.

AIT was more intense, but with less harassment. If you had any questions, now was the time. The last chance saloon. Questions or not, we stayed in shape.

Instead of heavy M14 sniper rifles, we used lighter M16 assault rifles, the weapon of choice in Vietnam. The semiautomatic AR-15, the civilian M16, is a favorite for going postal here in the States.

We also got our hands on the M79 grenade launcher for the first time.

Oh freedom (freedom), freedom (freedom), freedom, yeah freedom—Aretha Franklin, Think (1968)

More freedom, too. I hurried to the forbidden snack bar that had been off limits and downed my first treat in eight weeks—a chocolate malt. Fantabulous!

On our first weekend, a bunch of us got a two-day pass and took a bus into Tacoma. We split up into twos. Finally, I could drink another beverage of my choice. But freedom can be dangerous—two of the guys got rolled.

Some things never change. Our barracks Sergeant got busted, not for drugs, but for giving unauthorized haircuts.

Departures

After graduating from AIT, I guess I had what it takes. I was breathing. I still thought I might be shipped out to Korea or Germany or even stay in the States. No such luck. In basic, our barracks had been number one in everything, but it came back to haunt us. The contest had really been between lifers. They punched their tickets but our whole barracks went to Vietnam.

I went home for two weeks to get ready. My welcome home was great. 

I was gone constantly when I wasn't busy looking after my wife and baby. Would I ever see them again? When I left for basic, my daughter was ten months old and had taken her first steps. Now she was fourteen months. What a change. I wanted to spend some quality time with them. 

I tried to fix the money situation by having extra pay taken out for my wife. She had left my parents house and moved in with her sister, but would still be living on bare bones.

It wasn't long before I sent a telegram to the army that

I was taking two more weeks.

Seemed like a reasonable gesture to me. Was I nuts? In any case, I got no response. At least I made the effort.

One more thing. I undertook a diplomatic mission to Craig who had been in basic with me. He also had orders for Vietnam but wanted to go to Canada in the worst way. I went over to his house to talk him out of it. I thought there wasn't much Vietnam left. We parted friends, but I never saw him again.

Time flies. Before leaving my comfortable suburb for the last time, I said goodbye to my wife, parents and baby daughter.

I'll be back in a year if I don't get shot.

Until we meet again.

When I reported back to Fort Lewis, they stashed me in a temporary barracks. I was in limbo until my legal status was settled. Papers were served on me. I collected an Article 15 for my tardiness, a mere formality. One week's pay, no court, no time in the stockade.

Coincidentally, J. R. Olson, from Lanesboro, Minnesota, the moon man, was in the same barracks with me again. I had lost track of him since basic and now we were both waiting to be shipped to Vietnam.

J. R. had marital troubles. He was so smitten with his girlfriend, that he stayed with her instead of his wife when he went home after AIT. The army had offered him a hardship discharge, but he turned it down. Made no sense to me.

I'm leavin' on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go.

—Peter, Paul & Mary, Leaving On A Jet Plane (1969)

A couple days later we both got orders to fly out on Flying Tiger Airlines. Stupid me, I thought I was going on a WWII fighter. Confusing? Yes, until J. R. and I boarded one of their regular passenger jets, bound for Vietnam.

We had a ticket to ride.

Lucky, huh?

Strange Fruit

At the crack of dawn, a wake-up call issued forth from the CP (command post) by the RTO (radio operator) to each guard at the perimeter. It was the last in a series of hourly calls by the RTO throughout the night. Some of them were like our 49er Mike, a cool cat, polling each platoon radio in a terse whisper,

Hey you guys out there in Nam Land, this is 49er Mike calling for a sit-rep (situation report).

Robin Williams made much of this in Good Morning Vietnam (1987).

The sentry then made a squelch (a trickle of static noise) when he hit the PTT (push-to-talk button) on his microphone.

The RTO had better get two squelches back tout de suite or there'd be trouble in paradise. No reply meant: a) the man's radio was not working, b) the man was asleep, c) the man's position was under assault or overrun by the enemy or d) all the above.

The radio itself weighed about twenty pounds, battery included. It would keep on ticking if dropped from fifty feet or submerged in water, but a wet handset would take it down in a heartbeat. One RTO even made a trip into town for necessaries—condoms which he stretched over the earpiece and microphone of the handset to prevent condensation and protect it from rain, mist, and the excessively humid jungle air.

Each guard would then rouse the men around him who would wake others domino like until everyone was up and focused on their morning rituals, and keeping an eye open for the enemy.

Faces splashed with water, boots on, teeth brushed. Out on the perimeter, wires taken down, flares and claymores picked up. Shits taken, sleeping gear gathered and bundled into backpacks. Bunkers dismantled, sandbags emptied back into the bunker holes dug the evening before, along with any trash. Envelopes, letters and empty parcels burned or stowed. No unit identification or home addresses left behind.

You could never know who might be watching or what you were up against, here or at the home front. You wouldn't want those little people in black pajamas showing up at your parents' home on Christmas Eve, would you?

Next,a light breakfast of hot chocolate or coffee, crackers with peanut butter and jelly or canned bread, maybe a warm beer or soda, as cool as could be by morning. Gear stowed in backpacks, ammo belts donned. We saved the best for last—wrestling a ninety-pound pack onto our backs. You would lie on it and fasten the shoulder straps, roll over onto your hands and knees, prop yourself up with your weapon and stand. Or someone would give you a hand up.

Weapons checked, magazines locked and loaded, muzzle covers removed. Another day at the office,

Who had point yesterday?

Breaking up was easier than making up—only an hour to get underway after waking, half the time of making camp the night before.

On this nice, sunny day, we had recovered from yesterday's march. Following our point man, immersed in the warm, humid air, no problems, no enemy contact . . . .

The Magic Forest

We humped the jungle, single file, through a beautiful mixed bag of fifty, sixty, seventy-foot slender, leafy trees and majestic bamboo. We walked on fallen leaves, black dirt and six-inch weeds stunted by the overhead growth. Easy enough for us in the jungle, a stroll in the woods back home. Machetes were stowed in their sheaths, handles poking out of backpacks, because today we had no need to hack and slash our way.

The high canopy of foliage made a convenient tunnel, deflecting the sunlight, throwing dappled patterns of shade and sun on the guys ahead. A National Geographic center-fold without the breasts.

Suddenly, we beheld trees saturated with a strange, dull-gray stringy substance, like alien taffy or moss. The Twilight Zone or Alice in Wonderland? Word passed down the line. Napalm! Odorless and unexploded. Spent or inert? That was the question! We had no idea!

Napalm-B (super-napalm, or NP2) is a nasty jell of 21% benzene, 33% gasoline, and 46% polystyrene. It burns between 1,500°F and 2,200°F, although it's more difficult to ignite (therefore safer) than the napalm from WWII. Thermite, a chemical that burns at a very high temperature, is used to ignite it. Napalm kills three ways: burning, heat, or asphyxiation. People have been boiled alive in rivers heated by napalm.

On the ground, it can be hand delivered by a flamethrower or spewed from a zippo (riverboat or vehicle). Most often though, it's dropped from low altitude in a large canister which cracks like an egg, exploding, rolling and tumbling along, creating the fiery blanket of death and destruction shown so well in Forrest Gump (1994).

As we prepared to pass through it, each guy relayed to the next in line,

For God's sake, don't light up! or do anything stupid.

đi đi mau (go go quickly, get out of here),

described our situation perfectly. We pushed forward like army ants, at a constant speed and definitely didn't stop to gawk. Or rubberneck. Even raw, unignited napalm is dangerous.

Thankfully, it covered only thirty yards. We moved on to the next section of jungle without a hitch and to our final objective that day. Whew!

Postscript

In the most famous picture of the war, nine-year-old Kim Phuc is running toward the camera, naked and screaming with napalm burns across half her body. She's fleeing with a terrified group of children and South Vietnamese soldiers. A South Vietnamese army unit had sent the request to napalm her village to U.S. Air Force personnel, who relayed it to the South Vietnamese air force.

It wasn’t until after AP photographer Nick Út took Kim's picture that she saw him and screamed, 

Nong qua, nong qua! (I'm too hot, too hot.)

He gave her water, scooped her up and drove her to Cu Chi hospital, ten miles and an hour away, where he browbeat the staff until they treated what they thought was hopeless. But she recovered and defected to Canada in 1992, where she runs the Kim Foundation, caring for the child victims of war.

Her photograph and Dow Shall Not Kill became icons of the antiwar movement.

President Nixon on tape,

I'm wondering if that [photo] was fixed.

Chief of Staff Haldeman shrugging,

Could have been.